The March birth flower and the 10th wedding anniversary flower, a gift of daffodils is said to ensure happiness. But always remember to present daffodils in a bunch – the same legends that associate this cheerful flower with good fortune warn us that when given as a single bloom, a daffodil can foretell misfortune.
Tom often stole books. He… hoarded them, in a way. Devoured them the moment he could understand the words written upon the page. Some books were… frivolous. Indulgent. Mere tales meant to entertain the mind-young and old alike-that Tom only read because tales like these-myths, legends, religion-played such a large role in the lives of the people around him. Other books were purely academic. History was to be learned from so it wasn't repeated. Psychology was to be studied as to understand the way the psyche worked. Language, mathematics, economics, science…
(The world was born from nothing, in an explosion of bright light-or was it water? Great oceans wavering willing wallowing and filling up all the space)
Tom read things for a purpose, even works which seemed worthless at first glance. Poetry, stories, the written word… Sometimes it- resonated? within him, for lack of a better phrase. Some words struck him like lightning, and if they could affect him, who was to say what they could do to someone else? To someone… Ordinary.
(Stardust swirling and swarmed, gathering in the Hall of Stars-scattering shattering screaming something was wrong wrong wrong)
There was something interesting in the way books were written. Even in essays of scholars, written impersonally so as to not sway the reader, there was always a… mark, so to speak. An imprint of the writer that could be seen in between the ink on the page. It was most prominent in the hand written works Tom had read. He could see the emotions of the author play out in the way the writing slanted when they hurried to get ideas out, or the words darkened when they were angry and pressed the pen too hard on the page.
(Imprints, like ghosts, lingering on the page. Dear Mythos, keeper of stories, collector of tales. Don't you enjoy it so?)
He thumbed through the book in his lap, the one bought at the wizarding shop. The first of the many he had acquired. Second hand-covered in notes and diagrams written in by whoever had owned it last (Well kept the book was-Studious the student was) It was about basic magical theory-not on the list of recommended books, perhaps, but it had caught his eye.
"What is magic?" Tom wondered aloud, voice soft, curious, and with an edge of something he vaguely recognized as wonder. He traced the lines on the page, fancying that he could feel the hand of the person who had written it, hear the scratching of the quill just beyond his hearing range… It was a silly idea, best left to day dreamers and the average man, but Tom couldn't help but think it, to chase after the idea.
The door to the compartment slid open, and with it a chill ran down Tom's spine. (Shivering graveyards, age old bones. What manner of being, what kind of monster?) His eyes traced the figure who stood at the doorway, an eleven year old child, and watched to see what kind of move they would make.
They walked like they were dancing in a silent room, (dust drifting through the air, sunlight streamed through windows, quiet creaks and-) quietly, wistfully, full of out of reach dreams. They sat down across from Tom, green eyes flashing (deranged smile widening) and leaned back against the seats.
(Crick. Crack. Snap. Shatter)
Their hair was a wild black, dark as the void. Their eyes were green, (so very, very green) and their skin pale as death.
(Ring-a-Ring o'Rosies, A Pocketful of Posies. "A-tishoo! A-tishoo!" We all fall Down!)
They sat in quiet silence until the train began to move towards a land of magic Tom had never seen before. What would it be like? What would it feel like? (The crackle of magic just under his skin-static roaring, a rhythm being had-The music of magic forever being played) What could he gain from it?
(The world at his fingertips, victory seconds away. So long he had waited, so far he had come. At the end of his journey, the first steps to eternity-)
"Who are you?" The one sitting across him asked, eyes glittering like the void.
"Tom Riddle." The words sounded flat. There was something off about the person across from him, something not quite… There.
("I had a dream, Which was not all the dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling into the eternal space")
They hummed, eyes roaming Tom's form. Their gaze was sharp, lazy, cold. They stared through him, into him, beyond him into something… else.
(The grips of dread wrapped around his neck, a noose tightening tightening tightening further until he-)
"And yours?" Tom prompted when the other said nothing for several heavy moments. The world outside the window flashed by too fast to comprehend, and there was something about this moment that made it seem as if they-them two, (good friends, better enemies) two strangers-were entirely alone in the world.
"My what?" They questioned, raising a brow. Something swirled behind their eyes-dark, deadly, dangerous. (Tom choked)
"Your name," Tom drawled, irritation bubbling up from within.
They blinked, almost owlishly, and tilted their head to one side. They smiled, seemingly amused, and spoke. "Who knows?"
Tom frowned, his eye twitched. Who was this brat? Did they really not know their own name? Or were they being frustrating on purpose? How irritating.
But something stopped Tom from lashing out. Something other than gaining a reputation so soon before his arrival at Hogwarts. There was something about this person that stayed his hand. So, he kept quiet, and held his tongue.
The other did not speak anymore during the ride. Tom went back to his books, studying the ink on their pages, and the one who sat across from him gazed out the window at the world passing them by. When they arrived at their destination, they went their separate ways.
Tom never saw them at the sorting.
(Onwards, Death went to Hogwarts)
AN: I'm going to warn you now, things are going to be pretty confusing at times. Time is not consistent, and neither is space for that matter. Things will constantly change and shift and a lot of these stories are going to be out of order. This chapter was inspired by The Carnivorous Muffin's story "October". The poem was a excerpt from the poem "Darkness" by Lord Byron. "Ring-a-Ring o'Rosies" is what a number of scholars believe is the original version of "Ring around the Rosy". Prompts anyone?