The Lioness engulfed

in her palace of parchment and ink raises

her eyes as the sun dances

in the curls of her golden mane.

And catching her curious stare

as she prowls to a nearby shelf;

a serpentine glimmer beckons her.


Pulling, reverently,

the leather-bound book

from its dappled slumber,

its shadowy power courses through her veins

as tentatively, she opens it and drops

a scrap of parchment.

And discreetly replacing it,

she turns to the front.


Smirking at her in emerald ink,

as her honey eyes widen,

wary curiosity seeping

across her soft features,

a familiar name is scrawled alone

in graceful script on its

library register,

Tom Riddle