A/N: READING THIS CHAPTER IS ENTIRELY OPTIONAL.
It's pretty useless. I just HAD to do it from Tom's POV, though. It's so much cuter from his eyes. It's just… lovely. Again: listen to slow music. The plot, what is said, and what happens, is identical. It's just from another POV. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Get the idea into your head. I don't own it. Now move on.
The Letter P
Chapter Forty: Optional
I look ridiculous.
Tom frowned at the reflection in his mirror, which frowned back at him through dark, narrowed eyes. It was times such as these that he was immensely glad that he did not own one of those magical talking mirrors – he dreaded to think what any would say of him.
Deciding, wisely, that glaring at his appearance would not improve it, he straightened his dark green bow-tie to a neat dead-center position before departing from his Head Boy chambers and making his way towards the Yule Ball.
He was mildly interested to see what it would be like. Headmaster Dippet had, quite inconveniently, scheduled Tom's interrogation at the time when it was being prepared. He hoped that for once, not blowing something up in his absence would be enough to ask of the Prefects. Then again, they had Ginevra this time.
Frowning again, he pushed the thought of her away.
He moved briskly through the corridors, his muted footsteps strangely loud in the echoing silence. Tom arrived at the doors to the Room of Requirement. Reeve and Coville were standing outside. He considered asking them icily if they were aware that the Ball was through the doors, but decided against it. He slipped through silently.
Tonight Tom wasn't early, as was normal of him, but he certainly wasn't late. The Head Boy made his way inconspicuously towards the refreshments table and selected a glass of dark wine.
As more people began to pile into the chamber, Tom moved out of the way. He detested crowds and generally avoided them at all costs. The Ball was no exception.
Briefly, as he walked to the other side of the room, passing through the people like a ghost, like a shadow, no-one noticing he was there, he wondered why he had come at all. An answer came to mind, but he left it as a rhetorical question.
He didn't like that answer.
Tom settled near the corner, beside a small, round table, and leaned back to quietly watch the goings-on of the Ball.
There was Fionn, giggling about something to her friends. Evidently planning to attempt something stupid. Probably embarrassing. Possibly life-endangering. He should intervene. He really couldn't be bothered.
Finally he was pulled from his musings by a piercing whistle from a very tall sixth-year girl, standing at the bottom of stairs that he was positive had not existed when he had entered the room.
The girl was vaguely familiar. When she began bellowing, Tom paired her voice with her round, blue-eyed face and identified her as Hartwin, someone that Ginevra occupied her time in the company of.
"Everyone," Hartwin yelled, "please welcome and applaud… the people who made this Ball happen! Amelia Brown, Gareth Coville, Antonia-May Durrell, Ginevra Peregrine, and Scott Reeve!"
Then the doors swung open, and five pleased-looking Prefects began to descend the marble stairs.
Now, Tom Riddle wasn't easily surprised. There weren't many things that could shock him.
Then he saw Ginevra.
She was… she was… 'beautiful' didn't do her justice. She was spectacular. She was everything. She was the sun and stars. She was the earth and sky. She was his inspiration. And she was smiling at him.
Her hair was loose and wild as usual, but in a more defined way than it was normally kept, and in wide, loose curls spilling over her slim shoulders. He could see hazel eyes, delineated in thin, delicate purple. Her dress was merlot, the colour of the darkest wine, swirling out, hiding her feet. Her arms were bare, revealing the long, thin scar from when they had met in the Chamber of Secrets, as well as a smaller scar on her elbow that was-
Oh God.
Wine. He needed wine.
He picked up his glass from the table and drank a large quantity of the clear, dark purple-red liquid inside.
It was exactly the same colour as Ginevra's dress-
More wine.
There wasn't much left in his glass now. The Head Boy continued to hold it. He had no doubt that over the due course of the evening he'd need the rest.
Tom looked up, across the room. Through the ever-shifting bodies of people dancing, he saw Ginevra being reluctantly twirled about at high speed by none other than Malfoy.
She crashed into the blonde. They were speaking to each other. In actuality, Malfoy was speaking. Ginevra was snarling at him like a wounded cat.
Tom didn't see what happened next, but suddenly Malfoy was bent over, groaning, and Ginevra had disappeared. Then the redhead appeared a few metres away, and her heart-shaped face broke into a grin.
"Riddle!" she beamed at him, coming to stop before him.
"Oh. Hello, Peregrine," Tom said, lifting his eyes towards her. Her forest-coloured eyes were sparkling and – not good. He tore his gaze away from her and stared at his wine. He pretended that she wasn't there. This was made very difficult by having to stare at a drink the same colour as her gown.
"You look really good!" Ginevra suddenly exclaimed. Her face abruptly turned red enough to lose her in her hair, but she grinned anyway. "How about me?" she asked.
No. Do not ask that question.
She twirled quickly; her merlot skirt swirling out and brushed against his feet. When she returned to face him, she scowled. "And if you say, 'like a beaver' then I'm going to kill you.
Tom smirked. Feeling confident, he met her half-smiling, half-frowning gaze. "Thank you," he said, feeling heat threaten his impassive face. His efforts at looking his best hadn't gone unnoticed, then. "And for your information, I wasn't going to say that you look like a beaver. I was going to say-"
-that you're probably the most beautiful person I've ever seen.
DON'T SAY THAT!
Panicking, Tom stopped his sentence dead. Oh God. Heat flooded his face now. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, and decided that it was safest just to stare at his wine again.
There was a pause. He still hadn't answered.
"Well?" asked Ginevra. She looked quite anxious. She was probably presuming that his silence meant that she looked terrible.
"You…" His voice was raspy. He swallowed again. "You look lovely," he mumbled.
Heat. In. Face.
Kill me now.
He told himself very firmly that under no circumstances was he to look at her.
"Thanks!" Ginny said cheerily. Seventeen years of showing the equivalent emotions of a rock told Tom merely from her voice that she was faking her happiness.
Guilt.
He squashed it.
After a few seconds of silence, Ginevra moved around Tom's side and leant on the round table in the corner. A slow, triple-beat melody began to issue from The Explosive Cauldrons' instruments. A waltz. A slow-dance.
"Um." Ginevra turned to Tom. "D'you… d'you know how to dance?" she asked nervously.
I know the theory; I just can't do it.
"No," he replied, still not meeting her fiery gaze. Images of him twirling her across the dance-floor, twisting her elegantly beneath his arm – flowed into his mind faster than he could stop them. He drank some more wine.
Ginevra gave a small sigh, and, with a smile, confessed, "Well, that makes two of us."
She paused for a few moments, as though waiting for something. What could she possibly want?
She folded her arms. "Are you going to ask me to dance or not?" she finally said irritably.
Tom's stomach clenched to the size of a walnut. She wanted to dance with him. She seemed to, anyway. "Probably not," he responded offhandedly. "You can't, and I know for a fact that I can't, so what, I ask you, is the point?"
Screwing up her face into an angry glare, Ginevra snapped, "Fine!" With a swirl of purple skirts, she turned and began to march away furiously.
What the-?
Tom frowned. What had he said? He had once overheard someone say that females liked honesty. And he had been honest. Perhaps brutally honest, but…
Call after her.
No.
Do it.
For once, it was his choice. Forget everything else. For once – just once – he was going to do what he wanted, regardless of the consequences.
"Would you like to dance with me?" Tom called, forcing aside everything that he protected himself with, everything that made him who he was (meaning the cold, arrogant arsehole image that he defended his pride with), and everything he knew.
"No," Ginevra retorted crossly. "What's the point?"
People were staring. Tom Riddle had asked someone to dance. Publicly. He had shouted it. And he had been rejected.
This was a first.
Exasperated, and with his pride stinging, he called, "Peregrine, get back here."
"No! I don't have to do anything that you say!"
Now people were starting to snigger. Furiously sending mental silencios at them, he took a step forwards. What the hell now?
Say it.
Say what?
Say it.
"Ginevra-" he said impulsively.
The use of her first name, which, despite speaking of her as 'Peregrine', was how he thought of her, had the desired effect. She stopped walking. And then she turned. He swallowed as what was often described as the ocean effect took place; blinking doe eyes slowly, wild red curls flying out and sweeping over her shoulder like the crashing waves of the sea, hence the name, red bouncing around her face-
"Aha," he said, smirking. He set his almost-empty drink down upon the table that, moments earlier, he and Ginevra had been boredly leaning on. "Triumphant." He headed towards her.
"Where did that come from?" she asked curiously.
"Where did what come from?" Tom asked innocently, his smirk increasing in size.
"Ginevra." She set her hands on her hips.
Tom lifted one eyebrow. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said smoothly, "but I was under the impression that it was your name."
To his amusement, Ginevra flushed a deep red to challenge that of her hair and dress. "It is," she replied, rolling her eyes. "It's just… I never thought I'd hear you say it."
A frown creased between Tom's eyebrows. What did she mean by the emphasis on you?
"And normally people call me Ginny," she added. "I haven't heard that name in… a long time." She looked thoughtful, as though remembering something.
Tom decided to let his confusion go. "I'll have you know," he told her, "that, at any given point in the foreseeable future, I refuse to refer to you as…" (he grimaced just to say it) "Ginny." It was like the name of a cat, or of a very small child. Not this wild, fierce fire-queen in front of him. "I mean this is in no offence to you when I say that it is probably the most infuriating nickname I have had the misfortune to hear."
Ginevra smirked, a curving mischievous smile that gave off the air of someone who knows that she's just won the dispute. "Having an argument of who knows the most irritating nickname?" she narrowed her round hazel eyes teasingly. "I can top that. Wait for it – Tom."
Touché.
A smirk twisting his own lips, Tom said amusedly, "Why don't we put this delightfully interesting conversation starter on hold, and instead assume that, to my offer of a dance, you have said yes."
Ducking his head into a slight bow, he loosely offered a hand. Casually, as though it was perfectly normal. Nonchalantly, as though his stomach wasn't somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. Blasé, as though his spleen wasn't trying to congo with his kidneys.
Ginevra took his hand.
His internal organs moved on to a salsa.
Tom walked out with her to the very edge of the dance-floor before turning to face her. Feeling the smallest of smiles twitching on his mouth, he tried to hold her hand properly for the waltz.
Damn. How the hell do you…-
Deciding to simply grip her fingers loosely, he lifted his other, long-fingered hand… a moment of heart-pounding vacillation surged through him, and then nervously let it rest on her waist. His heart attempting to thrash its way out of his ribcage, he stared anxiously at his hand.
A short pause, and then Ginevra settled her free hand on his neck; a shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the snow. Swallowing, he looked back up from his hand, on the top of her hip, to her face, and they began to slowly rotate in sets of three-steps.
She was avoiding looking at him; choosing instead to gaze at the snow-encrusted floor. Then, abruptly, she sucked in a steady breath and looked directly up into his eyes.
His heart stopped.
There was nothing but her.
Nothing but the soft, melodic ballad; her glowing hazel eyes, looking up at him through cinnamon; that section of fiery tresses that had escaped and was curling delicately over her shoulder; the tingling scent of lavender water and apples; the long, wide purple-red skirt pressed against his legs; the top of her curly-haired head level with his nose.
She was the brightest star; she was heaven in human form; she was fire and ice – and for two minutes, for one song, she was his.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. She stood on his feet. He ignored it.
"For what?" Tom frowned.
Ginevra bit her lip, and looked away. "For… Hogsmeade."
Tom tensed. Reluctantly, he stared down at her. "Oh."
"I really am, and I'm also sorry for bringing it up because it's basically spoiled our dance," she said rapidly, colour spreading across her cheeks.
Humiliation. Pain. Betrayal.
Outweighed by the sensation of having her in his arms. By far.
The tall Head Boy sighed; shook his head gently. "It's fine," he said.
At that moment, there were loud, piercing, and highly interruptive whistles.
Ginevra and Tom looked over to where they had come from. In the center of the dance-floor, dancing, was Hartwin, and that dark midget, Philips, who disliked Tom very strongly. He and Hartwin were kissing thoroughly, seemingly oblivious to everything around them.
Something hurt inside of Tom. He frowned. What was it?
That's Ginevra's boyfriend.
"GET A ROOM!" Ginevra suddenly yelled across the room; however, her face was grinning.
Tom stared at her.
She turned back to him. "What?" she asked, frowning anxiously.
"I thought that was your boyfriend," he said slowly.
"Oh. Yeah." Ginevra scratched her head. "Good point." She pulled her hand away from Tom's neck (impetuously, he held her other hand tighter, before realising what he was doing and loosening his grip, and dropping his hand from her waist), turned to the two kissing Slytherins and shouted, "ALDEN!"
Philips and Hartwin pulled away from each other; both went bright red. "Yeah?" replied Philips shamefacedly.
"YOU'RE DUMPED!" Ginny bellowed, grinning.
Tom blinked. What?
Ginevra returned her gaze to Tom shyly. "Now," she smiled. "Where were we?"
For what was the first time in a long time, Tom completely dropped his shield and smiled. Only for her. "I believe," he murmured, "it was something along the lines of this." He held onto Ginevra's hand; rested his other hand on her waist. She slid her hand around the back of his neck.
And they returned to the music, dancing in a place that time forgot and that only they could see.
xxx
A/N: Meh, I nearly started crying writing this. I'm so pathetic. Thanks to my beta SilvanXan. REVIEW! DO IT NOW!
I'd like to point out that had anyone noticed how Ginny sees Tom as 'Riddle', but Tom already sees her as 'Ginevra'? Hm.
xxx
Saene: Haha. I'll try those books. Hm. Your Luna-Ginny-ness sounds nice. If you wrote a fic, I'd R&R. Just as encouragement. I love snakes. They're so amazing-mongoose.
SiRiUsLyInLuV71: Did you quiver in this chapter? Thank you!
The-Quoi: Aw, thanks! Yeah, I got your PM about the rest of your review. Lol, made me laugh. As usual.
CourtneyP: Oh, you'll find out later. Don't worry. Thank you so much! Why heart-wrenching?
storm-brain: Argh! Can't you just be nice to poor Tom? –protective hold-
Annabel-lurvs-purple: Soon, my friend. Soon.
Eternal Passion: Thanks!
creative-writing-girl13: Aw. I feel so loved, thanks!
Sparkling-stone: Thank you! It actually works! It does! Try it!
Quiet: Thank you so much! Ooh. Nice pen-name. Simplicity at its finest.
Artemisia Gentleschi: Thanks! Exotic pen-name, by the way.
BDSanta2001: Thanks. And he'd probably notice. Lol. Ginny isn't very subtle.
dstnd2travel: I love your pen-name! I travel a lot, too. Thanks!
ShhImNotMVP: Lol, I loved that too, I'm glad you liked it. Thanks! T/G history? Wow. It could be like the Grammy awards… only for T/G fics. "I'd like to thank…" etc. etc.
chimis: Ah. Don't we all?
kyraThePoop: Haha. Good timing! Same. I don't really go for dating, because I don't just want to be on-off like everyone else. I want a fairy-tale romance like in a fanfiction.
Kriz: What I'd give to waltz with Tom Riddle. –sigh- Ooh, thanks, I'll take that as a huge compliment!
X-XsiobhanX-X: It does work! Well, you'll see about Grace and Alden. Coziness? Ooh la-la, indeed!
00jade: Phew. That was close. Poor teddy. I know, I was kind of building it up for a kiss, but a kiss was too cliché, so I snatched it away at the end. HAH!
XxRandomHeartxX: So was I! My brother came in to ask me something, and he was like "Er… are you okay?" because I was all grin-ness with the fluff and the romance of it all. I could probably get high on fluff. Like a sugar-high. But a fluff-high. Yeah, neither Ginny nor Alden cared about where their date was, because Alden only had eyes for Grace, and Ginny only had eyes for… (blank). Lol. Seven chapters, translated – two and a half years. –cue distant shout of WHY OH WHY- Haha. Thanks!
xxx
OMG! THE TOOTHPASTE THING ACTUALLY WORKS! That is so amazing!