My Dark Lord

Chapter Sixteen: Recalibration

The Morning After -- Forbidden Forest Edge

The sunlight was unbearably bright.

Each step down the uneven forest path made my skull throb like someone had tapped it with a bludgeoning charm. My mouth was dry. My eyes were swollen. I tasted regret with every breath.

I hadn't even looked at myself in the mirror before leaving the dormitory.

I couldn't.

The memory of last night played on an endless loop in my head: Cadmus's stunned expression, my own whisper-- Tom-- spoken in a moment of foolish, firewhiskey-soaked weakness. The shame curled around my ribs like a parasite.

How could I have confused them?

How could I let myself fall into that trap?

Cadmus wasn't him. Cadmus was kind. Warm. Real.

And yet...

Tom haunted me like smoke. Always out of reach, always just behind the flame.

I had meant only to walk.

To breathe.

The Forbidden Forest was dangerous, yes, but it was also quiet. Still. Ancient.

And right now, I would've taken a Hippogriff's talon to the face over another encounter with Cadmus or Eileen or anyone who might look at me with concern-- or worse, pity.

The trees loomed above, and I let them. I welcomed the ache in my legs, the scratch of brambles against my calves.

Pain was something I could understand.

Regret was not.

I rounded a bend near the streambed when I saw him.

The source of my troubles.

Tom Riddle.

Alone. Standing beside a dead oak, wand drawn, sketching runes into the bark.

He looked-- annoyingly pristine.

Pressed black robes, smooth hair, not a sign of sleep deprivation or alcohol in his eyes. He was half-shadowed, a curl of smoke drifting from the tip of his wand.

I froze.

He looked up.

"I was beginning to wonder how long it would take you to find me."

His voice was smooth, maddeningly calm.

I scowled. "I didn't come here for you."

"No," he said, stepping toward me, wand lowering slightly. "You came here to sulk. Nursing a headache, are we?"

I stiffened.

"What--"

"You reek of firewhiskey," he said flatly. "A charming addition to your usual perfume."

I glared daggers. "I didn't ask for commentary."

"And yet, you're getting it."

He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. "It's unlike you to be so... sloppy."

His words hit harder than they should have.

Because they weren't wrong.

Because he could see it. The cracks in my control, the guilt, the weakness I had tried to bury beneath charm and ambition.

"Funny," I said, bitter, "considering how little you know about actual emotion."

"Emotion," he echoed, as if testing the word. "Isn't necessary to power. It clouds it. Makes you predictable."