(Tom Riddle)
I was halfway through lunch when it happened.
One moment, I was listening to Barty prattle on about recruitment in the north, idly cutting into a slice of roasted pheasant, and the next…
Agony.
Not physical in the ordinary sense. Not a curse, not poison, not even the backlash of a ritual gone wrong.
This was deeper.
It was as though a red-hot blade had been driven straight through my chest and twisted slowly. My breath left me in a sharp, humiliating gasp. The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against the stone floor, the metallic ring echoing far louder than it should have in the vaulted chamber.
The pain pulsed again, as if something had been torn from me.
I pressed a hand flat against my sternum, fingers digging into the fabric of my robes as if I could physically hold myself together. For a split second, the world blurred at the edges.
A Horcrux.
One of them was gone.
I did not know why I knew, but I did not need proof. I did not need confirmation. I was sure that a piece of my soul had just been destroyed.
Across the table, Barty froze.
"M-Mylord?" he asked, voice tight with alarm.
I could feel his eyes on me; wide, adoring, afraid.
And that look.
That wretched, worshipful look.
It poured oil onto the fire already rising inside me.
For one wild, savage moment, I wanted to hurt him.
Not because he had failed. Not because he had spoken out of turn.
But because something had been taken from me, and someone needed to suffer for it.
My wand was in my hand before I consciously summoned it.
Not my original wand, whose location remained elusive, but a temporary substitute. Serviceable for now, at least until I could recover my original or get my hands on a skilled wandmaker.
The tip flared red with the color of the Cruciatus Curse.
Barty did not flinch.
If anything, his expression softened. Reverent. Ready.
He would have welcomed it.
That was the problem.
His shoulders straightened subtly. His breathing slowed, as though preparing himself to endure. There was devotion in his eyes, yes, but also expectation. Pain was proof of favor. Punishment was intimacy.
I could almost hear Bellatrix's laughter layered over memory, ecstatic under torture, radiant under cruelty.
Fear.
Submission.
Madness.
That was how my other self had ruled.
I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly through my nose.
When I had absorbed the fragment of soul from the last Horcrux, I had inherited more than memory. I had inherited perspective. I had seen what he had become, what I would become if I allowed instinct to dictate strategy.
An empire built on terror.
An inner circle bloated with fanatics and sycophants.
Brilliance corroded by paranoia.
The red glow at my wand's tip flickered.
Yes, fear was efficient.
But it was brittle.
Fear fractured under pressure. It invited betrayal the moment weakness showed. It ensured loyalty only from the unhinged, the Bartys and Bellatrixes of the world, those who mistook suffering for affection.
I opened my eyes and the wandlight faded.
Barty blinked once, confusion briefly cracking his composure.
"My lord?" he repeated softly.
I lowered my wand.
"One of my safeguards has been destroyed," I said evenly.
The words tasted like iron.
His face twisted in outrage on my behalf. "Who would dare?!"
I already knew.
I had no evidence, no witness, no mark left behind.
But as the pain had crested, an image had forced itself into my mind.
Bright hair.
Brighter smile.
Infuriating composure.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
Even in my thoughts his name felt like a stain.
The man had interfered too many times. Subtly. Elegantly. Always just in the right place at the right time.
And now this.
Coincidence was an explanation for lesser intellects.
I did not believe in coincidence.
Barty's fingers tightened around the edge of the table. "Command me, my lord."
Ah.
There it was again.
Command me.
Blind obedience.
The easiest thing in the world would be to unleash him. To point him toward a target and let fanaticism do the rest.
But this wasn't something that could be solved so easily, Greyback had already proven as much.
I rose slowly from my chair. The scrape of wood against stone sounded deliberate, controlled.
Measured.
"No," I said quietly.
Barty's brow furrowed, clearly expecting orders.
"We will not lash out blindly," I continued. "Whoever destroyed it wanted me provoked. Off-balance."
I stepped toward the tall window carved into the far wall. Beyond it, the winter sky stretched pale and indifferent. The world looked peaceful.
It would not remain so.
"They believe they have wounded me," I murmured.
In truth, the loss still throbbed inside me, a phantom limb of the soul. But pain was information. Information was power.
Behind me, Barty waited.
He was loyal. Fanatically so. But even he watched for signs of weakness.
I would give him none.
"We adapt," I said at last, turning back to face him. "We accelerate certain preparations. Discreetly."
His lips curved into a thin, eager smile. "Yes, my lord."
"And Barty?"
"Yes?"
"If I ever raise my wand against you in anger without purpose," I said softly, "you may assume I have become a lesser version of myself."
He looked startled.
Then confused.
Then fiercely determined.
"I would never allow that, my lord."
I almost smiled.
Good answer.
"See that you don't."
Inside, the fury had not faded.
It had crystallized.
One Horcrux destroyed meant I had just lost a great deal of potential. A source of power that cannot be recovered.
This leaves me no choice but to change my plans. Slytherin's Locket was taken from the cave years ago, which means this must have been Ravenclaw's Diadem, the last of my Horcruxes…
It's time to leave Britain.
…
(Nymphadora Tonks)
Stupid Gilderoy Lockhart.
With his stupidly handsome face. His stupidly perfect hair. And his stupidly dazzling, criminally weaponized smile.
I pressed my quill harder than necessary, scratching a jagged line straight through the middle of an otherwise perfectly acceptable Ministry form.
Brilliant. Now I'd have to redo page three.
"Brilliant," I muttered under my breath, shoving the parchment aside and reaching for a fresh copy. "Absolutely professional, Tonks. Auror of the year."
The Auror Office was its usual symphony of low conversation, rustling parchment, and the occasional irritated sigh. The enchanted ceiling lights hummed faintly overhead. Somewhere behind me, Proudfoot was arguing about evidence categorization. Someone dropped a stack of files. The scent of ink and old paper hung thick in the air.
Ordinary. Grounding.
Unlike earlier in the courtroom.
Merlin… just thinking about it made my stomach twist all over again.
He had walked in like he owned the Wizengamot chamber. Not arrogantly, no, that would have made it easier to dislike him, but with that effortless composure of his. As though the entire political machine of magical Britain was merely an elaborate stage set arranged for his convenience.
That infuriatingly immaculate hair falling into place as though it had signed a contract with gravity.
And then he'd looked at me.
Not scanned the room. Not glanced vaguely in my direction.
But looked directly at me.
Warm recognition lighting his eyes, followed by a playful wink that I deliberately ignored.
I had nearly combusted on the spot.
For one horrifying second, one catastrophic, humiliating second, I'd wanted to cross the distance between us and throw my arms around him. Bury my face in those perfectly tailored robes and breathe in that stupidly expensive cologne.
Instead, I had done what any self-respecting Auror would do.
I ignored him.
Alright, not so professional…
But it had taken every ounce of discipline I possessed.
Even now, hours later, I could still feel the aftershocks. Butterflies rioting in my stomach like they hadn't gotten the memo that we were adults with standards.
I dipped my quill into ink and tried very hard not to think about the way his eyes had crinkled slightly when I refused to engage.
Because the worst part?
He hadn't looked offended.
He'd looked sad, which made me want to comfort him.
And that was exactly the problem.
Because I really felt bad about how I was acting at that moment. But unfortunately, I knew that if I let myself get pulled into his orbit again, into the charm, the attention, the way he made me feel like the only witch in the room, I wouldn't get back out.
I'd fold.
Merlin help me, I'd fold like cheap parchment and end up another whispered name attached to him in the Prophet.
Another "close associate."
Another woman smiling at his side while pretending she didn't mind sharing.
Another member of his harem.
Ugh.
The word alone made me scowl so hard my hair flickered from its usual bubblegum pink to a sharp, irritated red.
Who did he think he was?
Just because he was handsome.
And rich.
And powerful.
And politically influential.
And apparently capable of dueling whole packs of werewolves into ash before breakfast…
No.
Absolutely not.
That did not give him the right to collect women like limited-edition Chocolate Frog cards.
And it certainly did not mean I would just… agree.
What did he expect? That he'd murmur something flattering in that velvet voice and I'd sigh dreamily and line up with the rest?
Please.
I was an Auror.
I'd faced down dark wizards twice my size and hexed a werewolf mid-transformation. I could resist one overgrown peacock with good hair.
…Probably.
I stabbed the parchment again. Ink splattered.
Across the desk from me, Dawlish glanced up cautiously. "You all right, Tonks?"
"Fantastic," I said brightly.
My hair flashed bright red again on reflex. Traitor.
He raised an eyebrow but wisely returned to his paperwork.
I leaned back in my chair and dragged a hand down my face.
The worst part wasn't even the attraction.
It was the suspicion… no, the certainty, that beneath all that polish and performance, there was something sharper, much smarter than anyone would imagine.
He wasn't just a pretty face drifting through politics on charm alone. He was deliberate. Calculating.
And that made him dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with looks.
Which meant I absolutely, definitely, unquestionably needed to keep my distance.
Because if I were to get entangled, be it emotionally, politically, or romantically. I wouldn't just be risking my pride.
I'd be risking my judgment.
And that was something I could not afford.
Still…
The memory of his smile surfaced again, vivid and unfair.
Heat crept up my neck.
"Idiot," I muttered.
Him.
Definitely him.
And if he so much as smirked at me like that again, I swore on Merlin's crusty left sock I would…
I would…
…probably blush and pretend to check my notes.
I groaned and dropped my forehead onto the desk with a soft thud.
Stupid Gilderoy Lockhart.
And his stupid, perfect hair.
He should be grateful I hadn't cursed it off in open court.
Because I had absolutely considered it.
…
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