THE STRANGE LYNCH

SOME LAMENTED RHAPSODISTS, YEARS AGO when wizardry still roamed the earth freely, extolled the seas for their prosperity—this very sea. The woman knew too well because she had heard her name being entangled with them countless times.

But, truly, who was she? Her feet were bare and no matter how many urchins were arrayed on the aureated coast, their fatal thorns would not affect her leisurely gait.

This exact sea. But, oh, how could not these long-in-the-tooth rhapsodists take advantage of something so mesmerizing as the shore of this beached island for their odes? Gleaming rockbound and crystal-clear quartz waters— a hermetic paradise in the middle of the ocean protected by only God knows who. The flora hammered in the middle of the island with grace and the fauna played along with the animals completing the rhythm.

Thousands of plants to use for potions, Althea thought, and thousands of animals to have as a company in the exile.

Solitary life can accompany everyone for a while, but what happens when someone finally vocalizes every hidden note they hide in the fabric of their soul?

Then eternity seems momentary, and immortality becomes an intangible essence— something that, in time, will no longer remind you of who you truly are. Immortals, beings with the power to tear the universe apart, are often consumed by their vanity, and in that vanity, they are sometimes consigned to oblivion. They neglect the need for proper self-introspection.
But when they are banished from society, left alone with no one to witness or affirm their power, they begin to ponder themselves. And when that pondering becomes a routine, immortality itself turns into absolute nothingness.

What makes immortality? Is it the entitlement to live endlessly, or the power that comes with it?

If it is the former, then immortals are defined solely by that law, making them invulnerable to nature and immaculate before humans. But if it is the latter, it is far more complex, involving the weight of power and its consequences. Oh, then it is when immortals hold no place for self-criticism.

However, the woman had been in exile for enough years to know about these feelings and thoughts. Why did Althea all of a sudden feel as if she was herself in exile?

Her dream was so vivid— a perfect hallucination, so flawless that she could even hear waves burst right next to her ear, smell the salt of the sea, feel the sun burning on her skin, and see the horizon being overshadowed in a tranquil azure shade. All of her senses were there, her body was there, and a part of her soul cheered at the sight of this but the other was trying to decode the odd choice of scene and feelings.

She was someone who was in exile and felt deeply... serene? Someone who seemed to finally understand themselves and be at peace with what they are and what they have done.

What have you done?

She caught herself asking, probably speaking to the woman she was.

What have I done?

┏━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┓

"Madam Hawthorne, I told you, she was having a fever and she was not speaking properly... what could I have possibly done?"  a usual spiritless voice was heard.

"Maybe, you foolish child, should not scream in the corridors that your roommate had a stroke," the voice of an old lady was heard.

"You should have notified me, Bagshot," a male voice was the one that spoke at that time "As Slytherin's prefect I ought to know everything that happens to our house's students,"

"We, women, have no permission to join the male's dormitory, Riddle," Dolce spoke with spite and annoyance. Althea could not judge her for that. That boy was a total arse when it came to communication. Merlin's beard, she had made only two interactions with him and the impression she had formed was equalling to a fiasco.

He was a fiasco.

"I think Miss Lynch is awake,"

She was always getting shivers down her spine, whenever she heard her last name, The name Lynch was anglicized, which had come from the Greek surname Lintsopoulos. Her father was a third-generation Greek, who had immigrated to England due to the adverse state of Greece's land after so many years of it being constantly in the fury of war. Her ancestors were olive growers, while at the same time, they were engaged in the production of raisins. However, the economic crisis forced them to emigrate and continue their activities elsewhere. These were all Althea knew.

"Oh, dear, be careful," Madame Hawthorne, Hogwarts' nurse grabbed her gently by the shoulder to help her sit on the mattress of the bed "You were unconscious for a while after Miss Bagshot brought you here or to say it better after she roused everyone up by saying that you had a stroke,"

Dolce's cheeks became rouge from the embarrassment. Bagshot was pale like moonlight, which meant that every shade her skin took was so noticeable that hardly could someone avoid it. Her black hair had always been something silky, the same type as onyx seaweed, which has been washed in diamond-shaped coasts.

She was perplexed. By knowing Dolce she would not say that the Slytherin witch was the type of person who would panic at someone having a delirium episode because of fever. Or panic in general. Having a sort of reaction towards things. Dolce was passive most of the time and rarely she seemed to care about other people.

"Did you carry me?" Althea asked Dolce with a sly smile on her face, which quickly faded as severe pain on her forehead made her squeal.

"I had not the courage, I fear," she slurred her words, her eyes rolling back on her skull "Me and McEwen carried you till the Slytherin common room, where Riddle so chivalrously offered to escort you here,"

Althea's eyes met Riddle's for the first time that night.

The wizard was probably patrolling that night as usual, a prefect duty, until he heard Bagshot's cries for help. Tom was responsible for everything that happened in the Slytherin House. She should not be surprised that he was the one who escorted her here. In this cold room, where antibiotic herbs smelled like dragon's abomination the mattresses of the infirmary room were as if they were made of stone plates.

Silence was torment and the witch could not understand why the taste of acrimony burnt the side of her tongue, while she was fed with his indifference. Perhaps, Althea expected many by him but she only received his cold stare and nothing more.

Who was he to make her feel so insufficient and unwieldy to her head?

He just stood there, with his eyes only acknowledging her presence. A small nob was the only gesture he performed when he understood that their gazes were twirling together— which afterward tragically collided when no one dared to open their mouth to utter something to the other.

If Dolce was pale like moonlight, Tom Riddle had an exceptional sheen of moonshine cast upon him. His skin was as if it had been exfoliated by seashells and bathed with curative waters; nothing the repulsive to be admired.

"Bagshot, lend me a hand with drying these palliative herbs, will you? This job calls for four hands, and it is hardly the sort of thing for a gentleman like our dear Mr. Riddle to be doing so,"

Bagshot nodded and with a glance at Althea, she made her way behind Madam Hawthorne in the back of a room she left Althea alone with him.

Althea was rushed to break the silence as it made her feel ill to her bones, but Riddle was faster "I trust that I can be more useful than Bagshot in this matter,"

"So do I," Althea jested all along.

His eyes turned to hers "Oh, Miss Lynch you are the patient. Leave the pride aside,"

They stared for some seconds and Althea spoke, still dizzy from the pain "I am grateful—"

"It is my duty, Miss Lynch. Do not be so modest,"

His tone hid something indifferent. As if the witch had just insulted him in a way that did not allow shameful words or actions, but apathy. Riddle was irritable and Althea could not do something about it.

The witch lay softly on the mattresses, watching him as he poured tea into a cup. Her eyes were there when his lips touched the cup and silently sipped the tea, unbothered so that she could take her eyes away from him. Maybe he was used to people staring at him in this way.

Althea felt sick for seeing him as something as divine as an angel and she admitted that this man was born to be an aristocrat with all the meaning of the word. She could smell the aroma of hot honey being combined with the one of black coffee— some small drops of caramel and vanilla. She had a sensitive nose and scents like these were easy to recognise.

Althea preferred to shift her eyes away from him and hope that Dolce and Madam Hawthorne would be back in any minute. It was suffocating to have him stand by her side, looking all stiff and rigid as if he was Death, who waited for her soul to be diminished to take her with him.

"I did not know you knew how to speak Parseltongue, Miss Lynch,"

Althea froze for a second and then she turned slowly her head to him "Excuse me?"

"I heard you,"

"I did not," she protested.

With a curt turn, he furiously faced her and the witch was sure that his eyes were burning with ire, making her heart sink in fear. Knives were pointed at her face and Althea shrunk into the mattresses of the bed and blent with the light of the candles.

Perseltongue speakers were rare and some people even view them literally as the Devil's spawn.
Even in the realm of wizardry, some attributes were considered an association with the Other Side. They were forbidden— vile hexes and inhuman techniques of magic that were associated with manipulation, death, and destruction.

Not all the magical particles are well-intentioned.

Riddle beat rhythmically his fingers against the wooden headboard, trying to maintain his composure "While I carried you to the infirmary room you whispered to me some words; mere nonsense, but still in Parseltongue,"

The witch crunched her eyebrows "I do not remember knowing Perselmouth and most certainly I did not speak to you. Maybe you overheard. Perhaps, it is something you imagined,"

"I am more than certain, Miss Lynch,"

"How did you understand me then? If your words are correct. Because if I spoke Parseltongue and you understood, that means that you are also a user of this language,"

Riddle stared at her blankly, his lips forming a thin line "I used to study Perseltongue for personal satisfaction. I am fond of the knowledge it holds, not the power that it might something like that bring. Do not disorientate me,"

Althea observed him twisting the ring in his hands carefully as he talked. His slender fingers covered it like a shell like an oyster protects its perl. It was the only piece of jewelry he was wearing— a golden ring with an obsidian gem in the middle. She could see something being carved on it, but she was not sure.

Maybe a family ring?

Perhaps something precious to him. She could not say.

"I rue the day Dumbledore made me company you in the station! You have been nothing less than a bloody limpet to me. I will not let you accuse me of something like that,"

Riddle felt a heavy weight on his chest. He let out a silent wheeze through his nostrils, a discomfort that had been troubling him long before Lynch's outburst.

"You said to me that death is near. Ssseth hissssith,"

Her blood remain still. She could not imagine her tongue cradling the syllables in the same way as Riddle's did.

"Then you told me that she is coming. Isssath szarassss. Although, you did not clarify who exactly,"

But the wizard continued, smirking as he saw her expression becoming more and more terrorized. As if Althea was a windup trinket, which could move only with the command of his voice.

He was a satrap; he enjoyed inflicting pain.

"Sssszar vresshhak sssith hasskarth... thesssith kharassk, Tom,"

I will crush you with magic you cannot imagine, Tom.

Why did she understand him?

"Zshhaarasss, sssith... vrassskilth hithsskaar thasssral... ssilthhasskar vressshhak!"

Behold the monsters you have in your head, unfold.

His voice was eerie, almost hypnotic.

Riddle's hand sprawled like a veil over her— Flesh and limb intertwined in a seamless union. Flesh pale as sand. Limbs are rectangular as willow branches. In a movement as latent as the veil of the night sky, he grabbed Althea by the chin forcefully, but enough so to make the fear in her eyes more intense.

His thumb rubbed her under lip and Althea came to a place where she had never been before.

"Nice try, Lynch. But I have quit being frightened by words long ago. Actions speak louder to me,"

Althea's rectangular eyes locked with his without any fear of lowering her gaze. Something inside her excited her— Riddle was a daredevil adventure, which journalists had abandoned years ago only for her to find him. A difficult ironically riddle, which even Oedipus could not solve.

At the start, she flinched when she felt their skin touching, but then the burning sensation made her feel as if a whole forest had just rekindled.

"I will burn you alive if you ever dare again to threaten me in my house. You have no idea who I am and what power I do hold,"

The response to Althea's lips was poisonous. A venom that could easily backfire into a catastrophe.

Her hand grabbed him by the collar, making him come closer to her. An arrogant smirk appeared on her lips "I see we have quit the formalities, are not we? I believe we have to introduce ourselves for the second time,"

She was quick and for Riddle's taste too imbecile to entangle herself with fire.

Althea with slow movements lifted her other hand towards, palm open, and extended it towards his free one.

"Althea Lynch. Daughter of Maximilian Lynch, an industrialist and auror. Descendant of one of the most pure-blood magical families in Greece. Dare to touch me again with such menace, and I guarantee it will be the last time you have hands. Dare to accomplish any of your words and my father will have you planted six feet under,"

And just like that she pushed him away.

┏━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┓

A/n; small chapter and I have to say that I am very proud of this one :) If you notice any mistakes please forgive me. I am going to sleep. Tomorrow I shall edit :3

┏━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┓