Tom didn't speak. Did she want him to help her? He didn't help people, and yet the idea of her being at his intellectual mercy when it came to a subject gave him a thrill. She was going to be prey – the hunted – and he was going to like ruling her. Only as long as she put up a fight.
He looked into her eyes, and saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. Oh, there was no doubt about her battling him. It would be warfare when he brought her down. And he would thoroughly enjoy it,
Tom Riddle nodded, flipping open to the first chapter on their Advanced Transfiguration book. They would start with basics.
Chapter Six
Her favorite color was red. Tom knew that by the way she looked longingly at the Gryffindor scarves when winter came. One of her friends had asked her one-day while he'd been near, and she'd said just as much, remarking dryly that her favorite color had once been green. The blonde she'd beet sitting with looked baffled, but hadn't pressed it. Neither had he.
They had almost nightly study sessions in the library, where they spoke of little but Transfiguration and other school subjects. Nothing personal, nothing outside of classes. True to his word – or nod – he'd been helping her, silently pointing out when she'd done something wrong and would help her fix it. It always took her awhile to get, which had begun to drive him absolutely insane at first, until she'd compared Transfiguration to her was like Arithmetic. And then he'd understood more, never have been particularly interested in the subject area himself.
On one such night where they sat alone in their usual table near the restricted section, both sets of eyes staying drawn to the page of his Charms book and her Potions tome. She bookmarked her page, drawing out a long red and gold bookmarker – that Tom secretly wanted to throw in the fire every time he laid eyes on it – and sticking it between the pages.
"I'm exhausted," she said, faking a yawn. "I'm going to head off to bed. Thank you."
She always avoided using his name, he noted, looking up to meet her eyes. He at least expected her to pack her things away and move, but she didn't. She sat, staring at him. And then her gaze dropped away.
"I can't do this," she whispered, shutting her eyes so that a very fat tear escaped from the corner.
His insides clenched up in horror and partial disgust. She couldn't cry – Marie couldn't cry. It destroyed his image of her, and made her appear more human. Worse, that idea actually appealed to him.
"Goodnight, Tom," she said, throwing her things carelessly into her bag, obviously furious with herself. It was nice to see some emotion coming from her – something else besides the calm, frigidness he'd felt this last month he'd been helping her. Something in it gave him pleasure to know he'd caused this type of reaction – stirred something up.
And then he realized she'd said his name. Officially, she'd spoken directly to him, and while it was not the name he had fashioned for himself, it was something.
"Say it again," he murmured, rising to his feet, blocking her exit.
"Say what?" she snapped, not bothering to move past him. She was terrified of being alone with him, and yet she still kept coming. Why?
"My name. Say it."
"Tom." She said it so blandly and so full of cynicism, but all that didn't register.
It wasn't enough. He wanted to her to keep saying it. Forever maybe.
"Again." He closed in, giving her no choice but to back up – into a table. The fear escalated in her eyes, and he thrived on it, trapping her hands by her side so she wouldn't be able to fight back. "Say my name again."
"Tom," she said, so meekly that it was almost revolting at how fast she was afraid. And yet he still wanted more.
He kissed her, but it really wasn't long before she reciprocated, pushing at his hands so that she could at least knot them in his hair. He let go of her, pulling roughly at the collar of her robes.
"Tom," she said again, and he knew that she knew it would drive him crazy. He was frenzied, feeling the consuming need to touch her hair, her face, everywhere.
"Ooh!" A squeal sounded from behind them. He stiffened, snatching his wand from his robe pocket, turning around to hex whoever was standing there. It was group of three Gryffindor girls, who watched with wide eyes at their spectacle. They squeaked in terror at the murderous look in his eyes and turned heel and ran. It was really no use. It would be in the rumor mill as of tomorrow.
He watched them, fantasizing about how their eyes would look when their life drained from it – by his hand.
She couldn't do this anymore. That was it. She was done. She'd broken at least twelve cardinal rules that had been set by people dealing with the Dark Lord before her, and some she'd added on her own. Kissing him had to be number one, and crying in front of him was probably going to be a close second.
The pressure was shaking Marie's foundation. Her plan – her glorious plan was falling apart around her feet. Kill Tom Riddle. How hard was that, she'd had ample opportunity to murder him, and she hadn't taken them. It was exactly what she'd been dreading – of course being emotionally entangled with him wasn't exactly planned. Apparently no matter how evil and isolated Tom Riddle may have been he was just like every other teenage boy.
He turned back to her, staring into her like he knew what she was thinking. She sighed.
"I can't do this, Tom," purposefully using his name to get his attention. "I can't feel something for someone when there's no possible response from them. It hurts, and I don't mean to get emotional with you because I know you don't like that, but you should know."
She got as far as sliding off the table before he obstructed her way.
"Letting you out isn't an option," he said, and she realized it was one of the first full sentences he'd spoken to her.
"Then what are we going to do?" she said, softly.
He did a very atypical thing for Tom Riddle to do, he shrugged, but somehow he managed to do it still in complete control. "What do –" he choked on his next word as if it was contaminated " – normal people do?"
Where the bloody hell was this coming from? He wasn't supposed to do this, he was supposed to leave her alone or kill her. Not ask what normal people did when they liked each other.
"Date, I suppose," she said, not serious. But he was. He nodded, leaning down to seal the deal with his mouth.
At breakfast, Marie knew everyone knew. The way they gossiped when she walked past and sat in usual spot at the end of the table by herself. Whispers never really bothered her, she'd gotten them a lot, but usually her friends stood right next to her. It had been bearable with them by her side. They'd all sit around the table – Claire would come over from Ravenclaw – and eat together. She could practically hear Emily whispering in her ear to ignore them.
Tom entered the hall, his robes looking completely impeccable and neat, she watched his search the Slytherin table, his eyes barely registering his group of devoted followers. Innately she knew he was looking for her. Their eyes met briefly, and he nodded taking a seat next to her. It seemed as if the whole word stood still. He sat beside her, his hand automatically resting on her upper thigh.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. They were still, eating their breakfast in a peaceful manner – as if Lord Voldemort was peaceful.
"Tell me something," he said, neatly cutting up a piece of ham on his plate. "Who are you?"
She paused, debating over answer, deciding to just give him the truth. Well, most of it. "Well, to start my name is Marie Octavia Adamms, named after my great aunt on my mother's side. I'm eighteen years old, born and raised in London. I was home schooled until my parents died, and then I lived with my Uncle who's passed as well" Best to cover all her bases. "After that I came here, where I will remain until I graduate" Again. "After graduation, I'm not sure where I'm going. How about you?"
He pushed his plate away, avoiding the question. "Were you from a wealthy family?" He seemed turned off by the idea, frowning in disgust at the food he'd just consumed.
"Not really," she answered, honestly. "We were well off, my Uncle was the wealthy one, but I've had enough to be comfortable." Her mouth was running, and she had no idea why it was, she couldn't seem to stop speaking. It was so easy, because she knew he was taking in every single piece of information and savoring it. "I suppose I should tell you right now that I'm half-blood." He stilled beside her, his hand frozen on her leg. "I didn't really want to bring it up, but you should know. In case it matters."
A smile crept on his lips – it was almost gaunt and garish. "No, I don't mind. "
It was odd, but they walked close on their way to double Potions, his lingering near hers. She locked pinkies with him (something that she'd seen people do in those muggle films), and began cutting up her ingredients.