All For The Glory

by b_mrssnow

Summary:

Tom Riddle was supposed to be a god.

While Myrtle Warren? She was supposed to be a nobody, a no one; to Hogwarts, to students, and certainly to Tom Riddle. But then she saw him, trusted him and followed him. And he saw her too. That's when something twisted inside of him for the first time ever: want. Want for something that's not for eternal glory. Yet, that eternal glory for him is inevitable.

Love is the thing Tom Riddle had to sacrifice. And Myrtle Warren was the first.

Chapter 1: Author's Note

Notes:

My take on GhostRiddle is more showing denial Tom and more showing the human side of him. For more darker and manipulative Tom Riddle, you should go to @vilasedmikraskova !! I love their work and take on it!

REMEMBER ALL MY WORK SHOULD NOT AND NEVER BE USE IN ANY OTHER PLATFORM — IN ANY WAY.

Hello! Super excited to share this fan-fiction to you guys. This is my take on Tyrtle or GhostRiddle (the newly modernised ship-name LOL). And before I get started, I’ll just do an introduction for you guys so it won’t be too confusing. 

First of all I want to shout out to @everymanbreean my friend for always being there with me especially throughout the whole brainstorming and writing process of this fic. She helped proof-read, and helped for grammar correction, punctuation correction or any typos fixing in this fic! So she is very much important! And @messrslot for re-igniting this ship inside of me and inspiring me to write this fic in general! Anyway, let's continue!

So for the fanfic itself, I try to make it as canon compliant as possible. There will be several non-canon characters, but they only act as a supporting character and to showcase character development or to showcase how a character changes. As to for the timeline, I use this: https://www.hp-lexicon.org/timeline/character-timelines/voldemort-timeline/

I found the above very useful so I decided to depend on that for my whole fanfiction. Anyhow! I also use a different Hogwarts Map, instead of the movie Hogwarts Map, I use Hogwarts Legacy Hogwarts and Hogsmeade Map. Because I play the game LOL and I found it easier for me to use that map instead of movie map because it is not so very clear which place is which or where in the movies’ map.

Anyway, I did my research from Reddit and some Wikis too (and the official book, of course). I wanted to make sure I have every detail possible so I won’t miss any. Please dm me via IG @bllackthorn_ if you notice anything worth fixing or for any advice on writing or researching itself, or even for tiny talks with me and all. I would greatly appreciate it!

Okay, and one thing, I made a pinterest board of my very own fancast or face claim or how I imagine the characters would look, and if you have problems imagining characters from pure imagination, you can check this pinboard out! https://pin.it/17ivdNgbK And if you guys don't like it and instead prefer imagining the characters in a way that suits your imagination then it’s okay! Because I also provide some physical details about them so play around!

Additional note:

1. I will not be writing EXPLICIT smut for this since it's about minors aged 11-16 and I will not be comfortable writing explicit content about them. There will be some kisses and implications of the teens getting sexually excited or having a sexual interaction but never explicit smut. I will write abt Tom getting a wet dream though but it's not explicitly described.

2. English is not my first language so forgive me if there is any wrong grammars or punctuation. Kindly note that me and @everymanbreean are both minors. Please give me feedbacks if you notice any mistake/things to improve on!

3. This is a LONG ASS FIC. 65K+ and to be added! I told you it's a slowburn!

4. Slug Club Info! As for the Slug Club, I know it is widely known only for Avery, Lestrange and Tom to be in it - but I've put in Nott, Mulciber and Rosier for story purposes. 

And last one! Here is a GhostRiddle spotify playlist that I made!
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7zHNaifyZ9QOFSVcZPO3aE?si=lTPHG-ghT4ak2tgSgIoltw

Stay tuned!

(P.S for my SpellBound By You readers - I'm sorry, indeed I left that fanfic for a while for this one)

Chapter 2: Prologue

Winter 1940. 

The heat pressed down on Myrtle’s pale skin as she walked down the road home from school, her thin legs barely keeping up with the weight of her satchel. The sun burned her scalp, and the dust kicked up around her shoes as she walked past the houses.

It’s been an awful day at school today. The bell was ringing when Myrtle Warren was crying on the old dirty bathroom floor after some awful group of girls decided that her glasses make her look stupid.

Oh they were so awful. Now Myrtle had to deal with her being called stupid two-eyed Myrtle the whole day after recess. And the stupid summer weather is not helping!

It was supposed to be a special day. Myrtle was turning eleven. Her mother had said she’s a ‘big girl’ now. But it's all ruined.

“Stupid unimportant birthday.” Myrtle grumbled underneath her breath,  kicking some dirt as she walked.

Suddenly, a sharp, childish voice cut through the air. “Oy! Myrtle! Freak! Look like a ghost!” Myrtle stopped dead, and there was Margaret, the neighbor’s daughter, crouched behind a bush with a fistful of pebbles ready to fly.

“Pale, skinny freak!” Margaret shrieked, and a pebble clipped Myrtle’s shoulder. She flinched, her heart hammering in her chest as the red headed girl stuck out her tongue, blowing a wet raspberry before chucking another pebble, hitting Myrtle’s shin.

Myrtle’s fists clenched. She turned sharply, ready to march over and shove the brat into the dirt, to make her swallow those words. Her lips twisted in a snarl, and her nails dug into her palms. She was going to—

“Myrtle! Come inside, now!” Her mother’s voice sliced through her thoughts. The door to her house burst open, and her mother bustled onto the porch, shooing Margaret away. “Run along, Margaret, go on now.”

Myrtle felt the heat rise in her throat as her mother’s hands flapped at her shoulders, guiding her inside. The door clicked shut behind them, the air in the house hitting her skin—cold and quiet. Myrtle’s breath caught in her throat, anger boiling just under the surface.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” Her mother’s voice came soft, too soft. “Did she hurt you? Did she throw anything at you?” Her eyes were wide, too wide, the same pitiful look she always wore when she looked at Myrtle.

“I’m fine! Stop it!” Myrtle shouted, wrenching her arm free. The pity in her mother’s eyes made her stomach turn, made her feel small, tiny, like a pitiful kid, like a fragile thing that couldn’t stand up for herself.

Like poor tiny weeping Myrtle.

“Sweetie, please—”

“I’m not a baby! I can take care of myself! You’re so annoying!” Myrtle’s voice cracked, rage spilling out in a hot rush, and she saw the way her mother flinched, the way her shoulders tensed, and it just made Myrtle angrier.

Her father’s voice thundered from the other room. “What’s going on now?” He asked, his eyes landed on poor little tomato head Myrtle and her pitying Mother before shouting, “You don’t speak to your mother like that!” His footsteps came heavy, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

But Myrtle didn’t wait. She bolted up the stairs, her feet slamming on the wood, her breath heavy now. She let out tiny little angry hiccups under her breath. She yanked her bedroom door shut with a bang, the sound shaking the frame. Her father’s voice roared behind her, but she didn’t care.

“Come back here this instant!”

She threw herself onto her bed, the tears burning hot against her cheeks, and sobbed into the pillow, muffling the sound of her ragged breaths. Her fists clenched the fabric tight, her body shaking as the hours passed slow.

The room dimmed as the sun sank lower. Her sobs had turned quiet now, gasps that left her feeling hollow, her chest aching from the effort of crying, her throat raw.

A soft knock came at the door, and she heard her mother’s voice, hesitant. “Sweetie… look, Mom’s sorry.” The voice trailed off, a pause hanging in the air. Myrtle didn’t move, still too roughed up to reply.

Her mother’s voice came again, softer still. 

“If this makes it any better… there’s a letter for you.”

Chapter 3: I

September 1940. 

The train puffed thick white steam into the air, and Myrtle sat pressed to the window, wand in her lap, watching the platform with wide eyes. Her parents stood together, waving—her mother’s hand fluttering, her father’s raised stiffly.

She grinned so wide her cheeks ached, her heart thudding fast. Magic was real. She was going to learn spells and potions. It felt impossible and too good to be true, like the dream you wake up from and can’t quite believe was yours. But it is. And she’s going to Hogwarts!

Her mother called, “Write us as soon as you arrive!” and her father cupped his hands around his mouth: “Be good, Myrtle!” The train’s whistle shrieked, and the wheels began to move. Myrtle shrieked back, “Bye! Bye!” waving frantically, her other hand clutching the wand that she’s so proud of so tightly—her fingers cramped.

As the train picked up speed, she shrieked with joy, her voice cracking, a high-pitched giggle bursting out. She waved furiously, nearly dropping her glasses, grinning so hard it hurt her face. She watched her parents shrink into specks until the platform vanished behind a bend.

Myrtle sighed and leaned back into the stiff seat, her heart racing. Her fingers traced the wood grain of her wand. Magic. It was real. She let out a quiet laugh, the excitement bubbling in her chest. She couldn’t believe it. 

A sharp knock startled her, and the compartment door swung open. Three girls stood there, the one in front chewing gum loudly, her brown hair glossy and pin-straight. Her eyes flicked over Myrtle. “You don’t mind if we sit here, do you?” she asked, her voice already bored.

The other two were right behind her, one with bright blonde hair that gleamed, her green eyes sharp and too green. The last one had short black hair, her arms crossed tight, blue eyes narrowed and she was pickering out her lips.

Before Myrtle could say a word, they were hoisting their trunks onto the racks above, the gum girl’s bubble popping loudly in the small space. Myrtle shifted, her heart thudding. She smiled, a nervous, wide grin. “Sure. I mean—yes. Yes, of course.”

She tried to sit up straighter, smoothing down her skirt, her palms sweaty. Maybe—maybe these girls would be her friends. Maybe they’d like her. Maybe they’d ask her to sit with them at lunch. She bit her lip, watching as they arranged themselves across the seats.

The gum cracked again. The brunette sat in-front of Myrtle, with her legs stretched out, kicking the wooden train floor. The blonde leaned close next to her, sighing dramatically. The black-haired girl sat next to Myrtle, rummaging through her bag and pulling out a packet of sweets. For a while, it was quiet except for the occasional snap of the gum. Then they started talking, voices tumbling over each other.

“Oh, she didn’t ! Mary, tell me she didn’t say that—” The brunette snorted, “Swear on my life, she did . Right in front of the whole class!” The black-haired girl chimed in, grinning, “And then she tripped over her own skirt. I nearly died .”

The blondie’s laugh was sharp, clipped, and posh. So posh. “That’s absolutely priceless . Can you imagine? What an utter cow .” The other girls giggled, eyes darting at each other, and Myrtle’s stomach twisted. She kept staring out the window, the countryside rushing by in a blur.

The brunette popped her gum again and glanced at Myrtle. “Oh, sorry. Forgot about you. What’s your name?”

Myrtle’s hands fumbled with her wand, and she stammered, “Oh—me? I’m Myrtle. Myrtle Warren.” Her voice sounded too loud in the small space. Her cheeks burned as the other girls went silent for a beat, exchanging glances at each other.

“I’m Olive,” the brunette said after a pause, her eyes narrowing slightly. She pointed lazily at the black-haired girl next to Myrtle. “That’s Polly.” Then at the blonde, who flicked her hair over her shoulder with trained elegance. “And Mary.”

Myrtle’s voice came out small, but she tried anyway. “You all have… really pretty names.” The girls burst into laughter immediately, their eyes crinkling at each other. “We know,” Olive said through a grin, the gum snapping between her teeth.

The conversation turned fast, faster than Myrtle could keep up. They were talking about houses now. Olive leaned back, arms behind her head. “I’m going Ravenclaw, obviously. Mum says it runs in the family.” Mary chimed in. “Same. All the best girls are Ravenclaw.”

Polly flicked her bangs from her eyes and rolled her eyes, “Not me. I’m going Gryffindor, for sure. My brother’s there. He says it’s where all the brave ones go.” She puckered her lips again—this time sneering. The gum cracked again.

Myrtle tilted her head, trying to catch up. “Houses? What are those?” she asked, voice soft, curious. The girls stopped, eyes turning on her so suddenly and so sharply it made Myrtle flinch. The silence snapped tight.

Mary stared, eyebrows raised, her lips curled in a small, mean smile. A mean smile Myrtle hates. “You don’t know? Have you been living under a rock?” The words hung in the air, before she burst out laughing, the others joining in.

Myrtle’s hands twisted in her lap, her cheeks flaming. “Wait,” Mary said, leaning in, her voice slow and mocking. “You actually don’t know?” Her words dripped with disbelief. Polly tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. She leaned closer to Myrtle. Myrtle could practically feel her breath on her pink-tinted cheeks. “Are you a Muggle-born?”

Myrtle blinked, her mouth dry. “A what?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What’s a Muggle?” Her stomach twisted. The words felt thick in her mouth, like she was already wrong, already behind.

Olive grinned wide, her eyes glinting. “Oh! You are!” she said, a loud, delighted laugh bursting out. They all laughed, the sound filling the compartment, bouncing off the walls like echoes. Myrtle’s cheeks burned hot, her fists clenching in her lap.

“Couldn’t you just explain nicely what the houses mean?” she snapped, her voice cracking, frustration spilling out. And god, she did try and glare harshly on those mean girls. The laughter faltered. Olive froze mid-chew. Polly’s eyes flashed, and she leaned in even closer. Chest brushing Myrtle’s shoulder.

“Get off of me,” Myrtle muttered, shifting away, her shoulder bumping the window. The air felt tight, like the room was shrinking. Polly leaned back, blinking in surprise like she’d been slapped. Mary, the blonde, stood up sharply.

“How dare you talk to Polly like that!” she huffed, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt, her voice high. “You—you weird-talking-voice girl!” Her face twisted in a sneer, and she grabbed her trunk from above with a sharp yank. Mary stomped and opened the compartment door with a bang!

Polly muttered under her breath, her blue eyes flashing. “And super cheap clothes,” she hissed, her lip curling. She stood, her trunk clattering as she pulled it down, and shot Myrtle a last glare before following Mary out.

Olive stood last, pausing by the door. She flipped her hair, the gum crackling between her teeth. “And weird two little ponytails,” she said. Then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind them.

Myrtle sat alone, the quiet pressing in like a blanket. Her hands trembled as she smoothed down her skirt, her chest tight. What a great introduction to the school. What a start. She had dreamed of having friends. Guess that vanished.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The boats rocked softly across the dark water of the lake, the lanterns casting glimmers across the rippling surface. Myrtle had arrived now. And she was so giddish and excited she forgot everything about those three girls.

Myrtle clutched the edge of her boat so tightly her knuckles ached, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the sight of the castle looming above them. Hogwarts. It was real. 

As the boat bumped softly against the shore of the boathouse, Myrtle felt her breath catch. The castle towered high above. She stumbled out of the boat behind the others, her legs trembling from excitement, and she barely noticed Olive Hornby shooting her a smug look over her shoulder. 

It didn’t matter. Not now. Not with the castle right there. The stone steps were damp with water. The students climbed, and Myrtle’s heart hammered in her chest.

The cold air bit at her cheeks as they trudged up the long path toward the entrance hall. Her mind was racing with questions. What would the classes be like? The dormitories? Would she make friends? Will it snow magical snow in winter?

Her shoes squelched on the wet surface, but she didn’t care. She was too busy craning her neck to see every detail of the vast stone walls and the huge oak doors. Gosh this place is so bloody big and… old. No. Ancient.

Then, they stopped—halted in a small stone chamber off the entrance. Myrtle looked around, her heart still thudding. And then he stepped forward—a man, tall and pale, with a long white beard and hair so pale it seemed to glow. He wore half-moon spectacles that glinted as he looked over them, his gaze gentle and kind. 

Myrtle liked that.

“Good evening, children,” the man said softly, his voice calm. “I am Professor Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, and Head of Gryffindor House.” His eyes twinkled as he looked at each of them, and Myrtle felt the tightness in her chest ease just a little. “I hope your journey was pleasant, your adventure just beginning.”

He paused, and then continued, “Now, I imagine you’ve all heard a bit about Hogwarts Houses. But let me explain properly, for it is quite important. You see, Hogwarts is more than just a school—it is a family. Each of you will belong to one of four Houses, where you will make friends, where you will learn, and where you will be part of a team.”

Myrtle swallowed, hugging her coat tighter around her.

Dumbledore’s voice was soft. “There is Gryffindor, known for bravery, daring, and chivalry. There is Hufflepuff, for those who are loyal, fair, and hardworking. Ravenclaw values intelligence, wisdom, and wit. And Slytherin... for those with ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness.”

His words hung in the air, and Myrtle could feel the other students shifting, whispering quietly to each other. Dumbledore smiled gently, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Throughout the year, you will earn and lose points for your House based on your achievements and, occasionally, your... misadventures. At the end of the year, the House Cup will be awarded to the House with the most points. So you see, this is not just a matter of where you sleep—it is your home here at Hogwarts.”

Myrtle’s head was spinning. Houses? Points? She barely caught the part about misadventures, but she swallowed it down, cheeks pink with excitement. She didn’t know where she belonged, but she wanted to find out— desperately .

Dumbledore nodded, voice warm as ever, “Now, let’s get going, shall we? The Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly.”

Myrtle found herself swept up with the others. They moved as one group toward the Great Hall, and Myrtle’s feet felt like they weren’t touching the ground.

Polly bumped her shoulder hard as they walked, blowing a raspberry close to her ear before darting off. Myrtle flinched, grumbling under her breath, but she barely cared—she was too busy staring around at the portraits that moved, the torches flickering with magical light. Awesome magical lights.

A soft voice beside her murmured, “Oh dear me...” Myrtle turned sharply, blinking at the girl beside her—pale blonde hair so light it was almost white, eyes soft and blue like the sky. She smiled gently, holding Myrtle’s gaze. 

“Are you okay?” She asked.

Myrtle blinked, a little dazed. “I—I am, thanks,” she managed to say, looking away awkwardly. The girl fell into step beside her, her hair catching the light.

“I’m Euphenia, Euphenia Merriweather.” the girl said softly, extending her hand.

Myrtle stared for a second too long before remembering to take it. Her palm felt sweaty, but Euphenia didn’t seem to mind. “I’m Myrtle. Myrtle Warren.”

“Nice to meet you, Myrtle,” Euphenia said, smiling warmly as they walked together.

The doors to the Great Hall opened wide, and Myrtle’s breath caught in her throat. The ceiling... It was like the night sky itself had come down and spread across the room. “Bloody hell…” Myrtle cursed. She side-eyes Euphenia — thinking she’ll give her weird glances — but instead she just squeals and smiles excitedly. 

There were candles that floated high above, each flame flickering like a tiny lantern in the vast space. The air smelled warm.

Myrtle’s jaw dropped open. She stared up, barely noticing the murmur of the students settling at the tables, the rustle of robes, the chatter. It was beautiful—more beautiful than she ever could have imagined.

She tried to drink it all in. It was overwhelming.

Up at the front, a tall, elderly wizard with a white beard and white hair stood at the lectern. He raised his hands, the hall slowly quieting as the voices hushed and the students turned their attention forward. 

Myrtle felt her heart race. She was here. She was really here. The Sorting Ceremony was about to begin…

Chapter 4: II

“Myrtle Warren.”

Her name echoed across the hall. Myrtle’s legs moved stiffly before her mind caught up. She barely felt her feet on the stone floor as she walked up the long stretch toward the Sorting Hat. Her palms were slicky–sweaty–ew-y.

She had seen Olive Hornby get sorted into Ravenclaw not five minutes earlier. The table had cheered, Olive had tossed her hair, and Myrtle had silently, silently hoped she’d be sent anywhere else. Anywhere Olive wasn’t. But now it was her turn.

She sat down on the wooden stool, her knees trembling. The hat was placed over her head, slipping low past her eyebrows. She clutched the edge of the bench with both hands. And then, suddenly, a voice spoke into her ear. Not out loud—but inside her head.

It was startling. Weird. Borderline insane. Magic do this?

“Oh... well, well, what do we have here? A curious mind indeed. Timid? Certainly. But oh— so much in there . You want to be brave, don’t you? Not brave like Gryffindor. Brave like... someone who refuses to stay small.”

Myrtle swallowed hard. She didn’t know how to speak back—could it hear her thoughts? Her heart thudded like a drum. The hat chuckled softly.

“You’ve got it all. The hunger to prove yourself. A mind like clockwork, ticking and ticking and ticking, Tick Tick! Not Slytherin... not Hufflepuff either, though you’d be safe there. Oh no. No, Ravenclaw’s the one.”

She tensed. Ravenclaw ? She could see Olive Hornby’s smug face. Her stomach twisted.

“Oh, don’t worry about her ,” the hat said lightly. “You’ll outgrow all of them. Tiny Myrtle, yes, but you deserve to grow. And Ravenclaw will feed that big, big mind of yours.”

There was no time to protest. The hat shouted, “ RAVENCLAW !” and the hall burst into applause. 

The hat lifted off her head, and Myrtle stood, blinking, walking toward the Ravenclaw table like she wasn’t really walking at all.

She slid onto the bench, a few students down from Olive, who didn’t look at her. Mary was seated even closer—smirking quietly, her arms folded primly. Myrtle stared at the table instead, her ears hot. Her legs were still shaking.

She glanced around, searching. Polly had already been sorted—into Gryffindor. She’d grinned proudly when the hat shouted it. Myrtle’s eyes finally landed on Euphenia just as the girl was placed under the hat. It took less than a moment.

“ HUFFLEPUFF !”

Euphenia beamed and skipped to the table. Myrtle raised her hand and waved. Euphenia caught it instantly and waved back, grinning so hard her whole face scrunched up. Myrtle smiled back, for the first time tonight, and felt a small weight lift.

The last few students were sorted, and then the Headmaster stood. 

Headmaster Dippet—the man earlier, the balding old man—raised both arms. The room quieted at once. His voice was firm.

“Welcome, first-years. And welcome back, students of all houses. You stand now within the walls of one of the greatest magical institutions in the world. Hogwarts will be your home, your training ground, and your responsibility.”

He paced slowly, his eyes sweeping over the rows. “You will learn charms, potions, history, spells, theory, and more—but more than that, you will learn who you are, and who you may become. Hogwarts doesn’t only teach magic—it teaches discipline , honour , and unity .”

The room was still. Myrtle leaned forward without realizing. Even the older students were listening.

“You will be tested. You will be challenged. You may even fail. But never forget—you are part of a house now. And with that house, you rise. Together. I wish you courage, curiosity, and above all— kindness .”

There was silence for a beat—and then applause. It filled the hall like rain, loud and rolling. Myrtle clapped along, still stunned, still not sure it was all real. And then, without warning, food exploded onto the tables.

She gasped. Dishes, platters, plates full of steaming roasts, puddings, jellies, bread, fruit, pies, and strange little sparkling pitchers filled the once-empty table. Her jaw dropped open, and she didn’t even notice Mary scoff quietly from her left.

She reached out, still half-dazed, and grabbed a piece of roast chicken. The moment it hit her tongue, her eyes fluttered shut. It was warm and rich and better than anything she had ever tasted. The potatoes melted in her mouth. The pumpkin juice tasted better than back home.

She didn’t even care about Olive. Or Mary. Or Polly. 

She just kept eating, trying one thing after another, her cheeks puffed, her hands flying from plate to plate. She had never felt so full. Never felt so welcome. Never felt more magic in her whole life.

Myrtle grinned, her mouth still full. She was here. She was magic.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was October, maybe November. Myrtle had lost track. 

The castle had gone cold, her breath fogging in the early mornings, and Myrtle hated how the air had made her feel like a corpse. She wrapped her scarf twice around her neck these days.

She had started wondering if the Sorting Hat had made a mistake. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe she didn’t belong in Ravenclaw at all. No one ever said she was clever. No one sat with her. No one really wanted her there.

Professor Merrythought had praised her last Tuesday. “Miss Warren, spot on. Very good,” she’d said, nodding after Myrtle answered all five rapid-fire questions about hinkypunks and jinx-countering. Myrtle had gone to bed that night trying to remember the way it felt—being seen, for once.

But that was the only good thing. 

Olive had pushed her down the Ravenclaw common room’s spiral staircase the day before. Myrtle’s knees were still scraped. Everyone laughed. Mary had looked away, pretending not to see. And last weekend, she’d poured freezing water on Myrtle’s head during her shower, giggling all the while.

Mary didn’t join in. She always said, with a toss of her perfect curls, “I’m too well-bred to involve myself in playground cruelty .” But she still laughed. She still watched.

So Myrtle stayed away when she could. She spent her time in the library now, tucked into corners, pressed behind high stacks. 

She flipped through a copy of Advanced Herbology , too difficult for her year, but the drawings were coloured and detailed. She liked imagining they were real, that she could grow a plant meaner than Olive Hornby and throw it at her in the corridor.

A sudden burst of laughter passed behind the shelves. Myrtle stiffened. Footsteps. Boys’ voices. Older. Confident. She shrank a little further behind the books. Myrtle froze, peeking through the space between Herbology and Venomous Greenery . Her heart picked up, like it always did when she wasn’t sure if someone might see her.

A group of third-years walked past. Their elegant robes moved like water and they had pointy polished shoes. They smelled super expensive. At the center of them—taller, straighter, calmer—was a boy. 

He walked a little slower. Black hair. Pale skin. A perfect posture like he’d never once slouched in his life. His hands were tucked behind his back. His eyes were dark and sharp. Super sharp. Something about him—she didn’t know what —made her chest tighten.

She stared before she could stop herself.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. But he looked at her. Her . Not his friends. Not the two older Slytherin girls at the table nearby with their shiny pretty thick hair and dainty crossed legs. He looked at Myrtle . Just for a second. Then he walked on.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He was beautiful. That was the word. Not pretty. Not handsome. Beautiful . 

He looked like something from a story—so serious and so perfect and so far , far above everything in this school. She ducked back behind her book, her cheeks burning, lips pressed together.

He’d never speak to her. Of course not. Boys like that didn’t even see girls like her. Maybe it was just a mistake. Maybe he’d been thinking of something else. Maybe she had food on her face. She rubbed her cheek quickly.

From the other side of the room, a pair of voices rose in whispers—The Slytherin girls. Myrtle leaned forward, inching closer to the edge of the book stack. Their laughter was quiet. Pretty laughter. That’s what Myrtle liked to call those types of posh laughter.

“I swear, Tom Riddle could tell me to drown myself and I’d say thank you,” one said, giggling. “You’re disgusting,” the other whispered. “But same. I tried to sit next to him in Potions. He didn’t even look at me.”

“Do you think he likes anyone? Like... like -likes?”

“No one. He doesn’t even notice people unless they’re clever. Or... useful.”

“Still. He’s perfect.”

“Obviously.”

Myrtle stayed frozen, the name echoing through her head. Tom Riddle. That was his name. Tom. It didn’t suit him. It sounded normal. He didn’t look normal. He looked like something that’s not even human.

She peeked again. He was at the far table now, leaning over a book with the other boys. They hung on his every word, laughing when he said something, adjusting their ties like they wanted his approval. He said something Myrtle couldn’t hear and closed the book softly.

He looked back once more. She saw it. Just the briefest glance. Then he turned again, and the boys followed him as he walked away, back into the maze of shelves, into the dark.

She sat very still. Her hands trembled slightly. Her heart was still racing. “Tom Riddle…” She whispered it once under her breath. 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The steam curled from the teacup, fogging Myrtle’s glasses slightly as she sipped. The tea was warm, spiced with something faintly floral, and sweet enough that she didn’t need to add sugar. Professor Merrythought had made it herself—no magic involved.

The old witch sat across from her, shawl draped around her thin shoulders, silver curls pinned back in tidy spirals. Her face was soft, but her eyes were sharp and bright, and Myrtle couldn’t help but feel safer here than she had anywhere else in the castle.

In her office, there were skulls on the shelves, too, but none of them were scary. Even the skulls looked... peaceful.

“You let me know if she so much as looks at you the wrong way again,” Merrythought said calmly, tapping her teacup with one long finger. “Miss Hornby may be clever with words, but she’s not above the rules.”

Myrtle swallowed another sip, her hands curled tight around the cup. “She poured soap into my shoes last week,” she muttered. “Then told everyone I stank like a toilet because I was 'so used to it.'”

Merrythought raised an eyebrow. “Charming,” she said dryly. “I’ll speak with Professor Flitwick. And I’ll have a word with Dumbledore, as well. This sort of behaviour is exactly what we do not allow here.”

Myrtle nodded, but her throat felt tight. 

“Do you want to go over your notes from this week?” Merrythought asked gently. “I know it’s nearly curfew, but I always find that studying keeps the bad feelings away longer.” Myrtle nodded again, more quickly this time. “We were doing boggarts and hinkypunks, right?”

“Correct. Boggarts are shape-shifters—take the form of your worst fear,” the professor said, leaning forward slightly. “And how do we deal with them?”

“ Riddikulus, ” Myrtle said quickly. “And laughter.”

“Good girl. You’re sharp,” Merrythought said, smiling softly. “You remind me of another Ravenclaw I taught once. Same stubborn little brow. Always sat in the front row, even when she didn’t feel like she belonged.”

Myrtle flushed. Her ears warmed, but it wasn’t like the burning kind she got from embarrassment—it was better. She pushed up her glasses and set her cup down carefully, her voice small. “I... I try really hard. I like your class the best.”

“I know you do,” Merrythought said, chuckling gently. “You take every question like it’s a puzzle to solve. You’ve got a clever head, Myrtle. Don’t let anyone beat it out of you.”

The fire crackled. Outside, thunder rolled over the hills. Myrtle tucked her legs up on the chair, knees to her chest. “I have a friend,” she said after a while. “In Hufflepuff. Her name’s Euphenia.” Merrythought raised a brow, sipping. “Lovely name.”

“She bakes,” Myrtle said, unable to hide the small smile pulling at her lips. “Well. Her mum sends her all sorts of biscuits and jam tarts. She gives me half, even if I don’t ask. Sometimes she waits for me after History of Magic, just to walk together.”

“She sounds like someone worth keeping,” Merrythought said, eyes soft now. “Those kinds of friendships are stronger than most people think.”

“I think so too,” Myrtle mumbled, hugging her knees. “She’s the only person who never laughs when I talk. And she never says my name like it’s not something weird.” Merrythought leaned back with a long sigh, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “People are cruel when they’re young. And sometimes even when they’re old. But when you find someone kind—you hold onto them.”

Myrtle nodded slowly, staring at the flames licking the edges of the hearth. Her voice came out quieter than she meant. “Sometimes I think maybe I shouldn’t have been in Ravenclaw.”

“Oh?” Merrythought asked, opening one eye. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’m not like the others,” Myrtle said, tracing the edge of the teacup. “I’m not clever all the time. And I’m not quick. And everyone just thinks I’m weird. Maybe the hat made a mistake.”

Merrythought hummed low in her throat. “That hat’s been on more heads than I’ve had cups of tea in this castle. And it saw something in you, Myrtle. Something bright. You don’t have to be loud to be clever. You just have to stay curious .”

Myrtle smiled, fighting off the sting in her eyes. She wished she could live in this office. In this quiet. With the tea and the books and the warmth. The clock chimed gently from the mantle. Nearly curfew.

Merrythought rose slowly, her joints cracking. “Come now. Let’s get you back to your tower before someone tries to give me detention for keeping you past hours.” She reached out, ruffled Myrtle’s hair gently. “But you’re always welcome here, Myrtle. Don’t forget that.”

Myrtle stood, teacup in hand, heart full. She nodded once, fiercely. “Thank you, Professor.” Her voice was small.

Chapter 5: III

Lestrange had been talking for nearly ten minutes with Augarta clinging to his arm. Something about Filch catching Abery sneaking dungbombs into the Charms corridor. Avery laughed every time he tried to explain, gesturing wildly, out of breath from how funny he thought he was.

Tom walked beside them, silent.

He nodded where he had to, smiled when appropriate. The rest was fog. He didn’t care about dungbombs or Filch’s threats. He cared about other things—things they never noticed. Who went where. Who had influence. Which professors were predictable. Which students were weak.

They turned left at the hallway just before the Defense corridor. Avery kicked a suit of armor as they passed and Augareta let out a scowl. While Augareta was too busy scolding Avery, Lestrange turn to Tom: “You coming to the common room, Riddle?”

“I’ll walk by myself,” Tom said without slowing.

They didn’t question him. They never did. Lestrange gave a mock bow and strutted ahead. Tom waited until their footsteps faded down the stairs. Then he turned the opposite way, hands in his pockets, the halls near-empty in the hour before curfew.

The castle was thinning out. Curfew hovered, the corridors stretched long and empty, and Tom Riddle walked with hands folded neatly behind his back. 

He took the long route back to the dungeons. Up near the Defense corridor. The windows were misted with frost. The wind outside howled. As he rounded the bend near Professor Merrythought’s office, the door clicked open.

She stepped out.

That girl.

The girl was small. He recognized the shape of her, even if he didn’t know her name. First year. Ravenclaw. He remembered her from the library—a jittery little thing hidden behind a stack of herbology books she had no business reading.

Her robes were crooked. Her glasses slid down her nose. Her eyes were puffy and red. She had been crying.

She stumbled a bit as she stepped out. Her shoes still awkward—sticking slightly. Tom noted that. Some hex, likely Hornby’s work. Tom knew Hornby because everyone had been talking about the funny first-year Ravenclaw that is good with pranks. 

The girl sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Her glasses were fogged, her robes wrinkled. Pathetic, really . But curious. Professor Merrythought followed her to the corridor, voice kind. Too kind.

“Take care going back, Myrtle. And remember what I said—if she bothers you again, you come to me . All right? No shame in that.”

“Yes, Professor,” the girl mumbled. “Goodnight, dear,” Merrythought said, gently brushing Myrtle’s shoulder. “And do warm that tea up if you’re keeping it. Still a chill tonight.”

Tom had stepped back into the shadows beside the tall torch bracket. He stayed still. Listening. Watching. Observing the way Merrythought looked at the girl—with pity .

The girl hugged the mug to her chest, nodding quickly. Professor Merrythought stood in the doorway for another beat before turning in, her door creaking shut behind her. The latch clicked softly. The corridor fell into its quiet again. 

Tom tilted his head slightly.

The girl had access to Merrythought’s office. That was rare. Most professors didn’t open their doors to crying first years past dinner. Most professors didn’t give permission like that. The girl must’ve come often. Regularly enough to earn trust.

She was unnoticed by the others, invisible in most rooms. Alone often. The kind of student no one asked about. No one watched closely. But the kind that teachers—soft-hearted ones—watched with gentle eyes. Open doors. 

Pity was power. If you knew what to do with it.

The girl stopped—as if sensing him—she turned. Her eyes scanned the corridor, dazed, unfocused. She squinted toward the dark. And she saw him.

Tom didn’t move. He just stepped smoothly from the shadows, like he had always meant to be there, walking. Calm. Polished. As if nothing in the world could surprise him. His hands behind his back. His shoes silent.

He passed her without a glance now. Not too fast. Not enough to make her suspicious. But just slow enough for her to wonder—had he been standing there the whole time? Watching her speak to the professor? Watching her come apart?

She stared after him, frozen.

He didn’t look back. But he could feel her eyes on him the entire way down the corridor, until he vanished into the shadows again.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The Great Hall was noisy with the sound of forks scraping plates, first-years bickering, and owls swooping in late with their morning post. The light through the enchanted ceiling was soft, pale with winter clouds. Tom stirred his porridge slowly, unread copy of the Daily Prophet beside his cup.

Avery was already halfway through his toast and halfway through his usual rant. “—I’m telling you, she was looking at me. In Potions. I don’t care what Lestrange says, I saw it. That curl-twirling thing they do? That’s code. It’s always code.” 

Tom didn’t answer.

Avery threw a sausage on his plate and kept going, undeterred. “I’m not saying I like her, I’m just saying she’s... aware. Of me. There’s awareness. Awareness is everything. And anyway, I’m not in the mood to marry a girl with ten cats. You saw her socks.”

Tom’s spoon hovered mid-air. He hadn’t heard half of what Avery had said.

He was watching the Hufflepuff table.

The blonde girl from before—he recognized her, vaguely. Euphenia something. Sweet. Polite. Hufflepuff pureblood. She laughed too loudly. But it wasn’t her who had caught his attention.

Next to her, slouched awkwardly over a plate of eggs and jam, was the girl. Ravenclaw. The one from the library. From the hallway. From Merrythought’s office. Her robes were rumpled, her glasses slipping. She was laughing too—mouth full, eyes bright, jam on the corner of her lip.

Tom stared.

“Mateship,” Avery said, jabbing his fork at Tom’s arm. “Are you listening ? I just asked whether you think it’d be worth nicking the Beater’s gloves from Gryffindor’s kit cupboard.”

Tom blinked. “What?”

“I said are you listening or are you staring at—” He paused, then turned his head. Towards the Hufflepuff table row. “What? You fancy Hufflepuff girls now, mate?”

Tom nudged him sharply with one elbow, not even looking. “Shut it, Avery,” he muttered, the words tight behind clenched teeth. He cut his eggs with unnecessary force, the metal scraping loud against the plate.

Avery snorted into his goblet. “Alright, alright. Keep your wand on. Thought you were off in space or something—”

“What’s her name?” Tom asked suddenly, quiet, eyes still fixed across the hall. “The Ravenclaw. Sitting with the Hufflepuff.” 

Avery blinked. “Which one?”

Tom gestured slightly with his chin. “Two seats from the end. Glasses.”

Avery followed his gaze, then let out a bark of laughter. “Riddle. You like those types of lass?” He shoved Tom’s arm. “The clumsy little ones? Messy looking?” 

Tom turned his head slowly. One look. That was all it took.

Avery cleared his throat. “Right. She's a Muggle-born. Myrtle. Myrtle something. She’s in Ravenclaw, yeah.” He mumbled. “That Hornby prankster girl hexed her shoes last Monday, remember?”

Tom didn’t answer. He was watching her again. Her name was Myrtle. That fit. Something thin and shrill about it. Something old. It clicked in his head and stuck. Stuck in place—cold and unmoving. Myrtle .

Tom’s brow twitched. “What happened?”

“Big scene,” Avery said, grinning. “Courtyard was howling . She tripped over herself like a baby goat. Crying and everything. That Hornby girl’s nasty, but she’s clever. Got her good.”

Tom remembered now. Vaguely. He hadn’t cared at the time. But now—he saw it differently. Her. A punchline, a target. Easily forgotten by everyone but teachers. Easily dismissed. Weak.

Myrtle.

He kept repeating it in his mind. His fingers drummed the table softly. He’d seen her at Merrythought’s door. He’d seen the way she tried to disappear. He watched the way her face lit up with attention, even bad attention.

Myrtle.

She wouldn’t matter to anyone. Not really. Not in the long run. But she watched people. She remembered things. Presumably. And people overlooked her because they thought she was no one. But Tom had a rule: there was no such thing as no one.

Myrtle.

She was always alone. Except today.

She was laughing again now, mouth open, hair wild. Her glasses almost slipped down the bridge of her nose. Tom stared. Just watching. Myrtle . He filed it away. Neatly. Quietly. And finally, turned back to his plate.

Myrtle.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The air in the library was colder than usual, still and heavy. The windows were fogged in the corners. Tom’s quill tapped once, twice, again against his open notebook, but he hadn’t written anything for several minutes.

He had read every page in The Founders: Fact and Folklore three times. Nothing useful. Just vague mentions of Salazar Slytherin’s ideals. Nothing about the chamber. Nothing specific. Nothing powerful. The answers were not in these shelves. 

He glanced again toward the gates of the Restricted Section.

Chains. Lock. Charm-sealed.

His eyes narrowed. He knew how to break it. He had been practicing. But it would be easier if he could walk in. Safer. Cleaner. The key was held by Madam Pince. He would need an excuse she’d believe. He needed a professor’s note.

He needed a way in.

He leaned back slightly, fingers resting on the edge of the page. His gaze drifted again. And then—it landed. She was here again.

The girl. Myrtle.

Sitting at a table near the ropes. Bent over a thick book with her chin nearly on the pages. Glasses slipping again. One plait coming loose. Her fingers traced something on the page, lips moving silently as she read.

She was reading near the restricted section and wandering around. No one stopped her. Not even Madam Pince, who watched most first-years like they were born to destroy books. Myrtle was just... there. As if she always was. She looked like part of the furniture. No one noticed her. No one cared.

But she was always near the Restricted Section.

That little Muggle-born thing.

Tom made a note of it. Just one more quiet piece in a larger game. She probably didn’t even realise how close she was to dangerous things. Or maybe she did. That thought lingered. He sat down a few rows back, open book in front of him, but his eyes weren’t on the text.

He watched her. For a long time.

The sunlight through the high window caught the outline of her face. Sharp cheek. Pale skin. A frown that looked like it had always been there. And then—softly, so softly—she started humming.

He didn’t recognise the tune. But it was repetitive. Odd. Childish. Off-key. She hummed like she didn’t care who heard it. And for a moment, Tom didn’t care either. He just watched. Just sat there, watching her read.

She squinted. Pulled her plait over her shoulder. Pushed up her glasses. Turned the page again. Tom hadn’t moved. He sat completely still. 

It was wrong, this— watching . Not because he felt guilt. He never did. But because there was no reason for it. He wasn’t watching to study her, to plan anything, to measure usefulness. He was just watching her face.

He snapped out of it when the pages of his own book shifted. The sound jolted him. He turned back to his notes, forcing his eyes down. Forced himself to copy out a line, underline a phrase. Four founders. The descent into division…

He heard her chair scrape back.

Tom looked up. Myrtle gathered her things in a rush, whispering something under her breath. Her hair tangled behind her as she shoved a parchment into her book, eyes flicking toward the door.

She left quickly. Tom noticed Olive Hornby a few aisles over, smirking with that self-satisfied tilt of her head. Figures.

He rose and crossed to where Myrtle had been sitting. The book was still warm from her elbows. On the table—a note. She forgot one when she was busy shoving her notes in her bag.

He slid it into his palm.

Back at his seat, he unfolded it with care.

The pages were smudged with ink. The handwriting was small. He tilted it toward the light. Half of it was Defense notes—really well-organized. She’d even drawn diagrams for hex formations. And notes, but not classroom ones. These were hers. Her private thoughts. Her observations.  

He skimmed down to the other half, where the real interest began:

D.A.D.A: Personal Practice Notes

• Banshee Repellent Charm = Mute-Vox, non-verbal casting. Flick wrist inward, sharp slash up, not down (that causes scream echo).
• Rictusempra is best paired with Disarming Charm. Use laughter to disorient, then disarm in a blink.
• Counter-Jelly-Legs: Tarsus-Resto. Visualise anchor, not balance. Anchor into ground. Think “stop.”
• Against a lethifold (hypothetical): light projection too weak, but Protego + Lumos Maxima might ward off temporarily. Test if ever accessible (check library).
• The major difference between the Laceration Curse and the Skin-Splitting Hex lies in the intention—One seeks to wound; the other, to humiliate
  
  

He blinked.

There were diagrams, too. Wand movements traced in loops. Etc etc. Notes about shielding techniques. Cross-referenced page numbers. References from Intermediate Hex Theory —which he hadn’t expected a first-year to even touch .

And then another section. Not spells.

Castle Observations:

• • Fourth floor near west tapestry creaks three seconds before staff approach. Possible corridor patrol routine.
  • Euphie said she heard water rushing behind the walls during her Astronomy walk, but we’re on the seventh floor. There shouldn’t be pipes. Unless they run up… or under.
  • Prof. Merrythought’s office: open if you knock softly, twice, then wait. (She likes when you wait. Test?
  • There’s a portrait near the old trophy room that always winks when someone passes—but only on Thursdays. I don’t know why yet. It’s not a cursed frame. But maybe it’s hiding a passage?

 

He flipped the page. There were notes about hinkypunks, yes—but also ones about Inferi. About obscure spells like Increbrus —a binding spell only taught to third-years in dueling clubs. She’d copied down the full incantation. Then annotated it.

He sat back slowly.

He read it again.

And again.

His foot tapped once. Then twice.

He hummed under his breath. Just a whisper of sound. The same little tune she’d been humming earlier without knowing. It lodged somewhere behind his skull.

She was smart. More than that—she was curious. In the way most people weren’t. She looked around corners. She watched without being seen. She wrote everything down. And no one noticed her. Not even the professors who pitied her.

Myrtle .

He folded the note again, slower this time. Slid it into his pocket. His fingers tapped the spine of his book, but he wasn’t reading anymore. Not really. Not the words on the page. He was reading her. She’d seen patterns. Tiny ones. She saw things others ignored, remembered details.

He had been wrong.

This Muggle-born is curious. And clever.

More clever than he thought.

Chapter 6: IIII

Late November 1940.

Myrtle was running as fast as her legs would let her. Her bag bounced wildly against her hip, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. Olive’s shriek echoed off the walls. Stupid stupid big loud Olive. “Hold her, Polly! I’ve got the toad!”

Their footsteps slammed behind her. Myrtle nearly slipped rounding the corner to the dungeon stairs. “Go away! ” she screeched, half out of breath. But Olive’s laugh came back sharp—“Come on, Myrtle, it’s just a toad ! You like slimy things!”

Polly was snorting behind her, holding something squirming in her fist. “Gonna drop it right down your skirt, Warren!” 

Myrtle flew down the dungeon steps, heart hammering, robes flapping. She didn’t care where she was going—just away . She turned sharply and saw the bowl of fruit painting. She remembered what Euphenia told her—that it’s the way to the kitchen—she tickled the pear on the painting and pushed through the painting door. The castle kitchen.

The warm blast of steam smacked her in the face. Dozens of house-elves blinked up at her, startled. At the far counter, Euphenia turned from a pile of onions, knife in one hand, brows raised. “Myrtle?”

“I— they’re chasing me! ” Myrtle gasped, waving toward the door.

Euphenia dropped the knife, grabbed her by the sleeve. “Come on. Here. ” She dragged Myrtle fast behind a stack of barrels filled with flour sacks. The kitchen smelled like gravy and freshly baked bread. They crouched just as the door banged open.

Olive burst in, hair windblown, Polly right behind. Olive’s skirt was lopsided, and the toad was still wriggling in her hand. “She ran in here, I saw her,” she huffed. “Wha—so this is the kitchen… How did Myrtle—”

Polly peered around, squinting. “I swear she came in here. Myrtle? Come on. Don’t you want to meet your new pet ?”

An elf wearing a checked apron scurried up, waving his long fingers sternly. “No chasing! No yelling! This is a working kitchen!” Olive rolled her eyes. “We’re looking for someone—”

“Still no yelling!” the elf snapped. “If you don’t help peel potatoes, out with you!” Polly muttered something under her breath. Olive sighed dramatically. “She’s probably crying in the corner again. Come on.” They left in a grumble of footsteps. The door thudded shut again. Euphenia peeked up first, then motioned Myrtle out.

“That was ridiculous ,” Euphenia said, brushing flour off her skirt. “Honestly, who does that? I mean—what’s wrong with them?” Myrtle sniffled once, brushing her sleeve over her eyes. “They said they were going to put it down my skirt. Like inside it.”

Euphenia’s nose wrinkled. “That’s just—gross. You alright?” She picked her knife back up, went back to the mountain of onions. “You want to stay here for a bit?”

“I guess,” Myrtle mumbled. She glanced at the counter. “Why are you even cutting onions? Are you in trouble?”

“No,” Euphenia said with a grin. “I like helping. Me and Bims—we bake stuff sometimes. He says I’ve got good slicing hands.” 

Bims, a tiny elf with bat-like ears, waved at Myrtle from behind a stack of bread dough. Myrtle gave a shy wave back. “They let you use a knife?”

“Only the small ones,” Euphenia said. “Here, look—” She held one up. Myrtle squinted. It looked like a butter knife with a point. Myrtle leaned her elbows on the counter. “We were going to go to the library today, remember?”

“I know! ” Euphenia groaned. “But I have to finish twenty-six more onions first. Bims counted.” Myrtle’s mouth fell open. “ Twenty-six? That’s so unfair.”

“Tell me about it.” Euphenia blew a strand of hair from her face. “My eyes are already crying. I think I’ve lost, like, half my vision .” Myrtle sighed and stole a stool from under the table. “I’m not helping. I’m watching. And I’m going to complain the whole time.”

“Fine,” Euphenia said dramatically. “But you have to count how many I’ve done. And don’t lie like last time.”

“I didn’t lie,” Myrtle huffed. “You just lost count. You’re bad with numbers.”

“Rude,” Euphenia said. She grinned again. “But true.”

They fell into quiet again—Myrtle watched the knife move back and forth, fast and steady. Myrtle leaned forward, chin in her palm. “Do you think Olive will ever stop?” Euphenia shrugged. “I think she’ll get bored eventually. But if she doesn’t, I’ll punch her.” Myrtle laughed once. It surprised her. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Euphenia said, eyes shining. “Right in the nose. Very poshly.” 

Myrtle snorted. “Can we go after... onion twenty-six?”

“Yes, Myrtle,” Euphenia sighed. “After twenty-six. Cross your heart.”

“Fine,” Myrtle said, smiling slightly. “But I’m counting.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The library was unusually quiet for a Monday. 

Myrtle and Euphenia sat cross-legged on the floor near the Restricted Section, leaning over their parchment, surrounded by open books, scattered around. Madam Pince glanced over once but didn’t say anything. She never did when it was Myrtle.

Myrtle scribbled something fast about puffapods, tongue sticking slightly out between her teeth. “Alright, what does it actually do again?” Euphenia tapped her quill against her nose. “You plant it, then it blooms instantly when it touches the soil. Like poof. Sparkles and all.”

“Poof,” Myrtle repeated, unimpressed. “I sneezed last time and Professor Gallard ducked like I hexed him.”

“Because your poof was a mini explosion,” Euphenia said, grinning. “You turned Megan Goldstein’s fringe orange.”

“She looked better that way,” Myrtle muttered, adjusting her glasses. Euphenia giggled. “You say that like you didn’t panic and nearly cry after class.”

“I did not,” Myrtle huffed. “I just—felt bad . It was an accident.”

“Yeah, well. You’re too nice,” Euphenia said, poking her quill into her bun. “I would’ve turned her eyebrows orange too, if I could.” Myrtle smiled faintly and bent back over the page. “Okay. Puffapods. Instant bloom. Very sensitive to sudden movement. Next?”

“Gillyweed,” Euphenia said, flipping the book. “Makes you grow gills and breathe underwater. Imagine eating that before bath time.”

“I’d drown in the sink, ” Myrtle whispered dramatically, covering her face. They both snorted, shoving shoulders, drawing a sharp “Shhh!” from across the shelves. They stilled like statues. Then broke into muffled giggles anyway.

After another fifteen minutes of note-taking and fussing, they began packing up. Myrtle adjusted the stack of books in her arms, arms shaking slightly under the weight. Euphenia stretched her arms overhead.

“I’ll return these. You gonna wait here or come with?”

Myrtle nodded toward their corner. “I’ve got mine. I’ll meet you at the front.”

Euphenia gave her a two-fingered salute and disappeared between the shelves. Myrtle was left with three thick volumes pressed against her chest, nearly blocking her view. She turned, careful not to trip over her own robes.

Then she froze.

There. Just passing down the corridor. Was Tom Riddle.

Her mouth went dry. He wasn’t looking at her at first—just walking, hands in his coat pockets. She watched, unable to move. His eyes swept over the corridor—and then landed briefly on her. She didn’t breathe.

“ Curious little thing, ” he murmured under his breath as he passed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even clear. But she heard it. The words brushed her ears. Her arms dropped in shock. The books tumbled with a thud onto the floor.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn. Just walked on, rounding the far corner like nothing had happened.

Myrtle knelt quickly, cheeks burning. Her hands shook as she gathered the fallen books. Her ears buzzed. Was that about her? Had he meant her? Or was she imagining it? Her stomach flipped and twisted as she cradled the stack to her chest again. “He didn’t mean me,” she muttered under her breath. “Of course not. Why would he?”

Still, her face was hot. Her palms sweaty.

She stood slowly, eyes fixed on the empty corridor where he had vanished. Her heart kept beating too hard. Why do I want him to say something else? She hated herself for thinking it. No. I must be imagining it. Boys like him would never talk to girls like me.

“You alright?” Euphenia’s voice came from behind.

Myrtle jumped. “Yeah!” she said too fast. “Just... dropped the books.” Euphenia squinted at her. “Your face is all tomato. Are you sick?” Myrtle snorted, too loud. “Shut up. I’m perfectly fine . ”

“Uh-huh.” Euphenia raised an eyebrow but let it go. “Come on, then. I’m starving.”

They walked together, the books swaying slightly in Myrtle’s grip. Her cheeks still burned as they stepped out of the library toward the Great Hall. She didn’t say another word. Not even when Euphenia asked her to guess what was for pudding.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The greenhouse smelled like the colour green today, the air sticky against Myrtle’s skin. 

Professor Beery stood at the front in his muddy robes, arms spread wide like always. His moustache twitched as he grinned. “Right, young seedlings! Today’s task is the final of the term, so I’ll have no whining and no puffapod mishaps —yes, I’m looking at you, Cauldwell.”

Tables were set up in pairs, each with a patch of enchanted soil and a small tray of puffapods—round, pale pink pods that shimmered slightly when the light hit them right. And they wobbled by themselves.

“You’ll each be paired,” Professor Beery continued, “and your task is to re-pot and groom your puffapods—gently! Don’t startle them! Don’t yank! Clean the pods, loosen the roots, water carefully, and make them look presentable! ”

Myrtle sighed, already tense. She pulled her gloves on and adjusted her ponytails with a frustrated grunt. Her name was called. “Myrtle Warren, you’ll be with—ah, yes, Awick Perks!”

“Who?” Myrtle whispered under her breath, frowning.

“Oi, that’s me!” came a voice behind her, cheerful and too loud.

She turned around. There was Awick Perks. Myrtle sighed—missing Euphenia. The Ravenclaws have scheduled Herbology class with the Gryffindors this term. So unfortunately she won’t be seeing any Euphenia in Herbology. 

Awick walked closer to her. He had freckles all across his cheeks and nose, reddish-brown hair that glowed red when the sunlight hit, and the most annoyingly wide browneyes she’d ever seen—though they had this strange yellow ring right in the middle.

“Hi,” he said, dropping his gloves with a grin. “Awick Perks. Let’s not kill it, yeah?”

“I know your name,” Myrtle muttered, adjusting her ponytails. “And I don’t plan to kill it.”

He leaned on the table like they were old friends. “Well, then you better take charge, General Myrtle. I’ll be your clumsy assistant.”

“I’m not a general,” she said flatly, already checking their puffapod’s stem. “And don’t just go cutting without checking—”

Snip.

“ Ow! ” Myrtle squeaked. The pod suddenly puffing up and releasing glittery spores that tickled her nose. Myrtle whipped her head at him. “ That stem was healthy! ” Awick winced. “Oh. Sorry—geez. Do it yourself, know-it-all .”

She narrowed her eyes. “Fine. I will.” Myrtle leaned in, trimmed the brown root gently, and wiped the pod’s fuzz with the soft brush. The plant purred. Awick blinked. 

“Woah,” he said. “You do know it all. Alright, sorry, Tails. ”

She stopped. “What?”

“Tails,” he repeated, grinning. “Because of the ponytails. You keep swishing them every time I mess something up.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

She glared. He just chuckled and poked the soil gently around the base of the plant. She sighed, deciding to ignore him entirely now. For the most part, it worked. Until he started humming annoyingly while he scooped water from the barrel.

“Stop it,” Myrtle said. Awick gave her a side-eye. “Stop what, Tails?” He said, gauging her reaction. “The humming thing. You’re doing it wrong. And annoying.” Myrtle shot him a glare. “Oh excuse me,” Awick said with exaggerated surprise. “Should I sing it next time? Puffapod, puffapod, don’t explode on meeee—” 

She snorted before she could stop herself, then quickly cleared her throat. “I heard that,” he said, grinning. “Shut up and wipe the underside of the leaves.” He did, humming louder now, and Myrtle rolled her eyes.

Then Olive—smug Olive—passed their table and flung a handful of soil right at Myrtle’s arm. It splattered down her sleeve, sticking in clumps. Myrtle was startled. But didn’t say anything. She just stared at it and said nothing.

Awick didn’t.

He picked up the biggest clump of damp soil from the tray, shaped it into a ball, and lobbed it straight at Olive’s shoulder.

It hit with a splat.

Olive gasped, her eyes huge. “ You animal! ” she hissed. “Wasn’t me,” Awick said, brushing his hands. “Must’ve been a violent puffapod.” Myrtle clamped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. Olive’s face twitched as she stormed off, soil dripping from her robes.

“Brilliant,” Myrtle whispered.

“I live to serve,” Awick whispered back.

When Professor Beery passed their table with a clipboard, he gave them a hearty, “Good work! A-minus, for effort and presentation!” Myrtle’s face fell. “We could’ve had an A.”

“What?” Awick frowned. “ What? It’s just a little stem—”

“You cut the nice stem! It had symmetrical bloom clusters!”

“It was droopy!”

“It was thriving Awick ! ”

Awick laughed, throwing his gloves into the basket. “Alright, alright—I’ll aim for a straight-A leaf next time, General. Forgive me?” She folded her arms. “Only because you hit Olive.” Myrtle mumbled. “Fair trade,” he said, bumping her shoulder. “Let’s do puffapods again sometime, Tails.”

She groaned. 

Chapter 7: V

December 1940.

Professor Horace Slughorn had arrived only two weeks ago, cheeks pink and robes bright emerald and gold, a soft, slow-walking man with a voice that curled. He smelled faintly of candy, and everyone liked him instantly.

Tom watched from the back of the Potions class, eyes narrowed slightly. Slughorn smiled often And already, he’d begun hosting his little “gatherings.”

Tonight, it was tea. Tom had received a note during breakfast. He was invited. So was Lestrange.

Slughorn’s office was warm. The fire crackled. A silver tray sat between them, stacked with biscuits and crystal glasses. Slughorn poured tea himself, his sleeves rolled up, beaming. He looked like a big circle shiny potato.

“I must say, Mr. Riddle,” Slughorn said, handing him a cup. “You’re the sort of student that reminds me why I teach. Brilliant, curious—quiet, but not dull. I daresay, you’ll do well. Very well.”

Tom took the cup with both hands. “Thank you, sir.”

Lestrange was already halfway through a biscuit, crumbs sticking to his tie. Slughorn laughed. “And you , Mr. Lestrange, always a delight. Never dull either, though a bit noisier.”

Tom smiled faintly. His eyes were busy scanning. The books on the far wall—titles faded, nothing useful. No visible mention of Hogwarts lore or obscure magical theory. A stack of papers near the fire. Old lesson plans. One silver-framed photo. Nothing.

Slughorn kept talking. “You know, your Head of House used to be Professor Damocles Belby—dreadful bore. Never once invited a student for tea, I’m told! A real shame. Terrible hair too.” Lestrange smirked into his biscuit. “Sounds like Dippet.”

“Hush,” Slughorn said, wagging a finger but laughing anyway. After a while, he said: “Tell me, Tom,” Slughorn said, leaning forward with a soft grunt. “Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do when you leave Hogwarts?”

Tom tilted his head. “A bit, sir.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Slughorn said, settling back. “Still early. But you’ve the mind for the Ministry, certainly. Or something more... independent . Your kind of mind rarely thrives under someone else's thumb.”

Tom watched the flicker of the fire in Slughorn’s glasses. “I like to learn things for myself.”

“Precisely!” Slughorn beamed. “It’s why I invite students like you. Not just talent, but... hunger . A good kind. Healthy.” Tom sipped slowly. Slughorn talked easily. Almost too easily. Generous. Warm. Kind-hearted. But it made him soft. Not weak, but easy. An easy target. Tom wasn’t sure for what yet. But something.

After more pleasantries and biscuits, they were excused. 

Lestrange was still chewing as they walked down the long corridor toward the dungeons, grinning. “I like him,” Lestrange said. “He gives good tea.” Tom was silent for a beat. “He’s… Okay,” he said.

The Slytherin common room was deep beneath the lake, the stone walls dripping faintly. Light filtered green from the water above, casting everything in an eerie shadow. A waterfall wall shimmered behind the grand staircase—real water, bewitched not to flood. 

They settled by the fire.

Tom opened his notebook slowly. “Still no clues,” he said. “I’ve checked everything.” Lestrange frowned, leaning forward. “About the chamber thing?” Tom nodded once. “Not the Chamber. Just... a chamber. A hidden one. There are parts of the castle no one talks about.”

“Or maybe ‘cause they’re not real,” Lestrange said, smirking. “Could just be stories. You sure it’s not just some house-elf broom closet?”

Tom didn’t look up. “No.”

Lestrange snorted. “Well, I’ve been through four whole sections in the library this week. Nothing. Not even in the Founders’ biographies. And I’m not getting you stuff from the Restricted Section. I’m not mad .” Tom tapped the notebook with his finger. “Then we’ll find a way to get in without needing a slip.”

Lestrange leaned back. “How? You can’t trick Madam Pince. She watches us like hawks.”

Tom was already drifting.

Well, certainly, she didn’t watch everyone.

Some people moved unnoticed. Quiet. Invisible.  He didn’t speak. Just stared into the fire. Myrtle. A perfect candidate.

Lestrange was still talking. “Unless you grow invisible or become a professor yourself, mate, I don’t see how we get in. Maybe break in. Charm the lock.” Tom’s gaze didn’t move. His fingers drummed once, then stopped.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Professor Flitwick stood balanced on a stack of books, wand lifted high, almost too high for himself. “And remember, class, Aresto Momentum is for slowing , not stopping entirely! Picture time as a rope, and you’re tightening your grip!”

His voice bounced around the room. Tom barely listened.

Lestrange, who’s sitting beside him, leaned forward with both elbows on the desk, trying to ignite the end of his wand for fun. Tom didn’t look up. His fingers moved smoothly across the page.

Intent before sound. Gesture before word. Angle matters. Magic responds to geometry—motion creates shape.

He blinked. Focus. He glanced up at Flitwick just as he demonstrated the spell on a falling apple. The fruit dropped in slow motion, landing with a gentle bounce.  The class clapped. Tom did not. He was too busy thinking about the chamber—surely professors have been talking about it. 

His gaze drifted again. Professor Merrythought’s name floated to the front of his thoughts. She was kind. Warm. She liked students who tried. He’d seen the way she lingered with Myrtle. Oh. Yes. Myrtle. That messy hair clumsy Myrtle. That clever Myrtle.

He snapped his focus back. Professor talks. Yes. Slughorn hadn’t told him much. He was polite, evasive. “Ah, school gossip, my boy, best leave that to the portraits.”

But professors did talk around students. They whispered more freely when someone looked forgettable. Like… Myrtle. She was close to Merrythought. She lingered after lessons. She wasn’t just tolerated—she was trusted. And people, professors, liked to talk when they thought no one was listening. Especially to first years.

He glanced down again. He’d written her name three times in the margin. Flitwick cleared his throat behind them. “Mr. Riddle, Mr. Lestrange—charming as your handwriting may be, your wands are the ones that need practice.”

“Yes, Professor,” Tom said at once, folding the parchment over.

Flitwick bustled on. “Now, try on your textbooks—but only the covers , please!”

Beside him, Lestrange was trying to slow his own falling quill with a shaky flick. It hit the floor with a clatter. “Rubbish spell,” he muttered. “Why would I need to slow down a falling thing anyway?”

Tom didn’t answer. Lestrange elbowed him slightly. “What’re you scribbling so much for?”

Tom’s voice was low. “If you hear anything about Myrtle— anything , even if it’s stupid—tell me.”

Lestrange blinked. “What?” He mumbled. “Myrtle? As in... Warren?” 

Tom looked at him. “Yes.” 

A beat of silence. Lestrange raised an eyebrow. 

“What is this? Do you—” he grinned suddenly, elbowed Tom lightly, “— fancy her or something?” Lestrange furrowed his eyebrows. Grinning widely. Tom turned his head slowly. “The one with the glasses? The Muggle-born? Small stupid Myrtle?”

“No.” Tom’s voice was low. Controlled. “She’s smart. You’re wrong.”

That shut Lestrange up. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Then he rubbed the back of his neck, finally muttering, “Well... okay. ” Lestrange cleared his throat. “Right,” he coughed. “No jokes. Just... what kind of stuff?”

“Professor interactions. Where she goes. What she hears. What people do to her. Just watch.”

Lestrange nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll pull some strings. Talk to the Ravenclaws who sit near her. One of them’s in Nott’s Arithmancy class—he’ll help you out.”

Tom didn’t respond. He already wasn’t listening. His eyes had drifted to the window. He was thinking again of corridors, of secrets, of the castle, of Salazar. 

Of Myrtle Warren’s quiet little ears. And pretty big eyes.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The hourglass near the fireplace had emptied, casting a dull red shadow across the dark green rug. Most students were asleep. Only Tom and Lestrange remained near the long table, books and parchment sprawled or scattered around them.

Lestrange scratched his head. “Alright, but what is this one? It looks like a backwards bird.”

“It’s not a bird,” Tom muttered, squinting at the page. “It’s an Elder Futhark rune. Eiwaz . It symbolizes transition, strength in movement. It’s used in protective bindings—mostly defensive ones.”

“Feels like gibberish,” Lestrange said. “If I carve this on my desk will it stop Pince from hitting me with that cane?”

Tom didn’t smile. “These are old. Older than Hogwarts. They're all over the castle—you just don’t recognize them.” He said.  Lestrange yawned loudly. “And you think some of these will open your non-existent chamber?”

“I know it’s hidden with something ancient. Maybe this,” Tom murmured, brushing ink off the edge of his notes. “The castle’s full of things no one sees. The runes are everywhere if you know what to look for.”

Suddenly, someone ran towards them—chest heaving.

Avery stumbled in, eyes wide, robes skewed. “Riddle,” he called, panting. “You told me to tell you if I heard anything about Myrtle—”

Tom looked up instantly. Avery glanced around, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “That Myrtle girl. Olive did something—turned her hair blue . Her hair’s blue.” He repeated, as if it needed emphasizing. “All of it.”

Lestrange sat up straighter. “Wait, what?”

Tom closed his notebook. “Where is she?”

“Dunno. People say she legged it upstairs crying.”

Tom stood. “What direction?”

“Up. Toward the towers, I think.”

Tom didn’t speak. He left his books behind, cloak swinging behind him as he strode toward the common room door without a glance back. Lestrange called after him, “Oi Tom! You’re just leaving me with runes ?”

He didn’t answer.

Astronomy Tower. That’s where sadness liked to go. He reached it. Empty. No Myrtle.

His jaw tightened. He stood still, eyes flicking along the stonework, tracing the edges of the walls. His instincts pushed him to look again. Then something strange. A door slightly ajar. A hallway to the side. One he had never noticed. Tucked between columns, the arch nearly sealed. The floor sloped up. A hidden path.

He followed it.

The path was narrow and spiraled tightly—an old stair, long-forgotten. Tom’s feet were quiet against the worn stone. The air was colder here. Older. And then he saw her.

Sitting on the stairs, halfway to the tower. Alone. Long hair fallen loose. No ponytails. No glasses. Her long hair shimmered under the moonlight in streaks of deep blue. Enchanting. She was crying into her sleeves, soft, shaking sobs. Hiccuping.

Tom didn’t move. She hadn’t heard him yet. She must’ve known this path. Chosen it. Not by accident. That meant she’d found it herself. She knew the castle. She was good at hiding. Good at slipping past eyes, rules, curfew. Better than even he’d guessed.

Then slowly… he stepped forward. Her head snapped up. She blinked, eyes red, face blotchy. She stared into the dark, squinting. “Who’s there?” she whispered, voice cracking. He said nothing.

She blinked again. Then slowly, her face changed. “You—are you following me—?”

A footstep above her. Someone was coming down the stairs. A girl’s voice echoed faintly. Tom’s eyes flicked to the sound. His window was gone. He said nothing. Just nodded once, calm, and stepped back into the dark. She couldn’t see him now.

Back in the dorms, Tom is now playing with some scrunched up paper ball while laying on his back on his perfectly neat bed. He’d thrown the ball and caught it again. Repeating that again and again. “Myrtle…” He whispered—the possibility of actually using her to help him uncover the chamber is huge—he had seen her glancing at him and stammering whenever he passed by.

It should be easy.

He rolled over to his side now, letting the paper ball fall to the floor from his hand. Myrtle. He thinks. She is not what others take her for. She’s smart, observant and just not ‘small weeping Myrtle’. Perfect. He will open that chamber.

Chapter 8: VI

The stone stair was cold through her skirt, and Myrtle didn’t care. Her face was blotchy, chest still hiccupping every few seconds from the crying. The blue hair still draped around her. Her palms were stinging from where she’d rubbed her eyes too much.

She didn’t hear the steps until they were close—someone descending. “Myrtle?” Euphenia’s voice, floated down before her. Myrtle turned slightly. Euphenia had a napkin-wrapped bundle in her hands. She sat beside Myrtle without asking.

“I brought cake. It’s still hot. Bims made it.” She unwrapped the cloth and held out a small square of steaming pumpkin cake. “You have to eat it now. Or it gets weird and rubbery.”

Myrtle blinked, still dazed. “Someone was here.” She mumbled. Euphenia raised her brows. “What?” Euphenia sat beside her, unwrapping the napkin. The smell of pumpkin hit instantly. “Might’ve been one of the ghosts. Or—better—my soul , leaving my body from all the stairs I just climbed. Merlin.”

“It wasn’t a ghost.”

“Well whoever it was, eat this while it’s still warm.” Euphenia shoved the cake at her. “Come on. Don’t make me hand-feed you. I’ll drop it on your lap out of pure spite.” Myrtle took it, barely registering the warmth in her palm. She looked back at the empty staircase again, heart pounding like it wasn’t done being scared.

“I think it was Tom Riddle.”

There was a pause. Euphenia blinked at her.

“Okay. That was so bloody random. ”

Myrtle took a small bite, the warmth sinking into her chest. “It was him. I know it. His eyes.” She said in between munching. Euphenia wrinkled her nose. “You know his eyes? ” She asked—taken aback, Myrtle nodded frantically. “I remember them,” Myrtle said quickly, mouth full. “From the corridor. And the library. He looked straight at me. Said something.”

“Something like what?” Euphenia asked, eyebrows furrowing and leaning a tad bit closer towards Myrtle. Myrtle swallowed. “He said... ‘curious little thing.’ Just that. Then kept walking.” She said.  Euphenia blinked again. “Myrtle. Okay, I’m going to need you to rewind. You’ve just dropped about eight bombshells.” Euphenia mumbled out. Myrtle took another bite, chewed.

“You’ve made eye contact with Tom Riddle.”

“Yes.”

“He spoke to you.”

“Yes.”

“And you think he followed you here. ”

Myrtle hesitated. “I mean... I don’t know. He could’ve been walking. But then he vanished again. Before you showed up. And he looked at me. Really looked at me.” Myrtle let her own words sink in too. Euphenia rubbed her forehead. “That’s a bit much , Myrtle.”

Myrtle bit into the cake again, blue hair falling forward. “I know. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone. I thought maybe I made it up. But I didn’t.”

“You’re sure it was him? Not some other tall, dark, handsomely haunting Slytherin boy?”

Myrtle gave her a look. She side-eyed Euphenia and Euphenia caught onto that immediately. She sighed. “Okay. Okay. Look. Yes, Tom Riddle is— aesthetically very fortunate. ”

“He’s really —”

“—But! But,” Euphenia said, holding up a finger. “There’s something about him. He’s too... polished. Too calm. He makes my ears feel cold. Like he could smile while turning someone into a frog.” She said and shrugged her shoulders.

Myrtle nibbled the last bite. “You always say weird things.” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Because I mean them,” Euphenia said seriously. “He’s got that look. Like he’s pretending to be something… I don’t know!”

Myrtle blinked at her. “He’s not pretending.” She said, dead-pan. Euphenia looked at her sideways. “Myrtle, you cry when the library gets too loud.”

“And he noticed me,” Myrtle whispered.

“That’s what makes me nervous.”

There was a long pause. Myrtle licked cake crumbs from her fingers, eyes fixed on the stone wall across from her. “Do you think he’ll talk to me again?” Myrtle mumbled almost absent-mindedly.  Euphenia sighed. “You better hope not.” Euphenia replied. “But what if—” Myrtle started.  “No. If he does, I’m baking him a cake that’s secretly full of dungbombs.” 

Myrtle burst out laughing, half-coughing through the crumbs in her throat.

“See?” Euphenia said, nudging her. “Your blue hair’s not so bad. You look like a weird little moonbeam.” “You’re awful.” She replied. Dying down her laughter. They took a long breath together before falling into the quiet again. 

Myrtle sighed, chewing slower now. “You’re probably right.” She stared down at the cake. Her fingers had left little dents in the crust. Her face was sticky from crying and frosting. She felt disgusting. Pathetic.

“Why would someone like Tom Riddle,” she muttered, “even look at someone like me?”

She didn’t say the next part. But it echoed quietly in her head. Why do I want him to?

Euphenia leaned against her, shoulder to shoulder. “Because he’s weird. Probably likes sniffing books or listening to toads cry or something. I just know it. Swear on my Mum’s life I feel it creeping on my skin.” She exclaimed

Myrtle snorted.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was New Years. Sunday. And cold.

The courtyard was mostly empty, the stone still wet with some melted snow. Myrtle dipped her fingers into the fountain’s cold water, watching the ripples stretch and fold. It was quiet enough to hear birds on the roof tiles.

A sudden tap on her shoulder made her flinch.

She spun, heart leaping, eyes wide. “Oh—!”

It wasn’t Olive.

It was Awick.

He grinned like he’d just played a winning prank. “Blimey, you looked like you saw a ghost.” He said, raising his eyebrows upwards. “I thought you were someone else ,” Myrtle muttered, clutching her chest. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.” she mumbled, tugging her sleeves down. “I thought you were going to throw something.”

“You always think someone’s about to throw something,” he said, grinning. “Maybe you should throw something back someday.” He shrugged and she snorted. “What do you want?” She asked, one eyebrow lifted upwards. Suspicious.  He rocked on his heels. “Greenhouse.”

Myrtle squinted at him. “Why?”

“Our puffapods,” Awick said like it was obvious. “I thought I’d check on ‘em. And also—” He gave her a sheepish look. “You know how to keep them alive. I do not.” He grinned. “You want me to help you study,” she said flatly.

“I want you to come supervise my slow descent into herbological failure,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, Myrtle, please. I swear I’ll behave. I won’t call you Tails once. Promise.” He pouted his lips. “You just did,” she muttered, bending to grab her shoes.

“Alright, starting now , I won’t,” he promised. “Just once round the puffapods. You get to boss me around. You love bossing me around.” He scratched the back of his head. She sighed. “Fine. But if you slice another healthy stem again I’m leaving you there.”

“I deserve that,” he said solemnly, walking backward ahead of her. “But for the record, it was one stem. One! The rest of that puffapod loved me.”

They walked together through the green lawns, Awick skipping ahead to tap the tops of hedges with a stick he’d picked up. “So how’s life, T—Myrtle? Still crying in towers or what?”

“None of your business,” she said, looking down at the ground. “At least I don’t talk to plants like they’re people.” and Awick scoffed hearing that. “They are people,” he insisted. “That one puffapod in the corner? Absolute menace. Tried to eat my shoelace.”

“That’s because you wore dragon-hide boots and it thought you were a predator. Plus, puffapods don't eat anything you dirthole.” She rolled her eyes “Why do you know that,” he asked, blinking.

“Because I read, ” Myrtle said, hands clasped behind her back. “Unlike someone who calls healthy roots ‘wiggly bits.’”

“I stand by that. They are very wiggly.”

Inside the greenhouse, the air was humid and green-lit. The puffapods sat in neat rows, pale pink and swaying gently. Awick crouched down at their old pot. “He’s still here,” he said, poking it softly. “Miss me, mate?”

Myrtle rolled her eyes and pointed with her wand. “Okay, so first—loosen the soil with the flat side of your knife, not the sharp side. Otherwise you slice the roots. Like last time.” She instructed. “Right, right,” Awick said. “Flat side. Got it. Look at me. Natural-born herbologist!”

“You’re holding it upside down,” she said.

“Sabotage,” he muttered. “You’re just trying to make me nervous.” He groaned.  She knelt beside him, guiding his hand with hers. “See? Like this. Small circles, not jabs.” She whispered—lowly, underneath her breath. “Got it. Circles. Gentle. I’m good at gentle. My mum says I was a soft baby.”

“That’s... odd,” Myrtle said, laughing. “Okay, now brush the pod fur. Don’t pat it.” She said. He patted it. The pod squeaked and puffed glitter into the air. “Of course you did,” Myrtle muttered, coughing.

“It liked it!” Awick insisted. She swatted his arm with the brush. “Okay, you’re hopeless.”

“I’m delightful,” he said. “Also, this is the most fun I’ve ever had with dirt.”

Myrtle gave up trying to teach him for a moment and leaned back on her heels, smiling despite herself. He was impossible, but at least he made puffapods more tolerable than Olive Hornby’s voice ever had. And he listened. Mostly.

“So what do I get if I ace it next time?” he asked, dusting soil from his knees. “Nothing,” she said. He scoffed. “Rude.” and she furrowed her eyebrows while saying:  “A ‘not failing’ grade is your reward.” He only glared at her and looked away.

She smirked. “You’re welcome, Perks.”

They stayed another hour, poking around the greenhouse, making fun of each other’s handwriting in their notes, and betting which puffapod would explode first. Myrtle didn’t say it out loud, but she hoped next time, if they got paired again, he wouldn’t mess up just so she’d come help him again.

Not that she’d mind.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The castle halls were quieter on Sunday afternoons, sunlight catching between the windows like lazy threads. Myrtle walked beside Awick, still wiping puffapod fuzz off her robes, while he kicked an imaginary pebble down the corridor, hands tucked into his pockets, still talking.

“I’m just saying, you’ve got a secret herbology gift,” Awick said, his tone half-accusing. “It’s not normal to know which side of a puffapod likes moonlight.”

“You made that up,” Myrtle said, wrinkling her nose. “And I read. That’s all. You could too, if you weren’t so busy whacking things with sticks.” She gave Awick a look — one that he respond with the same one too. “It’s called multitasking, ” Awick declared. “And I’ll have you know I’ve been reading. Just yesterday I read a whole label on a cauldron. ‘Dangerous if swallowed.’ Very educational.”

Myrtle sighed. “No wonder your eyebrows nearly fell off last week.” She blurted out. “Tragedy,” Awick muttered. “Anyway—next time I get paired with you, we’ll grow a forest.”

“You’re not getting paired with me again.” Myrtle said, but her lips twitched.

They were just entering the central hall when the sound of soft shoes echoed from the stairs—when Euphenia appeared at the top of the stairwell, skirts’ swaying, face radiant under the golden light. Myrtle blinked.

Her blonde hair was braided down neatly on both sides, tiny butterfly clips sparkling at each temple. Her cheeks glowed with blush, lids dusted pink. Her eyes—already too blue—were even brighter against it. She looked... almost enchanted.

Awick stopped walking.

Just stopped.

Dead in his tracks, mouth slightly parted, eyes open and wide. Myrtle didn’t notice at first.

“There you are! ” Euphenia said, immediately storming toward her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You said ten minutes! We were supposed to try the blush Mum sent!” She whispered harshly, already brushing off the imaginary dust on her shoulders. “I was helping with the puffapods—” Myrtle started.

“I had to bake fast this morning just so I could get time,” Euphenia continued. “And I told you last week—I owl’d Mum for the sparkle powder and the cherry gloss and it finally came and you weren’t there—”

Awick hadn’t moved.

His head tilted just slightly, staring at Euphenia like he’d just discovered mermaids were real. Myrtle looked from Euphenia to Awick, then back again, furrowing her brow. Euphenia lifted her eyebrows. “Who’s he?” She asked lowly. Awick blinked hard. “Hi lady!”

Myrtle nearly dropped her bag.

“I’m Awick!” he declared, lunging forward and offering his hand like he’d never seen a girl before. Awick beamed. “Awick Perks. Call me Awick. Anyway! I’m trying out for Seeker this year—might be the youngest candidate in Gryffindor’s history, actually—crazy right? What house are you in?”

“...Hufflepuff,” Euphenia said slowly, still holding Myrtle’s sleeve.

“Brilliant,” Awick said, not missing a beat. “Hufflepuff’s underrated. Strong ethics, good heart. Your clips are pretty. Literal butterflies.” He mumbled. Smiling widely. Taking a tiny step closer. “Um, thanks—”

He retracted it, still grinning. “You’ve got—uh, you’ve got glitter on your cheeks. It’s nice. Kinda magical.” He whispered, hands almost darting towards the direction of Euphenia. “Thank you,” Euphenia said, tucking Myrtle closer under her arm like she was about to flee. “Do they like—shimmer when you blink?” He added.

“Uh—I guess?” Euphenia smiled slowly. “You’ve got amazing blinking.” He said and Euphenia only stared. Myrtle stared harder.  “Thank you. Very kind. So. Myrtle. Make-up. Mirror. Now?”

“I’m friendly!” Awick added. “Helpful, brave , some say charming—”

Euphenia gave Myrtle a panicked little glance. Myrtle gave her nothing back. Her eyes were somewhere else now—across the hall. Tom.

He was walking past, slow and unreadable as always, a book tucked beneath his arm. His gaze didn’t drift. It locked . With hers. They stared at each other like no one else existed. Then, just before he vanished into the corridor toward the library, he smirked. It wasn’t wide. Just a small curl of his mouth. But it was for her .

And this time, Myrtle knew she wasn’t hallucinating. It was real. That happened. That was not her imagination. Again. Again. Her heart flipped. It felt like he wanted her to follow. Her chest tightened. She pulled gently from Euphenia’s grip. “I—I have to go.”

“No! Wait—what?” Euphenia blinked, tugging her back. “Where are you going? We were supposed to try the new gloss—!”

“I—I’m sorry. I’ll come after,” Myrtle said, voice wobbling. “Promise.” She added. Euphenia groan. “You always say that!” She shouted. Awick still beamed. “No, no, she’s got to go,” Awick chimed in eagerly. “Very important. Very urgent. I’ll keep your sparkly friend company.”

“You’re too eager.” Euphenia said again, staring at him.

“I’m great at company,” Awick added proudly. “And I know things about fluttering. And Quidditch. It’ll be fun.” He mumbled.  “Bye Myrtle!” he shouted as she turned and ran.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The library was cold when she stepped inside—quiet, too bloody quiet. Myrtle’s shoes tapped softly against the floor as she walked between aisles, heart thudding against her ribs. He’d looked straight at her. Invited her. She knew it.

But the rows were empty.

There was no Tom Riddle near the shelves, no swoop of dark perfect hair in the aisle, no flicker of movement near the tables. She passed the charms section, the ancient runes, even dared a glance toward the librarian’s desk. Still no sign of him.

She made another lap around the Restricted Section gate, just in case. Maybe he’d gone back there. Maybe he’d ducked behind the high shelves. But nothing. Just emptiness and quietness.

Her face burned. Her stomach twisted. Her hands curled into fists and then opened again. She slid down to the floor, her back against the wall just to the left of the Restricted gate. Sat there with her legs bent, head tucked against her knees.

She was hallucinating.

She had to be hallucinating.

Too many hexes, too many spells thrown her way. Olive Hornby must’ve hit her so hard her brain cracked. She was seeing things. She was making up stories in her head. Tom Riddle, talking to her ? As if. As if someone like him would ever—

She didn’t even like him. Not really. Not like that. He was just a boy. A stupid, perfect boy with cheekbones that could cut glass and eyes so stupidly perfect. “Stupid,” she muttered, eyes stinging. “You’re so stupid—”

She groaned and pressed her face into her arms.

“Lost something?” came a voice just above her shoulder. She gasped so hard her lungs hurt. Her head snapped up. Tom Riddle stood just over her—like he’d been there the whole time. His hands were behind his back, and he tilted his head slightly as he looked down at her, face unreadable but voice quiet. Almost... friendly.

“You’re often alone, right?” He asked. All of a sudden. Her lips parted. “I... I don’t—yes.” She mumbled out. Taken aback. Tom Riddle… Was talking to her. He crouched slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “People don’t see you. Do they?”

She swallowed, trying not to blink too fast. Her cheeks were burning. He was so close she could see the pattern of gold threads in his school tie. “That must feel...” His gaze lingered. “Useful.” He said. “Useful?” Her eyebrows pinched. She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her satchel. “To you ?”

He only raised a brow, rising to stand just as effortlessly. “Hm... maybe.”

“Why?” Her voice cracked a little.

He looked past her toward the shelves, then back down at her like he was reading her. Her messy red face. She looked away. Then came that smirk again—barely there, but just enough to twist something in her chest.

“I like clever people,” he said softly. “And you pay attention.” Then the bell rang for lunch, sharp and sudden, bouncing off the library walls. Myrtle flinched. Tom didn’t. He straightened his cuff. “Ah. Later on, Myrtle. I’ve got some friends waiting.”

He turned. She stood frozen. He walked toward the main aisle, calm as always as he slipped out without a second glance. Myrtle didn’t move.

He knew her name.

He knew her name.

And gosh he called her clever. He said ‘I like clever people’. He must mean her. He called her clever. And he said he like clever people. Her. Tom Riddle likes people like Myrtle Warren. 

Her fists clenched against her sides. Her breath came shallow. Her ears buzzed. She felt dizzy and sick and absolutely alive.

Chapter 9: VII

Myrtle and Euphenia were sitting under the shadowed staircase, just off the Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor—Euphenia had dragged Myrtle there after lunch. Then she had laid out her makeup kit on top of a folded napkin—lip gloss, pink powder, two stubby pencils, and something that looked like glitter butter.

Myrtle sat still while Euphenia brushed shimmer over her cheekbone with a soft bristle wand. She couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “Hold still,” Euphenia said, tilting Myrtle’s chin up gently. “If you move again I’ll get glitter in your nostril.”

Myrtle didn’t move. Her whole body was tight, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. She was thinking about what just happened — not even two hours ago. Tom Riddle. In the library, talking to her. Myrtle cleared her throat.

“Euphie. He said my name.”

Euphenia paused mid-swipe. “Who?” She mumbled out. Raising her eyebrows and continuing with her brush strokes. 

“Tom Riddle,” Myrtle breathed. 

That’s when she stopped immediately. Euphenia blinked at her, mouth slightly open. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not joking,” Myrtle said quickly. “He was there. In the library. Out of nowhere. He—he came right up to me.” She said, quickly. “He like—approached me…?”  She added, uncertain. Euphenia dropped her brush. “He what?”

Myrtle’s voice was faster now, nearly breathless. “He just appeared. I was sitting on the floor thinking I was going mad because he wasn’t there when I swore I saw him walked in the library. I was pulling my hair, swearing to god. And then he was just there—was. And he knew my name. He knew my name, Euphie.”

Euphenia reached out blindly and grabbed the brush off the floor, still staring. “Wait. Wait. Back up. Are you saying Tom Riddle—the tall, terrifying one—knows your name and came to talk to you?” She asked. Just to make sure. Myrtle nodded furiously—did she not believe her?

“Okay, and?”

“And then he said—” She sucked in a breath. “He said he likes clever people.” Myrtle twitched her fingers. “And he meant you?” Euphenia asked. Myrtle’s face burned. “I don’t know! Probably! I mean—who else was there?” She replied. Euphenia gave Myrtle a look.

“And then he said, Later, Myrtle, like we were going to talk again. Like we will. Like—like he just does that.” Myrtle shrugged. Trying to act that everything’s okay. Euphenia leaned back against the wall. “This isn’t real.”

“It was real!”

“No, I mean—how? Why you?” Euphenia paused, Myrtle looked stung. “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” She mumbled and quickly added: “I meant what does he want with you? Why you?” Myrtle hugged her knees. “I don’t know. But he said my name. He said it like it meant something.”

“I have bad feelings about him,” Euphenia muttered, dabbing pink powder on Myrtle’s cheek. “He’s too quiet. No one’s that quiet unless they’re planning something.”

Just then, something thudded nearby. They both jumped and screamed.

Awick stood over them, panting and grinning, holding two paper-wrapped bags of stolen dinner rolls. “Delivery!”

Myrtle clutched her chest. “What is wrong with you?” She scoffed. “I brought food!” Awick said proudly. “So I ran to lunch!” Awick added, dropping to the floor beside them. “Because someone told me they were starving.”

“I was,” Euphenia said, snatching her roll. “What took you so long?” She side-eyed Awick.  “Got distracted,” he said, already unwrapping his. “Also, someone knocked over the gravy and I slipped. Twice.” Then he looked up at Myrtle and blinked. “Wait. Wait, what were you saying before I walked in? Tom what?”

Myrtle froze. Euphenia turned and sighed. “You’re not ready. It’s about Tom Riddle.” She whispered and immediately—Awick’s eyes widened. “Tom Riddle? My Tom Riddle?” He mumbled out. Myrtle blinked. “Your?”

Awick nodded solemnly. “My role model. You’ve seen his spellwork. Have you seen his essays? That bloke writes like he’s already employed.” Euphenia gagged. “You’re kidding. That creepy air boy?” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. Awick paused. “Oh. Yeah. Totally creepy. Really... mysterious. Definitely not cool.” He flipped his hair. “Glad you agree.”

“Anyway, Tom what now?” Awick repeated, sitting cross-legged between them, rolls still in hand. “Did he hex someone? Start a duel? Is he a secret vampire? Please say vampire—”

“No,” Myrtle said, still flushed. “He just—he came to me. In the library.” Myrtle groaned, hugging her knees again. “I’m just saying—he talked to me. Out of nowhere. Said I was clever.” She mumbled. Shrugging her shoulders.

“Clever Myrtle,” Awick repeated. 

“And then he said, Later, Myrtle.” Her voice dropped. “He said it like we’re friends or something. Like I’ll see him again.” Hearing that, Awick just let out a small ‘huh’ as if he’s thinking to himself. “No offense, but... wait—he approached you?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” Myrtle snapped. “I mean... I mean...” Awick scratched his head. “It’s just—he’s, you know—he doesn’t talk to people. Let alone—” He paused. “Uh—”

Myrtle’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She growled underneath her breath.  Awick blinked again. “Uhm well. Are you sure? That wasn’t, like… a dare? Maybe he lost a bet?” He mumbled. Myrtle’s face twisted. “No, I mean, because—he doesn’t really… you know... talk to girls like—like—” He gestured. “Well. You.”

Silence.

Myrtle stood up, face red. “Thanks.”

“Myrtle—wait, no, that’s not what I meant—”

She shot up, mouth pressed thin. “Forget it.” She mumbled. And in an instant, she was already gone, storming down the corridor.

Euphenia turned slowly to Awick, fuming. “You are the biggest dungbrain I have ever met.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The clock tower courtyard was pale with snow, quiet under the cloudy sky. Myrtle sat hunched near the edge of the fountain. She kicked a pebble, watched it skip across the slush.

Her lips moved silently. “Three lacewing flies... stirred clockwise. Let it settle. Add crushed peppermint—no, wait... that’s the cooling draught, not the fever one...” Her voice was brittle, barely more than breath. “Professor Slughorn says it’s the proportion... balance... don’t overheat the extract or it clumps.”

It was her birthday.

No one had said anything.

Not Euphenia. Not Awick. She’d avoided everyone all week. Euphenia had been too busy playing nice with him, trying to glue them together again like Myrtle was just being silly. So Myrtle avoided both of them. She didn’t need anyone. She wasn’t meant to have anyone.

“Happy birthday,” she muttered to herself. “Seventeen January. Woo. Cheers to the girl no one wants.”

The snowball landed with a thud so loud it cracked through the quiet.

Right on her head.

Myrtle screamed, not in pain—at first—but in shock. Her eyes stung. Her ears rang. She looked up and saw them standing there. That cursed Olive Hornby was there, and Mary with her awfully neat, pinned back, blonde hair, and Polly grinning like a cat.

“Oh my god—” Olive laughed. “Did you see her face?” She nudged Mary. “She looked like a rat under a hat,” Polly squealed, already packing another snowball. “Wait—wait—don’t hit her again!” Mary said—but she was giggling too.

The next one hit her shoulder. The next, her side. Then another, square on her neck. Myrtle cried out, tried to duck, but the barrage didn’t stop.

“Stop it!” she screamed, voice cracking. “Stop—!”

But then one struck her head and knocked her backward. The edge of the fountain caught her spine. She slipped. Fell. Ice water surged around her like teeth. Her scream choked out in a gasp as the freezing soaked her from head to chest.

She surfaced with a gasp, mouth open wide. Her beanie drooped over her eyes. Her cloak clung to her. Her breath turned to mist. It’s so cold. Too cold. The girls screamed—and laughed.

Olive howled, nearly doubled over. “She fell in—!” She squeaked.  “RUN!” Polly squealed, dragging Mary by the sleeve. They fled in a flurry of shrieks and boots and awful, shrill laughter, their scarves flying behind them.

Myrtle didn’t move. Not right away.

The water was so, so cold. Her fingers hurt. Her sleeves were heavy. She wanted to scream. Wanted to hex the entire school. Wanted to vanish. She climbed out slowly, her teeth chattering, her sobs breaking apart. Her hands shook as she pulled herself onto the stone. 

Then she ran.

She didn’t look where. Just away. Through the snow, her shoes squelching. Her eyes blurred. Her glasses fogged. She kicked at the snow, at the pebbles, until she found a corner under the archway of the outer corridor and dropped there, hard.

She curled up with her knees to her chest. Water dripped from her hem. She hiccupped. Her throat hurt. Her face was numb. She didn’t even have gloves. Just the stupid beanie, soaked through.

She was alone.

Of course. Of course.

She stayed curled, sobbing so long her body began to ache. The hem of her skirt had frozen stiff. Her sweater stuck to her skin. Every exhale came out shaky. She was so tired. So cold. Her fingers hurt.

The sun began to lower, casting long streaks of gold across the cobblestones. She turned her face, just slightly, toward the light—watched the edge of the sun disappear behind the high west tower, eyes stinging. The sky was violet now. Purple, gold, grey. Beautiful and lonely.

She hiccupped. Wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Happy birthday,” she whispered again, voice too dry to mean it. She buried her face against her knees, holding herself as tight as she could, shaking. Maybe she’d stay here forever. Maybe she’d just vanish.

Then suddenly a shadow fell over her.

She didn’t hear steps. No footsteps. No rustle. But the warmth of the sunset was suddenly gone. Something blocked it. Her head jerked up.

He stood there. Just above her. His black sweater’s collar covered up his neck. His belt perfect. His dark curls soft in the golden light. His skin—pale, smooth—glowed like a statue kissed by perfection. His features sharp, perfect, otherworldly. Not real. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t possibly be. Her breath caught. She stared up, dazed, blinking like she’d gone blind.

It was Tom.

He was looking at her. Not saying anything. Not yet. Just looking. She choked on a leftover sob, startled, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve in a panic. Her nose was red. Her hair clung wet to her forehead. She felt hideous—absolutely hideous.

He still didn’t say anything.

Then, calmly, he slipped his hand from his coat pocket, tugged at the green mittens on his other hand, and pulled one off. He held it out toward her. It was dark Slytherin green. Thick, fine wool. Embroidered neatly in golden thread: T.M.R.

“Here,” he said. She stared at it.

He waited a second. Looked at her again, almost impatient. “Take it,” he said. “Don’t die of coldness.” He whispered lowly.  Her lips parted. “That’d be... inconvenient.” He added. “Inconvenient?” she croaked. He raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Inconvenient.”

Her hands were shaking. She stared at the mitten. “Why are you—”

“Well?” he interrupted, voice quiet. “You want it or not?” Tom furrowed his eyebrows. Her voice caught again, cracking. “Yes. I mean. Yes, I—I do.” He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just watched as she reached up slowly, hands trembling, and took the mitten from him. She swallowed hard.

“Th—thanks,” she whispered.

He held her gaze a moment longer. Something about the way her eyes looked right then—wet and wide, all soft and brown and ridiculous—made him go still. Just still. So still. Then he looked away. Pinched the bridge of his nose. His jaw twitched once. He looked at her again like he was going to say something else, like he was trying to decide something.

But instead he said, quietly, “Alright.”

He stepped back once.

“...Take care, Myrtle.”

And turned toward the castle, the last of the sunlight glinting off the back of his collar as he walked away. She watched him disappear into the archway, footsteps silent. Her fingers clenched tight around the mitten.

It smelled like something she couldn’t name—his cologne, faint and cold, almost icy. Clean. Cold. But rich. Like him. She slipped it on slowly. It was too big. But it was warm. She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging tight.

It felt like he was hugging her.

Finally, someone had been kind.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The stairwell to the Ravenclaw girls’ dorm was colder. Her socked feet made soft thuds on the stone steps as she descended. Her arms were crossed tightly, holding her Transfiguration book. Her hair was still damp. She just wanted to sleep. That was it.

She barely registered the shadow before it struck.

Olive Hornby’s hand shoved hard between Myrtle’s shoulder blades—hard enough to send her stumbling forward. Myrtle gasped, lost her footing, and her knees scraped the edge of the stair as she tumbled. 

Twice. 

Three jolts down. 

Her book hit the floor with a thud and slid away.

Laughter. “Merlin’s beard, did you see her?” Olive cackled above her. “She rolls like a little potato! What are you made of, Warren? Lard and glue?” One of the boys in the common room snorted. Another laughed louder. God dang it. Everyone in this bloody fancy common room.

Myrtle didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She just sat there for a moment—her palms scuffed, her knees aching—then reached down into her robe pocket and squeezed it. Remembering what’s inside of it. The mitten. Tom’s mitten.

She didn’t look back at them. Just grabbed her book, jaw clenched, and marched the rest of the way down the stairs, the laughter following her like a curse.

Inside the dorm, she moved quick. 

She stripped off her wet stockings. Switched into her pajama set—the one with the missing button and the frayed cuff. The other girls were in their beds already, giggling about boys, Quidditch, and some Hufflepuff’s terrible dancing.

She said nothing. Her fingers moved to the bed, where she’d placed it earlier. Tom’s mitten. The green wool was soft in her hand. The golden embroidery gleamed under the candlelight, even as dim as it was. T.M.R.

She didn’t know what the M stood for. Michael? Milton? Maybe it was something posh and rich-sounding like Montague. Or Merlin. Tom Merlin Riddle. That sounded ridiculous. That one made her laugh into her hand. Quiet. A single breath. 

She cleared her throat. No, that couldn’t be right. Marius? Tom... Melvin? She made a face. Tom Maximus Riddle.

She brought it close, tucked herself beneath her blanket and curled on her side, still staring at the gold thread. Her thumb gently ran over each letter. T. M. R.

He gave this to her. Not anyone else. But her. He could’ve picked one of the many girls that faint when he looks their way. But instead he chose to tolerate her, Why? Because she was clever? Because she was invisible? No.

Maybe… maybe because the Sorting Hat was right. “Maybe I can grow,” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, so small she wasn’t even sure she’d spoken. She clutched the mitten to her chest and closed her eyes. 

“Maybe I’ve been looking at myself wrong.” She hugged Tom’s mitten tighter.

Tom’s mitten smelled like ice and mint and something darker—something she couldn’t name. It was his. It was his. And now it was with her. On her birthday. This was the… best birthday gift ever. 

Her fingers curled around the thread again, soft and reverent.

And then, finally, she slept.

Chapter 10: VIII

2rd February 1941.

The snow was already half-melted underfoot, but the roofs of Hogsmeade still held onto their perfect icing-sugar coating. Tom walked with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, the wind tugging at his collar.

Ahead of him, Lestrange was spinning in place like a broken weather vane, scowling at each fork in the street. “I swear it was down this bloody lane. It was . Next to the teapot shop—”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago,” Tom said flatly, eyes trailing over the wooden signs above each crooked shop. His pace was slow, eyes constantly tracking—windows, wand holsters, people’s hands. Avery laughed behind him. “You’ve turned us around so many times I can see my own footprints.”

“Oh, shut it,” Lestrange snapped, turning again. “It’s not my fault the whole map looks like a picture book drawn by a blind bat.” Lestrange scowled. “Because it’s not made for lost idiots,” Avery mumbled. “Tom, please say you know where we’re going.”

“I do,” Tom said. “I’m letting him tire himself out.”

Lestrange turned on him. “That’s cruel.”

“J. Pippin’s,” Tom said, calmly, nodding up the street. “There.”

Lestrange blinked. “Wait—oh.” Then he scratched the back of his head and strode forward like he’d led them all along. “Exactly where I meant. Obviously.”

Tom didn’t roll his eyes, but he could have . 

Instead he followed them into the shop, inhaling the scent of dried root and something sharp and metallic. The wooden shelves were stacked with vials in every shade. Behind the counter, an older wizard was trimming the end of a bundle of nettles.

“We need the recipe for Shrinking Solution,” Lestrange said with more swagger than necessary, dropping the galleons onto the counter without hesitation. “Five copies.” He said, one for Tom, one for Lestrange, one for Nott, Avery and lastly, Mulciber. Lestrange was already stepping forward in front of the other two boys.

The man looked at Lestrange from behind the counter. Side-eyed him for a moment — but when he saw the galleons on the counter. He nodded and smiled.

The man handed over the parchment, took the money, and muttered something about using fresh caterpillars if they wanted proper consistency. Tom took one of the recipe scrolls and gave it a quick glance, committing it to memory.

Outside again, they moved past the shop, towards the little stone bridge behind the shop, frost crusted along its railing. The Magic Neep sat on the slope just past the bridge, half-covered in ivy and slightly leaning to one side. It was almost hidden.

In front of the neep, Avery took the lead, holding the recipe and pointing to the list. “Minced daisy root... one rat spleen... dash of leech juice—how d’you measure a dash anyway?”

“Ask the leech,” Lestrange muttered, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels.

Tom stood beside Lestrange, his eyes lingering briefly on the glinting jars behind the glass counter—cowbane, wormwood. He watched how the shopkeeper wrapped the sliced caterpillars in oilpaper. 

His voice low, he spoke to Lestrange without turning his head. “You realise we’ve spent more time looking for potion shops than actually brewing anything.”  Lestrange scoffed. “Speak for yourself. I’m perfectly efficient. You’re the one dragging your feet like you’ve got nothing better to do.”

Tom ignored him. 

“Still bitter about Travis exploding a cauldron?” Lestrange asked all of a sudden, nudging him. “Travis doesn’t deserve a wand,” Tom replied. “Let alone access to sulfur.” His lips curled a bit. Lestrange laughed, handing some few galleons to Avery. “We’ll keep extras for you, Riddle. Our eternal prince.”

Tom didn’t react. His eyes were on the ceiling, then the corners of the room, as if searching—out of habit—for something concealed. Not this shop. Not here. He said nothing.

Avery rejoined them with two bags and a proud smirk. “Got everything. Including your spleen.” He smiled. “How thoughtful,” Tom said dryly. “I’ll put it in a frame.” He added. Avery smiled. “We’re officially Slughorn’s favorites.”

“Not all of us,” Lestrange muttered, brushing snow from his shoulders. “You just like the idea of being invited for tea again.”

“You liked the toffee,” Tom said quietly.

“...Shut up.”

The walk back to Hogwarts was mostly silent. Snow crunched, then slushed beneath their shoes. Lestrange hummed something under his breath. Tom’s mind was elsewhere, barely hearing it. Not about the potion. Not about the weather. Always measuring. Always weighing.

Always watching.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The cauldron blew sometime around mid-morning, the noise loud enough to startle half the classroom out of their chairs. Thick purple steam exploded up to the ceiling, filling the dungeon air in a rancid stink of burned leech.

Avery stood frozen, clutching a spoon. His face was splattered in green goo. “I—I followed the steps exactly,” he stammered. “You swapped shrivelfig with sliced nettle,” Tom said coolly, wiping his desk clean with the edge of his sleeve. 

“Again.”

Professor Slughorn pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Clean up, Avery. And two feet on the difference between additive versus reactive ingredients. Due Wednesday.”

When the class ended, Tom and Lestrange rushed out before the stink settled into their robes. They barely gave the corridor a glance, their feet echoing sharply. 

“I told him,” Lestrange said between breaths, “I told him nettle smells different. The whole classroom smells like swamp.” He scoffed. “You expect him to know the difference between basil and billywig wings,” Tom muttered, quickening his pace. “It’s a miracle he’s survived three years.”

“Why’d we take Runes again?” Lestrange grumbled. “I miss the days I could sleep through Astronomy.” Tom walked ahead of them both, fast and precise, threading through the crowd in the corridor without needing to look. He didn’t even slow as Lestrange caught up beside him.

“We’ve got, what—four minutes to get to Babbling’s?”

“Three,” Tom corrected.

Lestrange groaned. “Brilliant. Just enough time to die from running.” He complained. 

They were nearing the west wing when it happened—Tom’s pace faltered. Just for a beat. 

Myrtle Warren was walking down the opposite side of the corridor, alone, her arms crossed and her eyes on the floor. She didn’t see him. Didn’t look up.

She was wearing his mitten.

Just one, on her left hand. Her hair was loose for once, falling over her shoulders, and the sleeve of her jumper half covered the other hand. The light from the tall windows hit her hair just right—and her cheeks are still pink from the transfiguration courtyard wind.

She didn’t notice him, too busy muttering something underneath her breath and looking down on her feet. 

There was something in the stillness of her, something oddly gentle. Unknowing. Unguarded. He narrowed his eyes.

Lestrange snapped his fingers in front of Tom’s face. 

“Oi. You asleep with your eyes open now?” 

He snapped Tom out of his head. Tom blinked. “No.” They turned the corner. “Looked like it,” Lestrange muttered, jogging up the steps.

The study of Ancient Runes was on the fourth floor. By the time they pushed open the door, half the class was seated. Professor Bathsheda Babbling was standing at the chalkboard already, her spectacles low on her nose and runic symbols glowing softly behind her in thin floating ink.

“Take your seats, boys,” she said without looking. “We’ve begun.” The blackboard had been divided into two columns: Younger Futhark and Elder Futhark.

“Today,” she said brightly, “we’ll continue on inscription logic, and the meaning of position in string casting. That is—what does it mean if you place Ansuz before or after Raidho? Order dictates function.”

Lestrange dropped into his seat with a groan. Tom didn’t speak, just opened his notebook, already half-filled with meticulous handwriting.

Babbling waved her wand. A shimmering rune spun midair: a soft orange glow shaped like a slanted F. “This is Fehu. Used to invite abundance. But—if inverted, it indicates loss or isolation. Runes are about orientation. They don’t lie.”

Tom raised his hand.

She looked surprised. “Yes, Mr. Riddle?”

“I was wondering,” he said, tone smooth, “if there are runes or scripts—especially older ones—used to obscure. Not illusions or tricks. But... runes meant to hide something. Rooms. Spaces. Entrances.”

The class fell quiet. Even Lestrange turned to stare.

Professor Babbling tapped her chin. “A curious question. Not many students ask about concealment until sixth year. But yes. There are concealment sequences. Particularly in pre-Gaelic arrays—Algiz, Eiwaz, and Perthro are often involved.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. He wrote fast.

“Perthro, when placed inverted between binding runes, can indicate ‘kept unknown.’ Combine that with Laguz for a water-binding ward, or Uruz for strength-based concealment, and you have something... very durable.”

“How would you uncover it?” Tom asked, still writing.

Professor Babbling smiled faintly. Then furrowed her eyebrows. But shot him a challenging glare. “In theory? You’d need to understand the rune logic. Counter it with sequence reversal. Or, in ancient cases, use Kenaz to reveal. But if it’s old magic... the runes might require someone of particular descent or... affinity.”

“Affinity?” Tom echoed.

“A connection,” she said gently. “To the magic cast. Runes don’t open just for anyone.”

Tom nodded, fingers tapping lightly at the edge of the parchment. He didn’t ask another question. But his eyes lingered on the glowing orange rune long after it faded.

“But usually,” she continued, “one requires deep familiarity with the rune script and—most critically—the intent behind the magic. It isn’t just about reading what’s written. You must understand why it was cast.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The Great Hall was thinning out, long shadows creeping between the tables as candles burned lower. Tom folded his napkin precisely, placed it beside his untouched pudding, and stood. 

Avery was still halfway through a laugh about something that involved dungbombs and a Hufflepuff, but Tom barely glanced at him. Lestrange noticed.

He stood too, silent, and followed Tom across the floor and out into the corridor, their footsteps echoing. Just before the stairs, Lestrange finally spoke. “You’re going to look for it again, aren’t you?”

Tom didn’t stop walking.

Lestrange kept up, eyes narrowing. “Come on, Tom. It’s a ghost story. A bedtime tale for ambitious Slytherins.” He murmured. Tom glanced at him, just enough to answer the question without words. A look, flat and quiet. Yes.

Lestrange sighed. “You’ve been up three nights this week. You nearly fell asleep in Runes today. Slughorn says you’re the best potion-maker he’s ever seen. Why waste time chasing—”

Tom stopped.

Lestrange halted beside him, frowning. “You know it’s a myth, right? You do know that. Even you—brilliant as you are—you can’t unearth something that isn’t real.”

Tom’s voice was low. “And if I prove you wrong?”

Lestrange stopped, mouth parting slightly. “You think you’re the heir of Slytherin then?” He asked back.

Tom tilted his chin, eyes unreadable. “You said it, not me.”

Lestrange stared. Then exhaled. “If the Chamber does exist, it can’t be opened. Not by just anyone.” He said, almost too faint.  Tom stepped one stair up. “Then it won’t be.”

There was silence. They stared at each other a moment longer.

“Well, Lestrange?” Tom asked, voice velvet-smooth. “What will you do if I find it?” His voice dropped dangerously low. Lestrange stared at him. No grin. No sarcasm.

“...Then I would never doubt you again, Tom. Salazar made that chamber for a reason — you know what for. I know too.”

The silence between them felt heavier than the stone walls. Just the sound of the torches crackling. The weight of two boys who were never really boys. Only predators, in different shapes. Then, Lestrange nodded once.

“I will serve you then! If you prove me wrong. Our eternal prodigal prince!”

Tom’s lips didn’t quite smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched. That was all.

He turned and walked.

He pulled his wand as he ascended the marble staircase, whispering, “ Kenaz. ” A soft flick of firelight sparked to life at the tip—he swept the wand along the walls and corners, searching for signs—scratched stone, invisible runes, protection magic.

Nothing.

He moved slowly. Steady. Down each hall, through the empty Charms corridor, past the owlery stairs, into the Astronomy Wing where the stone grew colder and the windows broader. Still nothing. No clues. Just quiet, and flickering torchlight.

His feet led him without thinking, his wand still glowing. Now he was near the defense against the dark arts class. Then—soft footsteps. He froze behind a pillar near the arch. A door creaked open. Professor Merrythought’s class.

The old woman’s voice drifted out first, warm and amused. “Don’t eat it all at once, Miss Warren.”

And then Myrtle appeared, arms wrapped around a bundle of bread wrapped in napkin. Her head was bowed slightly. She mumbled a shy, “Thank you, Professor,” before stepping out and letting the door close gently behind her.

Tom didn’t move. 

He stepped back into the shadows, just enough to go unseen. Just enough to watch.

There she was again. Myrtle. Alone.

And useful.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

She didn’t walk off. Strange. Instead, Myrtle sat herself down on the cold stone floor, back against the wall beside Merrythought’s office door. Her legs folded neatly, skirt bundled at the knees, and she tore off bits of her bread like she had all night.

Tom watched in silence, unseen, tucked behind a pillar. No one roamed this far up now. Too late. Too quiet. Too… perfect. He tucked his wand inside his sleeve and stepped into the light.

Her head snapped up.

“Hello,” he said, evenly.

Myrtle flinched like she’d been caught stealing. Her glasses tilted slightly as her eyes darted upward—wide, startled, shimmering in the low torchlight. “Hi?...” Her voice was small. Almost soft enough to crush.

He narrowed his eyes, studying the reaction. Skittish. Fragile. Eager. “Mind if I sit here?” He asked. She nodded her head fast. No hesitation. Huh . Interesting.

He lowered himself beside her without asking again, leaning back against the same wall. She shifted subtly, like she didn’t know whether to freeze or melt. He noticed. He always noticed. Her breath came shallow.

“What bread is that?” he asked. She blinked at the crust in her hand. “Banana bread.” She managed a response. “I like banana bre—”

Before he could finish, she pushed the whole roll into his lap. Still warm. She looked up at him like she expected something in return—praise, maybe. Gratitude. Anything. He took the bread. Bit into it slowly. So slowly as if she wasn’t on the verge of passing out beside him. He chewed, swallowed, stared ahead like he had all the time in the world. 

“What were you doing in Merrythought’s office?” he asked calmly — in between his bites.

“Oh? Me?” she stammered. “Well I was—” She took a deep breath. “I was–”

“Hiding,” he finished for her.

She went quiet. Her fingers tugged at her skirt. He didn’t look at her. Yet.

“From Hornby, I assume.” He added. Myrtle’s head shot up, eyes wide. Her mouth parted slightly. “Yes I... you know?” She looked up at him. Those vivid eyes of hers. Strange… Tom shouldn't care. He stopped chewing, wrapped the rest of the bread neatly in the napkin. 

“Course I do,” he said, finally looking at her. Holding her eyes still. Myrtle’s breath hitched, her entire posture curling in on itself, trying to become smaller. He could see every movement. A twitch in her fingers. A flicker in her gaze. So easily read.

“You know, Myrtle, you’re always running. Always hiding. That’s a talent.” He mumbled. She blinked quickly, voice barely audible. “I don’t like being around them... they’re mean.”

“They’re foolish,” he said. “But you… you see things. You hear things—”

He tilted his head.

“You’re clever, Myrtle.”

He didn’t mean to say it that way. It slipped out—honest. That surprised him. It curled warm in the chest—not admiration, not really. But an acknowledgment. The kind he didn’t offer lightly.

He cleared his throat. “You could help me, couldn’t you?” Her lips parted. “Help... what?”

He smiled faintly. “For the good of Hogwarts,” he said, carefully. “Trust me. That’s the least you could do after I saved you from dying of coldness.” His lips twitch a bit. “I—yes,” she whispered. “Of course. Anything.” She nodded.

A little too fast.

Her hands trembled with excitement.

He turned his head away slightly so she wouldn’t see the smirk forming. “I need you to listen. In class. Every class. Watch which books the professor pulls. What they scribble randomly in the notebooks. Which students they talk to.” He murmured. “Anything weird, strange, out of character. The smallest inconsistency. The tiniest lapse.” 

Myrtle nodded again. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“And if you hear professors whispering. If someone talks about runes, or legends, or anything old—come to me.” He said. “I will.” Her voice came quicker now. She nodded without asking.

Tom tilted his head, watching her closer now. The way her eyes lit up, how her whole face opened like a flower leaning to light. Strange. He thought he couldn't entertain girls like her. 

She stared at him like he was something holy. Reverent. Foolish, yes. But pure . Pure in the way she gave all of herself in one look. In the way she handed him the bread.

He never had that. Not from anyone.

Not even Lestrange.

She was still staring up at him, cheeks flushed with something stupid. Her eyes watery—maybe from crying in Merrythought’s office. Her lips slightly parted. It was annoying. It was useful. It was something else he didn’t have the time to think about.

“You’ll report only to me.”

She nodded so fast it made her hair bounce, her stupidly pretty hair.

“And not a word to anyone.”

“I promise.”

He stood. She scrambled up after him. “Thank you,” she whispered. For what? He didn’t ask. He only nodded once and turned away. Behind him, her footsteps didn’t follow. She just stood there, watching him disappear.

Let’s see, he thought, how far her loyalty goes.

Chapter 11: IX

Myrtle didn’t even feel her shoes hit the marble as she stepped back into Ravenclaw Tower. The spiral stairs felt like clouds, and the bronze eagle knocker didn’t even bother her when it quizzed her with a riddle. She answered wrong twice and still didn’t care.

Inside, the common room glowed. And Olive was laughing on the sofa with Mary. Myrtle slipped past them unnoticed for once, her heart hammering so loudly it felt like it echoed off the stained glass windows. 

She didn’t stop to think—they didn’t matter tonight.

She slammed her dorm door with more force than usual, but didn’t even flinch at the sound. For once, she wasn’t crying. For once, she didn’t care about Olive’s smug face or Mary’s polished boots. All she could think was: Tom Riddle wants my help.

Her hands trembled when she touched her trunk lid. She pulled it open, fingers searching for the mitten—the one he gave her in the courtyard. Her palm brushed the green wool and she clutched it to her chest, nearly gasping. 

That hadn’t been a dream. That wasn’t imagination. That really happened.

He called her clever. Not strange. Not weepy. Not pathetic. He said clever. And his voice didn’t sound like he was making fun. You’re often alone, right? People don’t see you. That must feel... useful. That wasn’t mockery. That was... interest.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, holding the mitten tightly in one hand. She stared at the curtains swaying gently and whispered the words again under her breath. “For the good of Hogwarts.” Her lips trembled. 

She nearly laughed. It was so ridiculous. So wonderful.

She didn’t even know what he wanted yet. He hadn’t explained. But he’d looked her in the eyes and told her she could help. Help—not stay out of the way, not run along, not shut up. Help. And his eyes were so serious like he was telling her something important.

She let herself lie back on the blankets, still in her robes, still clutching the mitten. Her hair fanned out on the pillow. Olive would make a comment in the morning, probably, but for once she didn’t care. For once, something bigger than Olive mattered.

Tom had looked at her—not through her, not past her. At her. That was enough. That was everything. Her cheeks were still flushed and her stomach was fluttering, like she’d swallowed a whole jar of fairy wings. She wasn’t used to feeling like this. She kind of liked it.

She rolled over, pulled the mitten under her chin like a plush toy. 

Her pajamas were lying folded at the foot of her bed, her comfiest pair—the lilac ones with the lace collar and little moon buttons. She usually loved them. Tonight she didn’t even remember to change.

Her thoughts kept darting. Would she see him tomorrow? Would he explain more? Would he meet her again somewhere? Would he bring her somewhere secret? Would she do something dangerous? What if she wasn’t actually clever—what if he was wrong? But then again, he was never wrong.

Gosh! Tom Riddle!

She pulled the blankets over her, still wearing her uniform skirt and socks. Her shoes were tossed haphazardly near the foot of the bed. Her glasses were slightly crooked from where she’d pressed her hand to her cheek. She didn’t bother fixing them. The excitement was humming in her bones.

He said she was useful. She’d always wanted to be useful. To someone. To anyone. But especially to someone who mattered. And Tom mattered more than anyone else at Hogwarts—maybe more than any wizard in the world. He was brilliant. Everyone said so. 

She knew it now too.

She tried to steady her breath, but her heart wouldn’t calm down. Her brain was running so fast. It didn’t matter that she didn’t understand the full plan yet. It didn’t matter what he wanted. It didn’t matter if it was scary. She would do it.

She would do anything he asked. 

If he thought it would help Hogwarts, then it would. If he thought she was clever, then maybe—just maybe—she was. He had such sharp eyes…. 

She grinned in the dark, a little wildly. Her fingers tightened on the mitten again. She pictured his initials—T.M.R.—like a spell. Maybe it was one. Maybe she’d write them in the margins of her notebook tomorrow. 

The room was quiet. The girls in her dorm had fallen asleep, or at least they weren’t whispering anymore. Outside, the wind tapped softly on the window. A ghost drifted past the glass. Myrtle barely noticed. Her heart was still echoing his words, over and over.

She tucked the mitten under her chin again and finally closed her eyes. The warmth of the wool against her cheek made her feel safe in a way nothing ever had. 

She wasn’t cold anymore. Not tonight. She wasn’t forgotten, either. Not by him.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Myrtle sat hunched over her desk in Charms class. 

Professor Flitwick’s voice rose, so so so squeaky. Myrtle stared past her parchment, jaw clenched. She couldn’t focus—not really.

Tom Riddle had told her to watch the professors. To keep an eye out for anything, anything out of character, anything really. “The smallest inconsistency,” he’d said, so calm. “The tiniest lapse.” Myrtle had nodded fiercely at the time. 

Now, she squinted at Flitwick like he might suddenly sprout horns.

But all he was doing was waving his wand at a stack of brass buttons, making them jump in place. He chatted about levitation theory, about soft objects versus hard ones and how gravity plays a part in levitation. Myrtle sighed and dropped her chin into her hand. He wasn’t doing anything weird. He was just being Flitwick.

Still, she scribbled something in her margins. 

No signs of concealment. Very invested in buttons today. Voice higher than usual? She wasn't sure. Maybe she was imagining it. She didn’t want to disappoint Tom. She groaned even more.

Behind her Awick leaned forward slightly. “Hey. Myrtle,” he whispered, voice low so Flitwick wouldn’t hear. “I saved you a spot earlier—” But she didn’t even glance at him. She moved her books an inch farther across the desk, put her arm up as a barrier.

Awick’s mouth hung open a second, then he sat back with a tiny sigh. Myrtle didn’t care. Not after what he said—Tom Riddle wouldn’t talk to a girl like you. Like she was some pathetic little moth fluttering too close to the sun. He’d said it like it was a joke.

Her fingers tensed on the quill. She wasn't going to cry. Not over Awick. She dipped the quill again, scribbled T.M.R. in the corner of the page, this time with a tiny flourish under the “R”. She’d show him. She’d show everyone.

Professor Flitwick waved his wand again and called for volunteers. 

Myrtle shot up her hand before she even thought about it. “Miss Warren, yes?” he squeaked, looking genuinely surprised. Myrtle stood, wand in hand, and recited the theory behind the Hovering Charm.

She performed the charm without trembling. The brass button floated a clean five inches above the table. Flitwick clapped delightedly, but Myrtle just sat down and stared at her parchment again. The momentary praise didn’t matter. What mattered was that she knew she was capable. And Tom knew, too.

Awick whispered something again—something soft, probably sorry—but she angled her body away from him completely. She didn’t need him to believe her. She didn’t need anyone to. Tom did. That was enough. And she had a task now. A secret. A purpose. And it was hers alone.

Her mind drifted again. What had Tom meant, exactly? Was someone hiding something in plain sight? Was a professor not who they said they were? She scanned Flitwick’s robes, his shoes, the rings on his fingers. Nothing stood out. He just looked... small. Kind. Ordinary.

Just Professor Flitwick. 

She blinked. Her page was covered in notes. She wrote more. No tremors in speech. Gesture pattern unchanged. Possibly a nervous tic with wand twirl? Confirm later. No eye contact with back row students. And, again: T.M.R. T.M.R. T.M.R.

The class dragged on. Flitwick moved to the chalkboard, drawing diagrams of charm circles. Myrtle traced her finger over her notes slowly. She imagined telling Tom she’d done it—watched, written everything, even the parts that felt silly. She imagined him nodding once. Saying, “Good.”

Her chest swelled. She didn’t want to be someone who needed praise. But when it came from him—

The bell rang. Students started gathering their things. Myrtle didn’t move right away. She slid her notebook into her bag carefully. Awick hesitated beside her again, holding his books like he wanted to speak. She brushed past him without a glance.

He muttered her name under his breath, but she didn’t stop. She walked quickly through the hall, clutching her bag to her side like a secret. Her robes swished against her legs. Her heart was racing. 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The sun hung low in the sky, the Transfiguration courtyard was pretty painted in gold. Myrtle wandered in slow circles, kicking tiny pebbles with the toe of her shoe. Her bag hung lopsided off one shoulder. The day had been... dull. Frustratingly dull.

She hadn't found anything strange. Not in Charms, not in Transfiguration, not anything. Flitwick had taught Leviosa again, his voice too chipper. Dumbledore had transformed his cauldrom into a cat and back like he always did. Nothing worth a note.

She bit the inside of her cheek, frustrated. 

What if she disappointed him? What if Tom thought she was wasting his time? Her fingers twitched as she thought about the empty space in her notebook. Maybe she’d missed something. Maybe she wasn’t clever after all. That fear sat heavy in her chest.

Another pebble clacked off the fountain base. She hunched her shoulders, arms folded, sighing through her nose. A small breeze blew across the courtyard, rustling her skirt. And then, just as she turned to walk back inside, something fluttered near her face. She blinked, startled.

A paper butterfly.

It floated down gracefully. It circled once, twice, and then dipped low, landing gently in her open palm. Her fingers curled around it instinctively. She looked around, wide-eyed, heart already skipping faster. And then—there. 

Him.

Tom Riddle.

He was walking across the far arch. He glanced toward her—just a look. He held her gaze for three slow seconds. Then he disappeared into the stone without a sound. She nearly forgot how to breathe.

She opened the paper.

The butterfly stopped moving the moment her thumb pressed its wing. Unfolding it slowly, she stared at the handwriting—elegant, smooth, unmistakably his. 

If you found something, put a note in the Potion book near the dusty corner — west side of the library. I’ll meet you in the underground harbour, 1PM, every Sunday if you do.

Underneath, the letters Tom.

Her knees nearly gave out. She folded it back quickly, pressed it to her chest, and spun around—nobody had seen. Her hands were shaking. Sunday. That was four days away. Four whole days until she could see him again. Until she could bring him something. That felt like forever.

She started pacing.

What could she do? What could she find by then? What if she had to find something or he wouldn’t come again? Her brain was sprinting. Maybe she could sit in the teacher’s lounge chimney. Maybe she could fake detention. Maybe she could charm a quill to record gossip.

She didn’t hear Olive until the scissors clicked.

“Look at you,” Olive sneered, stepping up behind her. Myrtle froze. 

The courtyard had emptied slightly, but not enough. Mary and Polly were nearby, smirking. “Wandering around like a sad little deer. Still waiting for your friends? Oh! They’re not here anymore, are they?” Olive reached forward and yanked one of Myrtle’s braids.

Myrtle gasped. “Stop that!” she snapped, twisting back, but Olive held the braid tight and raised her other hand—scissors. Real, silver, sharp. 

“Thought I’d give you a haircut, Myrtle. Something to match your crazy.” Olive’s smile was vicious. Polly laughed like it was all so funny.

“No!” Myrtle flailed, panic flooding her. 

She grabbed at the scissors, wrestled them clumsily, and with a desperate twist, yanked them from Olive’s grip. She threw it away. It clattered onto the cobblestone. Myrtle kicked them hard. They skidded under a stone bench. Olive gasped. 

“You little freak! Those were Mary’s!”

Mary’s face twisted in fury. She drew her wand without hesitation, eyes blazing. “You want to ruin my things?” she snapped. “Fine! Let’s ruin yours, then.” Myrtle turned to run, but she was too slow. 

Mary pointed the wand straight at her back. “Vertere Viridis!”

There was a flash of green light. It hit her square in the back of the head. She stumbled forward with a cry, the force of the charm knocking her off her feet. Her glasses flew sideways. She caught herself on her hands, knees stinging. 

Then the laughter started. She looked around — and everyone was pointing at her, at her head.

She touched her hair. Something felt wrong. Sticky. Weird. Her fingers came back green. She sat up, heart pounding, and fumbled for her glasses. She looked at herself in the reflection. Her braid hung in front of her, and it wasn’t brown anymore. It was green. A sickly, slimy, glowing green.

Polly pointed. “Oh no—look at it! She’s gone all gross!”

Mary shrieked with laughter. “It’s like swampweed grew a head! Disgusting!”

“Sickly Green Myrtle!” someone called from across the courtyard. More laughter followed, rising in waves. 

Sickly Green Myrtle. Sickly Green Myrtle. 

She touched her hair again—sticky-feeling, horrid, like slime. Her fingers shook. The name echoed louder and louder. “Sickly green Myrtle!” “Oi, what’s that smell?” “Did someone hex a kelpie?” It mixed into one long cruel howl.

Myrtle pressed her hands to her ears, but it was too late. The sound had already burrowed into her. The ugly green strands hung in her face like seaweed. She wanted to vanish. Sink into the stones. Melt away. But she couldn’t. They were all still looking.

All of them. Laughing. Watching. Pointing. Sickly Green Myrtle.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Olive’s laugh rang the loudest. Mary stepped forward, smirking, twirling her wand lazily between her fingers. “Brilliant, wasn’t it?” she said to no one in particular. “I read about that charm in Curses and Cosmetic Disasters—works like a dream on ugly heads.”

Myrtle’s face crumpled. Her vision blurred with angry tears. Her fingers were clenched tight around the paper in her hand. She didn’t care anymore who saw. Her legs moved before her brain caught up—she ran, skirt catching the wind, shoes slapping stone as she bolted from the courtyard.

Shouts followed her. Laughter. “Sickly green Myrtle!” again and again, like they’d all practiced it. 

She ran faster, dodging two Hufflepuffs near the entrance steps, her bag bouncing behind her. Up the marble stairs, past the second floor, third, fourth—toward safety, toward the only place she felt real.

She shoved open the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom doors, nearly tripping over her own feet. The classroom was dim, chairs pushed back, no students left. 

Myrtle didn’t stop. She stormed up the side stairs toward the professor’s private office and pounded the door with both fists, breath hitching.

The door flung open with a sharp click. “What on earth—” Professor Merrythought’s startled voice cut short when she saw Myrtle’s face. Her eyes widened, taking in the wild look, the streaked cheeks, the disgusting green hair. 

“Oh… dear,” she said softly, stepping aside. “What happened to you, child?”

“Olive—” Myrtle gasped. “She’s chasing me!”

And she was. Olive Hornby burst through the main classroom doors with the same rage she always wore when her tricks went wrong. She barged open the door, lips parted to speak—but Merrythought turned on her like a bolt of lightning.

“Ms. Hornby! Detention.”

Olive stopped mid-step, mouth still open. Her wand hand faltered. “But—Professor—I didn’t—”

“You will meet me in this office this evening, and we’ll have a proper conversation about the rules of magical conduct and common decency,” Merrythought snapped, her tone sharper than Myrtle had ever heard. “Now leave this room immediately.”

Olive’s face turned red with fury. 

She made an ugly choking noise, then stormed out with a huff. Myrtle looked after her, then glanced back at the professor. Her cheeks burned—but for the first time, she felt a little triumph blooming. She didn’t mean to smile. But she did.

Professor Merrythought sighed and softened, placing a gentle hand on Myrtle’s shoulder. “Come in, Myrtle,” she said quietly. “Sit down for a moment. You’re safe here.” She pushed the door wider, guiding Myrtle into the office with careful steps. 

“Let’s see what we can do about your hair.”

The warmth of the room caught Myrtle off guard. The fire crackled low, and Myrtle realised there was someone else sitting near it—thin, pale, and fidgeting. Professor Trelawney. She blinked when Myrtle entered, her hands clasped in her lap.

Trelawney seemed nervous. Myrtle hadn’t spoken to her before—just seen her during meals, always looking like she didn’t quite belong anywhere. She straightened a little when Myrtle entered, her eyebrows lifting. 

“Oh. I didn’t realise you had company,” she said, shifting in her seat, voice unsure.

“She’s not company,” Merrythought said briskly, waving her wand at the kettle. “Ms. Warren is a sweet soul and could use a bit of calm, same as the rest of us. She won’t be a problem, I assure you, Trelawney.” She said as she handed Myrtle a cup of rose tea.

Myrtle’s hands trembled slightly as she accepted it. The tea was hot. She glanced toward Trelawney, unsure what to say. Trelawney looked right at her. Their eyes met, just briefly. 

Myrtle smiled, small and tight, still flushed from crying. Trelawney blinked, then gave the faintest smile back.

A pause settled between them. The only sound was the gentle pour of tea. Myrtle took a sip, surprised by how good it tasted—even though she’s tasted so much of Professor Merrythought’s tea by now. Her heartbeat had started to slow. Her fingers weren’t clenched anymore.

“Uhm,” Trelawney said at last, clearing her throat. 

“Professor, I came here to speak about… a rather serious problem. It’s been bothering me for a few days now, and I… well, I think it’s better if we talk about it alone—”

“Oh no,” Merrythought interrupted kindly, setting down her cup. “No need for that. Ms. Warren is no stranger to strange problems. She won’t say a word. I promise you.” She gave Myrtle a warm, trusting look. 

“Go on, Sybill.”

Trelawney hesitated. Her eyes shifted toward Myrtle again. Myrtle only tilted her head and smiled again, sipping from her cup. Professor Trelawney then sighed.

“I’ve been… seeing things,” she said, eyes unfocused behind the thick glass of her spectacles. “In dreams. Waking moments too. They come like flashes. Like… warnings.”

Myrtle sat up straighter, cup still warm in her hands. Her hair was still sickly green and slightly damp from crying, but the tea had softened the sting. Trelawney’s words made her stomach twist a little—she was speaking in that strange, faraway voice. 

It didn’t sound like a lie.

“I can’t always control them,” Trelawney continued, her hands fluttering against her shawl.

“Sometimes I wake up and the air feels wrong. Heavy. Like the castle itself is breathing. Like something is stirring and watching.” Her eyes darted toward the fire. Myrtle followed her gaze, confused.

Professor Trelawney shifted on her seat, gripping her teacup with both hands. Her eyes—too wide behind the round frames—darted everywhere. To the walls then back to her knees. She inhaled sharply. 

“They’re not just dreams,” Trelawney said, voice rising. “They’re visions. They… they feel like they’re inside me. Like I’m watching them happen through someone else’s eyes. And they keep happening. Every night this week. Same place. Same feeling. Heavy. Horrible.”

Myrtle set her cup down, fingers suddenly clammy. 

“Oh! So horrible…”

The room felt smaller. She stared openly now. Trelawney didn’t notice—she was gripping the cup too tightly. “The castle—it crumbles. Stone falling…. Screams. So many screams. Children. All around. Echoing. And—oh Merlin—a hissing.”

A hiss.

Myrtle’s spine stiffened.

Trelawney’s hands trembled. “Not like a train hissing. A creature. Something else. I don’t… I—it’s furious. And—” she stopped herself, exhaled shakily, “—and I saw students. Being dragged away. Faces I couldn’t see clearly, but I felt what they were. Muggle-born. Half-blood may be spared. But not children… like her.” She pointed toward Myrtle.

Myrtle stopped breathing for a moment. 

Her fingers curled into her skirt without thinking. Muggle-born. That meant her. She was one of them. Her heart was slamming against her ribs like it was trying to escape her chest. Her legs twitched under the blanket. 

Merrythought was no longer pouring tea. Her eyes had narrowed. “Sybill,” she said slowly, warning in her voice. 

But Trelawney pushed forward, unblinking. “Something dangerous is coming, Professor. I swear it. It’s some sort of prank. It’s something— Ah! Something older than us. It’s already here.”

“I felt it,” she said. “A crack in the stones. A hole behind the walls. It’s watching us. Waiting. And it’s going to begin soon.” She looked at Myrtle again. “They’ll come after girls like her first.” Her voice had cracked by the end. Myrtle gripped the edge of her seat.

The room was too quiet.

Professor Merrythought stood up sharply and clapped her hands together once, loud and firm. “Alright, Sybill. That’s enough,” she said. “This is clearly just… visions. But nonetheless, I think we should discuss this with Headmaster Dippet.”

Trelawney blinked, stunned, then nodded slightly. “Yes. Yes, of course. I—only meant to warn—” but Merrythought was already turning her toward the door, already smoothing things over.

“Ms. Warren is a sweet soul,” Merrythought said. “And she’ll be going back to her dorm very soon. You’ve frightened her more than you realize.” Her smile to Myrtle was warm, even kind, but Myrtle barely noticed.

Trelawney faltered. Her eyes met Myrtle’s again, softer this time. 

Myrtle tried to smile, but it came out shaky. She looked back down at the note Tom gave her, the paper now a bit crumpled. But it didn’t matter how messy it was—she had it.

She had something. Finally.

She had real information. Real proof. Something strange was happening at Hogwarts—something that made professors whisper and tremble and dream of screams. Something Tom would want to know. She clutched the paper in her lap and pressed her lips together, heart fluttering.

Myrtle didn’t say anything. She just sat quietly while Merrythought guided Trelawney away. 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Professor Merrythought returned not long after, soft footsteps on the corridor stone, and opened the office door with a light, rehearsed smile. “Thank you for waiting so patiently, dear,” she said. “And there wasn’t anything to be afraid of, alright? Just… silly nerves, that’s all.”

Myrtle nodded stiffly. 

Her throat still hurt from holding everything in. She gave a tiny, watery sound that wasn’t quite a yes. Merrythought gently set her bag down and pulled out her wand. “Let’s see if I can undo this terrible spell,” she said, tilting her head as she examined Myrtle’s seaweed-colored hair.

A few muttered incantations later, Merrythought’s spell fizzled out against Myrtle’s hair like it didn’t want to work. She tried again, lips pressed together, before slowly lowering her wand with a soft sigh. 

“Well. It’ll wear off eventually, I’m sure. Just… maybe not tonight.” She smiled gently.

That’s when the knock came—three quick taps and a pause. Merrythought blinked, already halfway to the door, muttering, “Now who could that be?” Myrtle sat up straighter, wiping under her glasses quickly with her sleeve. Her hair felt like it was glowing. She braced herself for more teasing.

But when Merrythought opened the door, Myrtle’s mouth fell open.

Euphenia stood first, hands clasped tightly in front of her, looking like she’d nearly cried herself silly already. 

Her blonde hair was now bright green, grassy and glowing. And beside her was Awick, visibly trying not to laugh—but also visibly afraid. His hair was a muddy, reddish swamp-green.

“We heard Myrtle was here—” Euphenia said quickly, stepping forward.

“Myrtle!” she gasped, seeing her across the room.

Before Merrythought could blink, Euphenia grabbed Awick by the sleeve and yanked him inside. “Oh—my!” Merrythought uttered, startled, as the two first-years stormed right past here. Myrtle blinked in disbelief as they stood in front of her abruptly.

Awick winced as Euphenia elbowed him hard. He stumbled forward, cleared his throat, and then—they both stood very, very still. Euphenia took one sharp tap of her shoe against the floor, then another, then a steady rhythm. 

Myrtle blinked again. She recognized that sound. It was tap dancing.

Then, together, they sang.

“Myrtle, Myrtle, oh our funny, beautiful, smart Myrtle!”
“You are smarter than a dragon’s hoard!”
“She’s brave!” “She’s strong!”
“And we know that we were so very wrong—!”

Awick clutched his stomach dramatically. Euphenia spun once, shoes clicking.

“She’s bright like the moon on a cloudy night!”
“She’s got the smarts to win any fight!”
“He  messed up!” “I did!”
“And we’re singing now to make things right!”

Their voices echoed off the walls. Myrtle just gaped. She looked to Merrythought in disbelief—who was frozen in place, one hand still on the teapot.

“And with our everlasting friendship love to youuuuu—”
“Dear Myrtle~!”
“Let’s be sickly awesome greens together toooooo!”

Euphenia clicked her final beat. Awick held his arms out dramatically. Then silence.

They looked at her.

Myrtle sat there frozen, blinking through her wet lashes. Her mouth twitched. Her chest rose and fell once—twice—and then it happened. She burst out crying. Loud, gasping sobs — everything cracking open all at once.

“Oh no—Myrtle!” Euphenia dropped to her knees, arms around her in a second.

Awick dove forward too, burying his face into her shoulder with a sniffle. “Don’t cry!” he said, voice wobbling. “We’re green heads together now, okay? Forever! I feel so guilty! I shouldn’t’ve said anything! I knew you weren’t lying! I’m just stupid alright?!”

Myrtle sobbed harder into Euphenia’s shoulder. Her fists clung to Awick’s sleeve, knuckles white. 

Their awful green hair tangled together. Euphenia’s fingers stroked her back in gentle circles, whispering, “You’re not alone. You’re not. Not ever. Not even when your hair looks like a kelpie’s tail.” She tried not to sob.

Awick sniffled. “Mine looks like old lettuce! You’ve got it better!” Awick sobbed even harder.

Myrtle laughed. Somehow. They were ridiculous. They were stupid. So so so stupid. Her face was blotchy and red, her nose running, and her green hair clung to her cheeks—but for once, she didn’t feel ugly. 

Not even a little.

Merrythought wiped her eyes discreetly with a handkerchief, smiling softly, still standing near the tea tray. “Well,” she said quietly to no one in particular, “that’s… certainly one way to apologize.”

Chapter 12: X

Thursday afternoon crept in. Tom sat beneath the tall window in the west corner of the library, there were so many books scattered on the table in front of him—almost too many. Lestrange was muttering about powdered root mistakes, Avery was twiddling a quil between his fingers.

Tom barely blinked as Avery loudly imitated Professor Slughorn’s voice, dragging out a pompous, “Ten points to Slytherin!” Lestrange snorted. 

Tom on the other hand, didn’t react. He was too preoccupied with something else. His eyes fixed on the third bookshelf—fifth row, the dusty corner. His memory was exact. That’s where he told Myrtle to leave a note, if she ever had one.

“I’ll be right back,” Tom murmured, already pushing his chair back. 

Neither of them noticed—Avery was still performing his dramatic potion explosion reenactment that happened the other day and Lestrange was too busy being annoyed at Avery. Tom moved swiftly, his polished perfect shoes silent on the old floorboards. He weaved through the shelves.

The book shelf was undisturbed, cobwebbed and quiet. His eyes scanned the books sitting idly on the shelf until they landed on Foundational Draughts & Brews, the third copy from the right. It was slightly ajar—only by a sliver, but enough to notice. Tom’s expression didn’t change, but something inside him tightened.

He slipped the book from its place, fingers steady, pulse quiet. Inside, between pages ninety-two and ninety-three, was a folded piece of parchment. Tom's lips parted. With steady hands, he slowly reached for the parchment and began opening it. 

The handwriting was small, neat, unmistakably hers. Tom remembered — of course he does. Her notes were one of the ones that impressed and amused him. And there it was: M.W. signed at the bottom, followed by;

I have something. I’ll come. Sunday. 1PM. Underground harbour. – M.W.

He stared at it.

For a full fifteen seconds, he didn’t move. He read the words twice. Then three times. Then again. His eyes narrowed.

He’d only sent that butterfly yesterday. He hadn’t expected a response so soon. Most people needed coaxing. Most people were slow. She wasn’t. Myrtle Warren had already found something. The sickly green Muggle-born Myrtle found something.

His lips twitched. A barely-there movement. Not quite a smile. 

What could she possibly have in the short time frame?

Myrtle. She had listened. She had acted. And she—she said she had something important.

He folded the paper carefully, almost too carefully, like it was made of glass or something. He didn’t know why , though.  Then slipped it into the inner pocket of his robe. His hand hovered a moment after, fingers still brushing the edge. 

He could still picture her face, furrowed brow, wide glasses, too-big robes, eyes that watched everything.

“Oi?”

Tom’s body tensed—just a little. Lestrange had found him.

The boy raised an eyebrow, wand dangling loosely from his fingers. “What are you doing? Thought you said you’d help Avery before he blows up another shelf.”

Tom didn’t miss a beat. 

“Nothing,” he said evenly. 

He cleared his throat and stepped back from the shelf, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “I was just… checking something.” He muttered. Lestrange tilted his head. “That so?”

Tom met his eyes calmly. “Let’s go back to remembering how to make the potions,” he said simply. Turned. Walked away. The boy shrugged and followed, muttering about Avery’s brain being made of frogspawn.

And throughout the whole entire day, his mind was on nothing. Not potions, not charms, not even runes. Well, maybe a little about Slytherin's history, but mostly —

It was on Myrtle. That strange, clever little girl with the green-streaked hair and the watchful eyes. And what exactly she thought she’d found for him in a single day.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Sunday.

The underground harbour was cold, damp, and empty, lit only by the thin streaks of lakewater-filtered light shimmering against the cave walls. Tom stood near the edge of the dock, arms crossed behind his back. There was no one there with him, he made sure of that.

Then she came. Myrtle. 

Her hair was in those same two braids again, thick and slightly frizzy, with that dark swamp green still clinging — apparently a Ravenclaw, Hornby’s friend, he assumed, spelled her hair green. Her glasses slipped down her nose as she approached, fidgeting with her hands, cheeks flushed from the run down.

“Hi,” she blurted, as if the word had slipped out without permission. “Sorry, I—I came early—I mean, not that early, just in case—okay, so—do you want to know? Because I have something. Something important.”

Tom blinked slowly, then gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. “Yes. Tell me.”

She inhaled deeply, and the words spilled. “Okay, so, Thursday—after that day, with the hair—well, I was in Professor Merrythought’s office, and Professor Trelawney was there too. She was all shaky and weird and kept saying things—dark things. I took mental notes!”

Tom raised an eyebrow. Myrtle stepped closer.

“She said there’s something dangerous coming. That it’s coming for the school. She’s been having visions , and she said she heard a hiss —I don't know what to make of it—and she said muggle-borns are in danger. She was talking about death , Tom. Screaming. Crumbling walls.”

His heartbeat ticked once—twice. Quiet, but distinct. His head tilted. “Trelawney said this?”

Myrtle nodded so hard her glasses nearly fell off. “In hysterics. I didn’t make this up—I swear. Merrythought even sent her to talk to Headmaster Dippet. I don’t know what they talked about, but—she really believes it. I saw it in her face.”

He didn’t respond.

His gaze had dropped, focused on the damp stone floor, unblinking. His mind lit like dry leaves in fire . Muggle-borns. Death. Crumbling. She said a hiss. She heard it. That means it connects with Slytherin in a way. And Trelawney—half-mad as she always seemed—couldn’t have known about the Chamber. Couldn’t have known what he was searching for.

His chest rose with a breath too slow, too steady. Could this be it? The confirmation? A prophecy, not just a legend? He had been right. He was right. He was the heir—Lestrange doubted, but Lestrange was wrong. Myrtle didn’t know what she’d just given him.

His thoughts surged too fast to catch. He saw himself standing at the threshold of the Chamber, the entrance opening at his will. He saw himself proving it. To Dippet. To Lestrange. To the entire school. His blood wasn’t mud. His mother’s weakness meant nothing.

He didn’t even hear Myrtle calling his name the first time.

“Tom?” she tried, eyebrows raised.

He was still staring downward, eyes slightly distant, unfocused.

“Tom?” she repeated, voice louder.

Nothing.

She leaned closer and waved a hand. “Hello—?”

Tom’s expression shifted. Slowly. A smile. Wide. Bright. The kind he’d used before to charm older girls or soften Slughorn. But this time, it rose without thought. And it felt... strange. Not heavy. Not forced. It was real. 

His brow furrowed immediately after. He glanced away, collected himself, then looked back. “Yes. Myrtle, that’s it. Keep that up. That’s exactly the kind of thing I wanted to hear.” His voice was steady, but his pulse was still rushing in his ears.

Her face lit up. She clutched her hands together and leaned forward, beaming. 

“Really?” she breathed. “What’s all of this for? What am I helping you in… Tom?” Her voice was light, curious, almost teasing, but he caught the sincere hope buried underneath.

“Like I said,” he replied, voice lower now. 

He glanced at her hair—it caught strangely in the light, not ugly at all—in fact it's more like the mermaids he’d once seen watching from under the lake’s surface, still and haunting. 

“For the good of Hogwarts,” he continued. 

“I need to know… in case anything is coming. Anything that might threaten the school.” His voice didn’t waver, even if the lie in it felt thinner than usual. He wasn’t sure she believed it, and yet— did it matter?

“Oookayyy,” Myrtle said slowly, dragging the word out like she was squinting through it. But she didn’t ask anything else. He tilted his head slightly, waiting, watching—but she didn’t push. She only rocked forward on her heels, lips twitching again into a small, sideways grin.

He studied her. She had brought him something vital . This muggle-born girl—this strange, eager, bright-eyed Ravenclaw. 

Suddenly, she reached out and tapped his shoulder. It wasn’t heavy. Just a quick touch. Warm. “Bye-bye, I—I’ll see you… soon?” she said. She turned awkwardly, already walking backward toward the tunnel, braid bouncing behind her as she stepped into shadow.

Tom looked down at the place her hand had touched. Just stared. He looked up again, her small figure already vanishing around the corner. The sound of water filled the silence again. He whispered, to no one, almost absently:

“Soon.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The Slytherin dorm was quiet when Tom stepped in. He climbed the stairs toward the dormitory, silent as a thought. Lestrange sat cross-legged on his bed, wand in one hand, flipping through an old Latin-scripted curse manual. He looked up as Tom entered.

“You took your time,” he said. “Avery thinks you vanished into the bloody wall.”

Tom didn’t pause. He dropped his satchel on the end of his bed and said, flatly, “I’ve confirmed something.” He untied his cloak in one sharp tug, hanging it precisely on the hook before turning fully. “From Myrtle. That girl.”

Lestrange raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Wait actually?” He shut the book and sat up straight, straighter than before. “Sickly green Myrtle?” His lip curled. “You’ve actually got her doing work for you?”

Tom didn’t respond at first. The comment prickled somewhere deep. His eyes narrowed slightly. Displeased. “She’s efficient,” he said finally, voice smooth. “And unnoticed. Both are useful.”

Lestrange raised both brows but didn’t press it. Instead, he twirled his wand again and muttered, “And? What did she find?”

Tom didn’t answer directly. Instead, he walked to his desk drawer, opened it quietly, then closed it again—just for the sound of it. He turned. “She brought me a prophecy,” he said. “Trelawney. She spoke of hissing. Screaming. Muggle-borns dying.”

That pulled Lestrange upright.

Tom watched the shift in his posture. “It confirms everything,” he said. 

“The Chamber. The blood it seeks. The danger she described... Trelawney didn’t know what she was saying, but I do.” He stepped forward slightly, eyes dark and focused. “It’s real. You know it is. And I will find it.”

Lestrange didn’t speak. He stared at Tom, eyes narrowing slightly, like something sharp had pierced through him. Then slowly, he stood, setting the book aside, shoulders squaring. “So you believe it’s time,” he said. “You think the prophecy means you’ll open it.”

Tom’s voice was low. “Yes.”

He felt it now—deeper than ambition. Certainty. His magic wanted it. His blood knew . The chamber waited. It had always waited. And now it whispered. He would speak its tongue. He would command it. 

He would prove that he was not just worthy—but chosen .

Lestrange stepped closer, arms crossed. “You still haven’t proven your father’s line,” he said quietly. “And you know I’d be the first to bow if you did. Yet, we couldn’t be sure,” He stopped for a while before adding, “Maybe we’ve been searching in the wrong places. If your mother was the witch, Riddle—”

“She wasn’t.” Tom’s tone sliced clean through the sentence.

Lestrange didn’t flinch.

“She died.” Tom’s voice cooled. “Magic doesn’t die. If she were a witch, she would have stopped it. She would have lived. Only muggles die in hospital beds. Only muggles die begging. She wasn’t magic. She was nothing. ”

That silence between them thickened.

Tom stepped closer. “I don’t need lineage to prove myself. I’ll open the Chamber. And when I do—no one will doubt me again.”

Lestrange’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ll see it,” Tom said. “You’ll be there. And so will they —all of them. They’ll know. Who I am. What I am.”

Lestrange exhaled through his nose, slowly. Then, a flicker of something ancient and cold passed over his face. He bent his head just slightly, enough to show submission, but not weakness. 

Tom’s lips quirked—barely.

Lestrange lifted his head after a while. “What of the hissing she mentioned?”

Tom met his gaze.

“That… we must find out, right?” His voice was quiet now. Certain. “The only thing we know is that the Chambers hold Salazar's glory—that he wants the Slytherin heir to open it. ‘To return to the former glory of wizard-kind’ .” He muttered. 

Lestrange didn’t blink. “Then we find the entrance. Wherever it is. You say the word, and I’ll pull every string, bend every whisper, if it gets us closer.”

Tom smirked slightly

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

March 1941.

Tom woke before sunrise again, fingers curled tight in the blanket, his throat dry. The dream had returned—the endless corridors, the silent voices calling from painted walls, the pressure in his chest whispering he was meant for more—but always without a face. No name. No blood.

His mind clung to the fragments even as the day pushed forward. 

After Defense Against the Dark Arts, he barely heard what Professor Merrythought had assigned. He slipped away fast, bag clutched tightly, heading straight to the library with an ache in his ribs like hunger.

He’d been here before. The same aisles, the same dust. He scanned the familiar plaques above the shelves: Lineages. Hall of Prefects. Wizarding History Volumes I–IX. He’d already looked. Twice. But maybe— maybe he missed something. 

His fingers trailed over the spines of the books that looked worn from age.

He had searched for his father on the shields in the trophy room, hoping to see Riddle carved in brass. He searched the prefects’ rolls back to the 1800s, half-hoping he’d find a boy with ambition and his last bloody name. 

He searched the books of history, every great family.

Nothing.

He gritted his teeth, shoulders tight. The restricted section sat beyond the ropes, silent, dark. He stared at it like it had mocked him. Was it in there?... His answer?... His father’s name?... Why wasn’t it here? He didn’t belong in the dark—he came from it. So why wasn’t it written?

A plan. He needed a plan. 

Entry into the restricted section meant permission—or invisibility. The Disillusionment Charm was advanced. He could learn it. He would learn it. But not now. Not tonight. Weeks, it could take. Weeks when the answer might be ten feet away. Fuckin’ weeks—

He kicked the nearest shelf and grunts.

It shuddered, several volumes toppling with sharp thuds. Dust puffed from the floor. A pair of Slytherin girls at the next table giggled behind their hands, glancing toward him. 

He didn’t care. His chest heaved as he stood frozen, gripping the edge of a nearby table until his knuckles turned white.

Why wasn’t it here?

His father had to be someone. Someone powerful. Someone great. Tom felt it—his power had to come from somewhere. It couldn’t be from her . The woman who died in childbirth. Who begged for help in a Muggle ward. No. He didn’t come from weakness. He wasn’t born from nothing.

He pulled his notebook from his robes and scribbled a name he had no proof for. Riddle. T. Riddle. Thomas. Theodore. Thorne? He crossed each one out harder than the last. He wanted to rip the page, tear it in half, scream—but he didn’t. His anger was quiet.

The girls left. The dust settled. And the books are still scattered.

And Tom sat back in his chair, eyes locked on the barrier of the restricted section. His heartbeat had slowed. But the pressure inside his chest stayed. He would find it. His name. His beginning.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Tom exited the library with tight shoulders and a blank face. The same halls. The same books. 

No trace of a father. No line. No proof . 

His hands were balled at his sides, but he kept them still, composed. Always composed. Frustration chewed at the edge of his control.

His footsteps echoed sharp as he moved through the corridor near Central Hall. He turned the corner fast—too fast—and collided with someone soft. Her books scattered. Myrtle. Of course it was her. She dropped everything. She scrambled to gather them, cheeks already burning red.

She scrambled to grab them. “Oh—I—sorry—I wasn’t looking—”

Tom didn’t move for a second. 

Then he knelt. Quietly. His hands moved before his mind decided. He picked up one of her books— Standard Book of Spells, Grade One —and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed. Just for a second. Bare skin. A flicker of warmth. Her breath caught, lips parted in surprise.

Their fingers touched for less than a second, and yet the noise inside his head cleared. Tom blinked. 

He cleared his throat. “Careful, Myrtle.” 

His voice came out low, almost gentle. A tone he didn’t mean to use. He stood again. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, almost smiling.

“Thank you…” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. He walked away, jaw tight. But not clenched. Not burning. Not rushing to Potions like he had planned. His hands were loose at his sides, and the tightness in his temples had loosened, just slightly. Strange . Strange, indeed.

By the time he reached the Potions dungeon, Lestrange was already there, leaning over a bubbling cauldron, scrawling notes in the margin of their textbook. 

He glanced up when Tom approached. “No particular foundings?” he asked with a slight frown. Tom slipped onto the stool beside him. “No,” he muttered, eyes on the blackboard. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t even want to think about it.

Professor Slughorn clapped his hands. 

“Right, right—gentlemen, I hope we all remember the proper order for the Shriveling Solution!” he called. “Order matters, or your leeches might start dancing, and no one wants that again—yes, Avery, I am talking about you.”

Tom uncorked his jar of shrivelfigs in silence, began peeling them with precision. He didn’t speak for the entire hour. Lestrange handled the stirring. Tom handled the timing. They said nothing else. He didn’t even look up when Slughorn complimented their consistency. He just watched the potion simmer.

That night, the dormitory room of his was too quiet. 

The other boys were snoring softly. Tom lay awake, arms crossed behind his head, the darkness too still. His thoughts returned—uninvited—to the empty pages of the family archives. His muggle mother. The nameless father. The nothingness .

He scowled at the ceiling. His fingers curled against the mattress. He had gone through every record three times. Every book of ancient Slytherin families. Every forgotten page. If he were descended from greatness, why couldn’t he prove it? Why was there no trace ?

He could speak the language of snakes couldn’t he? So why no history?

He closed his eyes tightly.

Forget it. Just forget it. His mind shouted it at himself over and over, but his body didn’t believe it. His chest still felt like it was filled with smoke. So he tried to trace the memory of the day. Something had helped. Something had cleared it.

Myrtle.

She’d been there. In the hall. Just there, stammering and fumbling and strange. She had made him stop. Just for a moment. His rage had paused. He’d said her name, hadn’t he? Softly. Why had he done that?

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

She’s nothing. A Muggle-born. A first year. She was clever, fine , but that meant nothing. No—it meant she was useful. 

Right. Next time he'll make sure she could work better for him. Charm her. Obviously. That’s all.

“Tom,” came a groggy voice from the bed to his right. “What are you even movin’ a lot for?”

Tom froze. His breath stopped. “Huh?” he said, too sharp.

Lestrange groaned into his pillow. “Just shut it, mate. Please. Tomorrow we’ve got flying lessons with Hooch. I’m trynna… sleep…” He mumbled before closing his half-lidded eyes again.

Tom swallowed, jaw locked. “Right,” he muttered.

Chapter 13: XI

April 1941.

Myrtle sat beneath the stone arch near the fountain with Euphenia and Awick, her legs crossed neatly beneath her skirt. The air was warm. Euphenia had packed pumpkin juice in little glass bottles, sealed with corks, and they drank them slowly. Awick was lying on the stones, elbow propped behind his head. 

“Did anyone understand Dumbledore today?” he muttered. “Because I didn’t. Not a word. He speaks in riddles. Ridiculous ones.”

Euphenia rolled her eyes. “That’s because he is a riddle. Everything’s about symbolism with him. Like that dumb transfiguration speech.” She took a slow sip. “He said, ‘All change comes from within the self.’ Okay. Sure. But I just want to know why I accidentally turned my quill into a goldfish.”

Awick snorted. “Because you’re secretly a water nymph. That’s what I think.”

Myrtle smiled at them, quietly, bottle cool in her hand. She’d missed this. Sitting here. Not being alone. She’d forgiven them, mostly. The green hair incident felt far away now. Her hair’s back to normal, Awick’s too. Except for Euphenia’s, hers took longer to fade because of her light blonde hair.

She kept complaining about it, but everytime she did, Awick always said she looked pretty in any colour.

Myrtle blinked suddenly. “Oh, yeah,” she said,  then muttering, very casual. “Tom talked to me again. And interacted. Like, not a hallucination. Fully real. Eye contact and all. So. Bloody thank Merlin.”

There was a beat of silence.

Awick sat up. “Wait. Actually? Not just seeking you out now?” His voice cracked. Euphenia just blinked slowly, lowering her drink like she was rewinding everything Myrtle just said. Myrtle, now emboldened, dug into her pocket. “I kept forgetting to show you this.” She pulled it out: his mittens. She held it out flat. “Tom gave them to me. His mittens.”

Silence, again.

“Wait,” Euphenia said, squinting. “Why?”

Awick leaned forward like he was watching something explode. “What did you two talk about?”

Myrtle shrugged, pretending to fix her braid. “Nothing much. Just… stuff. He’s very smart.” She didn’t meet their eyes. She didn’t tell them about the Chamber. Or Trelawney. Or notes. Or anything that truly mattered.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Awick said immediately, eyes wide. “Promise. I swear .” His grin widened. “You and Riddle? That would be legendary. Like—bloody unbelievable. Myrtle and Riddle. Myrtle and Riddle. Myrtle and Riddle.”

Euphenia didn’t say anything at first. She stared at the mittens and then threw her gaze away. Then she leaned back and said stiffly, “You know I said there’s something wrong about him.” She scowled. Myrtle frowned. “You always say that.”

“Because I feel it,” Euphenia snapped, voice low. “He’s not like other boys. There’s something—cold in him. Like he’s pretending to be a person. You should stay away. ”

Myrtle looked down at the mittens again, lips twitching toward a smile she fought to hide. “He’s not pretending.” she whispered. 

Euphenia only stared harder.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was a Sunday evening. The kitchen smelled warmer this day—like firewood and caramel, the caramel part was probably Myrtle’s shirt. Pumpkin bread was cooled by the oven and there is melted butter everywhere. Myrtle stood just inside the threshold, holding a folded blanket and two slightly squashed chocolate frogs.

Euphenia and Awick were already there. Curled up in a heap on the high-backed chair near the counter. There’s a puzzle laid across their knees, their heads tilted together, almost glued together. The Sybil Cipher. Euphenia was giggling, one hand resting on Awick’s forearm.

Myrtle stepped forward, hesitant. “Hi.”

Neither of them looked up. Euphenia mumbled something Myrtle couldn’t catch, and Awick replied, voice lower, half-laughing. Euphenia laughed again—louder this time—and pressed her face into her sleeve. Her whole body tipped slightly toward him, shoulders brushing against each other.

Myrtle stood still, gripping the frogs tighter.

She stepped closer to the couch, forcing her voice to stay casual. “You could’ve told me you were solving the Sybil Cipher tonight.” Euphenia glanced up, eyes turning wide as if she just noticed Myrtle there. “I didn’t think you were into puzzles.”

“What do you mean?” Myrtle said, trying to laugh. “You know I do.”

Awick leaned back, hands still folded loosely over the puzzle. “We were already halfway through when you got here. It’d be too confusing to add another person now.” He mumbled, looking at Myrtle with a shrug. “Maybe next time,” Euphenia added, smiling faintly.

The chocolate frogs sweated in Myrtle’s palm. She stared down at them, the wrappers sticking slightly to her skin, and for a moment she hated that she’d saved them. For them.

Awick glanced at Euphenia, then leaned in again, pointing at a glowing rune. “Wait—if this one’s the reflection glyph, that means the answer has to be mirrored.” “Oh!” Euphenia’s face lit up. “So it’s not ‘truth’—it’s ‘htruht.’ That’s clever!”

Their heads bent together again. Myrtle stared at the flickering puzzle. The glow of the runes didn’t warm her. She peeled open one chocolate frog. Bit it. The sweetness coated her tongue like chalk.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The rain was light and tapped on DADA windows. Myrtle sat on one of the class’ chairs’. Her book on defensive hexwork was open, but only for show. The class was empty, and it was after school hours—Myrtle wanted to spend it with Merrythought.

Professor Merrythought paced slowly, humming lightly as she worked. Her voice drifted through the room. “Honestly, dear. You shouldn’t be worried on what Professor Trelawney spewed the other day,” she said, pausing to examine a page. “Shadows and dead things beneath the floorboards. Goodness.”

Myrtle didn’t respond. She didn’t trust her voice yet, didn’t want to seem too interested. Her stomach was tight, but her face stayed flat, calm. Like this was just another afternoon.

Professor Merrythought snorted gently. “This castle’s always been full of strange stories.” She clicked her tongue. “But all of those are only myth-making. That’s what it is.”

“There was one professor—back in my day—who thought he’d found clues about a chamber under the dungeons,” Merrythought added, voice going airy, distracted. “Complete fantasy, of course. He said, meant only for Slytherin’s heir . ”

Myrtle’s heart thudded. Still, she didn’t look up. “Is that why you think Professor Trelawney is wrong?” she asked, voice even. “Because of the old myths?”

“She’s not wrong, dear,” Merrythought said, tone more tempered now. “Professor Trelawney’s always been sensitive. And terribly kind. But she’s also prone to seeing patterns in tea leaves where there aren’t any.” She offered a small smile. “It’s not uncommon in Seers.”

Myrtle nodded slowly. Her fingers wrote more: Slytherin. Only the heir?

Merrythought waved her wand. “Now,” she said, changing the tone with ease. “Let’s get back to the practicals. Hexwork isn’t all theory. Show me the first stance, would you?”

Myrtle rose, wand already gripped in her palm. “Like this?” she asked, taking a step back. She squared her shoulders and raised her wand—wrist low, elbow loose. “Better,” Merrythought said, nodding. “But don’t tighten your fingers. Too much pressure and the wand fights back. It should feel like a paintbrush. Control without strangling it.”

Myrtle adjusted. “Like this?”

“Exactly,” Merrythought said. “Now watch. Basic Disarming Hex. The flick is in the elbow, not the wrist. If you twist too far, you’ll end up hexing your own wand arm off.”

Myrtle gave a nervous laugh. “That happened?”

“Only once,” Merrythought said, aiming with precision. A flash of light burst from her wand—clean, silent. The dummy’s wand shot from its hand and clattered to the stone floor. “Now you try.”

Myrtle braced her feet. She repeated the motion—elbow tight, flick sharp. Her hex shot out, veered slightly left, and skimmed the dummy’s wrist. The wand barely moved.

Merrythought clucked her tongue. “Too soft. You hesitated.”

Myrtle flushed. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, just be correct, ” the professor said, but kindly. “Again. Stronger this time. Think of something that deserves to be disarmed.” She added. Myrtle breathed in deep. Thought of Olive’s smirk. She raised her wand and fired. The dummy’s wand flew across the room.

Merrythought grinned. “There we are.” She turned back to her pile of papers. “You’ve got the talent, Myrtle. You just need to trust your own magic.”

Myrtle sat back down. Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up her quill. Her notes looked scattered. But her mind wasn’t. Her mind was focused. She only had to hold it together until Sunday. Just a few more days.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Wednesday morning, April, 1941. 

It’s raining outside of Hogwarts and soft thunders could be heard—echoing inside the great hall. Myrtle sat with Euphie and Awick, huddled together at the end of the Hufflepuff table.

Euphenia was mid-giggle, cheeks flushed pink, clutching her bottle of pumpkin juice, left-over from a few days ago, or not. Euphenia really likes her pumpkin juice. “No—but listen! I swear I fell in love with a vampire last night. In my dream. He had fangs and everything. And a cape. We were dancing. Waltzing in a castle.”

Awick scowled. “Great. And then what, he sucked your blood?”

Euphie smacked his arm with her spoon. “ No! He was so romantic! Until—” she burst into laughter again, wheezing, “—until he turned into Professor Slughorn. Mid-waltz.”

Myrtle gagged into her porridge. “No. No. I’m going to be sick.”

Awick grimaced, croissant halfway to his mouth. “That’s foul. That’s so foul. Who dreams of kissing Slughorn?” He scowled and chewed.  Euphie cackled. “Apparently me.”

They were laughing, loud enough that even a few older students glanced over. 

Myrtle was just about to say something snarky—maybe about Slughorn’s huge round cheeks—when her words got stuck in her throat. Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. Her whole spine straightened.

Across the hall, Tom Riddle looked up.

Not just looked. Looked . A still, quiet pause in time. Their eyes met. Held. A full second. Maybe two. Myrtle forgot how to breathe. Euphenia’s fork clattered against her plate. 

“Okay. Okay,” she hissed, elbowing Myrtle. “He looked at you.”

“I—” Myrtle blinked, cheeks burning. “It’s—he probably just—”

“He looked at her like seven times,” Euphie added, now halfway standing. “I counted. Seven. Since Sunday.” She added, in a tone of ‘matter of fact’. Awick nearly choked. “He’s so into you it’s freaky . He doesn’t even look at Slughorn like that.”

“I—no, no.” Myrtle ducked behind her juice glass, hands shaking slightly. Her voice wobbled. “He probably just thought my hair looked weird.” She mumbled, Awick gasped. “Maybe he thinks you’re pretty!” Awick said, earning a groan from Myrtle. Euphenia rolled her eyes. “Or maybe he thinks you’re one of the girls he could easily charm, Myrtle.”

Awick leaned in with a grin. “Ignore her. You’ve officially won Hogwarts. Myrtle Warren. The girl who got Riddle to look at her like that. ” He muttered, then stuffed another croissant in his mouth. Myrtle shrank into her robes, trying not to combust. She was smiling into her hands and her ears were red. 

“I still don’t trust him,” Euphenia muttered. She was picking at her toast now, eyes on the Slytherin table. “There’s something off about him. Something wrong.”

Myrtle said nothing. 

Because what was she supposed to say? That she’d written Tom Riddle into her Transfiguration notes three times last week? That she knew the precise curve of his lashes when he tilted his head to read? That her knees literally trembled when he raised one brow?

No. She just chewed her porridge.

And tried not to melt when she peeked again.

Because Tom Riddle was still looking.

And this time, his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not exactly. A smirk.  

Myrtle almost died on the spot.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was too late for her to be wandering. The lights around the castle had dimmed, and even the castle ghosts had retreated to their own corners that Myrtle didn’t dare check. But she needed her quill. The one with the blue feather, her best one for notes.

She retraced her steps through the charms corridor. She was sure she probably dropped it after charms. The corridor was narrower here, quieter. Colder. She squinted down the dark stretch—then paused. A figure leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, a grin already tugging the corners of his mouth.

It was not Tom this time, it was Awick.

“Looking for this?” Awick held up the blue-feathered quill between two of his fingers. Myrtle blinked. “You picked it up?” She asked. “No,” he replied lightly. “Had Bims fetch it for me. You dropped it ages ago.” He twirled it once before holding it out. 

She stepped forward, reaching—and suddenly—he pulled it back slightly.

Myrtle furrowed her eyebrows.

“You’re always losing things,” Awick said. “Your stuff. Your time. Your… common sense, sometimes.” She gave a quiet laugh, unsure if it was a joke. It sounded like one. But something in his voice was harder than usual. 

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he cut in quickly. His posture didn’t change, but his voice lowered. “You don’t really think Euphenia likes being dragged around the castle by you, do you?” The words hit sharp. Myrtle blinked. “What?”

“She’s nice,” Awick said, not looking at her now, gaze fixed on the wall behind her. “Too nice. So she won’t say anything. But, y’know, for her sake, I will. I will always do.” He stepped forward, took her hand gently, and dropped the quill into her palm. For a moment, his fingers lingered.

“She’s got a lot on her shoulders,” he said, softer now, eyes looking down at Myrtle. “So just… try not to be one more thing.” Then he stepped back, offered a wink, and turned down the corridor. A flick of his hand. A shrug.

Myrtle didn’t move. The corridor felt colder than it had before. Her hand curled around the quill, tighter. She looked down at it—same blue feather. Same shape. But it felt heavier now.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The library was mostly emptied out—Myrtle sat tucked behind a leaning stack of spellbooks, pressed between Euphie and Awick. Euphenia had her arms crossed tight. Her eyes didn’t blink, just stared. “Alright. Tell us,” she whispered, again, for the fifth time that evening. “Why is he talking to you?” Her voice was sharp.

Myrtle looked down, fiddling with the hem of her robe. But then she sighed. She reached into her pocket. Pulled out a folded piece of note—she didn’t look at them when she spoke. 

“It’s not… it’s not weird,” she mumbled. “He just… he asked me to keep an ear out. For anything strange. Anything professors say that’s off or secret. He just wants… information.”

Awick’s eyes grew huge. “You’re working with Tom Riddle?” he breathed. “Like—actually working with him? Helping him?” He asked again. Myrtle’s cheeks flushed deep red. She shrugged. “Sort of.”

“Bloody hell, Myrtle.”

Euphenia didn’t speak at first. Her shoulders were rigid. When she did, it was quiet. Firm. “He’s using you.” She narrowed her eyes. Myrtle flinched. She didn’t say anything. Euphenia leaned closer. “You don’t see it. But I do. He’s not your friend. He’s not kind. He doesn’t care. He’s using you for whatever twisted game he’s playing. I just feel it—”

“He’s not twisted,” Myrtle said quickly, too quickly.

“He doesn’t look at anyone else like he looks at you,” Awick cut in. “I mean— no one. Not even Lestrange. He barely talks to people. But you? You’re like—his secret spy or something.”

“I’m not a spy.”

Euphenia scoffed. “Then what are you, Myrtle?”

“I’m just—” Myrtle tugged her sleeves down over her hands, squeezing the parchment tighter, voice cracking slightly. “I’m just helping. That’s all.”

“Right,” Euphie muttered. “And when he’s done with you, what then?”

Awick made a noise of protest, shaking his head. “You’re just mad because he didn’t ask you. ” And Euphenia only shot him a look. Awick pouted and looked down on his lap. “I’m mad,” Euphenia said coldly, “because Myrtle is smart, and she thinks this is something special when it’s not.”

Myrtle said nothing.

She sat there, silent, biting the inside of her cheek. Her fingers tightened around the note in her fist. It wasn’t everything. She hadn’t told them everything. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But later tonight, she would tuck this same note into the Potions book in the dusty corner, west side of the library—just like Tom had told her. And Sunday, 1PM, underground harbour, they’d meet again.

Maybe he was using her. Maybe he was lying. But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he looked at her differently for a reason. Maybe it was something more. Maybe it was the way he always paused when she said something clever. The way he stood still when she walked past.

Maybe it was him wanting to see her again.

She didn’t care if it was half a lie. She didn’t care if it was all a lie.

So what if he was using her?

She didn’t care . No. Not if it meant he looked at her like that. Not if it meant he needed her, even just for something secret and dark—or for whatever he is plotting. She clutched the note tighter.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The second Sunday of April.

Myrtle is standing alone in the underground harbor, her hands clutching the scroll too tightly. Her heart won’t stop hammering. Tom’s late. He’s late. And maybe—maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe last time meant nothing . Maybe she did something wrong , said something wrong, maybe he changed his mind.

She starts to step back, just an inch, just enough to breathe—

Okay. He’s there.

Just like that. He steps closer to her, one step, two steps, then three. She swears there’s a smirk at the edge of his mouth—but it vanishes before she can be sure. She steps forward, holding the scroll with one of her hand. “I—this is what I gathered,” she says quickly. “From Professor Merrythought’s office. She said things. Little things. About old stories. She said someone once looked for a chamber under the dungeons—”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just reaches out.

“Thank you, Myrtle,” he says, voice too smooth—and his smile—his charming smile—emerges on purpose. His fingers brush hers as he takes it.

Her heart stops .

It’s only for a second—but it’s everything. There’s warmth, the pressure. His fingers are colder than hers. The touch makes something spark inside her ribs. Her breath catches. She doesn’t blink. Can’t.

Then he’s suddenly looking at her. Properly. Fully.

His hand withdraws slowly, the scroll now clutched in it, but his eyes stay locked on hers. He’s not moving. He’s just watching her. His gaze travels across her face—not hurried, not rushed—her braids. Her face. Her glasses. Like he’s tracing every line of her.

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Looks away—to the dark water that ripples and reflects rippling lights on the stonewalls. His jaw shifts slightly. There’s a pause so long she starts to wonder if he’s going to say anything at all. Then he turns back to her.

“You look nice tonight, by the way.” He mumbled. Nodding once. The words are too casual. Too soft. Her lungs give out. Her legs nearly follow. Her cheeks flush so violently she feels it in her ears . “I—uh—” she tries. “I—um—th-thank—”

A strangled, high-pitched squeak escapes her throat. Absolutely not clever. Not cool. Not even words . Her eyes go wide with horror.  He smirks. Just slightly. Just enough. “Thank you again,” he murmurs, already stepping back, half-turned into the shadows.

Her voice won’t work. Her feet won’t move.  “Hoping to see you soon,” he adds, barely audible, already fading into the dark. His footsteps echo soft as he disappears.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The sun warmed the backs of their necks as Myrtle lay sprawled on a blue blanket Euphenia had brought beside the lake. Euphenia sat nearby, legs crossed, sketchbook balanced on her knees, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

The charmed salamander she was drawing kept shifting from plum purple to fire-orange, its tiny claws twitching as it rested on a rock. “If it turns pink again, I swear I’m tearing this page out,” Euphenia mumbled, flicking her wand to charm the color of her ink.

Myrtle giggled, nose tucked into the crook of her elbow.

Awick, lounging dramatically on his side, balanced Hogwarts: A History on his chest, though he’d only made it four pages in. “Boring,” he whispered into the wind, then poked Myrtle’s side with the corner of the book.

She flinched. “Stop it,” she hissed.

He grinned and did it again. She elbowed him hard. And again, and again. “Aw!” he cried, rolling onto his back with an exaggerated groan. “Ow, ow! Help! I’m brutalized by a Ravenclaw! My ribs!” He screamed.

“You poked me three times!” Myrtle snapped, cheeks pink. “I was testing your reflexes,” Awick said, dead serious. Then, it was silent… Until, Awick gave her a sly look: “So. What did Tom say this time?”

Myrtle groaned and buried her face in her palms. “I’m not telling you.”

Awick gasped. “Ugh, you so like him. You two are going to end up on the cover of the Daily Prophet—I swear it . ” He said, giddy. “Please,” Euphie muttered without glancing up, “he’s still bad news.”

“But if she has to fall for some bad news,” Awick added brightly, “at least he’s pretty.” He made a mock swoon, draping his arm across his face. “If I were bad news, I’d at least want cheekbones like that.”

Myrtle snorted, hiding her smile behind her palm. She didn’t say a word. The wind skimmed across the lake. Myrtle closed her eyes for a second and let herself pretend there were no secrets. Awick stood up, probably out of boredom, because Euphenia decided to ignore him because she’s too busy sketching.

He grabbed some pebbles. “Did you see that?” Awick shouted suddenly, standing up straight. “Three skips. Three! ” He jabbed a finger at the lake. “Did you see? The pebble bounced three times!”

Euphie sighed. “It was barely two.”

“It was three. Count the ripples.” He grabbed another stone, inspecting it closely, then glanced at her. “You watching?” He asked, softly. Euphie raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m sketching, Perks.” She mumbled. “You can sketch and be impressed,” Awick said, tossing the pebble with a flick. It skipped once—then plunked. He looked betrayed. “That was the rock’s fault.”

“Or the thrower’s.”

“I’m improving. One day you’ll be like, wow, what biceps. ”

“No one’s ever said that about a boy because of rock-skipping,” Euphie muttered.

The moment Tom was mentioned again—Awick started to ask another question—Myrtle cut in fast. “Actually! Did you know the merpeople in this lake have entire cities down there?”  Euphenia looked intrigued. “Have you seen it?”

“No,” Myrtle said, adjusting her sunhat. “But I read about it. Fifth-year textbook. It said they have warriors. With tridents.” She added. Awick leaned back again. “Bet they’d like me. I can swim.”

“They’d feed you to the grindylows.” Euphenia muttered, flipping a page.

Chapter 14: XII

It was Wednesday morning, third period, and the Transfiguration classroom felt too empty today for no reason. Tom Riddle sat in his usual front-row seat, his wand lined precisely beside his open notes.

Professor Dumbledore moved between rows of desks, slowly and calmly. “Now, the essence of transfiguration, as you’ve heard me say, is intention before execution. Wand movement, yes. Pronunciation, absolutely. But the mind must see the end result first—must believe it is already so.”

He stopped near the back, hands clasped loosely behind his back. 

“You are not simply reshaping an object’s surface. You are reasserting its identity. Changing what it is, down to its magical core. Not removing the pewter. Not covering it. Rewriting it. That is the difference between an illusion and true transfiguration.”

Suddenly, a flash of light sparked from the far corner—someone’s cauldron coughed smoke. Dumbledore lifted his brow. “Patience, Miss Withers. If you rush the incantation, you’re only asking the object to panic.” He said with a smile. Laughter rippled lightly. Tom did not look up.

His wand moved once. A slow flick upward, then a sharp twist.

The pewter goblet before him shimmered. Then cracked. Its surface glinted, rippling, and in the next second it had become a glass chalice—tall-stemmed, flawless, with serpents etched up its curve. The light caught it in green glints. Emerald glass, clean as ice.

Tom raises his eyebrows for a few seconds before going back to his notes.

Dumbledore’s footsteps stopped behind him. As always. “Excellent clarity, Mr. Riddle,” he said, voice softer now, just for him. “You’ve not only transfigured the material but retained magical patterning. Advanced work.”

Tom lifted his head, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, Professor.”

There was something in Dumbledore’s eyes, though. Not pride. Something else. Something searching. Like he was reading the words inside Tom’s head. Tom didn’t let the moment stretch. He returned his gaze to the page in front of him.

From the next seat, Avery muttered, “There he goes again—favorite child of every professor. Honestly, does Dumbledore tuck you in at night too?”

Tom didn’t look at him. His wand flicked once more. The chalice on his desk glinted maroon. The serpents now gleamed in red. “Brilliance earns respect,” he said calmly, “not flattery.”

Lestrange leaned over, eyebrows raised. “Or maybe,” he said, voice low and lazy, “it’s your jawline.”

Tom almost—almost—smirked. But instead he just exhaled through his nose. His mind was elsewhere. On Dumbledore. There was always a quiet knowing in the man’s eyes. Like he was waiting. Like he saw something hidden even Tom hadn’t yet unwrapped. 

Tom hated it. 

When the bell rang the students flooded out. Tom walked slow. Lestrange flanked his right, Avery shuffling behind. They moved through the corridor, others parting around them without thinking.

Dumbledore’s voice called from behind. “Mr. Riddle,” He stood at the entrance of the classroom, body leaning on the doorframe, arms folded. Tom halted and turned his head around—as well as Avery’s and Lestrange’s.

Dumbledore’s gaze locked on his. “You’ve got a gift,” he said. Calm. Not cold. Just calm in that stupidly Dumbledore way of his. “Just be careful how you use it.”

Tom tilted his head slightly. His face didn’t change. “Always, Professor.” He furrowed his eyebrows. Dumbledore only smiled softly, nodded and headed back inside his classroom. Lestrange glanced sideways at him, mouth twitching like he wanted to say what was that? but didn’t.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was late evening and it was dinner time in the Great Hall, though it was not too crowded. Students gathered, and in the Slytherin table—they did gather but not too close to Tom, Lestrange, Nott, Mulciber and Avery. Tom sat near the center.

He ate slowly, not really eating at all—just moving his fork in thoughtful circles around the potatoes. His mind wandered. Not to food. Not to Avery’s muttering about Hufflepuffs. But to runes. Chamber entrances. Traps. And—

Something fluttered down.

It dipped out of nowhere from above, its wings shimmering faintly in the glow of the candles. A butterfly. Made of paper. It landed just on top of his fork. Nicely, light-weight.

His fingers stilled.

Avery nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. “Which one of your admirers’ idea was that?” He asked. Tom furrowed his eyebrows even more, examining the enchanted paper. Mulciber was the next to talk, “Myrtle’s.” He pointed his butter knife briefly towards Myrtle.

Nott glances up, eyes narrowing. “Sickly green thing getting bold now?” he whispered lowly, eyes them moving to the butterfly who’s flapping its wings gently. Lestrange leaned in, unimpressed. “At least she’s better than those fifth-year girls that tried to kiss Tom last term,” he said.

Avery gagged. 

“Ugh, I remember that. Those two Slytherins—what were their names—one had a beak nose, the other had a smelly breath like bloody rotten toothpaste—tried to swallow Tom whole. One of them actually bit him, I swear.”

“Pathetic,” Nott said flatly, watching the butterfly move before continuing to spread the butter on his toast. 

Tom didn’t speak at all.

He was staring at the butterfly. Still. He knew that charm. He used that charm. He’d sent it to Myrtle first, weeks ago. That note in the courtyard. And now it had found its way back to him. Same shape. Same spell. Same exact paper—from the free journal they give first graders.

She remembered.

He smiled—barely. Not on purpose. A flicker of something at the edge of his mouth before it vanished completely. But Avery caught it.

Avery squinted. “Wait. Wait—did you just smile ? Did I just see that ?”

The butterfly then stopped and he caught it before it could fall on his plate. Quietly, he unrolled the butterfly’s wings and unfolded the note. Inside was nothing but a single piece of caramel candy, wrapped in pink foil. And one letter, small and careful. M.

His eyes rose.

Past the students. Across the hall.

Myrtle sat at the edge of the Gryffindor table, hunched over her mashed peas. She didn’t look up. Not even once. Her cheeks were red. She was muttering something to the brown-haired freckled boy beside her, who was too distracted by a stack of half-eaten cookies to notice anything else.

Tom stared at him. At him. Who was he?

His eyes narrowed briefly. The boy laughed at something Myrtle said. She adjusted her glasses. Looked away again. Still didn’t glance back. He scowled. Then he looked at the candy again. She’s so trusting. So foolish, So… sweet ?

No, not sweet.

That wasn’t the right word. 

That was not the word.

He slipped the caramel into his pocket. Didn’t know why. But he kept it. “I’m starting to worry about you, Riddle,” Lestrange suddenly said, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve gone all quiet and sentimental.”

Mulciber raised one brow to Lestrange 0’s remark. “You’re assuming things.” Tom replied—and threw Lestrange a sharp look without a word. That shut him up.

Later, long after curfew, Tom sat cross-legged in the corner of his dorm, books about potion are open before him. The room was quiet, except Avery’s snoring. His hand reached absently into his robe pocket.

The caramel, it’s still there. Tom gave it a look, examining the shine of the wrapper. He clicked his tongue and he unwrapped it, slow. Then he pop it in his mouth before going back to read on the line about types of potions.

He didn’t mean to enjoy it.

But he did.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The trophy room was incredibly dusty. Dust hung in the air. It was so dusty it made Tom's throat itch. Seems like the elves needed working. Tom moved through the room like a robot, too tightly, jaw clenched, eyes scanning everything.

Avery was wobbling on a stool, arms reaching high above a rickety rack of plaques.

Then— clang . 

A whole rack tipped sideways and collapsed into itself with a screech. Metal clattered throughout the room. “I swear to Merlin, Riddle,” he wheezed, coughing. “If I break my neck for this—”

“Keep looking,” Tom snapped.

Lestrange sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a dusty old ledger, his sleeves rolled up, one brow arched lazily. “You’re obsessed,” he said. “What if your dad was a Squib?”

Tom’s head whipped around. “Lestrange, don’t start making jokes people won’t laugh at.”

He moved fast—hands brushing every surface, muttering under his breath. Riddle . Riddle . Like saying the name would make it rise out of nowhere. Like it could crack open the wall and show him the truth. 

He wanted it to appear so badly his teeth ached.

“There must be a Riddle here,” he said, pacing hard now. “Somewhere. My father wasn’t no one.”

Avery, still wobbling, grabbed the edge of the cabinet for balance. “You sure your dad didn’t just change his name or something? Maybe he’s not listed as Riddle.”

Tom turned sharply, his voice low and eyes sharp as he said it. “He was a wizard. A powerful one. He wouldn’t have hid.”

Lestrange sighed and dragged his finger down the page. “Could’ve been expelled. Could’ve died in a duel. Could be haunting the toilets for all we know.”

Tom crouched down beside a cabinet, eyes narrowing. His hand traced the letters of a tarnished plate. Nothing. The name wasn’t there. His reflection warped in the metal. “You don’t understand. I need to find him.”

“I do understand,” Avery groaned. “I understand I’m going to bloody die if I stay on this stool any longer!”

Tom barely even glanced at Avery. He didn’t move. He just said quietly, “There’s nothing here. Not yet.”

He pressed his palm against the cabinet door. Still. Silent. A room full of names and not one that felt like his. Still, he’d keep checking. Every week. Every corner of this castle. There had to be something that proved he belonged to someone great.

“You’re so sure,” Avery mumbled as he climbed down, shaking dust from his sleeves.

“I feel it,” Tom said. “In my blood.”

Lestrange raised a brow, watching him carefully now. Quiet. Avery shrugged. “Well, if your dad’s a great pureblood, he clearly didn’t leave you something.”

Tom stilled.

Just for a second.

Then his voice came out cold. “I don’t need a something, Avery.”

Lestrange didn’t move, but his gaze cut to Avery like a knife. Shut up. That was the look. And Avery, for once, actually did.

Tom turned back to the cabinet and kept searching.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The greenhouse reeked of wet soil and something vaguely swampy. Monday’s Herbology lesson had been cursed from the start. Rain clattered on the glass above. Water pooled across the stone floor. And the Drenching Dandies were thriving in it.

Professor Beery stood at the front, boots squelching with every step. “Now, now, don’t be shy, class! The Dandies may explode, yes, but only if you mistreat them. Gentle touches. Gentle voices . They’re emotionally reactive. A firm but soft grasp on the lower stalk—yes, Miss Greaves, lower —and you’ll avoid a soaking.”

Too late. Behind them, someone yelped.

Avery was already drenched, mud streaked down his collar. “Bloody—these things are vile. ” he barked, flicking water off his sleeve like it had insulted him personally.

Lestrange chuckled, blade in hand, slicing through the root of his plant with slow, deliberate cruelty. “It’s not vile. Just sensitive. Like your mum.”

Tom didn’t speak. He had his sleeves rolled back to his elbows, his wand tucked beside the plant tray. His fingers moved with surgical precision—no wasted effort, no pause. His plant hadn’t exploded once.

“They hate inconsistent handling,” he muttered. “Push too fast, the water sac ruptures.”

“I’d like to rupture Professor Beery’s face,” Avery said, sullen, wringing out his sleeve.

A sharp pop! two rows back. Two ravenclaws are now yelling. Beery was clapping again. “Marvelous reaction! That’s the sound we want to avoid , mind you.”

The third-year Slytherins had been paired with Ravenclaws this term—something about encouraging House unity. Tom thinks most of them were useless. “Idiots,” Lestrange muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “Ravenclaws always think the problem’s intellectual. Sometimes it’s just instinct. ”

Tom slid his knife under a root vein and flicked it free.

Then—

“Hey.” He flicked a bit of wet leaf off his robe. “That girl. Myrtle. You sure she’s loyal?” He said, as if he just remembered something.  Tom didn’t look up. He furrowed his eyebrows as his hand worked with the knife. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

But something cracked, deep, in his mind.

An image: Myrtle, sitting beneath that stupid courtyard arch, sun on her face, her laugh high and quick when she thought no one was listening. Her eyes, wide and full of belief . In him. He pushed the thought down.

She was reliable. That was all. She gave him her trust. Her help. That didn’t mean anything. He didn’t need it to mean anything. She was soft. That made her easy to shape. Easy to keep close. She’s useful—that’s what he always says.

And yet—

No.

He sliced again. Quicker this time. He focused on the sound of the blade, not the thought.

Lestrange didn’t stop. “She’s skittish. Bit of a wreck. All those tears last year. People like that can flip. They get afraid, and they turn.” He murmured, looking at the way Tom sliced his roots and copying his action.

Tom took in a sharp breath. “I’ll charm her more.” 

Avery snorted but he was too busy getting sprayed. “You and your Riddle ways,” Lestrange said, grinning dark under his black hair. “Always so sure your voice works better than magic.”

Tom looked up now, one of the corners of his lips curling upwards. “Charm always works. Especially on her kind.” He shrugged. Lestrange gave a low whistle. “Don’t do it late, then. If she turns too close to the plan—” he didn’t finish the sentence. Avery was too close.

Avery coughed. “At least she’s not a Gryffindor girl. Those ones bite back.”

“She won’t bite,” Tom said, quiet, thinking. She gave him candy. Paper notes folded and made to flu. She stood in the dark and waited for him. She chose him. He shoved the thought down. Deep. Too soft. Too close.

“I’m just saying,” Lestrange added, voice more flat now, “she’s useful. But if she wavers, you end it.”

Tom looked away for a moment, narrowed his eyes then back again at the roots. His fingers pressed, slicing through without a second thought. Water splashed onto the bench. He let it. He let it soak into the sleeve. He didn’t look up to Lestrange again.

“I’ll decide that,” he said finally.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Late May 1941.

Thunder roared from the clouds, and the corridors were dark as the grey clouds hid the sun. Most students had retreated to their common room, already close to curfew. But Tom is still walking in the corridor after studying potions in the library?

He turned to the corridor near Central Hall and saw her. Alone. Myrtle. Her steps are small, like usual, and her shoulders are hunched, her hair is damp, it seems like the rain wasn't merciful to her, not this day. He stopped. “Myrtle,” he called.

She froze mid-step, eyes shooting upwards to meet his gaze. “Tom?” Her voice cracked halfway up. He stepped toward her. No reason. No plan. Just reached for her wrist and started walking. Her feet fumbled to keep up, breath catching. “W-hat wait what—?”

“Just walk with me.”

She didn’t ask where. She never did. Just flushed pink and followed, her hand trembling faintly in his. They moved through the halls until they reached Greenhouse number three.

He stopped near the archway, still holding her wrist.

“How are you, Myrtle?” he asked, and it came out quieter than he meant, colder than it should have. “I—I’m okay—um, it’s—it’s wet today.” She winced at her own words. Her cheeks flushed like fresh bruises. “I didn’t expect— I mean, I didn’t know you’d talk to me.”

Tom tilted his head. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, brushing back a damp curl. “I thought maybe… you were busy. You always look so busy.”

His eyes stayed on her. Not unkind, but unreadable. “I make time. For clever people.”

Myrtle swallowed, looking like that meant more to her than it should. Her hands twisted in her robe sleeves, nervous, fidgety. Still, she smiled. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” Tom said, voice low, measured. “You’ve done well.” His gaze flicked to her. “So well, in fact, I’m thinking of asking more from you.”

Her breath hitched. “More?”

“Something small.” He glanced out at the storm-fogged lawn. Lips parting, then: “There’s a book in the Restricted Section. I need one page from it. No one would notice if you... borrowed it.”

Her fingers fidgeted. “You want me to steal it?” She asked lowly. “I want to know if I can trust you,” Tom said simply. Myrtle’s whole body straightened, she looked around and toyed with the edge of her braid. She froze. Her mouth opened—then shut. Then opened again. “Yes,” she said, voice thin but immediate. “I’ll do it. Of course. Anything you need.”

Of course.

Of course .

His lips almost twitched. So eager . It was like breathing near a match. He stepped back, already preparing to leave. That’s it for rodat. Then her voice suddenly cracked the air. “Tom—Wait!”

He turned, slowly, not immediately. Her chest was rising quickly. “I couldn’t wait until Sunday. Merrythought and Dumbledore—” she licked her lips, “they were talking . About something. Some ancient… monster. In the castle.”

His body went still.

“Monster?”

She nodded, curls sticking to her damp forehead. “Dumbledore said… something about it being old . From the Founders’ time.”

Tom’s mind fractured into motion. Not the Chamber. Not yet. But ancient. A monster. The professors are talking about so it must mean something. It meant something . His voice came low. “Did you tell anyone else?”

“No,” she said, almost breathless. “Only you.”

Only him .

His eyes flickered, fast. Her curls were sticking to her cheeks now. She was watching him like he was the only thing she could see. Tom stared at her face longer and suddenly Lestrange’s words crept in again. You sure she’s loyal? It echoes through his mind. Tom had answered: I’ll charm her more. So now he did.

He didn’t think.

He stepped forward. Closed the space between them and leaned in without hesitation, his mouth brushing hers—barely, his eyes closing half-lidded. It was quick, cold, brief. Not longing. Not soft. Just enough. A charm. A spell. Something to bind her. At least that’s what Tom thought.

Because something… something snapped . A flicker beneath his skin. Something  startling. His fingers tensed and he opened his eyes. For once, Tom Riddle is… confused .

And immediately without hesitation, his hands rose to her shoulder. His grip tightened. His brows pulled low in confusion. He leaned in while also pulling her up, with his hands tight on her shoulders.

Then he kissed her again.

Slower.

Myrtle gasped, eyes blown wide before closing sealed shut. Her body stiff, breath shaking, lips soft. Her hands hovered, unsure. And Tom—Tom felt something curl and shiver inside him. Foreign. Alien . His fingers curled into her robe, frustration bubbling up. 

What is happening, right now and inside his head—that Tom couldn’t understand. He was trying to figure it out, pressing his lips on hers harder. Myrtle shifted and her lips parted. Only slightly. Just enough.

That’s when he stopped.

He pulled back sharply. Breathed hard through his nose. His eyes were wild and narrow, like he’d just tasted something poisoned and couldn’t spit it out.

“ Don’t ,” he said, “Don’t expect anything from me.”

He turned and walked—fast.

Down the path, back toward the castle. His breath loud in his ears. His hand rose to his mouth and wiped hard. Then again. And again. The rain started to thunder even more. His hands balled into fists. 

Foolish girl.

Foolish... me.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The wind was tugging at the long grass around the flying field. The sky was bruised with thick clouds, but no rain came. At least not yet.

Avery was stomping about in his new boots for quidditch, kicking at the ground, flicking dirt off of his hem. “Remember the Gryffindor I told you guys about?” Avery asked.

Nott and Tom only gave him a look. “Anyway, She let me kiss her. Behind the Owlery,” he grinned, smirking too wide. “She’s the third one this term. I think she fancied my eyes.”

Nott, crouched beside the trunk of a dead tree, picked up a small stone and lobbed it toward Avery’s head. It missed. “She fancied your bloody broomstick, not your face. You’re lucky she didn’t curse you after.”

“Oi, she liked it,” Avery protested. “Said I had charm.”

“Pity’s not charm,” Nott shook his head. “I’ve had two myself. Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff. Sweet girls. Stupid, but sweet.”

“One better than the other?” Avery asked, tilting his head.

Nott shrugged. “Older one, yeah. Knows what she’s doing.” Then he stretched his legs out. “With hands, mostly.”

Avery scoffed. “You always get the good ones.”

“They’re only good if they know when to shut up,” Nott muttered. “Easy’s fine, but silence is better.”

Tom said nothing.

He sat cross-legged in the grass, wand in hand, polishing the handle with the edge of his robe like he wasn’t listening. Like the air wasn’t pressing in tighter and tighter around his lungs. He hadn’t said a word in at least five minutes.

Nott noticed.

He always noticed.

“What about you?” he asked. Not teasing. Not quite. “Don’t tell me you’ve been too busy reading about runes to notice half the school wants your name in ink on their arms.”

Tom didn’t look up. “I’ve better ways to spend my time.”

Avery let out a bark of laughter. “ So , none? None ? You? You, of all people?”

“None,” Tom said flatly. “I’d rather entertain myself with… important matters.”

And that was a lie.

Because it had been four days. Four days since the greenhouse. Four days since his mouth had pressed into hers and came away warmer than he expected. Four days since her breath trembled against his cheek and the feeling still lingers.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

Not the shape of her mouth or her taste. Sweet. Like caramel. Like the one she gave to him. 

He didn’t tell them he kissed her first. 

That he went in again.

That  he wanted to.

He laid back in the grass, the wand forgotten beside his leg, and stared at the clouds until they blurred in his eyes. His mind drifted. Salazar. His dad. Monsters. And her. Always circling back to her. Her eyes, her voice. Her dangerous, eager loyalty.

Nott watched him for a long moment. Too carefully. “You ever get curious?” he asked, voice lower now. “Not about girls. About the effect . The pull. Don’t you wonder how far it goes?”

Tom turned his head slightly. “I already know how far it goes.” 

And he had seen it. In Myrtle. In the way her hands trembled when he looked at her too long. In the way she’d said only you . He looked back to the sky. “All of those are distractions.”

Avery grinned, still kicking at the grass. “Not if you do it right.”

Chapter 15: XIII

The night of Myrtle Warren’s first kiss.

Myrtle had barely made it back to Ravenclaw Dorm after Tom kissed her. She floated through the corridors, her lips still burning. Her mind reeled and reeled and reeled in silence. She climbed into bed fully clothed and didn’t sleep a second.

She watched the dormitory ceiling until morning bled through the curtains. Her fingers clenched, still feeling where Tom’s hand had held hers. Her cheeks still burned. Her brain had repeated one sentence all night: He kissed me. He kissed me. Over and over and over again.

Goddangit! Tom Riddle just kissed her!

In the morning, she bolted, right away. Still wearing yesterday’s uniform, she ran out of the common room, Myrtle rushed down staircases, through the castle, to the Clock Tower Courtyard. The Gryffindors usually hung around there before breakfast. 

She needed Awick. She needed him now .

She spotted him from across the courtyard—laughing with two third-years, bouncing a stone between his knuckles. She sprinted. “Awick!” But just before she could reach him, she bumped someone—and that someone apparently is Olive Hornby, with Polly close behind. “Ow!” Olive shouted.

When she turned around, she stopped, looked at Myrtle, and smirked.

“Look who’s back from the dead,” Olive crooned. Polly raised her wand lazily. “Didn’t we leave you green and sobbing last time?” Olive added. Myrtle didn’t get to respond—Polly cast before she could think. “Stupefy . ” Polly shouted.

Immediately, Myrtle’s legs flew out. She slammed backward and rolled onto the mossy stone ground below.

Gasps. Her skull thudded against the stone, but the world spun more from embarrassment than pain. Her robes were bunched. Olive stood over her, wand poised. “Want to try red today? Red and raging, Miss Sickly Myrtle?” Polly giggled.

“Oh I know! Red horrendous Myrtle!”

A few Gryffindors snorted. Someone muttered “Ouch.” Myrtle’s vision blurred. She was frozen. Until—“Oi!” Pebbles shot from somewhere behind them, clinking hard off Polly’s shoes. Awick charged forward, red in the face, wand out.

He didn’t pause. “Get away from her!” he shouted, aiming right at Olive. Some red line of light blasted from the tip of his wand and it hit Olive’s hair.

Suddenly, her glossy brown hair burst into a violent shade of red. Bright, streaky, ugly. She shrieked. Polly gasped. “Awick Perks!” Polly howled, covering Olive’s head. Laughter rose from behind Myrtle. The Gryffindors were so loud.

Polly yanked Olive’s arm. “Come on!” They ran—dodging the sneers, Olive still screeching about detention and house points. Awick turned to Myrtle, huffing. “You okay? You— blimey , did you hit your head?” He crouched beside her, helping gather her books, hands quick.

Myrtle was still frozen, but her mouth curled before she could stop it. 

“That—was—insane.” She wheezed out a laugh, breathless. “Did you see her face?” Awick smirked. “Brilliant, right? Learned it when me and Euphie matched your green hair. Thought I’d save red for emergencies.”

He squinted at her. “Okay, but why were you running like a lunatic? You didn’t see Hornby there?” Myrtle clutched her books to her chest, heart pounding again—but not from the fall this time. She shook her head, answering his question, then leaned in. 

“I have to tell you something.” She whispered.

Awick blinked. “Did Euphie get a haircut?” he asked, deadly serious, eyes wide too. “What? No—” “A new beautiful haircut? Or is it earrings? Oh please tell me it’s earrings!” Myrtle shook her head. “Awick—stop. It’s not Euphie.” “Is it a vampire?” “ No. ” She sighed.

She couldn’t hold it anymore. “I kissed someone.”

The courtyard went still for Awick. His jaw went slack, his eyebrows froze mid-quirk. His eyes narrowed. “Who?” His voice dropped. Not teasing, not joking. It was flat. Cold. Sharp enough to silence Myrtle’s smile instantly. He was staring straight through her.

She blinked. “Tom. Tom Riddle.”

Awick didn’t move. His hand slowly clenched into a ball. Then, flatly: “No bloody way.”

“Yes bloody way.” She clutched her bag tighter. Her cheeks burned.

“Swear on Dippet.”

“I swear on Dippet—”

Before she could finish, Awick grabbed her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. “We gotta tell Euphie!” he yelled, sprinting towards the castle, Myrtle shrieked in his arms. “We gotta tell her right now!”

“Awick—Put me down!!” she shouted, flailing as students turned to stare. “I’m gonna’ kick your nose off!” He didn’t flinch. “Not until Euphie knows you’ve been snogging The Slytherin Prince!!!” he cried dramatically. “This is groundbreaking material!”

She kicked his side. “It wasn’t snogging—it was a kiss!” She shouted. He stopped. “Oh, only one? On the cheek then? Or were tongues involved?” He whispered lowly. 

“AWICK!” Her face was a tomato. “Okay okay, fine,” he said, carefully lowering her. “But only cause I like my nose. You’re lucky.” He huffed out and rolled her eyes. She smacked his shoulder hard, still fuming. He laughed, rubbing it. “You know you’ve lost it, right?”

Myrtle adjusted her robes. “I had to tell you first.”

“Of course you did,” Awick said, suddenly softer. “Now let’s go. Euphie’s gonna freak out.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It happened fast—Awick barely gave her a second to breathe. They were already stumbling toward the stone bench Euphenia always claimed during her morning sketches. “She kissed him,” Awick declared immediately as soon as he was close in range.

Euphenia didn’t even look up. Her pencil kept gliding over the paper like she hadn’t just been handed the biggest piece of Myrtle’s life. “Can you believe it?” Awick added, louder now. “Our Myrtle. First kiss and everything.”

Myrtle flushed scarlet. She twisted her fingers in the edge of her sleeves and tried to prepare for the teasing. Or maybe Euphie’s usual gasp, the squeal, the blushing giggles. Something. Instead, Euphenia said, flatly, “ So ?”

The pencil didn’t pause. Not even a twitch. Just the steady scratch-scratch of sketching lines Myrtle couldn’t see. “But—it was my first, Euphie,” Myrtle said, voice thinner than she wanted it to be, her smile still there.

Euphenia’s lips twitched, but not in a smile. “Did you like it?” She raised one eyebrow. Myrtle’s smile slowly but surely faded. “I—I think so. Yes.”

“Well, then.” Euphenia flipped the page. “That’s that, isn’t it?” It was like being pushed down a staircase without anyone touching you. Myrtle stared at her, blinking. “That’s… that’s it?”

Awick’s brows furrowed. “What’s up with you?” he asked, leaning over. He touched Euphenia’s chin like he was trying to make her face them. “You look like you’re gonna eat the sketchbook.” He muttered. “I’m just having a really bad morning,” Euphenia muttered, brushing his hand away. “Trelawney wouldn’t shut up in class and my quill exploded on this piece twice.”

“Aw, poor tortured artist,” Awick said, trying to lighten the mood. He tucked a bit of her hair behind her ear, something he never did to anyone else. “You’ll survive.” It became a blur after that.

Awick tried to joke, to change the subject—some ridiculous thing about how he and Bims got chased out of the kitchens for trying to fry sugar quaffles. Myrtle barely heard it. She just stared at Euphenia’s hand, watching the pencil drag and loop and press, like it wasn’t carving right into her ribs and the insides.

Maybe Euphenia didn’t want to see her happy.

Like everyone did.

That thought crept in quiet. Myrtle didn’t want it there. But it stayed.

Maybe it was just a bad morning. Or maybe it was something else. Her eyes burned suddenly, without warning. She blinked too fast. Bit her lip. Let Awick ramble and watched Euphenia draw without ever looking at her.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The grass around the Black Lake was dry and dull today. Myrtle sat hunched, arms wrapped tight around her knees. The edge of her robes gathered dampness from the soil, but she didn’t shift. The cold didn’t bother her today.

Beside her, Euphenia stretched her legs, letting the tips of her toes kiss the water. Her skirt bunched perfectly above her knees. The wind played with her hair gently, like even nature found her perfectly pretty. Her pretty blonde hair.

Awick was further down the slope, crouching, then flicking his wrist. A flat pebble leapt twice, then sank. “I’ll get a three-skip before sunset,” he declared. Myrtle looked up from her thoughts, opened her mouth to say something, but Euphenia’s voice cut her before she could speak. 

“You shouldn’t sit like that.”

She blinked. “Like what?”

“Curled up like that,” Euphenia said, adjusting her collar without glancing over. “You’ll crease your robes. It makes you look small.”

“I am small,” Myrtle replied with a half-laugh, trying to make it light. Not bitter. But her eyebrows furrowed. Euphenia turned toward her. “Don’t say that. If you keep saying it, people will believe it.”

Awick skipped another pebble. It hit the water with a lazy plop !. “Well,” he grinned, glancing back at them, “she is small. But it’s alright. She’s like a mouse.“ He mumbled. “Our little mouse.” He added after a long moment.

He said it like it was cute. Like it was affectionate. Like being a mouse was something to wear proudly. Myrtle forced a laugh. Her shoulders tightened, chin dipping a little lower against her knees. The smile on her face slowly fading.

Euphenia must’ve noticed. Her gaze lingered, something is forming inside her head there, but she looked away before saying anything else. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then added, “You know we’re only teasing. Right?”

Myrtle nodded too fast. “Of course.”

Chapter 16: XIV

June 1941.

It’s the second week when Myrtle begins appearing almost daily. She starts showing up near the library steps, then further in, to the quiet corners near the Trophy Room. He’s decided she needs to learn the Disillusionment Charm. If he’s to send her into the Restricted Section, she can’t just sneak. She has to vanish. And she needs to do it right . 

Tom watches her come with her satchel half-zipped. She’s flushed, always flushed—whether from nerves or excitement, he can’t tell. But she looks him in the eye when she hands him her notes.

She writes fast and her handwriting, though awfully tight and small, contains detail. She reads, actually reads the things he tells her to. She jots runic translations with maddening diligence and memorizes magical theory better than most seventh-years.

She says nothing when he corrects her, even when he’s sharp. Her eyes flick up at him when he praises her—rarely, briefly—and her breath always catches. That nervousness used to amuse him. Now, it feels heavier. Louder. Distracting.

The Sunday arrangement disintegrates. 

They now meet wherever and whenever he sends the word—a whispered “tonight” in the corridor, or just mouthing from across the great hall. And she comes. Always comes. He tests it, once. Sends nothing. She waits anyway.

And for the disillusionment spell learning—she fumbles it horribly the first time.

“You’re not trying,” he says flatly, watching her wand tremble. They’re behind the dungeon-floor statue of the sleeping dragon, shielded from view, past curfew. “You want the magic to hide you? Then mean it . Or it won’t listen.” She bites her lip, trying again.

Her wand slips. “Sorry,” she mumbles, pushing her glasses up. “I do mean it.” He watches her retry. Her magic is jittery, but it listens when she calms her breathing. The shimmer begins to form at her wrist. His own fingers twitch in instinctive response.

Lestrange comes one evening. To observe, Lestrange also had agreed to help, so why not? He’s sitting against the wall. When Myrtle stumbles through her incantation again, he lets out a quiet snort. “Charming,” he mutters. “Gryffindors would kill for this entertainment.”

Tom ignores him, keeps his gaze on Myrtle. 

“Again,” he says coolly. Myrtle lifts her wand and mutters the phrase under her breath. This time, her feet shimmer faintly before fading. Her outline flickers, uncertain—but it’s progress. Tom tilts his head. Myrtle spent five whole minutes laughing at her half invisible leg.

During that, Lestrange leaned in. “You’re really turning her into an accomplice now?” he says, amused, shifting one shoulder against the wall. Tom doesn’t answer—just looks at him once, sharply. Lestrange raises both brows, holds up his hands. “Alright. Just asking.”

Myrtle finally snapped back from her laughing session. “Is that an improvement?” she asks, cheeks pink. Tom doesn’t smile, but he gives a single nod. She beams and smiles widely. It unsettles him.

She starts improving faster than he expects. 

Her flicks become cleaner, her whispers sharper. He watches the way she concentrates—forehead creased, mouth slightly open—and how she lights up when something clicks. That glow she gets. That strange, warm glow.

They meet outside the Trophy Room three days later. Myrtle spills her bag entirely because she’s too excited that she has made incredible progress—books thudding. “Sorry—oh no—sorry—” she stammers. 

Tom crouches, picks up her Defense essay, reads two lines, then hands it back. “It’s correct,” he mutters.

She flushes deeper. “Oh. Good.” Lestrange is already there again, flicking a quill between his fingers. “You always clean up her messes too?” he asks lazily. Myrtle glares. “I can do it myself, thanks.” He snorts. 

Tom watches the exchange. Myrtle and Lestrange have started talking—small things. She joked about his boots last time. He laughed. He called her “mudblood” last week, but in a way that almost sounded like a nickname. Myrtle did become uncomfortable the whole study session though. 

“So this is why you tolerate her,” Lestrange says once. “She’s a funny little thing. Muggle-born, but clever. Can’t believe you’ve lasted this long without snapping at her.” Tom says nothing. Just flicks his wand at a nearby candle and snuffs it out.

Sometimes Myrtle tries talking to Lestrange longer than necessary. Tom doesn’t like that. She’s not focusing. He doesn’t show it, but he cuts her off, refocuses her, and points out flaws in her spellwork. She obeys him every time. And Tom’s eyes drift toward Lestrange, now and then.

One evening, Lestrange leans closer to Myrtle while she’s mid-casting and says, “You’ve got a blot on your nose.” She lets out an ‘Oh’ and wipes it with her sleeve, and he grins. Tom steps between them. 

“Focus Myrtle,” he says sharply. “Do it again.”

He’s irritated, and not just because she’s sloppy. He tells himself it’s because time is precious. The book he needs is in the Restricted Section, and she’s the only one who can reach it without raising suspicion. 

That’s all it is. 

But Tom grips his wand tighter than necessary. Lestrange catches the look. Later, when Myrtle leaves to return to Ravenclaw, Lestrange slouches beside Tom with narrowed eyes.

“Relax,” he mutters. “I’m not actually going to steal your pet muggle. She’s just fun to play with.” Tom doesn’t look at him. “She’s not a pet,” he says. And the moment the words leave his mouth, he wishes he hadn’t said them. Lestrange’s smile widens.

“Huh. That’s funny.” Lestrange says. “That’s interesting.” He added. Tom doesn’t respond. He walks away, fast. Myrtle’s perfume still lingers in the air and he hates how well he knows it. He hates how much he notices when it’s gone.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Tom had stayed behind after Flitwick’s lesson three times before the professor asked. 

He lingered not aimlessly but with a look of just enough interest to be taken seriously. Not too eager. Not too bored. Just enough. He was careful with that balance. Tom Riddle was good at that.

“Something I can help you with, Tom?” Flitwick asked, voice kind. His feet barely brushed the floor as he perched on the stack of books behind his desk. Tom waited half a beat before answering, smiling faintly—just enough—just charmingly enough.

“I was wondering if I might go over the Disillusionment Charm with you,” he said. “I’ve read ahead in the syllabus. I believe it could help me observe magical creatures in their natural environment—without disturbing them.”

That part was pure fabrication. But Tom delivered it gently, laced with academic curiosity, like he usually did. Flitwick brightened. “Well, that’s rather advanced for third year,” he chirped. “But you’ve got a good head for spells. I don’t see why not.” Tom tilted his head and smiled widely.

Flitwick leapt from his stack and motioned to the center of the room. “We’ll begin with the incantation,” he said. “ Occulto Corporis. That’s Latin-rooted— to hide the body. ” He gave a small flick with his wand. “But the charm’s real power is intention. As always.”

Tom repeated it once. “Occulto Corporis.” Flitwick nodded. “Good! Now—watch carefully. The wand movement is delicate. Upward curve, then loop back down to the heart. Imagine tracing the shape of a question mark, but reverse it, and pull the line inward toward yourself.”

Tom watched his hand precisely. Upward curve. Loop down. Inward pull. He repeated it with his own wand, slowly. His wrist moved with control—grace. The charm didn’t catch, not fully, but Flitwick clapped anyway. 

“Splendid form, Tom. Splendid. Most fumble the inward pull!”

They repeated it. Again. And again. Tom never complained. He absorbed every correction. “Try to visualize your own body disappearing,” Flitwick coached. “You have to mean to disappear—not just say the words.” Tom’s mouth barely moved, but he nodded.

“Imagine yourself fading from sight. Slowly. That’s when the charm works best.” Flitwick demonstrated again—his form shimmered then vanished from the waist up. Tom watched, fascinated not by the magic, but by how cleanly it worked. Controlled. Perfect .

He tried again. “Occulto Corporis.” His wand moved just right. This time, a thin shimmer formed at the edge of his hand. It wasn’t invisibility, not yet—but it was something. Flitwick beamed. “Very good! You’ll have it in no time.”

Tom smiled, just enough. “Thank you, sir. I won’t waste it.” He said, nodding respectfully. Flitwick, delighted by the apparent earnestness, gave him permission to return the next day for further practice. 

“Anytime, Tom. I’m always here for keen students.”

Tom left the classroom with his books tucked tight under his arm, and the spell looping again in his head. Occulto Corporis. Curve, loop, pull in.  

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Tom sat in the dusty quiet corner of the library’s west wing. There’s a book about Charm Theory  that laid open in his lap. His eyes scanned the same paragraph twice. Myrtle was late. She had never been late before. 

He didn’t check the clock. He measured time by his own precision. Myrtle usually arrived six minutes after the hour—flushed, murmuring an apology. She never missed a meeting. Not without reason. Not without telling him.

He turned the page without reading it. The book’s spine cracked. A slow breath escaped his lips. Suddenly, footsteps could be heard. He didn’t lift his head at first. Not until he heard her voice. “Sorry! I’m—oh—sorry—wait!” Her laugh rang out behind a shelf.

He looked up. Myrtle appeared with scrolls that poked out from her books. Her cheeks are pink. Flushed. Sprinting. But she wasn’t alone. Tom’s eyes slid to the boy beside her. A gryffindor. Brown hair. Freckles. 

Tom had seen him before. In May. Sitting near her and Euphenia Merriweather in the library. And again during dinner, at the Hufflepuff table, nudging a book her way while she smiled. He hadn’t thought it mattered then. It matters now.

The boy handed Myrtle a fallen scroll—his fingers brushing hers. Her smile widened. Tom stared. That moment replayed in his mind, vivid as a painting. Her fingers had brushed his too. March. During the corridor where he stopped just to pick up her fallen books. Her breath had caught just like that. 

\Why remember that now?

“Bye bye, Myrtle!” the boy chirped, stepping backward. Myrtle laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “See you later!” she called, then turned toward Tom like nothing was off. 

“Ready?” she asked, eyes bright. Happy. Open.

Tom stared at her. Too long. Too quiet. His jaw had gone stiff. Something acidic sat beneath his ribs. He blinked once, twice, then stood up abruptly, setting the book aside. “You shouldn’t trust people so easily, Myrtle,” he said, too cold. She blinked. “What do you me—”

“No.” He cut her off. Flat. “You belong to your own kind.” He didn’t wait for her response. He turned and walked away—her mouth parted, but no sound came. He didn’t look back.

He didn’t stop until he was in the Slytherin common room. Didn’t speak. Didn’t glance at Avery who tried to ask something. Lestrange was already sprawled on the sofa, twirling a quill, one boot kicked over the armrest. 

“I found it by the way,” Lestrange said casually. “Pince keeps the key in the top drawer. Left side. Charms it shut at night.”

Tom didn’t answer. He sat on the far edge of the couch, staring at his hand. The fine lines in his palm meant nothing. He traced them with his thumb. His head was loud, but his mouth was sealed shut.

Lestrange stared. “Alright, what happened to you ?” 

Tom didn’t move. Lestrange leaned closer. “Is this about Warren?” No answer. “She’s just a girl, mate.” That did it. “ Yes ,” Tom said sharply. “And she’s good at what she does.” Lestrange raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Tom said low, “is distraction. And interference. And that she doesn’t think.” He stood, pacing. “Why did she bring that boy there? She doesn’t think. If anyone sees her too often with me, they’ll start asking questions. Does that boy know?”

Lestrange scowled. “Okay, what boy?” He asked, and Tom didn’t waste a second before explaining: “Brown reddish hair. Freckles. Gryffindor.” He said. Lestrange lifted his eyebrows. “Sounds like one of her friends, and she only have two—” 

“Euphenia Merriweather and?...”

“Awick Perks.” Lestrange finishes his sentence. “He’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure two of her friends know about her hanging out with you. Maybe not for exactly what. And Perks is a huge fan of yours. You remember the present you got—a leather ball with your name carved on it?” “Yeah?” “That was Perks.” 

“Oh.” Tom mumbled.

Lestrange watched him, amused. “Anyway. You and Warren finished the charm?” Tom paused. “Yes. We’ve been practicing it alone. We’re almost there.” His tone sharpened. “And if it works. At least it has to work long enough to cross into the Restricted Section and out unseen.”

Lestrange’s mouth curled. “Then let’s use it. We can stage a distraction, keep Pince off Warren for ten to fifteen minutes. That enough?” Lestrange asked and Tom nodded once. “The book is on Ancient Binding. I’ll describe it to Myrtle.”

“And if she messes it up?” Lestrange asked. “If your clever little Ravenclaw gets caught?” 

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “She won’t. I’ll make sure she doesn’t.” He said. Lestrange tilted his head. “So we still using her?” Silence. Then Tom looked away. “Yes. Of course .”

“Lestrange I need help with—headbands picking!” Augareta’s voice could be heard from across the room. Tom eyes snapped to Lestrange and he snickered, muttering: “Gotta go. Husband duties.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

June dragged, but the stairwell near the Astronomy Tower stayed dry—untouched by Prefects, rarely walked. Tom preferred it for that reason alone. The air was cold up here, Myrtle said she’s freezing beside him, so she’s now wearing his mittens that he gave her.

They sat on the stairs close—legs bent, backs on the curved wall. Myrtle’s notes are sprawled on his lap. He read them silently, eyebrows twitching once at the layering diagram she’d drawn. Her logic held. Her breakdown of magical load-bearing in spell stacking? Impressive.

The Disillusionment Charm flickered on his arm first—shoulder, then half his chest. The shimmer held longer each time. Myrtle clapped when his entire upper body faded, then returned. “You’re getting better,” she whispered, eyes wide. “You’re actually doing it.”

He nodded but said nothing. His wand tip glowed faintly—residual heat. Then her turn. She cast again, face scrunched in focus. Both of her legs vanished up to her belly. She gasped. “Did you see that? That worked! ” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“You’re improving,” he said. That was the only answer. She grinned. Again. It was the fifth time that hour. He wasn’t sure what made her beam like that—progress or praise. Either way, she liked helping. And she was helping. 

She was actually clever. Well, he noticed that already but he couldn’t help but remember it.

Tom had never said that out loud. But he thought it. Her notes on rune structure clarified something he’d overlooked—the disillusionment base was rune-bound at the edge of the caster’s field. Her theory helped. He adjusted his angle because of her. And it worked.

“Do you think,” Myrtle asked, breathless, “we’ll ever sneak into the Restricted Section without being noticed?” She was wiping her forehead with her sleeve. There was a dark ink blot on her chin. He didn’t tell her. He just looked at her.

“If you keep improving,” he said, eyes narrowed, “maybe.” That made her flush. Bright. She laughed under her breath and started packing her scrolls, but slowly. “I’m going to take that as a yes.” She said under her breath. He raised an eyebrow. “Then your standards are low.”

She grinned, looking toward the window  set in the curved wall after her notes were in her bag. 

The stars were sharp tonight, bright. Myrtle leaned her arms on the sill, exhaled. “See that one? That’s Draco. Not the constellation—well, yes , the constellation, but also a Latin word. Means dragon.”

He leaned beside her, not touching, just close. The air cooled as night deepened. Her voice stayed soft. “That one there’s Cassiopeia. And that one—the crooked one—that’s Perseus. I only know because Euphenia made me memorize them for a bet.”

Tom watched her talk more than he watched the sky. She gestured with her fingers. She said something about Muggles naming stars long before wizards did. Then something about how starlight takes years to arrive. Then something about dying stars.

He didn’t catch it all. Her voice blurred with the wind. His eyes stayed on her face. Her chin tilted upward. Her lashes caught the moonlight. Her words kept going. He leaned his head back. The stone was cold. 

Sleep pulled at him slowly, and he let it. The stars spun lazily above. Her voice kept threading through the dark, soft and meaningless now. He closed his eyes. His breathing evened. He didn’t plan to fall asleep. He just did.

“Tom?” Her voice was quiet. “Tom?” His eyes blinked open to the shape of her staring down. She looked perplexed. “Did you just fall asleep?” He sat up slowly, rubbing his temple. “ No .” He mumbled, voice hoarse. “You definitely did.” She laughed. 

He stood, brushing off his robes. “Pack your things Myrtle.” He muttered. She gave him one look. “I did.” And they exchange a long glance. He cleared his throat. “We’re done for tonight.” She obeyed, but giggled under her breath the whole time. 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

By the end of June, they sat beneath the stained glass curve near the Trophy Room. The floor was cool against their robes. Their parchment was spread in perfect lines. Their wands were already in hand.

Tom went first. 

He murmured the charm ‘ Occulto Corporis ’ perfectly. His form shimmered, bent with the light, and vanished. His robes blurred into the air. Only the shadow remained, flickering faintly like fog. Then, as if nothing had happened, he stepped back into sight.

He blinked once. Satisfied. Myrtle’s breath caught audibly. “Nice Tom.”

“Your turn,” Tom said, not looking at her, but expecting her to follow. She did. Her hand shook slightly, but the wand moved correctly—arc, loop, pull in. She spoke the words with less hesitation than before.

“ Occulto Corporis.”

The shimmer started at her wrists. Then up. Arms. Shoulders. Chest. Her form faded slowly but surely. Then she grinned. “Did I do it?” she asked, though her voice came from a spot her body no longer filled. He nodded once. “You did.”

Lestrange clapped from the back wall, sarcastic. “Well done, Warren. You’ve officially vanished.” He leaned against the stoneboot tapping the floor. Tom didn’t respond to the tone. Instead, he reached for the parchment they had hidden beneath his bag.

“We’re ready,” Tom said. “Next month, we execute.” He spread the diagram. A drawing of the library floor (that was made by Myrtle.) Restricted Section gate. Desk. Timing. He pointed to each piece. “Myrtle, you will approach Pince. Ask about cleaning supplies. Or shelf records. Something benign.”

She nodded slowly. Her brows pulled together. Tom kept going. “While she’s occupied, I’ll retrieve the key from the top left drawer. It’s charmed, but not well. My unlocking charm works, it’s perfect I’ve made sure of it.” He tapped the desk sketch again.

“The key goes to Myrtle,” Lestrange added, folding his arms. “She lingers near the restricted section all the time. Pince won’t question it. No one ever questions the invisible girl.” He muttered. “Lestrangre.” Myrtle gave him a look. Lestrange smirked. “No offense. Or maybe some.”

Tom continued before she could speak. “While she walks toward the Restricted Section, we’ll start the diversion. Lestrange and I will fake a fight. Noise. Spells. Enough for Pince to step away.” He pointed at the plan’s final mark. “You will use that time.”

“Find the book,” he said. 

“It’s old. Huge. The binding is dragonhide. Green. Charms around it are weak. The title is Fabulae Slytherinorum . About the size of two books.” Myrtle frowned. “That’s massive.” “Which is why you’ll carry it under your cloak,” Lestrange muttered. “Try not to trip on the stairs.”

Myrtle turned to Tom. “What’s it about ?” She asked, with that same round curious eyes of hers. Tom stared back. “It’s historical,” he said. “Old Slytherin tales. Important ones. I want to study the structure. That’s all.” He said, final. Yet she kept looking at him.

He held her gaze. “Are there any problems?” He furrowed his eyebrows. She blinked. Then shook her head. “No. No problems.” She fiddled with the cuff of her robe. “I can do it.” He nodded once. “Good.”

He didn’t tell her what was in the book. He had no intention to. Fabulae Slytherinorum was one of the only surviving texts with detailed references to Parseltongue and the original story of the Chamber’s creation. Maybe even the only detailed one. At least that’s what Lestrange and Tom is betting on. And she didn’t need to know that.

If she knew, she’d start asking about the chamber. About its purpose. About Salazar. About why it was hidden. He couldn’t have that. Not yet. Not from her. Her job was simple: retrieve it. That’s all. Just another piece of the puzzle.

Lestrange was already drawing a rough timing diagram on the back of a class handout. “We’ll make noise near the Divination section. Tom pushes me. I yell. Then start a wand-fight that turns phsyical. Enough for ten minutes, maybe twelve if she panics.”

“She will panic,” Tom muttered. Myrtle shot Tom a look. Lestrange grinned. “Then fifteen.”

Myrtle was still sitting, the shimmer of the charm still fresh on her fingertips. Her expression had tightened, but she didn’t speak again. Just pulled her cloak tighter and scribbled something small in her notebook. Tom watched her for a moment longer.

Then he stood, brushing stone dust off his trousers. “Next term,” he said. “We move.” Myrtle looked up at him. She nodded once—she didn’t smile this time.

Chapter 17: Summerbreak 1941

The crowd at the platform was a blur. Myrtle’s collar stuck to her neck, damp with sweat, and her glasses kept fogging up every time she exhaled. Euphenia was in front of her, waving madly.

Someone across the crowd yelled Euphenia’s name, and she squealed, running ahead. Myrtle trailed behind, dragging her suitcase awkwardly. It bumped against her ankle. The screech of owls and the screech of the train made her ears ache.

As she stepped off the last stair from the train car, a hand caught her wrist. Firm. Precise. 

Her suitcase jolted to a stop behind her. Before she could speak, the world spun slightly—then steadied. She was behind a pillar. Out of view. There stood before her, was a boy.

Tom.

He stood just inches away, his robes barely rustling. His presence hit her like it always did—controlled, magnetic, impossibly alluring. His eyes flicked sideways toward the tracks, scanning, then settled on her. “The plan continues,” he said, low.

“Don’t lose your focus over the summer.” His voice was steady. “Practice your spells. Use mirrors if you have to. Quietly. Discreetly.” He said, his eyes trailing lower to examine her face. “I won’t,” she said too fast, gripping her suitcase handle harder. “I swear.” Her voice wobbled.

His eyes lingered. For a flicker of a second, something behind them softened—not warmth exactly, but a pause. Something alive. He dipped his head slightly. 

“Farewell, Myrtle,” he murmured. 

Then he walked away, quickly, like usual. Her throat closed around the word goodbye. She didn’t want it yet.

She stepped forward before she could stop herself. “Wait!” she blurted. “What’s the name of your orphanage?” He didn’t speak. “And the address. I could write. Send you research, books—anything. If you want.” She was red now. “I’ll read everything. ”

He looked at her.

His lips curled —slowly, the barest suggestion of something withheld. The beginnings of a secret he had no intention of sharing. Her breath caught in her chest. He walked back towards her. One step, two step, three step.

Then he leaned in. No warning. His hand barely brushed her arm, then slid upward, steadying her by the shoulder. He kissed her temple—fast, but so sure. His lips warm yet his skin is always cold. The contact was brief. But it lit something inside her.

Before she could blink, he kissed her again. Faster this time. One right temple once more. His hand cupped her cheek slowly. His thumb brushed just beneath her eye. Her skin burned.

He pulled back half a step, eyes narrowing. “That’s for another day, Myrtle.” And then he was gone. Already turning, already melting into the crowd. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her hand was still half-raised.

Myrtle then began to walk out of that invisible area. A bit dizzy in the head but marvelously ecstatic.  “Myrtle!” her mother’s voice called. Myrtle turned. Her parents stood near the exit, both watching her. 

She ran immediately to them. Her mother smiled brightly. “Who was that handsome boy?” she asked, patting Myrtle’s head. “So serious. Tall. Such manners. Such a face.” Her father snorted, dragging her suitcase toward the car. “He was not handsome.”

Myrtle rolled her eyes. “His name’s Tom.” She said under her breath. “Well. He looked very respectable.” Her mother smiled. “You’re too young for respectable.” Her father raised an eyebrow, and her mother shot him a look.

After a moment, her mother continued: “We missed you, Myrtle,” she guide her out of the platform. “Tell us everything. ” 

Myrtle opened her mouth. Then shut it. She clutched her suitcase tighter. “I will,” she said softly. But not about him. Some things she would keep—just for herself.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The summer heat in her neighborhood pressed in so hard most of the time it was too hot to breath. Myrtle sat by the stairwell most afternoons.

Everything felt smaller here. The streets were narrow. The trees seemed shorter. The flowers duller. Her mother’s voice had a flattened rhythm to it now—nagging. The magic was gone from everything. Muggle life was a sigh she couldn’t stop exhaling.

It hadn’t even been a full week before the noise started again. 

Screaming from the road. Cruel, familiar. Myrtle peered through the hedge, squinting. “Freak! You’re a freak and your mum’s too scared to say it!” It was Margaret Gutch. Again. Louder.

Margaret had changed. Puberty hadn’t softened her edges. It had sharpened her. Made her voice more serrated. Her shoulders square. Her confidence meaner. She wasn’t yelling at Myrtle this time. A tiny girl sat curled on the sidewalk—no older than eight.

The girl’s knees were scraped raw, one sock rolled down. Her blonde curls clung to her neck. Margaret towered over her with a stick, jabbing her shoulder. “You deaf now too? Stupid little doll.” The girl didn’t answer—only sobbed and stared at the ground below.

Myrtle moved before she thought. Her sandals flapped against the cracked pavement as she stepped out from inside her house. Her chest was buzzing. “Leave her alone.” She said. Not loud—but sharp enough to cut.

Margaret turned, her face pulled into a sneer. “Look who finally came out of her rat-hole. What’re you gonna do, Myrtle? Cry at me again?” The taunt was old—almost outdated now. Myrtle stepped forward. She didn't even blink.

“I said—leave her.” Her voice trembled, but not with fear. The air around her buzzed. Something deep in her chest tightened, twisted. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Margaret’s grin faltered. She hesitated for half a second.

“You’re not even—” 

CRACK!

An invisible blast—blasted from inside Myrtle’s body. It hit Margaret and she flew. Not far. Just enough. Feet left the pavement. Her back slammed into the grass with a solid thud. She shrieked. Loud. Myrtle didn’t know what happened. Something was building up inside of her.

Margaret cried out loud Wild and ugly real tears. Her dress was torn at the hem. There was dirt in her hair. Grass stains on her palms. She scrambled to her feet, let out a shriek of humiliation, and ran. She didn’t look back.

No one saw what happened. 

Just Myrtle standing there, fists clenched at her sides. And the little blonde girl staring up at her like she was something holy. “Th-thank you,” the girl whispered, again and again. Her blue ribbon was half-undone.

Myrtle eyes stayed on the curve of Margaret’s street, the place where her shadow had vanished. For years she had wished for someone to save her. A teacher. Her mum. Someone stronger. But in the end, it was magic .

Not people. Not apologies. Not grown-ups who said ignore her . Magic. Magic saved me.

The girl clung to her skirt. Still sniffling. Still staring. Like she was waiting for Myrtle to float. Her grip was soft. Grateful. Myrtle looked down at her fingers, flexing them. They tingled. The air around her still pulsed.

What if everyone had magic? Would there still be Margarets? Still cruel laughter in hallways? Still the feeling of being wrong, strange, less ? If everyone were magical, no one would be hunted. No one would be stomped into the sidewalk.

Her hand curled tighter.

If everyone were magic… the world would be better.

The thought hit sharply, she let out a heavy breath. She didn’t question it. It felt true. And somehow, that truth felt good . It felt right. 

From the upstairs window, her mother called. “Myrtle! Dinner!”

She turned slowly. “Bye,” she said to the girl. The ribbon girl let go of her hem. Myrtle nodded to her once, and walked back toward the house. That was the moment the seed was planted. Wizard-kinds are better.

She didn’t think it was arrogance. It was understanding. Wizards weren’t cruel for nothing. They didn’t bully people because they were bored. They had power. And maybe… maybe that’s what the world needed.

The Sorting Hat had said she’d grow. Back then, she didn’t know what that meant. She thought it meant braver. Louder. Nicer. But maybe this was it. Maybe growing meant knowing. And now—she did.

Maybe she was never like the others. Maybe she never was. 

Notes:

Guys I DID NOT plan for Myrtle's fall to darkness LMAOO. Like it was just... evolving and blooming?
My initial plan was for her to just be like the innocent girl of his that does NOT have any involvement with his gang or his ideologies, whatsoever. But it's just another secret side of him - the softness in him, so she's basically his secret haven and lover. But like...

Chapter 18: XV

September 1941.

The kitchens were warm that day—smelling of roasted toasts. Myrtle sat on a low wooden stool with her legs tucked in, slowly chewing on a lump of raw dough that tasted vaguely salty.

Euphenia and Awick stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the main baking counter, pressed so close Myrtle was sure their robes were starting to fuse. Euphenia was slicing dried apples. Awick kept brushing flour from her sleeve, every five seconds.

“Looks like you’ve got something sweet stuck right…” Awick murmured, leaning close, “right there.” His finger poked the tip of Euphenia’s nose, bold. Too bold. Myrtle cringed. Euphenia didn’t even flinch—she just slapped his hand away. “Try that again and I’ll put you in the oven.”

But she was blushing. Not just once. A full flush, creeping from her neck to her ears. Blush. Blush. Blush . Myrtle blinked slowly at them. The dough was gummy between her teeth. She felt like she was chewing through someone else’s dream.

Across the kitchen, Bims—gave Myrtle a long, weary look as he washed a jug. His ears drooped, and when Euphenia accidentally bumped Awick’s elbow and muttered sorry with a red face, he looked near tears.

They both knew what this was. Agony . Pure domestic agony.

“Do you want help with the cinnamon?” Myrtle asked, voice small, trying to inject herself into the situation. Euphenia didn’t even look up. “No, no,” she chirped—too fast. “Awick’s already made a mess.”

Myrtle stared as Awick dropped the rolling pin, flour dust bursting up onto his face. “These fingers,” he said, raising both hands, “were made for pastries. Look at that curvature.” Euphenia squinted. “I will hex the curvature out of you.”

Behind them, Bims slowly mimed gagging into the jug. His shoulders slumped forward like he had aged two decades in two minutes. Myrtle choked on her dough—and dragged herself to the other side to help him with dinner prep.

Bims handed her a ladle and muttered, “They've been like this since noon.” Myrtle nodded. “He’s going to explode if she ever kisses him.” Bims whispered back, “He won’t survive. He’ll faint into the bread.” Myrtle cracked an egg and sighed, “We should be so lucky.”

She diced turnips while Bims stirred soup, and the two of them tried to pretend the romantic tension behind them wasn’t growing stronger by the second. Awick was now whistling while he arranged sugared plums into the shape of a smiley face. Euphenia swatted one off.

Myrtle took a moment to close her eyes and breathe in. 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was Thursday when the plan kicked off. 

Afternoon sun angled sharply through the library windows. Myrtle adjusted her glasses twice, took a deep breath and told herself that ‘everything’s going to be okay’ before approaching Madam Pince, rehearsing the words in her head like a prayer.

“I need help,” she said, voice sweetened to just the right pitch, “locating a chronicled account of cross-generational cauldron thickness.” Pince squinted. Myrtle blinked innocently. Breathless. Convincing. So convincing that Pince groaned and muttered, “Come with me, child,” before disappearing with her into the east wing.

Tom was already there. 

Gliding like a shadow under the Disillusionment Charm. He passed through the library with no sound, no footprint. His breath was steady. His fingers ghosted over the desk. Top left drawer. Locked. He unlocked it with ease. Exactly as planned. The golden key gleamed.

After Myrtle saw how Tom stood in a corner—watching her. She said “Thank you.” to Madam Pince and immediately bolted off.

Tom passed the key to Myrtle by in one of the quiet coner. No words. Her fingers brushed his. Cold. Quick. She swallowed the tightness in her throat and slipped away, fast, small. Her heart was thundering. She didn’t look back.

Then came Distraction #2. 

Lestrange picked the fight near the spiral stair under the south archway. Loud, theatrical insults. Then the sparks. Something cracked against the wall. “Stupid half-blooded snake!” Lestrange yelled. “Say that again,” Tom snarled. Their wands snapped light into the air.

It got too real immediately. Students watched and made a circle, while Madam Pince tried to calm these two raging Slytherins down.

Myrtle didn’t wait. She slipped past the crowd, through the aisles, under the ripple of her disillusionment charm. The gate to the Restricted Section opened with a soft click. She held her breath as it opened—creaking and heavy.

She walked down the stairs. Cold woods. Then lower. She took the dungeon stairs, deeper than she’d ever gone, light fading with each step. The air smelled wet. Her feet echoed in the dark.

She nearly turned back when a gust of air hit her—wet, and sharp. But her fingers stayed on the rail. She moved forward. Shadows grew thick at the base of the stair. Her foot landed on the stone with a crunch. Bones ? No—just paper.

Rows of books lined the chamber, taller than her. Some pulsed. One hissed. Another, black and wide as a window, had teeth. It blinked. She whimpered. “Sorry.” A low whispering rose from the shelves. Her skin crawled. One book whispered in a language she didn’t know.

Then she saw it. High up. Green spine. Massive. It was so high—too high. “For Merlin’s sake…” She groaned before she climbed the shelf. Dust coated her sleeves. Her foot slipped—her knee slammed into the wood “Shit!” but she caught herself.

The book was heavier than she thought. Her arm trembled as she pulled it free. Dragonhide binding. Faint gold lettering: Fabulae Slytherinorum. She felt the chill in her fingertips the second she touched it. It was locked yes—like Tom had said.

She examined it, it was locked with a locking spell. Not Alohomora, more like a coating. She looked at it, once, then twice, before deciding to open it. The unlocking charm barely resisted. The book opened like it wanted to. 

Tom was right. It was an easy locking spell.

In the book, there are tales. Myths. Histories. And then—illustrations. Snakes with sharp fangs and their tongues flicking. Salazar’s name is repeated throughout the book A section titled: De Monstro in Camera. Myrtle squinted. A chamber. Beneath the castle. Hidden. Guarded. Meant for one person alone.

Her eyes froze. 

“A monster that waits… awakened only by the true Heir.” She read that line out loud. Her chest tightened. She turned the page. “The Slytherin Heir shall bring greatness to his name. He shall unlock the old power. He shall cleanse the blood.” The words blurred.

Myrtle’s stomach turned. Her fingers trembled on the dragonhide. He had lied. She remembered Trelawney’s voice—echoing in Merrythought’s office. “The muggle-born will fall first.” She remembered the ancient monster she couldn’t explain. The terror. The cold look in Tom’s eyes.

She swallowed. The dust in her throat caught. “Tom?” she whispered, voice cracking. “What?” 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

She returned late. Way past the time they’d agreed on. 

The Disillusionment Charm still shimmered faintly over her arms, but her legs were stiff, breath shallow. Her hands shook. Every step from the dungeon to the third floor had felt like walking against a tide.

Near the central hall, under the massive arch by the stairwell, two shadows stepped out. Tom’s voice cut through the corridor. “We saw your shadow.” Calm yet firm. Myrtle’s heart was pounding so loud she barely heard the rest.

Lestrange wasn’t calm. His cloak was scorched. His wand was already out. His voice cracked loudly. “Where the hell were you?” he barked. “You were supposed to be back ten minutes ago, Warren. Ten. We were out here throwing spells— improvising. You don’t get to vanish.”

She yanked the charm off with a sharp flick. Magic dissolved off her skin. “I had to climb!” she snapped. “There were things down there—wards, traps— books with teeth. ” Her arms trembled. Her face burned. She felt like she’d been running for hours.

“There were things ?” Lestrange laughed, bitter and wild. 

“While you were climbing, we were almost caught . Dippet walks past the wrong corridor and your little act isn’t saving anyone. You think Pince cares if you get dust in your robes?” Myrtle didn’t answer.

Instead, she reached into her cloak and yanked the book out. She shoved it into Tom’s chest with both hands. She doesn’t care anymore. The weight of it hit him, and he didn’t move. He just looked down, trying to process.

The enchanted lock was already broken. Her fingers had done that. She’d done all of it. Alone. His eyes lifted, slowly, wide. When they locked with hers, her chest turned cold. “You opened it,” he said. Coldly. Almost wondering. Her voice was hollow. “I read it.”

The silence stretched long. Lestrange’s foot scraped the marble as he stepped forward, voice rising in disbelief. “You did what? Are you serious? That wasn’t for you to read! You were meant to fetch it, not dig into centuries-old—”

“Warren.” Tom’s voice didn’t rise. But it cut everything off. 

Lestrange stopped mid-rant. Myrtle blinked. He’d never called her that before. Not once. Not in the corridor, not in the library, not even when he kissed her. Lestrange faltered, confused. He stepped back.

Myrtle looked at Tom and didn’t look away. “I know what you’re trying to do,” she said. Her voice was quiet now, it stupidly trembled. “You believe you’re the Slytherin Heir. You want to open the Chamber. Let out the monster.”

“The monster that’s going to kill people like me.” Her hands curled into fists. “I’m Muggle-born, Tom. I’m exactly what it wants. Do you even care?” She heaved.

She expected an answer. She didn’t expect the silence. The way he watched her without blinking.

Lestrange scoffed. “You think he does ?” He raised his wand again. Whispered low. “Oblivia—” 

Myrtle froze. A breath caught. But Tom moved first. His hand lashed out and caught Lestrange’s wrist. The spell collapsed. Myrtle flinched. “Don’t,” Tom said. “Not her .” It was the sharpest word she’d ever heard from him today.

Lestrange froze. His eyes narrowed. Tom didn’t look away from her. Didn’t release Lestrange until the wand dropped slightly. 

Then, slow, he stepped toward Myrtle. One step. Another. She backed away until her back hit the cold stone. Her breath hitched. “You’re mistaken.” He stopped just in front of her. The book hung at his side. His fingers reached up, slow. His knuckles grazed her cheekbone. She was crying—she hadn’t realised it. He wiped one tear away. His hand didn’t move after.

It wasn’t a gentle touch. But it wasn’t cruel, either. Just… quiet. His face didn’t change. But something behind his eyes did. Like some part of him had moved before he’d decided to. His brow furrowed. “You’re an exception, Myrtle. You should know that.” He said.

Not soft. Not sorry. Like a fact. A calculated conclusion. But his brow stayed tight. Like saying it had cost something. Like he wasn’t sure why it even mattered. She didn’t speak. She only stared, breath shallow.

She couldn’t read him. Not fully. Not in that moment.

Lestrange stood a few steps back now, watching both of them like they were playing a game he no longer understood. And maybe they were. Maybe no one understood what just happened.

Then Tom stepped back. The space between them stretched again. His voice returned to its cold tone. “Get back to your dormitory,” he said. Myrtle didn’t argue. She turned. Walked. She didn’t look back once.

That night, she didn’t sleep. Not a blink. She lay in bed with her fingers clenched under the blanket and her chest too full of silence. Somewhere else in the castle, she knew, he wasn’t sleeping either.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

That night, Myrtle climbed the Astronomy Tower alone.

Her shoes scuffs. The air sharpened the higher she went, scraping against her lungs. Her hands were cold. She didn’t know why she was shaking.

She shouldn’t have come. She was still furious—confused, raw, humiliated. She’d told herself she wouldn’t. But when he’d said, in passing, “Tonight. The tower,” something in her chest had already decided. Before her brain could intervene. 

And now she hated herself for it.

At the top, the sky opened wide—so dark blue it was almost black. Stars flung across it like shrapnel. He was already there. Leaning against the far ledge, hair tousled from the wind, the dragonhide-bound book cradled in his hands.

He didn’t turn. Not even when she stepped onto the stone landing. She stood still for a second, heart thudding. “You wanted me?” she asked, quieter than she meant to be. The words came out small, bitter. He didn’t answer right away.

“I need to know who I am.” His voice drifted through the cold. He turned only slightly—his cheek catching a slash of moonlight. She could see the tightness in his mouth. The tension in the way he held the book.

“I was left at a Muggle orphanage with no birth certificate.” He stopped. She stopped her breath. That was new. Sure everyone knows he’s an orphan. Just not in a muggle orphanage. “No trace. That’s not random, Myrtle. Someone wanted me hidden. Forgotten.” He continued, flat, but the undercurrent was louder. “But I remember things—places I’ve never seen. Feelings I shouldn’t have.”

His eyes met hers, and she forgot how to breathe. Not because they were cruel—but because they were alive. “You said I want to open the Chamber. That I want to kill Muggle-borns.” Her throat tightened. She looked down.

“You want to know what I think?” he said. “That that’s incidental.”

“ Incidental?! ” Her voice cracked.

“I’m looking for a truth buried centuries deep. A monster was said to guard it, yes. But monsters are only unleashed when necessary.” He stepped closer. “And if it kills someone?” Her voice rose again. “That depends who it kills.”

She stepped back. “That’s—”

“Unfair?” he said. “Biased? Cruel?” He stepped forward. Coldly. Calmly. “You were crying in the kitchens yesterday because Hornby threatened you. You were excluded from the project because they ‘forgot.’ You’ve been mocked since First Year. You told me that only magic could save you—that those who don’t have them are weak. Is this world ever fair, Myrtle?”

“No,” she whispered. It slipped out too fast. She hated that it was true.

“But I still don’t think people should die over it.” He scoffed yet he didn’t look away. “You’ve read the book,” he said. “The Heir opens the Chamber. Awakens the monster. Cleanses the school.” “Of muggle-borns,” she cut.

She waited. Waited for him to deny it. He didn’t.

“I don’t hate magic,” he said. “But I hate what weakens it. Dilutes it.” He whispered, eyes narrowing as he stood even closer towards her. “You mean people like me.” Her voice tried to stay strong. It cracked anyway.

He finally stopped and loomed over her. “No,” he said. “Not you.” She stared up at him, jaw clenched. “You’re an exception, Myrtle.” Myrtle scoffed. “You said that before.”

“I meant it.”

Her heart was pounding. With something messier. Something she couldn’t name. “Why me?” She asked. “You’re not like the rest of them. Not really.”

The words echoed in her skull. Not like them. She’d always felt it. Always felt outside of it all. Even Euphenia and Awick didn’t really know her. Not the real version. The one that got angry. The one that thought dark things sometimes.

“But I am muggle-born,” she said, voice tight. “And still, I chose you—muggle-born or not.”

The words echoed through her mind. You’re an exception. You’re not like them. Her chest swelled, then shrank again. It scared her—how much sense he made. She wanted to fight it. She just didn’t know how.

“You want me to help,” she said, finally softening.

“I want you to research with me,” he corrected, softening too. “You’re good at it. You see patterns. I know you.” He held out the book. Slowly. Offering. She stared. Then, slowly, she reached out. Their fingers touched. A jolt passed through her arm.

“And if this means… cleansing?” she asked. Her voice was quiet. And shaking.

He didn’t rush the answer. Didn’t lie. “If it’s what must be done,” he said, “then yes. Magic must be preserved. Protected. From weakness. From stain.”

Her stomach twisted. Because she felt something she didn’t want to admit. It was pride. It was power. It was the feeling of being chosen . Not just tolerated. Not pitied. Chosen. Not despite what she was—but because of who she was.

“You think your name’s in here somewhere?” she asked. “I think it was erased.”

That’s when she saw it. It wasn’t just about magic. Or monsters. It was about identity. About not being no one. He wanted the world to say he mattered. That he’d always mattered. That he meant something. Like she always did too.

“I’ll help you,” she said.

He smiled lowly. “Thank you.” And nodded. “We’re going to find my name,” he said. “Even if we have to dig it out of the ground.” She nodded and stood next to him in the dark, clutching the book. Her eyes flicked to the stars. Her fingers still tingled. 

Maybe monsters weren’t born. Maybe they were pieced together. One truth at a time. One choice at a time.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The lake shimmered under the sun. Dragonflies were flying everywhere, but Myrtle didn’t watch them. She sat at the lake;s edge, legs pulled in tight, her chin barely above her knees. The grass was damp under her skirt.

She flicked pebbles into the lake one at a time. Each one vanished with a quiet plunk , barely leaving a ripple. She watched the circles expand and disappear, over and over, like the sound of her own thoughts retreating into nothing.

Behind her, Euphenia shrieked, half-laughing, as Awick chased her across the grass with a long reed. 

“Get that thing away from me!” she howled. Awick cackled, victorious, before they both collapsed in a heap near the wildflowers, laughing, tangled, loud and romantic in every way.

Myrtle didn’t turn around. She kept her hand buried in the cool gravel beside her, fingertips closing around pebbles, one after another. Her shoulders hunched slightly. Thinking.

“Oi,” Euphenia called, still breathless. “You’re miles away.” Myrtle flicked another pebble. “Just tired,” she mumbled. Awick flopped back dramatically and tossed the reed into the air. 

“Anything new with Riddle?” he asked, excited like usual. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone boring on us.”

“No,” Myrtle said, too flat. “Same as ever.” The lie left her mouth without hesitation. She blinked, taken aback. Euphenia sat up. “Really? That’s it?” Myrtle didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on the water. Her fingers reached for another pebble. 

Awick gave a theatrical gasp. “That’s all you’ve got? This is a tragedy! You two were my OTP!” He rolled dramatically. “Please please please gives us an update!” He begged, pouting. “Oh I know! Snog him more—” “Ew Awick! I told you I hate Tom Riddle for that!”

Myrtle gave a smile. But she stayed low.

They didn’t know. About the tower. About the book beneath her mattress, still warm from her fingers the night before. About the story that had made her chest feel hollow and whole all at once. About Tom’s words: You’re an exception.

And she believed it now. 

In a way she hadn’t before. Not halfway. Not with doubt. Something had shifted. Like a lens turning. Like the world tilting. He didn’t see her the way everyone else did.

Where she once would’ve whispered everything to Euphenia, every look, every line, every detail. Now the idea of sharing anything felt sour in her throat. They’d ask questions. They’d try to fix it. They wouldn’t understand what he was building.

They didn’t understand her either. Not really.

Awick was saying something now, something about love, but it floated past her ears. Her hand brushed another pebble. She liked the sound of it hitting the water. Liked the emptiness after the splash.

Euphenia crawled over, flopping beside her, chin perched on her shoulder. “You’re really not gonna tell us anything about Riddle?” Her voice soften. Myrtle turned to glance at her, only briefly. “No,” she said.

Euphenia blinked. “Okay…” Her voice dipped. Confused. A little stung.

Behind them, Awick murmured, “We’re losing her to the Slytherin Prince.” Myrtle smiled again. Soft—just tired. “Let’s just throw pebbles, guys.” She picked up another and tossed it without looking.

If only they knew.

Chapter 19: XVI

October 1941.

The Astronomy Tower was colder than usual that night, but Myrtle had brought a blanket this time—navy blue with tiny white stitches—folded neatly in her satchel. She spread it over the stairwell.

Tom sat beside her, quietly, the Fabulae Slytherinorum open across both their knees. They’d gone over the passage twice already, Myrtle’s finger trailing over the words. The ancient sentence structure was strange, but she’d reread it enough to start translating instinctively.

“‘Beyond the serpents’ gaze… beneath the weight of stone most ancient… where the fire meets its shadow,’” Myrtle read aloud, brows furrowed. “That doesn’t make sense near the North or West Wings. There’s no convergence point. But—” She paused, fingers tapping her chin.

Tom didn’t interrupt. He was watching her, still as always. His eyes only blink once or twice or so. She went on. “But the South Wing has the old forges,” she murmured, thinking aloud now. “Beneath it—what’s below that? Dungeons. Heat. Pipes. That would be—‘fire meets shadow.’” She blinked hard. 

“It’s the South.”

He didn’t respond immediately. She looked over. His eyes hadn’t moved. “You’re sure?” he asked, voice low. “Yes,” she breathed. “It has to be. The phrasing—the layers. It’s not just poetic, you know?. The weight of stone… the slope. It’s South.”

He closed the book slowly, deliberately, then handed it to her without a word. Something passed between them—not surprise. Not pride. Just a pause, like he’d already known she’d get there. She flushed anyway. 

“We’ll confirm it later,” he said., one of his hand going upwards to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “But well done.”

They stayed longer after that, but the studying had stopped. Myrtle sat cross-legged on the blanket, arms wrapped in her sleeves, talking mostly to fill the air. “Hornby said the Moon was a planet in front of the whole class,” she scoffed. “A planet , Tom.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. 

“She’s in Astronomy?” He asked and Myrtle nodded vigorously before he could finish. “Unfortunately. She spent the whole lesson flirting with Caxton and mislabeling Orion’s Belt. She called it Orion’s ‘loop thing.’ I wanted to throw my quill.” She mimed the motion. Tom blinked slowly.

She kept going. “I mean, imagine being that loud and that stupid. I’m not saying I’m the best, but I can name at least five constellations without looking at a chart. And I don’t confuse comets with pigeons, so that’s something.”

Tom didn’t laugh, but he didn’t stop her. His eyes stayed fixed, listening. Not glazed over like last time. He didn’t fall asleep this time, he made sure of it. When she paused, just to breathe, he asked, “Pigeons?” Myrtle grinned. “Long story. Involved a telescope and a pigeon. Then screaming, mostly.”

Eventually, they finished. The book is closed now, and they started brushing off the imaginary dust off their shoulders. She started folding the blanket, but he knelt down beside her. “I’ll do that,” he said, and took the other end. They folded it together—awkward but… a nice awkward. His fingers brushed hers for half a second.

Before he could step away, Myrtle reached into her satchel and pulled something small and orange-wrapped. 

“Here,” she said. “Happy Halloween.” She placed the caramel in his palm. The foil had little pumpkins dancing across it, shiny and slightly squished from the whole day.

He looked at it. Then at her. His mouth twitched. “A holiday for masks and falsehoods,” he murmured. 

He peeled the foil back in one smooth motion and popped the caramel into his mouth. There was a pause before he said a: “It’s good,”His voice was quiet. She nodded.

He gave her a small look—half smirk, half something else. She didn’t recognize it. Maybe he didn’t either. But he nodded once. “Anyway, good work tonight Myrtle.” he added. That was it. 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The kitchens were an explosion of steam, sugar, and frantic energy. Myrtle’s sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, flour smudged across her cheek, and her wrists ached from kneading dough. Euphenia was moving like a machine, eyes wild, cheeks flushed, apron soaked.

They’d been at it for hours—rolling, cutting, decorating pumpkin tarts, caramel bats, cinnamon-stuffed cauldron buns. “You’ve got to pipe the icing slower, Myrtle,” Euphenia said, voice sharp with panic but not unkind. “The frosting's collapsing. Bims, more trays—watch the— Merlin's shoes! ” She swore as something fell.

Myrtle didn’t argue. She wiped her brow and tried to move faster, the heat swallowing her thoughts. Events at Hogwarts were never a joke. This year’s Halloween spread was being graded. By professors. By Slughorn . They needed this to be flawless. Euphenia was depending on her.

Then someone walked in.

Footsteps. Confident. Heavy.

Myrtle turned around, startled. “Lestrange?” she said.

Lestrange gave a nod, slow and half-sly. “Warren. Walk with me.” His tone wasn’t demanding. But it wasn’t optional either. The kitchen went completely silent, except for the bubble of boiling sugar in the back corner.

Myrtle furrowed her brows. She didn’t move. Not at first.

Euphenia looked up, voice sharp. “You can’t be serious.” Her hands were sticky with caramel. “You swore you’d help all night.” The disappointment was sudden, and sharp. It hit Myrtle right behind the ribs.

“I—” Myrtle started, but Lestrange cut in smoothly.

“I’ll just borrow her for a while, Merriweather. It’s no big deal.” He smiled without warmth. “Besides, don’t you have Hufflepuff baking duties to keep you occupied?” He gestured loosely to the sugar-smeared chaos behind her. “All that… noble generosity.”

Myrtle gave Lestrange a sharp look. Then, quietly, took off her apron. Euphenia didn’t say anything else. She just turned back to the fudge like it had personally betrayed her. Myrtle followed Lestrange out, the kitchen door closing too loud behind them.

But she wasn’t alone.

Outside, near the corridor that led toward the courtyard arch, there were others. Waiting by the wall were three figures: a girl and two boys. One girl had dark, thick curls and copper-toned eyes. Myrtle pause. Her heart quickened.

“This is Augareta,” Lestrange said, nodding to the girl with curly dark hair. The girl gave Myrtle a once-over. It wasn’t cruel—it was just… curious. Then he pointed to the shorter boy with pale hair and a jittery posture. “Avery.” Avery gave a lazy wave. And then—“Mulciber’s that guy.”

Myrtle didn’t have to ask. She knew the name. Mulciber. Older. Impeccably dressed. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Eyes sharp—too sharp and face so handsome he once got compared to Tom Riddle. He didn’t speak. Just nodded once, watching her like a hawk.

“Nott couldn’t make it today so—” Lestrange turned back to her. “Listen. I didn’t mean what happened last month. The— Obliviate thing.” He rolled his eyes. “It was a sacrifice I was willing to make, alright?”

“Sacrificing me, you mean?” she said, brows raised.

“No,” he muttered. “You need to understand the situation.”

Myrtle crossed her arms. “What do you want, Lestrange?”

He smiled then, wide and smug. “I’m asking for your humble forgiveness. ” He made a little bow with his head. 

Silence. Awkward… Augareta touched his wrist—lightly. Like she was reminding him to behave. He glanced at her, then back at Myrtle. She only stares at the contact.

“Tom said you agreed to help find the Chamber,” Lestrange went on. “Said you’re not exactly one of the Muggle-born anymore. So consider this our invitation to make… peace.”

Myrtle narrowed her eyes. “You want me to not talk badly about you to Tom.”

“Yes.” Lestrange nodded quickly, his eyes lit up. “Yes.” He repeated. “Yes— see ? Tom’s right. You’re clever.”

Augareta cleared her throat. Lestrange shot her a glance, then back at Myrtle. “Anyway, we’re heading to Hogsmeade. We’ll sneak you with us. You coming?”

She should’ve said no.

But she didn’t.

She hesitated. 

And then nodded.

They slipped out past the gate through a tunnel Avery knew, behind the greenhouses. Her cloak was oversized, and she wore a crocheted head that hides her face. Mulciber—smart quiet Mulciber—cast a charm to blur her face in crowds. It worked. Nobody noticed. Nobody stopped her. It was a risk. But she didn’t regret it.

Augareta stuck by her the entire time, looping her arm through Myrtle’s, elegantly, poshly. She reminded Myrtle of Mary—just quieter and more observant. She didn’t treat her like a tag-along. Didn’t talk down to her. She listened.  

They wandered near the edge of Zonko’s, past the sweet shop crowd. “I didn’t think you’d say yes,” Augareta said softly. Myrtle glanced sideways. “Neither did I.”

And when Myrtle spoke about the decoding she’d done in the Fabulae, Augareta actually nodded.

“That makes sense,” she said. “Tom speaks highly of you, Warren. Says your cleverness surprises even him.” Then she smiled, low, eyes narrowing. Myrtle blinked. “He does?” Myrtle’s chest flutters yet she also narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know Tom had said that. But she hoped it was true.

“He does.” Augareta said. “I think he’s right. About you. You’re not one of them dirty mud-bloods,” She said it as if it was a casual thing to her. “You’re helping us for a greater cause. You’re different. I mean— the Slytherin heir said so.” Then she chewed on some bread.

“And whatever the eternal prince says—” “We believe.” Lestrange comes out of nowhere and finishes her sentence for her. He stood behind her and took a bite of her bread—kissed the side of her neck as she went ‘Reinhard!’ and sprinted towards Avery.

Anyway, they ate chocolate frogs behind Honeydukes, hiding under a staircase. Avery told awful jokes. Augareta laughed and so did Lestrange. Mulciber barely spoke, but he handed Myrtle a candied eyeball without asking if she wanted one. She took it. Quietly. 

She didn’t think about Euphenia. Not at first.

Not until later that night, back in Ravenclaw Tower, when sleep has not come to her yet and thoughts begin to drift. Euphenia hadn’t spoken to her—that’s fair considering Myrtle didn’t go back to the kitchen. Myrtle sat on her bed, book open on her lap. The edges of her pajama caught the dim candle-light. 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Breakfast in the Great Hall was its usual chorus of loud noises that stings our ears. Floating pumpkins floated gently above. Myrtle’s robes were wrinkled from running, chest rising and falling from heavy breaths

She spotted them instantly—Euphenia and Awick, side by side at the Gryffindor table. Euphenia was brushing crumbs from her sleeves. Awick was hunched over a mug. Myrtle slipped into the empty space beside Euphenia with a grin.

“Morning!” she chirped. Neither of them looked at her. Euphenia gave a single, shallow nod, still focused on her toast. Awick didn’t speak. Just blinked once, slowly. Myrtle, oblivious, leaned in even more.

“Yesterday was fun,” she said in a lowered tone. “Me and Tom’s friends went to Hogsmeade—oh but don’t tell anyone. They snuck me in.” She smiled, expecting awe. A secret to bond over. A marvel. A wicked thrill.

Euphenia’s head tilted. No response. Myrtle, confused, pressed on. “But what’s more important is keeping me, Tom, and the others a secret—”

Awick’s fork hit his plate with a loud clatter suddenly.

“We don’t care,” he snapped. Myrtle blinked. “What?” The grin faded.

“We don’t care about your secret,” Awick said, louder this time. Voices down the table quieted. “We won’t tell, Myrtle—but that’s because we don’t care anymore.” His voice didn’t waver. His cheeks were flushed, and he fidgeted with his fingers.

Myrtle’s heart stuttered. “What—what are you talking about?”

“You’ve been distant,” Awick said. “You don’t talk to us. I mean you did but not really like first year. And Euphenia—”

“Awick,” Euphenia whispered, tugging his sleeve. Her voice was like giving him a warning.

“No!” Awick shook her off. “You were supposed to help her! Myrtle! You promised—remember that? She waited all afternoon in the kitchens, running around, trying to make everything perfect—and you never showed!”

Myrtle’s throat tightened. “I—I got caught up—”

“Caught up being sneaky with your precious friends,” Awick spat. His words cut clean. His eyes burned. “Awick, what—” Myrtle’s voice faltered, too small. “Right. Of course. They’re your real friends now, aren’t they?” He scowled.

“ Awick— ” Euphenia tried again, softer, but it was too late. “You ditched her,” he said. “You left her to do everything.” Myrtle looked at Euphenia, desperate. “I didn’t mean to—”

But Euphenia didn’t look up. She stared at her plate, unmoving. “I told you I didn’t trust them…” she said, whispering. “And you knew I was right. Maybe you don’t. I don’t know anymore.”

Myrtle’s mouth opened, words rushing to her tongue. “I waited for you in the kitchens, Myrtle.” Euphenia’s fingers trembled slightly as she laid her knife down. “I was just—I was hoping you’d pick us.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Awick said. “You chose them.”

Silence pooled around the table. Somewhere down the row, someone’s spoon clattered on the floor. Myrtle stared between them. “Fine. You don’t know what it’s like,” she said. “To… try and fit in with others. You don’t see me.”

Awick furrowed his eyebrows. “You’re so obsessed with him—”

“You are too, Awick!”

“But you can’t even tell when someone’s using you!” Euphenia said. Myrtle’s voice cracked. “Tom–He isn’t using me!” Euphenia finally looked up. Her eyes locked with Myrtle’s.  “I hope you’re right,” Euphenia said. “I really do.”

She stood. Awick stood with her. They left together. Myrtle looked at them exciting the hall. And then, a voice chimed from the Ravenclaw table. “Aww,” Olive giggled, hand over her heart. “Stupid, stupid Myrtle can’t keep a friend!”

A few students laughed. Not many. But enough. 

Myrtle stared down at her plate, the toast untouched. Her hand clenched the edge of the bench. Her throat burned, eyes blurred, and she bit into her tongue just to keep from sobbing aloud. 

They didn’t understand. They never had. And now—now they never would.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Dinner had been loud. Myrtle barely touched her food, only picking at her mashed potatoes. Floating jack-o'-lanterns bobbed above, She sat alone near the edge of the Ravenclaw table, pretending not to notice the space beside her.

No Euphenia. No Awick. Her fork scraped the plate once more before she pushed it away.  Her mind wasn’t on her plate. It was on the words whispered behind her earlier.

“After dinner. East corridor. Third statue.”

He’d said it low, just as he passed. No one noticed. Not even Olive, who’d been busy complaining about pumpkin pie. Myrtle’s pulse had jumped in her throat. Now, hours later, she crept past the Ravenclaw Tower staircase, careful to not get noticed

The castle had grown quiet. Myrtle moved quickly. The third statue stood crooked, an old knight with a rusted helmet, half-obscured by a suit of armor that didn’t belong.

She slipped behind it. He was already there. Tom leaned against the far wall like he had been waiting longer than he let on.

“You came,” he said, voice soft but edged. Cold marble and steel.

“You asked,” she said quickly, then regretted how eager she sounded. 

He tilted his head slightly. A flicker of a smile ghosted across his mouth—just for a second. “Good,” he said, glancing once over his shoulder before stepping closer. “I need you to do something for me.”

Her stomach flipped. “Alright.”

“The archives,” he murmured. “Stack everything you can find about Salazar’s bloodline—descendants, estates, migrations. Everything. Quietly. I want them ready by Friday night.”

She blinked. “Friday night? That’s the Halloween party.”

“Exactly,” he said. His tone didn’t change, but there was a flicker of amusement. “Everyone will be distracted. Loud. Laughing. Pointless.” He tilted his head slightly. “But you and I…” He looked away for a beat. “We’ll have the library to ourselves.”

Silence pooled between them. Myrtle nodded like she usually does. Then, like he’d remembered something, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, gold-wrapped sweet. He held it out, a single caramel candy wrapped in foil with a tiny raven design.

“Here,” he said. The candy sat on his palm. “Caramel.” He murmured. She stared. “Wait,” she said, squinting. “This is from the Hogsmeade shop, isn’t it? The one with the glass jars in front and—”

His eyes sharpened instantly. “How do you know that?” His voice was calm, low even, under his breath, but his gaze locked hard on hers. “You’ve never been to Hogsmeade.” He muttered, as if trying to understand.

She flushed. “You didn’t know? Lestrange and I went last weekend.” She whispered. “Lestrange?” The word dropped flat. His voice turned cold. “You and Lestrange?” He repeated, narrowing his eyes.

Panic surged in her chest. “No—no, not just us! It was a whole group. Lestrange, Augareta, Mulciber, and Avery. Just for a few hours. We didn’t do anything important—it wasn’t a big deal, I didn’t even buy anything, I just looked around—” 

Something in his shoulders dropped. A slow exhale left him, and for half a second he looked… human. Lighter. Then he caught himself and straightened again. “Huh,” he said, then he tilted his head. “They didn’t tell me.”

“Oh.” Her voice went small. “Was I… not supposed to talk to them?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. Then: “It’s good. You should be with your own kind anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She stared. His eyes lingered on her face—on her cheeks, the way she stepped back a little, the way her fingers twitched against her skirt. “I heard about you. You and your two little friends. Awick and Euphenia.”

Her mouth tightened. “They’re not—”

“They don’t deserve your loyalty,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “They never did.” His eyes locked with hers harder this time as he stood over her. “People like that. They only see what makes them comfortable.”

Her breath caught in her throat. He stepped closer. “Lestrange and the others—they listen to me.” A breath. “You’re welcome with us,” he said, so quiet she leaned forward. “You know what I’m trying to do. Proving myself a Heir. Bringing this place back to what it should be.”

His eyes gleamed. He looked at her like she was part of the blueprint. “Glory, Myrtle.”

Her lips parted. Words fumbled at the edge of her throat but wouldn’t form. Her pulse beat fast in her wrist. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Tom reached out again. Slower this time. He pressed the caramel into her palm. Not dropped. Not offered. Placed . Then he wrapped his fingers around hers, his always cold skin is warm now around her knuckles.

“Keep this a secret.”

She stared at him. Their hands still touching. Her breath shallow.

Their eyes locked for a moment too long. Something unspoken wrapped around them—too close, too heavy to name. Then he pulled away. Turned. Started walking down the corridor. At the end of the hall, he glanced over his shoulder. “It’s best to eat when it’s half-melted.”

Then he was gone. Like mist, like a spell fading.

Myrtle stood frozen in the alcove, candy clutched tight in her fist. Her cheeks burned. Her lips trembled—from smiling. From trying not to smile. Stupid. Stupid and giddy and full of fire. She bit her lip to muffle the sound. But a giggle escaped anyway. She slipped the sweet into her pocket and she didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The library was silent. Distant music from the Halloween party could be heard faintly through the castle. Myrtle sat beside Tom behind the History of Magic shelf, surrounded by towers of books that are mostly dusty.

The archive books were old, bound in cracked leather, ink faded by time. Each one Myrtle opened began with a promising look—bloodlines, marriages—all traced back to Salazar Slytherin, but they always ended the same. Abruptly. Like someone had sliced the family tree short.

Her knees brushed Tom’s every so often. He didn’t shift away. He flipped pages fast while sitting in his straight and perfect posture. Myrtle looked over, hesitated, then asked, softly, “Why do you think it’s… your father?”

The question dropped, slowly, but heavy. Tom didn’t respond at first. His hand froze mid-turn, thumb pressing against the parchment. He was too still. Then—he snapped the book shut, not loud, but so suddenly it made Myrtle flinched. His jaw flexed once. Twice. “Because it has to be,” he said.

His voice dropped low. “My mother died .”

He was staring at the table, not at her, but his hands had curled into fists. His voice trembled, lowly, with fury. “If she had magic— real magic —she would’ve used it. She would have lived. And she didn’t.”

His voice rose suddenly. “She was weak ,” he said. “She didn’t fight. Magic doesn’t just lie there and rot. It resists . It lives eternal. It doesn’t leave you alone in a godforsaken orphanage to rot.” He said. “She’s a Muggle,” he said flatly. “She had to be. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Which means my father—my real father—is the one with power to have.” 

A pause. “Only a Muggle would die like that. Pathetic.”

Myrtle stared at him. “Oh.” It came out too quietly. She realized: he had said weak. He’d said Muggle. Like they were interchangeable—and she is a mudblood. Her throat caught. Her hands stilled. But she didn’t say anything. Just looked down and nodded in understanding.

Tom’s eyes flicked toward her—and stopped. Something shifted behind them. Something sharp, then suddenly unsure. His fingers moved without thinking. He reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, the gesture strange in its gentleness. 

Her eyes snapped up, eyebrows rising in surprise. Then—his knuckles grazed her jaw. Just barely. A trace. As if checking whether she was real. He snapped his hand back with a click of his tongue and cleared his throat.

There was a pause. Then he mumbled, almost unsurely, “What are you thinking?”

Myrtle blinked again. “Nothing—”

“You know you’re clever, don’t you?” he said suddenly, cutting off her words. Not cold. Not calculating like it usually is. “You helped me more than anyone. That matters.” He looked away. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

Her chest felt too tight. She didn’t know if he meant it. She didn’t know if he wanted to mean it. But she nodded, slowly. “Okay. Okay anyway.” She gulped down, trying to form a coherent sentence in her head before spitting it out. “Okay then. Maybe it’s just… not here.”

She looked across the library. Past the columns. To the far wall with the wrought iron gate. The Restricted Section. “Maybe,” she said, voice firmer now, “once again—the answer is over there. ”

Tom followed her gaze. Then looked back, he sighed and narrowed his eyes as he looked down at her. “You propose to sneak inside again?” he said, like he was testing her. Myrtle nodded. “Yes.”

He stared at her. The quiet lasted long enough for her heartbeat to catch up. Then, finally, he breathed out through his nose and nodded. A decision. “You’re right,” he said. His tone shifted. Controlled and composed again.  “I’ll tell you a plan, Myrtle.”

Chapter 20: XVII

Notes:

GUYS OML IM GONNA DO A COMP UPLOADING WOULD BE DELAYED A BIT WML!!!

November 1941.

November brought a gloom to Hogwarts. The floating pumpkins were gone, replaced by the usual stillness and boring no decoration corners. Damp wearher clung to the windows. Cold mist curled into the cracks of the castle. The fireplaces burned longer. Louder.

In the Viaduct Courtyard, Tom slipped her a butterfly note without a word. It fluttered into her palm like usual, perfectly charmed and perfectly landed. She opened it just enough to read: ‘ Outside of Trophy Room. Tonight. Past Curfew.’ The wings twitched once before folding flat.

He met her as planned, in front of the dusty trophy room where they usually go. Myrtle came half-running from the Ravenclaw stair, her cheeks flushed pink, and her hair frizzy from the damp. She wore a new perfume now. He noticed it. 

“So,” she panted, brushing her bangs back with a sleeve, “what’s the plan for the Restricted Section this time?”

His eyebrows rose and he didn’t waste words. “I don’t want to do any more distractions over and over again just to sneak in. And I don’t want to steal again.” His voice was cool. “It’s inefficient. Sloppy. We’re not doing that.” He shook his head.

Her brow furrowed. “So how do we—?”

“We duplicate it,” he said. “The key. We’ll use Geminio. ”

She blinked, confused. “Duplicate? Like… copy it?”

He pulled a thin spellbook from inside his robe—one of Lestrange’s, older and dusty. The corner still had Lestrange’s initials on it. “Yes,” he said. “It’s tricky. But you’re clever. I wouldn’t have brought you in if you weren’t.”

She lit up at that. He noticed. She looked stupidly pleased—eyes wide, too soft. He looked away.

They dropped to the floor almost immediately, in the quiet corner where the shadow covered just enough. Her skirt brushed his robes. Neither of them moved away. His wand flicked once. Her parchment floated. “The theory is simple,” he began. “But the precision—”

“—is awful,” she finished, flipping to the right page. “But if I layer the magical structure properly—like this—” She drew three concentric rings in the margin. “—then maybe the duplication won’t degrade.”

He watched her explain it, her voice low, excited, laced with that still ever same giddiness. Her fingers moved fast across the paper. Her tone tilted upward on certain words. Something about the way she said degrade —like de-graaaaade —made him stop listening to the words and notice the sound.

She sounded like honey bubbling in a cauldron.

He shook it off.

He started reading the incantation aloud, slow and deliberate. She traced the wand motion on the stone floor with her finger—loop, arc, sharp flick. “The aim is exactness,” she said. “If the original shifts mid-cast, the duplicate won’t stabilize. It’ll collapse, or decay.”

He glanced at her, only once. “You read that in Sharpe’s Volume Three?” he asked.

She smiled, just a little. “I memorized it.”

“Of course you did,” he muttered, smirking softly.

“Try it,” he muttered, nodding toward the dummy scroll. She adjusted her grip on her wand. Closed one eye like she was aiming. “ Geminio. ” The parchment doubled with a faint shimmer. Off by three lines. Smudged at the corners. She bit her lip and pouted a bit, groaning. He noticed that, of course he does.

“Close,” he said in amusement. “Do it again.”

She did. Over and over, breath catching every time she whispered the incantation. On the fifth try, it flickered—and held. The copy wasn’t perfect. But it was close. Close enough. He smiled. Barely. Just for a second. A twitch at the corner of his mouth.

When she saw it, she smiled too—bigger. Proud. Pleased. Stupidly proud of this, of her. Too warm. Before he could say anything, she says: “Now you try.” Offering the dummy scroll.

He stopped and furrowed his eyebrows before taking it from her hand. The first three attempts produced only warped replicas—one melted, the other too light to be readable. Tom tried again, brows drawn, focused. His wand glowed faintly. Still wrong. Myrtle nudged his elbow. 

“You’re overextending the final loop,” she whispered.

He shot her a look. Then he tried again. This time, slower. Doing what she said.

The scroll shimmered—twitched—and with a small snap, there it was. The duplicate. Edges crisp. Ink almost identical. It even smelled like parchment. Myrtle gasped. “It worked!” she whispered. “It actually worked—”

His eyes caught hers for a second too long, then he looked away fast, reaching for the original copy again. “We should go,” he muttered. “Before anyone sees us.” She nodded, breath still uneven. But neither of them stood for a moment.

He didn’t know what it was—why that look from her made his chest twist the way it did. She was annoying. Messy. Her voice too high. Her eyes too round. And a mudblood. But somehow, when she looked at him like that…

He stood sharply, brushing his robes down. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

She scrambled to her feet behind him, tucking the copy into her satchel. “Alright,” she said softly. “Tomorrow.”

He didn’t wait for her. He walked first. But as they passed the trophy room door, he glanced sideways—just once. Her hair was still frizzy. Her cheeks are still pink. He didn’t say anything. But his pace slowed—just enough—for her to catch up.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The Slytherin common room was dimly lit, with their green lights looking around every corner, torchlight flickering beneath the surface of the Black Lake. Tom sat in the corner chair, one leg crossed, notebook open across his lap, trying to revise potions.

Across from him, Lestrange was draped sideways on the divan, fingers tracing lazy circles over Augareta’s wrist. She pretended not to notice—eyes toward her book—but her smirk betrayed her.

“You’re smirking,” Lestrange muttered. “That means you want me to keep talking.” He bit his lower lip and flicked his eyes upwards to try and meet Augareta’s eyes. “I want you to keep quiet, ” Augareta replied, not looking up.

“But your pupils dilated,” he whispered, leaning closer. “That only happens when you’re angry or... interested.” She turned the page with exaggerated grace. “I’m annoyed, Lestrange.”

He leaned in more. “Annoyed’s just desire with better posture.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Mulciber muttered under his breath, eyes not lifting from the chessboard he was setting. Avery was upside down on the rug, throwing a stolen Snitch into the air. “Bet she hexes his teeth out by midnight.”

“I’ll let her,” Lestrange murmured, dragging his fingers up the inside of her forearm. “If she bites afterward.”

Tom’s jaw ticked. He stared harder at his notes. The page hadn’t changed in five minutes. And finally when Lestrange whispered ‘You haven’t told me to stop’ lowly in Augareta’s ear, Tom’s patience snapped like a stretched string: “You lot took Myrtle to Hogsmeade last month?” he asked, his eyes still on the parchment.

The conversation paused. Avery fumbled the Snitch.

There was a pause. Then, casually, “Without telling me?”

Lestrange looked up first. Unbothered. “You said keep her busy. We did.” Mulciber, who was fixing his chessboard, muttered. “She talks a lot. But… she’s alright.” He didn’t look at anyone. Just flicked ash off his sleeve.

Avery, lying across a rug, tossed a Snitch into the air. It was throw. Catch. Throw. Catch. “Still a mudblood,” he said, catching it lazily. “But she’s—eh. Not annoying like the others. Chattery. Fidgety. But not the scared kind. Doesn’t cry every time you look at her.”

“Actually useful,” Lestrange added. “You said it yourself, Tom. She’s clever.”

“She blushes when you look at her too long,” Avery said, flicking the Snitch again. “It’s kind of adorable. In a pathetic way.” Tom didn’t move. Didn’t look up. He kept flipping through his notes.

“I should’ve come,” Nott said. “I want to see what makes a mud girl worth dragging along for sweets and strolls. See what she’s made of. If she’s really so precious.”

“Maybe she’d like you,” Avery teased. “You both hiss under your breath.”

“I’d make her kneel,” Nott said simply. “See how clever she stays then.” That made Augareta flinch. Mulciber finally looked up. Tom didn’t. Not yet. “She’s not yours,” Lestrange said, more amused than offended. “She’s not even Tom’s. She’s just a little library pet. We let her run about. Pick up scraps.”

Tom’s quill stopped moving.

There was a long pause before Lestrange laughed. “She once told me how to open a rusted hex-lock with only a heating charm and a hairclip. I didn’t even ask. She just did it.” He looked over at Tom. “It’s funny. You found her. She’s not bad. Still a mudblood but not bad.”

Tom didn’t look up. He didn’t correct them. He didn’t punch Nott or curse Avery. He didn’t scold Lestrange. He just said, after a breath too long, “Right.”

Another beat.

“Useful. That’s all. She’s clever. We use that. Then we move on.”

The words tasted like iron. The term mudblood hung in the room like rot. It scraped at something in him. Not because it was cruel—but because it came from them. Because when they said it, it sounded like filth. Like she was filth.

He didn’t want her to be filth.

He told himself it wasn’t emotion. It wasn’t care. She was an exception. A mind that worked like a locked box. Sharp. Obsessive. Loyal. But still—every time that word left their mouths, it curled in Tom’s gut.

He turned a page.

“She is clever,” Lestrange said again, as if testing Tom’s silence. Augareta squeezed his sleeve.

Tom finally flicked his eyes up. “So keep it that way,” he said coolly. “She’s not for entertainment. She’s here for results. The point is the plan. If she’s helping, I need her focused. No distractions.”

Lestrange raised an eyebrow. “We were trying to be helpful.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

Tom’s voice cracked through the room like ice. Lestrange went quiet. Even Avery dropped the snitch once. Tom looked down again and turned a page. Blank. He didn’t even notice. “You’ll keep her out of your mouths.” he said quietly.

The silence that followed was evident.

“Alright,” Lestrange said, tone flat now—shifting his confused and annoyed gaze away from Tom. “She’s working with me.” Tom added.

Avery let out a soft whistle.

And that was the end of it.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Mid-November 1941.

The forgotten staircase behind the west dungeons was steep and crooked, but it was always covered in shadow. The walls were close. No portraits. No windows. Tom had claimed it. Myrtle followed without question.

They trained there often now, where the light couldn’t find them. After discovering it connected to the Restricted corridor faster than the Astronomy Tower, it became their new haven. Always out of sight. Always late. Always just them . Tom liked that.

He traced a slow path up the landing, Myrtle behind him, wand in hand. She moved better now. Quicker. Less like a jittery second-year. “You need to learn this one,” he said. “ Quietus . It tones down your footsteps. Only lasts a few minutes if cast poorly. Longer if you’re precise.” He said it like it was obvious.

Myrtle tilted her head. “Where’d you learn that?”

He paused. “Avery,” he said smirking. “Taught it to himself last term. He used it trying to sneak into the girls’ Quidditch showers.” Her mouth dropped. “Seriously?” “He failed,” Tom added. “Tripped over his own shoes on the way in.”

She started laughing—really laughing. Her hand flew to her mouth like she couldn’t help it. “I knew he was gross, but— Merlin , that’s—he really tripped?”

Tom nodded, one of the corners of his lips quirking up a bit. He watched her. Closely. Her laugh was messy and funny and too loud for the stairwell. Her nose crinkled slightly when she laughed like that and her eyes closed too tightly. He watched her for too long. Noticed it. Hated that he noticed.

He cleared his throat. “It’s a useful charm. Try it.” She nodded, the last of her giggles disappearing. Her wand raised. “ Quietus. ” The tip pulsed faintly. She took one step. It was still loud.

She groaned under her breath. “Try again.” Tom whispered, letting his hand wrapped around her wrist to help her go through the motion of the wand. She stopped for a moment, her heart beating, Tom could feel it. “Come on, try it.” She cleared her throat and nodded.

And after three failed attempts and repeated incantations, Myrtle finally cast the spell again. “ Quietus.” She whispered underneath her breath. She took another step as well as taking in a sharp breath. Nothing. Another. Still nothing.

She gleamed.

He followed. Her steps were silent now, completely. He frowned slightly, impressed but not surprised. She picked up everything fast when she actually focused. That’s why she’s Myrtle, he thought. It came naturally. It always does when it comes to her.

They moved together now, circling the stairs again. Her footsteps vanished in the echo. He cast it next. His steps vanished too. They tested the charm with pacing, then running, then crouching low behind the pillar at the landing.

“We did it!” She whispered loudly and held out her hand, wait no, and showed him her palm. What is she—oh, a high five. He narrowed his eyes, just thinking. He remembered how the muggle kids in his orphanage did that, it was a muggle thing. Myrtle saw how he didn’t react or move, so she let out a tiny ‘oh’ and retreated her hand back to herself.

Tom snapped out of his trance. “Wait.” He whispered, coolly, before grabbing her right wrist suddenly. Myrtle gasped but didn’t move. He turned her hand around so her palm was facing upwards, and with his other hand, he high-fived her. “There.” He whispered almost too lowly to be heard. 

She looked at him, surprised, scoffed, and looked away with flushed cheeks.

When they sat again, the parchment  between them, she shifted the spellwork notes toward her and pointed. “ Geminio doesn’t always copy the enchantments,” she reminded him. “We need to re-bind the unlocking spell on the duplicate or it’ll trip a security thread.”

He looked up. “You read that? “I watched you do it and tested the limits,” she said without hesitation. “Then I checked your Arithmancy notes.”

He blinked once. That notebook hadn’t been open long. She must’ve read it while he flipped past the page. The fact that she’d remembered—catalogued it—without asking, stuck somewhere behind his ribs. He didn’t say that. Instead: “Efficient. You’re efficient.” His voice was quieter now. Not cold. Just… quieter.

He leaned in slightly, watching as she practiced the wandwork again. She wasn’t perfect. But close. Her wrist flicked with certainty. Her incantation never faltered. The copy snapped into being—almost exact. He watched her mouth move when she whispered the charm.

When he deemed that it was enough practice for today, they cleaned up the notes, the papers and parchments, and some caramel candy wrapped foils that Myrtle usually forgot about—and Tom would usually be the one picking them up.

Now, they finished cleaning up a while ago. But none of them left. The space stayed still and quiet and cold. There was no need for talking, their knees occasionally brushed against each other. Until she broke the quiet.

“I miss them,” she said suddenly. He looked to his side, at her, looking down and rising his eyebrows. He didn’t ask who. She didn’t have to say it. “They didn’t even say goodbye. They left the table. I know I messed up and I was wrong. But they’re acting like it didn’t matter to me.”

He said nothing. She kept speaking.

“My parents—back home—it’s worse.” Her voice was getting low now. “My mum’s writing less. Says they’re all rationing now. Bomb sirens. Muggle-war, the Nazis are coming near and well—” She paused. “I don’t know. They don’t even own a wand. If something came for them—they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

He watched her carefully. Her voice had changed. “They’re Muggles. They’re helpless. They can’t protect themselves from anything. Not like we can. Or at least not like I can.” His fingers twitched. A thought flickered across his expression, his lips parted but he decided to close it and let her continue.

She pressed on. “And they don’t even understand it. I try to explain things sometimes—basic things—and they look at me like I’m speaking weird. They think magic’s a toy, they believe magic’s real but it’s just… they don’t get that it’s— important . Bigger than them.”

Her face twisted with frustration. “It’s like they expect me to come back and be just like them again. But I’m not. I can’t be. They don’t belong in this world. And I’m tired of trying to make them.”

The silence stretched. He didn’t stop her.

She finally looked at him. “Does that sound… bad?”

He met her eyes. Slowly. “No.”

Her shoulders loosened slightly. She exhaled.

“You’re just seeing things clearly,” he said, voice cold again. “They’re not made for this world. You are.” And he can see it. That something in her that—quietly—agreed.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Saturday morning, Tom was in the library with Nott and Mulciber. He had wanted to be alone—but when he found the two there, he had to let them tag along.

Tom moved between the shelves, his fingers trailing over cracked spines of old books. Beside him, Mulciber scanned the books and the titles with dedication. Nott, by contrast, was muttering under his breath.

“Why is it always beasts of Britain and standard magical creatures ? I want power—something ancient.” Nott snapped.

Tom didn’t glance over. “It’s not going to be in a book with a unicorn on the cover.”

“I want to know what we’re dealing with. It says this beast brings glory to Slytherin, then let’s find the bloody thing already.”

Mulciber finally spoke. “Try this.” He pulled a leather-bound book from the upper shelf, titled Beasts of Origin: Forbidden Creatures of the Reptilians. It was thick.

Tom grabbed it from Mulciber's hands and flipped through it quickly. Dark illustrations. Ancient scripts. Mentions of snakes and wyrms. His thumb paused. “This is the one.”

Nott leaned in, lip curling. “A snake. Of course it’s a snake.”

“A serpent,” Tom corrected. “They speak. They remember. They serve.”

Nott smirked. “Sounds familiar.”

They left the library quickly,  with Tom walking slightly ahead od the two. Mulciber tucked the book under his arm, and they headed for the dungeons. 

The Fabulae Slytherinorum was already in Tom’s trunk in his dorm room—he didn’t trust anyone else with it, not even Lestrange. But Lestrange’s mind was the only one worth pairing with his own for this. (Or Myrtle’s really). That's why Tom needs to figure out which beast will they encounter in the chamber with Lestrange .

They passed a group of Ravenclaws outside of their tower entrance. One girl wore thick-rimmed glasses. Mulciber glanced at them, and for a moment he seemed to remember something. He then turned to Tom. “How’s Myrtle?”

Tom didn’t answer at once, he glanced back for a look. His mouth opened slightly, a response forming—but before he could speak, Nott snorted under his breath.

“Still helping around to find the chamber? That little mudblood?”

The word landed heavy. Tom’s steps faltered. Behind him, Mulciber quieted instantly. “Imagine—our glorious Slytherin beast brought to us by a mudblood girl that helps. Should put her in a cage next to it. Let them chat.” Nott continued and laughed to himself.

Tom stopped walking.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t turn. Behind him, the two of them stilled.

Mulciber caught on, glanced at Nott and nudged him immediately. “Bit far.”

“So what?” Nott muttered, eyes darkening.

Tom turned around slowly, his eyes locked with Nott’s. He didn’t blink then. “You find it funny?” His voice was low. “Mocking the girl who’s helped us chart half the castle’s restricted wing?”

Nott faltered, then scowled. “I was joking .”

“Yes I heard. You were laughing,” Tom said, stepping closer. “Do it again.” Tom whispered lowly. “Let’s all laugh,” Mulciber froze in place. Tom took a step closer towards Nott, towering over him. “At the girl who’s deciphered half of our clues . Who understands arithmantic resonance better than you ever could.”

Nott didn’t blink, he held his gaze. “She’s still a mudblood, Riddle. Call her clever all you like—she’s not one of us. Her kind doesn’t belong. They take magic and rot it. They’ll never be one of us.”

Tom didn’t speak for a long moment. The silence stretched—too heavy and cold. He turned back around without another word. They followed him this time without protest.

He didn’t understand the tightness in his chest. He told himself it was the inefficiency of the group. The childishness of insults. The waste of energy. Pathetic.

Nott gave Tom side-glances the whole way back, but didn’t speak. Mulciber, on the other hand, stayed silent. When they reached the wall in the dungeons, Tom pressed his palm to the stone. The stone snake appeared from the ground, revealing the door to the common room.

They entered. The moment they passed the threshold, Nott stepped up beside Tom. His shoulder brushed his.

“Be careful , Slytherin Heir,” Nott said scowling. “You seem to forget where you stand.”

He nudged Tom’s shoulder with his own and walked past into the common room. The door slid shut behind them with a hiss. Lestrange stood waiting by the hearth, arms crossed. His eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

Tom watched Nott’s back disappear into the dormitory stairs. His jaw was tight. “Nothing,” he said. “Let’s get back to the books.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was well past curfew. They were in their usual place now. The torchlight flickered soft casting golden patterns across Myrtle’s glasses. She stood in the old and rusty stairwell, wand still warm in her fingers, and said, “ Geminio. ” The scroll in front of ber duplicated perfectly—no warp. No blur. No lag.

She stared at it for a full second.

Then she burst out: “Ha! I did it! ”

Tom blinked as she spun in a tiny, ridiculous circle, waving her wand in the air while giggling giddish. Her boots squeaked. Her hair bounced. She added a twirl that was clumsy and off balance, and whispered loudly, “Victory!” before striking an absurd pose.

Tom’s lips twitched.

He turned away, feigning focus on his notes. But it was there—the tug in his chest he didn’t know how to name. Watching her grin at herself, all teeth and flushed cheeks, her skirt twisted wrong from spinning. It was… unbearable and stupid and strange . But oddly interesting

She was stupidly proud of herself. And he—he felt something tighten in his chest when he saw it. She’s in her little bubble. It was hers.

His eyes landed back on her, still stupidly dancing. One of the corners of his mouth twitched. Just once. Almost against his will. “You’ll shatter your ankle.” She didn’t listen. She spun once on the spot. Her foot skidded against the flagstone. “Victory jig,” she announced.

“Alright,” he said finally, when she started humming something under her breath. “Stop dancing.” He whispered. She gave him a side-eye, stuck out her tongue and flopped down beside him, breathless. “You’re just mad mine’s cleaner than yours.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t disagree.

The next morning, the sky was soft greyish. The castle moved slower, because today’s Saturday. Tom moved through the library carefully. With his perfectly gelled hair and perfectly seated bag. He approached Madam Pince near the front desk.

“Excuse me, Madam,” he said, with a humble soft smile plastered on his face, “I wondered if you had a moment.” She looked up with her usual suspiciousness. “Yes?”

“I’ve been going over the potion ingredients you recommended,” he continued, “but I’m confused about the mandrake substitutions.” He leaned slightly in, let the light hit his cheek just right. “Could you show me the text again? I don’t want to misstep.”

Madam Pince blinked. “Oh. Yes, well—alright. Come on.” She rose stiffly.

Tom followed, but his eyes stayed sharp—glancing across the library. Myrtle’s shadow moved silently behind the desk. He saw it. Her specific shadow that just can’t disappear when you use the disillusionment spell. 

Now his eyes are on Madam Pince’s desk. He saw the charmed lock twist open by itself with a tiny click. The top drawer slid out—silently. The restricted section key floated upward.

He cleared his throat to cover the sound. “I read something about sea-salted root, but that contradicts Slughorn’s note…” Madam Pince turned toward him. “Sea-salted root is used for sleeping draughts. Not strength potions.”

“Oh. That explains it. I assumed it was a misprint,” he said smoothly, and looked back again, past Madam Pince’s shoulder—just in time to see the key vanish around the corner, carried by nothing but air. Or well, Myrtle.

Madam Pince narrowed her eyes. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” he said, smiling, immediately snapping his eyes back to her. “Just making sure I remember where the antidote section is.” Then he stepped forward again. “Is it alright if I take notes?”

As she leaned toward the open book, he saw the restricted section key again—floating back across the room. Then the drawer reopened. The key slipped inside, placed neatly. The drawer clicked shut and locked itself again.

Tom saw the shimmer of spell residue vanish.

He straightened immediately. “Thank you, Madam. That helps more than you know.”

He left quickly after that, his steps quick. He turned down the back hallway, near the Transfiguration wing. Myrtle was already there, leaning against the wall like she hadn’t just performed flawless invisible theft. 

They made eye contact, and just when he was close enough—-she pressed something into his hand. Cold metallic, the key. Slightly warm from hers.

He looked down at it. A perfect twin of the Restricted Section’s key. She didn’t speak, instead she looked up, waiting. “Thank you,” he murmured, her eyes gleamed. “Nice?” She bit her lower lip and smiled, doing a mock-bow. 

“Yes. Perfect.” Then she walked away first. He held the key tighter.

She’d done it alone. Every part. She was getting better. Smarter. Quieter. More precise.

Tom stared after her retreating back and felt the smallest jolt from the inside of his ribs.

S he did it herself again.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The dorm was silent the two boys are out, one boy asleep, and Lestrange was scribbling in his motes. A single candle flickered beside Tom’s desk. As usual, he was trying to obtain any information about the chamber.

Tom sat upright, his eyes are sharp, sharper than usual today, and there are note papers arranged precisely in front of him. Drawee blueprints of Hogwarts that have been annotated. His handwriting, clean and precise. Beside it, Myrtle’s: smaller, rounder. She used arrows more than he did. Circled important turns in the dungeons. Noted sounds or spots or empty hours. 

He stared at her handwriting longer than he needed to. Traced one of the curved M’s with his eyes.

“She’s useful,” he muttered. “Smart…”

He didn’t say beautiful.

He didn’t say kind.

He didn’t say that when she worked beside him, the room felt fuller, quieter, easier. Like she already knew what he was thinking before he said it. His hand drifted toward the edge of the desk, where the caramel candy wrapper still sat—flattened, folded once. The one from october, orange-gold, little pumpkin print worn away.

He didn’t throw it away. Instead, he tucked behind the last page of Fabulae Slytherinorum .

“She’s not important.” he then cleared his throat. 

His quill scratched parchment again. Cross-referencing the two books that are laying on his desk—the Fabulae Slytherinorum and the Beasts of Origin: Forbidden Creatures of the Reptilians . 

“The serpent of stone slumbered in silence…” he read aloud. Then, from the beast book: “Creatures of reptilian descent are known for latent dormancy under magical containment…”

“‘Beast forged of lineage, scaled by shadow, reborn in the tongue of snakes…’” he repeated softly, eyes darting between books. “Not a metaphor.” His eyebrows drawn together.

He drew a circle around three entries: Runespoor . Basilisk . Gigantic Serpent . All had characteristics that matched parts of the fable.

Runespoors = three-headed serpents. Clever, venomous, often unstable. Known for magical cognition. But none were connected to cataclysm or anything like it. It was too independent. Too… chaotic.

Basilisks = born from a toad hatching a snake’s egg. Eyes that killed. A monster not of size but of function. The legends claimed its stare could burn through skin and soul. It aligned more closely with the cryptic phrases: “The gaze of ruin. The unblinking purge.”

Gigantic Serpent = Described as huge and destructive, just like what a beast would be. Yet none of the magical texts mentioned it being controllable . Slytherin would not have bred a beast that answered to… nothing.

Tom’s hand tightened around the quill.

The basilisk fit. Too well. Too perfectly. Even the hints about stone —not petrification per se, but symbolic of it. The way people froze . The language in the fables grew clearer each time he reread it.

“Lestrange,” Tom said without looking up. “Come here.”

Lestrange who was on the bed, too lazy to move, groaned but he rose slowly and sauntered over. “You found something?” He asked. Tom tapped the three circled names of the three serpents with his finger. “Possibles. I want your opinion.”

Lestrange bent, reading. His eyes flicked. Then he smirked.

“Runespoor would be sick, ” he said. “Three heads?” Tom scowled. “Be serious.” “I am serious.” Tom snapped the book shut and shoved it away from him. “You’re not helping.” Lestrange rolled his eyes and muttered a: “Fine.” before grabbing the book.

He took a close read at it before whispering: “Basilisk.” Then continued “Basilisk: bred from a toad’s egg hatched beneath a serpent. Grows to monstrous size. Eyes kill on sight. Lives centuries. Whispered to obey only Parseltongue.”

Tom blood thrummed, quietly. He flipped Fabulae again. “The Heir will awaken the voice. The voice speaks only to blood. Another line: ‘The monster’s gift is silence before the scream.’” He said aloud.

“It fits,” Lestrange mumbled. “Yes,” Tom said. “All traits align. Sight. Obedience. Parseltongue.” Lestrange stood straighter a little, tilting his head. “Wouldn’t it be glorious? Slytherin’s beast killing with just a stare.”

Tom smirked a little.

Chapter 21: XVIII

Notes:

YALL I WON 2 AWARDSSS OMLLL WHAT HUHH 😝😝😝

December 1941.

The three broomstick tables were sticky, even in the winter weather. There were butterbeers on the table in front of them, some already cold, well, too cold at least. They’d chosen the darkest booth near the back, away from Hogsmeade’s eyes and ears, the people are too nosy of Hogwarts students. 

Tom was not drinking today, well... He never did. He was busy listening to Nott’s usual chatter of filthy muggleborns.

“Filthy ones were breeding like rats again last year,” Nott muttered with disdain. “You saw the intake. Seven muggleborns sorted into Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff, for Merlin’s sake. Like vermins, worse ones at that.”

Mulciber nodded once, looking away to a corner. “It’s spreading,” he said, almost a whisper. Lestrange tilted his head just slightly. “Spreading’s the right word,” he echoed. “It's a disease. Born of ignorance. They don’t even know how low they are.”

Nott smirked. “They strut around like they belong here. Touching relics. Speaking names they don’t deserve. The bloodlines are drowning in them. Drowning, and no one’s draining the flood.”

A group of younger students laughed too loud nearby. Lestrange cast them a long, silencing look. They quieted fast. Tom stared at the swirling surface of his untouched drink. His reflection moved when he didn’t.

“Speaking of getting rid of em’” Lestrange said low. “Salazar… the chamber. Our way of purifying the school. He built a test you know? We’re failing it.”

“It’s real,” Nott said while gripping his mug too tightly, “I know it is. It’s a weapon. One we should be wielding.” He took a breath. “And yes every second we waste not founding it is us failing.

Tom finally lifted the butterbeer to his lips. Took a long, deliberate sip. It tasted too sweet. He swallowed anyway. Then he glanced out the frosted window. Hogwarts glowed faint in the snow today. “Every time I walk those halls, I think of how many crawl through them unworthy. How easily they could be removed.” He spoke.

The others stayed silent. Listening. Nott, eyes shining now, leaned forward. “Say it. We all know it. We’re meant to lead—not just Hogwarts. The world .” Tom turned his head slowly, meeting Nott’s eyes, but he didn’t answer.

But silence, used right, could echo louder than a scream.

Lestrange reached into his coat, pulled a folded parchment—one of the bloodline charts they’d been collecting. “We start with who doesn’t belong. Then we decide who does.” Tom looked down. The names scattered across the paper. There was nothing sacred in blood, unless it was preserved.

“Decisions are easy,” Tom murmured. “It’s enforcement that’s hard.”

Silence. Well, maybe just the Christmas holiday song playing in the background.

“Tell me this,” he said finally. “If the Chamber is opened, and the beast awakened—do you truly think you’re ready for what comes after?” Nott’s grin twitched wider. “Are you?”

Tom set down his very own mug with a gentle clink. His voice, when it came, was sharper than intended. “When the time comes, there will be only us.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was a regular Monday morning, Tom was walking ahead of Mulciber with a few long strikes. There was silence in between them, but occasionally broken only by Mulciber’s rambling about how some plants could sense emotion if you just listened right. 

Tom wasn’t listening. Not all really. 

Across the courtyard, beneath a huge and thick tree, Myrtle sat curled. Her knees were drawn up beneath her book, her spine was rounded, hair unraveling from a plait. One sock drooped around her ankle. Her robes looked messy. She didn’t seem to notice.

She looked absorbed—utterly lost to whatever pages she was reading. Her glasses slipped lower on her nose every few seconds, but she didn’t bother fixing them. Something in her made Tom pause mid-step. She didn’t look ridiculous. At least not that ridiculous. Not today.

“All forms of life have souls—” Mulciber began again, but when he quickly realised Tom was not listening, he followed his gaze. Mulciber’s eyes landed on Myrtle. He didn’t say anything at first. Just tilted his head slightly. Then, lowly, “Why do you always stare at her like that?” He kicked at a clump of snow without looking at Tom.

Tom’s jaw twitched, but his voice came cold. “I don’t.” He didn’t shift his eyes. He didn’t need to. The heat had already climbed up his collar, irritating his neck.

“You do,” Mulciber said again, but quieter this time. He said that as if it was final, a fact that couldn’t be rid of. But he didn’t push it. Just let it sit there between them.

They kept walking, crunch-crunch, Mulciber’s cloak brushing Tom’s arm. Then, after a moment, “You never ask her to sit with us, though.” Mulciber whispered, his eyes dropped low. He was not teasing.

“She’s a tool,” Tom replied quickly. His voice dipped sharper than he meant. “Not a friend.” His gaze narrowed on the edge of Myrtle’s book. The pages was fluttering slightly in the wind. She didn’t notice.

“Right,” Mulciber murmured. A pause. A stretch. “You just look at your tools like they’re art, then?” His words were soft, but they sliced just the same. He wasn’t grinning. He never did when he said things like that. Tom hated that.

Tom turned his head sharply away, he didn’t answer, only gave him a sharp glance.

Mulciber didn’t press. He rarely did. He kept walking, steps even, talking again about Devil’s Snare and the experiments he was reading about. But it was filler conversation. Tom could tell. Mulciber was giving him room.

Tom’s eyes drifted back to Myrtle. The way her fingers clutched the book, just a bit too tight. How her nose was pink from the cold. Her hair catching the light. It annoyed him, how much detail he noticed.

It annoyed him more that she hadn’t looked up once. She always used to look up. Every time she felt him watching her, she'd glance around—like she could sense him, like he mattered. Today, she didn’t.

Maybe she was actually reading. Or maybe she was pretending to be. Either way, she was ignoring him . Not out of spite—Myrtle didn’t have that in her—but out of something worse. She was used to being alone again. He noticed that.

Her two little annoying friends had been gone. She was alone now, not most of the time, but all the time.

And it shouldn’t bother him. That she could go back to the silence. That she sat alone, pathetic, and still managed to look like something his name had touched. Like he’d etched himself into her without meaning to.

He clenched his fists in his sleeves. Her robes were stained at the hem with ink. Like usual. She hadn’t mended them. Her sock had a hole in it. He knew because he remembered the same hole was there last week.

He remembered the way her hair smelled like peppermint from the shampoo she used. He’d noticed it once when she leaned in too close to hand him that folded note on Salazar. His fingers had brushed hers. She’d flushed. 

He remembered that, too. How he hadn’t looked at her. How it had taken effort. How he had to remind himself of what he was doing. Who she was. What she was. What he wanted.

“Do you ever shut up?” Tom said suddenly, just to break the pressure in his chest. Mulciber blinked and fell silent. His eyebrows furrowed and he tried to mutter out a word but fell silent instead. He didn’t ask what Tom meant. 

They reached the archway, and Tom stopped just short. His hand curled around the stone. Myrtle hadn’t moved. He could almost believe she was made of snow, dissolving inch by inch.

“I’m not going to ask her to sit with us,” Tom said finally. He didn’t turn around. “You know that.” Mulciber’s voice was almost kind. “I know.”

Tom hated that he said it like that. Like he knew things. Like he understood . He stepped inside before the snow could melt on his lashes. Before the ache behind his ribs could twist any tighter. Before he did something stupid like ask.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

29th December 1941.

He was nearly to the bend in the corridor when he heard it—high and forced laughter. “Happy early birthday, Tom!” one of the Gryffindor girls trilled, all giggles and fluttering lashes as she brushed past him.

She wasn’t subtle. Her gloved hand grazed his, and the look she gave him was almost pitying in its transparency. Behind her, two Ravenclaw girls echoed the same words: “Happy birthday Riddle”. One of them even stopped and said: “Hope someone gives you what you really want,” then added a wink.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. He gave them all the same distant glance he might offer a window. They weren’t people. They were mouths. All of them wanted something—a glance, his voice, the smell of his sleeve. Yet, he made sure he had a small subtle smile on his face. A charade is something he must keep on doing.

When the truth is, he wanted silence. He wanted to think. 

But of course, Helena Bletchley was there—always was around this time of year. Older now. She’s a sixth year Hufflepuff student. Yet as invasive as mildew. “Fifteen now, aren’t you?” she chirped, brushing snow off her sleeves. “You’ve grown taller. Bet you’ll be Head Boy soon.”

He didn’t answer. He never did. He only gave her a look and a sharp nod with a tight smile. That never stopped her. She reached out like she owned the right to, her hand flattening briefly on his shoulder, then his hair. “Wish you were older, Tom,” she whispered, almost as if she pitied herself. “If only. I’d already have you.”

The words turned his stomach. Not for their forwardness— he’d heard worse —but because she believed it. Because they all did. “Excuse me.” He muttered and broke free from her grasp. He kept walking, letting her peel off with a final simper. 

Someone offered him a chocolate frog. Another a crude card shaped like a coiled snake. It hissed. Badly. The art was childish, the ink still tacky from poor charmwork. “Merlin.” He didn’t touch it. It was already beneath him. 

The crowd disappeared as he turned down the stairwell near the eastern arch, his preferred route—quieter, unbothered. The stone walls dulled all the noises behind him. Finally, He could breathe again.

Except today, she was there. Myrtle. She was standing there awkwardly near the end of the corridor. Half of her body is in the shadow now and her hands twitched at her sides.

Her robes were crooked. One of the clasps wasn’t done properly. The strands of her hair was already escaping its usual braid. Messy, messy curls framing around her face. The moment she saw him, her expression split open, hopeful as usual.

He slowed because she was blocking the edge of the corridor and because her expression was already irritating him. That soft, stupid half-smile.  “Are you—waiting for me?” he asked, and the flatness in his voice made her wince, though she tried to hide it.

“No! I mean—sort of. Maybe.” Her voice cracked, then dropped. “I... knew you’d be coming from the library.” She shifted her weight and walked closer to him now. One step, two steps, three and a four. He raised one brow. “You’re following me now?”

“No,” she said too quickly. “I mean yes. I don’t know. Just—here.” She thrust something out between them. Her hands shook. She nearly dropped it, caught it again. Her fingers were blotchy with cold, the knuckles red and raw.

It was a book. A heavy one. Bound in dark-green leather. And it was worn, smooth at the corners. Tom took a good look at it, there was no title or an author’s name. He didn’t take it. Just stared. She blinked up at him, cleared her throat, and said, “It’s for your birthday. Early birthday present.”

He blinked once and raised one of his eyebrows. Not in surprise that she’d given him something—others had tried. But because it wasn’t useless. It wasn’t some simpering scrap of candy or perfumed note. It was a book. And it looked... valuable.

“You... got me a book.” He said it slowly. She nodded, gripping the book tighter. “It’s from the Restricted Section. I duplicated the key again . Just to get in. I didn’t get caught. Obviously.” Her voice sped up like she couldn’t stop it.

He locked his eyes on the scuffed corners of the cover.

“It’s about Parseltongue,” she said. “The study of it. Some of it’s even written in Parseltongue. I thought you’d like that. I mean—I know you would. You’ve been looking for more material and—well—I thought this would actually be useful.”

She paused, then added quieter, “Instead of something you’d shove under your bed like every other birthday present.”

There was a bitter edge to that last part. Like she was mad about everyone else giving him a present. Or mad at herself for caring. He wasn’t sure which. She was watching him too closely now.

“I charmed the margins,” she added. “So ink won’t smudge. And I annotated the index. Some of it might be useful. Or not. You can ignore that part. I wasn’t sure what you already—”

“Myrtle.” He said. She stopped immediately.

He looked down at the book again. Ran his thumb along the worn spine. The leather was cracked. No one had ever given him something like this. Not like this. Not something that understood what he wanted. 

“You stole a Parseltongue book for me,” he said, eyes still down on the book.

“I—well, yeah.” She pulled her sleeves over her hands. “I wanted to.”

He hated the way his chest tugged. The way her voice sounded. The quietness in it. The intention. It was worse than laughter. Worse than the other girls. Because it was real . It was her. Damn it.

She tried to smile again, then gave up halfway. Her shoulders curled in slightly. Maybe she was already  bracing herself for that usual rejection. “I thought it might help you. I just wanted to—”

“You’re insane,” he said.

She flinched. Then blinked. Then, softly, “Little bit.” Her smile this time was crooked. He took the book. Finally. Fingers brushing hers just long enough to notice how cold her skin was. How dry. He didn’t let go. Not right away. 

He gave one nod. Barely there. Almost nothing. “Thank you,” he murmured. Then turned. Didn’t look back. Didn’t trust himself too. The sound of her breath behind him stayed with him longer than he liked. He told himself it was just the book. Just the gift. Just the usefulness.

But by morning, he had read half of it. Twice. And every margin she’d marked. And he remembered her voice beside each one.

And god it was helpful.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

31st December 1941. 

It was a Wednesday, and Runes had drained him. He wasn’t tired, not exactly—just restless. Like something in his blood was pacing. He was going to the library to double-check a symbol in the Parseltongue book. But he turned left.

Tom should have been heading to the library—he said he was, even convinced himself of it—but the path he chose was wrong. Or right. It passed that window.

The long one. The wide, arched stretch of stone where she sometimes sat. Where he’d seen her before, legs curled up, face buried in pages of books and all alone. And today, like some joke, a cruel one at that, she was there again. All alone again.

She didn’t see him at first. Her head was bowed. Her glasses were sliding down her nose, and she made no effort to fix them. Her knees were pulled to her chest, the book balanced on top.

Outside the glass, was the snow covered Quidditch pitch. Below, a handful of students threw snowballs, shrieking, laughing. Their voices didn’t reach this high. 

He should’ve kept walking. He should’ve moved past her. Instead, he stopped. She looked up at the weight of his silence, eyes widening. That half-smile formed. “Oh,” she breathed. “Hi.”

He didn’t respond. Just stepped closer. His pulse thudded a warning in his ears. Her feet dangled above the floor, her scuffed shoes was swinging gently now, from where she sat on the sill. She smelled like her usual scent: caramel. That scent went straight to his spine.

“Happy birthday, by the way…” she said, closing the book slowly. Her voice was quieter now, unsure. “Did you, um, like the—”

“Yes.” His voice came sharp, sharper and lower than he meant. Her eyes widened. She blinked, once, startled, smiling slowly. He took another step. Her breath fogged the glass behind her. She looked small, perched like that. Waiting.

“I read it all,” he said, almost to himself.

She smiled. “Really? That’s—I mean, I hoped it’d be—”

“It was helpful.” He pressed his hand flat against the ledge beside her. Close enough that her knee brushed his hip. She stilled mid-sentence. Her voice caught in her throat, and for a long second, she didn’t breathe. Neither did he.

Then he moved. His hand slid from the stone to her waist, looking at her face as if testing the waters. Then his other hand came to rest against her thigh, just above her knee, trying to gauge a reaction out of her. He didn’t think. He just moved . Her lips parted in shock. “Tom?” she whispered, almost too low.

He kissed her.

The first kiss was quick, sharp—his mouth pressed against hers just long enough to know what it felt like. Soft. Warm. Wet with spit. He pulled back, eyes locked on hers. Her glasses were askew. Her mouth stayed parted, breath trembling.

Then he kissed her again.

Slower this time.

He let it deepen, let his mouth part against hers. His tongue slipped past her lips, tasting her properly. She made a tiny sound—gasping. Her hands jerked up, catching on his chest. She didn’t know where to grab.

The book slipped from her lap and hit the floor with a quiet thud . Neither of them looked. He pressed further into her, caging her between the window and his body. His knee moved between hers, anchoring him and legs parted slightly, involuntary. His chest touched hers, his breath fogging the glass behind her.

Her mouth moved with his, hesitant but willing. Her fingers curled into his robes. Her body trembled against him. His hand found her neck, slid up to the side of her face, thumb brushing the thumping skin beneath her ear. He could practically feel her braid tickling his wrist.

He deepened the kiss again, mouth opening wider, letting it grow rougher. His teeth grazed her lip. She shivered. The heat rising between them was startling. He could feel it twist beneath his skin.

She kissed him back, eyebrows furrowing as if she couldn’t help it, like her whole body had gone weak from trying to think too much. Her hands shot up and instead of grabbing the fabric of his uniform on his chest, it went to the sides of his face, steadying him and pulling him in instead. He growled in response.

He didn’t mean to make that sound—but it escaped anyway. It was just raw and it burned in his ribs. This shouldn’t have felt like this. This wasn’t strategy. Something was pulling at him from the inside.

Thud . 

Her head hit the window behind her. He didn’t stop. His mouth moved lower, along her jaw. Then her neck. He bit. Not hard, not gentle either. Just instinct. She winced, hissed, and he froze.

“Tom—” she whispered. Her voice shook. Her hands pressed lightly at his chest. Gosh he didn’t want to wait. So he opened his mouth and bit the skin on her neck. Hard. She gasped, hips jerking back. 

She looked around frantically, and her eyes landed on the group of kids outside of the window, on the stretched out Quidditch field, talking and definitely not knowing what was happening just a floor above them. 

“Wait—people—someone might see—” She started again, Tom looked up a bit, following her gaze, impatient. And he scoffed when he saw the kids, then dipped his head again.

“No one’s gonna look up,” he murmured against her skin, lips brushing her collarbone. Her shirt was open at the top. Two buttons. That was all he needed. He bit there, again, the hollow where throat met shoulder. 

She tried to speak again, some protest maybe, but he caught her mouth once more and kissed her harder. This time, there was no hesitation. His tongue moved against hers as if he’s trying to consume her. Maybe he really did. He really did. 

She melted into him. Soft and overwhelmed. He hated how easily she gave herself up, how eager she was to belong . And he hated more the way it made something raw stir in his chest.

His hand was on her waist again. Her leg slid slightly open around his. He didn’t push, but the position was enough to make his breath catch. He made a low noise in his throat, barely audible, fucking dangerous.

Why did he want this? Why did he want her ? Why did her smell, her mouth, her skin all feel like they were sinking into some locked part of him he didn’t even know existed?

Her lips were pink now. Wet. Slightly swollen. Her braid was nearly undone, falling around her face wildly. Her eyes were unfocused, glassy. She looked ruined. His name was probably still echoing in her mouth.

“Tom,” she whispered again. Soft. Real. She touched his sleeve, slowly, like this meant something. Like she thought this would mean something. He stepped back. Too fast. Too hard. Cold snapped through the space he’d left behind. Her legs dropped from the sill with a jolt.

“What was that?” she asked. Still breathless.

“I don’t know,” he said. But he did. He knew exactly . And he hated it. “You should go.” His voice was flat again. Distant. Cold enough to end it. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Then he turned and walked away. Before he did something worse. Before he admitted that what just happened wasn’t strategy. Not entirely. Not something planned. He walked away fast, furious with himself. Furious with the part of him that had wanted to stay.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

He slammed the dormitory door hard enough that the hinge rattled. 

His robe slipped from one shoulder, collar twisted, because yes, he’d tried to rip it off mid-step. His hair was a mess. His chest was even worse . 

Her lips. Her throat. The sound she made when he—

It was nothing. It had to be. She meant nothing. She was a distraction. A tool. She had been and always will be. A fragile little thing clinging to whatever scraps he threw her. And yet, the moment his feet stopped moving, the pressure returned. That awful, invasive heat between his ribs like a parasitic bruise.

Tom threw his robes across the nearest chair. 

They caught on the back and slid to the floor. He didn’t pick them up. His fingers were already at his collar, yanking buttons loose. Pacing. Silent. Tight-jawed. He didn’t like how he was breathing—too fast, too shallow. It was controlled but not him. Not him.

He could still taste her. Not just her mouth but the soft skin of her neck. The sharp flinch she gave when he bit. The way she gasped like she didn’t know what was happening and wanted more of it anyway. 

His hand pressed to his chest, hard. Flat.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath. “Get it together. Get it fucking together.” His voice was low, and so hoarse. God it was probably because of the kiss. He hated that the effect lingered. The consequences of his recklessness. He paced faster. Every step felt wrong in his skin. He couldn’t hold himself still long enough to think.

The door creaked open. Tom spun instantly. Wand half-raised on instinct. It was just Lestrange, shrugging off his coat, snow still clinging to the cuffs. His hair is damp. His eyes widened a bit when he took Tom's stance. But narrowed his eyes when Tom lowered his wand. 

They both looked at each other for a while. And Tom noticed something, around his neck—a scarf. Sloppy and uneven. Green yarn fuzzing at the edges.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. Of course. Augareta’s. That scarf was unmistakable. One side longer than the other. Stitches tight in some rows, loose in others. The kind of thing made by hands that don’t know how to knit but tried anyway. 

That was effort.

Lestrange noticed him staring. “What?” he asked, his tone already defensive. Like he expected the ridicule. He tossed the scarf over the bedpost. “She made it. Alright? It’s warm.” His voice dropped slightly at the end, almost embarrassed. Tom said nothing. His fingers twitched at his sides.

He resumed pacing. 

Each turn on the carpet slower now, like dragging his heels might bleed the heat out of him. His fists curled and uncurled. Then, too fast, he snapped, “Why do you like her?” The question dropped into the air.

Lestrange blinked. “What?” He was still unbuckling his boots, half bent over. “Augareta,” Tom clarified, sharper now. “What’s the point? She’s loud. She laughs before she finishes speaking. And messed up your collar sometimes—I—what’s the point of... any of that?” He sounded disgusted. 

Lestrange squinted up at him. “Is this an interrogation?” he asked slowly. “Because it’s sounding like one.” He stood up straight, arms crossed. Tom didn’t back down. “What makes you attach to someone like that?” 

Lestrange stared. Really stared. Then laughed—scowled even. “You’re serious?” He asked, but Tom only stared at him. “Merlin. You are serious.” His brow furrowed. 

Silent. Then:

“You just do, mate. You want them around. You think about them when they’re not there. They smile at someone else and you want to hex their teeth out.”

Tom’s eyes flicked away. His pulse thudded in his throat. Lestrange kept going. “It’s not logical. You just get that... tight feeling. Like you’d do anything to keep them from crying. Even kill for it.” His voice had softened slightly.

So, it’s a weakness . A weakness.

Tom looked back slowly. “Is it in your chest?” he asked, very quietly. Lestrange froze. 

“What the fuck is going on right now?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” Tom said. He turned, but Lestrange followed with his eyes. 

“No. No, not nothing. You don’t ask that unless—” He stopped,

Lestrange’s eyes widened. “Wait. Who?” 

Tom didn’t respond. His hands were behind his back now, clenched. Lestrange stepped forward, slower. “Who?” he repeated. Still no answer. Lestrange’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “It’s that Mudblood, isn’t it? Warren.”

Tom froze like a statue. Not even breath. Lestrange’s tone stayed careful. “You’ve been twitchy ever since she started showing up more. Tom are you—”

“I don’t.” The word was violent. Immediate. “I don’t.” He whispered. Again. And again. And again.

His mouth twisted like the taste of it disgusted him. “It’s chemical.” He had said, trying to make it rational in his head. “Or perhaps proximity—it—it’s nothing . Don’t make it something. It’s none of your business, Lestrange.”

Lestrange raised both hands, backing off a step then two. “Calm down. I didn’t say anything.” His voice was low, but he was still  watching, maybe calculating, with those sharp eyes of his. Like he was trying to decode the shape of what Tom was becoming.

Tom walked to the mirror without another word. Trying to compose himself.

His reflection stared back: pale, drawn, eyes too wide. Hair disheveled. Lips redder than usual. He ran a hand through his hair, fixed the part. Adjusted his collar. He looked like he’d been in a fight. Or a dream.

His fingers slowed at his temple. He let out a breath. 

“Right,” he muttered. 

“Let’s go to the library. There’s a symbol I’m trying to search for from the Parseltongue book.” His voice was flat again. Lestrange didn’t argue. Just nodded once, pulled on his coat again, and left the scarf where it was.

Notes:

I ❤️ writing impulsive Tom Riddle

Chapter 22: XIX

1st January 1942.

The Slytherin common room pulsed. New year’s party. Classic house tradition. Someone had enchanted the fire in the fireplace green again—serpentine, flickering violently against the grate, as if it wanted out. Everything smelled like smoke and spilt Firewhisky.

Suffocating but oh so glamorously good.

Laughter echoed off the stone walls, cruel but so terribly belonging in this Salazar empire. Someone was retelling the story of a cursed ink bottle that made a Hufflepuff speak backwards for an hour. Another toast went upt—“To the glorious new era!” The room cheered. 

Tom only watched. He sat back, on the flush sofa with the others surrounding him.

He was curled on the sofa like a shadow, one leg crossed neatly over the other, fingers steepled. The green fire lit the side of his face in sharp contrast, making his eyes seem even more unnatural than usual. As if his eyes aren’t already serpent like enough.

Lestrange was sprawled on the rug at Tom’s feet, flipping pages lazily through the Parseltongue book Myrtle had given him. “I still don’t get how you can read this,” he muttered, squinting. “Looks like someone let a snake crawl across wet ink and called it a sentence.”

“I told you,” Tom said flatly, not looking down. 

“It is snake trails. Each curve mimics movement. Intonation. Breathing. You have to feel the inflection.” His voice was distant. He wasn’t really here. Not tonight. Not completely.

“Creepy,” Avery muttered, leaning in upside down. “Where’d you even get this?”

Tom didn’t answer. He never did when the source mattered. But his gaze flicked to the book briefly—already open, already worn. Already familiar now. Lestrange turned another page and his fingers slid past the front flyleaf. Then they stopped. Suddenly a slip of paper fell out of it. 

A pause.

“What’s this?” Lestrange asked. Tom blinked once, slow. Then again. 

No. No. No. 

His blood went cold. That fold. That scrap. He knew it. He had forgotten. He hadn’t removed it. Idiot . It had been in the binding the whole time. Bloody hell. No. It was from Myrtle.

Avery leaned in. “Oh ho,” he grinned. “A note?” The amusement in his voice made Tom’s hands curl in the sofa’s fabric. Lestrange had already unfolded the note. The others didn’t notice yet. Augareta was busy knitting on the armchair and Mulciber and Nott were still drinking, still laughing. Still alive in the wrong way.

Tom didn’t have time to stop them. Or, to be exact, any reason.

Lestrange cleared his throat and read aloud. Loud enough for Tom’s chest to lock:

“Happy birthday, Tom.
You always lean your head to the left when you’re thinking too hard. You did it for ten minutes straight over that cursed glyph last week until I finally had to poke you. I hope this book helps. You already know more than half the professors, but maybe this will make you feel less alone.
I like studying with you more than anything else.
Yours, sometimes, if you want me to be.
—Myrtle.”

Silence. 

It dropped hard. Even the fire seemed to still.  Lestrange’s voice had gone completely quiet at the last line. He folded the note again, slowly. Like it was dangerous. It was .

Augareta raised one perfect brow. She didn’t speak. Just looked between the note, Lestrange, and Tom. Her lips parted like she might say something, then didn’t. Avery gave a slow, incredulous laugh. “Wait. This was from her? Myrtle? Seriously?” He looked at Tom. Smiling. Waiting with that damn smirk.

No one laughed with him. The words still hung in the air like poison. Mulciber wasn’t smirking. He was watching Tom too. Like he was watching an animal do something it wasn’t supposed to do.

Tom exhaled through his nose, deliberately slow. His voice was flat. “She’s helping us with the Chamber,” he said. “That’s all.” A perfectly timed answer. A deflection. But his knuckles had gone white against the chair. His throat felt scraped raw.

Avery gave another weak chuckle. “Right. Still— Yours, sometimes ? That’s—what even is that supposed to mean?” His voice trailed off as he caught the look in Tom’s eyes. The wrong question at the wrong time. 

The air turned cold again.

“She’s a Muggleborn,” Tom said. His voice was sharp now. He stared at the fire like he could see straight through it. “We’re cleansing the school of people like her. Remember?” The sentence sat wrong in his own mouth. People like her. Not her.

Another silence fell. He could feel the weight of it. Nott, smiling faintly, raised his glass like he hadn’t heard the hesitation. 

“To cleansing the school,” he said, casually. Augareta followed, lifting her hand. “To Salazar.”

Mulciber was the last to raise his glass. He didn’t do it right away. His hand lingered. His eyes locked on Tom’s face. That stillness. That flicker behind the eyes. He knew that expression. Something was off.  Finally, Mulciber lifted his drink. “To... the mission,” he said. Carefully. The others cheered. Tom only kept a straight face.

Later, when his dorm room was quiet and dim, Tom lay in bed facing his desk. His fingers reached under his pillow. Found the note again. The one he had picked up from the ground after the others had forgotten about its existence. It was slightly creased now, after being half crumpled by the others.

Tom looked at the note before grabbing his wand from his nightstand. He lit the corner of the note with the tip of his wand. Watched the fire bite into it. But the edge burned too fast, and then he couldn’t do it. Not fully. He stopped the fire from spreading and proceeded to groan aloud. 

His own weakness had made his skin crawl.

Now, in the dark, he stared at it again. Definitely not ashes, and still, definitely tangible. Her handwriting was small and neat. The sentence about his head tilting made something twist under his ribs. He closed his eyes. And it was still there when he opened them again.

He stuffed it back into his pillowcase. Rough. Quick. Angry. 

His hand lingered too long. It wasn’t just the note. It was what it knew. What it saw. What it named . And he hated it. Hated that she saw him. Hated that she had the nerve to offer herself.

But he didn’t throw it away. He never would.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The first time. It was in early January.

He was leaving the library, a notebook tucked under his arm, thinking about blood rune placement. Myrtle passed by, normally, he only gave her a glance. She looked like Myrtle. But something was different. Her robes were… clean. There were no ink stains for once.

Her glasses were wiped properly, too. Clear enough to see her eyes behind them. She didn’t look up, of course. Just walked past, braid swinging once behind her shoulder. Only one braid. And it was neat and tight. Not the usual messy pair that made her look like a Victorian toddler.

Tom glanced, just once. He registered the change in his brain but kept walking. Yet, the image stuck in his mind longer than it should’ve. He told himself it was because she was off-routine. 

That’s all. Change. Tom Riddle always notices change.

The second time, it caught up to hi,. Hard. He was leaning against the far wall in the Transfiguration corridor, bored, half-listening to Avery’s obnoxious rant about how the Head Boy’s nose looked like something stepped on by a troll. T

hen Myrtle turned the corner, alone, halfway up the hall.

She didn’t trip. Didn’t shrink. Her chin was up. Shoulders back. There was something to her steps now—not confidence, exactly, but something built close to it. Her face was flushed pink from the cold, her lips slightly chapped. But she looked... present. 

And not just that. She looked... pretty . Tom’s stomach twisted before he even understood why. Her braid swung low down her back, tight at the top, loose near the ends. A light blue ribbon knotted near the end. His eyes followed it too long.

He hated that. Hated that he looked. Hated that he noticed . 

Hated that when she walked past, a Ravenclaw boy—sixth year, tall, stupid—actually turned to watch her. Watched her go and walk. And  even blinked. Like he’d seen her for the first time. Like she’d always been there, waiting to be seen.

Tom’s fingers twitched toward his wand. The spell was on the tip of his tongue. Just something mild. Maybe a nosebleed jinx. Or maybe a binding hex to trip him flat on his face in front of the Transfiguration doors. 

He cleared his throat and just looked away. Kept his face cold. Like it didn’t matter. Like she didn’t matter. But his pulse was rapid under his collar, annoying. Loud. 

The third time, it was worse. They were at lunch in the Great Hall, Lestrange was talking like usual about a piece of smuggled page—something about Salazar’s lost runework. His hands moved as he spoke. Tom didn’t hear a word.

His eyes were locked across the room. Far end of the Ravenclaw table. Myrtle. Alone, as always, but different now. Composed. She wasn’t eating. Just turning a ribbon through her fingers, a faint blue thread of silk. Her Magical Theory book was open. 

She was reading, reading like she was trying to get attention for godsake.

Her braid was looser today. Must be on purpose. Strands of hair framed her face. There was a softness to her expression. Tired, maybe. Something about it made his mouth go dry. She wasn’t talking. Wasn’t even looking at anyone. Just existing. Quietly. And the worst part—she looked like she didn’t need him. 

Like she’d learned to survive without the warmth of his approval.

That’s when Lestrange paused mid-sentence to follow Tom’s gaze.. His voice died off. He glanced to Myrtle. Then back to Tom. Slowly. Deliberately. Then said nothing. Tom turned away too fast after that.

He poured water into his goblet, just watching the water with focus.  Lestrange didn’t push. He went back to the parchment. Talking about binding runes, but his tone was lighter now. More careful. More distant.

Later, Tom reached for the salt. Lestrange passed it without being asked. Their fingers brushed. And Lestrange said, too lightly, “She looks different lately.” The words hung. He looked at Tom purposefully, to see his reaction. Typical Lestrange.

Tom didn’t answer. Just took the salt and turned back to his plate. He ignored Lestrange. Eyes fixed on the food he didn’t taste. “I don’t know who are you talking about.” He’d say, and Lestrange didn’t speak again. Just nodded once. 

Tom’s fork was steady, but his hand wasn’t. His pulse throbbed in his wrist. She looked different. Everyone had seen it now. It wasn’t just him. Olive had been growling at Myrtle ever since.  She was changing. And the world was noticing. 

And he hated that. Hated all of it.

Later that night, he opened the Parseltongue book again. Flipped pages fast, annoyed. But he couldn’t concentrate. The margins she charmed to not smudge still glowed faintly under the firelight. Her notes were neat. He found one: “This symbol bends under intent. Maybe that’s the point?”

He closed the book. Bak ! And Threw it on the bed. Hestood and paced. One braid. Blue ribbon. A boy staring too long. Her smile when she’s not looking at anyone. Tom clenched his jaw until it hurt. 

He was in control. He was always supposed to be. Always. Always. Always.

He’d seen strength in weaker creatures before. Watched them try to evolve. They usually died. But Myrtle hadn’t. That was the problem. She hadn’t died. She’d adapted . Grew and evolved. And now… she was becoming something else.

He couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to anyway.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

By the fourth time, he wasn’t pretending anymore. 

He was avoiding her on purpose—and completely miserably failing. That was ridiculous. Tom Riddle never fails. But she kept showing up in his path, like gravity had turned sideways and dragged her straight into his orbit.

In the corridor near the Transfiguration classroom, he caught sight of her talking to a fifth-year Hufflepuff. Tall. Light hair. A stupid, loop-sided crooked smile. He was leaning in too close. Myrtle laughed at something. Softly . 

Her head tilted. And all of a sudden, she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Tom stopped cold. That— that —was his. She only did that with him . Always. No one else. She laughed at her own jokes for other people, but that movement—that sweet gesture—was never for anyone else.

He was walking toward them before he even realized. 

His fingers twitched toward his wand. The spell was already halfway up his throat. Something mild. Something he’d make look like an accident. His mouth had gone tight. His chest felt... sharp. Uncomfortable. Wrong .

Suddenly, Mulciber stepped in front of Tom, blocking him and his view. 

“ Don’t ,” he muttered, low enough that no one else would hear. 

“I’m not—” 

"You are,” Mulciber said, eyes narrowing meeting Tom’s. “Just… maybe breathe first, yeah?”

Tom exhaled through his nose. Tight. And looked over Mulciber’s shoulder. Tom stood still for a moment, watching the boy tilt his head, watching Myrtle smile and nod. 

He didn’t know what he wanted more—to hex the boy or hex he himself.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. This wasn’t who he was. He didn’t feel like this. He didn’t do this. Tom Riddle is not like this. He had goals. Higher ones. Eternal ones. 

He told himself it was temporary. It would pass. She wasn’t important. Just proximity and familiarity and stupid goddamn biological chemicals. A fragment of interest that would fade. It always faded. But that night, he dreamed of her ribbon slipping from her braid, and he woke up furious with no one.

A few days later, it happened again. 

Late evening. The halls were nearly empty, nearing curfew hour. He turned the corner by the main stairwell and stopped, dead, right on his track. She was just exiting the library, some few books on astronomy clutched in her arms.

Her hair was soft around her face now. She did not braid it, it fell on his shoulders. Intentional. Framing her cheekbones. She looked up and saw him. Stopped mid-step. For a beat, neither of them moved. Just stared. 

Myrtle held her books tighter, a reflex she hadn’t grown out of. She didn’t speak. When her eyes met his again, she tilted her chin to the smallest amount higher. It made her look taller. 

He took a step toward her. His shoes echoed too loud in the empty hall. Each sound hit like a heartbeat. Hers or his, he didn’t know. When he stopped, he was close enough to see the curve of her lashes through her glasses.

“You look different,” he whispered. 

“Do I?” she asked. Then glanced away, toward the corner of the wall. 

She knew. Of course she knew.

His hand twitched at his side. His jaw locked. He wanted to grab her. Shake her. Kiss her. Drag her into a shadow and demand how dare she do this—become beautiful without his permission. Be noticed. Be wanted. Be something he didn’t create.

“I liked the braids,” he muttered. It slipped out. Raw. Petty. Stupid. And real.

She turned back to him. Tilted her head slightly. The light hit her glasses just right—just enough to see her eyes. “They made me look like a child,” she said and met his eyes. Grumbling underneath her breath—some of her old habits.

Something tugged sharp in his stomach. His mouth parted slightly, no words behind it. He stepped closer. Close enough to smell ink and something softer, like caramel candies. Her breath didn’t hitch. She just stood there, holding his gaze.

Maybe his fingers brushed hers. Maybe they didn’t. He didn’t know anymore at this point. He watched her mouth then blinked. “Was it because of the kiss?” he asked. It came out before he thought it through. She froze, visibly. He swallowed. 

“You changed because of the kiss?” Again. No hesitation this time.

She looked down, fiddled with the hem of her skirt. “You kissed me,” she said. “And then vanished,” She mumbled. “Like usual.” Ouch. “I don’t…” He trailed off, and instead, he stared at her mouth. At the way her lip caught between her teeth just before she stopped speaking. 

She was beautiful now.

She was beautiful before too.

Maybe beautiful always—he snapped. “You shouldn’t be this different.” he blurted out, and it came out harsher than he meant. She frowned. “Are you mad?” He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He looked at her and said nothing. She scoffed quietly and turned to walk away, steps brisk, braid swinging softly behind her. The hallway was colder now… without her.

He should have let her go. Should’ve let her fade back into the dark. But all he could see were flashes—other boys, other hands, her smiling at someone who wasn’t him . His throat burned. His fists clenched.

“I shouldn’t leave you like that,” he suddenly said, loud enough to echo in the hall. The words broke from him too fast. She stopped, and slowly, turned around. He stepped forward again. “Do you want to... come with me?” he asked. “To Hogsmeade. With the others.” His voice dropped.

A pause. His breath held. Then: “Perhaps help me with the Chamber. Later on.”

She looked at him carefully. For a while, silence was the only thing being passed between them. But she smiled. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll come.” Then turn again. 

And for the first time in days, Tom breathed without clenching his teeth.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The castle loomed up ahead and sunset was coming.

They were returning from Hogsmeade, walking through the path just behind Flying class’s grounds. Avery still hiccuped between snickers, cheeks flushed, stumbling every third step. Augareta was picking sugar off her gloves from the pastry she swiped when the barkeep wasn’t looking. Lestrange had gone quiet, eyes half-lidded, probably already thinking about his bed.

Tom walked ahead. He hadn’t spoken much since they left the Hogsmeade alley, and even when he had, it was always flat. He kept thinking about her silence. How she hadn’t said a word.

Then Nott spoke. Of course it was Nott. “She shouldn’t’ve come,” he said, slurring just slightly. “Ruined the whole trip, if you ask me.” He laughed, cruel.

“Didn’t even speak,” Lestrange muttered. “Just sat there like a vermin with big glasses. Looked like she was about to apologize for breathing every five minutes.” His tone was dry. Detached cruelty. 

“That’s ‘cause she is a vermin,” Nott added, his grin wide now, wider than before. “Muggleborn walking. Looked like she was going to throw up in Zonko’s. Can’t handle a joke shop, how’s she supposed to handle—”

Avery snorted, cutting in. “Did you see her face when Tom ordered the Firewhisky? I thought she was going to melt into the floor. She looked like she wanted to frame the butterbeer mug and sleep with it.”

Tom said nothing. His jaw locked tight. He stared forward, snow cracking beneath his boots. One of his hands had curled into a fist inside his pocket. The cold bit through his coat, but he didn’t feel it. Only heard them. Their voices. Each word louder than it should be.

Nott kicked a stone across the path. “Honestly, mate,” he said, loud now, “what’s the deal? Why bring her? You know she doesn’t belong.  That kind of filth doesn’t belong in our company, let alone our plans. Can’t even hold her wand right—”

Tom stopped. Just like that.

The others stumbled to a halt behind him. Avery almost walked into Lestrange. Lestrange muttered, “ Careful ,” under his breath, stepping back. Then they all looked up. Silence.

Tom turned around slowly. The wind blew his hair back from his forehead. His eyes were hard. Hollow. Cold enough to blister. “What did you say?” he asked. Too quiet. Nott blinked. Then scoffed. “I said she doesn’t belong. Because she doesn’t. She’s a Muggleborn, and—”

“She’s smarter than all of you,” Tom snapped. The words landed like a blow. Silence cracked across the group. Even Augareta’s smile faltered. Lestrange looked down at the snow instantly and Avery’s face had gone slack with confusion.

Nott stepped forward, incredulous. “You defending her now?” he said. “You? Riddle, are you serious—”

“I’m stating a fact,” Tom said. “She’s more useful than you have been in months.”

“No. No, you’re going soft .” Nott’s voice sharpened. “First you invite her, then you hover the whole bloody trip, and now we’re getting our throats torn out because we don’t want to play nice with a mudblood who looks like a kicked cat at dinner—”

“Say that again,” Tom said, quiet. Controlled.

“What, mudblooded freak ?” Nott stepped in. “What, are we not allowed to say that anymore? Since when do we bend the rules for a girl like that? since birth? What is she to you, huh?”

The air between them pulsed. 

Lestrange took a half-step forward. Mulciber tensed beside him. Tom didn’t move. Not yet. His expression didn’t shift, but his voice dropped lower. “You don’t even know your own bloodline, Riddle,” Nott sneered. “And you’re lecturing me about who belongs?”

Tom smiled. Slowly. Eyes wide. “You’d be surprised what I know,” he said. “And when I open the Chamber, Nott, you’ll be the first one to find out how much I believe in purity. And what happens to traitors.”

Nott’s bravado cracked. Just for a second. One breath. One blink. The others shifted behind him, uneasy now. No one said anything. Even the wind stopped moving. Tom turned back toward the castle. His coat whipped behind him like a shadow with claws.

“Keep up,” he called over his shoulder. “Unless you’d like to find out how much I’ve learned from the book Myrtle gave me.” His voice cut. And no one dared speak. 

The rest of the walk was silent. Behind him, he felt their eyes on him. They were probably thinking what he already knew. He’s slipping. He’s compromised. He’s choosing her. And maybe—just maybe—They were right. 

Notes:

I SAID ITS BLOOMIN MF

Chapter 23: XX

February 1942.

The air was cold today. The sun was back but still, the snow was covering everything. Myrtle watched it from the hill, pretending she didn’t want to cry.

She’d walked past the courtyard, like she always had. Absent-mindedly. Her boots left prints in the soft, and her fingers were stiff even in her mittens. Well, Tom’s mitten to be exact. But anyway, she hadn’t meant to walk this far.

 She hadn’t meant to see anyone. 

Not really.

Especially not them .

Euphenia and Awick were at the far end of the path. Holding hands. Awick’s scarf was falling from his pocket, flowing in the air or dragging through the wind behind him. Euphenia leaned her head against his shoulder. Smiling, giggling even, with her teeth. Her cheeks were flushed pink, probably from thec cold. 

Myrtle froze. Her heart did this awful stutter. She didn’t know why. Hope? Hurt? Like it couldn’t decide if it should ache or smile. She almost turned around. She almost ran. But then Euphenia’s voice carried through the air. So suddenly, and so cheerfully. 

“Myrtle!”

Her whole body tensed. She turned slowly, forcing her mouth to show a soft smile. “Hi,” she said. It came out lower than she meant. Euphenia was already hurrying over. Her perfect beautiful blonde curls hit her face. Awick followed, slower, almost more mature.

“You have a minute?” Euphenia asked. Her breath was visible in the cold winter air. Myrtle remembered how they used to joke about being a dragon when that sort of thing happened.

“We were going to the Owlery but—well, it’s dumb . We can do that later.” She bounced slightly on her heels, it was obvious that she was nervous. Hell she even looked nervous. Myrtle blinked. “You want me to come with you?”

“If you want,” Awick said quickly after standing beside Euphenia. He tucked a bit of his brown hair behind his ear. “You know. Like…” He paused. “Like before.” He smiled.

Myrtle took a look at the both of them. She waited. Then nodded. “Okay.”

They walked for a while without speaking. The snow muffled their steps. It was awkward—not awful… but definitely very awkward. Myrtle looked around. Okay definitely the awful kind. 

“Did you really hex Mary Chalice last week?” Euphenia asked suddenly, like she couldn’t hold it in anymore. Hearing that Myrtle bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to grin. “She stepped on my robes. Twice.” Euphenia laughed. “Okay, yeah. Fair enough.”

They reached the edge of the lake. It felt strange, strange like before. Like how they usually throw pebbles on the lake. The ice cracked in soft creaks against the bank. Then they sat, careful not to slip. Awick nudged her lightly with his elbow. “Still can’t believe you didn’t hex Olive instead.”

Myrtle snorted. “I’m saving it for the right moment.” She said it without thinking. The way she used to.

…

The way she used to.

Awick chuckled. “Classic Tails.” He said, grinning a bit, a touch of warmth on his tone. Casual. Her chest tightened and she didn’t know why. But it didn’t bite like before. The feeling just sat there, like just quietly.

“You still call me that,” she whispered, lowly underneath her breath, almost inaudible. “Course I do.”  Awick furrowed his eyebrows then looked down at his gloves. 

For a while, all three of them went silent. Only the sound of birds chirping above could be heard. “I’m sorry, by the way. For being—a prick. I was a prick. I was childish and all.” Awick suddenly said. It sounded honest.

“Well—you were.” Myrtle said. Her eyes stayed on the ice. “I was too.” 

“Not really.” Euphenia turned toward her then. Her gloves didn’t match—again. Myrtle noticed one was a faded red, the other blue. She remembered how Euphenia always lost one glove and the both of them had to buy another pair.

“I’ve been meaning to say something,” Euphenia said. “I know things aren’t the same. They probably can’t be anymore. At least not like the way things used to be.” She whispered before looking down at her lap. “But I’m really happy you’re okay. And I’m glad you found someone. Even if he’s... well…” She trailed off. But Myrtle understood what she meant.

“He’s not like what you think,” Myrtle said quietly. “He hasn’t hurt me. Not like people were afraid he would. I know you’ve seen us. Around. We’ve been careful, but I’m not stupid. You noticed.” She looked up at them.

“We haven’t told anyone,” Euphenia said quickly. “And we wouldn’t. We’d never.” She added now, just as quickly, just as sincere. Awick nodded. “It’s not our story to tell.” He said slowly. Myrtle felt something loosen in her spine. She hadn’t even realised how tense she’d been.

“I never thanked you two,” she said. “For that.” 

Awick kicked his heel gently against the stone. “You just did,” he said, and smiled. Not wide like that childish smile he used to have.

“Oh!” Euphenia said suddenly. Her voice perked up with excitement. 

“You missed the scene last week.” She chirped before grabbing Awick’s hand and looking up at him with doe-like eyes. “What scene?” Myrtle asked, eyebrows rising. Euphenia grinned. “Awick.” She whispered, excited. “Tell her.” Awick flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“It wasn’t a scene .” He muttered.

Myrtle tilted her head. “What did you do?” She asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

Awick sighed. 

“I asked her out. On Valentine’s Day, y’know? In the Great Hall.” Euphenia nudged him with her shoulder, teasing. “You had four Gryffindors hold signs. Don’t downplay it.” Awick looked at Euphenia. Sighed and went: “And confetti…” 

“That was extra.” Myrtle remarked and rolled her eyes.

Awick groaned. “Okay. It was a bit extra.” “ A bit ,” Euphenia laughed. “The whole Hall clapped. A girl choked on a biscuit. It was incredible.” Myrtle laughed too. Real laughter. Loud and ugly real laughter.

Euphenia leaned into Awick, looping her arm through his. “I’ve been through enough with you two. I don’t care anymore. I’m happy. That’s it.” Myrtle looked down at her boots, her old and worn-out boots.

“I’m happy for you,” she said then. 

Her voice was soft and Euphenia seemed to notice that softness in her tone. She then reached out and squeezed her hand gently. “And I’m happy for you,” she said. “Even if you don’t say it out loud.” Myrtle looked at her, then Awick. 

They stayed there for a while longer. Watching the light from the sun makes the ice glisten. There were gaps, yes . There were scars. But Myrtle didn’t want it to go back to how it was. She didn’t want the old version of herself. Or them. She’d grown into something else. 

Her hands steadied differently now. And when she smiled, it felt like her own.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The bench had just enough sun to make it tolerable, and just enough shadow to keep it hidden. 

To keep Myrtle hidden to be exact. 

Snow clung to the courtyard and Myrtle sat on the edge of the bench. Curling a bit as if she doesn’t belong there. Because she didn’t. Not officially. Not publicly. Her fingers were laced in her lap, her mittens keeping just enough to keep her warm. She kept her spine straight. But beside her, Augareta was perfectly calm.

She had one of her leg crossed and her wand in between her fingers, twirling it. “New braid?” she asked, genuinely asking. Gosh she was so elegant. Her eyebrow arched. Myrtle blinked, startled. “Yeah. One instead of two.”

Augareta nodded once. “Smart. It suits you. Less... childish.” Her eyes flicked downward. “Did you transfigure your robe hem?” Myrtle glanced down. “A bit.” It wasn’t anything grand. But Augareta smiled. “Very subtle. It works.” Myrtle flushed, and smiled.

She didn’t know what to say to that. No one noticed things like that. Not on her . Euphenia never had. Not even Awick. “Thanks,” she said, quietly. 

“I mean it,” Augareta added, shrugging lightly. “A girl should look like she knows who she is. Even if she doesn’t.”

Nott stood a bit far away from the bench but close enough to her. His arms are folded and his jaw clenched every time Myrtle breathed. He hadn’t spoken to her directly since Hogsmeade, last month. Just stared. 

Myrtle tried to keep her chin up. She didn’t shrink anymore. Lestrange leaned back behind her, chewing on something, probably one of those peppermints he kept hidden. “Still breathing, then?” he muttered when she arrived earlier. She’d grinned. “Haven’t drowned in the waters yet.”

He’d smirked at that. It was strange. But it wasn’t bad. Her and Lestrange had been on a ‘nice term’ ever since that restricted section mission and training for the disillusionment spell, Lestrange had been fun and tolerable to say the least.

Mulciber stood behind the bench, silent. Watching. He always watched. Not in the way Nott did, not with disgust. Just quiet. Well, his eyes always seemed empty and quiet. Maybe that’s just how he is. 

But the way he looked at her… she didn’t know what Mulciber knew. But he knew something. And he never seemed surprised. That made him feel the least dangerous. Which, ironically, made him terrifying. 

Augareta adjusted her scarf. “Next Hogsmeade, I’m dragging you with me. You need better boots.”

Myrtle opened her mouth. “I don’t—”

“You do ,” Augareta cut in, smiling faintly. “If you’re going to loiter in the shadows with us, you should at least do it with some polish.” It wasn’t mean. Matter of fact it was weirdly… kind. Myrtle blinked down at her scuffed boots.

Suddenly there were footsteps.

Footsteps Myrtle had grown into knowing.

Footsteps that could only belong to Tom Riddle.

All of them sat up just slightly, like instinct. Tom walks, running a hand through his hair and catches Myrtle’s gaze. Augareta stood at once, getting away from her seat beside Myrtle, brushing snow from her shoulders. “Riddle.” He nodded, barely, then dropped down onto the bench beside Myrtle like it was his spot. 

Like it always had been. 

Suddenly he pulled a note from inside his robes. “The translation you did on page twenty-two,” he said, unfolding the note across his knees. “That third phrase— ‘the serpent shall know its speaker’ —is there a better verb than ‘know’? I think it implies more... recognition. Like sentience.” Myrtle leaned closer, eyes scanning the line.

Her fingers brushed his as she pointed. Neither of them moved away. “Maybe ‘respond to’?” she said. “Or ‘acknowledge.’” She said, not whispering, and Tom paused as if thinking. 

Then he nodded. “Good.” That was all. And she smiled softly.

Nott snorted. “Are we really discussing grammar in the snow?” His voice was dry. Bitter. Lestrange didn’t even look up. “You could leave,” he said. Sharply. Myrtle smirked and tried to hide it. Grinning a bit.

It felt like a compliment. Even if it wasn’t. “So what exactly are we doing with this translation?” Augareta asked, slicking balm across her lips. “We’re all pretending to care about the ancient snake, but no one’s said what we’re actually looking for.”

Tom folded the note again. “We’re preparing.” A word. “For what?” Augareta asked again. 

Lestrange answered instead, suddenly already beside her and dipping his head just above her shoulder. “When the Chamber opens, we’ll know how to control what comes out of it.”

“And who it’s for,” Mulciber added softly. 

“Do you think it’s alive?” Myrtle asked suddenly. “The thing inside it?” Tom looked at her then. Really looked. Like he was trying to read her mind. Her intent. His eyes were unreadable. And maybe hers was too. “I do.”

Myrtle nodded. “Cool,” she said softly. “Me too.” 

Silence.

Tom didn’t pull his eyes away from hers, only stared at her.

They shared a beat too long of prolonging eye contact.

Suddenly, Nott stood up so fast even his boots scraped the ground. “I have class,” he muttered. He walked off, his robe flapping behind him. Just then did Tom snapped his gaze away to look at leaving Nott. 

But Myrtle didn’t watch him leave. Only watched the sharp jawline of Tom’s. 

They stayed like that, almost awkwardly. They were talking. Then they were not talking. And maybe that’s because she wasn’t official. Not a Slytherin. Not his . Not anything they could name. But when Tom spoke, it was always to her. 

And when he left, he waited for her. Not obviously. Just enough. She stood beside him, and neither of them said a word. But their shoulders almost touched. And Myrtle let herself wonder what it meant that he hadn’t told her to leave. Not once.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

She’d slipped out after curfew, muffling her steps with a charm Tom had taught her.

Myrtle had meant to stargaze. Just that. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. She needed space and the quietness. The sky always gave it to her, the peace and all of that. The cold was better than the noise in her chest lately. Or in her head.

Anyway, she’s just counting constellations.

But suddenly, voices arose from behind her. Footsteps too. She recognized Professor Aurora’s stride almost immediately. Someone else was with her. Myrtle didn’t wait to be caught. She walked down the stairs through the side hatch, into the old storage space under the tower deck.

It was cramped, but she knew this place. She’d found it weeks ago. 

There were so many old and brass telescopes that were still functioning. Anyway, she slid under the shadow, back pressed flat on the wall, her hand on her mouth. She looked up just above her and there they were. Professor Aurora and Professor Trelawney. She could see them through the floorboards.

“Sybil, you know how this sounds.” Professor Aurora started.

Professor Trelawney’s reply was immediate. “I don’t care how it sounds,” she snapped. “I didn’t make it up. I saw it. Again. Clearer than I ever have before.” Her voice had a tremble, like it usually does. Myrtle leaned closer to them, trying to listen better.

“Another dream?” Aurora asked. “Yes. Dreams and visions.” Trelawney answered, nodding frantically. 

Aurora sighed. Loudly. “You’ve had... what, four of these now?” Myrtle could hear the shift, the wood beneath her cracking softly. “Seven. Not four. Seven. And they’re getting worse.” Myrtle froze. Her fingers were now tight around her robes. 

“Last night I saw blood again. In the school grounds. The stones were covered with it. There was a girl on the slick floor—still. And something above her. Moving.” Myrtle’s stomach twisted. Her ears rang. She kept her mouth shut and she made sure she didn’t make a sound.

“Something old. Ancient,” Sybil continued. “I could hear it.And I—I heard it speak, but I didn’t understand. The language was wrong. It was weird. And I couldn’t breathe.” Her voice cracked at the last word.

There was a pause. 

Aurora shifted above. Her boots creaked. “Sybil...” she said carefully. Trying to keep her voice as low as possible. “I’m not exaggerating,” Trelawney cut in. “There were warnings this time. Clear ones. I saw students—Muggleborns. I saw their bones. I saw them falling.”

Silence again. Long. 

Myrtle’s hand pressed to her chest, trying to keep her breathing even. Her heart thudded loud against her ribs. She couldn’t tell if her skin was hot or cold anymore. Her mind was moving too fast.

“Did you tell Dippet?” Aurora asked. “Yes.” Sybil’s voice was bitter. “He told me I was stressed. That I’d confused it with a story I read. Gave me tonic. Told me to sleep more.” Myrtle swallowed hard. Her throat felt raw.

“He called me a liar.”

Aurora exhaled. “He’s Dipper. He doesn’t want it to be real.” Trelawney’s voice trembled. “It is real. There’s something here. Something old. I don’t know how close it is, but I feel it. It’s like the castle knows. Every time I close my eyes.” She trembled.

Myrtle’s knees ached. Her legs were cramping and she couldn’t move.

Trelawney’s voice was rising now. “I told Merrythought. She laughed. Said to go to Dippet. Again.” “She laughs at everything,” Aurora muttered.

“Please believe me, ” Sybil whispered. “I know what I saw. Just now—I saw it again. When I looked at the wall. The walls , Professor. They’re not still. They’re moving. ” Myrtle pressed her palm flat to the floor.

The footsteps above her shifted. The light through the cracks moved as they stepped away. “It’s not just me,” Trelawney said faintly as they left. “Something is opening.” Then the voices disappeared.

Myrtle stayed frozen. Because of the knowing she had . The words wouldn’t leave her head. The blood. The bones. The language she couldn’t understand. But Myrtle could . Myrtle had. And she had told no one. Not a soul.

She counted to ten before she moved. Then I climbed up the stairs slowly, dizzy.

Her legs shook when she stood. Her knees nearly buckled. She gripped the stone wall until her balance returned. She didn’t go back to Ravenclaw Tower. Her mind had already decided. Her feet moved before her thoughts caught up. She turned and went to the dungeons.

To him . 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The stone was cold against her back and Myrtle had curled tighter behind the dragon statue. The chill stick to her skin. She’d been counting the seconds.

Thirteen minutes. That’s how long she’d been waiting. 

She knew his pattern down to the footstep. He always returned this way from the east wing—after pacing the quiet corridors alone, unraveling whatever thoughts that were in his head.

And just like she expected, there on minute sixteen, his footsteps. Her stomach flipped, and before she could talk herself out of it, she surged forward from behind the statue, instantly grabbed his sleeve, and pulled him quickly into the shadow with her. Her breath caught in her throat.

He didn’t flinch. Not even slightly. Just blinked down at her while swallowing. “Miss Warren,” he said with mild surprise. “I could’ve hexed you.” He sighed. Probably tired. Like this wasn’t unusual and he already knew how Myrtle moved with the shadows.

“You wouldn’t,” she said breathless. 

He stopped for a moment before: “No…” he admitted. “I wouldn’t.” His voice had dropped to something quieter now. Softer.

They were too close. Their coats brushed. Her shoulder nearly pressed into his. But she didn’t step back. Couldn’t. Not when she felt like her heart might snap her ribs from the inside. 

“She’s seeing them again,” Myrtle said quickly. “Trelawney.”

His spine straightened half an inch almost immediately after hearing that. “Visions?” he asked. “Visions of what?” His voice was too calm. He probably had already guessed the answer but wanted her to say it anyway.

“Muggleborns,” Myrtle said. 

“Dead. In the halls. She said it felt near. That she knows something’s opening. Something’s here. ” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. She hated that. Hated sounding afraid. But she was. Merlin. She was.

He didn’t speak at first. He pauses. A long one. Too long. Then: “Good.” He muttered, nodding in approval. It knocked the breath from her. “What?” she said, barely a whisper. Her hands had gone cold. Her whole body had.

“That means we’re close,” he said. She looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like she didn’t know the shape of his face anymore.

“And what about the Muggleborns?” she asked. “What about me?” It came out before she could stop it. Her throat tightened.. “I am one,” she added. Too quiet. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes locked onto hers. “You believe her?” he asked finally. 

Myrtle didn’t answer fast enough.

“I asked you,” he repeated “Do you believe her, Myrtle?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her lips trembled once. “I believe you ,” she whispered underneath her breath. It surprised even her. It came out smaller than she meant it to. Honest. Vulnerable. She hated that. Hated that it showed.

Something shifted in his face. Not much and he tilted his head slightly. “Then trust me,” he said after a moment. His voice was almost gentle.

“I do,” she whispered. “I—I really do.” And she meant it. She didn’t care if it made her pathetic. But the fear wouldn’t leave. 

“But I’m Muggleborn ,” she repeated. He stepped closer after that sentence. Just an inch. Close enough that his breath touched her cheek. “Not really,” he said. “You’re helping us.” He paused.

“Helping me. ” He corrected himself. His hand brushed her arm—it was barely there but it made her chest throb. “I told you,” he said. “For glory . For what comes next.” His voice deepened, his eyes darkened. 

“You’re part of this.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. 

“You know more than any of them.”

She wanted to believe it. She needed to. His hand lifted—slowly—and cupped her face. His hand was cold. Always so cold and stiff when it comes to him. The touch was terrifyingly perfect. Like the man standing in front of her right now. 

“Myrtle,” he said. 

Gosh, the way he said it.

“You’re an exception ,” he said firmly. Her eyes stung suddenly. She almost cried. Almost.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said all of a sudden. “I’ll make sure of that.” He didn’t promise things. Not ever. But that almost sounded like one. Her glasses slipped slightly down her nose. They always did when she was close to sniffling or sobbing or ugly crying.

He reached up with the same hand that had just touched her cheek. And with his fingers, he pushed her glasses back into place. That tiny motion shattered something in her. 

Then—without warning—he leaned in and kissed her forehead. Softly.

She forgot how to breathe. 

The cold air around them suddenly felt far away. He pulled back just then. His eyes suggest that meant nothing. He’s trying to hide it. Myrtle knows it now. She’s gotten better at reading him. It meant everything. His face was distant again, but his voice, when he spoke, was softer than she’d ever heard it.

“Go back to your Tower,” he said. “Don’t talk to anyone about this.” 

She nodded. “I won’t.” Then added, because she needed him to hear it: “I never do.” 

He nodded once, approving. Then he turned and walked away. Myrtle stayed behind the statue, pressed her hand to her cheek. To the place he touched. Her heart wouldn’t calm. It beat against her ribs. But she didn’t want it gone. She wanted it to stay . She wasn’t like the others. She’s sure of that now. She was part of something bigger. 

She was magic.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Breakfast. 

The Great Hall buzzed like usual, annoying laughters and some few gossips here and there. Myrtle sat just down the Ravenclaw table, near the edge, well, almost. Her hands wrapped around a lukewarm teacup. She hadn’t eaten much. Just a crust of toast that’s now sitting cold on a plate right in front of her.

Suddenly the owl, her owl, the one that she named Barnely just because, dropped a letter directly onto her toast. Butter stained the edges of it immediately. Typical . Myrtle exhaled through her nose, rolled her eyes and wiped it clean with the edge of her robe’s sleeve.

She picked the letter up.

She recognized her mother’s handwriting instantly. She took a look at it for a moment. 

Myrtle hesitated. 

Her teacup trembled slightly as she set it down. Her fingers itched. She peeled it open, unfolded the parchment, and the scent of her home hit her almost immediately. She missed them, her parents.

She read the return address first, out of habit.

Mrs. Elspeth Warren
38 Lavington Street
Southwark, London

She turned the letter around and eyes scanned the words quickly:

 

---

My dear Myrtle,

I hope this finds you well. Are they feeding you properly? You always forget to eat breakfast, and I worry you’re just running on tea like you often are. I’ve enclosed another pair of wool socks. Please wear them. It’s getting cold here by the way, colder than last year, I think.

Your father says hello. Oh and we’ve had two air raids in four days. The sirens went off in the middle of the night on Monday. I took your father’s arm and we walked to the shelter with the neighbors. Margaret’s mother was crying. Their relatives in Clydebank lost everything last spring and she’s convinced we’ll be next.

It’s worse down south. The Germans are hitting London harder even than before. There’s talk that they’re working on some kind of new weapon. Mr. Balfour from the paper says Hitler’s getting desperate. 

I don't know what to believe anymore.

Plus, the news from France is darker every day. They’ve breached Calais, it seems, and smaller villages nearby. There are stories of entire schools being shelled. One story said they shot a headmistress for not handing over her class list. I don’t know if it’s true. 

In Denmark, they’re registering Jewish families now. That’s the word being used. “Registering.” Some say they’re being taken somewhere, to camps. But we don’t know where. Or why. The Ministry won’t publish a word of it. It's all been scrubbed out. 

You have to listen, really listen now Myrtle.

Your cousin Isobel sent word from Paris. She’s staying with someone near Montmartre, but she says the Germans have begun searching door to door. Some nights, there’s knocking. Aunt Joel said Isobel pretended to be asleep with a knife in her hand. They want to flee to Sweden. I hope they get out before it’s too late.

Your father is doing what he can. We’ve boarded the windows. But what does that do against bombs? I keep thinking, Myrtle, that if we had a wand maybe we could protect something. I know the government tries. I know they think they’re doing all they can. But sometimes I lie awake wondering what I’d grab if a bomb hit the garden. 

Even you. You're far from here, and I know Hogwarts is supposed to be safe. But I worry, sometimes, that even there... even there, you aren’t truly safe. I don’t mean to frighten you. Just write me back. Tell me what charms you’ve learned. And eat more. Keep warm.

With love,

Mum.

P.S. We haven’t seen Margaret since the incident. Her family keeps her inside now. I suppose that’s for the best. I hope you aren’t still angry. Sometimes people don’t know how to act when they’re afraid.

---

 

Myrtle stared at the last few lines like they were burning through the letter. Her hands clenched. She remembered Margaret’s laughter, the way she’d pointed at Myrtle’s glasses, her face, her everything. That summer. The day Myrtle had her in the road.

She remembered what came next too. The explosion. The invisible force that shoved Margaret back all of a sudden. The silence after. The fear. Her scrambling. And not long after that, when Margaret’s mother had confronted her mum, it was her mum’s trembling fear.

Because her mum knew it wasn’t just Myrtle pushing Margaret too harshly until Margaret had multiple scars, it was her magic.

“Magic is not for punishing,” her mum had said. “You should’ve just walked away.” But Myrtle had known even then that walking away won’t help anyone. Not once. 

And now? Her parents had nothing. No defense. No spells. Not even a wand. Just the hollow hope that something might save them when bombs didn’t. Her mother would try to reason with a soldier, with a gun, with death. And it wouldn’t be enough. 

Myrtle knew that.

She always felt like she knew that.

She looked down at her wand beside her plate. It gleamed softly under the light. She looked at it again, really look. That wand, the magic, was the reason she wasn’t rotting in a shelter somewhere. The reason she hadn’t broken under Olive. Or Mary. Or Polly. Or Margaret.

Around her, the Great Hall was the same. Laughter from the Gryffindor table. Polly flipping her hair and whispering into another girl’s ear. A boy near the end of the table levitated a biscuit just to show off. Just because he could.

She didn’t look at them. Not long. Her eyes moved to the Slytherin table. To him . He was eating breakfast with Lestrange like usual. He wasn’t watching her, but she didn’t need him to. She could still hear his voice. 

You’re helping me. You’re different. You’re going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it.

She folded the letter slowly and slipped it into her pocket. Then she reached for her wand. Held it in her hand for a second longer than usual. Felt its weight and then its promise. It was proof, of power, of protection.

Myrtle knew the Muggle world was collapsing, swallowing itself in fear. But this world, her world, this new one, was building something unshakable. And she wasn’t outside of it. Not anymore. She was inside the storm. Building it too.

Her eyes flicked towards Tom once more, this time, he met her gaze, as if he could feel her eyes on him. One of the corners of his lips curled up and Lestrange nudged him. Myrtle broke the eye contact and smiled under the shadow of her bangs. 

That. 

That’s the man she’s building it with.

To glory.

Chapter 24: XXI

Notes:

TWO FOR YALL IN A DAY CAUSE IM FEELING TIRED ... bzzZzzzZzzz

The fire in Slughorn’s study crackled too loudly. The warmth from it was already pressed against the walls and the smell of sweets felt suffocating in this room.

Tom stood near the back of Slughorn’s office, close to the glass cabinet of preserved manticore liver. His cup of tea cooled in his hand. He hadn’t touched it since Slughorn gave it to him, instead, he let his eyes skimmed around the room, sizing up the people, noting who Slughorn smiled at longer than others.

Slughorn had invited them, formally, to officially be a part of a club. His club. The slug club. The room had been handpicked. Only ten of them. 

“What a group! What promise you all have! The first of many such gatherings. We could have conversations, build connections... and of course! Learning. Always learning… ”

Avery had taken the armchair closest to the trolley. He was already eating maybe around 3 cups of strawberry jam. “These are unreal, sir,” he said with a full mouth, Tom had winced at the view. Slughorn beamed. “Special order, my dear boy. From Gladrag’s cousin in Hogsmeade.”

Lestrange sat next to Tom, as always, one of his legs crossed. He didn’t speak unless needed, or when he needed Tom’s opinion on something. 

Tom looked at Nott who stood near the window, he was very stiff and silent, both of his arms crossed tight in front of his chest. And across from him—Rosier, a blonde 4th year student that Tom had never interacted with. That’s not because he’s unremarkable, but he is an heir to a dead name, to the Rosier family.

He was lounging next to Mulciber. 

Their knees brushing occasionally. Rosier hadn’t spoken once. But when Mulciber reached for the glass jug, Rosier slid it toward him before he even asked. Their fingers touched. Mulciber murmured some thanks. Typical.

Tom’s eyes shifted to the Gryffindor girl, named Marlene Woodcroft. She was a sixth-year, fond of charming her own jewelry. Tom knew that because she’s been looking at her own reflection on the goblet in her head since the past seven minutes. She was giggling under her breath, trying to bat away Avery’s flirting. He gestured too much, chewed mid-sentence, and kept offering her lemon drops that are clearly melting but she took one anyway.

The Hufflepuff boys sat beside the sweets tray: David Finch-Fletchley, he was the chatty one, the nervous one too, and Elias Ponds, nervous yes, but quieter. They were both decent duelers, but average. 

Slughorn liked them because they had family money and good cheekbones, he assumed.

Then there was the Ravenclaw girl, Imelda Carmichael, she was sitting alone near the bookshelves, sketching in the margins of her worn-out notebook. She hadn’t looked at anyone since she entered. Nothing extraordinary to take note of.

Tom had even started to second-guess his efforts to enter this very club himself.

Slughorn clapped again. “Anyway! Before we lose ourselves in sugar… Although Merlin knows why not, I thought a bit of spellcraft would warm our brains. A simple challenge. Theory, then practicing it. Nothing much really.”

Avery sat up immediately. “Do we win something?” 

Slughorn laughed. “First pick of the truffle cart, naturally.” That got a chuckle from a few of them. 

From under a cloth, Slughorn revealed five small glass spheres. “Inversion hexes,” he said proudly. “These reflect—not deflect—a caster’s true magical intention.” Silence. 

Slughorn cleared his throat. “We’ll go in pairs.” He waved a hand. “Let’s begin.”

Nott was called up with Imelda. She flicked her wand almost lazily, and her sphere turned red, paused, then turned to silver. It was calm and controlled, she seemed focused too. While Nott’s cracked. Literally . It split down the middle from pressure. And burst out in a red coloured explosion, Imelda whined. 

“Oh,” Slughorn winced. “Too much force, dear boy.”

Next was Mulciber and Rosier. Rosier didn’t even rise fully, he just raised his wand with a flick. His sphere spun clockwise, then cleared entirely. It was a perfect inversion. Then it was Mulciber’s turn. Mulciber’s mist pulsed deep blue, it was unusual. But Tom thought it suited him for a moment. 

“A very rare hue,” Slughorn said, eyes narrowing. “Remarkable restraint.”

“Learned from someone good,” Mulciber murmured and smiled under her eyelashes. Huh.

The Hufflepuffs went next. Finch-Fletchley’s sphere flickered green, while Ponds’ turned yellow and hovered in place for more than fifteen minutes. 

“Acceptable,” Slughorn said. “Still, you’ll want to practice those reversals before you start applying for Ministry tracks, eh?” He teased. Neither of them laughed.

Avery was paired with Marlene. She winked at him before casting. Her sphere turned a charming pink. “Nice. Suits you.” Avery said, earning a giggle from her. Avery casted and his went gold, then flickered, then BAM ! It flew towards a wall and shattered. 

“Bit chaotic,” Slughorn muttered under his breath. “Much like the caster.” “Ouch.” Marlene giggled again.

Last: Tom and Lestrange. Slughorn’s face actually brightened.Lestrange stood with a sigh, flicked his wand like he didn’t care. And that’s the truth: he didn’t. His mist turned grey at first, then swirled silver, it shimmered, like with glitter. There was no error like expected. 

Tom didn’t wait and casted his immediately. His cast was precise. The sphere shimmered, mist swirling quickly, too quickly, then, just for a moment, some shimmering black flickered at the edges. Only the edges. But Slughorn saw. His eyes widened, just for a breath. Then he smiled wide.

“Well,” Slughorn said, laughing too cheerfully. “Mr. Riddle. You never disappoint.” 

The room went quiet for a moment. Lestrange gave Tom a sideways glance and a smirk.

Tom bowed his head slightly. Smiling charmly. “Thank you, Professor,” he said. “The enchantments were clever.” Slughorn chuckled. “You’re all so brilliant . That’s why you’re here. Connections, remember! Intelligence, charm, magic! Every great wizard needs all three!”

The room stirred again. 

Slughorn clapped his hands. “Truffles, truffles, yes? Marlene, pick first. Then Mr. Riddle, of course. You earned it.” Avery groaned. “Not fair.” Tom let himself smile, just barely. 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Later, with the spell exercises done and the tea gone cool in its cups, Slughorn stood, clapped his hands once, and beamed. “Speak freely, my dears! Mingle! You’re all going places, you may as well know your travel companions.” 

Then he vanished to the loo.

Tom remained where he was, standing at the bookshelf, eyeing a framed photograph of Slughorn with the Minister for Magic. Both of them had empty expressions. Huh. Ornamental . Just like this room. Just like most of the people in it.

He felt the shift behind him suddenly. Rosier stepped up beside him, his hands were tucked into the sleeves of his robe and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly: “Tom Riddle.” 

Tom turned to face him slowly. Their eyes locked. Rosier’s face was unreadable. His voice, however, turns out to be sharper than a razor. 

“You’re the orphan, yeah?” 

Tom only narrowed his eyes, he took a step forward. Close enough for the flicker in Rosier’s jaw to give itself away. They locked eyes for a moment, before: “And you’re the heir to a dead name, yes?” Rosier blinked once. His smile faltered. Gone completely within a breath. The air between them thickened. 

Then Rosier exhaled sharply, letting out a bitter laugh without sound. “Fair enough.” He turned and walked off. He returned to Mulciber without looking back. The moment he sat Rosier murmured something, and Mulciber’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

Lestrange drifted in next to Tom, swirling a drink in one of his hands. “Sharp tongue, that one,” he muttered, eyes still on Rosier’s back. “He’s not stupid,” Tom murmured in return. “He’s quiet about it, but it’s there.” Tom added.

“Agreed,” Lestrange said. Then he leaned in, just slightly. “You think he’s worth it?” Tom didn’t answer right away. His eyes followed Rosier as he stood again, crossed the room. “He might be,” Tom said.

“But we test him,” he added. Lestrange grinned into his glass. “Thought you’d say that.” Then he clinked the rim against Tom’s elbow. “At least it won’t be boring.” He muttered. 

David Finch-Fletchley was laughing too loudly again, trying to impress Marlene with some Ministry rumor he’d overheard from his father. “They say they’re going to appoint another undersecretary. Imagine having that much gold and still not being able to tie your robes straight—”

Avery had taken over the truffle plate entirely while asking Elias Ponds if he knew how to duplicate a gold coin without it melting. “It’s not illegal if you don’t spend it, right?” Ponds, in respond, looked concerned.

Imelda hadn’t moved once. Still drawing in her notebook. She hadn’t touched a sweet, hadn’t joined a group. It reminded him of his Myrt—

Of Myrtle.

Slughorn returned just as Rosier whispered something to Mulciber again. Slughorn beamed. “Well then, I do think we’ve made an impression tonight! What a gathering!”

The first evening concluded.

Tom left the study with Lestrange, Mulciber, and Nott together. And just before the door shut—

Slughorn grabbed Tom’s elbow gently, pulling him aside. “Tom, my boy!” he whispered lowly. His breath still smelled faintly of cinnamon. “You’ve got a gift for leadership—you really must come to the next supper. I’d like to introduce you to a few names.”

Tom gave him a perfect smile almost in an instant. “I wouldn’t miss it, sir,” he said. And he meant it. Because the more he learned about them—their tics, their tells—the easier they’d be to use.

He watched Slughorn retreat back into the room. The door clicked shut behind him. Tom turned without pause just as Lestrange looked at him sideways. “Well?” he asked. Tom took a pause.  

“They’ll all serve a purpose.” He then said.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Transfiguration was today. Too bright transfiguration. The classroom was always too bright.

Even the desks were arranged in a semicircle, the middle left empty. Dumbledore stood there brightly, in the very middle of the circle. “Fourth-years,” he said, “today’s challenge: animated object transference . Theory, then practical. Try not to set anything on fire.”

Tom already had his notes open. He barely glanced up when the words inked themselves onto the blackboard.

Topic: Intermediate Transference
Goal: Transfer an existing animation spell from one object to another without severing the thread of energy.

Dumbledore twirled his wand once and a feather beside him began to bob up and down in the air. “Animation is easy,” he said, “but to move that spell into a second object, that requires control. Or else you’ll end up with a dizzy feather.”

A few students laughed. Tom on the other hand was already analyzing the enchantment’s structure. How much of the caster’s intent remained embedded after redirection. Lestrange leaned over and muttered, “Bet half the class turns theirs into twitching rubble.” Tom didn’t lift his head. “Bet you won’t,” he replied. Lestrange snorted.

Dumbledore made his way through the rows. “Mr. Riddle,” he said, “would you like to demonstrate?” Tom stood smoothly, immediately. Then he whispered: “ Transversio. ”

The energy peeled off the first feather, it hovered, and laced cleanly into the second. The feather rose, twitched and then floated in perfect mimicry.  Dumbledore smiled. “Excellently done.” But his eyes stayed on Tom too long. Just long enough to feel it. Tom met the gaze. Then he sat again without a word.

After class, the students quickly filled in the hallway. Tom walked beside Lestrange, only the two of them, the others scattered in the back. Lestrange kept glancing over. He seemed restless, his eyes always narrowing when he looked at Tom.

“What’s wrong with you?” he finally asked. 

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He waited until the corridor became quieter, away from the main laughter or nosy eyes or people that like to stick their noses in business they have no business attending to.

“He’s watching.” Tom whispered after a while.

“Who?” Lestrange asked. “Dumbledore?” He said it like it was ridiculous.

“Yes,” Tom said flatly.

They passed under the high arch of the east stairwell.. Lestrange shrugged. “So what? He watches everyone. That’s his job.” He said it casually, but Tom could see the way his fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.

Tom stopped at the window. “Not like this,” he murmured. “He’s waiting for something. Or watching for it.” He turned his head slowly. “And he’s too patient for it to be simple curiosity.”

Lestrange leaned against the frame beside him. “You’re paranoid,” he said. Yet, he looked at Tom, really looked. Then added, “What’s he seen, you think?” Tom’s mouth was tight. “Enough to suspect,” he said. “Not enough to act. Yet.” He stated. Lestrange nodded once. “So we stay ahead.”

Tom turned away from the window. “We need a new space. The dungeons aren’t safe anymore.” His 

Lestrange scoffed lightly. “What, you want a second common room?” he asked. 

Tom didn’t even glance at him. “Exactly like that, but better,” he said. “A room that only we can reach. No perfect patrols, no eyes nor teachers…” Lestrange was quiet for a moment. “How the hell do you find a room like that?” he asked. 

“I’ll see.”

They walked again. Behind them, the door to the Transfiguration classroom was shut. Tom didn’t look back. But he felt it again. The weight of eyes on his neck. Not just anyone’s eyes. Dumbledore’s smile still hadn’t left his mind.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The six of them were out like usual, walking around the corridors. Tom in the center. Lestrange on his left and Augareta on his right.

Technically, they weren’t supposed to be out, sure, but the castle’s rules didn’t apply anymore. Not really. Rules bent around them now. Tom made sure of it. Magic bent if you held it tightly enough. So did people. So did stone.

Augareta tilted her head back. “You know what they say,” she murmured over her shoulder. “If a girl stares at the stars long enough, she’ll see the face of the person she wants to kiss.” Her voice dripped low.

Lestrange scoffed, not even glancing at her. “I thought you were a realist.” He muttered. “I’m bored,” she said flatly. “That’s different.” Lestrange raised a brow. “Then maybe kiss the floor. You’ve been watching it the whole walk.” 

“Only if you’re going to join me.”

Avery groaned behind them. “Could you two not? I haven’t eaten since dinner and now I want to be sick.” He groaned. “You had five treacle tarts,” Mulciber murmured, giving Avery a side-eye.

“I’m a growing boy,” Avery retorted, rubbing his stomach. 

“You’re a sugar beet with legs,” Nott muttered. He’d been pacing just a step ahead of them the whole damn time. His fingers were clenched and he hadn’t blinked in minutes. Tom Riddle had counted it, one, two, three. Like droplets of torturingly slow rain.

“I’m serious,” Nott said sharply when no one answered. 

“We need a secure space. The library’s now already filled with eyes that bulge out here and there and the dungeons are too loud. And now Dumbledore. I swear this whole Dumbledore thing—” He paused and took a sharp inhale “Look. I don’t care if you’re calm about it. I’m not. ” He turned. “If we lose ground now—”

“We’re aware,” Tom said while clenching his jaw. Nott’s jaw twitched in response. “I’m not saying it to complain,” he snapped. “I’m saying it because the Chamber and Salazar, and all of that it—it—all of it—it’ll all be another myth if we hesitate now.”

“You’re spiraling again,” Lestrange said, rolling his eyes. “I’m focused,” Nott growled. “You’re not,” Lestrange replied. 

“You’re frothing.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Make me.” 

Then Tom suddenly stopped walking. He said nothing. The halt behind him was immediate, they crashed onto one and another. They were just past the seventh corridor. There was a wall in front of Tom, the one with the tapestry,: Barnabas the Barmy. A joke of a wall, well… supposedly. But now… there was a door.

Avery blinked. “Was that always there?”

It wasn’t. They all knew it. 

The door was tall and it was Iron-framed. The color of the elegant wood was dark-green streaked with black veins. There were no hinges nor any seams. Just a single silver serpent that looked like it roared for a handle.

“That wasn’t there five seconds ago,” Augareta whispered. “What the hell?” Lestrange said, stepping up beside Tom. “Is this a—trap?” Avery asked. 

“No,” Tom said. His voice was low, sure. “ It’s the Room of Requirement .”

He stepped closer. The handle was cool before he touched it, like it knew he was coming. The serpent’s mouth was opened wide. Tom didn’t hesitate a single bit when he pushed open the heavy door. Both of the doors groaned open like it hadn’t moved in centuries.

The inside of it was dim. There was a fireplace at the end right in the middle, the fire was enchanted gren. The ceiling arched above them high, like cathedral churches. On the left of the room were bookshelves, it stretched high, empty, yes, but they're waiting to be filled. And in between them there are tables. 

To the right: there were potion stations. On the side, a kettle of tea brewed. And just in the middle of the room, the center of it, right in front of the fireplace was a flush velvet green sofa. 

Tom stepped inside without pausing. The others followed. One by one. 

“This is—” Augareta breathed, unable to finish. “Perfect,” Mulciber finishes for her. 

Tom ran his hand across the bookshelf. Waiting. He checked the cauldrons. Already warm. The wand rack. Clean. Not a speck of dust. It had made itself for him. And for him only. 

Nott touched the desk nearest the end of the bookshelves. “This is where we do it,” he whispered. “Where we bring it all back. Everything.” 

“Glory?” Tom asked, and for the first time all day, he smiled wide.

“That, and...” Nott trailed off, eyes fixed on the far wall. “ Purpose .”

Avery collapsed dramatically onto the velvet sofa. “Does it stock chocolate?” he asked. “Check the tea tray,” Lestrange muttered. Mulciber reached into his bag and pulled out the Beasts of Origin: Forbidden Creatures of the Reptilians.  

He passed it to Tom silently, they exchanged a brief glance for a beat before Mulciber nodded down, almost like a mock bow. 

Tom took the book from Mulciber and placed it on the central shelf.

The first book. The first mark. 

Tom stepped back. Let his eyes run over every inch of the room. This is it. Now, they had a place to build.

Chapter 25: XXII

Notes:

GUYS I LITERALLY FORGOT ABT UPLOADING LOL, I already have so many chapters stored thoo hehehehe

March 1942 — Myrtle’s lenses.

The Ravenclaw common room had been too loud. Yes. The lavish luxurious white-marble and royal blue common room had been too loud. It was too full of Olive Hornby’s laughters, the ones that sounded like ugly crying from a green ugly-nosed witch. At least that’s what Myrtle hears. 

Myrtle sat near the corner window for fifteen minutes pretending to read. She wasn’t reading, not exactly, she couldn’t. So she decided to put on her new boots.

No one noticed when she left. They hadn’t in weeks. Not worth picking on. Not amusing anymore. Maybe. But it’s better. She liked it better this way. Lonelier, yes, of course, but simpler. Quieter. She’d started savoring the silence.

They’d all moved on, anyway. 

Euphenia and Awick are still friends, but distant ones, they made up, yet they live in different worlds now Polly barely made eye contact anymore unless she wanted the sugar passed. Even Olive didn’t bother to hex her hair lately. 

Myrtle used to cry about it. Now she just... didn’t.

She’d gotten used to moving without being seen. Liked it, actually . Her Disillusionment charm had improved. Far better than last year, Tom would be proud. Her steps had silenced out of habit and the callus on her palm had hardened from Charms class dueling.

It hurt sometimes, but she liked that. Proof of something. Proof of effort. Of usefulness. That she’s growing—just like the sorting hat said.

The Restricted Section had become her place. No one followed her here. Well, maybe Peeves, but Peeves had also found her more boring day by day now, especially when madam Pince had believed Myrtle more than him when he tried to just Myrtle for sneaking in the restricted section, murmuring: “This is worse than when that Sebastian boy took the blame.”

Tonight, she came without a reason. Just the usual ache under her skin. The kind that came when she missed Tom too long. They hadn’t properly spoken in days. Only exchanged a few lines between classes. Quiet nods. A look across the courtyard. A brush of fingers when he handed back her notes without glancing. 

She hated how she craved it.

So she came here. Again. The duplicated key was still in her inventory and it still worked like usual. The lock clicked open softly. She stepped through and let the dark swallow her. It was always cold inside. It used to be scary, now the chest with an eye and chained up books felt like a friend. 

She wore her new boots tonight—the ones Augareta had insisted she buy last week in Hogsmeade. It was a deep green leather boot, expensive, but she had paid for it, with Lestrange’s money of course. The boots were stitched neatly up the sides. 

“There we go, some style.” Augareta had said.

They’d gone alone. Well, together. Myrtle hadn’t expected that. Augareta hadn’t mocked her once. Had bought Myrtle some peppermint candy. Had linked arms briefly when they crossed the icy bridge. And had tidy up her bangs when the wind blew too much.

Myrtle’s fingers trailed along the books that are sitting on the bookshelves. No goal, really… Just something to do while she wished he’d show up behind her. Whisper something cruel or maybe clever. Tap her shoulder and pretend it didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t come. So she kept walking.

Then her fingers stopped on one particular book that seemed to be calling for her: Sanguinem Antiquis: Genealogy of Slytherin’s Bloodline.

Her heart slammed against her ribs once. Twice. She looked around out of instinct. Still alone. She reached out with both hands. The book was heavier than it looked. Her arms trembled slightly as she pulled it free. It smelled like dried ink and fire. She sank to the floor, sitting between the shelves, hiding behind a column. No light but her wand tip.

She whispered, “Lumos.”

The pages inside were already old and yellowed. Latin and Old English. There were names, lineage charts. Symbols she didn’t recognize and others she did. Some names were crossed out. Some were burned.

She flipped until she saw it. The serpent. Heritage confirmed through speech and blood. The words pulsed like a heartbeat. She swallowed. Her lips were dry. Tom would want to see this.

She closed the book gently. Pressed her fingers to the cover, then to her chest. She missed him. Too much. Too stupidly. But this would matter. This would help. She didn’t need to talk about it. Just bring it. Just be useful again.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

He came exactly when she knew he would. Fifteen minutes past curfew. Like his routine.

She stepped out fast from behind the dragon statue. Grabbed his sleeve and pulled with no hesitation. The statue loomed behind them, hiding them in its huge body. “Myrtle.” He whispered, slowly towering over her. “I should get used to this.” He mumbled.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Look. I found—this.” She shoved the book into his hands. Her pulse roared in her ears. She could still feel the weight of it, the books on her, the excitement. She didn’t breathe as he looked down.

Tom stared at the cover. He looked at it for too long. His expression didn’t shift at first, he looked frozen, but then, something gave. His mouth twitched, forming a real smile, small and stunned and half-broken. 

He looked at her then. Eyes gleaming. His hands came up, gripping her wrists with a force that almost made her flinch. “I knew it,” he said. His voice was tight, ragged with disbelief. “I knew it—” He stopped.

She blinked at him. 

“Do you know what you’ve found?” he whispered, too low for anyone else to hear, even if the hallway was empty. Myrtle’s breath caught. “Did I do well?” she asked softly. She didn’t know what answer she wanted—only that she needed one. Needed something. 

He didn’t say yes. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Once: Fast.

Twice: Slower. More desperate.

Then again. A third. And a fourth.

Her gasp caught between their mouths. She laughed into it, shocked and breathless. “Tom—” she started, but he kissed her again. Her back hit the stone wall, hands clutching the cold edges of his sleeves. “Wait—”

Another kiss.

“Wha—” she tried, but he was already leaning in again, mouth pressing to hers. Her fingers twisted in his robes. Her body buzzed. “Tom—” she whispered between kisses, so so so dazed. “I—I don’t—”

He finally pulled back. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at her. His face was flushed in a way she hadn’t seen before. His voice came almost immediately after he rested his forehead against her. “You’ll read it with me.”

She nodded fast, still trying to catch her breath. “Yes—”

“Meet me again,” he said. “The west dungeons. Like we used to.” His eyes narrowed again as he looked at hers “Next Thursday. After Astronomy.” His hands loosened now around her arms. 

There was a pause, before he whispered softly: “You’ll remember?”

“I’ll remember,” she promised.

His expression cracked. For a moment, it was like he didn’t want to let go. But he stepped back, hands trailing from her sleeves like they didn’t want to leave either. “Good,” he murmured. “Don’t be late.”

Then he turned and walked away.

She stayed there, her heart beating so loud it rings in her ears. She watched him vanish. Her legs shook. She’s falling in love…

She is.

Is she not?

Danggit.

Myrtle flushed. She hadn’t meant to fall in love again. Not like this. Not this much. But he was all she could think of. She smiled then tucked the moment into her chest, like a secret, always.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Myrtle had picked the end of the Ravenclaw table for breakfast. She’d been rereading her Charms notes, when she felt someone shift behind her. It was obvious. Olive Hornby. She suddenly dropped into the seat beside her. “Morning, Myrtle,” she purred.

Mary slid in across from her. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Forgot how to eat?” Polly flanked the other side. The corners closed around her almost in an instant. Myrtle didn’t move, she only sighed. In a sudden Polly tugged at her braid gently, twirling it around her fingers. 

“You know,” she whispered, “this one’s getting lopsided again. You should really braid tighter. Or maybe not at all. It’s a bit... sad.”

“Go away.” Myrtle muttered. 

Olive’s eyes lit up. “That’s rude,” she gasped. “Is that how we treat guests?” Mary leaned in after that. “We’re just trying to help, Myrtle. You look like you’ve been hexed already.” Polly snorted into her cup. “Do you even own a mirror?”

“I said go away—” That seemed to be the straw for Mary. She lifted her goblet and tipped it—slow, slow, slow, orange juice spilling right into Myrtle’s bag. Myrtle gasped, grabbing it, too late. “Oops,” Mary said. “Clumsy me.”

“Not again,” Myrtle whispered, pushing the bag away. Her eyes stung. Not here. Not again. But then suddenly Olive picked up her own goblet. And, slowly, she upended it over Myrtle’s head. Myrtle gasped even harder, trying to blink her way.

“Is it refreshing there, Myrtle?” Olive cooed. “You looked warm.”

Laughters erupted. Most of them from the Gryffindor table. Polly shrieked with it. Mary clapped once. “Shut up,” Myrtle cracked.

“Oh, poor Myrtle,” Olive said, leaning closer. 

“Wishing your imaginary boyfriend would swoop in and save you?” she sneered. “Come now. Someone to kiss you? Your cursed little forehead and brush that greasy hair off your face?” Mary joined in. “Why don’t you hex us, Myrtle? Show us how scary you are?” Her voice went deeper. “Oh, wait! You’re too weak for that.”

“I’m not weak,” Myrtle snapped, finally snapping her eyes open.

“Sure you aren’t,” Olive said sweetly. “I mean, maybe the right boy just hasn’t kissed you yet. Or seen you in the right light. ” Polly laughed. “Do you think anyone would kiss her?” she asked the table. “Actually kissed her? Not in a dare? Not by accident?”

“Bet she practices on the mirror,” Mary whispered. “Or her pillow.”

The words sparked something. Heat rushed up her neck. Her ears burned. The tears came up so suddenly. Her hands clenched and she stood up from her seat in an instant. And before she could stop herself, before she could even think, she shouted:

“At least Tom Riddle would kiss me!”

The noise swallowed the hall. There was an immediate silence that followed. So silent it rang in Myrtle’s. Everyone’s heads were turned. Locking their eyes on Myrtle’s figure. Everyone. 

“What?” Olive said, blinking. Her mouth hung open slightly. “What did you just say?”

Myrtle’s throat felt raw. But she forced it out. “Y–yes,” she said, trembling. “He would—he did .”

…

Then came the laughter. Not just from Olive or  Polly or Mary. But from everywhere. E-v-e-r-y-o-n-e. The Hufflepuffs from their table leaned over to whisper. The Slytherins snorted. While The Gryffindor was already in a frenzy.

“Tom Riddle?” someone repeated.

“Her?” another said.

Olive was howling. Tears in her eyes. “Myrtle,” she gasped between giggles, “you’re delusional. That’s not even funny, it’s just sad.”

Myrtle breathed fast, trying to make sense about what just happened. She looked around, towards the howling laughter and ugly laughing faces. She hated this, hated them all. Then she ran.

She didn’t know where she was going. Just away.

Just away.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Throughout that week, he didn’t look at her. Not once. Not even by accident.

In the library, Myrtle sat at her usual corner table near the Restricted sections. It was quiet there, people were meaner than before because of that shouting incident. And when she was about to flip a page, that’s when she heard the familiar rhythm of his footsteps. She looked up and he… he passed her aisle without turning his head.

She waited five minutes. Ten. Told herself maybe he hadn’t seen her. 

But when she left, she saw him in the back corner with his focus on a map in front of him and  Lestrange whispering something beside him. They both laughed. And Tom never even once glanced up.

The next morning in the corridor, she nearly collided with him near the Charms stairwell. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, it still smelled like oranges by the way. Their shoes even scraped the same stone. Yet, he didn’t stop. Just kept walking, Lestrange at his side, murmuring something too low to hear.

Her name didn’t even register in his eyes.

That night in the courtyard, she passed by the fountain, fingers numb with cold, breath puffing silver. She saw him standing near the outer wall with Mulciber and Avery flanking him.  Tom looked relaxed, but his face didn’t. He looked tense. Staring into the middle distance with that hollow, unreadable fury. She stepped closer. Stupidly. Just enough to brush the edge of his shadow. He didn’t move.

Didn’t acknowledge her.

The worst part wasn’t the silence. It was the look on his face. Angry. Furious.

The school didn’t forget, either.

They whispered it now. Everywhere. 

“Crazy girl.”

“Delusional Myrtle.”

“Did you hear what she said?”

They mimicked her voice. Her words. They acted it out. At lunch, a Gryffindor boy stood on a bench and shrieked, “At least Tom Riddle would kiss me!” in a high pitched ugly tone that got Myrtle to re-listen to her own voice. She spilled her water and fled.

Some sixth-year girls transfigured a piece of parchment to fly after her in the halls. It chirped: “Tom kissed me! Tom kissed me!” and under it someone signed the name “Helena Botchley” and it turned to ashes.

She didn’t cry. Not once. She wouldn’t give them that. But in Defense Against the Dark Arts, she took the seat at the very back. Professor Merrythought called her name three times before she realised. Her voice cracked when she answered.

No one from Tom’s gang glanced at her anymore.

Only once, in the library, Myrtle saw someone glance at her with something like pity. Mulciber. He looked, then looked away. Said nothing. That somehow made it worse.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Thursday.

She had waited. She sat on the third step—just where they always met. It creaked if she leaned too far forward, so she didn’t. She stayed very still. She stayed like that for minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty-five.

The corridor stayed quiet. There was no sign of Tom appearing. He said he would come. He said it with that stupid serious look. “Next Thursday. After Astronomy.” That’s what he’d said. And then, “You’ll remember?” She had. She did. 

But he didn’t come.

Her fingers curled into the sleeves of her robe, tighter and tighter, until the edge of her wand dug into her palm. Still she didn’t move. Not even when the stair chilled through her skirt. Not even when her legs went numb.

She didn’t cry. She sat until the torches started dying one by one. Then she walked back. Back up the Ravenclaw tower. Through the common room where a few second-years were giggling over charmed paper stars.  Until she reached her bed. And saw it.

Grape juice. Again. Soaked through her pillowcase. It dripped over the edge, trailing onto the floor where her slippers were. She stood there for a full minute. Just staring at it. At the ruin of her space. Her space. Where no one was supposed to touch.

Then she folded.

She fell into the sheets like something gutted. Like something crumpling from the inside. Her face hit the wet patch and she didn’t even flinch. Her sobs came soundless at first. Then desperate. She didn’t try to muffle them. 

She shook. She broke. She curled her fists into the ruined bedding and bit down on her sleeve so hard she nearly bled.

Pathetic.

The word echoed in her own head. Pathetic. Weak. And what for?  She let the shame roll through her. Let it scrape her hollow. And then in the center of her chest. She felt something. A thought: this is the Muggle in me. That part that flinches. That cries. That begs.

Her breathing hitched. They didn’t have magic. Not her parents. None of them had power. Just like what Tom had said. They just took it and suffered it. Like what she is doing now. So she decided to sit up slowly. Even though her hair still stuck to her cheek. 

Chapter 26: XXIII

Notes:

Yesss guyss, I will be changing the chapters' title according to the chapter's content but Ill do that AFTER I finish the work because I dont determine what happen in a chapter... I usually just solo write it and let it flow. Btw here's another!

March 1942 — Tom’s lenses.

He saw her before she saw him, like usual, on the third corridor past the library. Myrtle. Her hair was tied tighter than usual. Glasses slipping again. She hadn’t seen him yet, muttering something underneath her breath.

He turned on his heel before she could look up and walked like he had somewhere to be, as fast as he could. He didn’t. The sound of his shoe on the stone floor was scrapy squeaky like. He hated that. It made it sound like he had changed his mind. He had. He just wouldn’t admit it.

Why were you even watching her? 

The thought snapped sharp in his head. She had been in the Restricted Section again, he knew that. She had been lingering around. She hadn’t found anything new. He would know if she had. She always brought it to him.

Still. He had watched anyway. And it’s because… because— If she had found something, he would’ve had a reason to speak to her again . An excuse. That was the truth, wasn’t it ? He missed the way she looked when she was nervous, too proud to smile but too careful to show it.

He leaned against the wall just beyond the archway. Let her pass. She hesitated near the corner and pushed up her glasses. His fingers twitched a bit, he noticed that. He hated that too. 

Ridiculous, he told himself. She’s a tool. A talented one, yes, but that was all. Right? 

After she passed, he stayed in place for a full minute. Imagining the drag of her shoes. He could almost hear the way she’d explain the stars. He didn’t need her. He’d tell himself that again. He didn’t need her voice, her ridiculous motes, or the warmth she gave off when she thought she’d impressed him. He didn’t need the way she looked at him like he could rewrite the world.

But he wanted it. Not always. Not all the time. But right now. 

He pushed off the wall and moved in the opposite direction. Toward the dungeons. He needed distance. From her. From the feeling. Whatever this was. It wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need it.

Yet he waited again. For a sign. For another reason. For her to find something—anything. So he wouldn’t have to be the one to speak first. So he could justify this weirdness. Just another move. 

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Morning, he had slowly packed the books from his trunk into his bag. The books related to Salazar or the chamber, he had packed it without a word into his bag, to put it on the shelves in the room of requirement. It’s better like that, than having to open and close his trunk for the total amount of thirty times per day. 

Once he reached the room of requirement, he wasted no time to place the books from his bag onto the shelves. He put them in order. Because order made things easier. Alphabetized and all.

The Fabulae Slytherinorum went on the shelf first, the edges of it were still warped from Myrtle’s overuse. He’d told her not to dog-ear pages. She’d done it anyway. So he had to smooth every corner back into place.

Next was the titleless Parseltongue study. There was no author, no table of contents. Myrtle had handed it to him, he remembered, she’d said: “It was humming,” 

He placed it on the shelf beside the Slytherin text. They had annotated those together. Not that he would ever say it to anyone. But her handwriting filled the margins. And there were messy words. She always circled the things she didn’t understand twice.

Then the other books. When he was almost finished, Mulciber poked his head in. “Want me to refill the tea?” he asked, eyebrows rising. Tom still looked at the books he had carefully placed on the shelf. “No.” He murmured.

Mulciber lingered for a half second too long. “...alright,” he said, then disappeared again. 

After a while, Tom rested his hand against the binding of Salazar’s Dicta Prima. The Room was quiet again. He passed the fireplace again when he noticed there was one book out of place. He adjusted it slightly. His fingers brushed the edge of a page she’d dog-eared. Again. He left it. He didn’t fix it this time.

Crossing the Room toward the exit, he glanced once at the scrying orb mounted near the ceiling tuned to the dungeons, but currently blank. No Myrtle. She hadn’t come near this place in days. That was good.

He stepped into the hallway. And walk past the arch that led to the dungeon stairs, the dragon statue was there. He passed it. But he looked behind it. Just in case.

It was empty. 

That was… good .

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

He felt her before he saw her. The corridor was empty, but he already knew she was there.

She’d chosen the dragon statue like before. Obvious. He let his steps slow fifteen minutes past curfew, just like always, like she expected. And when she moved, he let her grab his sleeve. Let her yank him back behind the statue.

The stone behind him was cold. She looked up at him with that same doe eyes. “Myrtle,” he whispered, letting it fall soft between them. “I should get used to this,” he mumbled, watching her. He meant it. 

“Hey,” she whispered. “Look. I found—this.”

She shoved a book into his hands so suddenly. He tried to feel the book the second he touched it. The cover was heavy. He looked down and read the title: Sanguinem Antiquis: Genealogy of Slytherin’s Bloodline . His pulse kicked once, hard. It was real. 

He stared at it longer than he meant to. Longer than was smart. His mouth twitched. A smile. Real. Small. Stunned. Uncontrolled. He looked at her.

Her eyes were shining. Her cheeks were flushed pink. His hands moved then gripped her wrists tightly. “I knew it,” he said. “I knew it—” He stopped. Couldn’t say more. Not without giving too much away. His jaw clenches.

She blinked at him. Soft “Do you know what you’ve found?” he whispered, low enough to be inaudible. Her voice was soft, almost frightened, “Did I do well?” 

He didn’t say yes. Instead, he kissed her.

He kissed her, once then twice. A third and a fourth.

Her gasp caught between their mouths. He felt her laugh against him, he opened his eyes to see her, eyes wide and laughing. “Tom—” she started, and he kissed her again, before the sentence could finish.

Her back hit the wall. His hands gripped her sleeves tightly now. “Wait—” she whispered, but he didn’t. He didn’t wait. There was another kiss. Her lips were warm. Her fingers curled in his robes. 

“Wha—” she tried again, dazed. He leaned in, mouth to hers, and she didn’t pull away. She clung harder. He could feel it now—how much she wanted this.  “Tom—” she breathed into him. “I—I don’t—”

He finally pulled back. Only enough to breathe. Only enough to look at her. Her lips were red. Her eyes were glassy now. His own pulse was too fast, ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. He rested his forehead against hers to anchor himself again.

“You’ll read it with me.” It came out before he could second-guess it. Lowly, almost growling like He meant it. She nodded fast. “Yes—” “Meet me again,” he cut her off. His voice had dropped again. He had to make sure she heard every word. “The west dungeons. Like we used to.” He watched her face.

“Next Thursday. After Astronomy.” His hands loosened around her arms. He should let go. She looked stunned. He hesitated yet his voice softened just a fraction. “You’ll remember?”

“I’ll remember,” she promised.

“Good,” he murmured. That was all he let himself say. He stepped back before he could change his mind. He turned, fast, and walked. His fingers still tingled from her skin.  He didn’t look back. He didn’t dare. He walked faster. But not too fast. The taste of caramel still lingered.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

“She said what?!” Nott demanded, slamming a book onto the table.

Tom didn’t flinch. He sat still on the sofa. His eyes stayed locked on the fire, its green flicker casting shadows across his cheekbones.

“She shouted it,” Lestrange said. “In the Great Hall. Loud enough for the whole castle to hear. Olive Hornby barely had to provoke her.” He leaned back and let out a scowling bitterness. “She wanted people to know.”

Tom closed his eyes, trying to process this. “She said you kissed her,” Augareta murmured from the side. Like she didn’t want to be the one to say it. “Loudly.” Her gaze was steady, but cautious. Always cautious around him.

“And the whole hall heard,” Nott snapped. “First years. Hufflepuffs. Even Merrythought.” He paced, heel-clicks sharp. “They think it’s a joke. Yes. But your name is dragged into this mess now. Do you understand that? You. Tom Riddle.”

Tom didn’t look at any of them. He just pressed his fingers tighter together.  “She’s a liability,” Lestrange said. “I told you. Clever, yes. Useful, yes. But a bad move. A mudblood , Tom. You trusted her.” He sounded almost angry now. Not just at Myrtle. At Tom, too. “You let her close.”

Tom said nothing. The fire spat a spark. His jaw tensed.

“Tell us she’s lying,” Nott barked, stepping forward. “Tell us it didn’t happen.” The desperation in his voice cracked through the tension. “Just say it, and I’ll shut them up. All of them.” He murmured, already so sure.

Still nothing.

Tom didn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to.

Lestrange shifted, brow furrowing like he didn’t understand why Tom hadn’t answered already. Augareta looked down. She didn’t ask again. She didn’t need to. She’d seen the look on Myrtle’s face once. That had been enough. Tom knew.

Mulciber didn’t speak. He hadn’t since they’d entered. But Tom could feel his eyes. He always could. Mulciber didn’t speak when he already knew the answer.  

Nott’s voice broke again. “Tell us, Tom.”

Tom stood up.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t spare them a glance. He walked past them but didn’t slam the door when he left. He walked fast. His hands were fists. His teeth clenched tight. Fury bloomed in his chest. 

He should have expected this. He should have known. Of course she would ruin it. Of course she would scream it into the Hall like it was some kind of gift. Like it was something he gave her.  This was weakness. Proof he’d let someone matter more than they should’ve. He didn’t care. She was replaceable.. But his chest felt too tight. His breath too shallow.

Because she hadn’t lied.

That was the problem.

Every word she said was true. Every kiss. Every time she let him touch her. Every time he wanted her to let him. And now everyone knows. He could practically hear her. Her mouth saying he kissed me . Did she think it meant something?

It didn’t. It didn’t. It didn’t.

He passed the tapestry of the drowning knight without seeing it. His vision was red. His mind was louder than the corridor. He hated her. He hated her. He hated what she had done to him. What she had made him feel.

He stopped in an empty courtyard.

Pressed his hand to the wall. Chest heaving as he tried to steady his breath. His heart was still racing. He didn’t know if it was from anger or something worse. Merlin. She said it.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Tom had walked endlessly so these days. Because what was he supposed to do? She’d ruined it. No one believed her, thank Merlin but the whispers came anyway. The worst kind. Questions like: Did he say anything? Why hasn’t he denied it? Wouldn’t he have hexed her by now if it were false? They fed off silence.

And he gave them nothing. Maybe that’s what kept the rumors alive. Maybe that’s why they still watched him in the halls—waiting for a flicker of something. He gave them nothing.

His own people, though, that was the true cost. Nott’s eyes burned with doubt and anger now. Lestrange didn’t ask anything outright, but the way he kept watching Tom like he was waiting for a verdict said enough. Even Augareta had gone quiet. All because she opened her mouth.

All because she said his name like it belonged to her. He hated her. Gosh he had that sentence repeated over and over again. 

He hated the way her voice shook. The way her cheeks flushed when she thought she’d made him proud. He hated the way she made him feel something that didn’t serve the mission. Something weird. He had never felt it before and he survived, matter of fact he thrived.

He sat on the stairs right in front of the charms classroom, alone, the Slytherin bloodline book given by Myrtle open on his lap, but he couldn’t focus. He wasn’t even reading anymore. What is this? It felt like he was losing the sense of himself. Tom Riddle would never.

Helena Bletchley slipped right beside him, sitting on the side. The skirt was too short, even for her. Her too strong perfume was already infiltrating Tom’s breathing. “Tom,” she purred. “I could help you study, you know.” 

Her fingers drifted near his side, almost touching. “I’m excellent with Latin etymology,” she added, leaning forward. Too far. It was obvious, intentional, her cleavage was out in the wild now. “And I don’t need a kiss to do a favor.”

His eyes didn’t leave the page. The words Pars Haeres Sanguinem blurred. He could smell caramel. No–not Helena’s perfume. Myrtle’s breath. She always smelled like caramel. He inhaled sharply and turned the page. Blank. He hadn’t even been on that one.

Helena kept talking, something about Ancient Runes and how she’d “accidentally” left her quill upstairs. He barely registered it. The thoughts inside his skull were only filled with: Focus. Focus on Salazar. Focus on legacy. Focus on what matters.

Myrtle didn’t matter. Not anymore. Not again.

He stood up without a word. Helena blinked confused, slowly reaching for him. “Tom?” But he was already gone. He didn’t care if she looked insulted. He didn’t care if people saw. He had a bloodline to decode and a monster to wake.

He was done pretending. It had betrayed him.

He was back. Tom Riddle. The heir of Salazar Slytherin had no time to waste.

Chapter 27: XXVI

April 1942.

The Room of Requirement looked like it’s usual time: The books were still stacked, the fire still cracked, and the cauldrons still hissed. But it didn’t move. The Room of Requirement felt off for today, and it’s probably because the emptiness of the room is not the same as the emptiness in Tom’s chest.

Tom flipped through his notes on Parseltongue origin, his eyes were scanning the patterns he had memorised months ago. Yet none of it clicked. None of the bloody minutes of the afternoon clicked. And plus, the ink on his hand from yesterday hadn’t dried properly.

He had tried to wipe it off. Slowly. But that spot on his thumb still remained faintly grey. Useless.

He shut the journal hard enough that the spine let out a crack. 

Mulciber’s head suddenly appeared out of a corner. “You’ve been quiet,” He said, his voice from the distance. Tom couldn’t answer—there was nothing to say. He wasn’t going to, couldn’t, explain the tightness in his chest. Or the fact that every hallway or corridor was only buzzing now. Not when she might be in one.

Lestrange was sitting across from him, sharpening his knife tip on a piece of raw stone, the knife Augareta had custom-forged him for. The scrape of it echoed too loud. He glanced up—once. Held Tom’s stare a moment too long. Then back to his knife.

Silence.

It wasn’t because she was gone. That wasn’t the reason. It was because no one else was good enough. She’d proven that. Over and over. But knowing that didn’t stop the way his chest curled inward. Tom couldn’t name this annoying weirdness on his chest.

It had been a month. A full month since the Great Hall. She hadn’t stopped. She kept coming back. Still trying again and again and again. And he avoided her every single time. Even refused to meet her eyes.

The damage of it was too big, the others around him are slowly falling apart.

He memorized her schedule just to avoid the overlap. He slipped down corridors too early or too late and took alternate paths, knowing how clever she is at memorising, at remembering. Ducking around her like he didn’t notice. But he did. Every time. Her footsteps. He somehow knew it.

Once, she lingered at the corridor just outside Transfiguration. Another time, she paused outside Slughorn’s office like she meant to knock. She always left without saying a word. But he saw her. Every time. And every time, he told himself not to care. Because he didn’t. He never did. Not to anyone—not even to Lestrange.

He was walking down the stairs, just towards the dungeon. He had made sure he came back so very late because Myrtle knew he would come back to the common room just fifteen minutes after curfew. Now? He returned just after twelve.

Suddenly—Accio. 

His robe snapped back, so suddenly. His balance cracked. And his back slammed against the cold stone behind the dragon statue. He barely caught himself on the wall. His eyes shot upwards and that’s when he saw Myrtle. Huh. Myrtle.

Had he been away from her too long to forget how the air shifts when she’s in the room?

He did not expect this.

His wand was already halfway up. His instincts flared, it was immediate. The spell sat on the tip of his tongue. He was ready to curse her. He should’ve. He didn’t. Because then he saw the thing she held in her hands.

A wrapped book. 

His breath was still ragged, but he composed himself. “Don’t speak until you show me.” he said in between the sharp breaths. Cold. Like him. Exactly like him. Myrtle hesitated—but only for a moment. Then she unwrapped the cloth around the book slowly. And there it was. A book.

Nothing remarkable really. A dull book. With a black cover and a silver title that’s peeling off from it: Magick Moste Evile. For once, he thought, maybe Myrtle had lost her sense of cleverness at being useful after all. But still, he took it from her carefully and opened it not too long after.

He flipped through. There was Latin, and the Latin was old. The ink of it was already fading, what was once black words on paper now yellowish gray. He scanned the lines inside of it, skimming through it. And his mind sharpened fast. 

This was… surely a book. 

Then he turned another page. And stopped.

Horcruxes.

He stared at it. The paragraph below explained nothing. Just hints of it. Horcruxes. He remembered it, something, something that he had read during first years from the Wizarding World’s most infamous criminals. It had struck him at that time—a way to become… immortal, eternal. That means it is possible?

He exhaled. He looked up to look at Myrtle again. And for a moment, it felt like something turned in his stomach. Then, slowly, almost breathless, he said: “You’ll sit beside me again.” Myrtle’s breath caught. He looked away again. He didn’t need to look to know what her face looked like, her doe eyes, trembling pink lips. She would say yes. He already knew that. She always did.

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting behind the dragon statue already on the floor.. The book rested between them, heavy on his lap, her side pressed lightly against his shoulder. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. They just read.

Their hands brushed once—he didn’t move. She leaned closer to read over the incantation. He didn’t move away because her breath was warm on his wrist. He didn’t want to notice that. But he did.

“Thanks,” he said, quietly.

She smiled. Too wide. Hopeful in a way that made his stomach twist. He glanced at her for one second too long. The torchlight lit her glasses. She looked brighter suddenly.. As if she still thought something good would come of this.

And then it happened. Again

Something in his chest. That same weirdness. That same banging inside his ribs that once got him pacing around his dorm like a lunatic. Having to ask Lestrange about the silliest questions. He didn’t say a word anyway. He just turned the page again. But still, he felt it.

Whatever it was, he felt it.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

The clock is ticking, well, inside his head.

Two hours past curfew.

The stairs beneath Tom’s shoes were cold. He stood still, hands behind his back, watching Myrtle murmur something quiet about runes, from the book, as she prepared to leave. She clutched her notebook to her chest. “Good night,” she said softly. He nodded and let a small smile curl on the corners of his lips. But he wasn’t paying attention to Myrtle’s pretty doe eyes.

Not really. Normally he would—because—Suddenly, he could hear Lestrange’s smooth pace, Mulciber’s boots and Nott’s fast, sharp steps. He had told them before, in the common room, “Meet me at  twelve in The Room.” That’s what he said. So Tom knew the exact second they would walk up the stairs, and he didn’t move. 

Let them find him. Let them see. Let them see her.

Lestrange and Augareta were the very first ones to emerge from the corner. Augareta’s arms were hooked with Lestrange’s. When their eyes landed on Tom Riddle and the small sweet familiar girl with bangs, a braid, and glasses, they froze completely. The others came to a halt behind them,

Myrtle, on the other hand, didn’t freeze. Of course she didn’t. 

“Oh! Hi, Augareta,” she chirped almost immediately. Sweet like honey. Augareta blinked, almost too confused. “Oh. Hi…” she trailed off, her eyes were flicking between Myrtle and Tom. Nott, though—Nott’s face twisted. Tom could practically feel his gaze, his glare, from behind Lestrange’s shoulders.

It wouldn’t take Tom a guess or two to know that Nott’s eyes were shot wide.

Tom gave them a look and only the slightest nod. “Go to the Room first,” he said to them and gestured. A command, not a suggestion. They went still for a while, kind of hovering, but as usual, they obeyed, slow and wary, slipping past Myrtle. 

“The room?” Myrtle would ask when the others had gone. “What room?” She asked again, stepping in front of Tom again, just one step below him. Tom then looked down to meet her eyes, his lips parted. “You’ll know when I tell you,” he murmured.

Myrtle then furrowed her eyebrows. She would then stand on her tip-toe, eyes looking exactly in his, as if she wanted to read his mind, he leaned back a bit because she became dangerously close. Tom would suppress his smirk and throw his gaze away. 

“Myrtle.” 

“Huh?” She snapped back.

“For tonight, we’re done,” He whispered, and she grumbled, standing back down on her heels. “Oh! Right. Yeah,” She whispered, looking away towards a window. “Goodnight again, Tom.” She would then say, smiling sweetly and walking down the steps until she disappeared around the corner.

Fifteen minutes later, the Room of Requirement had gone quiet the moment Tom stepped through the heavy door. Not tense. Not yet. But coiled. Tom could feel it. Tension. He was used to it of course, tension, it has become almost a routine to his particular group since the past few months. 

Nott was already pacing in front of the fire, just in between the fireplace and the low table, his jaw was tight and To, noticed the way his hands were flexing for every three seconds.

Lestrange was leaning against the bookshelf just towards the end of the room, the second closest to the fireplace. Meanwhile Augareta was perched on the velvet sofa, legs crossed, fingers brushing her damp curls away from her face. Avery was sitting near the tea set, holding a half-eaten biscuit.

And Mulciber sat on the edge of the desk, just behind Lestrange. Silent. As always. Tom took a few long strikes across the room and he stopped just at the left side of the sofa, straightening his spine. He didn't say a word. The heat from the fire licked his skin, but he didn’t feel it.

Nott snapped first, breaking the silence. 

“So? What was that?” His voice was sharp, as always, Nott was Nott, but there was disdain laced with it. Tom didn’t answer. He didn’t even twitch. Nott’s eyes narrowed even more. “She’s back?” he demanded. “You let her in again?” He stepped closer. Like he might try something.

Tom’s hands remained still at his sides. Still. Very still. He took a step closer towards Nott. Nott’s voice rose. “She nearly burned your name down! Humiliated you. She said your name in front of everyone like—”

Tom lifted a hand in front of Nott’s face. Slowly but sharply. Nott’s voice was cut off mid-sentence. “She didn’t mean to,” Tom said quietly. And responding to that, Nott gave him a look.

Nott scoffed in disbelief. “That’s what this is? A forgiveness mission now?” He stepped even closer. They were just three steps close now, or two, no one knows but Tom guessed it was more plausible to be lesser than that. 

“You going soft? You letting that thing back in because you feel something?” Nott said—Tom’s jaw twitch.

Lestrange straightened slightly. It was silent in the room, except for the occasional crack of the fireplace or the sound of Mulciber’s finger tapping against the skin of his wrist. Even Avery has stopped chewing for the sake of it.

“She’s unstable,” Nott continued. “You really think she deserves to be part of this?”

“She’s helpful,” Tom answered. “She’s a mudblood,” Nott spat.

Tom gave Nott a sharp look, he walked a step closer towards him. “She found important discoveries. We would have been stalled for weeks without her.” He whispered, low, low like a growl.

“Yeah? What else has she given you?” Nott growled back. “You’re losing your edge. You think you know it all, Riddle? You’re not. I told you—remember your place.” With that,  Tom stepped forward. One step. Enough to tower over him. Nott rose too, trying to match it. Trying to look unshaken. 

Their eyes met, and for a while, it stayed like that. Nose to nose, eyes to eyes. Almost painfully so. Nott seemed like he wanted to read past Tom’s eyes. As if he could do it. Yet, suddenly, something shifted behind his eyes. Nott’s eyebrows rose—it was realisation, Tom guessed.

“You kissed her,” Nott said, the words almost spit out, disgust curling deep in his tone. There was a pause, not a brief one, because it did stretch. The others sat up straighter. Tom’s jaw ticked. “You did. Merlin you fuckin’ did.”

Tom didn’t answer immediately, instead, he let the quietness, the silence, of the moment, of the room, to sink in his skin. Not because he didn’t know what to say or he lost his words, Tom Riddle always knows words. He knew that they were going to know one way or another.

So, after a breath, “I did.” Tom said. “So what?”

The air cracked. 

Nott surged forward like something had snapped inside him. “So what?” he shouted—and then Nott shoved him.

It happened so fast. So fast in fact Tom first reaction then furrowed his eyebrows, the second it registers? He moved. He grabbed Nott by the collar and yanked him forward so fast the room could practically hear the raw sound of fabric tearing. His fist crashed into Nott’s ribs with a sick thud. “Shit—” Nott grunted, stumbled, and swung toward Tom’s jaw—it missed by inches.

Tom’s wand was in his hand now, it was pressed sharp under Nott’s chin. A threat, no words needed. They didn’t move for a while, Nott looked disheveled in disbelief. Then, he lunged forward, grabbing Tom’s wrist, dragging him down in the struggle. They went sprawling into the low table, just between the fireplace. The books on it crashed to the floor instantly.

Augareta looked pale, eyes wide. She flinched, shouted a: “Gosh!” Before jumping away from the sofa—that is dangerously close to the both of them. She went fast from the sofa to Lestrange, hiding behind her lover’s arm.

“Nott—Nott!” Tom grabbed Nott’s shoulders beneath him and shook him. Nott struggled under Tom, a glass from the table Nott kicked shattered against the rug. Hot tea hissed where it met parchment. Tom elbowed Nott hard in the side, “You—” Nott groaned and bit him. Nott bit him. Tom hissed, twisted, and slammed a fist across Nott’s face. 

It was harsh. Hard. It landed once on his cheek and another one on his nose. Blood sprayed from it then. Gasps from behind them could be heard. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Nott looked up at Tom, really looking up at him. His eyes were blood-shot, chest heaving. Red blood was smeared across his face, dripping down from his nose slowly all around.

Nott huffed, then laughed, laughed like a feral. In a second, he shoved Tom again and turned themselves around, now above him, he drove two fists into Tom’s stomach, fast and brutal. Tom folded for half a second, then brought his foot up hard into Nott’s knee. 

The crack echoed.

Nott screamed. He backed off immediately, steps stumbling, Tom took this opportunity to stand up from the table, stabilising himself on the floor.

Both their hands were slick with blood now—Tom’s right knuckles are torn, Nott’s lip weas split and streaming with blood. Nott collapsed against the sofa leg, still trying to stand. He looked pathetic. So much so it irritates Tom.

So Tom grabbed him by the collar again, he groaned, “Riddle.” He tried to warn him. But Tom didn’t have a car left in the world. Tom dragged Nott upright, straight to the fireplace, and slammed him down to his knees near the green-lit fire.

The green flames flickered across Nott’s face. Tom was behind him now, slowly gripping the back of Nott’s head. Their faces were inches apart, blood on both of them. Tom’s breathing was steady. Controlled. The tip of his wand still warmed from how tightly he held it.

Nott, on the other hand, was struggling, but Tom had a fistful of his hair, and Nott’s face was dangerously close to the fire. A bit of a push—Nott would lose his pathetic face.

Mulciber stood but didn’t interfere. Augareta looked pale. “Tom,” Lestrange said from behind him, Tom wouldn’t give him a look, mainly because he refuse to let his gaze away from Nott. “That’s enough.” Lestrange said.

Tom groaned and pushed Nott’s face closer towards it. “Riddle!” Nott shouted immediately.  “Riddle—wait!” Nott wheezed. “Riddle. Stop.”

Tom’s hand clenched. For one second, he looked ready to shove his face into the flames. But then, with restraint, he released him. Nott dropped. Immediately coughing. Trying to drag himself upright, his eyes were wild, like his hair.

“She’s ruining you,” he snarled after a moment of composing himself. Tom didn’t blink, he took a step closer towards Nott again but Nott stepped back. Funny. “You don’t get to say that.” Tom said.

“She’s a mudblood!” Nott roared.

“I know what she is!” Tom barked back. 

There was a moment of silence. For the both of them and for everyone in the room. 

Nott’s wand was out now, trembling in his hand. “She’s not one of us. She never will be.” Tom stepped forward again. Slowly. His voice steady. “I know.” He murmured, “But she’s going to be here.” He said, colder than before. He raised his wand. Just slightly. Nott faltered.

“You’re not.” Tom added.

Nott let out a bitter laugh. “Really Riddle?” He asked. Tom wouldn’t give an answer. And that was enough of an answer. Nott laughed. Then he turned and spat blood between Tom’s feet.

“Your cause is rotting from the inside.” Nott whispered.

He looked at the others. “Anyone else seeing this?” His voice echoed in the room—but no one answered. Avery even shrank back into the shadows.

Nott shook his head. “You’re all sheeps,” he muttered. Then he turned. Half walking limped. He reached out to the door and opened it sharply. For a moment, Tom thought it might be just that. But Nott looked back once.

“I’m bloody out of this shitload.”

The door slammed. Silence collapsed over the room then. Tom adjusted his sleeves. Straightened his collar. And lifted his chin.

He turned towards the rest of them—all still staring. Avery was the farthest one back, without his tea cup in his hand. Augareta was still half-shadowed behind Lestrange, whose eyes hadn’t left Tom once. Mulciber leaned forward slightly now.

Tom took a breath.

“Yes. I kissed her,” he said again. Repeated and admitted again. “And yes: she’s back.” He stated. He looked at each of them.

“She’s not one of us. She never will be. And I do not like her. You all know that.” A pause. 

“She's back because this is about the mission. This is about what we’re building. She’s back because she could lead us closer to Salazar.” His voice turned colder now, like ice.

“You’ll follow me, or you won’t. But you will not question me.” The silence tightened just then. Tom took a breath. “Any more questions?”

No one answered.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

Late April 1942.

Hogsmeade today was overflowing with seventh-years drinking butterbeers and smoking here and there because of their OWLs, and some other Hogsmeade people pretending they matter. It was like any other day. But the noise—Merlin the noise. Tom hated it. The sounds of boots splashing in puddles, the laughter, that too-alive feeling that cling to him like second skin. 

They, Tom, Lestrange, Avery, Mulciber, Myrtle and Augareta, were walking down Hogsmeade street. The air was starting to get humid. The greens had started to turn unti brown, curling dry down on the ground.

Myrtle was in the middle. Tucked behind him, just between Avery and Mulciber, with Augareta and Lestrange flanking in the behind, too busy in their own little world. Myrtle wore a red scarf knotted tight to hide her glasses, with her collar up, and a robe that looked too big on her. 

It was necessary. She was a second year, she wasn’t even supposed to be here and worse, she was her. They couldn’t be seen with her. Especially not with the previous talks and whispers from around the school. The students didn’t believe Myrtle—yes—but still, it’s nice to keep their guards up.

He remembered the first time they, not Tom, the others, snuck her into Hogsmeade. 

A year ago. Around October or November, if he’s correct. Back when they laughed about her behind his back. When they said they just wanted to see what was so special about her, see how a mudblood is able to contribute a lot. He never forgot that. They laughed, once, maybe more. That ended last week. He’d looked each one of them in the eye and said: She’s now with us. She’s helped us. She’s different. So have respect. 

And he meant it, she’s a mudblood, a muggleborn, a… vermin. 

But she’s different. He just—he—he just knows it.

So now, now they followed the rules. His rules.

Avery walked a step too close beside Myrtle. “Lovely weather,” he said, almost as if he’s a chirping bird in the morning weather. “You okay, Warren?” He glanced sideways at her every third step. Whistling lowly.

She didn’t respond. Just clutched her bag tighter and stared around Hogsmeade with wide eyes. Her boots tiptoed on the cobbles, on the sides of the street just beneath the shadows. She was avoiding the puddles. 

“Where’s Nott?” she asked suddenly, tiptoeing closer beside Tom, head peeking over his shoulder.

Tom only glanced downwards at her peeking brown hair then back again on the street. “He’s not with us anymore.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“It’s better,” he said, and that was the end of it.

She nodded like that made the most perfect sense.

Behind them, Lestrange lit the end of a store label with his wand, rolled it around in the air, his wand under his sleeve, and flicked it into someone’s head with a good aim. Augareta bursted out laughing with a wheeze.

“Don’t start again,” Mulciber muttered and shoved them both toward Honeydukes.

Tom walked inside, followed suit by Myrtle and Avery.

Inside was the same and the same was too much. Too much sugar and too much shoutings of sugar-rushed kids. Everything shimmered with their neon-too-bright wrappers and enchanted snowflakes that never melted. 

He took a look around. There was nothing that intrigues him. Just sweets. There was, though, a kid that enchanted all the beans to chili flavours, not more than 12. He looked away after a second. That’s when his eyes landed on Myrtle.

She was hovering near a shelf in the corner, her face was hit by the light from the window. Her hands were twitching towards a box of caramel candies with the light blue wrappers. She hesitated and, almost as if she could sense him, looked back at him, then dropped her hand immediately.

He saw it. She didn’t think he would. But he saw it. Caramel. Of course it was caramel. He knew that. He remembered. Every time she had it, her breath always tasted like it. Tom could always taste it when he kisses her. Sweet and stupid and sticky. 

He stepped forward, taking long strikes across the shop. He took the box off the shelf without a word, and held it up. “You want them or not?” He asked, towering over Myrtle who’s still hiding half of her face.

Her scarf dropped a bit and it revealed how her face lit up instantly. Too fast. Like it was too much. Like he had done something good. It twisted something sharp in his chest. He turned away before she could speak and walked past a rack of exploding bonbons.

He walked straight toward Lestrange—who, thankfully, always paid for everything.

On the counter, Augareta had already whined and tried to convince Lestrange with a: “Please baby” while holding two boxes of peppermints in her hand. Avery was holding a sack of white chocolates and fifteen chocolate-frogs for ‘card hunting’ and Mulciber had slipped in two licorice sachets. 

So one box of caramels, Tom’s, went unnoticed. Good. No one needed to ask questions.

Lestrange shut everyone up with a groan and a “Okay bloody fuckin—shut it! I’ll pay! Okay?! just—Avery put your bloody chocolates on the counter right now for Merlin sake!” And everything was paid.

Outside, they regrouped near the fence of an empty store in a quiet alley. Avery was now juggling three chocolate frogs and bragging about his grip. Yet still, one slipped and nailed him in the eye. Myrtle giggled. Softly. Into her scarf. 

Tom took a look at her, the way she giggled softly into her scarf. “You don’t have to hide that.”

She blinked. “Hide what?”

“Laughing.” he replied.

His hand moved before he could stop it, hesitantly brushing her bangs out of her eyes. She flinched, but then she smiled. Sweetly, almost too sweetly. So real it made something twist behind his ribs. He looked away immediately.

“Oh,” she mumbled.

“Okay Tom.” She whispered and smiled once again. At this point, one old lady suddenly appeared, poking out her head from outside a building’s window. “Oi! You kids! Get off the bloody ground and stop blocking the street will ya?”

They scrambled immediately, Tom was scowling but walked anyway, Myrtle appeared beside him already having the box of caramel candies in her hands after grabbing it from inside the Honeydukes bag—fighting Avery who was searching for his one last chocolate frog.

“This is hard.” She mumbled, trying to rip open the box. Tom furrowed her eyebrows and took it from her hand. He looked at it, saw a strip of magic tape. “There’s a tape on it,” He mumbled, not taking his eyes away from the box.

He peeled it off, easily opened it and handed it to Myrtle beside him. The path curved around the back of the pub, where the crowd thinned. Myrtle trailed slightly now, nose pink, flushed.

It was minutes later when Lestrange and Augareta pressed into each other beneath a flickering lamp, snogging with their tongues and acting like PDA isn’t the most disgusting thing in the world.“Get a room.” Mulciber groaned and muttered. But Tom’s eyes weren’t on them.

They were on Myrtle: wondering if she was watching him. 

He looked over his shoulder. She wasn’t. She was staring at frost collecting on the glass. She was right there. Alone. It still feels like she didn’t belong. He hated that. Hated the way she always looked like she was waiting to be shoved aside.

When he reached her, “What are you doing in the back?” He muttered, looking down at her frame.

She looked up at him. “Huh?”

“You’re not a pet,” he said. “Stop acting like one.”

“I’m not—” she started.

“I brought you here because you’re helpful. Don’t make me regret it.”

Her mouth twitched. Like she wanted to argue. Or ask something else. But she didn’t. And he looked away again, because the tight thing in his chest didn’t go away. It pulsed. Every single time. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t name it. It was better that way, because whatever this is: it was distraction. 

But it will pass. Like every other thing in the world.

Behind them, Avery said something crude about ‘wand-sizes’ and got slapped on the head by Mulciber. Meanwhile Lestrange threw a snowball at a Gryffindor sixth-year, and Augareta nearly collapsed laughing. “Wait, do it again on that woman.” She whispered in between her laughters.

Myrtle stood still. Close, beside Tom. Then reached for the caramel box that’s still in her hand. She had it with her ever since they left that alley. The sounds of wrappers rustling against each other when she tried to grab one was louder than Avery’s joke. She took one by the fifth second.

She unwrapped it and then held it out. Right in front of his lips. He froze. After a pause, he took it with his own hand. Bit it and swallowed it. “Thank you,” he murmured. It tasted too sweet, like normal  caramel, like… like her. 

“Let’s go back then.” Tom mumbled in between her chews. They walked together side by side now. He didn’t touch her hand. But he didn’t pull away from it either. He just kept walking. And she followed.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

May 1942.

Late at night in Hogwarts always felt too warm and too cold at the same time. It was just maybe an hour past curfew. Tom walked beside Myrtle without touching her. He didn’t speak. Just glanced at her once as she tiptoed beside him, giddy, trying not to trip on her hem. She’d waited for him outside the Ravenclaw door. 

And now they were nearing the seventh floor, after almost getting caught by the new Gryffindor prefect.

She didn’t ask where they were going. She trusted him. Foolishly. Devotedly. Like the first time they met. When she looked up at him with those foolish eyes, but pure. He had remembered, remembered clearly, how he remembered thinking not even Lestrange once looked at him which such… believe.

That was why she was here—why she still came, after everything. With her cheeks flushed and her tiny steps.

They reached the wall across from the tapestry, the Barnabas the Barmy one He walked. Once. Twice. Three times. And he stood directly in front of the entrance. Then, he thought of her. Not her, exactly. Just maybe what she might want to see. And well, okay, maybe her. The way she talked and the way her eyes looked. 

The door emerges from the wall, into its place, like it had always belonged there. Myrtle gasped. Tom didn’t look at her, he just reached out, grabbed the silver serpent door handle and pushed it open.

Inside, it didn’t change much, but the room responded to him. The fire burned warmer. The desk that normally had one chair now had two chairs, drawn close together. There was his usual teacup on the desk and a second teacup steamed beside his. 

Myrtle slipped inside just behind him. She took a moment to just stand on her ground and take in the room as Tom closed the door behind her. With her eyes huge and hitching breath. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Tom raised his eyebrows and leaned back on the door. She slowly started to walk around.

He watched her. She drifted toward the bookcases, hands trailing over the spines of books. Her fingers hovered over them before her eyes landed on the right side of the room. She gasped and quickly walked towards the other side and stopped in front of the potion corner. “Do these work?” She asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

She looked at the bubbling station more closely. “How was this made?” She asked. He almost smiled. “It made itself.” She turned. “It answered you.” She mumbled, there was this sense of wonder in her voice. The sense that she always has when she’s with jim.

“Of course it did.”

Later, they sat on the two chairs. The book ,Tom had taken from the second shelf since Myrtle was not tall enough, rested between them. Magick Moste Evile. She joined him quickly, sitting beside him while stirring on her tea. Their arms touched. She didn’t move away. 

Her glasses slid down her nose again. Before she could push them, he did it for her—slowly and her cheeks flushed pink immediately. They didn’t speak for several pages. Only read the pages together. He flipped every page with care. And she followed his eyes on every line. Then he tapped a line with his finger, halfway down a page.

“...a hocrux; a binding of the soul to all objects that shall immortalise its creator.”

There seemed to be a reading pause in both of them. But they tead it again, slower. The word immortalise clung to his mind, it clung and crawled and claws. He traced it with his gaze.

“You’re telling me about this horcrux thing?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She stayed still. Like the word had pressed her spine to the chair. He turned the page. “It’s only mentioned here. I heard about it briefly when I was younger. There must be more. Other books. Different sources. Different books that specify on—on its origin and creation” He muttered.

“Yet it’s said here that the creation of a horcrux is too evil to mention.” She said it slowly. Her voice was quieter now.  “I know,” Tom replied, throwing his gaze towards a corner. Not necessarily avoiding her eyes, but avoiding the heaviness of her words.

“It’s a dark art book, Tom.” Her voice trembled. “If this book said that—” She stopped. 

…

She took a slow breath. He didn’t interrupt, instead, he watched her read the line again, as if she’s trying to sink in the words. Silence sat between them again. She looked like she had the day she first learned about the Chamber. Where she had retrieved a book for him, and where Lestrange had almost obliviated her. 

Then she nodded. “Okay. I get it.” She muttered. Slowly swallowing, as if slowly swallowing the implication or the importance of this so-called… horcrux. “But… immortalise? You’re saying…” She trailed off. He finally turned to her. “What do you think?”

She swallowed. “Tom—”

He kissed her.

Not rough and not fast. The kiss was a barely there kiss. His hand brushed her cheek slowly, thumb stroking over her cheekbone. His fingers didn’t tremble, at least not like the way it did the first time by the greenhouse. He felt her skin, her skin was soft. That’s when he pulled back slowly, his eyes returning to the page like nothing had happened.

“I think,” he said, “if my mother had power like this, she wouldn’t have died.” He whispered.

“Oh.” Myrtle mumbled.

“She was weak.” He added.

For a moment, there was no response from her. That was until he heard her sighing and slowly, she reached out to trace her fingers over his forearm, while also leaning her head down to rest on the wooden desk. “Would you really do it?” She asked, quietly.

He looked at her fingers, yet he… didn’t do anything, just let it be. Then he looked back at the word. Immortalise. He stared at it and didn’t speak. He just closed the book slowly after a second.

She waited.

He turned to her again. “We’ll research more on horcruxes, Myrtle,” he said. “I want your thoughts on how it is made.” She stared at him then, and retrieved her fingers slowly. “Okay Tom.” She whispered softly. He looked at her, her soft pale face, and then down, on her… soft pink lips that didn’t look that kissable before.

So, again, he leaned in and gave her a kiss, not too slow, yet not too fast. Not too deep yet not just a peck. They stared into each other’s eyes after he pulled back. “I’m only telling you this, Myrtle.”

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was Thursday, a boring Thursday in the middle of May, to be exact. 

Today, Tom had divination. The scent of burnt sage clung to every velvet curtain like it was rotting, even the cushions also smelled like it. Tom sat on the farthest side of the room, second row, with his arms crossed, ignoring the murmurs of unserious students around him.

Trelawney’s voice came all of a sudden, breaking the annoying noise of the room. “Now, now, dears—settle your eyes upon your Seeing Spheres. Let the light guide you. Let the stars speak. Let the stories hidden in the sky choose you…” She said, which seemed to, once again, be ignored by the students.

Avery was next to Tom and he was snoring softly. His chin was tilted forward, head resting on his forearms on the table and there was a visible thin line of drool glistening from his mouth to his collar. 

Lestrange hadn’t even shown up. He had always hated Trelawney, said the squeak of her voice sounded like a rat. He said, in exact:  “If I wanted someone to lie to me, I’d read the Prophet.”

Tom almost didn’t come either. He didn’t need Trelawney. She had no real power, she was, in fact, lower than the professors here, at least Aurora and Dumbledore had real power. But something about prophecy always lingered in the back of his mind, always there. It was not for the belief. But for curiosity. The idea that someone might see him—succeed.

His fingers rested lightly on the side of the orb. The glass of the orb was warm. He expected the coldness, like Mulciber’s last week, but it was just strangely... responsive. The inside of the orb, well, his orb, had smoke. Not water or ink, like what Avery had right now. 

Suddenly, the smoke inside his orb curled once. Twice. Then flared inwards before making tiny exploding bubbles inside and then… revealing something:

Stars.

It was forming a constellation. The constellation formed slowly, and it swoosh and drag the smoke inside it with it;s formation. After a while, it formed one, Cassiopeia. 

His breath hitched before he could control it. Myrtle. She always pointed that out during their time in Astronomy Tower. After some research, she would gaze up at the window, and look up at Cassiopeia. “It’s tragic, really,”  she’d said, eyes on the constellation. “She was punished for vanity, but she never apologized. I like that.”

The stars held. Just like that, perfectly.

“Ah,” Trelawney breathed suddenly, appearing beside him all of a sudden. He hadn’t heard her walk up. He turned his head slightly. She was already staring into the orb. Her expression had lost its practiced fog. She looked focused. Alarmingly so.

“Yours is always strange,” she murmured and slowly grabbed the orb into her hand. He didn’t respond. 

She leaned closer. Not blinking as she focused on the orb, she stood in front of the class with his orb in hand. “You see Cassiopeia, the queen,” she said. “But, we all know about Cassiopeia. The queen is only a shadow, isn’t she?”

The orb shimmered, the smoke moved now, like it was listening.

“You look for meaning in her. But what you find… is something else. Something beneath her.” Every students’ eyes are now on the orb, Tom furrowed his eyebrows. Trelawney then walked towards Tom again and placed the orb on its original place deliberately.

She stood frozen for a while, looking confused, as if she’s processing something before leaning down and closer towards Tom. “You will rise,” she whispered. 

“That much is clear. But the path you take to reach your crown is dangerous.” She said.

The orb flickered, the light inside of it bent into a spiral and then collapsed into itself, the once gray smoke now turned into a darker shade, slowly swallowing the stars. Tom looked at it, then back again at Trelawney. “There will be power. Power like no one’s ever seen,” she said, voice tightening, nearly cracking. “But beware what you cut to gain it.”

His jaw clenched.

“Cut?” he asked, a sharp end towards his tone.

Trelawney’s hand shook but she didn’t blink. Her gaze drifted again to the orb, but then it went empty, like it drifted through it instead, like it wasn’t really there anymore. “There is a wound coming,” she murmured. “A parting. You will leave something behind.”

Her voice lowered again. “Blood,” she said.  “Yes. Yes. Yes. Blood, and the truth. Always the truth.” She whispered.

He stared hard. At the orb. At her face. His hands stayed still, but his throat was tight. Blood. Wounds. Parting. Something inside him recoiled. Something else reached for it.

Then Trelawney blinked. She snapped suddenly and leaned back, standing again on her heels. “Oh!” she chirped and her smile was returning. “That was a lovely pattern, Mr. Riddle! Very unusual. But a deep reading too. It’s been a while since I had—Ah! Let’s see if Miss Whitcomb is seeing anything exciting, shall we?”

She drifted away.

Tom didn’t move. The orb before him had returned to grey smoke again now. There was nothing left but reflection. He stared at himself. His reflection, his dark hair…. The queen’s shape burned behind his eyes. Cassiopeia and Myrtle’s voice.

Avery groaned beside him, shifting in his seat. “She done?”

His fingers curled tighter around the orb.

 

﹏ゞ ˖ ࣪⊹

 

It was well past curfew, but ‘The Room’ was wide awake. And The Room is now a term they use for the Room of Requirement that seemed to be a better place than any of the places in the castle.

They, Tom and the others, had spent their time a lot in it, possibly much more than their own common room. Though occasionally they make an appearance just to not spark any suspicion. Today, particularly, had something to offer them. 

The chandelier swung slightly above the room, because the usually calm chandelier is now interrupted with Avery lazy loops, flying on his broomstick near the ceiling, wobbling in the huge ceiling. His foot nearly clipped the crystal.

“Watch it, idiot,” Mulciber muttered from below, looking really concerned about the situation up there. He sat cross-legged with The Ethics of Sacrificial Transference open in his lap, but it has been open like that since minute thirty-two and Avery had been disrupting his inner peace ever since.

Meanwhile on the velvet sofa, Lestrange’s hand had disappeared up the back of Augareta’s robes, and she didn’t seem to mind. They whispered filth into each other’s mouths, oblivious to the fact that the room had other occupants. 

Myrtle pretended not to notice. Tom didn’t even spare them a glance.

He was too preoccupied with something else. He moved toward the back corner of the shelves, the place where the Room had restructured for him weeks ago—two chairs now, not one, the desk slightly larger, as if the Room anticipated sharing. 

Tom looked at Myrtle from behind the shelves, she was still looking at flying Avery behind her glasses. “Myrtle.” He called out, snapping his finger to get her attention from the other side of the room. Her eyes went towards him and she beamed slightly, that one second moment that always seemed to make her… glow.

”Come on. Lineage talk.” Tom mumbled and disappeared behind the shelves. She followed quickly, already talking before she even sat. “So, I spent hours looking through that name. You do realize how rare Riddles there are in the historical registries, don’t you?”

Tom pulled a stack of books closer. “It’s not a common name.”

“No, it’s not,” she snapped, dropping into the chair beside him. “Which is why I had to go through every single trophy and prefect badges in the Hogwarts trophy room last Saturday. Do you know how dusty it is in there?” She asked, mumbling and shrinking a bit. 

He didn’t look up, but one of the corners of his lips curled. “I thought you were used to dusty corners.” He said, almost absentmindedly underneath his breath. At this point she was side-eying him with the most intensity. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.” She muttered, brushing a strand away from her face.

He exhaled, rubbing his temples with one hand. “You came here to bicker.” He said, finally leaning back on his chair, taking his eyes of off the page and instead putting his gaze in Myrtle while he take his sweet loving opportunity in leaning back to spread his legs more,

Her eyes narrowed for a bit, lips parting. For a moment she seemed like she wanted to say something. But then she only folded her arms. “Well, someone has to talk when the other just sits there and broods.”

Tom’s eyes flipped over her frame to her face sharply. “It’s because you’re distracting.”

She flushed. Uncertain. He can see the wheels turning in her head. Was it an insult? Or a compliment? The honest thing is: Tom Riddle also doesn't seem to know. 

“It’s just—” her voice cracked, “if he was a wizard, there’d be something. A wand record. A duel log. A note in the dueling club archive. Even a blood registry from the Department of Magical Genealogy—anything. But there’s nothing, Tom. I’ve checked and rechecked and—”

“Yeah. You were very dedicated,” he said suddenly, amusement under his tone.

The compliment hit her too fast. Her head turned too quickly, ears pinking. “I am.”

A pause.

“So what now?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. He was thinking, his eyes were staring through the thick pages of books in front of him. The candlelight flickered. Her voice still echoed in his mind—maybe your mother was the witch. She’d said it before. Over and over. Unlike Lestrange, who never asked more than thrice, Myrtle had always pushed, had always found a way to challenge. And now, as much as he wanted to scoff, something inside him cracked.

Tom’s fingers stilled. He stared at the flame between them. It fluttered, thin and red, almost green-lit at the edge. Could it be? Could it have been her?

But no.

No, it didn’t make sense. If she’d had power, if she’d had anything, she wouldn’t have died. Power protects and magic survives. If she had been strong, she would’ve been here. 

Still—it slipped. Something that has been bothering his mind.

“My middle name is Marvolo,” Tom whispered. 

Myrtle froze. She stared at him. He looked at her again, finally. “The matron at the orphanage told me once it came from my mother’s side.” He whispered lowly. Myrtle’s jaw dropped.“You absolute idiot. Why didn’t you tell me?” She said, oblivious to the tension.

Tom’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t ask.” He mumbled, blinking up at Myrtle. “I—Tom—” she stammered. “Do you want to keep yelling?” he asked suddenly. “Or do you want to find the truth?” She bit her lip. Then fell silent.

He stood. Walked toward the genealogy shelves. Then pulled down a black-leather book. The one where Myrtle had gotten them from one of her strolls in the restricted section. Sanguinem Antiquis: Genealogy of Slytherin’s Bloodline.

Back at the desk, they huddled over the pages. 

Their knees touched. Myrtle didn’t even seem to notice. Tom cleared his throat and Myrtle only clicked her tongue. “Alright!” She clapped her hand and opened the book. She flipped with fast hands. The book almost or possibly crackled at the spine. The candlelight from between them pulsed over the green ink of the words.

The Gaunt Family.

His eyes locked immediately on the familiar word, on the name: Marvolo. And it was clear, that it was passed down generation after generation. Again and again. Almost like a curse. “You found it,” Myrtle breathed. He didn’t speak. He stared at the ancient family tree, the newest recording was already from decades ago. 

It dawned on him then.

His mother is the witch. 

Which can only mean that… that his father, the one who he wears the name, is a muggle. A vermin.

“Wait,” Myrtle said. Suddenly snapping him out of his thoughts, he looked at her, she was frantically digging into her robes. 

Then suddenly, she pulled out a crumpled note and laid it and flattened it on the table. “I knew it. I knew that name meant something. The Gaunts—they were infamous. I read about it somewhere—I forgot where but basically they claimed to be the last direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself.” She said.

She continued. “There was a trial—decades ago. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement kept an eye on them. There was so much I—violence. I remembered thinking they were as mad as banshees I—” Tom cut her off with a sharp look.

There was a pause in between them. Mad as banshees, she said. He looked at Myrtle then, well that didn’t pass down on him, he assumed. Then, Tom spoke, or to be exact, whispered. “So it’s true... The Gaunts. Salazar. He’s my blood.”

Myrtle, for a while, only blinked up at him, she pressed her palm to the note. “You were meant for greatness, Tom.” She whispered. That, that. Those words from her. He inhaled sharply.  “No wonder you’re different.” She added.

He looked at her then.

“Different.” He repeated. The word falling softly around the edges. Like smudged ink that’s still warm.

The air warmed slowly and her knee brushed his again, but instead of pulling away like always, she pushed it closer towards him. His eyes flickered towards her immediately, and her only answer seemed to only be the biting of her lips towards him and the look away. 

Ah, trying new brave things now are you?

 Her fingers hovered near his on the wood but he didn’t move away. He looked at the page. Towards the family tree of his ancestors. Madness. Obsession. Isolation. It was all there. Inked into the blood.

“They were feared,” Myrtle muttered, cracking the silence. “Cursed, even.”

“I’m not cursed.” He said, lifting one of his eyebrows.

She looked at him. “No,” she said. “You’re chosen.”

There was silence again. Then—under the desk—her hand brushed his. Just barely. Just testing. He didn’t pull away. And that’s when she wrapped her hand around her pinky finger. He looked down at it, onto Myrtle’s pale fingers that are pink at the end. His chest tightened with that same weird tingling feeling again.

He thought of taking his hand back but her hand, on top of his, felt right. For once.