Chapter 9
September 13th, 1943
Hope
Telling Mary and Anthony I need to do some research in the library, I sneak away from dinner. It takes a long time, but eventually I make it to the seventh floor. Reading about moving staircases and traversing moving staircases are two entirely different things. I thought waiting for elevators was annoying, this is much worse.
“There you are,” I hear an annoyed voice say.
Turning, I find Riddle leaning casually against a wall with his hands in his pockets. How I wish I could take a picture for Josie or MG, my fellow Harry Potter lovers. If I told them that one of our favorite fictional villains was not only alive, but posing like a Hollister model in front of me, they might collapse.
Shaking those thoughts out of my head, I walk to Riddle’s side. He doesn’t move or shift, he just tracks my movements with his vantablack eyes.
“We agreed to meet at eight,” I tell him with an eye roll. “It’s eight. So, lead the way.”
He huffs, but pushes away from the wall and starts walking. Following him, I wonder why he’s so annoyed. You would think he’d be happy, I’m telling him a secret after all. But, at the end of the day, I don’t really care about his emotional state. I suppose if he was bouncing off the walls with excitement from the idea of killing me, that would be a problem.
Riddle stops moving in front of one painting, and I follow suit. The title is ‘Barnabas the Barmy,’ and I make sure my expression remains blank. While I’m busy watching trolls attempting ballet, I can feel his eyes studying me. All my teenage instincts call for me to roll my eyes again at his antics, but I’d rather not fail this little test of his.
“Well?” I ask after he’s been staring at me for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Are we going somewhere private or should I just go to Ravenclaw tower?”
His jaw ticks and eyes narrow, but Riddle starts moving all the same. Giving him a curious expression, I watch as he walks back and forth three times before stopping in front of me. Lifting an eyebrow at him, I ignore the nearly inaudible sounds of the wall shifting, the feeling of the castle’s magic working just behind me, and wait for Riddle to do something.
He actually smiles, although it’s more arrogant than happy. Placing both hands on my shoulders, he turns me around to look at the grand door that appeared where the painting once was. Making the shocked and mystified sounds I imagine someone would make, I try to ignore Riddle’s body heat seeping into my back.
His hands move down my arms, before one reaches to open the door. On the other side is an empty bar with instrumental music playing. Dark wood paneling makes up both the floors and walls, there’s one long counter with stools to the left, and plenty of empty seating to the right. The center is fairly empty, my guess would be a makeshift dance floor. But, I can smell real alcohol behind the pine and wood burning fire filling the space with warmth.
Stepping into the room, I lay my robes on a near by table, and confidentially move behind the bar. It has nearly everything you could find at Gillespie’s Pub, and I find myself thanking the stars that Aunt Rebekah let Uncle Marcel teach me how to bar tend.
“Any requests?” I ask the slightly less sullen Riddle as he sits on the other side of the bar, discarding his robe.
I hear him sigh before he answers, “Just a fire whiskey for me.”
Taking a small break from my perusing, I give him a dubious expression until he looks at me. Then, I roll my eyes before completing his order. How original of him.
Riddle takes a sip the moment I slide the glass over, but I’m too excited to pay him much attention. Utilizing the blender and some of the more outrageous ingredients, I pour my peanut butter daiquiri into a fun glass.
“Now that you’re finished,” Riddle grumbles, back to his annoyed self. “I do believe we have matters to discuss.”
Ignoring him, I take a sip and let out a relieved sigh. This conversation is going to be hard for me, a little taste of home is exactly what I need to get through it. Leaning against the back bar, I finally look back to my future murderer.
“So, go on then. Ask a question,” I tell him with a casual shrug.
His annoyance grows, to my delight, but after a moment he relents, “Why do you have to die?”
The question comes out like he’s asking what I want for dinner tomorrow, which is a relief. The last thing I need is someone to try to talk me out of it or become wildly uncomfortable when I’ve known about my fate for my entire life.
“The short answer is because my death will save countless people in my old world.”
Cocking his head to the side, Riddle studies me. He might be named Tom Riddle, but I think I might be the first puzzle he can’t solve. He isn’t old enough to be passed up on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, so I very well might be. I mean, the orphan boy figured out his family lineage, where the Chamber of Secrets is, and likely how to become the leader of a pack of pure bloods while being a half blood.
“So, what is the long answer?” he asks.
Taking a big sip, I drain the rest of my drink. Wishing I had made it a triple instead of a double, I put the empty glass down and turn back to the man impatiently waiting.
“A genocidal mud monster wants to devour every magical creature in my old world. Once I die, the magic in my blood will activate, and will turn into the one thing in the whole universe that can kill him,” I explain with a heavy sigh.
We’re getting closer and closer to dangerous territory. I don’t know what would be worse; admitting to this other genocidal maniac that I can give people eternal life through my vampire blood or becoming emotional about Landon in front of said maniac.
Watching Tom absorb the information does nothing to help my resolve. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and rakes his hands through his hair in agitation. Now it’s time for me to be annoyed, how dare he have nice arms with veins I want to feel. Why couldn’t he be as ugly as he is on the inside on the outside as well!
“How is that possible?” he asks, pulling me from my thoughts. “How would that work? If you’re here, how would you dying help your old world?”
Dancing around the questions I don’t want to answer, I tell him, “I still have access to my old world. My Aunts and I write when we can, sending them some blood is the least of my worries.”
“Are you able to go back to your world?” he asks, surprising me.
His dark expression almost makes me worry, is he going to try to kick me out of this world? But, that wouldn’t make much sense. I can see him wanting access to my old world; if he wanted to travel there, I wouldn’t stop him. A boy that requires a wand to do magic wouldn’t exactly be seen as much of a threat.
Still, I answer warily, “Technically, yes I could go home, but the mud dude is only one enemy. My family is a kind of famous where I come from, and their enemies would eventually come after me. It’s just better for everyone that I stay away.”
Pouring myself another drink, I skip the fanciness this time. Not wanting to feel the pressure of sadness and loss, I slam back a glass of vodka and tequila. Ignoring the almost concerned look on Tom’s face.
“Why does your family have so many enemies?” he hesitantly asks.
Happy with the slight change in topic, I let the corners of my mouth lift, “My Father. He was basically the villain in my old world, spent a lot of time lording his power over anyone and everyone. Being who he was, my Father never planned on having children. Believe me, I’m the very definition of an accident.”
Chuckling at my own joke, I pour more fire whiskey into his glass. Imagining my thousand year old Father learning that he got my Mother pregnant will always be equally funny and gross. If it wasn’t for the witches hunting me from the moment I was conceived, they might have laughed at how Nature surprised them.
“If he’s so powerful, why doesn’t your Father protect you?”
My smile drops and I turn away from him. No matter how long passes or how many times I explain it, my parents deaths always suck the life out of me. Just thinking about how I am at fault for both makes me want to shrivel up and cease to exist. But, I suppose being a Mikaelson means carrying these heavy emotions.
“Neither of my parents can protect me anymore,” I tell him while staring at the wall blankly. “Both of them died before I came here.”
After a few deep breaths, I turn again to find Tom wearing a thoughtful expression.
With a small sigh, he tells me, “I’m an orphan too. Officially, as of recent.”
Silence stretches for a time. What Tom is thinking, I have no idea. I’m sure my answers are only leaving him with more questions. But, even if he asked, I don’t think there are enough hours in a day to fully explain why I had to come to this world and how my death will save everyone I love. Curfew is at ten, and there’s only so much information that can be shared in two hours.
“So, will you help me?” I ask hopefully.
Tom frowns, his gaze picking me apart, “How do I know this isn’t a trap to get me in trouble?”
A fair question, one I’m prepared for.
“Well, this wouldn’t happen at Hogwarts,” I start, content that he seems to be taking this seriously. “You also wouldn’t be responsible for my body, harvesting my blood, or any of that. If you’re truly nervous about the repercussions, I could tell Dumbledore about your help?”
Nearly knocking the stool over, Riddle suddenly stands with his fists clenched, “That old wind bag? Why the hell would I want him to know anything?”
Holding my hands up in surrender, I try to think of some way for us to get back to relative peace we were in seconds ago.
“He already knows I have to die,” I say in a soothing voice. “I first asked him to help, but he said he would really rather not. If you don’t want me to, I won’t tell him anything. It was just a suggestion.”
Tom stays pissed for few seconds, before he sighs and sits back down. He still seems upset, but his expression slowly returns to somewhat neutral.
Rubbing his neck, he asks, “If not at school, where would this happen?”
“Umm, I’m not sure exactly. Likely a hotel room somewhere rural, preferably near an empty field away from any muggles,” biting my lip, I realize I haven’t thought too much about the particulars.
Sure, I know that I have to die, drink some human blood, and then something will happen. The when is simply before July 25th, the who is hopefully Tom, but I haven’t practically thought about this. I’ll need to get a room somewhere, but I have a feeling Dumbledore will be happy to pay for it. It’s either that or I die in his house, and I got the feeling that even being near me when it’s time will make him uncomfortable.
Even then, I’ve spent my entire life knowing that I have to die. A very strange thing to grow up with, let alone all the other traumas I’ve had to endure. But, for the first time, I wonder if I’m ready to end my mortal life. Technically, I have all the ingredients, but have I really lived?
“What happens to your body?” his voice only barely penetrates my spiraling.
Waving a dismissive hand, “I’ll wake up after a few hours.”
After going to the Salvatore School, I realized I didn’t want to die a virgin. A silly thing to be stuck on, I realize. But, my first time with Landon ended the absolute worst way possible. I’m not a virgin, but my first sexual partner basically dying afterwards doesn’t feel like what I wanted.
I’ve been so busy worrying about fitting into this world, activating my vampire side, and dealing with Tom Riddle. All my energy has been spent on surviving until I don’t have to anymore, but that isn’t how I want to end my mortal life.
“What do you mean?”
Rubbing my forehead, “I’ll go into transition and…”
Turning slowly, I realize where this conversation has gone. I was so distracted by my thoughts, I didn’t notice the forbidden topic Tom has so quickly approached. He watches me start to panic, smiling predatorily, and Tom slowly walks around the bar until he’s in front of me.
“Hope,” he starts, leaning forward until I can feel his breath on my face. “What are you going to transition into?”
Gulping loudly, I internally debate where to go from here. There are plenty of lies I could come up with, but what’s to stop him from testing me after this is all done? Not to mention, he very well could insist on being present for the entire ritual.
When he moves his hands to rest on the bar behind me, caging me in, my heart picks up its speed, and my eyes widen. Times like this, I really hate my sense of smell. With him this close, I can’t ignore it, or the way it clouds my judgment. Tom smells like whiskey, smokey oak, parchment, and a touch of cinnamon and clove. He’s so close, all my werewolf instincts want me to rub my face on his chest and neck.
That’s when I realize, the full moon is tomorrow. No wonder I’ve been a tad spacey during this conversation, and why my brain is struggling to remember why I shouldn’t just answer the question. He’s probably going to find out anyways, and maybe if I tell him, he’ll let me smell him more.
Shaking my head, I do my best to dispel the fog clouding my mind. Using some quick magic, the time is briefly displayed between us. In bright, gold script, 9:53 pm hovers and then disappears.
With a sigh of relief, and a touch of werewolf strength, I slip out of Tom’s grip. Rushing, I grab my robes and throw them on haphazardly. I can hear his laughter, I don’t need to look at him to know how humorous he finds me in this moment.
“Look at the time, I’d better be off. Have a nice night!” I shout over my shoulder, running from the room.