antebellum [t. riddle]

ii.

october 1944

Tom Riddle. 

How intriguing.

She studied him as quickly as she could, easily seeing that there was something... dishonest lurking beneath the surface, deep enough to be barely detectable, but superficial enough to show when he needed it to. 

Untrustworthy, deceptive, observant...

As for the intriguing part, this boy was unnaturally attractive— almost inhumanly so. His hair, his cheekbones, his jaw, his lips, all in perfect proportion to each other, and in facial expressions that could charm almost anyone. His posture was one of self-assuredness and his steps were graceful and practiced. She gave him an introductory smile.

To the untrained eye, he was perfect.

He did not look at her while Dippet delivered instructions— something about showing her the school and whatnot. He only watched her face as she watched his, though no one in the room aside from Dumbledore seemed to notice. His eyes darted across her features, looking for any signs of anything extraordinary. 

Like her, he could sense that something was not quite right with the school's newest student— something was subtly fraudulent about her whole demeanor. 

Truly, it was her own fault that he even noticed it. If she hadn't been the one to stare at him first, he wouldn't have given her a second glance. 

She was attractive, but what did beauty matter in a world ruled by chaos and power? 

All he saw was the power that radiated off of her, but he could also see the veil of emotions intricately woven around her face. Something about her was insincere— manufactured. He recognized it easily; that being the same façade he often placed on himself. It was almost personally offensive how he had only just met her, and she had nearly already fooled him.

There would be no backtracking now— he had caught her, and he was fascinated.

The way her light, innocent smile played on her lips look practiced, and the tone of her voice was one that was much too confident to be an average woman. The way her eyes moved quickly across him, analyzing and searching for only a matter of seconds was enough for him to know that she had seen something. But what? What had she seen— what did she know?

Paranoia. She had been brought to this school by Albus Dumbledore. Tom, of all people, should have been paranoid.

She was perfect— sickeningly, deceitfully so. 

He had not been expecting this. None of the prefects had known what to make of the news that Hogwarts would be receiving a new student, let alone an American. The last transfer students Hogwarts had seen was in Tom's fourth year, when three French cousins fled Beauxbatons— only to be killed by Vinda Rosier during their first Easter holiday.

Of course, meeting anyone new was an intriguing prospect. They were an unknown; an added variable that no one yet knew how to define. New potential came with new witches and wizards, but Tom has seen the same patterns Soon, she'd assimilate and become part of the same mundane as the rest of the school was— would she be able to keep his interest, was the question. 

Often times Tom found himself disappointed when it came to new introductions. Their auras may seem promising at first, but then their personalities and capabilities were severely lackluster in comparison. In the few instances that people lived up to their titles— their potential, he kept them around, letting himself be surrounded by useful, talented people.