vicious [d.m]

eighteen: losses & vendettas

Khione moves through the castle like a shadow.

Her bare feet on the cold floor make no sound, her nightgown not betraying a single rustle. She stays against the walls, following the path she's now taken three times in the past three days, ever since sleep began evading her.

She'd thought she'd washed away all remnants of him, had watched it all swirl down the drain along with her mother's blood — but if the marks on her neck are not proof enough, the knot of desperation in her chest definitely is.

She hasn't been able to shake it — not since she gave in to him three nights ago. She hates herself for it — for how she let her guard down and even more for how it only bloomed a deep, visceral ache for him within her.

She's barely eaten, barely slept. She can't, no matter how much she tries. It's like she needs him to function — and that single terrible, mortifying thought has been the reason she's been trekking to the library every night since.

She needs her strength to win the Duellum — and with the prospect of the next Trial looming before her, she can't afford to weaken. But the fact that she hasn't seen Malfoy since that night has her focus wavering.

The library doors creak open automatically as she approaches them, a quiet groan that reverberates through her bones. She steps in, onto the plush carpet and breathes the scent of parchment and ink in deep. It settles her bones a little, curbs the sickening feeling in her gut for just a fleeting moment.

On instinct, her feet carry her through the enormous labyrinth of bookshelves, towards the section at the back. This area has been cordoned off — she doesn't know why — but whatever magic might have kept her out of it when Hogwarts was a school has long faded and she passes through the open gate without missing a step.

The books are right where she left them, stacked upon one another in a precarious tower. She'd scoured the shelves for anything related, not even sure what she was looking for. But considering that the only person who could help her was still holed up in his little hideout down in the boathouse, she didn't have any other choice.

Because going to see him wasn't an option. Not with the burning desire for him still smoldering within her, embers of that night flaring with heat whenever she thought about it.

A scuffle of footsteps rips her out of her thoughts and she jolts, whirling around, instincts spiking to full alert.

Arioch stands before her across the aisle, in the narrow space between two bookshelves. He blinks at her, his mop of golden curls now long enough that they twitch when he does so. He has a thick tome of a book tucked underneath one arm, obviously as startled to see her as she is to see him.

"It's you," Khione says, shoulders loosening as relief winds through her. She's been too disoriented lately to pick a fight with anyone — and the last person she'd wanted to see was Irvene, especially not in the library where she usually let her guard down.

"You look like shit," Arioch says as way of greeting, hefting the heavy book and adjusting it in his arms.

"You're not looking much better. What happened to your neck?"

He blinks, one hand flying to gingerly touch the scar on his neck, an ugly pink thing that looks like a small bomb went off under his skin. "Dragon burn. How'd you get away unscathed?"

She shrugs, banishing thoughts of Malfoy's voice in her head telling her how to placate the dragon during the third Trial. "Got lucky."

Arioch's eyes narrow and she only looks back at him, unimpressed. "Malfoy helped you, didn't he?"

"You seem to have an obsession with him. If you're harboring some secret crush—"

He waves his hand, dismissing her thought. "Even if I did, he'd never look at anyone but Sarai," he tells her, voice woven with exhaustion. "He's the only one who knows dragons like the back of his hand. If there's anyone who helped you escape that trial without a hair on your head being singed by those Romanian Longhorns, it's him."