After returning from France, Lia was ruined.
A ball of yarn rolled to her feet, but she didn't move.
She ignored the rustling sound of Mr. Granger turning the newspaper.
Most of the time, she curled up into a ball, a lifeless white mass,
nestled in Hermione's bookish embrace. Even in her sleep, her claws gripped Hermione's clothes like a drowning person clutching the only piece of wood.
The fainting spell at the Louvre was an alarm bell, screaming day and night in her soul.
Lia started to fear the dark and closing her eyes.
Her dreams were completely colonized by the shadow of a black-haired boy.
He constantly whispered in Lia's mind, using the most elegant phrasing to analyze the art of soul-devouring and explain the "truth" of power right into her ear.
Dropping dirty things called "Desire" into her soul drop by drop.
That voice belonged to Tom Riddle.
The sun was bright that afternoon.
Mrs. Granger was worrying about her award-winning roses in the garden; a slimy slug was eating the leaves.
Hermione sat on one side of the sofa, meticulously grooming Lia's long, furry tail with a small wooden comb.
Lia took up a large area of the sofa, her legs resting on Hermione, listlessly watching the garden.
When an especially plump slug wriggled over, preparing to bite its mucous-covered mouth onto the most vibrant pink bloom, the "Queen Elizabeth," an unknown fury suddenly flared up from the bottom of Lia's heart.
Violence, irritation, and the disgust of being contaminated by something.
"Eyesore," her lips moved silently.
In her mind, the magnificent and cold male voice immediately sounded, carrying a hint of approving laughter and irresistible temptation.
"See, even this lowly creature is polluting beauty. Your feeling is correct, Lia. Purify it, just as I've taught you countless times in your dreams. It's simple; it doesn't even qualify as practice."
Lia felt an inexplicable irritation.
She wanted to cover her ears, to scream, to shake that voice out of her head!
But the malicious spell that had been forcibly instilled countless times in her dreams surfaced from the depths of her memory against her will, clear as instinct.
A cry for help was stuck in her throat, but a vicious syllable rolled out instead.
Silently.
Her body hijacked by instinct, she raised her index finger toward the slug outside the window.
No incantation.
No magic fluctuation.
A black line, thinner than a strand of hair, flashed past her fingertip.
In the garden, the slug froze.
The next second, it seemed to ignite from within, instantly shriveling and carbonizing, disintegrating into a clump of black ash with a "poof" under the sunlight.
A gust of wind blew it away.
The rose leaf the slug had been resting on instantly developed charred veins, then withered and crumbled into powder.
The entire process was astonishingly fast, so fast that even Mrs. Granger, who was nearby, didn't notice.
But Hermione saw it.
The movement of the wooden comb in her hand stopped.
The unhurried motion of grooming the tail paused without warning, causing the air in the entire room to solidify.
A cold magical residue carrying the scent of grave decay sharply stung her senses, even through the window.
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