Guys like him are not meant for girls like her.
Guys like Tom Riddle deserve the pretty ones who are witty and confident and beautiful on the inside as well as the out. Guys like Tom Riddle end up with girls with silk hair and carefully woven eyes several tints too bright.
People like Tom Riddle don't go for girls like Myrtle Meridian.
Yet, a sense of possession would win over. Prevailing and zealous obsession. Unhealthy and insalubrious. Something not associated with the order of status. Tom Riddle eyed her as she walked, how she had a slight limp and how Myrtle would always promenade the hallways with a book pressed against her chest. He surveyed at how Myrtle's accent was posh, fruity to say the least and to be blunt, poor Myrtle was always the victim of a rather thorough session of mockery due to her speech.
People just didn't fall for Myrtle. Definitely not people like Tom Riddle. But he liked things that weren't imperfect.
Which was why he chose Myrtle.
But Tom Riddle had plans. He always did. And however dark and demanding those plans were, Tom Riddle had always reserved a sense of longing to Myrtle and whatever he did, he'd think of her. Always. And then when he did go over-board, started to bestow an interest in the dark arts, Tom Riddle didn't have time for something stupid like a crush.
Tom Riddle didn't need it.
So his plan had been hatched. Tom Riddle had previously observed Olive Hornby provoke Myrtle and scrutinise her flee into the bathroom which she [i]always[/i] escaped to. He had followed her, quiet and deadly just like the snake he was.
Having arrived, Tom Riddle summoned his pet, his key to success.
Tom Riddle summoned her death.
He had watched her yank the bathroom stall open, her hard patronizing glare evolve into a waver of self-consciousness, then a flicker of shock, then nothing. Tom Riddle stood by his basilisk, and watched in horror at the now dead girl. This was his horocrux. The one Tom Riddle would only ever love.
And so, Tom Riddle dropped to his knees, plant his soft lips against her lifeless ones. Something he'd never be able to do. "Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime." Tom Riddle would whisper over again.
But this was not Tom Riddle anymore. Tom Riddle was dead. He was Voldemort now. Voldemort was alive. Voldemort had two lives now. So he took Myrtle's soul for himself. For his diary. Because she was the key to his most clandestine thoughts. And Tom Riddle, no. Not Tom Riddle. Voldemort exited the bathroom, with his two new souls. And for a pregnant pause, Tom Riddle turned back, surveyed the room and then to Myrtle's stone-cold body. He looked at the girl, and regret tumbled against him like a titanic wave. But no. This was not Tom Riddle. This was Voldemort.
And with that, Voldemort left.
A/N:
So hi guys! One-shots are love! So this is a small one for Myrtle because she didn't get much love. I made up her last name since I got no reference.