Midmorning

v. fourteen days

An entire day crossed me without his presence and it—only partly—threw me off. It was as if I'd scared him away with the dull-knife conversation about my mental state. It wouldn't shock me. It bored everyone. Even my therapist got tired of my bullshit and, luckily, we'd run out of money to pay her. It was all wasted. Not even quarter of me was cured.

             'I think I failed Potions,' Wren had said, nervously tracking the floor behind her like she was reliving the moment she walked in, praying for the exam to start all over again. 'In fact, I know I did. I guessed everything. Slughorn might as well kick me off the course.'

             'Stop it,' I said, 'You know what Avery said isn't true. He's just a prejudiced dickhead.'

             'As of now, it's not a matter of truth, it's a matter of opinion,' said Wren, 'The truth will come later: if I fail or not. Which I will.'

             My head strained through my eye roll. 'When you get an O, I'll punch you in the face, I swear to God.'

             She chuckled, faint. 'Well, what about you?'

             'What about me?'

             'Do you think you've passed?'

             I spent most of the time staring at the clock, seeing how many seconds I could go without having to blink, eyes burning against the stilled air. It was a common, unspoken game for me, even outside of exams.

             I shrugged. 'I don't think so.'

             'Doesn't that bother you?' Wren spoke as though I'd told her I'd eaten a snake whole.

             Like I said before, corpses don't need qualifications. My care wore away with each year that took me. But I told her: 'A little.'

             '"A little"?' Was there any satisfactory response? 'What about your future?'

             I nearly laughed right in her face. My future? Like writing my epitaph? What future was there to dream of? The one where Tom Riddle placed his wand to my chest and said the words? I think I'd dreamt of them once, Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra, saying them so many times over it nearly turned into a delirium-driven tongue twister.

             'I don't know, I'll think about it when I get there.' Which required no thinking except for picking my murder weapon.

             I thought about said murder weapon most days, but in especial detail today: knives, the slice and dice, immediacy in decapitation, or a slow stab; fire, scorching and scarring, flames stripping the epidermis then splitting the dermis, and you can only pray you're already dead when the fat leaks out; a burial, soil trapping your airways from six feet under, and you'll never catch your breath. In Ancient Egypt, they poured molten lead down your throat as punishment, scalding your viscera into permanent failure.

             My pencil cracked against the page.

             What class was I in?

             'Briar,' and I had a hard time figuring why Wren had said my name so darkly, just to register it didn't come from her at all, no trace of Russian elocution.

             When I turned, Tom looked mildly surprised as he gestured towards the front. It was as though I'd spoken all my thoughts aloud. He wasn't the only one staring.

             'Miss Valois, are you all right?' Professor—who is this?—asked, more concerned than angry. Surely a Hufflepuff, maybe even the Head—knives, fire, soil, lead—

             The pencil crushed in my hand. I split my palm open, dropped its remains, some pieces glued to the sweat.

             'Fine, Professor.'

             She hoped my judgment was the right one and continued, revising the shit we'd had drilled into us for the past seven academic years, causing me to propel back into thinking of the best way to die.

             Soon the lesson melted away and people were rising from their seats and pouring out of the room like a bubbling, overfilled glass.

             'Briar'—the same dark voice—'Talk to me outside.' It wasn't a request, it was a demand, only confirming any suspicion I may have had.

             Shakily, I gathered my things last, slinging my bag over my shoulder with a soft thank you for the teacher as I left for Potions next. Instead of Wren catching at my side, it was Tom—Wren was a few feet away, totally astounded at the sight.

             'What is it?' I asked, walking on to kill the genesis of any rumours. His hand clasped my wrist. Hard.

             'Don't walk away from me.'

             It came off soft, but it was a threat. A threat for what, I don't know—Tom's only means of torture would be making me immortal. But I obeyed without thought, staring up at his scowl, far too close to be comfortable.

             'We'll be late,' I parried.

             Tom's sigh rolled over my face, slathering my neck. I swallowed. His gaze danced on my mouth. 'I know what you were thinking about.'

             'As does everyone.' It was true—everyone suspected I was sick. 'You aren't special.'

             'Perhaps I wasn't clear,' he said, sharper, but before he could finish, I interrupted.

             'A Legilimens,' I breathed like I'd run a mile. 'That's why you didn't kill me.'

             Tom curled his forefinger and used it to cup my chin, tipping my head back so I could stare at him and onlookers could stare at us. 'Good work, Holmes.' He said, discernibly using literature to mock my heritage as he pulled his hand back again, a quick swipe that made my head jolt. It was a reminder that my life was, in the very literal sense, in his hands.

             With a gradual increase in spectators, we walked away from them, back to fending off the rumours that would start. To supply this wordless plan, Tom kept his cruel tone despite the words' vulnerability: 'Do you want to see what killed Warren?'

             I noticed how my line of vision never graced another being when I spoke to him, crashing into at least three other students. But I really stared then, eyes narrow and lips crinkled.

             'I'm looking at him,' I spat.

             Another kind of silence came over us then, and not the detention-silence, the comfort blanket silence, but the cold, menacing sort.

             Surprisingly, we weren't late to Slughorn's class, but just before we parted to the opposite sides of the room, Tom leant down to my ear, smiling into the space between the back of my ear and the summit of my neck.

             'Knives, fire, soil, lead.'

             A chill unfurled. Wren tapped my shoulder.

             'What did he want?'

             I said a lie; I shook my head.

             The truth: knives, fire, soil, lead.