Midmorning

iii. seventeen days

Never turned out to be only so many hours. About twenty-seven, actually, but nobody was counting. For what was defined as eternal dispute, I didn't expect see you never to only last three hours over a day.

June was unforgiving—its swelter always was. The breeze was feeble, doing nothing in supplying us with the icy air we needed to dispose of the hot dew on our skin. Most of us had splayed blankets and textbooks across the grass to study, but it was clearly for show as most just left the sporadic bouts of air to flick the pages. Wren had already fallen asleep twice, a textbook flat on her face.

I'd actually scribbled down some decent notes—at least three pages worth—and thanks to my scorched hands, it was only legible to me. I slid them under another book to make sure any sudden wind didn't take them.

Just then, soft murmurs muffled against the hardback pressed to Wren's face, forcing her to cast it off and stretch her rigid limbs.

She yawned. 'How long was I asleep for?'

I shrugged, eyes back on the page. 'An hour? Two?'

'Christ, I think I'll go back in,' she said. 'I'll never get any work done out here like this.'

I paused. 'You're leaving me?' Though she wasn't talking to me, her general presence made me feel that less lonely.

'If I want to pass, I'll have to,' Wren yawned again as she forced herself up, Summoning all her things to her. 'I'll be in the common room.'

We muttered soft goodbyes—пока—and she was gone, talking to another Ravenclaw heading in the same direction. It was Lovegood if the footfalls fell to the throb of iambic pentameter—his habitual limp was quite recognisable to hear and see. As I strained my ears through the background noise—da dum, da dum, da dum—I heard I was right.

Caught in the distraction, it only gave me more reason to let my quill and parchment slip from my gauzed fingers and lean back, stretching my legs out in front of me, hot dew there too, encouraging me to undo a few buttons as the sun beat hard against my chest, head tipping back, light in my jaw, my throat, everything.

There was a scoff. My head shot back up.

'I thought you despised life.'

Riddle stood a few feet away, shuffling through letters I could only assume he was taking to the Owlery. I pulled my shirt over my chest.

My mistake was instant defence. 'I do.'

He refused to look at me, like I was hard to look at. 'You seem to bask in it.'

'Bask in it?' I scoffed. 'You say that like you know my every thought.'

Neither of us spoke. I stared ahead into the distance, head pumping. He kept his head down.

'If I didn't,' said Riddle, 'You'd be dead.'

'Pity.' I gathered the half-finished page of notes before gathering my quill again. 'How do you know I'm not lying, anyway? Anyone can pretend they want to die.'

'It doesn't take a genius.'

My eyes flicked up at him. 'Does it not?'

'No,' said Riddle, holding a hand out. 'Pass me your notes.'

Which only made me feel more inclined to move them away. 'Why?'

Which only made him feel more inclined to take Wren's seat, swiftly snatching the notes from my grasp. I shot up to get them—you dickhead—but Riddle just waved his hand about like he was teasing a cat with string.

'Hand them over, Riddle—'

'I'll show you something first.' He said gravely. With reluctance, I moved back to my original stance in surrender.

Riddle ruffled the parchment, then stretched out the creases. 'See this baseline?' As his digit lined the feet of my words, I noticed how they drooped off towards the end, whole paragraphs looking more like thick arches than straight lines.

With the same reluctance, I nodded.

'They say that denotes a sad state of mind. Here, you've applied a lot of pressure'—and I couldn't argue with the dark blots and holes where my ink clotted—'which often represents self-destructive thoughts. You cross your t's low, too, which usually suggests low self-esteem.'

I nodded, half-wounded, half-impressed. 'But you didn't know what my handwriting looked like in the forest.' But I had no other argument, so I pathetically presented him with my burnt palms as if I were four and I'd broken my favourite toy. 'And, well, my handwriting's bound to be shit right now.'

Riddle sighed. 'I sat by you in Transfiguration last term. Your writing looks the same as it did then.'

I sighed back. 'Well, looks like you've caught me,' I mock confessed, 'because I'm going to die soon.'

He feigned concern. 'You're sick?'

I found it entertaining that he presumed it was a physical illness, something killing me from the inside, anywhere within that wasn't my own head.

'In many ways, yes.' I told him. 'But I'm going to kill myself if—'

'—if I don't kill you first?'

'That's what I'm saying.' I lay down again, so indifferent it sounded like a joke. 'By graduation, I want to be dead.'

Riddle stifled a laugh. 'You're terrible at garnering pity.'

Heat boiled in my chest. 'I wasn't asking for it.'

'No,' Riddle spat, gesturing to my pages, 'When asking doesn't work, you show.'

I sat up, sharp. 'Excuse me?'

He leaned in close, mouth scraping my ear, breath fashioning dew on my skin.

'You heard.'

He got up, but I stopped him.

'So is it a deal?'

I offered my hand.

'Absolutely not.'

My hand lingered in the air.

'A challenge, then.'

Riddle sighed.

'Fine,' He shook my hand, 'A challenge.'