Lies and falsehoods, armour made of ambition and cruelty. Irremediably, Tom Riddle's destiny has been written from the beginning, foreseeing a dark and deviant path. But to everything there is an exception, and Anastasia Atwell did not know she was...
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Penelope Zabini
SEPTEMBER, 1945
The Room of Requirement had taken on a completely different form. It was long and narrow, the walls were of a dark wood, tending to black. The stone floor was mossy, the air was cold and there was only the smell of candle wax slowly melting from the flame.
There was nothing else but a long table with well-spaced chairs around it. Precisely eight. Tom stood at the head of the table, his hands scratching his chin as he looked eagerly at the clock on the wall.
The ticking of the clock was beginning to make him nervous. All the others made eye contact, but no one dared to speak.
It was the middle of the night. A single moonbeam came through the small barred window, illuminating the table in the middle, where there was a bottle of alcohol and a few glasses. Isidore tapped his fingers against the wood, almost rhythmically. Everyone was waiting.
When the door slowly opened, the eyes of all the boys snapped in its direction. Out of the shadows emerged Marcus and Penelope. The boy held her hand, more forcefully than gently. Penelope stood a little further back, skeptically observing everything around her.
There seemed to be only one person missing, and Penelope began to wonder what happened to the Lestrange boy and why he was not sitting at the table with them. Had something happened to him? Had they hurt him? They couldn't have, right? After all, they were all friends. But Tom didn't spare anyone. Tom had no pity, no compassion.
"I must congratulate you," the girl broke the silence in a sarcastic tone, slipping her wrist from Marcus' grasp, who looked at her with displeasure. He really didn't want to do that. "I was expecting something much deader. More bleak. You have excellent taste, Riddle."
Tom bent his lips into a smile. He moved a hand in the direction of the chair that should have belonged to Marcus, inviting her to sit down. But she shook her head, "I'm not planning on staying here for long."
"A shame," Tom replied, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "I had a very good offer for you. Your friends will be unhappy to know that you preferred to put a strain on their lives rather than talk to me for five minutes."
The girl froze on the spot. Motionless with fear. She pointed her gaze into his, one eyebrow raised. "What did you say?"
"I hate repeating myself."
Penelope's lips tightened as Marcus stepped aside to let her make her way to the chair. Once in her seat, she looked at all the boys. They all ignored the girl's gaze before lowering their heads.
