to me, a wicked man who is also eloquent seems the most guilty of them all. he'll cut your throat as bold as brass, because he can dress up murder in handsome words.
—euripedes, medea 

      Caught in the rain, drenched from head to toe with skin-piercing ice water that cuts and hardens her skin like molded marble clay fixing itself into shape, Nadya shapes herself into the image of a goddess. Her skin is numbed; untouchable, like a myth in their true form, where any mortal who looks upon them is blasted into dust and ash. If she were to cut her arm now, she would feel barely a sting — maybe an aching wince that feels like violet bruising, black blood. She wouldn't even bleed, her insides entirely hollowed out and replaced with golden ichor, or just brittle sand, breaking apart every time someone touches it like a dried, rotting fruit. 

     The floor of the alley is awash with rainwater, filled with black sludge that reeks of dirt. The mud is thick enough to stick onto the hem of her velvet robes, weighing it down like rocks on a sinking ship, edging the Titanic closer and closer toward the seabed. Even her shoes are caked with mud; she can feel the sandy gravel, the dusty soil slowly making its way into her boots and rubbing around her heel. Behind her, there's the familiar buzz of people finishing their days work — the hardest workers, the most exhausted. It's rather silent, as most are too excited to speak, but occasionally one will start a conversation. The odd shout of someone already drunk, though the worst time for them has not yet come. 

     When Nadya sees the sign marking her destination, she can't stop the hint of a smile. Thieves and murderers run rampant around here like wild horses in a field untouched by humans. Nobody cares enough about the people they kill to start arresting them. It's so easy to run and hide and slink back into the shadowy safety of the surrounding alleyways, Apparate away, only leaving dust and a corpse behind in their wake. If she were found here, a ribbon of red around her throat, who would care? Perhaps her distant cousins who would inherit her fortune, but she's never even met them. Her body might not be found for days, stripped of all her precious jewelry and gold.

(She weighed the risks and rewards of dressing up for this occasion, and found that the rewards far outweighed the risks, even though it greatly increased the chances of her death. But death is just another of her lovers that she likes to tempt sometimes; she's never crossed the line with him yet.) 

     Pulling the cigarette from her lips, to blow out a soft stream of smoke, the familiar taste of fire is welcome in this unfamiliar city. At least something is the same — English cigarettes taste no different, besides perhaps being more overpriced. There's a slight burn in her chest, electricity buzzing as she touches her tongue to the roof of her mouth, sparks flicking down her throat and settling in her stomach. She remembers the first time she smoked; it was an ugly try, in the back of some alley while shopping for schoolbooks, edged on by Ivan. This is what they do in England, he would tell her, taunting. No girls can do it. 

Maybe he he was just teasing, riling her up. It didn't matter —Nadya couldn't allow even the slightest embers in thoughts of her inadequacy. Be the best, or be nothing. So she snatched the cigarettes, ignored his grin, and inhaled. It had tasted of death — cremated corpses, rust and iron, blood and red wine. Acid in her stomach, poison in her throat, smoke filling her lungs and her eyes and her nose until she could smell nothing else, taste only fire, feel only death. 

She had practiced. The next year, she could smoke better than him. The year later, she had learnt that they could be used to burn messages into wood, leave trails of ash on expensive tables, scar messages into skin. And the year after, he was dead, so there really wasn't much competition. 

      —The cigarette is crushed into the ground by the violent heel of her boot, molding itself into the cobbled pavement as if it were part of the street all along. She wishes she would find it that easy to blend into the English world. Maybe life would be better if they were all just cigarettes, just tiny rolls of paper, aflame, burning out too fast to worry. It would be nice to have such a short life. 

       The door to Borgin and Burke's has a broken lock. It's ironic; for all their stinginess, they don't even both to lock up properly. England is a world of hypocrites and idiots.the handle freezes around her skin, colder than even her empty mansion, and more void of life. Ice shooting into her bones and freezing them in place like Medusa is staring into her eyes, freezing her for so long she hardens into stone. 

It could be some anti-intruder alarm, or just the weather. 

      Inside, the shop looks just as damaged and broken as it did from the outside (you'd think they'd at least try to deceive with appearances), dust filling the shelves, three thousand broken objects shoved in at odd angles. There's cracked pottery all over the floor — and not intended as some sort of catalyst.

She tries to veil her disgust. It doesn't work so well — her reflex to immediately turn away and cover her nose. She manages not to wince at the sight of a Muggle tap covered in some sort of fungus. 

      The boy at the counter doesn't seem to mind. Perhaps he's used to that reaction from wealthy purebloods — it is only natural, of course. Briefly, Nadya wonders if she should offer to donate her own house elf in the hope that the dust will stop prematurely instigating the effects of hayfever. It would be quite amusing to see how far she could push him before he loses his temper — test out how well he'd follow his orders to be kind to customers. 

Nadya quite likes to push people to their very limits. When the thread keeping them sane, or holding their red-hot temper in check, or just the chains of following instructions — when they all break, there's this moment of flaming euphoria, a reaction at the back of her mind warning of danger!  Like the taste of death she feels when smoking, but amplified a thousand times over. It's addictive and beautiful and manic, like the pure poison of alcohol mixed with anger and smoke. 

      What would make him snap? she wonders to herself. Taunts, probably. He looks like the sort of person who has never had much to his name, only his talent and good looks. Mocking his status — well, those with too little are always the most easily taunted. 

     "We don't allow smoking in the shop." he says. His voice is soft and polite, but with a strange edge to it that she imagines most people find charming. Nadya just finds it fascinating. It forewarns of danger, after all. 

Maybe he can smell the smoke on her, maybe he saw her making sparks fly through the window. Maybe he's been ordered to remind everyone who enters the store. Maybe he's singling her out because she's beautiful and she looks down her nose at him in a way that wounds and maims his pride. 

       "I'm not smoking."  She pulls out her wand, and he tenses — perhaps he expects her to lunge and attack him for it. That wouldn't be uncommon among the easily riled English purebloods who think that the world should bow and kiss their toes, either with badly veiled envy or cleverly stifled prideful anger. They are the ones who find insult in every word. 

A second later, her robes are as dry as they ever were, and she can almost forget about the awful weather waiting for her. It doesn't matter; she can Apparate out. She couldn't Apparate in, of course, having no prior knowledge of the shop's location. It's these sorts of ridiculous laws of magic always rile Nadya up; they are witches and wizards, akin to gods. They shouldn't be restrained by what is known. 

     The man smiles. He has dark, deep set eyes and chiseled cheekbones that could cut through stone, scar marble hands — even hers, the goddess-born. He has the same well-practiced smile she also wears, which is unnerving. Staring into his eyes is like staring into a cracked mirror and seeing the same person staring back — only her mimic has a shattered mind that's tainted with shrouding, unyielding calm.

They shake hands; on his ring finger is a simple ring, the mark of Grindelwald etched into the onyx black stone. A few years ago, Nadya would've recoiled at the sign. Now, she's only slightly interested as to where he got it. (It's a bold choice, considering Grindelwald was only defeated mere months past, by Albus Dumbledore nonetheless.)

       "Tom Riddle."

       "Nadya Berkova."

       He nods, before gesturing around at the shop. "Are you looking for anything in particular?" He points to an elaborately decorated mirror, covered ornate pearls and gilded gold foil. It shines like molten silver, mercurial madness embodied in shining glass. "They call that the mirror of Aphrodite. Anyone who looks into it will appear to be at their most beautiful, no matter their true feeling. It's very popular with many customers — " 

       "So why hasn't it been sold?" Nadya remarks, surveying the mirror rather sceptically. Sure, it's pretty enough, and certainly heavy enough to be of some value. Illusions like those are always dangerous — why drive yourself insane with visions of what could be? Especially when what can be is always so much more enticing. "Do you offer that up to every female customer who seems slightly disheveled?"

      To his credit, he doesn't blanch at her interrogation, or hiss at the insinuation. He only smiles a well-practiced smile, nods graciously, and gestures to another object. "Do you need any help looking around the shop?" 

       Nadya sniffs. She 'd rather not — the shelves are thick with dust and dirt, grimy and black, the stench of rotting wood pungent. A quick wave of her wand would fix it, but she refuses to demean herself into helping such dastardly businessmen. The smell can stay. "I'm here to sell, actually. I have an appointment."

     He sizes her up, then, appraising her worth — not as you would a stranger, but as you would a customer, or a fellow businessman. Evaluating their worth, calculating their measure, estimating how far you can exploit them to starve them of every penny, suck out every breath of life. Choke them out of their fortune, let them suffocate in debt and lies.

Nadya shifts in slight unease, missing the familiar ash of her cigarette, trying to push herself back into the safety of her cloak.You are in control. You have planned this. Nothing can go wrong. 

( There are a thousand-and-one things that could go wrong, but it's better to pretend otherwise. Or Nadya worries she might lose her nerve — the same nerve that's hanging by a fragile thread and threatening to snap — and run back into her mansion. ) 

       "Mr Burke knows you're coming?" He checks again, surveying his list as if it is filled with matters of the utmost importance, when really it's just prices and objects, numbers and items. A tactic, designed to intimidate their customers into bending their will, or just to make them feel unsure. It's a slippery slope, after all (— did I really have an appointment today? Is this the wrong time? Am I wasting Mr Burke's time? Should I ask for a lower price? — that's how it goes.) "We're supposed to be closing soon, I should check — " 

      "Check, then." Nadya summons as much arrogance as she can dredge up, turning up her nose slightly. Their slippery schemes won't work on her, she refutes. Not on a girl born in a world of pitchforks and pyres and corruption, bleeding beds of thorns and books filled with propaganda. "I don't have all day."

       His jaw tenses, pride wounded, but he nods, turning toward the back door with a scowl. 

— And suddenly she feels something edging at her mind, a cold, hair-raising shadow on the back of neck, a cool wind blowing through her hair and leaving her nack exposed in all it's bejewlled glory. Tendrils and smoky fingers trying to melt through her golden walls, walls of thorns torn down, ripped apart. She slams the walls down, fortifying her palace, skin hardening alike to diamonds, sharpened and solid. He doesn't give up, attacking again, and her walls almost shatter, breaking into the thinnest glass, crystal and clear, cracking, shaking, shattering — 

       "In Durmstrang," she interrupts, hoping to distract him from her mind. It works — he stops trying to break in, satisfied that she's being candid again. However annoyed she might be at how easy he broke through, she finds that he's not so different from all the other men she's met. Offer them some truth, and they stop looking for more. "They told us that Legilimency was for fools, and Occlumency for cowards. I suppose it's not so."

He allows himself a small smile — he really is charmingly handsome, even though it's painfully obvious how hard he tries. The pristine curls of his hair, the lack of any creases on his clothes, the polished boots, despite them being cheap and worn.  Nadya imagines that he's one of those people — where the only things they have going for them is charm and good looks, and so they utilise them to the best of their ability, exploit every speck of sympathy and power they can gain with just that."Mr Burke will see you now."

      With a wave of Tom Riddle's wand, the shop closes itself up, windows shutting, doors bolting themselves, despite only being half-there. Apparently magic doesn't care whether things are whole or broken or not, it works just the same.

      Another wave and they are standing in the back room of the shop, Mr Burke lounging on a plush, silken velvet couch in front of them. He smiles, and Nadya is reminded of what her cousin used to say about him: the higher he flies, the further he sees he can fall.

       "Miss Berkova!" Mr Burke says, standing to take her hand. Tom seats himself on a simpler chair near the corner, the umbra folding around him as if he were born from it, birthed from shadows themselves. "Don't mind the boy — I'm having him watch my deals take place, for training. I'm sure you understand. Why, you are more beautiful than I imagined. "

       She forces herself not to recoil, warning every reflex to obey her mind and not her heart. "Of course, Mr Burke. A pleasure, to be sure."

     "Wine? It's elf-made, not that Muggle nonsense, don't worry."

      Nadya refuses with as polite a smile as she can manage, while the businessman takes a large gulp, claret liquid painting his lips like blood.  "I'm here for business, Mr Burke. I have other appointments — I'm sure you can sympathise, being such a busy man yourself." 

      He nods, smiling graciously, placing his dusty glass back down onto the dark wood table. The glass itself does not fit the rest of the ones in the set — probably stolen. "Of course. I take it you brought what I requested."

      Tom, in the corner, leans forward slightly, as if imagining some large amount of money or riches, gold concealed within the inner folds of her cloak and dress, diamonds hidden in her shoes. The sorts of things Mr Burke would normally go insane for.

       Nadya holds out a list of parchment, covered in so much ink it's more black than yellow. "The full of itemised list of everything I mean to sell."

       He snatches the list greedily, looking back on her with something that's a mixture of sympathy and interest. The sympathy is decidedly fake. "I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Berkova. Such a tragedy. Nobody could've known that he would kill himself so — such a terrible way to go. I do hope you aren't too ashamed of him — Ivan was always rather unreasonable, I suppose."

       Nadya clenches her jaw. He speaks as if he knows her cousin better than she does — did. No, it's not like Ivan was the one who taught Nadya to smoke or to shield her mind, to lie and steal and how to use a knife. Mr Burke must know more about him than she, through whatever limited interaction they had. At the way he speaks, she resists the urge to lean forward and slash her knife across his poised neck, watch the blood spill and the lights dim in his eyes. She stops herself. He doesn't deserve that.

Tom Riddle raises an eyebrow at the sound of her brother's name — Nadya supposes they must've known each other, having both gone to Hogwarts. They were probably in the same house, too — Tom looks like a classic Slytherin (dark-haired and irritating.) 

Not putting much thought by it, especially compared to Mr Burke's comments, she grits her teeth, trying not to snarl at the shopowner savagely, rage coursing through her blood, more addictive than the wine he offered her. If her nails were sharp enough, they would be digging scars into her plain palms in the shapes of crescent moon claw. 

      She tightens the grip on her temper. "The list, Mr Burke. I have places to be."

(She doesn't.) 

       "Of course, of course," he runs his eyes down the list. Nadya can physically see his mind whirling, calculating, trying to work out how best to swindle her. Maybe she should've had a drink of that wine — to help her work up the nerve to lie to his face with such audacity, as she plans to do. "This is a very detailed list, Miss Berkova. You've even written down exactly when each item was bought, and from where —" 

       "Yes," Nadya agrees with a winning smile. "I only wanted to make sure I could sell them for the correct price. I hoped it might help you with your . . . evaluation."

In the corner, Tom's lips move into something that's close to a twisted smirk. Even the protégé isn't unaware of his mentor's flaws, it seems. 

      "Yes," Mr Burke nods, though he looks slightly uncomfortable. "Well, I'll give you three-hundred Galleons for the lot."

She clamps her teeth down on her bottom lip, drawing ruby red stains, just to stop herself from laughing. Hopefully he won't notice — the red paint on her lips should hide the cuts. 

      "I'm afraid I can't accept less than one thousand. You understand these have been in the family for years. It's hard for me to part with them." One thousand galleons is wildly overpricing, but Nadya means to let herself drop the price a little. Negotiating, right? 

     He shakes his head, a sad smile painting his lips that would look genuine if . . . well, if it was on anybody else. "It's simply not worth that, I'm afraid. You understand that I'm a businessman. Sentimentality doesn't raise value."

The first honest thing he's said this meeting. 

    "I understand." Nadya pauses for effect. "I had someone over to evaluate, and they advised me not to accept any less, sentiment or not. I do hope you'll reconsider." 

He will reconsider. Whether he wants to or not. 

      Trying another tactic, he drops his voice, unable to hide the undertone of panic. It's as she expected — he's used to the desperate, the poor or the illegal. She is neither, and so she is far harder to manipulate. Plus . . . well, she is a woman, and she imagines that a man like Mr Burke would be one of those who thinks of women as dim and dull as rocks, pretty as delicate flowers, but quite useless. "I imagine that your financial situation must be quite hard, your cousin being gone and all — it hurts my heart to see you struggling, so I will raise my price to three-fifty. That's all I can do."

      "I don't know who's been speaking of my financial situation to you," Nadya tells him with a smile, raising her hand to show him the glittering gold rings and jewels she adorned herself with this morning, expecting this — he really is predicable. And she is covered head to toe in insured gold. "I assure you, there's no concern. And no rush to sell, if I cannot get a fair price."

     Mr Burke struggles to keep his calm demeanor, drowning in confusion at how his first appraisal of her could be so incorrect. He desires her treasures greatly — after all, when will he ever get the chance again, such ancient, treasured pieces. Nobody else in the Berkov family would dare to sell — only Nadya, who was always suffered from a strange case of emotional detachment to objects that are not useful. She could sell everything she had if she had need to, and never shed a tear (unless for appearances sake.)  "Nobody would give you a fair price than I, assuredly — " 

      "Funny, that," Nadya smiles, sighing as if she heavily disappointed. "I know a businessman in Bulgaria who offered me one-thousand, one-hundred for the lot — I'd hoped you'd prove even more generous, but I suppose I will have to take his offer. Shame."

       "My dear Nadya, I beg you, have you thought this through? You know what Bulgaria is like at the moment. Isn't it dangerous to be going there to sell belongings such as these?" The rest of his sentence is drowned out by her euphoria at the word "beg". She can't contain the smirk, knowing she has utter and complete power over him for once. 

       "Which is why I wouldn't be going," she explains to him. "I have people who do this sort of thing for me. And I care not what happens to the goods after I sell. Only that I get a fair price." Which you're not giving me, she doesn't add. 

      "Alright," he concedes, settling back. Tom Riddle raises an eyebrow, as if unable to believe that his boss was so easily manipulated, but remains silent. "I'll give you five-hundred."

    A big jump. Not big enough. "Nine-hundred." 

   "Six-hundred." He swallows another gulp of wine. 

   "Eight-fifty."

    "Seven-hundred."

    "Seven-fifty?" She offers. 

He nods. Hands shake hands.

      "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Burke. Perhaps again in the future." 

      He nods eagerly, something hungry in the way he looks at the list, and then back at her. She resists the urge to curl away. "Definitely, my dear. There's things in that mansion of yours that I'd love to get my hands on."

I bet you would, she thinks, pursing her lips. Over my dead body. She stares at him in that way Ivan always claimed made her look like a Valkyrie, surveying each hero's worth and finding them all unworthy, so letting them crash and burn, and watching it happen with a smile. 

      "How will you be collecting your goods? "Yourself?"

      "Oh, no, no," he refutes, laughing slightly. "I'll send Tom over — two weeks? That would give me enough time to prepare for all of this, of course."

     "Perfect." She sends him a thin smile. A nod toward Tom Riddle. 

Then Nadya melts into nothing, twisting through the air, spinning, pressing herself through the thin tunnel. Her body destroys itself over and over, breaking apart, skin cracking, muscles straining, lips bleeding — 

— And then she drops right at the gates of her mansion, the rain drenching her again. 

a/n:  ook i know it seems like all of this was pretty useless but it's NOT 

( maybe it is but i will not admit that fhfhfh ) 

honestly i've planned this all out, it's a bit more of a "simple" plot than usual but i'm very excited and i hope it won't take me too long to write, it's only ten chapters, but unfortunately that means that everything has to be relevant so honestly . . . every paragraph? so many hidden meanings and hints to what they both really want. kinda proud of it. 

please comment ! this took me a while to write. 

lyra x