Dark souls

13|Artist

I stare at his eyes, searching for a hint of guilt. Anything, any emotion at all. 

Silly of me to think that he feels anything, anyway. I adjust my hair with my fingers, taking my lipgloss out of my dress pocket. I apply it to my lips, not saying a word as Tom watches me, quietly studying to see if his word had any effect on me. I place the lipgloss back in my pocket, lathering my lips together and finally opening my mouth. 

"Fuck you." 

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The slytherin common room had little to no people in it, a few slytherins were chatting or studying together. They paid no attention to me as I levitate myself up the boy's dorm stairs, searching for Tom's dorm. Tom shares his dorm with 4 other boys, and it was quite easy to see which bed was his, considering his was the cleanest out of all of them. I flipped through his desk papers and bed, thinking to myself. If Tom can say cruel shit on a whim without once considering the impact of his words than I can too. I will not be reflecting on my behavior either, he can do that first. I feel something hard as I feel on his mattress, I look around before I find a small sewn on zipper, an opening. I smile as I unzip it and pull out a brown notebook, Tom Marvolo Riddle written on the cover. A diary? How sweet. I shove it under my arm and put everything back in its place, running out of the room. Levitating down the stairs, a 3rd year sitting by the campfire raises an eyebrow at me, which I simply glare back at. Running up the girl's dorm stairs, I fling open my door, one of my roommates sleeping on her desk, passed out upon a book. I set the diary on my bed, staring at it for a minute. Does it have a protection spell? Or can I simply open it? Fuck it. I open the cover, closing my eyes and crossing my fingers. Nothing. I look around the room, at my mirror. Nothing. I smirk, looking at the first page, a drawing. Quite depressive. A skull, a starving child, a snake. I flipped to the next page. Notes, scribbled everywhere, it was as if his mind was going to fast for his hand to keep up. His thoughts sprawled out on a messy page, nothing like his outside demeanor. Wait- I flip back to the cover. I've seen this book before. I rack my brain, glancing at the mirror again. Is this a trick? No, I've seen this before, and the drawings- they weren't his drawings. I let my fingers trace the sketches, feeling the scribbles on my finger. 

These are my drawings.