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Tom sat alone, as he always did, away from the inane chittering of his peers, eyes closed and head tipped back. He pressed two fingers into his temple, hard, in hopes that the pressure might relieve the persistent ache radiating from the base of his skull, wrapping around to settle just behind his eyes. It seemed to be mocking him, just as the solution to his dilemma did—remaining ever-present, just on the cusp of awareness. Unwilling to be properly silenced, unwilling to be set aside. Even still, his determination remained, fingers digging harder against his flesh, mind set on smothering any errant noise, focusing solely on forcing the final details of his plan into place—details that had resisted him for the better part of a fortnight. Damn Professor Slughorn for ever even providing him with half a seedling of the idea, for failing to give any real practical advice on follow-through, on the how.
All the apologies and promises in the world couldn’t hope to make up for this wild goose chase Tom had been sent on. All he’d needed was to find a way to bind a slice of soul into an inanimate object. With something so precious as his own life force, he needed to know for certain that the logic, the method, the magic—was perfect. Anything less than that was simply a risk he was unwilling to take.
So rather than rely any further on the apparent halfwit, he’d taken matters fully into his own hands: combing diligently through each relevant stack in both the main library and the restricted house-only sections, contracting an animagus to peruse bits of the castle he couldn’t access, and even running his own form of soul-binding experiments on several mythical beasts he’d found roaming the grounds—all to no avail.
In a word, it was maddening. Enough to consume most of his waking thoughts. In more than a word, it was like to be the death of him.
He glanced ruefully out of the wide-paned window, his attention catching as he ran a hand through his still-damp hair. He studied the still surface of the Black Lake, its inky depths hidden beneath a flat veneer, the reflection of a wide, white moon. Full tonight. It seemed such a shame to waste its potency. Such a shame to be left spinning over such details. Such a shame indeed.
He could feel the spiral threatening to begin again, the ache behind his eyes, climbing upward, but still he fought it. His gaze lingering on the water, following the fractured reflection of the moon as it trembled across the surface.
Then something at the far edge of the lake caught his attention. Something was standing along the shore, stark, pale, and ethereal against the backdrop of the night. Something that injected him with the first traces of hope he’d felt all week.
His summoned notebook fell open to the page he’d had in mind:
The accounts contradicted one another at every turn. It was hardly acceptable. And yet… it would have to suffice.
The devil, he thought wryly, was in the details. How lucky he was, then, that this particular devil wouldn’t need to be coaxed out. Here she was before him, allowing him to see plainly for himself what countless inconclusive sources couldn’t clarify—lovely and ethereal, welcoming him to study her, welcoming even her own capture.
That thought alone, was enough to spur him into action. In an instant, he was on his feet, throwing on his outer robes and grabbing his wand. Considering the distance between them one final time, his eyes cataloguing the details of the lakeshore, of the thick line of trees approximately fifty meters away. With little more consideration and a measured flick of his wand, he was now standing in a break in the tree line, the wind whipping around him.
He approached her, carefully placing all of his weight on the balls of his feet, keen on avoiding the crunch of the fallen leaves, lest he startle away his prize.
He risked several steps closer, muscles tense and wand at the ready in case she seemed about to flee. His caution seemed unwarranted, though, as he studied her. Her attention remained fully fixed on the moon. It was as if she were studying it for something only she could see.
Even still, he muttered a charm under his breath that held her firmly in place. And yet, her attention did not waver. Her gaze stayed trained on the heavens, a faraway glint casting her in a rather uncanny light. She tipped her head back, pale hair catching in the breeze.
His next step was made louder by design, a twig snapping beneath the weight of his dragonhide boots. Still nothing.
Even as he cleared his throat, the sound unnatural against the nocturnal shore, she did not react to or acknowledge him in any way.
Shock and something akin to impatience coursed through him, and suddenly he felt bolder than he had all evening. He positioned himself directly in her line of sight, had her head not been tilted up toward the sky, squared his shoulders, and held out an expectant hand.
“Tom Riddle… I would know the name of the one who stands before me.” He was careful to keep his voice low, deep enough to demand respect. To demand a response.
And even then, he got none.
In the too-long moment it took for him to withdraw his hand, he felt something in him shift.
He felt the pinprick of an almost-rage beginning to fester, reigniting the ache behind his eyes.
How dare this creature ignore him.
He drew in several deep breaths, allowing the breeze to cool the flames of frustration, just a bit. Just enough to remember himself.
All of the power of tonight rested firmly in his hands—not some flimsy, easily distractible water nymph. He could feel that power—his own magic—pulse at the revelation, his fingers twitching around the base of his wand, while she remained wholly entranced, wholly vulnerable before him.
His feelings of being dejected melted away, replaced by a queer sense of amusement, of wonder. He allowed himself to look away from the poor thing, peering up at last to study the great white sphere hanging high in the sky.
He considered it for several silent moments, trying to imagine what it was that had captured her attention so entirely. It was a rather pleasant sight, he supposed, turning his head just so—so that he too might catch a glimpse of whatever specific angle she’d managed.
He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye, still unsatisfied that their positioning was quite the same. After several more minute adjustments, tucking his chin just slightly to the left and leaning backward, he peered back up.
Finally, he saw it.
The flat surface shifted, the light around it refracting into half a million prisms. Its nearly blinding iridescence was so startling he felt the need to look away. The word fell from his lips before he could catch it, before he’d even fully thought it. “Beautiful.”
At that, the creature, who’d seemingly been both deaf and carved from stone, sighed. The sound deep and dreamy.
He turned to face her then, shocked to find her already facing him.
When their gazes locked, she smiled, dimples etching, eyes twinkling like the stars dotted around that brilliant moon. The expression was so wholesome, so utterly sincere, that for a moment all of the frustration, the fury, the panic haunting him snapped into silence.
And for a reason he couldn’t fathom, filled with some emotion he didn’t dare to name, he was smiling too. The normally flat line of his lips quivered upward at the corners, causing crinkles to form in his stone expression.
Heat climbed and spread over porcelain cheekbones, and he was utterly lost in it. In her.
Only for a moment.
A nonsensical, world-shattering moment.
“We are one and the same, you know.” Her voice held the tide, as soft as a siren’s call. He felt the weight of it crash over him, heavy as a wave, light as ocean spray.
“I—I beg your pardon?” He had to square his shoulders, to will the words past the bubbles building in his chest.
Even still, she smiled as she answered, her hair catching in the evening breeze, more lovely now than odd. “The moon and I. She is the same as the one where I’m from. The same as the one I was named for.”
He doesn’t answer, just studies her for several moments longer, watching as her eyes flicker up again for just a beat. The knowing, the wonder holding him in place, shifting into something else—something distant, settled, and inevitable.
“Perhaps we are as well.”
“Perhaps…” he agreed, the word hanging heavy between them.