Loyal | Tom Riddle

33: The First Attack

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Some mornings, it felt like the sun took years to rise above the horizon and paint the mountains every shade between bronze and gold. The trees below now displayed their green leaves with the pride of a king, standing tall for all the world to see. And beyond the sporadic clusters of flora, which attracted all the newly born fauna, the lake's dark waters glimmered crimson in the early light with a thousand secrets.

The rocky shores upon which the gentle waves lapped seemed so distant, almost impossibly far, from the hospital cot in which Nikolai spent his days regaining his strength.

Outside his window, there was freedom; there was the springtime wind blowing and rustling the new green leaves, carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers and fresh mountain air; there was laughter and a carefree happiness that only came with the lengthening of days and the promise of summer.

But within the infirmary, he was reminded every time he breathed, every time his heart beat in his chest, every time he swallowed, of the pain that a particular dark-haired boy had inflicted upon him without so much as a slight hesitation. Every second trapped within the plain white walls and the tiled floors scrubbed unnaturally clean was a reminder that what he had experienced was only a taste of Tom's capabilities, that going against his wishes was a danger like no other, that disobeying meant paying dearly.

Even if Nikolai had been without these heavy thoughts to process, he still would have had some sort of depression to wallow in miserably. Madam Goodfellow was, as he had discovered to disappointment of the most extreme degree, quite adamant about upholding the school-wide ban on smoking cigarettes.

Every now and then, he'd reach over to his bedside table absentmindedly and blindly grasp around for the familiar feel of his uncle's old, rather battered cigarette case. Upon coming up empty handed each time, Nikolai would release a heavy sigh of defeat (and Madam Goodfellow would smile widely in deep satisfaction).

His bedside furnishings were unusually devoid of any get-well-soon cards, trinkets, flowers, and mounds of sweets -- most likely the work of Tom, Nikolai had reasoned quickly without doubt. It wouldn't have been difficult at all for the suave Prefect to convince every student on the campus -- or even the staff, for that matter -- that Nikolai wasn't worthy of such frivolities. Whether his reason was for being half-Serbian (and thus a traitor to the crown, whom wizards didn't much care for, anyways), a troublemaker, or some odd combination thereof, he wasn't entirely sure.

Drumming his fingers idly, doing as best as he could not to wince, Nikolai almost didn't notice the small, patchy-feathered owl shooting the breeze far above his head, just beneath the lofty ceiling. Clutched tightly in its scaly claws was a roll of parchment that looked quite ancient, as if it would disintegrate at the touch. Captivated and thoroughly amused for the first time in days, Nikolai watched the bird struggle to circle downwards without crashing headfirst into some carefully prepared poultice or meticulously made bed. Eventually, the poor grey, matted thing reached his bedside and dutifully delivered the parchment to him, clearly expectant of some sort of reward for not harming itself or anyone else in the process.

"Not today, you," Nikolai whispered, ruffling the owl's feathers gratefully.

Carefully, he managed to unroll the parchment without tearing it. His bright eyes scanned the spidery handwriting quickly, a small smile slowly forming upon his face as he read.

Dear Nikolai,

I'm at our usual meeting spot in the library, but it's odd not having to tutor you in the History of Magic on a Wednesday. If you want me to, though, I will come and see you in the infirmary (if Madam Goodfellow allows, of course).