Chapter Text

She knows it’s going to be a wonderful day even before she opens her eyes. She just has one of those dreams — the kind that leaves you in a perfect mood, feeling rested and energized, but also warm and happy in a way you can’t quite explain.

She smiles, thinking about her future cup of coffee, shifting deeper into the warm pillow and stretching her legs with a satisfied hum.

That’s when she notices her pillow is… kind of odd.

Still half asleep, she huffs out a breath, annoyed that her pillow has gone stiff overnight, and reaches her hand out to flip it over — but it doesn’t soften under her touch. The side is hard too, and it’s warm all the way through. Not just the part she’s been sleeping on. And it’s… going up and down. Steadily.

Not a pillow. Not a pillow.

Her eyes fly open and she jolts away from it instantly, the room around her unfamiliar and far too grand.

That awful rush hits — the kind of confusion you get when you wake up in a hotel room or a new apartment, when nothing looks quite right and your brain takes a second to catch up. That weird mix of anxiety and disorientation that, if you don’t get your bearings fast, turns into full-blown panic.

Except usually, after a moment, you remember where you are.

She doesn’t.

And it’s definitely not a pillow.

It’s a man. Sleeping on creamy yellow silk bedding.

Her eyes widen even more. He’s not her man. He’s some random man. Some random man in her bed, which makes the panic hit faster and harder. She glances down at her torso — still in her pajamas, which is actually just an oversized t-shirt with bleach or paint stains that never came out, and shorts from a gifted pajama set.

So she’s decent. That’s good. Great. But the whole situation still feels deeply wrong, if you can imagine.

She is in bed. With a stranger. And the bed is… well.

She’s not poor, sure, but she’s only seen beds like this — this size, these sheets — in magazines or movies. It looks ancient. Regal. The bed even has fucking curtains. They’re open, but still — curtains. Not the cheap, airy kind you hang around your daughter’s bed when she decides she wants to be a princess. These are deep red, heavy, expensive-looking.

The whole thing is absurd. She wasn’t drinking last night, so there’s no way she wouldn’t remember how she got in bed with this man. She didn’t even go out yesterday. So actually — what the hell? Why is she waking up in some bed advertisement — she really needs to stop thinking about how expensive the bed is — with a beautiful man like an accessory?

Was she kidnapped?

The thought makes her go numb. Cold.

But who would even want to kidnap her? She’s not special. She doesn’t come from a rich family. No one could make money off this — not really.

She glances over.

The man is still asleep. Doesn’t even move.

Was he kidnapped too? Dragged here like her? Should she check on him? Her hand twitches. But what if he’s part of it? It — whatever this is. Some sick bastard throwing them into an old-fashioned room to… what?

And another thing — why put her in bed with a good-looking stranger? For what purpose? That’s absurd.

The man doesn’t look like a threat — at least not while asleep.

He looks peaceful.

Even in sleek black pajamas, he looks… good.

His face catches the soft light. His black hair is messy from sleep. Thick brows, but relaxed — not intimidating. Long, straight eyelashes — not tangled. Just perfect. A straight nose. Thin lips, faintly rose-tinted. Her mother would say he looks like a curious and kind man — the kind of face you could trust.

Still, she’s not taking any chances.

She swings her legs over the bed and freezes.

Up close, the room looks even stranger. Yes, old-fashioned style, but… clearly lived-in. That’s unusual. Rooms like this are usually just for show — look, I can afford this kind of wealth. But here, there are papers scattered on a massive desk. A jacket hangs over the back of a chair. The long glass window has curtains, but they aren’t hanging perfectly — like someone opened them hastily and left them that way.

She glances at the nightstand, hoping to see her phone — it’s always near when she sleeps. Of course, it’s not there now.

Instead, there’s a thick book. She can see the yellowed pages under the dark cover, and she just knows it has that old-book smell she loves. She shakes her head. No — not the time for sniffing books. She needs to get out. Fast. Before someone shows up and forces her to play out some twisted roleplay with a stranger. Or worse. Though what exactly could happen? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand any of this. Why she’s here. What she’s supposed to do.

It’s all too strange.

Before she can do anything, she hears a quick rustle of sheets — and someone grabs her wrist.

*~*~*

Tom blinks rapidly, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep.
Some woman — or rather, a girl — stares at him with wide, frightened eyes.

She doesn’t even try to pull her hand from his grip, frozen by fear, while he stares back in confusion.

She definitely wasn’t here when he fell asleep last night.

“Who are you?” he asks.

He doesn’t even mean to sound threatening — he uses his calm voice for once.

Still, the girl jolts and says nothing.

She looks like she’s just woken up herself — messy hair, a ragged t-shirt with faintly colored stains, and a dazed expression.

Has she been sleeping here?

Did some lunatic break into his room just to sleep in his bed?

How?

Did she break through his warding spells? Alone?

No. That seems unlikely.

Unless someone else is here.

Annoyance flares at the back of his mind.

The girl’s eyes follow his movement as his other hand shifts, slow and deliberate. His grip on her remains firm, but his focus moves. He feels the familiar warmth of his wand beneath his fingers — always close when he sleeps — and begins to raise it, his gaze never leaving her face.

There it is — fear, real and sharp, as she understands.

“I’ll only ask once more,” he says, his voice lower now, darker. “Who are you?”

Her frightened eyes flicker to his wand, and for a moment, she holds her breath, terrified. Her lips part in a soft gasp, but then—surprisingly—she lets out a short, almost hysterical chuckle. Tom’s eyebrows furrow in confusion as she clasps her lips with her free hand, laughter bubbling up again.

“I’m...” she starts, but her voice falters with another chuckle. “I’m sorry, I get like this in tense situations sometimes.”

She laughs again, and his annoyance grows. His grip tightens, and he points the wand more directly at her, his patience thinning.

“Ouch, ouch, sorry,” she gasps, still laughing. “But why are you pointing this stick at me?”

“Stick—?” He nearly screams in frustration. “Who are you?” He pulls on her hand, forcing her closer, his face now just inches from hers. She looks scared, but it’s not enough to make her compliant. Instead, a flicker of annoyance crosses her face.

“Who are you?” she shoots back, her voice sharp. “And can you not...?”

Before he can react, she yanks her hand out of his grip with surprising force. Tom lets go in shock.

“That’s better,” she says, rubbing her wrist with her other hand. “I have no idea how I got here. I fell asleep in my bed and woke up here.” She glances him over with an unimpressed look, her eyes lingering briefly on his wand. “Glad to see you don’t know anything either. Would’ve been creepy if you kidnapped me just to put me in your bed and fall asleep.”

She quickly looks around the room, her eyes darting back to him. “Can you put that down?” she asks, pointing at his wand. “Better than a gun, but still...”

Tom blinks at her, his magic already simmering inside the wand, ready to explode with his mounting annoyance. But then, as his gaze locks onto her hand—the one he just held—a sharp flicker of light catches his eye. A massive ring, with a large black stone, gleams on her finger. His ring. On her.

His eyes widen in shock.

“How did you get this?” he asks, his voice low, barely louder than a whisper.

She follows his gaze, furrowing her eyebrows slightly as she notices what he’s looking at. Raising her hand, she examines it with a quiet “huh” before turning the ring around on her finger. Tom’s heart skips. It’s definitely his. He knows it. But it can’t be. She should be cursed the moment she puts it on, but her hand is clear—no sign of anything. No dark mark, no effect. Nothing.

Then, as if it means nothing at all, she casually slides the ring off her finger, twirling it carelessly, inspecting it from every angle with a detached curiosity.

Tom freezes. His body stiffens, and for a moment, it feels like time stops. She’s holding a piece of his soul in her hand, like it’s just another piece of jewelry. His soul.

And then, with the same nonchalance, she looks at him.

“I have no idea,” she says, her voice eerily calm. “Someone who brought me here probably put it on me. Here.” She extends the hand with the ring, offering it to him. “It’s yours?”

Tom is still wide-eyed as he reaches out his hand. It feels strangely difficult to move, as if he’s moving underwater. He opens his palm, his eyes flicking to her face, wary.

But she simply drops the ring into his hand without a word.

He exhales in relief—but it doesn’t last long.

The moment the ring touches his skin, he feels… nothing.

No surge of recognition. No sense of becoming more whole. Just the cold weight of metal in his palm.

His eyes widen. No—no, this can’t be. He stares down at the ring, Gaunt’s ring, the one he stole years ago. A relic drenched in history and dark magic. It’s undoubtedly the same ring. And yet… it’s hollow.

Empty.

It can’t be.

Some stupid girl appears out of nowhere, somehow passes his wards, and now stands before him, casually handing him a piece of his soul—and it’s gone.

He feels a sick twist in his stomach, a rising wave of fury far beyond the faint irritation from moments ago. Minutes ago, he might’ve simply killed her.

But now?

Now she’s going to suffer.

“So…” the girl muses, completely unaware of what awaits her. “This is your house, then? Any idea why I’m here?”

Tom glares at her while she glances around the room with curious eyes. Her brow furrows when she notices the chandelier, then deepens as her gaze returns to him. For a long moment, they just stare at each other.

Suddenly, the girl jolts and starts moving in a flurry of nervous energy.

“Anyway,” she says with a tight, uneasy smile. “It’s been… interesting, but I’d really like to leave now.”

She jumps out of the bed, backing away while keeping him in sight. “Don’t get me wrong, yeah? Lovely house. I’m just not a fan of waking up in some stranger’s room.”

Her steps are slow, careful, the smile still stretched across her face like a mask. Tom’s eyes follow her every move, like a predator watching its prey, waiting for the right moment to strike.

She backs into the wall near the door with a quiet thud and, still not turning away from him, begins feeling around for the doorknob. Tom narrows his eyes, watching her closely. Does she really think she can walk out so easily—after what she’s done?

When her hand finally finds the knob, she exhales in relief and pulls the door open.

But the moment she turns to step through, Tom raises his wand. The door slams shut with a loud bang, magic thrumming through the air.

The girl flinches, and a flicker of satisfaction stirs in Tom’s chest.

“What the fuck,” she whispers.

Tom steps out of the bed, and he sees the way her back stiffens. Ah. Now she understands. Good.

She doesn’t turn to face him—just grabs the handle and yanks it again. And again. But he holds it shut with barely a thought. He closes the distance between them, slow and silent, like a shadow stretching closer.

When he’s only a few steps away, she suddenly spins to face him, her eyes wide with fear.

“What do you want from me?” she asks, her voice rising in pitch.

Tom winces at the sound.

He studies her for a long moment, the wand loose in his fingers. Her eyes flicker on his face nervously. The air between them feels thick, like it might crackle with a single wrong move.

“I want answers,” he says at last, his voice smooth—almost lazy—as he gathers every ounce of his composure. “A few simple answers, and I’ll let you go.”

“Okay, okay,” she says quickly, breath shallow. “Ask away then.”
Her eyes dart around the room, scanning for an escape that doesn’t exist.
“What do you want to know?”

She tries the doorknob again, but it doesn’t budge—he’s still holding it shut.

Tom tilts his head slightly, taking a step closer.

“First: how did you get here? How did you get through the wards?”

“The wa—” she starts, voice shaking now, panic creeping in. “I didn’t. I told you, I just woke up here!”

Tom exhales slowly through flared nostrils, cold fury simmering in his chest.

“I swear, I just woke up, here, I—”

“Don’t lie!” he roars, closing the distance in one sharp step. Now they stand face to face.

He can almost smell her fear. She freezes at the sound of his voice. Pathetic.

“I swear,” she whispers, trembling, “I don’t know. Or… or I don’t remember.”

He smiles then—a cold, humorless smile.

“And yet, you wore my ring.”

Her gaze drops to his fist, clenched tightly around the ring—his ring, now empty, hollow.

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, the kind that would fall if she so much as blinks. But not now. There will be time for that later—tears, screams. Now, he needs answers.

“You have a very important choice to make,” Tom says in a low, deliberate tone. “Either you tell me the truth… or you die.”

Her eyes widen further.

“The choice is yours. But choose carefully—because as I’m sure you understand, there’s no coming back.”

He studies her face, watching her crumble by the second.

“Do you understand?” he asks, almost politely, but so coldly that she flinches again.

Her breathing hitches unevenly. She nods—small, fragile, mute.

“So, let’s try again, shall we?” he says with an easy smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. He relishes the fear in her gaze, the fragile hope clinging to her face. It doesn’t matter—she will die either way.
“My ring. What did you do to it? If you’re telling the truth, and you wore it through the night, why are you still alive? How did you remove the curse?”

She blinks, tears drying in her eyes to make room for something else—shock, maybe, or the creeping edge of realization. Her expression shifts slowly, and then she closes her eyes for a brief moment, tilting her head downward like she’s bracing herself. When she looks up, there’s something almost defiant in her stare.

“You think your ring is… cursed?” she asks softly. “Like… with magic?”

“Yes,” he snaps, impatience flaring. “I cursed it myself. Anyone who puts it on dies. But you’re still standing. So—how?”

She exhales slowly, her gaze steadying with what looks like false calm.
“But I am still here,” she says carefully. “So maybe… maybe it wasn’t cursed at all?”

He narrows his eyes, a flicker of confusion tightening his jaw.

“Maybe,” she continues, swallowing hard, “you thought you cursed it. Maybe you felt it so strongly, you believed it—but you didn’t actually do it.”

Her voice is quiet, strangely reasonable, and something in the way she speaks makes his fingers twitch. She glances at the wand in his hand—just briefly—but it’s enough.
“Say,” she adds, cautious now, “is that… is it a magic wand?”

The question hangs in the air—absurd and sharp all at once. Her voice doesn’t waver. It’s calm, almost unnervingly measured, and before he can stop himself, Tom glances at the wand in his hand.

But it’s the same wand he’s had since he was eleven. So familiar it feels like an extension of his body.

“It seems to me,” he says lowly, “you’re the one avoiding questions.”

She flinches—barely—but the calm mask holds. She looks him straight in the eyes, quiet determination flickering there. Not strong enough to be courage, but close.

“I know. I’m sorry. I want to answer,” she says quickly. “But just… just think for one moment. You believe the ring is cursed—but it didn’t hurt me. You saw me wearing it. You saw nothing happened.” She licks her lips. “And I didn’t take it off, I didn’t even know it was cursed. So was the curse really there? Did you see it? Or did you only feel it?”

Tom studies her. Really studies her. And for the first time, he understands.

This girl isn’t acting. She isn’t hiding something.

She believes every word she says.

She’s a pawn. Maybe even a useful one.

“You’re a Mu— You’re not a witch?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

She starts shaking her head fast, panicked.

“No… no, I’m not. And you—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, thinking quickly now.

If she’s not a witch, then this will be easier. No one will search for her in magical Britain. But that only raises more questions. Why is she here? With his ring? Hollow and cursed. If not her—then someone sent her. To taunt him? To test him?

Who would dare?

And why her?

Blonde curls. Bright face. Nothing remarkable. Still, she’s part of it.

He straightens, his expression sharpening. Her hand still hovers near the doorknob behind her, but she doesn’t move.

“It seems you were used too,” he says casually.

Her eyes light with hope, and Tom winces inwardly. Pathetic.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, his tone shifting into something almost pleasant. “You can still be useful.”

He steps forward. “Now—it will hurt, but I’ll be quick. I doubt there’s much to see in there anyway.”

Her face crumples into pure horror.

Before she can react, he slips the ring into his pocket and reaches out—his hand clamping around the side of her neck, firm, keeping her still, forcing her to look up at him. She shivers under his touch.

“Please—no, you don’t have to do this…” she whispers, tears now trailing down her cheeks.

“Oh, but I do,” he says softly. “Don’t worry—it only hurts more if you fight.”

A little sound escapes her throat—a whimper, or maybe another plea, lost in fear.

She doesn’t even know what he’s going to do.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Lifting his wand, he raises it level with her forehead. She instinctively glances at it, but he tightens his grip, and her eyes jump back to his. His lip twitches—something close to amusement. At least she understands who’s in control.

And before she can start crying in earnest, he whispers:

“Legilimens.”

Chapter Text

One. There were light brown eyes, shaky gaze, not hidden terror.

Two. Bright light, so sharp it makes you want to turn away, or you burn.

Three. Sudden pain in the temple, hard, burning, consuming.

Four. Darkness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The girl watches the man, unconscious after he growled and collapsed on the ground.

He looks peaceful again, not threatening at all.

But she knows now — she should get away from this freak before he wakes up and takes her eyes out with his ‘magic wand’.

The feelings and emotions that overfilled her before wash away with the shock of his sudden state, so for a few moments she just stands frozen, staring at him.

But when he takes a sudden, sharper inhale, she shakes off all her shock.

"I hope that fucking hurt, psycho," she tells him with disgust and turns to the door, pulling roughly at the knob.

It opens easily. That’s strange.

But she doesn’t want to waste a second staying in a room with this man.

She flies out into the hallway, the floor soft under her feet, carpeted, still carrying that strange, ancient design.

Freakish man with a freakish taste.

She looks around and notices a staircase on one side of the hall. Without another thought, she bolts toward it, like it might vanish if she’s too slow.

But when she reaches it, she freezes again, staring at the space around her.

The hall is huge — grand in a way she’s only seen in old movies. The fireplace alone must have cost a fortune, carved from shining marble.

The ceiling stretches up so high it feels like the room could swallow her whole. This place could fit an elephant — maybe two.

Somewhere behind her, a sound echoes — or maybe she just thinks it does.

Her heart jumps, and she bolts up the stairs, the fear chasing her heels.

The front door waits at the far wall, tall and heavy, framed by windows that catch light from the street outside.

It looks almost too good to be true.

She sprints for it, throws her hand at the knob — and hesitates.

What if someone was waiting for her outside?

What if someone had something more dangerous than sticks?

What if they just shot her the moment she stepped out?

What was this sick game, anyway?

She pushes on the knob — and... it’s open?

That weirdo said something about wards. Her heart pounds so hard it fills her ears. No way it could be this easy.

But what choice does she have? Stay here with that freak who thinks he's a witch, or go out there — maybe into the arms of a lunatic who believes he’s a unicorn?

Honestly, unicorn sounds nicer.

Also, the witch-man already threatened to kill her.

The unicorn guy hadn’t been rude yet.

A loud thud behind her makes her jolt, and all her thoughts scatter like smoke in the wind.

She shoves the door open and bolts outside — probably way too fast for someone who, just seconds ago, was scared of getting shot.

But there’s no one there.

Just trees. Trees and trees and more trees.

Some bushes.

All green.

The grass around the house is neat and low, but beyond that, it’s long and wild.

“No, no, no, no,” she mutters in a rush.

Because why?

Why did it have to be a freaking forest?

She can feel the panic crawling up her throat, so she steps off the porch and runs around the house, wanting to cry when she sees forest in every direction.

Birds sing.

Bugs buzz.

It could almost be calming... if she wasn’t alone here, with a psycho and no idea where the hell she was.

"Shit, shit, shit," she whispers, feeling tears burning her eyes.

She spins around, desperate, but there’s no path. No sign.

Nothing but the endless wall of green.

Right as she’s about to collapse to the ground and let hysteria take her, she hears it:

“Where are you?”

Loud.

Clear.

Coming from the way she just ran.

Oh no.

He sounds angry. Really angry. He was terrifying before, even when he seemed calm. Now? She doesn’t want to meet him like this.

She turns and runs, right into the thick trees and bushes, barefoot and more scared than she’s ever been in her life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tom still feels the pain pulsing in his temple. The yard is empty. He might actually explode from anger.

What kind of mind protection was that? That wasn’t Occlumency. And she said she wasn’t a witch — clearly a lie. And he, like a fool, believed her.

"Where are you?" he yells, voice tearing through the air.

No answer.

He grits his teeth, breathing hard — and then...

A sound. Leaves rustling. Rushed footsteps. Behind the house.

Without wasting another second, he apparates.

In the blink of an eye, he catches a glimpse of the girl — bolting into the forest like an idiot.

With a sharp sigh, he follows.

She runs pretty fast, and he’s in no mood for playing catch, so he apparates in front of her, before she can drag them both into danger.

The girl stops abruptly, staring at him with wide eyes.

"How… what did you do?" she asks, still staring, shocked.

Tom furrows his lips — he won’t fall for the same trick twice.

"Don’t play dumb," he cuts coldly.

That wakes her from the fake shock. She turns away and sprints in the opposite direction.
Is she really that stupid? He exhales sharply and waves his wand, apparating before her once again.

She almost crashes into him but jerks to a stop at the last second, stumbling backward and falling hard onto the ground.

She stares up at him, terror in her eyes.

He keeps a calm expression, watching her from above. But the truth is, he’s barely holding himself together. There’s no space for the usual thrill in cornering someone, in holding someone’s life in his hands.

Tom can’t even remember the last time he felt so confused. And this girl doesn’t make it any easier.

"What the fuck?" she exclaims, scrambling back and putting as much space between them as she can in that position. "How are you doing it?"

"Don’t you think it’s unfair for you to ask questions when you haven’t answered any of mine?" he asks calmly.

She furrows her brows, annoyance obvious on her face, even pushing away all the terror from before.

She stands up with a growl and looks him up and down. He keeps looking back, quiet, waiting for her to finally tell the truth.

"I answered every one of your questions," she spouts. "How is it my fault that they don’t make any sense? You deluded yourself into believing that piece of jewelry was cursed, dragged me here into the middle of fucking nowhere, and probably forgot all about it — so tell me, how’s that my fault that you don’t take your meds?"

He blinks. Did she really just say that? He waits for her to realize, to tremble with fear, but she just stands there, glaring at him, anger written all over her face.

Probably too proud to admit her mistakes — she even tilts her chin up.

"Do you really still play that muggle card?" he asks, cold and calm.

"Muggle," she repeats, confused.

But then something flickers across her face. She looks at him differently — with understanding. A shaky smile appears, and after a moment, she bursts into laughter, almost hysterical.

"Oh, I get it now," she says, another round of laughter escaping her — but then she stops, shakes her head, and looks at him with pity. "You are crazy," she says grimly. "I mean, I knew that, but now I know in what way you’re crazy."

He takes a step toward her, almost unconsciously, raising his wand. She takes a rushed step back.

"Stay away," she warns, like she actually has something to threaten him with. "I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, but I don’t want to participate in this roleplay."

Suddenly, Tom feels really tired of all of it. Of her high-pitched, hysterical voice most of all.

Wouldn’t it be easier just to kill her? No one would ever find her in these woods.

Sure, that would take away his only connection to finding out what happened to the piece of his soul.

He looks her up and down. What if she is someone important? Would her disappearance bring unwanted attention?

She doesn’t seem important.

Before he can decide, she just turns around and starts walking away. Again. Without a word.

Tom grits his teeth.

This was definitely going to be difficult — not killing her.

"Where are you going?" he calls after her.

"Away," she answers, not even turning around.

She keeps walking stubbornly, carefully stepping around sticks and rocks. Tom exhales heavily and follows her through the woods.

"You’re bleeding, you know," he says carelessly.

She glances down. There’s blood on her left foot, probably cut while running. She hums quietly and keeps walking, leaving small blood marks on the ground. Tom grimaces at the sight.

"So, would you be so kind as to show me where civilization is, so I can go to the hospital?" she asks over her shoulder.

"No," he answers simply. "Besides, I could heal it with a wave of my hand if you would only cooperate." (He has no intention of doing that.)

That makes her stop. She puts her hands over her face and sighs deeply.

"Do you even realize how crazy you sound?" she mutters, glancing back at him with tired, sad eyes.

That’s what annoys him the most. Why does she keep doing that?

"You seem oddly sure of yourself," he muses. "Have you been Obliviated?"

"Obli– no, I wasn't! Gods, will you stop?" she snaps. "I can’t be Obliviated because magic doesn't exist and your stupid ring was never—"

Not letting her finish, he flicks his wand toward a nearby tree. It catches fire instantly. The girl jolts back, eyes wide.

She stares at the burning tree for a few moments — and then, like a complete idiot, she raises a hand and starts stepping closer, as if to touch it.

Tom doesn’t know what possesses him, but his hand shoots out, grabbing her before she can get too close.

She turns her shocked gaze on him but doesn’t even try to pull free.

"What are you doing?" he asks. "It will burn you."

"But..." she starts, her voice small. “It can’t be real, can it? It’s an illusion, or, or..."

"It’s real," Tom cuts her off.

He flicks his wand again, and the fire dies with a hiss, leaving the tree black and burnt.

She stares at the charred bark like she can't quite believe it.

"Honestly," he says, his hand still on her shoulder, "minutes ago I was appearing right in front of you. Didn’t that make you question anything?"

She nods numbly, staring through him.

And that's when he feels it — the recognition.

Not from her — but from something inside her.

His soul.

With his hand on her shoulder, he feels it — a strange, aching sense of being wholer.

Suddenly, she steps away, his hand slipping from hers, and the warmth vanishes like it was never there, leaving an empty ache in him. He swallows hard, feeling the void where her presence was.

It’s in her. But how could it be? He’s never heard of such a thing. You can’t just take a soul out and place it elsewhere. When the relic becomes a horcrux, there’s no going back—destroy it with a soul, that’s the only way. And yet... the ring is fine, hollow but whole, still in one piece. What kind of magic is this?

"Did you drug me?" she asks, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. Her eyes meet his, wide and searching. He notices the tremor in her gaze. She's afraid—but he feels a far greater terror, one he's never known before. What is she?

"Hypnotized me?" she continues, her voice laced with disbelief. "What is this? I don’t feel any different, but you did something. Now I see things... tell me," she demands, stepping closer, her presence overwhelming him. He wants to step away, but can bring himself to do that either.

Tom blinks, his pulse racing.

"You seem pale, by the way," she comments, her voice suddenly flat, clinical. "Was it you? Or are you a victim too? Oh my god...” she exclaims with the sudden realization.  “Maybe they’ve been drugging you this whole time, and now you’ve lost it, actually believing in all this magic." Her gaze sharpens as she assesses him, almost like she’s diagnosing him. “You said this was your house, right? How long have you been here? And do you ever go anywhere else? When was the last time you saw anyone else?"

Tom's mind spins in chaos. Her barrage of questions is relentless, her accusations ridiculous, and yet each word cuts deeper into his thoughts, leaving him dizzy. She stares at him, waiting for a response, her face a mix of curiosity and skepticism, before she opens her mouth again.

"No," he snaps, his voice breaking through the flood of her words. His head feels like it might explode from the pressure. “Can you shut up and just listen to me for a second? It’s not an—”

“Absolutely not,” she interrupts, shaking her head determined. "I’m sorry, but either you’re crazy, or someone made you crazy. And I have to find a solution before I end up like you." She looks at him with something that borders on concern. "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn`t," he mutters, frowning, utterly bewildered. "Tom Riddle."

She sighs, her expression falling into a mix of frustration and incredulity.

"Oh, fuck me…" she groans, rubbing her forehead in exasperation.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She starts pacing in tight, frantic circles, trying once again to piece together what’s happening.

The man stands nearby — oddly still now. A second ago he was snarling and furious, and now he just stands there, gazing at her with a blank, almost empty look.

If she thought he was drugged before, she’s even more convinced now.

He calls himself Tom Riddle.

He’s clearly sick... or maybe he’s just some lunatic who happens to use the same name.

“So…” she starts, breathless — her lungs seizing as panic clamps down on her chest, “Tom Riddle as in the Dark Lord Voldemort Tom Riddle, or…?”

The man freezes. His gaze snaps to her, sharp and furious, as if she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“So you know me,” he says coldly, voice low and dangerous. “You said you weren’t—”

“Every kid in Britain knows you,” she snaps, cutting him off. “Probably half the world does. Shit.”

She presses a trembling hand to her forehead. Her skin is cold and damp with sweat, her breath growing rougher and sharper with every passing second.

What is this?

A lunatic who thinks he’s Voldemort? A forest she has no idea how to escape?

The realization hits her hard — she might be hundreds of miles away from civilization, lost in some endless maze of trees.

And Mr. Dark Lord over there is no help.

She can’t even be sure she could find her way back to that mansion she ran from — she bolted in a random direction, not thinking, just running.

Frantic, she whips her head around, scanning for any sign of a path, but everything blurs into the same smashed, messy sprawl of green.

She sucks in a deep breath, trying to wrestle the panic back down, and shakes her hands out to steady them.

“What is with you?” The wary voice cuts through the fog in her head.

She glances at him — still standing there, no more than five steps away. Still watching her.

She measures him with a look. What’s the point of telling him anything? He’s nuts. He can’t help her. If anything, he might hurt her. And judging by her track record so far, she hasn’t exactly been good at keeping him calm.

But she can’t find it in herself to say something polite. How do you stay polite in a situation like this, anyway? She stays silent, teeth pressed together, breathing hard, heart thudding in her ears.

"Are you sick, or what?" she asks, voice tight.

The man steps closer. Instinctively, she flinches back.

"What did you mean by every kid in Britain knows me?" he presses, his voice low and dangerous.

She clenches her jaw so hard her head starts pounding with a dull pain. She stays silent.

Maybe in his mind, reality is already long gone.

But what about the special effects? Maybe it's just a dream? But her leg was burning a minute ago, scratched raw — she can’t feel it now, too consumed by panic — but it was real.

And dreams… dreams never feel quite right. When you're dreaming, you can't tell. But when you're awake — you know. And she knows this feels real. Too real. Unless it’s one of those vivid dreams where you only realize it after waking, piecing together the signs your mind was trying to give you... Maybe she'll open her eyes in a few minutes, brush it off, and forget all about it by lunchtime.

"Answer me!"

The man grabs her shoulder, firm and steady. Oddly, the solid weight of his hand grounds her. At least he seems sure of where he is.

She lifts her head and stares at him, long and emotionless.

He’s beautiful. The morning sun brushes across his skin, turning his pale face into something almost golden. His eyes are blue — cold, sharp, like ice trapped under deep water. No scars. No freckles. No tired lines or morning stubble. A perfect, polished statue.

Voldemort, in his prime?

"Shouldn't you have a bit less hair?" she murmurs without thinking, eyeing the black curls tousled around his forehead. "And, uh, less nose..."

He jolts back slightly, blinking in surprise — but still holds her firmly.

She blinks back at him.

If this was her dream, shouldn’t it cooperate a little more?

He studies her for a moment, his gaze searching her face like he’s trying to decide something.

"You’re crazy," he mutters bitterly. "And I have no time for it."

She raises her eyebrows at him. What does that even mean? She’s too exhausted to be scared again.

If it’s a dream, he can kill her and she’ll just… wake up. Or maybe float above the scene like a ghost, then wake.

And if it’s not a dream— No, it is. No amount of drugs or hypnosis could make her see things so vivid, so logical. The tree had burned — she felt the heat, smelled the smoke — and it stayed burned, blackened and broken afterward. Step after step, everything tracked.

Besides, she felt normal. No drunken haze, no sluggishness, no dizzy detachment. So dream it is.

Meanwhile, Lord Voldemort — or, well, maybe if she repeats it in her head enough times, it won’t seem so absurd — raises his wand again. Oh great, what now? Another burning tree, or is he going to faint again? She watches him without much interest.

He flicks his wand, and then an uncomfortable pull tugs at her stomach. A blur of changing images swirls around her.

~~~~*

With a sharp jerk, he apparates them straight into the living room, holding her firmly for a moment longer, ensuring she adjusts to the disorienting shift of the apparition before letting go. She stumbles but doesn’t fall. Dazed, she takes a shaky breath and slowly looks around.

“Oh great, we’re here again,” she mutters bitterly.

He releases her roughly, and she stumbles again but manages to steady herself. Without a word, he strides toward the door.

Waving his wand, he checks the wards — still intact, their flickering white shields surrounding the house. His brow furrows. How the hell did she get in? He mutters another spell, and another shield appears, this one deep red.

“Wow,” she says from behind him. “Such a pretty color.”

He glances at her, incredulous. Is she serious? These are complex charms, ones he invented himself. Not even a fly could get through, not even the air would change until he puts them down. And she’s babbling about the color?

He sighs, his frustration mounting, and checks the wards once more.

“So, exactly what are you doing?” he growls between gritted teeth. These powerful charms require his full control and attention. If she keeps annoying him, he might lose more than just his patience.

He remains silent, carefully monitoring the wards.

“Uh… Mr. Dark Lord?” she asks, her voice carefull.

His wand lets out few sparks, a sharp sound echoes, the force of the spell pushing his hand away with a burn of pain. He hisses and turns on her angrily. But to his surprise, she doesn’t flinch. She merely purses her lips, a tight, awkward smile creeping onto her face as she looks away, as if trying to ignore the tension she just caused.

“I’m putting up wards so you won’t be able to leave,” he says tightly. “I need to check something, so I’ll deal with you later.”

She glances at the shining shield, then back at him, utterly unimpressed. He has to remind himself that his soul is inside her, so as much as he might want to, he can’t just kill her with an Avada. As much as he really, really wants to.

“Yeah, because your wards worked so perfectly half an hour ago,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “The door wasn’t even locked.”

“They were supposed to keep things from getting in, not the other way around,” he answers bitterly.

She hums quietly, stepping closer to the door. She stares at the shield in awe, then, like a complete idiot, raises her hand to touch it.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Tom warns, and she freezes. “Not the most pleasant sensation. It’s much worse than fire.”

A battle of curiosity and caution plays out on her face. Tom sighs, almost ready to turn and go check on the other Horcruxes, but then his eyes catch a bright red spot on her foot. He furrows his lips in disgust and flicks his wand, healing the wound before it can bleed onto his furniture. It disappears as though it was never there.

The girl stares at her leg, blinking at it as though it’s turned to wood.

Without another word, he turns and steps toward the stairs. But just as he’s halfway up, he hears the familiar sharp noise from the ward and then a quiet, “Ouch!”

He turns around to see her staring at her slightly red fingers, as if they’ve personally offended her.

“What did I just say?” he snaps. His soul is in her. His soul is in her. His soul is in her.

“Well, it would be stupid if there weren’t any wards, and I just stayed inside, like an idiot, blindly believing the man who’s threatened to kill me twice already, don’t you think?” she retorts, meeting his gaze.

Strangely, it makes sense. He turns around sharply, so she can’t see the flicker of acknowledgment in his expression, and storms off to his room without saying another word.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In his room, Tom clutches his ring tightly, desperately trying to hear the echo of his soul within it, hoping it is all just a mistake. A foolish dream, a nightmare, a joke. But the ring remains silent, cold, and empty. His teeth clench, and with a frustrated sigh, he slips it onto his finger.

In the living room, the strange girl stands, staring at a painting on the wall. He almost hopes she would disappear again, never to return, but there she is, mesmerized by the image of the sea. She gazes at it as though it is some miraculous discovery. When she hears him approach, she abruptly turns to face him, her shock still apparent.

"It's moving," she says, almost in awe.

"Yes," Tom murmurs, standing behind her and glancing at the painting. The waves rise and fall, crashing against the dark rocks beneath a sky that threatens storm. One of his favorites in the house — it helps him think.

"But it’s paper and paint," she continues, still baffled. "I touched it."

"Do you feel the need to touch everything?" he asks, his tone laced with annoyance.

"Pretty much," she replies with a casual nod.

He sighs and walks toward the fireplace, the girl following absently behind.

"You’re not coming with me," he says, narrowing his eyes at her.

She raises an eyebrow and, after a moment, snorts. "Oh no! I can’t go with Voldemort to take away some innocent lives—what will I do?" Her voice drips with mock despair.

Tom frowns. She knows who he is. She knows what he is capable of. But what else does she know, and why doesn’t she know anything that really matters? How did she even come here? The questions swirl in his mind, but he pushes them aside for now. He’ll deal with it later.

"I’m not going to take any lives," he mutters, more to himself than to her. Merlin knows why.

"Whatever," she sighs, turning to leave the living room. "I go there, doing God knows what dark deed you have in mind and I stay here enjoying peace and quiet. Where do you keep your coffee?"

Tom raises an eyebrow. "There is no coffee."

She shoots him a sharp look, as if his lack of coffee is some kind of absurdity. "But, what? Why?"

"I don’t drink it, so I don’t have it," he says calmly.

She stares at him as though he’s grown a second head.

While she stands there, too shocked to speak, Tom takes a pinch of Floo powder and steps into the fireplace. She seems even more confused but watches him silently with curiosity.

"Malfoy Manor," he calls, disappearing into the green flames.

He almost feels a fleeting sense of satisfaction at escaping this madness.

The white room materializes before him as the flames die away around his legs, leaving only a faint warmth clinging to him. He sighs in relief at how quiet the place is. The Malfoys have an entire room reserved for the Floo Network alone, decorated with a grand fireplace, a couch, two armchairs, and a small coffee table.

He steps out of the fireplace just as the doors swing open and a tall man enters.

"Tom!" Abraxas exclaims, surprised. "Wasn’t expecting to see you today."

"Hello, Abraxas," Tom says with a sharp nod. "I had some rather unexpected events this morning that brought me here. The item I entrusted you with — I'd like to see it."

Abraxas's expression shifts instantly from casual to serious. Still, Tom notices that his eyes keep darting behind him, like he’s trying to hide something. Tom doesn’t like it one bit. He’s had enough surprises for one morning. If something has happened to his other Horcrux, he would very much like to lose all his sanity and burn the entire island to the ground.

"Of course, Tom," Abraxas says, though his gaze stays locked somewhere over Tom’s shoulder. "If you don’t mind me asking… who is that?"

Tom stiffens slightly and glances behind him, almost wary.

And there she is. His face turns into a grimace at once. Of course. Half-turned toward them, staring out the window with idle interest. At Abraxas's words, she turns her face slightly and gives them a tired smile — and a little wave.

She waves. Casually. Like she hasn’t just broken through his most vicious wards like it’s nothing.

~*~*~*~*

Voldemort’s expression makes it clear he is ready to kill her right there on the spot.

She is still too tired to be afraid. So she just sighs quietly and turns back to the window, watching the peacocks.

They are white. Are they albinos, or has someone painted them with magic? At this point, she is sadly starting to believe anything is possible.

"I am so sorry about that, Abraxas," Tom says politely — so politely that she glances back, just to make sure he hasn’t been replaced while she wasn’t looking.

"That is part of my unexpected events," he adds, a tight smile flashing across his face. "My item — can I see it?"

"Uh, sure," Abraxas answers, finally tearing his gaze away from her. "Anything else?"

Tom shakes his head stiffly and opens his mouth, probably about to politely decline —

But she cuts in before he can.

"Do you have coffee?"

Abraxas blinks at her like he’s forgotten she exists and is seeing her appear out of thin air all over again.

She fights the urge to fix her t-shirt, feeling a sharp pinch of discomfort at how out-of-place she must look here.

Tom glances at her — briefly, but with a look that makes her feel like she’s standing too close to a fire.

"Uh, sure," Abraxas says, still confused. "Would you like some, Miss...?"

"Alice," she answers with a stiff smile, feeling Tom’s gaze on her like a physical weight.

"Right. I’ll ask the elves right away," Abraxas nods quickly — and then practically storms out through the open door.

The girl takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the storm to come, and turns wary eyes back to the only man left in the room.

She expects him to be furious again — but instead, he looks... almost lost.

Like he is trying to fit pieces together that don’t quite match.

"Alice..." he repeats faintly.

She raises her eyebrows. "Yeah, you never asked what my name was. Rude, if you ask me."

But he doesn’t even react.

Still furrowing his brows slightly, he mutters, "Seems strange."

Her eyebrows jump higher.

"Perfectly normal name," she says defensively. "Common, even. What are you on about?"

He hums thoughtfully, still looking confused for another few seconds.

Then he shakes his head slightly, his expression sharpening back to cold seriousness.

Ugh. Here we go.

"So, Alice..."

He says her name like it’s something foreign and uncomfortable in his mouth.

"Would you like to tell me how you got through my wards? Again?"

She covers her face with a hand, letting out a long exhale that turns into a muted whine halfway through.

She has dealt with enough confusion for one morning — and she still hasn’t had her coffee.

Honestly, it is a miracle she is even still standing.

"Okay," she says, scraping together the last shreds of her strength. "I know how it looks, but... I just appeared here. A few seconds after you disappeared through the fire."

"Don’t you say," Tom says stiffly.

"That is what happened!" she snaps. "It wasn’t like your apparition — it was... strange. I just appeared. It felt light, like I was floating. It was... nice, actually."

He stares at her — long and hard — like he is trying to peel her open with his eyes and see if she is lying.

But she isn’t.

She doesn’t understand any of it either.

The whole thing feels both more real and more dreamlike than anything she has ever experienced.

Suddenly, a soft clap draws her out of her spiraling thoughts.

She glances over — a coffee kettle now stands on the table, along with cups, cream, sugar, and even a plate of sweets.

But all she sees is the kettle.

Shiny. Beautiful.

She could actually cry.

She steps toward it absently — only to be yanked back by a hand clamping onto her arm as she passes the Dark Lord himself.

"We’re not finished," he says lowly, voice sharp and dangerous.

But the coffee is right there. Two steps away.

She looks down at his hand clutching her forearm. She tries to pull away — hard — but he is clearly ready for it and only grips her tighter.

She glares at him, annoyed, meeting a mirrored stubbornness in his eyes.

"I told you everything I know," she says, voice full of childish frustration. "What else do you want?"

"Try the truth," he says coldly.

He tightens his grip until it hurts.

Her face twists into a grimace. She tries again to free herself, yanking harder — but it is useless.

He isn’t letting go.

And see, here’s the thing —

She really doesn’t like being held without permission.

The struggle becomes almost unconscious, her body trying to rip away even though she knows it won’t work —

Until...

Her hand disappears. Her hand literally disappears. Puff and gone. Her. Hand.

Right up to the elbow — half-visible — and then gone.

Just emptiness.

She stares at it with wide, panicked eyes. Another fresh wave of terror rises in her throat.

She glances at Tom — and even he looks shocked. He doesn’t know what’s going on either, great, just great.

Alice draws what is left of her arm closer to her — or what should be her arm — but it feels so light, almost weightless, like she isn't moving anything at all.

And just when she is about to start screaming in panic —

Her hand reappears. Slowly — first almost translucent, then solidifying until it looks normal again. She feels the weight again.

Her eyes are about ready to pop out of her head.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There were no screams or hysterics this time.

They had come to some kind of silent agreement about how to react to what had happened.

Tom stood next to the window, blindly staring out at the neat garden, while Alice sat on the sofa, staring ahead and mindlessly sipping her coffee.

Tom took a deep breath. Was he supposed to say something? Thousands of questions buzzed in his head like flies trapped in a too-small jar, knocking against his skull and forming a migraine. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Besides, he had no new questions to ask — just the same old ones: How did you do it? and What does any of this mean? And what was the point? She would probably just say her favorite, I don’t know, it just happened.

So he let her drink her coffee in peace, before her head could vanish into thin air. He didn’t even want to disturb her anymore. Every time he did, something strange happened, and he ended up with more questions and no answers.

He wasn’t ready to deal with more confusion — not before he confirmed that his other Horcrux was fine.

The air smells of coffee and sweets; it feels almost peaceful.

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend everything is fine, that this strange girl doesn’t exist, that this is just another morning. He would eat breakfast, work in the potions room for a while, then maybe look through old documents, searching for something useful to win over British magical society.

"Is it strange," she asks, "that my hand just vanished and came back, and I'm still thinking about how out of place I look here?"

Tom sighs and glances over at her. She’s still curled up on the sofa, examining her t-shirt with a confused expression, her feet dirty from running through the forest, her hair even messier than before. She does look strange—perched on this grand, posh sofa with an elegant little cup of coffee—but it’s the least strange thing that's happened this morning.

She rubs at a spot of blue paint on her shirt, like she could scrub it away. It irritates him. She looks out of place, yes—but not just in this room. In his whole life.

Frowning, Tom flicks his wand at her, muttering a quick transfiguration spell. Her t-shirt shifts into a simple blue cloak. She drops the fabric as if it burns her and shoots him a sharp look. He doesn't bother reacting. Maybe he should be annoyed that she dares to look at him like they’re equals—but right now, he’s too tired. And it’s not even ten yet.

He turns away toward the window without another word. She stays silent, too. The quiet stretches—not long enough for him to reclaim any real calm.

Footsteps echo on the marble floor, and both of them turn.

Abraxas appears in the doorway, wearing the polite blank expression aristocrats use when they’re too confused to summon their usual charm. He holds a wooden box adorned with golden ornaments in his hands.

Abraxas’s gaze flicks to the girl on the couch. His eyebrow twitches slightly before he looks back at Tom, offering a small, knowing smile.

"Here it is," Abraxas says cheerfully. "Sorry it took so long—there were some complicated charms protecting it. Took me a while to strip them off."

"Thank you, Abraxas," Tom says with a tired smile. "I appreciate it."

He reaches for the box, but Abraxas doesn’t hand it over immediately.

"One last thing," he says, and pricks his finger on a sharp ornament. A drop of blood wells up, gets instantly absorbed into the box, tinting the golden carvings red. With a soft click, the box unlocks. Abraxas shoves it into Tom’s hands before wrapping his injured finger in a napkin pulled neatly from his jacket.

Tom catches a glimpse of a grimace on Alice’s face and almost rolls his eyes.

He takes the box, studying it for a moment. Blood protection. Interesting. Typical of Abraxas.

Softly exhaling, Tom opens it—and there it is. His notebook. Perfectly intact, the black cover so dark it seems to swallow the light around it. His hand trembles slightly as he reaches for it. From the corner of his eye, he sees the girl set her cup back down with a small clink.

His fingers brush the notebook—and he feels it immediately. Recognition. His soul sings to him. Relief spreads through him like warm sunlight.

"What is it?" the girl asks, sounding confused.

"Not your business," Tom says almost absently.

The soft leather hums beneath his fingertips. His soul calls to him. He is whole again. Everything is as it should be.

"It’s not your stupid teenage diary," she snaps impatiently. "It’s the sound! Do you hear it?"

Tom shoots her a furious look, but she doesn’t even notice. She’s too busy looking around, frowning in confusion.

"Uh… no, what sound?" Abraxas asks, baffled.

"You don't hear it?" she says, frustrated. "There’s a sound... buzzing, wait, no—whispers. Too fast to catch. Is it... crying?"

She tilts her head, as if trying to catch the noise better. Tom stares at her, livid. Should he Obliviate Abraxas now, erase the proof that he ever let this lunatic into his home?

Her eyes snap suddenly to Tom—not to him, exactly, but to what he’s holding. Fear widens them.

"It’s from there," she whispers. "Don’t you hear it?"

Tom tightens his grip on the notebook, ready to snap, to hex her into silence—but then he feels it. Movement. Under his fingers, the notebook shifts, restless, like it’s trying to fly away.

Frowning, he looks down. The notebook flips open on its own. Pages ruffle in a frantic blur. His own handwriting scrawls across every inch of paper—messy, urgent:

Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her. Give me to her.

No blank space left.

Chapter Text

Alice feels like she’s floating again. Suspended somewhere high above the world, warm sunlight gently strokes her skin. A soft breeze brushes against her face, light and playful, like a curious hand. She smiles.

Then she opens her eyes—and immediately squints shut again, blinded by the sun. But in that brief flash of brightness, she catches a glimpse of a face haloed in light, with long blond hair and pale, worried eyes.

Probably an angel.

“Am I dead?” she murmurs.

The thought doesn’t scare her. In fact, it brings peace. All her problems, her pain—gone. It’s quiet. It’s nice.

“I wish,” says a cold voice, dry as frost.

Alice blinks again, surprised. Rude angel. The thought makes her want to laugh.

Another figure leans over her, blocking the sun. Tall, dark, imposing—cold like a mountain peak in winter. Not an angel. Just Lord Voldemort. The absurdity makes her want to laugh and she smiles earning puzzled look.

Memories crash into her like a wave: voices, fear, pain. She stiffens.

But she’s still lying on something warm—so warm. A couch? A bed? She doesn’t care. The comfort pulls at her like a lullaby. Her limbs are heavy and slow, her thoughts floating apart like dandelion fluff. She could sleep again. She almost does.

“What exactly did you hear?” That voice again. Sharp. Annoyed.

Who asks questions before a person’s even fully awake?

“Whispers,” she mutters, eyes still shut, willing herself back into the dream.

“What whispers? What were they saying?” The voice grows more impatient.

“Tom…” says another voice—Abraxas. Funny name, like a bird or a spell. It makes her smile.

“What were they saying?” Tom presses again.

“Who?” she asks, frowning. “Oh. Whispers. Right… ugh…”

She tries to focus, but the memories slip away like mist. There were whispers. So many of them—like buzzing, like wind through a crack. But when she reaches for them, her mind flinches, veers off course, distracted by a nicer thought. Like a safety net her brain keeps throwing over something it doesn’t want her to see.

“So?” Tom snaps.

Alice blinks up at him, then replies immediate: “I was thinking—it would be interesting if the sky was green and the grass blue. But if it had always been like that, it’d just be normal. Still, I want to see it. I have to draw it. And the clouds—what color would they be?”

She sits up slightly. “We always say clouds look like cotton candy, but I doubt they would taste like it. I bet they’d just be watery and disappointing.” She frowns, thoughtful. “Now I want cotton candy.”

Tom stares. “What?”

Alice opens her eyes fully this time They are still in that same room, where she strangely appeared… she doesn’t know how long ago exactly, but she doesn’t mind, that's nice room. Tom’s still standing over her, confused and irritated. But Abraxas has drifted to the window, watching something outside. Probably peacocks.

Things keep changing when she closes her eyes. People move, time slips. Life keeps going without her. Strange. How do people deal with it—never knowing what’s waiting when they open their eyes again? Always a little surprised, never quite ready. Just… hoping for the best.

“You were asking what I was thinking, weren’t you?” she says, meeting Tom’s gaze. His eyes are blue and cold, sharp like glacier water. She thinks they could cool anyone down on a summer day.

“No. I…” Tom breathes out sharply and turns to Abraxas. “What is wrong with her? She’s not making sense.”

“Because she’s not supposed to,” Abraxas says lightly, not turning from the window. “She’s still under the potion.”

His long blond hair glows in the light and pale eyes gleam with that strange mix of mischief and calculation.

“Calming Draught,” he continues, “with a few creative additions. You wanted her calm — I didn’t realize you also expected her to make sense.”

Alice nods seriously. “You have to clarify those things.”

“You gave her something that dulls her mind,” Tom says, voice tight.

“Yes.” Abraxas doesn’t even blink. “You’ve seen her alert. This way, at least she’s not trying to tear her own ears off.”

“I would never do that!” Alice gasps. “I like my ears!”

She sits up and covers her ears with her hands protectively, wide-eyed.

“Of course not,” Abraxas says smoothly. “You would never.”

“When will she come back to normal?” Tom asks, eyeing her warily.

“An hour or two,” Abraxas replies. “You could give her a clarity potion, but it might overload her system. She’d probably pass out again—for hours this time.”

He adds with a faint smirk, “A good lunch might bring her back faster.”

It’s oddly easy to move. Just a minute ago her body felt heavy and sleepy, but now, when she sits, she feels ready to move and jump and run.

Oh, is it coffee? It’s still here. Wonderful!

She helps herself to a cup  while Mr. Dark Lord looks blindly through her with a frown, probably thinking about how to take over the world.

She smiles into the cup at her thoughts. The coffee is still hot and smells heavenly. Was she out for such a short time that it’s still fresh? Or is it just a magic kettle?

Her smile widens. Magic kettles seem cute for some reason.

Her gaze wanders to the man by the window, who is already watching her with a thoughtful expression. For a moment, their eyes lock — and even through her dazed state, she sees it.

His eyes are ghosted, tired, with sadness hiding behind them. His face, his outfit, his manners, and his voice — all perfectly smooth, without a single flaw. Except for his eyes.

For a moment, she is looking into an open wound — so raw and fresh it makes her flinch. Her mind is begging her to turn away. But she can’t.

And Abraxas does it himself — he blinks, and the next moment his eyes are a perfect extension of his flawless image.

“Are you okay?” Her mouth moves without her permission.

Tom shoots her a look, but she still stares into Abraxas’ eyes, trying to see what she saw just seconds ago.

She can’t. Not anymore. His eyes are glassy and emotionless.

He smiles faintly, and she frowns, wondering if she imagined it.

“You aren’t from around here, are you?” Abraxas asks.

“No, I… uh… I arrived just this morning,” she answers, shifting on the sofa. “You seem tired. I mean… you seemed, now you seem fine again. That’s strange.”

Abraxas’ smile widens a little. He studies her face — she doesn’t feel uncomfortable, not like when Tom had done it.

Strangely, she feels safe around this man.

But maybe it’s just the effect of the potion. She doesn’t know him, and it’s not like they would be best friends in any universe.

She’s the farthest thing from aristocratic you can imagine — and she was never interested in being anything else. To be honest, she always found the whole thing boring, never liked historical novels about the highest echelons, never watched movies or shows about princesses and lords.

So why would she be charmed by this man with angelic hair and sad eyes?

“I am,” Abraxas answers eventually, and she frowns, not exactly understanding what question he’d answered.

“All right,” Tom says after a few moments of deep, thoughtful silence — and Alice jolts awake. “We should probably go now.”

Then he moves back to the fireplace and stands there, watching Alice intently. Her eyes widen, darting from him to the flames and back again.

“What?” she exclaims. “In there? I’m not going in there! I’ll burn — no way!”

Tom sighs deeply.

She sinks back into the soft pillows — warm and cozy — and very much not interested in going anywhere else, especially not into green fire.

“It’s not like you have much of a choice. You go on your own, or I make you go,” Tom says, sounding on edge.

Alice shakes her head. “But I don’t wanna go,” she whines. “He doesn’t even have coffee!”

That last part is aimed at Abraxas for some reason — like he, of all people, would understand her frustration.

“Unforgivable,” Abraxas snorts — not very aristocratic of him, but strangely, it makes her feel seen. “You should get coffee if you want to keep this pretty angel around, Tom.”

A warm smile spreads across Alice’s face. Tom rolls his eyes.

“Alice…” Tom says warningly, like he might actually drag her to the fireplace himself if she doesn’t get moving.

Alice isn’t sure what will happen this time — if her arms will disappear again when she touches him, or worse, if they won’t come back at all.

She bites the inside of her lip, eyeing the fireplace warily.

It looks neat and clean. No charred body parts. That’s good, right?

“Aren’t you curious what it feels like?” Abraxas asks unexpectedly, and she glances over at him.

“Quite an interesting feeling,” he adds, almost to himself. “Reminds me of riding a carousel.”

His expression is thoughtful, distant — like he’s speaking to a memory more than to her — and now Alice is curious. What does it feel like?

She saw Tom step into the flames, and he’s still here, isn’t he?

She nods to herself, decides, and stands up, carefully setting the cup down.

Tom shoots Abraxas a look she doesn’t quite understand, then grabs her firmly by the waist.

She’s too distracted by a storm of conflicted feelings to protest, so she lets him lead her. Normally, she would be furious — she loathes being touched like property, like furniture someone assumes they own. There’s no gentleness in his grip, no care — only purpose.

But right now, she feels like she might float away, like a soap bubble ready to burst if she moves too quickly. So the steadiness of his hand, however cold, keeps her grounded.

She doesn’t even notice when they step into the fireplace.

The last thing she sees is the flash of green flames — and Abraxas’s eyes, ghostlike shapes flying behind them.

*~*~*

“I’m gonna be sick,” Alice says the moment the fire dies around their feet.

“Don’t,” Tom warns.

He lets go of her — roughly — and she stumbles. He almost regrets it when her face turns even paler.

Alice glances up at him, hand hovering above her stomach.

“Oh sure, if you say so,” she mutters weakly, stepping out of the hearth.

She looks around, frowning in confusion.

“What is it?” Tom asks.

“Did the place get bigger? Does your house grow?” she asks, spinning slowly like she’s trying to measure the room with her eyes.

“No,” Tom breathes. “It’s—”

“Growing houses,” she continues dreamily, clearly not listening. “I’ve heard of that. Or no… wait. It was walking houses… castles. Castle! Moving castle! Ha, I knew I heard it somewhere.”

Tom rolls his eyes.

He hates Abraxas — for giving her that damn potion. She’s even more idiotic than before, and now he can’t even blame her for it.

Her motion sickness is clearly forgotten the moment she sees the door. A smile lights up her face, all wide-eyed and empty of thought. Tom sighs and follows.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, utterly exhausted.

“Going outside,” she says lightly.

She throws the door open and her eyes glow brighter when she sees what’s beyond. Alice steps forward without hesitation — but before she can cross into the wards, Tom grabs her shoulder and holds her back.

Maybe he should just let her go. The wards probably wouldn’t kill her. She’d get a few nasty burns — it would hurt like hell — but she’d live. It’d be a tragic accident. Not really his fault. Not entirely.

She turns to him with a childlike frown that clearly says: Give me what I want, or I’ll scream. Tom hates all of this.

“Did you forget about the wards?” he asks.

She thinks for a second, and recognition flickers across her face.

“The wards that were supposed to keep me locked in the house while you were gone?” she clarifies.

“Yes,” Tom says, tight-lipped, now wondering if she’s genuinely trying to get him to murder her.

“Mhm… I remember. They had a pretty color,” she nods thoughtfully. “But they don’t really work, do they? I mean, they let me out right after you left.”

She tilts her head at him, eyes gleaming.

Oh. So she does, Tom realizes.

He flicks his wand toward the door, casting the wards to shove up— a bright red shimmer flares between them.

He’s still looking at her with a stare that should, by all rights, terrify. But she only smiles.

The light reflects across her face. Alice glances at it and — before he can stop her — raises her hand and touches the barrier.

A sharp crack sounds as the magic repels her touch. She yelps and yanks her hand back.

“Ouch!” she exclaims, shaking her fingers. “Why does it hurt so much?”

“To make sure people don’t touch them again,” Tom says flatly. “And yet you’ve done it twice.”

*~*~*

Tom watches her as her movements become slower, more grounded, and her face loses all the excitement from before. She seems older instantly. Her expression darkens.

Alice chews the last bit of grilled fish, staring into nowhere.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, without particular interest.

She shoots him a glance, but the interest washes out of her eyes quickly.

“I feel… sad?” she half-asks. “But probably it’s just compared to everything I felt before. I’m alright, though. Calm.”

He nods.

They sit at the kitchen table. He doesn’t usually eat here, but he couldn’t wait another second to bring her back to normal. At least she was quiet while eating — he half expected her to be the type who chats during meals.

“So, you’re really Lord Voldemort?” she asks quietly.

He whips his head toward her, but she’s not looking back, a slight frown on her face as she studies the table.

“Yes,” he answers. “And you know an awful lot about me.”

“You have no idea,” she admits.

“What does that mean?”

She looks him in the eyes now. Her gaze is empty, tired and hollow — so different from before.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” she asks flatly.

The question shocks him for some reason. It stops time, stops the air running through his body. Her eyes keep him locked.

Maybe it was the tone she used — simple, the kind of tone you use when discussing potion ingredients, not your own death. No one has ever asked him that before. No one ever knew he was capable of killing so easily. And no one knew that with him, there had to be a reason not to kill — not the other way around.

She raises an eyebrow, still looking at him, and he brushes off the uncomfortable feeling.

“Why would I?” he asks as calmly as possible.

“Because you said you would,” she reminds him. “You said you’d kill me if I didn’t answer your questions. I can’t answer them in a way you want — I don’t have any explanation for whatever’s going on. So?”

She says it all without emotion. Flatly. Just trying to understand. She has no doubt he could kill her.

And that leaves him more speechless than he’d ever admit.

Alice doesn’t break eye contact once. She’s calm and collected. Tom doesn’t like that she’s leading this conversation.

He clears his throat and tries to keep all emotion off his face.

“I don’t know exactly what you’ve heard about me, but I can assure you — I’m not some murderer going around killing people left and right just because they’re annoying,” he says as lightly as he can.

Still, her expression drops. All interest gone. She didn’t buy it. She looks away, unsatisfied, then looks back at him with a measuring, studying look — clinical.

“Maybe not. Not now, at least.” She nods slightly to herself and goes still, visibly consumed by her thoughts. "Right now, are you still trying to justify your actions with a reason? Still telling yourself you had no other choice — just so you can sleep better?" His hand curls in a fist instantly. She notices it, she glances at it with narrowed eyes and back at him, waiting. “But you already have multiple of these ‘reasons’. I don’t just annoy you and clearly don’t respect you, your Darkness. I’m also in your house, get here without your permission, you could say I am a threat to your safety. Or you could say nothing, I’m just a muggle,” she chuckles at this. “And if I’m really here,” she waves her hand around. “There will be no one looking for me.”

She looks at him with something close to a daring expression — and it makes his blood boil.

But she’s right. He can’t just kill her. Not while a piece of his soul is trapped inside her. So he just stares back, anger clawing at his insides, with nowhere to go.

“So something really is holding you back,” she says, curious now. “What is it?”

Tom waits another moment, because in this state, the only thing he’s capable of saying is a killing curse. He doesn’t know what’s worse — that she accuses him so freely, or that she’s right.

“I’m not telling you anything,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “until you tell me how you know so much about me.”

Alice just huffs, clearly disappointed, and leans back in her chair, arms crossed.

“Alright,” she says. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you — it’s going to sound insane.” She looks him dead in the eyes. “You’re a book.”

Tom raises his eyebrows at the ridiculous statement, and she smirks, clearly enjoying herself.

“A character in a book,” she clarifies. “Where I come from, you’re just a character in a story. I read it a while ago, so I know bits and pieces of your life.”

A heavy silence falls between them. For a moment, they just stare at each other.

“There’s a book about my life?” he breathes.

Alice snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself — you’re not the main character. It’s not a book about you. You’re just part of the story.”

His frown deepens. It doesn’t feel right. It sounds insane. But he’ll play along — maybe she’ll slip, say something that reveals the truth behind this absurd fantasy.

“But… how is that possible?” he asks, carefully now.

She shrugs, as if she’s already bored of the topic.

“What year is it?” she asks suddenly.

“1957.”

“Right,” Alice exhales with a tired smile. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. “So — middle of the twentieth century. Nice. I came from the twenty-first.”

“That’s impossible. Time travel that far into the past can’t be real,” he says, growing tired of this nonsense.

“Believe it or not, in my world, travel through time — anywhere but the future — isn't possible,” she retorts, still with her eyes closed.

“Alright, then. What exactly is in that book? You said you know things about my life. Does it include my future?”

Alice opens her eyes lazily and nods.

“So tell me, then. What does it say?”

She looks at him for a long moment, her stare sharp and steady.

“No,” she answers simply.

“No?” he echoes, incredulous.

“No, as in — I’m not telling you your future,” she says flatly. “If this isn’t just a hallucination of my dying brain, then I’m not about to help Lord Voldemort enslave the entire world by handing him his own prophecy, no matter how insane it all sounds.”

“What?” His voice rises slightly. Every word she says is more absurd than the last.

“Don’t worry,” she says with a tired smile, “you’re probably just a figment of my imagination anyway. Something my brain made up to keep me entertained. I’ll wake up or die any second now, and you’ll just… cease to exist.”

She always uses that flat, clinical tone to say things like this — and somehow, it makes even the most ridiculous claims, like him not being real, sound reasonable. Logical, even. It crawls under his skin, keeps him speechless for too long, and he has to shake it off with force — otherwise, he might start believing her.

“I’m not a figment of your imagination, Alice,” he says stiffly.

“No?” she replies, amused. “Because that’s exactly what an imaginary Dark Lord would say.”

He narrows his eyes. “I am saying it. And I’m very much real.”

“Alright,” she says lightly, almost bored. “Prove it then.”

“Prove it? And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

She only shrugs, looking away as if she’s already tired of him — done with the conversation. That’s what really gets to him. He’s the one talking to someone clearly out of her mind — and somehow she’s the one acting like he’s the problem.

Alice stares at the floor like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s seen today — and that’s what finally breaks him.

Anger and confusion flood through Tom. He lashes out, shoving the plate in front of him so hard it crashes to the ground in pieces. Alice flinches, startled, and looks up at him with wide eyes.

Tom stands abruptly, pointing his wand at her. His chest rises and falls rapidly, fury tightening every muscle as she freezes under his gaze.

“You’ll tell me everything I want to know,” he snarls, no longer bothering to keep himself composed. “Or you’ll beg me to kill you. And you’re right — I can’t kill you. Not yet. But no one’s coming to find you, is there? You said it yourself. So your suffering will be very, very long.”

For a few moments, the room is silent, thrumming with his rage. And in that silence, he finally feels in control again.

Then her expression changes. Her face crumples, turning red like an old bruised tomato, lips trembling. Tears brim in her eyes.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks, confused, his wand still raised.

“You’re right,” she says quietly, voice unsteady. “There’s no one here I know. All my friends, my family…” A tear slips down her cheek. “They don’t even exist here. I have nowhere to go.” Not that he would ever let her go.

“I… I read that hallucinations caused by trauma or dying brains can last for years,” she says, covering her face. “I could live an entire life here and never see anyone I love again. I’ll never even know what happened to them.”

She begins to sob, shoulders shaking. And Tom’s hand, the one holding the wand, twitches.

How is it that he threatens her with torture — torture — and yet she’s crying because she misses her family?

Suddenly, her breathing turns even more ragged, more desperate. She looks around wildly, like she’s trying to find something, anything. Tom is still too baffled to react.

“I need to get out—I need air,” she chokes out between sobs.

“You can’t,” he snaps, grasping for control. “Not until—”

But in the next moment, Alice just… disappears. No sound, no spell, no sign. She simply fades—like a breath on glass—and then she’s gone.

He casts a quick detection charm, then another, but nothing. No trace of her magic, no illusion, no invisibility. One second she was there, real and trembling and loud with grief—and the next, there’s only silence and empty space.

Tom swears under his breath, his wand still raised at nothing.

Chapter Text

It’s a strange feeling — funny, in a way — and Alice wants to sink into it, to live inside it for as long as it lasts.

That moment when the world disappears — or maybe she does. For Alice, it’s not quite vanishing. It’s more like the world blinks: the edges blur, the air shifts, and then everything reforms somewhere else. It happens quickly, but softly, like a breath of wind brushing across sunburned skin on a sweltering day.

Just one heartbeat ago, she was staring at an angry face across the table, her chest still tight with panic — and the next, she’s staring at trees. The back of the house, quiet. She's sitting not in a chair but in cool, soft grass. She doesn’t quite remember moving. Doesn’t remember her legs unfolding, her body rising.

But here she is.

And for now, it’s enough.

Her heart still aches, and her eyes still blur with tears. But here, on the grass beneath quiet trees, she feels safe to cry — free to miss her life without a Dark Lord staring at her like she’s gone mad for crying out loud.

So she lets herself cry — lets herself grieve all that she had just yesterday, and how little she appreciated it.

She doesn't know how long she stays there, but when she starts noticing sunlight flickering through the leaves, when she begins comparing herself to a Disney princess and wonders if some woodland animals will come to calm her down — that’s when she realizes she isn’t really sad anymore.

Her mind is just spinning now, stuck in the same loop, not sure what else to do.

She lies on the grass and exhales the leftover tears like stale air.

What are her options? Go back to the house and let that lunatic torture her?

Oddly, she’s not afraid. Her intuition tells her he won’t. Which is… stupid. He has every opportunity to hurt her. He has a wand. Magic.

All she has is the weird ability to blink in and out of places — and she’s not even sure she can control it.

Maybe she's like a newborn duck, just trusting the first person she saw in this world — and that person happened to be Voldemort.

She actually smiles at the thought.

She keeps telling herself he could hurt her if he wanted to, but deep down, she’s already accepted that she doesn’t feel scared. And she can’t explain why. So newborn duck it is.

She knows she should do something — anything. Make a plan, run, at least figure out how to behave around Tom, the Dark Lord.

But she’s just tired. And it’s so nice to lie in the grass and watch cotton-candy clouds drift across a vivid blue sky.

Eventually, she hears footsteps. She breathes in, preparing herself for whatever is coming — but doesn’t move.

Maybe if she lies still, he won’t notice her.

“Your ability to pass through my wards continues to astonish me,” he says, calm now.

Oh. So he’s cooled down too. That’s… good.

After a pause, his dark silhouette appears, studying her like she’s some rare magical creature.

She hums in response — not knowing what to say, and not wanting to say anything that might rile him up again.

But she gets it wrong, again. His jaw tightens. His gaze sharpens.

She sighs.

“I don’t know how I did it,” she murmurs, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “I just… wanted to.”

She looks at a nearby tree — firm, unbending — and focuses on it. Hard. Demanding.

And then, suddenly, she’s standing beside it. Just like that. A blink ago, it had been three steps away.

Tom turns to her sharply, frowning when he sees her new position.

She meets his eyes. Then she thinks again — just thinks — and in the next heartbeat, she’s standing right beside him.

She lands softly, as if gravity barely remembered her.

And she wonders: Is this what it feels like to step on the moon?

“Huh, I’m getting good at this,” she says, watching Tom’s face.

The spark of excitement that had lit her up flickers out just as quickly. There’s no one to share it with.

Tom doesn’t smile. He isn’t proud or pleased. He looks confused—almost lost.

Once, that might’ve amused her. But now, she feels too unsure of everything, and far too alone, to feel confident.

She swallows thickly and looks away wanting to disappear, but she doesn’t, she doesn’t know where. She wants to go home, but as hard as she thinks, wishes, needs, her apartments doesn’t magically appear before her eyes.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Tom says, confusion slipping into his voice.

She steps back.

“I’ve seen very few things today that I’ve seen before,” she mutters, avoiding his eyes.

The atmosphere shifts in an instant. She feels it on her skin—cold and sharp, like ice.

He clears his throat. She looks at him.

The confusion is gone. His face is blank. Emotionless. But his eyes—his eyes are sharp, tracking her every move like a predator watching its prey.

“You’re coming with me,” he says.

Not a threat. Not a question. Just a fact.

Like she doesn’t have a choice. Like she’s not meant to have one.

Like she’s something lower—lesser—beneath his Dark Highness.

And oh, she’d been so wrong.

He will hurt her.

It doesn’t matter if she obeys or resists. He just thinks he has the right. She had been blinded by a desperate need—to know someone, to believe in someone.

Grief consumed her, hollowed her out. She just wanted one person she could trust.

And with no good options, she chose the worst.

Her eyes flick past him—just a glance over his shoulder.

And she disappears.

*~*~*

You think he’d get used to it by now. How she just ignores all laws of magic and vanishes right in front of his nose.

But no.

Same old wave of annoyance washes through him, exactly the same as this morning, when she appeared out of nowhere in his room. Was it just this morning? Felt like ages ago.

He breathes out through a nose, tightening his jaw, a little more power and his teeth might crash. Then casts another spell, dot appears behind him, almost invisible, she is nearly a mile away.

He waits a moment—just long enough not to kill her on sight. Then apparates.

Alice is standing in deep grass, frowning into the distance, eyes narrowed. She looks like someone invisible just gave her a riddle, and she’s trying to solve it.

The sound of apparition makes her flinch hard. She whips her head toward him—but the second she sees who it is, she rolls her eyes. She actually rolls her eyes at him. Then turns back around, staring into nothing again.

“Did you do something?” she asks, as if genuinely curious. “So I couldn’t leave?”

Tom frowns, his anger slipping for a moment—because now he has a riddle.

“I did many things to keep you from leaving,” he says tightly. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

Her brow furrows deeper.

“I just can’t…” she murmurs, taking a cautious step forward.

Tom’s grip on his wand tightens—but she halts, confused. She throws a glance at him, puzzled, and lets out a quiet, “Huh.”

Something flickers across her face. Maybe interest. Maybe not.

And then she vanishes again.

Tom spins left, then right— Nothing. She’s gone.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he shouts. The force of it sends a few birds flying from the trees.

“Sorry, did you say something?” comes a voice from behind him.

He whirls around.

There she is. Two steps away. Calm as ever, blue cloak stark against the green grass.

Her brows are raised just slightly, imitating polite interest.

He’s so angry it renders him speechless.

“Tell me,” she says lightly, like they’ve been in the middle of a discussion Transfiguration theory.

“Tell you what?” he bites.

“Why you didn’t kill me,” she clarifies calmly. “I told you everything I knew. So tell me.”

“You didn’t tell everything,” he says darkly.

“No,” she agrees. “But I told more than you’ve told me. And everything I know that has anything to do with… this. So it would only be fair if you told me something too.”

“We’re not talking about fairness,” he snaps. “Who do you think you—”

“Oh, god,” she groans, cutting him off and rolling her eyes.

Then, with maddening ease—she simply fades away.

He looks out, but there’s nothing—he’s alone. His blood races hot and fast through his veins, leaving him breathless, burning.

And just as he’s about to cast another spell…

“Lost something?”

He whips around so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t snap—

But no one’s there. Trees and bushes meet his fury in silence.

“You know, I could do this all day,” her voice floats in from somewhere behind him. He spins again, but still—nothing. “Quite a pleasant feeling, really,” she adds, amusement lacing her words as he turns once more to an empty patch of air.

“Stop that!” he shouts.

“Whenever you’re ready to tell me,” her voice calls, light but distant. He turns toward the sound and catches a glimpse of blue through the trees. “I really like playing hide and seek though…”

The next words brush past his ear, low and too close. Too close.

He lashes out, striking at empty air.

Laughter, soft and mocking, echoes behind him. Anger consumes him—no burn, no bite, just devour. It drags him under, choking.

Then suddenly, he stops. Eyes wide. Breath ragged. He sees it now. Sees her game. And he’ll be damned if he gives her what she wants.

He closes his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Measured. Heartbeat pumping in his ears. Sickening green’s fading into calm black.

Then—a sound. A whisper in the grass, barely there. Too precise. Too wrong.

Before he even turns, he shots the spell.

A sudden whip of wind tears through the clearing, violent and sharp like a snapped nerve. Leaves spiral upward in panic, ripped from their branches, and one of the older trees groans as its trunk cracks under the pressure. The blast races toward her like an instinct, feral and fast.

His wand twitches in his hand. A sharp, flickering resistance curls up his arm like the burn of boiling water. Magic prickles his skin—warning, wary.

He grips harder, trying to command it. But it doesn’t want to obey.

A sudden yelp. A soft thud.

His lips curl, but the spell doesn’t come. His magic holds itself back.

He exhales sharply, lowering his hand as he stares at the mess he’s caused. Splintered branches, flattened grass, leaves still drifting through the air like ash after a fire. But she’s nowhere to be seen.

And for a moment—just one—he’s terrified.

He heard the yelp, the dull thud. The spell hit. He knows it. But the silence now is too complete. What if she vanished, the reckless fool, disoriented and hurt, wandering straight into something worse in this endless forest?

“Happy?” says a voice, far too close.

He barely stops the flinch in time.

She’s standing beside him—half a step away. No shield, no retreat. Just there, watching the aftermath of her own provocations. Her shoulder is clutched tightly, fingers digging into the fabric where the pain lingers. But she doesn’t speak of it. Doesn’t meet his gaze. Doesn’t disappear.

He glances at her fully this time, and still—she doesn’t vanish. She just stays.

And the strangest thing: it doesn’t satisfy him. Not the spell. Not the hit. Not the hurt in her stance.

But why would it? In this state, the only thing that might bring satisfaction would be seeing her lifeless, unmoving.

“I should ask you that question,” he says, the anger cooling on his tongue. His words stay sharp, but there's a weight behind them now—tiredness, like the fire burned too fast.

“That what you wanted?”

She finally looks at him. Her gaze is worn out, her eyes too bright—watery, maybe—but she isn’t about to cry. No, probably it hurts more than he expected. And still, that stubbornness is there, buried in the base of her stare like a stone.

“I said what I wanted, loud and clear. Didn’t I?” she snaps, defensive. “You could kill me here and now—why don’t you?”

He raises a brow. “You obsessed with dying or something? You seem oddly fixated on the idea of me killing you.”

“Oh yeah,” she gasps dramatically, a mocking light in her voice. “The Lord Voldemort kills me. I won’t shut up about it in the afterlife.”

He huffs a laugh and turns back toward the trees, shaking his head.

He watches trees calculating. What’s the point of keeping it from her now? If he got it right, she can’t get far. And she already knows things about his life… things he doesn’t even know yet. It’s not like she could use the truth against him. Not really. She can’t be controlled with it.

“You know what was in that ring,” he says at last.

“Yes,” she replies, her tone suddenly hesitant, confused.

“It’s in you,” he says, quieter now. Like the words are a truth he hasn’t said aloud until this moment.

“Sorry—what?”

*~*~*

You know those days when everything feels wrong, but you still push through—doing your best, barely holding it together. You're at the edge of a breakdown more than once, practicing breathing techniques that are supposed to calm you down, telling yourself over and over: just a little more.

And then, when you've finally managed some fragile kind of stability, when it feels like the worst is behind and you're trying to make peace with the wreck of a day you've had—

You drop the teaspoon.

It’s such a little thing—so stupid—but it hits you. The dam breaks with a spoon, and suddenly you’re crying on the kitchen floor. Because the sound was awful, the day was rough, and you can’t control anything in your life. Not even kitchen utensils.

“So… it’s…” she starts, but doesn’t really know how to finish. Her voice trails off as she stares past him into nothing.

The birds keep singing. The wind whispers to the trees. The outside world hasn’t changed.

The fact sounds so simple.

But it makes everything in her wrong and conflicted and very humanly she just needs to sit down for a moment.

And then it hits her.

It was a fucked up day.

She chuckles. Then again.

And then she laughs — breathless, hysterical, unhinged. Because this? This is just perfect.

She has a piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul inside her.

And there aren’t enough words in any language to express how monumentally fucked up that is.

So she laughs.

Laughs at the cosmic joke of it all.

At how wildly, stupidly wrong things had to go for her to end up here.

What had she done in a past life? Was her karma that bad?

“Oh, please, not this again,” Tom mutters, exasperated. “Don’t be dramatic.”

It only makes her laugh harder.

But then the thought clears — real and raw and sharp — and she chokes on it. The laughter dies in her throat.

“Imagine waking up one day,” she says quietly, “and finding someone’s stitched a second hand onto your body.”

"Yeah? Now imagine waking up and finding your hand stitched to some girl in a ragged t-shirt who talks back and won’t stop laughing.” Tom snarls.

She opens her eyes, but stops, looking up for a second, thinking.

"Fair point," she nods, "but you were the one that chopped that hand off in the first place."

Tom grips on his wand and takes small step closer.

Alice throws her hands up instantly and takes one back.

"No-no!" She rushes. "Please don’t be angry with me, I'm so tired of you being angry at me, you're literally the easiest person to rile up."

"Stop being infuriating then." He says calmly after a moment.

"That just plain facts, Tom." She smirks, then freezes frowning. "Are you okay with me calling you Tom?" She asks cautiously.

"That my name, isn't it?" He asks coldly.

"Yeah, but you chose another, didn't you?" She continues.

"You're not worthy of using that name."

She has to bite her lip to keep back the smile.

He is all cold and composed again. Alice wonders, how long it would take her to annoy him this time. She bets no longer than two minutes.

"Okay," she says simply.

For a few moments they are quite.

"So..." she starts and he sighs. “Can you take it out?"

He looks at her, frowning as if she asked the dumbest question in the world.

He slowly opens his mouth and after a deep breathe:

"Do you really think I wouldn't already do it if I could?" he asks eerily calm.

She just shrugs. Who knows what is going on in his head.

“I’ll find a way,” he says quietly.

She’s not sure if she’s supposed to respond—if he’s talking to her or just thinking aloud—so she only presses her lips together and nods at the ground.

“For now, you should come with me,” he adds, turning to face her.

She gives him an unimpressed look. Still not a question.

But the tone has shifted—just slightly. The decision is still his, clear and commanding, but there’s a hint less objectification now. She’s no longer a piece of furniture he’s decided to drag home, maybe more like a wild animal he’s managed to corner. A squirrel, perhaps. A particularly annoying one. So maybe, just maybe, he’s capable of learning.

She glances around, half-expecting a wooden house to pop out of nowhere.

Nothing. Just trees and bushes.

Still, the trees do look kind of comfy—old, grand, and quietly watching.

She looks at the man beside her—cold and… no, just cold. Like stone.

Before any imaginary weight can fall in one direction or the other, he sighs, clearly annoyed, and flicks his wand sharply. With a loud clap, he vanishes.

After a beat, she follows—unwilling, but resigned.

The next thing she sees is that damn living room.

Tom is just a few steps away. He hums, looking at her.

“That’s so rude,” she mutters, frowning. “The trees were winning.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

She sighs and turns away, fixing her eyes on a nearby painting to soothe her rising irritation.

*~*~*

He doesn’t bother to continue whatever nonsense that tree comment was supposed to be. She’s already turned away, eyes locked on the painting of sea waves, irritation visible on her face. He couldn’t care less.

He checks his wards. Again. Methodically.

Still nothing. No weak spots, no cracks. Not a single way to breach them without dismantling them entirely.

He exhales, frustrated, and decides to leave it for another time.

His attention returns to the girl.

She appeared right after him, so they’re connected somehow. Inconvenient. What now—drag her everywhere he goes? He scowls.

And how the hell is he supposed to extract the piece of his soul?

Everything he knows says it can’t be done—not without damaging both it and her. And while he doesn’t give a damn about her, sure, he’d tear her open with his bare hands if that’s what it took—but the soul inside her? That, he cares about.

Horcrux knowledge is already scarce. Actual methods of manipulating the human soul? Almost nonexistent.

His plans—damned, all of them—ruined by…

His gaze clears as he watches the girl.

She’s not glaring anymore. There’s a slight frown on her face, but it’s thoughtful, not angry. She looks calm now, almost meditative, watching the waves in the painting rise and fall in hypnotic circles.

Tom blinks. Frowns.

“I need your blood,” he says, trying to rein in his mind before it wanders again under the weight of too many questions.

She turns to him, raising her eyebrows, too tired to muster real surprise.

“Oh, sure,” she says, shrugging. “Anything else? Hair? Eye? Maybe a kidney?”

“No,” he says, slicing each word cleanly, “but probably your tongue, so you’ll stop talking and just do as I say.”

She snorts, weak and unimpressed. Maybe she laughs the same way she breathes — if she doesn’t do it every so often, she’ll just die.

“Yeah, well, sorry, your Darkest Highness. I’m sure people usually hand over whatever you ask for, no questions, but I’d at least like to know where my body parts are going.”

She glares at him, eyebrows raised, waiting. Expecting. Why the hell should he explain anything to her? Doesn’t she understand her position? He could freeze her in place and take what he needs without breaking a sweat.

But the truth is — he’s tired. Too damn tired to find out if she has any other ridiculous powers besides vanishing at will.

“I need your blood,” he sighs, “so my house won’t kill you when I’m not around.”

She frowns. “Your... your house is haunted?” she asks, incredulous. “You cursed it?”

He rolls his eyes. Will the questions ever end?

“You could say that,” he replies. “Or you could say I cursed everyone not welcome here.”

Her brows shoot up. She stares at him.

“But…” she starts, then shakes her head, eyes closing in disbelief. “You know what, doesn’t matter. Just give me the knife. How much do you need?”

“A drop should be enough,” he says.

And despite himself, a smirk tugs at his lips. So she can cooperate.

*~*~*

“You're unbelievably quiet,” he says, almost wary. Is it wary? The man seems to have taken a vow never to express any emotion apart from anger.

“I’m surprised you actually led me to a room and not a cell in the dungeons,” she answers simply.

After that strange manipulation with her blood and a few light shows, he had very politely asked if she wanted some rest after such a long and emotional day. Somehow, he’d managed to sum it all up with a simple, “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll stay.” And then actually brought her to this huge guest room — very similar to his, but without a single sign of life. The table was bare, the bed too neat, the curtains hung too perfectly. No bookshelves. No books.

“There are no cells in the dungeons,” he says.

“Well, that’s a shocker,” Alice mutters, opening the stand beside the mirror. Soft towels lie inside, untouched.

She feels his gaze following her every move. She’s never felt so unwanted in any house she’s ever stepped into. Like a fucking rat — wandering, scrabbling — and he clearly just wants her out. She takes a deep breath and turns to him.

“Do you have any women’s clothes by any chance?” she asks, unable to keep a polite smile from appearing. She doesn’t have to be polite — he’s threatened to kill her, torture her — but she’s in his house, needing something from him. So the habit stays.

“No,” he cuts firmly. Then glances at his watch, barely raising an eyebrow. “I’ll write to the shop. It’ll be here in an hour at most. Keep the window open so the owl can drop it.”

“What, like a real owl?” she asks, eyes lighting up.

“No, a paper one,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Yes, a real owl.”

A grin spreads across her face. It’s like a childhood dream come true — a real owl bringing her a package. But it’s not her package, and this isn’t Hogwarts, no matter how she used to imagine it when she first read those books. It’s his. He’ll be the one buying her clothes.

The smile fades. She looks away, heat rising to her face.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

He doesn’t answer. She glances at him — probably not thrilled with the situation either, huh. He nods sharply, and just before the silence becomes unbearable, his gaze sharpens.

“And don’t try anything stupid,” he warns coldly. And ridiculously, she’s actually grateful he’s back to this. “You can’t get too far anyway. Somehow, we’re… connected.”

His lip curls with a disgust.

Her eyes flicker to his hand — quick, instinctive, unguarded. But he notices. His eyes narrow.

“So it’s not me you’re connected to…” he muses slowly. “It’s the ring, isn’t it?”

Her jaw tightens. Shit.

“Just a guess,” she shrugs. “You ripped that piece completely from your body, didn’t you?”

He hums, glancing at the ring. The one she returned just this morning. Shit.

“Good that you gave it back,” he says, smirking. That motherfu—

“Anyway,” he adds, tone suddenly dismissive, “I usually have dinner around six. Join me or not, your choice.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns and leaves, the door shutting firmly behind him.

Well, that went… good that it ended anyway.

So that door must be the bathroom. A hot shower — she hadn’t realized how much she needed one until she thought about it. Honestly, she’d love nothing more than to scrub this whole day off her skin. Then, dinner. Hot, preferably. If His Majesty thinks she’ll starve herself just because he’s in the same room, he’s out of his deluded little mind.

Her gaze shifts—freezes—on the window.

She steps toward it, cautious without knowing why, and pulls the curtains aside.

No.

That is not the view from her apartment. No buildings, no streetlights. Just trees. Tall and unmoving, like they’re standing watch.

She stares until her eyes ache.

But the trees stay exactly where they are — proud and tall, literally.

Alice doesn’t understand when she starts crying, or how she ends up in the shower, the hot water hitting her skin as she lets the tears mix and vanish.

It feels wrong — all of it.

Having someone else’s soul inside her.

Being here.

She doesn’t notice when it gets darker, or colder.

She only blinks when her eyes land on the package sitting neatly on the bed, like it’s been there for a while.

She stares at it, unblinking, the quiet finally catching up to her.

First clear thought appears then, she did in fact miss that dinner.

Chapter Text

Tom refuses to sleep or rest until he finds at least one connection, one thread, to help him deal with the whole situation.

And it’s been three days already. Three days — and maybe six hours of sleep total. He has nothing. The few scraps of information he has on Horcruxes are useless. Usually, once you tear your soul into pieces, that’s it. Any further manipulation is considered impossible.

Magic has its limits. And those limits are especially tight when it comes to something as delicate and mysterious as the human soul. Very few wizards dare to experiment with it. You can’t exactly do much with a thing you don’t fully understand — and even less with something you can't control.

Even with Horcruxes, you don’t really control the soul. It shatters itself in the moment of murder — instinctively — and then all you can do is extract the piece while it resists until the very last moment, desperate to return to the body. It’s a painful, drawn-out ritual. And once it’s done, that fragment is supposed to remain trapped in the relic. Waiting — until it’s needed.

What happens to the Horcrux in the ring is still a mystery. How it ends up inside the body of someone he hasn’t even met before — Tom has no idea. No answers, no explanations. But it’s what he has to work with.

As for the girl he has the misfortune to share space with... she’s strangely tolerable. After that first day, she seems to decide on keeping a safe distance — surprisingly smart. It won’t save her from her fate, but at least it spares him a headache. She’s polite. All “Good morning,” “good night,” “thank you.”

Still, he catches her watching him sometimes. Thoughtfully. Knowingly. Always with that quiet expectation. She never asks if he’s found a way to extract his soul from her — but he knows she’s waiting. At times, her gaze is fogged, distant, and that’s when she looks sad. She watches him with that soft, ghost-heavy look, and Tom can never guess what future she’s thinking of. But she’s mourning something. He doesn’t ask again. Part of him knows it’s pointless. The rest is too buried in research — and far too tired — to try.

After dinner, she usually disappears. Not literally — she simply leaves with a quiet “goodnight,” and he doesn’t hear her again until morning. He never knows where she goes. Her room is just one wall away from his, but he never hears a sound from there. He doesn’t usually care. She can’t go far anyway.

Except tonight.

Tom is staring at the painting of sea waves, crashing endlessly against rocks, when he feels it — her gaze on him. The air shifts, subtle but unmistakable. He isn’t alone in the room anymore.

“You seem tired,” her voice comes from behind him.

He doesn’t answer. What is there to say? He is tired. His mind hasn’t stopped racing once in the past four days, and he’s no closer to answers than he was when she first arrived. So yes, he’s tired — and it’s useless.

“I mean, like really tired,” she continues, not waiting for a response. “Like you could collapse any second, just to get some sleep.”

Tom sighs. “What do you want?”

He finally turns to face her. She’s curled on the couch, leaning forward against the cushioned back so she can look at him directly.

“I’m bored,” she says casually.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I’m not in the mood to entertain you.”

She chuckles — and for some reason, the curve of her smile holds his attention longer than it should. She does it so… easily. Without hesitation, without thought. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Not a trained smile. Not polite. Not the kind people use to keep peace or hide discomfort.

She smiles like someone who’s been doing it her whole life — instinctively, freely, exactly in the second she feels like it.

She smiles the way children do. The way people do when they aren’t watching themselves. Real. It…

He blinks, brushing the thought away. Maybe she was a clown before. And maybe he just needs some damn rest.

“Of course not. In this state, you wouldn’t make a very good host,” she smirks.

A flicker of annoyance pinches at his chest, but it dies almost instantly. He’s far too exhausted to muster real emotion. So he just keeps staring at her, waiting — for her to fidget, to break under his gaze, to get up and leave. Anything.

But she doesn’t even blink.

Is he really that pathetically tired? Has his presence lost its weight?

“You could help me,” he says at last, eyes narrowing. “If you’d just tell me what you know about my future. I might find something useful.”

Her eye twitches — barely — and then she soothes it over with a mask of perfect indifference.

“No,” she says, simply.

His jaw tightens.

“There’s nothing there that could help you anyway. The author never described anything soul-related. Even the ritual for creating Horcruxes was considered too horrifying, too inhuman to ever put into words.”

Tom hums. It’s not so far from the truth, even if a little too poetic. For him, it was just painful.

“What about you?” he asks.

“Me?” She raises her eyebrows slightly.

“Yes. You didn’t even tell me your full name,” he muses. “Why is that? I know nothing about you, while you know even my future.”

She blinks, surprised, seeming momentarily lost — but after a beat, she smiles.

“That’s fair,” she admits. “But still. I can’t tell you anything. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not you, it’s me — I have these trust issues when it comes to people who threaten to kill me the day we meet.”

She smiles sweetly and bats her eyelashes at him with a look of complete innocence. Tom just rolls his eyes, it’s the truth anyway.

“I don’t want you going off to kill my grandpa in some attempt to erase my existence. Besides, he was a lovely man — and if this actually is the same universe I was born in, I don’t want to mess it up.”

“The same universe?” Tom frowns.

“Well, yeah.” She tilts her head at him. “In my world, we had books about your world. So we’re probably not just from different times… But there’s still a chance you existed alongside us the whole time. There was even a theory that the author of those books was actually banished from the magical world.” She shrugs. “And to be honest, people hate her in ours too now. She’s been saying some serious bullshit lately.”

There it is. The headache. Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. When he looks at her again, her eyes are filled with something uncomfortably close to concern.

He wants to lash out. Be angry. But he can’t. He’s not sure he has the energy left for it. And she looks away too quickly for him to fully get annoyed at the pity.

“Get some sleep,” she says at last — quietly, but firmly.

And with that, she disappears. Room silent again. He’s alone again. And still disappointed.

*~*~*~*

Alice had been here for four days.

Seconds became minutes, minutes turned into hours, and hours stretched into days. She felt every moment as it passed—watched time itself, searching for a glitch, a mistake, anything that might prove this was just an illusion. But she fell asleep and woke up again, her thoughts clear, her emotions settled.

During the first few days, she amused herself with her new abilities.
She vanished and reappeared in front of the mirror, endlessly entertained by the trick. Then, more cautiously, she tried to make just her hand disappear. It refused, stubbornly staying in place—until she got annoyed. Finally, it vanished again. Startled, she snapped it back into existence. She experimented with objects next, trying to make them disappear as well, but no matter how long she tried, they stayed put.

And then... she grew bored.
She wandered through the house with nothing to do. Most doors were locked—not that it would have stopped her—but she didn’t want to anger His Dark Majesty, so she kept away. She discovered another guest room, then a small, cozy living room—dim and intimate—but nothing held her attention for long.

Except the paintings.

She’d seen a few more scattered through the house, none of them featuring people. Mostly landscapes. One, in particular, caught her eye—a sunset, captured in the exact moment before the sun slipped behind distant mountains. It glowed with a soft orange light, the last flickers of day endlessly repeating in a quiet loop.

Another showed a garden in early bloom—trees just beginning to flower, branches rustling gently in the wind, birds gliding across a pale blue sky. When she raised her hand toward it, a rabbit suddenly hopped into view and sniffed her fingers. The painting was alive—not like a gif, not like a loop, but like a movie. Or a window into another world.

Another thing she found oddly fascinating—if you can imagine—was watching Lord Voldemort.
She wondered how that composed, stubborn man could possibly become the monster described in books and portrayed in films. Sure, he had a short temper. Sure, he believed himself the most important figure in the universe. But weren’t those just common traits for men of this century?
Jokes aside, he was almost... normal. Human, even.

At the moment, he seemed tired—exhausted, really. Buried in research, his eyes constantly distant, locked in thoughts she couldn’t follow.

Could power really change a person so much that they’d become a noseless, bald lunatic who kills babies?
Probably.

He still had another twenty years before that fate caught up with him—and for now, he was still nearly normal. A sad, sad future awaited him: desperate to live forever, only to die in his late sixties like an average mortal. Not to mention his disembodied spirit, doomed to drift through jungles for fourteen years—if she remembered it right.

It was tragic, really.

It was supposed to remain a metaphor in children’s books—a cautionary tale about the cost of power. But he was real. He was here.

And she couldn’t help but feel… not sorry, exactly, but quietly disturbed by it.

Because right now, he was human. And in a very human way, she felt that faint thread connecting them—something she felt with every other person. A fragile tie woven from shared sins, from greed, from that constant, aching hunger for more.

Distantly, she could understand him.

And it saddened her, knowing how far he had fallen into that need to become something greater.

Well, that’s a pretty dark thought for early morning, she decides, getting out of bed. Morning is beautiful here, and it always is—shiny and warm. It’s actually the middle of summer here, just like it is back in her world. But it’s not as hot, maybe because it’s the middle of a forest, or probably because the ecology isn’t as ruined as it is back in her time. The air is fresh, birds are singing, bugs buzzing, global warming nowhere to be seen—she finds it all nice and lovely, much better than cars and motorcycles noises. And without her phone, she has no choice but to fall asleep at reasonable hours. The dread. But she’s getting used to it, horrifyingly.

Stepping down the stairs, she hears voices and freezes. One voice, cutting and somehow politely cold – Tom’s, another smooth like honey.

She steps into the living room, wondering if she heard correctly.

And there they are—standing near the fireplace, their backs turned to her.

Tom and Abraxas Malfoy, both dressed in black cloaks, Tom’s strict and consuming all the light around, but Abraxas’ is with silver shimmer—magical, looks expensive, and perfectly matched to his hair, which is probably the point.

Tom notices her presence first—God knows how—and slightly moves his head, catching her sign. Abraxas turns right after, a smile spreading across his face.

Alice smiles back, though she’s not entirely sure if she’s welcome here now, but she steps closer.

“Good morning,” she says, a little awkwardly, just to break the silence.

Tom nods, as he always does when she greets him. Which is annoying, honestly. It's not that hard to say two words.

Abraxas’s smile widens. “Well, good morning,” he greets smoothly, lowering his torso ever so slightly.
Did he just... bow? “I didn’t expect to meet a lovely angel here today.”

She chuckles. “You won’t believe it, but I was about to say the same thing,” she replies with a sweet smile.

Tom rolls his eyes. Abraxas laughs. Rich people laugh! So that was a thing in the '50s too—and in the magical world, apparently. She wondered if people joked about it the same way here too.

“Uh, did I interrupt something?” she asks cautiously when Abraxas stops laughing.

“No,” Tom cuts coldly, not quite looking at her.

“Actually, we were in the middle of a polite little talk,” Abraxas corrects, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Tom here was doing his best to imitate interest in the weather.”

Her eyebrows jump up, unwillingly. Isn’t he supposed to be scared of… she glances at Tom, but he doesn’t waver—still staring somewhere past her.

“Did he manage?” Alice asks curiously.

“Uhh…” Abraxas says thoughtfully. “There is always room to grow,” he finishes with a wise smile.

Alice laughs at that, shaking her head.

“I actually have a present for you,” Abraxas says, his smile softening.

“You said you didn’t expect to see me,” Alice frowns, trying to guess what kind of present he could possibly mean.

“Yes, but I hoped,” he nods, and Alice has to fight the smile tugging at her lips. “Anyway, I was about to give it to Tom if I didn’t see you.”

She raises her eyebrows.

Abraxas reaches into the inside pocket of his cloak. After a moment of searching, he pulls out a small package—maybe twice the size of his palm. Alice watches curiously as he offers it.

Tom narrows his eyes at the parcel, clearly just as clueless as she is.

Abraxas hands it to her. It’s heavier than she expects. Wrapped in simple brown paper, it’s tied with a soft grey bow— tasteful.

But the smell...

She brings it closer, inhaling.

“Is it…?”

“Yes,” Abraxas nods. “Ever since you told me there’s no coffee in this house, I couldn’t help but wonder how you even live here, my—”

He stops suddenly. His eyes go distant, haunted for a breath, like they’ve locked onto something only he can see.

Alice watches him, quiet.

But then he shakes it off, and the smile returns. It’s tighter now, not quite real.

“Anyway, I hope you’ll like it. The best in magical Britain. Roasted over actual dragon fire.”

“Dragon fire?” she asks, raising a brow. “Does it help with the taste?”

Tom huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “It certainly helps with the advertisement.”

Abraxas laughs, and a small smile tugs at Alice’s lips.

“I fear he’s right on this one,” Abraxas admits, amused. “The point, however, was to entertain you with the idea—and I assure you, the taste is quite pleasant too.”

Alice can’t help but smile wider, warmth blooming in her chest for the first time since she arrived.

“Well, you’ve entertained me, thank you for that. As for the taste—I’ll decide after I actually try it,” she says, hating the way her voice softens.

She really likes this man. But she hates that he’s part of Tom’s future murder club.

Abraxas, unaware of her inner conflict, smiles warmly, his eyes flickering with gentleness.

*~*~*~*

Alice leaves, not willing to wait another minute to try the coffee she’s strangely fond of.

Tom watches her go, wondering how long it will take before she realizes she can’t actually make it—his kitchen doesn’t work without magic.

Sure enough, a moment later: “I need help with… this thing!” comes her distant shout.

Tom rolls his eyes and is already heading toward the kitchen—before she breaks something—when Abraxas catches him by the elbow.

Tom glances back, one eyebrow arching. There’s concern written clearly across his old friend’s face.

“What are you going to do with the ingredients I brought you?” Abraxas asks quietly, as if afraid the walls might be listening.

Tom’s lips curl downward. The Malfoys are an old and well-known family. Their connections span centuries, their influence woven into the very fabric of the country. That’s what makes Abraxas his most valuable ally—he can find anything, or anyone and not just in Britain. By any means Abraxas and his family should stay close, but it doesn’t mean Tom is about to explain himself, even to Abraxas.

“You weren’t concerned about such things before,” Tom retorts casually, not wanting to show his annoyance, just now, not before he could understand what the point of sudden interest.

Abraxas’s gaze flickers in the direction Alice just left. It’s a quick glance, but his eyes hold something far too vulnerable for Tom to fully grasp. Tom’s lips pull into a frown. Well… that’s inconvenient.

“Really?” he asks, coolly. “You barely know her. Why do you care?”

For a moment, Abraxas looks almost thrown. He leans back slightly, blinking—as if his own actions are only now catching up with him. This isn’t like him. He doesn’t defend people. He doesn’t try to save them. He’s a Slytherin through and through, and Tom has always liked that about him—liked that he could be counted on to think in terms of logic and gain. Abraxas doesn’t care unless there’s something in it for him.

At least, he didn’t.

But then Abraxas’ eyes come back into focus, landing on Tom with an expression that doesn’t quite belong on his face—something close to stubbornness. It looks strange on him. Alien.

“You’re right,” he says, nodding. “But I know her well enough to understand she doesn’t deserve to die from… that.”

It actually stops Tom for a second. He looks at Abraxas with raised eyebrows, caught off guard, momentarily speechless. He doesn’t even know where to begin. That girl turns everything she touches into chaos. Somehow, she’s managed to scramble his friend’s mind after just two interactions—and she didn’t even use magic. None that Tom’s aware of, at least.

He yanks his elbow free, forcing a smile. It’s thin and completely fake.

“Do you really think that if I wanted to kill her,” he says calmly, “I’d choose poison?”

“I know what these ingredients are used for,” Abraxas says lowly. “You would choose poison if you wanted her to suffer.”

Annoyance flickers sharply in Tom’s chest. He is not the one to be told what to do or what not to do, and Abraxas clearly seems to be forgetting who he’s talking to.

“Don’t worry,” Tom says dismissively. “Your pet, you’re suddenly so fond of, will be just fine. I have no intentions to do any… serious harm.”

But Abraxas doesn’t waver at the clear offense. Instead, a flicker of coldness enters his eyes. He studies Tom’s face, narrowing his gaze, probably trying to figure out if he’s lying. Unfortunately, Tom isn’t.

Before either of them can speak again, the sound of rushed steps makes them both turn toward the doorframe.

“Hello?” Alice says, as soon as she sees them. “Didn’t you hear me? I need help.”

And without waiting for an answer, she turns and heads back to the kitchen, clearly expecting them to follow, like it’s the most obvious thing to do. Like a child.

And Abraxas, the fool, really turns to do so, throwing Tom one last concerned glance.

And after a moment, Tom follows as well.

~

Abraxas stuck around the entire morning, chatting endlessly with Alice about the most grounded topics — coffee, the weather, cats, somehow. He left shortly after breakfast, pressing a polite kiss to her hand, and she actually blushed. Someone might’ve called it adorable. Tom was far more blunt — he called it sickening.

Tom made a mental note not to let Abraxas visit when Alice was around — or he might actually vomit all over the dining table. One ruined breakfast, where he couldn’t even enjoy his oatmeal and tea, had been quite enough.

The problem was, there wasn’t much of a choice this time. The ingredients Abraxas brought were rare and required a special permit — one Tom had neither the time nor the inclination to acquire. Sending them with owl was simply dangerous.

So, after a genuinely trying morning came an even harder day, spent locked in the potions room. The brew he was working on demanded hours of uninterrupted focus — one wrong move and the entire house could explode. That would be… upsetting.

His attention flickers to the girl, who stands by the table, her mouth already parting — probably about to tell him goodnight and leave.

“I was actually wondering if you’d like to have some tea with me,” Tom says, voice calm.

He uses his most casual tone. He knows his expression gives away nothing — and still, Alice tilts her head, narrowing her eyes like she can sense something buried.

“Tea,” she echoes faintly, like part of her thoughts slips out with the word.

“Yes,” Tom confirms, keeping his composure.

Her frown deepens. She studies him in silence for a long moment.

“Why?” she asks, cautious now.

Tom forces a half-smile, holding her gaze. “I just thought we started on the wrong foot. And if we’re going to be sharing space for a while… we ought to try being civil. Don’t you think?”

She blinks at him, surprised — but a moment later, amusement flickers in her eyes, and a soft laugh escapes her. She covers her mouth with her fingers, trying to stifle it, but she laughs a little more, like she truly can’t believe what he just said.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice laced with a smile. “We started? Do I need to remind you that you were the one who threatened to kill me minutes after we met — and then, just hours later, shoved me into a tree?”

His entire expression freezes for a moment while he tries to gather all his remaining patience. As if she wasn’t provoking him — he had more empathy for the tree than for her — but of course, he doesn’t say it.

“I agree I was a little… forward in my judgment,” he says instead, with what’s supposed to be a bashful smile.

But Alice doesn’t seem to buy it. She only arches an eyebrow at him.

“Forward… That’s one word for it,” she muses. “I would use ‘absolutely messed up’, but that’s just me.”

Does she expect him to apologize? Like he would ever say sorry to someone like her. So he just keeps looking at her, wondering if he’d have to force her to drink it. How would he even manage that, if she can just disappear into thin air? And he’s not entirely sure his magic won’t start acting strange again if he tries to use it on her.

But then she sighs. “All right, tea it is,” she says, offering him a tired smile.

He stands up and moves to the coffee table, where the tea awaits them.
Alice clearly hadn’t noticed it when she first arrived in the dining room, because now she looks confused—lost, even. The teapot and cups shine in the sunlight, the sweets look genuinely delicious. She frowns, glancing at him, but he simply gestures with a gracious hand, inviting her to sit.

After a moment, she does. He takes the armchair across from her. The couch between them remains empty, like it’s reserved for some silent audience, waiting to witness the show that’s about to begin.

She looks down at the table with a calculating expression. If he doesn’t distract her, she might start asking questions — and if she’s smart enough, she might even begin to suspect something.

So Tom picks up the kettle, pouring her tea first, then his own, keeping his expression completely unbothered.

“So, tell me,” he starts lightly, “how has your stay been so far? I’ve been so consumed with research I’ve made a pretty awful host. Do you need anything?”

She blinks, tearing her gaze from the table to look at him. She still looks a bit lost, so he lifts his cup to his lips, but doesn’t drink — just inhales the steam lightly.

“Oh, it was fine,” she says, still not moving. “Don’t worry about it, really. What I need is to get your soul out of me, so you’re doing just fine.” She says it lightly, like it’s a joke, but her gaze is steady, sharply following his every move.

He hums softly, but his grip on the cup tightens. He sets it down and studies her for a moment.

She’s wearing a long, dark blue dress — probably one of the ones the shop assistants picked out. He hadn’t bothered to specify much in his letter, but the workers were likely thrilled to help, especially since he essentially ordered a full wardrobe for at least a month.

“I believe you might be bored here,” he continues. “So if there’s anything you’d like to lighten your days, I’d be happy to assist.”

She squints at him like he’s just insulted her.

“What exactly are you doing?” she asks bluntly.

“Trying to have a conversation,” he replies, raising his eyebrows.

“What for?” she presses.

Tom holds her gaze, searching for the right words. He made a mistake, treating her the way he did when she first arrived. She doesn’t trust him — and frankly, he hadn’t expected her to live long enough for that to become a problem.

“I already told you,” Tom says carefully. “I’m trying to redeem our first encounter, that’s all.”

“Well, don’t.” She frowns, lips tightening. “What’s done is done. No point playing nice now — especially when it looks like you’re wearing a mask that’s two sizes too small.”

He hums with a soft smile, genuinely amused by her metaphors. But she keeps watching him, waiting to see what he does next.

“You’re going to learn, Alice,” he says lowly, the thin smile still in place. “I’m not the type to play anything. If I do something, it’s because I feel the need for it.”

He doesn’t give her space to challenge that — instead, he lifts his cup in one smooth motion and nods toward hers.

“Drink your tea. It’s getting cold.”

For some reason, she smirks. Then, slowly — oh, so slowly — she picks up her cup, brings it close, and inhales the scent. Her face softens, almost dreamy, and she closes her eyes as she takes a careful sip.

Got you. Flicker of satisfaction lights in his chest, he finally breathes out.

Tom drinks his tea right after.

“It’s strangely…” Alice begins, but the potion doesn't let her finish.

Her gaze unfocuses, the cup slips from her weakening fingers, and tea spills across her dress, staining it black. She falls back, eyes fluttering closed.

Tom watches in silence — then closes his own eyes, a faint smirk on his lips.

It’s time to find out who you really are, Alice.

Chapter Text

When Tom opens his eyes again, he's standing in a dim hallway. Blue light filters from a window at one end — eerie, soft, almost otherworldly. At the opposite end stands a closed door, its glass pane matte and glowing faint yellow.

Next to it sits a figure, unmoving.

Tom frowns and steps forward.

The hallway seems long — impossibly so — but somehow, he reaches the other end in just three steps. And when he does, he understands why.

The child. Five, maybe six years old. It’s her perspective.

So that’s Alice.

Tom studies her for a moment: messy light hair, a simple grey t-shirt and pants, both covered in dried paint stains.

Yes. He can see it now.

The girl is biting her lip nervously, staring at the closed door with a worried expression — one that looks strangely out of place on such a young face.

“What the fuck?” comes a furious voice beside him.

He rolls his eyes and glances over.

The real Alice has materialized next to him — and she does not seem thrilled to be here.

He turns his attention back to the child, trying to understand what’s so significant about this memory.

“Oh no, don’t ignore me now, you shit,” Alice snaps again.

Then he feels a light tickle on his shoulder. He glances down — and sees her staring at her own hand in shock. She tries to touch him again, but her fingers pass right through his arm. He lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. She meets his gaze, fury burning in her eyes.

“What does any of this mean?” she asks, voice low and dangerous.

Tom tilts his head. Her anger doesn’t intimidate him — but it does surprise him.

It’s new.

“Don’t recognize your own memory?” he asks, mockingly.

Alice presses her lips together, jaw tight. She avoids looking to her right — avoids looking at herself.

“It’s a shame you didn’t want to share anything with me,” Tom says. “So now I have to find out this way.”

Her nostrils flare. Her face twists with something wild. Still, Tom remains unmoved.

“You see,” he says, voice quiet and cruel, “I can’t enter your mind with Legilimency… but this—” he gestures around them with a flourish, “this lets me see your deepest, most vulnerable fears. Without even casting a spell.”

Her lips twist downward.

She looks at him with something close to disgust — or she would, if not for the flicker of panic deep in her eyes.

“You’re…” she begins, but a soft rustle of fabric interrupts her.

Both of them turn.

The little girl — the ghost of who Alice once was — shifts slightly.

And just like that, Alice is gone, swallowed by the dream.

The child raises her small fist and knocks gently on the door. No answer. She knocks again, a little louder this time.

“Mommy?” she calls, timid but hopeful.

A beat of silence — then the faint sound of water sloshing and a long, weary sigh.

“Honey… Mommy’s not feeling well. Go play. I’ll come out after I rest.”

The voice is tired. Not just tired — drained. Lifeless. Hollow. The child bites her lip, eyes shining with unshed tears.

Tom narrows his gaze, already waiting what comes next.

“Can I—” the girl starts, voice cracking.

“Go, hon,” her mother cuts in, sharper now. There’s a flicker of irritation in her tone. “I’ll be out soon.”

But the little girl doesn’t leave.

She sinks down onto the floor, knees pulled to her chest, and clasps her hands tightly in front of her — as if in prayer.

She starts to cry. Softly. Silently. Tears spilling down her cheeks as she rocks just slightly, waiting for a door to open.

The scene changes in a blink.

No transition, no warning.

One moment, it's dim and silent — the weight of sadness pressing down.

The next, it’s blindingly bright. Music floods the space — not from speakers, not from instruments, but from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

It feels like a memory playing directly in the mind — something airy, cheerful, almost annoyingly light.

I wanna be with you, I wanna be with you

I wanna be barely hanging on

Tom stands there, momentarily disoriented.

His eyes adjust, and he takes in the apartment.

Spacious. Warm. The walls made of light orange brick.

A tall living room stretches before him, flowing seamlessly into an open kitchen. To the right, a wide staircase winds upward.

There are plants everywhere — clinging to the light, spilling from high shelves, nestled in corners. Books line wooden shelves, stacked in no particular order. His gaze stops at a molbert near the window — a standing easel with a painting in progress… or perhaps abandoned. Just splashes of paint — wild, chaotic. Silly doodles of animals, half-finished sketches, and words scribbled between brushstrokes. For a moment, Tom forgets why he's here. Music keeps playing from everywhere and nowhere.

I wanna be dancing, dreaming,

bawling and weeping

Over you all my life

The place hums with life, with warmth, with something dangerously reminding joy.

And then he sees them. A couple tangled together on the couch. The girl is perched on the guy’s lap, her hands tangled in his hair, snogging like there’s no tomorrow.

Really?

The guy’s hands have already found their way under her top.

That’s not why he’s is here, Tom thinks with annoyance.

This memory feels sharper than the last — newer, probably. Tom tilts his head, studying the couple, particularly her.

Is she afraid? No. She looks entirely at ease. Herself — and yet… off.

Her hair curlier, spilling down her back in waves. She’s wearing a black top with no sleeves (underwear?) and loose pants that looks strange. Massive boots. There’s makeup on her face — something glittering at her eyes and nose. Her lips seem brighter, but maybe that’s just the kiss.

I wanna be barely hanging on

(Barely hanging on)

When you make me lose control

Tom frowns in clear disgust, already turning away when—

“Ugh. Besides everything else, you’re a perv.”

Alice appears beside him, but she’s not looking at him — she’s watching the couple on the couch, her eyebrows slightly raised.

“I don’t decide which memory to see,” he mutters, irritated.

“But you can decide whether to look or not, can’t you?” she counters, glancing at him with narrowed eyes, lips drawn into a disapproving line.

“Whatever,” he sighs. “What’s scary about this? You seem rather… content.”

“Oh, I was,” she replies, already glancing around the apartment. There’s sadness in her eyes now — a quiet ache as she takes in the place she once called home.

“You looked… different,” he says, before his mind even fully processes the sentence.

“No,” Alice huffs. “I looked like me. Now I look different.”

Tom frowns lightly, eyes returning to the couple. The man lifts girl’s top, revealing pale ribs and something colorful — paint stains, maybe? — spread across her skin. But before he can get a clearer look, but then music dies, a sudden ringing cuts through the moment, stealing his attention.

Memory-Alice jolts and turns toward the sound.

“Ignore it,” the guy murmurs, continuing to kiss her jaw, her neck, her shoulder.

Tom looks around, but Real Alice is already gone — no longer beside him. She’s on the couch now, reliving the memory.

His mouth twitches.

Meanwhile, Memory-Alice chuckles. “You’re cute,” she tells dreamy, “but not that cute to risk my life over you.”

She leans over to grab something from the far side of the couch. The guy hugs her waist, pouting, earning himself a bright laugh from her.

“That’s my sister. She’ll kill me if I ignore her,” Alice says, still smiling as she grabs a small device Tom doesn’t recognize and presses it to her ear.

“Hello,” she sing-songs with that same light smile. “You couldn’t be more—”

“I need help,” comes a terrified whisper, crackling. The voice seems to echo from everywhere and nowhere.

Alice freezes, her smile vanishing as she leans back. The man immediately lets go of her, watching her closely — as if sensing something is wrong, even though Tom is almost certain he can’t hear the voice from the device. It must be some kind of two-way mirror, or private connection.

“Please help. He’s going to kill me. Please—”

“Who are you talking to?” some other man snaps from afar, his voice sharp, angry.

Alice’s eyes widen.

 “No one, it’s just—”

“Hannah’s, what’s—” Alice tries to say, but the man doesn’t let her finish.

“Give me that,” his voice is closer now, aggressive.

“No-no, it’s just—it’s nothing,” Hannah’s voice stammers through the device, hurried and scared.

“You’re calling that bitch?!” he roars.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, the sound of choking sobs.

“Hannah!” Alice shouts into the device. “Stan, I swear to God, if you do something to her—”

A heavy thud cuts her off. And then — silence.

After that, images swirl around him, scenes shifting fast. One moment, Alice is staring in shock at the device in her hand; the next, she’s pacing through the apartment, searching for something, then out on the street, arguing with the man she was just kissing. She’s pale, eyes wide and terrified the entire time.

Another moment — she’s in front of a door, pounding on it with frantic force, guy from before standing besides furrowing. Everything slows when it finally opens. A skinny man with dark circles, under his eyes looks at her, annoyed. He seems sick and his hair sticks out in every direction, his clothes disheveled like she just woke him up.

“For fuck’s sake—” he starts, but Alice punches him in the face, holding something in her fist, before he can finish, instead of greeting. Her eyes are murderous.

The man growls, stumbling back and covering his face with one hand, eyes squeezed shut.

Tom's eyes widen in quiet shock. He expected something interesting — but not this.

“Where is she?” Alice asks tightly, already pushing past him. “Hannah!” she shouts, not waiting for an answer.

The man keeps groaning, holding his nose. She didn’t even break it — he’s just being dramatic.
Suddenly, he lunges toward Alice, but the guy who was with her earlier grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him against the wall. A thin smile spreads across his face.
Oh, so he has some use after all, Tom thinks.

“You need to chill,” he says, still smiling. “Because if you try to touch her again, I’ll break both your hands — and every single finger.”

He doesn’t stop smiling once as he says it. Tom narrows his eyes, watching.
Alice glances back at them. Her gaze wavers — she clearly doesn’t want to leave them alone — but after a moment, she presses her lips together and turns away, marching down the hall, opening every door she passes.

Tom follows behind.

Finally, she reaches a tightly shut door. She tries the knob. It doesn’t budge.

“Hannah!” Alice calls out, her voice trembling. “Open the door. It’s me.” Her eyes shine with tears.

For a long beat, there’s silence.

Then — the sound of a key turning.

Alice pulls the door open.

Tom glances inside. It’s a small bathroom. The woman is sitting on the floor next to the door, her face a mess of tears and blood. Her mouth is bleeding, as well as her eyebrow and nose. The neck of her t-shirt is stretched wider than it should be, as if someone had been pulling on it — and Tom has a good guess who that was.

For a moment, time seems to slow. Loud thuds echo from everywhere and nowhere. Tom looks at Alice, understanding. It’s her heart beating so loudly she can hear it in her ears.

But then everything snaps back in a flash. Alice drops to her knees in front of her sister. “What—what happened?” she asks, her voice trembling.

The woman takes a sharp breath, her face contorting in pain. “I threw his stuff in the toilet,” she says simply.

Alice’s frown deepens, her anger rising. “You should’ve thrown his head in the toilet instead,” she snarls.

The woman lets out a weak laugh. “I knew you’d say something like that.”

“Come on,” Alice says, no trace of amusement. “We’re leaving.”

But suddenly, the woman looks her straight in the eyes, her expression filled with desperation. “He’ll die without me,” she says, almost whining.

Alice’s eyes widen, her face freezing in shock, as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Tom freezes as well.

“He told me he’s going to kill himself if I leave. That I’m everything he has––”

“Too bad,” Alice cuts her off, probably fed up with this nonsense. “Then he’ll die. One less asshole stepping on the Earth.” Her voice is sharp, no sympathy in it.

Tom raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He definitely didn’t expect that. But Hannah jolts as if slapped, her eyes wide with disbelief as she looks at Alice.

Alice exhales, closing her eyes for a brief moment. When she opens them, her gaze is steady, filled with a quiet determination.

“Look,” she says slowly. “You called me, and now I’m here. And there’s an important choice for you to make.” She stares directly into her sister’s eyes, her voice calm but firm. “Either you get up, and I take you away from here, or I go into the kitchen, take the knife, and cut that man’s throat. He dies either way. But with the second option, I’ll also go to jail.”

Tom’s eyes widen in shock. For a moment, even he believes her. She’s bluffing, of course. He knows that. He knows how murderers work. They either act out of emotion or have no feeling at all. Alice is neither—just moments ago, he saw her crying because her mother wouldn’t open the door. Just a moment ago, she was terrified for her sister. She may be a good liar, but cold-blooded murder isn’t in her.

But her sister doesn’t know that. For a moment, Hannah stares at Alice as if seeing her for the first time, and Tom almost feels the weight of the realization. Then, she starts nodding quickly, scrambling to her feet. A thin smile appears on Alice’s face as she helps her sister up.

~

The scene shifts abruptly. Perhaps she wasn’t scared anymore, which is understandable. Before him is a room painted in a calm blue, with dark wooden furniture. It’s simple, but neat. His eyes immediately find Alice—she’s sitting before a large mirror, staring at her reflection. Tom looks around, but there’s no sign of the real Alice.

A muffled sound of a running shower fills the room. Alice turns, her gaze fixed on something behind him. He spins around. Behind an open door is another, closed—likely the bathroom. The noise continues. Everything here feels natural, steady, except for Alice. She’s younger, her face rounder, and her eyes don’t yet carry the sharpness they do now.

Suddenly, her reflection in the mirror turns to him, eyes wide.

"No, no, no, no," she mouths, but no sound reaches him. He frowns. “Take me out,” he sees next.

“You’ll have to come out if you want to talk,” he says simply.

Her eyes widen even more. The sound of the shower fades away, and Alice’s younger self turns back to the mirror abruptly, her face aligning perfectly with her reflection. But the eyes… the eyes are different.

“Take me out of here!” comes a panicked voice from behind him.

Tom turns, but there's nothing but a wall staring silently back at him. “I swear, I’ll tell you everything you want to know—just get me out!” she begs, her voice coming from somewhere above him, though he can’t see her. So that’s a strong memory if it consumed her like this, she can’t even fully  get out.

“I can’t,” he replies simply. “It’s not a spell. It’s a potion. I can’t stop it.”

The door creaks open. Tom turns once more to see what has startled Alice so much.

A figure steps into the room. Though the space is not dark, his face is obscured by shadow. He wears a warm dressing gown over a simple grey pajama. As he moves closer, his features become clearer. He’s older, his hair thin, touched with streaks of grey. When he sees Alice, he grins, revealing all his teeth. She responds with a tight smile.

“You’re beautiful, sugar,” he says, his voice smooth. He steps closer, his hand brushing gently past her cheek.

“Thanks,” Alice replies, her smile growing slightly.

“Care for a drink?” he asks gently.

Alice hesitates, furrowing her eyebrows, unsure. But before she can respond, the man is already stepping away. She watches him in the mirror.

With his back to her, he pours something into glasses. Alice sees only a glimpse of the liquid, and Tom, too, can’t make it out clearly.

“You can’t say no to an Italian wine, sugar,” he says lightly.

Alice huffs a smile, half turning to him. “I’m not a big admirer of expensive wine,” she replies with a smile.

“What do you admire, then?” he asks, finally turning to her with a playful glint in his eyes.

“Cheap wine with lots of sugar, flavored like nothing you can find on this planet,” she says.

The man laughs, seemingly genuinely amused, but Tom’s lips curl downward. He suspects where this is going, judging by the way the man looks at her—and how the real Alice reacted. The man appears to be at least fifteen years older than Alice in the memory. Merlin, he looks even older than Tom does now. How she ended up here is a mystery.

Alice takes the offered glass of wine and stares at it for a few moments. Tom rolls his eyes—she’s probably admiring the pretty color. He leans in slightly, catching a glint of something like dust floating on the red surface. Almost invisible, but it’s there and Alice sees it too.

“What do you think?” the man asks, sipping his drink, though his gaze never leaves her. And oh, Tom knows that look far too well. He’s waiting—waiting to close the trap.

Alice glances at him, a tight smile at her lips. Then she takes a small sip of the drink. Idiot. It’s like watching something fall, just waiting for the sound of crash. From this moment, everything begins to fall.

“It’s awful,” Alice says lightly.

The man laughs, stepping closer. “You have to give it another chance,” he murmurs. “Dry wines are bitter at first, but if you let them breathe, they can surprise you.” He takes her hand, the one holding the glass, and gently brings it back toward her face.

She throws him a glance—naïve and dazed—but in the subtle narrowing of her eyes, Tom sees it. The sharpness. The one future Alice will be carrying all the time.

But past-Alice takes another sip. Her face twists in disgust, and the man chuckles softly, releasing her hand.

“No?” he asks.

Alice shakes her head, her expression almost childlike, like someone forced to take a foul potion. The man gazes at her with something dangerously close to adoration. He sets his glass down, strokes her cheek again. She looks up at him, nervous, uncertain.

Then he leans in—and she lets him. He kisses her, not seeming to notice how she stiffens under his touch.

“Wait—wait,” Alice says, her voice shaking. There are tears in her eyes. “No. Stop.”

But man doesn’t stop. The air shifts. The image outside warps—colors blur, then sharpen unnaturally.

“But you didn’t say it then, sugar,” man murmurs between kisses. “Maybe if you had, I would’ve stopped.”

Tom’s eyes widen, stunned. That’s not what happened. It’s the real Alice breaking through the memory—fighting to control it.

She starts to cry while man presses his lips to her neck.

The image twists into a storm of smeared color—distorted sound, stuttering light—and then collapses into black. Total silence.

Then, with a jolt, it all snaps back. The room is the same, but Alice and the man have vanished.

Tom turns around.

She’s lying on the bed, breathing roughly. Her neck is bruised. Her shoulders are bare above the blanket. Panic is settling in her eyes.

The man is nowhere to be seen.

~

Tom opens his eyes to the dark room, blinking a few times until they adjust. He feels a little dazed—probably the aftermath of the potion—although it’s quite a pleasure to fully feel his body again, not just the echoed imitation in the dream.

A sudden rustle of clothes makes him look up to see the figure turning on the opposite chair, like she’s trying to understand where she is now. Then her eyes land on him—and even in the dark, he sees her face twist in fury.

Alice stands up abruptly, only to scramble in place, grabbing the coffee table as she nearly falls, still disoriented from the potion. Tom reaches forward reflexively to offer a hand—and she flinches back from him like from fire.

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, her voice real and full of emotion, so human—and it breaks the remaining dim silence, the illusion of full control he had created with his hands in the potion room.

He arches an eyebrow, watching her breathing hard, like she’s trying to calm herself just enough to move without falling.

“You know, if you weren’t so difficult,” he muses, “I wouldn’t have had to come to this.”

She freezes. Her eyes widen in shock. Then she takes a deep breath and stands straight, still with that stunned expression—like she’s trying to fit everything that just happened into her head and just can’t.

“There’s post—” he starts.

But Alice’s hand flies up so fast his words hitch in his throat in surprise. She turns to him and looks—long and cold—but there’s nothing in her eyes. She’s looking at him like he’s just meat and bone covered in skin, and that’s all he is. He knows that look. He uses that look.

His lips press into a thin line at the nerve of that girl—and her face twitches in disgust. And oh… she doesn’t just use that look. She sees him that way.

Tom’s mind fills with thoughts, one roaring louder than the other, at this clear disrespect.

And, like always—without warning, without sound—she disappears.

His mind can’t make peace with itself. His annoyance has nowhere to go. Because the cause of it has an awful habit of vanishing into thin air.

Chapter Text

Alice is on that tree again. He can see her from his study, though she probably doesn’t know that. He hasn’t seen her up close in days. But she’s there almost every time. Or appears after some time waiting. He wonders if that’s the furthest place the ring lets her go—or if she just likes that tree.

Not so far from the house. He sees her blank stare turned toward it, or sometimes up at the sky. Sometimes she rips leaves off the branches and throws them to the ground, watching as they float down. Always with the same look on her face—absolute, hollow nothingness. No emotion. No tears. No anger. Nothing.

Tom wants to rip her head off.

It’s been two days already, or was it three? He has trouble sleeping. He can’t stop thinking—what he could’ve done differently, where his misstep was.

He hasn’t seen her up close, hasn’t heard her speak. Sometimes he hears her footsteps in the room—she isn’t trying to be invisible or stay quiet. He doesn’t think that’s her purpose. One time he heard loud thuds from her room. He knows some windows need force to open, and he heard the wavering of glass. Her steps on the stairs aren’t careful. She goes down or up on purpose, without waiting. When Tom spots her and calls after her, she just keeps walking—like he’s nothing more than a creak in the old floorboards.

Sometimes there’s nothing at all—no steps, no sound of doors, just silence. Like he’s living with a ghost. He knows she’s there, somewhere. He can feel her presence. But other than that—nothing. It’s making him mad.

Tom takes a long inhale, calming himself, and steps out of the study.

Usually, when he loses patience and goes to her there, she disappears. Sometimes even before he steps out of the house. But sometimes—when she’s in the mood—she stays. Doesn’t blink at his arrival. Doesn’t react to his voice. Like he’s just wind passing through her ears. He knows she’s doing it to rile him up, but even when he inevitably explodes—she doesn’t react then, either.

This time, she stays. Staring ahead with that same blank expression.

“Are you trying to starve yourself?” he asks.

No answer. Great start. He hasn’t seen her in the kitchen since the time she walked out after experimenting with a dark mind potion. He doesn’t know if she’s eating, hasn’t heard the sound of cutlery or noticed lack of food. The last thing he saw her drink was that potion-laced tea he gave her.

Tom closes his eyes in annoyance.

He didn’t think it would go so terribly wrong. Not only has he failed to learn anything useful—but now he has… this.

He should’ve taken into account that she isn’t a usual witch. No—she can disappear whenever she likes, and Tom has nothing to hold her. Every time he tries, she just vanishes, leaving him grasping at air.

And again, he has nothing. He’s found out that she can be manipulated through close friends or family—they can make her afraid if in danger—but in this world, the closest one to her is Tom. Only because she doesn’t know anyone else. Except for Abraxas, but he’s too valuable.

Or he can try to poison her—because she’s clearly afraid, desperately so, of not being able to control her body, left at the mercy of a man with no pure intentions… oh wait! He’s done that already. And it turned out just great.

Now, he’s the one powerless and she’s the one with the power to drive him mad.

He inhales. Deep and steady, but—it doesn’t make him calmer. He feels like he’s breathing air around burning flames, hot and suffocating.

“Because, you know, there are more elegant ways of killing yourself,” he goes on. Still no reaction. “Much quicker too. This one is just…” He furrows his lips slightly. “Pathetic.”

He watches her face intently, but again—nothing. A brief flutter of her eyelids. Could be intentional, could be the wind disturbing her eyes.

“What exactly are you doing—oh, I’m sorry, you’re doing nothing,” he says, his irritation growing. “Is it some statement? Trying to show me what a bad thing I did?”

He gives a dry laugh. “I don’t care. And never will. You can give up trying. All it does is drive me mad, and only because I should’ve known I wouldn’t learn anything. Because you simply don’t have anything here. That’s my mistake. Truly.”

Still nothing. No waver, no flicker of emotion. Just that hollow look. His annoyance boils into rage. Soon, he’ll either break something or storm off to the training room and break something there.

“But if you’re doing this to yourself…” Tom narrows his eyes. “If you’re just sad over some stupid memory from years ago—”

He has a feeling she’s listening now. Still motionless, still blank-faced. But she holds her breath for a second.

“Then you’re even worse than I thought. Not only pathetic—”

He cuts himself off. Because she finally does something. Just a slight turn of her head in his direction. She tilts it, like she’s curious. Still blank-faced though, but it’s something.

“And why exactly should I care what you think of me?” Alice asks quietly.

Tom hears it clearly—he’s listening so hard he isn’t even breathing.

She arches an eyebrow. “I don’t reach the standards of a murderer with my reaction, do I?”

She looks him up and down. A mocking smile creeps onto her face. Like he’s a bug who dares to insult her.

“A man who killed his whole family. And why exactly? Because you were sad they left you in that orphanage?” Her smile sharpens. Tom’s eyes widen. “But they didn’t do it, dear. Your mommy did. She went there right before you killed her just to be born.”

Tom freezes. He should be angry. Furious. But instead, he feels… nothing. Shock holds him still with cold fingers.

She watches him. Pretending to think, putting a finger to her lips.

“Oh no, sorry, my bad. That wasn’t actually your fault,” she says, chuckling like remembering a joke. “Your dearest, purest mother did it to herself, didn’t she?”

He clenches his fists. She actually knows it all. More than he imagined.

“Falling in love with a Muggle. How very dull of her, to betray all the pureblood beliefs like that.”

She smiles. Almost nostalgic.

“So she drugged your daddy with a love potion and raped him. For how long exactly? Don’t know that one? Anyway, long enough to have a pretty boy like you, and that legacy you’re carrying so proudly. Good job! Shame she died and didn’t see how you turned out. Did someone tell you you’re the copy of your father?”

She pouts in mocking pity. “You have his name and his face! Maybe it’s good she didn’t live to see it. I heard the Gaunts were all crazy about keeping it in the family.” She waves her hand dismissively, like it all nothing, big funny story in her eyes.

She smirks, cruel and sharp. His jaw tenses. Magic flickers around him. Dark and dangerous, but it stays away from her, doesn’t grow, just stays around him, lets a way out for his anger. That’s, what makes him really mad. She is the problem, the cause of it all, but his magic still holds itself back, reminds him she has his soul in her, even if he’s rather forget.

“But you know that, don’t you? I bet you feel it. Not the ‘keep it in the family’ part—you don’t have one. But the crazy part. Something moves in your head, whispering: ‘Muggles deserve to die. They’re not like us.’” She laughs. Almost genuinely. “Penguins should die. They’re not like us,” she mimics in a low voice. Then looks him straight in the eyes.

“That’s good. Some old memories from decades ago won’t affect you.”

It doesn’t affect him. What affects him is this girl—no one, dirt—talking about it. Acting like she has any right. She isn’t supposed to know in the first place. It’s his past, and he would never share it with…

Something clicks in his head.

He studies her face for a long, heavy moment, and when the storm in his mind finally quiets, when logic claws its way back into the light—he sees it.

Absolutely nothing.

There’s nothing in her eyes to match her tone, her sharp, cruel smile. It’s all a mask. A performance. It means nothing to her.

And she doesn’t even bother to keep the act going. She doesn’t mock him further, doesn’t say a word. She just waits. Calm. Expecting him to make the next move.

She does it again. Pushes him. Provokes him. Drives him toward the edge, playing her game, Merlin knows why. And he—like a fool—only now sees the pattern, tangled as he was in everything else. He underestimate her.

It’s always the same. He tries to hurt her; she pretends she doesn’t care. Then she twists the knife, and he loses control. She vanishes. He’s left furious, alone, lashing out at everything but her. And somehow, that’s exactly how she wins.

Because no matter how hard he tries, the only things he really hurts are everything around him—and himself. Never her. Not fully. She always slips away.

All his anger deflates, gone like air from a balloon.

The picture is finally clear.

“You trying to kill yourself?” he half-asks, the words slipping out sharper than intended.

Her eyebrow twitches up, and her smile freezes, glued to her face.

“Yes,” she answers simply.

He looks at her. Confused. He feels his eyes twist with it. He expects her to keep talking—but she just keeps looking. Doesn’t move.

“Why?” he asks, irritation creeping into his tone.

Alice flinches. Barely.

But it’s like the question slapped her in the face. She goes even more still, but her eyes… something raw flickers there.

People say eyes are the mirror to the soul.

He doesn’t know about others, but with her, it’s the truth. Her eyes speak volumes—and it’s such a bright contrast to the hollowness they held before. Even when she was talking about his past, there was nothing in them, like she didn’t even mean it. Like a bad actress reciting lines she learned but didn’t know how to make real.

And he bought it.

But now… now her eyes look deep inside her, and Tom could almost see the figures, shadows they mirrored.

Then Alice blinks. Illusion breaks. She grins, and it stretches across her face like ripping wax off skin.

“It’s fun,” she shrugs. “I hope God will be gracious enough to let me see your face when you say, ‘And there goes a piece of my soul,’ when you kill me.”

Her expression flickers with mischief.

Tom has never felt a lie so clearly in his life.

He narrows his eyes, but not in anger—he’s looking through her, seeing her insides, knowing exactly what she’s doing.

“You should eat,” he says, dismissive, already turning away. But at the last second, he catches the lost frown on her face. Pure satisfaction.

“Thanks, but I’d rather starve than eat anything in that house,” she bites out, irritation lacing her tone.

“Trust me, restoring potions are awful. Don’t want to eat in the house? Eat outside for all I care,” he responds calmly.

“How exactly would you give me the potion if you can’t even touch me? Or do you want to play catch again?”

“I wouldn’t need to catch you if you pass out from lack of food and water, would I?” he calls back, already stepping toward the house.

He smirks when the only answer is the rustling of trees.

*~*~*

Let’s get one thing straight — she wasn’t giving Mr. Darkest Lord the silent treatment.

What was happening, actually, was that Alice had finally hit rock bottom. She’d thrown all her emotion, energy, and strength into a vacuum—and now, she had nothing left. Nothing to help her wake up each day in this fucked-up place.

Knock on the wood. Two knocks. Subtle. Pleasant sound. She hears it, but doesn’t pay it attention. It’s just a noise outside, in the real world. Something for someone who lives in it. Who belongs. While Alice was stick in her head. She wasn’t a part of this world anyway, so there is no usual guilt.

It just wasn’t fun anymore, it wasn’t new, it wasn’t interesting. It was lonely. She was homesick. She wanted someone to pat her on the shoulder and say it would all be alright. But there was no one.

Well—there was the Dark Lord. But she doubted he was the type to give pep talks. And ever since the incident, even the sight of him made her want to vomit.

Before, he was still just a character from a book. Some kind of caricature of a real human. A thing made of words and paper. Like an actor playing a role—you know it’s not really him. He says the lines. He plays the part. But deep down, you know: it’s not real.

But now? Now he’s real. And that understanding crushed her.

He has a whole life. Just like she does. A past that formed him, a future he’s plotting toward, even the weird limbo of what he had for breakfast. He eats. She’d never thought about that before. But he does—three times a day, from what she’s seen. He showers. Goes to the bathroom. Breathes. His cells age, die, and get replaced. His hair grows. He probably gets it cut sometimes.

Knock-knock-knock. Three times this time. A little rushed, inpatient, not so pleasant sound.

He’s real. That’s what makes her sick.

Because he’s real—and every day, he makes decisions. How to dress. Where to go. What to do. And every day, he chooses to become less human. He chooses to hurt.

Every day, he kills off some living part of himself, hoping to become something grander. But he doesn’t become grand. He becomes something else. Something that will never belong in the real, breathing world of human life.

But for now… He’s just a man. At least he looks like it. The kind of man who might walk up to you on the street and touch you without asking.

Alice once read about a study. Scientists showed men different images—people, objects—while tracking their brain activity. And the results were not so surprising actually, but still disappointing. Some men’s brains reacted to a picture of a woman the same way they reacted to a dust cleaner. A thing. Not a person.

For some men, a woman isn’t someone with a soul. She’s just another object. Something to touch, to take, to use—whether she wants it or not. You don’t ask your frying pan if it wants to cook eggs.

And Alice wonders—if they put Tom under an MRI, would his brain react to everyone like they were just objects, too? Would it light up differently only when he looked in the mirror?

The worst part? She’s stuck in a house with him. She hears his footsteps in the halls. Sees the way his lips twist when he looks at her, like she’s a wrong note in his perfect song. A flaw. A splinter. Something to remove.

And she knows what he’s capable of. He invaded her mind like it was nothing. Is it nothing? Is that normal here? To just take the most personal thing a person has—open up their thoughts like a book? She wouldn’t know. Tom isn’t exactly the best example of how this world works. More like… the worst.

Knock repeats. Louder, more impatient, she pays attention now, sound is awful this time, rough and hurried, it annoys.

There a thing, one day, when you’re a teenager, something hits you. You look at the people walking by on the street—and suddenly, you see them. They all have lives. Stories. Friends. Fears. They’re not just extras in your story. They’re real. It’s like the universe taps you on the shoulder and says, “Hey. You’re not the only one here.”

But some people never get that message. Or maybe they do—and choose to forget.

So yeah. Maybe she was ignoring the Dark Lord. Maybe she was doing it on purpose. Trying to make him mad. Trying to hurt him.

Because that’s what she does. She was never the type to find the best in people. She sees the worst. She runs when she’s afraid. She shuts down when the world turns unfair. And if she can’t run— If there’s no escape— She grows pins. Bleeds poison. So the world turns away on its own. So she can be alone. Because being alone is still better than being powerless.

“You can't stay there forever,” a cold voice comes from behind the door.

Ha. She absolutely can. She has no desire to get up from this bed. She can’t even remember if she ever did. She could lie here until the end of her days — die here, rot here — her body fading into nothing unless someone bothers to remove it.

She glances at the window. The sun is high in the sky. Strange. It was just morning, wasn’t it?

The knock comes again. Rough. So goddamn annoying. Can he stop that?

What is wrong with him? He rifles through people’s worst fears like it's nothing — but won't come into the room without permission. He snaps at her for no reason — but stayed calm when she outright spat on his mother’s memory.

“Alice…” he sighs out the name like it’s the last straw before he snaps.

Someone once told her she should be gentler with herself. It had sounded like a joke.

People react to stress in different ways — and it’s never pretty. If they’re not careful, it becomes destructive. For as long as Alice could remember, her mind had always responded the same way: sudden numbness. Like some part of her brain decided it would rather shut down completely than deal with what was happening around her.

Food made her sick. She didn’t remember the last time she ate. Which meant she had to do it today. No hunger, no appetite — just a bite of fruit, a chunk of bread, whatever she could get down without gagging. Just enough not to collapse.

The thought of passing out, of being touched while unconscious, of that man forcing potions into her for his own soul — it was enough to make her stomach turn.

The air felt wrong. Every touch against her skin sparked discomfort. The weather, no matter what kind, grated on her nerves. Everything was just… off. Too much.

And the only place that felt remotely safe was her bed.

It was easy. Just stay there and wait. It always passed — eventually. Sometimes she’d find an interesting book, something strong enough to pull her from reality until the world outside stopped hurting so much. Sometimes she’d get fixated on the taste of a certain tea, and it would bring back her appetite. Sometimes someone close wouldn’t turn away — no matter how hard she tried to push them — and they'd sit with her, share that warm, living feeling, pull her from the bed and hold her hand just tightly enough that she couldn’t disappear back into her own head.

In another life, she had all of that. She had learned how to manage. But in this one, there was only him.

And the irony? He wouldn’t leave her alone — no matter how hard she tried to stay away. He kept nudging at her edges, not because she mattered, but because he needed her alive. He needed his soul safe. And it just so happened that it was stuck inside her.

But it was so easy to mix it. Because he looked at her and talked to her, and his soul stayed invisible inside her — it was easy to forget. He wouldn’t care if she didn’t have it.

The thought makes her furrow. She should never forget that.

The thought makes her open the door.

For a long moment, they just stare at each other. A hint of surprise freezes on Tom’s face, like time has stopped. He’s dressed in one of those black cloaks that fall to the ground in strict lines, a simple white shirt visible underneath — flawless. Of course. He does everything that way — flawless, thoughtful, perfect. Like giving her that potion. And every time, he decided he was right to do it.

She’s still in that odd pajama-dress they gave her the day she got here. She’s sure she looks the way she feels — drained, crumpled, awful. They look different in every way possible. And in some crooked way, that thought brings her a strange satisfaction.

The moment passes. His eyes flicker with something, and the surprise fades. He takes a breath, ready to speak — but she doesn’t let him.

“You know that I won’t die if I stay in bed for a few days?” she asks coldly.

He looks her straight in the eyes. Normally she doesn’t mind eye contact, but in his eyes there’s a solid core — a certainty in who he is — and she’s lost hers now. So she gives in, lowering her gaze, looking somewhere around his shoulder, unfocused.

“It’s been a week,” he says.

She furrows her brow and looks up at him again, but his face is blank. A week already? Some days blended into each other; she lost a few inside her mind. Something shifts in Tom’s expression — understanding, maybe.

“Anyway,” she cuts in, before he can say whatever mocking thing is forming in his head. “If I starve myself until I pass out, you’ll just give me the potion. Against my will. Again. And everything will be just fine, won’t it?”

He narrows his eyes at her — just slightly. It doesn’t affect her. It doesn’t make him look scarier; he’s already shown her what he’s capable of. So she raises her eyebrows, waiting. Another threat, another mocking comment — he always needs to prove his power, his control, so desperately that it’s become annoying. As if she doesn’t know. As if she isn’t already stuck in this damn place.

“Alice,” he starts, measured. “I came here… to apologize.”

What? Her brows shoot up even higher as she stares at him, blinking. Is she hallucinating?

“It was wrong, what I did,” he says flatly.

Alice squints at him, even leans her head back a little, as if to get a better view. Is it someone else dressed up like Voldemort?

“I apologize. I won’t ever do such a thing again.”

A surprised chuckle escapes her. She waits for the mocking follow-up — ‘Is that what you wanted to hear? How dare you, peasant?’ But his face stays blank. He doesn’t add anything. He just looks at her, as if expecting her to speak.

“Come again?” she finally manages.

He actually opens his mouth.

“You know what, no,” she cuts him off, raising a hand. “It sounded bizarre the first time. I’m not sure I could handle hearing it again… but you did just apologize?”

“Yes,” he spits the word out, tightening his lips slightly.

“You apologized… to me, for what you did. And said it was wrong,” she clarifies.

“Yes,” he repeats, and his voice grows even more measured. Alice wonders if it physically hurts him to hold back his anger.

“And it was sincere?” she asks.

He tilts his head little, eyes flicking over her, scanning — deciding. But even after that pause, he says nothing. He keeps watching her, silent.

She smirks, feeling a bit of tension leave her shoulders. So that’s it. This is him. Playing with words that mean nothing to him, testing a new tactic to get closer, to get under her skin.

Alice shakes her head with a tired smile.

“Apologies are a useless waste of breath when they don’t mean anything, Tom,” she says, not to offend him, not to teach or correct him — she’s just tired.

Suddenly, he takes one small step toward her. She doesn’t move, caught off guard. Up until now, the interaction made sense in her head — just another manipulation, trying to soften her, maybe the last attempt before using magic to force her compliance. But he doesn’t reach for his wand. And wouldn’t it be uncomfortable to cast a spell from this close? Just half a step away.

His face remains emotionless — the same blank mask he always wears, so she won’t see how deeply he probably despises her. But in his eyes, something flickers — quiet determination. Something solid.

“I was sincere when I said I wouldn’t do such a thing again,” he says slowly, like he’s careful — maybe even afraid she’ll disappear again, like she always does when she’s had enough.

“But…” she says, her brows furrowing into a sad expression. This time, it’s real. “I can’t trust you,” she continues, almost apologetically. “You’ve given me no reason to. In fact… you’ve given me every reason not to.”

His jaw tenses. But it’s not anger on his face — it’s something quieter, heavier. Acknowledgement. The kind he doesn’t want to voice. She offers a sad smile. Because, truth be told, she wants to trust someone — anyone. It’s exhausting to be alone in all this.

“It’s a good thing you don’t have to,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. His lips curl up just slightly.

Goosebumps ripple down her spine. What in the world is that supposed to mean?

Tom slips a hand into his pocket. Instinctively, she takes a step back, her eyes snapping wide.

“No need to be scared,” he says, almost gently. His smile grows, touched with amusement — that unsettling kind he gets when someone is afraid. “It’s just a little present. Something to make you feel safer around here.”

He pulls out a small, matte-black box, no larger than his palm.

“Oh…” she breathes, eyeing it. “Isn’t that a bit forward? I mean, we’ve spent such a short time together. Shouldn’t you be on one knee?”

He rolls his eyes and opens the box.

Inside, resting on black velvet, lies a delicate gold bracelet. The chain is fine and feather-light, with a subtle shimmer. At its center hangs a small golden disc, perfectly round, the size of a thumbnail. Intricate runes are etched along its edge in a circle. In the middle of the disc sits a single deep red stone, most likely a ruby, set like an ever-watching eye.

She leans in, inspecting the runes. She has no idea why, she doesn’t know how to read runes.

“What does it do?” she asks, not touching it.

“It detects poison,” he says simply. “If your food or drink is tainted, the stone becomes black.”

“Why should I believe this?” she asks, her gaze flickering back to his face — just in time to catch the amused smile playing on his lips. “How do I know it won’t chop my hand off the moment I put it on?”

He watches her, still wearing that irritating trace of amusement. His eyes trace her face with precision, and his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a wider grin. That’s what throws her off — what does he find so damn funny?

“Should I repeat myself?” he asks, head tilting slightly. “I don’t need your hand. Or any of your organs, for that matter. If I were to chop off something it’d be your tongue.”

She lets out a quiet chuckle — dry, involuntary — and glances down at the bracelet again. Then, cautiously, she reaches out and takes the box, careful not to touch the bracelet itself.

It looks nice. But sometimes, the things that seem nice are the ones you should fear most. She flicks her gaze back to Tom. He’s still watching her. Alice isn’t even sure he’s looked away once since he walked in. She taps the edge of the box with a fingernail, squinting up at him.

“Come with me,” he says — and, strangely, it sounds more like a request than a command. She lifts her eyebrows in quiet challenge.

“You want to find out if this thing…” he reaches out and plucks the bracelet from its cushion, letting it dangle between his fingers like something delicate, fragile. “…actually works, don’t you?”

His tone has that lilt — a playful dare, like this is all some harmless game. Like he’s someone who could be a friend. But he’s not. He’s playing, and for what purpose, God only knows. Wouldn’t it be easier to just cast Imperio and be done with it? Then she has no choice left but to obey.

Still, Alice doesn’t mind the idea of playing along — just to see where it leads. The worst that could happen is Tom showing his true face again, confirming what she already knows: that she can’t trust him.

It’s not like she has anywhere else to be.

She glances toward her bed — unmade, but quietly beckoning — then back at Tom, whose face is all polite blankness.

“Alright,” she says with a shrug, as if her chest isn’t tightening with anxiety. As if that raw, trembling feeling isn’t the most alive she’s felt in days.

Tom gives a polite smile and gestures toward the door, inviting her forward with a calm, quiet certainty.

*~*~*

“So, where exactly are we going?” Alice asks once they’ve made it halfway down the hall.

“The dungeons,” Tom answers simply.

He hears her footsteps stop behind him, and pauses too — hiding the smirk threatening his lips. Slowly, he turns back to her, eyebrows raised.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, all innocent curiosity.

Alice blinks at him, her mouth parting slightly, as if she can’t quite believe he’s serious.

“I don’t want to go to the dungeons,” she says slowly, like she’s testing the words.

Tom keeps the same unbothered expression. Her face, though, grows more uncertain by the second.

“That’s where the Potions room is,” he explains, calmly. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay here and I’ll bring some ingredients and vials over… but then, how would you know I’m using real ones?”

Alice frowns, clearly unsettled by the idea of being maneuvered. He notices — she hates being cornered, even politely. So he waits. And after a moment, she nods.

“All right,” she says quietly.

He turns without another word, continuing down the corridor. She follows — her steps lighter now, but with caution.

“You know, you could’ve just said we were going to the Potions room in the first place,” she says eventually.

And yes, he could have — but where’s the fun in that? He doesn’t bother making up an excuse.

“And can you stop running?”

“Can you start eating properly, so you have the energy to keep up? This is my usual pace,” he replies.

She doesn’t respond to that, and he has to resist the urge to glance back at her. It should be enough that she’s still walking. But he’s curious. She reacts to things in ways he doesn’t expect. She can smile when he tells her she’s nothing — and then go quiet when he’s simply stating facts. So he wonders, with what expression she goes quiet.

After a few beats, he hears her mutter something under her breath — too quiet to catch entirely, but he’s fairly certain he hears the words “stupid long legs.”

He slows down. Just a little.

When they reach the door at the end of the dim corridor, he stops, staring at it for a moment. He rarely lets anyone in here. Some ingredients are too rare, some potions take months to brew — a single wrong breath in their direction can ruin them. And beyond that, this is his favorite room in the house.

Only potion-making can shut his mind off for a while. It’s all about precision and control — things Tom excels at. Every drop, every slice matters. There’s no time to think about anything but the exact moment you’re in.

“Is there a problem?” Alice asks, clearly mimicking his earlier tone.

He exhales, glancing at her. She’s still in her nightgown, smirking at him like she knows something he doesn’t.

“It might be hard for you,” he says flatly, hand tightening on the doorknob, “but try not to touch anything. Or break anything.”

Her smile grows, far too smug. She nods, overly serious, the kind of nod that could only be mocking.

He rolls his eyes and pushes the door open for her.

She steps inside, eyes wide with thinly veiled amusement. He wonders if he’s that obvious about how much he values this place. Following her in, he moves straight to the cupboard of finished potions. Best get this over with. She can test the bracelet and then never come in here again.

“So,” he starts, with his back to her, “the bracelet reacts to primary ingredients — the kind used in most potions.” He selects a few vials, each containing potions with different varieties of ingredients, because, frankly, he’s curious too about how the bracelet works. “And when I say ‘most,’ I mean ingredients that are actively magical or toxic. Because technically, if you steep water, lemon, and honey in a cauldron, that’s a potion. But the bracelet only reacts if there’s at least one magical component. Which is debatable, by the way — some argue that honey from magical flora might qualify. Or water from regions steeped in magical energy. Not that it's been proven to carry active properties… yet. So it should work on all potions that can possibly harm you.”

He trails off, realizing he’s said quite a lot — and Alice has been awfully quiet. He spins around, half-expecting to catch her with a hand in one of the cauldrons. But she’s still there, exactly where he left her, standing by the door. Glancing upward in awe.

He follows her gaze — but no, no stray fairy has flown in here by accident. Just the same old walls of grey stone, a tall cell clinging to cave-like rock, and a grand window high above, set with colorful stained glass. It lets in no natural light — neither sun nor moon.

“It’s beautiful here,” she says, looking at him, awe still lingering in her voice.

“I suppose it is,” he replies slowly, glancing around.

The room is large, bathed in soft light. Long tables line the walls, covered in vials and ingredients arranged in a perfect order — one only he understands. To others, it might look like colorful chaos, flickering with strange, shifting hues. A single cauldron sits at the center, surrounded by open space.

Alice’s smile is dreamy, but there’s a trace of sadness in it — and Tom doesn’t understand why he notices.

He clears his throat, and her gaze snaps to him so quickly he’s caught off guard, left without words for a beat. “Ready to try?” he asks, the question coming out quieter than he intended.

She glances at the table behind him, where the potions are lined up. Her eyes grow distant, but she nods and steps toward him.

“All you have to do is move the bracelet over the food or drink you want to test,” he says, uncorking the first vial. “Most potions emit a strong vapor, even if you can’t see or smell it,” Tom continues. “So you need to be careful — some magical ingredients are toxic even without direct contact. Mostly flora, especially when fresh, but also some fauna. For example, Malaclaw shells aren’t harmful on their own, but once crushed and exposed to flame, they can release a vapor that causes intense headaches — and, in some cases, temporary blindness if inhaled.”

“So what do you do when you need to use it?” Alice asks. “Hold your breath?”

Tom glances at her — there’s genuine curiosity in her eyes. His lips curl up on their own.

“Well, yes,” he answers, and she raises her eyebrows. His smile grows. “Sometimes that’s all it takes. But if you need to add ingredients slowly, or one by one, it’s better to cast an air bubble around your head.”

She hums in response.

He takes out the bracelet and hands it to her. For a moment, she just stares at it, unmoving. Then she opens her palm, and Tom casually drops it into her hand, noticing how she holds her breath when the metal touches her skin — like she expects it to burn her.

But it doesn’t. The piece is harmless.

Alice even looks a little surprised. She turns it in her fingers, gently running a thumb over the disk. Then she looks at him, brows faintly furrowed, as if asking when it’s going to hurt her.

It won’t. He was sincere about that.

He doesn’t say anything — just gestures toward the open vial.

Alice looks at it for a beat, clearly waiting for some kind of catch. But then she steps up to the desk and moves the bracelet above the potion.

After a second, the stone darkens — turning black.

She lifts it closer to her face, eyebrows twitching up. Another second passes, and the stone shifts back to red.

“It’s a simple Pepperup Potion — cures colds,” he explains, watching her frown slightly at the vial. “But it contains magical ingredients, so the bracelet reacts.”

He opens another vial. “This one is the Draught of Living Death. It causes—”

“I know what it is,” she interrupts quietly.

Then she looks at him — calm, but with a sharpness buried deep in her eyes.

“The potion you used on me… was it some version of this? Death-like sleep. And nightmares. The kind you’d use if you wanted someone to suffer.”

He freezes, momentarily stunned.

Before he can compose himself, she waves the bracelet over the bottle still in his hand. The stone flashes black instantly. She lets out a quiet hum.

“It was,” he admits at last. “It was based on this one. With some… improvements.”

“Improvements,” she echoes faintly.

Her gaze drops to the table, shoulders tensing like a chill just ran through her.

“I think that’s enough,” she says. “I’ve got the concept.”

She turns back to him. Her eyes are tired now — like all the light in them had dimmed to a faint flame deep within.

And suddenly, it’s like a puzzle piece clicks into place. The whole picture complete.

She’s pale. The veins around her eyes more visible, dark circles smudged beneath them. Her body thinner, almost fragile. Her curls, once bouncy, now limp and half-straightened, drape her shoulders like wilted vines.

“Thank you for the bracelet,” she says, lowering her gaze. “And for showing me this place. It’s wonderful.”

She glances around again, and for a second it’s as if her eyes absorb the light. A ghost of a smile touches her lips — and then vanishes the moment she looks at him. Maybe it was just a trick of the light.

“I’ll be fine,” she adds. “So you don’t have to worry about the piece of your soul. A few days of sadness won’t kill me.”

Alice smiles — but her eyes stay hollow.

“Alright, I’ll go now. Thanks again,” she says, taking a breath — the kind you take before diving underwater.

“Wait,” he blurts out, stepping forward and catching her wrist.

Her bones feel too close to the skin. He realizes, grimly, that he could probably snap them if he tried. She looks startled, but doesn’t disappear.

He gently takes the bracelet from her hand.

“You can tell me,” he says, fastening it around her wrist. “If you need anything. To make your time here… more bearable.” He turns her wrist carefully. The clasp clicks shut. “Do you?”

He lifts his eyes to hers. She’s already watching him, her gaze narrowed just slightly.

They stare at each other for a few beats — not just watching, but really looking. Her wrist is still between his fingers; he feels the faint pulse and isn’t sure if it’s hers or his. For a moment he sees in her eyes something, her gaze sharpens, focused — like she sees something too. Like something almost clicks.

Then, all at once, it’s gone.

Her eyes cloud over, whatever was there slipping deep beneath the surface, hiding. Her face lights up with a smile. Thin. Hollow. Fake.

She yanks her wrist back in one swift motion.

“Nothing comes to mind,” she says lightly. “But I’ll let you know if it does. Now you can focus on finding a way to pull that piece out of me.” She squints slightly as she says it.

She gives a casual wave. The bracelet jingles on her wrist as it slips down — like it had always belonged there.

Then she vanishes.

Tom remains still, eyes fixed on the spot she just occupied.

For some reason, every interaction with her takes longer to process. They don’t fit into any framework he knows. No pattern. No standard.

Life, it seems, is testing him — sending this girl from another world like some sort of punishment.

His lips curl up. But punishment or not, he doesn’t intend to lose.

Chapter Text

Is he fucking serious?

‘If there’s anything you need.’ Alice repeated the words silently, grimacing. She’d been stuck here for what—almost half a month? And only now he’d decided to play the sweet, thoughtful host?

She hated being lied to. And this—this was a lie wrapped in fake kindness. He was so obviously trying out one of his little tactics.

‘Anything you need…’

Yeah, she needed not to be living in the same house as a murderer who was clearly just biding his time until he could finally get his precious soul back and be rid of her.

And he was the one who put it there in the first place. Ripped it out of himself in some half-baked dark ritual and stuck it in an old, dusty ring. Who even does that? That’s on him, start to finish.

If you’re going to take that kind of risk, then be ready to deal with the damn consequences. No one said, “By the way, your soul might end up in someone else.” Too bad. That’s what you get for choosing a ritual that’s been tested exactly once (1).

So why she was the one to suffer?

And what’s the point of playing nice now? He’s already shown her his true self—was she just supposed to forget that? Forgive it all?

Fucking lunatic shoved her in the tree. There’s still a greenish bruise blooming on her shoulder.

Is he still trying to figure out his future? Why the hell did she even tell him about it in the first place? She wanted to say she had no other choice, but honestly? She did. She could’ve made something up—told him she was a Seer, or that she only knew his past, or that the book wasn’t finished yet. Anything. But instead, she handed the Dark Lord a locker holding his ultimate victory… and kept the key.

Yeah. She’d probably be pissed too.

And that damn ring. Why would she give it up? If destiny hands you something like that, you don’t just hand it over to some stranger who claims it’s his. Shit, she should’ve run the moment she woke up that day—not sat there like an idiot, admiring the room and being confused. She has to get the ring back.

But how?

Sneak into his room and steal it while he’s asleep? Slip some Draught of Living Death into his tea and take it off then? What if the lunatic glued it to his finger and she’d have to chop it off?

Ugh.

Two things were clear:

He didn’t trust her any more than she trusted him.

And she needed to get out before he figured out how to extract his soul and kill her.

But now he was trying to win her trust. Probably so he could manipulate her into telling him more. The end was already written—he was going to kill her. So what if she played his game instead? Pretended. Distracted him. Could she get out before he dropped the mask?

“If you keep staring, it’s not just going to jump into your mouth,” a sudden voice says behind her, and Alice jolts hard.

She spins around in her chair. Speak of the devil.

Tom stands there, leaning against the wall like he owns the place—which, to be fair, he does—but still. Have some decency. Don’t just appear like that.

He’s dressed in a plain white shirt, two buttons undone, and simple, strict black trousers. His expression is unreadable, studying her with detached amusement as if her startled reaction is just mildly entertaining.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asks, frowning.

Her gaze tracks him as he walks to the opposite end of the long dining table and takes a seat.

“Around fifteen minutes,” he replies casually, settling in and locking eyes with her. “You didn’t look away from your oatmeal once. Looked like you were in a full-blown argument with it. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Fifteen minutes. He was just standing there? Watching her in silence? What the hell. Creep. He smirks as her face twists in a grimace. Great. He enjoys being a creep.

“Don’t like the oatmeal?” he asks, lifting a hand. The kettle floats into motion, pouring tea into his cup with calm precision.

“It’s fine,” she mutters. “Far from my favorite. But I don’t mind it.”

She stirs the bowl for what must be the thousandth time. Fresh berries. Bananas. A very healthy breakfast. The oatmeal clings to her spoon, slowly sliding off in a gluey mess. Her lips twitch in distaste. No, definitely not a favorite.

She watches a few blueberries crush into the mixture, bleeding into the grey sludge, tinting it a pale, miserable purple.

“So, what is your favorite?” Tom asks, voice light with curiosity.

She shoots him a look. He’s already mixing his own oatmeal, not even glancing her way, his brows raised in polite interest.

What a bright, almost blinding contrast to everything before — all the sharp lines, the glares like knives. Where did those go? And what is this supposed to be now? Is she expected to believe it?

She has to consciously stop herself from looking at him like the piece of shit he is. She won't be able to hold this up. No way he'll believe she’s actually playing along with this act of his. Nope. She doesn’t want to smile and nod. She wants to spit in his face.

“Usually I have extra sweet pancakes,” she says slowly, managing to curve her lips into something like a smile. “With cream and all. Goes well with coffee. And I read somewhere it’s better to eat sweets only in the morning…”

She trails off when she catches his gaze — focused, attentive, like he’s really listening. Like he’s remembering.

It’s… uncomfortable. Too much. Too sharp.

“So, uh… yeah. I made it a habit to eat sweets in the morning,” she finishes awkwardly.

He’s still looking. Still listening.

“It’s not like I don’t eat sweets the rest of the day, I mean, I tried,” she continues, words stumbling out without her permission, “but it’s just… always been so hard, you know? When you tell yourself not to do something, and you end up doing it anyway, because you can’t stop thinking about it.”

Why is he still looking?

Why is she rambling like a nervous teenager?

Her eyes drop to her hand — her traitorous hand — absentmindedly spinning the spoon in circles. She stares at it. Betrayal.

With a deep breath, she closes her eyes and accepts the defeat. Pathetic. Why is she even doing this? Oh. Right. To maybe not die at the hands of Lord Fucking Voldemort.

Tom hums softly, and she risks a hesitant glance at him.

Great job, Alice. You didn’t speak to him for a whole week — well, unless you count trashing his dead mother’s memory — and now you’re rambling about pancakes.

Yeah. Real subtle. He’s totally buying it. She mentally slaps herself.

Tom’s expression is thoughtful.

“I could ask for some pancakes for you next time. Cream and… what else?”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh no,” she blurts, then immediately scrambles to correct herself. “I mean—yeah, that would be nice.” Tom raises an eyebrow, saying nothing, waiting. His silence feels heavier than any response. “It’s just… I don’t know,” she continues awkwardly, “I usually make them myself. So I just add whatever I’m craving that morning. But I can’t do that here — your kitchen doesn’t really work for me.”

Her lips press into a thin line as she drops her gaze again. Is it just her, or did the oatmeal become even uglier?

She stabs at it with her spoon, then tries to shift the topic.

“Where do you get ready meals, anyway?”

He doesn’t answer. Not immediately. Her eyes flick back to him, worried. Is he mad now?

But the look on his face isn’t anger. It’s something quieter — distant, thoughtful. Like he’s doing a puzzle in his head. What is he thinking? Then he blinks, his attention snapping back to her like a switch being flipped.

“Restaurant on Diagon Alley,” he replies. “This table’s enchanted — it’s connected to them. I just send the menu for the week.”

“Wow,” she breathes, eyes studying the table. It’s covered now with a crisp white cloth, but the legs peek through — carved with runes. She leans closer. The pattern repeats, over and over. “Fancy,” she mutters, half to herself, lost in thought. Then her gaze snaps back to him. Why is she still talking? God.

But Tom doesn’t seem annoyed. He looks amused — lips curved slightly, eyes glinting with quiet interest.

“About the kitchen,” he says, voice unusually warm with a smile. And to her shock, it actually sounds nice like that. “All you need is a wand. You don’t even need to know spells. Everything’s charmed. You just need access.”

“But I can’t have a wand,” she says slowly. “I’m not a witch. I don’t have magic. Or… would it work if anyone held the wand?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

“No,” he answers, frowning. “You’re telling me you can disappear into thin air whenever you like, and you still don’t think you’re a witch? Or is that just normal where you’re from?”

She blinks. Then again.

She never really thought about it like that. Her ability to slip through walls, to appear wherever she wanted — it never felt like magic. Not this world’s magic, anyway. It always felt like… hers. Familiar. Warm. Natural. Not like the cold, precise strangeness she read in the book before coming here. That world had never felt like it belonged to her.

“No,” she finally says. “But it’s not regular magic, is it? What if it’s not from this world at all?”

“Not from this world?” Tom echoes, narrowing his eyes.

Alice shrugs. “Like… what if I brought it with me, from mine? And it just looks different here. Or maybe I picked it up while traveling through time and space. I don’t know, maybe I was bitten by a radioactive space-spider, and now I have powers and I’m destined to wear a ridiculously tight suit in screaming colors and save the world once in a while.”

Tom stares at her. Blinking. Monumentally lost.

She blinks back, face completely neutral.

“…Okay,” he says slowly. “I understood maybe half of that. But about magic — you can’t just have it. Magic is everywhere, wizards and witches only channel it. We let it pass through us, shape it with spells, curses, rituals. What you do… that’s still magic. Just shaped in different form, unusual yes, but usual now was same unusual centuries ago.” He waves his hand vaguely, like gesturing at her whole existence. “But you don’t create it. You draw it in. If you had your own magic, as you claim, it would either run out eventually… or make you a magical source. And that’s impossible.”

“Why not?”

His lips curl into a faint smile.

“Humans can’t be magical sources,” he says, like explaining something obvious. “If you were one, your entire existence would be magic. You wouldn’t think in simple human terms anymore. You wouldn’t be human, not really. You’d be detached from everything — from the world, from emotion, from time.” He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “Wizards can sometimes touch that state — during rituals that require enormous magic. Just for a moment, they become part of something… beyond. But even then, it’s temporary.” His gaze flicks to hers. “If you were a magical source, you wouldn’t know fear. Or sadness. Or anything at all. You wouldn’t be Alice anymore. You’d just be magic.”

That sounds terrifying, Alice thinks. And yet… tempting.

“Did you feel it?” she asks eventually, her voice softer than she intended.

Tom nods, his gaze fixed on her—and yet distant, like he’s looking through her, or at something only he can see.

“And was it…” she hesitates, searching for the right word, “I mean, it sounds…”

“It was calm,” he says quietly. “Utterly calm. Like… nothing mattered anymore. No hunger, no fear, no time. Just silence, and light, and stillness.” He exhales through his nose. “And then it shattered. When the human part came back.”

For a few long moments, he remains motionless, his eyes clouded. Then he shakes his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint smile as he shifts his gaze to her.

“So really, all it takes is getting you a wand and you’ll be able to cook if you like,” he says lightly, sipping his tea.

“Is that so?” she asks, raising a brow. “And what—you’re just going to hand me a wand now?”

He looks at her with an expression of feigned innocence.

“Why not?” he says with a shrug. “Though you’ll have to choose it yourself. No one else can pick a wand for you. How do you feel about a little walk to Diagon Alley?”

Alice stares at him, baffled. Is he serious? Just like that, he’s offering to take her wand shopping? Like this is normal?

Oh, he’s good. Every move, every glance—measured. Perfectly in sync with the illusion. Nothing in him betrays the cold-blooded killer underneath.

“That simple?” she asks. “And you’re just going to walk me down the street like we’re old friends? What if I run?”

He chuckles, amused. “You can’t. Not without it, can you?” he asks, lifting a hand. That damn ring glints at her, mocking.

“Right,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes at him. “Okay. But what if I tell someone you’re keeping me here against my will?” His smile widens, more genuine now, like she’s said something adorable. “Or,” she continues, “what if I take that wand and smash the nearest branch over your head the first chance I get?”

He leans back slightly, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“You?” he says, grinning now, like she’s told the funniest joke he’s heard all week.

She glares at him. Does he really think she’s not capable of throwing a branch at his head? Alice looks him up and down—oh, she’s very capable. And very much willing.

At her death stare, he coughs into his fist, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. She narrows her eyes even more.

“All right,” he says, nodding seriously. “We’re not doing that. You’re right. Thank you for these very reasonable points—how could I have overlooked them?”

He tsks, shaking his head like he’s mildly disappointed in himself.

“Wait… what?” she blurts out.

Tom raises his eyebrows, but his lips are pressed tight, clearly holding back a smile.

“No, no, you’re absolutely right,” he says solemnly. “I wouldn’t want to die because some girl threw a branch at my head. That would be terribly embarrassing for the great Dueling Master, wouldn’t it?”

“I didn’t say I’d win in a duel,” she mutters, feeling her face warm. “You could just… get distracted.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, still mock-serious.

“Oh, stop it,” she mumbles, crossing her arms. “You could’ve just said you don’t believe I could possibly hurt you, because you’re so cool and so powerful, and mere mortals like me can’t possibly be threats to someone like you.”

He chuckles, the sound low, almost warm.

“Oh, you’re definitely a threat, Alice,” he says, lips still curled. “Just not in the way you think.”

She frowns. Why is he always so damn sure of himself? Maybe she should vanish a few times just to piss him off.

“Now listen,” Tom says, the amusement draining from his voice. He’s still calm, but there’s something colder in his tone now. His gaze sharpens—steady, locked on hers—and she finds she can’t look away.

“My reputation is flawless. Besides being a Master in Dueling, I also hold mastery in Charms and Potions. While you… you’re no one here. And when it’s my word against yours, who do you think they’ll believe?”

Alice stiffens. Is he trying to scare her?

“I also have quite a few very powerful connections,” he adds, almost gently. “People who can find anything—or anyone. No matter how well hidden. No matter how illegal.”

A chill runs through her. To her own horror, she believes him.

She keeps telling herself he’s just messing with her head. That of course someone would listen if she went to the magical authorities and told them she was in danger. But the truth is… she doesn’t know how this world works. She doesn’t know how much power Tom already holds. Or if, in this place—in this time—a woman’s voice would matter much when set against a respected, charming man.

It’s hard enough in her own time. And this is the 1950s.

Not so long ago some women had been locked in psychiatric clinics with stamp “hysterical,” for being inconvenient. She wants to believe the magical world is better than that. Above that.

But what if it isn’t? Tom’s expression looks like he knows for sure.

“If you’re so eager to try something stupid — go on,” he says, leaning closer. She itches to move away, even though there’s a whole table between them. “But the only one who’s going to get hurt is you.”

Her jaw tenses. Wonderful. She’s just going to get hurt either way.

Tom gives her a thin smile, leaning back, and she breathes out — only now noticing she was holding her breath.

“Does eleven work for you? I need to answer some letters after breakfast,” he asks calmly, but the tension still hangs in the air, making it hard to breathe.

Alice’s inner self screams to say no, to not go near that man, to not even look in his direction — and especially not to take anything from him unless it’s absolutely necessary. Screw the pancakes, magic wands, and childhood dreams of Diagon Alley. Her fear begs her to stay at least five feet away from him, to find any other way out.

But what’s the other way?

There’s no one to help her. No magic without a wand. No way to escape unless she gets closer first.

“Yes,” she answers, her voice rasping.

“Good,” he says with a smile — but this time, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be waiting in the living room. Please try not to be late. I hate when people are late.”

She doesn’t answer. What is there to answer? It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Suddenly, his gaze drops to her bowl. She’s still clinging to the spoon like it’s the last straw keeping her from falling — and maybe it is. Tom’s lips twitch in faint disgust at the sight.

“And if you don’t like oatmeal, just get toast or something,” he says, a trace of disdain in his tone. “There’s no need to abuse porridge.”

Alice’s eyes fall to her meal too. Her lips curl instantly in disgust. All the berries and banana are smashed and mixed into an awful grayish goo. She pushes the bowl away.

One thing is clear: Tom isn’t as good at keeping up the image as she thought at first. He can be charming and smooth, every motion measured perfectly — but sooner or later, he’s desperate to show off his power. It’s actually a good sign. If Alice only manages to create believable illusion of obedience, if she only could make him comfortable enough he won’t question her, as soon as he thinks he has nothing to be worried, she just slips. And only God knows how long she has before he finds the way to extract his soul, so she has to start like yesterday.

She takes the toast, let’s have a lovely, friendly breakfast, shall we?

*~*~*

It’s two minutes past eleven. Alice is late.

Didn’t he mention he hates when people are late? He hates it — especially when he’s not even sure they’re going to show up.

Every tick of the clock fuels his irritation. How hard is it to be on time? Or, if you’ve changed your mind, to at least say so — on time.

Tom glances at the staircase. Empty staircase.

Why is he waiting, anyway? She’s the one who’s late. He doesn’t have to wait — he could be doing something far more important. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose.

But no. He’s decided she’s the priority now. Oh, he hates it. He hates it so much it itches in his bones.

But he has to get closer to her — make her feel safe enough to trust him, so he can manipulate her.

The second hand clicks softly, landing on twelve. Four minutes past eleven. He’s going to kill her.

He heads to the staircase, fully ready to rip her head off with his bare hands and say goodbye to one piece of his soul. It’s fine. He still has two more Horcruxes. He was planning on making more anyway. He can afford to lose one.

“Alice!” he calls, voice low but sharp, as he passes the stairs.

“Yeah?” comes her faint voice, utterly unbothered. “I’m in my room!”

Is she joking? Is she that stupid she just forgot? Either way, she’s dead.

He reaches her door in a few long strides. It’s half open. He still knocks — force of habit — and pushes it the rest of the way. For a moment, his vision blurs from the rush of anger. Then he sees her.

Alice runs from one side of the room to the other, glancing up when she notices him. Her eyes light up.

“Oh, good,” she says, grabbing a hanger with a cloak off the wardrobe door. Then she runs to the bed and snatches another. “Hold this.”

She shoves both into his hands — and he’s so baffled, he takes them.

Moving quickly, she strides to the window and throws the curtains open wider. And only then does he realize what she’s wearing.

The same t-shirt she arrived in. But this time, no shorts. Just her bare legs, all the way up to the upper thigh where the shirt covers the rest.

Tom’s eyes widen for a split second.

He looks away — sharply — just as she turns and narrows her gaze at the cloaks in his hands.

“Can you?” she asks, and before he can react, she’s gently lifting his hands, positioning them just so. He flinches slightly at the touch — but obeys. His arms rise. She steps back.

“Ugh…” she sighs. “Why is it grey?” she mutters, more to herself than to him, snatching the perfectly black cloak from his hand. Without a second glance, she tosses it onto the bed and marches back to the wardrobe.

Tom looks around. The room is a disaster. Clothes draped over chairs, hangers, and even the bedpost. The bed is made, but barely — it looks like she’s been jumping on it. The carpet isn’t even lying flat anymore, as if the room itself is revolting against order.

“Important question!” she calls from the wardrobe. “Hat or no hat?”

He glances in her direction, only for his eyes to land once again on her bare legs. He turns away immediately. Does this girl have any sense of modesty?

“I’m right here, you know?” she continues, completely unfazed. “I rarely wear hats. I always forget them somewhere the second I take them off. And I’ve never worn a pointy one — I’m not sure I like it.”

“Alice,” he begins, clearing his throat and keeping his gaze firmly locked on her face. “Why aren’t you ready? Do you even know what time it is?”

“No,” she says flatly, like the answer should be obvious. “I don’t have any clocks in here, do I?”

He just stares at her. She blinks, then suddenly raises a finger and points to her head — a black hat sits there crookedly, like an afterthought.

“It’s fine,” he says.

She huffs and snatches the hat off, tossing it somewhere into the wardrobe with zero regard. Tom grimaces. Does she enjoy living in this mess? And why is he still holding this ridiculous cloak?

“I asked you not to be late,” he says, voice tight.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she replies, still rummaging. She actually sounds sincere, which is somehow worse. “It’s just… these cloaks look weird on me. They make my shoulders look broad. The only one that doesn’t is that grey one, but grey makes me look old.”

“It’s black,” Tom corrects, for some reason even he can’t explain.

She peers out of the wardrobe with a blank look.

“Against the sun, it’s black,” she says, voice gentle like she’s explaining something to a small child. “In the sun, it’s wet-asphalt grey. And it makes me—”

“—look old, yes, I got it,” Tom cuts in, quick and exasperated.

Alice nods, satisfied, and turns back to the wardrobe.

Why are they even having this conversation?

“Is there any particular reason your outfit needs to be this precise?” he asks.

Suddenly, she gasps and steps out, clutching something in her hands.

“Yes,” she says slowly, to herself. Then frowns. “Or no. I’m not sure.”

She spins around and heads back to the bed, snatching the remaining cloak from his hand.

“And yes, I’ve been dreaming of getting to Diagon Alley since I was like five. I have to look nice — childhood dream, you know?” she says, eyeing the outfit tossed on the bed. “Besides,” she adds, glancing at him, “I haven’t been around other people in ages. I’m nervous.”

Tom watches her a moment, weighing whether she’s telling the truth. But she’s already turned back to the clothes with a focused expression, fussing with the sleeves.

“Be ready in ten minutes,” he says, turning toward the door. “You’re already late. Or do you think I don’t have better things to do than wait for you to pick a cloak?”

“No—wait,” she says quickly. “Where are you going?”

“Out. Don’t you need privacy to change?” he asks, pausing with a glance over his shoulder. Her expression is genuinely worried.

“No,” she scoffs. “I need not to be left alone in this room with the mirror, or I’ll never make a decision.” She eyes the large mirror beside the wardrobe with a hint of dread. “Just—” She hurries to the half-open bathroom, arms full of clothes. “Just this one, okay? Just look at this one. I think it’s the one. I just need a fresh pair of eyes, because I hate everything now.”

And you already called an obviously black cloak grey, Tom thinks.

“Are you still there?” Alice’s voice echoes from the bathroom.

“Yes,” he sighs. Why is he still here?

“Good!” she chirps, far too cheerful.

He rolls his eyes. Maybe this will help win her trust. That’s the point, after all. He clasps his hands behind his back and waits.

His gaze drifts around the room again. There are leaves and flowers laid out on the table — some branches, stones, too. He chuckles under his breath, that’s like piece of heaven in this mess. They're clearly arranged in some kind of order, though the pattern escapes him. Flowers are knotted around the branches in odd little compositions. He remembers flashes from her memories — painting. Was she an artist?

“All right,” Alice says, her voice suddenly close. “Is it okay? It’s hard to choose clothes when you’ve never seen how they’re actually worn in real life. Do I look stupid? I feel like I look stupid.”

Tom turns to look at her. His eyes scan her up and down once — then again, slower, with a slight frown of concentration.

She’s wearing a deep blue cloak that looks nearly weightless, floating softly around her frame. Beneath it, a simple white dress hangs from thick straps, showing her collarbones. The skirt blooms just above her knees, patterned with little blue flowers that match the cloak. A thick black belt wraps snugly around her waist. She wears plain black shoes with a short heel.

It’s good to know, Tom thinks, that the receipt from the shop that sent all this wasn’t a waste after all.

She doesn’t look stupid. She looks like she belongs.

“Okay, one more moment of silence and I’m going to change,” Alice warns, stepping on a place uncomfortably.

Tom’s gaze snaps back to her. She is really looks unsure for some reason. Why? He is fairly sure there is the mirror in that bathroom.

“You look good,” He says simply, shrugging.

Alice frowns, “Yeah?” she asks chewing on her lip and crossing the room to get to the mirror again. She looks her, patting on the skirt and turning back and force. “And you not just saying it, because you’re sick of waiting.”

Tom snorts and Alice shots him a sharp look from the mirror.

“I’m not about to walk around with someone who looks ridiculous. Believe me, if you looked bad, I’d tell you,” he says. Her frown deepens.

“You know what,” she says, spinning on her heel, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Then the frown melts away, replaced by a broad smile. Her eyes gleam, unbothered and light, full of something warm and effortless. And she’s looking right at him, like the world holds no problems, like she’s simply happy to be here.

Tom twitches his head slightly, brushing off the discomfort that rises in him at such a blatant display of emotion.

“We should go,” he says, sharper than intended. Alice notices—her face shifts with confusion. “I waited long enough,” he adds, she looks away with something close to apology.

He turns and walks out without waiting, as he should have from the start. Soon enough, he hears her hurried steps catching up behind him.

“Sorry about that,” she says, a little breathless. Tom slows to avoid hearing a remark about his long legs. “I’ve always been bad with time,” she goes on, like he asked. “Even if I start getting ready hours before, I’ll zone out drinking coffee and still be late. Or I’ll get ready early, start wandering around, and end up late anyway because I walked too far.”

Tom steps toward the door, checking the wards before they leave. Alice stands beside him, watching for a second, but as he begins casting spells, her attention quickly fades. Her gaze drifts to the window.

“It’s like a curse,” she murmurs thoughtfully.

Tom glances at her with a frown—only to realize she wasn’t talking about the wards. Still staring out the window, lost in her own world.

Ah. Probably talking about her time management problem.

He doesn’t bother to respond—Alice doesn’t seem to need one. When he finishes checking the wards, he moves toward the fireplace. She follows behind, absentmindedly.

“Are you ready?” Tom asks, taking a pinch of Floo powder.

“Yeah,” Alice replies.

“Come on, then,” he says, gesturing to the fireplace with his free hand.

Alice’s eyebrows jump. “What? That thing again?” she asks. “Do I have to? Can’t you go first and I just… appear there after the ring?”

“It’s bad enough Abraxas already saw your ability—I don’t need any more unwanted attention,” Tom says flatly. “So, to answer your question: yes, you have to. If you still want to go.”

She glares at him, then glances at the fireplace with visible apprehension.

“Alright,” she sighs, stepping inside like she’s about to be burned alive. Her expression is pure misery.

Tom rolls his eyes and steps in beside her. “Don’t worry. I’m fairly sure your first experience felt that intense because of the Calming Draught,” he adds—for Merlin knows what reason.

Alice glances at him, chewing her lip, eyes clouded over with thought. She doesn’t respond, leaving Tom to wonder if she even heard him.

“Ready?” he asks again.

Alice nods—but nothing about her looks ready. Tom sighs silently, then wraps an arm around her waist. She tenses at the touch, but before she can change her mind, he tosses the powder to the hearth and speaks their destination.

~~~

“Fuck, I hate this so, so much,” Alice grits through her teeth as soon as the flames die beneath their feet.

Tom holds her steady until he feels her take control of her own weight, then lets go slowly. She takes a few deep breaths and doesn’t seem about to faint or vomit. Tom considers that a good sign. He steps out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron and reaches a hand back to help her. She eyes it like she’s not sure what it’s for—but takes it—only to stumble on the very first step. Tom tightens his grip just in time to stabilize her.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Weak legs after that kind of transportation.” Tom notices a faint blush on her cheeks. “Do wizards enjoy these sadistic ways of travelling?”

“Wait until you try a Portkey,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching in a brief smile. Then he looks her over, noticing the dust on her clothes and in her hair. He must have some too—this pub was never particularly clean. He lifts his wand, and Alice frowns instantly, gripping his hand—probably reflexively.

“I’m just getting rid of the dust,” he says, moving the wand toward her shoulder and flicking some into the air. “See?”

Her eyes follow the floating dust particles, and a flicker of understanding crosses her face. She lets go of his hand like it burned her. The blush deepens.

“Right. Sorry. Yeah—go ahead,” she mumbles.

He casts a few quick cleaning spells on her, then himself. Alice glances around, and her face twists into a confused grimace as she takes in the pub: wooden tables and chairs, half of them still dirty from previous customers; windows blocked to keep out even more attention from the outside world; a few people sitting in the dim corners, nursing drinks. One man is asleep on the counter, an unfinished pint still clutched in his hand.

“So…” Alice says, “where are we?”

“The Leaky Cauldron,” Tom answers.

Alice’s head snaps toward the pub again, her expression brightening with sudden excitement.

“Really?” she asks. “Is this the first thing Muggle-borns see when they enter the magical world?” She turns to him, a smile on her face, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Yes,” Tom replies, though a flicker of annoyance pinches his chest. She knows far more about this world than she ever lets on.

Alice doesn’t notice. She glances around the pub, then eyes the snoring man at the counter. “I’m shocked parents let their children go to Hogwarts after seeing this,” she says lightly.

“Come on,” Tom says, trying not to let the irritation seep into his voice. “We don’t have all day.”

Alice nods, and Tom places a hand on her back, gently steering her toward the exit—

“Isn’t this Tom Riddle!” a voice calls from the bar.

Tom closes his eyes briefly. So close.

Alice turns back, looking over his shoulder, making it impossible to ignore the voice and walk away unnoticed.

He spins on his heel, fixing a polite smile to his face.

“McBee,” Tom says smoothly. “Lovely to see you.”

The barman’s grin widens to grotesque proportions, as if his face might split from it. He sets a glass down behind the counter and steps out, reaching to shake hands. Tom takes it, suppressing a sigh.

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” McBee says. “Heard you were traveling all over the world.”

Tom forces his smile to stay in place. “I came back about a year ago.”

“Really?” McBee echoes, without a hint of interest in his tone—though his eyes gleam with curiosity as they flick past Tom to the girl beside him. “And who’s this pretty lady?” he asks, nodding toward Alice, his gaze roaming shamelessly.

Alice watches the exchange with mild interest, but nothing more.

“This is a good friend I met in the States,” Tom says flatly. “I’m showing her around. Alice, this is Tom McBee. We studied together.”

Alice’s smile appears, pleasant but not quite reaching her eyes. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says lightly. But Tom catches the sharpness behind her gaze. He hopes she doesn’t have something reckless brewing.

“It’s just Tom to you, beautiful,” McBee says, reaching out to shake her hand.

Tom resists the urge to crush that hand under his heel.

Alice hesitates before taking it, but when McBee turns her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, she stiffens in surprise. He doesn’t let go right away, holding her gaze as she looks mildly bewildered.

Her eyes flick briefly to Tom—Is this normal? they seem to ask.

“Okay, Just Tom, you can let go now,” she says, pulling her hand back as McBee lingers a second too long. Tom’s desire to break fingers intensifies.

At last, McBee releases her. Alice’s smile turns tight, strained, while McBee continues to stare like he’s forgotten how blinking works.

“Oh no,” he laughs. “Just call me Tom.”

“But I already call him Tom,” Alice says sweetly, gesturing to him. “I’ll get confused—so it’s either Just Tom or Other Tom.”

McBee laughs even louder at that. “How about your Tom?” he suggests, leering. “I could show you some interesting places myself.”

Tom’s jaw clenches.

Alice lets out a soft laugh—low, not her usual sound. Something slower. More intimate. Tom feels a strong need to take her away right now. It would be terribly inconvenient if she found some man willing to save her from what waits ahead.

“That’s nice,” Alice says, bright smile still holding in place. “But I think I’ll be alright.”

“We should go,” Tom cuts in coldly, before McBee can add more stupidity. He’s already sick of this entire conversation.

McBee shoots him a glance, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes,” Alice nods, still smiling like she’s been hit on the head. “I can’t wait to see Diagon Alley! It was a pleasure to meet you, Just Tom.”

McBee’s eyes light up as he watches Alice’s face. Tom can’t quite place the emotion behind it—but he doesn’t like it.

“The pleasure was mine, Alice,” McBee murmurs, like he’s savoring every syllable. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Riddle was always too busy for real fun—I bet that hasn’t changed.”

He looks Tom in the eye as he says it. The fool. Tom’s smile turns sharp and cold. Oh, he’s going to have to find a way to kill him now.

“Sure,” Alice replies lightly. Then her smile shifts, becoming real—and amused. “But maybe you should get busy yourself. With work, I mean. One of your customers is about to fall out of his chair.”

She nods toward the bar. Before Tom can follow her gaze, a loud thud echoes through the pub. He steps instinctively closer to her. Some customers cheer and laugh.

A man who had been sleeping on the counter has fallen—and continues to sleep peacefully on the grimy floor.

McBee spins around, his face twisted with annoyance.

“For fuck’s sake, Billy, what did I tell you?!”

He storms over to the man, but Billy just snores and sighs, deeply content in his drunken sleep.

“Come on,” Tom says, wrapping his hand around Alice’s wrist and tugging her toward the exit. She follows, still watching the scene with open amusement.

“That was fun!” she says brightly once they reach the orange-bricked wall behind the pub.

Tom rolls his eyes. “You have a strange sense of humor.”

Alice hums. “Well, the last action scene I watched was a squirrel running up a tree, so yeah—I’m easy to please.”

Tom glances at her. The ghost of a smile still lingers on her face. Maybe he should’ve just left her to the squirrels, he thinks grimly.

Maybe he didn’t think this through.

She seems too comfortable with new people. Too quick to form connections. He meant what he said: she won’t be able to get away, even if she runs to the first stranger on the street and tells them she’s being kept against her will and that Tom is a murderer.

But that doesn’t mean there won’t be consequences. And he doesn’t have time for consequences—not when he needs to figure out how to get his soul out of her.

He knocks on the bricks with a sigh, hoping she’s not that stupid.

As the entrance opens, he turns to her again. She watches the bricks shift with childlike curiosity—but when the street reveals itself, her whole face lights up like he’s never seen before.

She takes in the entire street at once—then her eyes start to leap from one detail to another: witches and wizards in colorful cloaks and eccentric hats, shops for every taste, bright windows pulsing with magical advertisements, enchanted dolls, charmed lights luring customers in, owls flying overhead, children playing with paper birds and laughing as their parents shop…

Her lips part in awe.

Tom can practically feel energy blooming in her—like she might burst into delighted chaos at any second. He remembers his first time here.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley, Alice,” he says with a smirk.

Her gaze snaps to him—and she beams. The most genuine, radiant smile she’s ever offered him.

Chapter Text

Alice’s heart is ready to fly out of her chest.

So this is what it feels like—when a childhood dream comes true. It had always been a fantasy, never meant to happen. But here she is. Standing at the entrance to Diagon Alley.

And for this moment, she’s truly happy to be here. In this world. In this time. No phone. No friends. No family. Just here. Just now.

The sun beams brightly overhead. Children’s laughter echoes down the cobbled street. Everything is colorful—so alive it almost buzzes. She feels that energy rushing through her, like a current.

For a split second, she forgets the grief. For a heartbeat, the fear vanishes. For just that moment, she’s a little girl again. A little girl who finally got her letter to the magical world.

And she couldn’t be happier.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley, Alice,” Tom says with a smirk.

She turns to him. Sunlight lights his face, turning his skin gold, making his eyes shine brighter than ever. He looks impossibly handsome—like a vision from another world. And he is, in a way.

She smiles at him, wide and open, with all her soul. Because right now, she’s even happy to be here with him.

Right now, she’s grateful he’s showing her this place. Sharing it with her. Even if he has his own reasons—right now, she decides to believe he’s doing it for her.

Screw the plans. Screw the fear. Screw the pretending. Today, she just wants to be happy. Here and now. She’ll worry about her inevitable death tomorrow.

Tom’s face scrunches into a confused expression.

Alice decides not to read into it—today is a day for childlike excitement.

Because today, she is in Diagon Alley.

So, today he is not a murderer, and she is not his future victim.

Soon enough, his expression slips back into its usual blank mask. He tears his eyes away from her to scan the street.

But Alice’s face still carries that warm smile.

“Shall we go?” Tom asks politely.

Her smile widens at that. He doesn’t need to ask.

She’s almost ready to run down the street laughing, just like the children around them.

“Mhm,” she replies, barely containing her excitement.

Tom offers her his elbow, watching her with his head half-turned in her direction.

She bites her lip to stop herself from grinning like a lunatic and takes it, letting him lead.

Her first step onto the street feels big—not just because Tom’s long strides set the pace, but because she’s actually stepping into another world. She almost feels the air shift around her, magic buzzing faintly.

Her smile grows on its own.

“It’s actually a very good idea,” she says, watching a woman in a ridiculous purple hat, decked out with feathers, trying to drag her son away from a shop window.

Alice peers at the display.

Brooms!

A colorful advertisement shows flying figures that morph into birds high in the sky, flashing the words: “Fly as fast as a peregrine!”

“What is?” Tom asks with polite interest.

Alice glances at him. His face remains blank, eyes sharp and focused on their surroundings like he’s scanning for threats.

But he still gives her a flicker of attention, watching her from the corner of his eye.

She chuckles under her breath.

“This holding-hands-in-1950s-style thing,” she says, smiling up at him. “I always get lost when walking with someone.”

Her smile grows at the memory.

“I usually zone out and wander into stores mid-conversation, or just stop to stare at something, and people keep walking without noticing. It drives them nuts.”

“Really?” Tom says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Can’t imagine why.”

Alice lets out a short laugh, Tom eyes narrow for a split second. Nope, not reading into that.

“You literally can’t!” she exclaims. “In my time, everyone has these phones—uh, smartphones. You can carry them around, and they’re always on. You can call or text anyone at any moment, even share your exact location. I don’t get why they make such a fuss about it—it’s not like I’m gone forever,” Alice muses.

“I’m going to take a wild guess,” Tom says, lips twitching, “but maybe they don’t like that you do it mid-conversation.”

“Ha,” Alice breathes out. “That makes sense. But if only they tried to make the conversations more interesting…”

Tom laughs—short, but it seems sincere. Alice glances at him. It suits him.

“Why they called smartphones?” Tom asks, seeming really curious. Can he use this information to his advantage somehow?

Alice’s biting her lip unsure. Maybe she should just enjoy the walk and try into a small talk? She wasn’t going to think about a murder part, but she was not about to be reckless.

“Because they’re smart,” Alice answers eventually. “Smarter than some humans already.”

Tom raises an eyebrow.

“They can do, like… everything,” she continues, warming up to the topic. “You can call, text, take photos, navigate with maps, read the news, check the weather, play games, listen to music, translate languages, even ask them questions and get answers right away. They’ve got these things called apps—little programs that do whatever you need. Some people even use them to control their lights or make coffee.”

Tom hums thoughtfully, as if filing away every word.

Then her eyes catch something interesting, and she instinctively tries to move toward it—only to be tugged back. She frowns, confused for a split second, until she realizes: oh, right. That’s Tom.

He’s holding her in place, watching her with one raised eyebrow, as if she’s just sprouted a second head.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?” he asks flatly.

“I saw something,” she says, still craning her neck toward the storefront. “There were paints. Can we go there?”

“No,” Tom answers immediately, his tone sharp. She turns to him with a frown.

He studies her face for a second, than clears his throat, softening ever so slightly. “We can go later. After we get your wand. You’ve no idea how odd it looks—a grown witch without one.”

She frowns in the direction of the store with paints, wondering how long they will be open. It is still early, but she doesn’t know how long stores work in magic world.

“Promise?” she asks and it sounds so childlike that she is left unhappy with herself.

Tom hears it too so he rolls his eyes. “I promise,” he answers mockingly.

She nods seriously and lets him lead her away and it’s so much alike the scene from before, when mom tried to take her child away from the window shop, amused smile appears on Alice’s face.

She watches around, catching people interested looks. Is she dressed strange after all? She should’ve chosen that grayish cloak. Most people wear black. Or maybe they just staring at Tom, she gets it, he is very attractive, she would be staring too. Either she doesn’t feel comfortable under this much attention.

She glances at Tom. He doesn’t seem bothered. Maybe she is just paranoid.

“This street is long,” she breathes out tired, to feel the silence with something.

“It’s literally not,” Tom replies. “We’ve been walking for what—five minutes?”

“Feels longer,” she mutters with a huff.

Her eyes dart around nervously. People glance at her, curious. Could they not?

When Alice used to watch thrillers, she’d always end up shouting at the screen, begging the victim to run, to scream, to ask for help. Not so easy now, is it? Her nerves were taut, Tom’s warnings still echoing in her mind. Not a single face looked friendly enough to approach. She felt utterly alone, adrift in this world. And Tom’s hand wrapped around hers—it didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like a handcuff.

What if she ran up to one of his friends by mistake? What if he just Apparated away before she even opened her mouth? Too many what ifs, and not nearly enough courage.

And if she did something stupid before getting her wand—then what? She wouldn’t even have a stick to throw at him. Better to wait. Let him buy her a wand first, then act stupid.

“So…” she starts lightly. Tom’s attention snaps to her in an instant.

“What do you do? I mean—generally?”

“Generally…” he repeats, as if testing the word. “What, your book didn’t cover that kind of detail?”

She shakes her head slightly. A witch passes them, her arm looped through a man’s. She doesn’t take her eyes off Alice—even as she walks past, Alice is fairly sure the woman turns around to keep staring. Alice shrugs her shoulders uncomfortably.

“The story’s set in the future,” she explains, keeping her eyes down now, avoiding the stares. “I have no idea what you’re doing now. You must be, what—around thirty?”

Tom hums softly, nodding. “I’m exactly thirty.”

“When’s your birthday?” she asks, unexpectedly.

He glances at her with a frown, like the question came out of nowhere. To be fair, she’s not sure where it came from either. Her tongue often moved before her brain caught up—things usually made sense by the end of the conversation. Sometimes.

“December 31st, 1926,” he answers at last.

She hums thoughtfully, unsure how to respond.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says with a shrug. The corners of her mouth twitch. “Makes sense now,” she adds cryptically.

“What makes sense?” he asks, brows drawing together.

“You’re a Capricorn,” she says, trying not to grin. “Explains a lot.”

She tsks and shakes her head in mock disapproval. Tom’s eyebrows lift in disbelief, like she’s just suggested they dine on owl.

“It doesn’t explain anything,” he huffs. “Please tell me you don’t actually believe that nonsense.”

She shrugs, the mischief dancing on her lips. “In your world, brooms can fly, but zodiac signs are too much?”

“Yes,” he says flatly.

Alice sighs. “That’s such a Capricorn response.”

Tom rolls his eyes. She can’t help it anymore—she bursts into a bright laugh at his visible irritation. He shoots her a sharp look, and she presses her lips together, failing spectacularly to hide her smile.

“Alright, alright,” she says, raising a hand in mock surrender. “So, what do you do?” She tilts her head. “You have… ugh… a job?”

He glances at her, visibly surprised.

“Well, of course I have a job,” he replies. “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

Alice chuckles.

“I already told you—I’m a potions master.”

Alice frowns slightly. “So… you brew potions? Like, for hospitals and pharmacies?”

He shakes his head with a faint smile. “No. Hospitals and pharmacies usually have their own potion masters. I brew custom orders—for private clients.”

So dark potions for clients with dark intentions, noted.

“Oh… so you’re a freelancer,” she drawls.

“Sorry?” he asks, puzzled.

“Nothing,” she says with a smile.

“What about you?” Tom asks. “Do you have a job?”

“Uh-huh,” she replies. “Money doesn’t grow on trees in my world either—unfortunately.” Alice bites her lip. “I’m an illustrator.”

“Illustrator, huh?” Tom arches an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” she nods. “I mostly do book illustrations. Sometimes magazines, a few ads here and there.”

“So, you’re a painter?” he asks, half-curious.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Alice chuckles. “I paint, yeah, but I rarely sell my own work.”

“Why not?” Tom asks, his curiosity piqued.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. When I draw for books or ads, it’s not really mine, you know? But when it is mine… it feels too personal, too much of me. And no one pays good money for paintings from a no-name artist. I don’t want to sell cheap.” She chews her lip thoughtfully. “I’ve done a few portraits, though. But even those… they’re not entirely mine either.”

Tom hums and glances at her, then says nothing. For a while, they walk in silence.

Alice watches the crowd around them—people in colorful cloaks, eyes glancing her way too often. Without conversation to distract her, the stares start to sink in again, stirring that anxious twist in her stomach.

“Here,” Tom says suddenly.

Alice turns to him. He nods toward a dark wooden building tucked between brighter, flashier storefronts. She would’ve missed it entirely.

Is it—?

“Your wand awaits,” Tom says with a faint smile. “Come on.”

*~*~*

Tom opens the door to Ollivander’s wand shop, soft bell ringing above, to greet new customers. Excitement flickers across Alice’s face, though she seems to try and hide it. She peers inside cautiously before stepping in slowly. Tom follows, quietly observing every shift in her expression. There’s subtle excitement, curiosity, a hint of fear—but most of all, a childlike sense of awe.

“I’ll be right there,” Ollivander calls from somewhere deep within the shop.

Alice’s eyebrows jump at the sight, though the awe still lingers in her eyes. Tom follows her gaze. Frankly, there’s nothing particularly awe-inspiring here—just boxes upon boxes, stacked to the ceiling, gathering dust, waiting for their chosen owners to finally walk through the door. One of them, he knows, is meant for her.

“Try to act natural,” Tom mutters, glancing back at her.

Alice spins toward him, an amused smile already tugging at her lips.

“If you expect me to fake an American accent,” she drawls, “I’m definitely not doing it.”

“I expect you to pretend,” he scoffs. “As if you’ve ever held one of these before.” He nods toward the display of wands near the window.

Alice frowns, her brow knitting like she’s trying to solve a particularly stubborn riddle.

“But I haven’t,” she murmurs, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “At least… not that I know about.”

Tom is fairly certain she says things like this just to provoke him—for sport. He inhales deeply through his nose, and her lips twitch at the corners. Of course she finds this funny. Stupid girl. Why is he the one stuck dealing with her? Destiny must have a cruel sense of humor.

“Oh—you expect me to lie?” Alice whispers, suddenly solemn.

He just stares at her.

Her lips twitch harder now, like she’s trying not to smile. Then she gasps, scandalized, and throws herself back with a hand to her chest like she’s been mortally offended.

Tom briefly wonders if he could kill her right now and get away with it. Alice, no longer bothering to hide her amusement, bursts into a high-pitched laugh that makes him grimace. Why? Why is he the one stuck with her? Destiny must truly hate him.

Suddenly, the floor creaks behind Alice. In a flash, Tom draws his wand from his sleeve. Alice spins around, startled. Her laughter dies instantly.

A woman stands there, a calm smile playing on lips painted a striking red. She wears a long, deep blue dress that clings to her like a second skin. Her thick black hair cascades down her back in glossy waves. Though her smile is easy, her eyes are sharp—watchful, assessing every movement.

How had Tom missed her?

“Sorry,” the woman says, her voice low and slow, smooth as honey, seeping into every corner of the room like a heady fog. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Tom lowers his wand, but doesn’t put it away.

“Oh,” Alice exhales. A hesitant smile creeps onto her face. “Well, you completely failed at that.”

The woman laughs, deep and throaty, tossing her head back—her hair folding like black water. Tom narrows his eyes. There’s no way he wouldn’t have heard her enter the shop.

“My apologies, dear,” the woman says, still smiling at Alice, though something in that smile has shifted—something slightly unhinged. “How do you like it here?”

Alice frowns. “In the shop?”

The woman laughs again, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. Tom’s grip tightens on his wand.

“I’m sorry,” he interjects, voice silk-smooth. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before, Miss…?”

She doesn’t flinch at his suspicion. In fact, her smile widens as her gaze slides to him.

“You can call me Tina,” she says.

There’s something in the way she says it — almost like a threat, or a warning.

Tom doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

He glares at her for a long, cold moment, until Alice shifts uncomfortably beside him, catching the tension in the air.

“So…” Alice drawls, clearly trying to ease it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you… uh, Tina. I’m Alice. Do you work here?”

The woman holds Tom’s gaze for another heartbeat before finally turning to Alice. Her smile softens.

“I just decided to peek in for a moment. I was already leaving,” she says calmly. “Didn’t mean to intervene.” She tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting. “Alice… such a nice name,” she adds with a light giggle. “Light and noble.”

Alice frowns a little at that, uncertain. She opens her mouth to speak, but the woman suddenly steps forward and takes her hand, leaning in close.

Tom lifts his wand instantly, but before he can react further, the woman whispers something in Alice’s ear — soft, fast, intentional.

Then she’s already stepping back, heading for the door with a knowing smile. Alice stays frozen, wide-eyed, her mouth still slightly open.

The woman throws one last look over her shoulder, this time at Tom.

“Your name doesn’t suit you at all, though,” she says sweetly. Her smile twists into something sharper. “Far from innocent, are you?”

And with that, she slips out the door, vanishing into the sunlight.

Tom stares after her, jaw clenched. Then he turns to Alice. She hasn’t moved.

“What did she say to you?” he asks quietly.

Alice blinks. Her voice is sharper now. “Do you know her?”

“No,” Tom replies instantly.

Alice narrows her eyes. “Is this some kind of sick games of yours?” Her voice is rising, breath quickening.

“What did she say to you?” Tom repeats, his voice more urgent now.

“Something she shouldn’t know, if she’s not another mind-reading freak,” Alice snaps, her voice sharp.

“Thousands of apologies,” Olivander’s voice calls from the counter, soft and distant.

But Tom and Alice remain locked in a silent battle, neither willing to back down. Alice’s breath comes in hard, uneven gasps, her chest rising and falling with the effort to control it. Tom stands perfectly still, not a thought in his mind—only her angry eyes glaring back at him. The space between them crackles with tension, both fighting over something neither fully understands.

Neither of them is willing to give in.

Ollivander clears his throat—slowly, deliberately—to draw attention. Tom and Alice turn to him at the same time. Tom is certain his expression borders on murderous. Ollivander raises both hands in a quiet gesture of surrender.

“I apologize for the delay,” he says, voice tinged with surprise, likely due to the thick tension hanging in the air. “How can I help you?”

“She needs a wand,” Tom answers coldly, stepping away from Alice, trying to collect himself.

Alice shoots him a glare before turning back to Ollivander. A strained smile forms on her lips.

“Hello,” she says politely.

Ollivander nods, his own smile warm and pleasant. “I don’t recall your previous wand,” he muses aloud. “Normally, I remember each one I sell, but…”

“I haven’t been here before,” Alice cuts in softly. “Not from around here.”

“Oh?” Ollivander replies with a touch of interest, but he doesn’t press when she offers nothing more. “Well then, perhaps you could tell me about your previous wand—might speed up the process.”

Tom clenches his teeth. He should’ve prepared for this.

But Alice doesn’t falter. “Oh, I don’t really remember,” she says breezily. “It was so long ago…”

If Ollivander is surprised, he doesn’t show it. No one forgets their first wand. After a few careful measurements and simple questions—answered by Alice with polite smiles and charm—he finally glances at Tom, brow slightly furrowed.

“You…” Ollivander murmurs, a small wry smile tugging at his lips. “I remember you well. Thirteen and a half inches, yew, with a phoenix feather core.”

“Yes,” Tom replies.

“A wand destined for great deeds,” Ollivander says, echoing the words he once spoke to Tom long ago. He pauses, gaze drifting slightly, as if watching something invisible. “I wonder…”

Without another word, Ollivander turns and disappears into the back of the shop.

Alice glances at Tom, confused. He simply shrugs—he has no idea where the old man went either.

She opens her mouth to say something, and oddly enough, Tom finds himself curious to hear it. But before she can form a single word, Ollivander returns, holding a plain dark box in his hands.

“Here,” he says, impatience sharpening his voice. “Try this one, please.” He opens the box to reveal a light brown wand, its handle carved with a delicate, curling vine-like ornament.

Alice studies the wand for a moment before lifting it carefully from the box. She throws a quick glance at Tom—who’s already watching her, trying very hard not to look as interested as he is.

She gives the wand a cautious wave.

Several boxes shoot off the shelves, crashing loudly to the floor.

Alice screams and drops the wand like it burned her. Ollivander catches it mid-air with practiced ease.

“It bit me!” she exclaims, staring down at her palm.

Ollivander hums, unbothered, examining the wand before placing it gently back into its box.

“Not this one, then,” he mutters. “I wonder what wizard it will choose…”

His eyes flick briefly to Tom—as if he suspects Tom might know the answer. Then man’s eyes return to the present and he smiles slightly.

“Let’s try this one,” he says and takes the box from the right of the counter.

Box after box opens and closes.

Some wands fizz in Alice’s hand, others stay stubbornly cold. One sets off a small thunderclap near the ceiling; another turns the floor beneath her feet momentarily sticky. She flinches with each attempt, nerves fraying at the edges. Tom crosses his arms, watching in silence—not disinterested.

Ollivander seems unbothered, as if he’s following a thread only he can see.

“It happens,” he murmurs when another wand hisses and leaps from her fingers. “When a wand hasn’t yet been claimed by the right hands, it resists. Mismatched wands argue with their wielder. Some even retaliate.”

Alice flexes her hand. The last one singed her knuckle.

Without a word, Ollivander turns toward the back again—but this time he moves more slowly. His hand trails along the shelves like he’s tracing the edge of something invisible. Then, it stills on a simple silver-latched case, tucked away like it’s been forgotten on purpose. He draws it out gently, like he’s waking something.

He places it before Alice.

“This one,” he says. “It’s been waiting a long time.”

Alice glances at Tom. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

Ollivander unclasps the box with a soft click.

Inside lies a wand of pale rowan wood—light, almost ghostly, with delicate silver vines curling along the handle like frost under moonlight. It looks fragile. But even from where he stands, Tom can feel it humming with something older than names.

“Rowan and unicorn hair,” Ollivander says, voice almost reverent. “Eleven and three-quarter inches. Supple. Rowan wands are deeply protective. They favor those with quiet strength.”

Alice doesn’t speak. She only stares at the wand, like it knows her. Slowly, she reaches out and wraps her fingers around it.

Nothing explodes. Nothing sparks.

Instead, the room settles. The air exhales. The light seems softer somehow.

Alice blinks down at the wand like she’s surprised it hasn’t disappeared. It feels right. Like it’s always been hers.

Tom’s jaw tightens. His gaze flicks between her and the wand, trying to read something he doesn’t quite understand.

Ollivander just smiles, distant and knowing.

“Ah,” he says. “She’s found her match.”

“It’s beautiful,” Alice breathes out.

Ollivander’s smile softens.

Suddenly, Alice turns to Tom with the wand in her hand. Tom tenses at this. But she doesn’t point it at him. He frowns, realizing she’s showing the wand to him—sharing this with him for some reason. He glances at the wand, which somehow looks perfect in Alice’s hand. She’s holding it lightly, but confidently, like she’s done it for years.

The silver ornament glows faintly, and so do Alice’s eyes. She’s looking at him with open joy. For a moment, Tom wants to break it—take the wand and snap it in half, erase that expression from her face. But in the next breath, he smiles faintly instead.

Alice’s smile grows.

“Thank you,” Tom says, nodding at Ollivander. “How much is this one?”

After paying and enduring Ollivander’s meticulous instructions on wand care, they leave the shop.

They walk down the street in silence. Tom doesn’t hold Alice’s hand now, but she stays beside him anyway, her new wand tucked carefully inside her cloak. She seems uncomfortable—maybe even a little ashamed.

Neither of them speaks. Tom wonders who’ll be the first to break the silence, which feels heavier than it should. Strangely, he doesn’t know what to say, or how.

“So…” Alice finally says, almost too quietly. “Thank you.”

Tom glances at her, but she turns her head before he can catch her eyes. He doesn’t know how to respond. He can tell her gratitude is real—but his reasons for helping weren’t. And for maybe the first time in his life, that makes it harder to accept. He takes a slow breath, looks away, and just nods, even though she’s not watching.

They keep walking through the loud quiet, and he swears he can almost hear her thoughts without Legilimency.

“I wonder…” Alice speaks again, voice distant. “Did I just steal someone else’s wand?”

Tom looks at her, but she’s staring straight ahead, her expression unreadable.

“I paid for it,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

Alice lets out a quiet laugh, and something in the air around them softens.

“No, I know,” she replies, an amused smile tugging at her lips. She glances at him, but when their eyes meet, she quickly looks away, clearing her throat. “I mean… he said the wand had been waiting for a long time. What if it was meant for someone else? Someone who hasn’t even been born yet. I wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place, in this world. What if this wand was destined for someone—someone who might have saved a life with it someday—and now it won’t happen, because I took it.”

She furrows her brows, like these thoughts genuinely worry her. And honestly, Tom couldn’t care less about some hypothetical life this wand won’t save in an imaginary future. That kind of thinking is absurd, and he’s about to say so — but something in the way she’s looking, her eyes shadowed by that strange fantasy, stops him.

“What if you were supposed to be here?” he says instead.

Alice looks at him, surprise clearly written on her face.

“Maybe this wand was meant for you.” Tom shrugs. “Destiny is a strange thing. We don’t know how or why you’re here, but maybe it was always meant to happen — you ending up here. Did it feel like your wand, when you held it the first time?”

“Yeah,” Alice admits softly.

“Then it’s yours,” Tom says simply. “I don’t know if you’ll save someone’s life with it, but you’ll find a use for it,” he adds, and it comes out almost gently. He notices, but doesn’t have time to dwell on it — because a small smile is tugging at Alice’s lips, and her eyes shimmer with quiet relief.

“Like making pancakes,” she says, her smile growing.

Tom smirks. “Or throwing a branch at my head.”

Alice laughs brightly. A few people nearby turn toward the sound, pleased smiles appearing on their faces. That’s been happening all day. People keep glancing at her, stopping to watch. She draws attention — with her loud laugh, expressive face, wide smiles and curious eyes. She’s something new, something different in a world of polite expressions and fake giggles. It should bother him. But it doesn’t.

“Sorry I snapped at you earlier,” Alice says suddenly, looking away again. Tom raises a brow. “That woman freaked me out,” she adds.

“What did she say to you?” he asks again.

Alice glances at him, tension flickering in her eyes. “You really don’t know her?” she asks.

Tom shakes his head, subtle.

“She said something no one should’ve known,” Alice says. “It was about me… something personal. If it wasn’t you who found it in my memories, then… I don’t know, maybe she read my mind. She knew your name too.”

Tom nods slowly. It wouldn’t be strange for someone to know his name — he lived here, worked around powerful people, moved in high circles. He could’ve simply forgotten her. But even so, she’d known what his name meant — and that it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just clever teasing.

“She couldn’t have read your mind without you noticing,” Tom says finally.

“No?” Alice looks surprised.

“No. Even if she cast the spell wordlessly and nonverbally, you’d still feel someone entering your mind,” he explains. “The only way she could do it unnoticed is if she was born with the gift. But she didn’t seem like it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine you could hear everyone’s thoughts from birth,” Tom says. “Do you think you’d act normal?”

“I’d definitely hate everyone more. Especially men,” Alice says flatly.

Tom smirks. “Sometimes, yeah. But usually, people like that are just… off. Not fully present. Locked in their own heads, and still aware of everything.”

“Well… she was a little off,” Alice muses.

“Yeah,” Tom’s smile grows. “But not like that. You could just tell me what she said.”

Alice’s face freezes. In a second, she’s a thousand miles away. She shakes her head.

“No,” she says tensely. “It has nothing to do with you. Or even this world. It was something that’s just mine.”

Tom feels a tight pinch in his chest.

“Was it something easy to guess?” he asks.

Alice only shakes her head. They walk in silence for a few steps.

“Where are we going anyway?” she asks.

Tom pushes the thought away. He can come back to it later.

“You wanted to visit that shop, didn’t you?” he says flatly.

Alice turns to him so fast it’s a miracle she doesn’t fall. He stops too. Her face lights up instantly. It annoys him.

“Really?” she asks. “Oh, you have no idea how I missed the smell of paint! Do magical paints smell the same as regular ones?”

“I have no idea,” Tom deadpans.

“I can’t wait to find out!” Alice beams — and it looks like she might start jumping from joy at any moment.

Before anything else happens, Tom feels someone’s hand slap his shoulder firmly. He turns to his right, wand already in hand — just in case.

“I thought I saw you!” a man says with a broad smile.

Aris Lestrange stands there like he’s just won a lottery. Tom places a polite smile on his face. Another man is beside him — Abraxas Malfoy — though his eyes are fixed on Alice. Tom notices how she instinctively takes a cautious step back.

“Abraxas. Aris. A pleasure to see you,” Tom says smoothly.

“Likewise,” Aris replies. Abraxas only nods, gaze still locked on Alice. Tom suppresses the urge to grimace.

“Aris, you haven’t met my friend,” Tom continues, his tone steady. “Let me introduce you to Alice. I’m showing her around.”

Aris’s eyes flicker to Alice, his smile widening. Alice returns it, stiff but polite.

“A pleasure, Miss,” Aris says, offering his hand.

Alice exhales quietly through her nose, barely audible, but takes his hand. He kisses her knuckles, and Tom watches the exchange closely.

“Abraxas,” Tom says. “I believe you remember Alice.”

“Glad to see you, Alice,” Abraxas says with a courteous smile. “How have you been?”

Alice gives a small nod, something sharpening behind her eyes. She hesitates — just for a second — then speaks.

“I’ve been well, thank you,” she says, voice even but low. After a beat, she seems to remember herself, and adds with a practiced smile, “And you, Mr. Malfoy?”

Tom’s brows lift at that. Her voice is light, her expression pleasant, but the contrast to how she spoke with him moments earlier is stark. Abraxas notices it too.

“It’s just Abraxas to you,” he says with a tight smile.

Surprisingly, Alice doesn’t take the opportunity to joke. She only nods, her polite smile unchanged.

“Didn’t know you had a lady,” Aris says with a grin. “You’re the number one topic around here.”

Tom frowns, not quite understanding what he’s getting at.

“Ah, yes,” Abraxas adds softly. “You’ve become a bit of a scandalous couple after just one walk in public.”

Aris laughs loudly and claps Tom on the shoulder again, this time leaving his hand there. Tom has to restrain himself from brushing it off.

“How do you mean?” Tom asks, voice level.

Abraxas raises his brows, amused.

“People say,” he begins slowly, “that you started a fight over dear Alice in the Leaky Cauldron. Word is, some poor man ended up thrown out after falling off his chair.”

Alice snorts — then quickly tries to mask it with a cough. Tom, however, doesn’t react at all. He didn’t start any fight, and certainly not over a girl. And they’re not a couple to begin with.

“That’s…” Tom starts, puzzled, but the words don’t come.

Alice chuckles again, clearly amused by his hesitation.

“And I see why you would,” Aris drawls. “This lady seems like worth all the trouble.” He winks at Alice, a smirk playing on his lips.

The amusement drains from Alice’s face instantly.

“Anyway,” Aris continues without noticing. “We were just about to have lunch. Nott’s meeting us at that little restaurant you liked. Join us? Your lovely lady’s welcome too, of course.”

Tom glances at Alice. Her expression has gone pale — almost frightened.

“I’m not his lady,” Alice says softly, clearing her throat. “And I have no idea where those rumors came from. Though I am a bit surprised at how fast they’ve spread.”

“What wonderful news,” Aris grins. “Now you’re even more welcome at lunch. I can’t wait to get to know you better, Alice.”

Why does everyone say her name like that?

“Hold yourself together, Aris,” Abraxas warns mildly.

“I’m not sure I can,” Aris replies, clearly enjoying himself.

Alice looks more uncomfortable with every passing second. And for some reason, Tom finds he doesn’t enjoy it either.

“I… um… I’m actually very tired,” Alice says at last. “I’d really like to join you, but I think I’ll pass.” She gives them a tight-lipped smile, then turns to Tom. “Tom…”

“Oh, don’t worry, Alice,” Aris cuts in smoothly. “I can help you rest. In fact—”

“Aris,” Tom says, voice low.

That’s all it takes. Aris shuts up immediately.

“I’m sure you want to catch up with your… friends,” Alice continues, her tone carefully composed. “But I’d ask you to drop me at the house. I’m really tired.”

She looks at Tom, eyes quiet but pleading. She’s lying, of course — just minutes ago she was full of energy, talking about paints and wandering. But Tom doesn’t call her out.

“Alice…” Abraxas speaks suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. There’s something almost apologetic in it. Alice turns to him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she replies quickly, not letting him continue — even though it’s clear he was about to say something else.

Abraxas presses his lips together, saying nothing more.

“Alright,” Tom says. “Gentlemen, I’ll meet you there, after I see Alice home safely.”

After a round of unnecessary goodbyes — and a pitiful attempt at flirting from Aris — they finally part ways. Abraxas still looks like he wants to say something, but neither Tom nor Alice gives him the chance.

Tom is relieved to end the torment of watching Aris eye Alice like a meal. Alice, though — he’s not sure what prompted the sudden cold shoulder toward Abraxas. But the change is obvious.

She stays quiet the entire way back to the house.

Chapter Text

Alice.

She’s going to live through this.

She keeps saying it to herself, again and again, hoping that if she repeats it enough, it’ll stick. And yet… she still doubts it.

Tom says it himself—he has power. She’s no one here. And she can’t become someone while trapped in his house, speaking only to his friends.

If this were a card game, her hand would be absolute shit. His is solid. It feels like she’s doomed… unless they’re not the only ones playing.

“Alice!” Tom calls from somewhere in the house.

She sighs. So he thinks they’re friends now? Just because she’s started talking to him again? Calling out for someone like that, expecting an answer—that’s something people do when they’re close. They’re not that. They’ll never be that.

Still, she answers anyway.

“Small living room,” she shouts back.

A few minutes later, she hears his footsteps. She doesn’t turn around. She hopes it makes her look cool and nonchalant — not like someone who didn’t hear him coming. She keeps staring at the painting caught in a time loop: sunset light glowing, the water sending out bright gleams. It's magical.

Tom stops beside her, and she tenses. She glances at him from the corner of her eye. He doesn’t look at her — his gaze is fixed on the painting. The soft sunset light flatters his face, making him look even more handsome. Almost gentle.

It’s surreal. To know this man has killed, easily and without regret. And yet, in this moment, he looks angelic.

The devil was once God’s favorite, too.

Alice forces a smile.

“So, how was lunch with your friends, dear?” she asks in the tone of a doting housewife.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay on the painting, like he’s charmed by it.

“It was fine,” Tom sighs at last, glancing at her. He looks tired. Sad, even. “You should’ve come.”

And dine in the lovely company of a murderer and his minions? No, thanks. Sounds like the ultimate appetite killer.

“I didn’t want to interfere in your life that much,” she says instead, turning back to the painting — just in time to catch something unspoken flicker across his face. Alice waits for him to say it. Whatever it is.

But he doesn’t. Because that’s what they do. False politeness and unsaid things, all to keep up the image of normalcy.

Damn. She’s feeling oddly dramatic today.

“Did you eat?” Tom asks.

She hums distantly — not quite a yes, not quite a no. Her mind is still caught on her own sudden spiral into poetic tragedy.

“Do you like sunsets?” she asks, out of nowhere.

“Don’t see why I wouldn’t,” Tom replies, a hint of surprise in his voice.

She hums again. “Yeah, me too,” she says distantly. “When I was younger, I read The Little Prince, and that line about him watching sunsets thirty-seven times a day… I don’t know. It made me notice them.”

Tom frowns. They’re facing each other now, yet somehow it still feels like miles stretch between them. He listens, even if he doesn’t quite understand.

“It’s like, after that, I got it,” she goes on. “Like sunsets exist to make us stop and just… dream. Because they’re pretty. And they make everything feel a little more possible.”

Tom stays quiet for a long moment. He watches her, like he’s searching for something in her face. And Alice offers a small, sad smile. Maybe he could understand. Maybe he even feels it. But he won’t say it.

“What did you dream about?” he asks.

There are no words in any language for how deeply this question floors her.

This? This is too much. He doesn’t care — and yet he asks. Just another trick, another step to win her trust. Make her let her guard down.

“Oh, you know…” she exhales, her voice cracking mid-sentence.

Tom raises an eyebrow, watching her patiently, like he genuinely wants to know. But no — he’s just a good liar.

“I don’t know,” she stammers. “It’s more of a state, really… when everything feels possible. Like… yeah, I’ll start running tomorrow. Or I’ll get a cat. A ginger cat. And name him Black.”

Tom smirks at her rambling, and there’s something almost soft in it — something that almost looks like fondness. Heat creeps up her neck. That’s probably normal for him. People getting nervous around him. For different varieties of reasons.

“I know what you mean,” he says, voice soft.

Alice nods. Sharply. Like a complete idiot.

She stares off, gaze unfocused, because all she can think about now is the embarrassment—huge, inexplicable.

“Uh… yeah,” she mumbles. “You’re right. I didn’t eat. I’ll do that now. I feel weird. Um…” She glances at him. He’s frowning, confused, and that makes everything even worse. “Right. Bye, then! Great chat. Nice painting. Love it!”

Her eyes widen at her own ridiculous exit line, and just as Tom’s brow furrows deeper, she vanishes from the room — leaving only the echo of her embarrassment behind.

Alice appears in the dining room, heart still pounding in her chest, and she grimaces.

Yeah. Sure. She’s in a house with a murderer — a future dictator in training — who pretends to be genuinely curious about her dreams. No big deal. No need to overthink.

Shit.

She takes a deep breath, hands shaking slightly as she presses them to her face, trying to calm down.

It’s okay. It’s fine.

She just needs to get used to it — him being nice, and charming, and totally fake.

The dining table is perfectly set, as always. Hot dishes waiting to be tasted. She wants to throw them at the wall.

Instead, she just takes another deep breath and sits in her usual seat, lips pursed.

She feels a wave of disgust — at the food, or the whole situation, she doesn’t even know. She only knows one thing: the moment she tries to swallow a piece of potato, it’ll get stuck in her throat and she won’t be able to breathe.

She’ll choke.

She’ll die.

And finally, finally, she won’t have to worry about anything ever again.

“Don’t like roast beef either?” comes a low voice from behind her.

She jolts. Of course.

What a stupid habit — sneaking up on people like that?

She turns around and sees Tom — the man who clearly doesn’t understand that other people might need space — standing casually in the doorway, watching her.

Alice narrows her eyes a little. Tom takes a slow breath through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s centering himself. She wonders, distantly, how many times a day he wants to kill her on the spot and has to talk himself out of it.

“Come on, then,” he says.

“Come where?” she asks carefully, confused.

Tom exhales again, gaze gone somewhere distant. “You said you wanted to bake pancakes, didn’t you?”

Alice blinks. “Yeah…?”

“Well, come on. I’ll show you how to use the kitchen.”

He nods toward the door, voice calm and measured.

“Judging by the way you’re looking at that potato, you won’t be eating it any time soon.”

She frowns and glances at the plate. Her stomach does an impressive flip.

“I don’t want to choke on it,” she mutters, almost defensively.

When she turns back, Tom is watching her with a slightly puzzled expression. He does too much — far too much. He definitely doesn’t need to be this… nice. It’s not like she’ll forget what he’s already done. Or pretend she doesn’t know what worse things he’ll likely do next.

Still, she can make use of the kindness — while it lasts.

Alice gives him a tense little smile.

“Alright,” she says. “Let’s make pancakes.”

And the fact that she just said that — to the main villain of this universe — makes her smile turn real.

*~*~*

Tom watches Alice carefully mixing batter for pancakes, humming something under her breath, after he’d shown her how to turn the stove on and off.

He does that a lot — watches her, studies her, tries to understand.

Tom doesn’t think he’s ever put this much effort into understanding another human being. And still — he doesn’t get her.

She’s unusual. Natural, for someone from another time period. He should’ve figured her out by now, at least partially. But then she starts rambling about orange cats named Black and he’s lost again.

The truth is, he’s never needed to be around people like her. She doesn’t care about power. Or status. Or fear. Alice is… an artist.

If he had to guess, he’d place her in Ravenclaw — tucked up in her little world, with thoughts that play visibly across her face and yet remain unreadable. She’s harder to manipulate, not because she’s clever in the traditional sense, but because she doesn’t really belong to this world.

And even if she did, she’d still be too deep inside her own universe to want anything from his.

Her soft humming echoes through the kitchen, chasing away the uncomfortable silence. He’s done everything he meant to — showed her how the kitchen works, and she picked it up easily. He’s free to go now, to move on to more important things.

And yet… He stays.

Watches. She doesn’t seem to notice his gaze. But Tom knows she does.

With some relief, Tom notices Alice looks better than she did a few days ago. More alive. Her lips are no longer pale, her eyes not so hollow, and not all her smiles seem forced anymore.

“It’s strange…” she murmurs, turning the heat down with her wand. “I dreamed about magic for most of my childhood. Except for that one weird phase when I was obsessed with space travel…”

Tom doesn’t respond. He wouldn’t understand that feeling — he’s had magic for as long as he can remember. Why she’s telling him this is a mystery. Probably because she has no one else to tell.

“And now I have it,” she goes on. Her voice is quiet, distant. “I got my dream… and my nightmare at the same time.” She smirks, glancing at him as she pours the first pancake into the pan.

She’s being honest. There’s no bitterness, just a tired sort of truth. Even her smile looks sad.

Sometimes she just drops a line like this — a raw thought, no context, no build-up. Is she happy now, baking? Does she feel more at ease here? Tom watches her face carefully as she turns back to the stove.

“Don’t take it personally,” she adds quickly. “I just mean I miss my friends. My family. And—” she growls, “oh, I miss my phone.”

Tom stays quiet, watching her flip the pancake by hand like a Muggle.

“My hand feels constantly empty,” she says, softer now.

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, as though testing if he's still listening. He is, even if he doesn't understand half of what she's saying. Her expression flickers with surprise; she frowns slightly, clearing her throat.

“You’re…” she begins, but then pauses, the frown deepening as she chooses her words carefully. “Um… why are you looking at me like that?” She shoots a glance at him, turning away quickly before he has a chance to catch her eyes. “I mean, I’m not about to burn down your kitchen… I think.”

Tom smirks, unable to stop himself. “You might,” he says, before realizing he should have kept it to himself. He needs to get closer, but never at the cost of losing control over his own house. She mustn’t forget that.

But then, to his surprise, she chuckles, and the tension that had been coiling in her shoulders dissipates just as easily.

“Yeah, that’s not entirely false,” she says, glancing down at her wand with an amused smile.

“Better don’t,” he mutters, keeping his tone light.

“I won’t,” she answers, rolling her eyes. “Here, want to try?”

She places the first pancake on a plate and slides it toward him. The ribbon of heat curls up from it, the side that doesn’t usually show in cafés or restaurants—uneven, dotted with darker brown spots. The kitchen smells of vanilla and sugar, warm and inviting. Tom just stares at the plate, momentarily frozen.

“It’s not poisoned or anything,” Alice adds with a playful tease lingering in her voice. “I would never poison pancakes, anything but pancakes,” she continues with a chuckle. “Besides, you saw me cook it.”

Tom doesn’t answer immediately. A dull ache spreads across his chest—not painful, just unsettling. It feels wrong. He looks at her, surprised and lost in the moment, so much so that he forgets to mask his expression. Alice notices, her confusion immediate. She opens her mouth to say something, but Tom doesn’t let her speak. He fixes charming smile over his face, quickly hiding the tension.

“I just remembered,” he says quickly. “I have an urgent letter to write.” Before she can voice her confusion at his sudden change of subject, he turns away, the kitchen still thick with the scent of vanilla sugar and warmth — and suddenly he chokes on it. “Try not to burn anything.”

His head is actually spinning, so much that he can’t fully grasp what just happened. He storms into the training room, but even when he stops, the room keeps spinning. It makes him nauseous.

Finally, he feels it. Disgust. And then — finally — anger begins to rise in his aching chest. Familiar heat claws its way into place, settling where it belongs.

Tom shouts the first spell at a motionless figure.

The room comes to life — mannequins start moving, artifacts fire harmless spells. He dodges every single one and strikes back. It won’t stop until he eliminates every threat. So he continues the unplanned training.

It doesn’t help him see things any clearer. But it does shove the moment deep into his head, so far down he can’t reach it.

He doesn’t need to. He knows he doesn’t.

What he needs is power. Control. Not ridiculous interruptions in the kitchen — the same kitchen that’s stayed untouched since he built this house, and now smells of sickening vanilla.

He swears he can still smell it here. Faint, sweet. Sticking to his lungs.

Without meaning to, Tom fires another spell — far too strong. The last lifeless figure explodes into pieces. He watches it fall, unimpressed. Then straightens and takes a deep breath. No more vanilla. Now it just smells like ash and explosion.

*~*~*

Alice keeps walking through the woods.

Tom wasn’t at dinner. And it doesn’t matter.

So she took a long walk.

It was still sunny and warm, and she didn’t plan to go far — she just needed time. Everyone needs time sometimes. Like Tom, whom she hadn’t seen since she offered him a pancake and he looked at her like she’d committed some mortal offense.

Stupid, posh asshole.

Of course he wouldn’t want to take food from her. Just because he’s pretending to be nice doesn’t mean he’s suddenly thinking of her as anything more than dirt under his boot.

She hadn’t even thought about it when she offered the pancake — which, by the way, was delicious. It’s just what she always did. Offer the damn first pancake to the person who kept her company while cooking.

For a second, she forgot it was the Dark Lord himself.

And why does it have to be so complicated?

She’s supposed to be nice — but not too nice. Not her usual nice. Because that crosses some ancient boundary of the Great Dark Wizard and his no-muggleborn attachment clause.

She just needs a rest. A fucking rest would be nice.

Even though she hasn’t done much at all, she’s exhausted.

Also — when is the fucking end of these woods?

It’s getting darker now, and she’s not even sure if she’s walking in the right direction.

Honestly, it would be kind of funny to die here in a wild animal attack.

Who’s to say dying in the woods would be any worse than dying at the hands of Voldemort himself?

Right. No one. Because there’s no one here. Just her, alone in the woods.

She stops and looks around. Everything seems even more identical in the dim light.

“Shit,” she mutters.

She’s been stuck in her head the whole walk. But she didn’t turn too often — only to find a better path — so she should be heading the right way. Still, nothing looks familiar.

A light panic stings her chest. But then she blinks. Then blinks again, slowly furrowing.

She covers her face with her palms — and starts laughing.

What was she thinking? She can literally wish herself to any place she pictures in her mind. But of course, she’d been too distracted by Tom’s attitude to remember — walking in circles, probably in the wrong direction, even starting to panic.

She laughs a little more. She needs sleep. She needs to go home. She is not functioning normally in this fucked up place.

She takes a steadying breath — and appears to the edge of the forest, just in front of Tom’s house.

Her amusement fades instantly.

The house is dark. She doesn’t see light in any window. It’s not welcoming at all.

“Is everything alright?” comes a soft voice from behind.

Alice jumps in place, startled, and turns around — only to see Tom casually standing there in the dark, already watching her.

His face is emotionless, and at this point Alice isn’t even sure it’s a mask. Maybe this is his real face, and every emotion is just a decorative layer he wears now and then to smooth the edges.

“You really have to stop lurking like a stalker,” she says before she can stop herself.

She bites her tongue — but Tom doesn’t seem annoyed. He simply raises an eyebrow.

“Why?” he asks flatly.

Alice looks him up and down, and her eyes catch the only thing that makes her stop — his own. They look tired. No — exhausted. But not in the same way he looked exhausted during those long stretches of research, back when she first arrived.

This is different. Something’s missing.

“It’s…” she starts, but his eyes keep distracting her, so she looks away. “It’s just uncomfortable. And also I have a mini heart attack every time.”

He sighs softly and turns his gaze to the house. “Are you going in?” he asks, nodding toward it.

Alice glances back at him. Something’s off. His shoulders are down. And maybe she’s imagining it — but he seems... sad.

“Are you?” she asks.

He looks at her again.

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment.

Something is happening. She feels it — like they’re continuing a conversation without speaking. It’s strange.

But she finally understands. He’s tired. Tired like her — tired of thinking, of planning, of constantly balancing along these invisible edges.

But oddly... it doesn’t feel like he’s tired of her. Not here. Not now. Or maybe she just wants to believe that.

She exhales, shoulders softening.

She breaks eye contact first — looks down — strangely, just because she doesn’t want him to be the one who does it.

“I needed fresh air,” he says as soon as she looks away, like he wants to keep this — whatever this is — going.

Anxiety flutters in her chest. Not the terrible kind — just the kind that shows up when you're trying to keep a conversation alive but don’t quite know how.

And it’s strange — why would she want to? Like really want it? No purpose. Just… his voice is soft and pleasant, and she’s alone here. He’s alone here too. And to quote the Greatest: “Sharing a drink called loneliness is so much better than drinking alone.”

“I got lost in the woods,” she blurts.

Tom looks just slightly less surprised by that than she is.

“Forgot I can just…” she waves her hand vaguely, referring to her ability to appear anywhere. “Started panicking a little,” she finishes with a faint smile.

“I heard you laugh,” Tom says.

“You did?” Her eyes widen a bit — he nods — and her lips curl into a small smile.

“Mustn’t have been so far, then,” she mutters. “Didn’t recognize anything. It all looked the same in the dark.”

“I would’ve found you anyway,” he says simply.

It should sound creepy, shouldn’t it? But it doesn’t. It’s just a fact. He wouldn’t let her get away that easily — and for once, it’s not a threat. It brings a strange comfort. A sense of clarity. She gets lost — he’ll find her. She tries to disappear — he’ll still find her. So she just nods.

Tom’s gaze shifts toward the house.

“We should get going,” he says, still soft. “Wind’s rising.”

It is getting colder. Alice glances up — the sky hidden behind dark clouds.

“Do you think it’ll rain?” she asks.

She turns back to him — but he’s closer now. She didn’t even hear him move. Now he’s just two steps away, and she can see him clearly in the dark. His skin looks paler. His eyes, darker. He’s watching the sky, his expression distant — like he’s buried in memory.

He looks unreal. Not entirely human. Like something more.

Ha. So that’s where the God complex came from.

“Yes,” he breathes, still watching the clouds.

Then he looks back — catches her staring. Heat rises to her cheeks.

“Shall we?” he asks.

She nods, and they walk in silence — a silence that doesn’t feel wrong.

He opens the door for her, and she steps inside. With a small wave of Tom’s hand, the room lights up with soft magic.

She doesn’t know what’s next — but before she can speak, he does.

“Something came for you while you were out,” he says.

Alice raises an eyebrow at him, confused.

He nods toward the small coffee table by the couch.

She follows his gaze. A box sits there, wrapped in plain brown paper, taking up nearly the whole table. She glances back at Tom, who’s — as always — watching her.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Look and find out,” he replies, smirking.

But Alice doesn’t move yet. Last time something showed up for her, she ended up stuck inside her own nightmares. Tom doesn’t say anything else, so she turns to the box again.

Maybe it’s the softness of this evening, the warmth, the almost-connection — but this time, she approaches without fear.

Under the brown paper is a sleek, gray-black box. No note. No markings. Alice frowns and opens it — and freezes.

Strange vials. Carton boxes — small and large. And then — brushes.

Her eyes find the brushes first. Painting brushes. She breathes out and picks one up, fingers running gently over the soft bristles.

She blinks. Disbelieving.

“You…” she exhales. “You bought me this?”

“Well,” Tom says, casual as ever, “we couldn’t make it to the shop.”

“So you decided to bring the shop here?” she asks, still facing the box, an amused smile spreading on her lips before she can stop it.

“It’s one way to put it,” he says, and she hears the smile in his voice.

“Is that what you wanted?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Because it’s so much more than what she imagined. She turns to him. He stands there — calm, uninterested on the surface. But he’s watching.

“You have no idea…” she begins, then corrects herself. “It means a lot.” Tom frowns slightly. “Thank you,” she says, and gives him a smile.

He glances at the table — for a second she panics, thinking he might take it back — but he just nods.

“I’ll help carry it to your room,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”

Alice grins at that. Because it means it’s hers. She gets to keep it.

“Yes, please!” she says, with way too much excitement for her age — but Tom only puffs out something that definitely resembles a chuckle and waves his wand.

The box seals itself and floats gently into the air.

Chapter Text

Alice moves the brush across the paper in a familiar pattern, painting the sky. Her eyes are glassy but fixed on the page, following and controlling every stroke with ease.

It had always been easy—or at least for as long as she could remember. Drawing was simple, enjoyable. She could spend hours at it; it felt like her hands were made for this. When she drew, the outside world blurred and faded. Her thoughts drifted distantly in her mind, never bothering her enough to pull her away from the painting.

She was content. Even when she didn’t like the outcome or messed up a few times, the time was never wasted. That state of being—immersed, quiet, focused—was worth everything. Even when the painting wasn’t good enough—or wasn’t good at all—her disappointment never lasted. She always came back to the brushes and the colors, even in a different world.

But this time, something felt… off. She wasn’t content. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t at ease. Was it the long break? Or was it the fact that these were brushes and paints gifted by a future mass murderer? That’s the question.

Alice glances down at the painting and sighs. It was fine. Green skies and blue grass across an imaginary landscape. Nothing more. Dull. Soulless.

She didn’t enjoy it. She’d lost it. And no matter how long she tried, it would never be the same. Not here. Maybe not ever again.

She sighs again, dragging her palm across the paper and smudging the fresh colors. It doesn’t bother her—ruining something already wrong feels more like honesty than carelessness. For a moment, she just stares at the painting, as if it might give her an answer. But it stays silent. And so does Alice.

She stands and glances out the window. The wind is strong; trees bend and crack under its force—but inside, there’s no sound. Just like last night. Magical windows, with a magical soundproof charm.

Alice moves to the bed and collapses onto it, covering her eyes with her arm. It doesn’t matter—whether she can draw or not, whether she can enjoy anything or not. Everything can be taken away in an instant. She should be thinking about survival, not searching for comfort in a place like this.

She’s not far from Stockholm syndrome.

A subtle knock on the door doesn’t pull her from her state. She groans something close to “Come in,” and doesn’t move, already feeling the defeat before the conversation even starts.

Tom enters the room without making a sound, but Alice knows he’s there. She moves her hand and cracks one eye open, spotting his figure lingering in the doorway. He scans the room, expression unreadable. Alice assumes he's trying not to look disgusted by the mess.

Then his gaze lands on hers, and she looks away like an idiot, heat rising to her face.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Tom says calmly.

Alice’s eyebrows shoot up as she looks at him.

“Not at all,” she replies bitterly. “I was just in the middle of some self-loathing over how shite my painting is—but don’t worry, I can do that with an audience.”

Tom arches an eyebrow, showing the faintest flicker of interest. Alice sighs and sits upright on the bed. For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then she turns away quickly, not wanting to fall into that strange silent conversation that probably only exists in her head.

Stockholm syndrome, she reminds herself.

“May I?” Tom asks.

Alice looks at him, confused. He glances toward the table, then back at her. It takes her a couple of extra seconds to realize he’s talking about the painting.

“Uh… sure,” she says. “You may,” she adds with a smirk.

Tom crosses the room in a few swift steps, stopping at the table. He studies the ruined painting, tilting his head with a flicker of interest—nothing more. Alice watches every shift in his expression, but there’s nothing there. She stands and joins him.

Then glances at the painting, her lips twisting in disappointment.

“What’s wrong with it?” Tom asks subtly. Alice can feel his gaze on her cheek. “You smeared it on purpose?”

She exhales. Of course he doesn’t get it. She doubts anyone would.

“Yes,” she sighs.

“Why?”

Alice closes her eyes, a dull ache forming in her temple. “Because it’s bad,” she mutters.

Tom stays silent, clearly expecting her to elaborate.

“Paintings… art is supposed to make you feel something. To echo inside you,” she says. “Does it make you feel anything?”

She shoots him a glance. He doesn’t move. Just watches her with mild interest. He furrows his brow slightly, then looks back at the painting.

A colorful landscape, smeared and broken in the center.

Tom stays quiet.

Alice smirks. “Yeah. Me neither.”

What’s the point of asking him, anyway? A sociopath—he probably doesn’t feel much at all.

Alice taps her fingernail against the painting. She doesn’t know what to say—and she doesn’t really want to talk at all. Tom stands beside her like a silent mountain, completely unaffected by anything she said. She exhales slowly, almost ready to politely ask what he’s doing here.

“Has it happened before?” Tom asks suddenly.

Alice blinks and looks at him. He glances back at her, pulling his eyes from the smeared painting.

“Um… yeah,” she says, frowning slightly. “I mean, that’s kind of a typical Wednesday for artists—loathing their own work, I mean.” She lets out a short, amused laugh. “But this time it’s well deserved.”

“I’m sure,” Tom replies with a small smile—almost teasing. Almost friendly.

Alice bites the inside of her cheek. Her lips still curve with a smile, but there’s a pinch of sadness in her chest.

“And what do you usually do when it happens?” Tom asks.

Alice shrugs, eyes still on the painting. “Dunno. Try to distract myself, I guess. Then try to draw again.”

“And how do you do that?” he continues.

She shoots him a look—and knows damn well there’s too much bite in her glare to go unnoticed. They stare at each other for a long moment. Tom’s face remains unreadable.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she snaps. “Talk to my friends. Go shopping. Listen to music.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but he doesn’t react—not with annoyance, not with dismissal. He actually looks… thoughtful.

“What kind of music?” he asks.

Alice huffs. “I don’t know. Just… good music.”

“Any particular song in mind?”

Why is he doing this?

She furrows her brows but tries to think. Too many songs—and none at the same time. Until suddenly, one surfaces. Bright guitar chords and soft, sad lyrics. A smile touches her lips at the memory.

“Good,” Tom says, and draws his wand.

Naturally, Alice doesn’t keep the song in mind. Her brain suddenly focuses on the wand pointed at her. She steps back, heart jumping.

Great. She’s annoyed him to the point of murder. Even the piece of his soul inside her apparently isn’t enough to keep her safe.

Tom raises his eyebrows at her retreat.

“Wh–what are you doing?” she asks, her voice only slightly shaking.

He rolls his eyes. Yes. He actually rolls his eyes.

“Nothing that will harm you in any way,” he says, as if she’s being ridiculous. Somehow, that calms her.

“In any way?” she echoes, still skeptical.

“Yes.”

Alice hums, eyeing the wand, then his face—where something actually shows. Impatience. Expectation. Not the usual void.

She gives in.

“Alright. If you say so…” she mutters.

He rolls his eyes again. Alice smirks.

“Try to remember the song,” he says. “Better yet, try to remember the exact moment you listened to it.”

Alice furrows her brows but tries anyway. It’s blurry. Too many memories piled up. She closes her eyes, concentrating.

“…in the name that I no longer know,” she begins quietly, “For the shame of being young, drunk, and alone…”

She suddenly feels something press gently to her temple. Her eyes fly open.

Tom’s holding his wand to her head, face unreadable.

Her heart pounds.

“Continue,” he says softly.

She breathes in—and obeys.

“…Traffic lights and the transmitting radio…”

A dull ache forms behind her eyes. Tom moves his wand away—and something follows it.

A thread of light, pure and soft, streams from her temple, curling like smoke around the wand’s tip. Her eyes go wide.

Before she can say anything, Tom whispers something she doesn’t understand, flicks the wand upward—and the light shoots to the ceiling.

It explodes.

A thousand fragments of memory shatter like glass and fall like snow.

Then she hears it—like an echo from another room:

I'm remembering I promised to forget you.

But it’s raining and I’m calling drunk…

The sound grows clearer with every glowing shard that hits the floor. Until the whole room is filled with the song—real, warm, there. Bright guitar. Soft voice. Sadness wrapped in something beautiful.

And the dial tone is all I have!

Alice smiles, surprised, enchanted. A man who hasn’t even been born yet sings about unrequited love in her memory—and here it is, playing in a silent room filled with magic.

Son, why do you do this to yourself?

Up to this moment, Alice can’t hold back the grin. She looks at Tom with a smile. But he looks exactly the same way he always does when she accidentally shares an honest emotion with him. He glanced—and something passed over his face, turning it into a wax mask. Too unnatural to believe it’s real indifference. He kind of dissociated even more.

He doesn’t hold eye contact. He turns away instead, watching the shards fall from the ceiling like the first snow.

“You don’t like it,” Alice states—God knows why.

Tom doesn’t answer immediately. He keeps watching the spell recreate the last chords of her memory.

Honey, it rang and rang, even the cops thought you were wrong for hangin' up.

I dial drunk, I'd die a drunk, I'd die for you.

Alice smiles sadly as the last note fades away, but her chest feels lighter. She looks at Tom with interest.

He hums softly as the spell fades into the floor. “It was easier than I thought,” he muses.

Alice blinks and frowns in confusion. “What?”

Tom tilts his head in her direction, his mind still half elsewhere.

“The spell,” he says, as if that explains anything at all. But Alice’s frown only deepens.

“What?” Alice exclaims in surprise. “You invented this spell like… right now?”

Tom smirks and slowly shakes his head. “No, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just never had a chance to try it,” he says, amused.

Alice blinks, knowing well that has to be impressive in this world. “So you could’ve damaged my brain accidentally with your new spell?” she asks, just a bit nervous.

Tom’s smile only grows. He’s clearly enjoying this. “No. The part that had anything to do with your brain was studied long before me,” he explains. “Didn’t I say it wouldn’t harm you in any way?”

Alice nods slowly, processing what he just said. For a moment, she watches the memory fade into the floor. Tom doesn’t take his eyes off her—and, surprisingly, that gives her courage. She looks up to meet his gaze, and he returns it with quiet expectation.

“Am I stupid for trusting you?” she asks.

Tom’s eyes narrow just for a second, but he doesn’t look away, and he doesn’t put on a new emotion to shield his thoughts. He keeps looking, deciding.

Alice almost regrets that she asked.

“Yes,” he says eventually.

Alice couldn’t help but feel absolutely flabbergasted by the answer. She stares at him, blinking. To be honest, Tom seems a little lost too—his eyebrows twitch in confusion before he puts his usual emotionless mask back on and leans away ever so slightly.

He doesn’t say anything else, so Alice’s confusion only deepens. She smiles faintly, her brow still furrowed. Is he being honest? Is it another game he’s playing? Damn, she doesn’t know much about manipulation—while he’s had all thirty years to practice.

The darkest lord of them all keeps staring at her, and she wonders if his eyes are really clouded in thought, or if she’s just imagining it. Can eyes even cloud with thought? Maybe he had some wine and it’s just the alcohol…

“So…” she starts, looking down and clearing her throat to shake the thought away. “Did you like the song?”

“No,” Tom answers immediately. “It’s quite annoying, actually.”

Alice lets out a short laugh and nods.

“Yeah,” she says, glancing up but not quite meeting his gaze. “I mean… I guess you wouldn’t like a song ab—” She cuts herself off, stealing a glance at him. But Tom doesn’t seem offended. She frowns, biting the inside of her lip. “Why are you here, anyway? Came to keep me company and test your brain spell? That’s nice of you.”

“You missed lunch,” Tom states. Alice sighs, but before she can say anything, he adds, “I assumed you’d been consumed by your… passion for art.” A lovely way to put it. “But now I see you’re done with it, and I’d like to interrupt your self-beating and invite you to dinner.”

Alice smiles, amused. “Self-beating is an important part of creating,” she replies loftily.

Tom rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile hidden at the corner of his lips, so Alice’s smile only grows.

“Alright, I can put it aside for a while,” she agrees. “I’m actually starving.”

Tom gestures to the door, and it swings open with a wave of his hand.

“And… thanks. For a good memory,” she says—not exactly enthusiastically, but sincerely. “It was nice of you.”

Tom puts on his polite smile and nods graciously. Without another glance at him, Alice disappears straight into the dining room.

Who says only he gets to show off?

*~*~*

Tom exhales, staring at the spot where Alice had just stood. Surprisingly, her sudden disappearance doesn't annoy him. In fact, he finds himself amused by the mischievous glint in her eyes—a look that had given away exactly what she was planning to do.

He glances around the room, trying to ignore the clutter. His gaze lands on a table, where an unfinished painting lies abandoned. The colors are odd and smudged. He raises a hand and brushes his fingertips over the paper. It feels rough beneath his touch. For a moment, he wonders whether magical paintings smell the same as Muggle ones.

Outside, the sky is already dimming. Alice has spent the entire day in her room. Still, she doesn’t seem miserable—not like before. In fact, she seems livelier now, as if the time spent painting has stirred something back to life.

"I'd dial drunk, I'd die a drunk, I'd die for you."

The line echoes in his mind, but the voice isn’t the man’s from the original song—it’s Alice’s.

What a truly stupid song.

~~~

The fire crackles behind his back as he stares at the words written on the parchment, as if he hasn’t read them before. Tomorrow will be busy. He should go to bed—but he knows he won’t be able to sleep. Somehow, his mind is occupied with everything and nothing all at once.

Tom looks up from the parchment when he feels a sudden shift in the air.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, hearing a sigh behind him.

“How do you always know when I appear?” Alice replies, annoyed.

He smirks, not bothering to turn around as he hears her step closer. A moment later, she drops onto the couch beside him. There are plenty of places to sit in the hall, yet she chooses this one. From the corner of his eye, he sees she’s still wearing the same oversized t-shirt she arrived in.

“Is that a love letter?” she asks suddenly.

Tom glances at her, surprised. She bites her lip to hide an amused smile, but her fingers tug nervously at the hem of her shirt.

“I’m bored,” she sighs when he doesn’t answer.

“I won’t entertain you,” he replies.

“No?” Her eyebrows lift, feigning surprise. Tom rolls his eyes. “I know you won’t,” she exhales, flopping back against the couch. The jolt of her movement nudges him slightly.

He tilts his head, watching her. He can’t remember a time she’s sat this close to him by choice. Alice frowns, lost in thought, seemingly unaware—or unconcerned—by their proximity. Her fingers still toy with the edge of her shirt, her gaze fixed elsewhere. For some reason, part of him wants her eyes on him. But she just sighs again.

“It’s just…” Her voice is soft, almost thoughtful. She stares ahead, searching for words. “I have nothing to do,” she finally admits.

Tom raises an eyebrow. Alice throws him a quick, hesitant glance, then looks away again.

“It’s night,” he says. “You’re not supposed to do anything. Just sleep.”

“I’m too bored to sleep,” she whines. “And I can’t draw because I lost all my ability to do so between worlds,” she adds dramatically, letting her head fall back against the couch to stare at the ceiling.

“That’s nonsense,” Tom replies flatly.

She tilts her head toward him with a quiet chuckle, eyes sharp now, locked on his.

“How would you know? Do you often travel between universes?”

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then Alice looks away—not in defeat, but with weary indifference.

“So I have nothing to do here,” she sighs. “And you’re the only one around to talk to.”

“Lucky me,” Tom mutters.

Alice chuckles but says nothing more. Tom lifts the letter in his hand slightly.

“Abraxas agreed to let me use his library,” he says.

Alice’s eyes narrow with interest.

“So I can research our case,” he adds.

“That’s what we’re calling it now?” she smirks.

She doesn’t flinch under his stare, and for a moment Tom wonders whether there’s any point in telling her she’s being annoying. He decides there isn’t.

“I was wondering,” he continues. “Would you like to come with me?”

Alice raises her eyebrows, surprised. “Really?”

“Yes.”

She smiles, and it looks genuine. For a moment, she seems truly pleased.

“But,” Tom says before she can answer, “I’m going in the morning. I have other plans after, so if you want to come, I suggest you sleep. Otherwise, you won’t wake up in time.”

“Don’t you need to sleep too?” Alice teases.

He doesn’t respond, simply stares at her with cold, unreadable look. She nods, mock-serious.

“Alright!” she exclaims, sitting up straighter. “I’d love to see this library. I hope it’s grand and posh.”

“It is,” Tom replies.

Alice grins. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Good night, Tom.”

Before he can respond, she vanishes—her grin lingering a second longer before fading too, leaving him alone once more.

For a while, he stares at the place where she had been. Then, unexpectedly, he feels a pleasant weariness. His thoughts, finally, are quiet.

Chapter Text

Dreams are gifts—meant to let people forget the real world for a while. Turns out, if you decide to stop being human—even just a little—life will take its gifts away. Bit by bit. Inevitable. Cruel.

Tom walks down a dark hallway. It stretches before him—unnaturally long, mysterious, and, truth be told, rather boring. He breathes in deeply but feels nothing. He knows he’s dreaming.

In his pursuit of immortality, he’s lost the ability to dream without knowing it. His mind can no longer trick him into believing the illusions are real. And yet, he still has to endure them. He can’t make himself wake up—and what would be the point? All he’d get is less sleep.

So he steps through the dim corridor, with no purpose, no direction. A light tickle brushes the back of his neck—almost like fear. Some small part of him still responds to the atmosphere, still falls for the ominous tone of the dream.

But it doesn’t matter. He knows he’s dreaming.

He’s waiting. Something will happen—there’s always some plot, for some reason. Until then, he walks forward, endlessly, toward nothing.

A loud crash echoes behind him.

He spins around, fear jolting through him before he remembers—

Just a dream.

Before he can calm down from the surprise, another loud thud echoes ahead. He snaps his hand with the wand out, but when he looks, it’s gone. The hallway sinks into darkness. The only light comes from the tall windows, moonlight spilling in from the full moon outside.

His eyes can adjust, a third crash makes him jolt. Tom blinks rapidly, irritated with himself.

Then he hears it—a muffled scream—and just as suddenly, silence.

Before he can process it, he’s already moving, striding down the corridor. He doesn’t understand what he heard—and at the same time, he knows exactly what it was.

As it happens in dreams, he reaches the door far sooner than he should’ve.

Alice’s door.

It’s firmly shut before him. The hallway is still dark. He has no wand, but the doorknob glows faintly, lit by moonlight. He lifts his hand—but doesn’t touch it. He waits. Listens.

Nothing. Silence—unnatural, oppressive.

He keeps listening. No more crashes. No voice.

His hand still hovers above the doorknob. He should open it. He should look inside. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He just keeps listening.

Then he notices—his hand is trembling. His shoulders stiffen, hard as stone. Panic is settling in—utterly ridiculous, yet there it is.

He remembers the crashes, the scream. It plays clearly in his head now, and the longer he thinks about it, the clearer it becomes. That voice—it was Alice. She screamed his name. And then something silenced her.

He grips the doorknob, finally, but it’s cold, slick with sweat from his palm. For a split second, he forces himself to move—to open the door—

But darkness swallows him.

Tom jolts awake in his bed. Alice’s scream still echoes in his ears. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. His chest rises too quickly, the rhythm uneven, and for a moment he can’t shake the feeling that something has been taken from him. He tells himself it was only a dream—empty, meaningless. Then his heartbeat slows, and the shadows of his room take shape. Familiar. Real.

He looks around. It’s not a dream anymore. The sky outside is lighter—not morning yet, but not night either. Probably around four. He knows it was just a dream—stupid and pointless—but the feeling still grips him. He won’t be falling asleep again anytime soon.

Without really thinking, he pushes the crumpled sheets aside and gets up. The hallway outside looks almost exactly like it did in the dream. Less eerie, but still quiet. Alice’s room is nearby, and somehow, he reaches it without realizing he left his wand behind. That’s unusual—he never forgets it.

He sighs. There’s no real reason to go back for it. No one can get into the house at night—the wards would stop anyone. At least, they were supposed to. Then there was Alice. An exception. He reminds himself: she’s the only one. There aren’t others like her.

There’s no real reason to check on her. No one could hurt her here. And yet, he’s standing outside her door.

It’s not shut. Alice rarely closes doors—she usually leaves them half open, either out of laziness or something else. Normally it bothers him. Right now, it doesn’t.

He can’t see her through the gap, and there’s no sound coming from inside, but he doesn’t feel that same panic anymore. It’s quiet. Still.

Tom reaches out and pushes the door open a little more. It doesn’t make a sound.

And there she is. Fast asleep on her bed, nose buried in a pillow, lips slightly parted. Just as he expected—she’s fine. Her hair is a mess, she’s hugging the sheet loosely.

Tom exhales and leans his head against the wall. His eyes follow the slow, steady rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath.

While looking at her, alive and well he realizes, it wasn’t even about her.

The panic, the fear—it came from the thought of losing a part of his soul. That’s all. And yet… she’s the only one who can calm that fear, just as she’s the reason he feels it at all.

So he thinks. Analyzes.

She’s been here for over a month, and still, he knows nothing—nothing useful about why she’s here or what he must do to get his soul out. He’s tried, over and over, but the truth slips through his fingers.

What does he know?

She likes pancakes. Drawing. Coffee. She had a sister—someone she loved. There was a man too, someone she’s spent time with.

And she’s… good. That’s probably the word for her.

She has no interest in helping him—thinks he’s some villain torn from the pages of a book. She smiled at Diagon Alley, watching the children, greeting strangers like their lives mattered.

She looks people in the eyes. She sees them. Acknowledges them.

The only person she’s looked at with anger is him. After he crossed some lines.

Tom sighs. What’s the point of trying to build trust—something he’d ruined on the very first day? He doesn’t need it. All he needs is to find a way to extract his soul from her and be done with it.

Alice isn’t going to help him. She’s the type who clings to her decisions—stubborn, inflexible. He could demand information, promise her life once the soul is gone, or try again to read her mind afterward. Maybe the soul’s presence is the reason he couldn’t do it in the first place.

But something tells him… she won’t make it easy either way.

She never has.

Not when he tore into her mind and dragged out her worst fears. She didn’t fight or plead—just refused to speak to him for days, wouldn’t eat, barely acknowledged his existence.

And that’s the problem: she’d rather die than give him what he wants. Not for some grand cause—just out of sheer, unshakeable spite.

Tom lightly bumps his head against the wall. She is, without question, the worst possible person to have his soul.

He straightens and casts one last glance at Alice. She hasn’t moved—still fast asleep, nose buried in the pillow, utterly unbothered by the panic she’s caused.

There is no reason to stay, no reason to care. He turns to leave.

“No…” comes a quiet, pleading murmur.

Tom freezes, half-turned. He glances back, but Alice’s eyes remain shut. He frowns. Did he imagine it?

Then she shifts, burying her face deeper into the pillow with a sigh. “I don’t want to…” she whines softly, dreaming.

The corner of Tom’s mouth twitches. He steps closer, watching her, waiting for more. But she just grumbles and wriggles into a more comfortable position, sighing again as her body relaxes.

“Don’t want what?” Tom whispers—for no logical reason whatsoever.

Alice frowns in her sleep and growls, “Hug penguins.”

Tom bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Why not?” he asks, thoroughly entertained.

She exhales like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“They have, like… a million teeth,” she mutters.

“Do they?” Tom asks, amused.

Alice hums in agreement and tries to pull the cover tighter—but half of its fallen to the floor. She sighs in frustration and clutches a small corner of it, still frowning.

“Penguins…” she mumbles. “Don’t trust… a bird who couldn’t decide its own color.”

“Sure,” Tom smirks.

He steps closer, and picks up the fallen sheet, placing it near her. She grabs it and hugs it close, her frown melting into peace. Her shoulders relax, and her breathing returns to normal. Tom watches her for a few moments; she doesn’t move, probably dreaming about pelicans now.

“Good night, Alice,” he sighs.

And then he leaves, knowing she didn’t hear him. He walks out of the room, leaving the door just as it was before. It meant nothing—neither his dream, nor hers. This whole night was a waste of time and sleep. She speaks in her sleep, another useless fact he’s learned about her, one more piece of information he’ll shove into the corner of his mind, labeled Alice. He knows damn well he won’t use it, but he’ll remember it all the same.

*~*~*~*

Alice yawns and stretches, limbs loose and lazy. She’s had a lovely dream—she can’t remember the details, just that there was snow, crisp air, and soft cold all around, but still she was warm and just... lovely.

She opens her eyes, only to be immediately blinded by sunlight. Wincing, she shuts them again.

The sun is already high. It’s late.

She sighs, annoyed.

Great. Tom was right—she’s overslept. He’s probably long gone by now. No doubt he’s hidden that damn ring somewhere in this impossible, grand house and vanished before she could wake up.

No posh library today. Just her and... nothing.

Her eyes drift to the table, where her paints sit in quiet, judgmental patience. She groans loudly and flails her limbs in a burst of chaotic irritation, then goes still, staring at the curtains.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

She had a lovely dream, and she feels well-rested. That’s something. She’s going to have a nice day, no matter what.

She’ll take a long, luxurious shower. She’ll make herself a proper breakfast—coffee is already calling to her—and then? She’ll go outside. Pick some flowers. Watch the birds, the squirrels, whatever’s out there.

She refuses to be bored. Nope. Not today. She will have a good day.

So she takes that long shower, humming at first, then singing to cheer herself up. The sound echoes brightly off the tiles, and for a moment, it almost feels like normal life again.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thinks—Mr. Dark Lord could’ve at least left some books lying around. Would that have been so hard?

Alice glances at the table once more and turns away—utterly disgusted and annoyed—but refuses to stay in a bad mood. Absolutely not. So she heads to the cupboard instead. Nothing improves a mood better than a cute outfit and—oh… makeup. Heavens, she misses makeup. She probably doesn’t even remember how to use eyeliner properly.

She picks the cutest black dress with lovely bows on the shoulders. It looks almost festive, but who cares? It’s not like she has standards to meet—there’s no one to see her anyway. She briefly considers a hat—a nice wide-brimmed one, perhaps?– but she doesn’t have anything like that. Shame. And red lipstick—perfect, dramatic—but she doesn’t have that either.

So she settles for her black shoes with little bows to match the dress and can’t help but smile as she spins in front of the mirror, the skirt flaring around her like the black sun.

Worth it. Definitely.

Still smiling, she wanders into the living room, debating breakfast. Should she eat whatever’s already on the table—probably cold by now and, worst of all, lacking coffee—or just make something herself?

She stands, squinting at the dining room, deciding…

CLAP.

A loud sound cuts through the quiet.

She jolts, spinning toward the source.

Tom stands from an armchair near the fireplace, book in hand. He inclines his head slightly—barely a nod,

“Agh…” Alice exhales, clutching her chest as panic gives way to a cold chill. “You scared me—gods, what are you doing here?”

She winces, feeling her heartbeat finally start to calm. Tom arches an eyebrow at her.

“Good morning to you too,” he replies evenly. “In case you forgot—I live here.”

Alice rolls her eyes.

“No—I mean yes, I know that,” she huffs, then groans when she sees the smirk tugging at his lips. “I meant, weren’t you supposed to go to Abraxas?”

Tom nods slowly, his gaze trailing over her—thoughtful.

Alice suddenly remembers her outfit and shifts uncomfortably, grateful she didn’t have that red lipstick after all.

“Didn’t you want to come as well?” he asks, eyes flicking back to hers as he tilts his head. His voice is neutral, but—was he just looking at her legs? She’s so distracted by the thought she almost misses his words.

“Wh—oh, that. Yes, um…” She glances down at her shoes, the ones with the cute little bows.

“So…” Tom begins again, and she looks up at him, heart skipping. “Did anything change?”

“No,” she blurts, too quickly. “I mean… I thought you’d already left, so I didn’t rush. You said you’d go in the morning, and when I woke up it was already late morning, so I decided…” She trails off, frowning. “...to take my time.” She waves her hand, as if that explains anything.

Tom nods again, but the smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth is unmistakable—and Alice feels her face heat up.

“You definitely took your time,” he says.

“It’s not like I have any alarms,” she mutters, arms crossing defensively.

Tom doesn’t seem annoyed—if anything, his smirk only grows.

“You could’ve woken me,” she adds, quieter. “Were you waiting long?”

“Not long,” he replies.

Alice tilts her head, studying him—and frowns.

“You look… not perfect,” she murmurs.

His robes are flawless, as always. Black, elegant, precise. But him? He looks… off. There are dark circles under his eyes. His eyes themselves are reddish, like he didn’t sleep well. She’s never seen him like this—not even during that first exhausting week, when he was trying to unravel the mystery of her appearance.

“Nice of you to notice,” Tom drawls.

Alice shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says, staring at him, trying to figure out if those dark circles are real—or if he somehow painted them on. “I just want coffee I’ll be ready soon—ten minutes, tops.”

“No,” Tom cuts in before she can take a step toward the kitchen. She raises her eyebrows at him. “You have to eat.”

“Ah…” Alice nods slowly. “You see, I’m much worse without caffeine than when I am hungry.”

She forces a smile, but Tom doesn’t look amused.

“Alice,” he begins, “your loyalty to coffee is impressive, but—”

“It’s not loyalty, it’s addiction,” she deadpans.

Tom rolls his eyes. “Sure. Regardless, coffee is already waiting in the dining room.”

Alice’s eyes widen. “You made me coffee?” she asks, surprised.

“I ordered you coffee,” he corrects.

She grins. “That’s nice of you.”

Tom simply nods and gestures toward the dining room with his free hand.

“Ugh… actually, won’t you join me?” she adds quickly. “It’d be nice to have company, since I’m not alone here.”

Tom squints at her, suspicious, but nods. Alice smiles—not because she wants company, but because she’s counting on his ability to reheat breakfast if it’s gone cold.

But when they enter the dining room, everything is perfect. Breakfast is still warm, preserved under a stasis spell; the fruit is fresh, and the coffee? Magical. Possibly the best she’s had. She tests it with the bracelet—no enchantments, just coffee. She truly enjoys it, while Tom sits across from her, sipping tea and reading, saying nothing.

She considers small talk about the coffee—until she notices his eyes. They’ve been stuck on the same page far too long. Is he hiding behind the book to avoid her? Rude. But the longer she watches, the clearer it becomes—he looks tired.

“Isn’t two cups enough?” Tom asks suddenly.

“No,” she answers shortly, inhaling the rich aroma.

He studies her with those serious eyes, and she can’t help smiling, turning away.

“It’s just so good,” she drawls.

Tom only hums.

She glances back. He’s still watching. Always watching. Like he’s trying to read her mind. It should be uncomfortable, but it isn’t. Not fully. For a moment they just meet each other’s eyes, silent. Then he tilts his head slightly, as if asking a question—and something stirs in her chest. Heat. A rush. Something.

She turns away, setting her cup down with a loud clink.

“You know, you’re right,” she says abruptly, standing. “We should go.”

Tom looks faintly surprised, but rises too, his gaze sharper now. Alice feels her face heat. Shit.

Before she can melt from embarrassment, Tom’s expression cools. He flicks his wand, the black stone on his finger flashing, and disappears with a sharp clap.

Alice exhales as a warm wave pulls her from the dining room after him.

For a moment, colors blur too bright to bear. When they settle, she blinks at the view—Malfoy Manor hovering not far away, surrounded by grounds that look like an enchanted painting. A sprawling, vibrant park.

She doubts half these plants would survive without magic. Some barely look real at all.

Alice drifts toward a tree wrapped in glowing pink blossoms, their light pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat. They climb the bark like living jewels. She reaches out, almost touching—

“Those are poisonous.”

She jerks back, heart skipping, and turns. Tom stands a few steps away, calm as ever, watching her.

Alice returns to his side. He doesn’t speak again, only walks toward the manor, looking exhausted, uninterested in conversation.

After a long stretch of silence, Alice ventures, “So… did you have a nightmare?”

Tom glances at her with a sharp frown.

“No,” he replies flatly.

She nods, unbothered. “I just assumed. You look tired, that’s all.”

“I can’t have a nightmare,” Tom mutters curtly.

Alice blinks, confused. “You don’t sleep?”

“I sleep,” he exhales, rolling his eyes. “Just… not fully.”

She keeps watching him, waiting. He sighs, as if regretting this conversation already.

“I don’t dream,” he repeats. “I only see dreams—but I can’t believe in them. I always know they aren’t real.”

Alice winces. “That sounds… exhausting.”

Tom doesn’t answer. Just hums—low and unreadable—not quite agreement, not quite denial.

“…On the other hand, that’s kind of cool,” Alice muses.

Tom raises an eyebrow, genuinely puzzled—as if he can’t fathom what could possibly be cool about lucid dreaming.

“Oh, come on,” Alice grins. “You can control your dreams, do whatever you want—have fun.”

Tom huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, and her smile only grows.

“Fun,” he repeats dryly. Then, more thoughtful: “It’s not that simple.”

Alice hums in curiosity.

“It’s more like… real life,” Tom explains. “Yes, I know I’m dreaming—but I can’t control the world or what happens in it.”

Alice tilts her head. “Sure, but you can control yourself—what you do, right?” They stop at the manor door. Tom frowns, looking at her. “In your dreams, you can act however you want,” she says, meeting his eyes. “And there are no consequences.”

Tom looks at her, still not quite understanding, so Alice sighs—smiling.

“You only ever have power over yourself,” she says softly. “Same in dreams, same in real life. But dreams are yours alone, so maybe…” she shrugs, “loosen up a bit.” She grins, turning her head towards the mansion, “Might as well have fun, if you’re stuck with yourself either way.”

Before he can answer, the door swings open. Alice’s eyes widen at the figure standing there.

“Welcome to the Malfoy mansion,” the elf squeaks, bowing low.

Alice stares, lips parted. The creature’s limbs are long and thin, its ears oversized, eyes wide and glassy. Its grey, wrinkled skin gives it an eerie look—almost unsettling.

“Debbie,” Tom says with a nod, stepping subtly closer to Alice. She swallows hard as the elf snaps its gaze to him.

“We are here to see your master,” Tom continues.

“Unfortunately, Master Abraxas is unable to greet you himself,” Debbie replies, tilting his head in clear disapproval. “He may join you later. Master is… unwell today.”

Alice frowns, but Tom only nods sharply. Elf steps aside with head down to let them in.

“Follow me, please,” Debbie announces as the door closes quietly behind them.

Alice throws a nervous glance at the elf.

“Is it a he or a she?” she whispers to Tom.

Tom smirks. “He.”

Alice nods, still watching the elf’s back. He’s wearing white clothing, knotted at the shoulders—somewhere between a tunic and a dress.

“It’s not going to bite,” Tom murmurs, leaning slightly toward her ear.

Alice feels her face heat up.

“I know that,” she mutters, embarrassed.

“Do you?” Tom asks, sounding far too amused.

Alice glances at him, catching the flicker of humor in his eyes and a quiet, genuine smile. She huffs in response. Of course she knows that. It’s just… she’s never seen an elf before, and Debbie looks very… interesting.

Alice exhales, looking around. Malfoy Manor is huge—elegant in that effortless, aristocratic way that doesn’t ask to be admired but leaves you no choice. Everything is carved from soft white marble, spacious and impossibly clean, as if dust itself isn’t allowed to exist here.

Her breath catches as they pass a grand staircase, sweeping upward in a perfect spiral to the second floor. Above it, a chandelier drips with glimmering stones, catching the light and scattering it like watercolor across the high ceiling.

The windows are vast, flooding the hall with soft daylight. Their glass is painted in delicate pastel hues—scenes of strange, graceful creatures winding from panel to panel. They seem to move, , their gentle gazes following Alice as she walks. She stares at them, and they stare back, not menacing—just curious, eternal.

It’s breathtaking.

In the way a cathedral is. In the way a palace is.

For once, Alice is glad she’s overdressed.

They stop before a set of tall, closed doors. The elf—Debbie—turns to them, his face impeccably neutral.

“May I offer you some drinks and snacks while you’re here?” he asks, giving a polite nod.

Tom says nothing, only tilts his head slightly toward Alice. It takes her a few extra seconds to realize—he’s waiting for her to answer.

“Oh,” Alice breathes. “No, thank you,” she replies softly.

The elf nods once more, then snaps his fingers. The doors open with a slow, graceful sweep and reveal the library.

Alice has never seen anything like it.

The library is vast—almost impossibly so—bathed in pale light that spills through towering windows, framed in ivory stone. The walls are lined with shelves of soft, polished wood in shades so light they’re almost silvery, filled with books bound in creams, golds, and faded pastels. Everything glows.

The ceiling arches high above in gentle curves, painted with subtle frescoes—clouds, stars, the suggestion of wings. A mezzanine runs along the upper level, its balustrade carved from white marble laced with delicate floral patterns, so finely done it looks almost like lace. Slender staircases rise like ribbons to meet it, their steps whisper-quiet beneath any touch.

Velvet armchairs in muted colors—dusty rose, pale blue, soft green—are arranged near the windows and along the central aisle, each beside a small, gilded table. There are no shadows here, only softness. Light lingers on the pale stone floor, catching gently on the golden accents of doorframes and chandelier chains.

It feels less like a library and more like a ballroom dressed in books. And for a long, quiet moment, Alice just stands there—trying to take it all in.

“Is it what you expected?” Tom asks calmly.

“More,” she answers in awe.

Suddenly soft steps are echoing from the far side of the room.

Alice turns.

At the top of the mezzanine staircase stands a man—tall, composed, dressed in deep grey velvet. His pale hair is tied back with surgical precision, and a silver serpent glints at his collar.

Abraxas Malfoy descends with the kind of elegance that feels almost choreographed, one hand resting lightly on the rail.

“Welcome,” he says, voice smooth as silk, stepping down the stairs.  “I see the library has made a fine first impression.”

His gaze settles on Alice—curious, measuring.

“Abraxas,” Tom says just as smoothly, not letting her answer and steps closer to her. “We were under the impression you were unwell.”

“All better now,” the man replies with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Debbie exhales sharply through his nose, almost a huff. Such a funny creature, Alice thinks.

“Alice,” Abraxas says with a tight smile, stopping before her, “you look charming.”

Heat blooms across her cheeks. “Oh…” she exhales, glancing down at her dress. “Thank you.”

Tom’s eyes narrow on her, and Alice wonders if she’s somehow said something wrong.

“And you, uh…” she clears her throat. “You look… nice.” Her blush deepens. “I mean—you don’t look unwell.”

“Thank you,” Abraxas says, still smiling.

Tom looks away abruptly. She’s definitely said something wrong.

Abraxas’ gaze drifts to the rows of shelves behind him, then back to Alice.

“Would you allow me the honor of showing you the library properly?” he asks, voice warm, but with that same subtle precision in every word.

Before Alice can answer, Abraxas` eyes flick briefly to Tom.

“Unless, of course, you had other plans for her time?”

Tom’s jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. “That’s up to her,” he says, the words clipped but calm enough to pass for casual.

Alice glances between them, seeing a tension she can’t quite name.

“I’d like to see it,” she says finally, offering a small smile.

Abraxas’ mouth curves in approval. “Then allow me.” He glances at the elf, that still stands nearby. “Debbie—show Tom the books I had set aside for him.”

Debbie lets out another sharp huff, the sound halfway between annoyance and resignation, before giving a stiff bow.

Abraxas offers his arm and Alice hesitates for half a second before taking it, the polished velvet cool under her fingers. As they move deeper into the library, she catches a glimpse of Tom out of the corner of her eye — still standing where she left him, his gaze following them, unreadable.

“Go on,” Abraxas adds lightly. “Books will keep him busy while we take our little tour.”

Alice nods, glancing at Tom — still standing perfectly still, his gaze fixed on her every movement. She only turns away when the shelves swallow him from view.

“Don’t worry,” Abraxas says, drawing her attention back. “He can survive ten minutes without knowing exactly where you are.”

Alice arches a brow.

“He knows where I am, doesn’t he?” she says, gesturing vaguely at the pale marble and endless shelves.

Abraxas hums in agreement — a low, noncommittal sound. Alice presses her lips together, letting her gaze drift over gilded spines and soft pools of light, trying not to think about the weight of eyes that are no longer in sight.

“Your library is… something,” she says as they wander deeper between the shelves.

“It is,” Abraxas replies, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be a nervous smile.

Alice exhales. “Alright, just say it.”

“Sorry?” His brows lift, feigning innocence.

She stops, turning fully toward him, fixing him with a long, level look.

“I know you’re not actually here to give me a tour,” she says. “So just say whatever it is you want to say. I hate watching you struggle.”

Abraxas nods once, gaze dropping. He takes in a long breath before meeting her eyes again. Alice waits, patient but with her arms loosely folded.

“I was…” he begins. His gaze flickers away, unsteady.

Alice’s brows inch higher, her patience thinning by the second.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I know Tom can be… too much sometimes.”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” she huffs, “why are you apologizing for him?” she asks sharper than she means to.

“I just—”

“You just helped him,” Alice cuts in, watching Abraxas’ face.

His pale eyes lock on hers, and for a moment there’s something almost fearful there — and threaded through it, regret. No denial, whatsoever.

“Was it… that bad?” he asks quietly.

“He drugged me with a potion to see my worst nightmares,” she says with eerie calm. “I spent the night reliving them.”

“Merlin, Alice…”

She shakes her head, a faint, almost wry smile tugging at her lips. “Coffee’s good, though.”

“I’m—” Abraxas begins.

“No.” She turns away, the smile tightening into something pained. “Don’t say you’re sorry again. Tom is not your responsibility. Neither am I.”

Abraxas falls silent. Alice steps further, breathing in the faint scent of polished wood and old paper, letting the quiet settle.

“He wasn’t always like this,” Abraxas says at last, his voice low.

Alice glances back, frowning. The nerve of this man to try and defend his master.

“Oh, really?” she asks, her tone sharp. “What was he like? Sweet and noble?”

Abraxas chuckles, but there’s no humor in it.

“No, but… he had purpose,” he says slowly.

A purpose to end the half of magic population and to redesign the word to his interests. She watches Abraxas with hided disgust. He is no better than Tom. What would he say, knowing she wasn’t even a witch a couple of months ago?


“Ambition. Brilliant. But… he valued human lives.” His fingers drum absently on the table beside him.

Alice snorts, blinking against the sting in her eyes. She presses her lips together until she can trust her voice.

“It’s true,” he continues, almost to himself. “I remember him respecting life. Before…” His gaze drops, lost in some memory. “I thought he would change the world.”

“Oh, he will,” Alice says, her voice laced with bitterness.

Abraxas swallows, still staring at the floor. “He’s capable of so much, but he chooses the worst ways.” When he looks up at her again, regret is etched deep into his face—as if she’s already a dead woman walking. “And I am sorry. If I could—”

Alice arches an eyebrow, unmoved. Could what, help her, save her? Could he? Alice doubts it.

“How did you end up with him?” he asks instead, almost cautiously. “Is there anyone…?”

She laughs bitterly then shakes her head. She doesn’t need the end of the sentence, to feel lost and alone in this world. Abraxas’ gaze drops, and the golden light of the library seems to cool by several degrees. She swallows, the silence pressing in until it feels like she’s the only person in the world.

“Anyway,” she says, brushing past whatever is written across Abraxas’ face. “It’s not really your business.”

Her smile is soft but stripped of all warmth, and his expression falters, the composure cracking into something broken.

Turning away, she steps deeper into the library, she has no interest of reassuring him. Abraxas follows without a sound, his presence trailing her like a shadow that refuses to fall away.

“What’s with you?” she asks at last, her voice drifting back over her shoulder after a moment to steady herself. “Your elf said you were sick, or something.”

Abraxas lets out a short, humorless laugh. “If being drunk for two days counts as ‘sick,’ then yes.”

Alice glances back, surprised by the honesty.

“My son’s in France with a distant family,” he says, quieter now.  “Since… since his mother died. He’s barely three. I should’ve brought him home by now. I should be—” he breaks off, jaw tight. “You know I can’t even write to him, I mean, I can, it’s just...” He waves his hand, smiling helplessly. “All I seem be capable of is pouring another drink and feeling sorry for myself”

Alice nods slowly, understanding now. “You’re grieving,” she says quietly.

Abraxas meets her eyes, saying nothing. She takes a breath, forgetting her own troubles for a moment.

“I’m sorry… about,” Alice begins, but she cuts her off with a sharp nod. She searches for words among the endless shelves. “Alcohol… it won’t make it better, you know,” she says finally.

His glance is sharp, full of anguish. Alice exhales, a sad smile tugging at her lips.

“My mother used to drink,” she admits. “I was about your son’s age. I don’t remember much though… just that I was confused. She used to be the most cheerful, wonderful mother. And then… she wasn’t.”

Abraxas listens. And Alice sighs, remembering fresh vision of her, little and confused, sitting before the closed bathroom door, to little to understand all the mood swings and resentment, caused by alcohol.

“But the worst part was when my grandmother found out. She took me… and my sister away,” Alice swallows. “And I didn’t understand, why would she do that and then… My mother never reached out. Not once. She just disappeared. And I missed her so much. I was terrified I’d never see her again…”

“Did you?” Abraxas asks quietly. “See your mother again?”

Alice raises her brows and chuckles softly.

“Oh, yes. She took us back few years later.” Alice smiles faintly at the memory. “It was strange… but I guess she needed that time to herself.”

“Did you blame her? For leaving?”

Alice notices the void in his voice. Her smile lingers.

“Not really,” she admits, amused by the confusion on his face. “I blamed myself, sometimes my sister. Thought maybe I or she weren’t good daughters, since she left us. Which is stupid, of course. But… kids usually are.”

Abraxas looks away, his face twisted with pain and disgust. Silence stretches. Then he turns back, as if searching her face for answers.

“Yes,” Alice says.

He frowns. “What?”

“Yes — you should write your son. Send him a letter, maybe even some chocolate. Let him know you’re still there.”

“How did you know?” Abraxas asks.

Alice snorts, and steps deeper into the library.

“Like it wasn’t our whole conversation,” she mutters, brushing her fingers along the spines of old books. Then turns around putting a smile on.

Abraxas looks right through her, eyes are ghosted with concern and then all doubts finally settle on his face.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he says giving her a subtle bow.

“Sure,” she answers, feeling the warm rush in her chest.

Abraxas smiles gently, nods and turns away, his back is firmly straight and his walk just a bit too quick. Alice smiles. She wished someone had told her mother same exact things, and let her know how much she was needed. Well, maybe someone did, she did came back after all.

Pain stings her chest. She wished she could talk to her mother right now, she wanted to tell her so much. Her mother would listen and maybe would understand something Alice doesn’t. Her mother has this wonderful ability just to see right through her and to understand even while Alice doesn’t want to understand herself.

Alice frowns, sinking into self-pity. The library is magnificent, her dress is perfect, but her mood is ruined. For a moment she almost wants to go back to Tom—the only familiar person here. But no. Why would she run to him? He’s her captor. She won’t seek his company when she finally has a chance to be alone, to explore.

She pretends she’s a tourist instead, wandering through the most beautiful library in a foreign country. Pretends she can still go home. Pretends the cursed ring won’t drag her back if she strays too far.

That’s when her eyes catch an impossibly green gaze.

On the table sits… a cat?

Alice blinks at it. The cat blinks back.

It wasn’t there before. She looked at that table seconds ago—it was empty. And this cat is impossible to miss: big, sleek, so dark it seems to swallow the light around it, with eyes that glow sharp and green.

“Hello,” Alice half-greets, half-asks.

The cat doesn’t answer. Naturally. Alice tilts her head, takes a step closer. The cat sighs—actually sighs—while watching her.

“Are you… who are you?” she tries, deciding this strange creature must be some wizard in disguise.

The cat stares, silent.

Alice frowns. “Well, you’re either just a cat, or very rude not-a-cat.”

The cat yawns suddenly, then leaps gracefully off the table and trots away.

“Hey, wait!” Alice calls, hurrying after it.

The cat stops, turns, and looks at her with pure disapproval—then flicks its gaze around, as if reminding her where she is.

Alice blinks. “Why are you judging me?” she mutters. “Are you the spirit of the Malfoy library or something?” It certainly looks like one. Strange enough, appearing out of nowhere without a sound.

Annoyed, she crosses her arms and  appears directly in front of it. The cat doesn’t even blink. Definitely not normal.

“Who are you?” Alice demands.

The cat sighs again and pads around her, tail high, as if too busy for such questions. Alice watches, half confused, half annoyed—until the creature pauses, glances back, and lets out a soft, almost inviting meow. Then it nods toward the direction it was headed.

Alice blinks at it.

“Oh… you want me to follow?”

The cat sighs once more.

“Alright,” Alice grumbles. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

*~*~*

Tom stares at the book in front of him. The words don’t stick. Every time he tries to concentrate, meaning slips away.

The book is useless anyway. Dry theories about souls, death, and life—things he mastered years ago, just wrapped in the pompous style of some eighteenth-century hack. Nothing new. Nothing worth his time.

His gaze keeps flicking toward the direction Alice disappeared. Too long ago. She can’t have gone far—the ring won’t let her. Yet unease coils tight in his chest.

“Debbie,” he calls.

The elf appears with a sharp clap, bowing low. “Yes, sir?”

“Where is Abraxas?” Tom asks.

“In his study, sir.” Debbie hesitates, shifting from one thin foot to the other. “I can inform him you asked for him—”

Tom’s lips twitch with annoyance. That’s enough.

The elf swallows, blurting, “Miss Alice is… not with him.”

Tom’s expression doesn’t move. He waits. “Then where is she?”

“Still in the library, sir.”

“Good.” Tom inclines his head. Debbie vanishes with a snap, relief echoing in the air.

Left alone, Tom exhales slowly, fingers brushing the book’s edge. The dream still clings—Alice’s scream, sharp and endless, waiting for him in the silence.

The ring glints on his finger. She can’t be far. Still in the library, probably wandering, staring at shelves.

Tom rises. He flicks his wand, runes forming in the air. Magic sparks, then settles into the familiar shape: two faint dots glowing among endless rows.

Tom’s eyes narrow. Abraxas is in his study. Then who—?

One dot pulses fast and uneven, skipping like a panicked heartbeat. The other glows calm and steady.

And then, in a blink, the second dot vanishes.

Tom slashes his wand wider, forcing the spell to search again. Nothing. Only one dot in the direction of Abraxas’ study.

Only one dot remains in the library. Only one heartbeat.

Panic kicks through him like a blow. He surges down the aisles, the scream from his dream pounding in his skull. Someone was in the library. Here. With Alice. Then someone disappeared, or died. It can’t be Alice, the ring keeps her close—no farther than a hundred yards at most.

She couldn’t have vanished—unless she’d found a way to break the ring bond. Or she was dead. But he would feel that. He’s sure of it. He knows he would.

Books blur as he moves. A wave of sickness twists through him—unease so sharp it borders on pain. Something’s wrong. So damn wrong.

He reaches the spot in seconds.

A tall bookshelf stands flush against the wall, and behind it, his spell still pulses—a faint golden heartbeat. At first it looks ordinary, until he sees it: a narrow crack, a hidden gap where the shelf isn’t quite sealed. A secret room. Of course.

He doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside.

The air changes—heavy, still, stripped of the library’s warm light. His detection charm washes the darkness in uneven gold, glinting off old shelves and dust motes that hang motionless.

There.

Alice. The glow burns over her back, right where her heart should be. She stands before a table, an open book under her hand, pages yellowed and still.

Tom exhales, a flash of relief cutting through him.

“Alice,” he calls.

No answer. She doesn’t move. The dot on her chest flickers too fast, erratic.

He steps closer—then freezes. Something’s off. She isn’t merely standing still. Her shoulders don’t rise or fall.

She isn’t breathing.

He crosses the room in two strides, grabbing her shoulder before he can think. A distant thought flickers — he shouldn’t touch her with bare hands. She could be cursed. A trap. A bait to curse him.

But it’s done. His fingers press into her skin, cold and unyielding, and nothing else matters.

“Alice!” He shakes her, pulling her toward him.

Her head tilts back. For a heartbeat, he thinks she’s awake — her eyes are open — but they look straight through him. Pupils wide, glassy, reflecting the gold glow of his spell.

She’s still not breathing. Her chest doesn’t move, her body still as porcelain. Tom feels his own breath rise too fast, the pulse roaring in his ears. He cups her cheek — her skin like ice — the golden light flickering wildly around them. Her heart pounds, erratic. Her lungs refuse to move.

Cold. Hollow. A shell.

“Alice,” he murmurs, searching for her eyes, but she doesn’t see him.

Fear slams into him. He raises his wand, casting every diagnostic spell he knows. Alive. Healthy. Not breathing.

His gaze catches the book beneath her hand — the one she’d been reading. It looks ordinary. Unremarkable. Except its pages are blank, and her fingers cling to them as if fused.

He casts a detection charm. The result almost blinds him — a surge of light, magic spilling from the book, weaving through Alice’s arm, wrapping her whole body in an invisible snare.

Tom grips her wrist, tries to pull her hand away. She doesn’t move. Her fingers stay pressed to the parchment as if glued there.

“Alice,” he says again, meeting her vacant stare. “Let go.”

He tries to sound calm. He fails. His voice cracks as her heartbeat slows — once, then again.

She’s suffocating.

“Alice!”

No response. Her eyes don’t blink. Her pulse falters, then stops.

Tom squeezes her hand hard enough to bruise, but she doesn’t even flinch.

He thrusts his wand toward the book, slamming his will into it. Magic meets resistance — a wall. His spell scatters, disintegrating in a burst of gold dust.

Silence crashes down. Her pulse is slowing. Tom lowers his wand. For a second, he only stares—so still, so impossibly cold.

Then something in him cracks. She’s dying. Slowly suffocating.

He sees it with dreadful clarity: another minute and she’ll faint, then her heart will stop—and that will be it. He can’t do anything.

That’s it.

He blinks, eyes catching on her hand—the faint tremor in her fingers, the way she clings to the pages not by force, but by will.

She isn’t trapped. She’s holding on.

He grabs her shoulders and shakes her once, hard.

“Alice! Look at me!”

Her head tips forward, unresponsive.

He curses under his breath and presses his palm to her cheek, forcing her to face him.

“It’s not real. Whatever you see—it isn’t real. Do you hear me?”

He searches her eyes for any sign of life, but they stay glassy. Her heart falters, skipping beats, not enough oxygen left to keep it steady.

“Alice, breathe.”

His voice cracks on the last word. For a moment, he doesn’t believe she will. She’ll die looking past him—quiet, unreachable, in her own stupid, stubborn way.

Anger surges up through the fear, useless and hot. Yet despite it, his hand softens against her skin.

“Alice,” he exhales. “Please…”

The word hangs in the air. Silence stretches so long it hurts. Then the space between them shifts — her lashes tremble, a tear slips free, a faint warmth stirs against his fingers.

Her body slackens, and then she gasps — a violent, shuddering inhale, as if the world rushes back into her lungs.  Her hand slips from the damn book.

Tom catches her before she collapses, lowering her to the floor as she drags in another breath, and another. The golden light around them flickers, pulsing in time with her heartbeat—rising again, unsteady but alive.

Her gasps turn into sobs. She starts shaking. Relief floods Tom’s chest so fast it hurts. He keeps holding her as she cries.

“It’s alright,” he breathes out. “You’re alright.”

“I—I couldn’t—” she gasps, pulling back just enough to look at him, to make him see her, to make him believe. “I heard you,” she whispers between sobs. “But… I couldn’t let go.”

Tom stares at her face, anger still burning hot in his throat. Her cheeks are wet with tears; her eyes search his for understanding—so anxious, so alive. Her hands clutch at his robe as though he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

He’s furious. She’d almost died through her own stupidity. But her eyes plead, and he can’t bring himself to push her away. Instead, he pulls her closer, letting her hide her face against his chest, his hand tracing slow lines down her back. Her breath comes shallow and uneven, catching against him.

“I know,” he says instead. “You’re safe now,” he says. “I’m here.”

As if the words could calm her. As if she could ever feel safe because of him.

But she exhales shakily and nods against him, as if she believes him anyway.

Tom feels his shoulders ease. He stares ahead, unfocused, listening to her breathe—to sob—to live.

Alive.

He can’t believe how close it was. It feels unreal, her still breathing, still clinging to him, still here. She almost died. Over nothing.

He keeps stroking her hair, her neck, her back. Keeps listening to her breathing. It slows, unsteady. The golden glow around them beats in time with her pulse.

He should let go. She’s safe. He could take her away from this cursed room, be done with it. But he doesn’t.

He closes his eyes for half a heartbeat. His mind is empty—except for the fact that she’s here.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Minutes, maybe hours. His mind keeps circling the same thought: he almost lost her. She was dying, and it felt like the end.

The emptiness of it still echoes inside him—the knowledge of how fragile she is, how easily she could be taken from him.

One cursed book. That’s all it would’ve taken.