[⌛]                     

"Wha. . .?"

"Why're yer cryin' all of a sudden'??"

Zanka’s voice cuts in—low, rough around the edges—like he’s prodding at something he doesn’t quite want to touch. He watches your tears spill, only to dry before they can even stain the sheets.

"It's nothin'"

The sting fades into numbness, bleeding out into that cold, endless familiar sea—where everything is quiet, where sinking feels less like dying and more like returning. You let yourself go loosen into it, deeper into the sheets, as though they might open beneath you if you surrender properly this time.

It's not fair, you think. Cruel even.

To place this weight upon him. To make him bear the aftermath of a victim, when he is neither the culprit nor the healer.

Does this make you the culprit too? To force him into something beyond his control, something he does not even know exists?

“It sure ain’t nothin’ if yer cryin’.”

There’s movement beside you. His hand reaches out—slide into your hair, pushing damp strands away from your face—clearing your vision.

"What it is?" The same hand you’d toy with during class, tracing over rough skin like it means something.

Zanka sigh when you didn't answer.

"Ya know I’m not good with this comfort stuff—” he mutters, quieter now. Like the words themselves don’t sit right in his mouth. You know he's never been good with comforting people. His thumb shifts slightly where it’s caught in your hair, like he’s debating something he doesn’t have words for.

“But ya either gonna keep drownin’ over there…”

The sentence lingers, unfinished for a moment too long.

“…or come here.”

The words hang there, placed between you. Then his hand slips away from your hair, down—hesitant in a way that doesn’t suit him—until it finds your hand instead. But not grabbing yet, just there. Waiting, like he’s testing the edge of something he can’t name.

A question, without asking it. And for a second, nothing answers.

Then—your fingers shift. They curl, faintly, around his—like the way a hand reaches in sleep, seeking something warm and familiar, before the mind can interfere.

The mattress dips—slow, inevitable—like something stepping into the water after you. And before you can choose whether to disappear completely or remain just enough to be found, his hand tightens around yours—firm, familiar, annoyingly certain. Another hooks around your waist and pull.

The world tilts—

or perhaps it’s just you, dragged upward from that cold, depthless quiet you were starting to settle into.

You folded awkwardly into him, half-slipping, half-held—like something that wasn’t meant to be founded much less carried but is anyway. Zanka exhales—low through his nose, like he’s bracing for a weight he doesn’t understand.

“Tch… yer light.”

But he doesn’t let go.

One arm stays around your waist, anchoring you there, steady like the edge of something real. The other moves slower, hesitating just enough to betray uncertainty before settling at your head. Sliding back through your hair, a little awkward, little clumsy— like waves that don’t quite follow rhythm but still reach shore.

“…Stop thinkin’ so loud,” he mutters, voice lower now, closer to your ear. “I can practically hear it.”

You didn’t say anything. But silence, it seems, has its own language.

And yours is loud.

Like whatever you’re trying to hold in—whatever never quite spills over, never quite breaks—is leaking out anyway. In the way you go still. In the way you don’t. His thumb presses lightly at your side. Like a reminder that you’re still here.

That you're not gone yet.

The silence stretches—but it’s not empty. It’s dense, like the space underwater where everything is muffled but present, where sound becomes feeling instead.

Then a brief pause in the movement of his hand like he is not sure of what's he about to do.

Something warm brushes against the crown of your head.

A kiss.

It is quick. Awkward. Almost accidental—like he didn’t plan it and wants to refuse it happened.

“…There.”

He huffs, like the act itself has inconvenienced him.

It didn’t. It's too quick to be gentle—more like making sure you stayed.

His fingers resume their slow, absent motion through your hair. Still uneven but softer now.

“I told ya,” he murmurs after a while, quieter, like the words are meant to sink rather than land, “I don't know how to fix anythin’.”

A beat.

“But I can be here.”

His arm tightens just a little around your waist—not enough to trap, just enough to keep you from slipping back into that cold, water.

“So don’t go driftin’ off somewhere weird in yer head.”

Another beat.

“…Stay here.”

And he doesn’t say anything else after that.

Just the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath you.

"Fuck, I told you to stay—"

Just those calloused fingers, moving again and again, Like they’re trying to hold onto something that keeps sinking, and refusing to let it go.

                     [⌛]                     

It began with the precipice of his creation—rules and laws he meticulously had written, structures Tom intended for everyone to bow to, if not immediately, then inevitably. He had already established his inner circle, the Knights of Walpurgis, instilling in those pureblooded, idle sons of privilege the conviction that they answered to him, and him alone.

Remarkably enough, it had taken very little effort to persuade them to address him as My Lord. Foolish! Utterly foolish, and for his own amusement of course. Tom did fancy that title, but mostly he just enjoyed watching them grovel for a bit of his attention. It does wonders for his ego, blood status seemed meaningless when these purebloods are beneath him anyway.

It is natural for Tom that people simply gravitate towards him no matter the cause because he is that charmingly deceptive. He knew exactly what to say, when to smile and laugh, when to offer a helping hand to younger students. Tom made a point of remembering the smallest details about people he would otherwise ignore, all for the sake of his ambition, making this uprising to godhood much more unbearably tedious.

For years, the system had been simple. Foreseeable even. He worked twice as hard, he excelled in all subjects, and the castle bent itself around the inevitability of his brilliance. Professors admired him. Students feared or idolized him. Tom's reputation was something few students managed to earn so early, carefully built and impossible to dismiss.

But alongside that, there was always another name.

Yours.

Not above his, never quite below it either—always beside it, irritatingly parallel. It was intolerable, to say the least. Tom did not believe in coincidence. Excellence required discipline, a will sharp enough to carve through the mediocrity of others, and yet you moved through the same system with a carelessness that bordered on sacrilege.

You matched him in every examination. Potion compositions written with neat perspicuity. Defensive spellwork executed with unnerving control. Even the obscure theoretical questions—those that forced other students into frantic guesswork, you answered with the same certainty Tom did.

Tom hated your lineage; he hated the way the name (Lastname) opened doors for you that he had to blast off their hinges. Though more than the blood status, he hated your apathy. You were his only academic peer, the only one whose scores occasionally flickered above his own, regardless, you treated your magic like a common parlor trick.

You didn't crave the mastery he did. You seemed to treat Hogwarts like someplace you were merely passing through. Competition was the heart of Hogwarts, everyone knew this. Students devoured each other for recognition, clawing upward toward approval, toward power, toward the fragile illusion of importance.

But you never played the game. That, perhaps, was the most offensive thing about you.

Tom could tolerate rivals. Rivals had its own purpose, it could create friction against which greatness could be measured. He could have a little bit fun with that, even hatred had a kind of structure to it, something orderly and quite predictable. If you had glared across the classroom at him, if you had sneered when your marks surpassed his, if you had attempted to gather your own little court of admirers to counter his—Tom would have understood it.

You did none of those things.

You did not gloat when Slughorn praised your potion work, though the old man's delight was obvious when he compared it to Tom's. You did not preen when Dumbledore returned Transfiguration essays with identical Outstanding marks, the faintest proud expression in his otherwise neutral expression betraying how unusual it was.

It was the ease that galled him. Tom looked for the tell tale signs of strain in your work and found nothing. The possibility that you were achieving parity while distracted—while barely even present, festered in his mind. You don't even try. Tom always tried.

If you can do this while your mind is elsewhere, then what are you capable of if you've given enough care? And why, merciful Slytherin, do you not simply care?

To serve his own incessant curiosities, Tom had taken to observing you over the years—purely in passing, of course. Not stalking. Certainly not a growing fixation. Though he would never allow anyone to suspect it. You simply had an unfortunate tendency to appear wherever his attention happened to fall. Yes, that's it.

First he noticed you often studied alone, sometimes with that (Mudblood) Hufflepuff Bathilda Cattermole. The name alone carried an unpleasant taste in Tom's mind, though he concealed it perfectly whenever she was near. The girl was harmless, in the way insects were harmless; small, dull creatures occupying space that hardly matters.

It was a grotesque display of wasted intellect; you would lean in to whisper about some inconsequential nonsense to her, laughing as if there is not a care in the world. Books would lie open around you, several at once, but your attention drifted between them without urgency. Sometimes you would abandon them entirely to chase something trivial.

Once, Tom had watched from the castle window as you spent nearly twenty minutes attempting to coax a kneazle out from beneath the greenhouse steps. The creature eventually allowed itself to be scooped into your arms, where it immediately began purring like a moggie. You had laughed then, the sound light and unguarded, before setting it down again and walking off as if the entire incident had been of equal importance to any academic pursuit.

Tom had found himself irrationally irritated for the remainder of the day. It did not make sense, nothing about you made sense.

And lately, the matter had only become stranger, because you had begun behaving suspiciously. Tom did not mean the kind of suspicious behavior that plagued foolish students experimenting with cursed objects or forbidden spells. No, he understood that kind of ambition very well. This was different—you had begun disappearing.

You were doing things. Odd things.

Lingering outside the Restricted Section long after the librarian had dismissed the last student, only to leave without taking a single book. Standing perfectly still beside the Black Lake at dusk, as though waiting for something beneath the surface to answer you. Disappearing into the greenhouses after curfew and emerging later with dirt beneath your fingernails.

Scribbling something hurriedly into a small notebook before tearing the page out and folding it away into your robes.

On more than one of his late patrols, Tom had encountered you where you most certainly should not have been. It would have taken very little effort to deduct points, to escort you back to your dormitories, to see you assigned detention for the rest of the term. He never did. Curiosity, after all, required patience. Interrupting you now would only delay whatever it was you were trying so strangely to accomplish.

None of it aligned with the person Tom believed you must be. Someone who could match him intellectually had to possess the same hunger. The same drive toward something larger than the petty distractions of ordinary life.

Which meant there were only two possibilities.

Either you were profoundly idiotic or you were hiding something.

Tom preferred the second theory.

Sooner or later, you would reveal something, and when you do, Tom would finally understand what game you were playing.

The next Potions lesson began as most did; thick with the sour sweet fumes of simmering concoctions and the tension that inevitably followed the presence of Slughorn. The dungeon classroom was already alive with the low burble of cauldrons when Tom arrived. Students parted almost unconsciously as he moved through the room, their murmured conversations dimming in that subtle way they often did around him.

He also noticed where you were sitting.

Second row from the back today, quill tucked absently behind your ear, sleeves rolled just high enough to keep them from dipping into the potion you had not yet begun brewing. Several ingredients already sat neatly arranged before you, though you seemed far more interested in turning a small scrap of parchment between your fingers than in the lesson itself.

Tom slid into the empty seat beside you.

Slughorn clapped his hands together at the front of the room, mustache bristling with enthusiasm.

"Today, my young prodigies, we shall be attempting something a touch more delicate. A Draught of Peace."

Several students groaned quietly.

Tom, however, his attention had already shifted to the small parchment still turning slowly between your fingers, the same small notebook paper he had seen you tear from its binding on other occasions. Interesting.

Slughorn continued. "You will be working in pairs today! A proper Draught requires a steady hand and excellent timing—two minds are better than one, eh?"

The class began shifting noisily as students rearranged themselves, Tom did not move, and either did you. Which meant, of course—

"Well then!" Slughorn beamed, clearly delighted. “Riddle and Miss (Lastname)! Excellent pairing. Two of my finest students, what a treat!”

A few heads turned. Tom could practically hear the unspoken thought ripple through the room. Of course they’re paired. A faint smug expression etches across his face, at least they know you were somehow off limits when it comes to these things.

"Miss (Lastname)," he began softly, almost conversationally, "I must say… you have an impressive method of organizing your workspace. I can always tell which students will end up with a perfect potion before they even begin."

You glanced at him briefly, eyebrow raised.

"And which category does that put me in?" you asked, tone light, friendly.

Tom allowed a faint laugh. "You, of course, are in a class entirely your own. Unpredictable, yet precise. There's a balance to it I find fascinating."

Your mouth quirked into a tiny smile, clearly amused by the rare compliment. Tom's eyes flicked to your cauldron, noting the way you measured each ingredient with careless elegance.

"Do you always work like this?" he asked casually, already preparing his moonstone. "Or is today a special occasion?"

"I like to keep things interesting," you replied, shrugging. "Life's too dull otherwise."

Tom's lips curved into a more deliberate smile. "Interesting… yes, I would describe you exactly the same way."

He stirred the cauldron slowly, watching the vapors curl turn into blue, but his attention never left you. He let the silence linger just long enough for curiosity to prick at you, how does one keep a conversation alive with someone who seems so unbothered? Tom could comment on the potion, the parchment, the steam curling from the cauldron—anything.

All he had to do was ask the right question, make the smallest observation, and you would respond.

"You measure very carefully," he observed, as if it were the most offhand remark. "I've seen plenty of students rush and ruin the potion before they've even begun."

You shrugged, dipping your wand into the mixture. "I don't see the point in rushing. Potions aren't a race."

"No, they aren't. But some do seem to treat every lesson like one." He tapped the side of his cauldron lightly with his wand. "I can't imagine how tedious it must be to follow the rules that closely all the time."

You glanced at him, curiosity in your gaze. "Rules aren't so bad, I suppose. Sometimes they're convenient."

"Convenient," he repeats. "Yes, that's a good way to put it. Easier than constantly calculating where others might go wrong, I imagine."

"Some people take rules far too seriously. I prefer to experiment a little."

Tom tilted his head, watching the vapors twist. "Experimentation has its merits. It makes life more interesting, doesn't it?"

"Exactly," you said, with a faint smile, as though confirming a shared secret.

"I reckon we'll learn quite a lot from each other today."

Your expression changes, clearly amused yet unfazed. "I suppose we shall."

Three days had passed since that pairing in Potions, and in that time, Tom had seen you more than he had anticipated—passing in corridors, exchanging brief words in the library, sharing a glance across the dueling stage, and of course, working alongside him again in most classes.

He realized now that his usual methods were only partially effective with you. You allowed proximity, allowed conversation, allowed a teasing smile here, a hint of amusement there but never more. Never enough for Tom to feel in control, never enough to fully unravel the enigma you carried.

Yet in those fragments, he had learned much. Tom had learned that you were gratuitous even in your apparent spontaneity, that your curiosity was boundless yet tempered with a certitude that could split through any problem, that you were unbothered by pretense, immune to the usual allure of titles and admiration, and profoundly uninterested in anyone's expectations but your own.

He admitted (only to himself) that there was a peculiar elegance to it all.

And perhaps the most infuriating and intoxicating part of it was how utterly self-contained you were. Tom had assumed, as he always did, that charm could open the edifice of your brain, his superior intellect could lure any mind into conversation, or attention could extract secrets like water from a sponge. Not with you.

You were careful, playful, intelligent, and wholly autonomous. You revealed only what you wished for Tom Riddle to see. And yet, every conversation, every shared glance, had allowed him glimpses—perhaps, of patterns. A mind that, while inscrutable, was fascinating in its logic and entirely unpredictable in its choices.

"Good morning, (Name)." says Tom one morning, at the Great Hall where you were seated.

"Hello, Tom." you murmured, currently occupied reading a novel, you didn't give him a glance.

"Shall we walk together to class later?"

Tom knew it was a gamble, offering such a casual invitation while so many watched. Yet he was confident enough in your nature to suspect you wouldn't outright refuse. And if you agreed… well, that would be even more instructive. The thought of it made him linger a moment longer, anticipating.

It struck him, belatedly, that Bathilda was watching, mouth slightly agape. How amusing, that she assumed he was making some grand gesture. Tom allowed himself the smallest smirk, quietly amused by the idea that people around them couldn't see the simplicity of his plan—a casual walk to class. It was not for them, after all. It was for you.

You glanced up briefly, then back at your book. "I think I'll pass, thanks."

The audible gasp from Bathilda Cattermole made him flick an almost invisible glance toward her, noting the sheer incredulity on her face. Tom felt a subtle tick in his jaw, though his expression remained perfectly composed.

"I see," he said smoothly, voice gentle but on edge. "But perhaps I could persuade you? It need not be a long conversation. Merely a stroll."

"Thanks, Tom, but Betty and I have plans on the way to class," you said lightly, turning a page. "I wouldn't want to steal her company."

Tom's eyes swept over to Bathilda, then back to you. "Very well."

A flash of irritation ran through him. You had rejected him without effort, and yet he could not betray the stir it caused. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow he would not be denied so easily. His mind churned with possibilities, the ways Tom might lure you into conversation without tripping over your defenses, the ways he might pique that insufferable independence of yours.

He was patient, though even then, patient has its limits.

The following morning, Tom arrived at the Great Hall with his usual lackeys, and yet, his attention was elsewhere. He scanned the familiar faces, eyes drifting past chatter and the clatter of breakfast, seeking you.

And there you were.

But not alone.

Cadmus Sallow, a Gryffindor; gawky, loud, all good natured bravado—walked beside you, his hand brushing yours casually as if the world were no more than a playground. You had giggled at something he said, the light in your eyes utterly unrestrained, a sound that ricocheted through Tom's mind.

Tom stopped just short of the Slytherin table, teeth clenching, the muscles at the back of his neck stiffening. His mind ran through options, each more preposterous than the last; intercepting politely, feigning casual coincidence, perhaps even conjuring an excuse to walk with you without appearing obvious…

And yet, you didn't glance back, didn't seem aware of his presence. Infuriating, because it was trivial. It was mundane. Something curdled inside him, a strange, unfamiliar burn he did not recognize. Tom had not expected you to acquiesce to him yesterday, but he had hoped for some small opening this morning. But now this, he gets instead.

He observed you as you accepted Sallow's attention. Every instinct in him bristled, though entirely not at Scamander's presence, but at the ease with which you allowed it. The thought of you, walking beside another student, unselfconscious in ways that had not included him, kindled a strange unrest beneath his exterior that Tom had never allowed before.

Tom tried to analyze it, to place it in intellectual terms. Was this a test? An act to draw him out, or merely a display of that infuriating self containment that had made every prior interaction with you both vexing and fascinating? Perhaps, he realized reluctantly, it was simpler than that. Perhaps you simply… did not care to include him at all.

He pressed his hands lightly to the edge of the table, forcing himself to maintain composure. He would not betray even a flicker of irritation, would not let anyone see how quickly the sight had unnerved him. His mind, always so accustomed to control, swirled instead with new kind of cunning.

Because one way or another, whether through his impeccable charm or subtle provocation, he would see you walk alongside him. And he would understand—whatever strange, confounding force drew him to you, it would not be denied.

Night had settled over Hogwarts, the castle quiet except for the occasional owl or the soft rustle of ghosts wandering the corridors. His usual late patrols gives him the perfect pretense to wander the halls, deduct points from students who broke curfew hours, and assert control in the small ways he could. Patrols were a duty—but Tom always preferred them.

As he walked along the path near the Black Lake, reverie in mind, his eyes caught movement. At first, he thought he was mistaken; a pair of shadows that shouldn't be there. Then he recognized them. Closer inspection confirmed what his mind had already been racing toward—Cadmus Sallow and you. Too close, too casual.

But it wasn't the proximity that set his teeth on edge, it was what followed next.

Before Tom could fully process, Cadmus lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your scream carried across the water, and in a split second, he tossed you into the lake.

Time slowed. Tom's brain scrambled, processing: You can swim, yes. But why the theatrics? Why the—Panic. Alarm. Rage. You were going to drown in that lake, whose night dark depths had swallowed creatures before, where one miscalculated stroke could have ended everything. You were going to be eaten alive.

Cursing under his breath, he raised his wand. "Impedimenta!"

Cadmus froze mid step, hit by the curse thrown, stumbling backward onto the grass with a groan; unconscious before he even hit the ground. He didn't care for that boy, not now.

Without thinking, Tom dived into the lake. The water enveloped him, cold and suffocating, but he pushed downward, past the ripples and shadows, searching desperately. He spotted a swirl of motion, a glimmer of the shape he knew belonged to you, sinking lower than any ordinary person should.

Hands closed around you, firm as he dragged you upward, breaking the surface in a violent rush, lungs screaming from the shock. He hauled you to the shore, water sluicing off your hair, clothes sticking, and only then allowed himself a glance at your face.

His hands were shaking from a burgeoning, murderous intent that made the Lake's depths look inviting by comparison. Tom looked at your pale throat, then back at the dark lump of Sallow on the grass. He wondered how long Cadmus Sallow would last if his lungs were magically filled with the very lake water he'd thrown you into. It was a fascinating academic question. He'd leave the boy's body at the bottom of the lake, anchored by the weight of his own stupidity.

The world was full of mediocre people; surely the loss of one loud mouthed Gryffindor would be a net gain for the universe. A simple Killing Curse felt too quick, a mercy Sallow hadn't earned. No, Tom would unmake him. The audacity of it—to put hands on his interest, to ruin his clothes, to force him into a display of uncalculated emotion.

You coughed, the water spilling out in a rush, leaving you trembling and breathless against the damp earth. Your eyes were bright with adrenaline, blinking up at the dark silhouette of the boy looming over you.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" Tom finally had snapped. "That idiot just threw you into the lake! He could have killed you!"

You blinked at Tom, water dripping from your hair, looking far more confused than frightened.

"Tom Riddle?" you glanced around, then at the lake. "What are you doing here?"

Tom stared at you in disbelief. "What am I—? You were drowning, (Name). I saved you."

"…I asked him to throw me in."

You what?

The words did not settle into anything sensible, they hovered somewhere between incomprehensible and deeply irritating.

"You… asked him," Tom repeated slowly.

Water dripped from your sleeves as you pushed yourself upright, still catching your breath. Behind you, the lake lapped innocently at the shoreline as though it had not just been the site of a life threatening rescue.

"Yes," you said, brushing wet hair from your face. "I asked him."

Tom's mind, which had been seconds away from devising several creative methods of disposing of Cadmus Sallow’s body, stalled completely.

"You asked him," he said again, more sharply.

Then you nodded your head, as if this clarified everything, as if it was enough of an explanation. Tom glanced down at you, then toward the unconscious Gryffindor sprawled several feet away, then back at the lake.

A long, very quiet pause followed.

"You were sinking, (Name)." Tom said finally, voice tight. "You disappeared beneath the surface."

"Yes," you agreed cheerfully.

"That generally happens when one is thrown into deep water."

"And yet," your hands gestured vaguely at yourself, "I'm fine, Tom."

"You were drowning," Tom insists stubbornly.

"No, I wasn't."

"You were underwater."

"That's how swimming works."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I heard you screaming."

You shrugged. "It's part of the experience."

"The experience?"

"Yes, Tom. I feel like we are going around in circles."

He inhaled slowly through his nose, as though restraining himself from committing several crimes at once. Behind him, Cadmus Sallow groaned faintly. Tom’s head snapped toward the sound with a glare.

You followed his gaze and blinked. "Oh," you said. "Why is Cadmus unconscious?"

"Because I hexed him."

"For throwing me in the lake?"

"Obviously."

"But I asked him to."

Tom's patience, already hanging by a thread, strained violently. "Yes," he said tightly. "You mentioned that."

You tilted your head at him, studying his soaked robes, the lake water dripping from his hair, the fact that he was kneeling in the mud looking equal parts furious and bewildered.

"…Tom," you said slowly.

"(Name)." Tom says your name with the same timbre of your voice.

"Did you jump into the lake to save me?"

Tom's gaze shifted away from yours, settling somewhere over your shoulder toward the lake. For the first time that evening, he found himself momentarily at a loss. He had not planned the dive, had not weighed the risks or consequences. The moment he believed you were in danger, he had simply moved. Instinctively. Recklessly. The lack of logic in that decision disturbed him deeply.

Irrational—precisely the sort of behavior he despised in other people. Although Tom preferred not to dwell on why your safety had seemed suddenly more important than his own. He did not respond to your question but it was quite obvious from the way his expression subtly changed, the way ruddy crept up from his ears, evidently clear.

A sound reached him then—a laugh. Yours. Tom's attention snapped back immediately, the unfamiliar warmth of the sound catching him off guard. It was effortless, genuine in a way he had not quite witnessed before, this was something else entirely.

Your eyes had crinkled slightly at the corners, your shoulders shaking lightly, and your nose scrunching faintly as you laughed under your breath. It was your entire expression softening, leaving Tom too mesmerized to even look away. You were beautiful. Crushingly so. How does he look away now that he has seen you?

The sound was oddly compelling. He wondered, briefly, what it would take to hear it again from you. Perhaps it was not such a wasted effort after all.

"I was not dying, all right," you managed between breaths. "Cadmus and I were testing something."

"Testing what exactly?"

"I am merely crossing off my life list."

Tom blinked. "Your what?"

You shrugged slightly, wringing water from your sleeve. "Betty told me about it. Muggle sentimentality, you know. It's just… a list of things you want to do at least once. Little experiences, ridiculous ideas, things you'd regret never trying." You gestured vaguely toward the lake. "Being thrown into the Black Lake at night happened to be one of them."

Tom regarded you with a narrowed gaze, reconsidering everything he thought he had understood. For a moment he felt the irritation of a theory collapsing in his mind. Tom had believed he was beginning to understand you—your odd behavior, your distance, the curious independence you guarded so closely. Yet every time he thought he had placed you inside his head amongst all other things, you do something utterly nonsensical. Tom goes back to zero again.

"Why on earth," he asked finally, "would anyone willingly do something like that?"

"Because it's ridiculous," you said simply. "And we're almost out of time at Hogwarts. We'll be graduating soon!"

Tom understood the source of your strange behavior now. The explanation was disappointingly simple; a list of meaningless experiences, both sentimental and irrational. And yet, for reasons he could not categorize, he found himself standing alone in the corridor the next morning with a small bouquet conjured in his hand, waiting for you.

An apology was unnecessary; you had, after all, survived the ordeal unscathed. By every rational measure, the matter should have been dropped.

His gaze lowered briefly to the flowers.

They were small things; delicate blossoms threaded with thin stems of green, arranged with a care he had not consciously intended. Most girls like flowers, right? Assumingly so, Tom decided to go with that. It's the sort of gift people offered to smooth over minor inconveniences, but not something one prepared after dragging someone half drowned from the Black Lake in the middle of the night.

A group of younger students passed at the far end of the corridor, their chatter reverberating against the walls before fading down the stairwell. The castle was slowly stirring awake, morning light spilling through the tall windows and stretching across the floor in long bands.

Tom remained where he was.

The sensible course of action would have been to leave. There was nothing requiring his presence here, nothing obligating him to wait. If anything, the more pressing matter still remained Cadmus Sallow, whose continued existence was a mistake Tom had not yet eliminated.

He could see you were finally walking, side by side with Bathilda Cattermole, her usual chatter filling the quiet morning. Tom adjusted the small bouquet in his hand, straightening his robes, and started walking toward you with measured steps. The usual confident stride was tempered by an unfamiliar anticipation.

When he finally fell into step beside you, he allowed a wry smile to soften his otherwise stern expression.

"Good morning, (Name). Care to let me borrow a moment of your time?"

You glanced at him briefly, eyebrow arched. For a passing moment, Tom feared refusal—instead, you nodded, turning your attention back to Bathilda. "I'll see you later, Betty."

You walked with a calm ease, hair styled and eyes glowed, and for the first steps, neither of you spoke. The silence was not uncomfortable; it was tension interlaced from the events of the Black Lake, from shared glances and unspoken questions, from the chaos of the night left behind but not forgotten.

Finally, Tom broke it, holding out the bouquet.

You blinked, startled. "Oh…? What's this for?"

Tom's jaw stiffened. Words rarely stumbled from him, and yet, here they came, halting and uncertain. "For the other night," he explains. "I didn't mean to come across… harshly. Or alarm you. You… surprised me."

Your lips quirked, faintly amused, but your eyes studied him intently, trying to read more than the words themselves.

"Well," you said softly, "I suppose it's appreciated."

He let out a small exhale, though his heart pounded. The corridor stretched ahead, sunlight streaming through, dust motes drifting lazily in the morning light. He fell into step beside you, keeping a careful distance, conscious of the warmth emanating from your presence, yet unsure how close Tom should allow himself.

"You were reckless," he said finally, careful, but with an edge he could not fully suppress.

You glanced at him, tilting your head, eyes curious. "Perhaps. But I wanted to be. It was… necessary."

Tom's eyes drifted to yours, trying and failing to assess the logic behind your statement. And then, without thinking, he let a corner of his usual precision slip.

"Necessary?" almost incredulous. "You could have drowned or worse—killed by Grindylows."

"You saved me," a teasing lilt in your tone. "Did you not?"

The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, though he would not call it that. Something in your easy confidence, in the way you had faced the lake, in the way you now accepted the bouquet without complaint, unsettled him in the best possible way. He had expected the refusal, but not this. Not you.

Both of you walked in silence for a few moments longer, the bouquet held loosely between your fingers, the weight of unspoken words lingering. The lecture he'd prepared died in his throat, replaced by the simple, startling peace of your company. In the soft, hazy light of the morning, the world seemed to shrink until there was no past to interrogate and no future to plot—there was only the reality of his shadow falling beside yours on the path.

Tom Riddle was simply there, matching his stride to yours, captivated by the way the sunlight refused to flee from your gaze.

Finally, you glanced down at the flowers. "You didn't have to do this, you know."

"I know," he replied evenly, though the edge in his voice betrayed him. "But I wanted to."

Your eyes softening ever so slightly. "Then… thank you, Tom."

You continued walking, the corridor fading behind as the path led toward the small wooden bridge spanning the stream that fed into the Black Lake. The world around you were quiet—too quiet, perhaps, and it left only the two of you in the sunlight dappled hush of the bridge.

You stopped abruptly, turning around to face him, lifting your gaze to meet his. The bouquet shifted in your fingers.

"Tom," you began softly, voice unusually serious. "Are you… courting me?"

He froze, then he blinked once, twice, and for once, words had failed him. Courting? For a man who prided himself on having a silver tongue, the silence that followed was positively deafening. Tom had never—never—intended to express anything so personal, or resembling affection towards you. And yet, somehow, you had come to that conclusion entirely on your own.

How had you drawn that conclusion?

Tom's mind scrambled, a myriads of contradictions swimming through his head. He could not dissect this, could not plan a clever retort. You had thrown him entirely off, the bridge beneath him felt narrower, the air heavier with the implication of your words, his chest felt tightly suffocating.

He tried to search your expression, the certainty in your eyes, trying to find a misinterpretation—a trick, anything Tom could use to reduce this to something manageable. But there was nothing. The words hung in the air between you, tangible and daring him to respond.

Tom felt an unfamiliar pang of something like hesitation, like fear, like desire, like fury, though he could not tell which. He felt unarmed, exposed to your understanding, and frustratingly, Tom hated that it pleased him.

You didn't wait for him. The silence stretched, the soft ripple of the stream below, and the bouquet trembling slightly in your hands, as if even it sensed the tension.

Finally, with your usual decisiveness, you added: "I'll be your girlfriend then."

You had chosen him, on your own terms, without persuasion, without manipulation, and entirely outside his control. In that moment, Tom felt like he could do nothing but stare at you in disbelief, breath caught.

Tom Riddle has a girlfriend now. Girlfriend. The word still lingered in his mind, as though it didn't belong in the same sentence with him. Tom Riddle has a girlfriend. The notion felt preposterous, ridiculous even! and yet, undeniably true.

He passed the portraits on the walls with the usual composure, he caught snippets of whispers behind painted frames; "Did you hear?" "Tom Riddle's taken someone?" "Finally, (Name) got him!" Each murmur was a pulse in a pulse of the castle, each rumor a tick in a clock he was normally so meticulous in controlling.

Now he could not control this. No charm, no subtlety could alter the simple fact that he belonged, in some inexplicable way, to another. To you. The absurdity of it struck him. Women had never interested him, not really. Most bored him, were predictable, or clever in ways that paled before his own superior intellect.

Affection, romance, flirtation—these were minor distractions at best. He had never permitted sentiment to intrude on his pursuits, what use of a lover when you're going to be the most dangerous wizard in the whole world? For Merlin's sake, Tom Riddle had never even touched a woman before. Most certainly, he wouldn't touch you now.

By the time he reached the Potions dungeon, he found himself in a rare situation; Slughorn grinned more widely than usual.

"Ah! Riddle, my boy!" the professor clapped him on the shoulder with almost inappropriate enthusiasm. "I hear congratulations are in order! Finally, you've acquired… a companion, hm? (Lastname) at that… I always knew the two of you would be entangled with each other one way or another… Ah, young love indeed."

"Yes, Professor." Tom forced himself to smile, internally, he felt as though a part of him had been unmoored. "It seems so."

Moving past the congratulatory chatter and toward the workbench, arranging himself with the same deftness he applied to every potion he brewed. Each ingredient was placed, vials aligned by size and content, powders sifted into neat piles, liquids in graduated flasks reflecting the dim glow of the dungeon. Even here, in the sanctuary of Slughorn's cauldron lit chaos, Tom's mind tried to regain its usual order.

Slughorn, hovering nearby, could hardly contain his curiosity—or his delight. "Yes, yes, excellent! I always did say a clever boy like you would find a clever witch…" He leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Now, tell me, Riddle, do you find yourself… distracted?"

Tom's hands didn't falter, but his eyes drifted, unconsciously, to the miniature vial of essence he was weighing. He suppressed a sigh. "Professor, I assure you, focus is not an issue."

Slughorn chuckled, rubbing his hands together as if he had caught a rare and fascinating specimen. "Ah, but there's a certain… ineffable quality when young hearts collide, hmm? Even in the most disciplined of minds, it makes one… a touch less predictable."

Tom did not respond. Instead, he moved with methodical care, measuring powdered roots into precise increments, stirring liquids until they shimmered exactly as expected. His mind, however, kept wandering; the bouquet still in your hands, the way sunlight had glinted off your hair as you walked beside him, the sharpness of your teasing remark that had sent him scrambling for words on the bridge.

It was maddening, but also oddly captivating.

Tom snapped back to the present as Slughorn leaned over, peering into the beginnings of a simmering potion. "Yes, yes, that's it! Beautiful technique! Never have I seen such attention to detail."

Perhaps, Tom should have never taken this advance lesson from Slughorn this morning. Long fingers deftly adjusting the contents of the cauldron. Each motion was precise, a discipline to counterbalance the chaos of his thoughts. He could not allow himself to lose control—his plans, his ambition, his careful cultivation of influence, but he could not deny the strange undercurrent that had begun when you accepted the bouquet, when you had decided, entirely of your own accord, to be with him.

He arranged the final ingredient into the cauldron, watching as it dissolved perfectly, releasing a faint luminescent mist. Even in this small triumph, Tom felt the tug of distraction. The world outside this dungeon had changed. You had changed it.

Slughorn hummed appreciatively. "Ah, Riddle, my boy… not only masterful in skill but evidently… masterful in the ways of… hearts as well. Remarkable!"

His thoughts, usually as unyielding as the lines of a spell, were tangled now—wrapped around you, around the absurdity of being called your boyfriend, around the unwelcomed warmth he felt every time your name passed through his mind.

And yet, his fingers still moved, because if there was one thing Tom Riddle could still command, it was the magic at his fingertips.

The Room of Requirement was something both of you began to hang around together (your idea, of course), a warm haven far from the watchful eyes of Hogwarts. Bookshelves lined the walls, a soft rug underfoot, and a low couch sat in the center, perfectly arranged for the two of you. It was much more peaceful this way, without prying eyes or baseless gossips.

"I haven't kissed anyone before," says you, legs stretched lazily across Tom's lap. "Have you?"

A visceral moment of surprise, Tom's hands stilled over the book in his own lap, the words on the page blurring as his mind registered the weight of your words. He knew he should answer quickly, with charm or wit, but nothing came.

Have he? Of course not. Tom didn't have time for the clumsy, uncoordinated exchanges of saliva he'd seen other students engaging in behind the greenhouses, or corners. Besides, he thinks it is unsanitary for people to have done that, even the thought itself makes his skin crawl in repulsiveness.

Tom's gaze finally peered over you, and that's when he saw it. A soft, subtle flush to your lips. Was that tint? A balm? An application of some cosmetic? The realization that you might have prepared for this—that those lips were currently a different shade than they were at breakfast, had sent a surge of something molten through his veins.

His body leaned in, shadow stretching over you, his gaze fixated on your mouth.

"What is this?" Tom whispered, his thumb rising to brush your lower lip. The contact was rousing. He felt the tender heat of your skin, and the tint came away on his thumb, a smear of pale red against his porcelain skin.

"Do you like it?" your voice soft, velvet provocation.

"I am not certain," he swallowed hard. The words barely left his mouth before his restraint cracked. His body shifted, leaning closer with his own heart hammering against his chest.

"Do you… want to kiss, Tom?"

The first touch of his lips to yours was hesitant, leaving you panicked by that sudden act, but you didn't push him away either, so he took it as a sign. Tom had never kissed anyone—not properly. He knew of the mechanics, the general idea, but intimacy was something he hadn't quite learned hands on. Tom barely knew where to put his hands, what to do, where to look, and you had noticed exactly that.

His entire body feels like it's burning and perhaps, that's okay. The angle was slightly off, his upper lip brushing awkwardly, teeth grazing lightly in a moment of over caution. You tilted your head to compensate, and the small, imperfect corrections only made the contact more intimate, more yours.

You laughed softly against him when his tongue accidentally brushed yours, flustered and amused at his fumbling attempts, and Tom responded with a quiet exhale of frustration mixed with exhilaration. The points of your noses got out of each other's way, exhales mingling, and he heard you gasped out a little moan, too, dizzy from the sweltering intimacy.

Finally, without prior signals, you closed the circuit with a soft, shy kiss, then another, and another, all chaste but all meaning the same thing; Tom Riddle is kissing you. You were kissing him.

He'd been simply reduced to a boy who didn't know how to breathe. When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. He was breathless, his skin flushed in startling pink, and his eyes were wide like yours.

"I think," he whispered, "that I might require more practice."

"Me too as well." you simply said, at a loss for words.

And then, when you tried to move—your knee had bumped into something hard in between his legs, earning Tom to elicit a soft groan from his throat, his eyes snapping shut as the air left his lungs. You must have realized this because your eyes widened in a flash of horrified realization, and your breath hitched in a small, audible gasp.

"I—" you began, the heat already rushing to your cheeks.

"—No," Tom interrupted, his voice strained. He cut you off before the apology could leave your lips, saving you both from the embarrassment of his bodily reaction. "My apologies, (Name)."

He withdrew slowly, his back hitting the rear of the couch with a heavy thud. Putting a clinical distance between his raging boner and your knee. He sank back against the cushions of the couch, his spine stiff as he stared at the ceiling as if the answers to his sudden loss of composure were written in the rafters. You remained where you were, sprawled out with your head pillowed against the armrest, the air between you still lingering with the ghost of that clumsy kiss.

Tom could back out now. Part of him wants to. He could say that this was over, and never have to relive this moment again. But Tom hadn't been a coward nor a quitter. He's also hard.

You surprise him when you hover above him instead, settling down on his lap—closing the distance between you again, the touch of your lips soft until Tom feels the wet of your tongue once more. This time he expects it, parting his lips in response, letting you in. The feeling of your tongue tracing his mouth is odd at first, but only until he realizes that you must have known what you were doing with your tongue.

"I want to feel you in my mouth," you say in between breaths. "Is that okay, Tom?"

Tom was already losing his mind anyway, so he nodded instead. He's suddenly hyper aware of your breasts brushing his, your soft hands against his cheeks, the warmth of your thighs above his. Everything's just a little too much in a way that's just right.

When you pulled away, heaving breaths, Tom had the urge to pull you back just so he could taste your lips again. The tint on your lips had been long gone now, and Merlin, you looked absolutely alluring in his eyes. It's like his mind's gone irrational now, every logical thought he has had been thrown out in the window, all Tom could think was you, you, you.

It didn't end there, fortunate enough. You kneeled in front of him, your hands trembling quite a bit as you pulled Tom's pants down carefully, and Tom gasped at the relief on his aching cock, pushing up into your hand. The cool air bites at the patch of wet precum on the front of his knickers. You hesitated for a second with your fingers wrapped around Tom's waistband, giving him a second to back out, but when Tom nodded it's all you ever needed to pull them down.

His cock springs free, slapping against his belly and smearing a little pool of precum against his navel. You ran your tongue over your bottom lip, eyes hazy with want. The first touch of your hand on his has Tom nearly collapsing back down onto the couch—he groaned, head lolling forward which gives him a better view of your fingers tugging his hardness, stroking up and down and twisting your wrist at the head. The slide is dry but it still feels so good that Tom was practically seeing stars, shaking with the effort of not bucking his hips forward to thrust into your fist.

When you slid the tip of his over the seam of your mouth, back and forth, smearing pre come on your full lips, Tom was a goner. It's too much. All of it. Your fingers working insistently over his length, the slow, smooth glide over your soft, soft lips—Tom thinks he might come like this, which is embarrassing in itself. He doesn't want to. Tom wants to feel the inside of your mouth, he wants to release himself inside your mouth and have you swallowed it whole.

Then your lips closed around him—oh.

You kept looking at the way his face twists in pleasure as you suckled at the head softly, making squelching noise purposefully and a low grumble forms in Tom's throat. You could feel the way his cock twitches in in your mouth, gagged by the length of him, but you pushed through anyway.

"It feels—it feels good, (Name)." Tom rasped out, his fingers running through the strands of your hair, tugging them lightly.

With his words, you pushed yourself further and feels it slip down your throat. It's weird, a foreign feeling and definitely not the most comfortable but it was fine. Especially at the loud groan falling from Tom's lips as your nose hits the other's crotch.

You had stayed there for a few seconds, throat convulsing around the hardness shoved down and Tom could feel you choking this time. Coughing a little, you pulled away and a string of spit connects your swollen lips with his. His fingers around your hair tightened, and his whole body jerks forward, thrusting his into your mouth until he cannot comprehend anything any longer.

A spike of pleasure shoots through Tom's whole body and he bucks up with a moan. It was hot, everything you do turns him on so much and he can't seem to calm down. The sound of skin slapping against skin and your own muffled whimpers filled his ears and you felt tears running down your face. Pleasure almost blinding Tom.

Tom had swore he blacked out for a second, pleasure coursing through him like liquid fire, he called out your name—then his whole body tenses up as spurts of hot white releases inside the warmth of your mouth. His fingers went numb, falls loosely around your hair, both exhausted, panting for breath as Tom come down from the high.

"How… where did you learn that?"

"Betty lends me her Muggle romance novels."

Graduation day arrived beneath a sky so bright it almost didn't feel real.

The Hogwarts courtyard was alive with movement—students drifting between stone arches in dark robes, laughter rising in waves, owls swooping overhead as if they too sensed something momentous had ended. The air carried the smell of summer grass and warm stone, the Black Lake glittering beyond the distant trees. After seven years within these walls, the castle seemed to be watching them go.

Tom found you easily.

You were standing near the fountain, sunlight spilling through the trees above, catching the familiar shape of you in a way that made something in his chest flustered. Even after everything; exams, rumors, whispered ambitions about his future—his gaze still found you first. You had cradled his face in your hands like Tom is the most precious thing in existence. He has never known such feeling to be so pure as the love you bestowed upon him a year ago.

"Enjoying the festivities?" Tom asked as he approached, hands clasped behind his back.

You glanced over your shoulder, smiling faintly. "Trying to. It's hard to believe we are actually leaving."

Tom's gaze were heavy, contemplating—then, without warning, he slipped a hand into the deep pocket of his robes. When it emerged, nestled between his pale fingers was a heavy, unsightly thing of dull gold, crudely fashioned but radiating a thrum of power, at its center sat a black stone, etched with a crest. You looked at the heavy gold and then up at his smug, beautiful face.

"It's a family heirloom of mine," he stated. "Gaunt."

Your brows lifted slowly. "Tom…"

"You should marry me, (Name)."

You crossed your arms over your chest, a playful glint in your eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be on one knee for a moment like this, Mr. Riddle?"

Tom's mouth twitched. "No."

You stared at him, skeptical. "You're unbelievable."

"I’m efficient," he corrected smoothly, holding the ring out toward you. "The answer remains the same regardless of posture."

A laugh escaped you despite yourself, shaking your head. "You are the least romantic person alive."

"Possibly," Tom said mildly. "But you are avoiding the question."

You stepped closer, examining the ring, then him. "Are you seriously proposing like this?"

"Yes, I am."

"Without kneeling?"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Well?" he said impatiently. "Say yes already."

"You know most people make speeches." yet the smile spreading across your face betrayed you.

"I hope you realize by now, I am not most people."

A laugh escaped from your lips. "That's definitely true."

Your gaze softened as you looked at him again. The courtyard noise faded slightly around you; distant chatter, footsteps, though in that moment it all felt strangely far away.

"You're really asking me to marry you," you said quietly.

"I thought that was clear."

A smile tugged at your lips. "You're planning to go conquer the world, aren't you?"

"More or less."

"And you want me along for that?"

Tom reached out, his hand finding your waist and drawing you a fraction closer. His gaze held yours with an honesty he allowed no one else. "I intend to go very far, and I intend to stay there for a very long time. It would be so kind if you were by my side."

"That's the closest thing to a romantic confession I think you’re capable of."

You didn't wait for him to find the words to argue, you leaned forward, as your lips had met his. Tom's reaction had been instinctive; his hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back, firm and certain, in a way that was entirely his own. When you finally pulled away, there was fondness in your eyes.

"…I assume that means yes." he murmured.

You simply reached out, took the heavy Gaunt ring from his pale fingers, and slid it onto your hand. The black stone looked dark and formidable against your skin. It was obvious that something about you lights a fire in him, Tom Riddle looks alive when you were in his arms. Human like he had never seen himself before. In love. Not only love, but perhaps, beyond salvation. Spectre of his mortal soul.

"Yes, Tom," your heart stirred. "I might even cross it off my list."

“The Lovers” card can represent an important decision, one that must be carefully weighed and that sometimes brings anxiety, as it carries the weight of achieving inner harmony. But I suggest The Lovers here as a conscious choice made by Pierrot — the choice of the MC as a legitimate partner, singular in their qualities and flaws, a completely new love and the possibility of a new beginning. It is the card of mirrored affection, of mutual attraction: Pierrot responds with gentleness and genuine care to those who have offered him the same from the very beginning, and he softens where tenderness is shown to him.

“The Empress,” in turn, is very special. Traditionally, she embodies many virtues: creativity, self-esteem, sensuality, pleasure, beauty, and success. She is strongly associated with feminine energy, but I chose her to represent a powerful form of care and great emotional abundance. In many readings, the Empress appears as a nurturing, expansive, and fulfilling love. It is an intense kind of affection and, because of that, it can be very frightening for people who are not prepared for the experience. Those who are loved by Arcana III feel seen, cared for, and deeply desired. The feeling here is not scarce, but offered without excessive embellishment, because the one who holds it knows exactly what they have best to give. It is also a very sexual card, but not one of empty or vulgar eroticism: it speaks of a satisfying sexuality, pleasure as a love language, the body as a temple, strong admiration, magnetism, and shared pleasure. I find all of this very beautiful, and it perfectly matches the kind of love Pierrot would like to practice in a long-term relationship.

Although “The Star” is quite convenient for representing Pierrot’s pin, I actually chose it because it symbolizes hope. Symbolically, this card is very beautiful, as it signifies contentment, positivity, and the strength to continue living. It is is the symbol of serenity and the will to begin again after the destruction and chaos that “The Tower” represents. I also chose the “Page of Cups” to once again represent Pierrot’s sensitive and loving nature. The Page of Cups, although it speaks of affection like the Empress, speaks of a different kind of feeling. While the Empress is more expansive and nurturing, the Page is a young lover. It is feeling in its most innocent and curious form, after all, the Page is a child. It symbolizes idealism, naivety, romance, and tenderness.

The “3 of Swords” is usually seen as a dramatic and sad card. Traditionally, it symbolizes a period of heartbreak, disappointment, pain, and loss. Its image is literally a heart pierced by three swords; and in Tarot, swords usually represent aspects of our mind or our thoughts. For this reason, we can reframe the swords piercing the heart as something beyond the pain felt, focusing instead on the meaning we assign to the pain we experience.

I decided to think differently. Although the 3 of Swords can be seen as all those sad aspects mentioned above, it is also a reminder to let things go. It is a warning that rummaging through things repeatedly will not change the past or lessen the sadness, but rather a request for the individual to step away from the source of pain: so that, once this period passes, happiness can find them again and they can finally see “The Sun.” I interpret it this way: Pierrot was in his “Three of Swords” before meeting the MC, and his cyclical lesson is to name the pain and let it go. I do not believe he projects his past love onto the MC, but he still needs to free himself from the pain and forgive himself for events that were not exactly his fault in moments of the past.

Harlequin: The Fool (0), Ace of Wands, Knight of Cups, 5 of Pentacles, 10 of Wands

Complementary: The Tower (XVI)

Harlequin is Pierrot’s declared rival, who also pursues us in a rather obsessive manner. Harlequin is the charming one, the elegant seducer, but also the one who hides his inner turbulence, his insecurities, his jealousy, his fear of commitment, and the suffering of not being truly chosen. Harlequin’s persona is a perfectly crafted mask designed to suppress his weaker aspects and emotional gaps — extravagance and hypersexuality functioning as excuses to soften his emotional immaturity and his aversion to vulnerability. He is the fearful lover, sold as a “Prince Charming” or, in Tarot terms, as a “Knight of Cups,” but accompanied by the “Ace of Wands.” First and foremost, however, I want to explain why I chose “The Fool” (Card 0) for Harlequin.

The Fool depicts a young man walking joyfully through the world, likely on a journey with no return, carrying only a small bundle and accompanied by a little dog. He walks carefree, unconcerned with the challenges or dangers that may arise — and, in fact, there is a very real danger close by: the abyss stretching out before him. The Fool, like most Tarot cards, does not represent just one thing: it can symbolize new beginnings, adventures, enthusiasm, dreams, faith, and courage. But I chose this card to represent detachment, lightness, fun, and, above all, the impulsivity that Harlequin embodies.

While, on one hand, The Fool’s impetuous force is captivating and at times genuinely useful for setting life in motion and making things happen, it can also turn into reckless haste. Harlequin strikes me as someone with a deep fear of commitment, not simply because he “likes to act like a jerk,” but because of his own insecurities. This card can symbolize loves or relationships that are fun and pleasurable, but fleeting and lacking strong foundations.

This fits perfectly with Harlequin’s fascinating nature, which attracts people yet refuses to settle. It is the naïve spirit of the “now”: affection, enthusiasm, and intensity flooding the present moment, but feelings that do not take root. Realistically speaking, the person who experiences this kind of behavior may suffer from an addictive yet deeply destabilizing outcome, because it involves dealing with someone who passes through your life in some way, but does not actively take part in it.

Positively speaking, however, The Fool can symbolize the courage to take risks and embrace change. Softening its connotations of recklessness, it could represent Harlequin’s love, within a stable relationship, as an overwhelming, intense, playful, experimental, spontaneous, versatile feeling, constantly reinventing itself. Believe me, being close to him would never be boring, if you could help him heal his avoidant attachment. Moving forward, I selected the “Knight of Cups” + “Ace of Wands.” The “Knight of Cups” is a soldier who wears garments and armor that reflect a balance between protection and vulnerability. He symbolizes Harlequin’s courtship and seduction, but also the aspects he needs to develop. The Knight of Cups is one of the slowest knights in the Tarot, second only to the Knight of Pentacles, because although he signifies approach and charm, he also represents a romance that can only unfold with serenity and over time. This card is a symbol of openness to love and emotional experiences, and of valuing sensitivity.

The Ace of Wands is a card of the fire element. It is transformative energy, vigor, creative drive, and fruition. In love, it represents a powerful spark, a passionate relationship filled with sensuality and burning desire. Stripping away the politeness, it implies a period of high sexual voltage, flirting, and intense physical attraction.

Do I really need to explain anything else here?

Once again, transcending superficiality, in a stable relationship you would be in paradise — deeply gratifying and satisfying.

To conclude, the most painful triad: the “5 of Pentacles,” the “10 of Wands,” and, complementarily, Major Arcana XVI “The Tower.”

The 5 of Pentacles here represents feelings of exclusion and abandonment, scarcity, emotional begging, and isolation. I chose it to address the sense of misery and rejection Harlequin felt at not being chosen by Columbina, in favor of Pierrot; and how this wounded him so deeply that it led him to embody the aspects we have already discussed, represented by Arcana 0. The imagery of this card is quite self-explanatory: two ragged figures walking through the snow, using crutches, symbols of vulnerability, unable to access the warmth and safety inside. The 10 of Wands speaks beautifully with this card, representing emotional overload, responsibility, and the weight of guilt that Harlequin most likely carries, hidden in the deepest recesses of his heart. Like Pierrot’s 3 of Swords, Harlequin’s 10 of Wands is not entirely negative. It can imply the nearness of the end of suffering, even if this cycle’s conclusion is not easy, and the approach of a turning point that can change everything.

I chose to associate Harlequin with The Tower because, although it is a heavily demonized card (anyone who reads Tarot knows people tremble at the sight of The Tower), it represents an inevitable and necessary collapse, strongly associated with transformation. The act of devouring Columbina carried out by Harlequin in a jealousy-driven impulse — whether deliberate, forced, or perhaps even altruistic, we cannot be sure — was the driving force that transformed everything and, as sad as it may sound, saved the other monsters from starvation. Major Arcana XVI is a disruptive force that is not always welcomed, but it implies profound change.

Jester: The Devil (XV), The Magician (I), The Chariot (VII), The Moon (XVIII), 2 of Cups (Reversed)

Although we have already “met” him in his purple tent, Jester remains an enigma — a shadow we have not yet been able to fully unravel. The leader of the circus is a force of containment, a shrewd strategist who does the possible and the impossible to keep the circus running. Jester is a master entertainer, a fascinating, proud, and brilliant figure.

For that reason, to begin with, I chose the card “The Devil”, a symbol of possession and imprisonment. In traditional decks, this card depicts the Devil in his most widespread form, that of a satyr or of Baphomet. Beside him stand two human figures, a woman and a man, in chains. However, their chains are loose, which indicates that they could leave, but deliberately choose to remain.

This speaks perfectly to Jester’s obsession. His obsession is not with us as individuals, but with control and with the kind of relationship he represents. Jester’s desire is not so much directed toward the other’s body, but toward the permanence of choice: to be desired, obeyed, and continuously reaffirmed.

The Devil symbolizes deliberate imprisonment, addiction, temptation, possessiveness, control, and empowerment — the former falling more heavily upon an MC who becomes emotionally or sexually involved with Jester, and the latter describing the circus leader himself with precision. Without excessive romanticization, a relationship with him would most likely be codependent, controlling, and unequal in nature. Even so, the chains remain loose. The figures choose to stay because they desire the pleasures the creature offers. Following this logic, an MC who remained by Jester’s side would not be naïve, but fully aware that this union takes shape as a pleasure-based agreement, sustained by an implicit contract of submission. Loyalty, good behavior, and faith in him would be required to remain in his good graces.

I also emphasize subtle manipulation: Jester does not force — he convinces. He does not promise redemption; he promises intensity.

The Devil is, evidently, a card with strong sexual connotations. It represents lust, the transgression of taboos, and a sexuality that borders on excess. Although Jester is extremely self-controlled, once he finds someone through whom he can give free rein to his lust, he becomes dangerous. Sexual life with him would never be simple. We know he is a natural sadist, and sex would function as an extension of his desire for dominance, experimentation, and the dismantling of the other’s ego. There would be no satisfaction in relating to someone dull or easily molded. Jester seeks the thrill of conquering a sharp, perceptive mind. He would be intense, demanding, persistent, enveloping, and addictive — because his intimacy is not freely given, but seen as a privilege and something deeply conditional.

Following the Devil, I chose “The Magician” (Arcana I), the card of creation, of manipulating reality, and of the ability to transform intention into action through will and skill. This card represents determination and mastery of available tools, directly resonating with Jester’s competence in managing and sustaining the circus despite all adversities.

This reading is complemented by “The Chariot” (Arcana VII), a symbol of victory, conscious control, self-confidence, and overcoming obstacles. Both cards reinforce his position as an effective leader within the circus hierarchy.

To further deepen the relational dynamic, I propose “The Moon” as a complement. Even if Jester were to accept someone as a companion, that would not imply transparency. The Moon symbolizes illusions, secrets, and the hidden: he would withhold information, manipulate narratives, and justify this as protection. Not out of altruism, but out of a need to maintain absolute control over the situation.

Finally, I include the “Two of Cups” reversed. Traditionally a card of union and partnership, here it points to disharmony, codependence, and an imbalance of power. There is mutual attraction, yes — Jester would never bind himself to someone uninteresting — but the exchange does not occur on equal terms. It is up to the MC to decide: loosen the chains, or tighten them even further.

Ticket Taker: The Hierophant (IV), The Temperance (XIV), The Justice (XI), King of Pentacles, 5 of Swords

Ticket Taker is a hidden gem, very different from everything we’ve seen so far. If I had to describe him in simpler, more economical terms, I would suggest discipline, regulation, strategic silence, and stability. He is not exactly easy to decipher, but for his first card I chose Major Arcana IV, “The Hierophant”.

The Hierophant represents tradition, structure, ritual, internalized moral values, and silent authority. This card differs from “The Emperor”, who rules through force; the Hierophant governs through custom and meaning. He symbolizes the value of knowledge, formalities, respect, and ethics. Realistically, I think Ticket Taker is one of the least romantic in the traditional sense, but profoundly institutional. He regulates and permits when it suits him, because he is literally the guardian of the threshold. He decides who enters, who leaves, who belongs, and who must remain outside.

His job is not merely to punch tickets — it is to validate passage. That is deeply hierophantic.

From a love-reading perspective, The Hierophant implies solidity and mutual respect. By emphasizing the importance of strong foundations, this card encourages valuing stability and emotional security within a relationship. Once again, although the circus members are not entirely healthy and do not fit neatly into our ideas of human relationships, since they are monsters, I genuinely believe Ticket Taker would be one of the most responsible partners, if not the most suitable suitor for a lasting connection.

Love with him would not be a chaotic force or a consuming, overwhelming passion, but a feeling demonstrated through consistency. He would dedicate himself deeply if you managed to charm him in some way: by being punctual with shared commitments, offering small rewards, keeping your promises, or even building small rituals between the two of you — perhaps meaningful activities or something similar. The most gratifying sensation in a relationship with this man would be having exclusive access. If you were allowed to invade his personal space, you would hold a key that no one else possesses. Moreover, I believe he could be very attentive. Still, you would need to be careful and coherent, attentive to his expectations, because Ticket Taker is a very fair man.

Speaking of fairness, I also chose Major Arcana XI, “Justice”, to symbolize him. Justice represents balance, and I believe nothing could be more appropriate for him in a relationship, whether platonic or romantic. If you grant him respect, loyalty, trust, good conduct, and consideration, he is very likely to return the same in equal measure, with almost mathematical precision. Ticket Taker does not tolerate emotional debts or mind games. He is far too mature for that and would probably not even bother dealing with such an inconvenient human if that occurred.

In addition, I also believe he can be represented by “Temperance”. Temperance is the trait attributed to those who can balance their own desires. The imagery of this card deals precisely with balance, depicting an androgynous angel, child of the Greek gods Hermes and Aphrodite, carefully and patiently pouring the correct amount of water between two golden cups. Thus, this arcana deepens the discussion of balance and expands into the virtues of serenity, peace, moderation, and the mediation of opposing forces; something necessary for a relationship between the MC and Ticket Taker to develop.

Ticket Taker would never represent recklessness, but rather moderation in nearly all aspects of life. From a romantic perspective, once again, this card reinforces the idea of a well-structured connection with him, with room for dialogue, fair exchange, and quiet, gradual growth. Love, with patience, can grow deeply, though never explosively. Never expect that from him. In its negative aspect, Temperance can also point to excessive moderation, inflexibility in certain areas, resistance to change, and possible austerity.

Now, seeing the “King of Pentacles” through Ticket Taker is one of my favorite readings and, I believe, the essence of how he cares and loves. In traditional Tarot interpretations, this King represents the provider: a stable, successful, and sometimes prosperous partner. He values commitment and seeks dedication, loyalty, and admiration from his beloved. Through this card, I suggest that Ticket Taker’s love would not be ruled by excessively heated displays, saccharine words, or grand romantic gestures, nor by excessive physical contact. It would be a feeling grounded in acts of service.

If you were relevant and dear enough to him, he would take care of your well-being and protection: ensuring you were well-fed, rested, and emotionally or physically stable. Once again, if you respected, obeyed, and valued him, he would treat you like gold or diamonds — within his own monstrous terms. He would be the security you never knew you needed or deserved.

From a more intimate, even sexual perspective, he can be quite sensual and an intense lover, although his seduction is neither loud nor driven by impulses or immature mind games. Ticket Taker’s charm lies precisely in his sobriety, confidence, and elegance. He does not need elaborate strategies of conquest; he simply claims when he decides. He is the silent, centered, self-assured dominant. His touch is firm, precise, grounded. His way of giving pleasure is as meticulous as everything about him. He would be a devoted partner, capable of reading your body with his eyes closed — knowing exactly where to touch, press, kiss, and provoke. In essence, the fantasy of the King of Pentacles is to be chosen repeatedly and to protect what he values most: his partner, even if that care sometimes borders on possessiveness.

Still, the King of Pentacles can also be rigid, overvaluing material or external comfort, offering everything to the partner, except the emotional vulnerability required. This card can serve as a lesson for him: the need to nurture the emotional side of relationships with the same zeal he devotes to the practical aspects of life.

Finally, the “Five of Swords” represents a fragility and a darker aspect of this dynamic. This card speaks of hollow victories, disputes, intimidation, manipulation, and the desire to win an argument even if it costs part of the other’s affection. Ticket Taker can be intimidating and, I believe, would not hesitate to “put you in your place” during a conflict — even if that meant being brutally honest, hostile, or neglectful of more sensitive feelings.

His sense of justice could turn him into a kind of cold executioner, capable of belittling the other with nothing more than a severe look or a restrained yet harsh reprimand. Always rational, he would crush with logic. And he would most likely neither apologize nor verbally acknowledge his rigidity, because he would sincerely believe that disagreement equals disobedience, and that his actions were taken solely to correct the problem and ensure the healthy continuation of the relationship.

Doctor: The Hermit (IX), The Magician (I), Knight of Swords, Ace of Swords, Seven of Cups (Reversed)

The first card chosen to represent Doctor is Major Arcana IX, “The Hermit”.

The Hermit is a wise elder who deliberately withdraws into a cave in an act of introspection in order to acquire greater knowledge. This card symbolizes voluntary social withdrawal and the deliberate suppression of external distractions in the pursuit of inner truth and the development of wisdom. Essentially, I chose this card for Doctor because it aligns well with the personality he displays: a kind of introspective loner who prefers to remain inside his cyan tent, conducting his experiments and tending to his own personal affairs. From an interpersonal standpoint, being Doctor’s partner would require a great deal of patience to deal with his constant tendency to isolate himself and pull away.

Interestingly, I also find it coherent to discuss how Doctor’s knowledge is evasive, internal, cumulative, almost ascetic, and silent — while Jester’s knowledge is entirely different. The circus leader’s intelligence is external, relational, performative, strategic, and persuasive, used as a tool to disarm others. In contrast, Fifth’s knowledge is not a performance, but evidence of someone who accumulates knowledge because he genuinely wants to know and understand the world around him.

Of course, given the nature of the things he does, this does not make him any less unethical, strange, or cruel in his conduct. Still, it is worth emphasizing how fundamentally different these characters are, and how Doctor stands as an interesting figure in his own right. Dealing with this Hermit-monster would demand a great deal of patience, especially due to his isolated and poorly communicative nature.

If you truly won him over, love for this man (or at least a greater degree of affection), could grow very gradually, as long as one condition were respected: that he always be granted his personal space and time whenever necessary. I firmly believe Doctor would be the kind of person who needs long periods alone, even within a stable relationship.

Naturally, for things to develop and endure, you would have to remind him of your feelings and needs, occasionally pulling him out of his small and peculiar sanctuary; otherwise, the connection would become deeply frustrating. Still, respecting his reserved habits would be essential, because before you, he did not really know how to be anything other than, well, a medic. He lives to observe, analyze, test, and measure, and he would not be able to give that up abruptly or easily.

Continuing on, we encounter “The Magician” once again. Here, however, this card represents what we have already discussed regarding manifestation and literal creation. The Magician produces a variety of artifacts at his disposal and possesses the talents and skills necessary to materialize almost anything at will. In this context, the card does not symbolize manipulation or deceit, but rather Doctor’s ability to succeed in his experiments and wild ideas through the rewarding power of knowledge. It is the card that symbolizes the magnificence of his technical expertise and applied knowledge.

In emotional terms, I believe Doctor would also not be particularly fond of grand physical demonstrations. He would feel quite awkward in that regard, or perhaps only give in occasionally. His affection manifests primarily through actions: he shows care by healing, tending to your health or well-being, and valuing your protection and stability. For him, intimacy in a broader sense would be this constant concern, and perhaps the quiet comfort of a shared space, such as allowing you to observe him working and creating. He takes deep pride in his efforts.

Now, examining the pair from the suit of Swords: the “Knight of Swords” and the “Ace of Swords”, we are presented with a more unstable and cutting portrait. The Ace of Swords symbolizes intellect, mental clarity, power, harsh truths, reason, and firmness. It is a cold card, representing the energy of the cut: the pure idea of doing it. While the Ace conceives the cut, it is the Knight who carries it out. I briefly mentioned, in the Harlequin section, how some Knights are slower than others in the Tarot. The one chosen for Doctor, however, was deliberately the fastest. The Fifth, although the most inaccessible and isolated, is also the most unstable — and this fits perfectly with this representation. Here we see action without emotional restraint: urgency, mental impulsivity, and volatility. He acts, at times, before fully processing emotion.

This can also be interpreted from a more intimate and sexual perspective. He would be abrupt, intense, and in some sense severe or rough. The encounter would occur more like an emotional discharge than a gradual seduction. I cannot see him as someone who manipulates his knowledge to excite, provoke, or instigate the other — nor as someone who uses elaborate phrases or mental games to impress. Having sex with him would be a convenient distortion of something simple and habitual, perhaps an experiment or even a medical examination, carried out suddenly. Nothing particularly rehearsed or carefully prepared.

Finally, we have the “Seven of Cups” reversed. This card was added to create a melancholic contrast in relation to his connection with knowledge. Upright, the Seven of Cups represents illusions, fantasies, excessive possibilities, and emotional confusion. Reversed, however, it symbolizes the opposite: disenchantment, bitter lucidity, and the conscious refusal to dream. There is no naïveté or loss of discernment here, but rather the realization that all options have already been examined, tested, and, to some degree, drained of meaning.

Applied to Doctor, this card represents someone who knows too much to be fooled or deceived. His knowledge is not romantic, not inspiring, nor liberating. It simply exists. He does not seek new truths with youthful enthusiasm, but observes them with an apathetic, almost clinical detachment. His knowledge is silent, accumulated, and rarely shared — not out of arrogance, but out of exhaustion. There is no pleasure in explaining, teaching, or sharing what has already lost its enchantment.

From a relational perspective, the reversed Seven of Cups also points to difficulty in fantasizing or forming emotional expectations about others. The Doctor sees people as they are, knowing every minute aspect of their biological constitution, understanding how they function internally — and this no longer excites him. He investigates, analyzes, and moves on. For someone who desires warmth and closeness, Fifth may be the painful embodiment of a bored scientist’s apathy, incapable of being moved by what he believes he already understands too well.

The Doctor does not lose himself in illusions. He simply no longer expects anything from them. Besides a beloved MC, he is indifferent care stripped of feeling: mere technique, insipid and hollow.