Chapter 8: Lovely
As they left the fair behind, the night air remained warm, wrapping around them like a gentle embrace. The London streets were quieter now, painted in a mixture of amber streetlights and the occasional passing car's glow. The lingering echoes of laughter and music from the fair had faded behind them, replaced by the soft hum of the city at rest. Tom and Jess walked side by side, their steps unhurried, as if neither was quite ready for the evening to end. There was a peacefulness between them—comfortable, quiet, and new.
Jess stifled a yawn, stretching her arms as they reached the entrance to the underground parking lot. Tom glanced over and caught it, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Getting tired?" he asked, his voice smooth and low.
She nodded, rubbing one of her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yeah," she murmured, "I should probably head home. I need to feed Anubis."
At that, Tom raised a brow, his curiosity piqued. "Anubis?"
Jess grinned, the expression lighting up her face even beneath the dim streetlamp. "My cat. Egyptian Mau," she explained. "Named him after the Egyptian god of the afterlife."
Tom chuckled under his breath, the sound quiet but sincere. "Fitting," he remarked. "God of death, judgment, and embalming... for a cat, that tracks."
Jess laughed. "Right? He's regal, aloof, and he watches me sleep like he's measuring my soul."
Moments later, they reached her car, her sleek, black DeLorean parked neatly in its spot, glowing faintly under the overhead lighting. Jess turned to face him, resting one hand lightly on the car door handle while the other curled around the strap of her purse. Her expression softened.
"Well," she said gently, "thank you for today. I had so much fun, Tom."
There was a pause as Tom's eyes searched hers, his expression unreadable for just a moment. Then, with careful intent, he reached up and cupped her cheek. His palm was warm, his touch grounding. The look in his crimson eyes was not one of power or command—but something quieter. Something real.
"Me too, Jess," he murmured. "I mean it. I've never... felt this before."
A blush spread across her cheeks, but she didn't shy away. Instead, she leaned slightly into his hand, the plush toy still tucked beneath her other arm. "What are we?" she asked softly, voice barely more than a whisper. "Are we... a couple now? Because I know you felt it—when we kissed."
Tom blinked, the question catching him off guard. So she had felt it too—that same strange, stirring current that passed between them the moment their lips met.
"You know what I am, then?" he asked quietly, his tone calm but laced with curiosity.
Jess gave a small, steady nod, though her fingers tightened slightly on her bag. "A wizard," she admitted. "I knew the moment I saw your bank card."
His brows lifted slightly in mild surprise.
"Gringotts," she clarified with a wry smile. "Kind of a dead giveaway. And... I noticed the two teenagers who were following us. They stood out."
Tom's eyes flickered, and though his expression remained composed, a subtle flicker of calculation passed through his gaze. So she'd noticed that too.
"I'm a witch," Jess continued, her voice lowering a bit as she leaned against the car. "But I've always been more connected to the Muggle world. The wizarding world—it's stuck, Tom. Like it refuses to evolve. Technology, ideas, equality... it's still clinging to the past while everything else moves forward." She looked up at him, the light catching the shimmer in her eyes. "I hope you don't think differently of me because of that."
Tom didn't speak right away. Instead, his thumb brushed gently along her cheek, a motion both comforting and thoughtful. And when he finally did speak, his voice was quiet—but resolute.
"No," he said, steady and sure. "I don't."
Tom leaned down once more, and this time, Jess instinctively met him halfway. Their lips met again in a kiss that was softer than the first—gentler, more assured. The kind of kiss that didn't question itself, that simply existed because it felt right. But this time, the air itself responded in a way neither of them expected.
The atmosphere around them shifted.
A hum, subtle at first, began to thrum beneath their feet. Then it rose, expanding outward—not in sound, but in sensation. Energy tingled along their skin, and the space between them seemed to breathe. And then they saw it.
Jess pulled back slightly, her eyes widening as soft streams of light began to materialize around them—gossamer ribbons of glowing magic twisting and curling through the air. Ethereal threads of amethyst and deep violet wove themselves with shimmering emerald green, forming a mesmerizing dance of color and motion. It was as if the magic in their blood had reached out to one another—responding to the kiss, to the connection, to something far deeper than they yet understood.
Tom's breath caught in his throat. His crimson gaze followed the motion of the light, unable to look away. He had never seen magic behave like this before. Controlled spells, ritualistic enchantments, even ancient runes—those were things he could grasp, define, master. But this? This was wild. Unbound. It moved with a will of its own.
"What is this...?" he murmured under his breath, more to himself than to her.
Jess's fingers hovered near the lights, drawn to them instinctively. Her green eyes shone with both awe and wonder. "Tom..." she whispered, her voice trembling—not with fear, but reverence. "It's beautiful..."
Tom looked at her then, really looked, the surreal glow from the magic casting soft colors across her skin. The vulnerability in her expression stirred something unexpected in him. Something... fragile. Precious.
"You asked me what we are," he said quietly, still watching as the last of the radiant energy faded into the night air, dispersing like fireflies into the shadows. "And I'm going to be honest with you..."
He paused, as if weighing his next words, then continued—calm, certain.
"I want to hold on to this. To you. So I suppose that means... we're a couple."
Jess stared at him for a heartbeat, her heart stuttering beneath her ribcage as the words sank in. Then, a slow, teasing smile curved her lips. "After one date, huh?" she teased gently, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her happiness.
Tom let out a soft breath of amusement, the tension in his shoulders easing. "I don't see the point in waiting," he said smoothly. "When something is right, why pretend otherwise?"
Jess giggled, her face still tinged pink as she reached out to gently poke his chest. "You're something else, Tom Riddle."
Tom smirked in return, but this time, the expression lacked its usual sharp edge. It was quieter. Warmer. Something far more real than any façade he wore before. "You've no idea," he said again, but then his gaze shifted slightly downward, his voice softening in a way Jess hadn't heard yet.
"I want to be honest with you..." he continued, his hand still loosely clasping hers. "I've never... dated anyone before." He met her gaze steadily, not ashamed, just matter-of-fact. "Even when I attended Hogwarts, I thought relationships were beneath me. Distractions. Pointless entanglements. My ambitions didn't allow space for affection."
His eyes flickered with something unreadable, a flicker of memory, maybe regret, maybe something else. "I felt nothing for anyone. No attachment. No desire for closeness." Then, after a beat, he added with a small breath of amusement, "Well, except for Nagini. I care for her. She's different. She's special."
Jess smiled faintly, her fingers brushing over his knuckles, sensing the vulnerability in what he had just confessed. And then she asked, gently—curiously, but without accusation, "You're a Parselmouth, aren't you?"
That got his attention. His posture stiffened ever so slightly, and his crimson eyes widened. "How did..." he started, but stopped himself.
Jess raised an eyebrow at him with a sly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Tom. You live with a massive snake. Not just any snake, either. She looks like she belongs in the deepest part of the Amazon. Like, ancient-anaconda-vibes."
Tom blinked, and before he could muster a reply, she laughed lightly and added, "What do you think she'd do if we made her watch the horror movie Anaconda? Would she be offended? Or impressed?"
That made Tom let out a surprised laugh—short, but genuine. His smirk returned, but it was softer now, touched with a mixture of fondness and amusement. "She'd probably complain the entire time," he mused. "Call it offensive. Dramatic. Unrealistic."
Jess grinned at the image, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she giggled. "I mean, she is kind of a queen. She deserves her own documentary, not some over-the-top monster movie."
Tom tilted his head slightly, looking at her with something bordering on wonder. "You're not... afraid of her?" he asked quietly.
Jess shook her head. "No. I mean, sure, the first time I saw her I was startled. She's huge. But fear? No." Her smile grew more sincere. "She's intelligent. She feels things. She cares for you."
Tom's gaze lingered on her face for a long, silent beat. Then he said, very quietly, "She's already approved of you, you know."
Jess blinked, surprised. "She has?"
He gave a small, knowing nod. "Nagini doesn't trust easily. But she's been calm around you. She hasn't tried to intimidate you once." He paused, then added with a little tilt of his lips, "That's... rare."
Jess's smile deepened. "Well, tell her I'm honored."
"I'll let her know," Tom said, and for a fleeting moment, his face looked younger, less burdened.
Jess giggled softly, brushing her fingertips along the edge of his collar. "Tom... would you find it shocking," she murmured, lifting her eyes to meet his, "if I told you I can speak it too?"
For a second, Tom stared at her, blinking slowly. His lips parted, surprise rippling across his usually composed features. "Can you speak it?" he asked, but not in English—he spoke the words in Parseltongue.
The language slithered through the air like silk, curling and hissing with subtle power.
Jess didn't flinch. Instead, she stepped closer, reached up, and gently cupped his face in both hands. Her expression was calm... steady... knowing.
"Yes," she hissed back, in perfect Parseltongue.
The reaction was instant.
Tom didn't just blink—he moved. In one smooth motion, he pulled her tightly into his arms, his mouth finding hers with urgency and awe. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a declaration, an unspoken surge of emotion that overwhelmed reason. Until now, he had only known one other to share his gift—Potter—and that connection had always felt like a curse. But this? Jess speaking it—choosing to speak it—felt like something else entirely. Something rare. Something sacred.
When he finally broke the kiss, his breath was shallow, his voice hushed and reverent. "How...?" he whispered, still holding her close. "Are you... are you related to Salazar Slytherin like I am?"
Jess gave him a soft, secret smile and shook her head. "No," she said simply.
Before he could ask more, her phone buzzed loudly in her purse. She sighed, reaching in and glancing at the screen. "Sorry," she muttered, answering quickly. "Yes? Oh—Mama!"
Tom watched, mildly amused as her entire demeanor shifted. Her voice rose a few notes, affectionate and exasperated all at once.
"Yes, I'll be there tomorrow... No, don't you dare tell Sora! I don't need his overbearing older brother complex right now—it's suffocating!" She groaned and rubbed her forehead, then turned slightly away from Tom as if to shield herself from further embarrassment.
Tom chuckled under his breath, folding his arms as he leaned casually against the side of her car. Her tone, her irritation—it was... cute.
"Alright, alright, bye Mom," she said at last, hanging up and tucking the phone back into her bag with a sigh. She turned back to him, her expression softening. "Sorry about that. Family chaos."
Tom smiled faintly. "Sounds familiar."
Jess stepped closer, her eyes shining a little despite the weariness creeping into them. "I should get home... I need to feed Anubis, and I promised Mama I'd be back tonight."
Tom nodded, though a sliver of disappointment flickered in his eyes. Still, he said nothing.
"But," Jess added quickly, brushing her hand down his arm, "how about tomorrow night? You come over to my place and I'll make dinner for you."
He arched a brow. "A surprise dinner?"
She smirked. "Exactly that. But no peeking. You just show up hungry."
Tom's lips curved into a knowing smirk. "I can do that."
Jess tiptoed up and kissed his cheek, lingering just a second longer than necessary. "Goodnight, Tom."
He reached for her hand and pressed it gently between both of his. "Goodnight, Jess."
And with that, she opened the gull-wing door of her DeLorean, slid into the driver's seat, and with a wave through the open window, pulled out of the underground lot—leaving Tom watching after her, heart racing with thoughts he never expected to have.
Reaching his loft, Tom slipped his key into the lock and pushed the door open with a quiet creak. The familiar warmth of the space greeted him—the scent of aged wood, faint cinnamon from the wax melt Jess had insisted on, and a trace of lingering candle smoke from earlier in the evening. But even before the door fully closed behind him, a sharp hiss rang through the stillness.
"Master! Rabbit!" came the impatient voice from the living area.
Tom exhaled through his nose as he toed off his shoes, his crimson eyes flicking toward the couch where Nagini lay coiled in an elegant sprawl. Her massive body draped lazily over the velvet cushions, emerald scales catching the ambient light, casting shimmering green shadows along the floor.
"Jess is a witch," he remarked coolly, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve as he stepped further inside. His tone was mildly irritated, but his gaze held no true malice. He paused near the bedroom doorway, adding quietly, "and she can speak Parselmouth."
Nagini's head lifted sharply, her tongue flickering out. "She speaks snake?" she hissed, incredulous. "Is she related to you, Master?"
Tom stepped inside the bedroom, retrieving his wand from the nightstand where it lay untouched. The shadows stretched long across the floor, softened only by the warm glow of his bedside lamp. He shook his head once. "No," he muttered. "She said she isn't. I think she'll explain tomorrow night."
A flick of his wrist and a soft pop filled the room—followed by a brief, startled squeal. A rabbit appeared near the edge of the rug, its nose twitching once before Nagini lunged, fangs flashing in the dim light. The wet crunch of bone echoed from the bedroom as Tom turned away, expression unreadable.
He crossed into the sitting area and sank into the corner of the couch, loosening the top button of his shirt. The silence returned—save for the low hum of city life through the distant windows and the occasional rustle from Nagini's feeding. He extended his wand again, casting a swift detection charm across the parchment letter he had pocketed earlier.
No portkeys. No hexes. No charms. Just ink and paper.
Satisfied, he set his wand aside and unfolded the letter with slow, deliberate care.
My Lord,
It has been some time since we last spoke—longer still since we stood in the same room. Word has traveled that you've disappeared... Gone on holiday, as they say. How very like you, Riddle. This makes the third time you've taken one of your little excursions.
I know you're not on a mission. Great-grandfather used to speak of your moments like these—when you'd vanish into the wind for no reason at all, as if the world itself had become too loud for your liking.
My Lord... Rodolphus has asked me for a divorce from Bellatrix.
And I fear he is right to do so.
I will never be a grandfather. My wife and I have long wished for heirs, but even with two sons, it seems fate has denied us. My second son is unable to father children. And Rodolphus... he longs to be with his puppy. Sirius Black. You remember their affair, don't you? Of course you do.
My Lord, what should I do? If I grant this divorce, Bellatrix will stop at nothing. She will try to bed you. I know it. I see it in her eyes—the madness, the worship. And if you reject her, she'll turn violent. Perhaps even treasonous.
Choose wisely.
Sincerely, your old friend,
Lord Falcon Lestrange II
Tom's grip on the parchment tightened slightly as he reached the final lines. His crimson eyes lingered on the signature, his jaw tense. The message wasn't unexpected—but the situation had become messier than he'd anticipated. Rodolphus and Sirius. Bellatrix's unraveling. The Lestrange line teetering on the edge of legacy and ruin.
And all of it was now waiting for his judgment.
He leaned further into the embrace of the couch, the velvet pressing coolly against his back. One leg draped loosely over the other, and his eyes lifted toward the ceiling as if the answers might be etched somewhere in the shadows above. The letter lay open on the table, but his thoughts were miles ahead—spinning through the tangled web of politics, bloodlines, and madness.
While Jess visits her family tomorrow afternoon...
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.
I'll take a brief step away from this holiday façade... and pay Falcon a visit.
Tom's fingers absently grazed the curve of his left forearm, tracing over the skin where the Dark Mark would normally stir at the summoning of its master. Dormant now. Sleeping. But never gone.
Unless he made it so.
His crimson gaze dropped to the polished floor beneath his feet, eyes narrowing slightly. The idea had been circling for days now—whispered in the back of his mind like the hiss of a serpent too cautious to strike.
What if I removed the mark...?
Not from himself. Not yet. No—he wasn't so reckless as to sever all connections without knowing exactly what it would cost. But Bellatrix... she was bound to him not by loyalty alone, but by obsession. Worship. Madness twisted in lace and poison. Her devotion had never been pure. It was possessive, hungry, delusional.
If I removed it from her...
His jaw tightened.
What would she do?
Would it shatter her completely? Drive her deeper into the spiral of desperation and violence? Or would it finally push her to act on the very thing Falcon feared most—some frenzied attempt to bind herself to him through ritual, force, or worse?
Or perhaps... the mark's removal would grant her clarity. A slim chance. But even now, he knew better than to count on sanity from Bellatrix Lestrange.
Still... he had never done it before. Not fully. Not cleanly.
Tom tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling once more. His thumb brushed against the edge of the couch's seam, grounding him in the decision that was slowly solidifying.
It might be time to try.
For Rodolphus.
For the Lestrange legacy.
For balance in a world already shifting under his feet.
But more than that—for her.
Jess.
He thought of her laugh on the Gravitron, the way she whispered 'Yes' in Parseltongue, the way their magic had visibly danced when they kissed. She was the only person in decades who didn't shrink from him. Who didn't worship him like Bella or fear him like his followers. Jess saw him—not the name, not the power. Him.
And he wouldn't allow that world—the one he had forged in blood and dark loyalty—to touch her.
No.
Tomorrow, he will go to Falcon.
And if Bellatrix still clung to his mark, he would burn it out.
Because Jess wasn't just another moment in his long, storied existence. She might just be the first future he ever wanted.
The grandfather clock in the foyer softly chimed midnight as the heavy front door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place swung open. Harry stepped inside first, Draco following just behind him, both boys yawning and flushed from the chill of the night. The distant hush of the fair still echoed in their ears, but the warmth and quiet of the house quickly wrapped around them like a familiar blanket.
The door closed behind them—just as a shrill voice cut through the air like a knife.
"WHERE HAVE YOU TWO BEEN?!"
Both boys froze mid-step.
Molly Weasley stood in the hallway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression a mix of fury and maternal panic. Her red hair frizzed slightly around her face, and she looked as though she had been pacing for hours.
Harry's eyes widened. "M-Mrs. Weasley—"
Draco scowled, his posture immediately stiffening. "And who are you to—"
Before he could finish, Sirius stepped out from the drawing room with a scowl of his own, his arms spread dramatically.
"Molly, I told you they were fine!" he growled. "They were out having fun. For once in their lives!"
Molly turned her glare on him. "Sirius Black, you know how dangerous it is for Harry to be outside these walls while He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still at large!"
At that, both Harry and Draco snorted at the same time—trying and failing to muffle the laughter that escaped them.
Molly turned back toward them, scandalized. "You think this is funny?! The both of you?! And Harry, I don't understand—why on earth would you go without Ron?"
Harry raised his brows in disbelief. "Because we left before you arrived?" he shot back, his voice edging with a rare note of irritation. "Sirius gave us permission—and we weren't alone. We ran into Hermione!"
Sirius, who had been leaning casually in the doorway, perked up instantly. His smirk widened with interest. "Really?"
Harry nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching with a fond smile. "Yeah. She was there with her parents and cousins, but she ditched them to hang out with us for the rest of the night. We all had fun. Fair games, junk food, rides... it was actually normal for once."
Molly's mouth tightened as if she wanted to argue again, but the moment Harry added, "Don't worry about You-Know-Who—I'm pretty sure he's... distracted by something," she blinked in confusion.
"Distracted?" she echoed suspiciously.
"Or by someone else," Draco muttered under his breath with a smug little smirk tugging at his lips.
Sirius raised a curious brow at that but didn't press further. He could tell by the amused gleam in both boys' eyes that there was a story behind the comment. One that could wait until morning.
Draco let out a dramatic yawn and nudged Harry lightly. "Come on, Harry. Let's go to bed. I'm tired. And I smell like cotton candy and fried everything."
Harry chuckled as he nodded. "Yeah, alright. Night, Sirius. Night, Mrs. Weasley."
Molly gave them both a long look—her lips still pressed in a line—but she sighed and softened just slightly. "Goodnight, boys."
As the two teens ascended the stairs, the hallway quieted again, leaving Sirius standing alone in the entry. He watched them go, a thoughtful smile curling at his lips.
"Distracted by someone else, huh?" Sirius murmured to himself, rubbing a hand thoughtfully along his jawline. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Now that's something I'd love to hear more about."
His gaze drifted back toward Molly, who still stood rigidly in the foyer, arms folded, clearly not ready to let go of her earlier scolding.
But Sirius's expression shifted—his smirk fading into something a little more serious, a little more commanding.
"Molly," he said firmly, "you can leave now."
She blinked, visibly taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"You stayed here until they came home," he said, stepping closer, his voice low and resolute. "They're home. They're safe. You've made your point. Now you can go. And don't come back unless I invite you."
Her mouth opened, but he didn't give her a chance to argue.
"You know the Order's been disbanded," he added with a quiet finality. "It's over. Things are different now. This is my house again, and I decide who stays in it."
Molly stared at him for a long moment, the indignation in her eyes slowly dimming as she registered the weight behind his words. Eventually, she pressed her lips together and gave a short, brisk nod.
"Very well," she said tightly. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
With that, she turned and swept toward the fireplace, disappearing into the green flames in a flash of Floo powder and irritation.
The moment she was gone, Sirius exhaled and ran a hand through his dark hair.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, heading back into the drawing room with a shake of his head. "You'd think I'm the teenager."
At Jess's apartment, the night refused to quiet her thoughts. Curled up on the deep gray sectional in her living room, she lay wrapped in a plush throw blanket, her head resting against a pillow, eyes trained on the TV across from her. The soft flicker of The Fifth Element danced across the walls, casting streaks of pale blue light across the industrial-modern space. The film played through her white Xbox One, but despite the comfort of one of her favorite movies, sleep continued to evade her.
She sighed quietly, hugging the blanket a little closer. Her thoughts were elsewhere—back at the fair, back with him. Tom. She wished he was here now, lounging beside her while they watched a horror movie or talked about something strange and philosophical the way he always seemed to do. Maybe after tomorrow's visit to the estate, she mused, we could go out to see something together. Or just stay in. A horror movie marathon. Silent Hill, maybe. She smirked at the thought. He'd probably have some sarcastic comment ready about the logic—or lack thereof—in those films.
Anubis, her silver-coated Egyptian Mau, lay stretched across her stomach, his lean form rising and falling with every breath. He purred softly in his sleep, adding to the room's otherwise peaceful ambiance.
Until, suddenly, he wasn't peaceful at all.
Anubis's ears twitched. His body stiffened.
Then came the low, warning growl.
Jess's body tensed immediately, instincts kicking in as she slowly sat up, her eyes scanning the room. Anubis hissed and sprang from her lap, his fur bristling as he landed on the far side of the couch. His golden eyes locked onto the apartment door, every muscle tight with alarm.
Jingling.
The subtle sound of metal on metal broke through the background noise of the movie—the unmistakable sound of a lock being picked.
Jess moved.
Silent. Swift.
She slid off the couch and pressed herself against the wall near the door, heart hammering in her chest. Every sense sharpened.
Click.
The lock gave way.
The door creaked open with an agonizing slowness, casting a growing shadow against the floor as a figure stepped inside. They closed it quietly behind them, unaware of the chaos waiting in the darkness.
Jess didn't hesitate.
In one fluid, practiced motion, she launched herself forward, grabbing the intruder's shoulders. Using the strength in her core and legs, she twisted her body and executed a perfect hurricanna—flipping them hard onto the floor with a loud thud.
A strangled grunt escaped the man as his back hit the hardwood.
Jess moved like lightning—straddling him in seconds.
And then—
WHACK!
Her fist connected with his face.
WHACK!
Again.
"You picked the wrong house to rob, asshole!" she shouted, her fist rising for another strike—
"Princess! Stop!"
Her fist halted mid-air.
The voice was familiar—commanding and panicked. She blinked, confused, and whipped her head toward the sound.
There, near the far end of the living room, coiled in majestic stillness, was Obsidian—a massive, rainbow-hued reticulated python. His scales shimmered with celestial iridescence, even in the dim lamp glow, and his golden eyes fixed on her with something akin to reproach.
Her gaze snapped back to the figure pinned beneath her.
And her stomach dropped.
"S-Sora...?"
He looked up at her, blood streaming from his clearly broken nose, yet somehow, still grinning.
"Wow," he wheezed. "I really missed wrestling with you. You should've put me in the Walls of Jericho. Come on, for old time's sake—do it!"
Jess's scowl deepened. She shoved his shoulder hard before standing up and crossing her arms. "Idiot."
Then, just for good measure—
Thud.
She kicked him in the ribs.
Sora let out a dramatic groan, rolling onto his side like the over-the-top big brother he was. "Uncalled for," he whined, dragging himself up onto his elbows. "What happened to 'welcome home'? What happened to 'I missed you, Sora'? I could be dying over here!"
Anubis remained crouched on the couch, tail flicking with indignation, still growling low in his throat.
Jess ignored the theatrics and marched over to the nearby lamp, flicking it on with a snap. Light flooded the room, illuminating Sora's battered, cheeky grin.
"Not gonna heal your big brother?" he sniffled, holding his nose pathetically. "Have some sympathy, Jess! This hurts!"
Jess narrowed her eyes, completely unimpressed. "What the hell are you doing here, Sora?" she hissed. "And why were you picking my lock?! You couldn't knock like a normal person?"
Obsidian let out a low, amused hiss from the floor.
He grinned through his busted nose, trying to play off the blood as nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "Also, I wouldn't have to pick your lock if my lovely sister would just trust me with a spare key."
Jess let out a long, theatrical groan, dragging her hands down her face before turning her back on him. "Trust you? With a key to my apartment?" she snapped, whirling back toward him with fire in her eyes. "Are you mad?!"
She pointed at him accusingly, her steps quick and forceful as she marched across the room. "You are a walking, overbearing older brother complex, Sora. You literally scare away anyone who even tries to speak to me like a normal person!"
Sora threw up his hands in dramatic protest, blood still trickling faintly from his nose. "*I can't let some handsome prick just come waltzing up and touch you! You don't know where their grubby hands have been!" He shuddered with exaggerated disgust, as if the thought physically pained him.
Jess sighed, rubbing her temples with a slow, practiced motion—an expression of someone who had clearly had this exact argument before. "Tonight's going to be a long night," she muttered, crossing her arms tightly. Her glare sharpened as she fixed him with a flat stare. "Again. Why are you here?"
Sora flopped backward into the couch with a groan, still nursing his bruised pride and busted nose. Then he suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Did you go on a date tonight?"
Jess blinked, caught completely off guard. "W-What?!"
He practically lunged toward her, grabbing her shoulders as though bracing for impact. "Tell me it's not true!" he gasped dramatically, shaking her just enough to rattle her nerves. "My precious little sister—on a date? With some random prick? What if he's got a face tattoo, or drives a rusty van, or—"
WHACK!
Her fist connected sharply with his stomach, cutting his meltdown short.
Sora dropped like a stone, groaning in pain as he curled into himself on the couch. "Oooff—okay! Okay! Message received!" he wheezed, coughing as he waved her off with one hand. "Damn, Jess..."
Jess huffed, planting both hands on her hips. "If you broke into my apartment just to interrogate me about my love life, Sora, I swear to all the gods, I will throw your dramatic ass out that window myself."
Sora pouted, still sprawled out like a wounded knight, one hand on his stomach, the other lazily shielding his face. "So you did go on a date..." he muttered with the wounded tone of a betrayed sibling. His golden eyes narrowed faintly, the gears already turning. "Huh. I knew something was off. You're glowing and wearing lip palm."
Jess turned away, her cheeks flushed a soft pink. "That's none of your business."
Sora gasped—loudly, dramatically, hand clutched to his chest like she'd just stabbed him. "So it is true! Who is he? Where does he live? What does he do for a living? Do I need to start digging up dirt on him?!" He bolted upright, his golden eyes gleaming with overprotective determination. "Oh, I swear, if this guy so much as breathes the wrong way near you—"
A pillow hit him square in the face.
"Sora, shut up!" Jess groaned, flopping back onto the couch beside him.
Peeling the pillow off with dramatic flair, he clutched his chest again. "You wound me, Jess! Here I am, trying to protect my adorable baby sister, and this is the thanks I get?"
Jess pinched the bridge of her nose. "You broke into my apartment like a burglar, almost got yourself knocked unconscious, and now you're causing a scene over something that's none of your business." She glared at him, her patience thinning like a frayed rope. "I'd say you deserve worse."
Anubis let out a low, unimpressed growl from the couch armrest before curling back into his usual loaf position, clearly judging the entire encounter.
Sora pouted but wisely refrained from pushing her further—at least for now.
Jess inhaled deeply. "Why are you actually here, Sora?" she asked again, leveling him with a pointed look.
Sora straightened, clearing his throat as if suddenly remembering he did, in fact, have a purpose. "Right! Dad wanted me to check in on you." He gave her a smug smirk. "But now I see why. You're getting way too cozy here in the Muggle world. And apparently, too cozy with some guy."
Jess groaned. "Get out."
"Aw, come on, don't be like that!" he said, throwing an arm around her. "Tell your big brother everything!"
Jess reached for another pillow.
"Sora. Leave."
He barely dodged it as it whizzed past his ear, still grinning—until the grin vanished at his next, careless words.
"Oh, come on, Jess! I'm just surprised you found someone after your vampire lover—"
The room dropped into an unnatural silence. Cold. Still. Suffocating.
Jess froze, her entire body locking up. For a split second, she couldn't breathe. Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly as though the wind had been knocked out of her. And then, like a flickering flame struggling in the wind, the pain surfaced. Shock. Hurt. A tremble in her jaw. Her hands clenched tightly into trembling fists.
Sora's grin vanished. The realization hit him too late.
"Jess... I didn't mean—"
"Don't ever mention Rick again."
Her voice was low. Hoarse. Strained with the weight of something fractured and buried deep. The sheer venom packed into those six words hit like a slap across the face.
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Her shoulders trembled, arms wrapped tightly around herself as though to keep the pain from breaking free. "Get out..." she whispered.
Sora opened his mouth to speak, to apologize again—but she flinched at the gesture.
"Get out now... or I'll call Mom."
That silenced him more than anything ever could.
The fire in her voice wasn't just anger—it was heartbreak. Raw, sharp, and unhealed.
He exhaled slowly, guilt pressing down like a boulder on his chest. For once, he had no witty retort. No teasing jab. Just silence.
"...I'm sorry, Jess," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
She didn't respond. Didn't look at him. Just turned her face away, burying herself into the side of the couch, her back rigid.
Sora lingered for a moment, staring at her with regret burning in his throat.
Then, with a quiet shuffle of boots and a soft click of the door—
He left.
Jess let out a slow breath, her fingers rising to the air as the room dimmed around her with the flick of wandless magic. The TV clicked off, the hum of the Xbox fell silent, and the gentle lamp beside her couch faded into darkness. Her apartment was swallowed in quiet. A stillness. One that echoed too deeply in the hollow spaces of her chest.
She rose with slow, deliberate steps and moved toward her dresser, the soft rustle of the blanket around her shoulders the only sound. There, framed in simple black wood, sat a photo—one she hadn't looked at in months, yet never moved or hidden away. A photo of her and Rick, taken when they were sixteen. Their smiles were genuine, their arms linked, heads tilted together like the world had only ever belonged to them.
Rick Meyers. Her childhood friend. Her first love.
Not just any vampire—but a prince. The crowned heir of Zechariah Meyers, the King of Vampires. His family had stood alongside the Mikcloud royal line for generations, bound in an ancient pact that began in the days of Queen Regina Mikcloud. Rick had been noble not just by blood, but in every action, every word. He had been kind and fiery. Gentle and wild. Everything.
Jess reached forward, her fingertips trembling as they traced the image. His green eyes—so much like hers—stared back from the glossy surface. Bright. Confident. Alive.
It had been taken only months before his death.
The grief twisted in her gut like a blade.
She remembered it all. Too clearly. Clover Meyers—Rick's uncle—had branded her love an abomination. A union between a witch and a vampire, in his warped ideology, was sacrilege. Clover had tried to destroy their alliance, tried to assassinate her and shatter the very heart of two ancient legacies.
Rick had stepped in front of her without hesitation.
She could still feel the moment. The flash of steel, dark and crackling with forbidden magic. The way it pierced his chest before she could even scream. She remembered the shock in his eyes, not fear, but sorrow—that he wouldn't be there anymore. And then the weight of him, collapsing in her arms, blood spreading across her lap, warm and fast and final.
He had taken the death meant for her.
And she could do nothing.
Her throat tightened painfully, eyes burning. She clutched the frame to her chest as if she could pull the memory into her, keep it close—keep him close. The myths the non-magical whispered about vampires were lies. They didn't burst into flames under the sun. They weren't undead. They lived. And Rick... he had lived.
And he had died. In her arms. With her name on his lips.
Jess let the tears fall silently this time, no longer resisting them. They slipped down her cheeks in quiet surrender as she slowly crumpled onto the edge of her bed, the familiar pressure of that night—that night—settling over her chest like a storm too vast to outrun. It pressed against her ribs, heavy and unrelenting, echoing the grief she'd buried beneath smiles and daydreams for years. Her breath came in uneven bursts as memory collided with reality, the aching truth threading itself through her soul once more.
But even as pain consumed her, something unexpected stirred.
A warmth. Gentle. Persistent.
Tom.
His name rose like a whispered confession in the quiet of her thoughts. The way he had looked at her with those intense, crimson eyes. The way his fingers had curled so naturally around hers. The way their kiss had lingered—haunting and soft and real. And somehow, impossibly, amidst all the memories of what she had lost, she didn't feel guilty.
She still loved Rick. She always would. That kind of love didn't fade; it settled into the bones, into the soul, into the very essence of who she was.
But maybe, just maybe, love didn't always have to be a chain.
It could be a bridge—one leading forward, not away from the past, but through it.
Rick had died in her arms. His blood had stained her skin, his name still echoed in the hollow parts of her heart. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she was drowning in that grief. Not completely.
A single tear escaped, gliding silently down her cheek before landing on the wooden surface of the dresser where the picture frame still stood. She quickly wiped her eyes, inhaling a deep breath to steady herself, her chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm.
"It's almost his death anniversary..." she whispered, voice raw with emotion. "I should visit his tomb soon..."
The words lingered in the air like a vow—one laced with ache and quiet strength. The pain would never truly leave her. Some wounds never fully healed. They simply became part of her, etched into the folds of her soul like scars inked in magic and memory.
She turned away from the dresser at last and slipped beneath the cool sheets of her bed, letting the weight of exhaustion pull her downward. Her magic responded instinctively to her emotions—soft sparks of energy dancing along the corners of the room like faint stars, illuminating the edges of her comforter and the trailing ends of her long braid with gentle pulses of moonlight.
The ceiling fan began to hum overhead, summoned by the unconscious will of her magic. It sent a soft, calming breeze drifting over her, brushing against her cheeks like the ghost of a lullaby.
Anubis leapt gracefully onto the bed, his silver coat glowing faintly in the moonlight that spilled through the curtains. He crossed the mattress with quiet purpose, his golden eyes glinting with silent understanding. With a low purr, he nestled close, resting his head against her stomach and offering her the grounding comfort only he could.
Jess smiled weakly, lifting a hand to stroke behind his ears, her fingers moving in gentle circles. "I'm okay, Anubis," she whispered, voice thick but calm. "Tomorrow, we'll get everything ready. Tom's coming over around noon."
Her heart fluttered faintly at the thought—so simple, yet heavy with meaning.
She exhaled, shifting onto her side as Anubis adjusted with her, his body warm and steady at her side.
"Let's sleep."
And as the purring deepened and the world faded into the rhythm of her breathing, Jess let her eyes slip closed, surrendering at last to the peace that had eluded her for so long.
Sunlight streamed gently through the partially drawn curtains, casting golden slats across the floor like threads of morning warmth. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, drifting through the calm hush of the bedroom. The distant murmur of London waking up seeped through the high windows—soft honks, the occasional bicycle bell, a far-off dog barking—all blending with the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a breeze.
Tom Riddle stirred beneath the green and silver sheets, the subtle scent of parchment and candle smoke clinging faintly to the room around him. The bed was still warm from sleep, its covers slightly rumpled from a restless dream he couldn't quite remember. But it wasn't the dream—or the sound of the city—that pulled him from the depths of slumber.
It was something cold and smooth brushing insistently against his neck.
Followed by a familiar hiss, low and impatient.
"Master... Master, wake up. I'm hungry again. I want another rabbit."
Tom's eyes flickered open, the rich crimson of his irises adjusting sluggishly to the morning light. He blinked twice, the ceiling above him briefly out of focus before he turned his head—and found himself nose-to-snout with Nagini's enormous, gleaming face.
Her forked tongue flicked out just once, the movement sharp and purposeful. Her golden eyes bore into his with a kind of expectant hunger that made it very clear this wasn't a polite request.
Tom sighed through his nose, voice low and still heavy with sleep. "You woke me up for another rabbit?"
Nagini tilted her head in a distinctly smug motion. "Yes, Master. I'm hungry."
There was no point arguing. She was always hungry.
With a muted groan, Tom rubbed a hand across his face, fingers dragging through the strands of dark hair tousled by sleep. He sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around his waist, the cool morning air brushing against his bare shoulders and collarbone. The ache in his limbs was a pleasant reminder of an uninterrupted night of rest—rare, and oddly satisfying.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet met the chilled wood floor, the sensation enough to wake him properly. He cast a glance at the old-fashioned alarm clock ticking softly on the nightstand.
8:31 AM.
Tom let out another quiet breath. He'd need to visit Falcon this morning.
His wand lay waiting atop the side table, polished and exact in its placement. He picked it up with familiar ease and gave a small, deliberate flick.
A soft pop echoed near the foot of the bed—and a rabbit appeared.
Instantly, Nagini lunged, her massive coils surging forward like water from a broken dam. The rabbit gave a single startled squeak before it was silenced by the crushing embrace of the serpent's body.
Tom didn't flinch. He stood slowly, the hem of his sleep pants brushing his ankles as he moved toward the dresser, already planning the day ahead. His back was straight, posture elegant even in the quiet of morning, and his expression remained unreadable as the sounds of Nagini feeding filled the room behind him.
"I suppose I should thank you," he muttered dryly, glancing into the mirror as he combed his fingers through his hair. "I had no intention of waking this early."
Nagini didn't respond immediately, occupied as she was. But after a moment, she hissed in amusement, "You have important things to do, Master. You need the energy."
Tom smirked faintly at his reflection. "Don't I always."
Stepping toward the tall, polished wardrobe that stood like a sentinel near the corner of his room, Tom pulled the double doors open with a soft creak. Inside, neat rows of dark clothing awaited—pressed shirts in shades of black, charcoal, forest green, and deep maroon, each selected for utility and presence. His fingers brushed over the fabrics in quiet contemplation.
But his mind wasn't on clothing.
It had already drifted—inevitably—back to the night before. Back to her.
Jess.
The memory of her laughter echoing against the neon-lit fairgrounds, the warmth of her hand in his, the way her face lit up when he won her that plush cat... But most of all, he felt again the softness of her lips on his, the inexplicable swirl of magic that had come alive between them during that Ferris wheel kiss. It had been unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Magic that wasn't summoned—but responded. That connected.
He didn't understand it yet. But he wanted to.
"Master," came Nagini's familiar voice, slightly amused. She'd slithered across the room now, her head lifting elegantly as she gazed up at him from near the edge of the rug. "Your face is turning red again."
Tom blinked, snapped from his reverie, and glanced down at her with narrowed eyes. "Quiet, Nagini," he said, though his tone lacked bite. He turned quickly back to the wardrobe, his ears tinged with heat.
After a brief deliberation, he selected a deep emerald button-down shirt—slim fit, elegant but casual enough for the day—and a pair of well-fitted black jeans. Nothing too formal. He didn't want to seem like he was trying too hard.
Just as he laid the shirt across the bed to begin dressing, the faint buzz of his phone vibrated against the nightstand.
He paused.
Then reached over, picking up the sleek device with one hand. His crimson eyes scanned the new message on the lock screen.
Jess:
Morning Tom! Around 4PM come on over. We're having movie night, and I'll make you dinner.
Tom stared at the message, rereading it once... then again.
A slow, almost reluctant smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. A warm bloom unfolded in his chest—a strange thing for someone who had lived for so long in cold calculation and loneliness.
Movie night.
It was such a simple thing. Something utterly normal. Mundane, even.
But with Jess, it felt... new. Something worth looking forward to.
He let out a soft breath through his nose, thumb hovering briefly over the screen before he typed his reply—measured, smooth, but with quiet sincerity beneath every word.
Sounds perfect. I'll be there at four.
He hit send and stood there for a moment longer, phone still in hand, watching the message icon blink away.
"Movie night," he repeated quietly to himself, almost like he was trying to test how the words sounded in his voice.
Nagini gave a flick of her tongue, her golden eyes half-lidded with lazy satisfaction.
"Will there be more kissing this time?" she hissed, clearly amused by the memory of the prior night's events.
Tom exhaled, a mix of a chuckle and a sigh escaping him as he set the phone back on the table. His fingers lingered on the edge for a beat before he glanced toward the bed, where Nagini lay coiled contentedly, her long body stretched across the duvet like a living emerald tapestry.
"Master," she said again, her tone playful but knowing, "you seem excited. Does this mean you'll be leaving me alone again today?"
Tom moved toward the wardrobe again, slipping his arms through the sleeves of his shirt with careful ease. "Not quite," he said as he began buttoning it, his voice calm. "I'll be going to her place later tonight... but first, we're paying Lord Falcon a visit."
Nagini's tongue flicked again. "Lord Lestrange..." she murmured, her tone shifting from teasing to thoughtful.
Tom nodded once, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves and tucking the shirt into his black jeans. The mention of Falcon weighed heavier than he let on, but his expression remained composed collected. "Yes," he confirmed. "There are things I need to... address."
With the belt fastened, he crossed the room and paused in front of the tall, minimalist mirror mounted beside the door. He ran a hand through his dark hair, smoothing the tousled strands with practiced fingers. The reflection that stared back was still somewhat foreign, despite weeks of reacquaintance. Gone was the pale, serpent-like face, replaced now by the sharp, youthful man he once had been.
It was jarring... but not unwelcome.
He allowed himself a small, amused smirk. "I almost look like someone who belongs in this century."
Nagini hissed something that vaguely resembled a laugh.
Tom strode into the sleek, updated kitchen, his bare feet making soft sounds against the smooth tile floor. He leaned on the marble counter for a moment, debating how to pass the hours before his visit with Falcon.
The familiar vibration of his phone pulled his attention once more.
Jess:
Great! Can't wait to see you. Hope you're ready for some horror movies.
Tom arched an eyebrow at the playful message, a smirk already forming across his lips.
Looking forward to it, he replied quickly, thumbs tapping with casual confidence.
He set the phone down again, the device quiet once more—but the smile remained.
His day was beginning, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, it didn't begin with war, or plots, or blood.
Jess stood in her apartment's modern kitchen, the warm morning light filtering in through the tall windows and dancing off the polished countertops. She carefully placed the lid on the crockpot, locking in the aroma that had already begun to fill the space. Inside, the savory scent of slow-simmering corned beef mingled with the rich earthiness of fresh mushrooms, all steeped in her family's traditional Traven-style broth—a recipe passed down through generations. The broth was dark and fragrant, layered with subtle spices and herbs, promising a meal that would be both comforting and indulgent by the time she returned home.
Satisfied with the temperature set to low, Jess gave the appliance a final glance before turning on her heel, her bare feet padding lightly against the cool tile as she made her way toward the front door.
She paused by the small entryway table, her fingers brushing over the familiar items waiting for her—her car keys, her sunglasses, and her favorite black purse, adorned with embroidered mystical symbols and tiny protective runes hidden in the stitching. She slipped the sunglasses over her eyes with casual ease, the sleek frames matching the subtle glamour of her outfit.
A quick glance in the hallway mirror had her adjusting the hem of her black tank top, its crescent moon design shimmering faintly with an enchanted silver thread that gave it a starlit gleam. The fabric clung in all the right places, effortlessly paired with deep teal denim shorts trimmed in silver studs. Her choice of footwear—celestial-themed flip-flops—completed the outfit with a mix of summer ease and mystical flair. Practical, breezy, and still her style.
Jess allowed herself a moment to smile, her reflection catching the excitement just beneath her carefully composed expression. Today would be a nice break. A visit home to the grand Kuran estate—a chance to see her parents, catch up with the ever-watchful staff, and breathe in the ancient magic woven into every stone of the estate.
She stepped out, locking the door behind her with a decisive click. The soft jingle of her keys in hand and the familiar sound of her footsteps on the hallway floor echoed a comforting rhythm. As she made her way down to her car, the summer heat rising in gentle waves outside, she felt that familiar tug of belonging.
Today would be filled with warmth, laughter, and maybe—just maybe—a little clarity about the feelings swirling in her chest.
The clock struck half-past nine as sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows of the Lestrange Estate's drawing room, casting golden hues across the velvet-lined furniture and polished mahogany surfaces. The room, as regal as its occupants, exuded an air of timeless nobility—portraits of dark-haired ancestors stared down from ornate frames, their gazes cool and judgmental.
Lord Falcon Lestrange sat in his high-backed chair by the fireplace, dressed immaculately in a black waistcoat and deep emerald cravat. Beside him, his wife, Lady Victoria, held a porcelain teacup with poised grace, her dark eyes focused intently on the delicate swirls of cream dancing in her tea.
They had been mid-conversation—discussing Rodolphus's impending divorce and the political tremors it would inevitably cause—when the doors to the drawing room creaked open.
Both their heads turned.
And then they froze.
A tall figure stepped into the room with the confidence of someone who needed no introduction. Dressed in an elegantly fitted black suit, the young man's presence was undeniable—his posture straight, his aura a force that seemed to weigh down the very air. His jet-black hair, slightly tousled, framed a pale face marked by high cheekbones and an aristocratic jawline. But it was his eyes—those haunting, unmistakable crimson eyes—that made their breath catch.
Not contacts. Not illusion.
Magic. Ancient. Undeniable.
And trailing beside him like a silent specter was a massive serpent, her emerald scales glistening as she slithered along the pristine marble floor.
Nagini.
Lady Victoria rose slowly from her seat, her hand tightening around the edge of the tea saucer. Falcon, though composed, straightened in his chair, eyes narrowed in cautious reverence.
The figure inclined his head slightly, his voice smooth, measured—like velvet hiding a dagger.
"Lord Falcon. Lady Victoria," Tom Riddle greeted, his tone not lacking in politeness, but carrying the unmistakable weight of command.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Then, Falcon rose fully, stepping forward with a practiced grace honed from years in political circles. "My Lord," he said, voice quiet but firm, bending slightly in a show of old respect. "You honor us with your presence."
Lady Victoria, her composure restored, dipped her head in kind. "It has been a very long time... and yet, here you stand, looking quite different."
Tom smirked faintly, his gaze flicking between them. "I needed a holiday. Consider this... a personal visit."
Falcon motioned toward the grand armchairs near the hearth. "Please, sit. You are always welcome here, my Lord."
Tom stepped forward, the subtle tap of his dress shoes echoing in the chamber as Nagini followed close behind. The air seemed to shimmer around him—an aura that pulsed with restrained power. He lowered himself into the offered seat with a fluid grace, folding one leg over the other, resting his wrist lightly atop his knee.
Lady Victoria sat down again, eyes sharp with curiosity. "I must admit, I never expected you to arrive looking so... young."
Tom met her gaze with a flicker of amusement. "Nor did many, I'm sure."
Falcon's expression tightened just slightly, though he masked it well beneath the practiced mask of nobility. The flickering fireplace cast golden-orange light across his sharp features, highlighting the silver streaks at his temples. He nodded once, acknowledging Tom's words without resistance.
"I did write to you," he admitted. "Because I trust no one else to understand the weight of this decision... or its consequences."
Lady Victoria, still composed but watchful, set her teacup down with a gentle clink. "Bellatrix has always been..." Her voice trailed for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "Unstable. But your absence has stirred something deeper in her. She believes this is her opportunity to reclaim your favor—your... attention."
Tom's expression remained impassive, but his gaze sharpened.
"She's mistaken," he said flatly.
Falcon gave a dry chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "I agree. Unfortunately, her delusion is dangerous. Rodolphus came to me a week ago, asking for formal approval for a divorce. He wants to leave her. Publicly."
Tom's fingers tapped once on the armrest, a slow, deliberate motion. "And be with Sirius Black," he added knowingly, watching the way Falcon's lips twitched at the name.
The Lestrange patriarch exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite frustration. "Yes. My son wants to rekindle what they once had. I'm not blind to it. But I am—was—still loyal to the old ways. Marrying Bellatrix was a union of power, legacy... and control."
Tom's gaze was unreadable. "And now it's a prison."
Silence.
Lady Victoria looked toward her husband, then toward Tom. "If you support Rodolphus's choice, Bellatrix will not take it lightly. She already views every woman in your vicinity as a threat. She believes, with you unbound by formality and her husband seeking separation, this is her chance."
Tom leaned back slowly in the chair, crimson eyes narrowing just slightly. "She's not just mistaken, then. She's delusional."
His voice dipped, sharp and final.
"She's not my anything."
Falcon nodded grimly. "Then I ask this, my Lord—what do we do about her? I can approve Rodolphus's divorce. Publicly. But I won't put my estate, my family—or you—at risk. You know she'll retaliate."
Tom was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice that sent a chill through the very walls of the drawing room, he spoke.
"She still bears the Mark."
The statement hung in the air like a curse.
Falcon's brows furrowed. "You gave it to her."
"And I can take it back."
Even Nagini lifted her head slightly, as if she too felt the weight of those words. Lady Victoria visibly paled.
Falcon sat back in his chair, stunned into silence.
"Removing the Dark Mark..." he murmured. "That's never been done."
"It can be done," Tom corrected coolly.
A long silence stretched between them. Then, Falcon exhaled slowly, his voice quiet but resolute.
"Then let it be done."
Tom nodded once, rising smoothly from his chair. His expression remained unreadable, but his crimson eyes glinted with icy focus. "Inform Rodolphus. And prepare the necessary protections," he said calmly, retrieving his wand from within his coat. "I don't need to be in her presence to sever the mark."
He stepped forward, the air in the room growing thick with arcane pressure. Nagini slithered silently at his feet, her body still and watching.
With a single fluid motion, Tom raised his wand. The tip ignited with a glowing green light—a sickly yet elegant luminescence that pulsed with dark, ancient energy.
"Morsmordre inverso, Bellatrix Lestrange," he commanded, his voice steady and powerful.
The room vibrated faintly.
"Morsmordre inverso, Bellatrix Lestrange!"
The lights flickered overhead. The temperature dropped further.
"Morsmordre inverso, Bellatrix Lestrange!"
A spiraling current of green light began swirling around Tom, like sentient smoke reacting to his will.
"Morsmordre inverso, Bellatrix Lestrange!"
The final incantation echoed like thunder.
Meanwhile, at Malfoy Manor...
Bellatrix was seated in the drawing room, surrounded by Narcissa, Lucius, Rodolphus, and Rabastan. They were mid-conversation when her body suddenly seized.
She screamed.
Gripping her left forearm, Bellatrix collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. Her screams were sharp, wild—animalistic—as if her very soul were being burned from the inside out.
"The Mark—!" she shrieked. "Something's wrong—it's—he's—NO!"
Lucius rose from his seat in alarm, while Rodolphus stood frozen, his expression pale and conflicted. Narcissa rushed to her sister's side, reaching out but recoiling as green light pulsed violently from Bella's arm.
Then, as quickly as it began, it stopped.
Bellatrix went limp, panting and trembling, her eyes wide and unfocused.
The Dark Mark on her forearm... was gone.
Completely.
Severed.
Bellatrix's scream tore through the grand drawing room of Malfoy Manor, clutching her arm with a desperation that bordered on madness. The skin where the Dark Mark once pulsed with power now blistered and smoked, as if it had been seared by molten iron.
She writhed, nails digging into the rug beneath her as she howled in agony. Veins of burning green magic crackled violently beneath her skin, trailing up her shoulder before fading into nothingness—extinguished, erased.
Narcissa had been the first to rush to her, kneeling at her side with panic etched into her pale features. But now, as the final shimmer of unnatural light faded from Bellatrix's arm, she pulled away—her breath caught in her throat.
The mark... was gone.
She took a slow step back, her voice a whisper. "He's... removed your Mark."
For a moment, silence followed. Thick, suffocating silence.
And then, Bellatrix's scream broke again—not in pain this time, but in raw, unhinged grief.
"WHY?!" she shrieked, her eyes wild, her voice rasping with disbelief. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she cradled her burned arm like a lost limb. Her entire body trembled, her magic lashing out in flickers of chaotic sparks that crackled across the walls.
Lucius and Rabastan stood frozen in stunned silence. Even the enchanted chandeliers above flickered in reaction to her magic's fury.
But Rodolphus...
Rodolphus stepped forward slowly, arms crossed, eyes cold. For the first time in years, he did not flinch under her wrath.
A bitter, cruel smile twisted his lips. "Oh, I know why."
Bellatrix's bloodshot gaze snapped toward him, venom dripping from her voice. "Then TELL ME, you useless, cowardly, impotent husband!"
Rodolphus didn't blink.
"I asked my father for a divorce," he said, his voice low, deliberate, and razor-sharp. "He feared what you might do to our Lord once you were no longer bound to me."
Bellatrix's breath hitched.
"He was right to be concerned," Rodolphus continued, stepping closer. "You've been obsessed with him for decades—every action, every breath you've taken has revolved around your deranged fantasy of being in his bed."
Her face contorted, lips curling in a feral snarl. But he didn't stop.
"This?" He gestured coldly to her arm, still red and raw from the severed mark. "This is his answer. His judgment."
He leaned down, face inches from hers, the final blow leaving his lips like poison.
"He would never bed you, Bellatrix. You were never his equal. Never his choice. And now, you never will be."
She let out a strangled cry and lashed out with a burst of wild magic, the force of it rattling the walls and shattering a nearby mirror into hundreds of glittering shards that rained down like cursed snow. The room filled with the sharp, crystalline sound of glass breaking, echoing like an omen.
But Rodolphus didn't even flinch.
He stood tall, straightening the lapels of his jacket with infuriating calmness as he turned his back to her. The once-devoted husband—who had long ago buried his affections for her beneath years of misery and regret—walked away from her without remorse. And with every step, it was as if chains that had bound him for years were finally breaking free.
Bellatrix lay there, panting, her dark curls tangled and wild, her burned arm cradled uselessly in her lap. Her screams had quieted to broken, guttural sobs. The Mark that once bound her to him—once made her feel chosen—was gone.
And with it... her last delusion.
Rodolphus stopped at the door, his smirk spreading with a renewed confidence, even a touch of boyish glee.
"I think I'll go visit my puppy," he announced proudly, brushing a speck of dust from his shoulder.
Rabastan, who had been standing silently with a hand braced on the fireplace mantle, raised an amused brow. "Careful, brother. Remember—Father still needs to finalize the—"
But he didn't finish.
In that instant, a swirl of luminous green and blinding white magic exploded around Rodolphus and Bellatrix. The sound was unlike anything they'd ever heard—a layered shatter, like ice breaking inside glass, cascading through the drawing room in waves of crackling energy. The magic engulfed the space for a breathless moment, blurring the air with its violent beauty.
When it faded, Bellatrix slumped to the floor, unconscious and unmoving.
Rodolphus stood tall, completely untouched, glowing with residual magic. The aura of the severance spell still clung to him like ceremonial armor.
He clapped his hands once sharp and theatrical.
"Oh, it's already finalized," he said cheerfully, spinning on his heel. "And I'll make sure my puppy disowns her too."
Without waiting for another word, he strode out of the room.
The door slammed shut behind him with a resounding boom that echoed through the corridors of Malfoy Manor, as though sealing the end of an era.
Bellatrix Lestrange, once feared, once adored by the darkest wizard of their age... was now alone.
And no magic would fix what had been broken.
Inside the magical wing of the Kuran Estate—where ancient power whispered through every stone and the air shimmered with enchantments older than Hogwarts itself—two figures stood in quiet contemplation.
Jareth Kuran, regal in bearing and dressed in dark, intricately tailored attire, gazed into the heart of the chamber with steady, golden eyes. Standing beside him was the First Grand Knight of Celtica, Frank Valkyrie, imposing as ever in his sleek black modern suit. The two stood in silence, their attention focused on what floated before them.
Suspended in a swirling angelic containment sphere hovered an object pulsing with corrupted energy—Salazar Slytherin's locket. Even imprisoned within layers of radiant celestial magic, the Horcrux throbbed with dark intensity. The glowing sphere around it shimmered in soft golds and whites, a stark contrast to the vile presence it held at bay.
"Another Horcrux found," Jareth murmured, his voice carrying the weight of old storms. "And hidden in Grimmauld Place, of all places..."
Frank gave a solemn nod, his tone measured. "Indeed, Your Highness. It was Seb who discovered it," he said, referring to the royal house-elf butler. "While purifying the cursed energies in Regulus Black's bedroom, he sensed the disturbance—something unnatural. He contacted me immediately. I went the following morning to retrieve it myself."
Jareth's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Voldemort had no idea it would be discovered. He's either grown arrogant... or dangerously careless."
He gestured to another containment sphere hovering nearby. Within it floated a second artifact—Tom Riddle's diary. Though it had once been stabbed by a Basilisk fang, its surface still pulsed with a faint magical residue.
"The diary," Jareth said grimly. "Even after it was supposedly destroyed, there remains a trace of its essence. It wasn't fully cleansed—not in the way most assumed."
Frank's gaze shifted to the dark tome. "Because those who handled it didn't understand the Horcrux fully," he said. "The book that once existed at Hogwarts—it was incomplete. Whether by design or censorship, it only provided fragments of truth. Enough to create... but not enough to comprehend."
He paused, his voice lowering. "The Mikcloud copy, however—the one locked within the Royal Archives—holds the full truth. Every ritual. Every cost. Every consequence. I doubt Tom Riddle ever saw that version."
The locket pulsed again inside its radiant prison, the light flickering as if reacting to the weight of their words.
"This cannot be allowed to continue," Jareth said firmly. "Each piece we recover brings us one step closer to undoing his madness. But we must act quickly. Innocent lives still hang in the balance."
Frank inclined his head slightly, his tone solemn but resolute. "We'll find them, one by one. Every fragment of his soul will be accounted for."
He hesitated, then asked quietly, "Do you still plan to restore it? His soul?"
Jareth's eyes flicked toward the glowing locket once more. "Of course," he said evenly. "You, of all people, Frank—being half-angel—understand how sacred a soul truly is. To destroy one, no matter how fractured or corrupted, is a crime against the natural order. It is forbidden. No matter who he was... or what he became."
Back within the stately walls of the Lestrange Manor, the morning sun streamed in through high arched windows, casting soft golden rays across the lavish drawing room. Antique furniture gleamed under the light, polished to perfection, and the scent of spiced tea mingled with the faint aroma of fresh parchment and garden roses. Tom sat with an air of composed elegance, one leg crossed over the other, his teacup balanced effortlessly in hand. His deep crimson eyes caught the sunlight in a way that made them glow faintly—an otherworldly gleam, unmistakable to those who knew what to look for.
Across from him, Lord Falcon Lestrange sipped his own tea in thoughtful silence, while Lady Victoria Lestrange sat with perfect poise, her emerald robes flowing like water where they pooled around her seat. The golden trim of her attire shimmered faintly with woven runes—symbols of nobility and protection that had been passed down through the Lestrange lineage for generations.
Victoria lowered her teacup slowly, her discerning eyes fixed on Tom with polite curiosity. "My Lord," she began carefully, her voice refined and calm, "I must ask... are you wearing a glamour?"
Tom arched a brow ever so slightly, his expression unreadable, though the corners of his lips lifted just faintly.
Falcon looked over the rim of his teacup, his interest piqued.
"A fair question," Tom replied smoothly, setting his cup down on its saucer with a soft clink. "No... not a glamour. At least, not in the conventional sense."
Victoria tilted her head slightly. "Then how...?"
Tom's fingers brushed casually along the edge of the table, almost as if he were collecting his thoughts. "My restoration," he said slowly, "was the result of a very specific ritual. One I conducted in secret, long before my disappearance. The shell I had become—it was never meant to last." His gaze shifted, briefly distant. "I needed to reclaim what was mine, before the war, before the Horcruxes... before the madness."
Victoria's eyes widened faintly, not in fear, but in understanding.
Falcon set his tea down, his tone low and direct. "Then what we see now is... you, as you once were."
Tom nodded once, his expression calm, composed—but beneath the surface, something deeper stirred. A quiet gravity lingered in his voice, like a shadow brushing against memory. "Yes," he said, his tone measured. "The man I should have been... if the world hadn't demanded a monster."
He reached for his teacup again, though this time not to drink. His fingers rested lightly against the porcelain as he stared into its contents, almost as though peering into the past.
"I'm surprised," he continued after a moment, "that when I began restoring the fragments of my soul... some things returned that I hadn't anticipated." His voice dropped into something quieter, more introspective. "Old scars, for one. Not the ones from battle or punishment. But the ones time had all but erased."
Falcon and Victoria both watched him carefully, sensing the rare vulnerability hidden within his words.
Tom's gaze remained fixed on the swirling tea. "There's a scar on my abdomen that returned," he murmured, one hand briefly brushing over his side as if he could still feel the ache. "I'd forgotten about it. It happened when I was twelve."
His lips curved, but not in amusement.
"Two older Slytherins decided to duel in the common room—reckless, idiotic. I was sitting by the fireplace when one of their hexes went wild. A severing curse. It caught me across the stomach, deeper than either of them realized." His voice grew colder now, more detached. "They panicked, ran off. Left me there."
A pause.
"It was Abraxas who helped stop the bleeding. He didn't hesitate. He pulled off his cloak, pressed it against the wound. When your grandfather saw how bad it was, he ran through the halls, yelling for Slughorn." Tom finally looked up, crimson eyes steady. "If he hadn't, I might've died that night. Not from dark magic. But from neglect."
Victoria had gone very still, her teacup trembling slightly in her hands. Falcon's jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his eyes remained locked on Tom, thoughtful.
"Even now," Tom added quietly, "I can't decide if it was mercy or obligation that moved him. But it left a mark. Both physically... and otherwise."
He set his cup down gently and leaned back in his chair, that distant look fading as he refocused on the present. "I haven't told anyone that before."
The room fell into a respectful silence, not heavy, but reverent. It was not often the Dark Lord—no, the man—spoke of his youth with such raw, human honesty.
Victoria reached across the tea table, her hand resting lightly over her husband's. "Then let this home remember it, My Lord. Not as weakness... but as the moment a boy survived."
Tom's eyes met hers—and for a single, flickering heartbeat, he gave a small nod. Then, with a fluid motion, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his black jeans and pulled out his sleek iPhone 16 Plus.
Both Falcon and Victoria blinked in quiet surprise. It wasn't often they saw their dark lord reaching for anything remotely modern, let alone a Muggle device.
"My Lord... is that a Muggle cellphone?" Victoria asked cautiously, her voice barely above a whisper.
Tom quirked an eyebrow, amused. "And you recognize one because...?"
Victoria glanced away, brushing a gloved finger over the rim of her teacup. "Lady Greengrass," she admitted. "She has one... though it's quite outdated."
"Hm," Tom murmured thoughtfully. A smirk ghosted across his lips as he unlocked the screen with a touch. "I want to show you both something. The two of you are among the very few I can trust."
With a few silent swipes through his photo album, he paused, then turned the phone and set it gently on the table.
Displayed on the screen was a picture he'd taken just the night before—Jess standing in front of the neon-lit Ferris wheel at the summer fair. Her crimson braid shimmered under the carnival lights, her metallic Metallica tank reflecting the warm glow of the attractions behind her. She looked effortlessly radiant, a mixture of strength and soft curiosity captured in that moment.
"This," Tom said softly, his voice uncharacteristically warm, "is Jess. My girlfriend."
Victoria's lips parted in astonishment, her teacup lowering slightly as she leaned forward, emerald eyes fixated on the glowing screen of Tom's phone. Falcon, seated beside her, remained still—his posture straight, hands folded loosely, yet his golden eyes were sharp with silent calculation as he examined the photo.
"...She's beautiful," Victoria said at last, her voice soft with genuine surprise. "And she... she looks happy in this." Her gaze flicked up to meet Tom's.
Tom didn't answer immediately. His crimson eyes lingered on the image as if the moment captured there meant more to him than words could express. The neon lights from the fair danced in Jess's eyes even through the screen, her relaxed posture and subtle smile hinting at something so rare—genuine peace.
He locked the screen and slipped the device back into the pocket of his black slacks, fingers brushing the smooth case with lingering care.
"I am," he admitted, the words low but steady. "For the first time in a long time... I am." His expression remained unreadable, but there was a gentleness in the way he spoke that neither Falcon nor Victoria had ever witnessed in him before.
"She's a witch," he added after a pause, almost absently. "But she converted into the Muggle world. She lives among them now. Uses their technology. Their customs. Seamlessly."
Victoria blinked again, processing that quietly. "And she doesn't know...?"
Tom shook his head. "No. Not fully. At least... not yet." He hesitated, then glanced away, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "But she knows I'm a wizard and guessed right away I'm parselmouth and she still chose to stay." A pause. "That says more than anything."
Falcon leaned back slowly, his gaze unwavering. "You trust her."
Tom didn't flinch. "With my life."
A heavy silence fell over the drawing room. Victoria set her cup down gently, the porcelain clinking lightly against the saucer. "Then we will protect your secret," she said simply. "For her sake. And yours."
Tom inclined his head slightly, a silent gesture of gratitude. He didn't need their approval—but receiving it, especially from two old allies, eased a weight he hadn't realized he carried.
Falcon let out a quiet breath, folding his hands again. "So. A witch in the Muggle world... and the Dark Lord, walking in plain sight, having tea in my drawing room and speaking of love."
A faint smirk curled at the edges of Tom's lips. "The world's changing, Falcon. Maybe it's time I did too." His voice carried a quiet weight, edged with bitterness softened only by self-awareness. "You know... my original goals were never what they became. I wanted to teach. To guide. To build something lasting." He scoffed under his breath. "But that crackpot old fool—Dumbledore—shut down every chance I had. Every time I approached him for a teaching position, he turned me away."
Falcon sipped his tea calmly, his golden eyes watching Tom over the rim of his cup. "Apparently," he said with casual gravitas, "this coming year will be his last as Headmaster."
Tom's brows lifted slightly in surprise, but the expression quickly shifted—first into calculation, then into satisfaction. A slow, wicked grin stretched across his face, crimson eyes gleaming with quiet delight.
"Oh," he drawled, his tone rich with layered meaning. "How lovely."