psych! ; tom riddle

02;

SHE SEEMED TO SNAP out of it once the two stood side by side in front of the bookstore. Bound spines of ink covered pages stack windows and shelves within and theres a rustle where the cafe is filled with intellectual wannabes. The type who mysteriously type away on keyboard letters— a new book on the horizon, or flip incessantly at tome pages with a coffee in hand— no one knows they read the same line over and over again to seem more interesting.

This is what Tom hates about muggles, their need of self elevation and blustery, brunch dates and fake growing libraries where they spill the new information on this philosophical book they've picked up— purposely leaving out the detail that they've only read the first page.

He assumes Amora Blanche is just the same, but although his overladen biases chock-fulled his mind with animosity, there was a part of him who thought otherwise, for the way her face lit up at the sight of these volumes seemed just too pure for anything like sluggish necessitates to impress.

But he follows her in, her shoulders oddly tense as she feels his shadow connect with hers, a waltz to a silent symphony of classical thrill and when he delves into her mind to watch her thoughts flourish he finds it blank of all thought.

There was a moment where a sense of apprehension crept in, of perturbation or perhaps that his spell, too strong had managed to sanctify her of all individual thought. And his body grows rigid with a shiver not because he holds worries of her wellbeing but rather that his plans would be pulverized.

But suddenly and to a paramount of relief an imagine blossoms, the cover of the book while she drifts through shelves so gracefully he'd think her transcendental, but he can tell by the innocence of her mind that the only true notion of the world he knew so well is that of a fairytale— and fairytales are for children, naive fucking children.

"Here it is" she sighs while the book pages filter through her fingertips and the ethereality of her words draw him from thought. Its quite a heavy thing, and a part of him questions whether her thin arms have the strength to lift such a weight— his curiosity gets the better of him and he can't help but scold himself, for before he can even cognize his actions his arms have gripped to the cover and slid it from her grasp.

He inspects it, turns its, begins to loathe it and then proceeds to pay without much time for Amora herself to comprehend.

He presumes she thinks it a gentlemen act, to carry her belongings and do as he had implied, pay— as a promise of a one time (in her assumption) that he mend his ill mistake.

Little does she know that he rather just get out of this muggle infested shop before he catches a disease.

The cash register rings, drawers slide and his receipt printed and when he hands her a bag she hardly expects for him to lead her out, not parting ways but continuing on his cunning path of rascality.

"So psychology?" He muses, quirking a brow and turning up lips to a smile and watches a small grin spread like wildfire on her own expression.

"Yes, I'm well, I'm trying to become a psychologist."

"How interesting."

Not.

"Specifically criminal cases and such, always thought those things interesting."

He hums, though hardly listening.

"Especially psychopathy and sociology."

He hums again while his eyes skim the streets, the clicking of her boots heels beside him cease and he almost proceeds without her but a grip chills the skin of his arms and he freezes.