Author'sGratitude: Thank you Littlemissy999 and Siobhan-Slytherin-Lady for the reviews. I am glad that you liked the first chapter. (And to the former, I will try to review your story as you asked.)
Author's Notes: This is really a trip down memory lane for me, these earlier chapters. And in said chapters, I think, Tom might seem a bit OOC, (and to me, so might Danielle, as she will change later). This is done purposefully, because I am going to "chronicle his descent into megalomania." (As said by TomFoolery, my very first reviewer on HPFF.) I'd like to think that even Lord Voldemort, once upon a time, and in the right circumstances, could feela bit more than contempt. The first few chapters are also very short, but chapter thirty, the longest chapter, is four thousand words, so don't fret.
Also, once I get this site updated with chapter thirty, the updates will take much longer, as I have not written past that point.
Chapter Two:
Cold
I awoke the next morning to the pattering of rain upon the glass dormitory windows, a booming roll of thunder occasionally shaking them. I shivered and pulled the blankets up around my nose at the thought of my bare toes touching the stone floor. The air was damp and cool.
Then, I remembered that Tom would be waiting for me in the library. Suddenly warmer, I disentangled myself from the sheets and leapt out of bed, ignoring the cold sting at my feet. The other girls in my dormitory were still sleeping peacefully, and I realized, after glancing at the brass clock near the windowsill, that it was only five-thirty. Tom had not told me a specific time, or even a place to meet him, and I did not know if the library would be open this early.
But I decided to chance it.
Pulling on my cleanest robe and quickly running a comb through my hair, I hurried down to the common room. I stopped before one of the fires, glad that it was lit as the warmth from the flames touched my skin.
On my way out, I made sure to take my cloak, knowing that the fires in the library would take twice as long to warm the vast room as this one.
It seemed that no one was awake at such an early hour save for myself and the ghosts. And even them, I rarely saw. The portraits still dozed against their frames, and I was careful not to disturb them as I walked down the corridors, keeping the bulk of my cloak wrapped tightly around myself, a hood shadowing my face.
I was halfway there when I realized that I had forgotten my shoes.
Danielle, you are so daft! I scolded myself. My toes were beginning to feel numb, and I rubbed them against my hand in an attempt to bring the feeling back.
I had never had a history of forgetfulness, so my lack of shoes bewildered me. Had I been so distracted by the thought of seeing Tom that I had not remembered to cover my already chilled feet? I felt even more idiotic when that idea came to mind, and I did not know what was coming over me at all.
Now, I was so cold I could barely stand, and, whimpering, I stumbled almost headlong into another window.
Wonderful, I thought sarcastically, sinking to the floor and rubbing my throbbing head. The downpour outside had intensified, and I stared at it, seemingly searching for answers.
I could hear footsteps approaching, so I tore my gaze from the weather and back inside the dingy castle. To my surprise, it was Tom.
"Danielle? What are you doing here?" he asked, and concern momentarily flickered in his eyes before he added, "And where are your shoes?"
I knew I must have looked a sight, sitting there in my bare feet, cloaked and hooded in a heap on the floor, so I began to laugh.
"I was coming to the library," I told him, giggling, and he looked at me with a bemused expression as he knelt down in front of me.
"Here, hand me your foot," he said, and I did.
He breathed into his hand then massaged my foot with it. I had never witnessed magic of that kind before, but I knew, as the warmth seeped back into my toes, that it was magic. He gently took my other foot and did the same to it.
Watching Tom work, even if it was the most simple of tasks, was fascinating. There was always an air of stubborn pride and concentration about him, and I understood why the teachers praised him so.
I looked at him in awe, and he stopped for a moment, meeting my gaze and raising his eyebrows questioningly. "What is it?"
I blushed. "How did you do that?"
"I do not know," he admitted, furrowing his brow. Tom seemed special that way, in that he could accomplish things that no one else could. His entire being was so intriguing to me, and I longed to know more about him. "Is that better?" he asked.
I wiggled my toe to test it, smiling again. "Very much, thank you!"
He smiled. "Can you stand, then?"
I grasped his hand in support, but nearly toppled over as my legs gave way. Cursing my luck, I shook my head and mumbled, "No."
He smirked. "I will just have to carry you, then!"
I felt myself being lifted from the ground by the arms of an amazingly strong fourteen year old—though, it wasn't much of a feat considering how small I was.
"Ah! Tom!" I shrieked happily, kicking my feet about playfully. I could feel his heart beating against my arm.
Grinning, I tilted my head back and leaned against him, my hair swaying loosely as he walked.
When we reached the library, he set me down on a chair in a secluded area of the room, ignoring the quizzically annoyed look he received from the librarian.
"I brought a roll of parchment for you to practice on," he said, and it took me a moment to realize what he was talking about.
I have already forgotten what we came here for, I thought sadly at my current case of forgetfulness.
For the next few hours, Tom meticulously showed me how he wrote each of his letters while I tried to copy them. Mine were nowhere near as perfect as his, and I laughed at my pitiful attempts at making them. I was surprised that he did not give up entirely, or that he had any patience left in him.
I bit my lip as I tried to copy the "d" that he had just shown me, wanting to capture its gracefully arching back and curving detail at the tip. It wasn't coming out at all alike to his example, and I set down my quill in frustration.
"Do not give up yet," he protested, picking up the quill and placing it in my fingers. He brought his arm around my shoulder, taking the upper part of the quill in his own hand, guiding my lines and helping me write.
My heart rate quickened and I felt flushed for a moment.
But when I looked down at the parchment, much to my astonishment, the "d" we had delicately etched into it together was the most perfect of them all.
