She doesn't know what it is about him that caught her eye. She would have never called herself someone who fell so quickly and so hard. She would never have pegged herself as a cliche either, falling head over heels for the dark, brooding, dangerous one.
She would console herself, sometimes. Nearly half the female population of Hogwarts, (and a sizeable part of the male population as well), was smitten with Tom Riddle. And then she would remember why her story was different. Everyone might adore Tom Riddle, but there were few who Tom himself chose to associate with.
Her association with him was...'special'. At least, she hoped she was right in assuming that it was.
"Are you in love with him?" her eager, excitable friends asked, every so often, seemingly having figured out their own love lives already. The rely in affirmative lied on the tip of her tongue, each time, almost as an instinct. But she never said it, always stopping herself in time. It would feel wrong...too real, somehow. And she wasn't sure she wanted to be in love with him.
"I think," she would reply cautiously, "that none of us quite know what love is." She was only convincing herself, of course, but it had the fortunate side effect of sending away the disappointed girls who had been hoping for some gossip.
She didn't know what to call it. Them. He never spokeks about it. She didn't broach the subject. Why would they need a label anyway? They did just fine without one, going through the ups and downs as they came along.
But sometimes, she wondered if it would be easier, if she could put a concrete definition, a precedent, a word.
What was he to her?
What was she to him?
What were they?
Different...
Notes: This has been lying in my unfinished docs for a long time, so it's only fair that I post it. Plus, Tommerva always needs more fics!