one.
And keep you in rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger to desire,
The chariest maid is prodigal enough
If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.
-Hamlet, Act I Scene II.
"Gentlemen—including married men—are expected to always have an eye open for unattached ladies so that an inquiry could be made as to whether the lady would like to dance. Thus no lady who desires to join in will have to resort to being a wallflower."
If there was a Hell, I was certain it would be this—sitting in a tearoom with horrid tea (English, I thought angrily, cursing the overly-sweetened Earl Grey), listening to your grandmother drone on and on about etiquette for a ball you didn't want to attend.
But I wasn't going to make a spectacle of myself. I sipped my tea tastefully, spoke as kindly as I could with my rough Scottish accent, walked with my head held high and my long red hair carefully pulled back into a twist. I carried myself as a lady, as no one expected me to.
Their trouble was that I knew how to play their little game of etiquette and standards, and they were not yet aware of it.
I was almost excited for the day that they found out, albeit in a rather sick way.
"Sir, madame and other appropriate titles should be used as well as please and thank you," my grandmother continued to read. "Bows and curtseys are good form when being introduced or before or after a dance. Gentlemen should never abandon ladies once a dance ends but should thank the lady and ask whether she would care to be escorted to a seat, would like a glass of punch, etc." My grandmother hardly took a breath as she spoke. I was surprised that she hadn't passed out from the lack of air and the wretched corset she insisted on wearing.
The worst part about my grandmother and her circle of friends? It seemed that they had forgotten that it was 1945, not 1895. We were no longer Victorian, even if there were still rules of etiquette we followed. We had gone through two World Wars since she had been my age. Times had changed, evolved, as they tend to do in their awful sort of way.
She obviously ignored this, having ignored my mother's protests and forcing me into corsets every single day since my mother, sister, and I had moved from Glasgow to London, a month before. My younger sister—the pretty one that had inherited our mother's fair hair and our father's green eyes. She was twelve, and she already -out-shined me by far.
I was too tall and skinny for anyone's tastes; too pale, too freckled. My hair was red, the color of gypsy's hair and the color of the devil, as my grandmother said, for she'd frowned upon me and my "tomboyish" habits since I'd arrived. My eyes were an odd olive-yellow color—I simply said hazel, for elaborating on my looks was something I found uncomfortable at best.
Perhaps I just disliked talking about looks. Perhaps I had awfully low self confidence. But with a sister like mine, how could one not? She was perfection, utter perfection—blonde, with her clear, light green eyes that always seemed to be lit up happily. She had clear skin, almost like porcelain—pale, but opaque. She was smart and artistic, a painter, able to simply look at something and copy it down on paper, shading and all. The only thing I seemed to be able to do better than her was play piano and sing. And even that seemed not enough to excel past her.
For I could hate my sister—Vivian Felicity Gillian; even her name sounded like a heroine in some novel—if it weren't for the simple fact that she was also one of the kindest, most considerate people I'd ever met.
There was also the tiny fact that my being a witch hadn't been taken lightly by my family either. Staunch Christians, I was seen as the bad egg, a devil child—and my bright red hair hadn't helped either. I had been surprised when Vivian hadn't gotten a letter in the mail, for our father (although he had hidden it well, for we hadn't found out until after his death) had been a wizard as well.
"Amelia," my grandmother snapped. "Are you paying attention, or have you lost yourself in your fantasies again?"
I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry, Grandmother."
"Hmph," she said indignantly. "You shan't embarrass this family at the ball tonight."
It was a statement instead of a question. I nodded again. "Right, ma'am. I'm sorry for daydreaming."
"Don't do it again," she said in a final sort of way, returning her attention to her book.
"When a gentleman asks a lady to dance, she is generally expected to agree unless one of two situations apply. Either she has already been engaged for that particular dance by another gentleman or she has opted to sit that particular dance out. To refuse one gentleman and then accept another for the very same dance is the height of bad manners and is considered an insult not only to the first gentleman who asked but to the host of the Ball as well, the implication being that the man was unworthy and that therefore the host was unworthy for having allowed the man to participate..."
While she droned on and on about refusing a dance, I looked around the room. It was large; all of the walls except for the back one were made of glass, and they looked out onto the garden—there were rose bushes upon rose bushes in every single color imaginable: yellow and pink and red and white, tea roses and floribundas. It was the best place to go after a storm, both for the smell of roses was so strong and fragrant and for the beauty that was so palpable; it was times like those that really made me believe in a God, not just the meaningless words of the Bible or the conviction of a devout woman or a nun or a pastor.
(I had been raised a Catholic, but my belief had been all my own—I had spent nearly my entire life convinced that there was no god until I saw the Mediterranean and the beauty of southern France. It wasn't until then, when I saw true beauty, that I actually believed in a higher being.)
To my right sat my mother, impassive. She had been like that since my father had died—always emotionless, always empty. Her clear grey eyes stared into the distance, unseeing. Next to her was Vivian, who seemed entranced in what our grandmother was reading aloud.
She'd make a great wife one day, I thought. It was so easy to make her enraptured in what you were saying. Men found that attractive—that sort of blind devotion. She was everything our grandmother wished I'd be.
(Not that my sister was stupid. She was smart, certainly. But there was a naivety to her that frightened me, for it could have been her downfall.)
London, I thought bitterly. London had changed everything. In Glasgow, I had been attending Beauxbatons—although attending the closer school, Hogwarts, seemed like a much more rational option. I had loved Beauxbatons, for my vivacity (a kind way to describe me, I thought cynically) had been appreciated, almost admired, there. I had loved the Mediterranean climate as well: the view of the sea from my window; the salty smell of the ocean; the late-night rendezvouses, sneaking out and jumping into that ocean with no inhibitions, no worries about sharks or jellyfish or anything else we probably should have been terrified of. At Beauxbatons I had been more carefree than I had been in a long time. I had been—although I hated saying the word, for it tended to jinx everything—happy at Beauxbatons.
And my father had taken that away from me by stepping on a damned land mine and tearing my entire world apart. Not just mine, I remembered, cursing at my selfishness—my poor mother, whom I hadn't seen smile since he died, almost half a year ago; my sister, who had to leave her friends and her life behind her as I had to leave my life behind me.
For Grandmother, English to the bone, had refused to send me to France for the last week of summer, as was usual. A week in France with my father's family, and then I'd be sent on a train to school. There was no way I'd be sent to France with my father's Scottish, rebellious, red-haired family. I was to stay in London, and I'd be sent to Hogwarts.
Even the name sounded horrible. Hogwarts. It didn't sound like the kind of place one would want to spend around ten months living, breathing, eating, and sleeping in, did it?
"...And you'll be certain to behave tonight, won't you, Amelia?" asked my grandmother, her harsh, steely grey eyes fixed on me. Unlike my mothers, hers were a dark charcoal-ish grey; unemotional, empty, hollow.
I looked from my grandmother to my mother, and the differences were that of black and white—they were complete, polar opposites, and yet you knew they went together. I wondered about my grandfather for a moment. He had died before I was born, and all I knew of him was that him and my mother had been awfully close.
(I should have noted the cycle right then. But, being the fool that I was, I ignored it.)
"Of course I'll behave," I said, realizing for the first time how robotic I sounded. There was no emotion in my voice; I was hollow.
I would have given anything to go to my father's family's home right then.
"Good," said my grandmother, putting her tea back on the table. "The headmaster to your new...school"—she sneered as she spoke the word, as though it physically hurt to say—"is to arrive soon. He shall be staying for the Ball, and you shall leave a good impression. I've invited him for a reason, you know. I do need to see what sort of people you'll be staying around." She paused, sipping her tea, her eyes staring at me icily. "But I don't care what kind of school it is; I'll be damned if my granddaughter leaves my home and shames the family name in public."
"She won't," Vivian cut in with her soft, kind voice, coming to my rescue, as she tended to do when it came to arguments with our grandmother. "Everyone at her old school loved her, right, Amelia? She had loads of friends. And her marks were amazing. Right, Amy?"
The pet name. I flinched, as though she had slapped me.
"Don't call me that," I snapped loudly—a knee-jerk reaction. It was my father's nickname for me, and my father's nickname for me only.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself from yelling at Vivian; she'd only been trying to help me, after all.
"Yes," I said. "Vivian's right. But I promise to behave myself, Grandmother. You needn't worry about me."
"You're sixteen," said my grandmother.
I nodded.
"A child," she continued. "Nothing more than a child."
She paused. "And a fool to go along with it."
A stab of annoyance coursed through me, and Vivian looked taken aback, but both my irritation and my sister's surprise lasted only for a moment—where the hell was she going with her little speech, anyways?
"But sometimes," said my grandmother, slowly, as though the words were as much of a shock to her as they were to me, "that's the best thing a girl can be, isn't it? A pretty fool—ignorant of worries and politics and all those things men take care of without our help. No, Amelia—be a fool, for it's better for you, in the long run."
She picked up her small bell and rang it. A few moments later, a petite, dark-haired woman entered the room.
"Katherine, be sure to clean up for us, will you? Get Melanie to tell Mr. Coulson that Amelia's ready for her piano and voice lesson, and to tell Ms. Watson that Vivian's ready for her French."
I didn't know how to feel—I was angry in part, for I didn't believe myself to be a fool, nor did I particularly enjoy being called a fool (but, then again, who did?); I was confused, for being a fool didn't help anyone, I believed; and I was saddened by my grandmother's lack of caring. She didn't care about me, simply because I was a witch and I took too much after my father.
I took all the emotions out on the piano, and I sang until I felt like my throat would explode.
The dress was different than anything I'd seen—in person, at least. It was of a loose, taffeta-type material, a light blue-grey sort of color (it matched Vivian's, I noted as my sister visited me to view my transformation; her dress was a dusty, pale pink, called ashes of roses); it swept across my chest, showing more cleavage than I thought my grandmother would allow, as well as my freckled shoulders. It cinched at the waist and fell down my skinny frame, giving me the false appearance of curves, something that shocked me more than the beauty of the dress itself.
It made my hair seem more vivid and my eyes more golden than simply hazel. My red hair—it was longer than I remembered; it fell to my waist in simple waves—was pulled up into a complicated twist at the nape of my neck, a few loose waves left to frame my face. Very little makeup was put on me, save for my lips, which were painted a very bright red.
I was beautiful. It was a little unnerving.
I didn't know whether to love it or loathe it.
So I settled for a calm sort of indifference, even if my insides were awfully jittery. I had been to only one ball before—although you couldn't really call it a ball. It was more of a dance. It had been in France, with the son of one of my father's old friends and his social group. They were a ragtag group that smoked cheap cigars (the girls smoked cigarettes that they rolled themselves, like men) and drank the liquor that they got homeless people to buy them from dodgy corner shops. They were the "wrong crowd," and talking to them made me happier than anyone. The boy himself had been rather handsome, but he didn't matter. None of the boys mattered, the stupid boys that thought they were charming and handsome, the boys with hands that roamed too far and eyes that entranced.
No—I didn't pay attention to boys like those. I flirted with them a little, then I left before things could get too serious. I didn't want serious anything. I wanted someone who could deal with me at my worst and love me at my best, and someone who I thought of as beautiful and gorgeous instead of just plain-old handsome. I wanted a man who was a man and could make me feel protected.
(Maybe I was a hopeless romantic. But I was also awfully cynical, and the combination worked well for the first sixteen years of my life.)
"You look nice," my grandmother commented as I exited my bedroom, sounding rather bored with the entire affair.
She herself wore a rather dull sort of dress; it was the same charcoal grey as her eyes, high-necked, very Victorian, very official. I found it hard to imagine her as anything but a matriarchal old woman—the idea of her young, smiling, carefree, flirting? It was as though my mind either blocked it out or flat out refused to imagine.
My mother stood next to her, looking very stoic in her slim-fitting ice blue satin dress. It hugged her too-thin frame, showing her hipbones and highlighting her collarbones which popped out horribly. She looked sick.
I had a flashback of her, wearing the same shade of ice blue at a dinner—next to her, my father sat, with his fiery red hair and his light, laughing green eyes. I had been far younger than I was then, for Vivian hadn't yet been born. But God, they had been happy. He had loved her, passionately. I couldn't remember a single fight between them, or even a lover's spat between them. They knew how to tiptoe around each other so carefully that neither of them got mad at each other. They were, in short, perfect for each other.
I felt a pang of longing, but I pushed away thoughts of my father before they could ruin me as they ruined my mother.
Vivian walked over to me and linked her arm through mine, as though she had read my melancholy thoughts. "It'll be fun, won't it?"
"You shan't be dancing tonight, Vivian," my grandmother said curtly, starting to lead us down to the main ballroom. "You're far too young."
"I'll let you dance," I whispered in her ear, so lightly I wasn't certain she had heard me. But then I saw the smirk that played upon her pouty pink lips, and I knew she had.
"Some of the guests have already arrived," continued my grandmother. "Headmaster Dippet was one of them."
Dippet, I thought with a twinge of pity for the man. It was truly an awful name. I let out a bark-like laugh, and my grandmother looked at me coldly.
"He's brought a few people with him as well," said my grandmother. "The Head Boy and Girl."
"What are those?" I asked, as politely as I could. (I couldn't afford to have her angry with me for the entire evening.)
"They're like Prefects, I've been told," she responded. "They're in their final year, and they oversee what the younger Prefects do, as well as acting on their own Prefect duties."
Boring, I thought. "Hm," I murmured, instead of voicing my own thoughts.
My grandmother continued on. "Those are the kind of people you need to make friends with, Amelia. They'll be in the higher ranks of your world one day, and it would be best if you made best of your situation."
I felt that same jolt of indignation and anger. I found it quite sad that it was becoming routine.
My world, like I was some strange person, when there were thousands and thousands of men, women, and children exactly like me out there. My world, like I was some disgusting freak. Like I should have been ashamed of what I was.
In the foyer, I already saw a few groups of people forming—young men in suits, with their hair slicked back, with pretty young girls in pretty dresses, both of which were hurrying towards the ballroom and giggling; old men with old men, reminiscing about the "golden days"; old women, gossiping; married couples talking to one another, and occasionally, a pregnant one would be quickly followed by her husband (who seemed indifferent to their wives' conditions).
But the feeling was almost palpable, the social standing. This was the highest one could get without being royalty, and this is what they did: they went to balls with champagne and wore their finest jewels and gossiped and married not for love but for power, so that they could have children who would do the exact same thing—girls that would practice etiquette and pretend that they were still chaste, and boys that would play polo and pretend they didn't drink on the sly; and they would marry each other, and the vicious cycle would go on and on and on.
I found it all quite sad.
But at the end of the stairway stood three people, two of which looked as though they fit right in, and one that stood out like a sore thumb—he was an elderly man, with the oddest expression on his face (a mix of ecstatic and curious and slightly worried), wearing bright purple robes. I couldn't get a good look at the other two; the boy wore a simple black suit, and the girl wore a rather pretty dark green satin dress.
"Headmaster," my grandmother said to the old man, holding out her hand.
"Mrs. Dalloway, Mrs. Dalloway!" squeaked Headmaster Dippet, kissing her hand. "'Tis a pleasure to see you again!"
It was the girl that I saw first. Her dress was short sleeved and matched her eyes, which were the most startling emerald I'd ever seen, hidden behind glasses. Her hair was short, clipped into a curly crop at her chin, and a very inky sort of black. She had a nice heart-shaped face, and I thought she was very pretty.
It was the boy, however, that really caught my attention. He was tall, with black hair and the darkest brown eyes I'd ever seen—but they weren't frightening; quite the opposite; they were deep, black pools, like liquid onyx. He was one of those boys, the ones I'd started to recognize immediately; the boys that looked and the boys who touched (or, rather, tried to) and the boys that thought of themselves as gods.
But God, I couldn't help but stare, just a little.
"This is my granddaughter, Amelia Hartley," my grandmother introduced.
I held out my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you," I told him politely.
He kissed my hand with his rough, chapped lips. "Please, the pleasure's all mine! You didn't tell me your granddaughters were Scottish, did you, Mrs. Dalloway?"
"A fact I tried to forget," she said; I couldn't tell if it was her being witty or if she was serious, although I was rather convinced it was the latter.
But Headmaster Dippet simply laughed as though it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day. My granddaughter introduced my sister and mother in quick succession, both whom the old man complimented repeatedly.
"Beautiful!" he proclaimed as he saw my sister. "Is she a witch?"
"Headmaster," said the dark-haired boy warningly, for the Headmaster had spoken rather loudly.
"No," said my grandmother, her charcoal eyes lit up angrily, quite obviously offended by the statement.
The old man looked disappointed. "Shame, shame...But I haven't introduced my lot yet!" said Headmaster Dippet with a little giggle. He held out his arm towards the two dark-haired teens. "These are my Heads this year—Minerva McGonagall and Tom Riddle."
Minerva did a little curtsey, which I returned. Before I could hold my hand out to Tom, however, he had already taken it, ghosting his lips over my fingers and sending a few chills down my spine.
"Pleasure," Tom said, his voice deep and smooth, the word dripping with a careless sort of seduction.
I had the worst sort of urge, to slap him and send him away forever. But I knew I couldn't, so I settled for replying, very curtly, very coldy, "Quite."
(My grandmother should have been proud of my indifference.)
"Shall we, then?" said Headmaster Dippet, extending his hand towards me with a smile on his face.
I smiled at the old man, adoring the glitter in his gooseberry-colored eyes and finding the man more than acceptable—saucily, I cast a smirk in Tom Riddle's direction.
A chill went down my spine. The look he gave me was so calculating, so utterly judgmental; he looked at me with a looked that said what is going on here and how can I turn it to my advantage?
Oddly enough, my grandmother was giving him the same exact look.
I ignored them, rushing towards the ballroom and trying to forget the feeling that was dwelling in my stomach.
The ball was everything I expected it to be, and everything I hadn't expected at all.
Headmaster Dippet, in addition to being a rather good dancer, had been rather nice to converse with—as well as being a complete and utter flatterer. He complimented my bright red hair and my vivacity and my wit, saying I would be a "good addition" to Hogwarts's student body.
I seriously doubted it as I walked back to the table that my mother, sister, and grandmother had sat at. I wasn't a very keen student. I passed, certainly, but I didn't get straight-Os. Not even close. I was too social for that, although I wasn't entertaining the idea of becoming friends with much of Hogwarts's population.
"Having fun?" said a rather low female voice from behind me.
I looked around. Minerva McGonagall stood there, a blush on her fair cheeks. "May I sit?"
"Of course," I said politely, eying the girl a tad critically. She was much thinner than I was, but it suited her—she looked waif-like, graceful, not gangly or leggy or awkward in the slightest. She was, in fact, rather gorgeous. (I couldn't help but feel a tad jealous; I was a teenage girl, after all.)
Surprisingly, the conversation started rather quickly as Minerva said, in a voice dripping with disgust, "The sexism is practically palpable, isn't it?"
(I wondered if she could read minds, for I had been thinking practically the same thing as I looked around the room.)
We talked of the suffragettes, whom we admired beyond belief; we talked of literature (she adored reading, while the only book I had ever truly enjoyed was The Great Gatsby); we talked of everything and anything, and with ease that I hadn't expected. Not that I was complaining, anyways. Minerva McGonagall, with her bright mind and her common sense and her wit, gave me some sort of hope that maybe everything wouldn't be as bad as I was making it out to be.
At which point Tom Riddle swooped in.
I heard him before I saw him—that deep, smooth voice, saying:
"May I have this dance, Amelia Hartley?"
I turned around and saw him walk towards me, and I scowled.
"I shall have to refuse, Mr. Riddle," I told him, my eyes narrowed slightly, making my voice sound as cordial as I could.
He looked confused. "Have you been promised to another man?"
"No, she hasn't," Minerva snapped, glaring daggers at him.
They looked at each other for a few moments—Minerva angry, Tom impassive.
"Fair enough," Tom said, although he made no move to go away from the two of us. "Why such animosity towards me, Amy—you don't mind if I call you that, do you?"
"Don't call me Amy."
"May I have this dance?" I heard another voice say, over towards Minerva.
There was a pause.
"Will you be alright?" she asked me.
I looked back at Tom, whose eyes were fixed on me.
"I'll be fine," I told her, watching her walk onto the dance floor with the handsome blonde. (I had noticed that the blush had returned to her cheeks.)
"Shall I sit?" he asked politely.
"I don't care," I told him frankly.
He nodded, sitting down.
"Have I done something wrong?"
And he sounded so hurt, so genuine, that I couldn't help but soften, just a little. "No, it's not you."
"Then what is it? You seem rather upset."
"It's..." I stopped, collecting my thoughts. "It's a lot of things. It's everything."
"If you don't want to talk about it—"
"No," I said quickly. "I'll talk about it. Just—not here."
Tom's eyebrows furrowed. "Then where else?"
Inside my mind, two Amelia's were fighting. The first Amelia was screaming bloody murder, crying out: What the hell are you doing, you idiot? He's like the rest, stop it already, you're not some swooning little girl, tell him to fuck off like the Scotswoman you are; the second Amelia, the quieter, kind version of myself, was saying: Maybe he's not. Give him a chance. Not everyone's as bad as you think they are.
The second Amelia won out—the look on Tom Riddle's face was so childlike. I couldn't help it.
"The piano room," I said, naming the one place I knew no one would go. "But you have to promise me that you won't try anything when we're up there. Do you swear?"
He looked at me, and laughed, as though I was a child. "Of course. I won't try anything. I wouldn't dream of it."
I snorted in a very unladylike manner. "Of course."
I led him away from the party—occasionally looking around, to make sure that any of my family didn't see me sneaking off with Tom Riddle.
The piano room was a few doors down from my bedroom. It had sat untouched by anyone until my mother, sister, and I had moved in, for my grandmother hated the piano with a passion and my grandfather had only bought it for my aunt Violet, who'd moved out of the house around ten years before my parents had even met. The walls were the same color as my dress, an ash blue color; the piano itself was mahogany, beautiful, smooth, the keys yellowed with time. It looked antique and I adored it wonderfully.
Walking into the room, I sat down immediately, stroking the keys.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
He sat down next to me, tapping a few keys, uncertain.
"Do you play?" I asked him immediately.
"Not very well," Tom admitted awkwardly. "I only know one song well enough to—"
"Which song?" I asked, cutting him off before he could go into a rant.
"Do you know O Mistress Mine? Not many people do."
My cheeks turned a little pink; resisting the urge to scream and clearing my throat. "That's one of my favorites, actually. I used to sing it all the time."
"Do you sing?"
"A little," I said.
"Well?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I'm a soprano, but not the best, you know."
Tom smiled at me and began to play. "Sing."
I cleared my throat again. "I—I'm not sure—"
"Come on," he said, smirking. "Are you frightened?"
And so, I sang.
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! Your true love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know..
And then I felt my throat close, and tears filled my eyes—angry tears. He was watching me again, eyeing me as though I was cattle being prepared to go to the slaughterhouse.
"Why'd you stop?" Tom asked, looking at me with a confused expression on his face.
I looked livid, for I was livid. "Don't you dare think I don't know what you're up to, Riddle."
"What?" he said, looking genuinely confused.
"Get the hell out of here," I snapped, my accent resuming it's normal thickness, my voice shaking with anger. "Go back to the ball and never talk to me again—do you hear me?"
Tom Riddle stood up and didn't respond, leaving the piano room in silence.
The song had been too much. It reminded me of my father far too much—and I knew Tom Riddle. I knew his kind. He wanted to get to know me, to try to fix me, as though I was some basket care that needed him to fix me. I wasn't broken. I was whole, and I was fine.
And besides, I was miserable enough. I didn't need heartbreak on top of it.
"What was she like?" asked Alphard Black, lighting up a cigarette.
Riddle let out an annoyed scoff, walking in long, determined strides. "Arrogant and obnoxious. Completely horrible. It's a shame—she's rather pretty."
"What did you expect her to do—welcome you with cookies and warm milk?" Malfoy let out a laugh. "Listen to me, my Lord, all we've got to do—"
"All you've got to do, Abraxas, is worry about yourself," snapped Riddle. "You haven't been your usual self. Tell me, has Eleanor McKinnon put a spell on you, or was it simply a love potion?"
Malfoy's cheeks tinged pink. Black let out a laugh.
"It isn't—my Lord, her and I—"
"You are aware that she is a half-blood, Malfoy, as aware as I am, and that's all I'll say on the matter," Riddle said in a final sort of way.
"As is the damned Hartley girl," Malfoy mumbled under his breath.
Riddle shot a glare at Malfoy, and Malfoy could have sworn that his eyes glowed red.
"The Hartley girl is necessary to our cause," said Riddle.
Black scoffed. "But will you be able to break her, my Lord?"
"Don't worry about that, Alphard," he responded, a smirk on his face. "I've dealt with men with stronger will than her. By the time I'm through with her, she'll be begging to serve us."
And with that Tom Riddle was gone, leaving in a cloud of black smoke that curled up towards the sky greedily until there was no trace of him left.
a/n: please don't forget to leave a review, thank you.