AN ODE TO TRAGEDY ── Tom Riddle

Two

He watched her leave the Great hall after breakfast. There was an unusual haste in her steps. He could see that she preferred her own company than of any others.

    I like being alone. He recalled her telling him once he had found her hiding in a closet. They were seven then. He could read every one of her fleeting thoughts, her emotions, her most cherished memories. Legilimency was a gift. Like his ancestor, he wielded the power of looking into one's mind.

Tom got up to his feet. He took a moment to brush off the dusk from his robes before following her. He was in no hurry. He was aware of where she intended to go.

She had found her way outside. The cheerless autumn sun blinded him momentarily. His eyes were much more adjusted to the dim glow of the candle flame.

   I prefer the sun. She had replied, aghast, when he had told her he preferred the rain.

Though their preferences contrasted, they shared the same notions. He could see her, every part of her. They were born to great families, touched with a single deformity—their blood. His was tainted by his father, hers by her mother. They were similar, in ways one couldn't see. 

She had stopped by the edge of the lake. So did he. He paused. Aylin sat down by the shade of a tree. Nature was languid with the touch of autumn. The branches were bereft of life. 

She opened the book in her hands. Although she appeared to be reading, her thoughts were elsewhere. They strayed towards her home, to the sanctuary her father's study offered. When the days were lighter, he would read to her. The war seemed to keep him occupied these days. He had grown more sombre, taken with the effort of avoiding any conversations.

Tom guided his steps towards her. 

Upon hearing the sound of a foreigner's footfalls, she looked up.

   "Tom," She nodded, forcing a smile of recognition.

Their relationship had gone awry since she left the orphanage. He used to consider her as a partner in survival, the only one who did not consider him as different. She never condemned him for his incidents with the other children. Even when he found it impossible to bond with people, he was able to tolerate her.

   "Aylin," He nodded.

She closed the book, keeping it aside.

Her face softened when she talked to him. They shared their past, despite how sullied the memories were.

   "What are you doing here?" She inquired.

The silence felt constrained. He simply stared at her. They did not need to talk. He could simply read her.

   "You seemed upset, I was here to see if you were doing alright." He answered.

   "No, I am fine." 

Lies. You forget.

   "Sit down." She offered, gesturing at the empty space beside her.

He obliged, sitting down beside her. The ground was carpeted with arid leaves. It pricked in places, making it uncomfortable. For a moment, they were children again, sitting side by side inside the narrow cupboard.

They fell silent again, gazing far away. 

   "Thank you," She spoke finally.

He nodded, meeting her eyes.

Gratefulness was the noblest weapon. It twisted one's emotions in ways he could not decipher. Humans felt a sense of obligation to someone who had helped them. Gratitude. He understood it. Give them something that you were in the power to give, receive something that no man could simply wield—control.

Every small thread he had control over was power.

She was more at ease, talking to him more freely.

He responded, offering words of reassurance or comfort. His words were poised, laced with falsified concern. 

   She must feel obliged. Every single thread wound around his fingers was power.