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When they announced the final task it took all her control to keep her face still and composed.
One. Two. Three. She counted breaths like stirs in a potion, clamping down on her terror and pushing away the incipient panic attack. Does Riddle even want me to win, anymore? she wondered, a turgid mix of bitterness and hysteria choking her.
The marriage law had passed three weeks ago. Riddle had gotten what he wanted, and even if she lost to Owens now, they would never get the majority required to overturn it. She supposed this was his chosen punishment for her defiance.
She was glad that Riddle’s latest dog and pony show only required the champions to stand there looking resolute, because there was no chance she could manage to say anything.
Riddle’s words seemed to fade in and out strangely, and there was a ringing in her ears. Was there a problem with his sonorous , or—no, they were applauding now, but she couldn’t hear anything except the rush of her blood and her quick, tight breathing.
Finally, finally it was over, and she could go away and find an empty room to have her panic attack—except she found herself walking besides Professor Snape, his hand gripping her shoulder tightly as he propelled her away from the crowds in the Great Hall and into the dungeons.
In the cool, quiet shadows of the corridor, she felt a bottle pressed to her lips, and obediently she swallowed the calming draught. It was a stronger brew than usual, she noticed, as her fear receded and artificial tranquility took its place.
“He hates me,” she said through numb lips. “He’s trying to punish me.”
There was no need to explain who he was.
“Perhaps,” Professor Snape acknowledged, eyes dark and fixed on her. “It seems unlikely he would not take your ordeal last year into account.”
“I can’t do it,” Rigel said, voice catching. “I could handle the forest, I had Treeslider, and my bag, but this—“
“You must,” Snape said, voice unexpectedly gentle. “You know this.”
Rigel nodded dumbly. She didn’t want to die, not like this, blood boiling in her veins and marking her a coward. But this —
To enter willingly into a maze, with nothing but her wand and wits. A maze filled with wards, goblin wards, designed to keep her in, to trap her, to bind her until she found her way through them and to the Triwizard cup, the only way out.
“I can’t do it,” she repeated, barely audible.
“Rigel.” Long, pale fingers lifted her chin, drawing her gaze to her teacher’s fierce eyes. “You have faced down a dragon, a basilisk, even Riddle himself,” Snape said, voice at once soft and steely, like a velvet over an iron fist. “You can face your own fear.”
“I can’t—“
“You can,” he snarled at her, and something in Rigel broke, snapping her tenuous control over her emotions.
“ No,” she said, pushing him away. He stumbled back, eyes widening. “No, I’m done, I quit, I’m tired . I shouldn’t have to face dragons, or get kidnapped and fed to basilisks, and I hate my ridiculous magic and this stupid tournament, and I only ever wanted to learn Potions—“
She was crying, months—no, years of turmoil too much for the calming draught to contain. She was so tired of the ruse, of the lies, of the constant fear of being caught. She wanted to go back to before they’d ever had this stupid idea, and hex herself silly until she’d forgotten it.
She sank to the floor, burying her face in her robes and weeping uncontrollably for everything she’d spent four years burying.
An indeterminate time later, her sobs turned to sniffles, and she raised her head, red-rimmed eyes blinking at the black handkerchief thrust into her field of vision. After a beat of silence she took it, and loudly blew her nose. Silence fell again, and she studiously looked anywhere but at Professor Snape.
“You are hardly the first student to burst into tears in my presence, Rigel.” His voice was dry, and she couldn’t help but snort a little. She felt stretched and exhausted and oddly empty. She forced herself to look up, and was startled to find Professor Snape sitting next to her on the floor, rather than looming above.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Snape’s expression was pensive. Finally, he sighed.
“You are an extraordinary child, Rigel, and it is at times difficult to remember that you are, in fact, still a child.” Rigel bristled indignantly, but he held up a hand, silencing her. “You are. You are a prodigy, yes, and one who has endured things no child should—and no stranger to keeping secrets, either. But you are still very young, and I dare say have rarely allowed yourself the freedom to respond to your ordeals as a child should. It is not unexpected that you should have a breaking point.”
“I’m just so tired,” Rigel said again, voice cracking a little,
“I know,” Snape replied. “But you still have one task left before you may rest.”
One task. Just one task. But after that—how could she explain the web of lies she was caught in? How could she explain that things would never end? That even if by some miracle she finished Hogwarts without landing in Azkaban, she could never be Rigel again?
Her worries and fears seemed to grow and surround her, threatening to pull her back into spiraling panic—until Professor Snape’s hand grasped her shoulder gently. Rigel took a deep breath.
One step at a time, she told herself fiercely. One step at a time.
She lifted her head, and nodded slowly.
“I will see you through this, Rigel,” Snape promised. “You are not alone.” His dark eyes were intent, and for a moment—just a moment—Rigel allowed herself to believe him.