One-shot

Lightning Above

Fire Below

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Prompts from smilingcrescent: coins, ribbon, shells, toast, arrow

Premise: This is an Alternative Universe set in Harry's timeline, with the slight change of Tom being his age. Voldemort does not exist, although another, un-named Dark Lord is creating havoc in the wizarding world in his place.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

The sun had set and the others were safely tucked away in bed the moment Harry finally found solitude, entering the long, high-ceilinged drawing room on the first floor of 12 Grimmauld Place. They had spent the majority of the day cleaning this very crammed and dusty room; dousing mean-spirited Doxys with Doxycide; whipping the dust-breathing carpet; tearing all the dirty old tapestries off the olive coloured walls beneath – all except one.

Harry walked across the room, up to this tapestry, which he had studied very closely together with his godfather earlier that day. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, read on top of it in golden, curled letters; and below: Toujours Pur.

The bitterness that had filled him as soon as he entered this house had nearly left him now. He could hardly blame his friends for following Dumbledore's orders; in their place, Harry probably would have done the same. His summer had been dry and monotone, that was for sure, but that wasn't what kept Harry's mind occupied either this evening.

In the morning, he would have to accompany Mr Weasley to work, to the Ministry of Magic, to attend the hearing that would determine whether Harry would get to return to Hogwarts this term or not. And he was terrified. There was no way for him to sleep with the dark sort of worry that had settled in the depths of his stomach, making him feel constantly on the verge of vomiting, but never needing to.

What if he couldn't return to Hogwarts with his friends, Harry asked himself as he started trailing a curious finger along one golden line, leading down to Sirius's blackened name on the tapestry. What would become of him then, he asked, backtracking up Sirius's line again and over to another familiar name in close proximity. Would he stay here, with his godfather? Would they break his wand? Would they shut him out of the wizarding world completely? His finger stopped on Draco Malfoy's name, instantly starting to rub back and forth, as if wanting to scratch the name from view, just out of pure spite.

"Harry," came a soft call from behind him, and he flipped around. In the doorway stood Sirius, dressed in a tattered, red and gold night-robe, peering at him with curious, grey eyes. "How come you're up at this hour?"

"Couldn't sleep," Harry muttered and turned back to the tapestry, continuing his pity quest of sabotage. There was a soft chuckle coming up behind him once Sirius saw what he was up to.

"Don't you think he should be left up there with the others of his sort?"

"He probably should. But I know that's what he would want, and that's why it's more satisfying not to let him have it."

Sirius chuckled again and ruffled the messy nest of hair atop his head, which made Harry sigh and drop his hands, feeling very tired all of a sudden.

"I take it you don't like him very much."

"I hate him," Harry declared firmly. "Him and that shadow of his. They're always together, since first year, going out of their way to make my life into living hell, whenever they can. Bloody Slytherins."

"And who is this shadow of his?" Sirius asked, sounding concerned, but mostly amused, Harry thought with sudden viciousness.

"Tom Riddle," he said through clenched teeth.

Sirius hummed a little under his breath and put a careful hand atop Harry's left shoulder. "And what is it that Malfoy and Riddle do to you that make you hate them so?"

Harry hesitated, thinking of all the times they had stopped and mocked him or his friends in the corridors, every time they had tried to sabotage the Gryffindor Quidditch team, every time they had run off and told teachers about matters that immediately got Harry and his friends in trouble. He thought of how they had found out about Hagrid's dragon and nearly had him fired in their first year of school, how they had nearly had Buckbeak executed in their third year. He thought of how they had constantly tried to put him down or sabotage his success in the Triwizard Tournament the year before. These memories made his clenched fists shake.

"It's more the fact that they exist, if you know what I mean," he replied in a dry tone of voice.

Sirius's other hand was placed on Harry's next shoulder, and he was carefully turned to face his godfather, meeting striking grey eyes that were, all of a sudden, not so amused.

"I know what it's like to be young," Sirius claimed, "I never got to grow up properly before I was thrown into prison. Everything seems so important at the time; every offence seems like a death threat. But in hindsight, perhaps not all fights are worth fighting, in the end."

"Perhaps Riddle isn't so bad," Harry muttered reluctantly, setting his jaw, "but Malfoy is worse than you can imagine. Riddle doesn't do much; he mostly just stands there, smirking. Malfoy's the one who's always taunting, who's always looking for a fight, calling me names, egging Ron on. And what's worse is that he's always calling Hermione a ..." he hesitated, but continued in a heated whisper, "a mudblood."

"He does?" Sirius said, straightening his back and twisting his mouth into an ugly grimace. "Well then," he declared, marching half-way through the room and whipping around to face Harry again, pulling out his wand in one fluid motion. "I'm going to show you a little trick I learned when I was your age. It comes in handy when dealing with those kinds of bastards. Come, stand there," he said, waving in a quick way for Harry to come stand closer. "Stop," he said, holding his hand up. "Now, don't panic, it isn't harmful, just hold still and let me demonstrate."

A little apprehensive, but following orders, Harry stood still as Sirius seemed to gather himself, before pointing his wand straight and intoning the incantation; "Spiculum levicorpus!"

A bright blue arrow shot out from the tip of the wand, snagging hold of the back of the neckline of Harry's pyjamas, pulling him up to hang mid-air in a rush of breath.

"That way, they can't move, see, and you are free to do whatever you please."

"Brilliant," Harry wheezed out, trying his best to swallow against the loose, but still uncomfortable, hold on his neck, "but could you let me down?"

Sirius's mischievously grinning face appeared before him, the man staying quiet for a moment as if only to tease him, before simply flicking his wand with a murmured "finite". Harry landed heavily on his feet, having hovered only a couple of decimetres above ground, and drew in a relieved breath.

"Neat, isn't it?" Sirius said with a grin, and Harry returned it, although a tad shakily.

"Sure," he admitted, "but I can't really see when one would use it."

Sirius gave a quick wink and put away his wand. "It's not a strong spell, I know, but it has its uses. It pins the opponent for one, and it has a certain element of surprise to it, and for some of you young wizards who rely on pronouncing incantations, this could be very effective. Hard casting a spell and concentrating on breathing normally at the same time." Sirius gave a roughish smile, full of old memories. "You must learn it as soon as you're back at Hogwarts."

There was a small pause, during which Harry's shaky grin dissipated completely, while Sirius seemed to silently curse himself for stepping in it.

"If I do get back," Harry said in a solemn, quiet voice. He was stopped from saying anything more, however, because in a flurry of motion, Sirius had wrapped him up in a strong, stifling embrace that somehow didn't warm as much as Harry might have hoped it would.

"Is that what's keeping you up at this hour?"

"Yeah," Harry breathed out, swallowing awkwardly, but not knowing how to continue, he stayed silent.

"Don't you worry about it, Harry, you're in good hands. Trust me."

Sleep did come easier after that, and Harry slept soundly through the night, completely unaware of the trials he would have to go through the next day.

Tom studied the small badge on his black and green robes, situated right above his slow-beating heart, slowly tracing the rough P embroidered in the middle of it. Looking to his right, at the person walking next to him through the long corridor of the Hogwarts Express, he saw an identical badge on his identically coloured robes. Every year, two fifth-year students from every House were picked out by their Head of House to become prefects – and Tom had been chosen, as had Draco. No surprise there, Tom mused with a small smirk, thinking of how easy it had been for him to nestle into the dry, wizened heart of his professor, and become his most favoured student. That had meant little work on his part, and still, the rewards had been plenty.

"Let's take a little detour," Draco announced in his deceivingly bored drawl that, to Tom, sounded far more excited than it should.

The two Slytherin fifth-years strolled down the corridor and stopped outside one of the compartments, seemingly at random. However, nothing at all was random about it.

Tom could see the open viciousness on his friend's face as he pushed the compartment door open and prepared himself for his favourite pastime: Gryffindor baiting. Before he could pry his thin lips open, however, he was interrupted by a very short-tempered growl.

"What?"

"Manners, Potter, or we'll have to give you a detention," Draco drawled and stepped further into the compartment, so that Tom could slip in behind him. "You see, Tom and I, unlike you, have been made prefects, which means that we, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments."

"Yeah," Potter answered with an angry grin, "but the pair of you, unlike me, are gits, so get out and leave us alone."

The Gryffindor entourage laughed as one, although that strange little Ravenclaw in the corner stayed silent, sporting a dreamy expression, Tom noted indifferently while Draco prepared to retaliate. Tom saw in the corner of his eye how his friend's lip curled.

"Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?" he asked.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Granger shouted at once, which only made Draco's smirk broaden.

"I seem to have touched a nerve," he quipped haughtily. "Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because we'll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line."

Tom smirked with his friend as he noticed the pure emphasis he put on the word "dogging", clearly intending to bother Potter in two kinds of ways at the same time; because he himself was no prefect and had no such power, and, because it would make Potter wonder how much Draco and Tom actually knew about that godfather of his, Sirius Black, who had, recklessly enough, appeared in plain view, in shape of a dog, quite illegally so, at the platform before departure. Tom could read on Potter's panicked face that the wheels had already started turning.

"Get out!" Granger shouted suddenly, and, while sniggering to themselves, Draco and Tom shot one last malicious look at Potter and left the sorry Gryffindors alone.

In the slim corridor, walking towards their own compartment, where Blaise, Pansy, and the others awaited their return from the prefect meeting, Draco turned around with a deadly smirk on his lips. "That'll get him thinking," he said and gave a short snigger.

"Indeed," Tom replied dryly, "however, I must beg caution. Do not get ahead of yourself, Draco, as you are prone to do when it comes to him. We do not want Potter all too defiant, do we?"

"Saint Potter," Draco scoffed with a disagreeing frown, "what's wrong with scaring him a little? It's not like he doesn't deserve it, that pigheaded squib."

"Squib?" Tom said with raised eyebrows, allowing his friend's holding up the compartment door for him as he entered. "You might enjoy your rivalry; however, I do not believe it wise for you to underestimate him."

"Underestimate whom?" Pansy asked with a curious expression, whereafter Draco started telling tales, true and false, about Potter, to the rest of their friends' loud amusement.

Tom listened with half an ear to the stories, scoffing to himself whenever they got all too ridiculous, as they were prone to do with Draco as storyteller, but concentrated all the more on the tome Mr Malfoy had lent him to read, and preferably finish, this coming term.

The Malfoy library included an immense collection of intriguing books, Tom had learned these past three summers, which he had been graciously invited by Draco to spend at his home in Wiltshire. The Malfoys had been very kind to him, ever since finding out about his close, brotherly relationship with their son, and had taken him in almost like one of their own ever since learning of his very unbecoming upbringing.

He had been born in the middle of winter, 31 December 1979, to a nameless witch in the alley outside a tavern: nondescript and located in the outskirts of London. One of the waitresses had found her, in a pool of blood and close to freezing to death, cradling a newborn babe to her breast. She had lived long enough to name her son, but that had been all she could manage.

After that, Tom had been stuck in a highly inefficient foster care system, jumping from home to home, never staying anywhere for long. Tom actually wasn't sure, and definitely did not care, where his current home was supposed to be. Last thing he'd heard from the Muggle authorities was that he belonged to a family far up north, close to Edinburgh, but, as he hadn't as much as visited the place, he suspected his case might have fallen between two stools.

Currently, he spent all summers with the Malfoys, and all winters either with them or at Hogwarts. As far as Tom was concerned, this way of living was far more preferable than what he had experienced so far in life. At last, he had some sense of freedom, something he valued far more than whatever safety a constant home could have realistically meant for him.

Soon, the long train came to a full stop at Hogsmeade Station, and Tom exited with his friends. Breathing in deep gulps of the clear air of the north, he followed his friends as they picked out a horseless wagon and rode up the narrow country road to the grand castle, rising high above them.

The merry group waltzed into the Entrance Hall as if they owned it, jeering and making their way through the crowd with authority. Draco strutted at the forefront, speaking loudly to Pansy, who seemed to hang onto every word like a lifeline. The others followed, and at the tail of the group came Tom, overlooking it all like the quiet shadow that was his part to play in their game of dress-up and showcase.

The group took their seats at the Slytherin House table; the cronies surrounding Draco, who sat down first, and finally, Tom placing himself in the middle, on his left side.

Tom sat still as the others chattered about their summers, or shouted greetings to one another over the table – but as the subject switched to what had been revealed by the Daily Prophet in the summer, about Potter, Tom's ears perked up.

"Why they let him back I do not understand," Pansy said haughtily, sticking her squished nose high in the air. "He evidently broke the rules, using magic in the summer, and still no one dares to do anything."

"It's Saint Potter, you dunce, what did you expect?" exclaimed Draco, grimacing and casting a dark sneer towards the Gryffindor House table. "It won't matter how many rules he breaks, or how unhinged he gets – he can keep spinning tales all he want, they still wouldn't dare expel the chosen one."

"He's not any better than any of us," Goyle muttered darkly, clenching his thick fist compulsively over his empty dinner plate.

"Of course he isn't!" Draco sneered and nearly started waxing about how superior he was to said Gryffindor, but Tom interrupted him, and all in their group fell silent, as always when he spoke.

"To them, he is better. Harry Potter is the beacon of their hope, and he will continue to be privileged, even if none of the teachers wants to admit it. The Daily Prophet and the Ministry can paint him however best suits them without much result; he will still have authority. As long as people look up to him, and listen to him, it would be foolish for any of us to view him any differently."

There was a thoughtful pause during which the first-years walked in. The Sorting Hat sang its song, after which the Sorting Ceremony took place. Tom watched it all dispassionately, smirking slightly at Draco's hushed commentary close to his ear whenever someone in particular was sorted, or whenever anybody they didn't like did something of interest. Soon, the Headmaster held his absurdly short speech, ending with, "Tuck in!" after which all the tables filled up with all kinds of festive food.

As Tom, very carefully, picked out an agreeable piece of chicken to put on his plate, Draco leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "Is he desperate for company or something, entertaining the ghosts, or has he really gone around the bend?"

Glancing over to the Gryffindor House table, Tom sniggered as he saw Potter and his friends chatting to Sir Nicolas. "Well," he intoned thoughtfully, "one cannot be all too particular in his position, I suppose. Who else could he speak to?"

"Perhaps he could do with some new friends?" Draco said, and then sighed sadly. "But wherever would he find them?"

"I do suppose someone would have to take mercy on him, eventually," Tom answered in kind, smirking as he sipped out of his golden goblet. Draco, however, looked thoughtful.

"How amusing," he murmured, curling his lips with evil mirth. "Would it not be proper of us, as respectable young wizards, to provide His Holiness with such company?"

"I beg your pardon?" Tom hissed under his breath, piercing his friend with a speculative glare. "And what interest would we have in providing such services to the likes of him?"

"None, naturally," Draco assured him, calming his sudden ire, but still looked high on his own amusement. "But would it not be spectacular to bring Saint Potter down a few notches? Now that he is at his weakest, with few friends left, he could be more open to our ... good intentions."

"And you suppose that he would invite you into his crimson little heart out of simple loneliness?" Tom scoffed, making Draco frown in thought.

"No, I don't suppose he would ..." he confessed, pausing for dramatic effect as a slow grin crept onto his face. "I suppose it would have to be someone that he has a somewhat higher opinion of, who doesn't, per se, openly mock and abuse the few friends he has left ..."

"And why, pray tell, would this someone agree to such a thing?" Tom murmured with challenge, rather warming up to the idea, but waiting to see if Draco would draw all the right connections, and come to the right conclusion, before he agreed.

He wasn't to be disappointed. "You said it yourself; Potter has power, whether he sees it or not. Would it not benefit somebody else were he to lose that power? And what better way to sully his agreeable reputation, as The Boy Who Would Not Die, than to get close enough to find the darkest of his secrets?"

Smirking in kind, the two boys clinked their goblets together and drank a toast to their new game. At the head table, a plump, pink clad woman squirmed in her seat and sent a venomous look across the hall, at a certain head of dark, messy locks.

Harry's first day as a fifth-year student had been horrible so far; Potions Class with Snape had been particularly horrid, as he had received a zero after his teacher had decided to casually vanish his slightly egg-smelling potion. However glad Harry was to be back at Hogwarts, after that dreadful session at the Ministry of Magic, that prospect still could not brighten the fact that everywhere he went, he received either spiteful or mistrustful looks from the people around.

He'd thought he'd be spared such behaviour, at least from his own house mates – but, as it turned out, both Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas avoided him like the plague, as did most of the other Gryffindors in the years above and below him.

After suffering through the very first dozy Divination Class of the year, Harry and Ron met up with Hermione and made their way down the castle, hoping that their first Defence Against the Dark Arts class would be less of a bore. They were closing in on the classroom, muttering about all the homework they had received already, when they caught sight of a group of Slytherins, a few paces ahead. They would have just walked past them if it weren't for the nature of their behaviour, which made them pause behind a banister to listen in.

"What're those snakes up to now?" Ron grumbled while Hermione gave Harry a short-tempered look.

"Why do you even care if they fight amongst themselves; we need to get to class."

Harry hushed her impatiently. "I want to hear what they're up to. Who is it, do you reckon?"

They stood still for a moment, listening to a tell tale, haughty voice they all knew too well. "Three guesses who," Ron muttered, but Harry shook his head.

"No, I meant, who're they ganging up on?"

With great caution, Harry and Ron peeked out from behind their hiding-place, while gallantly ignoring Hermione's impatient huffs behind their backs. They couldn't make out the words, but it was evident that Malfoy was very upset with someone who he had backed up against a wall. Harry frowned and squinted hard to see who it was, but it wasn't until the group of Slytherins marched into class, leaving the outcast behind, that he could see who it was.

"Riddle?" he exclaimed under his breath, not believing his eyes; he was completely stupefied by the fact that Malfoy and Riddle, who had been inseparable since First Year, had actually had a disagreement.

"Trouble in paradise," Ron muttered beside him, not hiding the gleeful malice in his voice.

Waiting till Riddle had made his lonesome way into the classroom, the group of three followed, taking seats, just as Professor Umbridge stirred behind the teacher's desk and whipped her wand to shut the door behind them.

"Well, good afternoon!" she said, and frowned when she only got a few mumbles in reply. "Tut, tut," she said in a saccharine sweet voice, "That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge'. One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!"

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they all chanted back at her, and everything went downhill from there.

Approximately one hour later, Harry walked out of Professor McGonagall's office, munching on a biscuit, having earned himself: one hour's detention for every evening this week, with Professor Umbridge herself, starting tomorrow; even more homework; and a very stern warning from his Head of House, not to tick his Defence Professor off any more than necessary, since he could get in even deeper trouble with the Ministry for it. Apparently, his speech about how Cedric had not killed himself last year, but actually had been murdered by the Dark Lord himself, had been thoughtless and unnecessary. How silly of him!

Angry like a bee, Harry stomped into the Great Hall and sat down next to his friends, shooting angry glares at all the students who openly gossiped about him as they caught sight of him. He was sick and tired of being the object of everyone's scorn, and Hermione's motherly reprimanding for his getting himself into trouble didn't help matters.

After long minutes of eating in heavy silence, Harry got a sudden, but careful elbow in the side. "D'you see the Slytherins?" Ron hissed in his ear, and Harry's eyes immediately shot towards the table at the other side of the hall. At first, he only saw Malfoy holding court, as per usual, but then, he caught on. There was an empty slot on his left side, where Riddle always sat.

"D'you reckon he's late or something?" he murmured, but Ron pointed towards the very end of the table. "What, he can't sit with them now?" he wondered aloud.

"Must have broken up, those two," Ron said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Should get the Special Award for Services to the School for sticking with Malfoy that long, he should. Couldn't have been easy, that."

"I think it's pitiful," Hermione stated coolly, "shutting him off like that. It makes it look like he hasn't got any other friends."

"I reckon he hasn't," Ron said and took a bite out of his buttered loaf.

"They must be up to something," Harry murmured after a moment's tense silence. "They're always up to something, aren't they?"

"Yeah, sure, mate," Ron agreed, "I'm sure they've got something going on again, just don't mind them."

"No, I'd better not," Harry agreed and tried his best to focus on the plateful of food in front of him. And he was not casting curious glances between Malfoy and Riddle over at the Slytherin House table. He was not!

Setting the game into motion had been child's play. After briefing their house mates on what could be expected, Draco and Tom had immediately started acting their parts, having a bit of a showy rough-house in the middle of a corridor, where they knew Potter and his friends would pass. After that, they had acted as spitefully to one another as they could, outside the walls of their own dormitory, naturally.

Draco had taken to sending Tom venomous glares and making loud jeers at him whenever the Gryffindors were within earshot. Tom, on the other hand, had acted his part of wounded victim, taking care to mould his face and posture into that of a sorrowful outcast who did his best to ignore his tormentors.

So far, all their efforts had made great progress – Potter was quite obviously intrigued, watching them with a puzzled expression whenever he thought he could get away with it, which was quite often – mind, he never actually got away with it as Tom always paid very close attention to him.

For their last lesson of the day, and the second one with the Gryffindors, they all marched out onto Hogwarts' grounds to have the term's first lesson in Care of Magical Creatures. Watching Potter, Tom soon caught him casting puzzled glances at, not him, but at Professor Grubbly-Plank, and then at that wooden hut where the ground keeper Hagrid usually lived. Usually, as he wasn't there at the moment, Tom knew.

Before they left for the train, Mr Malfoy had informed both Tom and Draco about the new giant programme of the Dark Lord, and that The Order of the Phoenix also had taken action to secure the giants' alliance. They had apparently sent Hagrid for that mission, a notion that had had the two young friends up in stitches, having a hard time believing that oaf would actually accomplish anything even close to his goal.

Standing in the shade of a tree, Tom watched the others come closer to the professor and himself, Potter now watching, not him, but the pack of Slytherins closing up on him from behind – Draco quite obviously amusing himself, as well as the others, by making fun of Potter, and possibly of Hagrid, if Tom read his friend's gestures correctly.

As they all gathered around the professor, and she started the lesson, a few of the Slytherins started to shift nervously. Pansy and Draco were too occupied making fun of Granger, but Millicent and Blaise seemed to consider walking over to stand with Tom. A cold, firm glare told them to keep at distance, but they appeared conflicted, not knowing how far they would actually take the game they were playing with Potter. As long as it takes, Tom thought to himself and sent his friends one last, firm glare that made them turn from him entirely.

As Professor Grubbly-Plank seemed to come to the end of her introductory speech, Tom started paying closer attention to what she was saying. "So if you'd like to gather closer," she said, gesturing towards them, "take a few woodlice and a Bowtruckle – I have enough here for one between two – you can study them more closely. I want a sketch from each of you with all body-parts labelled by the end of the lesson."

Tom kept at the back of the group as the other students started splitting into pairs. He watched as Potter nearly paired up with Weasley, but then paused as he sent a look over his shoulder and noticed that, without surprise, poor Tom Riddle had no partner. Trying his best to look pitiful, Tom held his breath as Potter whispered something to his friends, seemed to suck in a deep breath, and then walked over to where he was standing.

"Riddle," Potter greeted neutrally, with a searching look.

"Potter," Tom said quietly, shooting a quivering, sorrowful glance towards Draco, who currently stood near the group of Bowtruckles, having some sort of argument with Weasley and Granger. Potter saw this too and looked like he was on the way to march over there and help his friends, but then he seemed to remember what he had set out to do.

"Need a partner?" he asked with a doubtful, sideways glance, as if he was expecting Tom to say no, for whatever reason.

"Yes," Tom said, giving Potter a slow, revealed smile. "Thank you."

They went to pick their little creature out – one with a very wide, wooden face and short, gnarly arms and legs – and sat back down in the shade of the tree. Granger and Weasley sat down close to Potter, who made a point of keeping distance between Tom and himself, with the little tree-guardian between them, munching away at woodlice. Carefully, Potter picked it up to study it more closely.

"What did he want?" Potter murmured to Weasley, indicating with a twitch of his head to whom he was referring, avoiding looking at Tom as he did so.

Weasley didn't have the time to reply before there was a tell-tale, slightly nasal drawl from the group nearest them. "Yes, Father was talking to the Minister just a couple of days ago, you know, and it sounds as though the Ministry's really determined to crack down on sub-standard teaching in this place. So even if that overgrown moron does show up again, he'll probably be sent packing straightaway."

"OUCH!"

Tom started at Potter's loud shout, noticing two deep cuts in his hand where the Bowtruckle's long fingers had dug in as punishment for being clenched too firmly. Before it could scarper into the forest, Tom shot a charm at it, making it zoom back to them, looking a little dazed but otherwise unharmed. The loud guffaws from the Slytherins made something evil appear in Potters eyes, Tom noticed with an excited jolt.

"Harry," Granger exclaimed in an undertone, carefully trying to exam Potter's wounded hand. "Are you all right?"

With a heavy frown, brushing her concern away, Potter turned to send a dark glare at Draco, which had Tom carefully conceal his humoured expression behind one of concentration as he continued with the assignment. "If he calls Hagrid a moron one more time ..."

"Harry, don't go picking a row with Malfoy, don't forget, he's a prefect now, he could make life difficult for you ..." Granger hissed before abruptly cutting herself of, sending a mistrustful glance at Tom, who did his best to look as neutral as possible, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the sketch in his hands.

"Wow, I wonder what it'd be like to have a difficult life?" Potter quipped, making Weasley snigger into the sleeve of his robes. Tom tore his eyes up from his sketch and observed Potter's dark expression, only smirking encouragingly when Potter met eyes with him. Then, his eyes travelled down to Potter's right hand, busy drawing the face of the Bowtruckle, smearing a steady trickle of blood where it moved over the parchment.

"Episkey," Tom murmured and aimed his wand, feeling how his smirk broadened as Potter started and hastened to inspect his healed hand with an expression of tense wonder. "You should wipe the blood," Tom said quietly, wiping the smile off his face, "it's ruining your sketch."

A slight pause followed, during which none of the Gryffindors seemed to even breathe, then, very quietly: "Thank you."

The odd group of four worked in silence after that, and after class, they split up as if nothing had happened to bring them together. Congratulating himself on a job well done, Tom smiled to himself and started to plan his next move, which, thanks to a certain professor, would play out within the span of a couple of hours ...

"Hand."

Harry reached out his right hand and winced when he caught sight of the raw, barely healed cut that made his skin pulsate like a thousand needle pricks. He turned his head to glare at the squat, pink-clad woman in front of him, fingering his hand with a thoughtful expression. He hated her, hated her all the way from her polished little boots up to the enormous, frilly ribbon on top of her sleek hair.

"Tut, tut, I don't seem to have made much of an impression yet," she said, smiling. "Well, we'll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won't we? You may go."

Very careful to school his expression, in order not to risk receiving further punishment, Harry turned on his heel and left without a word. Entering the dark corridor outside Professor Umbridge's office, Harry suspected it to be past midnight, it was that quiet.

Heading towards the Gryffindor Tower, Harry didn't get far until he unexpectedly met a dark figure, stepping out from behind a corner near the staircases. "Riddle?" Harry said with half-relieved, half-fearful wonder.

Riddle smiled shortly at him, but couldn't hide the weary, exhausted expression beneath it. "Hello, Potter," he murmured, stepping further into the light near the window, where Harry stood, basking in the light of the crescent moon.

Something about the slight glint in the depths of Riddle's dark eyes, glimmering like dark crystals in the light of the moon, had Harry shivering with dread, regaining some of the hot white fury burning him up inside, ignited by the helplessness of torturing himself with an evil device for hours, while she just watched.

A flurry of emotion slammed into him, and he remembered that he had reason to hate the gloomy adolescent in front of him. It didn't matter how pathetic or lonely he seemed at the moment – so far, Harry had seen nothing pointing towards any change in his behaviour – Riddle was still the stiff, brown-nosed git he always had been. He just lacked a leader he could snivel to at the moment.

"Get out of my way," Harry muttered between clenched teeth, trying to push past, but was intercepted by a puzzled exclamation.

"I healed that!"

Following Riddle's gaze, Harry caught sight of his hand, still flushed and red from his continuous scribbling with the Blood Quill. Clenching it into a fist, he hid the hand in his robe pocket and tried again to push past. "Right – yeah – it's nothing."

A surprisingly strong grip on his arm halted him, and before he could blink, his hand was seized. "Was my charm unsuccessful?" Riddle questioned quietly, examining the red mark. "No, I watched you wipe the blood away – it was healed."

"Piss off!" Harry growled and ripped his sore hand away, taking a few wary steps back. "What is your problem!? I said, get out of my way!"

"Did she do that?" Riddle asked, looking stern and cold all of a sudden, all of his previous pathetic demeanour gone.

Harry narrowed his eyes in suspicion, as he smelled another one of the Slytherins' thorny plots, and stepped closer, slowly. "She? Do you mean Umbridge?" Riddle didn't move one inch, nor did he say a word. "You knew I had detention with her tonight."

"I did," Riddle confessed, sounding confused. "She said so in class. Loudly. And your discretion was lacking ..."

"Telling the truth about the Dark Lord was what I did," Harry proclaimed haughtily, staring Riddle down, expecting to be sneered at as usual when arguing with the likes of them.

However, Riddle just smiled, very thinly. "Yes," he said, "and look where that got you."

Without noticing, Harry unclenched his fist. "You believe me?" he asked, furrowing his brows in disbelieving surprise.

"I do," Riddle claimed airily, studying his expression closely, almost like a curious wolf, Harry thought with a shiver. "I know he's alive."

"Right," Harry muttered, glaring, "I bet being close with Malfoy taught you that."

A dark shadow passed over Riddle's expression, and his previously so challenging eyes shied away and settled to look out the window, staring blindly at the woods outside. "That taught me a lot of things ..." he murmured so quietly Harry barely caught it.

Steeling himself, feeling his lazy anger settle in the depths of his stomach, Harry pierced Riddle with a demanding gaze. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Riddle echoed in that maddeningly quiet voice, still not focusing on anything.

"You knew I was having a detention," Harry stated clearly, "so I reckon you came to speak about something."

Finally meeting his eyes, Riddle looked a little ruffled, but also amused. "An astute deduction," he claimed in a surer voice, "but I had no such plans tonight. I was merely keeping a distance ... Draco's inhabiting the dormitory, and the others are also ..."

Once again, Harry was stunned by how fragile he looked, even though he couldn't pinpoint how he looked different from his usual neat appearance. His clothes, skin and hair carried no dust or wrinkle, but all was neatly ordered – nor did he look particularly tired or weary; only ... frail.

The desire to learn more, to solve the mystery, captured Harry in that moment, watching as Riddle seemed to struggle some inner battle, and stepped closer. He caught himself just as he was about to ask, mouth half open. He snapped it shut and took a calming breath, reminding himself that he actually hated Riddle just as much as he hated Malfoy. "It's late," he said instead and stepped past him, "they're probably asleep down there too."

As he hurried down the corridor, the low voice of Riddle called out for him, almost ghostlike.

"Good night, Potter."

He had to give Potter credit. His instinctual insight had been eerie, figuring Tom out without seemingly meaning to, nearly dissolving all progress in one move. Thankfully, Tom's skills were sharper and the danger had been evaded – barely. Potter probably suspected a plot of some kind, which was clever of him; Tom would give him that, annoying as it was.

According to his and Draco's scheme, Potter would have come out from detention all annoyed and vulnerable, raging at their professor to anyone who would listen. He shouldn't have picked up on the fact that Tom knew that he was supposed to have said detention, and he shouldn't have shied away from Tom's touch either, after he so kindly had healed his wound earlier that day.

No matter, Tom told himself, preening a little, Potter was just a bit cleverer than he had given him credit for, but that wouldn't matter in the long run. They would have him, eventually.

Leaning against the wooden frame making out the entrance to the Quidditch pitch, Tom listened to the faint chanting in the distance, coming from, what he knew had to be, the Slytherin Quidditch team. "Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers," and so on. Smirking a little, safe in the knowledge of his solitude, Tom recalled how Draco had plotted it all out to him in the dormitory last night before bed.

This first week of school had been dreary, in Tom's opinion, but not outrageously so. This game they were playing worked slowly – Potter still hadn't warmed up to him, no matter how pathetically Tom acted in his presence. Draco and he had even had another fight where they knew Potter would catch them, but despite this, all Tom had received for his efforts had been short greetings and small smiles that were probably meant to be encouraging. Hopefully, after today, that attitude of Potter's would change.

The sharp sound of a whistle echoed between the stands, and Tom listened as a group landed heavily on the grassy, slightly wet, ground. Soon, a group of three scurried out of the entrance next to him, not seeing him in their haste towards the castle. Tom impassively watched the two boys lead the third, bleeding girl between them, and soon disappear. There was a shuffling noise near the changing rooms, and soon after, the chants from the stands quieted and were replaced by loud laughter.

Sneaking a peek inside, Tom saw Draco leading his fellow Quidditch players onto the pitch, while Pansy, Gregory and Vincent remained in their seats, watching with great interest as their practice session began.

Tom turned away and trailed his eyes over the Forbidden Forest instead, not interested in the least. Ten minutes later, however, a pair of newly washed Gryffindors emerged, one of which definitely caught Tom's interest.

"Riddle," Potter said with surprise and halted before him, casting a quick glance at Weasley, who also stopped when his friend did. "What are you doing here?"

Making a point of shuffling his feet, and sneaking a peek over Weasley's shoulder at the Slytherin team soaring over the pitch, Tom began. "No, nothing ..." he murmured, looking down at his feet, "just ... looking."

"At what?" Weasley questioned, obviously flustered. "Been standing here long looking, have you?"

Recalling the loud jeers he had heard coming from Draco's direction, Tom suspected what had to be poor performance from the aggravated Gryffindor; a suspicion confirmed by the irked flush colouring his freckled face.

Very carefully, Tom shook his head. "No, not really, I was simply ... Well, I knew that they would be here and I thought that perhaps ..."

Tom silently congratulated himself as Potter inched closer with narrowed eyes, centring all his concern on him. "You all right?" he asked.

"Suppose I am lonely," Tom confessed, meeting eyes with Potter. "And I cannot stand it. I must fix this."

"Fix what?" Potter wondered, his expression changing into one of repulsion once he caught on. "You're not going back to Malfoy, are you?"

"What choice do I have?" Tom asked, layering his voice with as much quivering emotion he could muster without throwing up. He felt his eyes glaze over and repressed a shudder of disgust. Potter bought it, though, which was all that mattered.

"But he's been awful to you!" Potter exclaimed, subconsciously grabbing Tom's upper arm in a tight hold as he tried to convince him. "The way he's attacked you, not once but over and over; how could you ever forgive him for that? Don't you see what a right git he is?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Weasley nod his agreement, although he didn't seem comfortable enough speaking up, still obviously unsure of Tom's motives.

"I know," Tom whispered, looking away from Potter's passionate expression with an unexplainable, uncomfortable pressure in his chest. "I do not want to; I just cannot see how I could keep going like this. I am nothing."

"You're not nothing," Potter insisted, sounding annoyed. "Look, I don't know what happened, but I reckon you're better off on your own like this than you ever were with him. And ..." hesitating, Potter cast a quick glance back at Weasley. "If you'd like, you could spend some time with us."

"What?" Weasley and Tom said at the same time, with the exact same shade of stunned disbelief. Tom, having anticipated this outcome, was the first to recover. "You'd like me to?"

"Sure," Potter said, letting his arm go with a quick pat, as if he'd finally realised that he had been holding onto it this whole time.

"But Harry," Weasley started, grasping for words, but Potter interrupted him, to Tom's quiet glee.

"Just once or twice," he assured him, sounding nervous, as if he was trying to explain himself, "Don't you reckon we could study together, or something?"

Studying Tom with a guarded expression, Weasley shrugged and glared at the castle in silence. Seemingly appeased by that, Potter smiled and turned to look at Tom again, with that pathetically soft expression.

"How about Monday?"

Harry glared at that toad Umbridge, the newly self-proclaimed High Inquisitor, as she stood grinning in front of the class, under the shade of her fat, pink ribbon. How dared she berate Hermione, simply for having finished her readings properly, and having opinions about the material?

"Miss Granger," she said in her sickly sweet voice, "I am going to take five points from Gryffindor house."

"What for?" Harry couldn't help but inquire angrily. Instantly, Hermione swooped down on him to hiss in his ear.

"Don't you get involved!"

"For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions," said Professor Umbridge smoothly. "I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand very little. Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more licence, but as none of them – with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects – would have passed a Ministry inspection –"

"Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher," said Harry loudly, bursting with anger, "there was just that minor drawback of him secretly working for the Dark Lord."

This pronouncement was followed by one of the loudest silences Harry had ever heard. Then –

"I think another week's detentions would do you some good, Mr Potter," said Umbridge sleekly, and right on cue, Malfoy and his cronies snorted loudly. Simply ignoring the commotion, the professor continued the lesson, smiling like the cat that got the cream all hour till the bell rang and they were dismissed.

Pointedly ignoring the obvious impressions Malfoy did of him, walking out of class, making Crabbe and Goyle roar with laughter, Harry paused just outside the door, waiting for he who would no doubt be the last one to emerge. Sure enough, after everybody else had left, save for Ron and Hermione, who stood waiting just a little ahead of him, Riddle exited the classroom.

"All right?" Harry said, trying to sound cheerful rather than irked, although it was a struggle. Riddle simply gave him a smile and kept walking towards Harry's friends, who watched him with an air of wary curiosity.

"That was stupid, Harry," Hermione claimed, sniffed and turned to lead the way towards the library, where they had decided would be a good, neutral place to study at. "Haven't you listened to a word Professor McGonagall has said to you? She could do you much more damage than it's worth." Ron glanced at him as they walked, trying his best to seem supportive.

"I don't suppose she's making you do lines again? I mean, there's being cruel, and then there's being right out evil."

Harry hesitated, feeling Riddle's eyes on him, and clenched his fist, trying not to think about the faint mark he still had there from last Friday's detention.

They reached the library and took their seats, arranging their things around their square space on the end of one of the long tables, and shortly decided what to work on. Recalling their poor performance on their essays on Moonstones, Harry and Ron voted for their Potions homework, and the other two agreed without complaint.

"I just can't believe how Dumbledore would let her get away with any of this," Harry muttered bitterly after a few minutes of idly scanning through the homework instructions.

"Professor Dumbledore couldn't have been the one employing her, Harry," Hermione said with a sigh, carefully flipping through the pages of her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.

"But he's the Headmaster," Ron insisted with a grunt, "Don't you reckon he could've refused her?"

"She was sent by the Ministry," Riddle said, unexpectedly, making them all quiet down to listen with rapt attention. "They secured her to be the only candidate for the post, and then, with the help of a new decree, which conveniently happened to spring up out of nowhere, just as they needed it the most, the Ministry was appointed with the mission to find an adequate teacher. Her. Now, as ordered by the Minister himself, as well as the Hogwarts Board of Governors, she will inspect matters at Hogwarts and change whatever she finds insufficient, and I hardly think it will stop there."

"You don't?" Hermione asked, with a sharp, insightful look.

"No, for whatever reason should it when they have come this far without opposition?" Riddle answered with a grimace. "I do not see this ending any time soon. In her position, she has power over Hogwarts and its Headmaster that Cornelius Fudge has only ever dreamed wet dreams of."

"But won't they realise that we aren't learning anything useful in her lessons?" Harry demanded, but Riddle only smirked at him in an infuriating way. However, it was Hermione that answered.

"I don't think they want us to learn either offensive or defensive spells, Harry."

"What? Why not?" Ron asked, sounding outraged.

"What is it that the Ministry fear the most?" Riddle challenged quietly. When no one answered, he simply stated the answer as if it wasn't a big deal. "Disorder. They fear rebellion – namely, a rebellion too strong to handle."

For some reason, Hermione leaned back with a relaxed expression, as if Riddle had passed some sort of test. Ron, on the other hand, looked like a short-sighted man who tried on a pair of glasses for the first time. Harry himself was left with a heavy feeling in his stomach, feeling the weight of it all crash down on him, letting his anger seep away, leaving dread and weariness behind in its wake.

In thoughtful silence, they all set to work, trying their best to put the previous discussion behind them and focus on the task. For Harry, this proved impossible, and soon, he simply sat staring unblinkingly at the passage he was reading, not taking anything in at all.

A sudden whiff of some intriguing scent warned him before it happened, but he was startled nonetheless, as he found himself with Riddle pressed up close to his ear. "You seem confused, do you want some help?"

Swallowing thickly, not trusting himself to speak, Harry hummed his consent and nodded shortly, keeping a wary eye at Riddle as he settled in even closer, pointing with a long, pale finger at the passage that Harry had been mulling over.

"... and should be a clear liquid once finished brewing. Although a Love Potion's effects will eventually wear off on their own, this antidote can be used as an expedient alternative, as the experience can be all but agreeable for the subject in question. Potter, are you listening?"

"Sure, yeah," Harry exclaimed, flushing a little, trying his best to focus properly on Riddle's words rather than the way small puffs of air continuously hit the side of his face in a very ... unexpected way. He was more or less successful, and with Riddle's help, he finished his homework within the hour.

Cooped up under a thick blanket, carefully studying the tome Mr Malfoy had lent him, Tom sat snuggled against the headboard of his green and silver-clad, four-poster bed. He took pleasure in the fact that he was left to his own devices, without his fellow Slytherins lurking about, being off frolicking in Hogsmeade, as it was the first weekend of October. The feeling reminded him of the summer, when he had been allowed to spend days upon days reading in peace; only with the occasional interruption of Draco, being the attention-seeking little brat that he was. Even though Tom could stand Draco's presence without trouble, enjoy it, even, it was good to have some alone-time as well.

It was not to last, however, for just as he had finished reading the last paragraph of chapter thirty-seven, slowly turning the page, savouring the feeling, the dormitory door burst open, allowing the interrupter entrance.

"There you are," Draco said in a cheerful tone, tossing a heavy package onto his own, neatly made, bed, and started to peel off his cloak and steel-grey mittens. "I cannot believe you've been here all day when you could have left for Hogsmeade."

"I do not require anything of importance," Tom answered in a drawl, shutting his book with a long-suffering sigh, knowing that he would impossibly get any more reading done with Draco there to distract him. "And as I cannot risk being seen in the wrong company, what would be the pleasure of strolling around alone?"

Frowning, creating tiny wrinkles along the bridge of his pointy nose, Draco stepped up to the side of his bed and sat down next to him, leaning heavily against the headboard and pressing their shoulders together for balance on the slim mattress. "Don't you think this game of ours has lost some of its charm? It's October already – it's been over a month, and you're hardly getting anywhere."

"Hardly anywhere?" Tom echoed, turning to glare at his friend. "This past week, I have had no less than five study sessions with Potter in the library – the last two of which were with him alone, without those idiot friends of his. I would not call that 'hardly anywhere'."

"Yes, but study sessions wasn't what we aimed for," Draco defended himself with, looking a little abashed. "What about making him open up and reveal all his darkest secrets?"

"Did you honestly think that he would go that far after a mere month?" Tom asked in disbelief, frowning heavily as Draco let out a long, discontented sigh and leaned his head sideways, onto his shoulder.

"I just don't think it's fun anymore. Potter isn't letting up, and I can't spend time with you like I used to – the others don't even compare, that's for sure."

Snorting to himself, Tom carefully leaned his chin atop Draco's pale head. "Do not blame this on me; it was your brilliant idea."

"Well, I'm retracting it," Draco stated, toying a little with the hem of Tom's blanket. "And ... I admit that it was ... a miscalculation."

"Nonetheless, it is too late for regrets, Draco," Tom stated, hastily pulling away as Draco raised his head to glare at him. Not threatened in the least, Tom only raised one challenging eyebrow. "I am closer to the finish than you might think – Potter seems to genuinely like me. I just recently let slip a few choice facts about that half-giant friend of his, where he is and what occupies him. You should have seen the look on his face – trust me – it is just a matter of time before he starts confiding in me."

"Really," Draco said with challenge, standing up with an air of nonchalance, walking over to pick at the package on his own bed. "Then perhaps you could tell me what it was he was so busy doing at the Hog's Head today together with a bunch of Gryffindors and a handful of others?"

Crossing his arms, not in the mood to play games, Tom only stared back at Draco's smirking face for a stretched out moment before answering. "No, I had no knowledge of that," he confessed coldly, narrowing his eyes as Draco's lips curled further, making him look positively diabolic. "However, I am sure I will learn sooner or later, given a little time."

Draco didn't look pleased with that response, but he knew better than pushing too far, knowing that even though he would be allowed to have opinions, whatever Tom dictated was law.

Sniffing haughtily, he picked up the package and settled down on his perch next to Tom again, handing it over with a smile. "Let's share these."

Carefully undoing the crisp, brown packaging, Tom soon unravelled a box-full of sweets – a mixture of sweet and bitter, perfectly ordered to fit both their tastes and then some.

Picking up a particularly delicious-looking Fizzing Whizzbee, Tom smiled and said, "How thoughtful," before putting it in his mouth, waiting for the thrilling effects to kick in.

Walking down the cramped staircases down to the dungeons, Harry mulled over what had happened within the last hour – Hedwig had come back with an injured wing, and after leaving her in the tender care of Professor Grubbly-Plank, and having a really serious conversation with Professor McGonagall, Harry suspected that sending letters to Sirius would have to stop from now on. There were quite obviously people reading them, and even if they were coded and unsigned, it was an unnecessary risk.

Already on the Hogwarts Express, Harry had learned that Malfoy knew about Sirius's dog form, and who knew what other people knew as well? The letter had read, "Today, same time, same place," which meant that Sirius would make a fire-call to the Gryffindor common room tonight. Harry vowed to tell him to keep off for a while, just to make sure. If it was something he couldn't risk, it was Sirius's safety.

Closing in on the dungeon classroom, they were met by Malfoy's lovely voice, and when they caught sight of him, they saw him strutting about with an official-looking parchment, proclaiming the Slytherin Quidditch team to have passed the latest of Umbridge's wicked tests. This time, she had ordered that every team or club would have to get permission from her to be allowed to continue, ironically enough, a rule that had popped up just after the little meeting they'd had at the Hog's Head; hardly a coincidence.

But apparently, Malfoy wasn't done bragging about his father's good connections within the Ministry. With a mean glint in his eyes, looking far more hateful than usual, Harry thought as he met them in challenge, he started another one of his verbal assaults.

"I mean," Malfoy said, his fury so great he looked positively insane, "if it's a question of influence with the Ministry, I don't think the Gryffindor team's got much chance ... from what my father says, they've been looking for an excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years ... and as for Potter ... my father says it's a matter of time before the Ministry has him carted off to St Mungo's ... apparently they've got a special ward for people whose brains have been addled by magic."

The next thing they knew, Neville had unexpectedly charged at Malfoy, growling and huffing like a furious lion, gasping for breath as Harry and Ron held him back as best they could.

"Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom?" came a sudden drawl from the now open door of the Potions classroom. Snape sneered out at them from behind his dark curtains of greasy hair. "Ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention. Inside, all of you."

Casting a weary glance at Neville as he released him, making sure he'd calmed down somewhat, Harry followed the others inside the classroom, pausing just inside the door. As soon as he had entered, Malfoy had turned in his front-seat to glare hatefully at him – not the usual sardonic malice either, but pure spiteful anger. Sweeping his eyes along the row of desks, Harry first saw the empty spot left for him next to Ron – then, right at the back of the class, sat Riddle, alone as usual.

Giving Malfoy a very scornful frown, he walked up to the empty slot next to Riddle, and sat down. As soon as he was seated, Malfoy snapped around in his seat with an expression of open confusion, then, as he caught sight of the seating arrangement at the back, he seemed to choke on his own fury. Harry couldn't help smiling victoriously at him, having figured him out finally, and had to hold back a vengeful laugh as he watched Malfoy turn back around, angrily berating Parkinson when she started fussing over him.

It seemed like their silent interaction had lasted for minutes, although it had only been a handful of seconds, and although it had seemed that every eye had been on them at the time, at a second glance, Harry realised everyone were still whispering to one another about Neville's outburst in the corridor. They all quieted down, however, when Snape closed the dungeon door with an echoing bang and briskly walked up to his teacher's desk at the front of the classroom.

"You will notice," he said, in his low, sneering voice, "that we have a guest with us today." He gestured towards a dark corner, and as one, the class caught sight of her. Professor Umbridge sat there, clipboard on her knee. Completely indifferent to her presence, Snape continued, "We are continuing with our Strengthening Solution today. You will find your mixtures as you left them last lesson; if correctly made they should have matured well over the weekend – instructions –" he waved his wand "– on the board. Carry on."

As they started brewing, Harry's attention alternated between keeping track of what his hands were doing and what Snape and Umbridge were doing. So far, nothing outrageous had occurred between the professors, except for a few murmured comments, but, due to his divided attention, Harry's potion was suffering. He was just about to drop what he thought was salamander blood into the cauldron, when Riddle's quick hand stopped him, making him actually pay attention to the ingredient and realise that it was pomegranate juice.

"Thanks," he said and retracted his hand, shivering a little as the motion made Riddle's fingers slide loosely, first along his wrist, then his hand.

"You should focus," Riddle murmured and started stirring Harry's potion, comparing the hue of the pale liquid to his own, which was of a far healthier colour and consistence. Watching him finish stirring, then carefully adjust the temperature of the flames beneath the cauldron, Harry couldn't help but flush a little because of his own incompetence.

Reading the instructions on the board, and then, picking out a handful of peppery furrow shells, he sneaked a peak at Riddle's calm expression as he pried his own shells apart with the help of the point of his knife. Sneakily following his example, Harry picked up his knife as well. "Sorry, I'll try not to be a bother ... Potions isn't my best subject."

"You're not a bother," Riddle said softly, giving him a tiny smile that, for some reason Harry couldn't pinpoint, made his heartbeat speed up unnecessary. Next thing he knew, the knife in his hand had slipped off the rock-hard shell and sliced a shallow cut in his left palm.

Immediately, hearing his pained hiss, Riddle seized his hand and healed it, almost so quickly Harry didn't have the time to feel any pain. "Sorry, I guess ... slippery ... the shells are too hard," he managed in a whisper, holding his breath as deft fingers started prodding at his hand, as if searching for more injuries. Feeling his entire head flush, all feeling in his body centring on his left hand, Harry carefully pried it out of Riddle's grip.

"The hard shells can be deceiving," Riddle said quietly, continuing working on his own potion meanwhile, "but once they are peeled away, the soft, vulnerable inside remains unprotected. It takes great skill not to harm it, but for the one entrusted with it –" he carefully scraped the clam-flesh off the knife-blade and into the cauldron "– it can prove to be invaluable."

Harry swallowed as his mouth had gone very dry, and nodded to himself. Perhaps it was time to open his shell for Riddle, letting him in completely. He had proven to be much more than Harry had ever expected, from what he had known about him beforehand. But now, after a month of casual meetings in the library, he was someone Harry would even consider a close friend.

Shooting a quick glance at Ron and Hermione, knowing they would disprove of his idea, he steeled himself for doing it anyway. "Tom," he said, trying the name out, as it was the first time he had ever used it. At once, Riddle froze, looking at him out of the corner of his eye with a stunned expression. "I want to invite you to a meeting," he whispered as discretely as he could, shooting a weary glance at Umbridge's squat form. As she seemed busy interviewing Snape at the moment, to the great amusement of the rest of the class, save for perhaps Malfoy and his cronies, Harry felt much more confident.

"What sort of meeting?" Riddle murmured, turning to him fully, leaning in with open intrigue.

"A secret club meeting," Harry clarified hastily, keeping his voice as low as he could. "We're learning Defence Against the Dark Arts, since she isn't teaching us ... we're a small group from all Houses, well ... from all but Slytherin. But, if you'd like to, you could join ... I'd like you to, I mean ..."

"It does sound useful," Riddle allowed with a small smirk that made Harry's pulse speed up again. "When is it? And where?"

"We haven't found a good place for it yet," Harry confessed, "but I'll make sure to tell you as soon as we do."

A few moments passed, during which Riddle looked extremely conflicted, shooting quick glances between the simmering potion in his cauldron, and Malfoy at the front of the classroom.

"You don't have to decide at once," Harry whispered after a couple of silent minutes, during which he had started working on his own potion again, carefully following the instructions as well as copying what Riddle was doing on his end of the table. "You can think about it, and decide once everything's settled, or when you're done thinking ... just don't tell anyone, right?"

Dark, striking eyes met his worried ones, creating a connection of such intensity Harry forgot how to breathe.

"Of course," Riddle swore and looked away.

The Quidditch match between Slytherin and Gryffindor started off on quite friendly terms, however, soon enough, the green-clad stand started their singing.

"Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That's why Slytherins all sing:

Weasley is our king.

Weasley was born in a bin,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley will make sure we win,

Weasley is our king."

Sneering at how pettily the Slytherins behaved now that Draco had taken over for him at the reins, Tom tried his best to ignore the shamefully childish chanting and focus on the game in front of him instead. Quidditch didn't amuse him, but he did take pleasure in watching Draco fly; he always made it seem so effortlessly easy and thrilling, even though Tom never felt any of the feelings he could see on his friend's face whenever he mounted a broom.

Sweeping his gaze lazily over the pitch, he watched Potter soar on a route different from that of Draco, scanning the air with attentive eyes. Tom allowed himself to confess in the privacy of his mind that he did enjoy watching Potter fly as well, although, with the curious feeling of attentive excitement rather than calm amusement. Tracing the lines of Potter's body, from the windswept hair to the flowing tails of his scarlet robes, warmth started spreading from his stomach up to his face.

Looking at Potter made Tom think about the offer he'd been given a fortnight ago, which he hadn't given an answer to yet, still conflicted, although he knew he really shouldn't be. This was the key to the treasure chest at the end of the game plan they were playing on, and it was ridiculous of him not to use whatever power he had to win.

Still, there was something about Potter that made Tom ... wary of openly opposing him. He had imagined himself finding out some delicious truth about him that he could spread through the rumour mill of Hogwarts, which would leave him completely unnamed and out of harm's way. Now, if he accepted Potter's offer, he would have to openly betray him, and for some reason, although it really shouldn't present a problem, that didn't sit well with Tom.

Shaking out of his mulling thoughts as Potter and Draco zoomed in the same direction, surely having spotted the Snitch, Tom realised he sat fingering the gift he had received from Potter a few days past. Gripping the coin, lying innocently in his right pocket, he recalled the mischievous grin Potter had worn as he gave him the galleon, explaining what it was for and what it did.

It had warmed up once, signalling a meeting Tom could have attended if he had wanted to, but, that indistinct feeling had stopped him with his hand on the door handle. He had been inches from entering the odd room, which he had had no previous knowledge of before Potter told him about it, but he hadn't entered. Letting the coin go and refocusing on the match, Tom told himself that by the next time the coin warmed, he would have come to a definite decision.

Back at the match, the chase for the Snitch ended quite abruptly as Potter caught it and soared down to the ground, with Draco hot on his heels. Before he could land properly, though, a Bludger slammed straight into the small of his back, and Tom started to his feet with an uncomfortable, clenching feeling in his chest. But Potter was fine, he saw with relief, as he got back on his feet, Johnson immediately checking up on him.

Tom watched with calming breath how Potter and Draco exchanged a few spiteful words, or rather, Draco shouting things at Potter, who tried to ignore him. Then, it all seemed to happen at once. In one moment, the Gryffindor team all stood surrounding Potter, the next, Potter and one of the Weasley twins broke loose and charged at Draco, felling him to the ground and beating him to a bloody pulp.

Feeling sick with fury, Tom stormed down the staircases and onto the grassy ground, not caring who saw him as he sprinted onto the pitch with his heart in his throat. They were harming his Draco!

All narrowed down to instinct as he ran, and soon, he had his wand in his hand, pointing it straight at Potter as he neared the group, fast. "Impedimenta!" he snarled, halting once the distance between himself and the group had narrowed down to ten metres, watching impassively as more spells hit Potter and Weasley, sending them flying away from Draco, who thankfully seemed alright, although very ruffled.

Lucky you, Potter, Tom thought viciously, piercing the Gryffindor seeker with a glare of dark anger. Potter was staring back at him with an awfully conflicted expression, seeming both horrified and proud of what he'd just done.

Forcefully holding himself back from swooping down on Draco, he watched Potter and Weasley leave for the castle, and then, he watched the Slytherin team lead their injured seeker towards the pitch's small infirmary, especially designed for patching up Quidditch players after a game.

"Mr Riddle," Madam Hooch exclaimed, marching over to where he was standing, watching everything play out impassively, silently boiling with held-back fury.

"Yes, madam," he answered politely, but stiffly.

"I may very well understand how you would defend a house mate in peril, but, you are not allowed to curse your fellow classmates. Ten points from Slytherin. Now, off the pitch with you, and I do not want to see you taking advantage of your position as a prefect ever again, is that clear?"

"Yes, madam," Tom repeated and slunk away.

Blending with the crowd headed for the exit, Tom slipped into the shade of the stands and then deftly made his way into the corridors leading to the changing rooms and the, not as frequently visited, infirmary.

Halfway there, he ran into the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team, headed for the showers. They all nodded to him respectfully, but waited for him to address them, which he did not feel like doing, so they walked past one another without one single syllable exchanged.

He had to wait a few minutes outside the closed door, listening to Draco's pathetic whimpering, until the lock clicked open and he emerged, closely followed by a severe-looking Madam Pomfrey. She eyed him shortly as she passed him, but didn't comment. Draco, on the other hand, said a great many things.

"Did you see what they did to me!? They bloody attacked me like a couple of dim-witted Muggles. Did you see them? Look at my nose, did she get it right? There's still blood, isn't there? Do you see any? Bloody Potter, I hate him, Tom, hate him!"

With lip quivering, Draco looked frightfully close to breaking down in hysterical, furious, tears. Trying to prevent that, Tom avoided body contact and stayed leaning against the wall in a nonchalant manner. "You were careless, baiting a pack of lions. Growing weary of your venom, they will attack with teeth and claws. It is predictable, and now, you have to live with the consequences. And what was that ridiculous song you made them sing for you? Weasley is our king? Preposterous!"

"Sometimes, you sound just like my father," Draco spat, sniffing but, thankfully, not looking close to crying any more.

There was a short silence. "Your nose has not altered its appearance," Tom judged, "and there is no blood, as far as I can tell."

"Is that supposed to cheer me up?" Draco muttered between clenched teeth, refusing to look him in the eye, obviously ashamed by his stupidity back at the pitch.

"You did ask," Tom murmured as he walked up to his friend, laying a heavy hand atop one stiff shoulder. "I am relieved they did not harm you further ... perhaps this can cheer you up better than any words might."

Steeling himself by thinking of the brutality Potter had displayed, unforgivable, he picked the glimmering galleon out of his pocket and handed it over to Draco, who immediately started inspecting it with great curiosity.

"It's just a coin," he stated, grimacing. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No. Potter and his friends are holding secret club meetings, and this is their means of communication."

After he'd explained about what he'd found out through his digging, Draco pierced him with a dark, gleeful glare that told of how much he wanted to hurt Potter in that moment. "Brilliant! That means the next time that galleon burns, we'll have him."

"Precisely," Tom admitted, finally making up his mind. His friendship with Draco was what mattered. Whatever Potter might possibly give him was not enough.

With a cheerful bounce to his step, Draco left for the showers and Tom started the long walk up to the castle, shivering against the strong wind although he wasn't really the person to freeze, usually.

Walking towards the Great Hall, hoping for a strengthening lunch to heat him up a little, he incidentally ran into Potter, who else? He came down from the grand staircases, having surely just escaped a rough berating from his Head of House. Catching sight of Tom, though, Potter's livid expression lost some of its sting, taking on a tint of guilt again.

"Tom," Potter said as they met just outside the Great Hall. "All right?"

"I should be asking you that," Tom said in a quiet voice, hoping he sounded far more worried than he felt, and far less angry.

Potter didn't seem to doubt him, but perhaps that was more due to those dark feelings, layering his whole person like a thundercloud, than Tom's marvellous acting skills. "I'm fine, I just ... I shouldn't have jumped him like that. I saw how it made you feel, Tom, even though you haven't been friends with him for months now, you still care about him. I understand that ... and I'm sorry."

Blinking, once again surprised by Potter's excellent deduction skills, Tom let some of his true emotions show. "At least, you did not do a very thorough job. He's already back to normal, it seems."

"You saw him?"

Biting his tongue for making that slip, Tom nodded carefully. "Just a glance from a distance, but, he seemed fine."

The expression on Potter's face was very soft, and the sudden realisation of how closely together they stood made all Tom's senses sparkle alive. All of a sudden, his eyes started studying the fine hairs on Potter's cheeks, leading down to his slim, slightly rosy lips. His ears focused on the sound of Potter's breathing, and his nose on the distinct smell of dirt and what Tom recognised as purely his smell.

Potter seemed to study him as well, not saying a word to fill the sudden silence between them that became increasingly awkward as Tom started thinking about it. He cleared his throat, taking a small step back to put some distance between them, which made Potter's face darken with a red tint.

"Good, good," he murmured, looking away from Tom and instead, with great interest, through the grand doors leading into the Great Hall.

With hammering heart, Tom gave him a quick, "See you," and escaped to the Slytherin house table, definitely not suffering from cold any more. Rather the opposite.

Sitting down with the others on the big pillows, usually used as cushioning for spell practice, Harry glanced at the clock above one of the well-filled bookcases, and decided it was about time to break off the merry chatter and begin the DA meeting. The spell he would teach today he'd had little practice with, but he thought he'd finally got hang of it last night before bed. It was the spell Sirius had shown him the night before his hearing at the Ministry of Magic, and he couldn't wait trying it out properly on an opponent and not just on Ron's secret, stuffed teddy.

Looking around the room one more time, focusing on the circle of people sitting around him, he started counting silently to himself, making sure all were there. To his right were Ron and Hermione, the first engaged in a discussion about the prices on Skiving Snackboxes with Ginny, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan, the second sitting knitting yet another pile of elf hats. Then, there was Neville, Dean and Lavender, next to the Patil twins, who sat a bit apart from Cho and Marietta. Then Katie, Alicia, and Angelina, followed by Colin and Dennis, Ernie, Justin, Susan, and Hannah. After her sat Anthony, Michael, Terry, Zacharias, and finally, to Harry's left, sitting reading the Quibbler, was Luna.

She looked up at him once she felt his eyes on her, smiling in a dreamy, encouraging way, silently asking him if it was time to start yet. Giving her a short nod and a smile, Harry stood up, and instantly, the others fell silent. "All right," he started, picking out his wand, "today, I was thinking –"

Everyone turned around in a flurry, startled like hares, as the sudden click and scrape from the doorway signalled someone entering. Aiming his wand at the door, quite ready to defend the group from whatever Umbridge had decided to throw at them, Harry froze on the spot and drew a ragged breath as he caught sight of the intruder.

It was Tom. Tom had actually showed up, at last. He scarcely believed it.

"Tom," he said, clearing his throat and smiling, striding forwards, "welcome, it's good to see you ... Come on in, we were just about to start."

Harry heard the others get to their feet behind him, murmuring quietly to one another, obviously befuddled at the sudden appearance of a stray Slytherin. And a prefect, to boot.

"Everyone," Harry said, smiling as the group fell silent. "This is Tom Riddle, our newest member."

"Who invited a Slytherin?" Zacharias exclaimed in a tone that made Harry's smile twist into a sneer. "Isn't he friends with Malfoy?"

"No," Harry stated clearly before the others could come up with more heated objections, "not for months, really. And I invited him –"

"Don't you reckon it's too big a risk?" Ernie drawled, merely flushing a little as Harry turned to scowl at him.

"He'll run and tell Umbridge first thing after the meeting," Zacharias argued heatedly, and nearly rose to his feet, but was shoved backwards onto his bum by Fred, who had hit him with a well-aimed Knockback Jinx.

"Stuff it, you little wart," George snapped, "If you don't like the way Harry handles things you are very welcome to leave."

"We'll show you the door," Fred finished.

Many murmured their agreement, Cho quite enthusiastically, at the same time as Tom came to stand right at the front of the group, looking apprehensive, but also very annoyed.

"I did not realise this was a group for choice students exclusively. To be honest, I was hoping for this to be an environment free of unequal restrictions, where one could learn and practice useful spells – I suppose I must have been mistaken."

"You weren't!" Hermione insisted, arising as well and coming forwards with a haughty look over her shoulder at Zacharias, who was starting to look very red around his ears. "Of course we don't exclude Slytherins simply because of such a stupidly simple fact. I think it's good that you're here," she said with a grin Harry's way, "I was wondering if there was a chance to have representatives in all the Houses. Perhaps there are more Slytherins who would like to join, if they could."

"Hear hear!" Anthony shouted, widening Hermione's grin. As all got to their feet, murmuring to one another, Harry took the chance to check on Tom.

"I'm glad you came," he said, doing his best to steel himself against the abrupt fluttering inside his stomach once Tom turned to look at him with a softening expression.

Clearing his throat, Harry started the lesson, making everyone split up in pairs. At first, he was a bit worried no one would pair up with Tom willingly, but to his great pleasure, Hermione strode across the room without hesitation, calming Harry's squirming heart a little.

"OK," he started, swallowing against his dry throat once every eye in the room turned onto him. "I would like a volunteer for showing the spell we're going to learn today. Ron?"

To the encouraging jeers and hoots from the twins, Ron came to stand in the middle of the room, in front of Harry, giving him a sheepish, but trusting grin. Harry smiled back and nodded once to see if his friend was ready. When Ron gave an answering nod, he wasted no time in casting the spell.

"Spiculum levicorpus!"

The bright blue arrow of the spell shot out from the tip of the holly wand, snagging hold of the back of Ron's robes, pulling upwards so that he hung a few feet off the ground. As one, everyone gasped, staring at his hanging figure. But once he got his bearings back, and made two thumbs up, they all started laughing and chattering loudly.

"Finite!" Harry intoned, and Ron fell back onto his two feet with a dull thump, grinning from ear to ear. The lesson took off from there, everyone quite eager to learn this new spell that they'd never heard of before.

Harry walked around the room, making sure everyone got the wand movement right, and intoned the incantation correctly, all the while doing his best not to look at Tom too often or too obviously. It was a struggle, and his attention was much too divided at times, but one thing or another always called back his attention – Luna's unpredictable spell work had poor Neville zooming back and forth across the room at odd times, whereas Neville himself could barely lift Luna one inch off the ground. Cho was so nervous she kept setting Marietta's hair aflame whenever Harry drew close, and Fred seemed far more interested in letting George hang in an awkward position rather than actually practicing the spell properly.

Tom and Hermione, on the other hand, were doing brilliantly. They got the hang of the spell at once, and soon did their best to try out different ways of varying the spell's intensity. Harry would have liked nothing more than to come over and praise them, but before he could move, a loud shriek made him turn around and rush over to where Ginny was standing, shaking in fury, wand pointed at Dean, who was hanging upside-down, spinning wildly.

"He keeps holding back from cursing me," she explained with a huff once Harry had properly berated her and let Dean back down onto his two very shaky feet.

"I'm not," Dean defended himself with a dark, unbecoming flush, "I just ... I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me, you dimwit," Ginny snarled and started a prolonged argument that had Harry's head hurt like a menace before the end of it. At last, Fred and George decided to butt in, making fun of their sister's hot temper and thus turning her attention onto them instead of her wary boyfriend.

Shaking his head tiredly, Harry noticed the clock was nearing nine, and that it was about time to end the lesson. Before he could blow his whistle, however, his heart nearly stopped in his chest as he noticed Tom was nowhere to be found.

After a short moment of frantically scanning the room, Harry let out a relieved breath as he finally caught sight of him, standing in one dark corner with Hermione, writing his name onto the binding parchment in a very detached way, suggesting he wasn't truly in favour of doing it. Judging by Hermione's smug expression, she had probably bullied him into it when Harry was caught up solving the Ginny-Dean issue.

Doing his best to stop worrying about whether Tom really wanted to be part of the group or not, Harry blew the whistle and immediately had twenty-eight pairs of eyes directed at his person. "OK," he said loudly, smiling. "You've all done well. I think with a little more practice, this can be a very useful spell for times when you have a lot of people coming at you at once ... So, keep up the good work, you're all making great progress."

Following procedure, pulling out the Marauder's Map, Harry let the others leave in threes and fours, while keeping a steady lookout for teachers roaming the seventh floor. Finally, all had left apart from Ron, Hermione, and Tom, who stood by the far off wall, skimming through the titles crowding the bookshelves.

"Tom," Hermione called with slight impatience, "we need to leave."

Coming closer with a preoccupied expression, Tom finally settled into a smirk. "I do not see why we should hurry – we are prefects after all ... Well," he said, giving Harry a short glance, "most of us."

"Sure, but I don't reckon that means a lot if Umbridge catches us," Ron muttered and made towards the door. "Harry, you coming?" he called once he had reached the door with Hermione in tow, carrying her elf hats.

"You go on," he said, furiously fighting against the warmth building up behind his ears. "I'll see you later."

Ignoring the curious looks he got from his friends, then hearing the click from the door as it shut, Harry turned around to find that Tom had once again walked over to inspect the overflowing bookshelves. Swallowing thickly, Harry joined him.

"All right?" he managed in a soft tone, smiling once Tom finally turned to look at him with a thoughtful expression. "Did you enjoy yourself? Do you want to come back, I mean."

"Granger made me sign your little list, so I would assume that leaves me with little choice," Tom answered quietly, his mouth twisted into a wicked looking grin that made Harry lick his own lips without consciously deciding to.

"You can still back out, if you want ..." he suggested weakly, feeling a bit light-headed, unable to think about little except how close they were standing to one another. In fact, the space between them seemed to become less and less as Tom took his time answering.

"But I know all your secrets now," Tom murmured breathlessly, eyes unblinking and impossibly wide. "I have successfully peeled away your shells and slipped inside."

"It's all right," Harry said, studying the sleek texture of Tom's black eyelashes, "I don't know all your secrets yet – you're still protected."

There was a pause. Tom swallowed.

Then, Harry leaned in the last inch, meeting Tom's shivering mouth with soft pressure, instantly feeling his toes curl with pleasure.

He leaned in further, settling his hands onto a pair of slim shoulder blades, letting out a passionate gasp when Tom finally sprang into action, snaking his arms around his waist, applying even more pressure and lazy movement to their attached lips.

He couldn't think – only feel. The motions of their mouths, their tongues, their roaming hands, were numbing and explosive, all at once. It felt heavenly, dangerous, and thrilling. As addicting as chocolate, as easy as breathing, as life-sustaining as water.

Warm, long-fingered hands came up to cup his face, and Harry lost complete control. Damn curfew. Damn Umbridge. Damn sleep. He could do this all night.

The coin gleamed in the soft glow of the floating candles, shining fire from above his head, as he sat staring at the sleek surface of the metal piece, flipping it over and over between his slim fingers. Tom narrowed his eyes in thought, remembering the previous day, as he had felt the coin burn with lit up numbers, indicating day and time. He had been elated, for finally, he would get things done. He would get his life back together, and betray Potter. Why had that proved to be so infernally difficult? It wasn't like he had ever really liked Potter anyway – quite the opposite in fact.

Tom still remembered the first time he laid eyes on him, during the Sorting Ceremony, his first year at Hogwarts. They had been marched into the Great Hall, and Tom had been in complete awe of the grandeur of the castle and its magic. With bated breath, and thundering heart, he had watched his classmates step up to be sorted, one by one, until only one remained before it was going to be his turn. Harry Potter, a thin, messy-looking, and entirely unremarkable boy had stepped onto the dais and put the hat on, and Tom's breath was coming in short. He had known that it was very unlikely for some kid with a last name beginning with Q to be in between Potter and him, so the waiting became almost unbearable. Because Potter took his merry time, didn't he? Those had been the longest minutes of Tom's life. And when he finally got to put the Sorting Hat onto his own head, after a thunderous applause from all parts of the Great Hall, Tom had been extremely disappointed when the Hat had almost instantly called out where he was destined. Somehow, stepping away from the dais and casting a glance towards the Gryffindor table, it had felt as if he had lost some kind of battle, leaving Potter obliviously victorious. It had made him furious.

Later on, after having made friends with Draco, his silent rivalry with Potter only deepened. For whatever reason, Tom's skills and accomplishments always seemed to fall short whenever Potter was involved – not due to his own extravagancy, but due to his fame, no doubt. Draco had hung onto this as well, and the two of them had soon made a pact to do their best to make Potter's life as sufferable as possible, just to make up for some of the unfairness he unknowingly caused for the people around him.

That had never changed – Potter was still the dunderhead Golden Boy he always had been, and yet ... For some reason, parts of Tom didn't care about that any more. The point was moot, for he knew Potter better now; knew what he had to offer ...

"Tom," came an irritated hiss from above him, and he looked up, only to catch sight of a sneering Draco standing towering over him with an irked expression. "What have you been up to; why haven't you gone to the teachers yet? Didn't you attend ... take care of the problem yesterday?"

Casting a quick glance towards the doors to the library, then at his wristwatch, finding it was merely five more minutes until Harry had promised to show up for their study session, Tom arose and pulled Draco by the arm into one very scarcely visited section on the Goblin Wars. There, he let go and leaned against one well-filled shelf in a haughty manner.

"I was not entirely successful last night," he stated, sneering as he recalled how cleverly Granger had backed him into a corner, leaving him with little choice but signing the binding contract, despite knowing what it would do to him if he broke the terms. It was a powerful spell, and it would take him months to work his way through it, if that was what he decided upon ...

Straightening in disbelief, Draco narrowed his eyes. "You? You were unsuccessful? I find that highly unlikely."

Tom had to smile. "Indeed, this has proved to be far more of a challenge than we first anticipated. It might take months for me to get around this."

"Months?" Draco breathed out with fury. "No, I won't stand for it, Potter be damned! Curse him! I want you back, Tom!"

The intensity with which Draco was studying him now was slightly uncomfortable, Tom found. It made his skin itch, his throat bundle up, and his eyes very prone to look away. He didn't like it. It felt far too similar to whatever it was he felt whenever Potter was around.

"I can't do anything about this right now, Draco."

"No!" Draco growled, slamming both his hands into the bookshelf on either side of Tom's shoulders. "You don't get to do that – you don't get to shut me out of this any further. You are going to start talking, right now!"

Tom narrowed his eyes further, piercing his friend with a deadly glare. Had he forgotten just who he was speaking to? "I do not take to be given orders, Draco; do not repeat the mistake you foolishly made our first year of school ... you did find out how my anger tastes back then, did you not?"

Faltering a little, but not stepping away from his position, Draco let out a deep, calming breath. "I apologise," he said stiffly.

"Very well," Tom said, rolling the silence on his tongue while studying Draco's softening expression. "I cannot tell you," he confessed at length. "Granger made me sign a binding contract. I cannot speak of anything you do not already know about the group."

"No way," Draco breathed out with dismay. "That infernal, insufferable little mudblood! Is there no way to break it, to manipulate it?"

"No," Tom stated, "Like I said: I can tell you nothing."

"No but ... I bet you could show me," Draco whispered, his pale lips barely moving.

Tom's heart sped up, without his consent. "... Show you," he whispered back, frowning a little as his heart clenched at the sight of Draco's hungry expression.

"The next time that coin burns, all you need to do is bring me with you. I can slip inside without anyone noticing if I use the Disillusionment Charm. If I stick to the shadows, I'll be as invisible as Potter under that Invisibility Cloak of his."

Something made Tom hesitate, that very something that had made his body stand still and allow Potter to melt into him the night before; that very something that had him reconsider everything that he thought his life was up till now ... But still, his life would never be the same, with or without Potter in it, and the rub of it was that if he allowed things to progress, he might be robbed of what mattered most to him; his power.

How much power could he possibly have if word got around that he was friendly with Potter – the beacon of the light, the down bringer of darkness, and the nemesis of the Dark Lord. Granted, Tom wasn't interested in making friendly with the Dark Lord anyway, but still, whenever his reign was over, his followers would seek some other way to salvation, finding Tom there, ready and bloodthirsty. Potter would sully his impeccable reputation, partly gained by his own skills in seducing powerful people, partly in being treated as a family member by the Malfoys. Potter would ruin everything for him. This couldn't be allowed to continue.

"Tom," Draco pressed impatiently, "do we have an agreement?"

"... Yes."

"Good," Draco said, staring at him with that weird expression again, the one that made Tom's insides squirm. "What has been going on with you, and with Potter? You haven't been acting yourself lately, Tom. What's wrong?"

"We French kissed last night."

There was a drawn out pause during which Draco seemed to have swallowed his own tongue. Then, he started roaring with laughter. "Wh-what you ... that's im-impossible ... you're s-sick, Tom, wh-whatever demon's p-possessed you –"

"It is not a joke, Draco," Tom declared, crossing his arms over his chest as an unexplainable ire took over him. "How dare you laugh in my face? This is not amusing."

"No, but ..." Draco said, wiping at his eyes, his grin quickly diminishing. "You can't be ... I mean, it's Potter, surely ... no," he growled, looking furious once more. "What is this?"

"Does it look like I have an answer?" Tom hissed into his face. "I understand this just as little as you do, but I do gather that I do find him attractive, for some absurd reason, and that it is making me ... feel strange things. Things that I cannot control."

"Lust," Draco rasped out, the sickly gleam in his grey eyes looking positively pleading. "It has to be simple lust, doesn't it? I mean ... you don't l-love him, do you?"

"Of course not!" Tom answered, feeling a rush of heat pass through him at the mere thought.

"Right!" Draco said, looking so relieved he was bordering on insane. "Whatever you have with Potter is mere lust, and there is no reason for you to be conflicted about this. The game is not over yet, all right? These feelings ... They do not mean anything."

"They do not mean anything," Tom repeated dully, feeling a sick churn in his stomach that was only worsened by the sudden call from the other end of the slim section.

"Malfoy!"

Potter, striding towards them through the shadows, was scowling fiercely. Watching him approach, Tom needlessly noticed how thin his lips became in such a temper.

"What of it, Potter?" Draco hissed, stepping away from his leaning position at last, coming up to create a road-block for the angry Gryffindor.

"You leave him bloody well alone," Potter hissed back, being forced to halt in front of him. "You're sick! He used to be your best friend, and now, all you do is abuse him every chance you get –"

"You're one to speak about abuse," Draco snarled and pulled out his wand, aiming it straight at Potter's neck with a wicked, wide-eyed grimace.

"No, Draco!" Tom exclaimed at once, interrupting his intentions and making him turn around to glare at him furiously.

None of them said anything during a few, heated moments – then, Draco pushed past Potter with a hissed profanity, and disappeared.

"You all right?" Potter's startling green eyes had slipped closer to his, gleaming with concern. "He didn't hurt you, right?"

Tom stood frozen in place as those gleaming orbs scanned his body from head to toe, and then back up again, to stop on his shivering lips.

Straightening, Tom started towards the brighter parts of the library, to the table he occupied, furiously ignoring the warmth spreading through his entire body. "Stop worrying," he told Potter, who followed at his heels, "I can handle him; he cannot touch me."

And neither can you, he added to himself, these feelings are only lust ... they do not mean anything ... only lust ...

Harry pulled his winter cloak closer around his body, as he, Ron and Hermione made their way over the snow-covered grounds towards Hagrid's hut by the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid had come back to Hogwarts the day after the disastrous Quidditch game, during which Harry and the twins had been banned from playing due to their assault of Malfoy. In the evening of that same day, Hermione had spotted smoke coming from the cottage chimney, and they had immediately set out to question him about his whereabouts. Of course, thanks to Tom, they had already known much of where he'd been and what his mission had entailed; but seeing he was alright – apart from a few painful-looking bruises – had been a great relief.

Sadly enough, Hagrid hadn't had the chance to have one week's worth of lessons before Umbridge had swooped down on him, picking away at his teaching skills, promising dire consequences following her unfair inspection of one of his lessons. Although, catching sight of him as they grew closer to his home, he didn't seem bothered about any of that at all as he stood throwing chunks of pumpkin to a flock of fluffy, short-legged birds of a chalky white colour.

"Hello, Hagrid," the three of them said as one, making him turn around to grin at them, giving them full view of the dark bruise that was covering half his face.

"Shoulda known yeh three'd be the firs' ones teh turn up. Come on then; yeh got ter take a look at these beauties."

"What are they?" Harry asked politely as he came up next to Hagrid, watching as the short-winged birds mucked about, snatching at the fruit, hopping around and chattering in a way that reminded him of seagulls ... or perhaps doves.

"Diricawls," Hagrid said proudly, tossing another handful of chopped pumpkin, "Professor Grubbly-Plank left 'em behind for yeh; newly hatched they are. They'll grow bigger in a couple 'a weeks."

"They're wonderful, Hagrid," Hermione gushed, grinning proudly at him for having come up with a proper creature of study that even Umbridge wouldn't find any fault with. "The Diricawls were once known to Muggles as Dodo birds, weren't they?"

As Hermione and Hagrid lashed into a discussion on the origins of Diricawls, the rest of the class arrived – Malfoy with his haughty entourage at the forefront, greeting him with rude gestures and jeers as he stepped closer, scanning the crowd for Tom.

He found him right at the back, bundled up in a thick, green and silver scarf, looking stiffer than usual, which made Harry falter in his step. Yesterday, after classes, when they were supposed to meet up in the library to write their History essays together, Harry had caught Draco bullying Tom again, which was in itself an uncommon occurrence, at least lately. And what more was – afterwards, Tom had not acted himself, but had seemed distracted, distanced and ... He'd been very cold to Harry, and now, he wasn't sure what was up and down in their relationship anymore.

After what had happened between them after the last DA meeting, Harry had more or less figured they'd moved over some sort of line and become ... he didn't know what, exactly, but the term friends didn't seem to cut it anymore – at least, not to him. But apparently, Tom viewed things differently, and it was eating Harry up. He didn't know how to act anymore, what to do or avoid doing. All he wanted was for Tom to warm up to him again – to look at him properly, and smile, like he had used to.

"You're all bundled up, I see," Harry said teasingly, in an attempt to soften those steely dark eyes, but all he got was a quick, emotionless glance.

"It's cold," Tom uttered and walked up to the others in class, staying silent as he listened to Hagrid trying his best to engage them in the Diricawls.

Soon enough, Harry and most of the class were busy rounding the creatures up, as they were prone to pop out of existence every now and again, appearing somewhere far off. Hagrid didn't seem too concerned, though, explaining that they were overly-friendly creatures who took to people very easily, despite being a bit mischievous, and that they would most likely come back once they got hungry. Still, seeing as they were still vulnerable babies, Hagrid sent most of them off with fruit to attempt bringing them back to the fold, where the rest of class guarded the remaining ones.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Tom headed towards the forest, while the other group chose to search the edge of the lake.

"Don't you reckon we could just summon them?" Ron asked after having stumbled over a tree root and cursed under his breath.

"Are you mad? We could hurt them!" Hermione exclaimed and trudged on, lighting the way with the help of her wand.

Then, there was a sudden scuffling movement to their left, and then, right after, to their right as well. Nodding in agreement, they silently split up, Ron and Hermione going after the stray Diricawl to the left, while Harry and Tom went after the other one.

The forest was eerily quiet as they sneaked through it, trying their best not to warn the creature of their presence. Soon, they caught sight of it, huddled in a pile of leaves, beneath a grand oaken tree, looking quite pathetic. This part of the forest lacked snow, as the branches above their heads were so thickly entwined that even the leaves had difficulty falling down once withered.

The Diricawl squawked at them in greeting, jumping to its feet and starting forwards, eyeing the bits pumpkin Harry held in his hands. Hunching before it, he laid some of the food down onto the ground for it to pick at, keeping the rest for when he wanted to make it follow them back to the fold.

As the bird ate – picking up one piece at a time; running off a few paces; gulping it down in one go; coming back and doing the procedure all over again – Harry shot a glance at Tom, finding he was standing watching him with a strange glow to his eyes. As soon as he realised he was caught in the act, he turned away, letting the cold resettle into his expression.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Harry whispered, taking a few, small steps closer to him.

"I do not – I am not doing anything," Tom said in defence, meeting his eyes properly at last.

Their deep lustre pulled Harry in, irresistibly, and he soon found himself touching toes with the object of his fascination. Once met, their eyes didn't seem able to let go, but studied one another, as if sentient beings.

"Perhaps you should," Harry whispered suddenly, surprisingly, and all air seemed to disappear from his lungs in one go. He soon realised that was because Tom had lunged at him, all fire back, trapping him against the rough surface of the Diricawl's oak; ravaging him with potent desperation. Harry ravaged back, happily so, shivering at the taste of Tom's wicked tongue, flicking sensuously against his own.

Shivering, Harry's hands came up to cup Tom's hollow cheeks, his thumbs making small, soothing circles that calmed the kiss somewhat. Carefully, their mouths pulled back slightly to press lighter pecks against each other; tentatively; carefully exploring. At the same time as Harry felt Tom start trailing kisses along the side of his jaw, there was a sudden poof that made him snap his eyes open in alarm.

"The Diricawl," he rasped out before clearing his throat, "It's Disapparated."

Not bothered in the least, Tom's mouth came crashing down on his, and Harry felt his entire body being caged more firmly against the tree. Then a deliciously familiar tongue returned to meet his own, and all concerns about their supposed lesson vanished, being exchanged for an array of explosive flavours that made the entire world buzz around him.

The forest creaked ominously around them, and a gust of wind stole around their meshed bodies, ruffling the dark hair on top of their heads. Harry felt his lips numb slightly, in a very pleasant way that made them tingle. Then; a sharp crack was heard right next to them, indicating a twig snapping.

"Harry?"

The sudden, wet noise of their lips breaking apart seemed – if possible – like the most embarrassing thing Harry had ever experienced. Flushing furiously, Harry met eyes with his best friends, while Tom turned rather pale and then stepped back with a frozen expression. Looking very closely, Harry noticed the corner of his left eye twitch every so often.

"S-sorry – we w-were just –" stuttered Hermione, flushing as well, however, not even close to the brilliant hue of ripe tomato Ron sported right next to her.

Harry dearly wished he could have sunk right through the ground right then – although naturally, such strange occurrences would only happen whenever he least wanted them to.

Straightening, clearing her throat and – to Harry's outrage – doing her best to wipe the grin off her face, Hermione had another go at speaking. "We can go back now – we found the Diricawls. One of them just appeared out of nowhere – I think it likes Ron's knitted sweater."

Sure enough: nestled into the fluffy material of Ron's maroon shirt, visible through his open cloak, were the two baby birds they were supposed to be looking for.

"Blimey, mate, you never said –" Ron started, before cutting himself off with a nervous glance Tom's way, clearly regretting he had spoken up in the first place.

Feeling mortified, Harry carefully avoided looking him in the eye. "Er, yeah, well ..."

"It's cold."

"Yes, we'd better head back," Hermione agreed readily, giving Tom's stoic form an appreciative look. "Come on," she urged, giving Ron an encouraging shove that made him stumble into movement, carefully checking up on the snoozing Diricawls in his arms.

Carefully catching up with Tom, who looked tenser than a bowstring, Harry did his best to put all shame behind him and make sure everything was all right.

"Tom," he said quietly, safe in the knowledge that their conversation would go unheard, as Ron and Hermione were occupied arguing over whether the predicament of their friend had been overly obvious or not at the end of the last DA meeting. "Look, I feel kinda bad that ... I wish that could have gone better."

"Better?" Tom whispered from between lips that barely moved. A deep frown marred his pale forehead as his eyes frantically scanned their surroundings, as if not seeing them at all. It almost looked as he was going through memories, or text, inside his own mind, Harry mused with fondness. "What was it about my attentions that you found ... inadequate?"

Blanching, Harry thought he must have heard wrong, but then again, Tom always spoke very precisely. "No!" he assured with quickening breath, "It's not – that's not what I meant. You were – that was just brilliant, er ... really, really nice. I just meant that –" He cleared his throat and gestured towards his bickering friends a few paces ahead. "– I didn't mean for them to just ..."

Harry felt his throat constrict with nervousness as startled, dark eyes finally met his own, sparkling with the deep warmth they had been lacking since last night – but also, mirth.

Smiling, looking absolutely caught off guard, Tom regained some colour to his complexion. "Why would I care what your friends think?" he said with confounded amusement.

"Well, I care," Harry said, not really seeing what was funny about their situation.

Slowly curling the corners of his lips into a handsome smile, Tom seemed to radiate fondness. "I find you very confusing ... Harry."

Blinking, never having been called by his first name by Tom before, Harry feared he would suddenly melt into a puddle due to the powerful feelings rolling through his body like powerful waves right then.

"I am not accustomed to these ... feelings."

"No," Harry agreed, furiously trying to calm his thundering heart down with little success. "Me neither, it's ... it's bloody strange."

Eyeing him with a fond look that actually made his entire body shiver, Tom's smile soon dissipated, exchanged for that infuriating frozen look that made Harry want to pull at his hair in frustration, thinking to himself that Tom was wrong: out of the two of them, Harry was not the confusing one.

The days moved slowly, and still, infuriatingly quickly, although nothing of particular significance seemed to have changed. Sure, if one counted that Tom most often found himself pressed into some snug, dark place with his subject of interest these days, some things had changed. Others had not.

Draco was still furious with the slow pace of their game, Harry was still trying his best to confuse Tom as much as he could – yes, Harry. Potter was long gone and exchanged for that other person that had somehow, without permission, nestled himself deeply under Tom's skin to the point when it was no longer possible to simply refer to him by his last name. Only Draco had held that quality before this point, and he was almost family, which made such sentimentalities acceptable, on some level. Harry's case, however, Tom could not explain – not it simple terms, nor in advanced ones.

Draco had claimed it to be mere lust that controlled him nowadays – in itself, a very fright inspiring notion. Never before had Tom found himself enslaved to such an extent under the sentimental feeling called lust. He had considered himself far above such weak, human illusions, which dissipated as suddenly as they appeared. However, the notion of finding himself craving contact with Harry due to such weak feelings was nothing in comparison to what boiled deep down in Tom's stomach and refused to make surface. The mere thought of something else, something deeper, controlling his actions as of late made his head spin, which was in no way pleasant and he would not have it.

A warmth spreading in his right pants' pocket returned him to reality, finding himself in front of a half-eaten dinner plate, surrounded by no one since, as far as all Slytherins knew, he was supposed to be the outcast. Some of them knew why, some of them didn't, which suited Tom perfectly. He'd like to stay mysterious and unpredictable in most people's eyes.

Carefully, he pulled out the small galleon out of his pocket and took a closer look at it, realising with a sick churn to his stomach that the next DA meeting was to be that very night, eight o'clock. Suddenly completely glutted, he pushed his plate away and arose from the table, swaying a little on his way out of the Great Hall.

Back at his dormitory, he spent the next few hours reading the last few chapters in the book Mr Malfoy had lent him, and was nearly done when the door was pushed open, revealing a surprised-looking Draco marching in with Crabbe and Goyle at his heels.

"Tom," he said, closing the door carefully on prying ears, in case they overheard them being friendly to one another.

Crabbe and Goyle sat down on top their trunks, while Draco simply sank down at the foot end of Tom's bed, looking at him with intent eyes.

"I saw you look at your galleon – it has burned then, I take it?"

"It has," Tom said quietly, flicking the top end of the page he was on back and forth, creating a barely visible crease. Noticing it, he stopped and instead snapped the book closed. "The next meeting is at eight ... tonight."

"Tonight?" Draco repeated, taking a quick look at the clock on Tom's nightstand. "You realise it's seven thirty, don't you?"

"Of course," Tom answered, arising from the bed, doing his best to force his Bludger of a heart to take a rest. "Stand still."

Draco obliged, sitting perfectly still as Tom rapped the top of his head with his yew wand, chanting the incantation silently to himself. A weak crack was heard before Draco slowly blended with the scenery – the effect moving from head to toe, until nothing of him was visible without closer scrutiny.

Pleased with the result, Tom nodded once and shot Crabbe and Goyle a stony glare. "Neither of you are to follow – merely Draco."

The trek up to the seventh floor seemed to Tom like the shortest trip he had ever taken in his life. In one moment, he was standing inside his own dorm, the next, in front of the heavy oaken door leading into the finish of their game. It would all be over, and all Tom had to do was open the door, let Draco in, act normal for an hour, and then leave. It wasn't hard – child's play.

Lifting his hand, he saw it was shaking, and it made him furious with himself. This was no time for weakness. Steeling himself to the point when the corners of his vision became blurred, he stretched his hand out, grasped the handle, and walked into the room.

"– which is perhaps simpler than what we've ... oh, Tom, about time, I was about to lock the door."

For long moments, during which he felt Draco move past him and deeper into the shady corners of the room, Tom could look at nothing else than Harry's smiling face.

The sound of the door slamming shut and locking behind him started him out of his trance, thankfully, as he could see everyone in the circle around Harry watch him with varying degrees of incomprehension. Except for Granger – Granger looked smug, Tom noted and levelled a dark glare at her.

"Well, come on in, Tom," Harry continued, sounding amused, that bastard – how could he be amused when Tom felt his heart constrict to the point when he feared it would have enough and jump right out of his breathless chest? "Like I said, the Stunning Spell isn't as advanced as some other spells we've learned before this, but that doesn't make it any less useful. Let me demonstrate – Hermione!"

Adjusting his angle, making sure the plush pillows were layered thick behind him, Harry met Granger's gaze as she stepped up in front of him and raised her wand. Getting a short nod from her friend, she aimed and intoned, "Stupefy!" which made a jet of red shoot out of her wand and hit Harry right in the middle of his chest. He fell backwards, onto the pillows, lying completely still. After Granger had shot a quick, "Rennervate!" however, he regained consciousness and stood up, grinning from ear to ear.

"See? Not hard at all – well, as long as you make sure to keep track of your pillows. OK, split up in pairs, and only this spell is allowed, all right?" he said, shooting a firm look the Weasley twins' way, which made them grin in a way that told Tom that whoever was unlucky enough to partner up with either of them would have a hard time indeed.

Caught off guard, Tom suddenly realised that people had been moving around him, leaving him without a partner – that was, until a very freckled face appeared in his immediate vision.

"All right, mate? How about it?"

"Yes, all right," Tom answered quietly, shooting a quick glance into the shadows where he knew Draco stood, feeling slightly less tense when he couldn't spot him. Completely caught off guard, Tom felt a strong surge in the middle of his chest before he found himself lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Sorry, figured you were ready," Weasley muttered from above him, sounding apologetic. Seizing up with fury, Tom arose from the plush pillowing beneath him, raising his wand with a snarl ready on his lips. Two concerned green eyes directed at him from across the room stopped him however, making his throat constrict uncomfortably.

Clearing it, he faced Weasley properly. "My turn."

Casting a Stunning Spell had never been a challenge to him in any shape or form – never – which made it completely unacceptable when the jet of red light sparkled alive and died half-way to his waiting target, simply because Tom was momentarily distracted by Chang's sudden cry when her friend accidentally set her robes on fire.

Furious, Tom aimed his wand again, and barely had time to shield himself from the spell Weasley had cast on him – yet again, without his permission.

"Sorry," Weasley said with a grin, and Tom was just about ready to throttle him for such insolence when something horrible happened.

"Are you having trouble?"

The warmth of Harry's body pushing up against his from behind, guiding his hand in the outrageously simple wand-movement, made his entire mind blanch, and he couldn't think of anything, anything at all, to say. Not even the incantation, it would seem.

"Stupefy," Harry whispered encouragingly in his ear, the tingly feeling it created against his neck bringing wetness to his eyes, and a thickness to his throat that burned. Frightened, Tom pulled away from Harry's hold and kept his eyes locked on the door, doing his best to freeze his churning insides before something exploded.

"I feel unwell," he managed in a voice he barely recognised.

"Are you ill?" Harry asked at once, sounding concerned. "Do you want me to walk you to the hospital wing?"

Tom shook his head slowly. "I believe I just need rest."

"Just ... take care, all right?" Harry murmured quietly, "You make me worry."

"I'm sorry," Tom whispered.

Then, he turned and fled. He barely remembered to keep the door open long enough for Draco to slip through, but thankfully he did, and as soon as he felt movement behind his back and then to his side, he pushed the door shut, watching as it relocked itself and disappeared into the wall.

"Come on, let's head to Umbridge's before they leave," Draco hissed impatiently into his ear when he didn't move. "Tom," he insisted when there still was no movement. "Let's go, we can't just stand here waiting to be found out."

Feeling sick and slightly faint, Tom grabbed a hold of Draco's still camouflaged right arm and pulled him into the nearest classroom on the same floor – which turned out to be the Arithmancy classroom, Tom noted, as he watched the room spin around him.

"What's wrong with you?" Draco demanded, having turned himself visible again, thus enabling Tom to see the full extent of the concerned hue his eyes carried.

"I feel ..." Tom managed, not capable of finishing that sentence – he didn't know what he felt, and neither what he didn't.

"Feelings are powerless – isn't that what you usually tell me?" Draco demanded, sounding very, very young – childlike, almost.

"I was ... incorrect," Tom gasped, "These feelings ... they are overpowering, breaking me down into this ... weak mess ... I cannot continue like this, Draco, I –"

Warmth engulfed him suddenly, and he realised he had been moving forwards, blindly, clutching his friend's thin body into his arms without any consent or permission on either of their parts. At once, he shrank back, supporting himself against the cool wall next to the door.

"Tom, you need to calm down," Draco pleaded weakly, watching him with frightful concern, "Tell me what's wrong. Is it Potter?"

"Harry," Tom whispered to himself, feeling bereft, suddenly; empty. "Harry," he repeated, quieter still.

"No, not Harry," Draco insisted in a clear, commanding voice. "Potter. It has always been Potter, and it will stay that way. Understand?"

When Tom didn't answer, but only stood leaned up against the wall, trying to calm his breathing, Draco stepped up to grab his shoulders in a firm grip. Carefully, Tom met eyes with his best friend.

"Understand? This was the plan, remember – weaken Potter's power over the masses. This is good – this is progress. After all these months of hard work we have something – we've finally achieved something, Tom. We can have him expelled if we want. You see? Who in their right mind would follow an expelled fifteen-year-old with a broken wand and no powers left? There'll be no competition for you any more – when the Dark Lord's gone, all there'll be is you. Don't you see?"

Yes I know, Tom chanted to himself, swallowing compulsively against the heavy lump in his throat, This is what I want, this is what I want.

"Tom?" Draco exclaimed, shaking his shoulders briefly. "Do you understand me? You ... you have to gather yourself, you're acting like a lunatic. Stop just standing there and say something! This is what you want, remember?"

"Yes," Tom rasped out, "I ... Harry needs to ... No, Potter, he needs to ..."

All that was wrong with him became clear in that moment – the solution; the blissful, simple solution.

Before Harry, there had only been Potter, and none of these ghastly feelings had had the slightest influence over his mind and body. It was Potter.

He let go of everything, all heavy feelings, with a sigh, closing his eyes as he poured ice cold indifference over all unease raging through his guts, letting his sharp intellect sparkle alive in its wake. At once, he became calm and collected; cold as ice, firm as stone.

"I cannot complete this – you must. This needs to end. Now."

He could feel Draco stare at him for what felt like hours before leaving.

The sound of the door closing made something deep inside Tom snap. He opened his eyes and released all pent up energy in one powerful blast that rippled through him like a furious thunderstorm, drenching the fire threatening to burn him alive.

The room was trashed within seconds – desks turned into splinters, books ripping apart, candles melting into goo – and Tom felt better.

Much better.

"You try putting up tinsel when Peeves has got the other end and is trying to strangle you with it," Ron hissed and sunk down at the Gryffindor table, flushing all the way to his ears as Harry and Hermione laughed at his antics.

As it was nearing Christmas, all prefects had received extra duties during the past few days, and Ron was not happy about it. Filch had taken to making them patrol the corridors, since he suspected the upcoming holidays would increase the risk of unauthorised wizarding duels, and additionally, watch over the first- and second-years during their break-times as it was too cold for them to be outside. And what was worse, at least in Ron's opinion, the prefects were also assigned to help supervise the decoration of the castle.

Harry on the other hand found his friend's grumbling over ribbons and glittering ornaments amusing, while Hermione only found it annoying, as she couldn't fathom what Ron had to be upset about.

"If you weren't so concerned with strutting about, making a fool of yourself, perhaps you'd find it didn't take much time at all," she would say, receiving a deadly glare for her efforts. "I for one find it relaxing, although, I'm not sure what the teachers are thinking, giving us so many additional tasks when they very well know we're buried in homework."

That was true, Harry thought sadly – as it was nearing the holidays, all teachers had taken it upon themselves to cram as many assignments into their students' busy schedules as humanly possible. Snape had been particularly vicious, naturally, and Harry's only consolation was that as long as Tom would be willing to help him out, it would work out somehow.

Thinking of Tom, Harry felt the heavy knot in his stomach twist around uncomfortably, and he tried his best busying himself with loading his plate full of toast covered in jam, not to think too much – which, of course, was nothing but counterproductive. The less he tried to think about it, the more he found himself unable to stop.

Where was Tom now? Was he alright? He wasn't present at the Slytherin table, as far as Harry could tell. Perhaps he'd become bedridden? Or perhaps he'd been ill enough for Madam Pomfrey to keep him in the hospital wing the entire night! Perhaps Harry should go check on him after breakfast. Or perhaps, at once!

In the middle of arising from the table, he turned to his friends. "Hey, look, I think I'll –"

"Potter."

The quiet greeting had come from the back of his head, and whipping around, Harry found himself face to face with Malfoy's gleefully grinning face.

"Weasley, Granger," he continued, looking unnervingly gleeful about something. "I have received strict orders to escort you to the Headmaster's office."

Neither the look on his face nor the calm tone of his voice unnerved Harry as much as the utter lack of insults. Malfoy looked positively chipper as he gestured towards the entrance and made way towards it, coldly counting on Harry and his friends to follow.

"What d'you figure this is about?" Ron questioned as they all got up and trailed at well distance behind the unnaturally straight back of their Slytherin nemesis.

"It could be a number of things," Hermione tried to assure him, but her voice was so tense it came out as a shrill cry, which wasn't assuring at all. "Although it seems Malfoy's involved in it somehow."

Their walk to Professor Dumbledore's office seemed to last forever; an eternity during which a thousand scenarios flashed through their minds, one after the other, turning more and more severe. As they found themselves outside the door to the Headmaster's office, on the top of the moving staircase, they were all convinced they would get expelled, sent to trial and then straight to Azkaban where the Dementors would wait for them...

Grinning like a madman, Malfoy rapped at the door, and opened it wide for them once a call allowed for them to, "Come in!"

The office was as stuffed, but neatly ordered, as always. Behind his grand desk sat Dumbledore, looking absurdly calm, and on either side of him stood Professor Umbridge and Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic – both looking extremely smug.

"Ah, Mr Malfoy, excellent," Umbridge tittered as Malfoy closed the door behind them and strode up to her side, like a whiny little lapdog, Harry thought viciously.

"Well," said Fudge, glaring at the Gryffindor group with a look of vicious satisfaction. "Well, well, well ... I expect you all know why you are here?"

"No sir," Hermione stated clearly, "As a matter of fact, we do not know."

"You do not know," Fudge repeated coldly, his mouth curling with sarcasm, "So you have no idea why you were brought to this office? You are not aware that you have broken any school rules?"

Suddenly realising that their situation must be concerning the DA, Harry and Ron shot quick glances at each other, but Hermione stayed as firm as ever.

"No sir," she declared, which made Umbridge's nostrils flare in anger.

"Or Ministry Decrees?" she twittered in a voice so sugary sweet, Harry immediately lost his temper.

"Not that we're aware of," he snapped, falling silent at once as he received a sharp elbow in the side from Hermione.

"So, it's news to you, is it," said Fudge, his voice now thick with anger, "that an illegal student organisation has been discovered within this school?"

"An illegal student organisation?" Hermione exclaimed with such surprised outrage, Harry would have been fooled had he not known the truth. "Yes, that is news to us, sir."

Shooting a quick glance at Professor Dumbledore, Harry caught him sitting smiling encouragingly at Hermione, nodding his head ever so slightly to show his consent.

"I think, Minister," said Umbridge silkily from her side of the desk, "that our informant might help their failing memories to catch up with them."

"Yes, yes of course, there's nothing like a good witness, is there, Dumbledore?" Fudge said triumphantly, clearly finding his little jibe very amusing.

"Nothing at all, Cornelius," Dumbledore replied gravely, inclining his head.

"Mr Malfoy, if you'd be so kind," Umbridge tittered with a wicked grin, looking at Malfoy with such adoration Harry felt the sudden need to sick all over the floor.

"Of course, professor," Malfoy said as he turned to face Fudge as he spoke. "Minister, I am sorry to say that it has come to my attention that Potter and his friends are truly, not only part of this illegal activity, but actually in charge of it. I know. I was there."

"You were –" Harry started, unable to help himself, but was interrupted at once by Hermione.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy, but I don't quite follow," she declared loudly, "You were where, exactly?"

"At your little meeting, last night," Malfoy drawled, "in the Room of Requirement."

"The Room of what?" Ron asked confusedly, making the grin slip off Malfoy's pointy face.

"Of Requirement," he intoned short-temperedly. "You were there, all three of you; seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."

"About that, Mr Malfoy," Fudge said, sounding quite impatient, "I think some further explanation is required – after receiving word from Dolores, I personally went to this place to take a closer look at the room myself, only ... are you sure it was in that exact spot? I found myself standing staring at a common brick wall. Is there a certain spell you have to cast on it?"

"Yes, there is, sir, I ..." Malfoy said and stopped, suddenly, looking uncertain. "I am not completely clear ... You have to do something to make the door appear – the room disappears once the door is locked, or something ..."

"And how does one go about unlocking this door?" Fudge questioned, casting quick glances between Malfoy, Dumbledore and Harry himself.

"I ... I don't know," Malfoy confessed at length, leaving Harry with a very smug warmth in his stomach. It wasn't over yet. "But it was there, I swear! I saw it! I entered the room and watched the meeting!"

"Ah," Umbridge exclaimed triumphantly, "You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report back in October that Potter had met a number of fellow students in the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade. So you see, as witnessed by Mr Malfoy, these meetings did go on even after the Decree banning all student societies was put into effect."

"That's not right," Hermione said suddenly, eyeing Umbridge with a befuddled expression. "Whatever meeting we did have before that Decree was put into effect was not illegal by any means, and additionally, there is no proof that any meetings of any kind took place after that first one. Malfoy claims to have seen one meeting, not several."

"Oh but you had several meetings, Granger," Malfoy hissed viciously, "I know it."

"Where is your proof, then?" Harry asked calmly, gleefully watching as the Slytherin's eyes filled with dark, liquid danger.

"My proof is this," Malfoy exclaimed, digging through his pockets to retrieve a small, golden coin, which he held up for everyone to see.

"What is that?" Fudge demanded, narrowing his eyes at the small coin.

"It looks like a galleon, Cornelius," said Dumbledore calmly, his eyes glittering with held back amusement.

"It's not just a galleon, professor," growled Malfoy from between clenched teeth. "This is what they use to communicate with each other – to decide on the date and time for their meetings. The coin heats up and numbers appear on it."

"May I have a closer look at that coin, Draco?" Dumbledore asked calmly, holding out his wrinkled right hand. Looking like he was about to refuse, Malfoy seemed to think better of it and slowly handed the galleon over.

As Dumbledore inspected the coin carefully, Fudge said, "How did you get a hold of that coin?"

A dark shadow of uncertainty swept over Malfoy's face, but once again, he seemed to steel himself to answer despite having bad feelings. "I received it from a friend ... someone who has been attending several meetings, and then reported back to me."

Harry's heart sank faster than a dropping Snitch.

Tom. He was speaking about Tom.

"Indeed?" said Fudge excitedly, a hungry gleam in his eyes. "And who would that be?"

Another hesitation, then Malfoy gulped and whispered, "Tom Riddle."

"Tom Riddle?" Fudge repeated, clearly not recognising the name, "And why, might I ask, is he not present here now?"

"He wanted me to help him with this," Malfoy muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes. "He didn't want to cause any trouble, and yet, he knew what Potter and his friends did was wrong, so I came here."

"Quite right," Umbridge shrieked, "you did well to come to me, Draco."

"Excuse me," Hermione said, suddenly, catching everyone's attention.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" Umbridge simpered with a twisted looking grin.

"I still do not understand why we are here, professor. As far as we know, we have done nothing wrong. And, I am sorry, but all that Malfoy is telling you seem farfetched at best. Secret meetings that he haven't seen; hidden rooms with doors no-one can find; simple galleons with hidden messages; news from friends he haven't said one kind word to in months."

There was a short silence, during which neither Fudge nor Umbridge seemed to know what to say. Malfoy on the other hand turned scarlet and seemed on the very edge of explosion.

"What do you know, Granger?" he snarled. "Not that it's any of your business, but Tom and I have always been friends and will always be friends, no matter what you think."

"Then how come he has been spending all this term alone, with no friends at all from Slytherin House?" Hermione demanded innocently. "How come he has started to make new friends outside of his own House, spending time with the three of us instead of you? How come whenever we've seen the two of you together lately, you have been clawing at his throat with threats and insults?"

"It was only pretend, you mu– Granger!" hissed Malfoy viciously, almost forgetting their company in the heat of his raging fury. "He was never your friend, but always mine. We were in it all together, from the start." Here, he looked immediately at Harry, and something really ugly seemed to take over his entire being as a slow smirk started to curl his lips. "He never even liked you, Potter."

"I am sorry, Malfoy," Hermione answered calmly, while Harry was doing his best holding all his heartbreaking confusion and agony in unless he suddenly jumped Malfoy and did something he knew he would regret. "I just don't see how any of us would believe that. Tom isn't even here, is he? Surely, if you were such good friends as you claim, he would be right here, backing you up?"

Some sudden hope sparkled alive inside Harry. Perhaps Malfoy was lying – perhaps Tom hadn't betrayed him after all.

"Sir," Harry said, turning to Fudge, "am I right to assume that the three of us are here to answer for holding secret meetings that are against the rules of the school and the Ministry? Well, as we have already told you, we know nothing of any such meetings. Nothing at all."

"I am sure," Fudge said weakly, looking defeated, "that whatever Mr Riddle has to say will be very enlightening. Mr Malfoy, would you please –"

"No," Harry said suddenly, "please sir, may I go? I think ... I know where he is."

"You may leave, Harry," Dumbledore said just as suddenly, and not waiting for anyone to stop him, Harry turned on his heel and rushed out of the office, headed straight for the Slytherin Common Room, dead set on finding out the truth before he burned any bridges.

Conversation was buzzing all around him; everyone were speaking of how the mighty Harry Potter had finally fallen from grace and was supposed to meet his end up at the Headmaster's office with the Minister for Magic himself; of how he was to have his wand snapped; of how all of that was thanks to Draco and Tom, having plotted this little game of theirs ever since the start of term.

They were celebrated as heroes – both by the followers of the Dark Lord, and the others, who were loyal to Tom first and themselves second. People were singing songs; chanting chants; spinning tales; bragging; boasting; making fools of themselves; and all Tom wanted was for them all to shut up and leave him alone already, to be allowed to sit brooding by himself, staring into the flames that were flickering in the fireplace: back and forth, back and forth.

He'd had no sleep, but had only sat here, staring, not moving an inch, just feeling his frost-bitten heart beat slowly inside his aching chest, forcing himself not to feel, not to think, unless he wanted to lose his mind.

Harry would be gone, and it was for the best.

He barely noticed it at first, but suddenly, a quietness stole over the common room, and all of a sudden, all there was was silence. Blessed silence. Slowly, Tom raised his head, and froze, wide-eyed.

No, he can't be here. Why is he here?

In the middle of the Common Room stood Harry; his eyes blazing fire; his spine tense as a bow-string. The people around him had created a small circle of emptiness, making him easy to spot. Slowly, Tom arose from his seat in his favourite armchair, and approached his scorned lover.

"And what, pray tell, brings you to these parts, Potter?" he asked smoothly, feeling the cold settle around his heart, keeping it in place.

Staring at him with his sparkling eyes, Harry seemed to come to some sort of conclusion that transformed his entire face into something that should have been very familiar to Tom – only it wasn't – the darkness of it seemed alien on those features.

"I see," Harry said in an ice-cold tone of voice, "it's true then, everything Malfoy's been going on about. It's true, isn't it?"

A flurry of voices awakened then, jeering, laughing, shouting insults: You truly are as stupid as you look, Potter! I cannot believe he actually fell for it! You're getting what's coming to you, Potter! So long, Potter, don't forget to write! Just piss off already!

"Is there nothing you want to say?" Harry demanded at length, staring straight at Tom with his blazing eyes. "Is it true that this was your plan all along?"

All around them, the Slytherins fell silent, looking at Tom expectantly, clearly waiting for a good show.

"I have nothing to say to you," Tom replied calmly, as if in a dream, with an absurd wish to find somewhere safe and quiet, where no-one could reach him.

"Just say it!" Harry demanded, furiously stepping forwards. "Tell me of how this was all a game to you; of how you and Malfoy laughed about me behind my back. Say it!"

"I am truly sorry, Potter, but I take no orders. Not from you; not from anyone."

To the gleeful cheers of the people around him, Tom turned on his heel and made way towards his dormitory, where he would hopefully be left alone at last. But Harry was not having it.

"YOU DON'T GET TO JUST WALK AWAY FROM ME, TOM! SPICULUM LEVICORPUS!" he bellowed, and suddenly Tom was hoisted off the ground, dangling by the neckline of his robes a few feet above the stone floor.

Arriving right below him, stopped by none of the flabbergasted onlookers, Harry pointed his wand straight up at him, watching calmly as Tom panted to catch his breath.

"Is it true?" he demanded, and to Tom's utter mortification, his voice was shivering with vulnerable emotion. "Everything we did, everything we ha-had... was it just a lie?"

With a simple flick of his wand, Tom dismissed the Arrow Spell and fell down onto his feet, steadily. Which was a grave mistake, he realised almost instantly; for now, he stood face to face with the boy whose shivering heart he was just about to crush beneath the heal of his polished black shoe.

"Was it?" Harry demanded again, in a faint whisper, so quivering and timid that Tom could feel himself starting to shiver. And to his mortification, how the ice-cold walls around his heart were beginning to weep.

"Yes," he managed at last, watching as utter betrayal travelled into Harry's assorted expression. "It was a lie. From the start to finish, it was a ploy to make you like me well enough to tell me your most vulnerable secret."

"Why?" Harry hissed into his face. "Why go this far, you sick bastard, why? Why make me l-l-love you?"

"That ... that wasn't part of the plan," Tom breathed out, furiously trying to calm his racing heart that was singing of stinging joy at hearing that Harry loved him. "I was just supposed to get close to you, find your weakness and exploit it ... I wasn't supposed to get any feelings for you ... I just couldn't ..."

"What?" growled Harry, starting to back away now. "You couldn't do what, exactly? You've done it all already, haven't you? They're all upstairs, waiting for you to finish it all."

"Finish?" Tom asked, uncomprehending.

"Yeah, they want you to tell them your story, don't they? How you nestled into our little group, how you saw it all and know what we've been up to, how you're of course all innocent because you only did it to put a stop to it. Just go ahead – they're waiting! Go get me expelled, Tom."

And just as suddenly as he had appeared, Harry was gone, leaving a horde of confused and betrayed-looking Slytherins in his wake – and a big, aching hole in the middle of Tom's chest where he'd been sure something warm had been only a moment ago.

"What was that?" someone exclaimed suddenly. "What did he say – that he loves you?"

"Potter loves you?"

"That can't be right – when did that happen?"

"Wait, didn't you say you had feelings for him too?"

"No, surely, Riddle – you can't love Potter, can you?"

"It's just part of the game, isn't it?"

Once more, utter chaos erupted as everyone began speaking at once, discussing matters with one another, trying to convince each other which version of the story was right. Simultaneously, the people closest in proximity to Tom started demanding answers directly from the source.

Not saying one word, Tom steeled himself and made way through the sea of people, leaving the Common Room to travel upstairs on a very lonely journey towards a coming thunderstorm.

Floating candles, gleaming baubles and branches of glitter covered the entire inside of the Burrow, just like heavy, cloud-white snow covered its outside. The windows were sprinkled with sparkling frost, Harry noted, as he stood looking through them, watching the Weasleys having a merry time snowball fighting in the day's last rays of sunlight. In one armchair right next to the fireplace, sitting reading with Crookshanks on her lap, was Hermione – completely engrossed in the Transfiguration tome she'd received from Harry and Ron for Christmas. From the kitchen, sounds of Celestina Warbeck's lovely voice coming from Mrs Weasley's wireless could be heard, as well as the clinking of glasses as she, Mr Weasley, Lupin and Sirius were busying themselves laying the table for the coming feast. Sure enough, if Harry sniffed the air through his clogged nose (it seemed to always be that way lately, ever since ... ), he could smell the wonderful scent of Roast Turkey.

"Happy New Year, Harry."

Harry startled at the sudden voice appearing right next to his ear; although softly spoken, it had been sudden.

"Yeah. Happy New Year," he muttered back at Sirius, who grinned at him and handed over a high-rimmed glass of golden liquid.

"Champagne, as per tradition ... Alcohol-free, of course. Want one, Hermione?"

"No thank you," she murmured, as if to herself, without tearing her eyes off the pages of the book. As Sirius shrugged and took a delicate sip of his drink, Crookshanks stretched and skipped off his mistress' lap, coming up to rub his side against Sirius's legs encouragingly.

"Hello there, little friend," Sirius cooed and picked the cat up, kissing the side of his face and scratching him under the chin with a delighted expression that Crookshanks quickly mimicked.

"He likes you," Harry observed quietly. "Isn't that a bit strange, with you being a dog and he a cat, and all?"

"He's a clever one, Harry," Sirius assured him. "The clever ones always know how to judge character."

"I see," Harry muttered as Sirius put the cat back down onto the floor and started sipping his drink again. "I guess that must mean I'm not a very clever one, then."

Eyeing him carefully, Sirius seemed both curious and concerned. "Is that the one you got for Christmas?" he asked, gesturing to the small, black gift Harry held, firmly clenched in his left hand. "You haven't opened it," he observed nonchalantly, as if it didn't mean anything.

"No," Harry answered, feeling his throat constrict uncomfortably again. "I don't know how."

"One would think that gift-unwrapping shouldn't be very hard," Sirius observed, stroking his goatee slowly.

"It usually isn't," Harry admitted, holding the little box up into the light, sniffing lightly. "Gifts usually come from people you love and who loves you back ... This one I think might be a way to rub something in ... to hurt me even more."

"I see," Sirius said, "that sounds unfortunate ... but if that is so, why didn't you choose to throw it away, rather than keeping it hidden inside your fist wherever you go?"

"I don't know," Harry whispered, sniffing again, "I suppose I just ... hope it's something that'll be ... nice."

"I see," Sirius muttered, sighing a little before putting his glass down onto one crammed coffee table and pulling Harry into a soft, comforting embrace that made his entire body ache with sorrow. "If I hold you like this, do you think you could find the strength to just rip it open and get it over with?"

"Perhaps," Harry whispered, fiddling nervously with the black strings on top of the small gift, feeling utterly detached as he pinched one of them between his thumb and index finger, and pulled, quickly. Within seconds, the string was gone, and the nondescript box could be opened without resistance. Glancing down with great fear, Harry lifted the lid and took a look at the insides of the box.

"It's a shell ..." he whispered with wonder, frowning in confusion. "It's a ... I think they're called peppery furrow shells ... we used them in Potions once."

"Well," said Sirius, "what does it mean?"

Picking the little thing up, Harry laid it in his right palm, looking at it with growing confusion. "Perhaps," he said, prying a finger into the crease and slowly separating the two shells from one another. Inside lay a tiny bit of paper, folded neatly into a square shape. Giving the broken shell to Sirius, Harry unfolded the note and read it with hungry eyes.

I once told you that the hard shells can be deceiving, but that once they are peeled away, the soft, vulnerable inside remains unprotected. That it takes great skill not to harm it, but that for the one entrusted with it, it can prove to be invaluable. And so I found, but only after I'd lost it. And I am sorry. I hereby offer you my own shells, so that what harm has been done to you might be redeemed.

"Shells, huh," Sirius murmured as Harry did his best collecting himself so that he wouldn't break down in heavy sobs. "Well then, was it as bad as what you had feared?"

"I'm not sure," Harry whispered, re-reading the note over and over again. "Tom has a tendency to use an unnecessarily poetic language for something that really is quite simple ... I think he's apologising."

"I believe he is, yes," Sirius agreed. "Look, Harry, I'm not sure he's as bad as you lot make him out to be. I heard from Dumbledore about the entire ordeal, with Fudge's involvement and everything. But as far as I can tell, it seems Riddle was the one who saved you lot, wasn't he? He testified against the Malfoy boy's claims and convinced everyone it was all a big misunderstanding, didn't he?"

"Actually," Harry said, "I think he's probably much worse than what I make him out to be ... He did start this entire thing with Malfoy to begin with, but what is more, I think he's this ... almost worshiped leader of the Slytherins. You should have seen how they acted around him, grovelling. I always thought it was Malfoy they looked up to, but now, I think I've been misled all along."

"But still," Sirius argued, "he's apologising. Doesn't this shell-thing carry some sort of meaning to you – I mean, to you two alone?"

"Well," Harry admitted, swallowing against the burning in his throat, "I guess so."

Re-reading the note again, Harry caught the nuance he'd missed the first few times he'd read it, and couldn't help but recall that night in the Room of Requirement when the two of them had stayed behind, sharing their very first kiss.

"You can still back out, if you want ..." Harry had whispered.

"But I know all your secrets now," Tom had murmured back with eyes unblinking and impossibly wide. "I have successfully peeled away your shells and slipped inside."

"It's all right," Harry had answered, "I don't know all your secrets yet – you're still protected."

But now, Harry realised, Tom wasn't protected any more – Harry had learnt all his secrets, and although he hadn't exploited them, they were still even in that regard.

"Sirius," he said, a thousand thoughts spinning around in his mind, making the edges of his vision blurry. Or perhaps that had more to do with the wetness that had suddenly covered both of his cheeks. "Sirius, do you think you could do me a favour?"

"Bishop to F3," Tom declared indifferently, watching as the little piece moved over the board into position, and then, "Checkmate." The little bishop raised its staff and slammed the white king to pieces with a satisfying crack.

"Is there any point in this?" Draco questioned tiredly from his slouched position in the other end of the stuffy Common Room sofa. "You always win. And I always lose."

"The point," Tom stated, repairing the white king with a flick of his wand and then ordering the tiny chess people back into their starting positions, "is for you to learn. The more we play, the better you will get. And you need to be good at this. Again – white starts."

After a moment's silence, during with only the sound of the catching wind outside and the crackling wood in the open hearth could be heard, Tom looked up from the board and noticed Draco was watching him with a peculiar expression.

"What is it?" he asked, leaning back against the backrest of the sofa.

"Are you all right?" Draco questioned carefully. "I mean – it is your birthday, Tom; is this really what you want to be doing right now?"

"What are you suggesting?" Tom asked slowly. "What would I want to be doing?"

"I don't know – anything?" Draco exclaimed, showing with some sort of huge gesture whatever this anything was supposed to be, even though Tom couldn't grasp the meaning of it. "You didn't want to go home for Christmas –"

"Malfoy Manor is your home, not mine."

Draco looked stunned with disbelief. "Are you listening to yourself right now? You're bordering on depressed! What has come over you? Ever since Potter –"

"Do not speak his name," Tom ordered coldly. "Do not speak of him at all."

"Oh, but I think I will," Draco countered heatedly, "because this, whatever this is, has got to end. You can't stay this way, mooning over him like some lovesick –"

"I do not moon," Tom bit out. "Potter has made his choice – I sent him a gift and expressed my regrets, to no effect. He will not see matters from my perspective."

"So let that be the end of it!" said Draco. "Accept it, move on and stop moping already!"

"Do. Not. Start," Tom hissed, gritting his teeth, glaring furiously into the flickering flames. The two of them sat in silence, refusing to look at one another while the storm caught on for real outside.

"Or, if you must," Tom stated finally, after a few very tense moments, "then start the game."

"No more games," Draco sighed and arose. "Let's go to the kitchens instead and snag us some snacks." When receiving to answer in any shape or form, Draco simply walked out the entrance, leaving his brooding best friend behind to contemplate his loss of company.

Sending a moody glance to his right, Tom froze as he caught sight of the small pile of unwrapped gifts Draco, and by extension, the Malfoy family, had given him earlier; books on intriguing subjects, clothing in rich materials, sweets, crystal vials with swirling patterns on the sides and on the stoppers, as well as a small, hand-sized foe-glass with set in a golden frame.

With a sigh, he realised Draco was merely trying to help, to be of service – not to rub salt into his bleeding wounds – even if it might feel that way. Being told to let go of feelings which he had no familiarity nor control over was not easy to hear, mainly because there was no plausible solution that would actually let him do so. As much as it disgusted him, Harry had settled inside his mind and wasn't letting go, and as long as that was a fact, Tom would be utterly unable to leave all feelings behind.

Arising with a determined mind to find his friend, his only true one, and apologise (without actually saying the words, naturally), Tom made for the exit and froze. The slow, scraping sound of the entrance opening was heard, and the portal could be seen in the stone wall – but there was no one there.

Taking out his wand, Tom immediately started throwing Revealing Charms and Uncloaking Spells, but nothing at all happened – which was outrageous, thought Tom, who took quite some pride in his powerful spell work. Warily glancing through the portal once more, Tom vainly tried to spot the intruder, in case it was Draco who had decided to prank him – not a common occurrence, but not completely unheard of.

At length, the portal closed, shielding anything outside from view. "Draco?" he demanded with narrowed eyes and flailing nostrils, feeling his survival instincts starting to kick in.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement right in front of him, as if the air had come alive with opaque creases and waves. He was just about to throw up a Shield Charm when the head, and then the rest of the body, belonging to one Harry Potter, appeared. At his feet, the silky material of an Invisibility Cloak pooled, and in his hand, the Marauder's Map was clenched.

Tom's voice promptly stuck in his throat, and the outrage made his wand-hand fall.

"Tom," Harry said, sounding very nervous and quite shaken, throwing cautious glances all around him, refusing to lock eyes with him. "Are you alone? Today? It's your – I mean, Happy Birthday! And New Year ... Yeah, that's –" His voice became very raspy and suddenly disappeared, so Harry cleared his throat, blushing wildly, and tried again. "I got your gift, the shell, and the message ... I mean, I got if for Christmas, it wasn't late or anything, I just ... I finally opened it and ... What did you mean about ... Why did you send it? To me ..."

A warm feeling rained down on Tom from above, setting his blood on fire, making it pump wildly inside his veins. Simultaneously, something erected firmly around his usually so calmly beating heart seemed to crack and fall away, letting a wonderful feeling of ecstasy seep through.

"I was just," he managed, licking his dry lips and swaying a little out of light-headedness. "I meant to apologise and tell you that I deeply regret all that I have done to hurt, humiliate and scorn you, Harry. I was not aware of which consequences it would have, for either of us, and what a wonderful thing I would lose in the process."

"Wonderful thing?" Harry answered in a slow whisper, stepping closer with a vulnerable expression, as if he too had succumbed to some light-headedness.

"Yes, this thing between us – this passion and ... companionship – I never realised just how powerful or incredible it was, not until ... until I lost it – you make me ramble, Harry, how can you do that? It cannot be natural."

"I don't know," Harry answered, stepping closer still, making their breaths mingle in between their tense bodies. "It feels quite natural to me."

"Does it?" Tom whispered, closing his eyes and holding his breath.

In response, Harry merely closed the distance between them completely and pushed their ready lips together, and what happened afterwards could only be described as a thundering battle that set the very air around them aflame. Everything became hot and dizzy; blissful and not enough; thrilling and soothing. As his tongue flicked back and forth, tasting his beloved deeply, Tom's hands travelled into Harry's messy hair and tugged, angling his head into the perfect position.

Sometime later, they fell down into the leather sofa previously occupied by two very unhappy Slytherins who tried their best to celebrate a 16th birthday. The game of chess fell to the rough ground, breaking half the pieces, while the other half scattered at once, hiding away as best they could in fear of being maimed as well.

All this went unnoticed by Tom and Harry, who snaked around on the dark green furniture; feeling, smelling and tasting one another without relent.

In between kisses, Harry gasped, "No more shells?"

"No, no more shells, no more games," Tom agreed impatiently, letting one of his hands slip under Harry's shirt, feeling the firm and slightly bony torso of his beloved, eliciting a pleasantly surprised moan from the deliciously plump lips moving against his own.

"Good," Harry gasped and did something brilliant with his tongue that made Tom want to bite something. "So, I suppose that's settled, then."

"Yes," Tom agreed, and after a moment, "What particularly?"

Pushing his head to the side, escaping the kiss, Harry panted for breath for a moment, shivering as Tom started trailing light kisses along the side of his neck.

"We're boyfriends now, I mean ... I'm you boyfriend – if you want."

"Boyfriend," Tom murmured, a conclusion firmly settling deeply inside his mind, and his hands clutched Harry's thin sides possessively. "Yes, you are mine, Harry. Mine."

"Yours," Harry agreed passionately, meeting lips with him again. "I'm yours, and you're mine. My boyfriend. Brilliant!"

Unbeknownst to them, the entrance to the Common Room opened once more, allowing entrance for someone who was quite unready for the sight that met him, thus making him inelegantly drop all drinks and foods lodged in his slim arms. The slight ruckus made Harry and Tom halt their activities and look over the armrest of the sofa, both sitting up at distance from one another as they spotted the baffled expression of one Draco Malfoy.

"What in Merlin's bloody name is happening here?" he finally managed with stormy grey eyes, hastily bending down to rescue what snacks he could and vanishing the spoilt ones.

"Draco, do not make such a fool of yourself – whatever is happening must be quite evident to someone of your calibre," Tom stated with calm satisfaction.

Not taking to being made a fool of, Draco snarled and stalked up to the sofa, tossing some Cauldron Cakes, Pumpkin Pastries and Bat-bite Buns onto the low table next to it, before placing four bottles of Butterbeer neatly next to the pile of birthday gifts. "I did not mean to state the obvious – what I meant is: Potter, what are you doing in here? And how did you nestle into our Common Room?"

"I have my ways," Harry said, throwing a quick glance at the Marauder's Map, which lay in plain sight right where he left it – right next to the Invisibility Cloak, on the dungeon floor.

"That does not explain anything," Draco protested calmly, crossing his arms over his chest with an expectant expression.

"I hate you, Malfoy," Harry answered with narrowed eyes, "I don't have to tell you anything."

"Oh rest assured, Potter," Draco said quickly, "I hate you properly too. Now, explain yourself."

"No!" Harry exclaimed, crossing his arms too.

"Tom! Tell him," Draco whined, turning to look at him with an injured expression that had Tom's inside churn with disgust.

"You will stop that disgraceful behaviour at once," he intoned, and Draco looked away with a deep blush. "Although I must admit to being curious as well," he confessed lazily, turning to look at Harry instead. "Would you please enlighten us?"

"I was taken here by someone," Harry said, throwing a weary glance at Draco, who now was watching him with a patient expression. "My godfather, in fact."

"Sirius Black," Draco stated, quite unnecessarily in Tom's opinion, but he stayed silent.

"Yes," Harry replied slowly. "We flooed to Dumbledore's office. I was using my cloak of course, and Sirius had turned into Snuffles –"

"The dog," Draco said, as if explaining he understood, and, not understanding the nuance, Harry sent him an annoyed glance.

"Yes, Malfoy, he turned into a dog and distracted Dumbledore so that I could get down here and find Tom."

"But how did you know where our Common Room was?" Draco demanded, frowning deeply. Tom barely kept from rolling his eyes.

"The map, Draco; naturally, he used his map. And have you forgotten this is not the first time these walls have witnessed his presence?"

"You told him of the map?" Harry asked, sounding very uneasy, but not completely surprised.

"We have no secrets, Tom and I," Draco bragged haughtily and sat down in between Harry and Tom on the sofa, carefully minding the broken chess game as he did so. "We're best friends – brothers, almost, I would say." A sudden, ice-cold calmness came over Draco in that moment, and he slowly turned to face Harry completely. "If you ever hurt him again, I swear it, Potter, there will be nowhere for you to hide – I will find you and tear you limb from limb, and I will enjoy every single second of it."

Seemingly not knowing what to say, Harry looked quite out of his depth, doing his best to lean as far away as humanly possible from Draco's intent gaze. "Is he serious?" he asked at length. "Oh, wait, what am I thinking – of course he is, git."

"Scar-head," Draco replied automatically, as if out of habit, and instantly, Tom pinched him in the side, which he knew his friend to detest with a passion.

"Do not insult my boyfriend, Draco," he hissed with a smile, and the colour of his friend's face instantly drained into a ghostly white.

"I apologise," he said hurriedly, and then, with a frown, "So, boyfriends then? No turning back?"

"No," Harry and Tom said simultaneously, smiling in kin at each other. "No turning back," Tom concluded.

Setting his jaw, Draco made a firm decision that seemed to pain him greatly, and sighed before stretching out his hand to Harry. "Truce, Potter?"

Caught off guard, Harry seemed too flabbergasted to fully realise what he had been offered. After a few moments' silence, Draco grew impatient, to no surprise of Tom's.

"Today, Potter."

"Right, right," Harry squeaked, eyeing the offered hand with distrust. "I'm just a little – didn't you just say you hate me?"

"This has nothing to do with what I think of you," Draco answered in a belittling tone, that made the colour rise on Harry's cheeks again – a result that had Tom quite intrigued. "I am calling a truce for Tom's sake, not yours, Potter."

"Right," Harry answered, still eyeing the hand with mistrust.

"You have already deemed my hand unfit to shake once, Potter. Do you honestly think it a good idea to do so a second time?"

Quickly, the two most important people in Tom's life shook hands, and just as quickly stopped doing such nonsense, settling for sitting next to each other while carefully maintaining zero body-contact.

"Well then," Draco said, lounging lazily against the backrest of the sofa and sending Harry a coy look. "Might I suggest a game of harmless wizarding chess?"

For the first time that evening, and many evenings previous, Draco won at chess. This might be due to his superior skills compared to Harry, who seemed to have none – or, due to the fact that he was the only one who seemed able to keep his eyes on the game for longer than five seconds straight.

"Now, when she appears where we want her, the signal goes out, all right?"

Scattered agreements and hums of understanding echoed through the vast space of the Room of Requirement – all from the DA, and all additional troops of Slytherins, seemed fully prepared to carry out action. Meeting eyes with his friends – Luna, the Weasley twins, Ginny, Neville, Hermione, Ron, and lastly, Tom – Harry smiled and nodded to himself.

"OK! Time's ticking, people, it's time for action. Let's take her down!"

A triumphant roar sounded in the room, and at once, a large chunk of people rushed out of the room to carry out the mission – to create as much havoc as possible to make sure Umbridge got into as much trouble as she could possibly get. The group split into three, led by Fred, George and Lee Jordan, who were selected as Chaos Generals for this particular mission.

Left in the room were Tom, Hermione, Ron, and Draco, who stood looking at the Marauder's Map with an attentive expression. Raising his grey eyes, he looked at Tom. "Father and the Minister have arrived."

"Good," Tom answered, "That is our cue."

Meeting eyes, Harry and Tom nodded to one another, before Draco handed the map to Hermione and followed Tom as he exited the room.

"All right, that leaves us," Harry concluded and clutched the pile of flyers closer against his chest to steel himself. "Let's go."

Together, they descended the staircases and marched resolutely into the open space of the Entrance Hall, which was buzzing with people, who, at this hour, was either headed to or from lunch. Spreading out, Harry, Ron and Hermione instantly started preaching and handing out flyers to left and right.

"The Dark Lord is back!"

"Whatever the Ministry is trying to tell you is a lie!"

"Trust Dumbledore, not Fudge!"

"Major scheme is hidden from you! You're being fooled!"

"We need to take precautions against the Dark Lord!"

"You're not safe! You need to know!"

At the same time as people started to trickle out of the Great Hall to watch them, Tom and Draco were allowed admittance into the Headmaster's office.

The office looked just as cosy and peaceful as always – although the people inhabiting it were anything but. Dumbledore, Fudge and Lucius Malfoy stood facing each other, arguing loudly about which of their accounts was the right one. They fell silent as the door closed behind Tom and Draco.

"Ah, very good, Draco. Tom, come. Now tell us," Mr Malfoy said silkily, gesturing with a ring-clad hand for them to come closer. "On what account are you reporting unsuited behaviour from your High Inquisitor; Dolores Umbridge?"

"Sir," Tom replied calmly, stepping up to his superiors (for now). "I regret to disclose that I have found great fault with the punishing methods of Professor Umbridge. I have it on authority that she has subjected a highly valued student, Harry Potter to be precise, to some discouraging abuse."

"Abuse?" Fudge said, scoffing as if the mere idea were preposterous. "What has she done? Made him scrub cauldrons and write lines?"

"In fact, she has," Tom agreed, grinning on the inside as he prepared for the final strike, taking great delight in seeing the gleeful expression on the Minister's face, which would soon be crushed under the heel of his shoe. "With a Blood Quill, that is."

Instantly, Fudge's face fell, while Mr Malfoy stiffened, looking conflicted. But strongest of all was the reaction of Dumbledore, whose eyes started swirling like a hundred thunderclouds.

"Are you completely certain she has made use of such a dark instrument, Tom?"

"Yes, sir," Tom answered solemnly, "Quite so. I do not think it a secret any longer that Harry and I have great trust in one another, and this he told me himself."

"I cannot find any reason whatsoever for us to trust these ... children," Fudge insisted suddenly, looking just about ready to burst with rage. "I remember quite clearly that instance one month ago when young Mr Malfoy insisted Potter was involved in illegal activity and should be expelled. Now, this proved to be faulty, and as we have no proof I do not see why any of us should listen –"

"I am sorry about my involvement one month ago, Minister," Draco answered smoothly, gaining an inquisitive look from his father. "And while I regret what happened before, we do, in fact, carry proof this time."

Out of his pocket, Tom picked the Blood Quill, which had been taken from Umbridge's office by Draco, under the guise of visiting for a casual cup of tea. Instantly, Dumbledore swooped in and trailed his wrinkled hands over it without touching it, as if feeling the very aura of it.

"I do believe," Tom said, "that if one were to open up this quill, the blood of Harry Potter would be found residing inside of it still – as it is being preserved, quite as ink will inside a Muggle ink-pencil."

As everyone busied themselves with inspecting the quill, Tom took the chance to signal through his galleon that their end of the game had come to fruition. Downstairs, Harry felt his coin burn and quickly looked at it with a wide grin on his face.

A few minutes previous, the coin had told him that the Chaos Groups had successfully driven Umbridge up the walls, and that she was currently being led down to the Entrance Hall for the final show-off.

Harry only had to shout his message of coming doom and hand out flyers for one more minute before the coin started burning again, signalling that someone had seen Umbridge enter the Entrance Hall, which also meant that Draco and Tom now knew that they should lead the men of authority downstairs to catch the show.

Sure enough, Harry thought to himself, looking up towards the staircases – there she was, hair and ribbons askew, looking quite deranged and ready to blow up with frustration.

Her glaring brown eyes narrowed dangerously as she caught sight of him, and something seemed to snap inside of her in that moment, making her expression turn wild as she stormed forwards as fast as her knobbly little legs could carry her.

"The Dark Lord is back!" Harry shouted, looking straight at her. "The Ministry are liars! You are in danger! Trust Dumbledore, not Fudge!"

"Shut up you stupid boy!" Umbridge snarled as she finally reached him, pointing her wand at him with a deranged expression. "Oh, you are in for it this time," she continued, tittering gleefully and shaking her head. "Did you think you wouldn't be punished for this if you had enough people to help you? Tut, tut, you should know better, Mr Potter. Have the message not sunk in properly? You must not tell lies."

"I know," Harry agreed with a grin, "which is why I'm not. I'm simply spreading the truth."

"YOU. MUST. NOT. TELL. LIES!" Umbridge screeched, sending a curse Harry's way, which he only just managed to dodge, although it hit a student behind his back, who instantly fell to the ground, out cold. "You need to be punished for your lies, Potter. You're a disease for the wizarding world and you must be taken care of before the sickness spreads."

She shot another curse, and this time, Harry's hastily erected Shield Charm deflected it.

Having had enough, Umbridge finally cracked and started throwing curse after curse, creating great havoc as the students all around started fleeing to the sides of the room for cover, while Ron and Hermione appeared at Harry's sides, helping him stand strong against Umbridge's meltdown.

"The Dementors, the Wizengamot, the Headmaster, the Minister – nothing could take you down properly, so now, I must do what they could not."

Tom did not believe his ears, nor his eyes, as he stepped into the Entrance Hall and found himself in front of a vicious battle. His senses soon gathered that Harry was in danger, and he was about to charge into action, when a flurry of colour and a booming voice to his right halted his motions.

"EXPELLIARMUS!"

Umbridge's wand flew in a great arch from her hand and into Dumbledore's outstretched one, making the puffy woman halt in her motions and whip around to face the new group of people with a fearful expression.

"I, I was – Minister, what a surprise, I never knew – Dumbledore, I see, you seem to have come to the wrong conclusion. See, Potter was –"

"Silence!" Dumbledore boomed, making the flames on the candles flicker dangerously as his powerful magic started swirling along with his upset emotions. "I cannot allow you or any member of my staff to injure my students, Dolores."

"Injure?" she protested with a little giggle, but her face quickly fell as Fudge stepped up to her with a thunderous expression.

"As of this day," he declared, pointing his wand at her resolutely, "you are neither an employee of the Ministry of Magic nor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You are to be sent to trial, and then, if proven guilty, will serve punishment in Azkaban like all other criminals."

As the scene unfurled, and as people were busy watching it all play out with hungry eyes, Harry slipped away from the group and came to wrap his arms around his boyfriend, taking great comfort in his warmth and smell.

"Checkmate," he whispered and gave Tom a slow kiss, which was instantly answered with eagerness.

Smirking, Tom pulled away and aimed his wand at Umbridge's unsuspecting back, muttering a curse that would render her unlucky for the rest of her days, which would greatly increase the chance of her trial having a very satisfying outcome.

Turning back to the inquisitive boyfriend in his arms, Tom gave him a soft peck on the lips and whispered into his ear.

"Checkmate."

A/N: Mischief managed!