When waves collide [t.m.r]

[10]

Hogwarts, September, fourth year

The package itself was rather plain; a square box of cardboard, held together by a single piece of frayed, white string, tied in a simple knot at the top. It appeared as if it had been thrown together last minute, the senders in a rush to get it sent off. Annette would have thought that the owl had delivered the box to the wrong person, if it weren't for the small piece of white card that was tucked underneath the string.

On it, in black ink, the words 'Annette Bailey' were scrawled in cursive. Her brows drew together in recognition: it was undeniably her mother's writing. Was it a late birthday present? Perhaps an early one? The girl almost laughed, that was a stupid thought. Her birthday was the 2nd January, so it would have had to be a very, very late gift or a very, very early one. She doubted it was either. And why hadn't her mother used the family owl? Why didn't either of her parents sign their name on the card?

A small frown tugged at her lips. It was rare to receive a letter from her parents, let alone a gift. If that's what it even was.

Her fingers fiddled with the frayed rope, tracing its sharpness and shape while she mulled the questions over in her mind.

The box was large enough that it took two hands to hold, though it wasn't heavy, so when another icy breeze of wind swept over her damp skin, she couldn't grab her wand and dry herself. She bit back a shiver.

Tom Riddle watched silently, his presence being completely forgotten by the girl as she peered down at the package in her hands. He couldn't deny that he too was curious as to what the box contained. It was unusual for a student to receive mail outside of the Great Hall, and it was even more unusual for the item to not have the senders name on it.

Schooling his features into an expression of disinterest, his eyes trailed the outline of her Slytherin robes until they stopped at her feet. Surrounding the shiny, leather shoes she wore was a small, yet very noticeable, puddle of water. The liquid seeped into the wooden floor, turning it a darker shade - a colour that similarly resembled her hair - as the material absorbed the water. It didn't take a genius to come to the conclusion that the source of the water was from their earlier duel.

Annette's face didn't show it - her focus was entirely upon the object in her hands: inspecting, observant and intrigued- but the small goosebumps littering the surface of her skin were a telltale sign that she was, in fact, cold.

For a small, small moment an ember within him threatened to warm as he contemplated pulling out his wand and performing the drying charm on her himself. His ocean eyes hardened with a thick layer of ice at the thought and he instantly forced the hardened liquid to wrap itself around the ember in question, the coldness juxtaposing and diminishing the warmth that threatened to spill.

He would not do something out of the kindness of his heart. Because no, Tom Riddle was not kind. And while yes, he had a heart, it wasn't much of one: maggots ate away at it's rotted and dishevelled exterior while the interior was as dark and empty as a castle in a gothic novel - any remaining spirits that lingered inside only added to the isolated atmosphere.

"You're going to rot the wood." The female snapped her gaze up to his, a hidden promise of violence swimming just beneath the surface of her clear waters like fish swimming to the shore for feeding time. Her grip tightened on the box.

Annette smiled falsely. "How charming. I can see why everyone loves you, you have such a way with words."

Without so much as another word, or a final glance, the brunette took a few steps past him and was gone. He stood, alone now, in the middle of the astronomy tower platform and found that a frown had begun to form on his features. He shook his head softly to himself, dark locks of hair falling further into his face and hanging just above his brows.