Deal with the Devil

Chapter 46

Four days. That's how long Tom Riddle and his followers wouldn't let her alone. She'd wake and one of them— Nott, Dolohov, Tom— would be there. Nott would always try to feed her, would pat her back, try to engage her. Dolohov hadn't touched her since Tom's ordered kiss. He'd tried to apologize, but she didn't want to hear it. She knew Antonin hadn't had a choice, but that didn't make him enjoying it feel like any less of a betrayal.

Tom didn't force more than cuddling, kissing and groping on her; she supposed it was his way of giving her space to mourn. He was both puzzled by the depth of emotion and excited that she was a mess.

The morning of the funeral, he'd left her to get ready at her apartment with sweet sounding words that he would be there soon. Elena had nodded, then sent the downstairs' shop owl with a missive to Dumbledore, begging him to come to the funeral, to help her.

Elena was drowning. For so long she'd clung to the love she had for her father and his for her; without it, all the evils of the world spilled into her mouth, down her throat, sitting heavy in her chest and weighing her down. Everywhere she looked, there was Tom. She was trapped. She knew he was using this as a way to make her dependent on him. Make her need him. In grudging way she had come to trust Antonin, but Tom had taken that little bit of trust and shattered it to pieces. When Dolohov had left that evening, the satisfaction in Tom's eyes had been terrifying. She'd almost been surprised he refrained from taking her.

Elena realized she had been staring into space for half an hour, that she only had so much time before Tom would be back to take her to the funeral home. She padded toward her washroom, bathing without thinking of her actions other than directing her arms; they felt heavy, lined with lead. She huddled in her bath towel after, looking at her wardrobe as though it would make the decision of what to wear for her.

Something beat against the window and she turned, an owl fluttering there. Her lips turned down and she shook as she opened the window. It didn't stay though, dropping the paper on the bed and flying back out. It had a short message in familiar, flamboyant handwriting: Yes.

That was good. Or it was something, at least. She pulled out an ankle-length sundress. It was soft yellow, like the pale little spring butterflies, with touches of black lace and the outlines of flowers. She trailed a finger over the black belt at the waistline. Da had called it her Hufflepuff dress. He'd loved it, so she had worn it often when she visited.

Elena slipped it on, brushed her hair, pinned it back securely, and pulled on a robe. Then she sat on the steps outside of her apartment, hands clasped neatly in her lap.

That was how Tom found her. "Ready to go, sweetheart?" She nodded and took his arm. He'd been with her through all of the planning playing devoted beau to his heartbroken love. In a way it had been easier because he would take over when Elena fell silent. He'd accepted condolences for her while she'd stood with downcast eyes, had shaken hands, had made the arrangements she was terrified to even think of. Thus, he knew exactly where to apparate.

She let him guide her to the front row of the little funeral parlor, sitting beside her with an arm around her, his hand stroking her arm in what she thought seemed like a comforting gesture to the outside world. Elena felt it isolating. Anyone who spoke to her, wanted to shake her hand or hug her, would have to go through him first.

She barely heard the service, though she was invited to speak. Elena had shaken her head; she'd told them before that she had nothing to say. Her only request had been the one recording she'd made of him playing the violin. When it started, she took a depth breath and settled into the pew, eyes drifting closed so she could imagine him. He always wore the expression of the song. That's how she'd think of it, whether it was a sweet and romantic song that brought about dreamy sighs or a sorrowful dirge that brought tears to her eyes. This one was mostly sad, with a hint of something hopeful all the same. She loved the way his hand trembled with such precision as he sawed the bow over the strings, the deft movements of his fingers over the strings. She loved that sometimes he bit his lip the same way she did when he came to a particularly challenging or emotional part of whatever he piece he played. She'd never see any of it again. All she had was this feeble recording that captured only the sound of him, no other part.