His Story {Tom Riddle}

Chapter 4

So, to sum up. 

My name is Cleopatra Davies, I am sixteen years old. I was born in Bristol. I like French films, Harry Styles, and cutting my own bangs. 

I've never really done anything in my life, nothing exiting, really. 

Never had a bad breakup, or a love story. Just some short adventures with mostly people my age. Some older guys, some younger girls (just one year difference, calm down). 

For a few months now I have been struggling with this big hole in my chest, eating me alive. As if something, or someone, was supposed to come to me. But I never really reached it. 

You could say I have some issues, I mean, I am on medication (weehooop).  

But for months, no, for years, I was 'content' with the routine, the reality. I never wished for danger, fantasy, or world changing revolutions, or time travelling...

But here I am. In the girls' lavatory on the second floor of Hogwarts, getting ready for potions class. Washing my face in the same bathroom that, in a few years, will famously become Moaning Myrtle's. 

But no one knows that yet. And I can't tell them. 

Those are the rules: do not mess with the time continuum, do not speak to anyone about when I'm from, and do not die. 

Emphasis on the last one. 

Yup, apparently, I was sent here for a reason. It was 'meant to be'. So rumour is I can't leave until my purpose here has been 'completed' or whatever that means. 

Ugh, I knew Dumbledore could be enigmatic, but I thought it was just his age! Nope, the guy makes even less sense now, and combined with Dippet, the two of them sound like mad scientists. 

They were more excited to have me here than to figure out what I had to do. Soooo, as the geniuses they are, they gently decided to send me to class. To, I quote, 'mingle with the rest of my classmates.'

I swear if I don't die on my own, I will totally be their fault. 

Catching my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I see worry and fear plastered on my face. 

I take a big breath, and force a smile on my lips. I have to look presentable, normal. I have to look like the Cleo who's always been to Hogwarts, a loud and proud Ravenclaw. 

I'm part of the story now, part of the narrative.

Well, I've always been a pretty good actress. No one's going to suspect that I just time traveled from another century. 

There is a silly little wooden stick in the pocket of my black robes. I slowly take it out, weighing it in my hands, feeling its texture by running my fingers along its spine. It's made of dark wood, with almost shimmering highlights. 

I can't really explain it, but somehow it feels just right. 

I sigh, Dumbledore will teach me basic spells later today, and we'll have regular lessons to make sure I know how to use magic. 

I'm still getting used to the idea of being a witch. It seems so unreal. 

I fix up my hair, copying it from this 1940s magazine tutorial I found in the dorm. The witch laughs on the picture, beaming with pride with her little 'How to be the perfect House-witch' rubric. 

I struggle to roll up my hair just like her. She winks at me... Stupid bitch. 

I'm wearing clothes the Hogwarts Cleo had in store: a navy ensemble, a short vest tightened at the waist and its matching a-line skirt, falling below the knee of course.