Hexes, Jinxes & Past Glimpses.

Chapter 14: Shame on you.

She was choking on thin air at the time she entered the dorm. Sweat was trickling down her forhead and the back of her neck. Chills went down her spine as she faced the freezing Raveclaw common room. She didn't want to think of anything about supposed feelings. It seemed idiotic now. How much of an idiot was she, really? They weren't in some love drama, where the mysterious boy ends up with a quirky girl. This was real life, and she hated every second of it.

She was disposable.

She was thinking about him every day, unconsciously trying to spend time with him. She could have screamed out of glee from the butterflies she got when he kissed her.

Her mom always told her to go where it feels safe, not where you feel butterflies. That you shouldn't be anxious. You should feel free.

She had been prey. She'd told him her only fear, death. And he'd been planning on it, after he'd use her. 

Her dreams were warnings, she saw it clearly now. And how naive was she to think he wasn't the one behind the bathroom incident, when he had a drawing of that - was it called Basilisk? She couldn't care less - monstrosity in his room?

Why he helped her, she'd never know. Probably because he figured he should dig in for more information.

She felt sick.

She grabbed a vial of dreamless sleep, welcoming the numbness that came with the fatigue. She really didn't want to think. Just rest, for now. She sleepily glanced at the clock as her lids felt heavier, not an ounce of guilt for missing patrol with Riddle.

What would he do, kill her?

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He'd be lying if he said that Warren's absence shocked him.

He stood alone, like a lost boy on the staircase, his hand aimlessly raking through his dark curls. Staring at nothing, he didn't even bother doing his rounds.

This was not how he imagined restarting a journey, a new life would be. The memories of his almost success in his past life were haunting him. He thought he was ready to become Voldemort, the Dark Lord himself, yet he'd become attached to someone he should have killed. He couldn't even fathom how it hurt to see her shaken figure, her trembling hand and empty, hollow eyes leave the room. He could lie to himself all day, yet the attachment was there. While the reason it occured was unclear to him still, it was the truth.

He didn't feel like a Dark Lord anymore. He felt pathetic.

He felt numb over the disappointment he must have caused. He felt guilt, a feeling so foreign, his insides hurt on the new, uncomfortable, asphyxiating sensation.

And he hated himself for it.

He wanted nothing more than to go forward with the plan. Yet, now she knew. She knew more than she ever should, and should she open her mouth, his plans are ruined. Again.

Yet he didn't have the balls to kill her. He was awfully aware that the thought of purposefully harming her again made his skin crawl.

In his past life, he'd killed her, not even knowing what had happened to her afterwards. Some rumors of her being a ghost, haunting that bathroom, always crying, stuck in a traumatised teenage brain had made their way to him, yet he'd never cared. 

There was a reason he'd never been close enough to anyone in his previous lives. His mudblood side must be the one responsible of this feeling overload he was experiencing, yet he knew all the magic in the world couldn't change his blood status. He'd come to close for information, and while he researched more than ever before, he'd also slowly let her in.