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The library was always deserted in the last few weeks of term. The tables became empty, the air growing… quiet.
It lent the occupants a sense of solitude rarely attained within the surrounding halls.
It also allowed Tom to watch from the shadows as the transfer student combed through the copious Ancient History titles.
A small twitch lifted the corners of his mouth.
”Fascinating, isn’t it?” Tom said smoothly, announcing his presence from amidst the cover of towering shelves.
The reaction was instantaneous.
The boy jerked, turning sharply to meet Tom, the worn copy of Ancient Magics and their Archetypes clutched firmly within his grasp. His demeanor only sharpened further upon meeting Tom’s gaze.
”Curiosity is a rather destructive trait, Riddle, wouldn’t you agree?” The boy returned coldly, the venom in his words only matched by the look in his eyes.
And what viciousness it was.
One which Tom will have.
It was an almost familiar reaction from the Peverall heir, one which was as amusing as it was unexpected.
”Perhaps,” Tom mused, eyes still trained on the boy before him. He tilted his head fractionally in a casual motion, as if to portray the act of consideration. “Although, arguably, it is not the worst trait to have.”
Harry’s gaze drifted from him then and Tom could feel the near imperceptible twitch of his eye.
The boy’s gaze remained on the books as he spoke.
”What do you want, Riddle?” Harry asked after a pause, tone flat.
I want your fire, I want to understand you. I want to unravel your mind, your secrets and understand why you stand to oppose me.
Tom voiced none of these thoughts however.
With fervent eyes alight he stepped closer to the boy, drawing Harry’s attention onto himself once again. Tom idly noted that the boy’s eyes were a deathly green.
”Just your time,” Tom said simply.
It came down to a test of wills, a test Harry had unknowingly entered.
Tom could almost envision it, the gambit hidden amongst the gauntlet. The gauntlet, a complex layering of machinations, its outermost layer akin to a simple offering.
Perhaps a porcelain cup of a delicate nature.
The picture of innocent temptation.
Its fragile exterior belying the blackened remains of herbal water.
Tom once heard that there was a type of intimacy to be found by creating something another would consume. At the time he had dismissed the idea, had thought it was a foolish sentiment made by lesser people meant for lesser things.
But stood mere metres from Harry, merlot eyes warring against green, Tom could see the near truth to the notion.
Tom had offered his gauntlet, the very image of tainted porcelain, and now it was time to see who would take the first sip.
Harry’s eyes narrowed at Tom.
”Well I’m not giving it to you,” Harry said, interrupting Tom’s thoughts in a matter-of-fact manner.
Somewhere near his ribs, a heat ignited. It was the culmination of all the growing intrigue Tom had become aware of over the previous month. It unfurled in one great mountainous wave, surfacing within the darkened hollows of his chest.
The refusal was of little importance. Nothing of any value came easily.
Tom would break the boy.
Which will break first, the person or the morals?
It was an interesting thought, to see what form Harry’s destruction would take. How would he bend, or perhaps he would simply shatter, would crumple under the weight of Tom’s guiding force, leaving Harry’s ferocity, his fire, as easy pickings for Tom’s waiting hands.
Tom studied the boy before him, watched as vivid green eyes widened.
Just what did he do to evoke Harry’s ire?
Tom would soon find out.
“Is that so?” Tom questioned, his tone taking an almost challenging edge.
So Harry, will you drink first or shall I?