16

The voices around me thunder like a rolling drumbeat.

Uncle Vernon is shouting something, Petunia tries to get between, but he shoves her roughly aside.

I only catch fragments—words like »stop arguing!«, »go back!«, »impossible!« — but none of it truly reaches me.

Everything blurs together, melting into a low, threatening hum in the background.

I close my eyes and instantly he is there again — his grip, the blows, that feeling of never being safe no matter where you go.

All of it flashes before my eyes.Thanks to this lovely reunion with Uncle Vernon.

I feel the old pain again, the fear, the anger carved so deeply into my body that everything around me fades away.

Dumbledore's gentle voice, Harry's frown, even Vernon's furious stomping vanish behind the shadows of my memories.

At some point, a thought forces its way back into my mind — how Muggles can even be here.

Of course, Dumbledore would never let anyone into the castle just like that. Vernon and Petunia received official permission, a special exception granted for a very specific case.

I remember being told only moments ago that they got authorization from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, accompanied by an Auror who is waiting outside to ensure no one enters Hogwarts without approval.

It's absurd and surreal that they're here — yet it's all perfectly official, neatly stamped and signed.

Harry's questioning gaze finds mine, and I can tell he is just as confused as I am.

He understands just as little as I do why we're suddenly all sitting here together, why Dumbledore stays so calm while everyone else is practically tearing each other apart with words.

I want to say something, comment on the situation, but the words get stuck in my throat.

Vernon stomps again, his voice cracking with rage, Petunia whimpers, tries to explain herself, and once more the old memories surface — the blows, the control, the constant feeling that I could never do anything right.

I stare into nothing, trapped between past and present, between pain and the strange silence Dumbledore has draped over us like an invisible cloak.

»It's simple!« Vernon roars, his face turning red. »She will come back to us for the holidays! Every holiday! The Weasleys have enough room for Harry, yes, but for Sarah? You know very well that we mean it. We've already discussed it with the Weasleys!«

His words hit me like a punch straight to the heart.

I stare at the edge of the table and try to suppress the rising pain, but I can barely manage it.

For as long as I can remember, I've felt that they treated me differently.

Harry — yes, he is loved and protected, Gryffindor gold in every step he takes.

And me...I am Slytherin.

Different. Unwanted. A burden.

My chest tightens, and I feel tears threaten to rise before anyone notices.

Always this feeling of not belonging, of not being enough.

The Weasleys — Harry's unbiological family, who have known me just as long—never truly had room for me.

And now Vernon sits here, in this bright, supposedly safe room, and says it out loud, clear and unapologetic: I don't belong.

Dumbledore watches us silently, his expression unchanged, yet I feel no rescue in his gaze.

Harry looks just as confused as always, but there's something else in his eyes too — helplessness, as if he doesn't know how to protect me.

My heart breaks a little more as Vernon continues talking, ranting about my supposed return, about plans meant to drag me back into that old world I've fought so hard to escape.

And while their voices rage around me like a storm, I stay silent.

Trapped in my own pain, in the memory of all those times I had to make myself invisible just to avoid getting hurt.

No one understands, no one really sees how I feel.

Not even Harry.

Harry shoots to his feet, his voice trembling with outrage. »You can't be serious! She can't go back to... to him!«, he stammers, the words nearly choking in his throat.

His eyes lock onto Vernon's, blazing with fury and disbelief.

Petunia sits still, staring at her hands, unable to utter a single word.

It's as if she has taken refuge in silence — and her silence burns like ice against my skin.

Vernon only laughs mockingly, as though he has been waiting for this moment. »Oh, Harry, this isn't something you get to decide. Do you really think we care about your whining? Stay out of this — this is a conversation between adults!«

He pulls out a letter, unfolding it theatrically before placing it on the table. »See for yourselves. From the Weasleys themselves. They made it clear: no room for Sarah. Not this holiday. Not at their home.«

I stare at the paper as if every letter is slicing through my heart.

The Weasleys — my only supposed refuge — have rejected me.

I feel everything inside me go still all at once.

Anger, pain, helplessness — everything freezes in a moment of absolute emptiness.

Dumbledore nods slowly, gravely.

His voice is calm, but there is no doubt in it: »Then there is no other choice.«

It feels like someone has flipped a switch inside me. Everything stops.

My thoughts, my heart — even my breathing suddenly feels heavy and silent.

I sit there, frozen, unable to move or feel, as reality wraps around me like a cold shroud.

Dumbledore exhales deeply, his voice heavy as he speaks the words: »Then I have no other choice... Sarah, you will have to return to the Dursleys for the holidays.«

It is obvious how much this decision pains him.

For a brief moment, his eyes flash —an expression of regret and concern that almost makes him seem human— yet the duty to uphold the rules outweighs everything else.

My heart tightens, a sharp pain stealing the air from my lungs.

Everything inside me rebels, screams in protest, yet no sound escapes my lips.

I can't believe it.

I don't want to... I don't want to go back.

Without thinking any further, I jump to my feet. Chairs scrape, a loud clatter echoes through the office as I rush out of the room.

The warm safety of the office, the familiar walls — all of it disappears behind me as my only instinct is to run.

»Sarah!«, Harry calls after me, his voice panicked, but I barely hear him.

All I hear is the pounding echo of my own heartbeat telling me I have to get out, that I cannot survive this moment.

The door slams shut behind me and I feel the cold of the corridors, the empty halls of Hogwarts closing in around me.

All that remains is anger, pain, and a helplessness so heavy it feels like a blanket crushing me.

Harry is somewhere behind me, but even he can't calm the storm raging inside me.

Everything... everything is falling apart.

I run through the chilled corridors of Hogwarts, and inside my head it is loud, chaotic, uncontrollable.

Again and again, the images surface — the ones I try so desperately to bury.

That damn photo in the Hogwarts Herald, McLaggen, me, and that stupid headline: »Caught in a steamy tower moment!« — as if the entire school didn't already have enough reasons to tear me apart. Now I'm also a slut?

I can still feel the burning stares on my skin, the shame I can never quite wash off.

And then Riddle.

He's everywhere.

I can't escape him.

That mix of contempt, challenge, and that strange... whatever it is that makes me furious and pulls me in at the same time.

I hate him and yet... I can't stop thinking about him.

The constant throwing up I try so desperately to hide.

No one sees it, no one notices, and yet I know my body does it to reclaim the control that's stolen from me everywhere else.

And the Dark Mark.

It keeps pulsing beneath my skin, again and again — a silent reminder that the chaos, the pain, the fear I feel aren't just inside me.

They are visible. They are real. And they follow me like a shadow wherever I go.

I just want to disappear.

I would give anything not to be here— not in this body, not in this world that seems determined to crush me at every turn.

Everything is falling apart — my life, my pride, my heart.

I can't form a single clear thought and yet I have to keep moving, have to keep breathing, have to... try not to completely fall apart.

𓆗

I've been sitting in the library for hours.

Between stacks of old parchment, dusty spell books, and the quiet breathing of other students, I try to disappear.

Halloween decorations hang everywhere; even here, floating pumpkins have found their way between the shelves, accompanied by flickering candles that cast golden patterns onto the floor.

Paper bats glide silently above me, and every now and then, faint laughter echoes from the corridors — students eating pumpkin pasties or hanging garlands for the feast.

I, however, feel nothing of this world.

No excitement, no joy, no warmth.

Only that numb weight in my chest that slowly suffocates me.

»Alone, as always.«

I look up and see Cormac McLaggen standing at the end of my table.

Arrogant as ever, but there's something darker in his grin today.

I feel immediately that I have no patience for him.

»Leave, Cormac.«

»Oh, wow.« He sits down next to me without asking. »No greeting? No joy at seeing me? And here I thought we had gotten a little closer.«

I stare at him coldly. »You kissed me while someone took photos. That's not getting closer, that's manipulation.«

He dramatically places a hand on his heart. »Manipulation? I'd call it... mutual entertainment.« Then he leans forward, his voice lowering. »And let's be honest — you wanted it just as much.«

I let out a dry laugh. »In your dreams.«

His expression hardens. »I don't care what you say. Hogwarts is talking about you now. Hot little Potter who has fun on the Astronomy Tower at night. You love it, don't you? Being the center of attention.«

I glare at him. »I didn't come here to argue with you.«

I try to stand up, but he grabs my forearm and holds me in place.

I immediately tense up.

»Let. Go. Of. Me,« I hiss.

He leans closer. »You're not exactly in a position to give me orders, Sarah.«

My heartbeat quickens — not from fear, but from pure disgust. »I'll never be in any position where you think I owe you anything.«

He smiles slowly. »Oh, you're wrong. You actually owe me quite a lot.«

»Oh yeah? And what would that be?«

He raises an eyebrow significantly — and his gaze drops deliberately to my left forearm.

A chill runs through me.

»You know I haven't forgotten your little secret,« he says quietly. »I wonder what the school would say if they knew that Sarah Potter —«

»Don't say it.«

He grins triumphantly. »—is wearing a pretty little Dark Mark.«

I yank my arm back, but he doesn't let go. »If you want everyone to know that you got involved with Death Eaters, go ahead. But I doubt that would be good for your... reputation. Especially now that everyone already thinks you're easy.«

I can feel the blood boiling in my veins. »You disgusting bastard.«

»Problems can be solved,« he says calmly, as if this were a business deal. »But only if you're smart. If you finally stop acting like you're better than everyone else and... cooperate.«

»I will never have anything to do with you. Never. Not sex. Not a kiss. Nothing.«

His smile disappears. His grip around my wrist tightens. Painfully.

»Let me give you a warning, Potter. Either you become a little more... obedient. Or I tell everyone in this damn castle what you really are.«

I tear myself free. »Don't you ever touch me again—«

But suddenly, something changes in the room.

The atmosphere shifts as if the temperature has dropped.

A silent tension spreads through the air — dark, dangerous.

Then I hear slow footsteps.

Cormac turns his head — and so do I.

Mattheo Riddle stands at the door. Hands in his pockets. Maliciously calm.

And his eyes are fixed on only one thing:

Cormac's hand, the one that was just gripping my wrist.

Riddle stands at the door and for a moment, it feels like even the air is waiting.

He says nothing.He doesn't move.

But his presence alone changes the room — heavy, cold, razor-sharp.

That bastard.

Cormac lets go of my arm — but not out of fear.

He straightens up, clenches his jaw, and crosses his arms as if to show he isn't impressed. »You staring, Riddle? Like what you see?«

Mattheo walks forward slowly.

No glance at me. No question. No emotion.

His eyes are fixed on Cormac. Predator eyes. »You have three seconds to get out of my sight.«

Cormac laughs dryly. »Or what? You'll yell at me? Beat me up again? Please. Save that for your little Slytherin slaves, but not me.«

Mattheo stops.

Only half a meter away now. Cormac holds his gaze. Mistake.

Mattheo tilts his head slightly, studying him — as if he's truly considering whether Cormac is worth his time.

A cold shiver runs down my spine.

A second passes.

No answer.

No threat.

Just tension. Real danger.

Cormac narrows his eyes. »Admit it. You're only pissed because of what happened on the Astronomy Tower. You're mad because I had a taste before you did.«

Silence.

I feel my heart stop.

Slowly, Mattheo drags his tongue across his teeth and then smiles faintly.

Dark. Not amused. Not surprised. Just — dangerous.

I may give Riddle too much credit, but I swear to you, danger radiates off him.

»A taste?« His voice is quiet, almost gentle. »Interesting choice of words.«

Cormac shrugs. »Everyone knows she's not as innocent as she looks. I mean — come on — you've also thought about how—«

He doesn't get to finish.

Mattheo grabs him.

No warning, no buildup.

One sharp yank at his shirt, a fist in the fabric, his other forearm slamming Cormac brutally against the bookshelf.

The shelves rattle.Books crash down.

Cormac lets out a strangled sound.

Mattheo is close. Too close. And completely calm.

»You should learn when to keep your mouth shut,« he says quietly into Cormac's ear.

Cormac laughs through clenched teeth, despite struggling to breathe. »What's wrong? Too much truth for you?«

Mattheo's grip tightens.

He enjoys it. You can see it in his eyes.

Cormac gasps for air, but his gaze doesn't waver.

No fear. Just defiance. »What's got you so tense, Riddle? Hm? That I kissed her? Or —« He grins, wheezing. »— that I said she has the best ass in Hogwarts?«

My breath catches.

There it is.

Finally.

The truth.

The girl with the "sexy ass"... that was me.

Merlin.

Mattheo's expression changes.

No outburst. No shouting.

He just takes a slow breath, like he has just decided Cormac is allowed to die today.

His grip shifts — moving from Cormac's shirt to his throat.

Slow. Torturous. Precise.

Cormac's eyes darken from the pressure.

But this time, I don't intervene.

I enjoy the show.

»Go on,« Mattheo says, eerily calm. »I want to hear you try to provoke me. I want to see how far your stupidity takes you.«

Cormac coughs but forces another laugh. »What are you gonna do? Kill me? In front of witnesses? Do you really think anyone would believe you didn't—«

Mattheo squeezes harder.

For a moment, everything goes silent around us.

No breathing. No whispering.

Just cold, cutting tension.

»There's something you don't understand,« Mattheo says. »She doesn't belong to you.« His voice sinks lower — darker. Raw. »If someone destroys her... that will be me. Not you. Me. And I'm not giving that to anyone.«

Cormac keeps struggling for air, his face turning red.

Still he fights, still he glares back. »You... don't even want her,« he forces out. »You just want to watch her suffer.«

Mattheo leans in closer, his mouth almost at Cormac's ear. He whispers:

»Finally, something smart comes out of your mouth.«

I feel the ground vanish beneath my feet.

I should be afraid.

But I feel... nothing.

Nothing. Just silence.

Mattheo suddenly releases Cormac  — so abruptly that he stumbles forward, gasping and coughing for breath.

Mattheo simply adjusts his collar, as if he hadn't done anything out of the ordinary.

»Leave,« he says calmly. »While you still can. And before I forget—« he pauses, »—tell anyone about her Dark Mark, and God help you. I will be the reason you become religious. You'll start praying when I choke the fucking life out of you. But next time, I might not stop at you gasping for air.« A slow grin spreads across Mattheo's face.

Cormac wipes blood from the corner of his mouth. He hesitates —just for a second.

Then he steps back. Not because he's scared. Just because he's realized Mattheo isn't playing anymore.

Before he leaves, he looks at me.

His gaze burns with hate.

»This isn't over, Potter.«

Mattheo answers for me—without even looking away:

»It is.«

Cormac disappears.

Silence.

Mattheo doesn't turn to me.

No »Are you okay?«, no comment.

He just walks past me.

But as he does, he pauses. His voice is quiet, but it cuts deeper than anything before.

»You should really be more careful, little Potter.« A moment later, even colder: »It would be a shame if something happened to you... before I'm done with you.«

»Thanks, but I could have handled that on my own,« I snap.

My voice is steadier than I expected. Proud. Maybe stupid—but unbroken.

Slowly, he turns his head toward me, as if I'd just insulted him with something as pathetic as basic politeness.

He looks at me like I'm an insect that dared speak to him.

Then he laughs quietly.

He steps closer, his eyes locked on mine.

No warmth. No trace of humanity.

Only darkness.

»Listen, Potter,« he says, low and maddeningly calm. »It's honestly impressive that you think you have any control here. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: I don't do a single fucking thing for you. Understood?«

I want to say something, but he just continues — like a knife sliding in deeper.

»Don't you dare think for a single second that I want to save you. I wouldn't give a damn if some guy fucked you on the Astronomy Tower, in the classroom, in the dungeons, or right here on the floor—you are not a sanctuary.« He smiles darkly. »You are a toy.«

I inhale sharply, feeling heat in my chest — anger or pain, I don't know which.

His head tilts slightly toward me, his gaze drilling into mine.

»I didn't send Cormac away to protect you. I did it so no one plays with my toy. I will destroy you. Slowly. Piece by piece. I will break you. Me.« He taps his chest; his voice becomes a dangerous whisper. »Not Cormac. Not Draco. Not some other bastard with too much ego and too little brain. Only me.«

I stand frozen.

My heart pounds so hard I think he must be able to hear it.

Mattheo leans even closer; his breath brushes my cheek.

He smells of cold air and metal.Of cigarettes and old books.

»And one more thing, little Potter,« he says, his grin widening, more sadistic. »Never mistake this for rescue. I'm not doing you any favors. I'm keeping you alive only because it gives me more time to enjoy breaking you.« He starts to turn away.

I laugh softly. Bitter. »Must be a pathetic life if your only hobby is tormenting girls, Riddle.«

He stops. Slowly. Not a muscle in his body moves, yet the air around us grows heavier.

Then he turns his head—just enough for me to see his profile.

That goddamn grin.

»Who said anything about girls?« he murmurs. »I said you. Trust me — if I just wanted to have a good time, I could have any girl in Hogwarts. They'd spread their legs if I snapped my fingers. But you—« He gestures toward me. »You're different. You're...« He searches for a word, then chooses the one that will hurt. »...broken. And that makes you more interesting than all the other little sluts here.«

I cross my arms over my chest. »And you're sick.«

»And you're naïve if you think you got away from me just because you had the guts to run your mouth once.«

He steps toward me again. Slowly. Predatory slow.

I don't step back.

»You think you know me?« I ask coldly. »You think you can scare me? Congratulations, Riddle, you're not the first who's tried. You're not even the worst.«

Somewhere deep down I know that's a lie.

For a moment, something flickers in his eyes.

Something dark. Curious.

He laughs. Without humor.

»Right. You already had a pretty shitty life before I came along, didn't you?« His voice drops, sharp as a blade. »I mean... Daddy dead. Mommy dead. The golden brother hates you. And oh—« He taps his forehead theatrically. »A loving home full of warmth and safety with the Dursleys. Did I miss anything?«

I lock my jaw so tightly it hurts — I will not break.Not in front of him.

»Maybe just this: You're nothing special. You're just loud. And broken. And angry. And painfully easy to read,« I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can.

Mattheo comes so close I can see every eyelash. »You can insult me, Potter. You can hate me. You can even believe you stand a chance in this little game. But never forget—«

His hand moves suddenly, rising to my cheek.

Not gently. Possessive.

His thumb brushes over my skin once, like he's testing how far he can go.

»I always get what I want. And what's mine, I don't give away. So go on — keep playing with fire, Sarah. Burn. Fall apart. Turn to ash. I don't give a damn – I'll enjoy every second of it.«

»You're full of shit,« I snap and shove his hand off my cheek. »You pretend you don't care. You pretend you hate me — but that's not true. You're just afraid of not being unpredictable anymore.«

His eyes narrow — just a fraction. A warning.

But I don't stop.

»If I meant nothing to you, huh? Then why did you hold me when I my owl got killed? Blood's on the wall, and you pressed my face against your chest so I wouldn't see.« My voice doesn't shake. I don't allow it to. »You put ice on my cheek after you accidentally hit me. And you were afraid. Afraid for me, Riddle. And now you want to tell me you don't give a damn?«

I see the exact moment something hits.

Something I maybe should've never touched. Something darker than anything I've ever seen in him before.

But I keep going.

»And you looked at me when your father to cursed me. You had —« I hesitate, but then I say it. »Pain in your eyes. Maybe just for a heartbeat, but I saw it. So what are you trying to prove? That you're a monster? Congratulations — nobody doubts that. But you're a liar, Mattheo. A pathetic, miserable liar.«

Silence. Cold, brutal silence.

Slowly — very slowly — a grin spreads across his face.

That insane, deadly grin of someone who doesn't have a single drop of mercy in his body.

A psychopath's smile.

»You want the truth, Potter?« he asks quietly.

I lift my chin. »Go on. I dare you.«

He steps closer again.

So close I can feel his breath against my lips.

His gaze burns into me and I know he's about to cut deeper than ever before.

»You think I held you because I wanted to protect you?« he whispers, dangerously rough. »Wrong. I held you because it fucking turned me on to see you powerless. To watch you shake. To watch you try to act strong while you were screaming on the inside. You're beautiful when you suffer, Sarah. Did you know that?«

His words hit me like a blow, but I don't step back.

I can't. I won't.

He keeps talking—darker, deeper, crueller.

»And that pain you thought you saw in my eyes? That wasn't pain for you. That was anger. Pure, burning rage — because you almost broke before I got to break you. Because my father almost destroyed you — when that right belongs to me. Not him. Not anyone.« His voice is almost a growl. »You belong to me, Potter. To my war. To my chaos. To my abyss. And you won't escape.«

I feel every word burning in my throat.

»You want to know why I don't just leave you alone?« he asks, now almost calm. Too calm. »Because you disgust me and you addict me at the same time. You're a fucked-up puzzle, and I'm going to solve you. And if I have to break every piece of you to do it, I will — and I'll laugh while I do.«

He grins. Dark. Final.

»Call me a monster if you want. I'm just being honest.«

He looks at me like he's about to rip my insides out and lay them on the table — without gloves.

»You want to talk, Potter? Put everything on the table? Fine. Let's talk about you.«

I tense.

His grin slows. Gets meaner. »You walk through Hogwarts like you're made of steel. Cold face, sharp tongue, big mouth. But want me to tell you what I see?« He taps his temple. »I see you throwing up. Every. Single. Fucking. Morning. I see how you think no one notices. How you think you're in control. Do you know how pathetic it looks? You shove potions down you're throat like candy so nobody sees how broken you are.«

My chest tightens. I say nothing.

Mattheo is nowhere near done.

»I see how you wake up at night because you're having nightmares about that fat bastard uncle of yours. How you flinch when someone moves too fast. How you freeze for a second when someone gets too loud. Want to know how I see that?« His voice drops, dangerously calm. »Because I know it. Violence recognizes violence. And you wear it like a fucking lipstick — bright red, but pretending nobody sees.«

Something inside me tears, but I keep holding his stare.

He circles me like a hunter enjoying the moment before the final strike. »And you want to know why nobody wants you? Because nobody can handle being that close to someone like you. Because you don't want to be loved — you want to be needed. You want someone to hold you so fucking tight until you finally stop falling.« He leans in. »Guess what? Nobody catches you.«

My breathing speeds up, but I don't give him a single damn word.

He smiles slowly. »Not the Weasleys, who threw you out like a broken animal. Not your own brother, who's ashamed of you because you don't fit his golden hero image. And definitely no one in Hogwarts now — because hey.«

He grabs my wrist.

Lifts my arm.

Pulls back the sleeve.

The Dark Mark stares back at us.

Burned in.

Unavoidable.

»You're a Death Eater.« He doesn't say it — he spits it. »A monster. Not better than me. Not cleaner. Not innocent. You can pretend there's something left to save — but this?« His fingers dig into my skin, right over the Mark. »This is your truth.«

My heart races. My head roars. But I will not cry. Not in front of him.

»No one is going to save you, Potter. No one is going to want you. No one is going to love you. Because in the end, you're just like me – only too much of a coward to admit it.«

He lets go of my wrist, but I don't move.

I can't.

My chest feels like someone is slowly crushing it.

Slowly, so it hurts longer.

He could leave now.

Anyone else would have.

But not Mattheo. Of course not.

He steps in front of me again, so close I can hear his heartbeat – steady. Ice-cold steady.

Like someone who has never known fear.

Or met it in its worst form.

»Do you know who I am?« he asks quietly.

I don't answer – and that seems to amuse him. That dark, ruined glint in his eyes flickers to life as he continues.

»I am hell, Potter.« No smile. No twitch. Pure truth.

»I am the monster monsters run from. I'm what comes when hope rots and morality dies. I'm what your brother prays he will never have to face.«

My heart pounds. Not from fear – from rage. From helplessness.

From that filthy truth he keeps shoving in my face until it burns.

He gets even closer. I don't move an inch.

»The others here,« he laughs softly, mockingly, »they play wars. Good versus evil, light versus darkness – cute fairy tales for people with a conscience. But me?« His voice sinks into a dangerous whisper. »I don't play. I win.«

And now he does smile. A silent, murderous smile. No teeth. Just pure madness.

»Do you know why they're all afraid of me?« he asks, as his fingertip lifts my chin for a moment, forcing me to look at him. »Because they know I have no limit. No rules. No mercy. I don't fight wars with spells. I fight them with souls. And I always take hope first. That's my fun.«

I hold his gaze. I hate him. I hate him in a way I didn't think was possible.

But I'm also fascinated – and that makes me sick.

He is the abyss. And I am standing right at the edge.

You are stronger than this. You are not his toy. You are not his possession. He doesn't see you – he only wants to break you, because he is broken himself.

The thought burns inside me – it's real, but it feels like a last, desperate shield.

Mattheo looks into my eyes as if he can hear exactly what I'm thinking.

»And you,« he says calmly, dangerously calm, »you will burn. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you'll understand what you really are. And when that day comes...« – his gaze slides over my face, lingers on my eyes – »...I'll be here. And I'll enjoy it.«

My breathing stays slow, steady – but only because I force it to.

Every nerve in my body is screaming to push him away. Or scream at him. Or hurt him. Or ask him why.

Why he does this. Why me.

Why he knows me better than I know myself.

But no – no weakness. Not in front of him.

So I lift my chin.

I look him straight in the eyes. And I turn my heart to stone.

Because if he is hell, then I will learn to stand in it without burning.

»No one will save you, Potter. No one will want you. No one will love you.«

His words echo. Like blows. I feel something burning inside me – not pain, not fear.

Something else. Something I had forgotten. Anger.

Slowly, I raise my gaze and stare at him. Direct. Unshaken. »Wrong. I don't need anyone to save me.«

He smirks. »Yes, you do. You need someone. You're addicted to being saved. You're pathetic.«

I take a step toward him. His body stays loose but his eyes tell me I now have his full attention.

Good.

»You talk so much about me, Riddle, as if you understand me. But you have no idea who I am.«

Lie.

He wants to speak, but I don't let him. »You think you've figured me out because you saw me bleeding, breaking, shaking. Congratulations – you saw my weakness. Do you know what you haven't seen yet? My fucking strength.«

His eyes narrow.

»I survived,« I say quietly. »More than you ever had to. I walked through hell long before you ever chose to become one. You play with darkness – I lived in it. And do you know why I don't fear you? Because you are nothing I haven't already known before you ever stepped into my life.«

He takes a dangerous step toward me. His hand grabs my chin hard, forcing me to look up at him.  »You think you know darkness? I am darkness.«

I laugh dryly. »No. You're what happens when someone is too much of a coward to swallow their own trauma. You're the result of a man who never had a will of his own. You're not darkness, Riddle – you're just the echo of someone else.«

Something flickers in his eyes. I drive the knife in deeper.

»Come on, it's obvious. You want to be feared because that's the only thing you know how to be. Because you are nothing. Without your name, without your father, without the myth surrounding the Riddles – who would you be then? No one would even look at you.«

I lean closer to him.

So close our faces are only inches apart.

»You were never a monster by your own making. You were made. By him.« I don't say Voldemort's name – I don't have to. It hangs between us like poison. »You're his product. His shadow. His son – in the worst way possible. He broke you, so you break others. Because that's all you know how to do.«

His breathing is heavier now. I have him. I feel it. So I strike.

»But do you know what you hate most? That you still love him. You hate him – and yet you want him to see you. To tell you that you're enough. You are nothing but a cursed, lonely boy with daddy issues who learned how to destroy because no one ever showed him how to build.«

I knock his hand away from my chin and push him back slightly.

»And that's why you're so obsessed with me, Riddle. Not because I'm your toy. Not because I'm weak. But because I am everything you could never be: free. I don't belong to anyone. Not to my blood, not to my family, not to some symbol on my arm. But you?« My gaze pierces his. »You will always belong to him. You will always be his goddamn lapdog.«

Silence.

Heavy, crushing, murderous silence.

Then he smiles. Not a normal smile.

Not a masked, controlled Riddle-smile.

No. This is different.

Raw. Sick. Dangerous.

He slowly runs his tongue over his teeth, as if savoring what I just said.

And then he speaks.

Quietly. Deadly calm.

»Free?« He laughs without humor. »Baby, you have no idea what freedom is. Freedom is when you have nothing left to lose. And you? You still have everything to lose. Your friends. Your brother. Your sanity. Yourself. And I will take it all from you. With my own hands.«

His face is close to mine now. His voice a battlefield of darkness.

»And before I go—« He grins wide.

»—you've got a pretty big mouth for someone who was marked twice by her own uncle, so deep between your legs. The way he took the knife in his hand... poor little ten-year-old Potter. First cut, blood flowing... but that wasn't the end of it, was it? Second cut... even parallel to the first. On your sweet, tender thighs. Oh Salazar, almost heartbreaking, even for me.« He places a hand over his heart dramatically. If he even has one.

And as he finally leaves the library, I remain standing.

I never told him that.

Bastard.

And for the first time, I feel no fear toward Riddle.

Fuck, I want this war.

Maybe you were right after all, Riddle.

I'm not that different from you.

Two rivals. One war.

I will win it, you bastard.