SHE KILLS; tom riddle

𝔱𝔴𝔬

"SO what is a wizard like yourself doing in a place like this?"

"And what do you mean by a wizard like myself?"

His rebuttal had begun to paint masterpieces over her features in a blush while her fingers traced the edge of the ceramic cup, spewing tendrils of steam into the tensioned void of two strangers.

"I asked first"

"And I second— I'm glad you know how to count"

Though his snap had sewn her lips shut with a poisoned string she could not deny that the way his lips turned up with diversion was all rather attractive in preponderance. But it wasnt his smile, nor raised brows of alluding charisma, it was the beat of silent volumes that screamed seduction. He was a drug, and though the realization of that fact had yet to dawn on her— it had begun to grow apparent that indeed his smile, his topaz blue irises, his black lashes akin to starless heaps of dark waved hair and the irrevocable conception that his face was carved from divine stone was all so very addictive.

But his charm was sinking— it was obvious that his own patience was gliding over thin ice and she was treading— hoping that if she slipped the ice of water wouldn't drown her in oblivion. His blue eyes had grown increasingly darker while the two sat on rickety wooden stools amongst hunched over muggles, engrossment far to invested in selfishness of conversation to care that the two were shooting daggers into the targets of the others skin.

She didn't hate him— she had no room for such a thing, after all her blithesome selfhood led with the motto that it took far more energy to hate than love. But she was a hypocrite, finding love virtually impossible.

Elise Bardot was the type of girl to pick wildflowers and twist them into crowns of affection. Where her gleaming eyes laced and strapped corsets around fictitious passion, pulling so tight she suffocates and suddenly it means nothing at all. She was a scandalous fantasizer, finding outrageous reasons to fall into infatuation dressed in fine silks of fake love and when the realization dawns, the victim falls head over heels for the pretty girl with honey drenched lips of sweet bliss, and she selfishly slips through the cracks with a 'sorry, I'm just not feeling it'.

Her family scolds her, forces suitors, hosts balls in hopes for courting and the latter often finds herself in satin Prussian blue duvets the following morning. Mumbles of heated breath kiss at her neck where bruises clutter in toxic possession and she deems herself selfish for self indulgence, while the remaining dessert from the night prior falls into the affliction of worship in the dream-state while aristocratic arms wrap her into suffocation.

And she could curse herself, knowing if she does the very thing she finds herself doing she may just find herself in those circumstances all over again where deja vu becomes reality. But when her eyes fit over his cocky set features she concludes she rather but anywhere but here— with him.

And yet you agreed to have tea— stupid girl.

He didn't hate her likewise—regardless, he had room for such sentiments, he despised many but in the contrary to that, the way her blush rose over the pales of chilled skin and smiles stretched as canyons of dimples broke the surface of her complexion, she was far more peculiar to hate her.

And Tom, though unknowing of it was almost, if not a replica of what Elise was. A seducer, but paralleling in the fact that she swayed with pleasantries and he with manipulation. Howbeit, not impossible for the girl to love, his was practically a fact, for he had never in his life felt such a feeling. Nor did he want to for that matter.

So silence laid over them, itchy and uncomfortable blankets of it and as she swayed with the creak of the seat in harmony, she grimaced as his inquisitive glance read her like chapters until paper cuts clipped at her skin with vigorous page flipping and words tumbled off the cliffs of her tongue with desperation.