a perfect storm

ii

"i hold a beast, an angel,
and a madman in me."

—Dylan Thomas

Ilithyia sat with her legs propped on a table, a book on horcruxes propped on her thighs, in front of the large eccentric mirror in the back of the library. The soft silver moonlight flooded the quiet nook of the library, giving her just enough light to read her book, but gods she looked pale under the holier than thou gaze of the moon.

The moon. A powerful beacon of magic on itself. And yet, never used. Why is the moon never used? It's terrifying. The amount of power one could harness from the moon is insane. The information is locked up real tight. Ilithyia is rather fond of astronomy, though.

She always felt the most at home under the moon. She used to sneak outside late at night after her parents had gone to bed. Or—gone to bedroom to fight. She couldn't ever hear them. But she could feel them. She could feel their magic simmering and exploding. Bouncing off the walls and breaking mirrors and old beautiful china. She could feel her father's anger. Feel her mother's fear. So she sought out a distraction, a way out.

The moon was her way out. She would climb out onto the roof outside her tiny window she could no longer fit through with ease, and watch the stars shine. In her mind, they danced. The stars all had stories, they danced with each other to the moon's song. The moon's song was enchanting. She could almost hear it if she listened hard enough.

One day, her mother had caught her out on the roof. And after a firm scolding and a promise of a week without her broom, she'd climbed out on the room with her. She'd told her mother the story of the stars that night. Sang to her the song of the moon. They'd fallen asleep under the warm gaze of the moon that night.

Horcruxes aren't warm. They aren't kind. They don't have an enchanting song that echoes of the corners of your mind. No. Horcruxes are cruel, dark, cold, sinister. Her father had lent her this book. Told her to read it before christmas break. Ilithyia felt the need to break something. A world where her father was immortal is not a world she wants to live in.

She'd rather avada herself. Quick, painless, easy. She'd easily mean it in that circumstance.

Riddle would be here soon. Any moment now he'd come strutting into this little corner of the library. Completely closed off from reality. Blocked by bookshelves and stacks of books that tower feet over Ilithyia.

This was her favourite place in all of Hogwarts.

Riddle knew that.

Ilithyia knew the moment Riddle entered the library. The magic shifted. The air went cold. The silence was quieter—eerie. She shifted and slipped her wand out of her hair. Her hair unravelled from the loose bun the wand had been so precariously holding it in and cascaded down her back. She knew her curls were frizzy and tangled. But the white of her hair almost glowed in the moonlight. She knew how she looked.

with her tie undone—if you asked she'd swear on her grandmother's grave it was impeding her ability to breathe. although—she'd never met either of her grandmothers. Her shoes were off and sitting on the floor next to her chair, leaving her thigh-high blue stockings the only thing covering her feet and legs. her skirt was there, but it pooled in her lap, leaving very little to the imagination; her black silk knickers almost visible. Her crisp white button-up had the top three buttons undone, her sharp, prominent collarbones on full display.

She hadn't done all that for Riddle. No, no. She was doing it to Riddle. She knew it pissed him off when she was indecent. Disgusted him. She wiggled her toes in her stockings in a futile attempt to get the fabric out from between her toes. Whining, she bent forward and tugged on the fabric around her toes.