December 10: 1943
15 days until Christmas…
"Tom, m'boy!" Professor Slughorn boomed, engulfing the skinny teenager in a one armed hug. "You still haven't replied to my Christmas party invitation."
"Uh, of course I'm going," Tom said without thinking. "Must have lost the invitation."
"See you tonight, then!" Slughorn waddled off, his double -no, quintuple- chin wagging back and forth.
Tom groaned at the memory and took another mince pie from the trays being hoisted around the room by costumed house elves.
"And this here is Devyn Pierre, the editor-in-chief of Witch Weekly," Slughorn introduced a tall, willowy blonde to Cynthia Parker.
Cynthia Parker!
Tom dropped his mince pie on the floor, where it was quickly swept away by a passing house elf.
He cast about for an escape, but it was too late.
"Heeeeyy, Tom," she drawled, leaning against the wall to show off her hourglass figure. Or maybe to support herself on her needle thin high heels. He honestly couldn't tell and didn't care.
"Having a good time?" he offered lamely, sidestepping around her.
She shifted closer, effectively trapping him in the alcove like a cat corners a mouse. "I'm having a better time now."
"I saw you talking to that woman from Witch Weekly," he said, wondering if it was possible to shove her out of the way and run back to the Slytherin common room without drawing unwanted attention and still remaining Slughorn's favorite. Probably not.
"She thinks I might have what it takes to do modeling. What do you think?" Cynthia giggled and smiled adoringly at him through her thick eyelashes.
"I guess."
Her glossed lips formed a small pout. "Is something bothering you?"
Besides you? he thought darkly.
The band struck up a slow ballad and Cynthia grabbed his hand. "Ooh, I love this song! C'mon!"
"I don't dance," Tom tried to protest, but it was too late.
Slughorn twirled by, casting an approving glance in Tom's direction. "That's the spirit! I always say you never let yourself have any fun."
Tom grimaced, hoping Slughorn meant Cynthia, who seemed to be having the time of her life.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and flashed him a dazzling smile. "Now you put your hands on my waist."
"I what?"
"Hands on my waist," she hissed.
Stiffly, he forced his hands to obey.
She sighed, "Not the best dancer, but maybe better with other things." She gave him a flirtatious smirk.
They swayed and turned to the music, with Cynthia leading them around the dance floor.
"Mistletoe," she announced, pointing upwards with one hand.
Tom couldn't see how a common potions ingredient was special enough to be pointed out. "So?"
Another gloss-covered pout. "You know what mistletoe means, right?"
"I honestly don't."
"It means the couple under it has to kiss, silly."
Tom masked his panic with a disgusted expression. "That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard."
Cynthia ignored him and started leaning forward, her eyes closing.
He ducked out of the way just in time, making a beeline for the door and glancing behind to see Cynthia looking around in bewilderment.
And that's how the Dark Lord's phobia of mistletoe began.
Don't you just love being mean to Voldy? I was reading the Half-Blood Prince last night and it described Tom Riddle as "dark and handsome, good looking." So of course I couldn't stop myself from writing this. Review!