My Sweetest Downfall

by missy mee

Yes, it was twisted and warped, what Tom Riddle felt for Ginevra Weasley. But it was there, and that was what counted

Like pure, white marble. You're so very, very pale, with a skein of dark red hair spilling across your cheek. Blood on snow. How exquisite.

I kneel beside you. The floor is dank with slime and the filth of the chamber floor has begun to permeate your robes. It cannot mask your own scent – clean, sweet, childlike. On a strongly violent whim I lean down and kiss you hard on the mouth. It was meant to be full blooded, but I am unnerved by the iciness of your lips. Instead, I retreat, brushing my own lips over your forehead.

Such smooth skin…

I check myself. Lord Voldemort cares nothing for appearances.

But Tom Riddle feels oddly tender, and brushes that strand of your hair back off your face.

There now. Perfect.

Hello sweetheart. Grown since last we met. You're warm now and your heart beats freely, the fire to my ice.

I know you fear – detest, despise – me. I know this, and revel in my ability to comprehend the way you think of me in the way I cannot understand my own feelings for you. You reside in some forgotten bolthole of my blackly beating heart, and I love that you hate me, and hate that I love you.

My dear. My sweet child. My sweetest downfall.