"I know him well."
That was what Abraxas Malfoy liked to say about his friend.
In fact, he could say he was the only person in the world who knew Tom Riddle so well.
It was he who understood and knew how to read every little gesture of Tom.
A pause in the furious scratching of Tom's quill and a barely inaudible inhale; Abraxas was already sliding him his expensive inkwell without even taking his eyes off Professor Binns' chalkboard.
Slightly flared nostrils; Abraxas was asking him what had upset him.
Exhaustion in his voice; Abraxas came prepared with dinner wrapped in a kerchief for his friend who often forgot to eat.
It was he and Tom who would go on late-night walks as prefect patrols. It was he and Tom who would have late-night talks about their ambitions, fears, families in their beds.
It was only he who was mentioned in Tom's plans after Hogwarts.
It was then that Abraxas found that Tom was the true heir of Slytherin. Abraxas knew Tom was nervous. It was all there. His usual sign of shallow breathing was audible in the dark.
Abraxas told him he would be glad to be an accessory to his murder.
He was perhaps the only one who got a glimpse into Tom's childhood. His grey days in the orphanage. Always cold. Always starving.
Which is why before their final year at Hogwarts Abraxas was happy to extend an invitation to Tom to spend some time at his manor over the summer.
Tom gracefully accepted his offer.
It was he who taught Tom how to waltz in preparation for the Malfoy Manor Ball.
It was very often that people asked him about Tom. Perhaps, even his family asked him more about Tom than their own son.
For years, Abraxas would respond with a proud grin.
Abraxas. The closest friend of the Tom Riddle Jr.
Definitely a prodigy.
Probably the most intriguing man to have existed in human history.
Most likely to change the world as they knew it.
So why is it, that when others asked him what Tom has been up to, Abraxas did not have an answer?
Why is it that he did not know how to get in touch with his dearest friend?
Why is it that weeks, months went by without Tom reaching out to him?
He did not like the recent look his family and friends had been giving him when all he could do was shrug in response.
—–
Abraxas froze. The knife froze from cutting his steak. "Say that again?" His voice sounded distant as if belonging to a different man.
Orion Black curiously glanced up from his plate. "Borgin and Burke's," he smiled. "Just met him there last week."
Canopus Lestrange, choked into his flute of champagne. He dabbed his lips with a napkin and after composing himself, he asked the million-dollar question. "What the hell is he doing there?"
Canopus leaned over the table towards Orion. "Just to be clear, we are talking about the same Tom Riddle? The one who could have been the bloody Minister of Magic straight out of Hogwarts?"
Orion shrugged, rolling the potato with his fork. "That's what I thought. He said something about gaining experience."
"Experience my arse," Canopus rolled his eyes. "You hearing this, Abraxas?"
But nothing was registering in the mind of Abraxas Malfoy. His furrowed gaze was searing into the steak, ready to burn a hole.
"Hey, Abraxas?" a gentle nudge to his arm brought his senses back.
Abraxas dabbed his lips with a napkin and stood up. "Excuse me gents," he left without even an excuse, shaking.
Orion was not even in the same year as him.
—–
Abraxas gasped.
He shifted his opera glasses from the singer of Madame Butterfly, who was brilliant but not enough to keep his attention, and swerved it to the right.
Abraxas could not believe his eyes.
There he was.
His dearest friend was sitting in a rather nice seat at the front, fashioning a tailored tuxedo.
He barely maintained any hints of his former self. His youthful, curved cheeks had diminished to reveal a strong mature jaw. The bags underneath his eyes had darkened more than before. His taste was more refined; he had learned to be subtle.
A soft smile returned to Abraxas' lips when he realised, however, that Tom still combed his hair immaculately to the side.
Just then, Tom winced. Abraxas leaned forward in his seat. Despite his reluctance to admit it, his concern for his friend was still in his nature.
But no, Tom was not in pain. He had shed a tear. Abraxas had never seen Tom cry. The single tear slowly inched its way down his high cheekbones, creating a luminescent trail. His gaze transfixed as if Rigoletto himself was serenading him.
The rising orchestra brought him out of his trance. Abraxas recognised this to be the approaching finale: Suzuki's seppuku following relinquishing her son to his American father and his new wife.
If he were going to cherish this moment of seeing him, even from afar, he was going to burn the features of Tom Riddle to the back of his eyelids.
Tom leaned over to his left, whispering to a woman. A plump wealthy woman who seemed far too old for Tom, wearing nothing but pink. His head was so close to her's. She giggled.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐨𝐦'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞.
He was so close to him. The closest he has been in the past year.
𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐠𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧.
Yet, he was so out of reach from his box seat on the third floor.
𝐓𝐨𝐦'𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐱𝐚𝐬' 𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐡. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬.
Abraxas' grip on the opera glasses tightened, his knuckles whitening.
𝐓𝐨𝐦'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𝐄𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐳 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫.
If only he would shift his eyes to the left away from the stage, he would easily spot Abraxas.
𝐘𝐞𝐭, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐱𝐚𝐬' 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲. 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧.
Sitting in the box seat, waiting, agonising, pleading, to turn his head.
𝐆𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠.
Yet, Tom's eyes remained set on the baritone singer.
𝐓𝐨𝐦'𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐱𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐞.
Tears started to well in the corners of Abraxas' eyes. Abraxas clenched his teeth and pressed the opera glasses harder to his face.
𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐬. 𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬.
Tears freely poured out of his eyes. His tears were salty and bitter.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡. 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐝.
When would he see him again?
𝐃𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜.
Abraxas' breathing shallowed and quickened. His chest heaving to maintain control that he was rapidly losing.
𝐎𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐨 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞.
Would he ever see him again?
𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐩 𝐀𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐱𝐚𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐡 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥.
Within the past year, Tom had travelled so far from him.
So far, he had left his friend behind.
𝐓𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐠𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤.
Tom had changed. At a cost.
Whether Tom was aware of that, or cared, Abraxas wasn't sure.
𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤, 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞.
And Abraxas desperately needed that back. His body trembled. His skin longed for it.
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
He was perhaps done with the chapter of his life that included Abraxas Malfoy.
𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.
His breath hitched in his lungs. A shiver ran down his spine.
Abraxas brought down his opera glasses from his tear-stained cheeks.
Tom Riddle had turned his head.
His cool gaze immediately settled on Abraxas' desperate eyes as they deliberately left the stage. Unyielding.
Abraxas furrowed.
He knew that look.
It was the same expression Tom had worn on the night the girl died.
A confident, tense look. A knowing look that he was committing a sin.
A confession. A conviction.
A look challenging you to stop him.
Knowing full well that Abraxas was not able to.
Tom wouldn't.
He would never go that far.
That far from him.
Abraxas bit his lip and raised his brows, pleading Tom.
Begging him not to go somewhere he cannot follow.
Roars of applause and cheers echoed, signalling the end.
Tom tore his gaze away.
And within the blurs of leaving crowds, Tom Riddle's ghost disappeared.
That parting look was, indeed, the last time Abraxas was to ever see Tom Riddle Jr.
The Daily Prophet's front page, two days later, betrayed his hopes.
Perhaps, Abraxas Malfoy did not know Tom Marvolo Riddle after all.
A/N: Thanks for reading. Inspired by Portrait of a Lady on Fire, which is a French love story between a female artist and a soon wife-to-be. I tried recreating flashes of youthful memories, the feeling of spending years growing close to Tom, interspaced with the current bitterness. Let me know if it worked, or if it was hard to read. Also, just in case, the pink plump woman is Hepzibah Smith, whom Tom murdered two days later to steal her heirloom: Cup of Helga Hufflepuff.