Black Magic

Footsteps fell heavy on a half-empty corridor, a pair of pink lips parted to the elevated rhythm of breaths, a pale hand flashed out from a cloak clutching the spine of a thin book. Amber eyes looked up from the freckled cobbles, a slight smile broke across an otherwise unsmiling mouth; dark robes fluttered in the gentle draft, chin lifted, face set, set and yet pliable with a suggestion of warmth. First-years pressed themselves against the wall the corridor, fell to quick, excited whispers, clambering over each other to catch a view of the boy strolling so casually past them and even the older students went quiet out of awe or respect or both. On his chest, the badge of Head Boy gleamed in the early morning sunlight spilling in through the long windows, sent little particles of sun-shimmer bouncing off the walls, fragments of distorted brilliance, and there wasn't one pair of eyes that didn't follow that shining presence as he moved so cool and unaware.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Tom paused, smiled and turned towards the kids whose faces were animated with excitement, who instantly averted their eyes and tripped over each other as they tried to escape that cool curious gaze. Because everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of him, especially on a day like this, when he was most off-guard, most candid, because often that was when his smile was most arresting, when he was his most charming, and yet no-one wanted to be caught doing it for fear of being thought rude or arrogant. And nothing amused him more than the way some of the students acted, dribbling their sycophantic speech everywhere as he watched, smirking.

It had taken all of six years for what happened next to occur. Two paths running parallel but never meeting, one hapless decision changed the course of one and sent it careering into the other. Because on that day, Tom had decided to take a different route to charms class, one which led him, incidentally, right past the door from which someone else was emerging, the other person who had been living simultaneously as he lived too and who, until the back of her hand so carelessly brushed against his, had only seen him across the room in Defence Against the Dark Arts class, and never really up close. Perhaps it was the way he swept his hair from his forehead, so thoughtlessly and yet so calculatedly, a way which only drew more attention to his eyes which were already plunged deeply and obscenely unashamedly into hers. Perhaps it was the way she faltered, alarmed as she was pushed against the wall by a couple of impatient fifth-years as she gazed, almost motionless, at Tom who, it seemed, had until now failed to notice her existence. Perhaps it was the way that he dipped his head slightly to her as he slipped past, body turned towards hers, almost inviting until he pulled his arms back in order to prevent them touching her unwantedly again that made her shiver hot and then cold. He seemed to know how to make that brief moment feel like years as he guided his body near and then away from hers, the only thing letting her know he'd even noticed her the disarming smile he flashed at her as he walked on by, the hand that had touched hers lifting to pull at the back of his neck.

In her seventh and final year at Hogwarts, Camilla was not ready for what was going to happen for her the further she got in with Tom Riddle and his friends. But neither did he expect that what was to go on would disturb him so profoundly, either.