The Dark Dyad (Tom Riddle & ofc)

Chapter 5. Affect

Can she move objects without touching them, just like me? Are there more surprises?

Chris desperately clutched at the air with his hands, and a muffled wheeze resounded through the closet. It seemed as if his lifeless body was about to collapse to the floor. A dark bag closed in on his neck.

Every cell of my body was filled with an amazing sense of euphoria. How... beautiful she was! The strength and power in that fragile silhouette stirred my consciousness and my darkest fantasies. I was sure that nothing could surprise or delight me, but this picture was an incredible trigger for new sensations that I wanted to experience again and again, and that were so hard to control. I exhaled softly.

"Irene, stop."

No one would have guessed that I was suppressing the shivers in my voice from the emotions that were overwhelming me for the first time. The girl yawned, and the look in her emerald eyes shifted lazily from chubby Chris to me.

"He didn't give me the money his grandmother sent him." With a wave of her hand, the bag tightened, and the boy breathed even harder.

"Irene, there's nowhere to put a corpse," I carefully voiced a problem that would be really hard to solve.

"I just want to make sure that fat bastard never needs money again," the girl said monotonously.

I nodded my head, barely perceptibly, giving the command again. Irene sighed sadly, but she listened to me, anyway. The next moment, Chris recoiled against the wall, pulling the bag off his head. His normally ruddy, puffy face was blue-pale, and large peas of sweat ran down his forehead. Breathing heavily, he held out a few coins to the girl.

"Fine, Chris," Irene smiled, and in a carefree manner, she put the money into the pocket of her dress and strode lightly toward the exit. I watched her go. Her light-colored clothes were dirty again!

"I completely forgot!" Irene stopped in the doorway and gave a chuckle.

In a snap of her thin, pale fingers, the levitating objects fell to the floor with a clatter. She walked out, closing the door behind her. The feeling of paternal concern faded away, and a predatory grin appeared on my face.

"Chris, don't you get it?" I spoke ironically, turning to the boy. "She made it clear back then that it was better not to mess with her."

The boy didn't answer me, still trying to catch his breath. I winked at him in a friendly way.

"Put things in their places," I ordered, and I hurried to breakfast because I couldn't be late.

There were only three kids in front of the sink, two of whom were anxiously asking each other where Chris had gone. Everyone else was already in the dining room. Irene, casting an indifferent glance at me, handed me a piece of soap, which I silently took, watching her small palms under the icy stream of water. The monotonous procedure was like a dream.

Taking the tray, I followed the frail figure to the small window where Mrs. Cole was serving. A portion of porridge plopped into an aluminum plate, and I automatically put it on the tray. The woman was pouring tea.

"I see you've made a friend, Tom," Mrs. Cole sounded polite, as if she were even... Friendly? I'm not fooled. She always reeked of lies, austerity, and lack of warmth. Put that woman within a couple of miles of me, and it'd be unmistakable that she was anywhere in the vicinity.

"What do you mean?" I furrowed.

The woman smiled, her eyes fixed on Irene, as she headed toward the corner table in the sunlight. I shrugged my shoulders in a confused expression of incomprehension. Well, no. Mine is mine. And no one even needs to know about this communication. Besides, the question of friendship is something incomprehensible to me, so the verdict sounded strict and confident.

"We're just sitting at the same table."

Taking the mug from Mrs. Cole's hands, I followed Irene. The closer I got to the table flooded with sunny, warm rays, the more it seemed like I was dreaming. I didn't remember how we ended up at the window in our place; I didn't understand what I was eating or what the porridge tasted like today; I had absolutely no sense of whether there was sugar in the tea or whether it was just dark-colored water. My consciousness was submerged in the figure opposite, and the image from the small second-floor pantry was still in front of my eyes. From time to time, Irene cast a silent glance. Her black braids, eager to dive into the bowl of porridge, were briskly thrown back with a grunt. She caught my gaze and flashed it back without blinking once. The emerald seemed like a swamp that was irrevocably sucked into a quagmire, and I didn't want to fight it. What else was hidden behind the guise of this virtue?

At that moment, I realized an important thing: Irene looks so innocent and helpless to others. But give her a reason, and she will strangle you with her own halo, and then put it back on her head.