Le Jour, La Nuit

by Quitelyvoidlibraria

Summary:

In the echoing corridors of Hogwarts, secrets lie in shadow and Cecilia Lovegood has just witnessed one that could ruin everything.

She was never meant to see Tom Riddle release the basilisk. She was never meant to know what really happened to Myrtle Warren. But now, bound by fear and silence, Cecilia finds herself caught in the delicate web between justice and self-preservation, light and darkness, life and death.

Tom knows she saw him. And now, every glance, every word between them becomes a dangerous game of masks and threats, half-truths and trembling restraint.

Chapter 1: The Witness

Notes:

hello. this is my first time writing a fanfic, i hope you enjoy the story i wrote.

i apologize if there are any spelling mistakes in english, because english is not my first language :)

✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦✦༻♱༺✦

Act I

The Witness

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In the dimly lit Hogwarts corridor, the sound of rushing footsteps echoed against the old stone walls. Her long golden-blonde hair flowed behind as she ran in panic, her wide grey eyes full of horror and terror. Cecilia never thought that her first time breaking curfew would bring her into something so unexpected.

"Oh, Merlin..." she whispered quietly to herself as she ran away from the scene. Of course, never once had it crossed her mind that the Slytherin Prefect, Tom Riddle, had killed someone... accidentally, by releasing the basilisk. 

The image wouldn’t leave her mind. The stillness of the body. The serpent’s hiss. And Tom—his face unreadable as he stared at what he'd done. Whether it was an accident didn’t matter. He had released it. He had killed someone.

She spun her head in all directions and strained her ears, making sure no one else was in the corridor. She didn't want to encounter another prefect or worse, professors—or worst of all, Tom Riddle. Her small feet carried her to the Ravenclaw Tower. The tower, one of the highest in Hogwarts, offered students sweeping views of the mountains, lake, and castle grounds. With its pointed arches, tall narrow windows, and elegant spires, the tower was built from the same gray stone that formed the rest of the castle.

Cecilia stopped in front of the Ravenclaw tower door, The dark brown wooden door appeared ancient and imposing, though its weight was surprisingly light. She pushed the door and ascended the stone steps, the spiralling staircase seemed never-ending, her shoes scuffed against the stone, echoing through the empty tower. 

Her shadow danced in the flickering torchlight as she reached the top of the tower, gasping for air. She walked towards the door that led into the Ravenclaw common room. She had to answer the riddle first before entering the common room. 

From the door came a calm, disembodied voice. The knocker in the shape of an eagle’s head blinked once and spoke:

‘I walk beside you, yet leave no trace

I hold your form but not your face.

In light I follow, in dark I hide—

What am I, always at your side?’

Cecilia’s mind was working hard; she couldn’t think in this state, her mind didn’t work clearly. Her panicked breaths filled her ears. 

“Come on, use your brain, Cecil!” she whispered to herself. pacing in front of the door, She took a deep breath and turned toward the door again, voice tight.

“A … a whisper? An echo?” 

The eagle’s eyes, carved in ancient brass, seemed to flicker with disapproval. The eagle’s voice returned, calm and unchanging. “Incorrect and incorrect. Try again.”

Cecilia took a deep breath, trying to suppress the panic that she felt, her gaze darted to the stairs and her ears strained, listening to any sound of the footsteps. 

She clenched her fists and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memory of what she’d seen—Tom Riddle’s cold gaze, the basilisk’s sinuous form slithering away, and the lifeless body crumpled on the floor.

No, focus on the riddle, Cecil! time is running out! she told herself. 

I walk beside you, yet leave no trace

I hold your form but not your face.

In light I follow, in dark I hide—

What am I, always at your side?’

she repeated the riddle in her mind, in light i follow, in dark i hide. in light….in dark, follow and hide, she thought. 

Then it clicked. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned sharply back to the eagle-shaped knocker, the answer poised on her lips.

“A shadow, the answer is a shadow” she said, her voice firm and certain. 

There was a long pause. Then, the eagle blinked once more. Its brass beak curled upward in a hint of approval, and it spoke again, this time in a warmer tone.

“Correct. Enter, clever one.”

The door creaked open.

As the door opened, she immediately rushed inside the common room. The ravenclaw common room was painted in deep blue and bronze, the room was wide and circular, The domed ceiling was painted with the night sky with lofty arched windows set between columns of aged stone. These windows looked out over the sweeping Hogwarts grounds

Elegant armchairs and delicate tables were arranged thoughtfully around the room, and there was always the faint scent of parchment, old books, and the crisp mountain air that seeped in through the high windows.

She walked towards the girls dormitory, she passed the white marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw that was located next to the door to the dormitory. She climbed the stairs that led to the dormitory and walked towards her dormitory room and pushed the door open. 

The dormitory was circular, like the tower itself, with tall arched windows spaced evenly between slender stone columns. There’s four canopy beds spaced evenly around the circular room, each with dark wooden frames and deep blue hangings trimmed in silver thread, the bedding was soft and crisp, in matching tones of navy and silver, Cecilia’s bed was by one of the windows.

“Cecil?” 

Cecilia turned toward the voice. A red-haired girl with bangs and light skin with freckles and green eyes colour  stood by one of the beds—Eleanor Primrose, one of her three roommates.

“Where have you been? Didn’t you know that–” Before Eleanor finished her sentence, she was cut off by a whimper and sleepy voice. 

From one of the beds, a curtain parted. A girl with long black hair, medium-toned skin, and sharp black eyes appeared—Araya Thakkar

.“Oh! Cecil, you’re back” 

Araya climbed down from her bed and walked over, her face still drowsy from sleep. She rubbed her eyes and stood in front of them.

“Cecil … something happened while you were out,” she said, her voice still hoarse. Then she glanced at Eleanor, silently asking permission to continue. Eleanor gave her a small nod.

Araya took a deep breath, preparing to tell Cecilia the news. “Myrtle Warren is … dead, her body was found in  the girls bathroom on the second-floor.” she whispered,

Cecilia felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Her body froze, her heart stammered.

So, it was Myrtle who was the victim of Tom's actions, my fellow Ravenclaws, she thought. She tried to speak but it felt like the words stuck in her throat. 

The atmosphere in their dorm becomes thick and colder,  none of the girls spoke, each absorbed in her own thoughts. Finally, Eleanor cleared her throat, breaking the silence. 

“Let’s wait until tomorrow to hear what the headmaster says. Cecil, I think you should take a bath and change into your pajamas before bed,” she said gently. She was the mature one—the voice of reason between the three of them.

Cecilia nodded silently and went to the bathroom and took a quick shower, meanwhile, Araya and Eleanor walked to their beds. Again, no one spoke, each lost in her own mind.

After a while, she stepped out of the bathroom in her white pajamas. She looked at Araya and Eleanor’s beds. Both girls were already asleep or pretending to be.

She walked to her own bed and lay down. Her heart felt heavy, like a weight—cold, quiet, and unmistakable. Tom Riddle had killed someone. And she was the only one who knew and Tom Riddle knew that she knew or perhaps not. 

But her gut told her otherwise. And she silently prayed that it was just her mind trying to play tricks on her, trying to make her afraid.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, hoping sleep might offer her some escape, but the truth is she knew sleep would not come easily tonight.

Chapter 2: The Scapegoat

 

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The great halls was bustling with whispers and the sound of plates clinked and goblets glimmered as students reached for toast, eggs, sausages, and pumpkin juice. Despite the clatter of cutlery and murmur of chatter, a subtle tension hung in the air. Everyone speculating about Myrtle's death, their heads tilted together in hushed speculation.

Cecilia sat at the Ravenclaw table, Eleanor to her left and Araya on her right. Her gaze wandered around the great hall, her ears kept catching Myrtle's name and all the speculation. She chewed her bottom lip, fingers tugging at the frayed hem of her robe as the whispers around her sharpened into fragments of Myrtle's name. Her mind kept replaying last night's event like a shattered memory

Of course, her behavior didn't escape from Eleanor, she is really observant. She nudged Cecilia arms and raised an eyebrow. "Earth to Cecil, you seem distracted, what were you thinking?"

Cecilia snapped out of her thoughts when she felt Eleanor nudge her. "Ah! Sorry, I was thinking about school stuff. Classes and homework." she said, trying to sound nonchalant, silently hoping that Eleanor would just brush it off.

Eleanor watched Cecilia closely, her gaze sharp and perceptive. She knew her friends all too well and could tell something was amiss. "Are you sure about that? Nothing else in your mind?" she pressed, she knew Cecilia was lying and she was determined to know the truth. Their interaction caught Araya's attention, but she just kept quiet and watched it closely while her mouth munched her toast.

Cecilia felt a pang of panic at Eleanor's words, realizing that she was on to her. She tried to keep her composure. "No, there's nothing else," she said, again, trying to sound nonchalant.

Before Eleanor could open her mouth again, there's the headmaster's voice, Armando Dippet, ringing in the great hall.

"Attention, students, I have an Important announcement." The murmurs died away as Headmaster began to speak, his voice gravelly. Everyone in the great hall bated their breath, no one dared to open their mouth. The tension was so thick it could be cut with butter knife.

"As many of you have already heard, Myrtle Warren of Ravenclaw House was found deceased last night on the second floor in the girls bathroom." he continued, his voice carrying a hint of sympathy

"After immediate investigation, it has been determined that her death was the result of an unfortunate accident. A magical creature, an Acromantula-kept illegally in secret within the school grounds by a student-Rubeus Hagrid, a student of Gryffindor House. Mr. Hagrid has been questioned and, regrettably, has been expelled."

There's a silence for a moment, everyone froze and there's a look of disbelief from a few students. The clink of a dropped fork somewhere down the Gryffindor table cut the silence and then a wave of murmurs buzzing through the hall-students glancing at one another, some gasping quietly.

Cecilia remained still, her eyes wide and her mouth went dry, she didn't listen to the next speech of the headmaster. She tried to wrap it in her mind.

Hagrid? my friend, get expelled?

He is being  the Scapegoat  ...

She wanted to shout, that's not true. it wasn't him, it wasn't the spider but it was the basilisk.

It was Tom!

Eleanor and Araya glance at her, she can feel it, the way they look at her with concern and sympathy. They know that Cecilia is friends with Hagrid, since both of them love magical creatures.

But Cecilia just sat in silence, her eyes staring empty at her plate, her fingers curled tightly in her lap beneath the table, the taste of breakfast long forgotten. and then, she felt it, a shiver running down her spine.

She raised her head and her gaze immediately fell on Tom Riddle. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart thumping really hard.

He was already staring at her

Across the hall, a few meters from the Ravenclaw table. amid the green and silver accents, in the Slytherin table. Tom sat perfectly still, his back straight, hands folded neatly on the table, his gaze locked in her.

Cold and unblinking

Grey met dark brown

Both of their gaze reflected each other's faces, carrying everything unspoken truth between them.

The world around them fell into silence, the whisper, the clinking cutlery, even their friends' voices beside them-it all blurred into nothing.

They were still holding each other's gaze. Tom's gaze carried an unreadable intensity, as if daring her to say something. To reveal what she saw.

Cecilia felt tightness in her chest, her lungs burned, A reminder that she needed to breathe. Then, she took a deep breath and exhaled a shaky breath.

And then, ever so slightly, Tom tilted his head, his gaze still locked at her. A small smile spread across his lips.

It was fake, that perfect crafted smile in his lips was fake.

Cecilia couldn't take it anymore, she quickly averted her gaze from him and stared down at her plate, trying to steady her trembling hands beneath the table.

it wasn't just a look and smile.

It was a threat.

And she knew it.

God rolls the dice.

Angels and Devils bated their breath.

Chapter 3: Run, little bird

Notes:

Hi, I'm sorry I just updated now, I've been busy working on another fanfic hehe. I hope you like this chapter.

Where you go, I go

What you see, I see

 

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The rain soaked the Hogwarts grounds, turning the night into a blur of grey shadows and dripping stone. Inside the castle, the corridors echoed with distant thunder and the soft hiss of rain against the windows. 

Cecilia walked slowly, her footsteps muffled against the cold stone floor, head bowed beneath the flickering torchlight. Each step cast her shadow along the wall. Her mind kept circling back to last night and today. The image of Tom Riddle's cold, knowing gaze, the Headmaster's lie.

The forced silence she was now trapped in.

To everyone else, it was over, but to her, it felt like a nightmare still unfolding. She had seen the truth and the truth had seen her.

A shiver crawled down her spine. The air suddenly became cold and eerie, it felt like there’s someone—somewhere behind her. Then she heard it, a floorboard creaked. 

She can feel her heartbeat drummed in her heart, even she can hear blood rushing in her ears. She took a deep breath and quickly turned her head sharply 

Nothing

Her breath ragged, her eyes frantically looking around the corridor. 

Still nothing

She shook her head and began walking again, faster—almost running this time. Her shoes struck the stone in steady taps, but each echo lingered too long like someone following just a second behind.

“No, there’s nothing, Cecil. It’s just your mind playing tricks on you,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible above the rhythmically sound of rain and thunder. 

She rounded the next corner toward the staircase when a voice drifted out from the darkness. A chuckled, low and velvety. Unmistakably real.

“You shouldn’t be out this late again, Lovegood. ”

She froze, her breath caught in her throat and her heart slammed into her ribs. Slowly, she turned around.

Nothing, empty.  

The corridor behind her was still empty. No footsteps. No figures. Just dancing shadows and flickering torchlight. The voice had come from nowhere and yet it feels like it came from everywhere.

“Who’s there?” she said, her voice trembled slightly, like a wounded animal. 

Silence, the air thick of uncertainty. 

“Curious little Ravenclaws are going to get hurt when they wander too far.”

She backed away, eyes scanning every inch of the corridor. No one was there, and yet…

She was sure that it was Tom Riddle. But how? He wasn’t there. She would’ve seen him. Heard his footsteps. He couldn’t have just vanished.

“ Run , little bird.”

She turned and ran. Up the staircase, through the next corridor, not stopping until she reached the Ravenclaw door. Her breath shallow, throat burning. Her heart pounded loud in her ears, drowning out even the hiss of the rain against the stained-glass windows.

Quick, keep going, run.

The staircase twisted beneath her feet, slick with damp from the storm. The portraits on the walls turned in their frames as she passed, some frowning, others whispering among themselves, but she didn’t look back.

His voice still echoing in her mind, low and velvety. She could feel it against her skin, as if the words themselves caressing her, wrapped around her body and so suffocating it felt impossible to breathe.

When she finally reached the familiar stretch of corridor, she nearly stumbled into the Ravenclaw door. The eagle knocker blinked, as calm and unbothered as ever.

“I fly without wings. I cry without eyes. Wherever I go, darkness flies. What am I?”

“The wind,” she gasped, breathless and shaking.

The door swung open, and she stumbled inside and shut it behind her, leaning back against the wood as if it might protect her. The quiet of the Ravenclaw common room was jarring after the storm outside, warm, gentle, filled with the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional crackle from the blue-flame fireplace.

She looked around. No one had noticed her panic. A few students were tucked in chairs by the fire, reading or chatting quietly. No one had seen what she’d seen. No one had heard the voice.

Before she walked towards the girls dormitories, she paused by one of the tall arched windows. The rain trailed down the glass in crooked streams, distorting the view of the darkened grounds below. 

And then, her heart skipped.

Her hand turned clammy, fingertips pressed to the cold windowpane.

There, far below, just beyond the edge of the Ravenclaws corridor areas. Stood three solitary figures, two leaned their back against the wall and one stood straight, hand clasped behind.

Tom Riddle, Abraxas Malfoy and Androalphus Lestrange. 

Cecilia’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she was imagining it, if her mind was playing cruel tricks. She rubbing her eyes and looked again

Still in there

Then Tom tilted its head. Slowly. Precisely.

Just like before.

A silent echo of the same gesture in the Great Hall.

And again, that same faint smile.

She stepped back from the window, her shoulder hitting the stone wall. Her thoughts reeled, her stomach twisted. She wanted to vomit. 

Without another glance, she quickly runs towards the girls' lavatory, her footsteps echoing off the stone, too loud, too frantic. But she didn’t care.

She still can feel the weight of his gaze still clinging to her like the cold mist that slipped through the cracks in the windows.

how he always knew where to be, how he always watched without being seen? She didn’t know the answer. But one things for sure

Her life changed, she wasn't safe anymore. 

The next day dawned clear, the sun filtered through the tall windows of the Great Hall, gilding the long tables in warm morning light. The sound of laughter and clicking utensils echoed through the air.

Everything's look normal 

Cecilia sat at the Ravenclaw table, silent, untouched toast on her plate, pumpkin juice going warm beside her. Around her, Eleanor and Araya spoke in low voices about Herbology homework, but even that couldn’t hold her attention.

Her eyes drifted towards the Slytherin table, she didn’t want to look but she couldn’t help it. It feels like there’s something pulling her to look at that table, and she saw him again

Tom sat among his housemates, composed and graceful as ever, laughing softly at something one of the boys said, passing the marmalade, complimenting someone’s Herbology essay. Perfect. Charming.

Fake. He knew his way with words and used it. He knew how to control his expressions.

She still looked at him, and Tom, every so often, he’d glance her way. Just a flick of the eyes. Brief. Measured. Enough to remind her he hadn’t forgotten.

That he knew she hadn’t, either.

The castle was moving on. Classes resumed. Professors acted as though nothing had happened beyond what the Headmaster had told them. Myrtle’s name faded from whispers to silence.

She averted her gaze from him and resumed her breakfast. She missed her life before all of this happened. She even began avoiding places she once loved, the library’s quiet corners, the upper hallways near the Astronomy Tower, even Hagrid’s hut.

She missed him.

He would’ve known what to say, or at least made her laugh. But he was gone. Expelled. Cast out for a crime he hadn’t committed, and she’d let it happen.

She wanted to scream and cry, but she didn’t want to do it now, she didn’t want Tom to enjoy her agony like some sort of entertainment. 

Cecilia made a silent promise: she wouldn’t cry while the game was still being played. She would save her tears for the end, on a day when the sun finally shone.

Chapter 4: Terror

"Death is the mother of beauty," said Henry. "And what is beauty?"

"Terror."

 

― Donna Tartt, The Secret History.

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Cecilia walked towards the greenhouse, currently she had herbology classes. The walk felt longer than usual, the grass squelched under her shoes, damp from last night’s rain. Her fingers clenched around the strap of her satchel like it might tether her to something solid.

As she stood in front of the greenhouse door, she took a slow, steadying breath. She needed to brace herself for what was to come. Today she shares the same classes with Tom Riddle and Androalphus Lestrange. Slowly, her hand reached for the door and pushed it open.

The heavy scent of damp earth and crushed leaves washed over her. The air inside was humid and thick with the sharp tang of fertilizer and growing things. Voices hummed low around her. 

Students from Ravenclaw and Slytherin were already filing in, donning gloves, collecting tools. She spotted Eleanor and Araya near a tray of shriveled figs, already whispering over their notes.

Then she saw him.

Tom stood by the central workbench, gloves in hand, posture relaxed and perfectly composed, Androalphus was beside him, laughing at something only the two of them seemed to find amusing. The sound cut sharp through the earthy quiet of the greenhouse.

Tom’s eyes flicked toward her the moment she entered, as if he’d been waiting. She quickly looked away, pretending to search for a free workbench, but her chest tightened. 

“Cecil! Come here!!” 

The sound of her name cut through the noise like a lifeline. She turned toward it.

Araya stood at one of the side benches, waving enthusiastically, a smile on her face. Beside her, Eleanor adjusted her gloves, already setting out their equipment.

Cecilia smiled and hurried toward them and stood next to Eleanor. 

“Honestly, you looked like you were about to bolt,” Araya teased, lowering her voice as Cecilia joined them. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Cecilia said too quickly, tugging on her gloves. “Just… thinking.”

Eleanor shot her a knowing look but she said nothing and shrugged her shoulders, maybe later she was going to confront Cecilia. 

Professor Herbert Beery, their Herbology teacher, clapped his gloved hands and raised his voice over the low murmurs of the greenhouse. "Pair off,” he said briskly, gesturing toward trays of snapping seedlings and curling vines of venomous tentacula. “We’ll be working on pruning techniques today. I’ll be announcing your partners.”

Cecilia felt her heart stutter

Of course, pair.

Cecilia silently prays that she is gonna pair with anyone, except Tom Riddle. She stood frozen by the bench, fingers twitching against her gloves.

Please, she thought. Anyone but him.

She kept her gaze fixed on the dirt-smudged work table in front of her, as if sheer will might shield her from the inevitable.

“Eleanor Primrose with … hm, Androalphus Lestrange.” 

Cecilia closed her eyes for a split second. Okay, so Araya is the only hope, she thought. 

She turned her head slightly, just enough to see Araya lift an eyebrow in her direction, half-smiling. A silent exchange. Maybe it’ll be fine.

“Araya Thakkar with Caspar Crouch,” Beery went on cheerfully. “Yes, yes, you’ve worked together before, good.”

Oh no.

Her heart dropped and her stomach sank.

Professor Beery flipped the last sheet on his clipboard and adjusted his spectacles. “Next is… Cecilia Lovegood with…” He paused, eyes scanning the room before they stopped. Locked.

“Tom. Tom Riddle.”

“Understood, sir,” came Tom’s voice from across the room. He walked towards Cecilia's direction, his footstep controlled, certain, and calm as ever, hands folded behind his back, gloves pristine, that unreadable expression carved onto his face. His gaze met hers for a second too long before he stopped beside her.

“We meet again,” he said softly as he joined her side. “What a pattern we’re making, Lovegood,”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t, she could feel the warmth of his presence, not comforting, but oppressive, like standing too near a fire you couldn’t step away from.

Her fingers were already tugging her gloves on with trembling efficiency, her eyes fixed on the tray of restless vines between them. One of the tentacula tendrils uncoiled and reached lazily toward her sleeve.

Tom just stared at it, he didn’t move to stop it.

It was a test for him, an entertainment. 

The vine inched closer, brushing the edge of her robe, thorns barely grazing the fabric.

Cecilia felt her breath catch, pulse pounding in her throat. The instinct to recoil screamed through her limbs, but she forced herself still.

And Tom is still watching, no–not the plant, but her. 

He’d observed her and he enjoyed it.

She could feel his eyes on her face, studying her like one of Slughorn’s rare ingredients. Curious. Analytical. Detached.

The tentacula gave a sharp twitch, a thorn catching the outer seam of her sleeve. That’s when she moved, quick and careful, grabbing the vine near its base with the tongs and snapping it back into the tray. It hissed, recoiling, leaves shivering in protest.

Only then did Tom speak. Quietly, without a hint of concern. “Good job,” he said, almost like praise. “You didn’t flinch.”

“You were going to let it touch me,” she said, voice low.

Tom tilted his head faintly, as if the accusation puzzled him. “It wasn’t going to bite. Yet. You were perfectly safe,” he stopped,and leaned closer to her ears. Whispering “and what makes you think I would help you?”

Cecilia didn’t answer, for a moment, there was silence. No rustling leaves. No muttered instructions from the other students. Just the press of his presence beside her, quiet and calculating.

“I don’t,” she said quietly, without looking at him. “I don’t think you would.”

“Good girl,” Tom said, a little too gently.

The way he said it, feels like a hand brushing against her throat without ever touching it. Not praise. 

She didn’t look at him, and didn't want to. Instead, she reached for the jar of repelling tonic and poured it carefully over the tentacula's roots, watching as the vine recoiled with a hiss and curled in on itself, subdued.

Around them, the class moved on. Eleanor laughed from across the room. Araya cursed as her tentacula wrapped around a sleeve. Professor Beery called out a reminder about proper wand use when dealing with magical thorns.

And here she is, with him testing her under pressure, being studied like a puzzle he meant to break apart piece by piece.

She adjusted her gloves again, more for something to do than necessity. “Do you always do this?” she muttered.

Tom hummed, faintly amused. “Do what?”

“Play games with people.”

A pause.

Then, in a whisper only she could hear. “Only with the ones clever enough to know they’re being played.”

She turned her face away, hiding the flicker of hurt and rage in her eyes behind the curtain of her hair. He wanted her rattled. He thrived on it. Then she focused on the task again, cutting a thick coil from the tentacula stem, watching it twitch and recoil. Precise. Controlled. Just like him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him watching her hands.

“Careful, Lovegood,” he said, his tone mild. “Wouldn’t want you bleeding all over the tray.”

Professor Beery’s voice rang out. “Only a few minutes left, finish up your specimen logging!”

Cecilia jotted notes quickly in the journal between them, quill scratching fast over parchment. She didn’t wait for Tom’s input, didn’t ask if he agreed. Let him correct it later, if he cares so much.

As the bell finally sounded and students began filing out, she pulled off her gloves with quick, jerky movements. Her back was already half-turned when she felt him lean just a little closer, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Until next time, Cecilia,”

She left without a word, she didn’t know what game he was playing.

But she knew now, he was playing.

And she was in it and that terrified her.

 

Chapter 5: Dark and Lonely

Notes:

Lately I like listening to the song 'Driving with my darling' by And One

Driving with my darling
Faster than I should
Driving with my darling
(Forever if we can)~~~

I can imagine Tom driving the car with Cecilia beside him, her expression full of terror and fear, while Tom is stoic as usual.

Each and every one come to know their god through some senseless act of violence

Blessed be you, girl

Promised to me by a man who can only feel hatred and contempt towards you

 

Ptolemaea - Ethel Cain

The greenhouse door creaked shut behind her with a heavy thud , muffling the last echoes of Professor Beery’s voice. Cecilia didn’t slow her steps as she stepped into the corridor. The cool air of the castle hit her skin, a stark contrast to the thick humidity she had just escaped. It felt like coming up for air after being held underwater.

She kept her head down, arms folded tightly around her books like a barrier. The corridor stretched ahead, quiet except for the soft thud of distant footsteps and the faint echoes of student chatter drifting from the upper floors.

Her shoes clicked against the flagstone floor in a rhythm that quickened with her breath. Transfiguration was next. Professor Dumbledore’s class. Normally, she would’ve found some comfort in that one professor Tom never quite unnerved. But today, she wouldn’t be paired with Araya or Eleanor. Today, she shared the room with two of his most loyal shadows.

Silvanus Rosier and Ignatius Mulciber.

She knows them, but back then she never paid attention to them, but now? It was different.

She rounded the corner leading to the main staircase when she heard it, a lazy footsteps behind her. Confident. Not rushed. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was. She just knew.

“Cecilia Lovegood,” came the drawled voice from behind her. She could feel his hot breath brushing against her ears. She knew that voice, it was Silvanus Rosier. 

His voice always had that velvet edge, cool, lazy, a little amused, but now, so close to her ear, it felt invasive. Like a hand brushing over the back of her neck.

She straightened her posture, forcing the stiff coil of her spine to hold. She turned slowly.

And she saw it, Silvanus Rosier.

He was standing far too close, as if the space between them was a dare. His blond hair was slicked back as usual, perfectly in place, and his Slytherin robes hung carelessly open, like he didn’t bother pretending to follow rules he didn’t agree with. His expression was relaxed, almost lazy, except for his eyes. Those blue eyes were sharp, like a dagger that could cut your throat. 

Mulciber flanked him, his black hairstyle in side-parted, arms crossed, his black eyes sharper and colder behind those square glasses. He didn’t speak. He rarely needed to. He was the kind who let the weight of his stare do the talking.

Silvanus tilted his head at her, just slightly, that maddening half-smile still playing on his lips. “You're not in a rush, are you?” he said softly, voice smooth like poisoned honey. “Transfiguration Isn't going anywhere.”

Behind him, Mulciber shifted, slow and deliberate, as if even his movements were a kind of warning. His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. Just drilled into her like he was trying to figure out where the softest part of her was. No, it wasn’t like a lust one, he stared like a butcher to figure out what part that could easily be cut and what part is the hardest one to cut. 

She didn’t respond.

Silvanus tilted his head, as if studying her the way one might a strange mark on an otherwise clean page. “You know,” he added conversationally, “you’re not what I expected. Tom doesn’t waste time on boring people. Or weak ones.”

“And yet,” she said, “here you are. Wasting yours.”

That earned a low chuckle from Ignatius behind him. Silvanus grinned wider, the glint of teeth just a little too sharp.

“Well said,” he murmured. “You’ve got more bite than I thought. Let’s hope you know when to use it.”

She turned away without a word, walking again toward the Transfiguration classroom. She didn’t hear them follow at first, but she knew they would, and after a few seconds, the footsteps resumed, still lazy. Still confident.

The classroom door was just ahead, its familiar oak frame offering the illusion of safety.

“You should be careful, Lovegood,” Ignatius called after her this time, his voice cold and dangerously soft, it felt like you were being wrapped by a snake and the…snapped. “There’s a fine line between being interesting and being hunted.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Instead she just kept walking until she arrived in front of the heavy oak door of Transfiguration’s classroom. 

Before her hand pushed the door open, from the corner of her eyes, she saw a pale hand extended and pushed it open for her. 

…..It was Ignatius Mulciber.

He held the door with deliberate slowness, as though savoring the gesture, making it something more than simple courtesy, something colder, darker. His black eyes were unreadable behind his square glasses, but his mouth curled into the faintest echo of a smirk.

“After you,” he said, voice like ice cracking over still water.

Cecilia hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping through “Thank you,” she said as she walked past him, careful not to brush against him. He didn't move until she had passed, and she felt it again, that sense of being studied, weighed. Measured.

Inside, Professor Dumbledore was already at the front, adjusting his robes, wand tucked neatly into his sleeve. The air inside smelled faintly of wood smoke and chalk, and for the first time that morning, Cecilia allowed herself to breathe.

Silavnus and Ignatius slipped in like smoke behind her as she took her seat in front row, safe under the eyes of Professor Dumbledore. 

Dumbledore looked up, his gaze briefly passing over each student as they entered, calm, unreadable, but never careless. His eyes lingered on Cecilia for just a breath longer than the rest, as though noting something unspoken. Then, he gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Dumbledore moved to the center of the classroom with his usual grace, folding his hands behind his back.

“Today,” he began, his voice low and resonant, “we begin one of the more difficult branches of transfiguration. Resistance magic. That which does not wish to be changed.”

Familiar, it was Cecilia's situation right now. In her mind, she could already hear Rosier’s voice: Like you, Lovegood.

“Much like people,” he added, with the faintest of smiles, “some objects resist transformation. Not because it’s impossible, but because they must be convinced. Persuaded.”

His gaze swept the room again, but this time, it landed purposefully on Cecilia. “Transfiguration,” he said, “is not an act of dominance. It is an act of understanding.”

What was Professor Dumbledore trying to imply? She felt like being trapped in a situation she didn’t want to. 

Cecilia’s fingers curled around her wand, she didn’t focus on listening to Professor Dumbledore's voice again, her mind buzzing with her own speculation. 

Was it a coincidence? Or did he know?

Had Dumbledore, with his endlessly unsettling intuition, seen something in the way she walked into the classroom, too tense, too quiet, shadowed by Rosier and Mulciber like a creature caught between teeth?

What was he trying to say?

Was he warning her? Offering her a way out? 

From the back of the classroom, Rosier leaned toward Mulciber with a smirk and whispered, just loud enough, “Looks like Dumbledore has a favorite.” 

She didn’t turn around, didn’t need to. Every syllable Silvanus  uttered was crafted to be heard by her and only her. That was his art. Cruelty disguised as casualness. Humiliation dressed in silk.

But Dumbledore continued as if he hadn’t heard, and maybe he hadn’t. Or maybe he had and chose not to give Silvanus the satisfaction.

Instead, he lifted his wand and with a flick, summoned a series of small, enchanted stone animals, lions, badgers, hawks, snakes, all arranged on the desks like miniature guardians, unmoving and proud.

“Today,” he said, “you will attempt to transfigure these into their living counterparts. But be warned: they are resistant. They are charmed to push back.”

The class shuffled into motion, chairs scraping against stone and murmured incantations beginning to echo.

Cecilia stared at the little lion on her desk. Its eyes were polished and unmoving, but she imagined it was daring her to try. Slowly she lifted her wand and her lips murmured the incantation. 

Nothing

Behind her, a hiss of quiet laughter “She can’t even manage a lion,” came Silvanus’s voice again, this time more softly, but not low enough to be missed.

Professor Dumbledore looked up. Briefly, but he didn’t address Rosier. Instead, he walked forward, unhurried, purposeful and paused by Cecilia’s desk. For a moment, he simply watched her, and she could feel the rest of the class watching him . Watching her .

“Miss Lovegood,” he said gently, “what do you see?”

She blinked, confused “Pardon, sir?”

“The lion. What do you see?”

She looked down at it. Her eyebrows furrowed. “I see something that doesn’t want to be moved.”

Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly. “Then perhaps,” he said softly, “start by not trying to move it at all.”

He tapped the edge of her desk once, just once and then moved on, hands clasped behind his back. It was a strange thing to say. Not move it? What did that even mean?

She inhaled slowly.

Maybe, just maybe, she was going about it wrong. Maybe this wasn’t about force or perfect technique. Maybe it was about intention.

Understanding.

She lowered her wand slightly and, just for a moment, looked at the lion not as a task, but as something real . Something with will. She whispered the spell again, calmer this time. Not a command.

A request.

The lion’s paw shifted. Its ear twitched. Then softer than breath, it blinked.

Cecilia started. A quiet, astonished murmur rippled around her. Even Silvanus had gone silent.

From the front of the room, Dumbledore’s voice floated back. “Well done.”

She didn’t smile, instead she slowly turned her head and looked at Silvanus and Ignatius, there’s a defiant gaze in her eyes. 

She's gonna fight back.

Chapter 6: Flawless

You're a doll, you are flawless

But I just can't wait for love to destroy us

I just can't wait for love

The only flaw, you are flawless

 

Flawless - The Neighbourhood

Understanding.

She lowered her wand slightly and, just for a moment, looked at the lion not as a task, but as something real . Something with will. She whispered the spell again, calmer this time. Not a command.

A request.

The lion’s paw shifted. Its ear twitched. Then softer than breath, it blinked.

Cecilia started. A quiet, astonished murmur rippled around her. Even Silvanus had gone silent.

From the front of the room, Dumbledore’s voice floated back. “Well done.”

She didn’t smile, instead she slowly turned her head and looked at Silvanus and Ignatius, there’s a defiant gaze in her eyes. 

Silvanus held her gaze.

For a moment, the usual smirk was gone. His expression didn’t shift dramatically, he was too well-trained for that but there was something still in his eyes now. Calculating. A silent reassessment, as if a variable in his mental equation had just changed and he was trying to decide what it meant.

Ignatius didn’t react. Not outwardly. But his dark gaze flicked between the lion and Cecilia, and then to Dumbledore. If anything, he looked more amused than surprised.

“Well,” Silvanus said as he leaned back in his seat, voice low, the corners of his mouth curling again, “I do love a surprise.”

Ignatius didn’t speak, but a small smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. His eyes stayed fixed on Cecilia like he was reading something only he could see and enjoying it. He gave her a slow, deliberate nod. Not approval. Acknowledgement.

Then she looked away first and looked back at the lion statue, the lion blinked again, more alive now than before, and it sat in silence like a loyal secret between them.

Dumbledore moved on, calling on another student, but when he passed behind her again, his voice dipped quietly as he said, just for her “Sometimes, the quietest voices speak the loudest.”

And then he was gone again, gliding down the row as though he’d never paused. Cecilia lowered her wand, the weight of it lighter in her hand than it had been moments ago. She didn’t know exactly what this meant, what Rosier or Mulciber would do with this new shape of her, but for the first time that day, she felt less like prey.

The bell chimed like a ripple of metal through stone, and the students began to rise, chairs scraping, books thudding shut. Cecilia stayed seated a beat longer, letting the others funnel out around her.

As the class empty, Silvanus and Ignatius gone, she exhaled the heavy sighs. Then from the corner of her eyes, standing in front of the door, it wasn’t Araya or Eleanor. 

It was Tom Riddle

He stood at the threshold of the door, his posture casual, hand clasped behind. He had a way of standing like he owned whatever space he occupied

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Just stare at her.

Cecilia slid her books into her satchel. For a moment, she considered pretending not to see him. But it was foolish, like asking for a dead wish. People didn’t ignore Tom Riddle. Not without consequence.

Slowly, her eyes met his, it was cool and unreadable as ever.

Tom stepped inside, the door clicked softly shut behind him. She was trapped with a predator, a killer. 

He came closer, not too near, just enough to make it clear she wouldn’t be walking past him without a conversation, there would be no leaving without his permission.

There was no room to run, she could feel her heartbeat drumming behind her ribs like warning bells.

Tom tilted his head, studying her like a specimen under a microscope. “You surprised them,” he said finally, voice low and composed. “Rosier doesn’t go quiet easily.” 

He took another step forward, showing his dominance. Then, his voice dipped, low and deliberate. “And be careful around Rosier and Mulciber. They’re… enthusiastic. But not always delicate.”

Silence pressed between them. The classroom felt colder than it had moments ago.

“Why did you say that to me? Aren’t they your … friends?”  she asked, her voice quiet but steady. she wasn’t sure to say ‘friends’, because in her eyes, Tom wasn’t the type that have relationship with others

Tom’s eyes gleamed with something that wasn’t quite amusing “Friends,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word and finding it unfamiliar. Distasteful.

He moved another step closer, slow and measured, always in control. “Rosier and Mulciber are useful. Loyal, in their own way. But friendship?” He gave a faint smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “It wasn’t necessary.”

“Then why warn me?” she asked, still steady, though her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her satchel. “If you don’t care, why say anything?”

He took another step closer until he stood directly in front of her desk impossibly close. Cecilia’s breath caught in her throat as his hand lifted, deliberate, pale fingers reaching toward her face. His touch was feather-light

Then, with a chilling calm, he said, “Because they might think they can break you. And I don’t like things being broken before I’ve finished with them.”

Cecilia's mind screamed at her to recoil, to flinch away, but her body refused. She sat frozen, spine stiff, skin crawling beneath the ghost of his touch. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t even a threat.

It was possession .

The weight of his words sinking in like a slow poison.

Tom leaned down slightly, his lips not far from her ear now. “I’ll be watching you, Cecilia.” 

There was no warmth in the promise. Only control. Inevitable. Final. And then, like mist vanishing from glass, he was gone.

The door creaked shut behind him with barely a sound, but it might as well have been the slam of a vault sealing her inside. Cecilia sat there a moment longer, unmoving, the cold echo of his touch lingering like a brand. Her heartbeat thudded loud in her chest, but still she didn’t move.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

She didn’t remember much of the walk back from Transfiguration, only that her feet carried her through the castle’s winding halls on instinct. Her thoughts weren’t her own, they were shadows of his words, the cool brush of his hand against her skin, the terrible weight behind his calm.

Because they might think they can break you.
And I don’t like things being broken before I’ve finished with them.

That line echoed in her skull like a curse, poisoning everything around it. She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or vanish.

Should I tell Professor Dumbledore?

If she told him everything about Myrtle Warren, about Tom, about the whispers in the walls and the darkness behind his charm, what would happen?

Would he believe her?

Or would it be her words twisted, her safety undone?

What happened to people who exposed monsters?

Cecilia wrapped her arms tighter around her ribs as the shadows lengthened outside the library windows. She imagined Tom’s face, calm, polite, amused. As if she were just another piece on his board. What would he do if he found out she told Dumbledore?

Would he smile when she disappeared?

Would anyone even ask where she went?

But if she stayed silent, what then? How many more would get hurt? How many would die?

And would that make her complicit?

She found herself at the edge of the Black Lake once, staring at the still water, unsure how she got there. The water was calm, a mirror of the darkening sky, rippling only when the wind whispered across its surface.

And she decided, she wouldn’t go back to the castle and skip dinner. She pulled her cloak tighter and stayed until the light from the castle dimmed behind the rising mist, and the sky overhead turned fully to black.

Alone, but not quite afraid.

Not yet.

Chapter 7: Black Lake

Notes:

every time I see this fanfic is read more than my other fanfics, the more I want to delete this fanfic. But in fact I have written this fanfic in my draft until chapter 12.

The moon had long since risen, pale and veiled behind thin clouds that painted the sky in shifting shades of gray. The warmth of day had drained from the air

The cold soaked through her stockings, biting at her ankles, but she didn’t stop. The lake was quiet, hauntingly so like the kind of silence that swallowed sound instead of holding it. She had been standing in the shallows for what felt like hours.

Then she saw it, the old stone she remembered from first year. A giant, flat slab rising like a broken tooth from the water. Professors called it a glacier remnant but the students called it “The Drowning Stone.”

Cecilia climbed it anyway, without knowing that she’s being watched by Ignatius Mulciber from behind the tree. 

Her fingers found their grip on the slick moss, knees bracing against the cold edge as she hoisted herself up. When she stood, water clung to her robes, heavy and dark. The stone was wide enough for one person to balance, she stood there, arms wrapped around herself, wind curling her hair against damp cheeks.

She tilted her head up to see the night sky, the sky above stretched wide and endless and the stars were out now, scattered across the velvet black like they had been carelessly spilled.

She smiled, she always adored the night sky, the stars, the constellations. She traced them in her mind like a map she could never quite follow home.

“Sirius!” she said with a quiet excitement, pointing upward as if the stars could hear her.

The brightest star burned sharp and silver, unblinking in the black. It was a comfort. A constant. A piece of the sky she could name, when everything else around her felt uncertain, shifting.

“Sirius the Dog Star,” she murmured. “The faithful one.”

“You always show up when it’s darkest, don’t you, Sirius?” she continued, her voice became softer, so did her gaze. 

Behind the tree line, Ignatius Mulciber watched.

His posture was still, unnaturally so, arms folded, back pressed lightly against the bark of a gnarled pine. The moon caught the corner of his glasses, flashing white as a predator’s eye. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just observed.

He’d followed her without needing a reason. Perhaps out of curiosity to see what Cecilia Lovegood did when no one was watching.

His gaze flicked from her, She looked so small from this distance. So still. Like something carved into the night, it wasn’t fragile but ancient, unknowable. 

Ignatius didn’t understand why he stayed. He could’ve turned back after confirming she hadn’t gone to dinner. Could’ve reported to Tom or Silvanus, let them twist it into whatever they pleased. But instead, he lingered.

A faint rustle from the bushes broke the silence. Cecilia’s head snapped toward the sound.

She wasn’t alone.

Then the bushes near the edge of the lake stirred again, louder this time. Her hand went to her wand instinctively, but before she could draw it, a small dark blur shot out of the undergrowth.

A niffler.

It chirped with glee, beady eyes locked onto the bronze clasp of her satchel. She barely had time to react before it darted forward, skittering across the slippery stone, paws scrabbling for the button.

“Hey! No! Bad niffler, stop that!” she cried, stumbling backward to get away.

But her boot hit a patch of slick moss. Her foot slipped.

And suddenly, the world tilted.

Cecilia’s arms flailed for balance but it was too late. She plunged off the edge of the stone with a gasp, crashing into the Black Lake with a violent splash.

The cold hit her like a hex, slamming into her lungs, locking her muscles. Her satchel dragged her down, and in the darkness beneath the surface, up and down vanished. Her scream became bubbles.

Panic surged. Her wand was gone, torn from her fingers. The lake was swallowing her, wrapping her in its silence. Then her fingers unfurled. Her body stopped fighting.

Maybe, this is her end, she is finally free from everything.

From the tree line, Ignatius saw it all.

For one second, he didn’t move, frozen in disbelief as she disappeared beneath the black water.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped out from the shadows and ran. Toward the stone. Toward the lake. Toward her.

His boots slammed against the mud as he sprinted, eyes locked on the ripples still shuddering across the lake’s surface. He didn’t shout. Didn’t waste a second calling her name, there was no time for that.

His cloak hit the ground first, shrugged off in a single motion. Then his wand and his glasses tossed to the side. 

And he dove

The shock of the water clawed at his chest, stealing his breath but he didn’t slow. He pushed downward, strong strokes cutting through the freezing dark.

The lake was thick, ink-like, hiding everything. He reached blindly, arms slicing through silt and shadow, following instinct more than sight.

There.

A flash of fabric. A pale hand drifting like a petal. He caught her, one arm looped around her waist, the other dragged them upward, kicking hard, lungs burning.

The surface broke with a gasp as he hauled her toward the shallows, half-carrying, half-dragging her out of the water and onto the cold shore. His chest heaved, soaked and shaking, but he didn’t care.

Cecilia wasn’t moving.

He leaned over her, pushing the wet hair from her face.

“Cecilia,” he said, voice low, urgent, and for the first time, he called her first name “Come on. Breathe.”

No response.

“I swear to Merlin—don’t you dare,” he growled, pressing down on her chest, counting compressions in his head.

She coughed.

Violent and gasping, lake water spilling from her lungs as her body jolted beneath his hands.

Ignatius exhaled sharply, his hands still hovering above her as if afraid she’d slip away again. He watched her struggle to breathe, watched her blink against the wet strands of hair plastered to her face, her lips pale and trembling.

“You idiot,” he muttered, but it wasn’t harsh. There was something ragged in it, almost shaken. “What the hell were you doing out here?”

Cecilia turned her head slightly, still gasping, her vision unfocused. Her eyes fluttered open and met his.

“I—” Her voice cracked. “The niffler—”

“I saw,” he cut in, sitting back on his heels. Water dripped from his hair, darkening the grass beneath them. “You nearly died because of a niffler .”

She gave a strangled sort of laugh that was half a sob, then winced.

He glanced away, raking a hand through his soaked hair. For once, Ignatius Mulciber had no smirk, no sneer. Just a thin, drawn expression as if something inside him had been kicked hard and hadn’t quite settled back into place.

Without a word, he shrugged off what remained of his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She blinked at him, confused.

“You’re not dead,” he muttered. “So don’t get sick and make me regret this.”

Cecilia clutched the cloak tighter around her, her hands trembling not just from the cold. The fabric was damp and smelled faintly of lake water and his scent, something woody like sandalwood and musk,with a hint of leather. 

“Thank you.” she said, her voice held a sincerity.

He gave no answer, no nod, not even a twitch of acknowledgment. But the silence wasn’t as cold as before.

The wind whispered across the lake, curling around them, tugging at wet robes and dripping hair. Cecilia pulled the cloak tighter, grounding herself in the weight of it and him. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He looked like a statue carved from storm and stone, water trailing down his jaw, his glasses forgotten somewhere in the grass.

“You could’ve let me drown,” she said softly.

His jaw flexed. Still, he didn’t look at her.

“But you didn’t.”

Finally, his voice came, quiet and flat. “I didn’t feel like watching you die.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she said, “That’s a strange way to say you care.”

“I don’t,” he said too quickly. “I just didn’t want to explain it to Riddle.”

Cecilia gave a soft breath of a laugh. “Right. Because saving someone from drowning is easier than lying to Tom.”

Ignatius didn't reply. His eyes stayed on the lake, on the ghost of moonlight dancing where she’d nearly vanished minutes ago. 

“I don’t believe you,” she said after a moment.

That got his attention. His head turned toward her slowly, deliberately, and for a second, his expression cracked a flicker of something sharp and uncertain behind the wall he wore like armor.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you jumped into a freezing lake in the middle of the night without thinking twice.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t think twice,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Just that I did it.”

Silence between them, the sound just from the cricket in the bush

Cecilia shifted her gaze upward, to the stars again. “Sirius is still there,” she said quietly. “The faithful one.”

Ignatius looked at her. On the way her lips trembled with cold but she still tilted her chin up toward the sky like it was something sacred. Like she could still believe in constellations and symbols and light, even after nearly drowning.

“You’re strange,” he said under his breath.

“You’re not the first to say that.”

He almost smiled. Almost. And for the first time, he didn’t look like a shadow cast by someone else’s fire, not Tom’s, not the others’. Just a boy, soaking wet, sitting beside a girl he hadn’t expected to save.

Peculiar girl, it was suited for her like an old charm, he thought. 

Ignatius studied her in profile, the way the moonlight painted her lashes silver, how she blinked slowly, lost in the stars as if they might answer the questions neither of them could ask.

And in that quiet, he thought that maybe he’d stay a little longer.

Chapter 8: Knights of Walpurgis

Winin' and dinin', drinkin' and drivin'

Excessive buyin', overdose and dyin'

On our drugs, and our love, and our dreams, and our rage

Blurrin' the lines between real and the fake

The Slytherin common room was dimly lit, all emerald shadows and flickering firelight casting long, slithering reflections on the stone walls. The Black Lake pressed close outside the windows, its depths still and impenetrable.

Ignatius stepped through the entrance, water squelching softly with each step. His hair was still damp, hanging in unruly strands over his brow. Without his glasses, the flickering torches burned slightly out of focus, but not enough to blur the figures waiting inside.

Seven of them. All watching.

Tom sat like a king in a high-backed chair near the fire, one leg crossed neatly over the other, hands folded under his chin. To his right lounged Abraxas Malfoy, silver-blond and smirking like a wolf who smelled blood. Androalphus Lestrange slouched beside him, fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the armrest. Antonio Dolohov and Harkness Avery sat across from each other at the table, half a game of wizard chess forgotten between them, their pieces still mid-slaughter. 

Silvanus Rosier leaned against the wall like he’d been born there, arms folded, golden eyes gleaming with amusement.

Tom’s gaze swept over him slowly, unnervingly calm. “You’re late,” he said.

“I wasn’t aware we had curfew,” Ignatius replied evenly, though his boots left a trail of wet prints across the stone floor.

“No,” said Tom, rising from his chair with deliberate grace. “But it’s unusual, isn’t it, for one of us to vanish during dinner without a word. Especially when the others are... waiting.”

The firelight caught on his cheekbones, making him look carved from something ancient and dark.

Abraxas gave a low chuckle. “Did you fall in the lake, Mulciber? You look like a drowned puffskein.”

Silvanus sniffed the air, his smile sharp. “Smell like one, too. Merlin, what were you doing? Bathing with the squid?”

Ignatius didn’t rise to the bait. He strode further into the room, water dripping from his sleeves onto the flagstones with every step. He wanted to take a quick shower and change his clothes.

Tom stepped forward now, slowly, as if stalking something delicate. “You’re missing your cloak.”

The silence turned sharper. Everyone was watching. Waiting.

“I lent it,” Ignatius said simply.

“To whom?” Tom asked, his voice still polite—but edged in something cooler.

There was a beat.

Ignatius met his eyes. “Cecilia Lovegood.”

A few of them stilled and looked at Tom, no one dared open their mouths. Tom’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes cooled further, calcifying like frost spreading across glass.

“And you stayed?” he asked.

Ignatius shrugged, slowly. “Had to make sure she wouldn’t choke to death after I dragged her ashore.”

Tom tilted his head. “And how did she end up in the lake?”

Ignatius didn’t blink. “A niffler startled her. She slipped off a stone.”

“You were watching her,” Tom said, not a question.

“I was passing by.”

“You followed her,” Tom corrected softly, but there was no accusation in the tone, only quiet certainty.

The others shifted subtly. A change in weight. A shift in attention.

Ignatius’s jaw tightened. “I was curious.”

A long silence.

His eyes gleamed with something ancient, unreadable. “You trespassed, Mulciber. Whether you meant to or not.”

Then Tom turned, slowly pacing back to his seat. He lowered himself into the chair like a king returning to a throne, fingers steepled lightly in front of him. “Return your cloak,” he said. “Then stay away.”

No one spoke. No one breathed. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to quiet, its crackle dulling to a whisper.

Ignatius stood there, dripping lakewater onto ancient stone, the silence pressing on his skin like frost. No one laughed now. No one jeered.

He gave a single, sharp nod. Then turned, his footsteps wet and echoing as he left the room, the tension following him like a second shadow.

The door swung closed behind Ignatius, but the tension he left behind clung to the room like smoke. For a long moment, no one moved. Then Tom spoke, his voice a velvet drawl.

“Now,” he said, “shall we speak of bloodlines?”

Silvanus Rosier folded his arms, his earlier smirk gone. “You’re thinking of restructuring the hierarchy.”

“I’m thinking,” Tom said, pacing slowly, “that our world is teetering. The wrong families are gaining influence. Half-bloods posturing as pure, weak lines pretending to be strong. The rot is quiet… until it spreads.”

Avery shifted in his seat. “You’re suggesting purification?”

Tom paused. “I’m suggesting clarity.”

Abraxas Malfoy leaned forward, fingers steepled like Tom’s had been. “There’s already a system. The Sacred Twenty-Eight—”

“The Sacred Twenty-Eight is outdated,” Tom interrupted smoothly. “Do you know how many of those families intermarried with Muggle blood during the last three centuries? Quietly, discreetly, through cousins, squibs, false documents? They pretend it never happened. They build their thrones on shame and secrets.”

Then, the common room door creaked open once more.

Footsteps, dry this time, clicked against the stone as Ignatius Mulciber re-entered. He had changed into a clean uniform, dark and pressed, his hair still damp but combed back. A fresh pair of glasses glinted in the low torchlight. In his hand, he held a folded parchment.

The boys turned to look at him, but no one spoke.

Ignatius strode across the room and stopped before Tom. He extended the paper without a word.

Tom took it delicately, as though accepting a sacred scroll. He unfolded it slowly, his eyes scanning the contents.

“Here,” Ignatius said, voice flat, “the families with documented pureblood lineage going back at least five generations. Cross-referenced against Ministry birth records, Hogwarts enrollment, and Gringotts vault registries, like you asked.”

Tom’s lips curved, just slightly. “Efficient.”

He held the parchment between two fingers, lifting it so the firelight revealed the inked names: Selwyn. Nott. Dolohov. Lestrange. Black. Rosier. Malfoy. Yaxley. Burke. Carrow. Mulciber. Flint. Avery. And a few more faded with time.

“These,” Tom said, turning the list so the others could see, “are the bones of the world we are going to build. Everything else, the half-blood politicians, the blood-traitors, the foreign interlopers, they are scaffolding. Temporary.”

Abraxas let out a slow breath through his nose, contemplative. “What about Grindelwald? Currently he ruled the US and half of europe.”

Tom's eyes flicked to Abraxas, his gaze measured, unreadable. “Grindelwald,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue like something sour, “is a visionary trapped in the wrong century.”

He paced slowly behind the couch, the list still in one hand. “He thinks too broadly. Too loudly. Conquest, revolution, speeches to rally the sheep. He wraps truth in fire and banners and calls it liberation.”

Antonio Dolohov tilted his head. “You don’t agree with him?”

“I agree with his premise,” Tom said smoothly. “Wizards should rule. Muggles are a blight, blind and breeding. But Grindelwald’s mistake is in spectacle. He wages war like a dramatist, not a tactician.”

There was a faint curl of distaste on his lips now “He wants to burn down the old world in full view. I want to inherit it.”

Harkness Avery gave a soft, approving laugh.

Androalphus Lestrange arched his brow. “You think he’ll fall?”

Tom turned, slowly, and looked him dead in the eye. “He’s already falling. Dumbledore is watching him. The MACUSA is growing braver. And Grindelwald…” A pause. “He’s grown complacent.”

He held up the list again, the firelight catching the ink.

“We won’t make that mistake.”

Tom turned again, his tone softening, almost reflective. “We are not revolutionaries. We are restorers. And we will not scream our beliefs like madmen in the street. We will whisper them into the ears of the powerful, into laws and classrooms, into families, until the world is shaped in our image.”

The parchment curled slightly in the fire’s heat. Outside the dungeon walls, the lake lapped against the stone, quiet and eternal and in the Slytherin common room, a new order began to form, shaped not by rage, but by calculation.

 

Chapter 9: Eight Tentacles

“Mulciber!”

Cecilia’s voice rang down the corridor as she spotted him walking alone, his pace brisk and eyes fixed ahead. She hurried to catch up, a neatly folded Slytherin robe draped over one arm and a small black box cradled in her hand.

Ignatius stopped mid-step, spine stiffening like he’d been caught doing something illegal. He turned slowly, gaze narrowing as Cecilia jogged up to him with the robe folded over one arm and a small box in her hand.

She held out the robe. “You forgot this.”

It was clean now, mended with careful charmwork, the tears at the seams patched where he’d dragged her up from the lake. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the fabric.

“I washed it,” she added, a bit breathless. “Thought it deserved better than being left to rot in the girls’ dormitory.”

He stared at it like it might bite him. “You didn’t have to.” 

She ignored that and lifted the small box and offered it to him. “Also… these.”

Ignatius raised a brow and took it. Inside was a pair of glasses, identical to the ones he’d lost. Slim, dark-rimmed, perfectly measured.

“You..” Ignatius looked at the glasses, then at her, and back again. “Do you have any idea how expensive—?”

“I do,” Cecilia interrupted, just a little defensively. “I used my savings. From the commissions. A couple paintings. And… one sketch of the giant squid.”

He looked at her like she was mad.

She shrugged. “Apparently, people like tentacles.” 

She didn’t understand it. Frankly, she found tentacles disgusting, slimy, coiling things that belonged in nightmares, not art galleries. But she’d drawn them anyway. Sold the piece, too.

She hadn’t needed to buy him a new pair, especially not an exact replica. She knew he came from money. He could afford ten more like it without blinking.

But—

“I didn’t want to owe you,” she said quietly. “Not for what you did.”

Something flickered across his face then. Barely visible. A twitch of his mouth. A tension in his jaw. She couldn’t read it.

“You don’t,” he said finally. Flat.

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well,” she said, shoving the robe and box at his chest, “too bad.”

He caught them before they fell, his fingers brushing hers. “Careful,” he said, glancing at the glasses. “If they’re even slightly crooked, I’ll hex you.”

She gave him a look, unimpressed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He turned the box over in his hand, then looked at her. “You’re strange.”

“I’ve been told.”

Then, softly, more to himself: “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said. “But I wanted to.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked off,robe under his arm, box in hand, the echo of his footsteps oddly heavy against the stone.

Mulciber knew he had to keep his distance from her now. He wasn’t an idiot.

Tom’s warning from the night before still rang clear in his mind, sharper than the lake water in his lungs. Return your cloak. Then stay away. The words hadn’t been shouted, hadn’t needed to be. They were precise, surgical. A line drawn.

For his safety.

And though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, for hers.

He didn’t know exactly what had passed between Cecilia and Tom. What conversation, what glance, what decision had turned Riddle’s attention so fully onto her. But it didn’t matter. Tom never looked twice at someone unless he meant to keep them. Or break them.

And yet…

Ignatius glanced down at the box in his hand. She’d remembered the brand. The fit. The exact model of his glasses, even the faint tint in the lens. It wasn’t about the cost, she’d spent real galleons, money from her own odd little commissions. Tentacles , of all things.

A strange girl, he thought.

He adjusted the weight of the robe under his arm and didn’t look back. Tom was watching. Always.

And Cecilia Lovegood didn’t know just how thin the ice beneath her feet already was.

Cecilia watched him until his back disappeared down the corridor, swallowed by shadows and silence. Only then did she turn on her heel, spine straight, her expression unreadable.

She made her way toward the art room on the fifth floor, the hem of her skirt whispering against the stone with every step. As she walked, she reached up and adjusted the purple ribbon tied neatly into her braid.

A few students passed her in the halls, their chatter echoing faintly off the high ceilings. If she recognized them, she greeted them with a soft hello and the faint curve of a smile. If not, a polite nod sufficed a little strange, like always.

The art room was empty, save for the scent of old paint and charmed charcoal. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in fractured bands, dust motes dancing in the golden air like ghosts of forgotten thoughts.

Cecilia slipped inside without a sound and closed the door behind her. The quiet here was different, like it didn’t press against her, but wrapped itself around her shoulders like a shawl.

She moved to her usual spot by the corner easel, where a few of her earlier sketches still sat: a portrait of the Forbidden Forest at dusk, the flicker of a Thestral wing just barely visible; a study of a girl underwater, her hair floating like ink in parchment water.

She pulled out a clean sheet of paper, dipped her quill in ink, and began to draw.

Not consciously. Not at first.

Her hand moved on its own, slow, and deliberate strokes. That seemed to rise from somewhere deeper than thought. A curve of a head. The swell of muscle. Then the arms, long, coiling. Eight of them. Tentacles curling outward like smoke, or fingers reaching.

At the center, the mouth, circular, ringed with teeth, gaping. And in front of it, small and trembling, stood a girl.

Her skirt was caught in the current, hair rising in strands above her like drowning ribbons. One hand lifted toward the beast as if in offering or surrender. The tentacles curled tighter around her, not touching yet, but inevitable.

Cecilia blinked and then stared at it, she was not quite sure why she drew that, it feels like her hand has its own mind. The ink bled at the edges, spidering out like veins. The girl was still there, small and swallowed by the page and the octopus loomed over her, too large, too knowing.

Her gaze drifted toward the window. The sky had darkened while she worked. The clouds were low and heavy, and the wind outside howled against the glass, rattling it in short, sharp bursts. Leaves swirled on the grounds below like scattered warnings.

The door creaked open behind her. Two figures stepped inside without knocking.

“Evening, Lovegood,” drawled a familiar voice.

Abraxas Malfoy leaned in the doorway like he owned the room, elegant and sharp in freshly pressed robes, his pale hair slicked back, a glint of something too smooth in his smile. Behind him came Harkness Avery, broader and darker, with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Didn’t peg you for the sketching type,” Avery said, eyeing the parchment.

Cecilia instinctively slid her hand across the drawing, covering the worst of it. “It’s for class,” she said quickly.

Abraxas stepped further in, ignoring the lie. His eyes were already on the edge of the parchment beneath her fingers. “A class about monsters?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Don’t be rude,” Avery muttered, though his tone was lazy, almost entertained.

Cecilia just watched them. Her hand stayed on the page, fingers slightly smudged with ink. It felt like, slowly, all of Tom’s gang was beginning to orbit her. One by one. A cold constellation formed around her without consent.

“You’ve been spending time with Mulciber.”

She didn’t answer that. That silence stretched, but neither of them seemed bothered by it. They weren’t here for answers, she realized. They were here to remind her.

Avery wandered closer to her desk, casually glancing at the sketch beneath her palm.

“He saved you, didn’t he?” he said, voice low. “Dragged you out of the lake. Gave you his robes.”

“Very chivalrous,” Abraxas murmured, walking past her desk now, fingers trailing along its edge. “Very un-Mulciber of him.”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Cecilia said, and even she heard the strain in her own voice. Calm, but cracked at the edges.

Abraxas paused behind her chair. “No,” he said. “But you didn’t stop him either.”

She turned her head slightly. “Should I have?”

That earned a smirk from him, sharp and brief. “Tom has... particular views about what belongs to whom.”

Avery clicked his tongue. “Careful, Malfoy. You’ll scare her.”

Abraxas leaned down, close enough for her to smell his cologne, bitter citrus and ash. “I’m not trying to scare her,” he said softly. “I’m trying to warn her.”

Then he straightened and stepped back, brushing an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve. “You should be careful who you let near you, Lovegood. This place feeds on missteps.”

Avery gave her one last look, neutral, and unreadable. Then turned and followed Abraxas to the door.

Cecilia stared down at the drawing. The ink had dried, but the eyes of the creature still seemed wet. Still seemed to be watching.

 

Chapter 10: Forbidden forest

Notes:

You know, I actually love Cecilia x Ignatius, haha. In my mind, Ignatius looks like Henry Winter from The Secret History.

Cecilia walked out from the art classroom, the scent of ink and parchment still clinging to her sleeves. Outside, the sky had cracked open.

Rain poured in sheets across the castle grounds, streaking the windows and soaking the stone courtyard below. Thunder rumbled low, like a warning whispered beneath the world.

Her footsteps echoed softly along the corridor, each step swallowed quickly by the rising hum of rain. The torchlight flickered as she passed, shadows dancing along the walls like half-formed memories.

The purple ribbon in her braid had begun to loosen, strands of hair falling against her cheek. She pushed them back absently, eyes drifting to the courtyard through the high windows, blurry, water-warped shapes and trees bent by wind.

Cecilia stood by the window, her fingertips brushing against the fogged glass, wiping it just enough to see. Raindrops streaked down the pane in rivulets, racing each other to the stone sill. Beyond, the Forbidden Forest loomed, dark, ancient, and shifting in the storm.

The trees swayed like giants breathing. Branches clawed at the sky. The trees swayed like giants breathing. Branches clawed at the sky.

Then she saw them, small shadows flitting through the rain-drenched grounds, slipping between the hedges and the edge of the forest. Three of them. Small. Hooded. Moving fast.

Her breath caught.

First-years. Sneaking into the Forbidden Forest.

In the middle of a storm.

“Have they lost their minds?” she whispered, stepping closer to the glass as if proximity might change what she was seeing.

She looked around. The corridor was deserted, no professors, no Prefects. No one.

She thought about finding help, about alerting someone with authority. But the moment she hesitated, she knew it would be too late. By the time she reached a professor or, Merlin forbid, Tom, the forest would’ve already swallowed them whole. She didn’t want that. And she didn’t want to see him.

So, she turned and ran.

Her footsteps echoed sharply against the stone, fast and determined. Her braid whipped against her shoulder, the purple ribbon at the end slipping loose, fluttering once before falling soundlessly to the ground behind her.

She didn’t stop. The only thing she knew was this: she wasn’t going to let three children vanish into that place. Not if she could stop it.

The moment she stepped out, the wind hit her like a curse, rain lashed her face, cold and stinging, soaking through her robes in seconds. The stone steps were slick beneath her shoes, the path to the forest already turning to mud. But she didn’t slow.

The first-years had vanished past the treeline.

She pushed forward, the trees looming larger with every step, like towering judges leaning in to listen. By the time she reached the forest’s edge, the castle was nothing but a glow behind sheets of rain. She took a step inside.

Branches scraped at her sleeves. The smell of wet earth, rot, and something sweeter, stranger, filled her nose. She pulled her wand from her pocket, lighting the tip with a soft Lumos . It cast a fragile glow, barely enough to illuminate the twisted roots and gnarled trunks. And she goes deeper into the forbidden forest.

Meanwhile in the castle, Tom, Abraxas, Silvanus, and Ignatius moved down the corridor where she had stood not long before. The storm outside groaned against the windows, and the torches along the stone walls flickered in protest.

Ignatius slowed first, his sharp eyes catching something near the edge of the archway.

“What is that?” he began, but Tom had already stopped, his gaze dropped to the floor, stared at it as if the world had gone still.

A ribbon.

Purple, silken, rain-damp at the edges, coiled like it had been dropped in haste. He stared at it for a long moment, then bent down and picked it up between two fingers.

He knew it before he even looked closely.

Cecilia Lovegood .

He turned the fabric slowly in his hand, watching it catch the torchlight. His expressions didn’t change, but something in the corridor did. The air sharpened, thickened, as though the castle itself had sensed a change in the tide.

“What’s she doing out in this weather?” Ignatius asked, aiming for indifference. Detached, but the edge in his voice betrayed him, too sharp, too fast.

Like he cared.

Tom said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed on the ribbon, and when he finally slipped it into his pocket, it was not casual. It was deliberate. A quiet claim.

“She went after something,” Silvanus offered, uneasy now. “Probably those idiot first-years we heard about.”

Abraxas gave a low laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She’s going to get herself killed in that forest.”

Ignatius glanced at him. His face gave away nothing, but his shoulders, drawn tight beneath the fabric of his robes, told a different story. He shoved his hands into his pockets as if to hide the tension there.

No one said it aloud, but they were all thinking the same thing: the Forbidden Forest was no place for a girl like Cecilia Lovegood. Not in this weather. Not alone.

Tom didn’t look at any of them. And without a word, he stepped away from the group, his movements clean, final.

“Where are you going?” Abraxas asked, though he already knew.

Tom didn’t answer. The only reply was the fading echo of his footsteps, steady and soundless, vanishing into the dark.

Cecilia’s shoes squelched against the earth, her robes  soaked through, the hem of her skirt clinging to her knees. Every branch above her trembled with rain, every leaf dripped like the forest itself was watching. Waiting.

She paused near a split in the path, barely more than two deer trails etched into shadow. The trees loomed taller here, their limbs gnarled like fingers curled around secrets. The rain whispered above, threading through the leaves in a steady hiss.

The path barely has more than two deer trails etched into shadow. The storm above groaned, wind rattling the branches overhead like bones in a jar.

Her heart beat louder than her footsteps.

She stared down both trails, each vanishing into a tangle of trees. Neither looked welcoming, but the left one, she thought, seemed clearer. Slightly. As if it had been used more recently.

Left, then.

The moment she crossed into it, the air changed, thicker, like stepping into water. The trees here grew too close together, the bark damp and dark with moss. No birdsong. No wind. Even the rain quieted like it didn’t want to follow her in.

She slowed, breath frosting from her lips. Her wand hand twitched .

Then she heard it, a branch snapped behind her. She spun her head but saw nothing. Her pulse pounded in her ears. The trees felt like they were leaning in, like they wanted to watch.

“ Lumos Maxima! ” she cried, and a blinding orb of light burst from her wand, searing through the shadows.

It lit up the forest in stark, silver-blue lines.

And she saw it.

A hulking mass of fur and bone, too large to be natural. Eyes glinting like wet coins in the light. Antlers. But not a deer, twisted, wrong. Jaws too wide, legs bent backward. It hissed at the light, recoiling slightly, but not enough.

She stepped back again, heart in her throat. “ Expulso! ”

The spell slammed into its shoulder and sent it stumbling, but it didn’t fall. It just turned, fury replacing curiosity.

It charged.

Cecilia barely had time to scream.

She dove sideways, the forest floor rushing up hard rocks and roots jarring into her ribs. Her wand skittered from her grip, vanishing into the dark.

She tried to scramble for it but pain flared hot in her leg, white-hot, as something ripped .

She tried to stand, to limp, anything, but her leg gave out completely. Blood darkened her stocking, warm and wet, and her knee wouldn’t bend right.

The creature loomed above her, breath hot and rancid, its weight pressing the air from her lungs. One clawed limb pinned her shoulder to the ground. Agony tore through her left side as its talons dug in, warm blood pooling beneath her robes.

Its jaws opened, wide, unnatural rows of jagged fangs glistening with saliva. A horrible sound, like a growl trying to be a laugh, rumbled in its throat.

No. She wouldn’t die like this.

Her free hand clawed blindly at the ground, mud and moss and blood slicking her fingers, until she felt it.

A broken branch. Sharp. Splintered. Wet.

Before she could think, she thrust it up, wild and desperate. The point sank into the beast’s eye with a sickening, wet crunch.

It screamed. A howl of blind fury and pain reeling back just enough for her to drag herself away, shrieking as its claws tore further at her shoulder.

She rolled, gasping, barely able to see through blood and rain. Her wand was gone, she had nothing but instinct and pain.

The creature writhed, stamping wildly as it shook the branch from its ruined eye socket, black ichor spraying across the leaves. But now it was blind. Furious. And still coming.

Chapter 11: Gods and Monsters

The creature writhed, stamping wildly as it shook the branch from its ruined eye socket, black ichor spraying across the leaves.

But now it was blind. Furious. And still coming.

Cecilia cursed under her breath. Pain seared up her arm and through her ribs, her leg barely obeying her commands. But she refused to fall here. Not like this. Not as prey.

Teeth clenched, she forced herself upright. Her knees buckled once, but she caught herself against a tree. The bark scraped her palms raw, shaking and bleeding. But she standing.

She spat blood to the side and raised her head, eyes blazing. “Come on, then,” she hissed. “Let’s finish it.”

The beast lunged, sensing her, and just as it did—

“ Avada Kedavra .”

The flash of green light was blinding and the creature collapsed mid-leap, crashing just inches from her feet with a final, strangled groan.

It didn’t move again.

Cecilia's breath caught in her throat. The unforgivable curse. She’d only ever read about it in books, bound in dust and guilt, in pages that whispered warnings. But now she has seen it.

She looked up and saw him, Tom Riddle stood a few feet away, wand still raised, his silhouette carved in moonlight and mist. He wasn’t panting. He wasn’t shaken.

His eyes flicked to the blood pouring down her shoulder and arms, the mud caking her skirt, the smear of black ichor across her cheek, the shattered look in her eyes that she was trying to hide.

He said nothing. But something in his gaze turned colder. Sharper.

He stepped closer. “Did I not tell you,” he said softly, “to stay away from danger?”

She stared up at him, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. Her whole body throbbed, her vision blurred at the edges. But she still met his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to let them die,” she said. “Not the first-years.” 

His jaw tensed, a muscle moved along his cheek. “Foolish,” he murmured.

But it wasn’t scorn in his voice. Not quite. There was something else, something colder, tighter, that edged toward anger but never quite became it.

“You nearly got yourself killed.”

She looked down at her arm. Blood dripped from her fingertips, her legs were shaking now, the adrenaline bleeding out of her faster than the wound itself. She can feel the consciousness start to slip away from her.

Tom stepped closer, fast. Just one step, but it was sharp enough to cut through the haze at the edges of her mind. His hand caught her elbow before she could sway. Firm. Unyielding. The only thing anchoring her upright.

“Cecilia.” His voice was lower now. Controlled, but strained.

She blinked, trying to focus. Her lips parted, but no voice came out. And with that, Tom’s arm swept beneath her knees, the other braced her back, in a single, fluid motion, he lifted her against his chest. Like she weighed nothing at all. He began walked. 

His pace was swift, measured, every footstep purposeful as they cut through the darkened forest. Rain misted around them, but he moved like it didn’t touch him. Cecilia closed her eyes, tired.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, his voice a thread of command against the storm. “Stay awake.”

She forced her eyes open, lashed heavily with rain and blood. The world around them blurred in streaks of grey and green, but his face above her stayed sharp. Focused. Distant, but burning.

“I’m tired,” she whispered, or maybe just mouthed.

His jaw clenched. He didn’t look at her. “Then be tired later.”

Branches whipped past them. Mud sucked at his shoes. He never faltered.

Cecilia shivered in his arms. Her braid had mostly unraveled, damp strands clinging to her neck and cheeks. Her ribbon was gone. Her wand was gone. The hem of her robe dragged, torn and soaked, and blood still bloomed dark across her shoulder.

She was only half aware of the cold now, of the sting and throb of her injuries. But she was aware of the way her fingers had curled into the fabric of his robes, right over his chest, where his heartbeat was steady, measured, terrifyingly calm.

She let her eyes close again, not in surrender, but because she had to. Because the world had started to tilt, and her body was no longer her own.

But she felt him. The cold of his magic. The heat of his fury. The quiet, terrifying certainty in every step he took. And for the first time since the creature lunged, she thought:

He’s angry. Not because of what happened. But because it happened to me.

Her head lolled slightly against his shoulder. Rain trickled down his jaw, cast silver in the moonlight. “Why are you helping me?” she breathed, barely above a whisper. “You could’ve let me die in that thing’s jaws and kept your secret safe…”

“I could,” he said, voice soft as velvet. “Let you die.”

A beat.

“But I didn’t.”

His eyes flicked down to her face, blood-streaked, eyelids fluttering, her breath shallow. “I don’t make decisions out of panic,” he said. “Or convenience.”

She tried to focus on his face. “Then why…?”

A shadow passed behind his eyes. Something sharp, something private . “Because I don’t like watching things that are mine bleed.”

She stared up at him, her mind fighting to stay above the crashing waves of exhaustion.

Mine.

The word clung to her skin like smoke. It should have scared her. Maybe it did, but not enough.

“Since when? We rarely talked before,” she whispered, though her voice was paper-thin.

He didn’t answer immediately. The rain hissed through the trees. Leaves whispered secrets above them. His steps never slowed. Then, quietly he said, “Since you stopped looking at me like everyone else did.”

She blinked, dazed. “And how is that?”

“Like I was already what they feared,” he said, his voice cutting through the mist like a blade. “You looked like you knew it… and stayed anyway.”

She tried to shake her head, but it barely moved. “That’s not—”

“It is.”

His grip tightened just slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make her feel the tension coil through his whole body, like his control was a thread pulled too tight.

“I don’t collect what’s easy, Cecilia. I notice what resists.”

Something in her chest thudded, pain or fear or something else, she couldn’t name it now.

“Rest,” he said, voice low again. “You’ve done enough damage for tonight.”

And though every instinct warned her to stay awake, to stay alert, her body betrayed her. Her eyes slid closed again, and her final thought before  sleep is not of pain, or fear, or monsters.

It was of him, of how he’d said her name like it was already his.

Tom crossed the threshold of the forgotten chamber beneath the castle, one of the many secret places he’d claimed as his own. The stone walls pressed in with a familiar weight, the air thick with dust and old magic. He laid her down gently on a couch beside the hearth, where a dull fire had long since faded to embers.

He knelt beside her. The torchlight caught on his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes, along the edges of his jaw. His expression was unreadable, blank the way a storm is just before it breaks.

His hand hovered above her wound on her shoulder, where blood had soaked through the torn fabric. Magic shimmered faintly along his fingertips, but he didn’t cast anything. Not yet.

Instead, he watched her face.

The way her brow twitched in unconsciousness. The way her lips parted, shallow and uneven with breath. There was mud in her hair. Her braid had unraveled completely. She looked breakable.

And something in him recoiled at that. He dragged in a breath through his nose. Controlled. Quiet.

Then, finally, he lifted his wand and began to work, not with fury, but precision. The kind that spoke of focus that was sharp enough to cut.

He would mend the skin, he would stop the bleeding. But there were things beneath the wound no spell could touch. And Tom Riddle, for all his brilliance, had never learned how to leave something alone once it belonged to him.

Chapter 12: Let Go

Notes:

It's my birthday today! And to celebrate, I'm feeling generous, here’s a double chapter from my draft. Enjoy~

Cecilia stirred.

Her body felt like it had been dragged through fire and rain and left to dry in stone. Every limb ached. Her shoulder throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pulse. When she opened her eyes, the light was low, torchlight flickering against old stone.

Unfamiliar walls. A chamber that smelled faintly of dust, parchment, and something older.

Not the Hospital Wing. Not her dormitory.

She blinked slowly, trying to sit up, but pain flared sharp and immediate down her side, and she gasped, collapsing back against the soft cushion beneath her.

It was then she realized.

Her uniform was gone. No robe. No blood. No mud.

She was wearing a nightgown. Thin, pale, soft against skin that had been scrubbed clean. Even the dried ichor was gone from her cheek.

Her breath caught. Someone had tended her. Bathed her. Dressed her.

Her eyes darted across the room now, panic tightening her chest. The fire had been rekindled. Shadows danced along the ceiling. She wasn’t alone. She couldn’t be.

Who touched her? Who saw her?

Cecilia’s hand gripped the edge of the blanket now, white-knuckled, as her gaze snapped toward the far wall toward the quiet figure seated in the chair, half-shrouded in the gloom.

Tom. Of course.

Tom didn’t turn his head. He simply spoke, voice smooth and low, like the fire itself had given it shape. “You’re awake.”

Cecilia froze.

His chair was angled toward the hearth, his silhouette sharp against the flickering light. One hand rested casually on the armrest. 

“Did you change my clothes?

Tom didn’t move at first. Just the sound of the fire crackling between them. Then, he turned his head slightly, enough for her to catch the glint of his eyes in the shadows.

“Yes,” he said.

The word was simple. Unapologetic.

Cecilia’s fingers curled tighter into the blanket, knuckles pale. Her voice wavered between fury and disbelief.

“Why?” she asked again, sharper now. “You—” Her breath hitched. “You saw—”

Her dignity stung more than the wound. He had seen her. Every inch. Every bruise. Every scar. And he spoke as if it were nothing.

Tom finally rose from the chair. His steps were soundless on the stone, measured as always. He stopped at the foot of the couch, gaze unreadable. “I did what had to be done,” he said quietly. “You were half-conscious, your skin cold, your shoulder torn open. I wasn't thinking about your modesty, Cecilia. I was thinking about whether you’d live through the night.”

The firelight flickered across his face, casting one side in gold, the other in shadow.

“You want anger? Fine,” he said, voice low. “But don’t mistake survival for violation.”

She looked away, jaw tight. Her throat burned. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I want to leave,” she said, voice raw. “I want to leave this room. And I want to leave you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Absolute.

Tom didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The fire crackled between them, throwing shifting light across stone walls and his still figure.

She pushed the blanket off with trembling fingers, wincing as she sat up. Her body protested with every motion, torn muscle, bruised ribs, dizziness curling at the edge of her vision, but she didn’t stop.

“I can’t—” her voice cracked. “I can’t stand that you’ve seen me like that. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want it. Not from you.”

She paused, then continued speaking “And thank you for saving me, saving my life.”

Tom didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He watched her with that same impossible stillness, the kind that always made her feel like she was being studied rather than seen.

When she finished speaking, the silence remained. Then softly, almost too quiet to hear, he said, “You’re welcome.”

But there was no warmth in it. No humility. Just a fact. I saved you. You lived. That was all.

He stepped back, his hands folding behind his back as though the whole thing had been clinical. An inconvenience. Not personal.

“You can barely walk,” he said. “But if leaving is what you want, then leave.”

His tone wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even cold.

It was indifferent . That stung more than rage ever could.

“I won’t stop you,” he added, turning his gaze back to the fire. “But I won't undo what I’ve done. So you’ll carry this, whether you stay or not.”

She stared at him. At the firelight flickering across the face of a boy who had saved her life and stripped her bare, not out of tenderness, but necessity.

She swallowed hard and said nothing.

Two nights had passed.

The Slytherin common room buzzed with its usual undercurrent, murmured gossip, the scratch of quills, the occasional flicker of green from the lake outside. But Abraxas Malfoy was still.

He sat on the velvet-backed settee by the fire, one leg crossed neatly over the other, a silver pocket watch open in his palm. It wasn’t the time he was studying. Just the silence between ticks.

“Waiting for someone?” drawled Silavanus Rosier from the couch, sprawled in a way only someone sure of their bloodline could be.

Abraxas didn’t answer. Just turned a page he hadn’t read.

Silvanus snorted. “Riddle’s been silent. Which means something happened.”

Abraxas closed the book, spine cracking. “She hasn’t been in class. Her friends pretend not to notice, which means they know.”

“Maybe she’s dead.”

Abraxas’s gaze snapped to him. Silvanus blinked at the intensity of it. “Don’t be stupid, ” Abraxas said, voice smooth but cool. “If she were dead, he’d be different.”

Silvanus tilted his head. “Is he not?”

Abraxas didn’t reply. He pushed off the settee, walking past the firelight, the book now clutched too tightly in one hand. Tom was many things, secretive, precise, terrifyingly patient, but he was not careless . And hiding a girl, especially one who had something on him, was not a thing he’d do lightly.

The next day. The morning sun spilled through the high windows of the Great Hall, catching dust in golden beams. It should have felt warm, but it didn’t

She walked alone at first. Araya and Eleanor followed a few steps behind, speaking in hushed voices that didn’t quite reach her. They had offered to walk beside her. She had declined.

Her robes were clean. Her posture is straight. But there was something about her that had… shifted.

At the Ravenclaw table, few heads turned subtly, a flick of a glance over toast, a pause in pouring pumpkin juice. Esther gave her a tight smile, unsure. She returned it with a polite nod, then sat without a word.

Across the Hall, at the Slytherin table, Tom Riddle did not move.

But the others did. Silvanus Rosier leaned back slightly in his seat, eyes tracking her like a shadow beneath glass. Ignatius Mulciber’s gaze lingered a second too long, like someone recalling the shape of something they'd only seen once. And Abraxas didn’t look at her at all. He just tapped a silver ring against the side of his goblet, one-two, one-two, like a metronome keeping time to something unspoken.

Only they knew what had saved her. Or who .

Tom’s gaze finally lifted. Only for a heartbeat their eyes meet. He just stared at her as if confirming something only he could see.

Then he turned back to his tea. Unbothered and untouched. But the cup had a crack in it now. A fine, thin line. And no one else knew why.

Chapter 13: Never Let Go

After their last conversation months ago, Cecilia's life returned to something like normal.

Classes, studying by the window in the Ravenclaw common room with a cup of tea gone cold beside her. The world slipped back into its proper rhythm. No Tom and his gangs. waiting in corners like ghosts with knives in their smiles.

Just peace. Just the life she had always told herself she wanted.

But still, when she passed Ignatius in the corridors, as she sometimes did when the castle breathed in silence between bells, she nodded and he nodded back. No smile. No words. Just acknowledgement. A shared, unspoken memory they didn’t name.

And now, it is autumn.

The season laid gold over the grounds, crisp air curling in through open windows. Leaves skittered like parchment across the stone pathways. The lake darkened to pewter, and the wind began to carry secrets again. Students wore scarves, laughter fogging in the mornings, and the scent of spiced apples drifted up from the kitchens.

“Cecil! Let’s go to the Hogsmeade!”

Araya’s voice rang out like a bell, bright and unbothered, as she threw her arms around Cecilia from behind. She rested her chin on Cecilia’s shoulder, her hair tickling Cecilia’s cheek.

Cecilia startled slightly, then relaxed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Merlin, Araya,” she said, breathless. “Warn me next time.”

Araya grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Eleanor stood a few feet away, leaning her back casually against the corridor wall, arms crossed and expression faintly amused “She’s been plotting this ambush since breakfast,” Eleanor said dryly. “Consider yourself hunted.”

“I can see that,” Cecilia murmured, glancing between the two of them.

“Come on,” Araya said, tugging at her hand now. “It’s perfect out. Just chilly enough for hot cocoa and cinnamon scones. You’ve been buried in books all week, we’re not letting you become one.”

Cecilia hesitated only for a moment. The world has been quiet lately. Quiet enough to almost believe it would stay that way. And maybe she deserved this. A day like this.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Araya whooped, Eleanor smirked, and the three of them walked off toward the gates, scarves fluttering, boots crunching over fallen leaves. Behind them, the castle loomed with all its shadows. For once, it felt like the future was open.

The village was alive with the rustle of wind and chatter. Scarves in house colors whipped around necks, and the shop windows glowed with enchantments that flickered orange and gold, welcoming the season.

Cecilia walked between Araya and Eleanor, pointing out every sweet in Honeydukes with a dramatic gasp, the latter calmly evaluating which pastries were worth waiting in line for.

They stopped at a small table outside Madam Puddifoot’s, warm cups steaming between their hands. Araya dunked her cinnamon biscuit into her cocoa with gleeful determination while Eleanor quietly handed Cecilia a napkin before hers could spill.

For the first time in a long while, Cecilia laughed. Really laughed. It startled even her.

“Did you hear that?” Araya said, mock-scandalized. “She made a sound! A joyful one!”

Cecilia rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

Eleanor lifted her cup. “To Cecilia. Almost human again.”

They clinked mugs together in the center of the table.

But not far off, on the far side of the village, near the shadows between the old bookshop and the post office, someone watched.

He hadn’t meant to follow or maybe he had.

Tom Riddle stood half-shrouded in shadow, gloved hands in his coat pockets, eyes unreadable. He hadn’t moved since he saw her laughing, her braid loose over her shoulder, her eyes lit with something warm and unguarded.

Not once in the past months had he approached her. Not even after she left the chamber.

He had been… patient.

Detached, even.

But watching her now, something in him stirred. Not rage or regret. Something colder. Sharper. The way a hunter watches a bird forget it’s being hunted.

A flicker of motion at his side, a figure stepped up beside him.

Abraxas.

“She looks better,” Abraxas said mildly, eyes following Cecilia’s silhouette through the glass.

Tom didn’t speak.

“She doesn’t look like someone who remembers what you did,” Abraxas continued.

Still, silence.

“But she does. And you let her walk away.”

Across the street, Cecilia laughed again, and for a second, her head tilted toward the window. Toward the street. Not aware that she’s being stalked all this time.

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“She won’t forget,” Abraxas said.

“No,” Tom said quietly. “I’m make sure she won’t.”

He turned away, coat sweeping behind him, and disappeared into the alley without another word. Abraxas lingered only a moment longer before following.

Cecilia sipped her cocoa, a chill crawling over her skin she couldn’t explain. She glanced at the window again, brows furrowed, but saw nothing.

Just glass. And her reflection.

She shrugged her shoulders, brushed it off like it was nothing and continued chattering with Araya and Eleanor. 

“So, who’s buying me a sugar quill?” she teased.

“Absolutely not,” Eleanor said flatly. “You still owe me three Sickles from the last time.”

Araya looped her arm through Cecilia’s. “Fine. I’ll get it. But only if you admit I’m your favorite.”

“In your dreams.”

They walked back to the castle, the sun dipping low behind the Forbidden Forest, casting long golden shadows over the grounds. Araya was animatedly retelling a run-in with Peeves, complete with flailing arms and dramatic sound effects. Eleanor rolled her eyes, but her smirk gave her away.

Cecilia smiled, quiet and full. She missed this feeling, the easy rhythm of footsteps beside hers, the breeze catching the hem of her cloak, the kind of laughter that left her breathless and soft in the ribs.

She felt light again. Like the stone had been lifted from her chest. Like her skin had forgotten what it meant to be marked by shadows.

Her glow was back. Not the perfect kind. Not the kind that sparkled. But the kind that warmed from the inside, steady and quiet, like sunlight slipping through stained glass. And for a little while, that was enough.

The warmth of the day clung to her skin even as the sun dipped below the horizon. By the time they reached the castle steps, the sky had turned a soft lavender, streaked with fading gold.

“Same time next Hogsmeade weekend?” Araya grinned, bumping her shoulder against Cecilia’s.

“Obviously,” Eleanor deadpanned, already digging in her pocket for a chocolate frog.

They parted ways near the stairwell, Araya to the library, Eleanor to patrol for prefect duties. Cecilia climbed alone.

The quiet was welcome. Hallways hushed with the lull of evening, portraits yawning, enchanted sconces flickering to life. She moved like someone slipping back into a skin she hadn’t worn in a while, comfortably, cautiously.

By the time she reached her dormitory, her smile had softened into something gentler. She undid the clasp of her cloak, letting it fall onto the bed. For a while, she stood by the window, watching the trees outside sway in the breeze, their leaves casting shadows like stained glass against the castle walls.

Then a soft tap in her window. She froze.

A second tap . Light. Precise. Like a pebble against glass. The curtains swayed slightly from the earlier draft, but she hadn’t imagined it. That sound was real.

Someone was out there.

Cecilia stepped forward to the window, cautious. Every footfall seemed louder than it should be, the rest of the dorm silent. The other girls weren’t back yet. The lamps flickered low.

She reached for the curtain. Hesitated.

No one climbs the Ravenclaw tower. No one can .

Another tap , this one sharper. Deliberate.

Her fingers twitched, then pulled the curtain aside.

A shadow moved just beyond the glass. Not close. Not clear. But enough to make her breath catch.

Down below, barely visible in the dark, something small and pale rested on the outer ledge of the high stone windowsill.

A folded piece of parchment.

Cecilia stared at it. The wind tugged at the edge of it, threatening to carry it away, but it held fast. Her heart thudded once, deep and slow. Every part of her said leave it. Close the curtain. Walk away.

But she didn’t.

She opened the latch, let the chill autumn air spill into the room, and reached out, the note was cold to the touch. Smooth. Crisp. No wax seal. No name.

Just three words, written in precise, familiar ink.

“I’m still watching.”

Her hands trembled. She looked out into the night again, but the shadows were empty.

He was gone. But he’d been here. One thing for sure, Tom would never let her go. 

Chapter 14: Hogsmeade Station

The morning came quickly, no classes, no bells. Just the filtered gold of an autumn sunrise slipping past her curtains, touching the corners of her room like it didn’t know what had changed.

Cecilia sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, the note still folded in her hand. She hadn’t slept. The words echoed, not just in her memory, but in her bones.

I’m Still Watching.

Downstairs, the Ravenclaw common room stirred with soft weekend sounds, shuffling feet, yawns, the clink of teacups, Araya’s laugh rising like a songbird.

Cecilia forced herself up. Washed her body and hair. Dressed slowly. This weekend, she chose simplicity: a soft grey wool-blend day dress with a modest A-line skirt that brushed just below her knees. Over it, a navy cardigan hung from her shoulders, slightly oversized, the sleeves brushing past her wrists. It had belonged to her mother once, and still carried the faintest scent of lavender and time.

Her stockings were oatmeal-colored, slightly faded at the knees. She wore her usual black leather Mary Janes, freshly polished but worn in at the toes, their low heel clicking faintly against the dormitory floor.

Her hair braided carefully, weaving it over one shoulder and tying it off with her signature purple ribbon, a gift from her brother.

She picked up her brown leather satchel, worn soft at the edges, and slipped it over her shoulder. There was no destination written on parchment, no plan tucked between the folds of her mind. Just a vague pull toward the world beyond the gates.

Hogsmeade Station.

Maybe she’d sit on the platform and listen to the wind whistle through the trees. Maybe she’d watch the horizon until it stopped feeling like it was closing in. A small adventure, she told herself. Something to remind her that the world was still wide. That she was still free.

The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet, sunlight slanting through the high windows in golden stripes. She passed no one. Just the echo of her own footsteps and the occasional flicker of portraits watching her go.

The walk to the Hogsmeade was long and tiring. The wind tugged gently at the hem of her dress, rattled the dry leaves across the path like whispered thoughts. Cecilia walked with her satchel pressed close to her side, her braid trailing down her back, the familiar purple ribbon catching in the breeze like a banner of better days.

When she reached the station, it was empty, no students, no carriages, no smoke curling from the chimney of the station house. Just the still tracks stretching endlessly in both directions, and the soft groan of old wood settling in the morning chill.

She sat on the bench furthest from the road, one that overlooked the forested edge of the valley. She reached her satchel and pulled out her sketchbook and began sketching while waiting for the train.

She didn't realize that Tom already stood behind her, looking down at her with an unreadable expression as she sketched the hogsmeade station. 

“Cecilia.”

Her pencil halted mid-stroke.

That voice, low, smooth, unmistakable.

She didn’t flinch. Just slowly lowered the sketchbook and turned her head, strands of hair lifting in the breeze as she looked up at him.

Tom.

He stood like a ghost in daylight, wrapped in a long black cloak, its hem just brushing the gravel beneath him. His formal-casual attire was pristine, every detail deliberate, precise, like him. His expression unreadable, eyes fixed on hers with that unsettling calm.

Without a word, he stepped around the bench, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Slowly, deliberately, he sat beside her.

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a request, but it was a command. Final and absolute. 

Slowly, the station began to fill.

The quiet swelled with the clatter of trunks, the murmur of conversation, the distant whistle of an approaching train. Passengers bustled past in coats and hats, their lives moving forward in neat, hurried lines. 

But here, on this bench, it felt like none of it existed, like they were caught in a still frame. Their own private world, untouched by time.

Tom sat unmoving beside her, his gaze fixed on the rails as though waiting for something far more important than a train. His hands were folded in his lap, perfectly composed. His profile sharp in the grey light, high cheekbones, clean jaw, the faintest furrow in his brow, as if even now, stillness demanded thought.

Cecilia watched him or perhaps, observed him. 

She knew he was handsome, everyone at Hogwarts said so, whispered so. Even the ones who feared him couldn’t deny it. But she had never let herself look before.

The symmetry of his features. The chill elegance in his posture. There was a kind of cruel beauty to him, refined and remote, like a statue carved too perfectly by a hand that didn’t understand warmth.

She averted her gaze and looked down at her sketchbook, Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of her sketchbook. The train was drawing near, she could hear it now, the soft hum growing louder.

“Where do you want to take me, Tom?” Cecilia asked.

Her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, uncertain if he would even hear her over the hum of arriving passengers and the distant screech of the train’s brakes.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

The platform filled and emptied in waves, voices rising, footsteps echoing against the stone, the hiss of steam as the train settled into place. Tom sat utterly still, eyes fixed on the doors.

One by one, people stepped off. A boy in a tweed cap. A woman in deep plum gloves. A family wrapped in wool and laughter.

Cecilia waited.

Then, when the last figure had passed, Tom rose to his feet in one fluid, unhurried motion. He turned to her, hands still clasped behind his back, his cloak stirring faintly in the breeze.

“Little Hangleton,” he said.

The words hung in the air like smoke.

“My father’s home.”

His voice didn’t waver, but there was a sharpness beneath the calm, an edge that cut just slightly on the word father , like it tasted bitter in his mouth.

Cecilia stared at him. The name rang faintly in her ears. Little Hangleton. She’d heard of it only once or twice. Small. Remote. A village wrapped in fog and quiet judgment.

“Come on,” he said, offering his hand to her.

It hovered there between them, pale, steady, expectant. The kind of gesture that would look ordinary to anyone else passing by. But not to her. Not with him.

Cecilia stared at it for a long moment. She could hear the wind rustling dry leaves across the platform, the soft clatter of luggage being loaded, the faint hum of a whistle far in the distance.

And slowly, almost against reason and sense, she reached out. Her fingers slipped into his.

Warm. Firm. Certain.

She rose to her feet, and without a word, let him lead the way.

The compartment was nearly empty. Tom chose the one furthest at the back, its windows slightly fogged from the autumn chill outside. He held the door for her, silent as ever, and once she stepped in, he followed and closed it with a soft click. The train gave a lurch as it began to move, pulling them away from the station, from safety, from whatever this day had started out to be.

Cecilia sat by the window, her satchel in her lap, hands folded tightly over it. Across from her, Tom settled into his seat with quiet composure, his long black cloak spilling over the bench like smoke. For a few minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic clatter of wheels over track, steady and hypnotic.

She looked at him for a moment. His gaze  was fixed on the blurred countryside rolling past the window, jaw set, eyes unreadable. There was something almost... restrained in the way he sat.

“Why me?” she asked. Her voice barely rose above the sound of the wheels. “Why did you choose me to go there with you?”

Tom didn’t answer at first. Just blinked slowly, as if pulling himself back from whatever shadows his mind had wandered through.

“You weren’t supposed to matter,” he said at last, voice smooth but distant. “You were supposed to look away. Keep walking. Forget.

“But I didn’t.”

“No,” he said. “You watched.”

His tone wasn’t accusatory. If anything, it was... fascinated. Coldly fascinated, the way a scholar might marvel at a specimen that defied its nature.

“I’ve been watching it all my life,” he continued. “By people who wanted something from me. Power. Protection. Proximity. You never did.”

“I just wanted to be left alone,” she said.

“I know.” He looked at her. “And that’s why you couldn’t be.”

The countryside blurred on, golden fields turning to forest, shadow and light dancing across their faces.

Cecilia was not sure how to react. Instead, she turned her face toward the window, pressing her cheek lightly against the cool glass. The countryside rolled past in a blur of gold and fading green, but she wasn’t looking at it. Just breathing.

Tom was still watching her. She could feel it, like heat under skin, that strange weight of his gaze. Always blank. Always measured. But never absent.

“Are you afraid of what I’ll do in Little Hangleton?” he asked again.

She didn’t answer right away. Her breath fogged a small patch of the window. Her voice came a few seconds later, soft and even.

“Yes.”

Chapter 15: Little Hangleton

Notes:

So I bought Wuthering Heights online, and it arrived yesterday. It’s hardcover and actually pretty cute. I thought it’d be the size of a normal book, but turns out it’s tiny. The text is so small I can barely read it—my eyes hurt just trying ( •̀ ᴖ •́ )

And yeah, now that I think about it... there’s no way a hardcover book would cost just $13.56, right? (ᵕ—ᴗ—) Anyway, have you heard Conan Gray’s new song, Vodka Cranberry? I’m so obsessed with it, it’s definitely gonna be my new crash-out song (•̀ᴗ•́ )و

Oh, and about Tom’s father’s wife—when I was looking up Tom’s lore online, I came across something interesting. Apparently, the girl he used to go horseback riding with was named Cecilia. I was like, 'damn, what a coincidence' (≖⩊≖)

since my character has the same name, then I thought, why not include that in the fanfic? And well... that’s how this chapter came to be ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

The train slowed with a long, hissing breath, iron grinding against iron as it rolled into a lonely rural station, barely more than a platform and a rotting bench under an iron awning. No name was posted. No one waited.

Cecilia stepped off behind Tom, the air immediately colder than before. A raw kind of quiet hung over everything, no birdsong, no wind. Just the groan of the train pulling away, leaving them behind.

“Where are we?” she asked, glancing around. There was nothing but fog-covered fields, distant hills, and a single narrow road winding away from the station.

Tom looked down the path. “Half a day’s walk from Little Hangleton.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she said nothing and just followed him. She wasn’t sure why she’d agreed, why her feet kept moving, but there was something in the air here. Heavy like something sinister brewed. 

Cecilia looked at his back, tall and composed, cloak brushing against the dead grass with each step. Her hand gripped the strap of her satchel tighter. The manor loomed closer with every crunch of their footsteps on gravel.

She couldn’t stop thinking, Something bad is gonna happen here.

She could see more clearly now, the manor, stately and weathered, its windows like watching eyes. The path beneath her feet crunched with gravel, but all sound fell away as her eyes caught movement in the yard.

A man stood by the hedges, tall and broad-shouldered, laughter caught faintly in the air. He was handsome, unmistakably so. Too familiar, and beside him, a woman. Refined, composed, older. She turned, sunlight catching her cheek.

The man called out, his voice distant but clear as a bell:

“Cecilia!”

Cecilia's breath hitched. Her blood ran cold.

No.

The woman smiled. Turned toward the call. And in that moment, the world tilted off its axis.

Tom Riddle Senior.

And his wife, Cecilia Riddle.

Her own name, spoken like it belonged to someone else. To her , but not her. A ghost of her in another timeline. Another life. One where her name was already written here, sewn into this place like thread into bone.

Cecilia Lovegood.
Cecilia Riddle.

She turned to look at Tom.

Tom’s expression didn’t change. He looked at the scene with clinical calm, hands in his coat pockets. But when he finally spoke, his voice was laced with something deeper than disgust.

“My father,” he said. “My grandfather. My grandmother. All under this roof.”

She turned to him, breath caught in her throat. “Why did you bring me here?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he slid one hand into the pocket of his cloak, slowly, deliberately. Cecilia watched the motion with rising unease.

The sky above them darkened, clouds rolling fast and heavy. The wind began to howl around them, sharp and cold, tossing dead leaves into the air like ashes.

 A storm was coming.

“Tom?” she called again, her voice was smaller this time, barely rising above the wind.

Still no answer.

His fingers closed around something. Then, in a single fluid motion, he pulled out his wand. The slender, ivory wood gleamed briefly in the low light. His face held no emotion. No hesitation.

“‘Wait! Don’t-!!”

Too late, With a flick of his wrist, he raised the wand and spoke, not English, not Parseltongue. Something older. The Latin rolled off his tongue like a sentence long practiced, final and sealed by will alone.

The moment the words left his lips, the world seemed to shudder. A burst of air cracked outward. Cecilia gasped as the pressure shifted. 

In the yard, the man who’d called her name staggered. So did the woman beside him. The figure in the window dropped out of sight.

Dead

They all dropped like puppets whose strings had been cut.

The rain came, hard and cold, like the sky had broken open above them. It soaked through her cardigan, flattened her braid, but Cecilia didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Her hand was over her mouth, fingers trembling against her skin. Her grey coloured eyes fixed on the lifeless shapes in the yard, already darkening with wet.

Tom Riddle had murdered his father. His grandparents. And he had brought her to see it. Not as a warning.

But once again as a witness.

The wind tore at the trees, hissed through the long grass, but Tom stood still, rain sliding down his face. Slowly, he turned to her.

“Now,” he said, voice low, unshaken. “You understand.”

Cecilia flinched as Tom stepped closer, his wand now tucked away, his presence more terrifying in its calm than in fury.

“I didn’t bring you here to scare you, Cecilia,” he said, his voice cutting through the storm like a blade. “I brought you here so you could see what it means to be free .”

“You killed them.”

“I removed my weakness,” he said simply. “The past. The blood that tried to bind me.” His eyes found hers, dark and unreadable. “You of all people should understand that.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head as if that might unsee what had just happened. The lightning cracked overhead, jagged, white, furious, illuminating the corpses in stark flashes between shadows. The rain poured harder, soaking her through, but it didn’t matter.

It was all wrong. Her voice broke out of her, hoarse and shaking. “No—You can’t—”

But Tom didn’t let her finish. He grabbed her wrist, his fingers like iron, and pulled. “Yes, I can,” he said coldly, voice like stone against the thunder. “Now let’s leave this filthy manor.”

He didn’t look back at the bodies, and didn't give her time to protest. He just walked, dragging her with him, as if the murder had been nothing more than the closing of a door.

Cecilia stumbled after him, breath caught somewhere between a sob and silence. Mud clung to her shoes. Her satchel thudded against her side. And still, he held her wrist tight, his cloak sweeping behind him, a shadow against the storm.

She realized, as they disappeared into the dark, this wasn’t a warning. It was an invitation or perhaps, a claim. 

As they reached the station, wind howled, rain lashing at their faces. Cecilia’s shoes slipped once on the wet cobblestones before she caught herself. Her wrist still ached where Tom had gripped it too tightly. Her heart hadn't slowed.

But it all came to a halt when they rounded the corner and saw the empty platform. The train was gone.

No flicker of lanterns. No hum of magic in the air. Just silence. Cold, wet, hollow.

A curl of steam still lingered in the air, ghostlike, vanishing fast. The only signs of life were the puddles in the cracks of the stone and the distant caw of a crow perched on the signal post.

Cecilia stopped walking, breath catching in her chest. “The last train,” she whispered. “It’s already left…”

Tom didn’t speak and he just turned toward her slowly, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his expression unreadable beneath the curtain of rain.

They were stranded, exactly how he wanted it

Chapter 16: Little Hangleton part II

The rain showed no signs of stopping.

Cecilia wrapped her arms tightly around herself as the wind cut through her soaked cardigan. Her braid clung to the side of her neck, the ribbon long lost somewhere along the walk. She looked around, stone cottages, shuttered shops, flickering lanterns in the distance.

Tom stood beside her, calm as ever, as though the storm didn’t touch him.

“There,” he said quietly, gesturing down a narrow lane. A crooked sign swung above a low-roofed building: The Hollow Lamb Inn .

Cecilia looked at the inn, the smoke curled from its chimney, and a dim orange glow pressed against the wet windows. Whether she likes it or not, they should find a place to rest, there’s no way they sleep outside, it was too dangerous, too stupid. 

With a sigh, she began following him.

The door creaked as they stepped inside, the warmth hitting them all at once, firelight, stew, damp wool, and wood polish. A few locals looked up from their pints, eyes lingering a second too long on the strangers before turning away again. The innkeeper, a stout woman with greying hair and sharp eyes, gave them a once-over.

Her gaze lingered a moment longer on Tom, his immaculate black cloak out of place in a village inn, his presence too quiet, too composed. But she said nothing. Just raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the registry.

“Are there any two rooms for one night?” Cecilia asked first.

The innkeeper gave her a sharp look—half curious, half assessing, as if weighing the request against the silence of the man beside her.

“Only got the one left,” she said, matter-of-fact, voice carrying the faint burr of the region. “Harvest weekend filled the rest. You’re lucky to even find it, truth be told.”

Cecilia felt Tom glance her way, though he said nothing.

“One room, then,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. Her fingers tightened slightly on the strap of her satchel. “Just for the night.”

The innkeeper gave a small, knowing hum and reached behind her, retrieving a tarnished brass key with a crooked number six etched into it.

“Top of the stairs, last on the right. The sheets are clean, fire’s warmth. Breakfast early, if you want it.”

Tom placed the coins on the counter with silent finality, and the sound of them clinking on the worn wood echoed too loudly in the quiet room.

As they turned to leave, the innkeeper’s voice followed them, not unkind, but laced with a weathered sort of warning.

“The storm's due to last till morning. Best you settle in.”

Cecilia gave her a faint nod without looking back, already climbing the stairs, each creaking step heavier than the last.

The corridor upstairs was narrow, the ceiling low, and the old wood groaned beneath their steps. Faint candle sconces lit the way with a golden flicker, throwing long shadows along the floral wallpaper faded by time and damp.

Cecilia stopped in front of the door marked ‘6’. Her fingers hovered over the key for a second too long before she finally slid it into the lock and turned it.

The room was small but warm. A single hearth glowed faintly on the far wall. One narrow window was lashed by rain. The bed, only one, sat against the wall, its quilt thick and heavy with hand-stitched patterns. A modest chair, a washbasin, and a small desk were the only other furnishings. The air smelled of old soap and lavender.

Cecilia stepped in and let her satchel drop with a soft thud to the floor. She didn’t speak. Just walked to the window and stared out at the drenched night, arms folded tight across her chest.

“You brought me there,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Not to show me what you’d done… but to see if I’d run.”

Behind her, Tom entered silently and closed the door with a soft click. He didn’t remove his cloak, only stood still by the door, watching her.

“I needed you to understand.”

She turned to face him, slowly. “And what exactly am I meant to understand?” she asked, her voice tight with the effort to keep it steady. “That you’re not just powerful, you’re untouchable? That you can kill without consequence?”

“That I am free,” he said. “And that you could be, too” his eyes darkened slightly, unreadable.

The fire cracked softly in the hearth.

Cecilia shook her head, the movement sharp. “That isn’t freedom. That’s emptiness.”

Tom tilted his head, almost studying her. “And yet here you are,” he said. “Still in this room. Still speaking to me. Still not running.”

He was right. She hated how right he was. Her breath caught for a second before she looked away.

“I can’t outrun you,” she said. “You know that.”

“No, you can't.” he murmured as he stepped inside. Then he shrugged off his cloak, hanging it neatly on a hook near the door. His shirt clung to his back in places, the low firelight catching the lines of muscle beneath damp fabric.

Then, he moved closer. Not threateningly. Almost… carefully. As if afraid she might vanish. The firelight caught in the angles of his face, sharp and beautiful and terrible all at once.

Cecilia stood still, arms still wrapped around herself, as he stepped into the same circle of warmth she occupied.

“You’re soaked,” he said, quieter now. “You’ll get ill.”

He reached toward her cardigan, an automatic gesture, almost unconscious. But then he stopped. His fingers hovered just above the wool, not quite touching.

“May I?”

She hesitated. Then, with a breath she wasn’t sure belonged to fear or surrender, she nodded.

The storm battered the inn with restless fists. Rain rattled the window panes like fingernails on glass, and thunder rolled low in the distance, but in this small circle of firelight, everything felt suspended. Fragile. Like breath on glass.

Tom’s fingers brushed the edge of her cardigan. Slowly, reverently, he slipped the garment from her shoulders. It clung for a moment, wet wool reluctant to let go before sliding down her arms with a soft, heavy sound.

He reached for her shoulders next, fingers brushing lightly against the soaked day dress. She stiffened, but didn’t stop him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, and for the first time, the words didn’t sound like a threat dressed in silk. 

Cecilia’s voice was quiet when she answered. “You already have.”

He paused, but didn’t deny it. Still, his fingers found the buttons of her day dress undoing them slowly, one at a time. She didn’t move, her eyes locked on his face the whole time, trying to read him. Trying to understand.

Rain tapped the window in a frantic rhythm. The hearth crackled low behind them, its warmth brushing only the edges of their cold-drenched bodies.

When the last button gave, he slid the dress off her shoulders, letting it fall with a wet thud to the floorboards. Cecilia stood before him in her damp underwear, clinging, near translucent, her braid still dripping down her spine, cheeks flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the fire.

Tom’s breath caught, barely audible. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her like this, he’d tended her wounds before, bathed in candlelight and silence, his hands steady even then. But this was different.

His eyes traced her, but not with lust alone, there was something more sacred in the way he looked at her. Like he was seeing a truth he hadn’t known he needed. A proof of something he could touch, could claim.

His hand rose, brushing the curve of her collarbone, fingers gliding across damp skin, slow and reverent. His hand moved to trace her braid, now loosened from the rain. Then slowly move to the nape of her neck, palm resting there with a quiet sort of possession.

Cecilia’s hand came up of its own accord, pressing flat against his chest, where she could feel his heart, not racing, but steady. Too steady. Like he had mastered even this.

His mouth was so close to hers now, she could taste the silence between them. He smelled of rain and smoke and something older, earthy, dark, elemental. A presence that didn’t belong in a room like this. A presence that might never leave.

“We shouldn’t do this,” she whispered, her voice trembling against his lips.

“I know,” he answered, but even though he said that, his hand slid to her waist, fingers spreading against the thin slip, and then lower, down the curve of her hip. He pulled her closer, just enough that her body brushed his. 

She gasped at the contact, heat and cold colliding at once. And when his mouth finally touched hers, it wasn’t gentle.

It was claiming.

Chapter 17: Am I Making You Feel Sick?

Notes:

Sorry if this chapter feels a bit weird — I suck at writing smut. It took me forever because I kept getting flustered the whole time (╥﹏╥)

Tom’s kiss deepened. It was hungry and rough now, as if this moment had always been waiting for them in the storm. He deepened the kiss, and she opened to him like a drawn breath, soft, unsure, but not resisting.

His other hand slid along her waist, to the small of her back, pressing her fully against him. She could feel how warm he’d become, how solid. Her knees weakened, and he guided her, wordlessly, until the back of her thighs met the edge of the bed.

Cecilia sat, breaking the kiss and Tom knelt before her. Then looked up, not asking this time, just watching her face. Her flushed cheeks, parted lips, the storm still trapped in her eyes.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I know,” she whispered.

He pressed a kiss to her knee, and she sucked in a breath sharp enough to cut her from the inside. Another kiss, higher now.

Cecilia’s hands curled into the edge of the mattress behind her, grounding herself. Her heart beat so hard it almost hurt. She looked down at him, kneeling, watching her as if he already owned every breath she dared take.

“We shouldn’t do this, we can’t d—”

“I know.” Tom said, but he didn’t stop, then he kissed her again, moving higher. His mouth traced a line up her thigh, reverent in its slowness. Cecilia's breath stuttered in her throat.

Tom pulled back, then he stood, slow and fluid. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked. The storm groaned outside the inn, wind howling against the shutters, it felt time had thickened. Slowed.

She looked at him, her heart pounding, she could see Tom's eyes, shadowed and unreadable, locked with hers. Waiting.

“No.” she whispered, giving him her answer.

Tom exhaled softly, something between satisfaction and restraint. He leaned over her, his hand coming to the back of her neck, guiding her mouth to his. The kiss was deep, heavier. Cecilia’s hand reached the back of his head, tangling her fingers into his hair as his tongue delved into her mouth. 

“Lie back,” he murmured against her lips.

She didn’t move at first. Her fingers gripped tighter in his hair, as if part of her was still trying to hold the world still, to measure this moment before it passed.

“Cecilia,” he said, lower now, barely a sound.

Slowly, Cecilia lied back, her long hair trailing off the bed, her breath ragged, her eyes never leaving his. The way she looked at him like something holy and haunted. 

Tom looked down at her, he stood a moment longer just to watch her. The way she looked, lying in the bed, slip clung to her like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the room.

Then he reached down again, fingers gliding over her knee, trailing upward with unhurried purpose. His palm skimmed the inside of her thigh, warm and shaking beneath his touch, until it found the edge of her panties, already damp with heat.

He paused there, and when his fingers brushed against the wet silk, he allowed himself a faint smile. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… knowing.

He drew the fabric down slowly, reverently, as if unwrapping something sacred. She shivered as the cool air kissed her, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of his hand as it returned, this time with intention.

His fingers parted her fold gently, seeking the place where her breath caught and her body arched. When he found it, the pad of his thumb brushed over the sensitive bundle of nerves, slow and precise. Cecilia gasped, her back arched, hips pressing upward toward him with a soft, helpless urgency.

He watched her, every twitch, every flutter of her lashes, every sound she tried and failed to contain. As if this moment wasn’t just pleasure, it was proof. That he could move her like this. Undo her. Claim her.

“You’re perfect like this,” Tom murmured, and he wasn’t sure if he meant it as praise or possession. His hand moved with the same careful attention he might give to a delicate spell he didn’t dare rush. Cecilia’s thighs trembled under his touch, breath trembling in her throat.

Tears running down her cheek, it came softly, without sobs. She didn’t know it came from pleasure or something else, knowing that it is just .. something physically, knowing that Tom wouldn’t understand intimacy or love. 

He can touch her. But he may never really know her.

Tom looked up at her from between her legs, noticing the tears in her eyes. “I didn’t hurt you.” he said, his fingers still pumping inside her. 

She looked down at him, eyes glossy, lips parted. “No, you didn’t hurt me but you already did without knowing it.” she whispered. And that was the truth. He hadn’t hurt her body, he wouldn’t, but there were other ways to break.

His expression didn’t change. Not much. But something in his eyes flickered, his lips parted, he wanted to speak again, but nothing came out from his mouth. Then he leaned forward, his mouth ghosting hers, his fingers still inside her, curling slowly as if reminding her something she couldn’t take back.

“Tom,” she whispered.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. His lips moved to her eyes, kissing it slowly, tasting her tears before he moved to her neck, biting it.  “It’s just you that feels everything so deeply.”  

His lips moved to kiss her again, this time was softer, gentle, and Cecilia let herself drift into the sensation as she came undone quietly. Her fingers grasping for him, her breath catching in his mouth as she gasped against his lips.

Tom didn’t speak. He just held her through it, one hand steady at her waist, the other resting over her chest as if he wanted to feel her heartbeat. Memorize it, or perhaps claim it.

Cecilia’s eyes fluttered shut, tears still slipping from the corners even as the tension inside her melted into quiet surrender. Tom kissed her again, and again, she let him. 

Her fingers drifted to his wrist, resting lightly, not to push him away, but to feel that he was still here. She was quiet for a moment, then she opened her mouth. “I’m tired,” she murmured, her voice barely a breath between them.

Tom stilled. Then, slowly, he nodded. He pulled the blankets over them, his movements careful, his gaze unreadable. He didn’t speak. Just lay beside her, one arm beneath her shoulders, holding her.

Cecilia turned toward him, resting her head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Too steady. Tom is just watching her as she falls asleep. 

He knew what he had done. Or… perhaps he didn't. He had only touched her body and told himself that was all it was, it was easier not to name the ache behind her eyes when she said he’d already hurt her.

His fingers brushed her hair back from her face, he wasn’t sure what gesture that would be. Is it Affection? Guilt? Comfort?

He hated that he didn’t know the meaning of all of this, all he did, or … he just refused to acknowledge what he did until it was far too late.

Chapter 18: A Little Death

Morning sunlight came through the inn window, dew drops clinging to the leaves like beads of glass. The scent of petrichor lingered in the air

Tom stood outside the inn, motionless beneath the crooked sign of The Hollow Lamb , his hands folded behind his back. His cloak had dried stiff at the edges, and the black of it looked stark against the golden morning. Villagers passed by looking directly at him, admiring his features. 

He didn’t mind, couldn’t care less of their gaze. Behind him, the inn’s heavy door creaked, and he turned before he could stop himself.

Cecilia stood on the threshold, the morning sun behind her, casting a faint halo through her hair. She had re-braided it neatly, and she wore the same cardigan, now dry. 

Their eyes met but none of them spoke, then Cecilia stepped down the inn’s stone steps and came to stand beside him. 

“Where are we going?” she asked quietly, her gaze didn’t look at him now, she just looked at the treeline in the distance. 

“Go back to Hogwarts.” said Tom as he began walking towards the station. 

Cecilia didn’t move, not yet. She remained still, watching his back as he kept walking, his black cloak shifting with the breeze, boots pressing damp footprints into the softened earth. 

Her gaze looked down at her own hands, it didn’t feel like hers, all her body didn’t feel like hers. She is not sure who she is now, is it still the same Cecilia?  

Did she … slowly become his?

She lifted her head and found him already looking at her, his hand clasped behind his back. The warm sunlight fell across his features, making him look almost ethereal. 

Tom didn’t say anything, but the way he tilted his head slightly, felt like a question in itself: What are you waiting for? Cecilia shook her head softly, then closed the distance between them until she stood at his side. 

Tom didn’t move. He only flicked his gaze toward her briefly, before he resumed his walking, she followed behind. The path was narrow and quiet, hedges brushing her sleeves as they walked. A bird sang high in the trees. 

Tom didn’t speak, neither did she, they just focused on their own footsteps and the only sound was the soft crunch of damp gravel beneath their shoes and the occasional brush of brambles against her skirt and their own footsteps. 

The path opened into a clearing, and there it was, the station. Small and weathered, more platform than structure, with ivy growing up its side and a rusted sign swaying gently above the schedule board.

The tracks stretched out through the countryside, vanishing into the curve of the hills. A bench sat under a tree, half in shadow. Tom walked toward it and stood still, hands behind his back again, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Cecilia sat on the bench, the wind tugging loose strands of hair from her braid. Her gaze drifted across the station, quiet, almost forgotten. Only a few figures lingered: an old witch hunched over a knitted shawl, a pair of elderly wizards speaking in low voices near the timetable.

Then her gaze caught on someone. A man, standing apart from the others near the far end of the platform.

He was tall, perhaps five-foot-ten, with a gaunt frame that made his posture seem both too rigid and about to collapse. His hair was short, straight, and black as coal, falling just over his brow in sharp lines. But it was his eyes that held her, the color of honey in direct sunlight, wide and just slightly manic, as though he was seeing something no one else could.

He wore a long black leather trench coat, its hem grazing the ground. There was something outdated about it, something theatrical, as if he’d stepped out of another time or off a stage and wandered here by accident.

Cecilia’s breath caught. She looked around, searching for someone else he might be watching. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was someone behind her. Or maybe… maybe he was looking at Tom.

But no one else on the platform seemed to notice him. And Tom, for all his awareness, hadn’t even glanced in the man’s direction.

She turned back, and that man was still staring at her, his expressions blank but slowly he smiled. It was the kind of smile that didn’t touch his eyes. It was mechanical, like he was imitating the idea of politeness rather than offering it. Then, deliberately, he raised one hand and gave a small wave.

Slowly, he held out a plain-wooden fabric, like a canvas. Cecilia narrowed her gaze and her breath caught in her throat. 

The ink lines are unmistakable. The swirling, intricate tentacle she had sketched weeks ago, commissioned by a rich old witch who collected strange, occult art. 

Cecilia stood abruptly, her gaze snapping to the man. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she didn’t look away. 

She stepped forward. “Where did you get that?” she asked, her voice sharp. The man didn’t answer or move, he just stared at her with that mechanical smile. 

She takes another step forward again, and again, comes closer to that man. Her mind flickered to the old rich witch, did she okay? as she remembered … that old witch lived alone, didn’t have a husband nor kids.

She swallowed hard. “What…” Her voice caught. “What did you do to Madam Ambrose?”

Still, the man said nothing, but that smile widened. “Come here, Cecilia , you crave for freedom, yes?” His voice was soft, smooth like silk.

He extended his other hand, palm open, fingers just slightly curled. “Don’t you want it?” he asked softly. “ Freedom. ”

“I know you dream about it, Cecilia. I’ve seen it. The ache of it. The way you stare at the world as if it’s a cage. Come with me. Join us. And it’s yours.” He said as he took a slow step forward. 

His presence felt too still for a man who was moving, like he wasn’t fully here , or perhaps too much here. 

Cecilia froze, her gaze dropped to his hand. 

Freedom? 

Of course she wanted it. Craved it in ways she rarely dared to admit. The weight of expectation, of silence, of being watched and never quite seen , she wanted to get rid of it all.

But ‘Join us’? Who is ‘us’ ?. And how did he know her name?, but even though she questioned that in her mind. His offer hung in the air, sweet and suffocating.

Too tempting to resist. 

Her fingers trembled as they lifted, hovering inches from his outstretched hand. Something deep inside her stirred, restless, slow, uncertain. It wasn’t trust, not exactly.

It was hunger. Hunger for freedom.

Her fingers closer to his now, the man's smile turned victorious now. And then, swiftly—his fingers closed around hers. Their hands locked. Not a gentle grasp, but something deliberate. Possessive.

CRACK

A spell cracked through the air. The man’s body hit the platform with a sickening thud, a searing red curse slamming into him, his head bounced against the platform boards.

Cecilia gasped, stumbling backward—she would have fallen if not for the firm, warm presence behind her.

She turned her head just to see that it was Tom.

His wand was still raised, his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist. His face was stoic, unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes burned with murderous intention. 

The man staggered to his feet, coughing—then chuckling, or something between the two. He brushed the dust from his coat with one hand, then ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back into place.

“Tom Riddle,” the man said softly, like a greeting. 

Tom didn’t respond. Didn’t blink, his wand didn’t waver, either. “Don’t touch what isn’t yours,” he said, voice low, precise.

The man’s grin. Amused. “You still think she’s yours?” he asked, voice silk-thin. 

“I don’t think,” he said, his voice soft, calm yet deadly, eyes locked on the man. “I know that she’s mine.” 

Tom took a step forward, slow and deliberate. His grip on Cecilia’s waist tightened just enough to remind her she wasn’t moving.

The man chuckled again, his laugh didn’t sound like it came from his lungs. It echoed wrong. “We’ll see about that.” he said as he took a step back, his eyes flicked to Cecilia. His grin widened but something hollow behind it.

And then he winked.

Cecilia flinched. It was the smallest motion. But Tom noticed. And the next second, the man vanished. Apparated in a low crack, the air closing around the space he had occupied like he’d been sucked into the wind.

Silence.

Tom’s wand lowered slowly, and then he turned her to face him. Not gently, his hands cupped her jaw, fingers splayed. His eyes searched hers like they were trying to find the part of her he’d almost lost.

“If you left, Cecilia, I wouldn’t follow. I will burn . I would pull the world down until there was nowhere left for you to run.”

Cecilia just stared at him, she didn’t move. She believes him, she believes that Tom would punish the world for letting her leave. 

Tom’s thumbs brushed her cheekbones, almost tender. “I would never stop you,” he said. “I’d just make sure the world suffered for taking you.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Tom leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing hers now. Cecilia closed her eyes, she wanted to take a step back, but she was afraid, afraid of what would happen if she did that. 

“You scare me,” she said. It left her in a breath. “You… scare me.”

Tom kisses her forehead, cold and final. Like a seal, Like a vow.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now. let’s go back to Hogwarts.”

Chapter 19: Under The Storms

Notes:

I’ve been thinking about commissioning a cover for this fanfic. There’s one artist whose work I absolutely fell in love with their style is so simple yet stunning, exactly how I imagined the cover in my head. But god… the price is way out of my range (╥﹏╥). Still, I can't stop admiring their artwork; it's honestly perfect ❤︎

Anyway, I found a few songs that perfectly capture Tom and Cecilia’s dynamic: Love and War by Fleurie, Over The Love by Florence + The Machine, Gods and Monsters by Lana Del Rey, Pretty When You Cry, and Sad Girl by Lana, again. Honestly, I already have a whole playlist for this fanfic, lol.

Tom sat across from Cecilia in the compartment, his gaze fixed on the window, waiting for the train to move. The sky darkened to a dull grey as rain began to pour. Droplets traced jagged paths down the glass, blurring the outline of the platform, of the people milling outside. 

The low hum of the train filled the stillness as it gave a shudder and began to move, slowly at first, then with growing urgency. Trees and station lights slipped past in smeared streaks of color.

Tom still didn’t say anything, his fingers curled loosely in his lap, jaw tight. Cecilia could see  the rain cast shifting shadows across his face, softening the sharp line of his cheekbone. Though nothing about him looked softened.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. She didn’t know what to say or what would happen if she said the wrong thing. Her gaze trailing down, settling on his hands, the same hands that had touched her body.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the muffled voice of the Honeydukes trolley witch echoing down the corridor. Her eyes flicked to the compartment door, her expression unreadable.

“Do you want it?” 

Cecilia turned to him, a flicker of surprise crossing her face as Tom said that. He hadn’t looked at her, his gaze still lingered on the window, rain streaking the glass like veins. 

“I—No,’ she said, her voice soft. “I'm fine.”

Tom didn’t react, even nodding. The trolley rolled past. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, as if even the rain was holding its breath.

Cecilia looked down. Her hands were cold, folded tightly in her lap. “I want to take a walk,” she said softly, almost a whisper. “I need… fresh air.”

She wasn’t sure if Tom heard her or if he would stop her. But right now, she needs to be somewhere else. Somewhere he wasn’t. Just for a moment.

She stood, reached for the compartment door, and stepped out without waiting for his response. She didn’t look back. 

Tom remained still, eyes fixed on the rain-slicked glass. He didn’t glance toward the door, didn’t move a muscle, but he listened to the sound of her footsteps growing fainted, muffled by the sound of the rain and the rumble of the train.

His mind drifted to the last night memory, how her body trembled under his touch, and he heard the catch in her breath when he touched the hollow of her throat. He could still smell lavender and wool and rain. Still feel the ghost of her fingers tangled in his hair. Still hear her whisper his name. 

Tom leaned slightly back against the seat, his gaze looked at her seat. He imagined her standing alone in the narrow corridor, breathing hard, pressing her palm to the glass and watching the world fly past.

She said she needed fresh air? Fine. Let her have it. Let her feel the distance, let her think. Because in the end, she always came back to him. She didn’t know it yet, but he did.  

But still, a thought pricked at him, unwelcome as a splinter:

What if she doesn’t come back?

Cecilia stood in the caboose, the wind tearing through her hair, rain stinging her skin and soaking her clothes. But she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. She just needed to breathe, just needed air.

“What are you doing out there, Cecilia?”

She didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. She knew that voice, cold, steady, and far too familiar. It was Tom.

“I need air,” she said quietly, she could hear the sound of the faint scuff of his shoes come closer, until it stopped behind her. 

Tom said nothing. He stood in silence, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the way her hair spilled loose in the wind, untied. Rain struck his face and soaked through his clothes, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched her.

“You ran.”

Cecilia gripped the railing tighter. Rain slid down her brow, into her eyes. “Did I? Is that what you think?” 

“No,” Tom said quietly. “But I knew… one day, you would.”

She turned slowly, finally meeting his gaze through the storm. His hair was drenched, rain clinging to his lashes “I was never yours, Tom,” she said, voice low. “I don’t owe you my place at your side.”

The words hung between them, cold as the rain. Then he stepped forward. “No,” he said. “You were never mine. But you never chose anyone else, either.”

Cecilia’s breath caught. Her hands curled into fists. She hated it, hated the truth in his words. She had never chosen anyone else.

Rain poured down between them, slipping from their lashes, their jaws, their silence. Beneath their feet, the train hummed onward, as if carrying them toward something neither of them could name.

“It’s because you never gave me a choice,” she said, voice low. “We knew that, both of us.”

“You always had a choice,” he said, voice low, almost calm. “You just never took it,” His eyes met hers then, dark and intent. “You stayed, and you’ll stay again.”

Cecilia turned her face toward the storm, let it sting her skin, her throat tight. Her hands gripped the railing, knuckles white.

Tom took a step closer, his chest pressed against Cecilia’s back. “No matter how far you run, Cecilia…” His voice was a murmur at her ear, low and steady. “It’s me you turn back to. Every time. ”

She looked down, blinking away rain or tears. But she didn’t pull away. “That’s not love,” she said, her voice shaking.

“No,” he agreed. “I don’t need you to love me.” His hand rested on her waist, a reminder. “You don’t have to, you just have to belong to me.”

Cecilia laughs, it sounds bitter. “But someday, when I leave … You're gonna ask me to love you.”

Tom’s grip on her waist tightened, a flicker of something sharp crossing his face. “You won’t leave. Not because I stop you, but because you won’t want to.”

“I don’t want to leave,” she said, a confession. “But I don’t know who I am when I stay.”

“Then let me tell you who you are.”

Cecilia turned to him, their nose almost touching, her eyes wide with something like sorrow. “And who am I? Who am I to you? To myself?”

Tom’s eyes searched hers, unwavering, rain dripping from his lashes. “You’re the reason I don’t need anyone else,” he said, low and deliberate. “To me, that’s enough.”

She blinked, water—from rain or tears—clinging to her lashes. “But is that who I am?” she asked. “A reason for your loneliness to make sense?”

Tom didn’t answer, but he didn’t deny it. He only looked at her the way he always did, like she was his answer, and his undoing.

“You let me think I could leave,” Cecilia said, voice trembling, “but you never really let me go.”

“You never asked to be let go.”

“You made sure I didn’t know how.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The world moved around them, train tracks rumbling beneath their feet, storms wrapping them in gray and sound and still, they stood like that: two people tethered by something too deep for language and too twisted to name.

Chapter 20: Back To Hogwarts

Notes:

You know what? I actually love Silvanus too. That menace is annoying, but I don’t know, he’s just... perfect for Mulciber and Cecilia. I was thinking of making them a trio, but I still need to tie it into the main story or plot somehow

The train had stopped at Hogsmeade Station. Rain still poured, drenching the trees, their leaves turned to shades of orange and brown. Cecilia and Tom walked side by side beneath the overhang of the station.

Tom’s gaze remained fixed ahead, unreadable. Beside him, Cecilia looked down, her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her satchel like it was the only thing anchoring her to herself.

Their footsteps echoed on the wet stone, out of rhythm. Not speaking, not touching, but still moving together. Cecilia broke the silence first, her voice was quiet. “Will you pretend nothing happened?”

Tom didn’t stop walking. “Nothing has to be pretended,” he said. “It simply is.”

She stopped walking, a flicker of anger and hurt crossed her expressions. “You murdered your family.”

He halted a few steps ahead, his back still to her. He didn’t turn. “And you watched,” he said. “You stayed.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” she said, barely louder than the rain. “I was scared—”

“You weren’t,” Tom said, finally turning to face her. His expression was unreadable. “You were many things, Cecilia. But not scared. Not then.”

The words hung between them, heavy and unforgiving. Cecilia didn’t answer, it was the truth. She had stood there, frozen, breathless. Not out of fear. But because she wanted to see what he was capable of.

“And now you hate me for showing you,” he added, voice lower, just for her.

“I don’t hate you,” she said, her voice shaking. “I hate what you make me feel.”

Tom’s gaze didn’t waver. The rain ran in slow rivulets down his face, but he didn’t blink. “You think that feeling is weakness,” he said at last, voice quiet but cutting.

Cecilia looked away, jaw clenched. “I think it’s dangerous.”

He stepped closer, just enough that she could feel the heat of him beneath the cold. “It is,” he murmured. “But not for you.”

“Then for who?”

He smiled, just barely. “For anyone who tries to take you away from me.”

The walk back to Hogwarts was silent. Rain poured harder, cold seeping through their clothes and into their bones. The castle loomed ahead in the distance, just visible through the mist, sharp-edged and waiting.

Cecilia tightened her grip on the strap of her satchel, her fingers numb. Each step felt heavier, like the rain itself was pressing her down. Beside her, Tom walked in silence, his expression unreadable, as if the storm had settled inside him too.

She knew that after this, she would be pulled into Tom’s madness, drawn into whatever darkness he was chasing. And she was certain of one thing: she no longer had the option to say no.

They reached the castle gates. Abraxas Malfoy and Androalphus Lestrange were already waiting, standing beneath a sleek black umbrella, their expressions unreadable in the rain.

Abraxas inclined his head slightly, the gesture more formality than warmth. “You’re late,” he said, eyes flicking from Tom to Cecilia. “We were beginning to wonder.”

Androalphus said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Cecilia, sharp, assessing, like he was trying to decide what exactly had changed.

Tom didn’t answer. He stepped forward, the rain sliding from his cloak. “Everything is in place?” he asked.

Abraxas gave a single nod. “The east wing. No one will notice.”

Cecilia kept walking, stepping past them. She still didn’t want to acknowledge that she was already part of something she couldn’t name.  

Tom watched Cecilia walk past without looking back. Her footsteps were steady, but he could see the tremor in them. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“None of your business.” she said without stopping walking. 

He smiled, but it wasn’t kind, his voice calm, too calm. “Everything you do is my business.”

Cecilia paused at the base of the stone steps, the rain running down her face like tears she refused to shed. She turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder.

“Not anymore,” she said, quiet but firm.

“You think walking away makes you free?” he called after her, his voice quiet, but it carried. “It doesn’t. It only makes you mine in absence.”

She stopped just inside the stone archway, the shadow of the castle falling over her. “I was never yours,” she said, not turning. “You just told yourself I was.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, a flicker of rage flashing behind his eyes. But he didn’t speak again. Behind him, Abraxas allowed himself a faint smirk, the kind that curled like amusement. He always admired Cecilia’s bravado, even if he thought it would get her killed.

Androalphus, on the other hand, remained silent. His sharp gaze flicked between the two, not with judgment, but calculation. Watching. Weighing. Storing this moment like a blade he might use later.

Abraxas let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his umbrella slightly. “She’s not wrong,” he murmured. 

Tom turned to Abraxas, his eyes narrowed. “You think this is funny?”

Abraxas met his gaze, unflinching. “No,” he said smoothly. “But it is … interesting.” 

A beat passed.

Then Abraxas added again. “You always underestimate what people do when they’re not afraid of you.”

Tom’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t respond at once. His gaze lingered on Abraxas a moment too long. “Careful, Abraxas,” he said, his voice ice-cold. There was no bite, no snarl, just a warning, razor-sharp in its restraint. He wasn’t in the mood for games. Not tonight.

Abraxas didn’t flinch. He met Tom’s gaze, the faintest smile curling his lips that never touched his eyes. The umbrella tilted slightly as he shifted.

“I’m always careful,” he said, voice smooth as silk. Then, after a beat, added, “You taught me that.”

The rain hissed between them, steady and cold. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Androalphus shifted beside them. He didn’t intervene. Just watched, eyes narrowed, thoughtful, weighing the balance between power and pride. Calculating who might bleed first.

Tom’s jaw ticked, the faintest twitch betraying his restraint. He took a slow step forward. “Then remember what else I taught you, Abraxas.” he said, his voice low, controlled, but glinting with something dangerous underneath. 

Abraxas’s smile faded. “I remember everything,” he said, his tone more careful this time. “That’s why I don’t speak without meaning to.”

Tom’s gaze lingered another moment, unreadable, then turned away without another word. The dismissal was deliberate.

Cecilia walked down the corridor, rain-soaked and shivering, the cold biting into her bones, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to reach the Ravenclaw Tower, take a hot shower, and disappear into sleep.

Head bowed, Cecilia walked in silence, water dripping from her clothes, the chill seeping deep into her bones. The torches guttered in the breeze, casting wavering shadows along the stone walls. She didn’t notice the figure ahead-didn’t realize, until it was too late, that she was about to walk straight into Ignatius Mulciber.

She stumbled back a step, looked up to see Ignatius Mulciber standing there, half-shadowed beneath a flickering torch.

He looked at her from behind his glasses, gaze sweeping from head to toe. Rain dripped from her cloak, her hair clung to her cheeks, and her eyes—avoiding his—were red-rimmed, not just from the cold. Did she cry? 

“…What happened?” he asked, his voice quiet. 

Cecilia’s grip tightened on the strap of her satchel. “Nothing happened,” she said quickly. 

Ignatius didn’t move, he adjusted his glasses, still looked at her. He knew that she lied. Something must have happened when they … left for almost two days. 

“You look like hell,” he said, not unkindly. Just stating the obvious. “Did Riddle do something?”

At that, she finally looked up at him, her eyes glinting with something like alarm, or maybe defense.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t ask about him.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled a deep breath through his nose, clearly biting back whatever he was about to say. 

“Alright,” he murmured. “Then I’ll just ask if you’re alright.”

“I’m alright.”

“No, you’re not,” Ignatius said quietly, his eyes steady behind the lenses. “But I’ll pretend with you, if that’s what you need.” 

Cecilia looked down, she didn’t answer right away. The rain still clung to her skin, chilling her to the bone,  her body trembling in small shivers.

Ignatius just watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable behind the lenses of his glasses. Then, without a word, he took a step closer. Slowly, deliberately, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

She startled, just slightly, then stilled. “Wh–”

Ignatius cut her before she could finish. “It’s not about him,” he said quietly. “It’s about you. You look like you’re freezing.”

Cecilia just looked at him, the weight of the coat settled on her like something she hadn’t realized she needed. “Thank you.” she said.

Ignatius didn’t answer right away. He simply stepped back, his expression unreadable, and turned on his heel.

“I’ll walk with you,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Come on.”

Without waiting for her reply, he started toward the direction of the Ravenclaw Tower, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone. Behind him, Cecilia stood for a heartbeat longer. Then, quietly, she followed.

They walked in silence, the corridor swallowing their footsteps, and the torchlight flickering against the stone like a heartbeat.

Chapter 21: Petit à petit, l'oiseau fait son nid

Their footsteps echoed along the old stone walls of Hogwarts, quiet and steady. The rain had begun to ease, and a faint wash of afternoon light slipped through the thinning grey clouds above.

Cecilia walked a few steps behind Ignatius, her fingers clutching the coat wrapped tightly around her. She kept her gaze downcast, focusing only on the quiet rhythm of their footsteps echoing side by side.

The corridor stretched ahead, dim and familiar, the ancient stone walls damp from the rain. The torchlight flickered gently as they passed, casting long, swaying shadows.

Neither of them spoke.

She didn’t know what she would’ve said even if she tried. Her mind still buzzed with everything she hadn’t let herself feel. The rain. The cold. Tom’s voice still echoing in her bones.

Noticing that Cecilia had fallen behind, Ignatius slowed his pace—just enough for them to walk in step again. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Her shoulders were tight with tension, and her gaze was distant, unfocused.

She looked… haunted. Not tired, not cold. Traumatized.

After a moment, he spoke, quiet enough that it didn’t feel like a demand.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said. “Not now.”

Cecilia’s grip tightened on the coat. Her throat felt tight again, too tight to speak. She gave him a small nod, eyes still cast downward.

Ignatius said nothing more. He simply walked beside her, their footsteps echoing in quiet rhythm down the long corridor. He glanced at her again, just briefly enough to see the cracks she tried to hide. 

He didn’t know why he felt this... softness, if it could be called that. But he knew one thing: being near her would mean trouble. The other Knights would question it, pick it apart, and wonder what he was playing at. Still, he stayed.

They finally reached the split in the corridor, the one that led left toward the Ravenclaw tower and right toward the main staircase. Ignatius stopped and turned to her, finally meeting her gaze.

“You’ll be alright?”

Cecilia nodded and gave him a faint smile, reassuring that she’s gonna be alright.  “I’ll try.”

He studied her face for a beat longer, then stepped back, reluctantly letting her go.

“Alright,” he said. “Get some rest, Cecilia.”  

He turned on his heel, footsteps steady as he walked away, until her voice stopped him.

“Wait, Mulciber—your coat.”

He didn’t turn around. “Keep it,” he said, kept walking, his silhouette fading down the corridor. 

Cecilia stayed there for a moment longer, alone beneath the torchlight. Then she turned toward the Ravenclaw tower, the coat still wrapped around her like something borrowed, or maybe something that made her feel less alone.

Ignatius rounded the corner of the corridor and didn’t slow when he saw Silvanus leaning against the wall, half shrouded in shadow beneath the flickering torchlight.

Silvanus pushed off the wall, his gaze sharp, catching the absence of Ignatius’ coat. “Didn’t know we were lending clothes now,” he remarked dryly, falling into step beside him.

He didn’t respond at first, his face unreadable.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental,” Silvanus added, his voice quieter, more pointed now. “You know who she’s with. Who she’ll always choose.”

“I know,” Ignatius muttered. “Doesn’t mean I have to leave her trembling.”

Silvanus glanced sideways, their footsteps syncing in the quiet hall. “You like her, don’t you?”

The words made Ignatius falter, just slightly. He adjusted his glasses, masking the slip, then shot Silvanus a cutting look. “Don’t say stupid things,” he muttered, voice low and clipped.

Silvanus only smiled to himself, unbothered. “I’m not the one acting stupid.”

Ignatius exhaled through his nose, irritated but unwilling to give Silvanus the satisfaction of a retort. “Careful what you say,” he muttered. “You forget who we’re all tangled with.”

Silvanus’s smile sharpened. “I don’t forget. But you? You’re forgetting yourself.”

Ignatius stopped abruptly, turning to face him, jaw tight. His voice was low, cold. “Say one more word, Rosier, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Silvanus raised his brows, chuckling under his breath. He stopped as well, lifting his hands in mock surrender.

“Easy now, no need for violence, Ignatius—I’m only joking,” he said with a smirk. “But if it’s true... your secret’s safe with me.”

Ignatius didn’t answer. He stared at Silvanus a beat longer, eyes dark behind the lenses, before turning sharply and walking away.

Silvanus watched him go, the smirk never leaving his lips. “Wait for me! Don’t tell me you’re sulking,” he called after him, his chuckle echoing down the corridor as he followed, footsteps light and mocking.

Ignatius didn’t slow his pace, his shoulders squared and tense, the sharp click of his shoes against stone answering Silvanus’ teasing laughter.

Silvanus caught up anyway, falling into step beside him with a grin. “You’re really touchy about this, aren’t you?”

“Drop it, Silvanus.”

Silvanus hummed thoughtfully, hands tucked in his pockets. “Alright. For now.” His grin sharpened again. “But I wonder how long you’ll keep pretending it’s nothing.”

Ignatius said nothing, his silence colder than any retort. Silvanus just smiled wider, pleased because silence, to him, was always a kind of confession.

More footsteps echoed down the corridor, at least two sets.

One belonged to a boy with neatly parted dark-blonde hair and pale green eyes behind his glasses: Harkness Avery. Broad-shouldered but not overly tall, he stood at about 5’9”.

Beside him walked another, carrying an eerie, effortless grace. Antonio Dolohov — 5’10”, with messy brown hair, pale skin, and a lean, wiry build that suggested strength without bulk. His light brown eyes, almost the color of honey, watched everything with quiet calculation.

Avery’s gaze flicked between Silvanus and Ignatius’s retreating back, his expression unreadable. “Fancy seeing both of you here.” he said flatly.

Dolohov stayed silent, but his eyes lingered on Silvanus, studying him. Then, with a tilt of his head, he asked softly, “And what did you say to stir him up this time, Rosier?”

Silvanus smirked, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Merely pointed out the obvious. Ignatius’s sentimentalist in disguise.”

Ignatius stayed silent, his sharp gaze fixed on Silvanus a moment longer. Then he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, weary.

“Let’s go. Riddle’s waiting,” he muttered, already turning away.

Harkness fell into step beside him without a word, the sound of their footsteps steady against the stone. And Antoni lingered a moment, his gaze still on Silvanus, eyes narrowed with vague amusement. Then he turned to follow, his voice low.

“You’ll push him too far one day, Rosier,” Antonio said over his shoulder. “And I’d quite like to see it.”

Silvanus chuckled quietly, unfazed. “You’ll have to get in line.”

Then he followed after them, the corridor swallowing the sound of their steps as they headed for the place Tom was waiting.

Tom tapped his fingers against the table, his expression calm, dressed now in dry, immaculate clothes. Abraxas sat to his left, chin resting on his hand, the picture of boredom. Beside him, Androalphus sat quietly, methodically polishing his wand, his movements precise and unhurried.

The door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps echoed into the room. Ignatius entered first, his face unreadable, followed by Silvanus, Avery, and Dolohov, who all fell into a loose formation around the table.

Tom’s tapping stopped. He looked up, his gaze sharp and expectant. “You’re late.”

Silvanus shrugged off the accusation without apology. “You didn’t say it was urgent.”

Tom’s eyes flicked over each of them, weighing, measuring. “It is now.”

Antonin leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, somewhere between boredom and feigned sleep. Silvanus lounged lazily, a persistent smirk tugging at his lips. Ignatius remained standing, posture stiff, adjusting his glasses with a sharp, practiced motion.

Androalphus tucked his already polished wand into his pocket, then his gaze drifted to Tom. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

Tom stopped tapping his fingers. His gaze cut through the air, landing on each of them with cold precision. “Something happened on my return,” Tom said, his voice smooth, almost casual, but they all knew to listen when he used that tone.

The air shifted. Without needing to be told, they straightened, the weight of his words settling over them like a storm about to break.

“I encountered a man at the station.” He said, eyes glinting. “Or rather, he intercepted me.”

“Who?” Abraxas asked.

“A disciple of Gellert Grindelwald. An envoy.”

A beat of silence followed, the weight of the name sinking in. Abraxas’s posture sharpened, his boredom forgotten. “What did he want?”

Tom’s gaze darkened, a flicker of intrigue and calculation passing behind his eyes. “To offer me something,” he said. “Or perhaps to test me. Either way… he knew who I was.”

They all exchanged glances, the air tightening. The words sinking in in their mind, all of them share the same thought ‘ They were being watched now.’

Chapter 22: It’s always her

The room sank into silence, the weight of realization settling over them like a heavy cloak. Outside, the rain began to pour again, steady and unrelenting. The chill of autumn crept through the stone walls, making the air feel colder, like something had shifted, and there was no turning back.

Tom tapped his fingers against the table again, his gaze sweeping over each of the Knights. His face remained calm, betraying nothing of his thoughts. He hadn’t told them the full truth, that it was Cecilia the follower wanted, not him.

“Did he say what he wanted?” Abraxas asked, his voice quieter now, the usual arrogance edged with caution.

Tom’s gaze landed on him. He was silent for a moment, weighing his answer, before deciding to keep the truth to himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured.

“Nothing. He didn’t say anything.”

Abraxas frowned, unconvinced, but said nothing. The others exchanged brief glances, the air growing heavier with suspicion, though none dared to press Tom further — none but one.

Silvanus tilted his head, watching Tom with narrowed eyes. “You’re certain he said nothing?” he asked, voice light but pointed. “That’s not their way. Grindelwald’s lot isn't exactly known for subtlety.”

Tom’s eyes flicked to Silvanus, cold and unblinking. “And yet this one was,” he said evenly. “He watched. He smiled. And then he left.”

Silvanus hummed low in his throat, unconvinced but too shrewd to press harder, not yet. Instead, he smiled faintly, as if amused by a private joke. 

“Strange. Perhaps he was just admiring you, Tom.”

The other Knights shot Silvanus warning glances, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He smiled faintly and spoke again, voice light but needling.

“Or perhaps he was admiring Lovegood. She was with you, wasn’t she?”

Tom’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of warning flashing cold behind his eyes, it was close to the truth that he was kept. But his voice, when he spoke, was flat and dismissive. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Silvanus only smiled wider, sensing the shift. “Does she?” he mused. “Funny, though. She’s always nearby when things happen. Maybe she’s the common thread.”

Ignatius, seated beside him, exhaled sharply and removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s enough, Silvanus.”

Silvanus turned his head slowly, eyes glinting with amusement. “Of course you’d say that. You’re—”

Before Ignatius could respond, Tom’s voice cut through the air, low and final. “Enough.”

Silvanus went quiet, but the smirk lingered at the corner of his mouth, as if he'd still won something unspoken. The room held its breath for a beat, tension threading between them like wire.

Tom didn’t look at either of them. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his voice even. “The next person who wastes my time will regret it.”

That silenced the room entirely. Even Silvanus’s grin faded, his posture straightening just slightly. Tom let the threat hang there, cold and absolute, before he finally stood, his chair scraping softly against the stone.

“Whatever Grindelwald’s followers want, they’ll come again,” he said. “And next time, we’ll be ready.”

Or rather, he would be ready, because the truth was, it wasn’t him they wanted. It was Cecilia. And he’d be damned if he let anyone take her from him.

Tom stood then, the chair scraping softly against the stone floor. The other Knights watched him in silence, the tension in the room tight as wire. His gaze swept over them, cold and resolute. But what none of them knew was that the threat wasn’t about himself.

It was about Cecilia.

“This changes nothing,” he said quietly, but there was an edge beneath his words, a promise of violence. “We continue as planned. But if any of Grindelwald’s disciples dare step foot near us again, I’ll make an example of them.”

Without waiting for a response, Tom turned and strode toward the door. Behind him, the Knights sat in loaded silence. Ignatius's gaze drifted to the door. His fingers curled slightly, as though remembering the weight of his coat still resting on Cecilia’s shoulders.

His mind keeps replaying the image of her, soaked and trembling, eyes too wide and voice too steady. His heart felt something … something he shouldn’t feel. Something that, if he let it grow, would ruin him.

He hadn’t planned to feel anything. Had spent years building walls against exactly this. But something about her had slipped past every defense.

Ignatius drew a slow breath, steadying himself. He could still bury it. Still pretend it hadn’t happened. But he knew the truth: 

The more he tried to forget her, the more she lived behind his eyes.

Tom walked the corridor, his footsteps muffled by the rain. Moonlight streamed faintly through the curtain of rain and cloud, silver and distant. The wind bit through his robes, but his hands remained clasped behind his back, his face composed even if his mind was not.

He paused in the corridor that offered a distant view of Ravenclaw Tower. His gaze fixed on a particular set of windows, blurred behind the curtain of rain, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

He didn’t know why that man — one of Grindelwald’s followers — wanted Cecilia. She was just an ordinary girl, without power or influence. The only things she had were her talent for painting … and a quiet, ghostlike presence that made it easy to forget she was there until she already was.

Tom had noticed it early on. He’d seen how she could vanish into a crowd without a sound, how her eyes took in more than she ever let on. She was ordinary, yes—but only on the surface, and Grindelwald’s follower must have seen it too.

They knew and Tom knew that the quietest thing could be the most dangerous.

He turned from the window, resumed his walking. His jaw clenched. If Grindelwald's people thought they could take her —

They were mistaken.

Cecilia had belonged to him from the moment she saw him kill Myrtle and chose silence. That made her his, and the longer she stayed near him, the more he felt. And the feeling was dangerous, he couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t allow weakness. So he tried to break her, dragged her to witness the worst of him, forced surrender. 

But she never yielded. Not completely. Even after he touched her, after she trembled beneath him, whispered his name like it meant something. She left. As if none of it bound her. As if she could keep some part of herself from him untouched, unreachable.

And to someone like Tom—who breaks things to understand them—Cecilia’s refusal to be broken is maddening. 

She’s his obsession because he can’t consume her soul, and he must . Some twisted part of his mind—his mind always twisted—believed that it meant Cecilia was made for him. 

Cecilia stood by the window in her dorm, staring out into the rain. She caught sight of a shadow moving below — a figure she had come to recognize too well.

Tom Riddle.

“What do you want from me, Tom?” she whispered to the glass, as the darkness slowly swallowed his silhouette.

She wasn’t sure if she feared the answer or already knew it. Tom never asked for things. He took them. Slowly, deliberately, like a hand closing around a flame, not caring if it burned.

And somehow, despite everything, part of her stayed still when he looked at her.

Outside, his figure disappeared completely, consumed by the storm. But the chill he left behind lingered, curling in the corners of her room, and in the pit of her stomach.

Behind her, Eleanor sat on the edge of her bed, green eyes fixed on Cecilia with quiet scrutiny. She knew something was wrong, and had known for some time.

It felt like Cecilia’s spark was slipping through her fingers, slowly, silently, like sand she couldn’t hold on to.

Eleanor stayed quiet for a moment, then rose from the bed, her bare feet soft against the dormitory floor. “You haven’t been sleeping,” she said quietly. “You barely speak during meals. And when you do…” Her voice faltered. “You’re not really here, are you?”

Cecilia didn’t respond. She kept her eyes on the rain-slick glass, where Tom had vanished moments before.

Eleanor took a cautious step closer. “Who is it?” she asked, though she already knew. Her voice softened to a whisper. “Is it Tom Riddle?”

Cecilia’s fingers curled slightly against the windowpane, as if the cold might anchor her to the present. She didn’t nod. She didn’t speak. But the silence stretched long enough to answer for her.

Eleanor’s expression shifted, something between worry and dread. “He’s dangerous, Cecil,” she said, voice barely above a breath. “I can feel it.”

Cecilia’s eyes fluttered shut. She wanted to scream, to tell Eleanor she was right, that her instincts had been true all along. That Tom Riddle was dangerous. That he had already killed someone.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t risk him turning his gaze on Eleanor. Or Araya.

So instead, Cecilia swallowed the truth like poison, letting it settle deep in her chest.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered, the lie barely holding shape on her tongue.

Eleanor didn’t push. She only reached out and gently squeezed Cecilia’s hand.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, and somewhere in the castle’s shadows, Cecilia knew Tom was still watching. Always watching.

Chapter 23: Roll The Dice

Tom sat at the Slytherin table, calm as ever, the morning light washing his pale features in cold gold. His fingers moved in idle, deliberate circles along the rim of his goblet, not drinking, instead he just watched Cecilia.

Across the hall, Cecilia sat with Eleanor and Araya at the Ravenclaw table, half-listening to their chatter. The hum of conversation, clatter of cutlery, and rustle of owl wings filled the Great Hall, but all of it seemed dulled at the edges.

She knew she was being watched, and she knew Tom was already plotting something for her. The weight of his gaze pressed against her like a hand at the back of her neck. She bit her lip, then slowly lifted her head to meet his eyes.

Their eyes met across the Great Hall.

At first, his expression didn’t change. Then, slowly, he blinked and his lips curved into that perfect, practiced smile. The polite one he always wore as a Slytherin prefect. But Cecilia knew better, it wasn’t kindness, instead it was a mask that a manipulator always wore. 

That smile was for her, and that made it worse. She could feel her stomach twisted. 

A nudge jolted her from her thoughts—Araya, leaning closer with a smirk. “Riddle just smiled at you, Cecil,” she murmured. “That’s either flattering… or terrifying.”

Next to Cecilia, Eleanor scoffed. “Don’t smile back, Cecil.”

Araya raised a brow, tilting her head. “Why not? He just smiled politely. Wouldn’t it be rude if Cecil didn’t return it?”

Cecilia stayed quiet, letting Araya and Eleanor bicker over whether she should smile back. Her eyes remained fixed on her plate, fingers idle at the edge of her toast.

Across the hall, Tom watched her, fingers drumming idly against the table. She didn’t smile back. She simply sat in silence—spine straight, eyes lowered—refusing him with that quiet defiance that made him want to break her wings, just so she’d finally bend.

Stay where she belonged. In the cage.

He slowly averted his gaze, mind already working. Cecilia didn’t want to follow him—would never want to. He knew that. Knew it too well. 

His eyes shifted to Ignatius and Silvanus. Of course he knew Ignatius had given her his coat. Don’t ask how. He had his ways.

Tom’s gaze lingered on them for only a second longer, then returned to his untouched breakfast. His expression was serene, but inside, the edges of his thoughts sharpened like a blade being honed.

Fools, unbearably stupid.

Even the ones who called themselves clever, like Malfoy and Lestrange, only saw the surface of things. As if power was something you inherited and not something you took .

He could break them all, if he wanted. And one day, he would.

His fingers resumed their slow, steady rhythm against the table, each beat a thought. Each thought, a plan.

But it was her silence that disturbed the pattern. Her refusal. Cecilia Lovegood, who looked like she’d blown away with a breeze, had once seen the shadow of what he truly was and hadn’t run. Hadn’t bowed. Hadn’t spoken .

It infuriated him. It fascinated him. No, she wouldn’t follow. Not willingly, but all things bent eventually. Even the delicate ones.

Especially the delicate ones.

He turned to Silvanus, fixing him with a sharp gaze. “Rosier, I want you to invite Lovegood to your family’s pureblood gatherings, as a painter.”

Everyone in his inner circle turned toward him, a flicker of surprise passing through their faces. Harkness was the first to break the silence. “...Lovegood? You know her family’s reputation—eccentric. And most of us in this circle are… well, a bit exclusive.”

Androalphus’s voice cut in, cold and measured. “She’s not one of us. Not by blood, not by tradition.”

Tom’s face remained unreadable, but his eyes were narrowed, his voice low and even, each word deliberate and dripping with control. “Eccentricity is irrelevant. It is usefulness that matters.”

He leaned forward slightly, the faintest trace of a smile curling his lips. Cruel, almost imperceptible. “Power is not inherited. It is taken. Control is not granted; it is seized. Lovegood sees things others are blind to. That is why she will be included.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping his inner circle like a blade. “Doubt her if you must. But remember: those who hesitate become irrelevant.”

His tone left no room for argument. Silvanus met his eyes and gave a slight, reluctant nod.

Tom straightened, voice cold as ice. “Do this. Now.”

“As you wish.”

Harkness’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He wasn’t about to openly defy Tom Riddle—not yet.

The others exchanged wary glances, a subtle undercurrent of uncertainty threading through the group. Tom’s reputation as a strategist and a leader was well-earned, but even so, his decisions often unsettled those who followed him.

Tom’s gaze returned to his untouched goblet. He lifted it, swirling the liquid inside thoughtfully before setting it down with deliberate calm. He had already seen the cracks in his circle, the fools who fancied themselves clever, blinded by tradition and bloodline. They were soft. Easily broken.

Power, after all, was not just brute force. It was an influence. Fear. Desire.

A slow, cold smile touched his lips. The Rosier gatherings were a labyrinth of old alliances, whispered rivalries, and carefully guarded secrets. He knew the Grindelwald alliance was likely woven into their ranks as well. Vinda Rosier, his loyal follower, was a Rosier by blood and a relative of Silvanus.

Tom’s mind worked like a blade, cutting through the layers of alliances and schemes. This was more than a simple invitation, it was an infiltration. Cecilia would walk into a den of vipers, each with their own agendas, their own thirst for power. And he would watch how she navigated the labyrinth.

Every gathering, every whispered conversation, every glance would be a move on the board. And Tom intended to control the game from the shadows, bending both allies and enemies to his will.

He straightened, eyes cold and resolute. The delicate dance of power was beginning, and he would lead.

 

Chapter 24: The Letter and Eleanor

Silvanus walked beside Ignatius through the courtyard, where splashes of red and yellow leaves carpeted the ground. A few younger students—likely first-years—laughed as they played in piles of brittle, brownish leaves. Warm sunlight washed over their faces, unusually gentle for the autumn season.

He waved the letter in his hand, his brow furrowed. He glanced at Ignatius. “What if Lovegood doesn’t want to come?”

Ignatius didn’t slow his stride. “She won’t have much choice.”

Silvanus frowned, tucking the letter into his coat. “There’s always a choice.”

“Not with Riddle,” Ignatius replied flatly, his gaze following a gust of wind that sent leaves skittering across the stones. “You’ve seen what happens when people refuse him.”

He stopped in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back. Sunlight spilled across his face, catching in his black eyes and making them gleam sharply behind the square lenses of his glasses. His expression was unreadable.

Silvanus halted a few steps behind him, head tilted, brow furrowed. “What are you waiting for?”

Ignatius didn’t answer, his gaze distant—his mind even farther. A soft gust stirred his hair, brushing it across his forehead. His thoughts raced, circling the same question: what had Tom planned for Cecilia’s fate?

He could never truly understand the twists of Tom’s mind, and the ignorance gnawed at him. And it maddened him, knowing he couldn’t stop it. Drawing Cecilia into their world was folly. Dangerous. Reckless.

It wasn't a strategy. It was recklessness dressed as genius.

His gaze drifted across the courtyard and caught a familiar figure in the corridor beyond. Sunlight spilled over her blonde hair, turning it into an ethereal halo, her pale skin luminous beneath its glow. He caught the faint sound of her laughter at something her friends had said—light and clear, like the chime of a church bell.

Cecilia Lovegood, flanked by her two friends.

“Oh, there she is. Perfect timing—I’ll give her the invitation,” Silvanus said, stepping toward Ignatius. He lifted his hand, but before he could speak, Ignatius pressed it down with deliberate force.

“Don’t. Give me the letter. I’ll deliver it,” he said coolly.

Silvanus arched a brow, studying him with a flicker of curiosity before a slow smirk curved his lips. “And why, exactly, should I hand it to you? Tom told me to give her the invitation.”

Ignatius’s expression didn’t shift. He held out his hand, palm up, as if the matter were beneath debate. “And now I’m telling you to give it to me.” His tone was cool, clipped—almost bored—but his eyes didn’t leave Silvanus’s.

Silvanus studied him for a long moment, the smirk never leaving his lips. “Oh… I see,” he drawled, voice low with mock amusement. “You’ve taken an interest.”

Ignatius’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, plucking the envelope from Silvanus’s grasp with deliberate calm.

Silvanus let him have it, still wearing that knowing smile, watching as Ignatius turned on his heel and strode across the courtyard, his pace a shade too quick for someone who claimed not to care.

Ignatius moved through the courtyard with measured steps, the envelope pressed lightly in his hand. He kept his gaze forward, but every instinct was alert—tracking Cecilia without appearing to do so.

When he finally reached the edge of the courtyard, she was there, laughing with her friends, the sunlight catching her hair like spun gold. His chest tightened almost imperceptibly, a reaction he quickly suppressed.

He drew a slow breath, cleared his throat, and said, “Cecilia.”

The laughter faltered. Cecilia turned, her eyes briefly meeting his, then flicking to Araya and Eleanor. Eleanor’s brow arched, sharp and assessing, as if measuring him from head to toe, curiosity and challenge glinting in her gaze.

“What do you want from Cecilia?” she demanded, voice sharp, hand already reaching out to shield her. She didn’t trust anyone with ties to Tom.

Next to her, Araya raised a brow, tilted her head, and leaned slightly toward Eleanor. “Hey, he just came over nicely.”

Ignatius’s gaze flicked briefly to Araya, then back to Cecilia. He ignored the casual teasing, letting the weight of his presence do the talking. His tone was soft, deliberately neutral, almost rehearsed, but every word carried quiet authority.

“I’m here to deliver this,” he said, holding out the envelope. The sunlight glinted off the edge of the paper, and for a moment, Cecilia hesitated—drawn by the calm certainty in his voice, even as her instincts warred with curiosity.

Eleanor stepped slightly forward, her hand hovering protectively near Cecilia. “And why should she take it?” she asked, her voice steady but sharp, warning clear beneath the surface.

Ignatius’s lips pressed into a thin line, his dark eyes behind his glasses meeting Eleanor’s directly. “Because it’s from someone who doesn’t take refusal lightly,” he said evenly. The words were casual, but the implication lingered in the crisp autumn air.

Cecilia knew exactly who he meant—Tom Riddle. A knot tightened in her chest. Confusion mingled with quiet frustration; she had been clear before, she wanted no part in anything tied to him. What did he want now?

Her gaze lifted to Ignatius. She didn’t want to take the letter, every instinct told her to push it back into his hands. And yet… she faltered. Ignatius had always been kind to her—genuinely so, in ways that felt steady, unassuming, and undeserved. She couldn’t bring herself to hurt him, not when refusing outright would wound more than just his errand.

Cecilia’s fingers brushed the parchment—hesitant, reluctant—when Eleanor suddenly snatched it.

“Leave. Her. Alone. Tell him to leave her alone” Eleanor’s sharp voice cut through the autumn air.  With one sharp flick of her wand, the letter caught fire. Flames devoured the elegant parchment until it collapsed into a handful of drifting ash.

Cecilia and Araya gasped. Their eyes wide with shock and horror “Eleanor—!”

From behind, outrage erupted. Silvanus’s voice cut through the crackle of burning parchment.

“What are you doing, redhead?!” he bellowed, his fury echoing across the courtyard.

He stormed closer, fury twisting his handsome features. But Eleanor turned to face him, her expression cool, unyielding. 

“What I should’ve done the first time he thought he could drag her into his games.” Her words rang loud enough for every onlooker to hear.

Araya gasped, though a faint chuckle from her could be heard. Meanwhile Cecilia closed her mouth with her hand and Ignatius remained frozen at her side, his dark eyes calculating, as though weighing whether to intervene.

Silvanus’s jaw tightened, but Eleanor’s smile was sharp, mocking. “Tell your precious little circle and leader this: Cecilia Lovegood is not a pawn to be summoned at their convenience. And if you think otherwise—try me.”

Silvanus’s eyes flashed. He stepped closer, towering, venom in his voice. “You think you can shield her? You're just Mudblood.”

A sharp gasp rippled from passing students, the insult ringing like a curse in the courtyard. From the shadows further down in the corridor, Antonio Dolohov and Harkness Avery appeared, drawn by the commotion. 

They didn’t intervene—didn’t need to. Instead, they leaned casually against the wall, smirks tugging at their mouths, watching as though it were theatre staged for their amusement.

Cecilia felt Araya stiffen beside her, horror etched across her face. Ignatius’s expression, however, was unreadable, his eyes flicked from Eleanor to Silvanus, gauging, calculating.

The air thickened, tension heavy enough to choke, while Antonio and Harkness simply watched, entertained, waiting to see how far Eleanor dared to push.

Eleanor’s gaze did not falter. She leaned forward just enough for her words to cut clean and deliberate.“Better a Mudblood with a spine than a Riddle’s lapdog .”

The courtyard seemed to freeze. Even Antonio’s smirk deepened, Harkness letting out a low chuckle at her audacity. Silvanus’s nostrils flared, fists curling at his sides. His silence was heavier than any curse, her defiance hanging in the air like a gauntlet thrown, daring him to pick it up.

And then, with a snarl, he did. His wand snapped into his hand, a streak of greenish light bursting forth, aimed straight at Eleanor.

“NO!” Cecilia’s cry tore through the courtyard, her own wand flashing up instinctively. The spell collided with a shield that shimmered in front of Eleanor, sparks scattering across the flagstones.

The air cracked with the impact, green sparks dying against Cecilia’s hastily raised shield. Her hands trembled, but her stance held, wand angled like a blade between Eleanor and Silvanus.

“You will not touch her,” she said, voice steadier than her heartbeat. Her grey eyes—usually dreamy, distant—now fixed sharp as steel.

Silvanus’s glare bored into her, fury simmering just beneath the surface, but Eleanor stood her ground, unflinching, wand still in her hand though she hadn’t raised it. 

Then his lips curled into something close to a sneer. “So the little painter does have claws.”

From the corridor, Antonio’s laughter broke the silence. “Didn’t think she had it in her.” Harkness only folded his arms, watching with a predator’s calm, as if the outcome was already entertainment enough.

Eleanor, breathless for a moment, stepped forward, her shoulder brushing Cecilia’s as she took her place again. Her chin lifted, gaze locked on Silvanus.

“She doesn’t need claws,” Eleanor said coldly. “She has me.” 

And Araya, pale but resolute, drew her wand too, her knuckles white around the handle. “She has both of us.”

The three of them stood together, a fragile line against his fury. Eleanor’s wand snapped up, fast and precise.

“Stupefy!”

The scarlet bolt shot across the courtyard before Silvanus could raise his wand. It struck him square in the chest, sending him flying back against the stone wall with a dull crack. Gasps erupted around them, a ripple of shock cutting through the students who had gathered.

Silvanus slumped to the ground, stunned, his wand clattering uselessly beside him.

For a long, stunned moment, no one moved. Then Antonio laughed, sharp and delighted, clapping his hands once in mock applause. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

And then Ignatius stepped forward. Unlike the others, his gaze did not rest on Eleanor first. It fixed on Cecilia—still pale, still shaken, her sleeve caught lightly in Araya’s grip. Something flickered in his eyes then, subtle but sharp, a dangerous glint of possessiveness he did not bother to hide right now.

Only after a beat did he turn to Eleanor.

“You think stunning Silvanus proves anything?” His voice was low, measured, every word deliberate. He moved closer, unhurried. “All it proves is how far you’ll go to play hero for her.”

His eyes cut back to Cecilia, lingering, softer for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “But she doesn’t need reckless champions,” he said, voice colder now, directed squarely at Eleanor. “She needs someone who knows how to protect what’s his.”

He bent, retrieving Silvanus’s wand with uncharacteristic care, and pressed it back into Silvanus’s hand without ever breaking his stare. Though the jealousy in his expression betrayed exactly who this fight was really about. It was about Cecilia

“Enjoy your moment, Eleanor. It will not last.”

Eleanor lowered her wand, chest rising and falling, her voice ringing like steel. “It will last. My moment will last until I watch him kneeling—begging—for mercy in front of me. And you tell Riddle this: his lapdogs bite less than they bark. ”

For a breath, the air was thick with silence, sparks still crackling in its wake. Then she turned sharply, her robes cutting the air as she strode away—Araya close beside her, a steadying arm around Cecilia’s shoulders, shielding her as if to say she belonged to them now, not him.

Ignatius did not stop them. He only watched, his stare fixed on Cecilia’s retreating figure until the shadows of the courtyard swallowed her whole.

Chapter 25: Let’s be strategic

Notes:

Hello, I’m sorry for the late update. My country is in chaos right now because of massive protests. The issue began with housing allowances for MPs—ten times higher than Jakarta’s (Indonesia) minimum wage—50 million rupiah ($3,075; £2,254).

And last night, a young man, only twenty-one years old—just two years younger than me—was killed after being run over by a police vehicle during a protest. He wasn’t even participating. He was simply working as an online driver, delivering food, while his parents were at home waiting for their son to return with rice for them.

And my fuckass government is sabotaging our social media, trying to silence us. The least I can do is spread this news. I have the privilege to write, to use my account wisely, and I choose to do so. If they try to silence my voice, then let my fingers say what my mouth cannot

Three different-colored heads—red, blonde, and black—were gathered on the same bed: Eleanor, Cecilia, and Araya. Cecilia’s nose was flushed red, her eyes glassy, her hands clutching the blanket as though it were the only thing anchoring her. 

Eleanor and Araya sat stiff beside her, wide-eyed, lips parted, their faces pale with disbelief. It felt as though the two of them were holding their breath, suspended in the weight of what they had just heard.

Cecilia broke first. The silence cracked, and once it did, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. Words tumbled out, halting, uneven. She told them everything—the night Myrtle died, Tom standing there in the dark, his face unreadable— he killed her .

Then the night he dragged her along, forced her to watch as he murdered his family. And all the things he had said to her since, the ones she had tried so hard to swallow, to pretend weren’t real.

Her voice shook, rose, broke. “He—he kills, and he doesn’t even—he doesn’t even blink. And he wanted me there . He wanted me to see. To know. To carry it .”

By the end, Cecilia was trembling, tears slipping soundlessly down her cheeks. Eleanor and Araya still hadn’t moved, but the disbelief in their faces was shifting into horror, into something colder.

Eleanor’s jaw tightened, her breath unsteady, her face flushed with a sharp, angry red. “You have to fight back. Don’t let him use you, don’t let him twist you again. That’s not love, Cecilia—that’s obsession.”

Araya leaned forward, her voice softer but no less firm. “And obsession like this doesn’t end on its own. You can’t wait for him to change—he never change. You have to break free before he drags you under with him.”

The dormitory was silent but for the crackle of the dying fire, shadows from the canopy beds curling along the stone walls. Cecilia lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting in the blanket, torn between terror and the fragile spark of something that almost felt like hope. But how? She had nothing—no strength, no magic powerful enough, no way out.

Araya’s hand hovered above hers, hesitant but firm. “You have us. You’re not alone anymore. We may not fight the way they do, but that doesn’t mean we’re powerless. Softness isn’t weakness, it’s another kind of strength. One they’ll never understand. And it’s enough, Cecilia. If you let it.”

The silence stretched, heavy as lead. Outside, the wind brushed against the tower windows, carrying the distant hoot of an owl. Moonlight spilled pale and thin across the stone floor, casting Cecilia’s trembling hands in silver.

Eleanor reached over and gently pried one of them free from the blanket, holding it tight. Her grip was warm, grounding. “He thrives on fear. That’s how he controls you. But fear doesn’t have to mean surrender. You’re stronger than you think.”

Cecilia’s throat ached as she tried to speak, her voice cracking. “He’ll know. He always knows. He finds me no matter where I go.” 

Araya’s gaze hardened, her hand closing firmly over Cecilia’s. “Then let him. Let him think he knows, trust you enough—so you can be the one to betray him.” 

Eleanor’s eyes burned with defiance. “Maybe we can’t duel him like the Slytherins do, but we’re Ravenclaws. We’ll outthink him, outmaneuver him, and when the time comes, we’ll tear his power apart from the inside.”

Cecilia’s lips parted, but no sound came. The thought of betraying Tom left her trembling—terrified, yet strangely lighter, as if she had surfaced for the first breath after being held underwater too long.

If she truly wanted freedom, there was only one path: betray him, run, vanish into some distant, unknown place where he could never reach her, and finally live in peace.

She pressed her hands to her lap, heart hammering, mind racing. Every memory of him—the cold precision, the quiet menace behind his polite smiles—made her stomach twist. She hated it. Hated him . Hated that fear curled around her like a shroud. And yet…she could use it. She could turn it into a weapon.

The plan formed slowly, cautiously, like a whisper she almost didn’t dare to speak aloud. First, patience. Patience to be near him, to obey just enough to seem compliant. Observe. Listen. Learn his patterns, his moods, the subtle ways he tested those around him. Every favor she granted, every task she completed, she would measure it, memorize it, store it like fuel.

Then, opportunity. The moment when he least expected it, when his guard slipped, she would act. Not recklessly, but with cleverness, wit, and the quiet power of someone who had been underestimated from the very start.

“But Cecil…don’t you dare fall in love with him.”

The thought shattered. Cecilia blinked, grey eyes snapping up to meet Eleanor’s sharp green gaze. There was a flicker of teasing in her tone, but beneath it lay a gravity that couldn’t be ignored.

Cecilia tilted her head, her voice soft, puzzled. “What do you mean, Eleanor?”

“Exactly what I said. He’s dangerous, Cecilia. If you let your heart slip… he’ll use it. He’ll make you believe it's a choice when it’s only a chain.”

Her words pressed heavily in the air. The firelight flickered across her face, softening her sharp features, yet her eyes remained clear, steady.

Cecilia’s lips parted, then shut firmly. She could never love Tom—he was cold, cruel, consumed by his own ambition. Tom Riddle could not love; that was the truth, his curse. To fall for him would be senseless. To love a man incapable of loving her back would only destroy her, it’s like stepping willingly into ruin—to offer her heart to a void, knowing it would never be returned.

Eleanor studied her in silence, then sighed softly, almost sadly. “Just promise me, Cecil…don’t let him hollow you out. You’re brighter than that. Don’t let him turn your heart into something like his.”

Araya, who had been listening with her chin propped in her hand, gave a short laugh, though there was no mockery in it. “Eleanor’s right. Men like Riddle don’t fall in love.”

Cecilia’s grey eyes flicked between them, unreadable. A faint smile tugged at her lips, brittle at the edges. “Don’t worry. I would never fall in love with him,” she said.

Yet the moment the words left her mouth, something unspoken pressed down in her chest, heavy as stone. Never fall in love with Tom Riddle. The phrase echoed in her mind, pulling her back to their earlier conversation.

Later, she sat on a stone bench just outside the Ravenclaw tower, in the narrow courtyard shrouded in shadow. The autumn air bit at her skin, sharp and unforgiving, but she hadn’t bothered with a scarf—only her robes, too thin against the cold. Her sigh drifted pale into the air, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared, as if mocking the weight that refused to lift from her chest.

Cecilia closed her eyes, unaware of him slipping from the shadows. Tom emerged silently, hands clasped behind his back, his scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, the faint rustle of fabric the only herald of his presence.

She didn’t stir as he drew closer, though she knew someone was approaching. The faint crunch of leaves beneath careful steps was barely audible, yet unmistakable. It was Tom—she was certain of it. Who else wandered the castle at this hour, if not a prefect or a professor? The subtle scent that reached her carried him unmistakably: something woody, with a hint of ink and old books, lingering in the cold autumn air.

She could feel him now, the air shifting as he stopped a step behind her. His presence was…suffocating, like a weight pressing against her chest. Should she open her eyes, or pretend she had dozed off outside in the chill of late autumn, looking every bit the fool?

Tom stood there, silent, watching her with that cold, deliberate calm he always carried. His eyes, dark and unreadable, studied her like one might examine a fragile piece of glass—beautiful, and entirely breakable. The scarf around his neck shifted slightly with his movements, but otherwise, he made no sound.

He noted the faint redness around her eyes and the tip of her nose; it was clear she had been crying. He didn’t care, it wasn’t his business. His concern, if it could be called that, was practical: why was she out here, alone, in the chill of late autumn? Sleeping on a bench like this was…careless. A flicker of irritation passed through his gaze.

How someone like her, so heedless, had even managed to sort into Ravenclaw was beyond him. Common sense seemed entirely absent.

“Cecilia.” His voice cut through the chill, calm yet commanding, as he stepped forward to stand before her. But Cecilia didn’t respond. Her eyes remained closed, lashes brushing against the faint pink of her cheeks. Her heart pounded violently, each beat thundering in her ears.

She chose to pretend she was asleep, perched on the bench in the cold autumn air, looking every bit the fool.

Chapter 26: I Feel Everything

Notes:

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Cecilia. I see other female leads in Tom Riddle fanfics—bold, fearless, like femme fatales, and I catch myself wondering if I should make her like them too. Strong. Brave. Someone who could fight.

But the truth is … I can’t. My hands hesitate, my mind stalls. It wouldn’t feel like her. Not the Cecilia I know, not the one I created. I can’t—and I don’t want to—betray her.

I love her softness, her quiet presence, her gentle way of existing in the world. That fragility, that tenderness—it’s not weakness. It’s who she is. And I need to honor that, even when a part of me feels insecure for not making her “strong” like the others.

And I remember that “strong” isn’t just physical. True strength can live in the will, in the quiet, stubborn refusal to become what we never wished to be. We are strong when we live for what we truly want, when we follow the path we choose, and when we become who we are meant to be. The expectations of others don’t define us—what seems “enough” for others may never be enough for us, and what fills us may mean nothing to them. And that is all right. It is our life, my life, true and real (•̀ᴗ•́ )و

Comparing her to anyone else steals the joy of her being. Cecilia is her own kind of brave, her own kind of light. And that is enough. I love her for who she is, not for who she isn’t.

“Cecilia.” His voice cut through the chill, calm yet commanding, as he stepped forward to stand before her. But Cecilia didn’t respond. Her eyes remained closed, lashes brushing against the faint pink of her cheeks. Her heart pounded violently, each beat thundering in her ears.

She chose to pretend she was asleep, perched on the bench in the cold autumn air, looking every bit the fool.

Tom’s dark eyes lingered on her, sharp and calculating, as if weighing every subtle twitch, every shallow breath. So small … so fragile … so tempting to kill … The thought that flickered through his mind was almost dangerous in its intensity.

Slowly,  he drew his wand from the folds of his robes. The tip hovered in the air, tracing the line of Cecilia’s jaw until it rested lightly beneath her chin. The pressure was minimal, almost imperceptible, yet it carried the weight of his attention, of his control.

Cecilia’s heart still pounded violently, as if it might burst from her chest. She kept her eyes tightly shut, forcing herself to appear asleep, even as every instinct in her mind screamed for him to leave. The cold autumn air bit at her cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the oppressive heat of Tom’s presence looming over her.

Her breath hitched as he leaned ever so slightly closer, just enough for the faint scent of his scarf—wood, ink, and something darker, indefinable—to brush against her senses. 

A part of her wanted to flee, to bolt across the courtyard and escape this suffocating closeness, but another part, the part that had been trapped under his shadow for so long, held her still. Her body betrayed her fear with the tiniest shiver.

Finally, his voice cut through the quiet, low and cold as the night air. “I know you’re pretending to fall asleep, Cecilia.” 

She didn’t answer, remaining still, her body rigid in careful pretense. She knew he was testing her, gauging whether she was truly asleep or merely faking it.

Yet as the moments stretched, Tom’s gaze sharpened and lingered, studying her. Her lack of movement, the evenness of her breathing, the subtle relaxation of her hands—all of it led him to a quiet conclusion: she had truly fallen asleep out here, exposed to the chill of the late autumn night.

He straightened slowly, the faintest furrow knitting his brow, considering his next move. Every choice seemed to split into multiple paths, each leading to a different outcome, and each one a test of control, patience, and the quiet power he always demanded.

At last, Tom clasped his hands behind his back and turned, deciding to leave her on the bench, shivering in the cold—a lesson in recklessness, vulnerability, and foolishness. As he began to walk away, Cecilia finally exhaled, her chest rising with the first semblance of relief in hours. She cracked one eye open, watching him retreat.

But then he paused. Standing perfectly still, he glanced over his shoulder—not looking at her, not entirely—but letting her know, in a subtle, unyielding way, that he was always aware.

Slowly, deliberately, Tom turned back. His steps were unhurried, inevitable, until he stood before her once more. Without a word, he crouched, his hand closing around Cecilia’s wrist with cold precision, tugging until her slight frame leaned against his back. His other arm slid beneath her ankles, steady and inescapable. In one fluid motion, he lifted her, carrying her as if her weight meant nothing.

Her breath caught, her body stiffening instinctively at the sudden lift. For a moment, she considered struggling, but his grip was iron, his movements seamless—as though he had anticipated every twitch of resistance before she even made it.

Cecilia’s heart pounded against his back, rapid and uneven, betraying the fear she tried so hard to bury. Her lashes remained lowered, her body limp, the only defense she had left: to pretend stillness, to surrender to his control, even if it burned her pride.

She had no idea what he intended, or where he might take her. Tom’s mind was a labyrinth—beautiful, merciless—a puzzle never meant to be solved. Through her lashes she risked a glance at him, saw his gaze fixed on the path ahead, the precise way he shifted her weight against his back, and felt the warmth of his body seeping through the chill of his robes.

She closed her eyes again. Tom looked ordinary enough—just another boy their age—but she knew better; such a thing was impossible. Still, a thought stirred unbidden. Perhaps in another life, in another universe; he might have been just that. A boy with a family, a boy who knew love.

Tom stopped before the door— that door, the chamber where he had brought her once before. One hand slipped into his pocket, brushing the familiar weight of his wand, though his grip on Cecilia’s thigh never wavered. With a flick, the door opened. He stepped inside, and the moment the shadows closed around them, he kicked it shut, the sound a low, soft thud.

He crossed the room with unhurried steps, her weight secure against him, until he reached the couch. There, he lowered her with unsettling care as though she were both precious and claimed, a fragile thing he would never drop, yet never truly release.

For a moment, he lingered above her, his gaze tracing every subtle rise of her breath, every pallor of her skin. She looked breakable like this, small and impossibly delicate. 

“You always deny me, Cecilia. And I know one day you will betray me.” His voice was quiet, almost tender in cadence, but the venom underneath was unmistakable. He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear, his breath slow and deliberate. 

“When that day comes, I won’t simply break you. I’ll strip you down, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left that’s yours. Your mind, your will, your body—all mine to shape, to crush, to keep. I will shatter every illusion of freedom you cling to, until you crawl back to me on your knees.”

His whisper sharpened, cruel and final. “And then I’ll cage you like a bird with its wings snapped—useless, helpless, but mine forever.”

His eyes lingered on her pale face, the faint tremor of her lashes betraying that she had heard every word. He smirked faintly, a cruel curve of lips without warmth.

“You think yourself strong,” he murmured, almost conversationally, “but strength is a lie. All it takes is pressure in the right place—” his hand brushed against her wrist, tightening suddenly until her breath catches, “—and the cracks begin to show.” He released her just as quickly, watching the red mark bloom on her skin.

Tom straightened, looking down at her as if she were a puzzle half-solved. There was hunger in his eyes, but it was not desire, it was ownership, the need to dismantle and rebuild until nothing remained untouched by him.

“You should be grateful,” he whispered coldly. “To be chosen by me means you’ll never belong to anyone else. Countless would beg for your place, to be claimed by the one destined to become the greatest wizard the world will ever know, the one who will rule it.”

He cast her one last glance before turning away, the doors closing behind him with a heavy, final thud. Silence pressed in, broken only by the fading echo of his footsteps. When at last they were gone, Cecilia’s eyes snapped open, her breath ragged, desperate—like someone dragged up from drowning, yet still trapped beneath the weight of the water.

She looked around, the silence was oppressive, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw him standing in the corner, just a silhouette, still and impossibly calm.

Her heart leapt, but when she blinked, he was gone. She shook her head, “No, he’s not here … he’s gone for now.” trying desperately to calm her mind.

Her gaze roamed the room, taking in the familiar space from the last time she had been here. Nothing much had changed: a worn couch, an equally worn armchair, a table cluttered with parchment, ink, and a quill. Against the far wall, a bookshelf held a row of books, their titles too indistinct for her to make out, the spines blurred and unreadable in the dim light.

Curious, Cecilia rose slowly, her feet quiet on the floor as she approached the desk. Two journals lay there, both bound in black leather. One, however, showed signs of wear, edges softened and spine creased. Her mind drew a quiet conclusion: this was the one he used most. 

Her fingers hovered over the worn leather cover, trembling slightly. Every instinct screamed at her to step back, to leave it untouched, but curiosity pushed her forward. Slowly she lifted the cover, the soft creak of leather against the desk loud in the silent room. Inside, the pages were filled with his meticulous, precise handwriting—an exegesis of all the books he already read. 

Cecilia’s eyes darted frantically across the lines, her head twisting repeatedly toward the door, ears straining for any hint of sound. So far, there seemed to be nothing … nothing significant, at least not yet. She closed the journal carefully, ensuring it stayed perfectly in place, and let her gaze fall on the second volume. Perhaps this one held what she was looking for, she thought, her pulse quickening.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before lifting the second journal. Its black leather cover was smoother, almost untouched, as if it were meant to hide its contents in plain sight. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it, the faint scent of ink and parchment rising to meet her.

Cecilia held her breath, a tight lump pressing in her throat as the realization settled over her—she could see Tom’s plan, his obsession, laid bare. She wasn’t afraid of her name written again and again; no, that alone didn’t scare her.

It was the scope of it—the months, the years, the meticulous plotting of where she would be, when, and what he intended to do—that made her chest tighten. Every detail, every calculated step, every eventuality—it was all there, cold and deliberate.

She swallowed hard, the edges of fear sharpening into something else: understanding. She knew now just how far his mind reached, how inescapable his influence could be, and the weight of that knowledge pressed down like stone.

Cecilia closed his journal, but just before it shut completely, her eyes had caught a word—enough for her to understand, she wasn’t naive. She closed her eyes, her face solemn, shoulders slumping under the weight of it.

“What are you trying to reach, Tom…” she whispered, her voice barely carrying in the quiet room.