The Lunar Forest | Tom Riddle

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ •• Snowflakes fell in frosty discipline outside, as winter painted the landscape a canvas of scrupulous austerity in its order of white and black, ice and rock. The bare branches of trees were smothered by the suffocating coat of snow, freezing the heart of any life that dared to scavenge or titter.  The castle starkly contrasted this bleak scene, adorned with twinkling lights, festive decorations, and a palpable air of anticipation. The Great Hall, with its enchanted ceiling mirrored the wintry night sky outside, sprinkled with shimmering stars and drifting snowflakes. Evergreen wreaths, ornamented with bewitching candles, lined the walls, infusing the air with the scent of pine. Inside the Slytherin dormitory which resided, concealed but not privy from the festivities, under the frozen lake, Asha was helping Inkeri dress for the daunting occasion of Slughorn's Christmas party. Their puerile laughter could be heard even from behind the closed door, as they demonstrated uncaringly the tender gracelessness of youthful humour.  The other girls, mercifully, were out, and only Adrielle was there to witness their idiotic troubles, as the girl sat on her bed, pretending to read but really just watching them, occasionally snickering inwardly.  Asha was delicate and almost sisterly as she did Inkeri's hair with nimble fingers and a degree of expertise. "I do not know why you insist on braiding it so often," she said, mostly to herself. "It looks so beautiful down."  "Really?" Inkeri said, rather surprised. "I never give my appearance much thought," she admitted.  From the bed, Adrielle sneered. "Yes, and it's quite obvious," she remarked. Inkeri swivelled her head to glare at the cynic, who slowly looked up from her book, raising an eyebrow unapologetically.  Asha pulled Inkeri by the shoulder to make her look back in the mirror. "Ignore that bitter Slytherin over there," she said dismissively, "When I'm through with you, your charisma will rival that of the most divine Scandinavian entity."  "That sounds more like a threat," Adrielle commented absently, her lips curling upward with mirth. "Good luck Koskinen."  Ignoring her, Asha flung open Inkeri's wardrobe, and began searching through the scarce number of dresses on the rack of hangers. "No— no— definitely not—" she mumbled, as she discarded and rejected more and more gowns, until finally she ran out.  "I'm not lavished with formal clothing," Inkeri stated needlessly, but that didn't hinder Asha's conviction.  "That's alright," the Ravenclaw girl said brightly. "I'm sure Adrielle wouldn't mind lending you one." Adrielle gave a relatively unconvincing grunt, which Asha took as a sufficient invitation to start rummaging through her wardrobe.  "If you touch anything that is not fabric, I will gouge out your eyes," Adrielle warned, but Asha was accustomed to the graphic threats, and paid no heed.  Finally, satisfied, she pulled out a black dress, which was embellished with impossibly dark silken threads that twisted into a gothic design, the sleeves made of lace at the hem.  On the bodice, two silver snakes entwined to clasp around the waist.  Inkeri gaped at it in awe; it was beautiful, but so morbid. "I will look either utterly horrendous or mentally compromised in that," she told Asha.  The concern was completely disregarded. "Don't be ridiculous, everyone appreciates dark elegance these days," Asha said. "Why do you even have this?" Inkeri asked Adrielle, admiring the neckline, which sank further below any decent ideal of modesty.  Adrielle shrugged, not bothering to tear her eyes away from her book. It was a new one, entitled Possession of the Soul: Feast on your Enemies. "It was my grandmother's wedding dress," she said dryly. "I intended to throw it out a while ago, but evidently never got around to it."  "A wedding dress?" Asha echoed surprisedly. "Are those not supposed to be white?" Adrielle snorted derisively. "My grandmother was not, by any means, an emblem of purity," she said with a hint of admiration.  Inkeri slid on the dress, which caressed her figure like a second skin. Asha fumbled with the corset strings, trying— and failing— to tie them. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, "I doubt dresses have been made like this since the Victorian Era."  Finally, Adrielle lost her patience, shoving the other girl aside and taking the laces into her own hands, knotting them together with swift expertise. Her freezing hand accidentally brushed Inkeri's back, and the blonde witch shivered slightly.  No matter how hard she tried to push it down, Adrielle always sent her thoughts into orbit. Spiralling, she would end up wondering whether or not she could ever bring herself to kill Adrielle. The thought made her feel queasy— it shocked her to her core, but Inkeri had found herself truly liking her, whether or not she reciprocated the sentiment.  The girl in question was watching her carefully through the mirror in front of which they stood, her bright green eyes piercing, as though they could read Inkeri's every thought. Or maybe that was just Inkeri's newfound sense of perpetual paranoia. Finally, after pulling the ribbon so tight that Inkeri's breath almost stopped, Adrielle moved away.  Inkeri inspected herself in the mirror. The raven shade stuck out starkly against her pale skin and white hair, which Asha had decorated with a pearly silver floral pin. Oddly enough, she rather liked the gothic look of the lace sleeves and plunging neckline. Asha clapped her hands gleefully and even Adrielle gave her a once-over that held little to no contempt. Then, the Ravenclaw pushed Inkeri out of the door, making her promise to describe everything later, and slammed it shut behind her.  Making her way down the stairs, Inkeri found Rosier already waiting for her, idly turning a quill in his hands. He was the embodiment of elegance; a black suit with a crisp white dress shirt. There was another boy on one of the sofas, who gaped at her with his mouth hanging open, though she couldn't imagine why.  Niklaus caught sight of Inkeri, and came over immediately to greet her. "You look simply astounding," he admonished with a smirk, glancing at her appreciatively while chivalrously offering her his arm, which she hesitantly accepted.  "As do you," Inkeri replied, as the portrait leading out of the dungeon swung open for them. She noticed that he didn't seem the slightest bit enticed by her beauty— he had just acknowledged it objectively as one might notice exquisite architecture.  They weren't the first to arrive, but far from the last. The party was, as expected, overly extravagant. The room was filled with rich fabrics and an array of strange foods, suffocated by the aroma of expensive perfumes. It was a scene that embodied opulence and joviality, reflecting Slughorn's love for luxury. The host of the party was at a nearby table, laughing jovially beside another man, who seemed stiff and uncomfortable, as though he were a victim that Slughorn was holding hostage with a bad joke. Rosier caught her line of sight. "That is Septimus Malfoy, Abraxas' father," he said, voice laced with hostility. Inkeri had almost forgotten about his enmity with the Malfoy heir.  There were a few other adults there, and Niklaus named them all for her. Nott and Lestrange's fathers were there, as well as a few others from the pureblood circle.  "He's collecting them like cards," Inkeri commented, as Slughorn tottered around, ambushing more students or adults that had made the unfortunate decision to attend.  Niklaus laughed. "He's a superficial man, Slughorn," he said, plucking two drinks from a waiter's tray and handing one to her. "There should be a camera crew up here soon, so he can put a photograph with them on his shelf and feel good about himself." "What is a camera?" Inkeri asked blankly. Niklaus stared at her, and she felt slightly embarrassed, before he started talking.  "My apologies, I forgot that most of us don't know much about originally muggle contraptions," he said quickly. "A camera is essentially a device, for recording visual images. What you are seeing right now, would be imprinted upon paper. Muggles' ones are stationary, but ours are charmed to move." Now, it was Inkeri's turn to stare at him. "You are toying with me," she said, shaking her head. "Well, it did not work, because I don't believe you."  He smirked, but was too lazy to explain himself. "Yes," Niklaus said, taking a final sip and then placing his empty glass on the table behind them. "You caught me." Riddle entered with an older girl, somehow darkening the atmosphere with his very presence. She had dark hair and a faint resemblance to someone, but Inkeri didn't dwell on her for long.  Exuding an aura of refined sophistication, Tom effortlessly drew eyes towards him. Tousled hair framed a chiselled jawline and those piercing, enigmatic eyes met Inkeri's more than once. It was almost offensive to her, how strikingly handsome he had been made.  Inkeri turned in time to see Rosier's hand ball into a fist, and she realised whom Riddle's partner was so similar to. "That's your sister, isn't it?" She asked carefully. "The one on Riddle's arm?"  He sucked air through his teeth and nodded, beckoning a waiter over and picking up yet another glass. "She graduated this year," he said bitterly. "Apparently, the trip to Hogwarts was worth it." He spat the words out with intense bitterness.  Inkeri watched Tom and Druella talk, the way she dragged her fingers up his arm flirtatiously, and also the manner in which his eyes kept flicking to her brother.  The boy knew that Niklaus Rosier would not succumb to torture like the rest of the Knights, for it was simply impossible to instil fear into him, no matter how much Tom had tried; to the point where the Rosier heir had "mysteriously" ended up at St. Mungo's once with third degree burns.  Niklaus acted of his own accord, almost a rogue— but unfortunately, his wisdom was too invaluable for Riddle to cut him loose. So, he had worked meticulously to find the perfect way to punish the boy for his acts of defiance. Within a year, Rosier was in his grasp.  Lestrange sidled up to them, looking more refined than his usual look of unbuttoned collars and ruffled hair. "Alright?" He greeted Niklaus, who just raised his glass in response. His eyes fell on Inkeri.  "Fine," she replied. "how is your arm?" Interestedly, Rosier raised an eyebrow, and Lestrange regarded her with mild irritation. "Fine," he responded icily.  He turned and began conversing with a few seventh years beside them, and Niklaus let out an odd sort of laugh. "Congratulations, Koskinen," he mused. "You are even worse at social cues than I am." A sort of smile painted itself onto her lips. "I never noticed," she said genuinely. Inkeri had essentially been claimed by Asha, and she'd never had to forcefully interact with people. She counted herself lucky.  Slughorn clapped his hands, and the music changed to a slower melody. Inkeri watched with surprise as everyone glided into the centre of the room, clasping their partners' hands and beginning to twist in gentle waltzes.  Rosier rolled his eyes, taking Inkeri's drink and placing it with his on the table. "This is what I dread most about these parties," he droned, but nonetheless, guided the girl to the floor. She let herself clasp his hand, and didn't object when he placed the other on her waist.  It was quite enjoyable, these fancy events, and Inkeri thought she wouldn't mind going to another one. She stumbled a few times, but Rosier held her up, sighing irritatedly and shaking his head but his half-smile betraying him.  "You're quite talented," Inkeri said, slightly shy about her own clumsiness.  "You are not," he replied ruefully, but she wasn't offended, laughing at the truthfulness of the  statement.  Minutes went by but they felt like hours, and as he twirled her round, she mercifully forgot all of her troubles. Inkeri forgot Tom Riddle. Her lively laughter resounded, cheeks flushed with warmth and merriment. Nearly getting wrapped up in her skirts as she spun, Rosier's movements eventually becoming more languid as he grew to enjoy the euphoria as much as she did.  "Your hair is glowing," he said lowly, eyes roving over everyone else, who seemed wrapped up in their own enjoyment. "I would advise that you stop before someone notices." He tipped her back to meet her eyes. "I can't just stop," she snapped, "It happens by itself when I'm happy, it's not under my control—" she cut off abruptly and yelped as his heavy shoe stepped forcefully on her foot. There was some attention towards them, but interest was quickly lost.  Niklaus smiled. "It's stopped now," he stated matter-of-factly.  Inkeri glared at him. "It was an accident," he added as an afterthought, and she scoffed, not even pretending to believe him. She wondered why he had taken it upon himself to help her protect her secret— but she'd learned to expect the worst from the Slytherins, and wouldn't surprised if it was another ploy ordered by Riddle.  "If you glow when you're happy," he said, slightly in a mocking tone as though he couldn't quite believe it, "Are you saying that you have been unhappy until now?"  She thought about it. "Not unhappy," she said carefully. "I suppose you could say... a perpetual state of contentedness, but nothing more." He nodded, as though he could understand the feeling.  The song ended, and there was a lot of shuffling. Rosier broke away from her, and she turned to him with a slight edge of panic. "What is happening?" "Relax," he said calmly. "We're just switching partners. You will be fine."  He disappeared into the sea of students, and Inkeri stood there numbly, until Vladimir Dolohov approached her. He eyed the girl up and down, and then, wordlessly, offered her his hand, which Inkeri accepted before she could think better of it.  Dolohov was even stiffer than Rosier had been initially, his hand freezing even through the fabric of her dress, but he was not without poise. He was more tolerant of her fumbles than Rosier, just ignoring them without reaction, although he didn't spin her the way Niklaus had.  It was their first direct interaction since September, when she'd saved his life and he had put hers in jeopardy by telling Riddle.   "You look considerably well," she quipped. "I take it you healed perfectly fine." Dolohov paused, then nodded in acknowledgement.  She continued on. "Dare I ask, what exactly happened that evening? The question has been persisting in the back of my mind for quite a while now." Vladimir studied her for a moment, as thought examining her for motives. Inkeri thought that the only person that could possibly surpass his beauty was Riddle.  "Occasionally, we like to duel," he said at last. His voice was deep, yet softly uttered. "Malfoy got carried away, and used a spell that he had never heard of before." Inkeri contemplated this. "What if I had not been there?" She asked. "He would have had your death on his name." Dolohov's expression remained passive. "Do not think so highly of yourself," he deadpanned. "Nott found me shortly after, with various bottles of Dittany. I could have held out until then. All I have to thank you for is revealing yourself so easily." "Keep telling yourself that bullshit if it helps you sleep at night," Inkeri seethed, her anger getting the best of her. "I don't need your gratitude— I won't make the same mistake again." He seemed surprised at her outburst, but didn't say anything. The song subsided once again, and with a final bow, he left her, meeting hands now with Druella. Inkeri saw Rosier, and tried to move towards him, but someone stepped in her way.  "I hope you can spare me a dance, Koskinen," Riddle said. She froze, then forced her frozen limbs towards him. The serpent preys on the fear of the hare. Inkeri wore a mask of courage around Tom Riddle, and if it slipped, she feared he would strike.  For someone not of aristocratic descent, Riddle was relatively good at the waltz, from what Inkeri could discern beyond her own screaming thoughts of wariness. She felt overly aware of everything about him. That recognisable scent, like refined wood, the warmth of his hand in hers, and those gleaming eyes, which hid the maniac behind them. God, how she despised him.  "I have a mild concussion, from where you threw me into the wall," he said, hints of melodical amusement playing in his voice. He didn't say anything further.  "Don't get too dizzy then," she said, hiding the slight tremor in her voice. "I won't catch you if you fall." He held her hand so tightly— not enough to hurt, but to serve as a constant reminder that it was enclosed by his.  A downward smirk at this remark. "The room is quite dark," Riddle said, changing the topic abruptly. "Why don't you brighten it, Koskinen, with your glowing hair?" "Were you watching me?" Inkeri sneered. "Of course you were. You cannot seem to help yourself from acting utterly fixated on every aspect of me. My magic, my origins... it is getting a bit weird, Tom." He lowered his head slightly, so that his lips were closer to her ear. "I don't like enigmas," he whispered. "I told you before; uncertainty is a means for concern." "And I told you," she hissed, narrowing her eyes. "I am not here for you. I want nothing from you, nor do I have anything that you could possibly want."  The lie was so potent that it threatened to twist into a noose around her neck. Every passing day was further clarity that murdering Tom Riddle was a highly likely event in the hand of cards.  But she didn't know just how closely their fates were to be entwined; while he, somehow, seemed to have predicted it long before it happened.  Wrapped in her own thoughts, she caught someone's heeled foot, and lurched forward. The only thing that stopped her from falling embarrassingly flat on her face was Tom's already present hand on her waist.  "Would you look at that," he said wryly. "It looks like you were not the one to catch me after all." The third song ended, and Inkeri retired from the dance floor, done with being passed around like a ball in a roulette. Rosier joined her shortly afterward, his neck flushed and curly black hair messier than she'd ever seen it.  Riddle's partner, Druella, had abandoned him almost entirely, now being introduced by Slughorn to a Cygnus Black, who looked at her with mellow admiration. Niklaus glared at them both from the corner of his eye suspiciously.  Inkeri didn't see Riddle for the rest of the evening. But more than once, she felt his eyes watching her. ｡･:*˚:✧｡ Late that night, when Slughorn's party had finally ended, Inkeri dragged her weary limbs up the Astronomy tower to meet Asha, her heels in her hand.  She saw Lestrange in a dark corner of a corridor, lip-locked with some other girl, love-bites already blooming on his chest under an unbuttoned collar. He caught Inkeri's gaze and winked at her, and she looked away with disgust.  When she entered the room, she found a projection of Ursa Major on the roof, with the telescope focused and ready, but abandoned. Its user sat in the window, at such a dangerous altitude that if the wind changed spirit, she would plummet to her death.  Asha just sat there, staring at the stars in awe. Inkeri came, and sat down opposite her, fiddling with one of her heels in her lap. "Do you know," Asha said, "I think I would rather die than be trapped. I don't think I could live without seeing the stars." Her bright enthusiasm from before seemed to have subsided entirely.  Inkeri said nothing. She recognised this mood; Asha just wanted to talk, and be listened to, and Inkeri complied.  "My brother and I used to look at them together when we went to India, and my father would tell us that our mother was up there, somewhere. I studied every book as a child, the entire galaxy, looking for her, but to no avail." She wiped a tear from her cheek.  "Something about the stars is still comforting though," she continued. "They're indifferent, to everything." Inkeri inhaled. Asha was rambling, and her personification of the stars watching them was more than a bit unnerving. There was bottle of firewhiskey beside them that Inkeri finally noticed, and Asha's state finally made more sense. It was odd, the Ravenclaw detested firewhiskey— she'd clearly only longed for its effects.  A sudden clamour from below piqued their interest, and they peered down. In the grounds, Abraxas was with a girl, boasting rather drunkenly about his father's estate and wealth and status and whatever else the Malfoy's had ridiculously ample of.  Asha's lips twisted into something Inkeri had never seen on her before— hatred, for the Malfoy boy. "I want to drop something onto his head," she said vehemently. It was the alcohol, amplifying her emotions. Inkeri stopped twirling her heel in her hand, and stuck it out to Asha, intending it to be a joke. The Ravenclaw's eyes brightened, and before Inkeri could stop her, she grabbed it and dropped it out of the tower.  There was a feminine scream below, and a masculine cry of anguish, as Asha blinked, shocked at her own action. Inkeri on the other hand, laughed until she nearly fell sideways out of the tower.  "Come on," she said, between laughs, pulling a tipsy Asha up. "Let's go, before someone finds us up here!" The two girls fled the scene, giggling to each other at Malfoy's expense.  Inkeri borrowed Asha's shawl as they ran, covering her head so that Asha wouldn't notice that in that moment, Inkeri's hair could have illuminated the entire corridor.  •• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••