Pictures of You

Children were always most impressionable. It is why Benedicte Holmes would never forget the look in his eyes when they first met, in those decrepit orphanage halls. It was why she was even aware it had changed: the way he looked at her.They had once been simply girl and boy. Children at their core, her knees scraped and skin bruised whilst he stood pale, as if made of fine china. His perfection was obsessive. It had birthed a desire to prove she too could draw herself by his side, doll like and sovereign. She had showed him her favourite line in her favourite book, on the other side of the river, and in return he had showed her the bench under the wilting willow. There, she had picked flowers for him. Together, they had burnt them.It is easy to point fingers and to blame. Benedicte never had the strength to do so. She believed it to be her, the issue, the one fatal flaw. Believed that her impatience, her desire had let him slip through her fingers. She had tried time and time again to hold him, to grasp onto anything, all of him. It was pointless. Tom Riddle could not be held. It is like trying to cup water into your hands— it always finds a way out.In the end, he never really did read her letters.