"Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs."

━━THE SECRET HISTORY

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Inkeri woke with the first light of dawn, while the sky teetered between rain and clouds. Inevitably, her mind was flooded with thoughts the very second it regained consciousness, and she lay staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours though could scarcely have been ten minutes.

The clock said it was five a.m. as she finally pushed back her white sheets and got out of bed, pulling on socks and a dressing gown. The other girls were still asleep, except for Selwyn, who was reading, sitting in the exact same position as the previous night. The dark haired girl turned to watch the her every move unsubtly with careful green eyes, until it finally made Inkeri uncomfortable enough to break the silence.

"Have you been sitting in that position all night?" Inkeri whispered in a light and hushed tone, not wanting any angry girls to be awoken. She caught the title of her companion's book; it was on necromancy, and her skin crawled at the thought of the dark magic.

"No," Selwyn said in a completely normal volume. She didn't avert her gaze though, as she seemed to examine every inch of the blonde witch with painful vigour.

"We didn't meet properly last night," Inkeri tried again, wincing slightly when she remembered her roommate's stunt with the knife. She did hope that Lestrange had finally swallowed his pride and sought medical aid. "I'm—"

"I know your name," she cut off, rolling her eyes and looking back to her book. She didn't introduce herself, but Inkeri was determined to familiarise herself properly with someone in her own house.

"I didn't quite catch yours, though," she said, perhaps a little forcefully. Selwyn slowly dragged her eyes back to her, a mocking smile spreading across her face. The expression made her look hauntingly beautiful, certainly more appealing than the sneer.

"Adrielle Selwyn." Adrielle, Inkeri repeated in her head. She smiled brightly at the girl, refusing to be intimidated merely by cruel displays. She was keen on making alliances, and Adrielle was someone she'd much rather have on her side than against.

Unfortunately, the black haired girl was unwilling to be compliant, as she waved her wand— causing the curtains around her bed to shut and hide her.

Inkeri stared, slightly stunned at the bluntness, then shook herself out of the daze. Shivering from the cold, she threw on her school uniform and decided to take advantage of the early hours by exploring the castle unbothered.

Once she'd left the dungeon, the sunlight streamed in through the windows, bathing the walls in a gentle yellow glow and caressing her features with its warmth. She walked like that for a while, keeping in the light and avoiding the areas of shadow, out of fear of what— or rather who— could be lurking there.

But her illusion of security was shattered when she found Tom Riddle walking so indifferently in her direction. His stature was tall and his face as breath-taking in the morning brightness as it had been in the evening dim. Inkeri fleeting admired his beauty.

But as he neared, it became clear that his grace was stygian, and little more than a façade to hide the pool of blackness in which he was drowning. "Koskinen," he greeted with some hostility, and she wondered how he knew her name. "What a strange hour for our paths to cross." There was something almost suspicious in his tone.

"Yes," she replied, with more courage than she had managed to muster the previous night. She kept her gaze firmly on those glistening onyx eyes. "I thought I might familiarise myself with the castle." He merely raised an eyebrow.

"Students aren't allowed to wander before six a.m." he informed her stiffly, and she cursed silently. She hadn't exactly been given a list of regulations upon arrival. Inkeri was going to question his own presence, but noticed a shiny silver badge pinned to his robes. Prefect, it read.

Her nervousness was growing with every passing moment she stood near him, and her breathing was starting to become shallow. "Right," she said with a nod. "I shall go back then." She moved to go around him, but he stepped into her path.

"I'm afraid I'll to have to write you a detention," he said measuredly, although an irritated timbre crept into his voice, as though he were irritated at her. Inkeri didn't understand his agitation; surely he didn't take the school rules that much to heart?

He seemed to be contemplating, when his gaze roamed to something beyond her, and he visibly tensed, eyes glazing over with contempt.

She turned to see a girl with wine-coloured hair draped over one shoulder, her shiny Prefect badge pinned on the other side. She had a large, blood-red ring on her left hand, and her robes were adorned with the crimson colours of Gryffindor.

The girl marched with confidence up to them, a smirk on her face— it was evident that she knew she irked Riddle. "Avery," the tall boy greeted, his voice dripping with poorly concealed hatred, of such an intensity that the blonde witch expected Avery to combust spontaneously in flames.

"Riddle," the red-haired girl said brightly. She turned to Inkeri, and her face fell into a pretentious mask of concern. "He isn't giving you a hard time, is he?" She asked, the frown on her face so convincing that a less intelligent man could have fallen for it, and believed her intentions were genuine. "He's such a stickler for the rules."

Riddle, shockingly, didn't even acknowledge the quip. "I was under the impression that Gryffindors patrolled on the other side of the school," the boy said, regaining his composure. "You seem to have strayed out of your depth."

"And I was mistaken to believe that your patrols were at night," Avery responded coolly. Inkeri shifted her gaze nervously between the two.

"Iphitus was unfortunately incapacitated," Riddle said icily. "He requested for me to take over his shift."

"Of course, you graciously accepted," Avery said, her voice dripping with sarcastic venom, and Riddle offered her a tight smile. The Slytherin witch considered bolting past them both, but the boy beat her to it. Smoothing down his robes with his hands, he glanced briefly at Inkeri.

"It seems Avery has control of the situation. I have elsewhere to be. I shall see you in Potions," Riddle said curtly. With the words said, he left, and Inkeri watched as the other witch scoffed with poorly disguised malice. Avery started walking in the opposite direction, and gestured for Inkeri to follow.

"He struts around the school with that refined air of dignity, and everyone falls haplessly at his feet. They're all blind to what he truly is," Avery said disgustedly as Inkeri fell into step beside her. "My name is Belladonna, by the way," she introduced, spreading her arms subtly as though to demonstrate her splendour. "You would be...?"

"Inkeri," the girl said blankly, although she was distracted by Belladonna's previous words about Riddle. "Koskinen."

The Gryffindor tilted her head curiously, though kept her gaze steadily ahead of her. "Interesting surname," she noted. "Pity, you're not in Gryffindor. You don't seem cruel enough for Slytherin."

Inkeri nodded, the gears in her head turning. "Well, the hat was quite uncertain about where to place me," she said quickly. Then, more hesitantly, "what you said earlier, about Riddle— that everyone is blind to who he truly is. What exactly do you mean?"

Belladonna looked at her curiously from the side of her eye. "Why the interest?"

"I should know who to steer clear of," Inkeri said defensively, "Particularly if they're in my own house."

Belladonna sighed. "They all think he's one of them," she explained. "Lestrange, Rosier, Dolohov... they don't understand that he's nothing like them. Tom Riddle may act as though he's descended from aristocracy— but he's little more than a half-blooded pauper, plucked from the streets of London."

Inkeri deflated with disappointment. She had thought that Belladonna knew something important about Riddle, or was suspicious of his intent— but the girl was blinded by little more than a snobbish judgement of the boy's wealth, or lack thereof, for which Inkeri could not care less.

Belladonna must have sensed her companion's distaste, for she quickly brushed the matter aside. "I think now is a good time for breakfast, if you're hungry. The Great Hall will be quite calm, too, since it's early."

"Sure," Inkeri shrugged, and the red-head lead her to the hall. She chatted idly the entire way; spewing random rules, whispering and telling Inkeri random rumours about people she didn't even know.

" —with your own house," Belladonna finished as they made their way towards a table filled with red ties and robes. Inkeri realised she'd zoned out of the conversation, and asked her companion what she meant. "You should probably sit with your own house," Belladonna repeated with an irritated roll of her eyes.

It was only after these words that Inkeri realised the cold glares she was receiving from the Gryffindors. Eager to escape them, she thanked Belladonna and fled to the more familiar Slytherins, where she settled, isolated.

Her gaze naturally wandered further down the table, where Tom Riddle's group of misfits sat. On the surface, they all seemed the same as they spoke to one another in hushed murmurs— enigmatic, ascetic and almost Machiavellian in what few snippets she'd extracted from their conversation last night.

Inkeri didn't realise she'd been staring until Vladimir Dolohov raised his head to look directly at her. The action was trivial, yet his brooding expression, his adonic quality, managed to unnerve the witch as she quickly glanced down.

Her discomfort was short-lived as she was quickly graced with the clement air of Asha Lohiya, who settled into the seat next to Inkeri, wearing the most genuine of smiles.

"So, Slytherin," Asha mused, her voice soothing like the honey colour of her eyes. "I was surprised, but now that I dwell on it, I suppose it makes some sense." Some people glared at her for sitting with a different house, but nobody cared enough to admonish it.

Out of the corner of eye, Inkeri noted that Dolohov was no longer watching them, and was once again silently immersed in the conversation around him. "I did ask for Ravenclaw," she lied, "I just wasn't smart enough."

"The smartest people in our year are Slytherins anyway," Asha shrugged, "if you ask me, the houses add unnecessary technicalities..." Asha's voice trailed off as another person approached them.

"What are you harping on about, stargazer?" Adrielle Selwyn asked dully, dropping onto the bench opposite them, much to Inkeri's shock after the hostile greeting she'd received that morning. "Surely not your idealistic plans to change the school again?"

The Ravenclaw witch rolled her eyes light-heartedly, "The world would be a better place if it wasn't so divided." She lazily pointed her wand at Selwyn and turned to the Inkeri. "This is Adrielle," Asha introduced with a sort of fondness that indicated they were friends.

Adrielle's eyes flicked to Inkeri, and flashed with something which vaguely resembled contempt, yet was too well disguised to make out clearly. "We've met," she said sardonically, turning her nose up at the bowl of cereal which Asha pushed at her. "I'm not eating that," Adrielle said dryly.

"Fine," Asha sighed, releasing the bowl in defeat. It made Inkeri wonder how the unlikely pair had managed to find each other; their differences were stark and striking. Where melancholy caressed Adrielle's sharp features, decorating her like the phantom of a Greek tragedy, Asha was melodious as the first cries of nature in the morning, when the sun barely peeked over the horizon.

"There's Professor Dumbledore, with the timetables!" Asha said, clapping her hands. She moved to stand, but Inkeri offered to go and fetch them, which earned her a thank you from the Ravenclaw girl and no acknowledgement Adrielle.

Dumbledore noticed her quickly, partially due to the way she stuck out from the crowd like a sore thumb, and greeted her placidly.

"Hello," he said, blue eyes twinkling as he, handed her all three timetables without having to be requested, "how are you finding Hogwarts so far?"

"Delightful," Inkeri replied graciously, "aside from the magnitude of it. The atmosphere is lovely."

"You think it's lovely now," he sighed, mindlessly handing out timetables to any approaching students and somehow getting them all correct. "Until the work starts piling up. I'm sure you will have quite a different response, five weeks from now."

Inkeri laughed politely, bade farewell to the professor, and gave Asha and Adrielle their timetables. She decided to leave earlier than them; it still took her a ridiculous amount of time to navigate the corridors. As she walked however, she found someone fall into step beside her.

Triton Nott, despite his ever amicable expression, seemed quite dishevelled this morning, as his eyes were rubbed red and his hair stuck up in odd angles. "Morning," he greeted, his voice weary and husky as though he'd just risen from bed. "Where are you headed now?"

Inkeri checked her timetable. "Potions," she said, and he gave her a delighted smile, one that almost seemed genuine.

"Me too," he said, putting his hands in his pockets, which seemed to worsen his already awkward stride. "I'll show you where it-t is." She nodded, silently acknowledging the boy's stutter. It didn't hinder his speech, nor did he allow himself to be embarrassed by it; Inkeri supposed the latter was partially a result of Nott's prominence among Hogwarts' elite.

The class was in a dark room in the dungeons, with the curtains firmly drawn and light provided only by the torches on the walls. Out of habit, she took a seat near the back, and Nott sat beside her.

Inkeri was content with this until the boy beckoned over two other people. Her blood ran cold as Niklaus Rosier and Tom Riddle claimed the stools in front of them. Politely, Riddle nodded his head in her direction, an action which she cautiously reciprocated.

The professor of the class was the nice man who Tom had been talking to the previous night: Horace Slughorn. As expected, he spoke with passion for the subject, and Inkeri felt inclined to pay attention to his words, as she hurriedly scrawled down what he was saying.

Her eyes eventually fell on Riddle. He'd already flipped to a page in his textbook, and was eloquently copying notes in his neat cursive. His robes had not one wrinkle or crease. Inkeri glared down at her own parchment, with her chicken-scrawl handwriting and large ink smudges.

"Now, please go and get your ingredients," he encouraged them, flicking his wand to open the cabinets that lined the walls. Each student made their way and collected what they needed before making their way back to the tables.

They were making the Draught of Living Death, something which sounded far too ominous for Inkeri's liking. The potion was complex, and she found herself wishing she'd been taught more than just herbal remedies.

"How long have you studied Potions?" asked a voice from in front of her. She found it was Rosier, who had turned his chair to look at her while he left his concoction to brew; he was at least five steps ahead of her. His eyes were keen and sharp, the usual indicators of an erudite.

"Five years," she said truthfully. It didn't mean she was any good at it; her mind tended to wander and she'd spent valuable lesson time just fooling around or ditching school altogether to pursue more interesting things.

"What have you studied?" He demanded. She hissed as her knife slipped drawing a drop of blood.

"Er— many things. Mostly healing draughts," she replied, clutching her finger close to her. She'd heal it later, out of sight.

"Well anyone can make a cure for boils," Rosier said crossly. "What else? Swoopstikes, surely. And his biography on the art of Potion making."

This, Inkeri knew, was Rosier's special bailiwick. She was afraid to lie; she'd undoubtedly be caught out. "A little." She looked over at Riddle's potion. It seemed impossible, but he was nearly finished, and Nott wasn't far behind.

"And Aesop Sharp?" He demanded. At her expression of consternation, his eyes widened in surprise. "No? Nothing on the elixirs?" Inkeri wished he would leave her alone, but more than that, she wished the beans would stay still so that she could cut them.

"Not everyone craves the utmost level of academic validation," Nott said, shaking his head as he stared at the textbook. Then, he turned to her. "Crush the beans," he advised, as he stirred his potion, which was the final step. "It's easier." She listened. It worked.

｡･:*˚:✧｡

Shadows slinked across the oaken walls of the library. Her eyes watched as they amassed and merged, looming closer, seemingly materializing into a single figure of darkness. Angels and Gods huddled in dark, unopened books. It was comfortable, Inkeri thought.

The Liekkiö* which haunted the library back home had put her off reading. One day, Inkeri had made the mistake of entering. The creature's unearthly screams had chased her home, and whispered into her thoughts days after the ordeal. Then the delusions grew, and she began seeing it in her sleep. The little girl would wake to find that her limbs were frozen in excruciating terror as the obscured figure with flaming eyes and decaying skin loomed above her bed, inches from her face.

Inkeri was nine, back then. She'd since encountered far more grotesque creatures. Although, it was in her experience that the most beautiful monsters were by far the most fatal. The most vindictive.

That was how her train of thought had guided her eyes to watch Tom Riddle. The way the candle illuminated his beauty, and the unsettling darkness which marked his sins on his soul, met in aspect in his eyes, as though the best of Eros and Thanatos' craft had resulted in him.

Suddenly, he snapped his book shut, shattering the illusion of tranquillity. He abruptly stood up and swept out of the library; leaving his quill, bag and parchment on the table. The only thing he remembered to take was what looked to Inkeri like a journal, or diary of some sort.

Before her voice of reason could stop her, she got up and followed. His strides were long, and she struggled to keep up with him while keeping out of sight; although overconfidence meant he didn't look back.

A few minutes later, he took a sharp left turn into what looked like a bathroom. Confused yet curious, Inkeri waited outside for a few moments. When he didn't exit, she cautiously stepped inside. Only to find there was nobody there, and she was only accompanied by the constant drip of one of the taps.

She was saved from falling into a spiral of thoughts when Dolohov stumbled through the door. His poise was shattered, his breath came out in dry heaves, though his face gave no hint of the agony which possessed him. Black curls stuck to his forehead and his eyes were intense as he collapsed, Inkeri rushing to catch him.

She sank to floor gently, holding onto him as though he may break, while he grimaced with every action. It was only now that she realised his clothes were soaking, and her hands came away sticky and tainted with crimson blood.

"Riddle," Dolohov gasped, pushing her away. "Where is he?" She stared in shock, and he grabbed the front of her sweater, yanking her harshly towards him. He was, she realised, desperate. When she still didn't reply, he pulled a dagger out from beneath his robes and held it against her throat. "Tell me, or I'll kill you." Not a threat. A promise.

The coldness of the metal broke Inkeri out of her stupefaction. "I don't know," she admitted softly. He scrutinised her, before realising she was telling the truth. A small scoff left his mouth, though not one of belligerence, and he slumped back against the sink, the blade clattering against the floor.

As he tilted his head upward, his breathing became shallower and his eyes began to glaze over. The slivers of light he had left in his soul began draining. Inkeri realised that Vladimir Dolohov was dying.

He tried to talk, but couldn't, choked by the blood and bile in his throat. Racked by coughs, he doubled over, and the white bathroom tiles were spattered with red. She knew that if she ran for help, it would be too late. The light was already fading from his eyes. Her hands trembled as she carefully lifted his shirt.

His sculpted torso was barely visible under the grotesque bloody mess of scars which lined every inch of him, skin broken and flesh torn apart. It was almost like someone had ripped sharp fangs through him, foraging off him.

Carefully, she placed a hand on one of the gashes. Warmth radiated from his body, contrasting with her freezing cold skin. His muscles, carved from granite and forged by diligence, impossibly tensed further under her touch.

His breath hitched; she didn't understand how he wasn't crying out with pain. The level of control seemed almost inhuman. She closed her eyes and allowed her hand to illuminate. She felt him tense, but didn't stop. A rush of ecstasy flowed through he veins as she shared more of her magic with him. Dragging her hand upwards, she finally opened her eyes and inspected her work.

Dolohov stared at her unnervingly, and she stiffened slightly. She'd revealed her magic. It was the first day, and she had given away her most sacred secret. To none other than the enemy. Inkeri could not bear to watch the consequences unfold. Grabbing her bag, she escaped from the bathroom without giving a second glance at the casualty.

She felt breathless, though in a sense that the air around her was too heavy, and suffocating. Her stomach flipped with odious apprehension as her pace increased. Paranoid, she checked over her shoulder to make sure Dolohov was not following her. Distracted, she almost flew into Asha.

"You know, I was just looking for you—" The Ravenclaw began, but she paused, eyes widening with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Inkeri replied, flashing a faux smile at the other girl. Asha didn't seem to believe her, but didn't care enough to pry further, merely shrugging in response. "Why were you looking for me?"

"Oh, right. Quidditch trials for Slytherin are in an hour," she said brightly, looping her arm through Inkeri's as they walked. "I'm going there now, and I thought to ask you if you played?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Inkeri's lips. "I suppose so," she said, inwardly reminiscing hours spent chasing the golden snitch with Mathias. She enjoyed falling more than flying, subjecting the boy to multiple scares as she'd spontaneously head into a nose dive from thirty metres off the ground.

"Well, if you're any good, you should try out," Asha remarked as they descended the stairs. "Adrielle's on the team. I'm sure she'd be delighted to have some company."

Inkeri sincerely doubted it. "I think I'll stick to watching," she admitted. Her head was still swimming with worry, and flying on a broomstick would just give Riddle an easier opening to kill her. "Selwyn did not strike me as the type to be entertained by sports, though."

"Well she's a beater," Asha began, and that in itself explained a lot to Inkeri— it gave Selwyn a free pass to break people's bones. "Malfoy made a comment in first year about girls not being able to play quidditch. He was the first person she bludgeoned, even though they're on the same team."

They made it to the exit of the castle, where the ground were already darkening outside. "I think I'll take my leave now, actually," Inkeri said, feeling slightly guilty. "I-I feel kind of sick."

"Is there anything I can do?" Asha questioned, placing her hand on the other girl's shoulder, but she was shaken off.

"I'll be fine," Inkeri said with a tight smile, pushing the Ravenclaw outside and waving her goodbye. The witch went straight into the Slytherin dormitories, where she saw on one of the far tables— Nott, Lestrange and Malfoy were conversing, huddled over the table with ever-serious expressions.

Inkeri slipped past them, locked the door to the girls' dormitories and screamed into her pillow.

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Liekiö— spirits of murdered children who have been buried. They haunt at their dying place as long as they would have lived had they not been murdered.