Sacrificial Serpent {Tom Riddle}

five

The dim light of the dungeon was barely enough to illuminate Lyla's increasingly frail form as she lay curled up on the cold stone floor. Tom sat beside her, his heart pounding with fear and helplessness. Over the past few days, she had grown alarmingly ill, her once vibrant spirit now dulled by fever and fatigue. He could feel her weakening with each passing hour, and it terrified him more than anything he had ever faced.

But it wasn't just Tom who was terrified—his captor, the one who had been controlling his every move, seemed just as unnerved by Lyla's sudden illness. In a rare moment of transparency, the controller had admitted they wanted to kill Lyla themselves, to relish in her suffering firsthand. But for reasons unknown, they couldn't get to the dungeon at that moment, leaving Tom in a state of anxious turmoil.

"She's dying," Tom whispered to himself as he watched Lyla shiver violently under the thin blanket he had managed to find for her. The sight of her fragile body, so different from the strong, confident girl he loved, tore at his heart. He wanted to protect her, to save her, but the curse binding him was like an iron shackle around his mind and body.

Lyla's condition deteriorated rapidly overnight. By morning, she was barely conscious, her breaths coming in shallow, laboured gasps. The controller, realising they were losing their grip on the situation, made a sudden decision.

*"We'll return to Hogwarts,"* the voice hissed in Tom's mind. *"She needs medical treatment, and I need her alive until I can finish this myself. Take her back now!"*

Tom felt an unexpected surge of relief at the command. Without a second thought, he gathered Lyla's frail body into his arms, careful not to jostle her too much. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and he felt the heat of her fever burning through his shirt.

With a final, desperate glance around the dungeon that had been their prison for what felt like an eternity, Tom closed his eyes and concentrated. A moment later, they vanished from the dungeon with a sharp crack, apparating directly into the Hogwarts hospital wing.

Madam Pomfrey, tending to a student with a minor injury, looked up at the sudden sound of apparition. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw Tom standing in the centre of the room, holding an unconscious Lyla in his arms. The blood drained from her face, and the potion vial she was holding slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor.

"My goodness... Tom? Lyla?" she stammered, rushing forward. "Put her down, quickly! What's happened?"

Tom, his face etched with anguish, gently laid Lyla on the nearest bed. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her breathing was shallow. Madam Pomfrey's hands trembled as she reached out to feel Lyla's forehead, her face contorting in alarm at the fever raging through the girl's body.

"She's burning up... severely malnourished..." Madam Pomfrey muttered to herself as she began to work quickly, her professional instincts kicking in despite the shock. "What on earth happened to her?"

As she worked, Lyla's eyes fluttered open, just for a moment. Her gaze locked onto Tom's, and with the last of her strength, she whispered, "Tom... isn't himself... Controller..."

Before either Tom or Madam Pomfrey could respond, Lyla's eyes closed, and she slipped into a deep, unsettling coma.

A whole month passed, and during that time, Hogwarts was a place of anxiety and speculation. Lyla remained unconscious, her condition stable but fragile, while Tom had been taken into custody by the Ministry. His confession to kidnapping Lyla had sent shockwaves through the wizarding world, but those who knew Tom and Lyla best struggled to believe that the boy they knew could have committed such an act.

Severus Snape, despite his own frail health, had refused to leave his daughter's side for most of that month. His own appearance had deteriorated significantly. His face was gaunt, dark circles ringed his eyes, and his usually immaculate hair was unkempt. A shadow of a beard was beginning to grow on his usually clean-shaven face, a testament to the fact that he had not left the hospital wing in days.