Crimson || Tom Riddle [1]

𝖏𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖑 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖞

September 17th, 1898

It's the way she walks - glides in an almost angelic way. It's her hair that cascades down in silky waves of ink black and her pools of crystal grey eyes that light up. It's her laugh. Oh, her laugh. It is the most bewitching, magical thing you could ever hear. A melody of angels. It's how kind she is and how cruel she acts at the same time. She cares none for others. Her fangs could suck out the life in you in mere seconds.

She dresses in reds, the crimson melting into her tall figure as if she were made of it, as if it were the blood of her victims. Oh, and how happy that makes her. The blood. The red of her lips perking upwards into a smirk as she drinks in the sweet taste of it. It glides down her throat and her eyes alight in a new kind of love. Not one she ever reveals. Not one she would ever give to anyone, not even me.

But then, I watched as that love in her eyes dimmed into a dry, steel grey. Her fangs disappeared, anything she ever felt for me, gone. And it would stay that way. She would stay deadly, cold and full of loath.

And it was me, I tell myself. It was me who made her this way. It wasn't. She would smile in the bloodlust. She would smirk at the dead bodies. She would laugh as she blindly stole and ruined the lives of families, killing their loved ones.

She didn't care. She had no control, no emotion, no remorse. It was all off. She wouldn't go this far when it was on. Insane, isn't it? How ridiculously devilish she acts when the humanity switch is in the works.

Some may think what I did to her was monstrous, though the real monster was always her. On or not, she killed. On or not, she was the devil walking the earth and the only way to stop a devil was with the help of the devil herself.

[Journal entry from Albus' time with Arabella]