Dumbledore to Harry: "He disappeared after leaving the school … traveled far and wide … sank so deeply into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable."
Shqipëri: Albania
Sometime between 1946 and 1979
Tom Riddle is not a man easily swayed nor distracted by beauty, but tonight there's a certain witch that peaks his attention. He's suddenly reminded of how long it's been since he's had a warm body in his bed. After all, he is not someone who easily falls prey to the lusts of the flesh, nor does he go out of his way to seek it.
He's been nursing a glass of brandy for sometime now, enjoying the sweet burn as he goes over the details of his plans in his head. There's a profound gleam that accompanies Riddle's dark eyes whenever he's thinking or calculating his next move, a common occurrence that never fails to take place whenever he's engaged in the complexities of his thoughts.
He's been in Albania for two days looking through the forests of Parku Kombëtar Bredhi i Drenovës in the east of Albania in search of the Ravenclaw diadem. He's scouted most of the forest without any sign of the object, but tomorrow hopefully with fate by his side, he will find it. He has to, after all he couldn't afford to waste any more precious time.
His day has been a rather busy one, after stumbling upon a few trolls riding several Graphorns. The combination had been rather curious, yet intriguing all at the same time. Graphorns were large creatures that walked on all fours with a humped back. They had two horns at the tops of their heads, and four toes at each foot. There were long tentacle-like appendages that protruded from their mouths for gathering food, which flared out, once they caught sight of him.
The trolls had all been too eager to 'catch' a new prey. Tom found that it was in fact they that were in the presence of something far more dangerous than them. They soon found that out when he evaded their every single attempt to kill him.
The Graphorns' hides had been thick, but it took a few casted spells that bounced off for Riddle to find that out when they barged at him with the intent to stomp on him. Suppose he should have paid more attention to Silvanus Kettleburn's care of magical creatures classes while he was in Hogwarts. He also noted that it would have been wiser, to research more about the magical creatures that are native to Albania prior to his trip.
Eventually he figured out the Graphorn's weak spot was its soft belly. He had no desire to kill the creatures seeing as they were doing what was in their nature, but, he had apparated underneath it for a few seconds and then murmured the sleeping charm.
Three Graphorns fell into slumber, while the mountain Trolls had been immobilized as Tom disappeared. After that event he continued his search with his guard up in high alert as he pried through the forest.
After ten hours of relentless searching he finally decided to rest; giving his body much needed time to regain energy for the next day. The exhaustion only seemed to weigh him down when he had pushed for another hour. His belly had been growling with hunger and his legs had started to get weary from the constant walking.
Later in the evening when the cold settled more deeply into the layers of his coat, he found himself in a local village muggle bar called ' Shpirtrat.' Although the establishments that were in proximity to the bar looked anything but welcoming in their grim state, Tom spotted the bar within a mile, like a light in the dark. Not only that, but it was easier to do so when one could hear the bawling tasteless speeches and guffawing's of the drunks. They stumbled outside through the doors, all variance of sorts shouting and slurring abuse at each other while grinning with tired enjoyment.
Tom made sure to avoid their bodies as he stepped through the entrance. The tavern's interior was rough in texture, dark and visually unappealing to the eyes, but the promise of food and drinks is what beckons him inside. Tom digs into the inner pocket of his coat and finds what he needs before tossing the bartender 20 lekë of Albanian currency on the counter.
The muggle gives him a strange look before taking the money. It must have been more than what it cost but Tom dismisses the change as h e orders a glass of Cognac Skënderbeu , an albanian cognac and a plate of Byrek mi spinaq , a sort of spinach pie. He doesn't know how hungry he is until he's finished his meal, and orders another at the bar.
After he's cleaned his plate, feeling satisfied, Tom observes the drunks, skims over their nonsensical chatter, and allows himself the luxury to relax. It takes him ten minutes to do so until the emptiness in his head becomes too overwhelming and he has to pull his thoughts together. He is unused to being in such a state. A state where he is not working, thinking, or planning, but like a switch he reverts back to his old ways.
A waitress approaches him: a tall blonde girl with her hair wrapped back by a faded red head scarf. She's got a platter of empty glass cups in her hand. " A mund t'ju marr një pije tjetër zotëri?" she asks; her pale blue eyes blinking rapidly at him with a tilt of her red lips.
"Jo faleminderit," Riddle politely declines. It's his second glass of brandy for the evening. He's not much of a drinker, but the albanian concoction was very pleasant to the taste buds. If he has another one, he won't guarantee that he will be able to stop. Already his body feels warm from the alcohol, a pleasing buzz that makes his muscles relax as he peruses the room.
The waitress nods and then walks away to serve another drunk. She does a skilled job in evading the hungry hands that reach out to grope her.
It isn't long before Tom sees the witch enter the room. Almost all manner of noise lowers in favour of scanning the newest tanned face with interested leering expressions... He can practically see the drooling of the men who are leaning from the edge of their seats as if they have never seen a female before.
Tom refrains from rolling his eyes. The witch moves fluidly like she owns the place, as if she is the star and they are the audience. His eyes trail over long silky curly locks, inky black like the night sky that falls in a cascade down the middle of her back.
Riddle doesn't usually pay this much attention to a woman's looks, but tonight, he finds himself in such a position. It's a miracle that he even for a few mere seconds considers how long it has been since he's had a lay. It's not a frequent occurrence but when it happens Tom's known for not being a generous lover. He takes and takes what he wants in bed, but barely gives, and why should he?
Sex is a means to an end, and nothing more than taking one's pleasure.
Tom circles the edge of his glass with a finger before raising his penetrative gaze. He notices how her long hooded robe covers her figure from the many curious eyes in the bar. He won't deny that he is watching her just as much as the others are, although his is more of a subtle look. Tom perhaps could reason his current behaviour due to the effects of the albanian brandy and its favourable taste on the palate.
Alternatively she could be a veela which explains how his attention is all of a sudden drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Although, he remembers that veela's were known for their golden hair, but hers is the color of midnight. Maybe she was half? Not that he knew much about such creatures.
She's not a local either, that much is accurate. He can tell this because of the fashion of her clothes, and how most women in Albania wore certain headwear, while she did not.
"Ajo duket si një lavire e huaj," a man slurs out on a table next to him. His friends nod in agreement as they jump in with more tumultuous remarks. They're all about to fall off their chairs as they take more gulps of ale.
Tom looks away in disgust. The stench of their sweat and alcohol mixing together reaches him and he curls his lip. He is suddenly reminded of why he doesn't set foot into bars, that often. He's forgotten how oppressive the atmosphere can be when coupled with fools on the drink, spilling their money's worth of ale on themselves like unsupervised toddlers.
"Këto kurva duhet të kthehen në vendin e tyre," one says. There's a loud noise of raucous laughter and more lewd talks. "Unë do të doja të bëja karin tim të lagur së pari para se të shkojnë."
Tom's mood sours at their vulgar talks and lack of propriety. She looks nothing of the sort, perhaps because she carries an air of dignity and she's hardly made eye contact with any man within the room. A whore would in fact walk around approaching interested men as they were grabbed and paid for their services.
She is definitely no whore.
As Tom is nearing the last of his brandy, he feels the intensity of eyes on him. When he peers up after settling his drink on the table, he notices the woman's head turn away just in time. Curious, he keeps his eyes on her a tad longer than necessary until eventually she looks back at him. Tom doesn't look away.
Her eyes are silver, like gleaming coins placed across a golden and petite face. The contrast of them against her dark hair is pleasing for some reason. He licks his lips and glances at his drink, blaming its influence on his thoughts.
Her face is unfamiliar and she doesn't give off the impression that she is romantically interested, as a whore would. In fact she gazed at him as if she was expecting him to be here. Tom can not help but feel his suspicions rising.
The first name that comes to his mind is Dumbledore, it casts a dark shadow over his countenance like a bad omen. That old meddling loathsome fool. How he would have rejoiced with victory if he had the opportunity to pierce the sharp point of his wand right into the muscle of his heart, but, he would have to say that such an assault would be too muggle-like. Too like his father's filthy blood.
The killing curse would suffice but too bad it won't be as simple as that.
As much as he loathed Dumbledore, he had to give credit where credit is due. His power is respected, and how he had defeated Grindelwald was regretfully impressive. But Grindelwald was weak and he is not, eventually when the time is right he will strike Dumbledore down.
The staring contest is still in play and Tom tilts his head and attempts to use legilimens on her.
What secrets lie inside your head? pretty thing, Tom muses as he places his glass against his lips for a sip. He doesn't expect to have his trail being followed all the way to Albania, unless Helena Ravenclaw revealed their little conversation to someone. Perhaps even associates of Dumbledore. If only he knew a way of killing ghosts, making sure they no longer were tied to the places they haunted in spite of how impossible it may seem. Actually, now that he thinks about it, it would be a fascinating subject to delve into.
The girl is still staring at him, her eyes would leave now and then but would return back to his face intentionally. She had not moved from her seat and her drink remained untouched. She doesn't appear to be intimidated by the eye contact or shy of it.
After a few minutes he senses something is amiss. Riddle prides himself on his ability to rip into the minds of others without breaking a sweat. The process, he finds, has always been as easy as breathing, but for some reason, this girl...has a powerful wall that has no beginning or end.
Her mind is built like a steel gate, there is nothing, no cracks, no weakness, and Tom suddenly finds himself gripping his glass to the point that he can feel it crack underneath the pressure.
Whoever she is, proved to be very skilled in the arts of occlumency. That alone causes Tom to be highly alarmed.
He will keep an eye on her. Riddle did not come across any witches or warlocks across these parts of Albania until now. Perhaps he did not cover his tracks as well as he thought he did.
Very well, let's see if the little witch shall follow him to the outside. He can feel the anticipation rising through him like a billow of smoke. He stands up and makes his way towards the doors, passing the drunks and the stench of vomit that makes his nose twitch.
Once he steps outside into cool night air, he casts incendio over his body and feels the warming of his flesh. He makes his way slowly, making sure to keep his body visible to the presence not far behind him. The light steps of her heels can be heard against the pavement as he notices an alleyway, before making himself disappear in the darkness.
It's been a long time since he's fought with another witch or warlock, and a long time since he's killed one. It would have been more convenient if he had the diadem already for his horcrux, but alas, he'll fulfill his suspicions tonight and see exactly who... this witch is.
She has her hood up now, and he can vaguely make out the features of her tanned face as she scans the dark for him, her wand out as she cautiously takes a few steps further into the shadows. She is not far from him, and in fact, a few steps closer and he would be directly in front of her.
How recklessly brave and foolish of her to follow him into the shadows. Most likely a Gryffindor trait that would be the cause of her downfall. He was partially hoping that her stealth skills would have been just as on par as her occlumency skills. Apparently, it was far from it.
She looks around, trying to peer into the darkness before casting Lumos. The light exposed the dingy scope of the alleyway, and although she pauses right in front of him, she appears to look right through him before shining the light elsewhere. Once again, up close, he can see her silvery eyes. He's never seen anyone with orbs so bright that they almost shine in the dark.
Her scent once it hits him, causes him to ask himself, where exactly he's smelled it before. It's peculiar, and strange but it brings up old detestable memories that Riddle is not fond of. For a moment images flash behind his eyes, him hiding underneath the rubble with dust on his clothes, away from the loud explosions and destruction that plagued the muggle world while they warred against each other. That was a time in which he had stayed at the orphanage, loathing every minute of it. A place he vows to someday go back and burn to the ground, just so that he could hear the screams of agony of those that live there.
Riddle raises his wand and watches the witch. Now he knows exactly what that scent is. She smells of sulfur, charcoal and potassium nitrate; ingredients used for gunpowder and bombs: Muggle weapons. But then he can smell her own soft smell underneath all of it, like frangipani and the scent of the ocean. Too sweet and salty that it makes his head ache. The combination is ill fitting.
A minute or two later with no luck she turns her back to him and begins to walk away. Within a few seconds, Tom steps out to her exposed back and casts the expelliarmus spell expecting the wand to fly out within reach, but to his surprise, she simply steps aside in the blink of an eye as the spell shoots past her and then glances over her shoulder with a tilt of her lips. "There you are," she says and her voice echoes seductively like a siren's call. Exactly familiar to the beautiful tempting songs that beckoned and bewitched men to their deaths at sea.
Something nudges at the edges of his mind. A suspicion that crawls underneath his skin, threatening to surface. Her eyes are shining in the dark now; exactly like two silver coins under the moonlight and her skin is like the sun.
The witch shows no sign of wanting to duel, evident by the relaxed posture of her form as her wand is stayed at her side. She is either overconfident or foolish, maybe even both as Riddle circles her in a predatory manner. His eyes rove over her body in a calculating manner as he towers over her. She followed him out here, alone and into the dark and he wonders if she was wanting a death wish.
"Why, are you following me?" Tom asks carefully, magic prepared at the tip of his wand, waiting for his very command. He feels it swirling around him, a combination of thick and heady darkness that has made its home inside him, the very core of his being. "It's rather dangerous don't you think? Strutting around in the dark, alone, vulnerable...Have you any idea of the monsters that lurk in the shadows…..waiting, for a pretty thing like you, and yet you follow me...I could be, the biggest , of them all." He trails off when a group of rowdy drunk men pass by shouting obscenities at each other, unaware of the two people hidden in the shadows. One of them pauses to stare at their direction, but he shrugs and keeps moving.
Tom looks back and scans her face as the ends of her lips tilt up. Her sooty lashes flutter at him as he brushes purposely against her back. Even in the dark where his eyes have adjusted he can make out the curves of her body up close.
Distracting. Tempting. Delicious.
A small nagging part of him thinks that her scent has changed, evolved quickly into something far more tantalizing and suggestive. Tugging at the nose in an entirely primal way now, threatening to fuel a fire in the pit of his belly. His trousers all of a sudden feel ill fitting, mainly because his arousal is pressing roughly against it, not of his own will, but purely because of this witch...her influence...it is doing something to him.
He can no longer smell the gunpowder, but, he swears he can hear the sound of the ocean in the distance. Even the rolling of the waves, crashing against the shoreline and the faraway call of the seagulls.
The witch glances at him demurely; eyes so bright like moonlight reflecting on pure silver. It is unervering and yet strangely captivating all at the same time. "But you're not one. Surely you're more honorable than that?"
Him? An honorable man? How naive.
Tom chuckles darkly. He was very very far from being an honorable man.
He cards the tip of his wand through the ends of her locks. They looked so soft that he could not help but reach out a finger to tug at the silk of the curls as he pauses behind her. She has her head turned to the side and occasionally she would glance seductively at him.
Tom lets out a low rumbling noise in his chest, "If that is what you think, then yes." The register of his voice drops, lower, and with eyes hooded Riddle comes to stand in front of her. He brings his face close to hers.
At the recess of his head he can hear an alarm ringing, warning him that she is too dangerous, but he is too distracted by the alluring wealth of her body, her scent, and the echoes of temptation that swims in the air. It feels thick and heavy, almost like a fog or a cloud that surrounds them.
For one split moment he shakes his head, as if to rid himself of a certain daze that is blurring his senses, and diverting his attention from what truly matters and that was, why….she had been following him.
Soft pale hands reach out to touch his cheeks and he groans with satisfaction. He leans into the warmth of her skin, imagines himself on the beach, head between her tanned thighs, drinking her honeyed nectar as she gasps naked into the air. The salt water on their skin, warmed by the rays of the sun, and he would consume all of her till she had nothing left to give.
What was he meant to do again?
There's a loud noise that interrupts the spell; a drunk man who pauses at the light in front of the alleyway and, who raises his mug up into the air and yells in albanian, "Envor Hoxhës! Bastardi i ndyrë e bëri atë!" The drunken fool laughs and then trips over himself as he vomits all over the street, the sound so wretched and the sight so repulsive that Riddle is snapped out of the witch's hypnotic daze that he is placed in.
Reality sets in along with his clearer senses, and the fog dissipates as he realizes what spell he had been cast under. With an accusing look he glares down at her.
She is not just a mere witch, no, something far worse. A siren. A mixed breed mutt attempting to seduce him, to use him... Just like how his own weak mother did with his filthy muggle of a father.
Disgusting. Filthy. Vile.
He almost feels ill with contempt.
Riddle's reflexes kick in and he has her slammed against the moldy smelling wall. She lets out a whoosh of air before sharply inhaling as the pain in the back of her head appears, and her vision briefly goes dark. Stars play out in front of her as Riddle's cold stony face hovers over her, looking anything but merry. If anything Tom feels as if he's about to burst a vein in his temple.
He rips the wand from her loosened hands and bares his teeth with rage. Fury runs hot through his veins as he realises his own wand is on the floor, but he is so filled with the hate that overwhelms his body that he doesn't bother to pick it up from the ground. Instead he soaks in her fear filled eyes as she struggles against his unforgiving mass. He pushes the point of her wand into her own neck, painfully and without mercy.
A little more and it would break through the surface of the skin, if it does, Tom will not hesitate to ram the wood right through her trachea. Perhaps even after he's done it, he'll rip it out and use the crucious on her until she's died from blood loss.
"You filthy Bitch," Tom hisses slowly and venomously, "I am going to kill you and then...I am going to desecrate your body. You would dare use your despicable attempts to seduce me, you siren slut ." He pushes against her this time with a brutal force as she gasps against him. "Trust me when I say I'll kill because I will do it slowly and painfully, and I'm going to enjoy every second of it."
She glares back at him, eyes hot with hate, "I don't expect anything else from a vile man like you. If it weren't for the drunkard I would have had your pretty face groveling at my feet on the dirty ground." Her words cause him to lash out with a powerful wave of magic that threatens to choke her as she buckles against him. "Then…" She grinned, chest heaving as her sweet breath brushes over his face, "...you would have turned out just like your father. " Riddle feels his teeth grinding into dust and the hard clench of his jaw as she continues. "Do you think we could have played mommy and daddy? I wouldn't need a love potion of course, I would have just sang and you would have-"
"Crucious."
Screaming ensues.
Tom had been seconds into ripping into her mind until she had started speaking about his parents. The desire grew fat with every breath he took but Tom refrained himself in spite of his fury. If she had continued any longer, he would have cast the killing spell and would have rid her of her existence. He could have stood over her dead corpse and left her body for the rats to eat away at her flesh, and although the images were pleasing to think about, he needed to get back on course.
There was still the obvious and unanswered question that hung in the air.
How did she know about his parents?
Surely this was someone sent by Dumbledore, because who else had that kind of knowledge but the headmaster himself.
"Fucking old coot," Tom spits.
Casting the muffliato spell, he basks in the screams of her pain as she writhes against him. Now...he can enjoy it without attracting the attention of the muggles. The last thing he needed was an interruption to their little dance.
Her eyes grew wide with terror and unimaginable suffering as sweat beaded at her temples. Her mouth spilled agony and wailing but Tom found it was like music to his ears.
He lifts a hand and roughly grasps her chin and feels the dampness of her tears. Leaning in so that his lips can brush against her temple, he tastes the salt of her sweat and it is just like the ocean. It's been too long since he's tortured anyone besides killing them, so it feels that much sweeter as he indulges in the witches decadent suffering.
Squeezing his hold on her jaw, he whispers low and intimately against her sweat stained skin, "That's right sweetheart…. scream, for me. Let me hear your lovely songs. This….this, is a siren tune that is truly, worthy , of Lord Voldemort, don't you think?"
More whimpering and buckling as he feels her muscles straining against him. Finally in her weakness; Tom rips into her mind like a spear through yielding flesh. He knows it is painful because she lets out another ear splitting shriek that threatens to deafen him.
Her walls crumble like dust to the ground. He's filled with maniacal glee as he wrenches her memories open like ripping apart the pages of a book. It imbues his perverted senses far better than the finest intoxicant.
"There it is," Tom grins wildly as he plays through her memories. They are placed perfectly in boxes floating on an ocean of water, in the distance he can hear the sound of a siren; singing a mournful tune that Riddle ignores with ease. He won't be fooled again by such a call.
Opening the first box, he sees a little girl swimming in the shallow waters of a tropical beach, not far from her was a beautiful woman; her mother. It is said that warm water mermaids took on a more beautiful appearance than the ones near Scotland and Ireland, and this mermaid is a testament to that. The sun gleamed off the droplets of water that coated her mother's dark skin as a long golden tail rose from underneath the surface of the water. The same long black curly hair that clung wet against her bare upper body, and her silver eyes was also adorned on her daughter.
It is a shame that she will not live long enough to enjoy her looks, Tom thinks darkly.
The family continue to laugh underneath the sun, wading through the water before a man joins them. He is as pale as the day, skin and hair as fair as snow. When he speaks, his accent is peculiar. Must be the father, he thinks.
Tom doesn't linger but speeds past the memory and the ones that he finds less than relevant, until he stops at a particular box that catches his attention.
It is dark and vibrates with an ominous energy. Something tempting tugs at him and when he dives in, he appears in a dark hallway with a dim light at the end of it. The atmosphere is gloomy and cold and hints at all things miserable. Riddle walks towards the light till he sees an open door. Inside the grey room he spots two figures; an adult and a child. The room is empty besides the several mannequins lined against the wall.
As he steps closer, he hears the accented speech of the male speaking to the little witch. He is tall, with long white hair and a scar across his face that splits his lip. He's much broader and bigger than the man that was at the beach with the mermaid. Tom knows this is not her father, maybe a family member but, definitely not her father.
The pale man crouches in front of her, but he has something in his hands. Peering closer Tom notices it is a muggle weapon, a small black handgun.
"Uncle Igor, why do we have to do this? I want to go outside and play," the witch pleads and looks back at the door where Tom is standing.
Lifting a hand he places it on her shoulder, "Katrina. I promise your papa, that I vould protect you. Use knowledge of magic. Use veapons, man has created. It runs in our blood."
"But magic is stronger than guns, that is what my friend Victor told me."
He chuckles, "Victor is pureblood . Ve are not. He's never seen gun before. My little Chudovishe. I belong two worlds. You are special. You have ocean and magic and human blood in your body. You must be best of three worlds."
"I don't want to be the best of three worlds I want to play!"
Placing the gun aside onto the ground he turns to look at her, "Hey vat about this. Ve practice how to use gun first. After this, Ve not only play outside, but ve get ice cream to eat outside in snow. Huh? Vat about that?"
At the mention of eating ice cream Katrina's eyes widened, "Yes, really? Ice cream in the snow! You teach me how to use this and then you promise we will eat ice cream Uncle Igor?"
He nods with a smile, "Yes. I promise."
Tom tilts his head in fascination as the tall man leads her in front of the mannequins. So this...this is why she smells of gunpowder. The siren witch is versed in magic and in muggle weapons.
"Alveys treat gun as if there's bullet inside," He hands it to her and then places his bigger hands over her small ones. "Aim for the head, alvays, and no using magic."
The bullet rips through the mannequin's head, exploding on impact and Katrina jolts. Her eyes go wide and she looks back at Igor with surprise and shock. "Wow, Let's do that again."
A few minutes pass by and Tom nods in understanding. He retreats from the memory with new knowledge, but it is not the knowledge he had been hoping for. He still needed to search through the other boxes, and find out why she was following him and how she knew of his background.
He walks through the hallway and opens a random wooden door. When he steps through it, he could see thousands of unopened boxes floating on the ocean. So many memories and yet so little time. He jumps in and swims through the cold till he spots one that glimmers with magic. There's something strange about it, something that makes his curiosity peak.
When he dives into the memory, he finds himself in a disorderly white bedroom with peeling mustard wallpaper and a mouldy ceiling. It smells of old parchment, ink and for some reason oil. He wrinkles his nose at the sight. On the ground there's several discarded heels in which he steps over. Not only that but there's a pile of feminine clothing at the corner.
Just then he hears a sigh. He notices the witch sleeping on the bed, her face relaxed and content. Tom walks closer as his eyes rove over her features. He places a hand against her temple and feels himself being sucked through a tunnel of swirling colors till he's inside her dream. He's at the edge of a dark forest walking closer to a lake rippling with movement. There's something in it.
Just then the surface breaks and a head appears. It is her. This time she looked like every bit of the siren she was. Her wet hair clung to her skin as her dark tail which looked almost black in the night shone underneath the moonlight.
Tom finds his gaze dropping slowly over her delicate neck and her collarbones, until he reaches her bare chest. He swallows thickly with a dangerous arousal that blooms in his loins. Her two silver eyes beckon him from the Lake as she smiles.
Had she been expecting him? He is not sure, but like a man possessed he continues towards her. Without truly thinking about his actions, Tom starts to undo the buttons of his dress shirt and feels the cool air against his skin.
"Hello Tom. I've been waiting for you." She says in a voice that sounded so close and yet so far away at the same time. She swims closer with a come hitering eyes.
"I bet you have, my sweet Siren."
Tom peels his shirt off and greedily takes in her form as she invites him in. He steps inside until he feels the water come up to his waist. He can feel goosebumps all over his skin as the cold bites in, but he is far too distracted with the siren in front of him, as she drags him down for a kiss.
Her lips are soft, so incredibly supple as they move against his seductively. She tastes of the ocean with a hint of sweetness that bordered on addictive. Tom purrs with lust as her bare breasts press against his chest. Raising his hand he pulls at her soaked hair and devours her mouth till she had no choice but to take his assault. The kiss lasts too prematurely before he feels her drag him underneath the water. In his pleasure, he allows her to pull his head underneath until his lungs start to burn. Till all he could think about was how easy it is to drown in her arms.
Her face is close, but it is no longer inviting, instead she opened her mouth to show the rows of sharp teeth that filled her mouth. "You're going to die Tom Riddle, and I'm going to be the one to do it."
Within seconds Tom screams underneath the water as her teeth rip into his throat. He struggles against her strength as blood coats the water around them like a red painting. Just then he feels something hard slammed against his temple and he gasps in pain. He is sucked out of her dream, out of her memories until he finds himself sprawled against the wall with a terrible pain inside his head. He is so disoriented that he struggles to stand up before being knocked back with the flipendo spell. He's hit so hard that his head cracks hard against the wall and his vision turns white for a second.
"Fuck you Riddle. I knew it would come to this!" There's a loud enraged cry and then something cold and hard presses against his head.
"Any last words?" She spits as Riddle raises his gaze and sees her bright silver eyes narrowed down at him with loathing. Despite her vengeful appearance, sweat soaked her temples as her chest heaved with exertion. He doesn't know long he's had her under the cruciatus curse but for some miraculous reason she's handling the effects much better than anyone else he's ever seen.
Fuck it, but he is impressed. He doesn't remember the last time he's ever been inflicted this much pain on. At this revelation Tom feels the hot coils of lust growing at the pit of his belly. Her scent is strong again, and the gunpowder is more potent than ever. But Tom's not averted to it now, instead, he finds it stimulating.
He wonders how good she would be in a duel.
Keeping an eye on the gun, he notices something. There is a slight tremor in her grip as he's faced with the barrel of a gun. It's an unusual situation, so unusual that finds himself letting out a low rumbling laugh that sounded maniacal coming from him.
She hisses, annoyed and agitated, "What are you laughing at, you psycho." The gun presses harder against his temple. He tries to move but she lifts a leg and presses her heeled shoe against the meat of his shoulder, pushing him against the brick wall. The point of her heel digs into him but he refrains from making any noise of discomfort.
Riddle licks his lips as his eyes trail over her exposed tanned leg, passing the slit of the dress hidden by her long coat and then up to her dark locks. "If you're going to kill me, you might as well do it now."
She sneers, "Trust me, already on it."
Just as her finger moves, Tom apparated behind her and summons his wand to him. Surprised, she turns around but Tom casts the immobulus spell and wraps his arms around her. Lowering his head to her ear he whispers, "It seems you're too late now Katrina. Our game has just begun."
There's a loud pop and both of them disappear within an instant leaving behind an empty alleway.