Updated: 11/06/2020

Disclaimer: This universe belongs solely to J.K Rowling, based on the Harry Potter franchise.

A/N: I'm sorry. That's all I have to say. I've been super distracted by everything from quarantining, to internship… to my other story – which is completely different from this one, but still managing to bring me some joy.

Thank you all for the lovely reviews – and for the honest critique, as well. I received one long comment in particularly by a guest, which I elected not to let appear in the review list, simply due to its extreme length. I've saved it, however, and will study the advice for future reference.

I'll comment now that I am fully aware that I've dragged this out to the extreme. It's too late now, considering the plot I've planned, to make things go faster. I'm making small attempts, but I'm largely unsuccessful. I'm expecting the story to pick up in speed around chapter 20 or so. For now, I'm happy to know some people still enjoy it – even if it ain't going so fast. C:

Small warning: This story can be pretty dark in certain places – also, Tom's ideology does in no shape or form reflect my own. That is all.

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After confirming that the young Mr Nott was in a reasonable enough shape to make his way to his dorm by himself, the time was eight pm and there was one hour left till curfew. Albus stepped back from the door and turned towards the dark wizard in his office.

"Your methods leave a lot to be desired," he commented, expecting the indifferent stare he received in return.

"I don't encourage mediocrity."

"He was hardly ready to be challenged in such a manner. He is at the level he is supposed to be at," Albus insisted.

Tom let out a sigh. Albus couldn't tell if the sound was condescending or simply tinged with the other man's exasperation, but he knew that the sound annoyed him.

"That would be the issue. The boy does not wish to be at this level. It is not enough for him," Tom explained, sounding as if the problem was all too relatable. He supposed it was, on a certain level. To Albus as well.

Even so.

"He's not old enough to know what he wants," he protested in turn, brows furrowed.

"Yet he's old enough to recognize what he doesn't want," the Dark Lord told him, his eyes notably sharpening. "You read his mind. You know what he's thinking," Tom stated with a knowing enigmatic smile, causing Albus to wince internally.

"I did. I do," he admitted, albeit reluctantly. Practising Legilimency against anyone without expressed permission was a definite breach of the law – he knew this – but Albus made sure he didn't hurt the students. He just couldn't be too careful when it came to the situation he'd found himself in. He worried endlessly about the effects a Dark Lord's presence would have on the psyche of the students.

And clearly with good reason, judging from young Mr. Nott's insistence…

His misconduct was rooted in his care for the students. One simply couldn't be too careful, he told himself.

"He feels that everyone is holding him back," Albus voiced out loud and Tom nodded idly in response.

"The perfect recipe for a rash decision." He would know.

Truthfully, Albus could only agree. However, another thought wormed itself to the forefront of his mind, born of time spent observing the Slytherin table these recent, troublesome days.

"It was my assumption that you were expressing your – interest in the olderbrother, Mathias. Why chase after the younger as well?"

"I do believe you've misunderstood the situation, Albus. Torben is the one doing the chasing, not I," Tom disagreed, a smug smile making itself known. "Can you guess as to why?"

Albus dragged a hand across his face, briefly massaging the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "I have my suspicions," he let out tiredly.

However unnecessary it might've been, the dark wizard elaborated upon his headache anyway. "Because he knows I will enable him, instead of limiting him."

As an educator, he was obligated to do what was best for his students. That meant working at the right pace, instruct them to fulfil their potential and help them reach their academic goals, but whenever he was confronted with students like Torben… it always pained him to limit them. He knew it was necessary, in most cases. Often, dedicated instruction could truly further a determined mind, but if the student wasn't ready, or instruction was lacking… or otherwise missing, you ended up with the exact opposite of the desired result.

Albus looked at Tom.

"It is true. The boy is of the opinion that you won't stand in his way."

The Dark Lord let out an amused sound as he turned his back to him, walking towards the door.

"I am the way."

Albus couldn't help but laugh. The arrogance was both infuriating and contradictorily uproarious. The duality would certainly cause him much difficulty – but never let it be said that Albus Dumbledore didn't relish the challenges that change brought upon him. Whether the dynamics of life were positive or negative, Albus braved it like he did anything else. Like a Gryffindor.

They walked to the transfiguration classroom further down the corridor, the destination having been discussed earlier that morning. As they entered, Albus turned to his live-in adversary with a calculating expression.

"I had something planned for this evening, but your little student postponed it. The truth of the matter is… I have worries," he admitted to Tom, who rose an eyebrow in response.

The dark wizard leaned against one of the desks in the classroom and folded his arms expectantly. "Do enlighten me. You know I'm interested in hearing of whatever ails you, Albus."

"Your sarcasm is mildly inappropriate," he reminded the other, having made note of it on several occasions now.

"As you say," Tom responded airily, not caring any more than he'd done previously. The man hadn't a considerate bone in his body, that much Albus was certain of.

It worried him.

Without prior consultation or explanation, Albus entered an offensive duelling position and trained his wand at Tom, the immediate build-up of power noticeable in Tom's reaction.

The seals in the room slammed shut and Tom didn't hesitate. He drew his own wand swiftly and didn't waste a second to fire a curse in his direction. Albus blocked it and let it dissipate on the wall, the furniture around them once again making space for Albus' intended activity.

He spoke before the dark wizard could formulate the inquiry – or scathing demand – that was no doubt at the tip of his silver tongue.

"I've observed you closely since our agreement, and while I'll admit that your behaviour can be considered 'normal,' in the broadest of terms – I worry for your continued state of mind."

The corners of Tom's mouth dipped, denoting his displeasure. His wand rose a little further. "I'm sane."

They circled each other listlessly, a mockery of duelling etiquette observable in their movements. Albus hummed questioningly. "Yes, but why? For how long? At all times?"

The Dark Lord looked unwilling to answer – as well as mildly insulted. It was difficult to distinguish between the nuances of Tom's expressions, but Albus considered himself an observant individual. The other clearly disagreed. "You unnecessarily assaulted a student, Tom," Albus particularized.

A mild scoff left the younger wizard. "Self-defence, Albus. He would've gone further. He wouldn't have stopped. We both gleaned this from the disturbed little lion's mind. His grief consumed him."

Albus frowned, firming his stance.

"I know this. But your actions made me think." He paused.

Then he moved.

Albus threw a simple jinx at Tom, the speed only moderate. Testing. The dark wizard swatted it away immediately, unimpressed but nonetheless on edge by the looks of it, his hand twirling his pale wand with discernible agitation.

"You came directly from war. Your instincts tell you one thing, but your mind tells you another. I've been in battle – I've seen what it can do to people, and your mind wasn't in a good place to start with. I believe the monotony of Hogwarts risks intensifying your restlessness. Even if you don't feel it now… this kind of lethargic quietude will ultimately cause you to act out."

"I'm not insane. I can control myself and my actions," Tom reiterated crossly.

Albus remained unconvinced. "Under which circumstances, Tom? Do you know?"

The silence was oppressive and the only answer he received was a painful spike of foul magic.

"How angry do you need to be before you snap?" Dumbledore pressed, ready in case the other decided that the limit had summarily been reached.

Even so, Albus squared his shoulders and continued ruthlessly. "If you will break a student's nose while under control, then I dread knowing what will happen when you lose it."

Tom's eyes were spitting fire, but a sense of uncertainness peaked through the dark glare. He didn't like hearing this – didn't want to think about it. Albus couldn't let him ignore the possibility.

He knew Tom must fear losing himself. It was only natural – as much as such a quality could be applied to a Dark Lord.

Tom answered through lightly gritted teeth, pausing in his steps. "I'll admit… that I haven't experienced a prolonged feeling of true anger since I've found myself back in this time. Worry, stress, paranoia, amusement, annoyance… all feelings that I've been devoid of for so long. Only felt peripherally… You angered me, but I expected it. Anticipated it even," he said and Albus felt a familiar pressure against his mental defences, identifiable in the slipperiness of its reach. The attack was fleeting, but the tinge of dark magic made Albus feel vaguely nauseous. He tightened the defences around his mind.

"Are you trying to anger me, Albus? To see what will happen? To see if you can control me? Don't be foolish," Tom scorned. The stare he received was nothing but pure menace. He tried to ignore the unease it brought him.

"Not as such, no… I don't expect to be able to contain you. I will, however, offer myself as a… sparring partner. An outlet with which to channel your unrest."

Sacrifices had to be made – someone had to make sure his second greatest mistake didn't spiral out of control… again. He had the feeling that Tom didn't care what damage he inflected on others – his concerns were only for himself.

Albus would make sure the students were safe, in any way he could. Even if it meant taking a battering from a Dark Lord on occasion.

"How very generous of you, Albus. Do I detect a hint of forethought? Ascertaining my capabilities to better prepare for my possible decline into lunacy?"

There was no doubt now that the wizard was insulted.

Albus simply offered a smile, unwilling to completely bare his thoughts on the matter. He didn't expect the slow grin he received in turn, though, causing his wand to falter momentarily.

"I'll admit that the proposal carries merit," Tom started followingly with only mild reluctance, maintaining a disturbing amount of sudden… morbid enthusiasm that Albus didn't feel comfortable with. "Yes… I firmly believe that if I can refrain from losing touch with my sanity during a battle with you, Albus, then I'd be capable of combating anyone," the Dark Lord concluded in a near-whisper, the foul magic finding purchase in the atmosphere around them.

The wizard was eager.

"A fitting experiment, truly," the Dark Lord agreed unwaveringly thereafter.

Albus grimaced at the reaction but held his stance – ever vigilant.

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The room was steadily elongating, and Tom supposed that confirmed Albus' intention.

Would it be enough? One couldn't be certain when dealing with two powerful wizards on the lookout for needless disputes of magic – but he did appreciate the foresight on the part of his adversary; tactfully providing such ample space for him to unleash whatever senseless violence must've surely been simmering beneath his calm veneer… at least according to the light wizard treading carefully before him.

Even now, a measure of offence lingered where apathy should've succeeded.

Apparently, and not unsurprisingly, Albus had put some thought into this experiment of his – this seemingly selfless attack on Tom's perceived stability – and so Tom felt he was in his right in to utilize the opportunity it presented him.

Even if it could lend credence to Albus' arbitrary notion of his state of mind, he did not feel obligated to assuage the other's pitiable worries. That was not why he was here. Peace of mind was not what they'd bargained for.

I am sane.

He had theories of his own that needed investigating, independent of the other wizard's wishes and well-put words of misplaced concern – and Albus had so graciously offered himself up for a good cause.

Whether the cause proved worthy remained to be seen.

Keeping his gaze aimed at the fool before him, the Dark Lord prepared himself. Already, his magic was pushing through his veins with anticipatory vigour – the dark, unbridled power he summoned humming impatiently between his wand and the skin of his fingers, shifting from a bitter cold to a smouldering hot, and desiring release into the world. His body, his wand, his soul – reacquainted with both magic and mind and with emotion.

He'd missed his magic. Voldemort couldn't have comprehended how much.

Albus' hand tightened on his wand till his grip was bone-white and Tom could taste his apprehension. Yet the man didn't move.

Tom breathed. Loosening his tie's hold around his neck, he ignored how his body still felt too small for his magic and decided that if Albus Dumbledore wanted a display of his restraint – he would receive it.

Spitefully, he rose his left hand in the direction of the left-side wall and tore off an ornate dagger he'd spied from a framed display, breaking the glass that'd contained it and calling it to him. He caught the dagger as it reached him and spun it in his hand – taking delight in the way Albus' face soured at the sight. Balancing the edge of the blade on his finger, he observed the precision and make of the weapon, as well as the interaction it had with his magic.

It was doable, he concluded.

The dagger floated a couple of centimetres above his hand as he slowly moved it into a level position over his palm. Needing no further encouragement, Tom began embedding the necessary enchantment with his wand – and smiled, when he had success.

He tore his gaze from the timeworn, deadly silver and focused on Albus again, the elderly man's eyes tracking the movements of the dagger with a grim, yet resigned expression.

"Impetus," Tom incanted quietly – and the knife flung itself across the distance towards Albus.

The wizard hastily conjured a wooden board and the knife embedded itself into the surface within milliseconds with a heavy thud. Tom gestured for the dagger moments after and recalled his weapon into his hand. He twirled it idly as he regarded his former transfiguration teacher.

"Versatile, is it not?" The dagger was suspended in mid-air once more, threatening in Tom's keenness to use it. "I understand the appeal. Produced without the use of magic, its composition proposes greater permanency." He passed his wand over the knife again, retreating a step while noting Albus' recognisable look of interest.

Transfiguration would always be something with which they shared a certain fascination.

"It's difficult to enchant conjured weapons, as you know. The finicky sub-conjurations needed would destabilize the enchantment, thereby disabling any possible weaponization… but handcrafted weapons – they produce such unlimited usage."

A light-yellow gleam pulsed from the dagger momentarily, after which the image of the dagger blurred at the edges. Tom spoke his final incantation and the dagger's smoky essence started to divide itself into several smaller points in the air around him, gradually coalescing.

Dozens of sharp points hovered around him – waiting.

"Sequitur," he spoke harshly, causing near-countless miniature daggers to rush forward, homing pointedly toward Albus from multiple, chaotic directions. The small beams of silver spread like an explosion to surround the man.

"Immobulus!" Albus called, freezing the daggers in his immediate vicinity, and subsequently undoing their existence. The man moved hastily away, blocking several more daggers aimed at his back as he defended himself with several conjured shields of different shapes and materials.

Tom recalled the remaining daggers before they expired against his opponent. In flashes of light, they floated above him in a cloud of shifting metal needles, awaiting his command.

Apparently tired of merely defending himself, Albus seized the initiative.

"Incendio!"

"Glacius," Tom countered, freezing the stream of fire sent his way and reversing the direction, pushing the shards back at his opponent with deadly velocity.

Albus was fast – faster than he expected him to be. With dexterous wand movements, Albus gathered the storm of icy fire and flung the jagged chunks back at him once again, forcing Tom on the defensive. He split the chunks with a cutting spell and blocked the remaining pieces aimed at his legs. With an upwards swish of his wand, he sent back Albus' second volley of attacks, the remains of his daggers following the barrage in this magical tennis match of elemental transfiguration they'd now engaged in.

But the transfiguration master did not block Tom's retaliation, instead attracting the spikes and forming them into an icy wall – catching the daggers and entrenching them in the frost – ultimately terminating their enchantment.

With a gratified grunt, Albus reinforced his wall with a strong look of challenge in his eyes, the narrow structure standing rigidly in place, yet indubitably flexible in a way only a transfigured construct could be.

Swayed by the ingenuity of his opponent, Tom sent a series of curses in Albus direction, intent on either breaking the wall or circumventing it. The curses weren't of a darker nature, but they had no need to be. His intentions were unquestionably felt.

The wall shifted to one side and broke off the first torrent of curses – Albus finally defending himself with a legitimate magical shield, thereafter, then deflecting the rest and disintegrating the wall.

Intent on pressing his advantage, Tom caught the next spell Albus sent at him – an insultingly mild bone-breaking curse – and spun expertly on his heel, resending it back to his opponent, who was ready with a neutralization spell of his own curse.

Neither wizard was hard of breath, but Albus' tension had only increased as Tom's magic kept seeping into the room. Tom took pleasure in the hazy pain he inflicted as Albus' magic mingled with his own, pangs of Albus' irritation thrumming through the connection.

"Your magic is absolutely dreadful," Albus informed him as he neatly side-stepped a curse, his robes barely managing to avoid getting singed by the heat. "You needn't even use dark spells. Your magic would make a Wingardium Leviosa feel like an Unforgivable," he complained.

Tom regarded the other apathetically at the jab, resuming his quite frankly therapeutic attack on the Gryffindor's defences. He wasn't trying very hard, and neither was Albus, but Tom was gradually experiencing an increasing difficulty reigning in his enthusiasm.

The noise of whizzing spells and the gongs of curses impacting their shields rung through their makeshift battleground – and it felt constrictive.

A tightness within him was rapidly spreading.

He wanted to stray into more powerful spells – wanted to make use of all the tingling cords of magic he could feel extending from his centre. He wanted to disrupt his opponent. He wanted him on his knees before him, choking down on the darkness till he knew no more.

One by one, as spells of intricate difficulty and execution left their wands – offence, defence, reciprocation, reflection, nullification – Tom started feeling his heart race faster.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Albus' eyes narrowed pointedly at him from the other end of the room, his pale face regarding him with a knowing scrutiny that Tom sorely wanted to tear off his face. He remembered the look. The look of half-hearted resentment.

"I used to dream about killing you," Tom told him darkly.

"And what do you dream about now?"

"Death," he said, catching Albus' momentary hesitation. The light wizard managed to avoid an intense blue curse aimed for his midriff and subsequently studied the disintegration that took hold of a section of wall between the windows due to his inattention.

"Having nightmares, Tom?" Albus mocked him lightly, disregarding the disfigurement of his classroom.

Tom paused in his stance after deflecting another curse with a conjured slab of iron, the bent plate falling to the floor with an audible clatter.

"What part of my existence isn't a nightmare?"

Albus looked at him, grim-faced.

Tom's magic spiked once more, his agitation feeding the output. He could almost hear Albus' wards groan at the stress.

"Seventeen years amongst god-fearing muggles, fifty years of madness, ten of which were spent bodiless… a wraith of my former self…" he hissed.

"Do you know what it is like, Albus, not only being prisoner in your own mind, but also in body? To remember every descend of your being and every decline in your magic, but also remember your inability to prevent it? It's maddening… Death. To think a wizard such as I, who spent a lifetime avoiding it, experienced it like no other."

Albus looked floored by his admission.

"Tom…"

"Don't call me that," he spat, visibly shocking Albus into silence. The old man lowered his wand, signalling the end of the duel.

"I'm not Tom Riddle. I'm not Lord Voldemort," he said, his magic visibly distressing the other. Albus was letting it affect him, he knew. To gauge his reactions…

A moment passed as Tom's heart slowed down, his failure tasting raw on his tongue.

"…then who are you?" Albus asked him, quiet and pensive.

Tom provided no answer.

The experiment was at its end.

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Another branch hit the water, breaking the surface and disturbing the otherwise peaceful lake. With a noise of dissatisfaction, Roland aimed at a different – larger and uglier branch – and sent it plummeting to its wet grave, yet still not feeling mollified in the slightest.

He just didn't understand. Was it ignorance? Complacency? Wilful offence? Roland couldn't tell and it seemed no amount of obliterated foliage would help him gain clarity.

The Hufflepuff had to confess that he didn't know nearly enough about Slytherin house to perform any guesswork. What he did know was likely complete hearsay and whatever Tom Riddle had so sneakily introduced him to during a clandestine meeting absolutely no one should ever know he'd participated in. Ever.

He was still fuming, though. How dared Carrow be so openly racist – and to his face in front of his housemates, no less? And to Tom.

How could one so privileged be so stupid?

The thought of Tom being subject to ignorance on that level continuously made Roland sick to his stomach. Special rules about not talking about him. Casual racism flung every-which direction. Simply being a Muggle-born Slytherin was something he'd thought impossible until recently, but apparently, it was sadly a fact that one of his kind was trapped in a perpetual den of depravity and passive-aggressive violence against his character.

Another branch hit the water, but it was from a different tree since Roland's boat of irritation had made him miss his intended mark quite spectacularly.

He let out a huff and sat down on the grass, looking out at the lake and failing to enjoy the view. His friends were sitting several meters away and tossing stones at the water, talking happily and pretending their friend wasn't occupied with mutilating greenery for no apparent reason.

Honestly – Roland was just worried.

He found himself inexplicably concerned about that one Slytherin in the school that no one should even dare to look at, and if that wasn't enough – he was itching to speak to him again. He wanted to know if he was alright. He wanted to know why he was arguing with Professor Dumbledore. He wanted to know what the snakes were doing to him.

He wanted to return to that room, and he couldn't tell you why.

It was ridiculous, he knew – yet the itching persisted.

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A slow week followed – and though he'd tried his utmost to avoid it, Alphard eventually still did manage to track down Darius, who'd placed himself strategically in one of the least visible chairs in the common room. The one place outside his dorm room he thought he could wallow in misery without being disturbed. Or so he'd hoped.

Regrettably, he wasn't that lucky.

He looked tiredly at the Black, dark silver meeting murky brown.

"You're pathetic," Alphard informed him succinctly from his position above him. Darius closed his eyes and rested his face against the armrest of his chair.

"Letting a mudblood get to you. No fucking wonder Tom's disappointed," he continued ruthlessly. Darius tried not to wince.

He had no doubt he failed.

"Take your torment elsewhere, Alphard. I'm not in the mood," Darius responded despairingly.

The wild-haired boy didn't say anything in return. Darius only looked up as he heard the rustling of robes.

Alphard drew his wand and shot a spell at him before he could react, unexpectedly freezing his limbs. Darius immediately felt the onset of panic – but he couldn't act on it. His arms and legs were stiff. His head wouldn't turn, and his toes wouldn't wiggle.

He'd been petrified.

Other snakes were present in the common room, standing witness to the event, but Darius suspected – knew they wouldn't interfere. On the ladder of 'who not to disagree with', Alphard was on a definite third place from the top after Abraxas and Tom. Despite the ridiculousness of someone petrifying him in the middle of the common room, the sight of Alphard cursing someone wasn't, in reality, all that uncommon.

Darius would've gritted his teeth.

Undaunted by the situation as a whole, Alphard lifted the tip of his wand and casually levitated him up. Gradually, he started moving them both out of the common room and into the humid corridor outside, walking with resolve towards… the duelling room.

Shit.

A couple of Slytherins were already there, using the arena to practice their battle spells. In an alcove above the spectator stands, more voices could be heard, more than likely a Slytherin tutoring first or second-years by the lightness of some of the voices.

The sadistic wanker positioned him upright beside a practice dummy, and Darius imagined that its beaten appearance reflected his own inner state of being disturbingly well.

Alphard Black wasn't the ideal student. He didn't care for charms or transfiguration. He didn't care about potions. He didn't care about history of magic, runes or herbology.

He got by grade-wise. The group had made sure of it. Alphard understood the importance of it, but he'd never be a good student.

But he wasn't stupid.

Alphard was perceptive. Inventive and resourceful. A prodigy at dark and offensive magic – according to the Black family, in any case.

The boy with the crazily unruly curls applied another spell, which enabled him to manipulate his arms and legs into the desired position, placing Darius directly in front of the spell dummy, his own position mimicking it exactly.

His man-handling of him felt even more degrading than the thought of consulting another mudblood on subjects his leader deemed out of his realm of understanding.

In a way, he supposed that was the point.

"Don't worry, Darius, I'll make you feel useful," Alphard reassured him, but Darius couldn't react – or he would've surely cursed off the Black's mouth. His heart could barely manage an above-normal rate of beating, the petrification disabling him from defending himself or even feeling the full scope of his inner turmoil.

He dreaded Alphard's intentions.

"I snuck another of my family's books with me this year and I've found a couple of spells I'm sure you'll love. You liked the ones I showed you last year," he reminded Darius, smiling at him as if that should reassure him.

"I haven't had a chance to try them yet. Can't very well fling them at the firsties, now can I?"

But he wanted to – Alphard's eyes were ringed with darkness, the muscles on his face twitching as he spoke. He spoke too fast, Darius noted. His grip on his wand shook with adrenaline.

Darius felt fear freeze his lungs.

What had Alphard been doing, playing with dark magic on his own? He knew they weren't supposed to do that!

The noise from the arena stopped, and the quiet was deafening.

Alphard flipped a page in his book, the sound reverberating through the chamber. A grin stretched his lips obscenely.

The silence went ignored.

"Yes…" Alphard trailed off restlessly, his eyes moving along the lines of his forbidden book.

"This one… it won't leave any marks. Good. It's perfect. I wonder how it will feel? Will it feel like the others?" he heard Alphard mutter to himself, his excitement visibly unnerving the few spectators, yet none moved in his defence.

Darius felt a mixture of shame and fury. Shame because of his predicament, and fury, because Alphard wouldn't let him retaliate. As if he couldn't.

As if he was truly useless.

"Tom will like this…" Alphard whispered audibly with certainty, aiming his wand at the stationary Darius bound to the doll.

The humiliation ground at him.

For the love of Merlin – where was Abraxas?! He was supposed to make sure this wouldn't happen!

Alphard shouted the spell. Darius had only a moment to hope that Alphard for once wouldn't succeed on his first try, but his hopes were for nought. The twisting silver spell materialized in the air, shooting towards him with sadistic intent and nearly too fast to track.

Darius mentally braced himself.

"Traditium," a voice incanted from their right, blissfully intercepting the spell before it hit its mark.

Darius would've been sweating bullets if he'd had any control at all over his body. Instead, he was forced to stare at the befuddled Alphard in front of him, who'd turned to look in the direction Darius couldn't.

But a spell hit him nonetheless, causing him to nearly collapse onto his face. Stunned, he caught himself and coughed out all the anxiety that'd been building up in his lungs for the past ten minutes.

He looked up.

"Tom!" Alphard protested.

Tom Riddle's expression was foreboding.

Alphard cringed.

"Alphard," Tom said, ignoring Darius sprawled on the floor. He walked up to Alphard and held out his hand, clearly demanding the Black's little book of dark pleasures. After a couple of seconds, Alphard hesitantly handed it over, as if parting with something very dear to him.

Tom looked at the cover of the book disinterestedly, presumably reading the title. He then flipped through it, outwardly indifferent towards the fact that several people were staring at him apprehensively, Alphard more than any.

Tom then closed the book, put it in his pocket – did he just confiscate it? – and then looked towards Darius with interpretable displeasure.

"Remove yourself from the floor," he ordered him with a sneer. Darius hurried to do so, his arms and legs feeling achy after Alphard's restriction.

Alphard furrowed his brows at Tom, his high overwriting his fear.

"Why'd you stop me? The pathetic excuse for a wizard let a mudblood belittle him, and then moped about it for a whole week! You said it yourself, he's disgusting!" Alphard ground out, wild-eyed.

Tom just stared back at him, looking as uninterested as usual. Tom didn't seem surprised at Alphard's antagonism, however. If anything, it was if he'd expected the childishness from him.

"If you desire violence, Alphard, then go brawl with the Quidditch players of Gryffindor," Tom told him. "Using Darius as an excuse to act as a mindless animal only diminishes whatever respect you're entitled to."

"It's not about respect!" Alphard whined.

"Be quiet," Tom hissed at him, effectively shutting Alphard up.

"What – " Darius started, but Tom's glare stopped him as well. Darius flinched without meaning to – and kept quiet. It was so hard to handle that look of reproach.

That's when they noticed that Tom's attention was fixed on the wall instead of on them. The room was silent – almost.

A shuffle.

A clatter.

Tom aimed his wand at the section of wall and briefly hissed out something unintelligible, causing the wall to open up abruptly, revealing a hidden entrance he'd never known was there.

Roland Corner, of all wizards, stumbled out unceremoniously, managing to catch himself before his head impacted the floor.

"A Hufflepuff?!" a Slytherin exclaimed from somewhere around the arena, sounding undeniably scandalized. And with good fucking reason, in Darius opinion. What in the name of The Founders had he been doing, hiding in the walls?!

"It's a fucking mudblood!"

"What's he doing here?!"

"That's a hidden doorway! Has he been spying on us?!"

Corner looked utterly terrified.

"Corner," Tom said, sounding entirely unsurprised. "Your curiosity truly is endless."

Alphard aimed his wand at Roland and shot an Incarceous before the Hufflepuff could manage to draw his wand. The boy shouted in surprise as the conjured ropes tied him up, leaving him wiggling uselessly on his knees before them.

"I didn't hear anything – really! Please let me go!" Roland cried unconvincingly, wide blue eyes filled with understandable alarm and not a few tears.

The Hufflepuff prefect then turned his gaze to Tom, confusion and fear mixing with hope.

"Tom, please," he begged of him, and every eye turned back to said wizard, who barely rose an eyebrow at the prayer.

"I told you what this place was, Roland," Tom reminded the Hufflepuff flatly. "Yet your curiosity overshadows your sense. What drove you here once more?" Tom asked, walking closer to him. There was a small smile on his face that Darius couldn't decipher, nearly too slight to notice.

Had Tom caught him spying before?

"Please untie me," Roland pleaded instead.

Tom stood before him, a brief look of impatience passing over his face. Interestingly enough, the Hufflepuff managed to interpret it perfectly and reacted accordingly.

"I'm just… I was worried… what they were doing to you…"

Tom raised an additional eyebrow at the bizarre confession, directing his attention at Darius – who wasn't ready for it at all, but his opinion wasn't taken into consideration. Neither was it needed apparently because Tom disregarded him a moment later.

"You're referring to the innate 'racism' of the purebloods, I assume. I've heard tell of your misgivings," Tom spoke, talking to the bound Hufflepuff in their midst as if the sight was a perfectly acceptable event.

Again, with that word! It was driving Darius insane!

"How can you stand it!" Corner yelled at Tom suddenly, and it was clear Roland was frustrated with Tom's lack of response. It was without a doubt a touchy subject.

"How can I stand it? Racism exists everywhere," Tom told him uncaringly, as if the matter which had Corner so infuriated hardly mattered to him at all. Their leader swept his gaze in their direction and Corner following his example sullenly.

"Look at them," Tom said, pointing towards Darius and Alphard flippantly, who were standing in confusion, watching Tom talk about subjects they still knew nothing about.

Corner looks at them helplessly, shoulders slumping with defeat.

"Their ignorance angers you because they're correct."

Corner's eyes widened. "No, that's not – !"

"Isn't it?" Tom drawled, kneeling on one knee before Corner as he dragged a finger along the tight ropes that tied his arms to his body.

"Muggle-borns behave as if the magical world owes them their allegiance, and so you lash out when cries of indignation when it isn't provided. You expect to be treated as any other magical citizen, while you also vehemently insist that you should be allowed to be different."

The badger looked mildly indignant, but the fear that still racked his frame kept him from speaking out. Tom's impatience made a visible comeback as he stood once more and pointed his wand at him.

"I'll put this in terms that you understand," Tom proposed.

Before he continued, Tom undid his restraints, allowing Corner to stand up. It was clear the Hufflepuff trusted Tom with his safety on a certain level – and wasn't that laughable? – because his eyes didn't waver to any of the spectating snakes in the hall. As if their presence was inconsequential.

"What is the definition of a racist?" Tom asked Corner.

"A person who discriminates based on race…"

"Correct. What are you?"

"I'm a Muggle-born," Corner said quietly, but everyone heard him nonetheless.

"No," Tom said, shocking not only Corner but every Slytherin in the room.

"Y-Yes I am, I'm a Muggle-born! So are you!" Corner exclaimed. Tom didn't react to the claim of his heritage, merely waiting for the Hufflepuff to calm himself.

"No," Tom denied once again, and Darius couldn't decide what Tom had in reality denied. His status or Corner's.

"You are a wizard," Tom told him, his voice chillingly final in a way that made the statement stand out as a message engraved in marble. Corner stared at him with lips slightly parted.

"If you keep referring yourself as a Muggle-born, then that is all you will be to them," Tom told him. "It is not only the purebloods who are keeping you from acceptance, it is your also self-imposed segregation when you continuously adhere to rules separate from the society you covet as your place of belonging. Rules you consider to be superior."

There was a brief moment of silence that followed that sentence, as if Tom's words not only resonated within the Hufflepuff but also with the rest of them.

"You are not a muggle. They do not own you any longer. If you desire to belong to wizardkind – do so and cease your needless attempts at imposing expectations largely disregarded by a people you both hate and require approval from, " Tom reprimanded in conclusion. Apparently finished with that quite confusing speech, Tom removed his attention from the Hufflepuff on the floor and turned instead to Darius and Alphard once more.

"Escort Roland out of the dungeons – the both of you. We will speak of your actions at a later time," Tom said warningly, after which he walked through the hidden entrance Corner had stumbled out of and disappeared as suddenly as he'd arrived. Like a tiny, menacing Whomping Willow with the disturbing ability to apparate.

They did as they were told. Their leader hadn't looked like he'd tolerate any sort of disobedience, a perception Corner undoubtedly also agreed with, as the boy left with them willingly as if in a daze.

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"…why are you escorting a Hufflepuff down the corridor?"

"Please don't ask."

Roland Corner looked down in a poor attempt at being unnoticeable. Abraxas ignored him successfully and instead looked to Alphard and Darius with two blonde eyebrows pinched demandingly.

Mathias was standing behind him, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Evidently, Abraxas hadn't been there to supervise Alphard, because he'd been saddled with supervising Mathias.

Darius couldn't wait for that to be over and for his group members to cease needing any sort of supervision at all.

"We found him spying on us in the duelling room," Darius explained.

Alphard chanced a look at him, likely wondering whether he'd mention the episode leading up to that, but Darius had no interest in humiliation himself further – even if it would bring Alphard a lot of grief.

It's not as if the Black didn't deserve it, Darius told himself – but Darius had other ways of exacting revenge. Less petty ones.

At the mention of the Hufflepuff's transgression, Abraxas turned icy daggers at Corner, who flinched slightly at the attention. Abraxas had the look of one who was considering multiple ways to deal with the same problem – all of which would likely result in Corner's broken bones and in Darius and Alphard's failure of escorting him out of the dungeons – which was plainly out of the question.

"Trust me when I say this 'brax; I would love nothing but to deal with him as we ought to, but Tom told us to make sure he was brought out of the dungeons," he added lastly.

"Unharmed?" Abraxas specified. Corner gulped beside him and Darius sighed.

"It was implied."

Abraxas grimaced. He very clearly wanted to contest it, but he lightly palmed his throat and looked to the side, appearing reluctant.

"And where is Tom now?" he asked instead.

Alphard let out a noise of disbelief. "No fucking clue, mate – he walked into the walls and vanished, leaving us with his mudblood pet."

"…pet?!" Corner spluttered. The mudblood wasn't exactly restrained anymore, but Darius and Alphard walked close enough for it to look like an arrest. Alphard pressed the tip of his wand against Roland's neck and growled at him.

"Shut your mouth." Corner looked vaguely mutinous but kept his tongue, eyes wide with restrained terror.

"In the walls…?" Abraxas questioned blankly.

Mathias suddenly interrupted his train of thought with a distinct sigh of displeasure, followed by the sound of fast footsteps approaching their direction.

"Mathias! Brother, I haven't seen you in ages – do I have something to tell you!" a small Ravenclaw announced gleefully, completely disregarding the tense atmosphere in the corridor.

Mathias stared at his brother with the kind of annoyance reserved for younger siblings. A kind that Darius hadn't experienced personally but knew by association.

The smaller Nott spared the Hufflepuff a brief look of confusion – which was thoroughly reciprocated – and then looked to his brother once more with so-far unwarranted enthusiasm.

"Did you know that Professor Dumbledore set Tom's wardrobe on fire when he was 11?"

…

What?

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A/N: Small edits will probably happen at some point, but I'll point it out at the start of the next chapter if anything significant was altered. I suspect it'll only be phrasing, though.

Thank you for reading!