She was so cold she could feel it in the very marrow of her bones. The scarf did nothing, the overrobe did nothing, and the hand knitted sweater from Suzette did nothing-well, maybe it did warm her a little bit. She was late, it was twenty minutes after curfew, and so dark that she could barely see where she was going. She couldn’t understand why the torches weren’t lighting up, unless she wasn’t standing close enough. ‘I don’t know why I stayed afterwards to scold Favrea. I could have done it in the morning. God knows I’m no Prefect, and God knows Penelope will kill me if she finds out I’ve been out this late.’ She thinks, and draws the scarf closer around her shoulders. It’s older, darker, and colder in this part of the castle. There’s almost no light anywhere. As she walks down the corridors, she notices odd things. Water spilled onto the floor, particles of ice slowly freezing so that they crunch when she steps through them. A broken window here and there, last bits of late winter snow bleeding through and chilling the corridor even worse than it’s supposed to be chilled. Stains of something dark along the bottom of the walls. It’s eerie, dark, and strange with no moon. Even the stars have hidden their faces this night.

“Not lost, are you dear?”

She turns around quickly, overrobe swirling round her ankles. The voice was definitely male, and had come from almost directly behind her. She took a few steps back.

“No…I’m not lost. I’m fine.” She says, almost laughing at the lie. But she’s too cold to laugh. It’s like all the blood in her body has turned to ice.

“Of course you’re lost. Nobody comes down these corridors at this time of night. If you’re lost, I can help you find your way back.” This time, the voice comes from the side of her, and she grabs at one of the torches, touching it, knowing that it will light automatically if touched. The torch bursts into flame, and the speaker comes into view, a tall, handsome boy with dark waved hair.

But there’s something odd about this one. His clothes are odd, old, and smell musty, like they’ve been locked up in a closet for years. His cloak could be an antique. Her granddmamma has one up in a closet over her stairs just like that. Only the Prefect’s badge hasn’t changed. It glimmers in the torchlight, and for a moment, he seems….insubstantial, like if he stepped into moonlight, it would go right through him.

“It’s alright dear. I’ll help you find your way back.” He moves closer towards her, and takes her elbow in a rather gentlemanly way. She can only look at him openmouthed.

“You’re a Slytherin, aren’t you? I thought you had better things to do than help little lost girls find their way back if they’re lost.” She says. She’s seen his badge, and the embroidery on his robes.

He flinches, as if she’s hurt him, then his face breaks out into a grin. He has a very nice smile, and his teeth are beautiful. Perfect and straight, though he has a thin silvery scar on his bottom lip. A knife scar. “Uptight Ravenclaws. They think they’re better than anyone else. Except of course for the Gryffindors.” He says, turning slightly. As he turns, a light from he torch catches him in the eye, and he doesn’t even blink. A normal human being would flinch, or cover his eyes.

Something goes off in the girl’s mind, and she knows to be afraid. She stiffens her body a bit, as much from fear as from cold.

“Not all Ravenclaws are uptight.” She says, still looking at him as though he might suddenly disappear.

He laughs, a tinkling sound that sounds like bell peals crashing against a mountainside, shattering. “What’s your name, little Ravenclaw?” he asks, gripping her elbow even tighter.

She swallows, and the arm that he’s gripping goes numb. “Anais Morgan.” She says, and he notices something in her face, a flash like summer lightning that’s gone so quickly he’s not even sure it was there. He smiles again, and when he turns around, the light from the torch goes right through him.

“I’ve heard of your people. The Morgans. Don’t you have a little brother in Slytherin.? I can’t quite remember his name…some French name…” he’s trying to figure it out, and she swallows, and answers for him.

“Favrea.” She’s gone completely cold now, and she’s beginning to feel like an insect, caught in a web. He’s playing a game with her, she realizes, and he’s a master at it. She’s walked into a trap.

He gives her a cold look and swallows, the torchlight still glinting off his eyes like a cat’s. “Ahh, yes…Favrea. Your own name is French too, isn’t it? Anais?” he asks, turning her so that her back’s against the wall.

He’s frighteningly strong, for a ghost, and the way she can almost see right through him if she looks at the right angle is terrifying. So is the fact that she can feel his hands, cold as ice, right through her wool sweater and overrobe. She nods, and a lump in her throat forms. She’s not cold enough to cry.

“Yes Anais, I’ve heard of your family. You come from a long line of Muggles, isn’t that it? Your grandparents, your parents, they were all Muggles. The only reason they got any recognition at all is because your parents produced three Magic children. They all went into less than reputable houses. Your sister, Suzette, she went into Slytherin. Broke your mother’s heart, but Suzette’s dead now, so no use crying over spilt milk now is there?” He’s put his lips up to her cheek now, and she’s almost crying, she’s so terrified. His mouth is cold against her cheek. Even colder still are his fingers, tracing a chill path up her inner thighs under her skirt.

“Your family has very bad blood, doesn’t it, Anais? It’s tainted, ruined. The blood is filthy, dirty. You’re practically a Mudblood.” His fingers are cold, so cold, that she barely even notices when he slips his index finger a few inches around the outside of her, it’s like the touch of ice against your hand when the ice is dry.

She lets out something that is not quite a moan, but not quite a sob either. She’s struggling, and trying to break free but he’s too strong. “Ahh, but that’s the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it, then? Your blood is less than reputable too, Tom Riddle.” She says, and something like rage flares up into his face, and a demonic smile flashes across his perfect face as he kisses her, roughly and forces his fingers all the way inside her.

She moans, and he breaks the kiss and slips a third finger into her and twists, roughly, so that she feels not only pleasure but more pain than anything. A trickle of blood runs down her thigh, and he barely brushes her lips again to whisper against her mouth.

“Dirty blood. You’re a tainted girl, you know that?” he whispers hoarsely, and brushes his lips against hers again before pulling his fingers out of her. His fingers are wet, up to the first joint, and she leans back against the wall for support, rage and fear filling her like a tidal wave.

A shriek sounds from a few hallways away. A sound like old, rusted pipes being jerked into action fills the corridor she’s in, and she jumps away from the wall at that sound, and at the sound of a mirror crashing, falling onto the cold stone floor. “My God. Not again.” She whispers, and finds Tom, standing against the window looking at her so complacently that she wants to hit him.

“That’s my cue Anais. I must leave you now, but don’t forget what I told you. And watch your back. You never know what might be waiting.” He says, and the torch goes out, leaving her in darkness.

Once she’s sure he’s gone, she gets her bearings and goes as quickly as her numbed feet will allow her along the corridors where she’s sure she heard the shriek. She’s sore in between her legs, but thank God the bleeding’s stopped. She doesn’t want to have to explain to Penelope, the Prefect knows that her monthly bleeding had been over two weeks ago, since she’d had to ask Penelope, mortified, for sanitary napkins. As she goes up the corridor’s the torches light up again, and she goes slower along the way but stops when she hears sloshing. There’s water on the floor and she puts her hand along the walls, bracing herself for what she might find.

And when she does find it, she still has to stuff her fingers inside her mouth to keep from screaming out loud. She tastes blood in her mouth, from biting down on her knuckles, and there’s blood on the floor too, where the mirror must have cut his hand when he fell. His eyes are open and staring, and she sinks down onto the water soaked floor, feeling the stiffness of his skin now tightened over his fragile, bird like bones, and presses her fingers to the cut on his hand that’s still bleeding. Tom’s words echo in her mind.

‘Dirty blood. It’s filthy. Dirty.’ She picks up his stiff little body and cradles his head against her breast, her little bird, her only brother named Favrea.

End.