𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝 || Tom Riddle

four

"I am going to lob that slimy git's head off!" Thane Nott was fuming.

"Lucky for him, we all know you'd miss," laughed McNair.

"Not everyone can be a star Quidditch player, Nott," Crabbe was saying thickly between chugs of Butterbeer.

"You don't need to be a human battering ram to be a Quidditch star. You two - and everyone else - were only put on the team so that you can bludgeon everyone else on the field while Malfoy scores every point!" He slammed his drink down on the table for effect.

Goyle belched. "What else is there?"

Nott ignored that. "And for the record I only missed that one shot because of the wind!"

Tom yawned. He found this conversation extremely boring. Quidditch trials had just come to a close and Malfoy hadn't even waited an hour to announce who had made the team and who had not. Anyone who could take out an opponent with one swing had a spot. 

Someone, please, alert the Prophet, thought Tom dully.

He usually wouldn't even be found in Hogsmeade at all. A Saturday was much better spent in his quiet, secluded corner in the library beside a stack of books. The squawking of his peers at the pub reminded him of the mind-numbing antics of the boys and girls at the bloody orphanage. Often he felt just as alone in Scotland as he did in London.

But unlike at Wool's, there was an actual purpose to his being here today.

The pub was so packed on this rainy afternoon it seemed like near everyone in the entire damned school was there.  His gaze swept each table quickly with predatory precision and focus, scanning for a sign of life in the weeds. Who would she be with? Who were her friends? She did have friends, didn't she? If Tom had ever known the answers to these questions, he couldn't recall them now.

He knew she had a twin brother, whatever the hell his name was. He played Quidditch. With trials ongoing, Tom didn't waste his time trying to spot him. He realized that even if he tried he could not remember what the boy looked like. 

Tom had breached one of his most important rules when he discarded the newspaper from a week ago in his haste to head off Malfoy. Absorb as much information as is available and then find what hasn't been said - that was what he had always lived by.  He should have studied that thing. He made a mental note to track down the next copy of the Prophet. There would be articles full of useful information about the Silverthorns. 

For now, with not much else to go by, he was stuck searching the crowd for her face. 

He tapped a finger lightly on the table, impatiently, waiting for her, hoping that she would in fact show. She had, after all, only implied that she might come. Maybe she had stood him up. Can you actually stand someone up for date that was never officially set?

The cheeky look she had given Tom flashed again and again in his mind. Her playful smile, the subtle tilt of her head. He had been certain that she was interested. But maybe he was wrong. He knew women flirted with him from time to time, but he had never paid close attention to it.

"Right, Tom?"

"Hm?" He was jarred out of his thoughts.

"You'll have a talk with Malfoy for me, won't you?" Nott was saying to him.

"What makes you think I hold any sway with him when it comes to Quidditch matters?"

"You hold sway with everyone," he replied quickly.

Tom smiled and lied, "You hold much more sway than you think, Nott. I really think that it would be better coming directly from you." Tom could not possibly care less about this little quarrel.