IMMORTAL ( TOM RIDDLE )

CHAPTER II

     6.

     The candlelight flickers just bright enough for her to catch the words off the faded page. Late in the night is the only time she has free to read, lately. Her day is taken up helping her father with their work, her evening occupied with Tom.

     Though, sometimes, he finds ways to entertain her during the night as well. She feels his fingers sliding across her hip, pulling her away from the candle that sits on the small bedside table.

     "You're always reading the same book," he mutters. "It must be impressive." His tone implies doubt. No book should be more impressive than he. Tom usually loves inquisitive minds, though in that particular moment, he doesn't appreciate the distraction. His lips fall to her neck and he doesn't stop to ponder how he can enjoy so much the sounds she make. Sometimes, very rarely, he allows himself these pleasures. Now, he is insatiable.

     "I'm sure it would be lost on you," she murmured, giggling softly, eyes determined to never stray from the book in her hands. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he peers over her to read the printed poems. He realizes why she had assumed the words would be 'lost' on him; it had been written in a completely different language.

     L'amour s'en va comme la vie est lente
     Et comme l'Espérance est violente

     "It's a load of rubbish," he snips, grabbing the book and tossing it away.

     Her eyes flash with anger as she turns towards him (he loves it when she gets like this). Pushing his shoulders down onto the mattress, she holds him down with the weight of her own body. "Just because you don't understand it, Tom Riddle-"

     Suddenly, he gains the upper hand, flipping them both over and pinning her down by her wrists. Then, as he looks down at her, admiring how lovely and vulnerable she is beneath him, he perfectly recites the few lines of french poetry. The words come easily (his tongue works magic).

     "Like I said," he mutters, appreciating that she has the sense to look impressed. "A load of rubbish."

     He infuriates her and she hopes he doesn't let her go, that he instead squeezes her tighter, leaves his mark on her. It's wrong, it's very wrong and brutish but its what she wants.

     He releases his hold on her, and her arms are free to lazily wrap around his neck. Pulling his mouth to hers, she sighs into the kiss, "Do you ever shut up?"

     7.

   'All love goes by, how slow life seems to me
How violent the hope of love can be.'

     8.

Throughout the evenings that they waste together, he frequently shows interest in her work in archaeology. It's a subject that she dances around, casually evades and hopes he doesn't notice her reluctance (he notices everything).

"I'd like to see where you work," he says one day, reclining on his side of the bed. "It must be fascinating."

She grows visibly tense and he pretends not to notice. "It can be a hard time but the results are so rewarding," she tells him, recovering swiftly. He believes she must be used to the cover. "I'd love for you to come by sometime, Tom."

"Wonderful." In a sudden motion, he's up in a sitting position and reaching for his discarded shirt. "There's no time like the present." But her hand stops him, pulling him back to her as she kisses him. It's a distraction; he's quite familiar with the tactic. He tenses under her touch, but quickly relaxes before she can notice. (She's not quite as perceptive.)

"I promise to bring you soon," she tells him sweetly. "I'm afraid today wouldn't be ideal."

     He could force her to do as he asked, to do as he commanded, but that just wouldn't do. It's of no consequence; soon, she will do anything he wants of her own free will and that will be much more advantageous. All he has to do is wait.

     9.

     The pugio stubbornly resides in the same cursed state that Marjorie had found it in. No matter how many counter spells she or her father throws at it, the blade remains stubborn. It's deceitfully pretty, old as it is. Very likely to be the blade that found itself lodged into the back of Caesar, Marjorie understands that it wasn't made to be admired. It was made to bring pain. She wonders how many others the pugio had betrayed, how many lives it had taken.

"Ruddy thing has given me the hives," her father grumbles as he exits his tent. The blisters were beginning to creep up his neck, nasty but curable. There was no telling the type of damage it could inflict internally.

"Joseph!" Marje exclaims, already equipped with her wand. Immediately administering healing charms, she asks, "Why didn't you wait for me?"

"You seemed more interested in gallivanting across town with that boy."

     She pauses at the tone of his voice, desperately trying to think of what she could say to try to fix this.

Working again at the now less agitated blisters, she says hesitantly, "Tom." Joseph's eyes shift at the name but he remains quiet. Taking it as a good sign, Marjorie continued, "I like him. He reminds me of the Comte de Montesquiou." It was the more innocent comparison she had in mind; she didn't think her father would appreciate her comparing her suitor to the Greek God of wine.

"That dandy?" Her father asks, clearly with distaste.

"He's elegant." She doesn't dare elaborate. Of course, she couldn't talk to her father about how lean and elegant he was, about how his fair hair contrasted against his alabaster skin or about his silver tongue. All the romantic figures of her youth swirled in her thoughts at the mention of Tom's name.

     10.

Her wand is still out when Tom's amused voice rings throughout the clearing. "Little witch."

     Startled, she thrusts her wand behind her back but it's too late. He's seen it all, the magic and spoken spells. She's been discovered.

"Tom, I can explain," she says urgently, stepping towards him as she attempts to reach out to his mind and heart. It quickly turns out that such attempts are unnecessary.

"I assure you," he says with a sly smile, hand slipping into the pocket of his coat, "an explanation is quite unnecessary." When his hand returns to view, it holds a wand more menacing than any Marjorie had previously seen.