head bows - i'm sorry.

no you're not.

you sigh but don't say if i'm right or not - i know i am, silence was the answer.

what happened to them?

no, it's my turn. shutting my book gently, i lean forward on my elbows. excitement clearly visible in my eyes - i saw them reflecting in yours.

what's your name?

tom.

no, you're actual name.

tapping the ash of your cigarette, you hesitate, then sigh - thomas riddle.

i like it - makes you seem more human - and your middle name?

it's my turn, you chide - throwing my words back at me. quid pro quo, miss berkley.

fine, whatever. i lean back - trying to appear passive but i know you see right through me.

so, what happened to your parents?

i bite my lips - gnawing - digging - tearing - metal teases my tongue and i lick away red - i see you eye the process.

my mum killed her self and my dad died in the war back in fifth year.

that definitely caught your interest - quite morbid thomas, is it not? you perch forward - did she kill herself before or after your father died?

that's insensitive - but i don't feel anything. i don't know why. i think their deaths took something from me with them to the grave.

i shake my head - quid pro quo, remember.

clearly you want to argue but you don't and nod for me to continue.

what's your favorite fairytale?

you do your laugh again, your head shaking this time - what odd questions.

what, unlike yours?

you shrug, it was uncharacteristic of you - fair point. i don't read fairytales.

not even as a boy?

my turn.

damn you.

so, your mum. was it before or after your father was killed?

before.

i can see you itched to ask how she did it. but you bite your tongue and i smirk. this little game of ours was quite fun, i must say.

what did you read as a boy?

you debate, i can see your mind churning behind your skull - sherlock holmes.

a muggle book? color me surprised.

i try my best - so, that's quite peculiar. typically one would assume the wife would kill her self after finding out her husband died in battle. how did she die?

sinking back in my chair - the wood didn't warp to me as it usually did - instead it felt stiff - cold - uncomfortable.

i look away from you - messing my hands instead - killing your self in the muggle world is much more... i don't know. grotesque, than in the magical one. there's no clean-quick out, like we have. no unforgivable, though when you think about it, it's really more of a mercy. death for them is more painful - it either drags out or it's more bloody.

you stare - there was nothing in your features - pure, stiff marble. though beautiful, and had carved emotion - nothing lied beneath. you didn't answer my question.

i laugh - fuck you.

you still have to answer.

more blood on my tongue - gnawing - pulling - sinking.

she slit her wrists, in the kitchen one morning - i take a breath, refusing to look at you. i know you see emotion as weakness, tom. but i'm only human - she did it right in front of me. i was thirteen. i don't remember much, just... a lot of blood.

something hot and wet sears into my cheek in a ruddy trail - before i can act your thumb swiped beneath my eye, smooth but rough - like acid but i want more of it.

i'm sorry - you say it again, you sound like you mean it. i know you don't, but pretending like you do makes it easier.

is this what you do, tom? you make people feel vulnerable so they lean on you, so they become dependent. so they owe you something.

it's wicked and cruel.

yet i find myself leaning into your touch nonetheless.

shaking my head, i clear my throat but it feels like someone dropped a heavy weight into it - what about your parents?

you smile - it's small but grim - they're dead.