Chapter 10. Disclosure

!NC!

The weather in France was not at all wintry. It was forty-four during the day and thirty-nine at night. If snow fell, it melted before the eyes, turning into mud and puddles.

Adrian tried on a strict suit, preparing for dinner at his aunt's house, where his parents had let him go. Unfortunately, they couldn't go themselves, as there was a private auction planned for the evening, where they could, according to tradition, snatch rare dark artifacts. The Malfoys were more than a hundred percent guaranteed to be there as well.

Young Rosier was so tired of studying at Hogwarts, and then this crazy mess with the fire and the missing representative from the Ministry of Magic on Christmas Eve, that he just wanted to spend a quiet Christmas evening in pleasant company.

He could have used the fireplace and the floo powder, but the desire to walk had taken over. A few swings of his wand, so that the Muggles around him would see the most ordinary, unremarkable clothes instead of a suit, and Adrian headed for the area where his aunt currently lived. Drowning in his thoughts, he didn't notice how he found himself in the Place des Vosges, teeming with Muggles. Noise, uproar, laughter. A slight panic and disgust. There were too many of them! After all, a pureblood wizard wasn't used to this sort of thing, and then there was the carnival noise.

The acrid smell of smoke hit his nose. Looking around, Adrian realized that one of the tents was on fire. Some of the crowd that had picked up him was fleeing the square in a panic. Not wanting to be in the herd of stinking Muggles, he dashed in the opposite direction, and his eyes immediately caught sight of the sight opposite: a girl with long black hair dancing, her whole face painted as if she were wearing a mask - a Mexican tradition, it seemed. The long red dress glistened and emphasized the curves of her body. Her every movement was graceful and plastic. Adrian watched as if mesmerized, and his legs refused to obey him. His ears were drawn to the playing ensemble. His eyes fixed on a familiar figure.

"Irene?"

There was a painful whop on the shoulder. It was the Muggles, running away in a panic. Rosier clenched his teeth to keep from groaning. When he looked back at the person he knew, he was disappointed to find that no one was there. Had he imagined it? Too vivid. Adrian hurriedly left the square, not wanting to be there a second longer.

The aunt's house was quiet. The faint scent of pine needles was in the air.

"Vinda, it's me!" Adrian shouted, hanging his coat carefully on the hook. He hastily pulled out his wand to remove the smell of burning, in case it had soaked into his clothes.

"Dear nephew!" A miniature woman of striking beauty appeared in the corridor and stepped towards Adrian. "I am so glad to see you!" Carefully gathered black hair, dark green dress, scarlet lipstick on her lips - everything about this woman was mysteriously charming. "The table is already set." Vinda was smiling. Her green eyes were warm and calm, but only because it was her nephew.

This woman was deceitful and dangerous - Adrian knew it well. The purity of the Rosier bloodline made them special, and he supported Grindelwald's policy wholeheartedly. And the fact that Vinda was the great dark wizard's right-hand woman was a joy to behold.

The candles shone brightly in the living room. The fireplace crackled cozily, warming it. A large table stood in the middle. The dishes were neatly arranged for exactly twelve people, two of whom were obviously missing. Adrian smiled involuntarily and sincerely. Some of the people present he already knew.

"Good evening, everyone!? He carefully pushed back his chair, sitting down in the designated place.

The always strict Gunnar Grimmson smiled when he saw Adrian.

"Nice to see young people!"

"Good evening, Mr. Grimmson!" Adrian nodded politely in the direction of the wizard, who always wore a strict dark suit and a funny polka-dot tie. It was unusual to see him without a cigar in his teeth and a pitch-black hat.

Vinda took a place at the end of the table. Adrian was sitting on her left hand, on her right hand, exactly opposite, the chair was still empty. Obviously, someone was late.

"Vinda, will our master visit us today?"  McDuff asked politely.

"He has business," she replied with a smile.

In the snap of a finger, several muggle maids entered the living room. They were obviously intimidated. Without saying a word, they began to serve the guests. Adrian was shocked and surprised, for normally house elves were busy with such things, and here were Muggles! Apparently, Grindelwald was slowly but surely putting his strategic plans into action. The hands of the young girl wearing an apron were shaking so badly, that she accidentally spilled wine on Vinda's dress. Vinda's face changed in an instant. Her gaze became predatory, cold. She stood up abruptly, looked around at the guests, and spoke politely through a false smile, "If you'll excuse me. I'll be back in a few minutes."

The young maid was scared. She shook her head frantically.

"No, no. No! Please!"

Her nerve storm was not meant to happen. A wave of the magic wand — and her mouth was sealed with a spell. Another wave, and she obediently followed Vinda up the stairs.

Cruciatus was a spell of pain, terrible, unbearable pain. The poor muggle was squirming as her gut was physically torn apart. She screamed, but her mouth was taped shut, so nothing but a quiet mooing could reach the pretty witch's ears. The tears faded, and soon the silhouette of the insanely beautiful but terribly dangerous Vinda Rosier was barely recognizable.

"Auntie Vi!" The voice of either a girl or a woman stopped the torture. "He's in his office waiting for you."

"Ah, little Ri! You're back already!" The clacking of heels.

The two short female silhouettes disappeared somewhere in the hallway. If you didn't know the history of each of them, you'd think they were sisters with a big age difference or very close relatives.

"Gellert said you received a message with an owl. The old man is trying to break the pact with dragon blood, but so far without success. I saw the phial in the inside pocket of his jacket. It's unharmed. There was no time to steal it. One boy," the girl stammered, "started gunning for me and wanted me expelled."

"Have you solved everything?"

"Yes, I have."

"Irene, you're being arbitrary. You shouldn't have gone to Hogwarts."

"But I succeeded."

"You took out Werner's eye."

"He ripped my stomach. I went through twenty-four hours like that, smiling sweetly in Dumbledore's face, and that's fine."

A faint smile touched Rosier's face. Pride in her foster-girl was brazenly taking over.

"Go. I'll be right back." Vinda headed for the end of the corridor where the large office was located. Gellert Grindelwald, the dark wizard, was waiting for her there.

The sound of heels. The dark green dress, emphasizing the slim waist and the roundness of forms, shimmered beautifully in the lighted living room, where the guests were relaxing and laughing a lot. With a wave of the palm, the chair moved away. A brunette with neatly gathered hair gracefully sat down. Everyone present cheerfully greeted her, but Adrian Rosier froze, turning pale. His fingers involuntarily gripped the fork tightly.

"Good evening, Adrian!" a velvety voice.

"Irene..."  He nodded, swallowing hard.

His heart sank at the realization that all this time they they'd been making troubles for someone who couldn't be touched for any reason. And Irene's behavior became more than understandable, for how could she know that Adrian, though Vinda's nephew, would not run to turn her in to the Ministry? Even Rosier herself never initiated the young man and his parents into Grindelwald's plans.

While a pale Adrian tried to digest the information, Irene behaved well-mannered. Refined and elegant. She laughed, kept the conversation going, and occasionally glanced at Rosier, who just watched silently, miraculously holding back all his emotions deep inside.

"Ah, Irene!" Queenie Goldstein chirped like a bird, but few people knew that this bird was in a cage. "You and Michael have been engaged for a long time! When will the wedding be?"

"When it is necessary," Irene smiled, giving a quick glance at Adrian, whose face was frozen in surprise. How much more was he going to learn this evening? "A strategic alliance to keep South Germany under control," Irene said indifferently, as if she was discussing what baguette to buy today, not marriage.

Queenie smiled, but her smile was forced. The pain of losing his love did not subside in any way. Every night she thought of Jacob Kowalski — the most amazing, kind and tender-hearted Muggle in the whole world. No one knew about it, of course, because she was perfectly capable of playing her part, perhaps as well as most of the people at this table.

The dinner didn't last long, and soon everyone present began to slowly disperse, and, in the end, only Adrian and Irene remained at the table. 

Adrian didn't even have time to open his mouth before Irene left him, but not for long. As it turned out on her return, she had gone out to change her clothes. The black coat was unbuttoned, revealing a strict pantsuit underneath. Rosier grinned, recognizing the fashion of France and what his favorite aunt adored as well.

"Merlin!" Adrian finally exhaled, and it was as if several sacks of galleons had been lifted from his shoulders. "Irene, what's going on here!"

"What you are allowed to know by the grace of Auntie Vi."

"Then at the hospital! You huddled on the pillow and I thought you were going to pass out for another couple of days when I told you she was my aunt! Merlin!"

"Adrian, what was I supposed to think? There were two options: you snitch to Dumbledore and the Ministry, or you side with Grindelwald too and report to him that I screwed up as badly as I could. Damn your Riddle." Memories of strong hands greedily gripping her body immediately flashed through her mind. Irene took a sip of red wine, grinning nervously. "Fucking Riddle!" The play on words made her feel even worse. She sighed heavily in an attempt to banish the oncoming fever.

Rosier leaned on the table, still trying to comprehend everything that was happening.

"Irene, we thought you were from the Ministry. You're strong, and, as it turns out, you are an incredibly skilled Legilimens."

Irene arched her black eyebrows in surprise, waiting for a more detailed explanation. Rosier sighed heavily.

"So is Tom."

"I hope you weren't thinking of anything forbidden? Because Goldstein's good at it, too. How many talented people there are!" she said ironically, making a sad or amused grimace.

"Tom knew you'd gotten into Harrison's head, that you'd erased Avery's and Lestrange's memories. All of this was jeopardizing–"

"Who?"

"There's so much you don't know! I can't tell you."

"We're sitting here, somewhere on the second floor, our favorite aunt and Grindelwald," Irene hissed like a snake, "and you're telling me I don't know something? Adrian!"

The young man squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"Fuck, it's so fucking hard. Düster, what if I told you that Grindelwald–-" He looked around cautiously, and, making sure no one was around, continued in a whisper, "Not the only strong dark wizard?"

A ringing laugh hit the eardrums. Irene leaned back in her chair, brushing away a tear with her slender fingers before gracefully sipping her wine and standing up. She leaned over to Adrian and hissed in his ear, sending shivers down his body, "Tell him I have my magical walking stick. And next time I'll kill him if he decides to mess things up for me. And he is not so strong, since he thinks with the wrong head."

Adrian shook his head, closing his eyes. Why was this all happening to him? If only he could, he would tell everything he knew about Riddle right now. But Irene wasn't going to discuss it any further, for she was already on her way out.

"I have business," she said through a smile that was unpleasant, repulsive. "Tell Vinda I'll be back in a couple days, please."

Adrian silently took the bottle in his hands, and, forgetting the manners and being alone with himself, drank straight from it.

"Adrian!" Vinda came down the stairs leisurely. "Has everyone left already?"

  "Yes, Vinda..." He put the bottle on the table.

"I had to be distracted... for an important conversation," she smiled, taking a seat next to her nephew.

"I have a question." Adrian stared into the green eyes. "Irene... Who is she? Who are her parents?"

Vinda smiled, tilting her head to the side.

"From the Sacred Twenty-Eight," she said through a sweet smile. "You won't tell anyone about that. But since you ask, I'll assume you like her. A worthy match for the alliance, Adrian. I second your thoughts." Vinda winked. "Only she's already engaged... practically married. How did she behave at Hogwarts?"

"Good," Adrian said quietly, sipping wine. "One of the best students. Where are her parents?"

"That's my girl!" Vinda smiled. "Her parents are dead."

  Rosier had no children of her own. She had never planned a family. But this little girl reminded her so much of herself that she must have made Irene one of the best of Gellert Grindelwald's army.

"Alright, I should probably get going…" Rosier smiled weakly as he rose from his chair, but immediately swayed. He'd had too much to drink.

"Your parents are going to be mad at me," Vinda laughed. "We'll work it out."

"I saw her at the carnival," Adrian said in a low voice.

"Damn girl! She's at it again. It all started with the Black family. As soon as I brought her to that squib Marius, her theatrical talent spilled over our heads like slop," Vinda clucked unhappily. "I'll admit she's crazy good at it, though!"

Adrian mumbled something unintelligible. After taking him to the guest room, Vinda went to fetch some potions to sober him before sending back to the parents' inn. But as she went, Adrian instantly fell asleep under the weight of alcohol and the lack of energy to digest the news that evening.

☾

Cold gusts of wind mussed her neatly styled hair. Irene took a deep breath of the alpine air. There was no one in Nurmengard now who would ask unnecessary questions. Up the endless stone staircases and corridors, where one of Grindelwald's henchmen came across.

"Fräulein Düster," he nodded respectfully. „Wie kann ich helfen?"

"Wo ist Herr Richter? " Strictly.

"In der Sektion B."

Irene hurried to another part of the prison, the cold gray walls of which somehow seemed very familiar. She had been here before, but the feeling always haunted her. A tall young man with blond hair sat in an armchair by a window overlooking the Alps, reading a book.

"Michael?"

The man turned around. When he saw Irene, he was startled by her unexpected visit.

"What's wrong?" Michael couldn't hold back his smile.

"I just missed you!"

The sound of heels toward Michael. He stood up immediately and grabbed Irene, pulling her close to him. For a moment she was overcome with polar emotions: on the one hand, all those gestures were so familiar, but on the other, there was a faint feeling that those hands were somehow... alien.

"I missed you, too," he whispered into the top of her head. "First Durmstrang, then Hogwarts... How are things in England?"

"Still as prim and stuffy as ever," Irene laughed.

"Come here." He pulled her through the open door.

Irene found herself inside a small but very cozy room. She immediately pushed Michael onto the bed, making him smile once again.

"Wow! I guess you really missed me."

"I sure did!"

The coat slipped off her fragile shoulders to the floor. There was no time for a long game. Gentle kisses up his belly to his neck, Michael exhaled raggedly. He realized he'd fallen in love with this girl when she was twelve and he was sixteen. He had always protected her as much as possible. His parents had put him in Grindelwald's troop themselves, and he had never regretted it. But there were other children, like Irene, who were there out of choice, those who lived under different conditions.

"Michael!" Losing all shame, Irene ran her tongue along the tense neck. "Where is the room with the memories?" And then rushed to the ear, too vulgarly exhaling a completely extraneous question.

"You bitch." He eagerly unzipped his jacket. "I knew you wanted something again!"

"Where? Just tell me." She brazenly ran her palm down his pants and squeezed his already hard cock, making Michael exhale nervously, wanting more.

"In the C section..." he whispered, and Irene continued to play, running her other hand through his thick hair, making him kiss her breasts through the tight fabric. Michael said through his hitched breath, "There's a room hidden from view. Only those who want to enter it will see the door."

Irene pushed Richter away, and he collapsed onto the white sheets. Impulse. Everything was wrong. Wrong hands, wrong body. Wrong hair color and wrong eye color. No wild attraction and awe she'd experienced just a short time ago. An unhealthy smile on a pale face.

"Sleep!" indifferently, waving her palm.

The body collapsed on the bed. Irene hurriedly buttoned her jacket. With a quick glance at Michael, she realized that all her affection had vanished. Here and now she was suddenly completely indifferent to him, though she still realized that he was madly good to her, perhaps like no other man in the world... But she felt nothing. She didn't want him anymore. After all, he was her first man, and they were even engaged, damn it! Albeit for strategic purposes, but everything disappeared somewhere after.... Bullshit.

Noiselessly, as if floating above the floor, Irene made her way to the section C through the deserted, gloomy corridors. A barely visible door. A steady push. A multitude of shelves laden with vials and little bottles of silvery liquid. Memories! Irene froze. In a few moments everything would be back to normal. She had already resolved the situation with Riddle, but now it was a matter of principle. Why had he just been erased from her memory? Why did they want to send someone else to Hogwarts and not her? She was the best though, that was undeniable. Her heartbeat slowed. A predator. Tunnel vision on one single thing: vials with the last name Düster on them.

The black wand pulled a silvery thread of memories that had once belonged to little Irene to her head.

The hysterical laughter. Pain and despair. The picture of the world she'd lived in crumbled like a house of cards. Leaning against the cold wall, she continued to laugh, slowly sliding to the floor. The laughter turned to a low howl and tears of frustration rolled down her cheeks in hailstones. French mascara was running, giving her black streaks under the eyes. She felt like she was being torn apart. Second by second. And this infernal agony never stopped. Irene had only felt pain like this once before... in that unfortunate cave. Silent sobs.

After sitting on the cool floor for an unknown amount of time, she wiped her face on the hem of an expensive jacket. Her eyes were puffy and her face was red. Clutching pale fingers into the disheveled hair, Irene made a decision, and she didn't care what could happen next.

☾

With his hands in the pockets of the black pants, Tom counted the steps up the stairs. Along the stairs was a huge, elongated window. It was either dirty or tinted. But it was plain to see that outside that window the winter night was in full force. Lights out in ten minutes, so he'd be able to get to his room in time to avoid getting another round of displeasure from Mrs. Cole. Over the years, though, they had simply preferred not to cross paths, and spoke only on the most necessary occasions. The corridor was lit by three dim lamps. The kerosene ones were long gone, and the orphanage had switched entirely to electric lighting. Leading the finger of his left hand along the wall, Tom slowly wandered to the very end. The tiles beneath his feet were shifting, making a distinctive sound. Lazily he kicked it. A nasty scraping sound echoed down the corridor. Sighing heavily, he pushed the dislodged square back into place with his foot. Hate and disgust. Slowly he walked to the very end of the corridor, turning right. The worn number "27" of the second floor stared right at him. Pushed open the door, squeezing his eyes shut. The desire to burn everything to the ground was suppressed... Opening his eyes, he realized for the umpteenth time that he hated this place with every cell of his body. If it wasn't for that fucking girl, he would be at Hogwarts now, in his room, reading books and enjoying the peace and quiet of Christmas vacation...

Something was keeping him awake. Tom rolled over for the hundredth time, sighing irritably. The clock hanging in the hallway outside the door seemed to be ticking monotonously above his ear. Kicking the blanket with his foot, he heard it thud against the floor. A pleasant chill went through his entire body. He squeezed the eyes shut. Now he was going to sleep. He sighed belligerently. Who was he kidding? Wide awake. A doomed exhalation.

The clink of dislodged tiles on the floor echoed in the night's silence. Tom sighed heavily. To go out and kill that stupid muggle. Living in an orphanage for so many years and stumbling into the place everyone else avoided... He wondered who was that stupid? Stubbs?

Tom lay staring up at the ceiling and listening to the silence. His whole being froze in a heightened sense of attention. It seemed as if someone was standing outside his door. Three silent steps from his door down the hallway, and then everything went back to normal. Who was that? He got off the bed and strode across the cold floor to the door. Turned the knob quietly. No one.

"Lumos!" A light burst from the end of the magic wand. There was something on the floor. Tom bent down and ran his finger over the black liquid. It turned out to be blood. He pointed the light to the end of the corridor, and saw that the entire floor was covered in bloodstains. There were several barefoot prints at his door. Small bare feet.

Tom dressed hastily, and without touching the floor, so as not to wake anybody, headed down the corridor, covering the uninvited visitor's tracks. The handrails of the stairs were also stained. The footprints led to the street.

"Alohomora!" Tom said reflexively, but the orphanage door, locked from the inside, was already opened by unlocking charm. It swung open obediently, letting Riddle out into the street.

The frost immediately enveloped every cell of his body, penetrating to the bone. With a squeamish glance up at the letter A hanging upside down, Tom crossed the cast-iron gate of the orphanage. Small footprints showed that someone had walked straight through the snow, regardless of the frost. Tom followed them. The realization of where they were leading caused incomprehensible emotions. What had happened that she had come on her own? Whose blood was this? He could take revenge for all her antics now. End it where it began.

Tom hurried across the Millennium Bridge in the direction of St. Paul's Cathedral. Quietly went inside. Familiar walls have awakened memories that have been driven from his head for six years. Someone was lying at the throne. Tom sauntered over there, his wand ready just in case.

A deathly pale face with blue lips. Curls froze, but the warmth of the cathedral began to slowly thaw them. Wet strands stuck to her forehead. The jacket and trousers are torn. Bare feet. Her fingers barely gripped the black wand. Breathing was almost inaudible. The whole body was covered in cuts and wounds, from which blood was oozing.

"Tom," she said faintly, "Tom..."

Riddle realized there was no danger. He cautiously leaned over the body of the one he had hated even more than he had a few days before. He watched as the life slowly faded away in that fragile body.

What to do? What to do with her?

"Fucking bitch," Tom hissed, leaning over her, lifting her gently in his arms, making a decision driven by a single impulse: he could do whatever he wanted to her, but no one else. "What happened, Irene?"

"I killed them all, I killed them..." she whispered like a delirium, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. "I didn't run away from you, Tom, they separated us... I killed them."

"Who?" but she didn't answer. Her wounded body collapsed in his strong arms. "Bitch," Tom whispered, glaring angrily at the Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's Cathedral, which echoed his words.

He walked hurriedly across the bridge back to the orphanage. He could take her to St. Mungo's, but they wouldn't do it the way he could. They wouldn't use dark magic, they might neglect it. Cradling the nearly breathless body against his chest, Tom realized that only he had power over her, and no one else, not even herself.

☾

Black lashes fluttered. Irene slowly opened her eyes and for a moment panicked at the lack of understanding of where she was and what was happening. But her brain quickly recognized the familiar surroundings of the orphanage. Her body ached terribly, and she, wincing in pain, carefully rolled over from the back to the side. She involuntarily buried her nose in the pillow, feeling the warmth of the blanket, and suddenly realized she smelled him. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, inhaling the stupefying scent. The door creaked open, and Irene flinched.

"It's me, don't be afraid." Riddle appeared on the threshold of the room, reassuringly calm in a confident but soft voice. "I saw Adrian, but already, as you can see, I'm back." He took off his black coat and hung it in the wardrobe in the corner. "No, no one would come in here and see you, don't worry. And no one would look for you here either, after all this is just a Muggle orphanage."

He answered all the questions Irene wanted to ask. Gathering all her strength, she still opened her mouth, but the voice was hoarse.

"How long has it been?"

"Today is December thirty-first. You've been unconscious for four days. This is for you."

Tom stepped closer and picked up a plain white plate from the table with a doughnut on it. Bitterness rose in Irene's throat It seemed that the tears were going to flow by themselves.

"Of course, it wasn't six months you waited for this, it was six and a half years... But better late than never."

He held out the food to Irene, she silently took the plate and nibbled at the doughnut. She had no appetite at all, but she needed the strength.

"Were you in my mind?" She asked, trying to figure out what was making her head hurt so badly. She might have gotten hit by a spell in Nurmengard, though... The fight had been fierce.

"No." Tom looked at her like she was stupid. "Why would I have a dead body here? You were already dying. If you want to," Tom stammered, giving Irene a quick glance, remembering their last 'adult conversation'. "If you want, you can show me your memories."

Irene nodded, putting a piece of doughnut in her mouth.

"Adrian won't tell Auntie where I am?" her voice was still hoarse.

"No. Rosier is my man. He can be trusted. At most he'll say you're still not at Hogwarts."

Tom walked leisurely over to the bed and sat on the very edge. Silently he ran his palm over her leg.

"We need to see the wounds." A caring look, eager for understanding and acceptance.

Wounds? What wounds?! Echoes of memories of being struck by one of Grindelwald's henchmen with several elaborate, flesh-mutilating spells flashed through her still aching head. Irene nodded obediently, trusting the one who had apparently kept her alive, even though he might have left her in the cathedral or not gone after her at all.

Riddle picked up the plate and set it on the table, then, freezing for a moment, gently pulled back the blanket. Irene saw that she was completely naked, but Tom didn't care. He silently stared solely at her face, waiting for her to get up. Irene began to rise slowly, but it cost no small effort. Her head felt a little dizzy. Her whole body ached. In addition to the disgusting condition, she looked at her body: her porcelain skin was disfigured with many scars.

"Turn around," Tom ordered indifferently, and Irene turned her back obediently. She inhaled deeply as she felt him slowly come up behind, and then froze. The still cold fingers of the savior, who had returned from the street, slowly slid down her back, causing her body to shudder and be covered with goosebumps. "It will pass with time. Your body will be the same as it was before..." He slowly knelt down to inspect each scar that had healed.

"Thank you, Tom," Irene breathed out quietly, not daring to turn around.

"You're welcome," Tom said indifferently, as if they were having tea. "Turn around."

Irene slowly turned around and saw Tom standing in front of her on one knee. Of course, he was examining her body and not behaving inappropriately, but her hands still involuntarily covered the groin and breasts.

"We slept naked together when we were kids," Tom said phlegmatically, "and you're embarrassed."

"And we showered together," Irene wheezed through a weak smile.

The words made Tom see that she remembered everything; everything they had done together as children. He stood up and swung his palm, a suitcase that looked just like his, but Irene recognized immediately who it really belonged to. Another swing, and that one opened. Textbooks, robes, scales, and freshman test tube cauldrons...

Irene pressed her lips together, holding back emotions that made her want to burst into tears right there, throwing herself at his feet.

"Transfigurate your robe and I'll buy you something tomorrow," Tom voiced indifferently, sitting down at the table where his textbooks were, his world he had escaped to while in this Muggle orphanage.

Irene reached for her wand, which lay on the windowsill where seven white stones once lay. She wondered where he'd put them? Did he just throw them away like all the memories of her?

A wave of the wand and nothing happened. Another wave, and the child's robe rippled slightly, but nothing happened.

"I can't do this," she said.

"It takes time to get your strength back," Tom said, not taking his eyes off the book. "You'll be naked."

It was obvious he wasn't going to help her. Irene hastily climbed onto the bed and wrapped herself in the blanket. Leaning against the cold wall, she let herself examine Tom: the handsome profile, the lack of emotion. The rustle of the pages. He'd saved her. And he could have left her there for all the things she'd done. Memories began to tug unpleasantly somewhere in her chest. For the first time, a thought flashed through Irene's mind, whether to be glad or sorry that he hadn't left her there in the cathedral.

  For now, she remembered perfectly well that it was better not to make any sudden movements, otherwise one throw and he would spit out his poison and then swallow her like a little white rabbit. Or he would choose another tactic: slowly wrapping his arms around her, strangling like a python, but still swallowing its victim. Already at the age of eleven he was strong enough and capable of serious deeds! It's scary to think what he's capable of now. Even Adrian, being in the same building as Grindelwald, hinted desperately at this wizard's strength.

Tom suddenly froze motionless. Closing the book, he looked out the window, where there was a gray brick wall. White flakes of snow were slowly circling like white flies.

"All the guys and Cole had left for the holiday. The state has organized some kind of Muggle fund that finances events. I didn't go, of course."

Irene saw Tom swallow, and his Adam's apple moved. He stood up slowly and walked right up to the bed. Düster's little black soul left her body for a moment, but she only exhaled hoarsely, barely managing to open her mouth.

"Come here."

Two words, and everything was clear. Two words, and Irene had her eyes tightly shut. The next moment she felt Tom scoop her up. He carried her out of the room.

On the same floor was the boys' bathroom, where they'd escaped to a couple times a night as children. Irene snuggled against the man's chest, enjoying the fact that Tom was so tall and big and she could even catch a sense of security, as if he could protect her from the whole world.

He set her down on the tiled floor. With a wave of his palm, warming spells enveloped the bathroom space. The shower water rumbled, hitting the floor, splashing around. Tom threw off his clothes and lifted Irene by the waist, pulling her tightly against him, and stepped under the water with her.

"Irene..." he whispered in her ear, leaning her body gently against the cold wall. His sluggishness and smoothness of movement were not enough for long: in the next moment he greedily seized the girl's pale lips and exhaled, "Mine."

Hot kisses burned her lips and neck. Irene didn't realize if she was still dizzy from not being strong or from his touch. Her lower abdomen began to pull with an excitement that now didn't seem traitorous at all. She clung to his shoulders and back, straddling his hips harder, feeling him ready. Tom, overly aroused, wallowing in his lust, put sharply his cock in, causing Irene to shriek loudly.

"Mine," Tom moaned, thrusting her roughly into the wall, squeezing her rounded thighs with fingers so hard they were sure to bruise.

Every day while her wounds healed, he burned with the desire to taste her again. His inner wild beasts craved her frantically, and he couldn't tame them. And now, kissing Irene's neck, drowning in her moans and pleasure, he whispered, "Mine."

"It hurts," Irene exhaled, clutching at his back with weakened hands. "Please, slower..."

But he didn't listen to her. He fucked her where they had once spent time together. He felt her, so hot. He could feel her getting wet, because of the tightness that pressed from within. And she loved the hell out of it, because the way she moaned as she ran her fingers through his black, wet curls was the most treacherous witness to her lust. A few days ago, she'd been literally dying in his arms, and now it was happening again, but in pleasure.

"Show me," Tom whispered, "show me your memories," moving faster.

A few rough thrusts and his cock throbbed just inside. Warm semen flowed from the tortured womb back onto the limp cock and balls, dripping onto the tiled floor where the water washed away their shared passion and lust.

Tom was breathing heavily as he pressed Irene into the wall, clenching his teeth until they gritted. He slowly pulled back and set her on the floor. She was so small compared to him, up to his chest, no taller. Warm water trickled down her long black curls. He washed her, gently touching her healed wounds, and then, carried her into her room, sitting her on his bed like a doll.

"Are you ready?"

An obedient nod.

"Tom," Irene stared intently, waiting for approval.

"Yes?"

"Happy birthday."