Bookbinding ( Tom Riddle x Myrtle Warren )

Chapter 8: Saltwater

Domitiana's slim fingers were gripping his shoulders.

'Tom, you have to listen to me,' she said, her blue eyes steely. 'Abraxas thinks you've been dosed with a love potion.'

Tom continued to set a tea tray. 'I haven't.'

'There is literally no other explanation for this.'

'I'm doing as you asked, Domitiana. Living in a hovel and marrying a Mudblood.'

'Marrying! Tom, this is insane, can't you hear yourself?'

'There is nothing wrong with me. And Abraxas can come round and speak to me himself if he's so concerned. I don't see why there was any reason to send you.'

'I came of my own accord. I'm worried about you.'

'Don't be.'

'Look,' she said, changing tack, 'I made a mistake, I can see that now. I know you're proud and you want to work for yourself. I shouldn't have tried to force you into a job you didn't want. Keep working in your little shop. I have enough money to live on. We'll just be very modern and I'll be the richer one.'

'I'm not getting back with you.'

'But I love you.'

Tom screeched. 'As a word of advice, never go on the stage. You're a terrible actress.'

'I'm not acting,' she said, entwining her pale hands behind his head and pressing her lips to his.

Tom shoved her, slightly more forcefully than he'd been intending, away from him. She collided heavily with the door, hair hanging wild about her face.

'You're not serious?' she snarled. 'Throwing away all the people who care about you and want to help you for her?'

'Get out of my flat.'

'Does she know? That you tried to kill people like her once?'

'She knows I regret much of my past.'

'We all respected you then. How far you've fallen now.'

He watched her, lips quirking in amusement. 'You really don't understand romantic conversation, do you? You've tried to propose to me twice now and each one has been disastrous. Quit while you're ahead.'

She stormed out without another word, slamming the door with such force that one of the cracked window panes shattered and a roof tile slid out of place and plummeted to earth.

Tom sighed. The landlord was going to charge for that.

                               ***

He checked his watch. Myrtle was twenty minutes late.

That never happened. She was irritatingly punctual, and would nag him terribly if he wasn't the same. Maybe he should have met her at the Leaky Cauldron instead of assuming she could walk to him. Knockturn Alley wasn't an ideal place for a sixteen-year-old witch to wander around...

He was preparing himself to worry when a plump post owl - his eyes the same saucer shape as Myrtle's glasses (God, he had it bad) - landed on his rotting windowsill, a letter, which appeared to have been liberally sobbed on, in his talons.

                              ***

It had been a pretty kind break-up note, all things considered, full of just not right for each other and I hope we'll stay friends.

Of course, it had still made him incandescently furious.

He had been such a fool, deluded by her pretty words about how he was good and kind and marvellous into thinking that he could shed his destiny like a snake sheds its skin, and settle down forever with her enfolded in his arms, as he had in the Room of Requirement, when he'd had the best night's sleep of his life. How could he have allowed himself, he who would one day push magic to its limits, to be overcome by thoughts - frightening in their mundanity - of a gold ring on his finger and a cat in his lap, chatting to his father-in-law about Test Match Special while Myrtle bustled around after a pair of plump, raven-haired children? It defied sense, it insulted his blood, it dishonoured the plans he had made the moment he first held his wand in his hand to one day be mightier than any wizard living.