kythereiia:

     hustle of the common room prompts a certain sense of discontent within the half-veela. predilection for those things calm organized resonates within her, but the very business of school seems to mandate mess. irritable huff escapes as the girl shuts her book, hint of harpy’s temper manifesting with the very action. how she’d love to berate them all, to call upon the prefect to discipline the lot– manners certainly seemed to skip their generation, though aphrodite rather thinks it all the more proper to not call attention to their antics. only when company is found at secluded table does she calm some, metaphorical feathers no longer ruffled. stack of books is organized before her, before whispered greeting is offered to her classmate. “ – quite a large row tonight, wouldn’t you think? i gather everyone is a fair bit excited for the upcoming holidays. will you be headed home as well? “

the imbecilic antics of his fellow students remain, for the moment, uninterrupted; tom prefers the ruckus to surround him, on occasion, than include him, though the faintest sign of his outward annoyance lies just along the downturn of his cruel mouth. far too sinister to be mistaken for a childish pout, the boy’s expression softens, slightly, when his dark gaze falls upon one of the FEW students granted within his wordlessly defined personal space. 

unseen & in fact, imaginary, defines the boundary which surrounds him, and marks the secluded, empty table as property of TOM RIDDLE JR. with mild, inward curiosity he scans the titles of each layer to her stack of schoolbooks; he’s read of all of them, matches each to the class she must attend, and contemplates her grades. he then turns his attention to her inquiry, and lowers his gaze to the parchment & quill upon the table before him. to their left rests an unrolled scroll with near-illegible notes scrawled across the parchment’s width in black ink, with the right-most margin faintly smeared. 

tom lifts his right hand to grasp the quill, where a corresponding black smudge is present. he doesn’t seem to care, if he’s yet to notice. 

“i’m always here for christmas,” he blandly states, resigning himself to her potential battery of questions, or uninvited recollections of family traditions (dinners, parties, rounds of gift exchange, and obligatory celebrations.) he fails to find or mimic his fellow students’ unflattering excitement for a break which presents to him no range of sentiment, nor fondness. 

“it’s easier to study,” tom offers, his left shoulder rising in faint resemblance of a shrug. he nods once, down at the materials before him, and glances up at his companion; his dark gaze rests upon her as if weighing her expression, or response. 

“professor slughorn said he might let me try brewing a few more advanced potions this year,” he reveals, words colored now with careful satisfaction. “when they’re all gone, of course.” he tilts his head, motioning towards the rowdy group of students across the common room.