Oh, Ophelia | Tom Riddle

Clamour for his praise

Tom walked through the castle at night after a meeting with his Knights. The cold air greeting his skin was welcome after the excruciating onslaught of the incapability of any of his knights to be remotely useful. None of them had gathered new followers. None with artifact locations. He only knew what he found out himself.

Self reliant that's what you could call Tom Riddle. Anything that you could do Tom could do better. He could write and speak like a charismatic politician. he evoked fear in his followers when needed and made them crave his praise.

Clamour for his praise.

Need his praise.

Fight for his praise.

He smirked at the thoughts of them begging for his forgiveness and happily lapping up any attention he gave eagerly. Oh Malfoy would be useful. He would be loyal, the Malfoys would be loyal for generations to come. And he was fabulously wealthy, and fabulous levels of wealth always paid off. They got you out of anything.

Guilt nipped at the back of his skull when he thought about what had happened to Ophelia. She had gotten hurt. Because of orders he gave. A heavy sigh escaped him.

Tom adored the little Hufflepuff. She always smelt like honey and she had begun touch him more in public and on patrols which Tom found exhillerating. She would loop her arm through his or ruffle his hair when she got frustrated with him in the library. Always lifting the books out of reach.

Their final Patronus class was tomorrow and honestly she was giving him a whole lot to work with.

He walked up to his dormitory and Malfoy was awake, his curtains open and his eyes locked on his forearm. He spotted Tom and shut the curtains quickly.

Tom smirked at the fear in his eyes. A fear he hoped would never fill golden eyes he held so dear.