The Devil's Exception [Tom Riddle]

Chapter 5 - Toast and Terrorisation

Patience is said to be a virtue. One Tom Marvolo Riddle evidently did not possess.

As a clearly displayed sinner - attempted murderer, maniacal man, and muggleborn loather - his actions shouldn't have been a shock.

Still, just as the heat in Sophia's cheeks simmered to a low boil rather than a burn, a violent presence knocked against her mental shield.

Her brows raised.

Legilimency.

In public.

The knocking doubled. Tripled. As if bony, skeletal knuckles rapped against her temple with the intent to crack, caving in her forehead, before clawing and prying her brain free.

Rolling her eyes, Sophia slammed her Occlumency walls up, blocking him as she poured a glass of pumpkin juice.

Riddle's facade cracked, like a vein forking across a marble statue. His inky black gaze darkened, and his lips slipped apart. She could almost imagine the awe escaping in blackened rays from his rotting soul.

Not that he would admit such a feeling as awe from a muggleborn.

Even when his magic, a cold, hostile being, similar to a shadow, a ghost, seemed to shoulder itself against her, her mental walls didn't budge. She kept layering higher and higher until she could almost imagine herself sat atop the wall, legs swinging over the edge, with Riddle at the bottom throwing his magic in cycles: fire, ice, a splodge of purple, a wisp of white and then a deadly, unknown green on repeat.

The wall shimmered with its strength as it absorbed every hit, echoing as a shiver ran up her spine.

Sophia smirked as she languidly took a sip, all the while maintaining eye contact with Riddle, who still bashed against her shield like a man possessed.

She let out a sound of satisfaction as if her thirst was quenched.

"Oh, sorry," Sophia started. "I forgot to mention - I'm a natural Occlumens."

The ache dimmed to a flicker of a flame rather than a roaring fire as Tom retreated from her mind, straightening his tie.

"Thank you for that unwanted and unasked for piece of information."

"You're very, very welcome. Last night - I was caught off guard - and of course, I couldn't breathe. I have no idea why." Sophia shot him a flat look. "Today, though -" She gestured to her neck. "Airways are perfectly open and in check, albeit a little bruised, and oxygen is flowing nicely and freely to my brain."

Tom's jaw clenched, then released, and his facade slipped into place, the blemished vein powdered and masked until clear, alabaster skin and a flawless veneer affixed itself as he forced a smile, and flourishingly placed a napkin on his knee.

"So," Sophia started with a saccharine smile. "How are you this morning?"

Riddle's silence felt like the edge of a knife at tipping point. One touch, one nudge, and it would slice you apart.

The knife nicked her. "Your hair is still down."

Sophia couldn't help it.

She kicked him underneath the table.

He didn't react; only flicked his fingers, and a pot levitated, pouring liquid into his mug. Steam curled in wisps and fresh coffee replaced the air of disgust around Tom.

Scanning the room and noting any bystanders were far away enough to hear if she whispered, Sophia inched closer. "The day I wear my hair up for you is the day I'm in the grave."