He hadn't so much as slept the night before. It was ruined. All of it. And at what price? Her, his mind supplied. He groaned in frustration. Things with Lucretia Black were… delicate. He held no love for the girl, she was an excellent release when things got to be too much. He could never use her the way he did Lucretia. He felt a wave of revulsion at the thought of Anastasia's face. Looking at him with such horror when she'd come across him and Black. He'd meant to be quick with Black. A wrench had been thrown into his plans and he needed an outlet. It was just rough, meaningless sex and a means of ensuring that he kept The Most Noble House of Black in his pocket. But then Anastasia had seen him with her and she'd been so repulsed by him. She hadn't listened. Nothing had worked and he was sure that come breakfast everyone would know that he had well and truly lost her.
He hadn't thought twice about crucioing Black in his anger at being discovered. He'd acted almost reflexively. He'd done it for her. Black deserved to be punished. He only realized belatedly that he'd effectively fucked himself. Lucretia would no doubt withdraw and he'd have destroyed things with Anastasia. And what did he have to show for it?
He grimaced. Anastasia had always had a way of complicating his plans. From the very first time, she'd foisted her friendship on him with little care about if he actually wanted it. She'd thoroughly complicated things. Where others feared his cruel and vindictive nature she often overlooked it in favour of nurturing his more appealing qualities, like his rare moments of compassion. He recalled the last time that he had tried to reign her in, tried to cow her like the others and she had scoffed at him.
"Riddle, I'm not begging you to be my friend. I chose you. So either you stop with this ridiculousness and I forget that you attempted to exert your will over me or you should see to it that you never see fit to breathe in my direction again."
He'd found himself to be appalled at how much he respected her for her cheek. Found that he didn't have it in him to punish her for the disrespect that she had shown him. But most of all, he'd found himself to be begrudgingly grateful that she was his. But that was all gone now. All of it.
He looked around his room, taking in the magnitude of the destruction that lay around him. All but his diary had fallen prey to the extent of his fury, the leather-bound book sat unscathed on his slashed table. Bits and pieces of paper and cloth lay haphazardly around the room. He'd been positive he'd been doing everything right. Had taken every precaution to ensure that he could have it all. And yet he'd lost her and everything around him had turned to ash.
She belonged to him. He knew this, and he was certain that she knew it too. He'd seen as much in the way she'd fought to stay away from him when he'd simply said her name. How she'd practically swooned when he'd summoned her. Well as much of a swoon as she was capable of anyway.
He picked his way through the debris to take a scalding shower and dressed for the day before heading to the great hall. He'd need to see about getting her back.
It hurt him more than he could express to see how beautiful she looked that morning. Her hair was swept back in a simple Grecian braid and a few well-placed curls framed her face. Her eyelashes were dark and sooty and her ample lips plump. She'd foregone her robe in favour of her uniform. The white blouse a stark contrast to her smooth, dark skin. He felt her absence by his side acutely. He could count on one hand the number of times in the past seven years of knowing each other that they had sat apart.
He watched her openly from a few seats down the table, willing her eyes to flick to his, even if briefly. But it never happened. She never so much as glanced to the side of the table where he sat. His attention was drawn away from her momentarily when one Abraxas Malfoy made a spectacle of leaving his seat and heading towards her. He'd never liked Malfoy, the aristocratic asswipe had never once bent to his will. His position and influence, his money, his family a stronger draw than any power than Tom tried to lure him in with. Even though they were both still in school, it was clear that the world viewed Abraxas Malfoy as a man. And they both knew it.
Tom's eyes narrowed to slits when Abraxas stood beside her. The blond cleared his throat to get her attention and a hush fell across the table. Anastasia continued eating as though oblivious to those around her but Tom knew better. He'd always known her better. She was making him wait, unnerving him with her inattention. He smiled to himself. At least she would not be swayed by the albino oaf.
It was only when the murmurs at the table reached a fever pitch and Abraxas nervously cleared his throat for a second time that she looked up, feigning ignorance.
"Oh Abraxas, I hadn't seen you there. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Her dark eyes were trained on the other man and Tom couldn't fight the surge of jealousy that flooded him as he watched the pair. They were polar opposites, appearing like two halves to the same whole. She and Tom had certainly made a striking pair, but even he knew it was not as impactful as she appeared with Malfoy.
"Lady Zabini, it has come to my attention that your hand has not yet been claimed. It would be remiss of me, Lady Zabini, not to ask formally for the opportunity to pursue a courtship."
The sound of shattering glass punctuated the silence that had fallen after Malfoy's declaration and several pairs of eyes swivelled to him but Tom didn't care. Her attention stayed resolutely on Malfoy for a moment longer before finally coming to rest on him.
It felt like an eternity passed between them as she watched him, expression carefully constructed, eyes carefully guarded. He felt shut out from her, left out in the cold for the first time since he'd known her. He felt alone.
She turned away before he could object, a demure smile plastered on her face, "You would be correct in your assessment Lord Malfoy."
He wanted to wipe the smug smirk from Abraxas' face. Mayhaps with his fists, or perhaps with one of his new curses, but there were too many witnesses. He chanced a glance towards the head table to see Dumbledore watching him with ill-concealed interest. No, he'd deal with Malfoy later.
"Would you, Anastasia, of the Noblest House of Zabini, accept this my formal offer of courtship?"
She paused for a beat and in that moment Tom willed her to look at him again. Willed her to look at him, even with contempt, even with apathy, if only it meant that she was looking at him and not considering Malfoy.
His heart clenched painfully with her response, an emotion besides anger managing to worm its way into his system.
"It would be my pleasure, my Lord."
He was seeing red. The image of Malfoy's lifeblood draining from his limp body coloured his perception until all he could see through the fog of his anger was blood red. He wanted Malfoy dead at his feet. Wanted the blond a heap of blood and bones and pain but instead, he was unscathed. Now sitting across from Anastasia, indulging her in polite conversation. He ripped his attention away from the pair momentarily to spear Nott with a sharp look.
"Is Malfoy stupid or simply ignorant of the fact that she is mine?"
Nott stared blindly for only a moment before responding, "My Lord, your… disagreement with Lady Zabini...it…."
"Out with it Nott!" His voice was low but firm.
"My Lord, Lady Zabini is something of an anomaly for us pureblood men. She is not a member of the sacred twenty-eight, as her ancestry hails from Italy but she is inarguably pure. Probably more so than even Abraxas."
At the blond idiot's name, Tom turned his attention back to the pair, watching with open disgust as she laughed politely at something Malfoy had said.
"And what of it Nott, so she's a pureblood witch. I don't see how that makes her any less mine."
"My Lord," Nott tried again, the pale boy clearly trying to formulate how best to put whatever had him so worked up as to stumble over his words. "Unlike the other pureblood women our age, Lady Zabini has never entertained a traditional courtship. Her family does not uphold the traditions of Britain and so she's forged her own way."
Tom turned his full attention back to Nott, a sneer marring his face. "So she chose me, and why should she not. I wouldn't be fooled by the name I carry for the public. Do not be so quick to forget to whom you defer."
Nott ducked his head in a quick bow, "My Lord when Lady Zabini declared you two through it left her open to the pureblood court."
Nott looked up now, eyes beseeching as he tried to relay to his Lord precisely the situation that he now found himself in without angering the temperamental man.
"Malfoy is betrothed to a witch four years his senior. He should know better than to sniff around what is mine."
It was Mulciber that cut in before Tom's ire could spike anymore, Nott gave the burly man across from him a grateful look.
"Anastasia Zabini is a woman men would kill for My Lord. And she knows it. She is the only formally unattached pureblood witch our age, with a fortune as large as Malfoy's, if not larger and no family breathing down her neck about whom to court. She's brilliant and beautiful and lethal. With your informal claim on her, no one was brazen enough to try. There was just no telling where the chips may have fallen given her devotion to you. But now that she has declared herself free of you..." Mulciber's words trailed off as he stabbed at a piece of sausage.
"I would wager that Malfoy is simply the first in a long line of men willing to throw his betrothed to the side for the favour of Lady Zabini."
He felt dread settle heavy and hot in the pit of his stomach. He'd never taken the moment to look into her as he should have. He'd taken for granted that she was of foreign ancestry, had classified her as another pureblood girl, but one whom he could tolerate. He had never considered the power she could wield, the power she could give him. Would have given him.
Tom looked back to her now and was shocked to see her openly watching him. There was a hint of a devious smile curling her lips ever so slightly upward and Tom realised what she had clearly known all along, what this half smirk alluded to.
She was a kingmaker, and he'd traded her in for a romp with a pawn.