fingers & flames are playing a game of tag ; she pulls her hand back right before the fire gets to lick her fingertips and beginsagain, shapes and scenes forming in the fireplace the longer she stares at it, a burning snake pit constantly moving and morphing. ginny’s lying by the FIRE, curious eyes following the shadows, but she’s getting bored of doing nothing so she turns around to face him, cheeks reddened from the heat. ❛ want t’ go on a walk wi’v me ?? ❜ the rain is hitting lightly against the surface of the lake and is the reason why she expects him to deny & tell her to go back to whatever she was doing but her muscles itched from doing nothing all day. // @sevencrux
within her, he senses restlessness & ennui,a combination which to his gravemisfortune is not FOREIGN to him. throughout his (living) years, he experienced one or both – at the pathetic muggle ORPHANAGE, even within the halls of the esteemed CASTLE, among his housemates, his peers, his professors. the sight of the young miss weasley playing with the flames (sure to BURN HER, if she isn’t careful) brings a faint smirk to his pale, thin lips. cold dark eyes regard her closely as she turns to face him, careful attention paid to the witch’s words; a request, an invitation to further grace her with his company as she roams the castle grounds.
“ it’s raining, ” he says, a thin veneer of distant amusement still present underneath his flippant tone. she knows of the storm outside, for the rain against the windows is nearly invasive onto his thoughts. he knows she knows, and yet she asked, regardless – tom lets slip a sigh, as he turns his gaze back to the fire & waits in mock contemplation, as if he hasn’t yet decided.
“ if the alternative is watching you attempt to burn yourself, ” he says lightly, glancing sideways at the witch, “ a walk seems like the only decent suggestion. in other words, i have no immediate objections. ” and next he stands, leaning down to offer his hand in assistance with one fluid, graceful motion.
she hums into his chest and pulls away as quickly, fingers still holding on to his robes. it is so unlike her to display affection, to expose her vulnerable places to those who should have no right to use them as weapons against her but they have gotten past that. ( you’re my closest friend ) ( & you’re mine. ), she should respond but the words feel too s t r a n g e on her tongue, too bitter. she’s gotten used to being lonely. don’t take that away from her.
❛ s’ nothing. i’m cold. ❜ and again the temperature’s at fault and really, the cold atmosphere of her surroundings made her wish she were back in bed and not out, wandering the castle in search of potential comfort. ( comfort that you don’t even want, ginny. ) ❛ s’ just not my day, tom. ❜ she says with a pout that takes her back to times even before hogwarts, she looks just as young as she did five years ago, just as vulnerable. her armour’s down but she trusts him to take care of her.
she withdraws, though not entirely; she clings to his robes in a way he inwardly believes unflattering for a witch of her caliber – but he doesn’t comment. doesn’t step back nor force her to relinquish her hold. instead, dark eyes stare down at her in shrewd observation; for all the lies he’s spun himself, he vehemently detests when others too, conceal the truth.
yes, this memory is cold (or are they in her time? he’s lost count, location but a minor detail compared to the final product) and with a practiced, lazy wave of his wand (retrieved from the pocket of his cloak) his pale, unusually long fingers grasp the newly-summoned robes before they can fall to the floor. “ allow me, ” he says, with careful charm; an offering, on behalf of FRIENDSHIP, yes? the robes are simple and black, though from his own time rather than hers, but they ought to work.
“ simply a bad day? ” he asks mildly; the dubious tone is crystal clear, because she’s never reverted to physical contact in lieu of an off-day. the heir doubts her, but waits patiently for further elaboration. if not immediately offered, she will explain in time. he’s certain.
“ how are your classes, then? ” he questions, a mock reflection of a true friend’s genuine concern – though he’s no longer a student, he recalls the days in which he was, and his plans to further his education after graduation. in the space between two heartbeats, he contemplates the changes in theory & application in the classroom, the discoveries & remarkable advancements. his hunger shows, in the flash of crimson in his eyes – but no, it’s merely a trick of the light. it always has been. inhaling, he prepares himself for another obligatory, unimportant (to him) inquiry: “ your family, are they well? ”
a girl like a storm, impossible to analyse ; with decisions and mindsets changing almost flowingly, softly. something so uncharacteristic to her, face buried in the other’s chest and small hands holding on to the warmth of the other body. ❛ i’m cold. ❜ she states temperature to be the reason but they both know it’s something else, something small that broke inside her and made her crave physical contact even if just for one second.
appalled silence renders him mute, if only for a moment, as he stands (deathly still, not moving, not blinking, & not unlike a statue) & her words fall to the stone floor, disregarded.
“ miss weasley, what is the meaning of this? ” he snaps, and upon hearing the tone in his own words the memory pauses (look sharp, tom) and collects himself before carrying on. for he, in whose veins run the blood of the great salazar himself, is sounused to affection & displays of sentiment that he finds himself lost, unsure of how to free himself from the young witch’s grasp before she thinks to dig her claws into his skin. “ it’s alright, ginny. you’re safe. tell me what happened, ” he says (implores, no – more like demands, in the soft & gentle tone he’d perfected at an alarmingly young age; i’ve always been able to charm the people i need.)
“ you’re my closest friend, ” he murmurs. and he’s not entirely dishonest – his true family is scattered all throughout the world, he wagers, and with all he has invested in the witch (he devours her story, spilled ink across the pages of his journal – dear tom, dear tom) she is most IMPORTANT to him, as any wizard respects his wand or scales or cauldron; a tool, through which he will unlock his full potential. she is most useful to him, at the immediate moment, in the absence of his followers. “ you can trust me. ”
