the dark side [tom r.]

3|| Dancing Demons.

"Why I'm here?" Rosalind questioned warily, her tongue wetting her lips in an attempt to reduce the sudden dryness. The movement didn't go unnoticed by Tom, however, his eyes watching her mouth for a millisecond before he cleared his throat and inched further away from her.

"Yes, Rosalind, why you're here. What brings you to Malfoy Manor on this night?" He questioned, analysing eyes piercing through her face. Had she not been so used to it, lying to Tom would've certainly been extremely difficult. "I'm quite certain you didn't receive an invitation to this masquerade."

The french heroine raised an eyebrow, feigning offence at his statement. "Are you trying to tell me that I'm unwelcome here, Riddle?"

"Unwelcome? No. Unsolicited, yes."

She gasped at his rudeness, lips pressed into a thin line after she heard his words. Rosalind wasn't expecting such behaviour. He didn't need to be a prick, but then again, how was one supposed to treat their ex-lover?

The word was heavy. Heavy in the sense that it planted an ache in her chest when she recalled the memories of what they were. Deep down, she was sure that whatever they had could never be mended. And it was all her fault.

Rosalind was the one that left him. She dug a gaping hole with her departure, leaving him struggling to grasp whatever was left of his soul. The last ounces of his humanity evaporated when she broke his heart, shattering him in the process. For once he'd felt truly loved, like someone would bend hell for him out of pure love; not fear. But when the only person he'd deviantly cared for disappeared, Tom started despising the notion of Love.

When he was younger, especially during his teenage years, Tom was afraid of love. He was terrified of this thing that could burn the world but make it seem like Heaven. Love was bittersweet, it had led to his mother's death, to the wrecking of his heart, too. But later on, it grew into something much more, it grew into hate, utter detestation of the idea. It was nothing but an idea, after all. Love was not real to him.

And if it was, then Love did not matter in the slightest.

"I can leave, if that's what you want-" He cut her off when she proceeded to stand up, grabbing her arm and forcing her to sit on the couch again.

"You're evading the question, Rosalind," his eyes gleamed, hungry for information, answers. "Surely, you must know that I'm very far from daft, love."

That nickname. Damn that nickname. She resisted the urge to shiver, her attention focusing on the ring around her finger instead. "I wanted to visit England after a time so long. I-I missed it here; the places, the people."

Rosalind looked into his eyes, noticing the slightly visible circles hanging beneath the glowing irises. She had the faintest trace of a lilt to her words, something caused by speaking nothing but French for years.

"Liar."

Yes, she was a liar. The jumbled lies that spewed out of her mouth like nasty epithets sucked the rapture out of her. What's worse was that he knew. He knew that her reappearing like that should have had an ulterior motive.

"Why else would I choose to come?"

He smirked knowingly, his fingers reaching to play with the strap of her dress. Rosalind gulped when he hooked them on the thin fabric, his skin brushing against hers every so often.

"I don't know, maybe you want something?" Amusement glimmered in his eyes when she stuttered, the way his fingers moved the strap dangerously low on her shoulder rendering her unable to think straight. Hell, she wasn't even seeing straight at that moment.