Updated: 26/03/2020

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

A/N: So here we go again – slow as Hell, but getting it done eventually. I guess being quarantined also means I have the excess of mind to write. I was supposed to have posted this in January, but that didn't happen. Many apologies – again.

Thank you so much for the support though! I love reading your reviews and comments! They keep me going.

I'm also working on another story on the side, but I'm not quite ready to post it yet.

And yes – the pace of this story is still kinda slow. It will be for a few chapters yet, but it's gonna be a pretty f**king long story, so if that's not your thing, then I'm sure there's faster-paced stories out there for you to enjoy. :)

Thank you for reading – and enjoy!

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Albus studied his bookcase.

It was fairly new, in fact – imported from the Americas, if the sociable muggle merchant could be believed. It was a marvellous dark red colour and carved and embezzled to the nines with shapes of birds, bees and bellflowers aplenty. An elegant design that he had no doubt would serve him and his library well in the upcoming years of strife that he had to look forward to.

He'd spent the last couple of hours of his time meticulously filling the beautiful piece of furniture with the overflow of items and books from his other bookcases and approved of the overall tidiness that now greeted this one corner of his chambers. It was rather in confrontation with the rest of the décor, but Albus thought that only made sense.

It was a calming activity for him – like a meditation of sorts. Albus always liked to procrastinate a little when he felt frazzled but made sure not to overdo it. After all, that'd be rather hypocritical of him, considering how he tended to scold his lazier students.

He paused both in thought and activity at the next item to be placed into its new home.

Looking closely at the little wooden box, he carefully opened it and perused the small pile of memories from his youth – the youth he'd shared with Gellert Grindelwald prior to his old friend's change. Pictures, pressed flowers and other significant knick-knacks he hadn't had the heart to do away with. Even with all that had happened.

The memory of even a single ray of sunshine was worth holding onto, in his experience.

It was unfairly also this experience that now haunted him and brought back the less than pleasant memories that had laid buried between the lines of every superfluous note and boyish jest.

In truth, Gellert had been nothing like Tom Riddle when he'd been young. He'd been charming, cunning and persuasive, yes – but he'd also been welcoming, encouraging and fiercely supportive to a fault. Facets of one's character that was difficult enough to imitate, let alone possess. And he had. He still did, though the genuineness of his encouragement aimed for a much different agenda. One that Albus now disagreed with fundamentally.

He'd been naïve and charmed during that time. Perhaps, he still was, from a certain point of view. Gellert had that effect. Dark Lords tended to have that effect, even prior to their… descension, as it were. They were truly unique individuals characterized partly by their insanity, but also largely by their ingeniousness. Truly, a zeal for life nearly unparalleled.

I admit… I am slightly envious of them, in that regard, Albus thought to himself as he closed the box.

But Tom – he was nothing like that. Oh, certainly he was charming, cunning and persuasive, and knew when to encourage and when to curry favour and to whom – but never, not once, had he been genuine.

There was not an ounce of genuineness in the eyes of Tom Riddle. Especially not now.

And while Albus had been wary of Tom's disregard for his peers before, he was now scared of it.

It was truly like a great dark mist had swallowed up the one place he thought he could protect, and now threatened to choke it, lest he breathed a little too hard. No sunshine in sight.

It was maddening.

It was the madness that he was especially concerned about as he considered further the ramifications of Tom's brand of problem-solving.

Did he truly have the temperament to keep to his end of the bargain? Had he overestimated his own ability to control himself?

As of yet, Albus couldn't tell for certain – which was another source of anxiety he didn't want but recognized that he needed to address post-haste.

Perchance Albus could curtail the wrath pre-emptively in some way that didn't arouse suspicion? It was worth considering, at the very least.

His decisions weighed more on his mind that he felt they had in decades.

The danger was too close and his thoughts too compressed.

Small scratches and a soft thrill alerted Albus to his presently young phoenix Fawkes sitting on the back of his tall chair, a slightly charred envelope in his beak. Albus smiled at his friend, absurdly grateful for the interruption. The phoenix offered another greeting at the tender welcome.

When the bird was at this age, he was always fond of trying to surprise him, and Albus rather suspected the Phoenix did it purely for the thrill of watching Albus' flummoxed expression when he appeared.

He gently pried the envelope from the beak of the bird and flipped it to read the name of the addressee – and immediately recognized the impression on the wax seal.

"Curious," he commented softly to himself as he spelled the letter open with his wand and skimmed the text, a hand stroking down his beard as he contemplated the contents. "Very curious indeed."

And a problem for another time, maybe.

A little bell started ringing on his desk, signalling the impending start of classes. Placing the envelope in his very efficiently private desk drawer, he put his velvety hat back on and left his chambers. It was early yet, but Albus preferred to greet the first students of his class – and he suspected he knew who would show up first.

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Mathias ascended the stairs to the common room with Darius and Roark and shot his friend an apologetic look as the distance between them increased once more. Roark grimaced slightly, as if attempting to convey every misgiving he had in one facial expression, and silently telling him that there was nothing he could do and that he would, therefore, remain at a socially acceptable distance until further notice.

A notice that was yet to arrive and was unlikely to do so any time soon.

The helplessness Mathias felt was proportionate with his irritation; large and ever-present.

"Mathias – good morning," Euphemia, or Mia as the others called her, greeted him as he neared the couches. She was sat there elegantly, reading as she often did, if she wasn't gathering and distributing information with Abraxas.

Though, upon closer inspection, it was very clearly that book.

Tom's muggle book.

Glancing around covertly, he confirmed with himself that the wizard in question wasn't there. He'd found that he could almost always tell when he was. Sometimes Mathias couldn't see him, but he knew he was near. He just knew. It was like a venomous critter crawling down his spine – subtle, but nonetheless terrifying and steadfastly unignorable.

Mathias still remembered a time where it hadn't been like that.

He missed it.

"No welcome for me? You wound me," Darius crooned as he approached Euphemia.

The girl looked up from her controversial reading material with a sly expression Mathias didn't dare contemplate too closely. Darius seemed to appreciate it though, judging by the light kiss he bestowed upon her. It was tender and effortlessly affectionate and nothing anyone would ever see beyond the common room. Mathias could admit he was envious.

"Put that boorish piece of sub-literature away, Mia," Abraxas Malfoy ordered with impudence as he neared them, school bag resting over one shoulder. "We're here to study magic, not whatever that is. And you," he sneered, pointing to Darius, "should not encourage her."

"You're not the leader, Malfoy," Darius reminded provocatively, grinning at the blond.

"I'm a wizard, you're a wizard, she's a witch – THAT is a muggle book. It does not belong here," he declared.

Mathias blinked tiredly as he felt the beginning of a familiar debate recommence. Tom's book had been argued upon by Darius and Abraxas for several days and the Nott was quite frankly getting sick of it. They had to go to class – they didn't have time for the full disclosure of this argument.

Luckily, Euphemia succeeded in breaking up the debate before it caught fire.

"Where are Alphard and Tom?" she inquired curiously, standing up.

Abraxas looked to her and seemed to deflate a little. "Alphard is still getting ready. He'll meet us at the breakfast table."

"And Tom?"

"He… said he already ate. He came back to get his bag and then he left," the Malfoy reported, sounding faintly frustrated with his own insufficient account of events.

The time was currently 7 am. Breakfast was available from 6 am to 8 am, but very few woke up that early to attend breakfast.

"I suppose Tom did go to bed rather early last night…" Euphemia hummed thoughtfully, after which they started to leave.

Mathias followed them out of the common room dutifully, noticing as Darius' playful nature evaporated upon exiting the dungeons. Abraxas' confrontational countenance shifted to one of passive superiority and Euphemia's cunning smiles slowly lost their lustre.

Mathias himself made certain he looked appropriately blank, as was appropriate and a habit difficult to break overnight.

After breakfast, they would have their first Transfiguration lesson with the Hufflepuffs – and Professor Dumbledore.

That was another discussion that had been ongoing since they arrived – Dumbledore's involvement with Tom.

Everything seemed to revolve around him. It made Mathias mad to think about.

Shortly after they had sat down to eat, Alphard Black had glided in seamlessly, situating himself at the table like he owned it and every piece of cutlery on it. The boy's countenance was more relaxed than the others. Freer. He didn't seem to care that his gesticulations were too flamboyant for a Slytherin.

The Black clearly wouldn't have any issues with the other night's arrangement. Personally, Mathias would need time to adjust. He suspected Abraxas would need more than any others.

They ate in relative silence, Alphard only occasionally tripping first-year Ravenclaws as they passed their table. Mathias knew the wizard was responsible because he kept carelessly jabbing the tip of his wand into his knee under the table when he performed the jinxes. No amount of displeasure could make the Black stop his behaviour and Euphemia seemed blind to his predicament – chewing on a pear as she continued to read the book – publicly. Brazenly.

Abraxas hadn't been able to tolerate that for long and had applied an obscuration charm on the front page before anyone noticed.

Of course, the Slytherins knew, but funnily enough, they weren't the problem.

They just weren't ready for the questions. Mathias sure wasn't.

After they finished eating, Mathias' attempt to lose the group in the confusion was once again foiled by Mia. The witch had placed herself strategically behind him with Darius never more than a couple of steps away. They wouldn't let him leave. They wouldn't even let him see his brother. If he wanted to get anywhere with his plans, he needed to see his brother.

He knew he had to talk to Tom about it but dreaded it with a fiery passion.

The transfiguration classroom was a large room situated on the ground floor – near the Middle Courtyard and well removed from other classrooms, yet not quite so far from the healer's wing.

Four rows of well-used writing desks were lined up in the room and numerous tall windows shined the morning light onto trinkets and ornaments of indeterminate origin and purpose, creating a colourful and engaging environment for a class meant for creativity and visualization.

The perfect Dumbledore scenery, really.

When they arrived, a few Hufflepuffs from their year were standing outside the room, though, looking in. The door was open and yet they were not entering.

It was a puzzling sight and Mathias didn't feel like getting involved in whatever was causing the badgers anxiety today. The scratching feeling creeping on up him gave him enough of a clue already, which only reaffirmed his general aversion to the whole situation.

The Malfoy had another idea, however.

"Is something the matter with the doorway? More along – you're blocking the entrance," Abraxas drawled at the Hufflepuffs, causing them to turn to them with expressions devoid of any kind of understanding or embarrassment.

The Slytherins waited for answers, but none came. The badgers still looked ridiculously distracted.

Dumbledore's voice was then suddenly heard from the classroom, pulling the Hufflepuffs' attention through the door once more.

"Utter and complete nonsense!" came the announcement. "I can't read any of your little scribbles," they heard professor Dumbledore exclaim in a huff.

"It's called chemistry, Albus. I should imagine that you'd have at least a partial understanding considering your illustrious background," they heard a very familiar voice mock in answer.

"I'm an alchemist, Tom – not a chemist! …That shouldn't have changed," the older man hummed out followingly. The curiosity overwhelmed them, and so they moved to stand with the Hufflepuffs, peering into the room.

Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore were standing in front of one of the blackboards in the back of the room, both levitating pieces of chalk aimed at the aforementioned boards. The professor's alternately lilac and spring-green ensemble was only visible from the back as the wizard inspected what they could only assume was Tom's writing.

Tom seemed to look at the professor expectantly, his arms crossed with his wand maintaining the charm.

"Naturally, I have dabbled in the subject of chemistry in order to fully understand some of the intricacies of my field," professor Dumbledore continued after a couple of seconds, prompting Tom's expression to turn mildly scathing.

Oh, dear.

"I should hope so. Otherwise, you'd be completely useless as an educator in the subject of Transfiguration."

Abraxas let out a noise of distress at Tom's unusual impertinence, his eyes wide as Euphemia lifted a hand to her lips in clear shock. The Hufflepuffs were looking at them now, with a dire need for comprehension, but neither he, Darius or Alphard knew what to tell them.

The only thing Mathias could think was that Tom was surely in trouble.

"Your roundabout way of expressing your approval is highly amusing to me," the very clearly amused deputy headmaster proclaimed, not sounding disrespected whatsoever.

"Your inability to focus on one topic at a time angers me," came the retort, and Euphemia's other hand joined the first, now covering her eyes.

Alphard apparently decided the debacle was easier to spectate from a closer distance and summarily moved into the room, shoving past the confounded badgers and snakes alike. The rest of the audience slowly entered as well, probably just as morbidly curious as to the conclusion of this as Alphard.

"Explain it to me more thoroughly, please," Dumbledore requested politely, adjusting his glasses.

Their presence was effectively ignored.

"Very well," Tom complied surprisingly easily. "As I said, the solution lies in the sub-conjurations," Tom started to clarify, the chalk moving along the board as he spoke.

Slytherins and Hufflepuffs slowly found their seats as they entered, no one saying a word. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do, but the students of black and yellow kept shooting Mathias and the other Slytherins questioning looks occasionally, to which Darius had taken to shrugging in answer.

Euphemia silently shook her head in the negative, her eyes glued to the board Tom was using to explain something to their professor.

Whatever it was, it was nothing he'd ever seen before.

Professor Dumbledore seemed very interested in whatever it was, but Tom's scribbles made no sense to him. Lines, circles and random letters. There seemed to be a system to it, but Mathias couldn't decipher it.

"Molecular structures…" he heard a Hufflepuff mumble as they continued to be ignored by the two wizards in the front of the room.

"How small would one need to go? The Five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Laws of Elemental Transfiguration are highly accepted as irrefutable," their transfiguration teacher stated, pointing his wand at the exceptions in question written on the board to the left.

"Which is why I brought up chemistry, you senile vigilante," Tom pointed out with a straight face, insulting the professor while he was at it. A Hufflepuff's jaw slackened notably in response and Mathias could for the first time truly emphasize with their counterparts.

Tom continued before Dumbledore had a chance to react.

"If we're able to conjure other carbon-based materials, such as wood and graphite, as well as perform human-transfigurations, then food shouldn't be an exception. Yet this concept eludes you somehow," Tom told the professor, who frowned sceptically at him.

"Food is too complex an entity," the professor countered. "Your determination to prove otherwise is admirable, but you have yet to prove your theory. This discussion is therefore baseless."

"I already told you it's not a theory. You know why. I'll not be repeating myself," Tom refused, a dark eyebrow raised with a clear demand for submission. Dumbledore didn't rise to the bait.

"So you say," their professor relented half-heartedly and insincerely, his disbelief obvious in his tone.

Tom wasn't deterred.

"Food is only exempt because of this so-called complexity, but what does one do when confronted with a problem too complex to solve? You break it down into pieces and solve the issues individually, ultimately reaching the desired result," Tom explained, before turning around to stare at the class. The dark-haired teen seemed indifferent to the stares, his gaze roaming the faces of the other students, before settling on one, eyes dangerously narrow.

"You – Corner," Tom said, pointing to the Hufflepuff who'd been mumbling along to Tom's explanations. "Your family owns a bakery. What goes into baking a simple scone?" his housemate questioned forcibly, causing the boy to sputter in confusion.

"Eh… I guess... U-Uh milk, sugar… flour, butter and… a pinch of salt, maybe?" the Muggle-born, he believed, stuttered out uncertainly. He'd clearly been unprepared to be called out.

How did Tom know Corner's family owned a bakery?

Tom apparently deemed the answer satisfactory, because he returned his attention to the board, scribbling more… mo-lay-clue-lar structures? – onto the surface, the ingredient's names titling the scribbles.

Dumbledore didn't seem to find anything weird about this as Tom went on explaining.

But the wizard was known to be utterly barmy, so he didn't think that really counted for anything.

Mathias then looked subtly to Corner, making sure his voice wasn't too loud as to distract the wizards by the blackboards as he spoke.

"Corner… you seem to know what he's doing," he stated with a question implied, officially being the first one to break the rules. Abraxas seemed to have been a hairs-breath away from reprimanding him but held his tongue at the last second. Instead, he and the other Slytherins waited, staring down the increasingly uncomfortable-looking Muggle-born who was floundering at the sudden serpentine attentions.

"He… he um, he's writing the molecular structures for the composition of a scone, I think… one ingredient at a time. It's a kind of an evolving field of study, but I think he's doing it right…" he trailed off. The first part was mumbled, but Mathias recognized the word again.

"What is moole-klay-lar structures?"

"What is… Molecular," Corner corrected hurriedly, eyebrows pinched. "It's chemistry. Basic chemistry," Corner spoke, looking at him weirdly as if he should know. He didn't.

Was this… another muggle thing?

"Oh, I see… So that's what you mean by going small. This is fascinating!" Dumbledore beamed, clapping his hands together as he looked at the… doodles.

"But can you do it?"

"Of course, I can do it. I wouldn't be defending this so insistently if I couldn't," came the arrogant reply, but professor Dumbledore didn't take offence. Like he'd expected it.

Tom then moved to the teacher's desk and shoved professor Dumbledore's notes and inkpot to the side, making space for whatever demonstration he was about to do – the action not even putting a dent in the sheer collection of misdeeds they'd witnessed so far.

His… leader then raised his wand and commenced what Mathias recognized as the beginning motions of a conjuration spell.

"Fieri Incipere," he started – yet nothing had appeared.

What.

"Sensim Constructum," he continued. Something was now visible in the air, but only Dumbledore seemed able to track it with his eyes. Tom looked very concentrated on the task, his movements secure, yet refined in their execution.

"Gemino."

Tom performed the doubling charm, multiple times in one go by the looks of it, considering the amount of powdery stuff and liquid-looking blobs that were now lying on or floating over the table.

How he managed it, he had no clue.

"Exaedifico," Tom incanted, apparently not done as he swished his wand over the materials, causing them to swoop together between his hand and his wand, the mass gradually meshing together. Before long, a plain, light brown scone levitated neatly over his hand, looking perfectly edible.

Dumbledore wasted no time and plucked the magic scone out of Tom's suspension, promptly taking a bite. Tom looked mildly affronted, judging by the way he pointedly followed the movement as the professor stole his impossible pastry.

"Did you add cinnamon?"

"It's a kind of toxic," Tom told as an answer, which is really wasn't. Not at all.

"Ah," the professor nodded, chewing on the scone as if Tom made any sense at all. "Kind of like magical cooking," he said. "Except you conjured the ingredients from their base elements in order to circumvent Gamp's exception. How sneaky."

Tom remained silent – waiting for something.

"It's a good scone," Dumbledore praised, but Tom didn't look anywhere near satisfied with the compliments to his cooking ability, moving instead away from the desk.

"Did you even buy the books?" Dumbledore questioned after he finished the scone, shaking crumbs out of his beard as Tom went to pick up his indeed very flat-looking bag.

"No."

Professor Dumbledore sighed audibly.

"Seven-thirty," the wizard in the ridiculously coloured suit reminded Tom, who was currently walking past all the tables on his way out of the door.

"I'm aware," Tom spoke flatly as he left.

And as if the past fifteen minutes hadn't happened, professor Dumbledore commenced the lesson, a sponge cleaning the blackboards behind him as he told them to open their books to page one-hundred and twenty-three.

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Mathias knew he'd made a mistake when the mud – Muggle-born, chose to approach him after class, the boy's housemates following along behind him like a pack of dogs, ready to come to his rescue if Mathias as much as hissed in their direction.

What did one call a group of badgers? A clan?

Mathias didn't give a fuck. He was too busy trying to maintain the blank slate that was his face.

He was doing horribly, judging by Euphemia's disapproving frown.

"Say… Nott, was it?" Corner questioned after Professor Dumbledore vacated the room. Mathias nodded briskly in answer.

"Do you seriously not know what chemistry is?" the Hufflepuff questioned with the same bemused look on his face as earlier.

Mathias frowned minutely. "Some muggle subject related to alchemy," he half guessed, half stated. His group was standing a couple of steps away, watching them. Mathias would like to think they were there as a show of support, but he wouldn't count on it.

They were waiting for him. Ready to catch him if he ran.

"Ah… no. Not exactly."

"It just looked like a bunch of unintelligible scribbles to me," Mathias derided.

Corner tilted his head slightly with a considering look on his face as if to say, 'you're sort of correct, but not quite.'

"The… scribbles are actually structural drawings of the elements that make up our universe. Take for example the air we breathe or the water we drink – a water molecule is made of two hydrogen elements H and one oxygen element O, together creating H2O. A collective amount of water molecules then create water," Corner explained, some of the other Hufflepuffs nodding along encouragingly to the explanation.

"I… see. And Tom knows how these – molecules – work…" Mathias trailed off, glancing to his group behind him. They decided to walk closer, causing the Hufflepuffs a fair bit of unease judging by the way they huddled closer.

Corner seemed unperturbed, though, actually perking up at the mention of Tom. "Yes! I suppose he would, wouldn't he?" But he stopped up, uncertainty stealing across his face as he looked to the Slytherins behind him, then back to Mathias with concern. "Though… he told me you guys didn't like talking about him, so I think maybe I shouldn't –"

Every Slytherin in the room instantly zeroed in on Corner and Mathias broke in before the Muggle-born had the chance to finish his sentence.

"Tom has spoken to you?"

Corner looked extremely uncomfortable with the attention. "I suppose you could say we're… acquainted." The boy paused, taking in the faces of his friends. "We're both prefects," he elaborated in a hurry, but it was clear there was more to it. Even the other badgers looked sceptical.

"Corner, you're a Muggle-born, correct?" Darius interrupted smartly, moving to stand beside Mathias and taking over the entire conversation. Mathias just let him.

Corner's discomfort seemed to increase drastically, his face finally settling in a vaguely confrontational expression.

"Yes. What of it?" he said, crossing his arms. Not unexpected.

Darius offered a friendly-looking smile. It was a smile few got to see outside the common room, but that didn't mean it was sincere. Mathias couldn't quite tell the difference. Darius could at times be far more unpredictable than Alphard, but at this moment it was obvious that Darius had decided to take the opportunity to develop a connection to Hufflepuff house.

"I haven't had a chance to ask Tom yet, so I was hoping you'd elaborate upon an expression I've stumbled upon," Darius spoke.

"Darius," Abraxas hissed in warning, but Darius was taking full advantage of the repeal of the rules, smirking challengingly in response, before refocusing his attention on Corner.

"I suppose…" the Hufflepuff Muggle-born muttered, staring bewildered at the byplay.

"What is exactly is racism?"

A moment of incredulous silence ensued.

"…Are you being serious?"

Darius frowned in response, obviously disgruntled by the answer. The Hufflepuffs as a unit looked like they were struggling with their disbelief. Mathias couldn't wrap his head around it. Was the concept too difficult to understand even for them?

"Well, as far as I understand, it's a word describing dislike towards certain or more skin colours, but the notion sounds absurd to me, so I considered that I might've misunderstood. It's a muggle term, after all," Darius went on to explain.

"Absurd. Racism sounds absurd to you," Corner uttered flatly. "You can't be serious – you must be joking."

"I'm most certainly not," Darius denied, eyebrows furrowed.

"Do you insult Riddle in this manner too? Is this why he left?" he demanded as he pointed a finger to the door. Corner sounded more than slightly angry, but Mathias couldn't for the life of him understand why, and by the looks of it, neither could Darius.

"I beg your pardon? I just want an answer to my question. Don't bring Tom into this," Darius said, sounding incredibly offended.

"Fuck your rules," Corner spat crudely, shocking the Slytherins into silence. "I don't care if you don't want to talk about him. Just leave him alone and don't ask such stupid questions," the clearly irate Hufflepuff commanded. Corner then looked to his equally offended housemates and left with them through the door, walking past a silently fuming Abraxas and very discombobulated Euphemia.

Darius was seemingly completely baffled by what just happened, and actually looked to him for some kind of support, but Mathias had nothing to offer him.

"What in the name of Merlin just happened?" Euphemia wondered out loud.

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"Your inanity disgusts me."

"What?" Darius muttered unintelligently, his own dark eyes meeting the ones of his leader.

Tom didn't answer him – he merely stared, and Darius was having a hard time handling it. He had the ugly feeling that Tom meant exactly what he said – that Tom was disgusted with his inability to comprehend and act on the situation, and that made something deep and heavy lurch in his stomach.

He wasn't sure how to continue the conversation anymore. Dinner had come and gone and still, that day's transfiguration class lied weightily on all their minds. Mia – magic bless her heart – rescued him from having to face him alone.

"Tom, that Mudblood made some disturbing insinuations," she started. Tom tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement, the side of his head resting against his hand as he sat before them, like a king on his throne, expecting their deference.

"And who would this be?" he drawled, a bored expression overshadowing his usual handsomeness.

"Some Mudblood Hufflepuff named Roland Corner. The disrespectful twat didn't even answer Darius' question – he belittled Mathias for not knowing about whatever chemistry is and cussed us out for 'insulting you,'" Abraxas cut in, his outrage ill-hidden. "Salazar curse it," he finished, pacing back and forth behind Darius and Mia. Tom's eyes followed his movements, silently.

Tom's lips twitched. Up or down, Darius couldn't tell, but a reaction had definitely been noted.

"The prefect," Tom acknowledged, somehow managing to ignore every aggravation Abraxas had tossed in his direction. Their leader then lifted his other hand and waved it uncaringly in front of him, the time of day appearing as a floating, glowing light-blue clock. After a brief examination, the clock disappeared, and Tom stood, startling Abraxas out of his pacing.

"It's fascinating how a brief encounter can have such a profound effect in such a short amount of time," he said, but it didn't sound like it was meant for them. It sounded like an open contemplation – like Tom was pondering about his own influence on Corner's actions.

Tom then turned his attention back to them.

"Insulting me, are you?" he spoke, a malicious grin stretching across his lips. Darius was ready to deny everything, but Tom continued. "How positively presumptuous of him – Corner."

"Have we insulted you?" Mia asked, likely as worried as everyone else.

Tom hummed before answering. "I suppose it did anger me once," he mused, his smile replaced by a thoughtful expression. It sounded like Tom was indulging them with his answers – like they were children.

"I have grown past it, however. Long ago," Tom continued. Darius felt a measure of relief flow through him. Corner had looked so furious.

"I understand that you're curious about his reaction, but I don't have the time or the desire to explain something this simple to you. If you're desperate, then ask a milder tempered Muggle-born. It'll likely yield you better results," he went on, walking past Abraxas.

"Where are you going?" Darius asked before he could stop himself. Demanding answers of Tom was always a sure-fire way of attracting is ire, and he felt like he was in deep shit already.

"Albus has presented me with my first detention, and I shan't miss it," came the flippant reply.

"Detention?!" Abraxas exclaimed, horrified. A Slytherin prefect in detention… It was unheard of.

But considering Tom's behaviour towards Dumbledore lately, perhaps it wasn't so far-fetched. Talking back, name-calling, ditching class, all-around disrespectfulness.

Tom didn't offer any explanations. He barely ever did. He just left them hanging, the door to the Slytherin common room closing behind his back.

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As Tom started making his way out of the dungeons and up the staircase to the main floor, he'd barely had the time to finish a thought when a tiny blur ran straight into him from around the corner.

Luckily evading most of the impact, he stumbled against the wall for a second and watched as the other person fell onto the ground and half-way down the short staircase with a loud yelp within moments after the collision.

He would've fallen further, but Tom caught him with a swift application of wandless magic, hovering him a few centimetres above the steps.

He recognized his little assailant immediately.

"Torben," he said, his one hand smoothing down his uniform while the other was still holding up Torben's suspension in the air. The sandy-haired boy was blushing with mortification, wiggling slightly in his hold in an attempt to right himself up.

"Pay attention to your surroundings," Tom reprimanded. While his Occlumency was coming along nicely with regard to his control, an unexpected assault was still up in the air. He'd been a second from simply letting the boy drop down and likely break his neck.

"Tom!" Torben exclaimed with a puzzling amount of enthusiasm. He was craning his neck to get a good look at him, but his position wasn't ideal. Tom grimaced lightly and pulled the boy up to stand, his display of control noticeably astonishing the eaglet

"Amazing! You saved my arse, thanks!" he said, practically glowing. "I was looking for you!"

"Oh?" He had a good twenty centimetres on the short boy, causing Torben to stare up at him. He didn't need to read his thoughts to predict what he said next.

"I succeeded! I can perform the Reducto Curse, so you will teach me now, right? You promised," he added belatedly.

"I did no such thing," he denied, recommencing his walk out of the dungeons.

"Yes, you did!" the spoiled boy insisted, his face scrunching up in confusion and indignation.

"No. I said I would consider it," he corrected. Torben was following along, attempting to keep up with his long strides down the corridor.

"Additionally, you have yet to actually prove to me that you're capable of executing the curse to my preferred standard, so whatever mentorship you have in mind is merely a fantasy."

Torben sputtered momentarily, lowering his head. He looked up then, a determined look entering Torben's eyes as he stepped slightly in front of him, halting his progress.

He narrowed his eyes slightly at the impertinence. Torben's lips thinned at the reaction.

"I will prove it to you. And you will teach me," the boy stated, rather than demanded.

Tom raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.

"We'll see," he said, walking past him. Torben followed.

"When? Now? Where are you going, by the way?" he asked, slightly breathless. Tom supposed his gait was rather brisk, but the number of questions exiting the boy's mouth probably didn't do his lung capacity any favours.

"I'm on my way to detention with Albus. You will join me, and we will get this out of the way," Tom told him simply. Torben faltered.

"Detention?! What did you do?"

"Smacked an insolent child's face into a hard surface, like his parents should've done prior to his departure."

"Oh!" Torben's eyes widened, having seemingly expected a different reason altogether. He then looked at the floor. "Oh..."

Torben's face scrunched up again, confusion settling in.

"...and I'm coming with you? To detention?" He questioned hesitantly, if not rather displeased. "Won't professor Dumbledore have something to say against that? I don't think I'm supposed to be there if I haven't been assigned detention."

"Albus will simply have to wait," Tom stated flatly. Torben looked unsure.

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Torben decided to listen to Tom.

His brother had highly recommended he did so, and he took the advice to heart, but that didn't mean he wanted to attend detention for no reason.

Unfortunately, Tom seemed completely indifferent to his preferences, resulting in him trailing along behind him, on his way to 'Albus.'

When they arrived at the dreaded office of the deputy headmaster and head of Gryffindor house, Tom just walked in.

He just did. He didn't even knock.

Dumbledore was sitting by his desk, having looked up at the arrival of the most brazen Slytherin Torben had never even imagined existed.

"Tom, I do believe a Ravenclaw followed you in," the man noted with airy amusement, his kind blue eyes focusing on Torben, who stood still in the doorway, hesitant and embarrassed.

"Indeed," the Slytherin replied, untroubled.

"I don't remember assigning you detention, my boy," professor Dumbledore spoke to Torben, who scratched at the side of his neck, slightly nervous. He glanced to Tom, but the teen had pulled out a small book and seemed to be skimming whatever was written on the pages. Dumbledore didn't seem to care and was still waiting for an answer.

"…Tom told me to come here," Torben answered after a moment, cautiously blaming Tom for his no-doubt unwelcome presence in his teacher's office at this time in the evening.

Dumbledore let out a hum and they both looked to Tom, who was still absorbed by whatever he was reading. The dark-haired Slytherin didn't react.

"Leave him be, Mr. Nott," his professor told the Ravenclaw, motioning for him to come closer. "We can talk until Tom is finished," he said. Torben slowly did as told, noting that Tom himself had moved to sit on a chair by the window.

"I've found that it's best not to disturb him while he's thinking," the old man remarked, a gentle smile offering a small measure of comfort.

Torben was very confused but tried not to let it shine through too much. Tom's and Dumbledore's… familiarity was surprising and disconcerting to him, and he had the feeling that neither wizard concerned themselves with the image they represented.

Dumbledore was staring at him.

"So, why did he bring you here?" he asked and made eye contact with Torben.

"I want him to teach me… but I need to demonstrate a spell for him first. I ran into him on his way here," Torben explained, to which Dumbledore hummed once again, stroking his beard. His eyes never wavered though.

"Which spell?" he asked Torben.

"The Reducto Curse," Torben answered, confidence entering his voice as knew he'd mastered the spell earlier that day. Surely Professor Dumbledore would be proud.

"As a third-year student, that's outside of your curriculum, isn't it?" the wizard remarked and Torben nodded. Dumbledore didn't make mentions of the appropriateness or Torben's readiness regarding the spell, which the Ravenclaw took as a good sign.

"Did you experience any trouble?" Dumbledore asks him kindly. Torben saw it coming and felt the disappointment fill him.

"I did… I tried to perform the curse before the summer break, but I couldn't. I then met Tom at the quidditch match and he explained to me what I was doing wrong. I asked him if he could replace my mentor, but he said I'd have to prove I could listen to instructions before he'd commit to anything," Torben explained. Dumbledore's brown-grey brows furrowed in thought, his stare intensifying.

"You want him to teach you?" he asked. Torben got the impression that Dumbledore didn't approve. He nodded nonetheless.

"Interesting…" the old Gryffindor murmured pensively. Dumbledore then broke their stare and shifted his attention to Tom, who abruptly slammed his little black book shut, replacing it in whatever inner pocket apparently existed in his robes.

"A spell-dummy, if you would, Albus," Tom requested as he stood, drawing his wand. The Slytherin then took the liberty of rearranging Dumbledore's office without permission, pushing furniture and potted plans out of the way or sticking them to high points on the ceiling. It looked strange and cluttered, yet entirely fitting for the transfiguration teacher's strange personality.

The professor himself seemed only mildly exasperated by both the demand and the display, silently waving his wand in the direction of a closet behind him. After a couple of seconds, a vaguely human-shaped dummy opened the door to the closet and stumbled out by itself, making its eerie way to the middle of the room. Torben noticed that a simple stick seemed attached to its lumpy hand as the dummy entered what he assumed was a suitable duelling position.

It looked short, unthreatening and impressive all at the same time. Its purpose was clear.

"Curse it," Tom ordered him. Dumbledore didn't say anything, apparently happy to observe.

Torben nodded however, determined to prove to Tom that he'd listened – that he'd learned. He would show the older boy that Torben wasn't in over his head, that he could learn more advanced magic if given the right instruction.

He tried to imitate the dummy's position and when he felt comfortable in his stance, he performed the wand movements for the curse.

"Reducto!" he almost shouted, a ragged-looking dark-orange spell he'd seen what felt like hundreds of times now exiting his wand upon command and striking the dummy across the arms and torso, driving a shallow gash into the material of its making. The dummy stitched itself together again after a moment, ready for the next volley of magical brutality.

He straightened slightly and looked to Tom for approval but found only cold eyes with an expectant stare. Didn't he do well enough?

"Again."

Right – of course. Torben refocused and prepared himself to recast the spell. He could do better.

"Reducto!"

Another hit, the gash striking the dummy's legs, penetrating the fabric.

"Again."

"Reducto!"

"Again."

And so he did. He struck the dummy six times without fail, but as he prepared himself to perform for the seventh time, Dumbledore told him to stop. Torben's breath was coming out in short huffs, he noticed, his hands resting on his knees as his vision swam.

"He needs rest," he heard Dumbledore say, disapproval and concern heavy in his tone. He didn't believe he could do it. The concern in the professor's voice made Torben's fingers clench painfully on the fabric of his trousers.

"He will go on," Tom answered uncompromisingly.

"How can you demand that of him? He's only thirteen," Dumbledore questioned sternly. Only thirteen? Only a third-year, only a Ravenclaw, only a boy… He was getting sick of it.

Torben was preparing mentally to stand and leave the room, but Tom's voice cut through his frustration before he could straighten himself out.

"Again," came the harsh demand, and Torben looked up in surprise, noting that the demand had been directed at him.

Tom had moved to the middle of the room, the dummy no-where to be seen. Torben made his way shakily to his feet again and stared with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Dumbledore stood by his desk, but his wand was now in hand. He looked like he intended to use it.

"Tom, that's enough," Dumbledore said once more, and Torben got the feeling that an altercation was right around the corner because Tom didn't budge. The teen looked like he was waiting for him, their professor's disapproval going expertly unheeded.

Torben knew Tom didn't like repeating himself, so he shifted into a dueller's position once more and controlled his breathing. He ignored Dumbledore's murmur of unhappiness behind him, readying himself to do as instructed.

Once again, the purpose was clear.

"Mr Nott –" he heard Dumbledore start again, but Tom cut him off with a sharp glare.

"Stop telling him his limits," Tom spoke coldly, narrow eyes focused on Torben. The expectancy was addictive. Torben couldn't remember the last time someone had this much belief in him.

"Remember what I told you at the stadium," Tom reminded Torben. "You must want it," he emphasized coldly – and of course Torben remembered. It was all he'd been thinking about for days.

Now, all he had to do was do it.

With the remaining strength he could gather, he tensed his grip on his wand and moved through the sharp motions of the spell, fast and determined to prove to Tom that he could be taught. That his potential exceeded those of his peers.

That he wanted it –

– wanted to cut.

"REDUCTO!" he shouted, feeling the remains of his strength course through his body and leaving through his wand, his knees forsaking him as he sunk to the floor immediately after, staring after the cutting light as it zipped towards Tom Riddle. It was, however, promptly deflected effortlessly to the side, striking professor Dumbledore's red armchair instead. The chair got pushed some ten centimetres back, leaving a slight indent of damage clearly visible on the covering.

Torben rested his hands on the cold stone floor, having never felt so powerless in his life.

Weak… Why am I so weak…?

He didn't know how long he'd been supporting himself there when suddenly a hand rested on his shoulder, a small vial pushed under his nose.

"A pepper-up, my boy. Drink," professor Dumbledore told him, his voice sounding a little farther away than what was probable considering the size of the room and the hand on his shoulder.

He quickly decided to down the potion and almost immediately felt the rejuvenating effect it had on his body. He still felt like a wrung-out cloth, but at least his senses weren't so jumbled anymore. He looked to the kneeling deputy headmaster and noticed Tom standing behind him, staring down at him with his customary blank expression.

He didn't look any more impressed than he usually did.

"Well done my boy! I do believe my armchair feels appropriately defeated now," Dumbledore proclaimed joyfully, helping him to his feet. Torben took a moment to cringe, shooting the professor an apologetic look.

"Don't sweat it, Mr Nott. Tom chose to redirect the curse in that direction, not you. I rather suspect it was revenge for setting his wardrobe on fire," Dumbledore said, looking to Tom with amusement that seemed entirely wasted on the snake.

"When did you set his wardrobe on fire?" Torben thought he had to ask. He couldn't not have asked.

"When he wanted to prove the existence of magic to me," Tom answered instead. "Of course, I wasn't particularly surprised, but the display was impressive nonetheless, at the time," the teen continued offhandedly as if to downplay the events he was describing despite Albus' enthusiasm.

Torben swayed a little once again.

"He was far from the easiest visit I'd had to make, introducing young witches and wizards to the magical world. I knew a little levitation wouldn't sway him – no certainly not, a troublesome boy as he's ever been – so I had to do something rather drastic," Dumbledore explained to Torben, as it probably looked like he couldn't follow the conversation. He just couldn't wrap his head around the information.

Suddenly, the background for their strange connection made a lot more sense to him.

He decided to disregard the revelation for now and looked to Tom then, hopefully. Tom seemed to look through his eyes and into his head, spotting the question before he had the chance to voice it.

"Your performance was adequate," he told him, and Torben winced in answer. 'Adequate' didn't sound quite good enough.

"Considering your age, I'm inclined to provide you with a second assignment. Further instruction will depend on your results," Tom told him, tone strict and eyes full of what Torben could only interpret as clear-cut expectations.

"I – uh, thank you…" he told the Slytherin earnestly, choosing not to focus on Dumbledore's worried expression.

For now, it seemed like they had a tentative arrangement.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! I bet some of you are bored during this global crisis we suddenly find ourselves in, so a chapter here and there wouldn't be so bad, right? Here's hoping, anyway.

Feel free to offer recommendations, corrections and experiences in any reviews – I'd appreciate the help!