For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Thirty-Six: Scourgify

She couldn't use Scourgify enough as she made her way back to their designated meeting spot. Even without her wand, Gwen was able to get most of the blood out of her hair and off her clothes, but inevitably some caked underneath her fingernails and in between her shoelaces. The tang of blood still sat unpleasantly in her mouth no matter how many times she spat.

Sunset was upon the forest now, and the shadows grew to be the longest of the day. Gwen's fingers were white as she held on firmly to the diadem as if her life depended upon it—she had learned her lesson from having a loose grip and she was still reeling from it.

She had looked tirelessly for her wand, but in the murky, bloodstained waters, nothing appeared. It was only when she walked a length down the creek did she find it floating, broken in half, atop the surface. With a scoff and huge nauseated knot in her stomach, she picked it up and put it in her pocket. A wand broken as badly as that surely couldn't be repaired.

Unless one used the Elder wand... But the chance of that happening amicably was slim to none.

Not to mention, the Brocade bag that held the food from Howdy and medical supplies was nowhere to be seen, and she anticipated that it was probably at the bottom of the stream by now. No way was she going back there. So, Gwen retreated back into the forest feeling extremely disillusioned. What was she to do now?

As she laid upon the rocky shore of the river, coughing up blood and soaked to the bone, Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem placed atop her head, she had felt a shiver slither up her body—but now, walking through the forest, she felt none the wiser, just tired and oh so weary.

It's just a little farther. Only a couple more steps, she told herself as she trudged through the fallen leaves.

In the distance, the outcropping of rock appeared along with a small blaze of orange fire. Next to the flames sat what could only be the shadowed figure of Tom. Exhausted, Gwen trudged forward, sticking the diadem in the large pocket of Madam Starkwell's coat as she did so.

When she approached, he was sitting by the fire, his long, lean legs outstretched nonchalantly as he examined his white wand. Gwen always thought that it had an interesting design—yew—but almost resembling the skull of a bird at the hilt. She much preferred Gregorovitch's style of natural looking wands, and she deeply missed the crystal that sat at the hilt of her Hawthorn stick.

At the sight of her, Tom stood gracefully and plastered on a smirk.

"You're a bit tardy. I started to expect the worst."

She ignored him as she stormed up to him and grabbed his shirt roughly before shoving him backward.

"You bastard! Did you know the diadem was going to have a curse on it? I bloody well almost drowned—in blood!" she spat venomously.

Tom's dark eyes widened slightly before his fell back into his normal stoic expression. He scoffed as he smoothed out the crease Gwen had created on his vest.

"No need to get testy, Gwendolyn. I didn't know. But it looks as though you're breathing as you stand before me—in fact, your nostrils are flaring a bit as you fume—meaning you didn't drown. Although" he said slyly, "you do look a bit like a dragon," he jested lowly.

He dipped his brow in amusement as he watched her clench her jaw in annoyance. His voice lost all humor as he asked in a business-like tone, "Where's the diadem?"

Gwen glared at him as she reached into her pocket and pulled the tiara out. Even in the lowlight it sparkled. She tossed it lackadaisically at Tom, who, while he had no interest whatsoever in Quidditch and traditional sports outside of dueling, was surprisingly coordinated. He caught it with ease and examined it.