This story belongs to me, but Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. Too bad, because Harry is hot. Harry isn't in this story, though. Unfortunately, Tom Riddle also belongs to JK Rowling. I'm not making any money off of this story and JK Rowling didn't give me any permission to use her characters. Any new characters belong to me.

It's a Long Way Down a Long, Long Trail

or

Tom Riddle and the Blues

Tom Riddle lay on his side with the scratchy sheets pulled up over his abs. The soft, silver rays of the moon spiraled down from the full, pearly orb and danced over his pale skin. On nights like these, he could never really get to sleep.

He tossed, and he turned, and he tossed some more. He worried that he'd wake up the other boys in the dormitory of the orphanage where he still stayed during the long summer holidays, and that was the last thing he wanted. His hand crept down below the edge of the covers to rub gently over the lightning bolt scar he'd received just last year when he'd fought a bigger boy for the bed near the window.

A view of the sky was preferable.

No amount of tossing could wear him out this night. With a heavy sigh, Tom Marvolo Riddle kicked the linens away and planted his feet firmly against the hard wooden floor. It was warm still in the room, and the breeze that wafted in through the windows was just as warm as the floor beneath his feet. Tom's skin was a little sticky from the humidity.

He got to his knees and stuck his hand under the bed, groping blindly for his quarry. There. At last his hand closed around the worn leather handle of the case, and he slid it from its hiding spot. No one was to know of the magic. No one was to watch him at practice, and if they did, they'd never understand...

A few moments later he was on the roof, under that glorious, heavenly sky. He opened the case almost reverently, taking care not to damage the delicate contents. Tom removed the instrument of his power, fitting it carefully into his hand and polishing it with a cloth specially for the purpose.

The low wail of his magic touch reverberated over the rooftops of London, sketching a figure in the darkness.

I stand at your gate

and the song that I sing is of moonlight

She had hair of rich, coffee brown and skin of fairest alabaster. Her eyes glowed green even in the darkness, and her lips were full rubies ready to be plucked and gnawed upon. The curve of her ankle led to the hump of her slender hip, up to her ample bosom, onward to her swanlike neck.

I stand and I wait

for the touch of your hand in the June night

Tom reached out a hand. "Greta, Greta," he murmured over and over again, willing her to be a corporeal presence instead of a wisp of his imagination. "I miss you so much." It would be ages before he'd see her again. Ages before he could drown in her eyes, smell the scent of her soap wafting off her hair.

The holidays had never seemed so long.

And she didn't even know how much he cared.

A love song, my darling

A moonlight serenade

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Moonlight Serenade is by Glenn Miller. I don't own him either.