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
