I knew the moment I first kissed him, that he would condemn me, that I would drag myself through broken glass for him. I just was not sure if he would stay long enough to pull the jagged pieces out.
I never imagined that instead, he would push the...
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Tom Riddlehad always despised the Hospital Wing. The place caused him to reminisce of his time spent in the orphanage he was raised in, a place he found so atrocious he dreamed of the day he would burn it down to the ground.
Yet despite his loathing, he was sat there, near a narrow bed the witch that had infuriated him was laying upon. Her obsidian hair smoothly sprawled on the pillow contrasting against her porcelain skin was a sight to behold. Her skin was undoubtedly cold to the touch, Riddle could tell due to the lack of rosiness that usually would paint the apples of her cheeks.
He had not stopped replaying the memory of what he had seen, the brutality behind her usually guarded eyes as she had single-handedly murdered a grown man and had ignited such fear in the rest of the wizards that they had not dared move a muscle.
It was no surprise that the witch had become the subject of Tom's consistent analysation in his diary. He did not doubt that she possessed a power that was unknown to him, and he burned with the need to find out new possibilities of obtaining more magical knowledge.
For that reason alone (at least that is what Tom kept telling himself), he had decided to lure the girl into his group. Perhaps he would have done it sooner if she had not been so prideful and infuriating because as much as he resented her, he could not deny the fact that she was powerful and capable of great things, even more than his own Knights.
He had to work his way around her shields and slither his way into her heart, to gain her trust. With her under his command, Tom could only dream about the things they could accomplish- for he knew there was more to her abilities.
Therefore, he wanted to be the first person Arwen would see upon her awakening, making her believe that he felt guilty— when he obviously did not, in fact, he found pleasure in inflicting her pain—and regretted invading her mind. His gaze landed upon the numerous gifts her friends had left for her, varying from flowers to mouth-watering sweets.
Her friends had been unrelenting, driving Tom insane with their constant pestering and fussing over Arwen. He had not been surprised to see most of them, however, his interest was piqued when a particular pair had rushed frantically into the room, their expressions more worried than Walburga's whom as much as Tom knew Arwen was the closest with.
One had shaggy blond hair that fell over his eyes, his robes carelessly thrown over him as if in hurry. His features were so soft one could wonder if he was created by the hands of Helga Hufflepuff herself. Tom recognised him to be Sam Walter, the son of a blood traitor.
The other one was a girl with dark skin and equally dark hair that looked soft to the touch. She wore an air of confidence and wisdom like a perfume, and the Slytherin heir did not miss the distrustful and tentative look she threw his way. She resembled her father, Riddle noted, knowing this from seeing his face all over the Daily Prophet. He had to admit he admired his works.
