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ONCE THE SKY had dulled to an ebony canvas, Keres pulled back the curtain, allowing tufts of dust to billow out from the thick, velvet fabric. The stream of moonlight broadens, only enough to enliven the median down the parlor leading to the hearth. Tom Riddle remains in the darkest corner of the room, his spindly figure situated upon the chaise lounge. He'd sat up now, long legs clad in grey trousers sprawled before him and widened apart imprudently. His forearms rested on his sides, one of which covered by the folded coat he'd placed upon it. His head was rolled back against the back of the chair, throat exposed and eyes peacefully shut, though Keres knew he was still awake.
She believed the scene to be almost lecherous, particularly in behalf of how his appearance was born of complete idleness. While many gentlemen go to extreme lengths in simply conveying themselves posh and personable, it seemed all Riddle had to do was present himself in all the art that birthed his essence. His mannerisms—the way he prevailed in power and authority—accentuated the beauty of his demeanor. Riddle's being was supernatural in itself, Keres believed. If the prospect of virtue was the sun, then he was the eclipse, the necessary evil the world needed to satisfy a balance. He was ethereal in the darkest intervals of time, every millisecond and every revolution. He is of the aftertaste of bourbon on Sunday morning, and the insubordinate desire for it on Sunday afternoon. He is of dark chocolate and nicotine sitting like film on sore tongues, and a silhouette dancing in an alleyway after dark. He is of poetry readings in a New York City coffee shop, with no one to spectate but a crowd of restless souls chasing a hopeless dream. He is of the smell of sex in a hazy bar. The coldness of the house in a winter dawn. The second week of January when the world has crept back into their independent routines. The day after February 14th when love is no longer celebratory. And aimless conversations exchanged in the dead of night amidst a brewing war.
Tom Riddle was the depiction of all things dark and desired.
"Keres, my dear," Riddle speaks again, his voice projecting roughly with the position of his neck. "What do you cherish most about science, if science is everything?"
Keres considers the question, wondering what it was Riddle was eager to discover about her. If science entailed everything, then perhaps her keenness in a certain field would represent to him what exactly in life she valued the most, let it be her choice of hobbies, or where her devoted interest lies. Veritably, Keres had no recollection of what once consumed her aspirations before she'd become a Death Eater, and even now, they remain unclear. There seemed to be no after following this life, no way of things going back to the ordinary style she once knew.
"I'm uncertain, my lord," she murmurs, nothing more than sheepish liltingness caressing her tone.
He lifts his head, rubbing the back of his neck that'd been pressed against the chaise. "Is mystery a part of science?"
