To Revive a Soul || Tom Riddle

4. The Birth of a Monster

Christmas had come and gone. She hadn't gone home for the holidays, not being able to afford a trip back to America and certainly not being able to afford a trip back to her parents'.

She hadn't gone into Christmas break knowing what to expect, but she had ended up spending most of her days in Hogsmeade, just walking around and enjoying the atmosphere. The thick blankets of snow covering the ground and buildings made for a nice change of pace from the gothic architecture of the castle and took her mind off of how lonely she had been feeling.

If she was still at Ilvermorny, she would've been on a trip with her close friends, exploring the wonders of the country. They would've gone into the No-Maj world, singing Christmas carols and decorating gingerbread houses. They did all of these things at Hogwarts, but all of her friends had gone home, and singing Christmas carols alone was more upsetting than not singing them at all.

But there she sat, in the Great Hall on a January morning, shoving breakfast down her throat slowly as she stared out of the large windows ahead of her. Classes would begin in no more than a week, and despite how little she'd done over the break, the weeks had flown by.

She stood from the Slytherin table, watching as her plate vanished out of thin air, and made her way to the library. There was a rather interesting book on magical creatures she had come across last week, and she had been itching to read it. Eleanor supposed she could've started it sooner, but today, of all days, seemed like a good day.

When she walked into the library, she sped down the aisles and aisles of books to find the one she was looking for and turned onto the correct row only to stop in her tracks. At the end of the aisle, head buried in a small black notebook as he sat in a windowsill, was Tom Riddle.

He was wearing a gray cable-knit sweater with his Slytherin tie wrapped loosely around his neck, his pants riding up his ankles due to the bend in his knees, exposing a pair of black socks. His eyes narrowed at the notebook in his left hand as he twiddled a quill in his right. He was so invested in whatever he was writing that he didn't seem to notice her presence—and if he had, he was paying no mind to it.

She slowly walked forward, grabbing her book from the shelf and approaching him. She held it to her chest to shield herself. "Uh, hey," she greeted, and he snapped his head up, snapping the notebook shut and widening his eyes.

So he hadn't known she was there.

"Hey," he said back, startled.

"I didn't know you were staying over the break," she told him, leaning against the wall by the window in an attempt to make small talk.

He shook his head. "I don't go back. Not unless it's summer, I mean." He twisted his head, gazing pensively at the snow falling outside and the thin layer of ice glazing over the Black Lake. It was an oddly vulnerable look for him: the relaxed expression on his face, his deep brown curls falling in chunks over his forehead, his flushed cheeks at the embarrassment of being caught writing in what looked like a diary. "Don't... don't ask me why."

She shrugged. "It's your home life. I don't really need to know." He nodded slowly, apprehensively. "I can't go back to America. Not worth it for just a few weeks."

His lips flickered upwards in a ghost of a grin. "I figured," he said. "I've read into Ilvermorny, by the way. How'd you learn non-verbal magic like that? You aren't supposed to study that until seventh year."

She raised an eyebrow, trying to shove down the fact that he had researched her school. "I could ask you the same thing."

His chin lifted proudly. "I'm self-taught. Not elaborating any further," he answered, smirking. "Do I need to ask you again?"