Deal with the Devil

Chapter 6

Weeks passed, weather turning colder, until snow began to blanket the castle and grounds in its soft and bright white. The students were preparing to leave for winter holiday, but, as Tom told his Knights more than once, he had business at Hogwarts.

"Are you sure, Tom?" Nott asked again. "We've been invited to the Malfoy home for Yule, and Abraxas would love to meet you—formally, that is, not just in passing. The Malfoy Yule party is always the highlight of—"

"Then I can go another year, Theodore. Perhaps next." The clipped words were enough that his companion nodded. "Hogwarts during the break is more than adequate, though I appreciate your concern," he said, gifting Nott with a rare, warm smile. The other youth's cheeks flushed as he nodded, and Tom chuckled. It was too easy, really.

"Well, ah, I will owl you, then," Nott managed at last.

"I look forward to it," Tom lied, waving as the last of his Knights finally left the common room.

This was his favorite time of the year. The halls were nearly empty, a mere handful of students left from each house. He was the only sixth year Slytherin to stay every break, this one included. Most of the pureblood students had events, parties, the like, throughout the holidays. Slytherin was always the emptiest of the houses this time of year. Tom enjoyed the silence; it made it easier for him to think, research, plan. Moreover, with the castle so empty, the library was virtually bereft.

He stood, tucking his leather-bound journal into his satchel, and straightened himself on the way out of the common room. His leather soles clicked in the empty halls, and he found he enjoyed the sound echoing through the dungeons. The stairs weren't quite as resounding, but his pace was a quick tattoo on every other step. Up and up, and up, until he was before the familiar double doors.

There were no students cramming for exams, preparing essays last minute, whispering harshly to one another lest they induce the ire of the librarian.

Tom roamed the history section, pulling out the worn, familiar tome Hogwarts: A History, as well as A Brief History of the Hogwarts Founders, and Lost Relics. The thickest was, of course, the Brief History. His fingers tapped against the worn spine as he searched over the tables—

Ah, there was a certain little seeress, nodding over a book and a stack of notes. Her quill was in her lap, he noted as he came closer, scanning her over her shoulder. Her skirt was lifted just enough that a hint of pale thigh was exposed. There were strange scratches across them, and lines of ink. He raised a brow and slid into the seat beside her, releasing his books with a thump.

Elena startled awake, her fingers immediately gripping the quill so hard he imagined her nails must be cutting into her palm.

"An interesting place for a nap. Have you not been sleeping well?" he asked, expression innocent despite the slightly mocking tone.

The girl scowled, straightening her skirt and laying the quill aside. "I wasn't napping."

"Yes, I'm sure. And those marks on your leg aren't from you trying to keep yourself awake and unable to scribe."

Her cheeks flushed and she tugged at her skirt once more. "That is none of your business."

"Isn't it?" he said, pulling out his journal once more and setting it beside his research material, running one hand over its cover possessively. "I notice you've been working hard to stay awake during classes. While that's a worthy notion, I admit I would like to see what you would produce."

She had wiped at some ink on her arm to no avail. "I don't always do it, you know."

"I suppose you wouldn't," he agreed. "However, it is my business. Have you—"

"No, not since the time you saw," she murmured. "And, no. I don't know why it happens sometimes and not others, before you ask."

He lifted a brow, turning to study her expression. "Is it because of me you resort to such means to stay awake now?" Tom gestured toward her legs, which were now tucked together and tightly away from him under the table.

She shook her head, limp hair sliding over her shoulders. "I've tried different ways over the years, but staying awake can be difficult."

"Then why try?" At her scowl, he added, "If you keep on that way, no one will find you attractive."

"Good." She pointedly turned back to her studying, ignoring him. He watched her for a moment, one hand skimming over the page as the other held her quill over her lap.

He half-smirked, then set to paging through the yellowed pages of his own books, soon lost in tales of the feud between Godric Gryffindor and his own ancestor. He'd read two of these three books several times, but another look, when one was looking for something particular, never hurt. Especially as successive readthroughs often highlighted new details. There was something tugging at his memory, something about Ravenclaw and why there was no heir of that House...

He took in a breath, let it out in a sigh as he tipped his head back. It had been some time already, but he often got lost in reading. From his periphery, he saw that Elena was even more slumped than she had been when he'd turned to his books. She was asleep again. His eyes flicked to the hand in her lap, loosely holding the long, black quill. It twitched. He watched her face a moment, her lips parted, brows slightly furrowed even at rest. Gently, slowly, he slid his left hand under her wrist and raised it to the table. He could feel her blood pulsing through her veins, a steady thrum through her thin skin. Her wrist was small enough and light enough, he was sure he could close his hand around it and crush the bones in his palm. He wondered what kind of sound they'd make as they snapped, and whether she'd cry as quietly in physical pain as emotional pain.

When he'd finally laid the meat of her palm against the parchment of notes beside her book, a blotch of ink formed under the tip of the quill. Her hand twitched as he withdrew his, and then relaxed. The quill slipped out, and she swallowed, hummed in her sleep.

Tom stared at her ink-stained fingers, willing them to clutch the quill once more. He remembered clearly how she'd written before in class, how her sleeping self somehow moved fluidly between inkwell and paper. Surely, she could manage something as small as picking up the quill.

Her hand didn't move.

Tom glanced toward the clock, then slammed his book shut. Vablatsky jumped in her seat, blinking awake. Her eyes immediately went to the quill, narrowing as she turned to Tom. "I told you it doesn't happen every time."

"Obviously." He packed up his things. "Come, it's time for lunch."