Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tom stood by the window of his small, sparsely furnished room in the orphanage, gazing out at the dreary sky outside. The dull gray clouds seemed to mirror the gloom that had settled over his life ever since his parents had left him in this cold, unfeeling place. He absently traced the tender bruises on his arms, souvenirs from another brutal encounter with the older boys at the orphanage, including the particularly cruel Billy. A cold, calculating smile crept onto Tom's pale lips as he remembered the satisfying thud he had heard when Billy had "accidentally" fallen off the roof of the garden shed. It seemed that, for once, justice had been served.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor outside his room snapped Tom out of his dark reverie. He quickly wiped the smile from his face, replacing it with the blank, emotionless mask he had learned to wear around the overbearing matron and her minions. The footsteps stopped outside his door, followed by a sharp knock.

"Tom! Time for lunch!" barked the matron's shrill voice.

"Coming, ma'am," Tom replied obediently, his voice devoid of emotion. He quickly smoothed out his rumpled shirt and straightened his ill-fitting trousers before making his way to the dining hall.

The dining hall was as cheerless and institutional as the rest of the orphanage, with its drab gray walls, long, battered wooden tables, and uncomfortable benches. The air was thick with the smell of overcooked cabbage and boiled potatoes, a far cry from the delicious aromas that wafted from the kitchens of the grand manor houses that dotted the countryside outside the orphanage's dingy walls.

Tom took his usual seat at the end of one of the long tables, farthest from the head where the matron sat, surveying her charges with an eagle-like gaze. The other children, a motley collection of unwanted and forgotten souls like himself, avoided eye contact with him as much as they did with the matron. It was safer that way, for all involved.

As the meal progressed, the whispers and hushed conversations among the other orphans caught Tom's keen ears. It seemed that his "accidental" mishap with Billy had not gone unnoticed, and a few of the bolder children were even sharing furtive grins and congratulatory nudges in his direction. Tom kept his expression neutral, revealing none of the satisfaction he felt at the news of his tormentor's misfortune.

The matron's harsh voice cut through the din of the dining hall. "Riddle! Come here, boy!"

Tom slowly rose from his seat, his eyes narrowing slightly as he made his way towards her. He didn't like being singled out, but he couldn't afford to show any defiance. Not yet.

"What is it, ma'am?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral, offering no clue of his internal thoughts.

"There's a visitor for you," she said, her thin lips twisting into what passed for a smile. It was a patronizing gesture, filled with pity, that Tom loathed. "An elderly gentleman. He's waiting in your room."

A visitor? Tom's mind raced. He couldn't remember ever having a visitor. No one ever came looking for him. His parents were gone, vanished from his life years ago. He had no other family. This had to be a mistake.

"In my room, ma'am?" Tom repeated, making sure his face showed that he was both perplexed and a little discomfited

.

"Yes, your room," she confirmed impatiently. "Now, go on. And try to be polite. The gentleman seems to be waiting."

The matron's words held subtle expectations, as Tom understood she wanted him to behave and not cause any trouble with the visitor.

* * *

Tom approached his small, spartan room with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. He had never received a visitor in all his years at the orphanage, and the idea of an elderly gentleman waiting for him in his private quarters was both intriguing and unsettling. The matron's words echoed in his mind, urging him to be polite and not cause any trouble. It was a familiar refrain, one he had heard countless times before, but today it felt heavier, more significant.

He hesitated for a moment outside the door, gathering his thoughts and composing his expression into the blank mask he wore so well. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, the only light filtering in through the grime-streaked window overlooking the drab orphanage courtyard. The air smelled musty, a mixture of old wood and the lingering scent of the cheap, harsh soap the orphans were issued for their weekly baths. Tom's sparse belongings were neatly arranged on a small, rickety dresser: a few threadbare shirts, a pair of ill-fitting trousers, and a battered leather satchel that held his most treasured possession - a worn, leather-bound volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. It was the only connection he had to his mother, a reminder of a happier, more carefree life that felt like a distant dream.

In the corner of the room, perched on the edge of Tom's narrow cot, sat an elderly man dressed in a well-tailored suit that seemed out of place in the drab surroundings. He was leaning forward, examining the crude drawings of snakes that adorned the otherwise bare walls. The man looked up as Tom entered, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Tom felt a shiver run down his spine as he caught a glimpse of the man's eyes - they were a piercing, icy blue, the likes of which he had never seen before.

"Come in, Tom," the man said, his voice deep and measured, with a hint of warmth that belied his stern appearance. "Please, have a seat." He gestured to the empty space beside him on the narrow bed.

Tom hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to expect. The man's polite demeanor was at odds with the harsh discipline he was accustomed to at the orphanage, and it left him feeling unbalanced, unsure of how to react.

"Go on, Tom," the man urged, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I assure you, I mean no harm."

Taking a deep breath, Tom tentatively approached the bed and lowered himself onto the worn blanket beside the stranger. He sat with his back straight, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, his eyes fixed on the man's weathered face.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore," the man said, extending a long, slender hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Tom."

Tom hesitated for a moment before tentatively reaching out and shaking the man's hand. The grip was firm but not overbearing, and there was a strange warmth emanating from the man's touch that Tom couldn't quite explain.

"I've come a long way to see you, Tom," Dumbledore continued, his eyes never leaving the boy's face. "You see, I have something important to tell you. Something that I believe will change your life in ways you cannot yet imagine."

Tom's heart skipped a beat, and he felt a mixture of curiosity and apprehension swirl in his stomach. Who was this strange, well-dressed man, and what could he possibly know about him? And what secret could be so important that it would warrant such a mysterious visit?

"What is it, sir?" Tom asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What do you need to tell me?"

Tom sat on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding in his chest as he studied the enigmatic man before him. Albus Dumbledore seemed to sense his unease, for he offered a reassuring smile before speaking again.

"Tom, I'm here because I have reason to believe that you've experienced certain... occurrences in your life that cannot be explained by logic alone."

Tom's mind raced back to the incidents he had tried so hard to forget: the time he had caused a bully's nose to bleed without touching him, or the time when a girl who had teased him about his clothes had tripped and twisted her ankle. He had never told anyone about those moments, not even the orphanage matron. They seemed like the stuff of nightmares, or... something else entirely.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thin neck. "I... I don't know what you mean, sir."

Dumbledore's eyes, those piercing blue orbs, seemed to bore into Tom's very soul. The old man's next words confirmed what Tom had feared.

"Tom, I know you're hiding something. I can see it in your eyes. You have a gift, a very rare and special gift, one that I believe you've been trying to hide from the world."

Tom's heart thudded in his chest, and he felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead. He couldn't deny it any longer. This stranger, this Albus Dumbledore, knew the truth about him.

"What... what do you mean, sir?" he managed to croak out.

Dumbledore leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tom, I mean to say that you are a wizard."

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implication and wonder. A wizard? Tom had heard of such things in the stories he'd read, but to think that he, an orphan boy with nothing to his name, could be one of those mythical figures was beyond comprehension.

"But... but that's impossible," he stammered, shaking his head in denial. "Wizards aren't real. They're just stories to scare children."

Tom stared at Albus, his breath catching in his throat. A wizard. It couldn't be. It was some kind of cruel joke, a prank orchestrated by the matron or one of the older boys. But the look in Albus's eyes, the quiet conviction in his voice, told him this was no jest.

Before Tom could form a coherent response, a searing heat filled the small room. A crackling orange glow burst from within his simple wooden wardrobe. Flames danced and writhed, consuming his meager collection of clothes and the few other personal belongings he kept inside. But, strangely, the fire didn't spread. It was contained, as if trapped within an invisible barrier, casting an eerie light on the room.

Tom recoiled in shock, his mind struggling to process the impossible. He had never seen anything like it. Yet, Albus remained perfectly calm, observing the spectacle with an almost clinical detachment.

The fire sputtered, diminished, and then vanished entirely, leaving behind no scorch marks, no lingering scent of smoke. His wardrobe stood untouched, as if the fiery display had never happened.

Albus turned to Tom, his blue eyes holding a mixture of concern and understanding. "You see, Tom?" he said, his voice gentle but firm. "This is the power I spoke of. It is a part of you, whether you like it or not. But it is raw, untamed. And it needs to be controlled."

"How?" Tom whispered, still reeling from the sudden eruption.

"That is precisely why I am here," Albus replied. "I am here to tell you that you will be coming with me. I'll take you to Hogwarts. It is the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. There, you will learn to understand and master your abilities. It's paramount that you learn to control them. It's a place where young witches and wizards, like yourself, are taught to harness their magic."

Tom stood rooted to the spot, his mind racing. Hogwarts. A school for wizards. Leaving the orphanage. The idea was both terrifying and exhilarating. He thought of the bullies, the endless chores, and the despairing monotony of his daily life. Then he thought of the power within him, the mysterious force that had manifested itself in both terrifying and subtle ways throughout his life.

He looked at the wardrobe, now devoid of any sign of the fiery upheaval, then at Albus. A hard, defiant glint appeared in his eyes. This was the escape he had always longed for.

Tom nodded, masking his eagerness with a carefully constructed expression of polite compliance. "Very well, sir," he said, the words barely more than a breath. "I'll go with you."

Chapter Text

Tom stood in the center of the Great Hall of Hogwarts, surrounded by other wide-eyed first-year students. The vast room hummed with the buzz of excited whispers and the clatter of silverware. The ceiling above was a swirling canvas of stars, twinkling like distant memories of another world.

He couldn't help but marvel at the grandeur of the place. High, arched windows lined the stone walls, casting beams of golden light onto the polished wooden floor. The air was heavy with the aroma of delicious food, making his stomach growl impatiently.

His gaze swept over the long tables lining the sides of the hall, each adorned with banners in different colors. The older students seated there watched the newcomers with a mix of curiosity and amusement. He knew they were sorting them into their respective houses, as Albus had explained on the journey to Hogwarts.

The memory of his journey with Albus Dumbledore still felt like a dream. The gentle giant of a man had appeared at the orphanage as if by magic, offering him a chance to escape the drudgery of his life and discover the secrets of his hidden power.

He recalled the conversation they had shared about Muggles, a term he had never heard before. Albus had explained that Muggles were ordinary people, unaware of the magical world that existed alongside their own. Tom had realized then that he was a Muggle-born wizard, just like some of the other students around him.

He could spot the other Muggle-borns easily, by the looks of wonderment and confusion on their faces. They were all here now, brought together by the same unseen force that had guided them to this place.

As he stood there, waiting for whatever ceremony was to come next, Tom couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging for the first time in his life. Despite the hunger gnawing at his stomach, he knew that this was where he was meant to be.

He glanced around at the other students, wondering what kinds of powers they might possess. He thought about the strange incidents in his own past, the moments when he had unintentionally caused objects to move or fires to erupt. The power within him was wild and unpredictable, but Albus had promised him that he would learn to control it at Hogwarts.

Headmaster Dippet cleared his throat, and a hush fell over the Great Hall. Dippet, a man of round features and a fussy air, took the stage. "Welcome, students, both old and new, to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" His voice echoed through the hall, laced with a hint of formality.

He launched into a lengthy speech about school rules and decorum. Tom tried to focus, but his mind drifted. He surveyed the hall, noticing a boy near the front. Pale blond hair, impeccably tailored robes, and an air of casual boredom. Tom’s gaze met the boy’s. A flicker of something—recognition, maybe, or simply shared observation—passed between them. The boy offered a slight nod, a subtle acknowledgment. Tom returned it.

Dippet droned on about curfews and acceptable wand movements.

As the headmaster spoke, the blond boy, the one that Tom had shared glances with, moved towards him. He approached, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Abraxas Malfoy," the boy introduced himself, his tone smooth and cutting. "I couldn't help but notice your complexion. Are you feeling unwell?" His eyes glinted with amusement.

Tom's jaw tightened slightly. He refused to give the boy the satisfaction of seeing him ruffled. "I am perfectly fine."

Abraxas's smile widened. "Such a pale countenance. I suppose it's to be expected of a...well, of someone new to our world."

Tom didn’t respond. He merely studied Abraxas, trying to gauge his intention. The boy's words dripped with condescension, and his gaze carried a superior edge to it. There was something in the way Abraxas looked at him that made Tom uneasy.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore held the Sorting Hat, a tattered, conical hat that looked far too old to speak. The hat sat perched on the edge of the stool, seeming to regard the assembled students with a knowing air. Dippet finished his speech and gestured towards Dumbledore.

"Now, let the Sorting commence," Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying easily across the vast hall.

A hush fell over the students. One by one, their names were called, and they nervously approached the stool. Tom watched, his gaze unwavering, as the hat was placed on the first student's head.

"Hufflepuff!" the hat declared, its voice booming without any visible movement. The student, relieved, hurried to the table draped in yellow, where cheers erupted.

Several others were sorted, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw each gaining new members. Then, it was Abraxas Malfoy's turn. He strode forward, his posture perfect, a picture of serene confidence. The hat settled on his head, and there was a moment of silence. Then, with startling speed, the hat shouted, "Slytherin!"

Abraxas's lips curved into a subtle smile. He swept towards the table adorned with green and silver, where other students in similar robes applauded. His eyes met Tom's for a fleeting second, a look of mild interest crossing his face.

Tom focused back on the sorting. He would not join them.

"Thomas Riddle," Dumbledore called, and Tom felt a jolt of surprised apprehension. He straightened, resisting the urge to fidget, and walked towards the stool with steady steps. He kept his face neutral, betraying none of his inner turmoil. He could feel the eyes of the entire hall upon him. *Do not show fear.*

Dumbledore offered a warm smile, and Tom merely nodded in acknowledgement. He sat, and the cool weight of the Sorting Hat settled on his head, obscuring the light.

*Hmm,* a voice whispered in his mind, and Tom was caught off guard. *Interesting... very interesting... Where to put you? Ambitious, I see. A thirst for knowledge, too. Ravenclaw would suit you well.*

*But power... You crave power, don't you? The ability to control, to influence... to have.* The hat seemed to linger on each thought, assessing him.

*Slytherin could help you with that. Yes... It has the right drive, yes...*

Tom remained still and silent, not daring to influence the hat's decision. He did not wish to show weakness.

"Slytherin!" the hat proclaimed, its voice echoing in the hall.

Tom stood, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He walked towards the Slytherin table. As he passed the other students, he caught Abraxas Malfoy's eye. Abraxas's expression was unreadable, but Tom knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his gut, that he had acquired a new enemy.

* * *

The Charms classroom was a kaleidoscope of colors and motion. Professor Elara Meadowsweet, a flurry of bright robes, flitted between students, her voice a chime of encouragement. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating floating feathers and the excited faces of first-year students.

Tom stood at his desk, wand held carefully, the feather from his quill resting on the surface. He listened intently as Professor Meadowsweet demonstrated the Levitation Charm. "Wingardium Leviosa," she said, her wand arcing gracefully as a small, enchanted flower floated effortlessly into the air. "Remember the 'wing,' the lightness of the movement, and the focused intent."

Tom took a deep breath, mimicking her wand movement. "Wingardium Leviosa," he murmured, focusing all his attention on the feather. The tip of his wand glowed, and the feather twitched.

"Excellent, Mr. Riddle!" Professor Meadowsweet called, her smile as warm as the sunlight. "You have a natural aptitude for Charms."

Tom's chest swelled with a small note of pride. He glanced sideways and saw Abraxas Malfoy watching him, a flicker of something that looked like envy passing over the other boy's face. It vanished so quickly, Tom almost dismissed it.

He focused again on the feather, determined to master the charm. He performed the incantation, his articulation precise. This time, the feather lifted a few inches off the desk, hovering for a moment before gently drifting back down.

"Better!" Elara moved closer to him. "Concentrate on the lightness, the feeling of the feather rising. Imagine it floating."

The Hufflepuff student next to Tom, a rosy-cheeked boy named Herbert, accidentally bumped Tom's desk. The sudden movement disrupted Tom's focus, and his feather, which was lifting, took off. It spun wildly, then shot across the room, landing on the head of a startled Ravenclaw girl. Tom frowned.

Herbert mumbled an apology. Tom ignored him. He gathered his concentration. This time, the incantation worked. The feather lifted. Again, a Hufflepuff boy, this time a clumsy girl, accidentally nudged the desk this time. The feather soared away a third time. Tom's lips thinned.

Elara, oblivious to the brewing storm, bustled towards a small room at the back of the classroom, muttering about needing to replenish her supply of enchanted feathers.

Tom remained at the desk, simmering. He recalled a spell he'd read about in the library, a Disarming Charm, and how it could be twisted into something more powerful. A Depulso, a spell to repel objects. Those clumsy Hufflepuffs, distracting him, ruining his focus. The feather's trajectory, its chaotic flight, had all been their fault. He raised his wand, pointed it at Herbert.

"Depulso," he hissed.

A jet of invisible force slammed into Herbert. The boy yelped, flying backward, his chair overturning as he crashed into the wall at the back of the classroom. Books and quills scattered. A collective gasp rippled through the room.

The Slytherins erupted in cheers. Abraxas Malfoy, a smirk playing on his lips, clapped, his eyes gleaming with approval. Tom felt a surge of grim satisfaction. He quickly lowered his wand, feigning innocence.

Just then, Elara returned, her face a mixture of confusion and concern. She surveyed the scene: Herbert sprawled on the floor, the classroom in disarray.

"What in Merlin's name happened here?" she asked, her voice sharper than usual.

Tom stepped forward, affecting an expression of sincere apology. "It was an accident, Professor. I was practicing the Levitation Charm, and the feather went wild. Poor Herbert was simply in its path."

"Are you quite sure, Mr. Riddle?" Elara's eyes scanned the room, lingering on Abraxas, who quickly composed himself. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Well, someone help Herbert. Mr. Riddle, focus on your charms; accidents happen." She turned and began to straighten the disarray.

The bell rang, signaling the end of Charms class. Tom gathered his things, trying to appear nonchalant, despite the adrenaline coursing through him. As he stepped into the corridor, a hand fell on his shoulder.

"Impressive work in there, Riddle," Abraxas Malfoy said, his voice a low murmur. He leaned in close, his pale blue eyes assessing. "That Depulso was quite a feat for a first-year. Most of us struggle to keep things off the floor."

Tom shrugged, attempting to appear unassuming. "It was an accident, really. I was just trying to focus on the Levitation Charm."

Abraxas chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. "Of course, an accident. Just as I'm sure Professor Meadowsweet is oblivious to what truly happened." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the hallway, now filling with students from other classrooms. "Though, perhaps a bit less... dramatic next time. Discretion is key, wouldn't you agree? Especially in this place."

Tom met Abraxas's gaze, trying to gauge his sincerity. Malfoy, with his perfect hair and tailored robes, was an enigma. He spoke of secrets, of hidden currents.

"Those Hufflepuffs," Abraxas continued, a note of disdain creeping into his voice. "Clumsy, aren't they? Not the sort you'd want to be associated with." He pulled a face of distaste. "Fortunately, we are not in Hufflepuff." He smiled thinly. "Remember, Riddle, we operate on a different level here."

* * *

The door of Tom's room swung open, revealing Abraxas Malfoy, a trunk levitating in his wake. He guided it through the doorway with a flick of the wrist, the movement practiced and casual.

"Room for one more, Riddle?" Abraxas asked, his voice smooth, a predatory smile playing about his lips.

Tom gestured towards the empty bed opposite his, a question in his eyes. "Aren't you staying with your... friends?" he inquired, the words carefully chosen. Tom knew the other Slytherins, the ones with names like Lestrange and Rosier, the names that whispered of ancient lines and darker leanings.

Abraxas lowered himself onto the bed with a languid grace, his back straight, his tailored robes immaculate. He opened the trunk with a subtle wave of his wand, revealing an interior lined with silk. He began unpacking, each item placed with precision, ignoring Tom's question.

"Shouldn't you be thrilled, Riddle?" Abraxas finally offered, his tone laced with an undercurrent Tom did not miss, a challenge. "I have decided to grace you with my presence." He paused, straightening a perfectly folded shirt. "Think of it, sharing a room with a... a proper wizard." There was a deliberate emphasis on the word 'proper', and Tom knew the jab was aimed at him. Despite what his parents may have been, Tom's own lineage was a mystery. It was a veiled insult, a way to remind him of his uncertain origins. "I am here to elevate you," Abraxas added, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Tom continued neatly stacking his robes, each fold precise and economical, as if every action was a strategic maneuver. He felt Abraxas's gaze on him, a scrutiny that bordered on the unsettling. The luxurious scent of Abraxas's trunk, a concoction of expensive soaps and imported lavender, filled the small space, clashing with the more utilitarian aroma of Tom's belongings.

Finally, Tom turned, meeting Abraxas's appraising stare. "Why are you watching me?" he asked, his voice even. He knew he projected an image of cool control, an icy façade that concealed the churning thoughts beneath.

Abraxas blinked, momentarily thrown off. "You... you are folding your robes. Without magic," he stammered, the aristocratic composure momentarily wavering. His expression was a mixture of confusion and faint disgust.

A flicker of amusement danced within Tom, but he quickly suppressed it. "And?" he asked, his tone still carefully neutral.

"I have never seen anyone do that," Abraxas admitted, as if it were a personal affront. "It is... inefficient."

Tom raised an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. "Then teach me to do it magically," he suggested, his eyes narrowing slightly. He wanted to see how Abraxas would react to that.

Abraxas visibly recoiled, a flush creeping up his pale neck. He stammered, "I... I have never done it myself." He quickly recovered his poise, his voice regaining its usual smooth cadence. "House-elves handle such mundane tasks in my household. It is beneath me." The words were delivered with a haughty air, but a subtle tremor betrayed his discomfort.

Tom tilted his head, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "Fascinating," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with a spark of something Abraxas couldn't quite decipher. "Perhaps, then, we are both lacking." He let the words hang in the air, savoring the subtle shift in Abraxas's expression.

"Lacking?" Abraxas scoffed, his perfect facade momentarily cracking. "I assure you, Riddle, I am anything but lacking."

"Are you quite sure?" Tom countered, his voice soft but laced with a hint of challenge. "Because, wouldn't it be efficient to know how to fold clothes? Considering the circumstances." He gestured around the room, toward their unadorned space, a stark contrast to the opulence Abraxas was accustomed to. "Professor Meadowsweet doesn't seem to teach household magic."

Abraxas's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the color draining from his face. He seemed to be wrestling internally, the carefully constructed image of superiority momentarily under siege. Finally, he conceded with a reluctant sigh. "Very well," he said, his tone clipped. "Show me."

Tom calmly retrieved a robe from his trunk, demonstrating the precise movements, the careful alignment of seams, the economical use of space. He spoke, explaining the process as he did it. No magic was needed. He made it seem routine, simple. It was about neatness, structure, precision.

Abraxas, watching with a mixture of disdain and reluctant curiosity, attempted to mimic the process. His efforts, however, were comically inept. He fumbled with the fabric, his fingers clumsy, his face contorted in concentration. The robe became a crumpled mess. He tried again with similar results and his face turned red.

The absurdity of the situation, the utter failure of the heir to an ancient wizarding family to perform such a basic task, was suddenly overwhelming. A genuine laugh escaped Tom, a rare and surprising sound. And then, to his astonishment, Abraxas began to laugh as well, a genuine, uninhibited chuckle that transformed his usually aloof features.

Chapter Text

Since then, their friendship had bloomed. Abraxas, it turned out, was as starved for genuine connection as Tom was. Buried under the layers of pomp and ceremony, the endless parties and the expectations of his family, he was as lonely as Tom in his orphanage. His parents kept him distant from "lesser" company, drilling into him their beliefs of blood purity. He wasn't permitted to mingle with children of witches and wizards in his neighborhood; he was an heir, destined for greatness, and his interactions were carefully curated.

They began spending more time together. They discussed everything, the lessons at Hogwarts, the other students, their ambitions, and their shared resentment for authority. Tom would listen as Abraxas complained about the pressure from his parents, the endless lectures on lineage and duty. Abraxas, in turn, was intrigued by Tom's past and the mystery of his origins. They were bound by their shared sense of isolation.

One afternoon, during Transfiguration class, taught by Dumbledore, Abraxas leaned over to Tom, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Watch this," he whispered. They were learning to transfigure matches into needles. Tom knew that look.

Abraxas, with a casual flick of his wand, subtly altered the needles, so they were invisible, and in the moments before the Hufflepuffs sat down for their lesson, he was discreetly placing the needles on their chairs.

The lesson began. And the Hufflepuffs, unsuspecting, sat. The scream that followed was a symphony of shrieks and gasps, as the students yelped in surprise. Dumbledore, ever calm, surveyed the chaos with a twinkle in his eye. He knew who was responsible, but did not intervene.

Tom smirked, amused by the chaos.

Dumbledore, after taking in the chaos and the mischievous grins of Tom and Abraxas, finally restored order with a wave of his hand. The invisible needles vanished, replaced by ordinary matchsticks. He did not chastise, did not even raise his voice. He simply restored the classroom and finished the lesson, then dismissed the class.

As students began to gather their things, Dumbledore said, "Mr. Riddle, a word, if you please."

Abraxas, already gathering his belongings, shot Tom a knowing glance. "I'll wait for you in the Great Hall," he said, his voice low. Tom nodded, heart rate quickening. He knew what was coming.

The rest of the class filed out, their voices buzzing with excitement over the afternoon’s event. Once they were alone, Tom tensed, anticipating the lecture.

He began to justify their actions, "It was just a prank, sir, nothing serious. No one was hurt."

Dumbledore raised a hand, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "I am not quite referring to the incident with the needles, Mr. Riddle," he said. His blue eyes, as piercing as ever, were fixed on Tom. "Though, perhaps, we might discuss discretion at a later date."

Tom steeled himself. Dumbledore's eyes were like a cool summer dawn, gentle but sharp. "Have you ever wondered about your origins, Tom?"

He was silent, his gaze fixed on the polished floorboards. He knew his father was that Muggle, the wealthy one from the village, that much he remembered from his mother’s fragmented memories. He knew his father had abandoned them both.

Dumbledore watched him, a patient, knowing look on his face. Tom didn't meet his eyes. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The silence in the classroom pressed in on him, heavy as a physical weight.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke, his voice low and calm. "Now might be a good time to let you in on something, Tom. As you begin to understand the wizarding world.”

"Hogwarts exists, in part, to help young witches and wizards, especially those who grew up, as you did, in the Muggle world."

Tom still didn't speak. He knew he'd been different his whole life, and he liked that. He enjoyed being better than others, and always wanted to prove himself

Dumbledore paused and continued, “Through my research, I’m aware of some of the details of your parentage. Your father, as you know, is a wealthy Muggle. Am I correct, Tom?”

Tom nodded, still staring at the floor. The room was growing warmer.

Dumbledore continued, “Your mother, however, was from an old, once-renowned wizarding family."

Tom remained silent, taking in this new information, his mind racing. He thought of his life in the orphanage, the strange moments when things seemed to happen without him willing it. His mother, if Dumbledore was to be believed, was a witch. He hadn't known. Hadn't even suspected. He clenched his fists, the urge to question Dumbledore burning inside him.

He lifted his head, and finally asked, "Can you tell me more?"

Dumbledore's face clouded over. He looked troubled, a rare expression for the professor. "Perhaps, Mr. Riddle," he said after a pause, "but not now. There are matters best left for a different time.” He didn't elaborate. The uncertainty irked Tom. He pressed his lips into a thin line, the silence stretching between them. He felt like he was missing half of the story.

Dumbledore continued, "What I can say now is that you should never be ashamed of where you come from, Mr. Riddle. Whether wizard, Muggle, or both. All that matters is the strength of your character and the choices you make."

His gaze sharpened, focusing on Tom. "Be cautious, however, of the company you keep, especially now, at the start of your Hogwarts journey.” Though he didn't name Abraxas, the implication was clear.

Tom's mind latched onto that thought. Though he’d known Abraxas for only a short while, he understood the boy's ambition and his rigid adherence to tradition. The caution made him think. He decided to take it into consideration.

Dumbledore finally stood, moving toward the door. “Do make your way to the Great Hall. I’m sure your friend is awaiting your return.” He paused at the doorway and looked back at Tom, his blue eyes kind, yet probing. “I have faith, Mr. Riddle, that you will make wise decisions.” And with that, he left the classroom, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Tom took his usual seat in the Great Hall, and Abraxas waited for him, a plate piled high with chicken wings. He sat down, the aroma of roasted chicken filling the air.

"Ah, there you are," Abraxas said, his mouth already occupied. He wrestled with a wing, a look of comical frustration etched on his face. "These blasted things. Father would have a fit if I tried to eat this at home. No bones allowed; the elves would be mortified.”

Tom watched him, amused, as Abraxas gnawed at the meat with a focused intensity. "Dumbledore told me about my mother," Tom said. He kept his voice low, not wanting to attract undue attention. "Apparently, she was a witch."

Abraxas paused mid-bite, his blue eyes widening in surprise. With some effort, he swallowed. "A witch? Well, that's certainly better than being a Muggle-born," he said, then went back to attacking the wing. He seemed to have become a bit more relaxed toward Tom, dropping some of his usual aristocratic facade. "Thank Merlin. If you had Weasley hair and freckles, I would have been truly mortified to be seen with you."

Tom, ignoring the jibe, said, "I want to know more." The words were flat, a demand veiled in polite conversation. "He wouldn't tell me anything else. Just cryptic hints and warnings." He wanted to know who his mother was, what kind of witch she had been, and whether any of her magic resided within him.

Abraxas wiped his hands on a napkin, finally abandoning the wing. "Albus," he said, a slight smile playing on his lips, "Albus is fond of playing these games. He enjoys the intrigue. Dangles the truth in front of you but tells only half the story. It's his way of keeping things interesting, I suppose. Perhaps you should simply keep asking."

* * *

The book, *By Blood and Magic: An Historical Overview of Influential Wizarding Families,* sat open on Tom's desk. He flipped through the pages, the delicate parchment crackling softly. Abraxas had, of course, dismissed it as “as dull as a Ministry memo on cauldron regulations,” but Tom was fascinated. It wasn't just the genealogical charts that captivated him but the glimpses into the lives and powers of those who came before. He was searching for any mention of his mother's family, anything that might shed light on his own origins.

The common room was empty, most students were either in the library or outside on the grounds, taking advantage of the afternoon sun. The silence was broken by a distant pop, which Tom initially ignored, assuming it was a particularly noisy spell demonstration. Then came a loud *BOOM*, followed by a series of odd gurgling sounds. It seemed the noise originated from the lavatories down the hall. He closed the book, his curiosity piqued.

He found the corridor deserted. The echoes of the explosion still resonated in the air, a faint scent of burnt lavender hanging heavy. As he reached the men’s lavatory, laughter echoed from within. He approached the door cautiously.

He pushed the door open, and the sight that greeted him was, to say the least, unexpected. Bubbles, iridescent and suspiciously fragrant, were pouring out of every single toilet stall, overflowing onto the floor. The air was thick with the sweet scent of bubble bath. Standing amidst the bubbly chaos, mortified, was Bobby.

The house-elf looked up, his large eyes even wider than usual. His tea towel tunic was soaked, and a trail of bubbles clung to his small, pointed ears.

"Oh, dear!" Bobby squeaked, wringing his hands. "Master Riddle, I—I was just trying to clean the lavatories, but the cleaning solution... it seems to have taken on a life of its own!"

Tom raised an eyebrow, trying to contain a smile. The scene was absurd. He gestured vaguely toward the overflowing stalls. "A 'life of its own,' you say?"

Bobby wrung his hands again, bubbles popping on his stubby fingers. "Yes, Master Riddle. I... I am not very good at it. House-elf magic, I mean." He gestured helplessly at the swirling, shimmering mess. "I am sorry, Master Riddle, I will clean it up."

"Are you... a Hogwarts house-elf?" Tom asked, trying to keep his tone neutral. He had never seen a house-elf before, or at least, not one he knew about. The stories he'd read mentioned them, but he had never seen one.

Bobby blinked, his eyes widening further. He paused, then he blurted, "No, Master Riddle. I'm with...with..." He clamped a hand over his mouth, his face turning a shade of green that didn't quite match the bubbles. He looked stricken.

Tom kept his expression blank, his mind already cataloging the information. So, an elf in Hogwarts *not* employed by the school. Interesting. "With whom?" he pressed gently.

Bobby began to tremble, flinching as if expecting a blow. "I—I shouldn't have said that. Oh dear! Oh, dear!"

Before Tom could offer any further response, Bobby grabbed a broom leaning against the wall and, in a flurry of panicked energy, raised it above his head. He winced, then brought the broom down hard against his own backside, with a loud cracking sound. He winced again but clutched his tunic.

"I am a bad, bad elf!" Bobby wailed, dropping the broom and bursting into tears.

The commotion finally attracted the attention of someone other than Tom and Bobby. A girl with a cascade of dark hair appeared at the lavatory entrance. Even in the midst of the soapy chaos, she possessed an air of composure that was striking.

Her eyes, dark and intelligent, assessed the situation in a single glance. She took in the gurgling toilets, the distressed house-elf, and Tom’s impassive expression. Her lips curved into a small, amused smile.

"Honestly," she said, her voice smooth and melodious, "What a mess." She strode into the lavatory, her movements graceful despite the slippery floor. She flicked her wand, and a swift *Scourgify* charm swept through the room. The bubbles vanished, leaving only damp tiles and the lingering scent of lavender.

Bobby blinked, his tears still flowing, and stared at the vanished bubbles.

"That's better, isn't it?" The girl turned to Tom. "I'm Walburga Black. And you are... Tom, yes? We were in the same Potions class this morning."

"Yes," Tom replied, his voice even. The Black family. Another ancient name, another thread in the tapestry of wizarding lineage. He tilted his head slightly, observing her. "Thank you," he said, acknowledging the cleanup.

Walburga turned to Bobby, her eyes narrowed, assessing. "And you..." Her gaze lingered on the elf's tea-towel tunic. "You're one of the Malfoy's, aren't you?"

Bobby flinched, a fresh wave of terror washing over him. He was trembling again, his eyes darting between Tom and Walburga.

Walburga grinned. "Don't worry, little one. I won't tell Abraxas. Not if you do something for me." She paused, letting her words hang in the air, allowing the tension to build. "We're having a small gathering tonight. Some friends. It would be a shame for a mishap to occur, wouldn't it?"

* * *

Tom glanced at the small, brass clock on his bedside table. Midnight. Abraxas was asleep, muttering something about chicken wings, of all things. Tom suppressed a smirk, pulled on his black dress robes, and slipped out of the room, careful to make no noise.

He moved through the shadowed dorm, a silent wraith, and reached the staircase leading down into the Slytherin common room. He paused at the top, peering cautiously over the railing.

The common room was dimly lit by the green glow of the fireplace, and a small group of girls sat huddled together, their voices a low murmur. Walburga Black was among them, her dark hair gleaming in the firelight, her face animated as she spoke.

In one shadowed corner, barely visible, Tom spotted Bobby. The house-elf was pressed against the wall, fidgeting, his worried eyes wide and darting. Waiting his turn, apparently. A dark amusement flickered within Tom.

He noted the scene, cataloging the players and their positions. He saw no obvious threats, no immediate need to intervene. Perhaps he would watch this play unfold, just to learn. Tom quietly descended the stairs, keeping to the edges of the room, out of sight.

From his vantage point in the shadows, Tom watched as Walburga Black made a subtle gesture in Bobby's direction. The house-elf, who had been trying to blend into the background, flinched at the attention. With a resigned sigh, he clicked his fingers, and immediately, bubbles began to pour from Pauline's mouth.

The other girls in the common room erupted into fits of laughter, pointing at the struggling student. Pauline's cheeks bulged as she desperately tried to hold back the relentless stream of bubbles, her eyes wide with panic. Tom's expression darkened. He knew Pauline was a Muggle-born, and he could guess the reason behind Walburga's cruel prank.

As the laughter grew louder, Tom considered his options. He could easily step forward and put an end to this humiliating display with a simple counter-charm. But something held him back. A part of him, a cold and calculating part, was curious to see how this would play out.

The bubbles continued to flow, enveloping Pauline in a shimmering, soapy cocoon. Her struggles weakened, and she collapsed onto a nearby sofa, gasping for air between the relentless bursts. The other girls, including Walburga, only laughed harder, enjoying the spectacle they believed they had orchestrated.

Suddenly, the bubbles ceased. The laughter in the common room died as quickly as it had begun. Pauline, sprawled on the sofa, coughed, blinking in confusion at the absence of her soapy torment. The other girls stared, their expressions shifting from amusement to bewilderment.

Walburga Black, who had been leaning forward, a smirk playing on her lips, now straightened abruptly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her face. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the sudden cessation. Tom, hidden in the shadows, felt a familiar thrill course through him. He hadn’t anticipated that.

Bobby was gone. One moment he was there, a small, anxious figure cowering against the wall; the next, he was simply...absent. In his place, a lingering scent of burnt ozone hung in the air, and a faint wisp of smoke curled upwards. Tom’s mind raced, piecing together the fragments. The house-elf had disappeared, obviously, but how? Why? And where?

He decided his presence here was no longer conducive to gathering information. Tom turned away, moving with a newfound urgency. He slipped back into the shadows, the muted sounds of the common room fading behind him. He needed to get back to his room. He also wanted to be alone.

He ascended the stairs, his footsteps soundless on the stone. He reached the door to his dorm room, and paused, his hand hovering over the handle. The door was ajar. He hadn’t left it that way. He pushed the door open wider. The room was empty and still. Abraxas was still asleep, silently.

* * *

The next morning, the first rays of sun pierced through the narrow window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Tom and Abraxas were silently changing into their school robes. Tom deliberately avoided looking at his roommate, considering Abraxas's likely involvement in last night’s events. It was clear Abraxas knew more than he let on.

“Did you know Bobby was here?” Abraxas asked, his voice unexpectedly casual. He was fiddling with a silk tie, his expression unreadable.

"I saw him." Tom replied and continued to button his robes. His voice was carefully neutral.

Abraxas chuckled, a short, dismissive sound. “Thought everyone was bringing a house-elf to Hogwarts at first. Turns out, it's a bit of a risk, with the new rules and all. Still, can’t trust the school staff, can you? Bobby’s... helpful. When he’s working right, anyway." He paused, then added with a touch of dry amusement, "Walburga Black, though... she's a different matter. Family's known for being a bit... bonkers."

Tom raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest. “Bonkers how?” He inquired, turning back to him.

Abraxas scoffed, "Oh, you know. Obsessed with dark arts, pure-blood nonsense, curses for breakfast. The usual. She wants to know everything, you understand?"

"Did you... stop the chaos last night?” Tom asked, his gaze fixed on Abraxas. He had to see exactly what was happening.

Abraxas hesitated, smoothing down his robes then turning to Tom. He looked amused. “One couldn’t let a house-elf get into trouble, could one? Especially not one that makes a better drink than the kitchen staff. That would be a shame."

Satisfied with the implications in Abraxas' words, Tom finished adjusting his robes and turned towards the door. He did not show the surprise in his face.

Chapter Text

After breakfast, a note from Walburga materialized, a raven's feather drifting onto Tom’s plate during a Charms lesson. It simply demanded, "Meet me after curfew. Dungeons. Urgent." Tom’s stomach clenched. He knew better than to ignore her summons.

That night, after everyone else had drifted off to sleep, Tom slipped out of the dorm. He found Walburga waiting outside the common room entrance, her face a mask of carefully constructed innocence.

"Tom," she greeted him, her voice low. "I need to have a word with you. About Bobby."

Tom masked his apprehension. He’d seen enough of her temperament to understand obedience was non-negotiable with Walburga. He followed her in silence, his footsteps echoing on the cold stone steps that led downwards. They descended into the bowels of Hogwarts, into the dungeons beneath the Slytherin common room. The air grew colder, damper, and the musty scent of the unexplored parts of the castle clung to the air. Flickering torches cast grotesque shadows on the walls, making the stone figures on the walls appear to twist and writhe.

They reached a heavy, iron-bound door. Walburga pulled it open, revealing a small, dimly lit chamber. The air within stank of mildew and something else, something vaguely reptilian.

"Did you interfere with my... little experiment last night?" Walburga asked, her eyes gleaming in the torchlight.

Tom carefully composed his face. "No," he replied, his voice unwavering, "I did not. I was studying." He made to turn, to leave, the dank air pressing down on him with an unpleasant weight. He wanted to be gone.

Before he could take a step, Walburga raised her wand. “*Petrificus Totalus*!"

His limbs locked immediately, his body rigid as stone. Terror gripped him. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat. Walburga's face twisted into a cruel parody of a smile.

"You shouldn't have done that," she murmured, her gaze lingering on him with unnerving intensity. She turned from his body, and spoke to the darkness of the prison. His eyes darted around, trying to find the source of the stink. "A little welcome for you. Enjoy your visit."

Then she vanished, leaving Tom alone in the cold, terrifying confines of the dungeon. He thought he could smell a putrid scent, and it was coming closer, a low hiss in the darkness confirming his dread.

The initial shock receded, replaced by a familiar, icy calm. He'd been bullied and cornered before. The orphanage bullies, the bigger boys at breakfast, it was all the same. This was merely a different form of the same game. *I cannot move*, he thought, *I cannot run*. The *Petrificus Totalus* spell began to wane, the rigidity in his cheeks loosening first. He could blink, he could move his lips, though his arms and legs remained iron-bound.

The smell intensified. It was the foul, musky scent of scales mingling with damp stone. A shadow moved in the darkness, resolving into the sinuous form of a snake, its eyes gleaming with predatory hunger. It was a viper, its triangular head swaying as it closed the distance, forked tongue flicking. Tom held his breath, focusing all his will, all his control, and spoke, the words a mental command more than a vocalized one.

"Go away," he projected, focusing on the snake's mind.

The viper paused, its obsidian eyes locking onto his. Then, impossibly, it recoiled. It hesitated, its body tensing as if it fought against the order, but, finally, it turned and retreated. Tom released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It wasn't a surprise. Not really. He'd always known he was different. He'd always known he could do *something*...something unnatural.

The snake paused. This time, a dozen more appeared behind it. These were bigger, thicker. Venom glistened on their fangs. And they didn’t retreat. They began to slither forwards.

He focused every ounce of his will, trying to force the snakes back. *Stay away.* The command echoed in his mind. The snakes hesitated. They swayed, as if buffeted by an unseen force. More and more snakes poured from the darkness, their presence a cold fear in the already chilling room. The pressure was immense, it felt as if his mind was being stretched taut, the effort exhausting. He fought to keep control, to stop the encroaching tide of reptiles that sought to overwhelm him. Just as he thought his mind might crack under the strain, the iron door creaked open.

Abraxas Malfoy stood in the doorway, his face contorted with anger and a hint of fear. "Walburga!" he spat, his voice echoing in the stone chamber, "What in Merlin's name have you done?"

The snakes, as if sensing a new target, instantly redirected their attention to Abraxas, who stood directly in front of Walburga. They hissed, their eyes glittering with malice, and began to move towards him. Walburga gasped, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and fascination.

Tom seized the moment. He had one last chance. *Go away*, he commanded, the words a desperate plea this time, laced with the raw power of his will.

The snakes faltered and, with a collective movement that was almost comical in its suddenness, they recoiled, their forms merging back into the shadows. The room was plunged into silence.

Abraxas stared, his mouth agape. Walburga's face was a mask of shock, her carefully constructed composure shattered. She looked at Tom, his petrified body still straining against the spell, then at the empty space where the snakes had been.

"What...?" Abraxas began, his voice barely a whisper.

* * *

Tom remained unmoving, a silent observer as the scene unfolded, the *Petrificus Totalus* spell finally wearing off. His muscles released their tension, and his first act was to stand, to take a step to make sure every muscle worked properly. The room spun slightly. He took another step to show Slughorn. He then focused on the task at hand. This was how he would act: cold logic and precision before emotion.

"Get yourselves in here," a voice boomed from the doorframe.

It was Professor Slughorn, his portly figure filling the doorway. His round face was a picture of consternation, the carefully cultivated joviality wiped away. "In my office, the three of you. *Now*."

They followed him, a silent procession. The office, as always, was a rich tapestry of objects and artifacts, a testament to Slughorn's love for collecting interesting things. Glass cases lined the walls, filled with potions ingredients and strange, glittering objects. Tom took a moment to study the room while Slughorn rounded his desk.

Slughorn gestured towards three ornate chairs facing his cluttered desk. "Sit," he commanded, his voice sharper than usual.. "Leaving the dormitory after curfew. Disgraceful behavior." He steepled his fingers, his eyes flicking between them, settling mostly on Abraxas. "Your parents, Mr. Malfoy, will be most displeased if any harm comes to you, and they will be sure to let me know about it, I assure you."

"It was an accident, sir," Abraxas said quickly, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness. He had regained his composure, though a flush of anxiety remained on his pale face. "We were merely investigating a noise."

Walburga, however, spoke instead. "Tom Riddle," she declared, her voice laced with a mixture of accusation and awe. "He controlled the snakes."

Slughorn turned his attention to Tom, his eyes narrowing. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, a mixture of amusement and intrigue. "Parseltongue, is it?" he said softly, his gaze assessing, disbelieving. "A rare gift indeed." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I've heard tales, of course. Whispers. But I confess, I thought it mere legend."

"It was a coincidence sir," said Tom. "An accident." He knew he had to play down the display. To expose too much would be dangerous.

"Perhaps," Slughorn said, though his eyes didn’t agree. "But such coincidences often have explanations, do they not?"

Slughorn then went back to berating the students, ignoring Tom's statement. "As punishment, you three will assist Professor Greenwell with the Halloween decorations. No complaints. Consider it a chance to make amends." He looked pointedly at Tom. "And perhaps a chance to study those skills you seem to command."

* * *

The October air held a biting chill, turning Tom’s breath into visible puffs. The damp earth clung to his worn boots as he surveyed the pumpkin patch. Professor Greenwell, her face flushed with the cold, clapped her hands together.

"Right then, no magic," she announced, her voice crisp. "Just your good old hands and a bit of elbow grease. And remember, the largest pumpkins are for the Great Hall. The rest? Well, we'll see."

Walburga, bundled in layers of expensive robes, was already complaining. "Honestly, the cold is simply unbearable," she muttered, her breath misting in the air. "And this *work*...It's utterly beneath me."

Abraxas, effortlessly elegant, despite the circumstances, was unimpressed. His pale blond hair gleamed in the weak sunlight. "Perhaps if your curiosity hadn't gotten the better of you last night," he replied, his voice smooth, "we wouldn't be here."

Tom remained silent, methodically sizing up the pumpkins, considering weight and size in the absence of magic. He'd never done something like this before. The act of doing manual labor created some unease.

Soon, a hulking figure approached. It was Hagrid, the Gryffindor boy, his size dwarfing the others. He approached the pumpkins methodically, his face kind and ready to assist.

"Need a hand, Professor?" he asked Greenwell, his voice deep and warm, as he moved to assist.

Greenwell smiled gratefully. "Why, thank you, Rubeus. Just in time." She gestured towards a particularly large pumpkin. "Perhaps you could try this one."

As they worked, a flash of movement caught Tom’s eye. Bobby, the house-elf, was darting between Abraxas and the pumpkins, a small, frantic figure in the gathering dusk. Tom watched as Abraxas discreetly directed Bobby, using subtle hand gestures and barely audible whispers.

Later, Abraxas approached Tom, after having carefully assessed Walburga's presence. "Don't mention Bobby to her," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "She's...unpredictable."

Hagrid, oblivious, hefted a massive pumpkin onto his shoulder with ease. Walburga stood nearby, issuing orders, her tone imperious. She directed Hagrid's movements, her hands gesturing dismissively, as if he, and not the pumpkin, were the problem. She pointed towards the smaller pumpkins, barely glancing at them. She made no effort to assist in the work, feigning a delicate interest in the task, while simultaneously ensuring her pristine robes remained spotless.

Tom ignored her and the bustling activity, and instead focused on a particularly stubborn pumpkin. He tested its hollowness with a knuckle, considering the leverage needed to roll it.

Walburga, having exhausted her patience for the slower tasks, glided over. Her dark eyes narrowed as she approached Tom. "So," she said, her voice a silken challenge, "where did you learn to speak to snakes, Riddle?"

He met her gaze, his expression impassive. "I don't speak Parseltongue." His voice was devoid of inflection.

A slow smile spread across her face. It did not reach her eyes. "Oh, but you do," she said softly, as if sharing a secret. "I heard you in the dungeons, heard the way you commanded those vipers. Quite impressive, really. Perhaps you are more special than you seem."

She paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "And, because you are, I expect to see you at the party tonight. My gathering begins at precisely midnight. Do not be late."

Her gaze swept over him, assessing, judging. She did not pose the invitation as a question. It was a command. Then, with a final, dismissive glance, she turned and rejoined Abraxas.

Hagrid, his face flushed with exertion, had settled his enormous frame beside Tom. A small, iridescent creature, a Flittermouse, perched on his shoulder. Its amber eyes blinked, taking in the scene of the pumpkin patch.

"Beautiful thing, isn’t it?" Hagrid said, his voice gentle as he stroked the Flittermouse’s soft fur. He glanced around, casting a quick look at Professor Greenwell. "Don't tell her I have this one. It's not supposed to be allowed, you see. But it's harmless, I swear."

Tom studied the Flittermouse. Its dragonfly wings shimmered in the fading light, its tiny claws gripping Hagrid’s patched robes. “Why not get a bigger creature?” he asked, his voice neutral. “One that could protect you. A spider, or something.”

Hagrid chuckled, a deep rumbling sound. "Well, I do like the giant spiders. But my favorite is a dragon, you see. Though I certainly can’t get one of them. Too much trouble. A spider would be nice too though."

He paused, then tilted his head, considering Tom. "Say, you know anything about snakes? I found one..."

Before Hagrid could continue, Greenwell’s voice cut through the crisp air. "Rubeus, Tom, it's time to head back for dinner. The pumpkins await our return tomorrow".

Chapter Text

Abraxas tossed the missive onto his bed, the Malfoy crest shimmering in the dim light of their dorm room. "Blast it," he muttered, picking up the parchment again. "Father's gotten wind of Bobby."

Tom sat on his own bed, studying the worn cover of a book on ancient runes. He looked up from his reading now, curious. "What's the matter?"

"This," Abraxas said gesturing to the letter. He began reading aloud as though a public address. " ‘Abraxas, I am aware of the...arrangement regarding the house-elf Bobby. Ensure his presence remains discreet. I will collect him during the next Board of Governors meeting.’" Abraxas’s eyes narrowed, though his voice stayed even. "'Understood,’ the letter concludes." He crumpled the parchment in his fist, then smoothed it out again, his face displaying an unfamiliar annoyance. "Father rarely sends instructions so...blunt."

"Your father is influential," Tom stated flatly, concealing his amazement behind a carefully neutral expression. He watched Abraxas, trying to gauge the depth of the situation. This was the first direct mention of Abraxas's family to Tom.

Abraxas straightened his robes, smoothing any perceived creases. “Yes, of course,” He looked across at Tom, a slightly inquisitive expression on his face, then asked, "How do Muggles receive their correspondence, anyway? Do they employ owls as well?" The question clearly was born from a complete lack of understanding.

"No," Tom replied after a moment's hesitation, choosing his words carefully. "They use these- what do you call them...postal services. Muggles use... boxes." He gestured vaguely, searching for an easy explanation. "They have people that deliver letters by foot." He hoped he was explaining it well.

Abraxas's brow furrowed. "By foot?" he questioned. An amused smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Do these...postmen...fly?"

Tom burst out laughing, unable to contain himself any longer.

Tom clasped shut the heavy book on runes, the worn leather cool beneath his fingertips. "Walburga invited me to her gathering tonight, at midnight," he said, watching Abraxas closely.

Abraxas’s carefully cultivated air of casual indifference faltered for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Did she, now?" he replied, the words measured and smooth. He turned away, fiddling with the elaborate silver clasp of his trunk.

“Yes,” Tom pressed on, keeping his voice neutral. "She implied it was... important." He let the word linger, its implication of veiled threat hanging in the air. He was curious to know what Abraxas knew, and what his involvement was. Walburga had said nothing about Abraxas, other than to insinuate he was not going to be there.

Abraxas released the clasp with a snap, turning back to face Tom. A wry smile played on his lips. "Funny," he said, his words tinged with a hint of amusement. "I received a similar invitation." He paused, as though considering his next words. "More accurately, I was...persuaded to attend."

Tom raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Persuaded?"

"Yes," Abraxas confirmed, his smile widening slightly. "It would seem that a Black's influence extends further than I once assumed." He gestured with a languid hand, encompassing the entire room. "Perhaps I underestimated the depths of the family's... interests." He clearly knew something Tom did not. He was always cautious to hide any information like this from Tom.

* * *

Midnight, the dungeons. Torches cast flickering shadows as Tom followed Walburga through a maze of corridors. The air grew thick with the scent of damp stone and something else, faintly metallic. Finally, she stopped before a heavy, iron-bound door, its surface etched with the serpent of Slytherin.

"In here," Walburga said, her voice a low whisper, and pushed the door open.

Inside, a small, circular chamber, lit by more torches, revealing a gathering of students. Tom recognized some: Avery, a burly boy from Tom's year; Lestrange, older, with a cruel twist to his lips. Others, he did not. They were all dressed in dark robes, their faces betraying a blend of curiosity and barely suppressed excitement.

Walburga swept into the room, a predatory grace in her movements. "Welcome," she announced, her voice ringing in the confined space, "to an assembly of Slytherin's finest."

She gestured dismissively toward the others. "Some may not be pure-bloods, but all are...discerning."

Her gaze landed on Tom, her dark eyes gleaming. "And this, my friends, is Snaky Tom. An interesting...addition." The way she said "Snaky" dripped with derision. Tom hated that nickname already.

"We meet tonight," Walburga continued, her tone taking on an elevated pitch, "because Slytherin has been permitted to fall. The honor of our ancestors is being trampled under the clumsy feet of – Ravenclaw. We will not let it continue."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Tom stood silent, his eyes scanning their faces, analyzing their hidden ambitions.

"It's time," Walburga proclaimed, "to take matters into our own hands. We need...special operations."

She paused for dramatic effect, letting her words hang in the air.

Tom observed, his expression carefully neutral. Walburga's assembly was a collection of puffed-up egos and shallow theatrics. Compared to the hard lessons of the orphanage, these students were mere children playing at rebellion.

Avery, all bluster and muscle, suggested hexing the Gryffindor Quidditch team. A wave of laughter filled the room. Tom allowed a thin smile to touch his lips.

Lestrange, his face gaunt, proposed spreading rumors about a Muggle-born in Hufflepuff. Tom's interest flickered, but he quickly extinguished it. These weren't grand schemes; they were petty squabbles, born of boredom and a misplaced sense of importance.

Walburga turned to Tom, her lips curved in a practiced smile. "And what do you think, Tom? Any ideas?"

He met her gaze, assessing the challenge. He needed to play along, to appear engaged without revealing the gulf between his ambition and their juvenile games.

Tom considered Walburga's question, his mind already calculating the best approach. These children were predictable, their desires transparent. They craved power, recognition, and the illusion of control.

"I suggest," Tom began, his voice smooth, controlled, "that we learn to understand the structure of this place."

He let his gaze sweep across the faces of his audience. "Hogwarts holds many secrets, hidden passages, forgotten spells. If we wish to truly exert influence, we must master the very fabric of this castle."

Walburga's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something akin to admiration crossing her face. "And how do you propose to do that?"

"By studying," Tom replied, "by observing. We will befriend the professors, learn their weaknesses, their prejudices. We will discover the levers that control this school."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

Walburga grinned, her teeth flashing in the torchlight. "Not a bad idea, Snaky. Not bad at all."

Abraxas Malfoy, who had been observing silently, now pushed his way forward, his expression a mixture of boredom and condescension.

"I will help Tom," Abraxas announced.

He sauntered closer to Tom, his eyes cold. "It is the only way to get ahead. Stay away from the juvenile chaos that only brings trouble." Abraxas eyed the other students with a look of disdain.

Tom nodded, acknowledging Abraxas's support. "Indeed. The best way to find the truth, is to be in the middle. We don't want to be at the sidelines." He turned his gaze back to Walburga, a subtle challenge in his eyes. "But as for the childish acts. Walburga has her own charms, which, I suppose, will get her what she wants."

* * *

Tom and Abraxas slipped away from the group unnoticed, their departure a subtle vanishing act amidst excited chatter of plotting and secrets. As the others dispersed, chattering about their childish schemes, they moved swiftly through the shadowy corridors of Hogwarts, their steps silent on the stone floors. The air around them grew cooler, carrying the damp scent of the dungeons.

"Why here?" Abraxas asked, his voice a low murmur. He glanced at Tom with a flicker of unease, as if suddenly remembering the earlier confrontation.

Tom ignored his question. He led the way without hesitation, his movements precise and purposeful.

"Where are we going?" Abraxas pressed, his aristocratic boredom slowly giving way to curiosity. He fell silent as they passed through a secluded corridor.

Tom did not acknowledge his companion. He didn't want to waste any words. He had a purpose.

They arrived at the passage. A cold draft wrapped around Tom as they descended the stairs. The deeper they went, the more comfortable he became. Tom loved the dark. He appreciated the absolute quiet, the loneliness. It was a haven where one could escape the tiresome noise of the world.

He knew the twists and turns of this part of the castle intimately. Each shadowy alcove, each hidden doorway had been etched into his memory.

Finally, they reached the chamber.

Tom stopped before the entrance. The air was heavy here, thick with an ancient, unidentifiable energy. He pushed open the door, and stepped inside. The darkness held no threat. It was an old friend, a mirror to the depths of his own soul. The chamber welcomed him.

"I must understand," Tom said, his voice barely a whisper, yet echoing in the vast chamber. "The snakes. Their power. Their nature."

Abraxas frowned, taking a step back. "Why are we here? This place is... unsettling." His usual composure seemed frayed, his eyes darting nervously around the dimly lit chamber. Tom ignored him, focusing his will, his thoughts, on the unseen world that pulsed beneath the surface. A low hiss filled the air.

"Come," Tom commanded, his voice now sharper, directed towards the shadows. He held out his hand, palm up, as if expecting a guest. He felt a presence, a coiling, sinuous weight in the air, and then...nothing. He focused harder, using his will. He could almost feel something respond. "Come to me." Abraxas looked increasingly distressed.

From the depths of the chamber, the pipes began to rattle. The sound grew louder, resonating through the stone. Something large was moving, churning through the unseen channels beneath the castle. Tom felt the energy grow, twisting. He wanted to see this thing. He had to.

He turned, moving towards a long, dark tunnel that opened from the chamber. The sound was coming from that direction. He stepped into the opening, Abraxas at his heels, complaining. The darkness of the tunnel enveloped them. The rattling intensified.

At the far end, something moved. A massive form, barely visible in the gloom, was slithering towards them, growing bigger and bigger, the noise increasing as it got closer. Tom's breath hitched.

Suddenly, the air shimmered. Bobby materialized, his eyes wide with panic. He grabbed both Tom and Abraxas by the hands, and with a pop, they vanished.

* * *

The world dissolved around Tom, a nauseating lurch in his stomach. It was the first time he had ever been apparated. He stumbled, his legs momentarily useless, and vomited on the floor. He hated this.

"Good heavens!" Slughorn exclaimed, springing from behind his desk, his face a mixture of disgust and concern. He produced a handkerchief from his robes. "Here, Riddle, let me... oh dear."

Abraxas, looking pale but composed, quickly recovered his balance. "Apologies, Professor," he said, his voice strained. "It was a rather unpleasant experience."

Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ignoring the offered handkerchief. He focused on regaining control, his mind racing. This house-elf seemed increasingly unpredictable. Getting apparated here was not according to plan.

Slughorn, after a brief moment of consternation, seemed to recover quickly. He waved his hand, and the mess vanished. Tom straightened, trying to appear unaffected. He had to maintain his facade. This was clearly not the time to show weakness.

Slughorn's eyes flickered, and his jovial expression turned to one that Tom didn't recognize. It was a complicated look – surprise, a hint of unease, and something else Tom couldn’t quite place.

He stared past Tom, his eyes fixed on something behind him.

Tom turned slowly.

He saw a tall, imposing figure standing in the doorway, his face a mask of controlled disapproval. The man was older than Tom had expected, with stern features and the same pale blonde hair as Abraxas.

Abraxas blanched, his usual composure crumbling. "Father," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. The single word dripped with dread.

Enceladus Malfoy stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over the scene with undisguised disdain. He completely ignored Tom, as if he were a particularly unpleasant stain on the carpet. His attention was solely on his son. "Abraxas," he said, his voice sharp and laced with disappointment. "I trust you have a reasonable explanation for this… tableau."

"Father, I can explain," Abraxas began, his hands fidgeting nervously. "We were merely…"

Enceladus cut him off with a dismissive wave. "I have just concluded the Board meeting," he said, his eyes narrowed. "I decided to pay you a visit, see how you were settling in. Imagine my surprise when I discovered your bed empty."

Tom watched the interaction with detached curiosity. This was a side of Abraxas he hadn't seen before – the confident mask completely gone, replaced by a nervous, almost fearful boy. It was… enlightening.

"I dispatched Bobby to locate you," Enceladus continued, his gaze hardening. "Clearly, he found you in… interesting company."

Abraxas swallowed hard. "We were just—"

Enceladus’s gaze flicked towards Slughorn, his lip curling in a subtle sneer. "I must say, Professor," he said, his voice dripping with thinly veiled criticism, "I am less than impressed with the level of supervision afforded to students at this institution. Allowing them to roam freely at all hours… it is hardly conducive to a proper education."

Enceladus eyes were narrowed and piercing. He seemed to wait for the Head of Slytherin House to defend himself, but Slughorn simply fidgeted, his walrus mustache twitching nervously. Slughorn remained speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Tom found a perverse amusement in it. The esteemed Potions Master, usually so quick with a charming platitude, was as flustered as Abraxas under his father's scrutiny.

"Where exactly were you, Abraxas?" Enceladus asked, his tone brooking no argument. "And with whom? I believe you said you had an… interesting friend." His gaze finally landed on Tom, assessing, cold.

Abraxas glanced at Bobby, who cowered behind Tom's legs, then back to his father. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then finally stammered, "We were… having a meeting, Father. With Walburga and some other students. In the dungeons."

He shifted his weight, avoiding his father’s gaze. "We got lost on the way back to the common room."

Enceladus didn't seem convinced. He tilted his head, his eyes sharp, calculating. "Lost, were you?" he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "In your own school? After curfew?"

He fixed his gaze on Abraxas, then on Bobby, his expression unreadable. Tom could practically feel the weight of his suspicion, heavy and suffocating. Enceladus was a master of intimidation, his mere presence enough to make even the most seasoned Slytherin squirm.

He studied Abraxas's face, searching for any sign of deception. His gaze flicked to Bobby, who was trembling visibly, his oversized ears twitching.

Tom watched, his mind calculating. He needed to control the narrative, to steer the conversation away from the true nature of his activities. He couldn't afford for Enceladus to delve too deeply into their escapades. The snakes, the chamber… that had to remain a secret.

Abraxas, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, jumped at the opportunity to redirect his father’s suspicions. "We were just discussing strategies for the House Cup," he interjected quickly, his voice regaining some of its usual confidence. "Ravenclaw has been insufferable lately, boasting about their academic achievements. We were exploring ways to… level the playing field."

Enceladus’s gaze softened, just a fraction, as if the mention of inter-house rivalry appealed to his Slytherin sensibilities. A flicker of something akin to amusement crossed his face. "Ah, the House Cup," he murmured, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "A worthy pursuit, though I trust you are engaging in… appropriate methods."

"Of course, Father," Abraxas replied smoothly, meeting his father’s gaze directly. "We would never stoop to anything… dishonorable."

Enceladus seemed to accept this explanation, his gaze relaxing slightly. For a moment, Tom felt a surge of relief. The immediate danger had passed, but the underlying tension remained.

Then, Enceladus’s eyes narrowed again, focusing on Tom with renewed intensity. "However," he said, his voice laced with steel, "I would advise you, Abraxas, to choose your associates more carefully. Not everyone is worthy of your trust."

The words were delivered with a deliberate emphasis, leaving no doubt as to their intended target. Tom felt a surge of anger, a hot, burning resentment that threatened to consume him. He wanted to lash out, to defend himself, to prove his worth.

But he suppressed the urge, forcing himself to remain calm and composed. He met Enceladus’s gaze without flinching, his expression carefully neutral. He would not give the man the satisfaction of seeing his anger. He would bide his time, observe, and wait for the opportunity to prove himself.

The blatant insult stung, but Tom kept his face blank. He would not give Enceladus the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of polite acknowledgement, but said nothing.

Slughorn, sensing the palpable tension in the room, attempted to diffuse the situation with a forced chuckle. "Well, well," he said, clapping his hands together, "it seems to be getting rather late. I'm sure you young men have… studies to attend to. And Mr. Malfoy," he added, turning to Enceladus with a deferential nod, "a long journey back, I imagine."

He bustled towards the door, gesturing for them to follow. "Good night, good night," he chirped, his voice a little too high-pitched. "And do try to stay out of trouble, eh? No more midnight excursions, and definitely no more… snake charming," he said, directing a wink at Tom that felt distinctly uncomfortable. "Wouldn't want to give Professor Greenwell any more grey hairs."

Enceladus, who had been silent for a moment, paused at the doorway, a curious expression on his face. He turned back to face Slughorn, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Snake charming, you say?" he inquired, his voice dangerously soft.

Slughorn’s forced smile faltered. "Just a figure of speech, Mr. Malfoy," he stammered, waving his hand dismissively. "A little joke. Boys will be boys, after all."

Enceladus ignored Slughorn’s clumsy attempt at deflection. His gaze shifted, pinning Tom in place. For the first time, he addressed Tom directly. "Riddle, is it?" he said, his voice cool and measured. "I understand you have a certain… affinity for snakes."

Tom met his gaze, his mind racing. He had to be careful, every word carefully chosen. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir," he replied, his voice calm and even. "I have no particular interest in snakes."

Enceladus studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Tom could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the subtle pressure of his suspicion. He knew that Enceladus didn't believe him, that he saw something in him, something he couldn't quite define.

Finally, Enceladus seemed to relent, though Tom sensed that he was far from convinced. "Very well," he said, his voice dismissing the topic. "I trust you will focus on your studies, Riddle, and avoid any further… misunderstandings."

He turned back to Slughorn, his expression shifting to one of polite concern. "Professor," he said, "I understand that Mr. Riddle is… without family. An orphan, I believe."

Slughorn nodded, his eyes darting nervously between Tom and Enceladus. "That is correct, Mr. Malfoy."

Enceladus paused, considering. "Perhaps," he said, his gaze sweeping over Tom with a calculating look, "Mr. Riddle would care to spend the winter holidays with Abraxas at Malfoy Manor? It would be… educational for both of them."

He didn't ask Tom if he wanted to go, didn't even acknowledge his presence. It was a statement, not a question, a subtle display of power and control. He merely looked at Slughorn, expecting his approval.

Slughorn, ever eager to please, beamed at the suggestion. "A splendid idea, Mr. Malfoy," he gushed. "Most generous of you. I'm sure Mr. Riddle would be delighted."

Enceladus seemed satisfied with Slughorn’s response. A hint of a smile touched his lips, a cold, unsettling expression that sent a shiver down Tom’s spine. "Excellent," he said, his voice smooth and assured. "I shall visit you again soon, Professor," he added, his gaze lingering on Slughorn for a moment. Then, without another word, he turned and swept out of the room, leaving a palpable silence in his wake.

* * *

Back in their room, Abraxas collapsed onto his four-poster, the ornate canopy doing little to soothe his nerves. He trembled, the encounter with his father still fresh in his mind. Enceladus Malfoy rarely made appearances at Hogwarts. When he did, everyone knew something of significance, often unpleasant, would follow.

Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by Abraxas’s shaky breaths. Finally, he spoke, his voice strained, "Bobby!"

With a soft *pop*, the house-elf materialized. His large, usually expressive eyes were wide with worry, darting between Tom and Abraxas. Soot smudged his cheek, and he wrung his hands in his tea towel tunic.

"It’s not your fault," Abraxas rushed to say, preempting any apologies. "Father… he commanded you, didn't he?"

Relief washed over Bobby’s face. His shoulders visibly slumped, the tension easing from his small frame. "Yes, Master Abraxas, sir. The master ordered Bobby to check on you."

Abraxas ran a hand through his hair, the smooth strands falling back into place. "Just checking on us, were you? You nearly gave us a heart attack."

Bobby shuffled his feet. "Bobby shouldn't have interrupted. But that place, Master Abraxas, Master Tom… it’s not safe." He looked up, his eyes pleading. "You mustn't go there again. Powerful magic lives there, magic that… that…" He shuddered. "Magic best left alone."

Abraxas shot up from his bed, his fear momentarily replaced by curiosity. "Wait, what do you mean, unsafe? What did you see?" He took a step toward the house-elf, closing the distance between them. "Was it the Parseltongue? Did what Tom said wake something in there?"

Bobby squeezed his eyes shut, his head shaking so vigorously his ears flapped. "Bobby doesn't know, Master Abraxas, sir! Bobby just knows...feels it in his magic. That place is wrong. Bad wrong. Dark magic." He wrung his hands even harder, the tea towel twisting into a tight rope. "Bobby shouldn’t have said anything."

Abraxas advanced on him, his voice rising, "Tell me! What did you see?"

Bobby stumbled back, bumping into Tom, who had been silently observing the exchange. Tom steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, his gaze sharp and assessing.

"He said he doesn't know," Tom pointed out, his voice quiet but firm. "Just that he feels it's unsafe. Leave it, Abraxas."

Abraxas ignored him, his focus laser-locked on the house-elf. "But you must have seen something! Some creature? Some sign?"

Bobby whimpered, shaking his head. "Only shadows, Master. And a feeling. A terrible feeling. Bobby trusts his instincts. You mustn't go back. Promise me, Master Abraxas, please!"

Tom pushed away from Bobby, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Well, at least your father forgot to take Bobby with him. Seems your clothes are safe for now."

The tension in the room broke like a fragile spell. Abraxas stared at Tom, then at Bobby, his face slowly morphing into a grin. The absurdity of the situation – the near-death experience followed by a scolding from his father and now this frantic house-elf – finally hit him. He let out a snort, then a full-bellied laugh.

Bobby, relieved at the change in mood, joined in with a nervous giggle. Tom’s lips curled up in a genuine smile as he chuckled, a sound that was rarely heard.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor shimmered under a blanket of snow, its grandeur somehow amplified by the winter frost. For Tom, who had spent every previous Christmas within the orphanage’s drab walls, the holidays at the manor were nothing short of a revelation.

He would often find himself drawn to the kitchens, a labyrinth of gleaming copper pots and bustling house-elves. He'd spend hours watching them, mesmerized as they effortlessly whipped up elaborate dishes with flicks of their tiny wrists. The aromas alone were intoxicating – roasted meats, sugared plums, and spices he couldn't even name swirled in the air, creating a symphony of scents that made his stomach rumble.

One afternoon, he stood near the hearth, observing a particularly skilled elf conjuring a delicate spun-sugar sculpture of a dragon. "Amazing," Tom murmured, more to himself than anyone else. The elf, startled by his presence, offered a shy bow. "Thank you, young master."

Other times, Abraxas would coax him into a game of Exploding Snap. The card game, chaotic and unpredictable, was a far cry from the quiet contemplation Tom usually preferred. Still, he found himself enjoying the challenge, the thrill of narrowly avoiding an exploding card, and the rare moments of genuine laughter he shared with Abraxas.

But most of his time was spent within the Manor's vast library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves housed countless volumes, bound in leather and clasped with silver. The Malfoys had collected centuries of knowledge, and Tom reveled in the opportunity to explore it. He gravitated toward the darker corners of the library, drawn to books on ancient curses, forbidden rituals, and the histories of the pure-blood families. He learned about their rise to power, their intricate alliances, and their sometimes bloody feuds. He traced their family trees, committing names and dates to memory, piecing together the complex tapestry of the wizarding world.

* * *

Christmas Eve arrived, draping Malfoy Manor in an even thicker layer of opulence. Tom, dressed in a simple, but clearly expensive, black robe, examined his reflection in the ornate mirror of his assigned guest room. The robe, originally purchased for Abraxas, fit him surprisingly well. It was a stark contrast to the ill-fitting, drab clothes he had always worn, and it transformed his appearance. He no longer looked like a waifish orphan. He looked…like a young wizard.

A knock echoed through the room. "Are you ready, Tom?" Abraxas's voice was muffled by the heavy door.

Tom gave himself one last look, smoothing the fabric of the robe. "Come in."

Abraxas entered, a vision in royal blue. The robe, tailored to perfection, highlighted the sharp angles of his face and the pale gleam of his hair. The house-elves, it seemed, had been hard at work – his usually tousled blond locks were meticulously styled, swept back from his forehead in a way that emphasized his aristocratic features. He looked like a miniature, undeniably more handsome, version of Enceladus.

"Father insisted on the blue," Abraxas said, noticing Tom's scrutiny. A hint of self-consciousness colored his tone. "Said it was 'festive'." He paused, taking in Tom's appearance. "The black suits you. Makes you look…formidable."

Tom offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Thank you."

Abraxas gestured towards the door. "Come on, Father's waiting. And you know how he gets when we're late." As they walked, Abraxas turned to Tom, "Tonight's all about appearances, Tom. Remember that."

The grand dining room radiated warmth from a roaring fire, casting flickering shadows across the polished mahogany table. Tom and Abraxas entered to find Headmaster Dippet and Professor Slughorn, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. They stood before a portrait dominating one wall, a severe-looking wizard with the same pale blond hair as Abraxas, the Malfoy family resemblance unmistakable.

Dippet straightened as he noticed their arrival, a smile spreading across his face. “Ah, Tom, Abraxas! So glad you could join us. Enceladus was just telling us about his generous invitation. He extended it to dear Albus as well, but, alas, he has prior engagements. Family, you know." [change to last name]

Abraxas offered a polite nod, while Tom simply inclined his head. A flicker of interest sparked in his eyes as he studied the two professors, trying to discern the nature of their hushed discussion.

Before either boy could respond, Enceladus Malfoy entered the room, his presence immediately commanding attention. His tailored robes were a dark, imposing grey, and his white hair was meticulously combed. A thin scar bisected his left eyebrow, adding a touch of dangerous elegance to his already striking features.

“Family?” Enceladus’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold as winter wind. “Dumbledore has no family to speak of, Dippet. A known fact." He cast a dismissive glance towards the portrait, then focused his gaze on Tom. "I trust you are finding your accommodations satisfactory, Mr. Riddle?"

Dippet flushed, his smile faltering. He chuckled nervously, attempting to smooth over the awkwardness. “Yes, well, Enceladus, you know how it is during the holidays. So many…obligations. Albus is a busy man.” His eyes darted between Enceladus and Tom, as if searching for an escape route. Slughorn, ever the opportunist, cleared his throat, ready to interject a platitude, but Enceladus silenced him with a raised hand.

The tension in the room began to thaw, and a subtle shift rippled through the atmosphere with the entrance of Eurydice Malfoy. Her presence was a stark contrast to her husband's, radiating a warm, almost ethereal grace. She glided into the room, her silver dress shimmering, a delicate smile playing on her lips, as if she was an angel sent to ease the tension in a room.

“Come, gentlemen, please be seated,” she invited, her voice soft as spun silk. "Dinner is served."

Dippet heaved a sigh of what seemed to be deep relief, his shoulders slumping slightly. "That's a godsend, Eurydice," he muttered under his breath, though not quietly enough to escape Tom's discerning ears.

The dining room, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, was a masterpiece of understated elegance. The table, laden with silver and crystal, groaned under the weight of the lavish feast. Roasted pheasant, glistening with herbs, sat beside platters of glistening roasted vegetables, and delicate pastries tempted with their artistry. Conversations flowed, polite and superficial, around the table. Topics ranged from the weather to the latest Quidditch scores. Tom, though present, found himself observing the interplay of social dynamics rather than fully participating. He was beginning to understand Hogwarts politics.

It became clear to him that the Malfoys were major donors to the school, their contributions, both financial and otherwise, were significant and far-reaching. The Headmaster bent over backwards to appease Enceladus. Dippet was clearly dependent on the Malfoys' continued support. Tom gathered that in exchange for these “donations”, the Malfoys enjoyed considerable influence, including, it seemed, a say in faculty appointments. Slughorn smiled, but Tom believed that this was more of a calculation than an expression of friendship. The Malfoys likely held considerable sway in the Ministry of Magic as well.

Tom ate with a quiet focus, savoring each bite of the expertly prepared meal. The pheasant was succulent, the vegetables perfectly roasted, and even the sauces were a testament to the house-elves' skill. Abraxas, too, seemed to genuinely enjoy the food, though he maintained a façade of aristocratic indifference. Tom watched him covertly, noticing the subtle way he savored each flavor, a hint of genuine pleasure flickering across his carefully composed features.

As the main courses were cleared away, a steaming Christmas pudding, ablaze with brandy, was presented with a flourish. The sweet, spiced aroma filled the air, a festive reminder of the season. Dippet clapped his hands together, his eyes twinkling.

“Now, now, before we dig in, I’d like to hear from our young gentlemen,” Dippet announced, his gaze settling on Abraxas and Tom. “Abraxas, tell me, how are you and Tom enjoying your holiday together?”

Abraxas visibly stiffened, a faint blush rising on his pale cheeks. He glanced at his father, then back at Dippet, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. He paused, gathering his thoughts, before speaking. "It's been… enlightening, Headmaster," he began, his tone carefully measured. "Tom has been a most… agreeable guest."

He then turned his gaze directly at Tom, offering a hesitant smile. "In fact," he continued, his voice gaining a touch of warmth, "this has been one of the best holidays I've had."

Tom observed Abraxas, searching for any sign of insincerity. Was it the truth? He couldn't be sure. Abraxas's face betrayed nothing, his expression carefully neutral. Yet, there was something in his tone, a subtle sincerity that resonated. Perhaps it was the shared adventure of their escape from the unknown creature in the dungeons, or the clandestine meetings with Walburga, or even the simple act of sharing a room. Whatever the reason, Tom sensed that Abraxas's words, though carefully chosen, held a grain of truth.

Tom inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. Whether Abraxas's words were genuine or not, Tom was, in any case, grateful for the sentiment.

* * *

The Hogwarts Express chugged along, carrying them back to school after the holiday break. Tom sat across from Abraxas in their compartment, the familiar rhythm of the train a backdrop to their conversation. He spotted Walburga Black strolling by, a predatory gleam in her dark eyes. She paused at their door.

"Snaky Tom," she purred, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Tell me, how were your holidays?"

"I spent it at Malfoy Manor," Tom stated, his tone neutral.

Walburga feigned offense, a dramatic hand flying to her chest. "Oh, Abraxas! You wound me! Why ever didn't you invite me along? I’m sure the tapestries would have simply adored my company."

She shifted her gaze, pinning Abraxas with a playful glare before turning back to Tom. "Though I suppose it's rather peculiar, isn't it? Why would Abraxas invite… a Muggle-born to his ancestral home? Unless…." She let the implication hang in the air, her smile sharp as a shard of glass.

The word Muggle-born hit Tom like a physical blow. His eyes narrowed. “I am not a Muggle-born.” The statement was ice, a warning.

Walburga's eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. "Oh really? Then do enlighten us, Tom. Who *are* your parents?" Her voice was a silken taunt, laced with malice.

Rage, cold and swift, threatened to consume him. He clenched his fists beneath the table.

Abraxas, sensing the shift in Tom's mood, finally intervened. “Walburga, go away. We have things to discuss." His tone brooked no argument.

Walburga, though clearly disappointed by the interruption, knew when she was outmatched. With one last, lingering look at Tom, she sauntered off, her laughter echoing down the corridor.

Silence descended upon the compartment. Tom stared out the window, his jaw tight.

Abraxas leaned back against the plush seat, his expression thoughtful. "My father doesn't do anything without a reason, Tom. Inviting you to Malfoy Manor… There was something behind it, something he wasn't saying." He paused, tapping a finger against his knee. “I’ve been thinking about it all break, and I still can’t figure out what it could be.”

Tom's mind churned, replaying the events of the Christmas holidays. Slughorn's blatant curiosity about his Parseltongue, Enceladus's probing questions… It wasn't mere coincidence. Parseltongue was the key, linked to something ancient, something powerful. He glanced at Abraxas, the question forming on his lips.

"Do you think… do you think they suspect?" Tom asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Abraxas raised an eyebrow. "Suspect what?"

"About… well, about my ability to speak Parseltongue. It caught Slughorn's attention, and your father even asked about it," Tom said. "Surely, it must be linked to something powerful if they both show interest."

Abraxas considered this, his gaze distant. "Maybe," he conceded. "Parseltongue is rare. It's associated with dark magic, Salazar Slytherin himself. That's probably why they're interested. Power, Tom. It always comes back to power."

Tom nodded slowly, his mind already racing. The library, then. He needed to delve deeper, uncover the secrets surrounding Parseltongue, Salazar Slytherin, and the power they held. He had to keep digging.

"I'll be spending a lot of time in the library this term," Tom muttered, more to himself than to Abraxas.

Abraxas chuckled. "Good luck with that. I'll be busy with Quidditch tryouts this term." He leaned forward, a determined gleam in his eyes. "I've set my sights on being the next Slytherin Seeker. Someone has to catch the Snitch and bring home the Quidditch Cup, after all."

Tom couldn't help but giggle, a genuine, albeit rare, sound escaping his lips. The idea of Abraxas, with his aristocratic bearing, chasing a small, enchanted ball on a broomstick was as amusing as it was unexpected. "Right," Tom said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Important work, that. You'll need to put in a lot of practice to catch the Snitch. I imagine it's quite challenging." Tom's eyes twinkled with amusement and encouragement, a subtle nod to Abraxas's newfound ambition. "You should start training soon, don't you think? The more time you spend on your broom, the better your chances at making the team."

* * *

The moving staircase lurched beneath Tom's feet, propelling him upwards. He was heading away from the library.

"Tom, where are you going?" Abraxas called, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance. "I was just going to the Quidditch practice."

Tom didn't break his stride. "I need to find something."

Abraxas hurried to catch up, his blond hair slightly disheveled from his hasty retreat. "Find what? Can't it wait? My dad has arranged the Seeker to teach me a move or two."

Tom stopped abruptly, causing Abraxas to nearly collide with him. "No, it can't wait. It's about Parseltongue. About controlling it."

Abraxas's expression shifted from irritation to curiosity. "Controlling it? What do you mean?"

"I've been reading," Tom said, resuming his ascent. "There's a… a locket. Said to enhance focus, to amplify one's abilities. If I can find it, it might help me master Parseltongue."

"A locket?" Abraxas repeated skeptically. "And where do you propose we find this magical trinket?"

"The Room of Everything," Tom replied, his gaze fixed on the ever-shifting tapestry that adorned the walls.

Abraxas snorted. "The Room of Everything? You're serious? That's just a story, Tom. An old wives' tale."

"Is it?" Tom countered, his voice dangerously soft. "Or is it a place where forgotten things, lost objects, and hidden secrets converge?"

Abraxas shook his head. "I've never even heard of it. And I pride myself on knowing every nook and cranny of this castle."

"That makes two of us," Tom pointed out.

Tom halted before a blank stretch of wall on the seventh floor, the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy dancing with trolls suspended opposite. He paced, back and forth, his mind emptied of all thought save one: *I need a place to hide, a place where everything is hidden*. He stepped forward, then back, repeating the mantra in his mind, focusing his will, picturing the locket.

"Tom, what in Merlin's name are you doing?" Abraxas drawled, leaning against the wall, a picture of aristocratic boredom. "You look like a demented dancer."

Tom ignored him, his concentration unbroken. The wall remained stubbornly blank. Doubts crept in. Was this just a fool's errand? A wild goose chase fueled by half-baked stories? He pushed the thoughts away, focusing again on the locket, on the need, on the hidden place.

"Abraxas," he said, his voice low and intense. "Move away. I need to do this alone, just for a minute."

Abraxas raised an eyebrow but complied, pushing himself off the wall and sauntering toward the corner. He hadn't taken more than a few steps when a sharp intake of breath, followed by a muffled "oof," echoed through the corridor.

"Watch it, Black!" Abraxas snapped, his voice laced with annoyance. "Are you following us?"

"As if I'd waste my time," Walburga retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "I'm merely setting up a little… *surprise* for our Gryffindor friends. Just a bit of harmless fun outside their common room."

"Harmless for you, perhaps," Abraxas grumbled.

Walburga, however, seemed to have lost interest in their exchange. Her dark eyes widened, fixed on something behind Abraxas. "Where… where did he go?" she breathed, her voice uncharacteristically hushed.

Abraxas frowned, turning to follow her gaze. The blank wall remained. Tom was gone.

* * *

The air shimmered, then solidified, depositing Tom on the other side of the wall. He blinked, momentarily disoriented. The Room of Everything lived up to its name.

It was vast, stretching out before him like a chaotic warehouse of forgotten desires and discarded dreams. Piles of objects towered precariously, forming a labyrinth of junk and treasures. He saw tarnished goblets, ripped tapestries, and broken wands. Photos of smiling couples leaned against stacks of dusty books. Here a chipped porcelain doll stared blankly from atop a mountain of moth-eaten robes. There a rusty suit of armor stood guard over a collection of chipped teacups.

The sheer scale of the place was overwhelming. How could he ever hope to find one small locket in this sea of forgotten things?

He took a tentative step forward, his shoes crunching on broken glass and dried leaves. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and decay. Sunlight filtered in through cracks in the high ceiling, illuminating swirling motes of dust.

This was more than just a room; it was a graveyard of memories. A monument to forgotten hopes. Tom reached out, tracing his fingers over the spine of a leather-bound book. Its title was obscured by grime, but he could feel the weight of its history beneath his fingertips.

The task seemed impossible. Even if the locket was here, buried beneath mountains of discarded possessions, how could he possibly find it? He lacked the means to search, to summon, to sift through this endless expanse of forgotten treasures. He would need to find the summoning charm, but where to even begin? Tom felt a wave of frustration wash over him. He had come so far, pushed so hard, only to be confronted with this insurmountable obstacle.

Crunch. A sharp sound echoed through the chamber. Tom whirled around, instincts honed from years of vigilance. The wall had opened again, revealing Abraxas, his usually composed face slack with awe. Behind him, Walburga stood frozen, her dark eyes wide as they darted from one towering pile to another.

Tom tensed. He had been glad to see Abraxas, hoping his roommate would help him navigate this impossible task, but Walburga's presence changed everything. He schooled his features into a mask of calm, giving nothing away.

Neither Abraxas nor Walburga noticed him at first, their gazes locked on the sprawling chaos before them.

"Where... where are we?" Walburga's voice echoed, barely above a whisper. She took a tentative step forward, her boots sinking slightly into the detritus-strewn floor.

"I've never heard of such a place," Abraxas murmured, his eyes scanning the mountains of forgotten possessions. "It's... extraordinary."

Walburga turned to Tom, her eyes narrowing as she took in his calm demeanor. "You knew about this?"

Tom shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I had a hunch."

Tom gestured to the sprawling chaos, "Welcome to the Room of Everything."

Walburga arched an eyebrow. "The Room of Everything? What does that mean?"

Tom paused, choosing his words carefully. "It's a room that adapts to the seeker's desire. If you're looking for something specific, it will appear... eventually."

Walburga's eyes gleamed with interest. "And what are you looking for, Tom Riddle?"

Tom hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to Abraxas. "Just some tools. Things that might help with... certain plans."

Walburga's lips curved into a smirk. "You mean our plan. The Ravenclaw prank."

Tom nodded, his eyes scanning the piles of objects. "Yes, that."

Walburga took a step forward, her voice echoing through the vast chamber. "So, this room just... what? Reads your mind and gives you what you want?"

"Something like that," Tom murmured, his attention focused on a distant mound of glittering objects.

Abraxas, who had been silently observing, finally spoke up. "It seems this state of the room is most popular. Everyone is looking for something, after all." He turned to Tom, his pale eyes studying him intently. "It appears I was looking for you, Tom. That's why the room showed me the way in."

"You seemed concerned earlier," Walburga said, her voice cutting through the silence. "About not finding anything. You need the summoning charm."

Tom nodded, his eyes scanning the room. "Yes. I understand the basic charms, but a summoning charm isn't part of the curriculum until fourth year."

Abraxas scoffed. "Isn't this the Room of Everything? If we *need* to practice the summoning charm, then the room will hear the *need*."

Tom considered this. It was a gamble, but the logic seemed sound enough. He focused on the image in his mind: the locket, appearing before him. He would need to learn to summon objects to find it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the desired effect. Then, he opened them again and raised his hands. He focused on the books they would need, concentrating on the specifics of the charm. Was it too simple? Too difficult? He was not sure.

Abraxas, meanwhile, had started exploring, walking deeper into the room. He disappeared around a towering pile of discarded furniture, his silhouette briefly visible against the dim light.

Then, a shout.

"Tom! Look at this!"

Tom and Walburga exchanged glances and then moved toward Abraxas' voice. Rounding the corner, they found him standing before a small, rickety table. On the table sat a book, its cover plain and unremarkable. Beside the book, a single, pristine feather rested.

The book's title, faintly etched in faded gold lettering, stared up at him: *Harnessing Summoning.*

* * *

Tom snatched the book from the table, his fingers tracing the title as if to confirm its reality. *Harnessing Summoning.* It was almost too perfect, as if the Room had anticipated his needs with unnerving accuracy. He flipped through the brittle pages, his eyes scanning the dense text for clues. Theory. History. Wand movements. He absorbed the information with a speed that bordered on ravenousness, each word a potential key to unlocking his goal.

A few steps away, he cleared a small space amidst the debris. He set the book down, open to a diagram illustrating the wand movement for the basic summoning charm, *Accio*. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the sudden surge of anticipation that threatened to overwhelm him. He needed focus. Control.

He raised his wand, positioning it as the diagram showed. He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing the feather. Its delicate barbs. The way it would feel to touch. He pictured it floating towards him, guided by his will.

Then, he opened his eyes, leveled his wand at the feather, and spoke the incantation.

" *Accio* feather."

Silence.

The feather remained motionless on the table. Not a twitch. Not a flicker. Nothing.

A wave of frustration crashed over him. He clenched his jaw, fighting to suppress the anger that threatened to erupt. He had expected this to be easy?

Walburga laughed, a sharp, brittle sound that echoed in the vast chamber. "Well, that was pathetic."

Tom glared at her.

She shrugged, her eyes glittering with amusement. "Even without reading some dusty old book, everyone knows summoning is hard, Tom. Some wizards and witches can never summon once in their life." She crossed her arms, leaning against a towering stack of old trunks. "It requires focus, mental strength. You have to really picture the object in your head, feel its presence. "

Abraxas stepped forward, placing a hand on Tom's shoulder. "Give him a break, Walburga." He turned to Tom, his expression softening slightly. "He wouldn't know these things. It's not exactly common knowledge, even among purebloods."

Walburga blinked, her expression softening for a fleeting moment. "I didn't mean it like that, Tom. Forgive me?" She seemed almost genuine for a fraction of a second, before the familiar glint of amusement returned to her eyes.

She straightened, her shoulders squared as she strode towards the table. "Here, let me show you." She snatched Tom's wand from his unresisting hand, examining it with a critical eye. "Your wand is Dragon heartstring core. Unyielding flexibility. Good for charms, but requires a… delicate touch."

She flicked the wand, the movement precise and confident. "Accio feather!"

For a moment, nothing happened. Tom felt a surge of triumph, thinking that Walburga would fail as well. But then, the feather twitched. It trembled on the table, as if struggling against an invisible force. It rose a few inches into the air, hovering for a breathless second, before plummeting to the floor with a soft *thud*.

Tom stared at the feather, then at Walburga. He felt a strange mixture of awe and frustration. She had done it, albeit imperfectly. The feather had moved. She had demonstrated, with a single, almost effortless flick of the wrist, a level of skill he had failed to achieve with all his focus and preparation.

Abraxas let out a low whistle. "Not bad, Walburga. Not bad at all." He clapped slowly, his eyes fixed on her with a mixture of admiration and something else… calculation?

Walburga smirked, clearly pleased with herself. She handed Tom back his wand. "See? It's all about finesse, Tom. You can't just brute force your way through everything."

Tom took his wand back, his fingers tightening around the familiar wood. Walburga's words stung, even if she had intended them to be helpful. Finesse. Delicate touch. Qualities he felt he fundamentally lacked. He preferred the direct approach, the application of raw power to achieve his desired outcome. But perhaps, he mused, brute force wasn't always the answer. He had to admit, Walburga's summoning attempt did yield results. Even if only a small twitch.

Abraxas clapped him on the back. "Right, enough practice for one day. Let's head to Charms before Meadowsweet decides to put us to work with Greenwell again." He shuddered dramatically. "I can't bear another hour of potting Mandrakes."

Tom nodded, his thoughts already drifting back to the summoning charm. He had to master it. The locket depended on it. And beyond that, he needed to prove to himself, and perhaps to Walburga as well, that he was capable of more than just brute force. That he could wield magic with the same elegance and precision as any pure-blood witch or wizard.

"Coming, Tom?" Abraxas called, already halfway to the exit.

"Yes," Tom replied, his voice barely a whisper. He lingered for a moment, staring at the feather lying forlornly on the floor. Then, with a sudden surge of determination, he bent down, picked it up, and tucked it carefully into his pocket. A reminder, he thought, of what he needed to achieve.

Chapter Text

Tom felt Abraxas behind him, a constant presence at the corner of the corridor near Slughorn's office. They waited. Tom stared at the closed door of Slughorn's office. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, a sensation he ignored. Waiting tested his patience, but he would remain still.

"Honestly, Riddle," Abraxas whispered, his breath ghosting against the back of Tom's neck. "Why did you even agree to this ridiculous plan? Stealing Ravenclaw homework? From *Slughorn's* office? It's hardly your style."

Tom remained silent, his eyes fixed on the door. He wasn't about to reveal his true motives to Abraxas. Let him think it was a simple act of camaraderie, a harmless prank. He would play the part.

Abraxas sighed. "You always did say you didn't like stupid pranks."

Footsteps echoed from within the office, growing louder. Tom tensed, every muscle in his body coiled and ready.

The door swung open, and Slughorn bustled out, his cheeks flushed and his walrus mustache twitching with agitation. He didn't even spare a glance at their corner, hurrying down the corridor in the opposite direction. Tom thought he heard him mumble something about "merlin's beard" and "damn Dippet".

As soon as Slughorn was out of sight, Tom moved. He strode towards the office door, his wand already in his hand. A quick, precise flick of the wrist, and he muttered, "*Alohomora*."

A faint click resonated from the lock. He pushed the door open, stepping inside.

Abraxas followed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, that was easy. Slughorn really needs to invest in some better security. For a Head of House, he is awfully carefree." He stepped into Slughorn's office.

Slughorn's office smelled of stale potions and overripe fruit. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with bubbling concoctions and dusty tomes. Tom ignored it all, his eyes scanning the room, searching for something specific.

"The essays, Abraxas," Tom said, his voice low and urgent. "Find them. Walburga is expecting them, after all."

Abraxas, ever eager to please, began rummaging through the piles of parchment on Slughorn's desk. "Honestly, Riddle, I still don't see why we have to do Walburga's dirty work. She acts as if we're her lackeys."

"Just find the essays," Tom repeated, his gaze drifting towards a locked cabinet in the corner of the room. His true quarry.

Abraxas grumbled something under his breath but continued his search. Tom feigned interest in a shelf of potion ingredients, casually moving closer to the cabinet. He ran his fingers along the cool wood, searching for a latch or a hidden mechanism. He needed that special rare potion.

"Here they are," Abraxas announced, holding up a stack of essays bound with twine. "Ravenclaw's finest, apparently."

Tom barely glanced at them. "Good. Stash them in your bag." He resumed his examination of the cabinet, his mind racing. How to open it without alerting Slughorn or Abraxas?

Just as he was about to attempt a subtle unlocking charm, a series of hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor outside the door. They were getting closer, fast.

Tom's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Abraxas's in a silent question. The steps were too heavy to be Slughorn's. Someone was running, and they were heading straight for the office.

Anxiety gnawed at Tom's gut. If they were caught… The risk was too high. He needed to think fast.

Tom’s mind raced. No time for spells, no time for illusions. He grabbed Abraxas by the arm, yanking him towards the large, ornate desk that dominated the center of the room.

"Under here," Tom hissed, shoving Abraxas towards the floor.

"What? Are you mad?" Abraxas protested, but Tom ignored him, forcing him down. Tom squeezed in beside him, the heavy oak digging into his back. The space was cramped, dusty, and smelled faintly of old parchment and floor polish. Barely a moment passed before the door burst open, the sound echoing in the small office.

"Tom! Abraxas!" Hagrid's booming voice filled the room. "Where are yeh?"

Tom winced, resisting the urge to cover his ears. Hagrid's shout could probably shatter glass. He pushed himself out from under the desk, brushing dust from his robes.

"Hagrid, what in the world?" Tom snapped, his voice sharp despite himself. "Do you have to yell?"

Hagrid's face broke into a wide, relieved grin. "Tom! Blimey, glad I found yeh. Somethin's happened, somethin' awful!" Hagrid's smile disappears. "I need yeh to come with me. Both of yeh. Now!"

Tom felt a spike of irritation. He was so close to getting what he needed. But Hagrid's urgency was undeniable. He had never seen the large boy so agitated. "Go ahead, Abraxas. I'll be right behind you."

Abraxas hesitated, glancing from Tom to Hagrid and back again. "Don't take too long, Riddle," he muttered before following Hagrid out the door.

As soon as they were gone, Tom turned back to the cabinet. No time for finesse now. He pointed his wand at the lock and muttered, "Alohomora." The lock remained stubbornly sealed. He repeated the spell, more forcefully this time, but nothing happened. Frustration welled up inside him. Magic was failing him, and he didn't have any more time.

With a sigh, he abandoned the magical approach. He grabbed the handle of the cabinet door, planting his feet firmly on the floor. Then, with a sharp, violent yank, he pulled. The lock splintered with a loud crack, the wood around it splintering.

He quickly swung the door open, his eyes scanning the contents. Rows of neatly labeled potion bottles lined the shelves. He ignored the more common ingredients, searching for the rarer, more potent ones. Finally, he spotted them: two small, golden glass bottles tucked away in the back. He grabbed them, shoving them into his pocket.

Satisfied, he turned and hurried out of the office, towards the sound of Hagrid's booming voice.

* * *

Hagrid's massive frame navigated the moving staircases with an ease that belied his size. Tom and Abraxas trailed behind, their whispers lost in the creaking and groaning of the shifting steps.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Abraxas's voice barely carried over the noise, his eyes fixed on Tom's back.

Tom's response was clipped, precise. "Not enough time."

Hagrid, oblivious to their exchange, led them through the labyrinthine corridors. He stopped abruptly before a blank stretch of wall. The two Slytherins exchanged a puzzled glance as Hagrid grinned, his eyes twinkling with a secret.

"Yeh might want to stand back a bit," Hagrid rumbled.

Tom and Abraxas retreated a step, watching as Hagrid concentrated on the wall. A door creaked open, revealing a room filled with an assortment of objects that defied logic.

Hagrid chuckled, "Always knowed this place were special. Come on in, both of yeh."

Abraxas's jaw slackened, his usually composed facade crumbling. "You know about this room, Hagrid?"

Tom remained silent, his eyes scanning the ever-shifting contents of the Room of Everything. Hagrid merely grinned wider, stepping inside with the air of someone returning home.

Inside, heat blasted their faces, a stark contrast to the cool corridors they'd left behind. Walburga materialized from a corner, her usually composed facade marred by anxiety.

"About time you showed up," she snapped, eyes flicking from Hagrid to the others.

Abraxas, sweat already beading his brow, demanded, "What happened here?"

Walburga's laugh was more manic than mocking. "I may have borrowed Hagrid's little pet. Just a tiny Fire Crab. I thought it'd be fun to hide it in here, but—"

Hagrid's face lit up, "Yeh have me Fire Crab? Where is it?"

His enthusiasm dampened as he took in the room. What was once a jumble of oddities was now a blazing inferno. Flames danced on old tapestries, licked at the edges of ancient books, and feasted on the broken furniture strewn about.

Tom, swift and silent, wove through the chaos. He leapt over a smoldering cushion, ducked under a burning banner, and sidestepped a teetering pile of scorched parchment. As he drew closer to the heart of the blaze, the heat intensified, but Tom barely flinched. His eyes narrowed, focused on the source: a small, jeweled creature nestled in the center of the conflagration.

Hagrid's voice boomed behind him, "Oh, blimey! That’s not a small fire at all!"

Walburga rolled her eyes, "Clearly, Hagrid. Your 'cute' little pet is burning down the Room of Everything."

Abraxas watched Tom navigate the burning maze, a hint of admiration in his gaze. "We need to contain this," he muttered, more to himself than the others.

The Fire Crab, oblivious to the chaos it caused, shot another stream of flames from its rear. Tom darted back, narrowly avoiding the blast. The heat was overwhelming, but his expression remained calm, calculating.

Walburga's hands fluttered, an uncharacteristic show of agitation. "That's why I sent Hagrid to fetch you two. I can't summon water to save my life, and this blasted creature is turning the Room of Everything into a furnace."

Abraxas shook his head, usually perfectly coiffed hair disheveled from the heat. "I can't summon water either. That's more of a Gryffindor charm, isn't it?"

Tom glanced at Hagrid, who merely shrugged, his massive shoulders rising and falling like a slow tide. "I can talk to creatures, but I ain't too good with charms neither."

Tom's gaze shifted to Abraxas, his voice steady despite the inferno raging around them. "Get Bobby. If anyone can fix this mess, it's him."

With a sharp snap of Abraxas's fingers, Bobby materialized in a puff of sooty smoke. The house-elf's eyes widened, reflecting the towering flames that danced around them. Tom, his voice steady despite the escalating heat, turned to Bobby.

"Can you summon water? We need to put out this fire."

Bobby gulped, his oversized eyes darting from the blaze to the sweating faces of the students. "Bobby try, sirs!"

He snapped his tiny fingers. A faint drizzle began to fall from the ceiling, more mist than rain. Abraxas, his usually pristine robes sticking to his skin, urged, "Keep trying, Bobby. We need more than this."

Tom, his eyes never leaving the Fire Crab, called out to Hagrid. "You need to get that creature out of here. It's making things worse."

Hagrid nodded, his massive frame moving surprisingly swiftly as he navigated the burning room. He cooed softly to the Fire Crab, his voice a low rumble beneath the crackling flames. The creature paused, its jeweled shell glinting through the smoke.

Bobby, his tiny face scrunched in concentration, snapped his fingers again. This time, the rain fell harder, fat drops sizzling as they hit the flames. The fire began to hiss and steam, but it was clear that Bobby's efforts alone wouldn't be enough to contain the blaze.

Abraxas, his voice barely audible over the roar of the fire, leaned in towards Tom. "We need to do something more. This isn't working fast enough."

Tom's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. He watched as Hagrid inched closer to the Fire Crab, the giant's hands outstretched, his voice a soothing murmur. The creature seemed to be calming, the streams of fire from its rear lessening in frequency.

Walburga, her dark eyes reflecting the dancing flames, shouted over the roar. "This is taking too long! We need to put this fire out now!"

Tom moved with purpose, a stark contrast to the panic that gripped the others. He approached Walburga, his pale face illuminated by the inferno around them. From his pocket, he produced one of the golden potion bottles he'd taken from Slughorn's office.

"Drink this," he said, his voice low and urgent.

Walburga stared at the vial in his hand, her dark eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

"Felix Felicis," Tom said, his gaze unwavering. "The lucky potion."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "Lucky potion? What good will luck do against this fire?"

Tom's grip tightened on the bottle. "It may be our last chance to obtain the locket. If it isn't already burned to ash."

Walburga's expression hardened. "And why give it to *me*?"

Tom met her gaze directly, unflinching. "Because you were the only one who showed any ability with the summoning charm. You stand the best chance."

A flicker of something akin to gratitude crossed Walburga's face, quickly masked by her usual composure. She accepted the vial, her fingers brushing against Tom's as she took it. There was a silent acknowledgment between them, a fleeting connection forged in the heat of the moment.

"Thank you, Tom," she said, her voice softer than he had ever heard it. There was a certain level of appreciation in her eyes.

Without hesitation, she uncorked the vial and swallowed the potion in one gulp. A faint golden glow enveloped her for a moment, then dissipated. She blinked, a small smile playing on her lips.

"I feel…refreshed."

Tom turned to Walburga, his voice steady despite the inferno raging around them. "Try summoning the locket. If it's still here, we need it."

Walburga nodded, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames. She raised her wand, her voice echoing through the crackling air. "*Accio* Locket!"

Nothing happened. The room remained a blazing furnace, the locket nowhere to be seen. Walburga's brows furrowed in frustration. "It's not working."

Abraxas, his usually calm demeanor fraying at the edges, shouted over the roar of the fire. "We can't stay here! The fire is spreading. It's going to burn down our route to escape."

Tom's gaze flicked to the encroaching flames, his expression grim. He turned back to Walburga, urgency etched on his face. "Try again."

Walburga shook her head, a rare show of defeat. "It's no use, Tom. I can't summon it."

She turned away from him, her eyes landing on Bobby. The house-elf stood amidst the chaos, his tiny form shivering with fear and exertion. Walburga leaned down, her lips brushing against Bobby's ear as she whispered something only he could hear.

Bobby's eyes widened, a spark of understanding igniting within them. He nodded eagerly, a small smile playing on his lips. With a snap of his fingers, the room began to change.

The rain of water shifted, transformed. Bubbles, large and frothy, began to fall from the ceiling, cascading down like a waterfall of soap. The flames hissed and spat, their fiery tongues retreating under the onslaught of bubbles.

The transformation was swift and dramatic. Where once there was a raging inferno, now there was a foamy deluge. The fire, mere moments ago an unstoppable force, was extinguished in a blanket of bubbles.

Abraxas stared, his mouth agape. "What did you tell him?"

Walburga straightened, a smug smile playing on her lips. "I simply reminded him of his strengths. Sometimes, all it takes is a little encouragement."

Tom watched as the last of the flames fizzled out, the room now a sea of bubbles. The locket was still nowhere to be seen, but the immediate danger had passed. The route to escape was no longer threatened by the fire, but the room was filled with a new challenge: a mountain of bubbles that showed no signs of dissipating.

Walburga turned on her heel, her robes swishing dramatically as she moved towards the exit. "I need to get back to the common room. This has been...exhausting."

Tom's voice cut through the bubbles like a knife. "You can't go. Not yet."

She paused, glancing back at him with an impatient sigh. "And why not?"

"The locket," Tom said, his eyes intense. "You still need to summon it."

Walburga scoffed, "I told you, I can't. The potion didn't work."

Tom's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist like a vise. "Try again."

Walburga's eyes flashed with anger. She wrenched her arm away, her voice a low growl. "Don't touch me, Muggle-born."

The room fell silent, the only sound the faint popping of bubbles. Abraxas watched the exchange, his eyes widening as he caught a glimpse of something dark in Tom's expression. It was fleeting, a mere shadow, but it was enough to give him pause. There was a coldness there, a calculated malice that sent a shiver down his spine.

Walburga, oblivious to Abraxas's observation, rubbed her wrist, her glare never leaving Tom's face. "You may have everyone else fooled with your act, but I see you, Tom Riddle. You're nothing but a—"

"Enough."

Abraxas's voice was sharp, a whip cracking through the tension. He stepped forward, his eyes flicking between Tom and Walburga. There was a warning in his gaze, a silent command to tread carefully. Walburga fell silent, her lips pressing into a thin line. Tom merely watched, his expression once again unreadable.

Abraxas turned to Walburga, his voice softer but no less firm. "You need to try again, Walburga. We can't leave without the locket."

Walburga's glare lingered on Tom a moment longer before she turned to Abraxas, her expression softening slightly. "Fine. But if it doesn't work this time, we're leaving. I won't waste any more time on this wild goose chase."

She raised her wand once more, her eyes narrowing in concentration. "*Accio* Locket!"

The room was silent, the only sound the faint rustling of robes as the students waited.

A beat of silence stretched, long and heavy, before Walburga dropped her wand arm. Without another word, without so much as a glance at Abraxas or Tom, she turned and strode out of the Room of Everything. The air crackled with unspoken tension as Abraxas and Hagrid exchanged uneasy glances. Tom, however, remained impassive, his gaze fixed on the doorway through which Walburga had vanished.

Abraxas shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips. "Well, that was…productive." He turned to Hagrid, a polite smile gracing his features. "Thank you for your help, Hagrid. And your…pet. I think we can manage from here."

Hagrid nodded, his gentle eyes scanning the bubble-filled room. The Fire Crab, now calm and docile, nestled in his arms. "Aye, well, best be gettin' back to the greenhouses. Professor Greenwell's expectin' me."

With a final nod, Hagrid lumbered after Walburga, his large frame navigating the doorway with surprising grace. Abraxas turned to Tom, his expression a mixture of exasperation and curiosity.

"What was that all about? What did you say to her?"

Tom offered no explanation, his gaze still fixed on the empty doorway. "We should follow them."

Abraxas hesitated, his brow furrowed. "Are you sure that's wise? She seemed rather…cross."

Tom's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "We need to know what she's planning."

With a shrug, Abraxas conceded. "Fine. But if she starts throwing curses, I'm blaming you."

The two Slytherins followed Hagrid out of the Room of Everything, carefully stepping around the puddles of soapy water that had begun to seep into the corridor. As Tom rounded the corner, he froze, his eyes widening in surprise.

Standing before them, his face a mask of thunderous fury, was Professor Slughorn. His walrus mustache twitched with indignation, and his usually jovial eyes blazed with anger. Facing him, her back to Tom and Abraxas, stood Walburga Black.

"Where are they, Miss Black?" Slughorn demanded, his voice booming through the corridor. "Where are the Ravenclaw essays?"

Tom instinctively recoiled, his mind racing. He turned to flee, to disappear back into the Room of Everything before Slughorn could spot him. But it was too late.

"Riddle! Malfoy!" Walburga's voice sliced through the air, sharp and accusatory. "They have them! Riddle and Malfoy have the Ravenclaw essays!"

Chapter Text

Slughorn’s gaze lingered on the pile of Ravenclaw essays. Abraxas laid them out neatly on the desk, the gesture precise, almost reverential. Tom remained silent, letting Abraxas take the lead. Walburga, leaning against a bookshelf, watched with thinly veiled amusement.

Slughorn’s eyes darted between the essays and the three students. “Is this… some sort of elaborate prank?” he asked, his tone laced with disbelief.

Abraxas inclined his head. “Indeed, Professor.”

Slughorn puffed out his cheeks. “A prank? Stealing essays? Is that all this is to you?”

Tom watched Slughorn's face turn an uncharacteristic shade of red. The professor’s jovial facade cracked, revealing the stern disciplinarian beneath.

Walburga stifled a giggle. It seemed she found the situation far more entertaining than Slughorn did.

Slughorn took a deep breath. “This is beyond a simple detention. Beyond losing house points.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to have to inform Headmaster Dippet. And your father, Abraxas. He won’t be pleased.”

Abraxas visibly stiffened. The mention of his father seemed to have a greater effect than any threat of school sanctions. Tom cataloged the reaction, filing it away for future use. Leverage, always.

Slughorn sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. "All of you, wait here."

He stood and left the room.

As soon as Slughorn's footsteps faded, Walburga raised her wand. "Accio Locket."

A beat of silence hung in the air. Tom braced himself for another failed attempt.

Then, with a splintering crack, the cabinet door swung inward, shards of wood scattering across the floor. A glint of silver flashed in the dim light as the locket hurtled towards Walburga. She snatched it from the air, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips.

Tom stared, a flicker of genuine shock registering on his face. The locket, clutched in Walburga's hand, seemed to hum with a barely perceptible energy. But the cabinet...

"Hide it," Tom snapped, his voice sharper than intended.

Walburga raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. "What's the matter, Tom? Realize what you were after?"

"Just hide it," he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

Walburga shrugged, tucking the locket inside her robes. "As you wish."

Ignoring her, Tom turned and bolted for the door, his mind racing. He needed to find Slughorn, to intercept him before he reached Dippet.

Slughorn turned to face Tom, who was calling him, annoyed.

“Mr. Riddle, I told you to stay in my office,” Slughorn huffed, his irritation evident.

Tom met his gaze steadily. “Professor, do you know your cabinet is broken?”

Slughorn’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you talking about?”

“Some dark secrets might creep out if it’s not fixed,” Tom said, his voice calm, almost casual.

Slughorn’s face darkened, a shadow passing over his usually jovial features. He turned on his heel, marching back towards the office. “Come with me,” he commanded, his voice tense.

Tom followed, a sense of satisfaction curling within him. He had piqued Slughorn’s interest, perhaps even his fear. That was good. Fear was a tool, one Tom was becoming quite adept at wielding.

As they entered the office, Slughorn’s eyes widened at the sight of the broken cabinet. The air seemed to grow colder, heavier. Tom watched as Slughorn approached the cabinet, his steps hesitant.

“What did you do?” Slughorn whispered, his voice barely audible.

Tom shrugged. “I didn’t do anything, Professor. But someone might have been looking for something.”

Slughorn rummaged through the contents of the cabinet, his face growing redder with each passing moment. Potions were lifted, examined, and then slammed back down with unnecessary force. Vials clinked precariously, threatening to spill their contents.

“This is outrageous!” Slughorn sputtered, finally turning to face them. “Not only did you break into my office, but you’ve also damaged my property! And who knows what you’ve taken!”

Tom maintained his composure, his expression carefully blank. “Professor, I assure you, I only came to alert you to the damage. I saw the cabinet broken and thought you should be informed immediately.” He delivered the lie smoothly, his voice laced with sincerity.

Slughorn glared at him, unconvinced. “Don’t play innocent with me, Riddle. You, Malfoy, and Black are all in on this together. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, even if I have to use Veritaserum!”

Walburga burst out laughing. The sound grated on Tom’s nerves. “Veritaserum? Professor, are you serious? My father would have your job for breakfast if you tried to dose me with a truth serum. And I suspect Enceladus Malfoy would have something to say about it as well.”

Tom inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Walburga’s point. The threat of powerful parents held more weight than any appeal to reason.

He met Slughorn's gaze. “It seems, Professor, that some secrets are best left undisturbed. Perhaps the contents of that cabinet are not meant for prying eyes.” He let the implication hang in the air.

Slughorn's face was a mask of fury, but Tom could see the calculation in his eyes. The professor was trapped, caught between his desire to uncover the truth and his fear of the consequences.

“Get out,” Slughorn snarled, his voice tight with suppressed rage. “All of you. Get out of my office and go back to your dormitories. I don’t want to see your faces again tonight.”

Tom nodded curtly, turning to leave. Abraxas and Walburga followed close behind, their expressions unreadable. As he crossed the threshold, Tom allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. He had walked away unscathed, once again.

* * *

The walk back to the common room was quiet, each of them lost in thought. Walburga's steps were light, almost buoyant. As they entered the dimly lit room, she twirled, her robes billowing around her.

"I must say, I'm feeling rather lucky tonight," she declared, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Abraxas raised an eyebrow, glancing at Tom. "Lucky? Or just reckless?"

Walburga laughed, a sound like tinkling glass. "Lucky, definitely. That Felix Felicis was driving me all the way."

Abraxas turned to Tom, his expression inquisitive. "Did you...?"

Tom nodded, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "I may have liberated a vial from Slughorn's cabinet. But I wasn't sure how strong the effect would be."

Walburga clapped her hands, her eyes gleaming with admiration. "Brilliant, Tom! Absolutely brilliant! I must hand it to you, that was quite the plan." She reached into her robes and pulled out the locket, holding it out to him. "And this, I believe, is yours."

Tom took the locket, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. He could feel the hum of power within it, a whisper of dark potential. He looked up to find Abraxas watching him, a flicker of worry in his eyes. But just as quickly, Abraxas's expression morphed into a smile, his usual mask of aristocratic nonchalance firmly in place.

"Well, Walburga, your charm work was nothing short of amazing," Abraxas complimented, his voice smooth as velvet.

The locket was a secret, a dark promise. Its weight in Tom's hand grounded him, filled him with a sense of purpose.

* * *

Tom's knuckles rapped against the heavy oak door, the sound echoing down the deserted corridor. A muffled voice bid him enter. He pushed open the door to reveal Professor Dumbledore seated behind his desk, a warm smile creasing his cheeks, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. The scene was eerily familiar, a mirror image of their first meeting in the stark confines of the orphanage. Tom slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

"Ah, Tom," Dumbledore began, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Please, have a seat."

Tom complied, his back stiff against the chair's cushioned embrace. Dumbledore's gaze was direct, probing, yet his voice was light as he asked, "How was your first year at Hogwarts? I trust you found it... enlightening?"

Tom nodded, a single dip of his chin. "It was different."

Dumbledore chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. "I should think so. I heard from Professor Slughorn that you've made some friends. Abraxas Malfoy and Walburga Black are well-known names in our world."

Tom's expression remained impassive, but a spark of annoyance flared within him. Dumbledore's words, though innocuous, felt like a gentle rebuke.

"They're interesting," Tom conceded, his voice neutral.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. "Indeed, they are. And I hope you learn from them, Tom. Friends can shape us, for good or ill. It's important to distinguish between the two."

"Speaking of arrangements," Dumbledore continued, his tone shifting, "I believe we should discuss the upcoming summer holidays."

Tom felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He’d been so preoccupied with the locket, with Walburga’s schemes and Abraxas’s manipulations, that he’d almost forgotten. He held his breath, bracing himself.

"I’ve made arrangements for you to return to the orphanage, Tom," Dumbledore stated, his voice gentle but firm. "I've already informed Mrs. Cole. She's expecting you. You'll have your old room back."

The words hit Tom like a physical blow. The orphanage. The cold, damp room. The sneering faces of the other children. After a year steeped in magic, in whispered secrets and ancient power, the thought of returning to that squalid existence was unbearable.

"I don't want to go back," Tom said, the words sharper than he intended. He swallowed, trying to regain control. "Not after… this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the entirety of Hogwarts, the world of magic he had finally found.

Dumbledore’s expression softened, a flicker of sadness in his bright blue eyes. "I understand, Tom. But the castle will be quite empty during the summer months. All the students and professors will be gone."

"I could stay," Tom insisted, a desperate plea in his voice. "I'd be fine, alone."

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "It’s not safe, Tom. Not entirely. Without the professors here…" He paused, his gaze fixed on Tom, and his voice became laced with a subtle warning. "I think you, of all people, should understand that."

Tom leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper, "What if I stayed with Abraxas? I could go to the Malfoy mansion, like I did at Christmas." The words tasted bitter on his tongue, a plea he hadn't wanted to make.

Dumbledore's gaze softened, a pitying look that made Tom's stomach churn. "I’m sure Headmaster Dippet has already suggested that to Mr. Malfoy. But the decision has been made, Tom. It’s for the best."

"For who?" Tom shot back, his voice sharp. He took a breath, reining in his emotions. Weakness would get him nowhere. "Not for me."

Dumbledore leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. "Sometimes, what seems like a step backward is merely a gathering of momentum, Tom. You’re not going back to the orphanage as the same person you were. You’re a wizard now. That changes everything."

Tom's hands clenched into fists, hidden beneath the desk. "I can’t go back there. Not after… all this." He couldn't put into words the chasm that had opened between his old life and the world of magic.

Dumbledore sighed, a sound filled with a kindness that Tom found almost unbearable. "You may be back there in body, Tom, but not in spirit. Not truly. Hogwarts is your home now, your family. If you’re ever in real danger, I will know. And I will come for you."

The professor's words hung in the air, a promise that did little to ease the knot in Tom's chest. He couldn't show weakness, not anymore. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

"Trust me, Tom," Dumbledore said, his voice steady and sure.

Tom met Dumbledore's gaze, holding it for a long moment before turning away. He strode out of the office, each step echoing down the corridor, leaving the professor's promises behind. The heavy door swung shut with a finality that sent a shiver down his spine. He wouldn’t plead anymore. He wouldn’t show any more weakness.

* * *

Tom shoved the last of his meager belongings into the worn leather satchel. Each item – a few textbooks, a quill, a small, empty notebook – seemed pathetic in its inadequacy, a flimsy barrier against the bleakness that awaited him. The sounds drifted from the corridors, a chorus of joyous shouts and excited laughter. The holidays were upon them, a season of warmth and celebration that amplified the chill in his own heart. Each cheer felt like a mocking echo, a cruel reminder of the home he didn't have, the family he lacked. He didn't bother to acknowledge the sounds. It was a waste of energy.

Abraxas leaned against the doorframe, his usual air of nonchalant amusement replaced by a look Tom couldn't quite decipher. It was… concern? A flicker of guilt tightened Tom's jaw. He hadn’t wanted pity, especially not from Abraxas.

Finally, Abraxas pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped into the room. "I, uh… I tried," he mumbled, avoiding Tom's gaze.

Tom continued to adjust the strap of his bag, feigning disinterest. "Tried what?" He already knew.

Abraxas shuffled his feet, a rare display of discomfort. "I spoke with my father. Asked if you could stay with us, at the manor."

Tom's hands stilled, his heart skipping a beat despite himself. Hope, a dangerous and unfamiliar sensation, threatened to bloom within him. He squashed it ruthlessly.

Abraxas shook his head, his pale blond hair falling across his forehead. "He said no."

The single word was a cold splash of reality, extinguishing the fragile spark of hope.

"He didn't… explain," Abraxas continued, his voice softer now. "Said the manor would be full of… important guests. Prestige, politics, all that rot. Even I get shuffled off to one of our other places sometimes, during the summer."

Tom lifted his gaze, meeting Abraxas's eyes for the first time since he’d started packing. There was a genuine remorse there, an uncharacteristic vulnerability that surprised him. He remained silent, studying the other boy’s face.

Abraxas shifted under his scrutiny, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "Look, I'm sorry, alright? I… I thought he would at least consider it."

Tom swung the worn satchel over his shoulder, the weight of his few possessions a bitter reminder of his solitary existence. He strode past Abraxas without a word, his face an expressionless mask. The door clicked shut behind him, a hollow echo in the now-empty room.

Abraxas's gaze drifted to the stripped bed, the bare mattress a stark contrast to the opulent four-poster that dominated his own room. The emptiness seemed to echo with the finality of Tom's departure, a stark reminder of the chasm that separated their worlds. For all his wealth and privilege, Abraxas found himself at a loss, a rare pang of guilt gnawing at his chest.

He glanced at the door, half-expecting Tom to reappear, to say something, anything. But the doorway remained empty, a silent accusation.