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. ”
❝ I don’t see anything wrong with celebrating, ❞ Harry replies, trying his best to ignore dismay laced around every word that spills from Tom’s mouth.
❝ Do you hate when people have fun?
❞ intentions to strike a nerve are hidden behind an innocent question.
❝ It’s not BAD, you know. ❞
on any other child, perhaps his expression would more resemble a disappointed POUT, born from the realization that his opinion is not openly accepted, shared – he turns his face to stare, calculating, at the young boy beside him. tom riddle is not amused, though not (yet) perplexed enough to outwardly scowl.
“ i hate that my heritage is a mockery, an annual spectacle, ” he says, in a halfhearted attempt to convince the boy of his intentions. “ the matron of my orphanage, ” he begins, a rare bit of insight offered for his history, as they are separated from the other students, “ once told me that carved pumpkins would protect us from demons & other evil spirits. i’ve never heard of demons, have you? ” he asks, his true inquiry more along the lines of why has the tradition become a mere classroom activity. besides, he reckons they could defeat any evil spirit that dared to invade their ancient school – they have no need of silly faces & flickering candle light within an empty pumpkin.
“ i don’t hate having fun, ” he continues, turning his gaze back across the hall. “ an unfair assumption, on your part. ”
“ i don’t see the point in celebrating halloween, ” he drawls, a young boy in secondhand robes, as his dark eyes stare into the great hall, dreading when the familiar stone & wooden tables will be littered with carved pumpkins & other various decorations.
“ muggles pretend to be what we already are – witches & wizards, running around with brooms between their legs as they cackle at the moon. it’s offensive, ” he says, a touch petulant. “ what do you think? ”
The pale vampire hummed in response,eyes watching that DECEPTIVELY angelic face. Oh, mister Riddle, the first rule of being around a vampire is to GUARD your MIND. Of course, not many knew this and Lestat was not about to let that little secret out so easily. The air around the human mind and the minds of other immortals was their information highway. It’s how they knew what came and went, where other vampires fed and when their fears were rationalized. Why keep these books in the LIBRARY indeed. It was the same as setting out a loaded revolver in a classroom of CURIOUS minds. Eventually, someone was going to pull the trigger.
❛ Weaker. ❜ Lestat said suddenly, shifting his position on the edge of that table. His knee bent, arm rested upon it. He had to wonder if this boy had ever met another vampire. If he’d ever spoken to a member of the UNDEAD. ❛ You were going to say weaker, weren’t you? I heard you, inside of your head. ❜
But he would BITE, so to speak. He made an interesting point. He supposed that magic was an INDISCRIMINATE source of energy. Much like the way the magic of the spirit, Amel not only filled them with the power of eternal life and destruction, but unconditional warmth and love. A presence they could not deny.
❛ Can the same be said of VAMPIRES, I wonder? ❜ He asked, tearing his gaze away. It’s beautiful and blue, filled with the reflective colours of periwinkle and lavender. He knows how UNNERVING it is on most students, but studies closely this boy, Tom Riddle, for any sign of discomfort. Lestat is only curious. ❛ Are there evil vampires, good vampires? We kill to SURVIVE, some of us e n j o y it. But as I have said before, God kills indiscriminately! We are immortal, and what we have before us are the rich feasts that no conscience can possibly appreciate or enjoy without that mortal coil of regret. ❜
he demands honesty from others ; dark eyes flash crimson as they carve the truth from their defenseless minds – but never has he had the tables turned. never have his own thoughts been invaded; he finds himself appalled.
❛don’t! ❜
his voice, lacking his usual mask of arrogance,cracks beneath the heavy weight of desperation – four letters, but ten years’ worth of mistrust & resentment he’s harbored from the day the young boy understood he’d been abandoned, left in wool’s orphanage to be forgotten. he’s ill-suited for vulnerability, which drapes across his shoulders like a cloak too large & heavy for his frame. the force with which he slams shut the doors to his thoughts is too much, and the doors in fact fly open once again – there’s no latch or lock to hold them closed; he’s never felt the need to practice.
Ｉ ＨＥＡＲＤ ＹＯＵ， ＩＮＳＩＤＥ ＯＦ ＹＯＵＲ ＨＥＡＤ．
“ how can you hear me? why? ” he demands, his childish command but a fraction of the ferocity he will carry as an adult – not that he’s privy to the future, but it’s no difficult task for an observant mind to perhaps suspect this unbridled fury, absent in the average boy of tom’s age. (he is repulsed by the idea of such an ability used against him, but would gladly turn it on another – his obsessive curiosity keeps him rooted to the spot, rather than fleeing the library & lestat’s company.)
and ever the attentive student, he can’t help but follow the lure of the vampire’s continued reply. ＷＥ ＫＩＬＬ ＴＯ ＳＵＲＶＩＶＥ – bold words said to a boy who would grow to be the darkest wizard of his age (this is important, because his reign was hardly built on air, but on the stone foundation of his younger years.) he recalls the rabbit he persuaded, seduced into hanging itself from the rafters after an argument with billy stubbs, a fellow orphan. did he kill the rabbit, or did it kill itself? all he did was ask. (& he basked in the young boy’s devastation.)
“ do you enjoy it, sir? ” he asks mildly, keeping a close watch on lestat. (unaware that he’d been studied just as closely if not closer; had he known, he would have reigned in his fixation, his blatant display of interest for the vampire’s alluring stare. the young wizard is drawn to power, and those who wield it.)
“ why regret what you must do to survive? ” here is the question – the basis on which he will build his obsession of achieving immortality; years from now, he will face horace slughorn & suggest that tearing one’s soul into seven may prove more beneficial than a single half. but for now, he stands before a vampire – immortal, powerful, yet repulsivelydependent on his bloodlust. (or so he assumes.)
“ my mother died shortly after i was born – because she was too weak to save herself. ” and here it is implied, undoubtedly, that he will not make his mother’s mistakes. he will be strong enough. there is nothing worse than death.
❛ I believe there are some things they try to keep from you, yes. ❜ Lestat hummed, seemingly deep in thought. His legs hung from where he sat atop one of the heavy, wood tables. His clothes were new and pristine, but mortal nonetheless. He liked the way those double-breasted shirts fit him, and he liked the shiny, copper buttons that reminded him of the old, glorious waistcoats he once wore as a boy. ❛ Perhaps, ❜ He put both fists under his chin before reaching out, holding up a long, bony finger with a claw-like nail at the tip, ❛ That is why they call it the restricted section. ❜
his is an expression carved from marble ; cold & near indecipherable, tom’s dark eyes rest heavy on the speaker’s frame, analyzing the words & forming his response. unusually long fingers curl protectively around the spine held in his pale hands – the book is a warm & heavy weight, perhaps indicative of the secrets held within. the orphan thirsts for knowledge (thirst, what a particular description) and frowns at all who (attempt to) stand between him and his obsessive enthusiasm.
the restricted section – it beckoned him to explore from the moment his gaze first crossed the sign. his curiosity is only natural.
“ then why keep these books in a school library? ” he asks, the thin veneer of incredulity too transparent to mask his true opinion; a foolish choice, to place within a school this section of “restricted” tomes & not expect students to explore. in certain company, his false sincerity is impeccable, having fooled nearly all the staff into believing his motives are purely academic.
but not in the presence of this man – vampire – lestat, if tom correctly recalls, an acquaintance of professor slughorn’s. there’s something about him that invites the student to speak freely; a refreshing change. in fact, he spares only a fleeting thought at the picture they must paint: the orphan boy in secondhand robes & the smirking vampire with his far more flattering attire.
“ i reckon it’s more to intimidate the – other students, ” he begins, his hesitation all too telling, as he nearly said weaker in place of other, implying he thinks less of his fellow students (which he does.)“ magic is magic, it’s not inherently good or evil – the distinction lies with the witch or wizard alone, doesn’t it? the same spell uttered to levitate a feather above your table can also be used to levitate someone over a cliff. i find any prejudice which restricts my education to be rather frustrating. ”
& here he pauses, pale lips pressed into a thin line as he realizes his lack of self-restraint. following professor dumbledore’s visit to wool’s orphanage, the night he handed tom his hogwarts letter & explained his unique abilities, he’s been reluctant to reveal too much information when speaking with adults (wizard, vampire, or otherwise.)
“ besides, if it’s restricted, why are you here? ” he asks mildly, a petulant attempt to redirect a potentially risky conversation.
Cedric looks down at the younger boy in surprise, gray eyes blinking a couple of times before the request seems to sink in. His expression brightens and he steps aside quickly, cheeks flushing to a darker shade of red. “Blimey, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize–”
He ought to have, though, considering how tall he was. He was almost always in the way of something. After he moves away, he can’t keep his gaze from lingering on the blank expression that’s painted across Tom’s face. Slowly, his eyes move from the boy to the trophy case, searching for what could so completely drain the emotion from his eyes.
tom riddle: orphan, slytherin, hypocrite. he avoids the student’s flushed expression with a careful disregard & both arms hang idly at his sides, hands empty (though his unusually long fingers twitch the slightest bit, courtesy of his mounting ire.)
nothing. his gaze slides from one polished shield to the next, across each row & down each column, and he finds nothing. tom clenches his teeth, and lifts his cold gaze to the older wizard.
“ i can’t find it, ” he petulantly declares, more to himself than his companion. “ why can’t i find his name? ” he asks (DEMANDS) as if the other boy had all the answers, as if he were privy to his search – the faintest (involuntary) change in his expression is perhaps more unnerving than the previous blank slate; the cold, calculating air in which he carries himself is undermined by his shorter stature & childish disappointment.
The thin membran covering her eyes retreated, revealing her golden shining eyes. Like two golden coins hidden deep within a well, only to even shine brighter with the flames reflecting in the unblinking pupils . Her body laying on the armchair only moved slightly, like heavy chains draped around it. The only thing that really moved was her forked tongue darting out to catch her master’s fragnance .
Like the obscure satire of a dog or acat, the being laid her scaly head ontop of his hand. If he was reaching out for her, who would she be to ever refuse him? Nagini liked her master , one could even say she < loved > him . In a human way? Certainly not.
“ I have been exploring , my master . I travelled through the garden and forest. I have also explored the attic where the ancient dust of this place sticks to my scales. But … the humans? I do not want to go near them. ‘ Mindless beast ’ they call me. I do not want to be called that , if I cannot persue them to stop , then I , at leat , do not want to hear it. ”
conversing with serpents ; a habit instilled in him years ago, first at the wretched muggle orphanage in which he lived, is a pleasure, more cherished than conversations held with those less worthy of his delicate patience. by now, he spends no effort in deciphering each hiss and whisper from his treasured companion. thus, her words receive his full attention, and the thin wand within his grasp (held by the hand not beneath nagini’s scaled head) twitches in a sign of his annoyance.
wherever he finds refuge, nagini is undoubtedly invited, having shared her forest with him so long ago, in a time which he himself proclaims his darkest hour (abandoned by his friends, no more than an angry ghost) & to discover, in her own words, the grave lack of respect offered by his followers, displeases him. in fact, he takes personal offense at their mindless words; truthfully, had they considered his reaction to names such as “mindless beast” they would not have dared to utter them.
“ i shall have the attic cleaned, ” he assures her, a faint curl at thin lips the only sign of lord voldemort’s distant amusement (imagining her coated in dust, scavenging for rats or likewise smaller creatures.)
“ the grounds are yours to roam, nagini, as they ought to know. and you will tell me of the next time they dare speak of you in such a manner, ” he hisses, awaiting the next time his followers are foolish enough to insult his beloved pet. she has shown him the utmost loyalty, and as they treat each other with intimidation & respect (the lesser to their superiors within their ranks) so should they show her.
“ i have heard rumors of a snake within the gardens, of which they are rightly frightened – i may assume, now, that they speak of you? i’ve yet to encounter others here, though you know i’ve spent much of my time lately at the ministry. ”
Nagini was a patient being , wether she would wait hours for someone to get out of their hiding place so she could track them down or until a death eater made a bad move that got themselves killed and made her dinner. The snake could wait for anything and everyone .
Now the pet of the dark lord was waiting for her master’s return, absently even communicating with him over the lengths. Her eyes were ‘ closed ’ with the thin membran covering them up. The reptile would allow herself a slight snooze on the grand armchair in front of the chimney. Savoring the warmth filling her body.
“ … ”
countless others claim exception ;i am the dark lord’s most loyal & it is an honor to serve him – though none exceed his expectations more than she, the serpent from albania.nagini. he collects followers and artifacts not unlike a magpie, digging selfish claws into that which catches his attention; he rules over thousands of death eaters who flock to him for guidance, or from fear, but her loyalty has never wavered, never faltered.
“ nagini, ” the dark sorcerer intones, cold voice dripping in revolting fondness; a color so unexpected, unwelcoming from himself. “ ever patient, are you not? ” bare feet cross soundlessly across the wooden floor as he stalks into the room, slitted eyes finding the serpent without hesitation, draped over the armchair.
“ you may be in luck, tonight, ” he hisses, pausing beside the armchair, above which he holds out a pale, thin fingered hand for her to reach, should she desire. nights such as this, when he speaks of luck for his serpentine companion, often include the death of a disappointing, reluctant follower, or an uncooperative member of his enemy’s.
“ tell me, ” he begins, his dark gaze staring absently into the fire, and his mind wandering, “ have you been exploring? i have seen the fear in their eyes, as they sweep the shadowed corners for your presence. ” the thought amuses him greatly, for he has no fear or worry for snakes of any size; lately even he has found them, nagini most especially, to be far better company than that of witches or wizards.
“ can you move? ” the young riddle bluntly asks; it’s implied that he’s only asking out of courtesy, like his heart’s not truly in it, and if he could, he’d rather demand the taller student step aside. “ i can’t read the names, ” he says, nodding to the trophy case. he’s searching for a name, as he’s done each day this week. his face lacks expression of any sort, a blank slate rather than annoyed, bored, or disdainful that he can’t see around his fellow student.
