Beta:
Friendly reminder that there's a difference between being asexual & aromantic.
Additional Trigger Warnings For Sensitive Readers! Please proceed with caution and care!
Showing more of that dark gray this chapter than light gray.
"A fox is a wolf who sends flowers."
-Ruth Brown
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
The return home was one made in triumph. Tom and I held hands as we stepped through the floo and I victoriously cried out, "Sil! Make the Chocolate Heaven please!"
"Yes, missus!"
Giddy and delighted, a bubbling giggle popped out of me before I placed my free hand over my mouth to stifle it. Tom squeezed my hand, his dark gaze soft as he asked, "Will you be staying here tonight?"
"Oh might as well. I doubt I'll be able to sleep now," I said. "Too excited."
He smiled again at that. "Good."
"How's your body, by the way?"
"It's fine. It—ah—it hasn't been entirely functional but it's a work in progress."
I frowned at that. "What do you mean? What's wrong?"
"The magic is directly devouring everything I eat, so my digestive system is skewed," he explained. "Nothing goes past the stomach, and I'm always hungry."
"Ooooh. Hm. Interesting, very interesting. Hungry now?"
"Yes."
"Then let's eat while we talk," I said, tugging him further in. "Sil, please prepare a feast for Tom."
From the kitchen I heard her call out, "Yes, missus!"
"Thank you darling," I returned. "Oh yeah! The stone. I'll be right back."
Hurriedly, I ran into my storage room, digging through my chests until I found the blue stone I had purchased from Knocturn Alley the summer of my second year. Clutching it tightly, I headed back to the dining room/den area where Tom had taken a seat at the table.
"That's what' I love about magic," I said with a chuckle as I tossed the stone up and down. "This could have been made by someone else's attempt, or it could have been made naturally. Out of all the witches and wizards to find it, it was found by me not once but twice. A coincidence, or fate? Who can tell with magic?"
I caught the stone, grinning wickedly at Tom. Sil had prepared the drinks already and Tom took his first sip. "You know what this means though, right?"
Tom raised an eyebrow, silent in response.
"It means I know how to make magic."
Tom choked on his drink.
"Come now dear, I'd rather you choked on other things," I teased.
He made a rude gesture.
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
Routine made time march on pleasantly. The Slytherins and I had a delight pulling off elaborate tricks, occasionally aided by the lions. During my free time I would sneak out to visit Tom. Friday nights had become standard all-nighters with him, the two of us enjoying a variety of board games, becoming immersed in research, or... other things.
Although Tom and I were—as he would say—courting each other, there wasn't much change. We were friends first, and we had been flirting with each other for months by that point. We could not interact daily, but we made up for lost time when we could.
Tom was still able to get some squeaks out of me, and I was able to pull out some loud laughter.
Being with him was easy, and I always felt a pang in my chest when I had to tell him goodbye.
There was one change since we started to date. Every time we were together Tom made a point of reaching out and touching me. It wasn't anything significant, mostly brushes or quick pats.
I would have found it endearing or even sweet if it wasn't done in such a deliberate manner. There was a clinical calculation to it—the movements too confident and direct to be interpreted as accidental or subconscious.
I knew Tom wasn't trying to initiate intimacy, so what was his purpose?
After the tenth time of him "accidentally" brushing my hand the very same night, I flat out asked him, "Are you testing me or something? 'Cause I don't have limitless patience."
Tom was careful to respond, a flicker of unease on his face. "More like I'm testing myself while using you."
When he didn't offer an explanation fast enough I sighed. "Would you please elaborate?"
He said, "I'm conducting research on how I feel when in physical contact with you or others—and before you ask: I am excellent at compartmentalizing and visualizations. It's not too difficult to imagine someone else in your place when I reach out and gauge my reaction from there."
I stared at him in surprise. I knew he wasn't someone who craved physical intimacy, but it had not occurred to me that perhaps he had an aversion to physical contact all together. Hindsight, made sense—abusive childhood could result in someone either touch-starved or abhorrent the idea of physical contact—but Tom was such an excellent actor at hiding his discomfort I wouldn't have considered it until brought up.
He went on, "I wanted to see if touching you was the same as touching others. Did my perception change due to this body, or were you an exception?"
I folded my hands together. "What was it like to touch others before?"
Tom considered the question, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Mm... like snow, I suppose. Fine for a while, unpleasant if too long."
My brow furrowed. "And now?"
"I can't be too certain. It's only been brushes," said Tom with a suspiciously innocent smile.
I narrowed my eyes, suddenly getting a sneaky suspicion. "Hmm. So to remedy that you'd need to examine how you feel for prolonged contact?"
Tom continued to smile innocently which I knew had to be a lie. Tom wasn't an innocent wizard by any stretch of the imagination. "I suppose so, yes."
Oh jeepers.
"Tom. You know I'm always down to cuddle, you don't need to come up with such an elaborate scheme."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sweet baby Merlin you're such a dork. Come on, let's go cuddle."
"Oh—now?"
"Yes, now. Go sit in your recliner," I said, making a shooing motion. Tom raised an eyebrow, but silently moved to sit in his recliner. I crawled into his lap, pushing against him to stretch the recliner back.
I settled into him, then placed my ear against his chest and listened to his heart beat. Tom's arms were still raised, and I did not need to see his expression to know he had a conflicted expression.
He was so stiff and plainly uncomfortable it was hard not to be amused. A giggle escaped me. "Doing okay?"
"So far," he said with a pained voice.
"Need me to stop?"
"Not—Not yet," he said, shifting awkwardly. "You are very warm."
"Mm-hmm."
"I don't know where to put my arms."
"Wherever is comfortable."
"But that—" I looked up to see a tormented look over his face. "That's—you're—"
"Aww. Is it my hip area?" I asked him, amused to him so flustered. "It's okay, I give you permission."
"It is highly inappropriate," he said.
"Talk about broom cupboards is fine, but actually putting your hand on my butt is a big no no?" I snorted.
"Talk is talk," he pointed out.
"You were okay to hold me while we danced."
"That was appropriate. This is a... compromising position," he said.
"This isn't the 1920s, Tom. This is perfectly okay."
"Then..." Tom's face was conflicted, the hint of a blush crept over his cheeks. "What is—what is not okay?"
"We go at your pace," I said gently, wanting to ease his discomfort. "You can draw the line wherever."
"That implies you're willing to go further."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to imply. Tom: I am okay to go all the way."
Tom's cheeks turned an adorable shade of red that made me giggle. I never thought I'd see Tom Riddle blushing, but boy golly what a look. I couldn't resist leaning forward and kissing his cute nose.
"At my own pace?" he sought to clarify. "Promise?"
"I promise," I assured him. "You have complete control."
Like magic his blush was gone and he rested his hand on the back of my bum. He completely relaxed and smiled cordially at me. "Thank you."
Wait—did he—
"You can fake blushes?" I asked, incredulous.
"Mm-hmm."
"You're a tough opponent, Mr. Riddle."
"How unfortunate for you to give me the reigns then," he said, his smile curled into a devious smirk.
Shit. I got played.
"That's such a turn on," I said.
Tom patted me. "I'll keep that in mind."
I rested my cheek on his chest. "Good. And Tom?"
"Hmm?"
"Let me know if I'm, um, rushing you."
"While I do not crave the interactions the same way you do," Tom slowly admitted, "I am not opposed to trying them with you."
"Okay," I said, snuggling into him as he absently started to play with my hair.
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
A couple more days slipped by. Harry and I had some free time so we were taking a walk around Hogwarts. It was too chilly to run around outside, and despite having attended Hogwarts for a few years by that point I still marveled at all the neat little things. Sometimes I stared at a crack in the wall and wondered what shenanigans happened to cause it. Was it a prank gone wrong? Some mischievous teenagers? Was there a fight? Inter-House wars?
God, I wanted to start an Inter-House pranking war so bad.
Seventh year, I promised myself. Seventh year and I would go ALL out for the first semester. Not the second because I had to focus on beating Tom's N.E.W.T. scores as well, but first semester? ALL OUT.
"... and that's when I realized it wasn't an orange at all," Harry finished his story.
"I'm impressed it took you so long," I said with a smile.
"In my defense, I was very tired," objected Harry.
"Stop staying up so late then, mister!"
"Hermione said she could read faster than me," he said with great indignation. "That's unacceptable."
"Uh-huh."
"I may not be as smart as her, but I can definitely read faster," he said stubbornly.
"Of course."
Harry raised his left hand to scratch at the back of his head and that's when I saw it. Only for a second, but it was something I had been looking for since he told me he had one detention with her. The Hogwarts robes made it easy to conceal, but when he raised his hand I saw it.
A bandage over his wrist.
I lurched forward, grabbing at it hard. Harry let out a hiss of pain and made a move to jerk away, but my grip was iron-clad as I yanked off the bandage.
I must not tell lies.
I let go of his hand as the color drained from my face.
I had been angry before. Furious, even. There had only been one other point in my life that I felt the level of sheer revulsion. The night of their deaths, and the night I cursed Peter Pettigrew. I had thought that night would be the angriest I would ever feel in my life.
But as I stared at the words cruelly carved into my dear brother's flesh I found that anger had returned.
Cold, nauseating, blinding, rage.
My breath hitched, catching as I struggled to keep it even.
She tortured my brother. She. Tortured. My. Brother.
It—
There was—
One wretched thought. For a tantalizingly long moment there was a thought that seared itself in my head.
I knew Umbridge's type. She was clever, annoying so, and had proven herself more than capable of taking care of her enemies. I had given her the chance—the singular opportunity—to escape the absolute worst of my fury. She had taken it and burned it to ash.
Someone so horrifically cruel to comfortably torture a child was more than capable of going beyond that.
She was an immediate threat to Harry.
That thought sent me into a high-string heart-pounding panic. Suddenly, I was thrown back in time in that crib as I helplessly watched a monster torture such a sweet young woman only to have her die that same night. I could not stop envisioning Harry as Lily now, and Umbrdige as the monster above him.
I was trembling, sick out of my mind with terror and unbridled rage.
My colors.
"You," I said in a low, cold, hiss, "told me it was dull."
Harry flinched. "It—"
"You kept this from me?" I snarled out at him, abruptly standing up and moving away. I was shaking, my palms sweating, and my mouth dried up. "Go. Go to your common room. Stay there."
"What—Rosie—"
"HARRY JAMES POTTER YOU GO THIS INSTANT OR SO HELP ME I WILL SEND YOU TO POMFREY INSTEAD."
I was not one to raise my voice, let alone at Harry, but I needed him in an area that would give him a good alibi immediately.
Vibrant emerald eyes widened upon my explosion. He flushed, gaping at me. He was unable to respond, and so I grabbed his arms and dragged him to the Gryffindor common room. It went to show how flustered Harry had become that he did not fight my grip.
With exquisite timing, as soon as I arrived the portrait to the Gryffindor common room swung open to reveal Fred and George stepping out. I practically threw Harry into their arms.
"KEEP. HIM. IN. THERE," I shrieked. "If he so much as steps a foot out of your sight I swear to bloody fucking God I will KICK. YOUR. ASS."
The twins paled at my temper, wordlessly shoving Harry inside as they nodded vigorously.
Cold, dark hatred enveloped me, overtaking the panic and fear.
I stormed away, intent on doing terrible, terrible things.
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
"Good evening Miss Potter," simpered Umbridge, raising an eyebrow as I continued to move closer to her.
She did not appear bothered that I arrived suddenly at my office. Indeed, she looked rather happy to see me. Her wand was laid out on her desk, and she made no move to grab it. She did not view me as a threat—unsurprising since I had spent weeks cultivating a certain image for her. She could not immediately correlate the concept of little me doing anything else but cower. Why bother reaching for her wand?
If anything, that'd be giving me too much credit, in her head.
To her, the image I had created was one beneath her. One of weakness.
She did not think of me as a threat.
She saw me as weak, traumatized, and submissive.
So she did find it threatening to see me there, pale and shaking. Quite the opposite, really, she was delighted to see me in such a flustered state.
She mistook my rage for fear.
She let her guard down.
She asked with a toad-like smile, "What brings you to my office?"
By the time she finished asking her question, I had already gone around her desk. Thanks to my long, loose robes' sleeves I was able to hide the rock fine and dandy. Up until I swung it right into her stupid fucking face.
I bashed her head into the desk, the cats from her plates mewling in alarm as I hit her twice for good measure. Then I opened her office window and wandlessly levitated her onto Iris's back where I then hopped on.
"Kreacher," I said and my House Elf appeared. "Clean up, please."
"Yes, mistress," said Kreacher, accepting the rock I used to hit Umbridge with.
"Thank you, dear." I patted Iris. "Go."
Iris surged forth, keeping a steady pace as to not let Umbridge fall off.
I owned an emergency home on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. When I first considered what I'd do to Umbrdige if she hurt Harry, I had Sil prepare a home to receive Umbridge. I chose Sil over Kreacher in case Dumbledore asked Sirius to ask Kreacher about Umbridge. At most Kreacher would answer that I ordered him to clean her office which wasn't good, but not enough to condemn me.
In ten minutes we arrived and my anger had not abated.
How unfortunate for her.
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
My emergency home in Hogsmeade was hooked up to the floo network in Lunar's Orchid. I levitated Umbridge to the basement, stripping her and tying her down with magical restraints on a surgical table. I broke her wand immediately, tossing the pieces in a nearby fire where tools were being heated up.
After bandaging her injury, I hit her point-blank with a Stupefy then headed back upstairs and straight to the floo.
Stepping through the floo, I was greeted by the smell of chocolate cookies. The sweet smell nauseated me, my fury spiking again. My hands trembled, curling into fists as I fought to regain control. Underneath that frenzied rage I knew heart-stopping horror awaited me.
The kind that could freeze a child in a crib. The kind that would keep me from acting.
I couldn't handle that. I couldn't allow that. I had to—I had to—I had to do something before I failed again.
There was nothing else but that. A single-minded fervor pushed my ire to unimaginable heights.
I never remembered being so angry before in my entire life.
Was it purely from my fear? Hormones? Trauma? Consequences of performing Dark Arts? Or was I someone who could turn so vicious at the right provocation?
It didn't matter. Not anymore. I would not turn back. I would not hesitate.
Whatever mercy I had to spare for her was devoured away by her actions.
I wanted blood.
No.
I demanded her blood, pain, and utter misery. Everything I felt at that moment I wanted to inflict tenfold onto her.
Tom spotted me right away, immediately setting down the chalk he had been using to draw diagrams on the blackboards. I hadn't noticed the blackboards in the den before, Tom had probably asked Sil for some to give him more space to write down his rough drafts.
His brow furrowed as he reached me. "What's wrong?"
"She—she—" I took a shaky breath. My heart pounded so violently in my chest I thought it might burst out. "She t-t-tortured my brother."
Tom blinked. "Umbridge?"
I struggled to keep my voice low and even, "How many—how—how many Dark ingredients can we harvest from a dying bitch in pain?"
Tom did not hesitate. "A couple dozen."
"Do you know how?" I demanded.
"Yes."
"Good. You're going to show me. Now."
Tom did not question, or argue. He motioned for me to take the lead, and I stepped back into the floo, leaving the connection open for him to cross through behind me. He wordlessly followed me into the basement, eyebrows raised upon noticing what I had transformed it into.
Although he had helped pick out much of the equipment here, seeing everything together was still jarring. Had my mind been in a better state I might have been equally alarmed, but it was too late. Every inch of my body and mind was singing for her screams and no amount of meditation, calming exercise, or experience could help me resist such a demand. I didn't know what else to do but give in, I had no idea how to handle such an intense level of raw emotions. I was flying on the impulse, the high of the rage clouding all moral thoughts.
Tom surveyed the area, eyes lingering on the incapacitated Umbridge.
In a honeyed voice he asked, "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
"Yes," I muttered, already pulling out various tools.
He nodded. "Once you do something like this—there's no going back."
"I'm aware."
"It can change you."
I paused for only a moment as I picked up a scalpel. "Did it change you? The first time you committed a Dark ritual."
"Yes."
Flatly, I looked up at him. "Would you do it again?"
"Yes."
"Then there's nothing more to say."
Tom raised his wand, casting a quick Innervate followed by a Silencio. Umbridge's eyes shot open as she opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. Panic set upon her quickly as she realized her environment.
There was a... switch.
The overwhelming fury was overtaken by a wash of cool detachment. On the table I knew, intellectually, laid a living breathing woman.
Emotionally, she became the equivalent of a cadaver. It was a nostalgic switch, one that reminded me of the first time I had dissected a cadaver. It was a fresh donation, the bowel movements bubbling inside the corpse to produce an acidic stench. The surrounding students had gagged and a few even retched, but there were others like me who held no reaction.
We picked up our scalpels, eager to peel back the skin ourselves and tear into the muscles. Textbooks and simulations paled in comparison to the sensation of truly cutting into flesh. There was a rush, a thrill of doing something some would consider taboo and others praise as saintly.
In my past life, surgery on the living or the dead was the only thing that stirred anything close to that tantalizing happiness others sung about.
I rarely had an opportunity to slice as Rosie, and suddenly there was a fresh cadaver before me and a whole host of fascinating magic to learn about in the process.
Dark, Light, whatever. Magic was magic and I wanted to consume every bit of knowledge about it.
My rage was enough to commit murder.
But it was my infatuation with magic that would spur my hands into doing terrible, terrible things.
The scalpel hovered near her—its—eye. "We should begin with sensory deprivation. Its other senses will begin to compensate for the loss which will allow us to maximize the pain in a short period of time."
Surprise flickered over Tom's face, followed by thoughtful consideration. "You are correct. Before we remove the eyes, I would suggest brewing Hag's Rubies."
"Hag's Rubies?" I repeated with interest, lowering the scalpel. Tears started to crawl out of its eyes. Fresh cadavers leaked all sorts of things.
I wondered if I should have prepared some kind of peppermint oil to dab under my nose. It had been a while since I worked with a fresh specimen.
"When poured into the eyes of a human, the potion causes intense swelling and redness. The eyes will eventually transform into cursed rubies," explained Tom. "Extremely hard ingredients to come by, certainly never by legal means."
I tried to visualize the process, but found my mind incapable of forming a coherent image. It was still enough of an intriguing concept that I said, "Ah. Excellent point, let's brew that. Anything else?"
"If we're starting with sensory deprivation we should preserve her ears. Perfectly preserved ears make an easy barter token for hags," said Tom.
"Have you actually met a hag?"
"No, but I plan to remedy that one day," he said. "They're a fountain of information."
"Dark information," I pointed out.
"Information all the same," he dismissed. "They'll happily trade it away for ears, skin, or liver from humans."
"Very well. Let's brew some preservation potions. Should we do anything special for the heart?"
"Oh yes. Human hearts are always useful," he said. "Even better if we—"
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
From two in the afternoon to three in the morning. We extracted what we could, Tom triumphantly trapping her dying breath in a bottle to use for his next body. Not a single piece of the subject went to waste.
It was a... morbidly fascinating project. Ears and liver were the only things left untransformed, both perfectly preserved in a jar in case we could find a hag to barter with.
The cleanup took an hour. Tom packed up the ingredients and stored them in a separate chest at Lunar's Orchid.
Then we... sat.
We sat on the couch at Lunar's Orchid, each holding a cup of strong tea, and staring into the fireplace. My mind looped over what had occurred, trying to commit everything I had learned to memory.
It was... unreal.
There really was no way to describe it. As if someone else had taken over my body and puppeteered it while I watched from above. The memories had no emotion to it aside from ghastly curiosity and macabre surprise when certain things reacted in a certain way. I knew what I had done as morally apprehensive, but I could not find any emotions to tie to it. It was if I had not done it, but simply watched a video of someone who looked like me doing it.
It was ghoulishly informative strictly from a scientific point of view. I had studied healer magic, but the books provided never covered what happened when things went wrong. That day, I got to learn about what happened to a human body when introduced to various types of magic. It was valuable information, one that I honestly felt most healers should learn. If not perform themselves, at least have everything documented for review.
As it stood, magical healers treated Dark magic through symptoms, not the core cause.
Which was absurd!
If they could understand the Curse itself, they'd have a better chance of curing it. Treating the symptoms would only work for half the magic.
Gosh, no wonder there'd been little advancement in the art of healing Curse. Everyone was too scared to study the actual issues! Poppycock. Muggle scientists would never turn their nose up at researching unsavory bits of illnesses if it meant saving more people long term. I understood the Dark Arts were dangerous and illegal and blah blah, but continued ignorance was only hurting them.
Already today I figured out how to treat different Curses just from seeing how they friggin worked—I could probably treat Curses better than half the healers at St. Mungo's!
In fact—
In fact I—I think I might have learned enough about reactions to Dark Magic to begin crafting the Worgen ritual.
Wow.
I took a long sip of my tea, savoring the warmth.
I literally tortured a woman to death.
That—uh—that had to be acknowledged. It wasn't something I thought I could do until the moment actually happened. I wondered if it had been anyone else laid out on that table—someone I did not abhor—would I still have been able to do the things I had done?
I couldn't... I couldn't answer that anymore.
I didn't know.
What could I do? What couldn't I do? Where was the line for me now?
I didn't want to murder—I stood by my belief that it would be wasteful—and I didn't want to repeat what happened tonight, but I wouldn't actively avoid the situation either. What's done was done, I had crossed a line that I knew I could never go back over.
There was no sick satisfaction, nor brooding regret. A detached sense of acceptance over events, terribly similar to when I had decided to kill myself in the first life.
What's done was done.
Never one to claim to be the hero, yet at the start of my journey I never foresaw actual torture.
I took another deep sip of my tea.
Was it a side effect from performing Dark rituals? Did Dark magic slowly transform one's mind? Was it a biological impurity, a defect in my brain?
Or was it an issue with me—with my very soul?
I was not a good person.
I finished my tea and Sil refilled it.
"I certainly can't claim the hero title this life," I mused, staring into the fire.
Tom let out a soft heh into his tea. "The victors are the ones who write the history books, Rosie."
"I don't think today should be placed in a history book," I chuckled darkly.
"Probably not," he agreed. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired. My fingers are sore," I mumbled softly. "A little satisfied with what I learned today. I think I can get started on my worgen ritual."
"I was hoping the bone dust transformation would give you an idea for it," said Tom.
"Yep." I yawned. "... Kinda... drained."
Tom nodded, dark eyes warm in the light of the fire. Silence stretched between us as I slowly drank my tea. Tom intently watched me, his expression unreadable. Only after I had finished my second cup of tea, did he break the silence.
"You were charmingly meticulous today," he said in that honeyed voice of his, "delightfully dark and determined. It was a pleasure to watch you work."
"Thank you," I murmured sleepily, a part of me wondering what he wanted.
"Next time however," he said, his voice oddly gentle, "allow me. You don't need to step further into the Dark. You are someone who dwells best in between."
"I'm not so fragile—" My words fell short at Tom's pinning gaze.
"I have spent years in your head. I know you better than you might think, Rosie. You are someone who is better suited to acting with kind intentions, even if the methods are not considered equally kind," said Tom. "Please rely on me for the more... extreme intentions."
My hands curled around my teacup. The warmth from the tea had seeped throughout my body, my eyelids growing heavier.
Tom reached forward, gently brushing back a stray curl. "Get some rest, Rosie. What's done is done."
"Thank you, Tom," I whispered.
Sweetly, he kissed my forehead. "You are welcome."
(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*
Bucket List Completed:
55. If Umbridge hurts Harry, kill her.
ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ
"The cunning of the fox is as murderous as the violence of the wolf."
-Thomas Paine
See you next Thursday for the cleanup!
Answer: I'd pick Rosie to keep up the Patronus and have her bring a variety of grenades for the monsters, and flamethrowers for the furniture / hedges.
Question: You are a student at Hogwarts during Umbridge's reign of terror in canon. How do you deal with her?
Reviews are love!