Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay. I've been super busy with moving and finals (talk about hell).

As promised, here is the newest chapter with lots more Tom and lots more content. :)

A Time for Flight

The brass was ice-cold.

She gripped the handle tighter and pressed her body against the door. She pushed with her shoulder, but the wood refused to budge.

"C'mon," she hissed, slamming her palm upon the handle.

She turned the key again while placing one foot behind the other. She rammed the door and continued to shove. Her shoes slipped and squeaked during the assault, but the doorway remained sealed.

"Why are you always such a bastard!"

She frequently had problems with this entry, but this time it was notably difficult. Her body was still plastered against the oak and metal when her breathing was interrupted by a deep voice.

"Does this happen often?" it came from behind. It was the voice of a boy; a boy apparently amused by the commotion.

Startled, she brushed away a few strands of sable hair and cleared her throat.

Without turning toward the direction of the question, she replied, "more often than not."

"Odd," was the one word response.

"Is it?" She was quickly becoming irritated. Most girls were weak; she didn't find it odd.

"Very."

"Yes, well, it's likely that the librarian recently requested these doors become especially bothersome for students. It's a deterrent for the Restricted Section." It was a lie; she didn't care. Who was he? Some snot-nosed kid who had come to poke fun at the nerd? She flipped the stray strands of hair over her shoulder and turned to face the stranger.

He stood tall and motionless several strides away, holding a bundle of books. Their spines were cracked, and the dust on the bindings was so thick that they appeared a dull grey. It was a wonder he wasn't sneezing.

His dark hair matched perfectly with his equally dark eyes, but the complexion surrounding them was a stark contrast. His skin was of a sickly, pallid hue; it made the epidermis appear diaphanous, as if the slightest touch would shred the flesh into slivers. And to make matters more unnerving, the expression he wore was nothing short of scrutinizing.

"Oh, really?" he asked.

She ignored the probe; instead, she had become transfixed on his tie, the silver and green tie dangling around his collar.

"Slytherin," he answered. "Occasionally, you can spot us ambling about. Sometimes even in the library."

Her eyebrow twitched.

She tore her gaze from his neck and looked into his eyes. They were dark, but not from the color brown she thought she had seen moments earlier; circles sagged beneath his lids. He looked tired and drained, but his irises were a lively hazel.

"Yes, I think I've seen you before. Here, in the library, I mean."

"Of course you have."

"I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name."

"Tom."

"Just, 'Tom'?"

His face betrayed his annoyance before it was veiled by a smile.

The expression seemed foreign at first, but his eyes warmed with the crinkle of paper skin and the widening of his mouth. There was something about him that was alluring. Individually, his features were alarming, precarious even, but placed together they created a perfect balance all the more pleasing to the eye. He was handsome, yet unsettling. She couldn't help but be reminded of a siren, a beautiful creature intent on luring sailors to their deaths with an enchanting lullaby. Such a similarity should have been warning enough. Then again, she'd never been one to exercise caution.

"You haven't told me your name. I'm curious; what is it?" he asked.

"Sorrow Beval."

"Interesting."

He didn't act interested. When he spoke, it was slow and in a spiritless manner; the words seeped from his mouth as if they were an affliction he was trying to rid himself of.

"I saw Peeves floating out of the wall from the Restricted Section," a corner of his thin lips upturned, exposing his teeth in a crooked smile. This time, it was more feral than charming.

"It happened a few moments before you began struggling with the door. Perhaps he's to blame?" he finished.

"Maybe so…" her voice trailed off as she released the brass handle.

Peeves was constantly causing trouble, especially – it often seemed– for her. The poltergeist must have overheard her asking for permission to enter the section, and hurried ahead to sabotage the visit.

"I'd blame your frail frame, but given I saw the nuisance escaping with my own eyes," he shifted his weight to one foot while studying her face, "well, no matter the reason, the door is obviously jammed."

"I…" before Sorrow could respond, the boy turned and disappeared down a shadowy row of bookshelves, leaving her with only his first name and a useless, brass key.

How irritating. Why did the wretched ghost always torment her?

The boy was right; Peeves was a nuisance. What's the purpose of a poltergeist, anyway? Nothing. That's what.

The library was vast, and the Restricted Section was located on the opposite wall from the librarian's desk. She never understood why that was. It would have made more sense to station the privileged books somewhere closer to the librarian. That way, it would cut down on troublemakers and save students the hassle of trekking across the world whenever an assignment was approaching.

It was dark and musty. The only flickers of light were stolen from oversized torches adorning the walls and the ends of bookshelves. Small, melted candles were placed atop tables located between rows. Sorrow was carrying a torch lamp, but it offered more smoke than candlelight.

The stone floor was decked with ornamental rugs; many were mismatched and holey and in desperate need for repair. Some parts of the floor remained completely bare, reminding passers-by to blanket it once the clatter of footsteps echoed off the walls.

Oddly, windows were sparse at this end of the library. It was as if the gloom would dissuade students from venturing past the history and transfiguration sections. All the common and "acceptable" books were placed near the entrance where sunshine or starlight could flow inside. She supposed the dark upset most students, but certainly not all of them. It wasn't fair; dim light was damaging to the eyes.

As she continued to walk the narrow hallway toward the front desk, her mind began to wander beyond the décor of the library.

Who was that boy? Something about him disturbed her; she wasn't sure what it was, but the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her gave her chills. It had been as if he were there conversing, yet not; like it had all been an illusion. She couldn't help but feel she'd interrupted something, as if she had been the irritant and not Peeves.

She glanced up; she was nearing the desk. The figure sitting behind it wasn't the librarian Mrs. Tallus, but was John Shoppoff the library aid.

"Sorrow, did you find what you were looking for?" he asked when he noticed her returning.

"No, the door is jammed."

"What? How'd that happen?"

"Peeves."

"Oh, come on! You've got to be kidding? I just fixed that door yesterday from the last time he tore into it!"

Sorrow rested her elbow on the desk and dropped a key into a jar before asking, "John, I've been meaning to ask, where is the old bat?"

"Ah, Professor Dippet gave Tallus a couple month's leave. She contracted Muldrills. It's great! I get to stay throughout the summer."

"Impossible. No student is allowed to stay throughout the summer."

"I've already gotten permission from my parents," he grinned.

"This summer?" Sorrow leaned against the desk, moving closer toward the boy, "Who could possibly ask for help in a deserted library?"

She raised a sharp eyebrow, "Peeves?"

John gave her an exasperated look mixed with irritation. Peeves was his sore spot. She couldn't blame him. Second only to herself, John was a prime target for the ghost.

After the boy recovered from the thought of being alone with the poltergeist all summer, he looked at Sorrow and asked, "How do you think we get this place back into working order after you bookworms have your way with it?"

"'You bookworms?' Last I checked you are one of us."

She lowered her feet onto the floor and looked in the direction of the blocked door. She could barely see it, it was so far away and the lighting so poor. Shadows danced across the engrained wood, giving the illusion it was pulsing with life.

"Aren't you going to be lonely?" she asked, finally.

"Nah, I can head to Hogsmeade anytime I like. Dippet is giving me a summer pass; I don't even have to ask permission," he stopped and fumbled with something on his desk before adding, "Well, y'know, within reasonable hours."

"I'd expect nothing less," she bit her lip and continued, "Do you know the Slytherin who hangs out here every day? I think his name is Tom." She didn't think; she knew.

"Uh, know him? No, but I know who you're talking about. The fourth year, Tom Riddle. He comes in everyday, but never speaks with anyone; he just heads toward the back and disappears until evening."

Tom Riddle. Why couldn't he have told her that himself? They were the same age; she had suspected as much. He had looked as though he were in the awkward phase between boy and man, his body still unsure which to settle on.

"Have you noticed anything…strange about him?" she asked.

"Strange? The kid's a genius; that kind is always strange," he laughed.

"Genius?" It didn't surprise her; teenagers didn't usually spend their day at a table barricaded with books like Tom.

"Yep, Grade A genius. Like a mad sorcerer kinda deal."

"I got the same impression," she laughed.

It was superficial. She wished it were genuine, but meeting Tom – alone – made it less amusing.

"Wouldn't hurt him to get some sun, is all I'm sayin'."

Sorrow cleared her throat.

The boy fidgeted and said, "Aw, come on, you're a lovely, healthy pale. He's just…sick lookin'."

"Yes," she straightened her back and turned to face the hallway.

"I need that book, John."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya," he stood up with a sigh and grabbed his wand.

"I still don't understand why Dippet puts up with him," he complained.

"Maybe there isn't enough protest. Peeves seems to favor our misery over all the other hundreds of students' at Hogwarts."

"Heh! Suppose you're right."

The two had reached the door when they were reminiscing about having won the House Cup the year prior. Night had fallen, causing the few windows that hung on the walls to appear black, and still the place didn't seem as depressing as before.

The area was darker, but somehow John gave Sorrow a sense of security. The door was still shut and cold and the lighting was almost nonexistent. None of it fazed him; he kept laughing and joking, only demanding her participation in return. She didn't mind.

He was a sixth year Ravenclaw; both athletic and academic, but not overly attractive. However, his personality more than made up for it – as most girls readily agreed. He was well-known around the castle as a first-class flirt, seeing how he wasn't discriminatory with whom he shared his affections. But once again, it didn't matter to Sorrow. All she needed was the door to open so she could retrieve the book and head toward the bed chambers.

John removed his wand from his robes and approached the door. He passed a hand over the wood, admiring the craftsmanship, "It really is a handsome door, isn't it? A bit chilly, though."

He retreated a few steps, "Feel it. It's freezing!"

"I've already felt it."

It was indeed cold. Weren't all forgotten objects? The only thing that heated inanimate articles was fire or something organic. Since the door to the Restricted Section was left in shadows and wasn't touched often, the cold was to be expected.

"It's like there's something frozen on the other side. Maybe that's what's blocked your door, Row."

"Maybe," she agreed.

She walked toward a table and sat her shoulder pack upon the surface, aware not to knock over the lit candle in the center. It amazed her that it was still glowing; the stick had collapsed nearly flat onto the wood. There was a puddle of liquid wax surrounding the tiny wick; it was only a matter of time before the flame was snuffed. Something about the image depressed her. The candle had been tossed atop of the table – lit and forgotten – left to melt alone. She wanted to blow it out, to preserve its life a little longer, but that would be foolish. She had to be able to see if she was going to find the book. Light was needed.

"Man, it really is cold…I kinda don't want to open it," John gave her a sheepish grin.

Sorrow shifted in her seat, "Fine. I'll do it. Give me permission. I would have done it from the very beginning, but Tom saw me struggling with the door. I couldn't afford being expelled."

"You? Expelled? Hardly," he touched the door again.

"Besides, you already had permission to view the books. You would've been unlocking the door with a different method, is all."

"I couldn't take that risk, John. Not this far into the game."

"Hate to break it to ya, but you aren't that far into the game. You're a fourth year; you still gotta ways to go, Kid."

"Fifth after this summer. And I am far. I'm expecting early graduation at the end of my sixth year."

John laughed, "You can expect all day long; doesn't mean it'll happen. In the whole history of Hogwarts, there have been seven, early graduations."

Sorrow was standing in front of the door, wand raised, "I don't need a history lesson; especially from someone such as yourself. May I have permission or not?"

"Sit your pale bottom down. I can do it myself," he barked.

"By all means," she bowed before him in an exaggeratedly low fashion then walked back toward the table.

John paced in front of the door, occasionally stopping to feel it. He would then either scratch his head or sigh.

Sorrow sat crossed legged on a stool, either growling or chuckling in response.

"Will you open the damn door!" she yelled, finally.

"Fine! But if I get covered with freezing fish guts or something, you're doing my assignments for the rest of the year."

"No, I will not. This is your job as a librarian's aid. Now hurry up and do it! I'm exhausted."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

He then closed his eyes and with the flick of his wand spoke the magic word, "Alohomora!"

The door's latch clicked and the two students looked from one another to the closed door and back again.

"See? You got bent out of shape over nothing," she smiled.

The boy grabbed and turned the handle, "Yeah, well, Peeves is unpredictable. I s'pose he derives as much pleasure from watching us squirm in anticipation as he does from really pranking us."

"You're right; we're equally miserable either way."

John nodded and opened the door. A sharp, long creak echoed around them.

He peeked inside.

"All clear," he said without turning toward her.

Suddenly, he grabbed his face and started screaming. It was a guttural scream; one that made Sorrow flinch and cover her ears from pain.

She looked frantically back and forth between the boy and the door, but saw nothing.

"Stop! This isn't funny! I saw you open it; nothing came out."

He stumbled backward onto the table, breaking it and clawing at his face, "Get it off! Get it off!"

"Get what off, John? John! I don't see anything!"

She fell to her knees inches away, grabbing his arms. She tried to subdue him, to make him stop thrashing, but he was too strong.

"Move your hands, John. Move them! Stop fighting! Let me see."

"IT'S BURNING!"

"My wand…where's my wand!" She yelled.

She fumbled in her pockets, but couldn't find it. Where was it? She always carried it with her. Wait! She removed it when she was going to open the door. She must have dropped it when he startled her.

She crawled on the ground, searching for the thin wood. It was too dark to see anything; the candle had been crushed when he fell on the table.

"SORROW! HELP!"

"I can't find my wand," she whispered.

She turned back toward his convulsing body, "I'm going to get help."

She moved closer, "John! Do you hear me? I'm going to get help!"

"Make it stop!" he yelled.

She tripped over something in her hurry, knocking over a row of books.

Turning back to where she could hear him flailing, she yelled, "I can't help without magic. I'll come back with someone."

It was dark. The flickering candles were more ridiculous than ever, and every time she tried to move quickly she bumped into something. It was as if the room was growing darker and larger. Whenever she took a step, she didn't know if it was in the right direction or if John was even stable. Something had attacked him. Something was attacking him. Something was killing him. She had to move fast if he had any hope of surviving.

The light in the gigantic room was fading. Sorrow looked over her shoulder and noticed the candles were extinguished.

All was silent.

Up ahead, flames still danced across the walls.

What was going on? She couldn't turn back to help him; she didn't have a wand.

Should she continue forward? What made her think that whatever attacked John wasn't lying in wait around the corner?

Movement from a row of bookshelves caught her eye. She turned, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever or whoever it had been.

"Hello?" she called out.

Suddenly, a candle on the nearest table blew out. Then another candle, and another, and another, until finally they were all extinguished. The torches went next.

She was left standing in darkness.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She wasn't alone.

End Notes: More chapters to come, and in a much timelier fashion.

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