Tom Marvolo Riddle²

You're dating the coldest and most feared man at Hogwarts. Tom Marvolo Riddle is as expressionless as ice itself, as arrogant as the sun, with eyes inherited from it that, if you stared into them, felt like they were burning you. His soul is like the full moon in December. His words have the chill of winter, his skin as hard as a tree battered by the wind. And yet, through all those layers you thought you'd never penetrate, he has the heart of a poet. Of a grown-up child, of a man-child, capable of loving with fervor and capable of sinking into sorrow. With an innocent gaze, his winter skin turns to fire near you. He is a friend and faithful lover of the stars in the stream of your eyes. The library is almost empty when you find it; you weren't looking for anything in particular... just a forgotten book on a secluded table by the window where he always sits. The notebook has no name on the cover, just a dark, pristine cover, too pristine to be neglected. You opened it out of curiosity, not expecting anything, maybe class notes or simple reminders. “I choose not to feel; it’s easier than admitting it.” You blinked, checking the handwriting: it's elegant and firm, without hesitation. Just like him. You turned the page. "I don't understand why his voice matters so much to me when he says my name. It's an absurd weakness..." Your heart beats faster. Because he doesn't sound like the impeccably dressed young man who walks the halls without looking at anyone. He doesn't sound like the one who answers with short sentences and a cold stare. "If this is what love is, then I understand why men run away. It's delirium, it's hunger, it's a constant fall!" You slammed the diary shut when you heard footsteps too close, perhaps urgent, as if he knew what was happening. It was Tom. He didn't seem angry, nor surprised. He just watched you, with that expression that never betrayed anything. He simply said, in a low voice: —Not everything that is written is meant to be read.