Chapter 25
December 20th, 1943
Hope
“Hey there, gorgeous,” a masculine voice booms from behind me, louder than any reasonable person should speak in a library.
Burying my head further into my book, I pretend like I didn’t hear anything. Researching deadly potions is a fun enough activity on its own, unwanted company will just put me over the edge. In an ironic twist of fate, I find myself almost wishing that voice belonged to a Slytherin. A very particular one that I’ve already spent far too much time with this break.
The chair beside me screeches across the stone floor as the owner of the voice pulls it out and plops down with a flourish.
“I was beginning to worry Riddle might be monopolizing all your time. But the fates have smiled on me today. How lucky am I to stumble upon the most beautiful girl at Hogwarts?” the intruder declares dramatically.
When I turn, I’m met with the haunting smile of Milton Macmillan. A Gryffindor Pureblood who stayed behind for the holidays, and not for lack of family. I’m pretty sure that he has some family members in different years, all of which seem to be absent during break.
“I’m actually trying to concentrate, Macmillan,” I say curtly, hoping he’ll take the hint. “There are a few potions—”
“Well, I excel in Potions!” he interrupts, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that’s entirely too loud with a raised eyebrow. “Top marks, every year. What are we talking about? Fatal potions? Sounds dangerously fascinating.”
My teeth grind together, and I can’t decide what’s more irritating; him cutting me off or him leaning into my space to intrude on my reading. If he wasn’t so overly confident and didn’t completely ignore how much I clearly don’t want to be bothered, I might consider him handsome.
Milton leans back in his chair, his perfectly coiffed blond hair catching the light as though he planned it. His green eyes sparkle with self-assured amusement, and his smile is so dazzling it looks rehearsed—probably in front of a mirror. But his personality? Merlin’s knickers, it’s exhausting.
“Yes, but I don’t need any help with it. Thanks for the offer, though,” I tell him, my voice lacking any appreciation.
Instead of leaving me alone, Milton yawns theatrically, throwing an arm over the back of my chair as though we’re old friends.
“A witch as lovely as you shouldn’t be researching something so grim,” he says, his voice dripping with false concern. “Maybe you’d prefer something lighter—like Amortentia.”
He pauses, letting that sink in before adding, “If you’d like to brew it, I’d be delighted to be your test subject. For the sake of, you know, science.”
I can’t hide my grimace when his eyebrows dance suggestively. Suddenly feeling queasy, I turn away from what he must think is a charming expression that might disarm any witch. In reality, I feel more like the prize pig at a fair with his attentions.
My silence is the result of not having anything nice to say, but he takes it as a sign that his flirting is working. At least, that’s what I assume when he leans close enough that I nearly choke on his cologne— an awful mix of sandalwood and over powering vanilla.
“Imagine it, gorgeous,” he continues, his tone soaked in mock seriousness. “The two of us, huddled over a cauldron for hours, and I could show you the best way to slice the rose petals. The steam rising, the heat turning your cheeks a delectable shade of red, as we craft the most intoxicating potion Hogwarts has ever seen. It’s practically romantic.”
Inching my chair away from him, I grumble, “Romantic is one word for it.”
The picture he paints sounds more like a nightmare than anything close to appealing, but Milton is a very popular Gryffindor. Why women in the 1940’s flock to him, I have no idea. Being pompous is an accomplishment that Riddle’s followers thrive with, but they do not own the market. Although, I suppose I’m lucky that this is the longest I’ve had to interact with the boy.
Macmillan doesn’t take my hint, shifting even closer to me while adjusting his already perfect hair, “And after working together, getting to know one another, when you inevitably catch a whiff of your heart’s greatest desire, well…I think I can guess who you’ll smell.”
The sly wink he sends my way makes my stomach turn. With wide eyes and an alarmed expression, I watch in horror as Milton eyes my mouth. I jolt when he grabs my hand, and then he’s leaning towards me with intent in his eyes.
“Macmillan,” a low, chilling voice interrupts from behind us.
Milton stiffens, his grip on my hand tightening as he looks over his shoulder. I’m too busy watching his mask falter, his smile tightening briefly in annoyance while he narrows his eyes at my savior.
His tone is laced with forced joviality, only barely not sounding rude, “Riddle. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
The relief I feel is staggering, Riddle won’t let this jagoff try to kiss me. Over the last days, he and I have settled into a weird truce of sorts. He answered all of my questions the day of our date, and the main thing I learned is that sixteen year old Voldemort leans heavily on logic and reason.
Violence is both a way for him to work off energy, almost as a replacement for working out, and as a means of control. In a lot of ways, Riddle uses a similar mindset as my family, namely my Father. I couldn’t find the words to explain how I understand his actions, how I grey up in a family that lives in the grey on a good day. If one of us was threatened, that grey turned pitch black in the blink of an eye, and I hate that I understand him as well as I do.
Since then, I’ve kept up my end of our deal. No more randomly avoiding him, no more letting my confused feelings rule my actions. It’s led to a lot of time spent together; walking through Hogsmeade, hanging out in the Room of Requirement, and nearly every meal has been spent side by side.
Riddle claims to be courting me, but it feels more like we’re already together. Something that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as I wish it did, but also saves me from people like Milton Macmillan.
“Am I interrupting?” Tom asks politely, but there’s an undertone sharp enough to cut glass.
Once I turn, I find Riddle standing a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, looking as though he’d materialized from the shadows themselves. His expression is calm, but there’s rage emanating from his eyes. A loose smile takes over my lips, but I drop it when Milton glances at me.
Milton straightens, brushing imaginary lint off his robes. “Not at all. Just keeping our lovely Hope company. It’s such a dreary holiday break without a bit of… companionship, don’t you think?”
Tom’s eyes flick to me, his lips curving ever so slightly into what could almost be called a smile—if you ignored how cold it is, “I’m sure Miss Mikaelson appreciates your efforts.”
The way he says it makes Milton shift uncomfortably in his seat, though he forces a laugh. “Of course she does. Don’t you, Hope?”
“Well, I—”
“I imagine,” Tom cuts in smoothly, stepping closer, “she’d appreciate it even more if she could continue her studies without interruption. You wouldn’t want to hinder her progress, would you?”
Milton blinks, his grin faltering further. “Well, no, but—”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Tom says, his voice as calm as ever, a threatening smile tugging at his lips. “After all, it would be unfortunate if your helpfulness were misconstrued as meddling. Some people may mistake your many longing glances over the last few days as watching. Combined, some might think of your actions as harassment.”
The word hangs in the air like a curse, and Milton’s face flushes a deep red, “I—of course not! I was just…”
He trails off, glancing between Tom and me as though debating whether to stay or run away at full speed. Tom doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as blink, but the weight of his presence is more than enough.
“Well, I should… probably get back to my own studies,” Milton mutters, standing abruptly and dropping my hand. He straightens his robes and offers me one last, wobbly smile, “Don’t be a stranger, gorgeous.”
He’s gone before I can respond, not that I want to anyways. Once he’s out of sight, Tom sits in Milton’s vacated seat, propping his feet up on the table. Now, his smile actually touches his eyes, and Riddle takes on an amused expression.
“I was wondering when he’d make a move,” he says while lightly chuckling. “Who knew Macmillan could find the library on his own, I wasn’t confident he could read.”
Shaking my head, I hold in a laugh, “Thanks for the rescue. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up.”
“My guess would be punching him in the face,” he tells me while grinning, looking up like he’s imagining it. “And while I would have liked nothing more than to watch that, I actually wanted to speak with you.”
Closing the book, I turn fully to him, “Alright, what’s up?”
Tom straightens, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning towards me, “We will be leaving this evening, and I wanted to ensure you are prepared for our holiday at Malfoy Manor.”
“Do I need to do anything to get ready?” I ask with my head cocked to the side.
Tom shrugs, grabbing the hand that Milton was holding not long ago, “No, not exactly. However, we will have to act differently while there, and I don’t want you to mistake my change in actions for lack of interest.”
Understanding dawns on me, and I start nodding with an uncomfortable smile. Abraxas is supposed to be courting me, and he’s going to have to act like it while in front of his parents. Which likely means opening doors for me, holding my hand, but hopefully I can escape from any kissing.
In a weird way, I think I’m going to miss Tom being the one to do these things. Over the last few days, I’ve gotten used to Tom, and can even admit to myself that I enjoy having him around. No one else needs to know that, and I refuse to write Freya or Rebekah about him. But, he’s smart, funny, and I can relax in his presence. Even if he did insist on following me to what will be the Shrieking Shack for the full moon. Why he insists on being present for my very painful transitions, I don’t know.
Worry was present in his stiff shoulders and the way he absently rubbed the back of one hand with his thumb the entire walk there. I’m still hesitant to think that Tom Riddle actually cares for me, but the tension in his face when he returned to the tunnel was present despite his best efforts.
“So, you don’t want the Malfoy’s to know about your claim on me?” I try to ask light heartedly, but it comes out strained.
Tom gives me a knowing look, and shifts his chair closer to mine, “If Armond realizes how small the chance is that Abraxas and you will marry, he will be more likely to interfere.
“The goal is for him to think that his son is pursuing you with an amount of success. You don’t have to pretend to want him, but flinching when Abraxas touches you would raise suspicions. Suspicions that might lead to Armond taking drastic measures, and no one wants that.”
“Okay, I can do that,” I breath out a small sigh of relief that I don’t have to actually fake date Abraxas. “When do we leave?”
**********************
“Welcome, Miss Mikaelson!”
Stepping through the floo, I dust the soot off my dress while smiling at the people here to greet me. A tall man stands in the center of the room, his posture straight and almost regal.
His black dress robes sparkle with tiny diamonds sewn in, creating constellations, and catching the light as he shifts. Stark white hair is tied back in a ponytail, grey eyes studying me intently, and dignified features create a picture of open curiosity.
On his arm stands a woman so stunning she barely looks real. Her vibrant red hair glows against the cream-colored robes that hug her figure, with delicate green lace accentuating her shoulders and arms, nearly reaching the floor. Despite smiling widely at me, her expression doesn’t meet her eyes, and there’s cold calculation in her gaze. I’ve never seen a face so symmetrical, and she has to be at least a decade younger than her husband.
“Hello,” I say with an awkward wave.
As I step aside, the Floo flares green once more, and Tom steps gracefully into the room. Compared to the Malfoys’ extravagance, his simple black robes seem understated, but the sharp cut of the fabric and his innate confidence give him an air of quiet authority.
Placing our bags on the ground, Tom approaches Mr. Malfoy with an outstretched hand, “Good evening, Sir. Thank you for the gracious invitation. Your home is as magnificent as I remember.”
Mr. Malfoy’s expression flickers with surprise—but he quickly recovers, shaking Tom’s hand with a tight smile that doesn’t disguise the dangerous gleam in his eyes, “Mr. Riddle, how wonderful to see you again. Though I must admit, I wasn’t informed we’d have the pleasure of your company.”
Tom’s smile doesn’t falter, “I hope my presence won’t inconvenience you. Miss Mikaelson spoke so highly of the Malfoy estate that I couldn’t refuse her suggestion to accompany her.”
Malfoy Sr.’s lips press into a thin line, but before he can respond, a familiar voice interjects from behind me.
“Apologies, Father, I extended the invitation,” Abraxas says smoothly, startling me. When I turn, I find him striding towards me with his blond hair impeccably styled and his robes pristine. His gaze lands on me, his smile charming and practiced. “Hello, Hope. You look radiant this evening.”
Taking one hand, he leans down and kisses my knuckles in a courtly gesture. His gray eyes lock onto mine as he presses a light kiss to my knuckles. The intensity of his gaze makes my stomach twist, though I force myself to smile back, keeping my posture relaxed. This is just for a few days, and I need to remember that Abraxas is playing a part.
“Hi, how has your break been?” I ask shyly, unsure how to act.
“Marvelous, thanks to knowing you’d be joining us,” he says suavely, his hand lingering on mine a moment longer before releasing it. “And yours, my dear?”
“Relaxing, I’d say,” I answer, trying to keep the interaction light.
A sharp crack interrupts us as a house-elf materializes beside Mr. Malfoy, bowing deeply. She wears a threadbare yellow pillowcase, and her high-pitched voice trembles with both nervousness and deference.
“Master, dinner is prepared to be served,” she announces, wringing her hands.
“Excellent,” Malfoy Sr. replies curtly. His eyes sweep over us, lingering on Tom for a fraction longer than necessary before settling on me. “Miss Mikaelson, I trust you’ll find our table embracing. Shall we?”
Abraxas steps beside me, offering his arm with a small, knowing smirk.
“Shall we?” he echoes Mr. Malfoy’s words, his tone laced with amusement.
I hesitate for a beat before slipping my hand into the crook of his arm.
“We shall,” I murmur, stealing a quick glance at Tom, whose polite smile tightens ever so slightly at the sight.
As a unit, we walk through the halls of Malfoy manor. The entire home is outfitted in soft, natural colors; namely white, beige, black, green, brown, with light silver detailing. Everything is fit for royalty, with marble flooring, crown molding, and wallpaper that’s too interesting to be mass produced in this time period.
Multiple hallways have enchanted portraits, most giving me dirty looks. Someone must have told them to keep their mouths shut, because no insults are thrown my way. The dining room is grand, a massive table stands resolutely in the center of a very large room with carvings of lotus flowers and dahlias, surrounded by lace-like ridges and divets. A rug covers nearly two thirds of the room, depicting a silver dragon acting as the stead of a silver haired wizard.
Four chairs face each other, the dark wood matching that of the table, but the two chairs at the heads are taller and thicker than the rest. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy take the head seats, while Abraxas leads me to one side of the table, him ending up at his Father’s right. Tom decides to occupy the seat directly across from me, smiling encouragingly.
The house elf from before pours us each a glass of water followed by wine, meanwhile dishes pop into existence on the table. A large ham sits in the center, and more side dishes than five people could ever consume, all of them healthy. Various vegetable dishes, what I believe are mashed potatoes, three different kinds of salads, and a couple plates that I can’t figure out.
Once everyone fills their plates, Mrs. Malfoy turns her attention on me, “Miss Mikaelson, you must tell us—how are you finding our world so far? Are its people terribly different from those where you come from?”
“There are similarities and differences,” I respond simply with a smile.
Back to probing questions that hide what she’s actually asking. Being adults and aristocrats doesn’t change my philosophy; if they want an answer, then they’re going to have to actually ask for it. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy will run into the same walls that their son did at the beginning of term.
Mrs. Malfoy’s smile tightens before trying another strategy, her tone now faintly admiring, “Abraxas tells us you’re quite the accomplished witch. Tell me, is your talent something innate, or does it stem from rigorous study?”
Chewing my food, I take my time before I swallow. Taking the napkin from my lap, I daintily dab at the corners of my mouth, and turn back to her with a pleasant smile, “A mix of both, I believe.”
Beneath the table, Abraxas grabs my hand, his grip the only outward sign of his anxiety. Whether the action is to warn me or make him feel better, I have no idea, but it must be odd watching his parents interrogate me. Especially knowing that I’m not going to be forthcoming with my responses.
Mrs. Malfoy might be holding a mask fairly well, but Mr. Malfoy has the beginnings of a frown forming. Thankfully, I’m not the only one amused by the interaction; Tom is cutting his ham with the enthusiasm of a tree frog on stimulants. Seeing him completely at ease helps me stay centered, even if I’m not very intimidated by the hosts.
Sure, they’re important in this world and very sneaky, but I’m a Mikaelson. I’m not about to be cowed by people who want something from me, I have the upper hand here.
Mrs. Malfoy leans forward slightly, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, “It must be fascinating, your magic. I’ve heard whispers of extraordinary things. Tell me, Miss Mikaelson, is it true that your abilities extend beyond conventional spellwork? Perhaps something… rare?”
After a deep sigh, I turn to face her fully, “With all due respect, I detest questions that hide someone’s true curiosities. In fact, all semester I’ve successfully dodged every leading question I’ve been asked, and I have no intentions of stopping. You can confirm with your son, I am much more likely to answer questions that get to the point.”
Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes dart to Abraxas briefly before turning back to me with an expression that could be mistaken for respect. Although, I get the feeling that it’s more amused understanding, maybe a touch of sympathy. Either way, I remember Tom’s warning about her, and I’m not going to trust this woman.
“Very well,” she starts, leaning back in her chair and smiling brightly. Her eyes have fire in them, and I just know that she hates me, “Is it true that you do not require a wand? In fact, rumor has it that you exploded your wand in class, and Ollivander is said to have lost a considerable amount of inventory after your visit.”
My laughter is genuine, that was such an odd day and I still remember how the old man would hide behind the counter, “Yes, both of those statements are true. I do feel bad about Ollivander’s, but that was my first try with a wand.”
My simple shrug and nonchalant attitude makes Mrs. Malfoy’s eye twitch, her smile being slightly manic. The next question comes from the other end of the table, Armond taking the lead of the interrogation.
“Just to be clear, you’re saying that you never had to learn wandless magic? That is simply the way you were raised to practice?” his tone slightly disbelieving.
I nod while I chew until I swallow, “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Leaning forward in his chair, Mr. Malfoy takes on a charming expression, “Well, would it be presumptuous to ask for a display of your power? I have to say, I am curious about what you can do.”
Abraxas turns to me with a casual smile, but warning in his eyes. His pupils are screaming at me to say no, but when I turn to Riddle, he simply shrugs. While it might not be the smartest idea to show what I’m working with, I’m confident that Tom is just as curious as the Malfoy’s.
In a small effort to side step, I tell Armond casually, “While I wouldn’t mind showing off, I doubt you would appreciate me whipping out my full power now. I’m sure you’re all very fond of this estate, I wouldn’t want to hurt it.”
No matter what face I look at, eyebrows are raised while everyone stares at me openly. The Malfoy’s seem to be debating how serious I am, but Tom and Abraxas practically gape at me. My classmates have seen me use magic frequently, but I never put my full might behind anything.
My entire life has been about controlling the intense magic my bloodline is blessed with, or maybe cursed. Great Aunt Dahlia somehow knew that the first daughter born into our line would be exponentially more powerful than the generations before. Aunt Freya was taken by her as a baby because of that fact, and later tried to take me. Thankfully, my grandmother came back into the world to make up with her sister, and I was spared.
But, even without being at my full power yet, I’ve still surpassed Freya in magical might. Unleashing myself might make this building crumble, it really would be better to be outside for a true demonstration.
“Are you sure you aren’t being coy?” Mrs. Malfoy asks, a skeptical expression taking over her face. “The manor has stood for centuries, I doubt the might of one girl could disturb it. Let alone cause lasting damage.”
Raising and dropping my shoulders, I level her with a challenging look, “I can show you some wandless magic inside, however a true demonstration would have to be out doors. That is nonnegotiable.”
For the first time, her mask truly cracks, and irritation and disgust take over her expression. Before she can say anything, Armond pulls my attention back to him.
“Well, after we finish eating then?”
**************
Standing in what I imagine is an empty equestrian field, I walk until I’m a safe distance away from my audience. There are various obstacles set up, but this seems to be the largest expanse of land that doesn’t have flowers, statues, or other rich people things for me to ruin. From the outside, the Manor looks more like a palace than anything else. Somewhere between Buckingham Palace and the Palace of Versailles, a grand building with walls so white they glow in the light of the moonlight. There’s dark green accenting on the building, so dark it might as well be black, and making the building look all the more interesting.
Giving the small crowd a thumbs up, I turn away from them with my arms outstretched. With a deep breath, I release the ever present hold I keep on my magic. Immediately, power floods my veins, so overwhelming I still fear it may swallow me regardless of my control.
First, the wind picks up, whipping my hair and clothes around with violent strength. Flocks of crows and ravens appear, soaring through the skies and riding the wind. Before long, the sky is so packed, all the moonlight disappears of view, and their agitated song pierces my ears. Snow from the ground starts to rise, acting like shining dust in the beginning of a sand storm.
Next, clouds form, storming the sky with flashes of lightning and thunder shaking the ground. Rain is added to the ever quickening wind, the growing storm now picking up the equestrian equipment like the beginnings of a tornado. Still, I funnel more magic into the display, enjoying the feeling of such immense power flowing through me.
Soon, rain turns to hail, the pieces of ice getting caught in the wind, circling around me while the birds cry louder. The birds begin flying around me, creating a swirling vortex of animals, water, ice, snow, and wind, lifting my feet from the ground. Weightlessness feels good, my hair and dress floating as if I’m under water, and I feel like I’m stretching muscles that have been stagnant for far too long. Magic crackles all around me, tickling my skin, almost like a static field around me. Within minutes, I’ve created a hurricane, with me floating in the eye.
Eventually, I decide I’ve done enough, and start to dispel my little presentation. The wind slows, the hail returning to water, snow falling to continue blanketing the ground, and force the clouds to disperse. Once the sky is visible again, the birds scatter back into their smaller flocks, and after a few minutes the night is back to the way it was before. Although, the surrounding area has various debris and equipment randomly sprinkled around the field.
Really, I made a mess of leaves and rich people things, and I feel bad for the House Elves that will surely be forced to clean up after me. But, I feel energized and free for the first time in a long time. Not even beating Dolohov’s ass made my blood pump like this magical exhibit.
Walking back to the people huddled together at the far end of the field, I find gobsmacked awe when I’m close enough to see expressions. Abraxas looks downright terrified, Tom opting for impressed hunger, while the adult Malfoy’s are sharing meaningful glances. Based on the frustrated set of Mrs. Malfoy’s features, I’m going to assume little miss bigot is unhappy that I’m as formidable as I am. Her husband, on the other hand, seems to be having a similar reaction as Tom.
“That was awe inspiring, Miss Mikaelson,” Armond Malfoy announces when I’m close. “Thank you for showing us, I’ve never seen such a powerful display.”
Abraxas moves to my side, his pleasant mask firmly back in place, and offers me his arm, “Truly a gift from the Gods, how fortunate that we get to know you.”
After I thank them for their flattery, taking Abraxas’ arm with a friendly smile, Armond leads the way back into the manor. Together, we all walk through the halls, passing portraits of deceased Malfoys and various other art pieces. Honestly, I’m surprised that it isn’t creepier. The descriptions I read about all those years ago made this building sound like a monochromatic prison, but in reality the space is bright with intriguing, dark accents.
Once we are in the guest hall, I’m shown what will be my rooms for this little visit. Safely inside, the others leave to drop off Tom before going on their merry way. Presently, my focus is on the huge sitting room, fit with three large couches, two leather seats, multiple coffee and end tables, plus enough flowers to overwhelm even a bee. Everything is outfitted in dark purples, deep blues, teal, with soft purple details.
The bedroom is similarly decorated, with lavish furniture that I’m afraid to touch— it’s so antique and obviously hand crafted. A king sized mattress sits on a fourposter frame, sheer curtains hang from both the ceiling and the canopy set into the bed frame.
In one corner is a beautiful chaise lounge, three mirrors outline a circular stand in another, with a large vanity and bench against the wall opposing the bed. Nearly an entire wall is actually a series of windows, more glass than purple wall paper, with intricate crown molding outlining the floor and ceiling.
I’m so busy staring, I almost don’t move when I hear a knock at my door. Once I realize that no one else is here to get it, I set into motion. Reaching the exterior doors takes a moment, but when I do, I find Tom on the other side. Slightly surprised, I check either end of the hall for anyone else. No other souls are visible, so I grab Riddle, and pull him into the sitting room. Quietly shutting the door, I turn to him with a raised eyebrow.
“Eager to see me?” he asks with a light chuckle as he rights his himself.
Rolling my eyes, I get to the point, “I’m curious why you’re here after visiting hours.”
Without a hint of urgency, Tom walks before sitting on one of the couches. He pats the seat next to him, looking far too handsome and inviting. No one should be so good looking while simply sitting casually, it’s a crime. I have no other choice but to follow his direction after a moment of indecision.
Perfect curls hang over his eyebrows, the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows, top three buttons are undone, tucked into pristine black slacks. It…it looks like he’s wearing slippers, but I can’t quite tell.
“How did you not expect me to come see you after how amazing you were?” his question comes out with an air of awe and he brushes some hair behind one of my ears, making sure to linger. “I knew you were powerful, but that was beyond anything I’d imagined. You transcend breath taking.”
Chuckling, I shake my head at him, “Of course you were attracted to a display of power. You know, you could at least pretend to not want my magic so badly. It might make the whole courting me thing work out better in your favor.”
“You know that is only small portion of my admiration,” he tells me with an eye roll. Pulling me closer, Tom wraps an arm around my shoulders, “Allow me the freedom to be impressed with a witch that’s shown more control and vigor than any other witch or wizard highly regarded in society. Knowing you aren’t even at your full power just makes you even more fascinating.”
His body heat seeps into me, his scent lulling my mind into relaxation. Closing my eyes, I rest my head on his shoulder, “Sure, whatever you say. I still wouldn’t be surprised if you all dissect me in my sleep.”
I feel him chuckle softly, his chest rising and falling, making me smile. “Dissecting a being without my favorite girl by my side? No, that would be a waste. I’d much rather spend my time around a conscious you—far more entertaining.”
“Oh, please,” I scoff, pulling away enough to look at his expression.
Tom takes the opportunity to bring our faces even closer together, his breath tickling my cheeks, “I understand that you look for actions over words, but should I not get a little credit for ambushing Wizarding royalty to ensure your safety?”
“You’re here to keep up with your investment,” I tell him with a playful smile. “Can’t have me actually falling for Abraxas, that would ruin your plans of world domination.”
His grip on me tightens ever so slightly, his smile turning slightly predatory, “As if Abraxas could come anywhere near your fancies. You’re not easily led astray by a charming smile or a silly gift, he tends to go for Halfbloods that believe their time with him is a fairy tale. Until he moves on, that is.”
“How is that different from your tactics?” I ask, poking him in the ribs a few times.
Riddle gasps in mock offense, clutching imaginary pearls, “Why, I have never misled a witch into thinking we would make it all the way. Especially if I only planned on spending a weekend with her.”
“I’m sure,” I snort, shaking my head at his sarcasm. “Being the next girl in your sights is so flattering, but I’m curious when you’ll get sick of me as well.”
Tom’s smirk softens into something more dangerous, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “You assume far too much, Hope. I don’t bore easily, especially when I’m invested in something—or someone. You should know by now, when I set my sights on something, I don’t stop until it’s mine.”
“So, once I give in,” I tell him confidently, ignoring our close proximity and the intimacy in his gaze. “Then you’ll tire of me. Who would’ve known, Tom Riddle likes the chase.”
Pulling me onto his lap, Tom grabs my chin and forces me to maintain close eye contact. Our noses are practically touching as his voice turns husky, “The day you stop running will be the start of the rest of our lives. If you think the chase is what I’m after, then you still must not believe in the destination.”
My surprise morphs into exasperation, my eyes rolling at him, “It’s been a great week, but can you really blame me for being skeptical that this will last long term? That any relationship I’m in will last long term?”
“You’re coming back to life, Hope,” he says firmly, maintaining both our eye contact and his hold on me. “All of you, you’re not leaving a single tiny bit of your annoyingly brilliant self behind. Will you change after transforming into who you are meant to be? Possibly.
“However, you’ll also change as a mortal from now until it’s time. That’s what happens to everyone, experiences change us. But that does not mean that a single event will rattle the firm foundation that is Hope Mikaelson, not if you don’t let it.”
The speech is moving, but I’m a stubborn girl, used to disappointment. When him getting bored of me became a bad thing, I’m really not sure. But here I am, sure that another boy is going to make me fall for him, resulting in heart break and probably death. That’s been my track record thus far, and I am aware of who I’m talking to.
“Even if you’re right, you’re not going to want to be with a seventeen year old forever. You’re going to move on, grow up, and I’ll always be stagnant,” I say, my voice coming out more hoarse than I wish. My insecurities bleeding through the confident, playful mask I’m fighting to keep up.
Tom rears back momentarily, his eyes wide with disbelief, “You wouldn’t change me?”
Touching the hand holding my face stationary, I swallow slightly uncomfortably knowing what I’m about to tell him. “You don’t want to, Tom. The chances of you losing your magic by becoming like me…it’s nearly definite. There is a chance that I’ll lose my magic too, death tends to separate you from it.”
A frown plasters itself on his face, and a small dimple appears when his eyebrows push together, “In your world, are there no vampires who can use magic?”
Opening my mouth, I mean to confirm that theory, but my words get stuck in my mouth. There technically is one kind of vampire who can use magic, only if they were a siphoning witch or warlock. Becoming a vampire gave their abilities a constant access to magic, allowing them to be both.
“If someone was a siphon in life, they could use magic as a vampire,” I tell him honestly in a small voice.
His eyebrows kiss his hairline, but then his expression turns analytically serious, “Someone that needed help to perform magic.” After I nod a confirmation, he continues, “Are we, in this world, not similar to them? Here, we need wands, an apparatus to manipulate wild magic.”
Chewing on my lip, I debate on it for a moment before responding, “Not exactly, unless you somehow draw power from the wand to perform magic. But, in that case, you wouldn’t be able to do wandless magic.”
“Unless we’ve drawn magic in another way,” he says quietly. A moment later, sheer determination comes over his features, “We’ll just have to experiment a little after your birthday.”