Chapter 13. Quintessence of Consciousness

It was time to depart for Hogwarts the following day. After a heightened security check, the students were allowed to return and begin their studies, which meant that they wouldn't stay home any longer than they had in any previous January. The representative of the Ministry of Magic had not been found, though, and the Aurors had joined the search.

Tom put the Daily Prophet on the table and turned to face Irene, who was sitting on the bed, sketching something. Although her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a stray lock fell freely across her forehead. Occasionally, Irene hummed something quietly to herself, but Tom was unable to understand the words until he discovered that Irene was not singing in English.

"I'm listening to you, Düster," he said firmly.

Irene looked up absently, expecting an explanation, but Tom leaned back in his chair and kept probing her with his dark gaze.

"What happened to Torquil Travers?"

"To whom?" Irene set aside the yellowed sheets and charcoal, which immediately stained the white sheets. Tom's lips quirked slightly; he felt like giving her a slap on the wrist for being so thoughtless.

"Should I pour Veritaserum into your dirty mouth?" He licked his parched lips and grinned.

Irene's pale face flashed a devious smile as her naive stupidity turned to cunning in an instant.

"I guess they won't find him."

"How"? Tom was literally bursting with curiosity. In an instant, he made his way to the bed and fixed his gaze on Irene, eager to take in every word. "After all, you look like a very ordinary girl... Have you been trained?"

"Would you like me to show you?" Irene smiled, pressing herself against the wall just in case, and she did not lose.

"Legilimens," the already familiar spell rang out immediately.

Early rising every day. Endless training, abrasions, cuts, and bruises. Blood, blood, blood... It was hers and someone else's. Everything blended into a day of infinite gray. There were about twenty of them, and there were less than ten left. Someone just broke down mentally, someone couldn't cope physically. Abandoned children, left completely alone in this world. Many would have perished even earlier, but they had a valuable thing that was not given to everyone—pure blood. This was the reason they were under the care of Grindelwald's people.

What is the chance that a pure-blooded wizard will turn out to be a strong, dark one serving for the greater good? Though it's low, it exists. They were the best, though, which is presumably why there weren't many of them. They were strong. They carried out all the dirty work without inquiry and avoided pointless or foolish questions. Why? For the sake of the greater good, that was enough. Raised like purebred bitch puppies by force, cruelty, and authoritarianism. What for? Für das Größere Wohl.

Irene quickly realized that the only chance to survive and gain the favor of those who stood above them was composure, and turned off emotions. In a world where your parents are snatched from you and you are cast into the despised Muggle world like trash, why are they even necessary? Merlin, it's a miracle that Grindelwald's people came after her at all! It was necessary to be strong, the best, and train more than others.

She was right. All this has borne fruit. The following summer, when she was already twelve, the greatest wizard came to see their progress. He exuded authority and strength that made her skin crawl. At the same time, he smiled and seemed very kind, like the father that each of them missed so much. Inspiration and the rise of inner strength at the sight of him. Everything they did was not in vain. For the greater good!

With Grindelwald was a stunningly beautiful woman named Vinda Rosier. She looked at each of them during the trials and demonstrations of what they had learned. Her green eyes seemed to scan, digging into the insides and essence of small fighting dogs, ready to break loose on command.

They were divided into pairs. A blonde-haired girl named Michela, who was quite brisk, was looking at Irene.

"Fight," Vinda Rosier announced through a smile, and she gracefully crossed her legs, settling herself more comfortably in an armchair.

Michela's eyes widened. She was ready for anything but this. Fight with your friends? With those, you have practically become a family this year?.. But since there is no other choice…

"Arresto Momentum!" She cried out uncertainty, waving her palm.

Irene almost dodged, but the spell caught her leg, causing her to stumble, fall to the stone floor, and hit her nose painfully. Feeling the salty taste of blood in her mouth, she slowly raised her head. She was not looking at Michela. Her gaze was fixed on Vinda.

The young witch suddenly smiled sweetly, looking with interest at the girl lying on the cold floor, whose hair was disheveled, and her lips and chin were stained with blood flowing from her nose.

"Vermiculus!" Michela squeaked, feeling superior, but Irene immediately rolled to the side, jumping up on both feet with lightning speed.

"Crucio," she hissed, and Michela collapsed at her feet, writhing in pain.

Irene cast a scowling glance at Rosier, who was grinning contentedly. All of this was halted when Grindelwald slowly lifted his hand. Grimsson gave the order, and every child got out of the room.

Irene was sitting on the bed when she heard someone murmur that Cruciatus was only for those who truly desired to use it. And in fact, they were merely given theoretical knowledge rather than any instruction on how to employ the Unforgivable curses. Irene sat there looking perfectly disinterested, but as she thought about it, she understood that she truly wanted to do it—simply to demonstrate her superiority. Neither to Mickela nor to anyone else was she going to apologize. What friends are those that attack first? They weren't friends. No one felt sorry for her, exhausting her with endless rigorous trainings on endurance, obedience, and magic, and she wasn't going to feel sorry for anyone. They don't even have wands! And they're already twelve.

It was simple: All children could use nonverbal spells, but once they got a wand, walking stick, or ring, they retrained and lost that skill. Here, however, it was considered a priority that they should have kept.

The door creaked loudly.

"Düster, out."

The corridor was lit by several burning torches. A short woman in formal jacket and trousers, with perfectly styled hair, looked at the girl with interest.

"Well, hello, Irene," Vinda said, a smile that sent shivers down the spine. "I like you. You'll be studying at Durmstrang for the next few years. Everything is settled with the documents. Three times a year, you'll come back here to hone those dark magic skills that aren't taught at the institute, although dark arts are welcome there, but this is not enough."

That's how her life changed in an instant. It was very hard and, perhaps, even impossible to say whether Irene felt happy, because it was difficult and sometimes quite unbearable. Excessive workload in Durmstrang, because it was necessary to catch up with a whole course that she missed; a constant return to Nurmengard to study the Dark Arts under the guidance of the strongest; and then some Michael got attached... He was very good, and it was obvious that he just fell in love with Düster, who immediately noted for herself that a huge plus besides his intelligence and physical attractiveness was belonging to a pureblood family. When Irene was sixteen, an order was given for their alliance to control the southern part of Germany. Did she like Michael? Maybe. She didn't fully understand how she felt about him.

Riddle seemed to pay no attention to it. Merlin alone could see that his cheekbones were flaring with tension, but he quickly got over it, focusing on what was really important and useful to him. He looked in detail at how she was being trained, what spells and skills she had. He greedily absorbed everything he saw: the names of books, the names of spells, the names of wizards and ministers in politics who were actually Grindelwald's supporters.

"Tom," Irene croaked, pressing herself against the wall. Her head hurt too much. Not wanting to faint again, she insisted, "My head... Stop."

Riddle obtrusively plunged deeper into her mind until exactly the moment when a soft ringing sounded in his ears. He shook his head, trying to drive it away like an annoying fly, but the ringing only intensified.

"Stop it!" Irene gasped.

The young Irene had overheard Carrow mention that as a little girl she had called out for a boy named Tom Riddle and cried all the time. Without giving away her presence behind the barely ajar doors, Irene quietly, like a hover, made her way to Section C. Michael was in there.

"Who I kept calling for, do you know?"

"No," he answered honestly, shrugging his shoulders.

She wanted to find out who this boy was and what was connecting them. A quiet "I'll be back in a couple days, cover for me."

Tom's head ached. He jerked back, wishing he could stop Legilimency, but something went wrong. A symbiosis of consciousness: Both were trapped in each other's subconscious; Tom's memory supplanted the image that Düster's mind had dictated.

Young Tom Riddle paced to the closed front door of the large mansion. Alahomora—and the lock obediently opened. A huge living room and an achingly familiar smell that hit his nose and made him freeze for a moment.

Irene saw memories that Tom wasn't at all willing to share.

"Stop!" Tom shouted harshly, his hands clutching at his black hair.

Irene was breathing hard. The picture changed abruptly to a long-forgotten memory buried at the bottom of her mind.

She walked gingerly into the sleeping house. There was silence in the huge, expensive living room. But here was the strange thing: All the paintings were the most ordinary. Cautiously, she made her way inside, scrutinizing all the objects and old pictures of the Riddle family, and snorted in disgust, "Filthy muggles!"

There was nothing to do there, she had to leave. Fuck that Muggle name Tom Riddle! Whatever it was when she was a child, it clearly didn't matter now. Her whole life was centered on fighting this stench and those who supported such policies. That's exactly why she didn't remember any boy by that name. After all, he was only a muggle!

The vision changed again to Tom's memory.

Young Riddle made his way up to the second floor. Green flashed. "See you never, father."

Tom shrieked angrily, hovering over the bed. He felt for Irene's body and pushed her away. But his head hurt so badly that he couldn't see where he was pushing. Irene's head slammed painfully against the wall, and the damned link of consciousnesses finally broke. Fury overshadowed the physical pain, and Irene kicked Tom in the stomach with all her might, making him groan.

"You're a mudblood!" she roared. The two words spurred Tom to aggressive action, and he yanked Irene's legs with force, her body crashing to the tiled floor. Irene immediately, not restraining herself, kicked back at his ankle. "You filthy mudblood!"

"Shut up!" hissed Riddle, who had fallen beside her. "Shut up!"

He grabbed Irene by the scruff of her neck and pulled her toward him to gag her. He was successful, and Irene was already blushing. Her eyes were darting around, definitely in hysteria and affect. She was mooing something frantically.

"Shut up," Riddle hissed, clenching her jaw harder, shutting the filthy mouth that dared to say it out loud. Irene bit his fingers painfully. "Bitch!" Tom cried out.

With a moment of superiority and freedom from the man's strong arms, Irene jumped up, waving her palm as she went, the door swung open, and she dashed out of the orphanage. She ran down the stairs without memory, where a red-haired girl ran into her path. She froze, staring in amazement at Irene, who didn't care about the unexpected encounter. To the escape route!

She ran through the crisp snow. The January evening was freezing and bone-chilling, but she kept running without looking back. Hot steam from her mouth was billowing into the air. Her long black curls turned silver and frosted, as did her eyelashes.

A huge, majestic building perched on a hill. Irene confidently pushed open the door, which obediently opened, welcoming her into its abode. St. Paul's Cathedral was dimly lit, with no one inside. She sat down on a pew, and stared at the altar with a completely blank and lost gaze, as if she were looking through it.

Suddenly her whole gut clenched. Her nose pinched unpleasantly, and her eyes were covered with a veil of hateful tears. The realization that her entire family had long ago been murdered by those she had served so faithfully, and her childhood had been taken away as well as her youth... For what? For the greater good! Irene laughed loudly. The bitter laughter, filled with resentment and disappointment, echoed through the Whispering Gallery.

After all these years, she knew who Tom was, she'd found him. And him? And he turned out to be nothing more than the filth she'd been fucking all this time. She was dying of desire, for his scent, for his ardent kisses, for his power; she desired him with every cell of her body, experiencing such emotions for the first time. The first time experiencing any emotion at all! And him? Just a... a mudblood.

Something behind her clattered, echoing in the void of space. Irene turned around slowly. A tall man in dark robes was walking down the hall. He sat silently beside her, staring at the altar.

"Another lost soul," the stranger whispered.

"I'm fine," Irene mumbled, blowing her nose loudly. She hurriedly wiped her face with her hands, ready to pay the price and die a brave death for what she had done in Nurmengard.

"What are you looking for here?" The brooding gaze of dark eyes stared up at the high ceiling. It seemed it was really just a churchgoer.

"Nothing," Irene frowned.

 "Nothing," the man repeated faintly.

"What happens when a person dies?" Irene put her hands on the bench in front of her and bowed her head.

"What do you think?"

"I think there is no death," she said indifferently.

"Then you're not afraid of it?"

"When you live in a world where the main idea is a common pureblood family, one death is a small thing. I was never afraid of it because I knew what I was living for, and if I died, I would know what it was for."

"You have yet to understand," the man smiled warmly. "It's much deeper than what you said."

"What do you mean?"

"The threads are too tangled... The omens of eternal night. But you are the darkness, for you are an extension of it."

"What?" Irene looked questioningly at the profile of the man, who still did not turn to her. "I don't understand you! I am not bad... I've never truly wished harm to anyone."

"You've killed."

"I was following orders."

"Human consciousness limits you. You're not bad, and you're not good. You are something else."

The man stood up leisurely and walked away from the cathedral, and Irene stared questioningly after him. When the door slammed shut, she jumped up from the pew and rushed after the stranger. Who was he anyway, and what did he mean?

The cold of the winter night hit her in the face, and her body immediately shook. No one. Only a huge black raven soared into the sky, filling the streets with a loud, squeaky cawing that sent shivers down her spine.

Irene flinched, waking up on the bench. Her arms were slack from the weight of the head she had placed on her limbs. Apparently, she had dozed off and was having some strange dream.

The cathedral door creaked loudly. The tall, grim silhouette of a young man moved between the rows. It was Tom, and he looked very oppressive. His face was a stone mask, his gaze fixed on Irene, and everything inside her clenched. He sat silently beside her and stared at the altar. In the majestic silence of the shrine, they both remained silent, obviously considering how to proceed, weighing the pros and cons as if playing a game of chess.

"Irene," Tom finally said. He turned slowly, his gaze glued to her pale face. "We need to talk about this."

Irene nodded silently, not wanting to see the black eyes that turned her soul inside out every time.

"Look at me."

Irene didn't comply with his request, pressing her lips together so that they turned white.

"Irene, look at me!" Tom's commanding voice echoed through the cathedral.

She took a deep breath, clenched her jaw tightly, and turned around slowly, finding herself staring into dark eyes that glowed scarlet in the gloomy light. Tom eagerly took in her every emotion and, after a pause, finally started talking.

"You opened up to me. You came to me. I want to do the same. You and me. We're the same. Our essence, you know? Back in the orphanage. You were the only girl that mattered to me. With disheveled curls, white socks and black sandals I put on your cold little feet. Remember?" Tom sighed heavily, and then voiced reluctantly, as if it were his own private secret that no soul could know. "I killed for you, for the first time I saw tears on your pale cheeks, for every bruise on your little hands. And even the rabbit, do you hear?" His voice grew quieter. "If it's not yours, it's nobody's. And the diary you gave me?" Tom moved toward Irene and took her chilled palms in his, warming them. "I keep it. It's so important to me that you can't even imagine…" For each of his confessions, Düster's soul responded and echoed like an abandoned puppy that someone had finally come to take care of, voicing the long-awaited 'we're going home'. "When they took you away, Irene... I didn't know what to do. You have no idea how I felt. I told Dumbledore at Hogwarts, but no one could find you. What was I supposed to do?" Tom grinned bitterly, shaking his head. "Accept it. I said as early as yesterday that I would look for you, but after I finished my studies. I'll explain why. I'm not a mudblood," he said as he tapped into Irene's emotions, who didn't react, didn't blink, but stared at his face. "My mother was a wizard, my father," the corners of his lips quivered, "a Muggle. The day you and I found out we were wizards, I realized that my mother couldn't have been, or she wouldn't have died... Because wizards," Tom grinned again, "don't die. But I was wrong. In junior year, when I found out my mother was a wizard, I decided I would find the father who abandoned her, pregnant with me, and kill him. He had stained my blood." Tom struggled with each word. He sounded squeezed, but at the same time, like he was restless. "I found Riddle Manor, I went there at night. In the great parlor…" Tom ran his fingers gently through Irene's tarry curls. "I could smell it." He leaned down to her pale face and exhaled softly. "Your scent. And today I saw you were really there... You were looking for me." Tom's sharp cheekbone seemed to be glued to Irene's cheek, caressing gently. "What if this is... fate? Only you can understand me, and I can understand you."

"You killed him," Irene said, breaking her silence.

"Yes," Tom said, kissing her cheek gently. "I killed him. I killed his mother and his father," he whispered against her lips.

"But it didn't make your blood pure," Irene said, and the words felt like nails under his skin.

"But I killed them," Tom gritted through his teeth, suppressing his aggression and disgust at the words. "I am strong. I know the Dark Arts, I know forbidden spells, and so do you. Which means only one thing: We've both always desired that power over the lives of others. Not everyone can use Imperius, Cruciatus, and…"

"And the killing one..." Irene breathed out.

His pale fingers dug into her hair. A greedy kiss, hungry for only one thing: proof that she belonged to him. And Irene answered the demand of his insistent tongue. She still had nowhere to go, no one to... 

Satisfying his desire to feel her submission, Tom became calmer—it was felt physically: His body relaxed, the excessive tension went away, his fists unclenched, and his fingers were ready to touch.

"Tom…" Irene recoiled a little. "They're going to kill me. You realize that, don't you? They'll come for me at any moment…"

"You're coming back to Hogwarts with me. The only person Grindelwald fears is Dumbledore, which means it's the safest place to be. And I," Tom snuggled into her shoulder, "I'll be there for you too. I'm stronger than you think."

Feeling the pleasant weight of Riddle's head on her shoulder, Irene swallowed. The feeling that she was about to voluntarily put the collar around her neck was a sword of Damocles. She would do again what she had done almost seven years ago—stand beside someone who could kill without hesitation if he saw fit. And maybe that's her path. The proverbial destiny from which there is no escape? Her blood is pure, but his is not. He's no match for her. But it feels like his power is disproportionate to hers. He can suffocate with his energy alone, and Merlin forbid dueling with him once.

"That's funny," Irene snorted.

"What?" Tom froze for a moment.

"Your boggart."

Tom was not prepared for this topic, but gritting his teeth, he let out a quiet, "Yes."

"I just thought, uh. Your wand. It's made of yew." Irene took out her wand and waved it. The shape of a rune appeared in the air. "Eihwaz means yew. It's associated with both death and immortality. In life, we are in constant motion, dying and reborn an infinite number of times. Eihwaz—a symbol of the continuity of the flow. On the one hand, yew—the entrance to death, on the other—the exit to a new life. Again, and again. Everyone is afraid when something familiar collapses before our eyes, but the meeting with the darkness gives an amazing realization: life and death are one."

Tom stared silently at the glowing rune in the air. He was a little surprised that Irene was apparently good at Runes, but then he remembered she had studied at Durmstrang. He took his wand out leisurely.

"You're right, Irene. There is fear, but that doesn't mean I haven't curbed it."

Tom wrote his full name in the air. With a stroke, the letters changed places. Instead of "Tom Marvolo Riddle," it was "I am Lord Voldemort."

"Tom Riddle is dead—Lord Voldemort is risen. He was always there, just waiting for the right moment... Life through death. And he is immortal." Tom's eyes flashed scarlet and a luscious smile froze on his face.

Irene stared at the slowly fading letters in the air, realizing why Tom had a new name and was called Lord. It's not a whim. It's a necessity.

Tom held out his palm and said quietly, "Well, so? It's safe with me anywhere."

An illusion of choice? A cruel necessity? Or should she run away, inevitably to be killed by Grindelwald's supporters, who would find her sooner or later? She's not afraid of death, but is it worth it to fall victim to those who have made her nothing more than an obedient fighting bitch, ready to kill on command? No. The illusion of choice and the subconscious desire for death, which she would never admit, forced her to put a small palm in the paw of a bloodthirsty predator who whispered that he would protect.

"What happened to the institute in Dortmund?"

"An order to burn it down. I didn't go there. My papers were already ready. Grindelwald has many people in the ministries and politics, so it was all sorted out pretty quickly. There was one other candidate, another wizard. He and I had a fight, and he cut me in the side, but I managed to apparate to Hogwarts," Irene smiled.

"How did you burn it?"

"Fiendfyre."

"Few people can summon it. It's uncontrollable."

"Yeah. But I can do it."

"Occlumency?"

"We've been trained for a long time. It took me a while to get the hang of it, of course. But they found out I'm a Legilimens. Just like Goldstein!"

"Who?"

"Oh, never mind. A sorceress."

With a wordless nod, Tom got up and drew Irene closer to him. He hugged her tightly, pulling her against his chest.

"Irene," he whispered into her black hair. "I won't give you to them."

"Who was your mother?" She squeaked into Tom's chest, who enveloped her in his clinging embrace.

"An ordinary sorceress," he replied indifferently, pulling her away from the cathedral. Irene obediently followed, accepting the will of the fates, and somewhere in the northern aisle of the cathedral, black tears flowed from the eyes of the Madonna statue.

The snow crunched underfoot and silvered in the moonlight. The night was bright. Irene's skin seemed blue-pale and her face was gaunt. Tom leisurely took off his coat to throw it over Düster's shoulders, for she had run away from the orphanage without outer clothing, and it was not at all desirable to treat her.

 Back at the orphanage, without crossing paths with anyone, Tom and Irene sat down silently on the bed of the little room.

"Have you decided what you're going to tell Dumbledore?"

"Yes, I've already decided," Irene mumbled as she pulled off her clothes and laid them on the chair.

"I always hated this bed," Tom grumbled, tucking his almost two-meter body into the same bed he'd slept in as a child. "And now there's you."

Irene turned around, and her eyes were already blazing with cunning and defiance. In an instant, she jumped to Tom and burrowed under the blanket, feeling his hot body and running her icy fingers over his stomach. Riddle twitched unhappily and swore. The black-haired beast laughed and turned her back to him, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket.

There was silence. Tom turned to Irene and gently ran his hand through her tarry hair, which spread like snakes across the pillow. Irene froze. Her heart seemed to stop beating, and the man's long fingers slid down from her waist to her thigh. Her throat felt dry. Irene swallowed hard.

"Relax," Tom whispered, pressing himself against her cold body. Fingers brushed over her buttocks. Barely perceptible touches. "Gorgon Medusa," he grinned.

Even though it turned out that Tom wasn't a mudblood, he was a half-blood, and now that thought, which Irene had decided to accept, was making her uncomfortable. She was floundering desperately in an attempt to deny such intense arousal from the faintest of touches, and she realized clearly: this rejection would pass rather quickly.

"I don't think we should," Irene whispered softly, frozen with tension. "At least not tonight!"

"Nothing is happening," he whispered back, and his fingers insistently moved where the lingering tension had built up.

Irene moaned mellifluously into the pillow, and then felt Tom stop, and no, she wasn't happy about it, even though she'd insisted a few minutes ago that they shouldn't. Another moan came from her lips, but a capricious one, demanding continuation. Tom stiffened, and something thudded against the floor, probably his pants. The next moment Irene felt the hot, massive cock between her thighs and exhaled in relief.

"Tom," she croaked in a stupid and incomprehensible attempt to move away, but the bed was too small, and there was only a wall in front.

"Shhh," he hissed, burying his face in her hair.

He started, slowly, with stops, gently kissing the shoulder and the back of her head. Irene exhaled, drowning in lust. He filled it all, completely, so right. He wasn't in a hurry and wasn't rude as usual. He moved gently and carefully. His uneven breathing hit the back of her neck, and she just moaned softly, dissolving completely into these sensations.

"You want me, Irene," Tom whispered.

It seemed that her brain had shut down the second he touched her, but the understanding that he wanted to hear here and now quickly came to mind.

"Yes, my Lord."

Three words and a smile of triumph appeared on Tom's face. She accepts him. Her pure blood accepts him. Her family accepts him.

He began to move a little faster, but still smoothly. The heaviness accumulated around his cock as an epicenter, and Irene froze, realizing that now her entire consciousness would shatter into myriad small galaxies.

"Mine," Tom breathed.

It was as if she had been created exclusively for him, even her breasts fit perfectly into his big palm. He clenched his teeth and pressed against the top of her head, running his hands forward. Now he was greedily squeezing her swollen breasts with both palms, feeling the hardened nipples. The tart smell of hair hit his nose, and his cock felt intense pressure from all sides. Tom exhaled raggedly, drowning in pleasure, and an excruciatingly sweet, barely audible moan escaped from his lips.

Irene, hearing his voice filled with voluptuousness, moaned loudly, digging her teeth into the pillow so that it would not be heard how she was dying in his arms, giving herself completely. She was already on the edge, feeling his big palms that squeezed her body without stopping, his smooth thrusts and unbearable heaviness at the very bottom. But as soon as he, so strong, so unapproachable and cold Lord Voldemort, moaned, the orgasm immediately spread through her body to her fingertips, making her heart beat like crazy.

Irene shook, but Tom, wrapping his strong arms around her, continued to move faster. A few moments later, he exhaled heavily into the back of her head, squeezing her body with force. His cock throbbed, and he finally felt the release, which was insanely good. For a split second, it even seemed that everything went dark, and his heart was about to jump out of his chest.

Tom lowered his hands down and forcefully squeezed the rounded buttocks, and then, on the contrary, spread them apart, causing hot sperm to slowly flow onto the sheets along Irene's thighs. Long male fingers ran over the crotch, immediately feeling the sticky consistency. A smug grin froze on his face from the realization that now he would always fuck her and cum inside. Too good. It's good that he won't give up this pleasure for anything.

Silence. Both were breathing heavily. Irene squeezed her eyes shut, trying to come to terms with herself. Tom is a half—blood. In addition to this not entirely pleasant discovery, Tom was also the only one from whom her body was going crazy, turning off her mind, and she did not want to give up on this. Not now.

Tom fumbled and then padded across the cold floor to the table where the package lay. He took out a small vial and handed it to Irene. She silently drank it, he threw away the empty bottle and climbed back under the blanket, scooped her up in his arms and slapped her buttocks with force.

"Ow," Irene wailed. Tom's limbs were very heavy.

"I love your ass," he drawled contentedly, like a well—fed cat. "And yes. There's nothing you can do about it, Düster."

"What about?" whimpered Irene.

"Wanting me."

Irene was silent. Tom pulled her closer to him and kissed the top of her head.

"Did no one find out that you were looking for me?"

"They found out. The search for a family with the surname Riddle took more than a couple of days. I didn't come back until two weeks later. From Michael's head…" At this name, Tom clenched his jaw hard, which made his teeth grind, but Irene did not see this, because he was behind her and hugged her tightly. "...They skillfully pulled out the moment when I asked him if he knew who I was calling when I was a child."

"And what happened?"

"I was punished."

"How?"

"Let me show you," Irene offered, taking the heavy male hand that rested on her waist.

The next second, the young wizard took out his wand. A neat swing. Irene read the Crucio on his lips. Take a deep breath, like before jumping into the icy ocean water. The dull sound of falling to the floor from the wild pain of breaking bones. A scream that made your own ears pop. It was unclear how long this torture lasted. At some point, everything around merged into one incomprehensible gray-green color, and the man's figure blurred altogether.

"Where have you been, Düster?"

She was breathing deeply and heavily, trying to contain her emotions and dull the pain. The second wave. Another deep, hoarse breath. A quiet Crucio". She scratched the stone floor of Nurmengard with force, breaking her nails. A mad scream. A little more and the heart would just stop.

"You must be in so much pain!" the man skillfully depicted annoyance: his eyebrows arched, and his gaze became sad. One would have thought that he really felt sorry for the girl.

"Where have you been?"

He carefully placed the wand next to Irene. She was breathing heavily, tears were running from her eyes. Wiping them with a dirty hand, she left blood-dirty smudges on her cheeks. The tormentor bends down to her head.

"Stupid girl..." in a whisper. "Where have you been?"

She said nothing. Hoarse breathing filled the void of space. The dark wizard recoiled from the body in disgust, taking his wand in his hands and slowly pointing it at Düster.

"Where have you been?" gaze into the eyes.

"I was picking herbs," Irene finally breathed out.

"You're lying. You've been gone for two weeks. Crucio!"

She screamed in pain again, writhing on the floor. Blood flowed from his nose, but the man did not stop.

"Crucio!"

He expertly tracked the moment when she was already in a semi-fainting state.

"Irene, where have you been?"

"I was picking herbs," she barely whispered, spitting out blood. The man understood that this torture was useless. He bent down to her face, lifting her head by the hair, trying to see her eyes.

"Is there something you want to tell me? He exhaled aggressively into his face.

"Yes…" The man was clearly not expecting this, and his eyes widened in anticipation of what she would say. "... you should have eaten less garlic, man."

Irene's body went limp from loss of consciousness.

Tom was silent. There was a faint smile on his face at her last words in memory. That's fortitude! Her audacious artistry performed in all its glory even during the torture, from which Tom's insides experienced a sweet satisfaction. Irene, however, did not seem to care—all this was commonplace for her. She yawned sleepily.

"What did you sing this morning? Tom asked softly, wrapping the blanket tighter around her, hugging her waist.

"It's a song, in my mom's language."

"Sing to me."

Irene sighed softly. The voice was barely audible.

"I don't feel anything anymore,

I am nothing at all.

The heart will be taken away, 

trampled and thrown out.

And you fall back into life,

Where people don't hear, 

where people don't see,

don't know what love means to be.

In a dusty room, it burns down to ashes

Another pointless day. 

Greyness became completely nameless,

in the stilly walls' breathin', it fades away."