The Dark Lord's Playbook of Nefarious Misdeeds

A Ring of Iron- Edited

Previously.....

Bella...Bella...Bella, my most loyal follower...what to do with you?

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The weather remained abysmal a relentless downpour for the last five days. It reflected our moods perfectly- solemn and withdrawn. I looked out of our hotel window; the rain-streaked glass slightly fogged from the warmth emanating from the small fireplace in the centre of the far wall and my breath.

The streets down below had turned into miniature rivers, puddles at least a foot deep made it hard for the carriages to navigate. That's what happens when the proper sealing of roads had yet to take off or be financially motivated. The sound of the rain against the glass was both relaxing but at times an inexorable warped beating of time ticking away. The longer we seemed to get stuck in this period, the hope of getting home slowly diminished. Tom had cloistered himself to the point that I found it most vexing. He dissolved into the depths of literature and rarely came up for the proverbial gulp of air.

It was frustrating, but I partially understood. After embarrassing himself with that almost kiss, of course, he would shrink back into himself to preserve his ego. Tom seemed like the kind of guy that would have a glass ego- pretty to look at but easily shattered. Our quasi friendly relationship is now awkward. There is something different about it this time, but I can't figure out what it is.

The clock chimes and I turn away from the window; Tom is still sitting in the chair by the fire. He has become a permanent fixture in that piece of furniture. The only occasions he surfaces is to eat or shove an essay question in my face. Honestly, it is starting to irritate me to no end. I hate being ignored.

"Tom, there are neon pink elephants outside shooting glitter from their trunks", I thought at least I would get a twitch, or a head turn, but no reaction at all- other than him turning the next page in his book. I storm off to have a bath and an early night. Since the present company is insistent at ignoring my presence except when it suits him.

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I roll over, and immediately, being assaulted by the sunlight streaming through a gap in the drapes, I involuntarily blink and cringe away groaning from the sinister light. Sleep is still making my thought and sensory awareness lethargic. I tuck my hands under my head and pillow and snuggle back down not ready to get out of bed just yet. It is nice and warm, which is partly attributed to Tom, who is a human furnace. He was also kind enough to place a warming charm on the blankets, the hotel room is poorly insulated, and the colder weather is making it frigid. Sleeping with Tom isn't as awkward as one would expect to be this close to a serial killer. He always comes to bed after I am asleep and is usually up before I am awake. I don't feel nervous any more about him killing me; he could have easily done it the other day when he shoved the wand under my chin. But that doesn't mean I get a free pass at provoking him. He is still too quick to anger, and the rapid mood swings are exhausting, I wonder what it would be like in his head.

I stare unabashedly at his face; he looks so relaxed in sleep vaguely childlike despite his age. The weight of his demons is temporarily lifted. What would his life have been like if Dumbledore embraced the young prodigy instead of abandoning him? I know Tom has explained what happened, but it is still so hard to believe. But impossibly real. A stray curl has fallen across his forehead; my fingers itch to put it back in its place; the only thing stopping me is his reaction.