Diclaimer: Um... the plot is mine, and a lot of other stuff is mine. But the genre this fanfic belongs to isn't, therefore it's J.K Rowling's.

Author's Note: Wow, it's been awhile since I updated. Anyway, here's the second chapter. Whoop-de-doo. School takes a lot out of you, but here. Have fun.

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Chapter 2

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Short and rather on the skinny side, was another first year to the school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, not that it was wrong, but quite alright. It was September 1st, and all the students were back in school; new ones were nervously waiting to be sorted. They wouldn't expect it be a hat that sang and talked that sorted them. But it was. This new student wore his light brown hair in a bowl cut or mushroom cut whatever you prefered. His hazel eyes were wide and curious, he had a look about him that revealed a mystery that hadn't been cracked yet. This eleven year old waited patiently until he heard his name being called by the deputy headmaster, a burly looking man with a thick curly brown hair, Professor Hub as he would come to be called.

"Rider, Wiley."

The boy's head shot up looking at the man that called his name. He staggeredly made his way up there. Head down, though eyes looking through dangling bangs. He took a seat on the stool and the hat was placed on his head. Incredible thoughts for such a young boy... such thoughts belong in one place... in "SLYTHERIN!" The house on the far right of the Great Hall burst into clapping, he was one of the few kids to be sorted into the house so far. He moved over that way. He glanced about the table and sunk into a seat next to his classmates. He didn't join in the chatter he just watched everything else.

And that was that, Wiley Rider became a Slytherin.

Wiley rushed down the corridor, he going to be late! How could he be late! It was Transfiguration his favourite class, or one of them. He really didn't like Professor Dumbledore, it wasn't his fault. Dumbledore had something against Tom, but he couldn't be thinking such thoughts now, he had to make it to class. And there he was stepping into class five seconds late.

The not so young man looked up at the fifth year from behind half-moon spectacles, gentle blue eyes glistened. "Well, Mr. Rider I thought you must be sick today. You're never late for class." And there Wiley saw it, Professor Dumbledore making accusations about him. He was going to ask next where he was that made him late, who he was with that made him.

"Sorry, professor," came his humble reply as he slipped into the seat beside Sonny Duran, a Ravenclaw he had made friends with to a degree; nothing out of classes, mind you. Luckily Dumbledore didn't ask any questions. He went by not noticing that Wiley's shirt collar had been messed up. Sonny didn't notice it either because he just went on with his work like Wiley did.

Wiley rested his cheek on his hand, and began to get deeply interested in the work assigned by Professor Dumbledore, but Wiley was having a terrible time concentrating. He looked up as the Transfiguration professor began to teach them their next lesson.

Yawning a bit, as he came through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, it had an odd feeling of dampness to it, with a dark atmosphere. Wiley looked around to see if Tom had come back from his classes, the head boy wasn't in the common room. Scratching his head a bit, the fifth year slung his book-bag over his shoulder and trekked up the stairs. At first he wandered into his dorm, dropping his things on his bed. He looked around and saw Bryce Dolosus. "Where you going, Rider, going to visit your boyfriend?" was a taunt that most of the boys his age gave him. He was used to it, and the fact that Tom was the most feared student in the school, he was never harmed.

Wiley stared over at Bryce. Bryce could be considered a tough-guy; he was quite muscular and had that tone of authority that little first-years would shiver at. Wiley on the other hand was a scrawny looking kid (he hadn't changed since first year), and could easily be beaten up. Luckily, Tom was around, so he wasn't. "I might, what's it to you?"

His classmate rose from his bed, and strolled over to Wiley. He was quite close to him, and Wiley had to look up to the taller boy. "Because I'm not to fond of poofs in my dorm room," he spat in Wiley's face.

Shoving him away and wiping off the spit in his face, Wiley glared at Bryce, "Go fuck yourself," he spun on his heels, and left Bryce to contemplate that the smaller figure beat the bigger one or something like that. And yes it was in the 1940's meaning one normally didn't use the f word freely. Wiley on the other hand had been known for his choosing of words.

"You write this?" fifth year Tom Riddle approached the then third year Wiley Rider. Tom was a handsome boy and all the girls flocked to him. Yet, he had the peculiar interest in a third year that led to a peculiar relationship. He always stood taller than Wiley, and will always. He was about five and half inches taller than him that year. His brown eyes glinted with no trace of that scarlet that grew worse and worse every year from sixth year on.

The fear on Wiley's face could've been claimed as priceless. "Y-yes," trembling voice marked the fear that Tom Riddle could bring to anyone, a nice trait to have for a future Dark Lord. Wiley couldn't help but stare, he always like Tom, in that non-friend way, if you will.

"It's good," the prefect sat down at the table where Wiley sat. "You're a brave kid to write this kind of stuff." He waved the paper he found. It happened to be one of those stream-of-consciousnesses that was well good? like Tom said.

"T-thanks."

Thundering footsteps brought the fifth year into the empty seventh year dorm. "Tom?" hazel eyes scanned the room for the regal figure on the bed at the far-side of the room. "Tom!" Wiley rushed over to where his 'boyfriend' was. He was a bit angry at himself, for so freely allowing the whole relationship to be not so well hidden. Tom was definitely going to be angry.

He looked over with his life-draining eyes, "What do you want, Wile?" he sat up. The book was shut, and he shifted his body over to the other side of the bed for Wiley to settle himself next to him. A hand was brought to his face, and stroked the younger boy's cheek with a thumb. "What's wrong?"

Deep breathing was the factor that brought up Tom's questioning; Wiley leaned a bit into the hand. The strength of the older boy through the one hand was reassuring to him. Tom was his reassurance he didn't normally get. He didn't talk, he didn't want to and if he did explain what had happened Tom would go storming out to harm Bryce. He crawled up the bed to snuggle into Tom, who wrapped his arm over the smaller boy's shoulders. Tom was protective, something Wiley enjoyed about him. Wiley was about to close his eyes, when he realized that room was empty. "Tom," he began in a whisper, "where's everyone else?"

The older boy hadn't noticed or he did when it was empty at first, then got used to it. "Off somewhere, probably down at the library, or wandering the hallways," the free hand waved about showing he didn't really care.

A small smile cracked the normal placid face of Wiley's, "In other words, you kicked them out?" The smirk on Tom's face only left room for a yes that wouldn't be sounded from the head boy. "Knew I was coming, didn't you?" And that was yet another rhetorical question that was met by a gentle kiss planted on the younger boy's forehead.

"You always come, darling."

You call my name

And I'll be there

I'll call your's

And you'll come running

You are mine

As I am your's

Don't leave my arms

I'll never let go

Wiley had written that in his writing journal during the summer of his fourth year when the relationship between he and Tom Riddle sprouted. It was an odd match, and he knew it, but there was something about the two that they both needed each other for protection. Tom was vulnerable and Wiley knew it.

Wiley pulled back from the kiss, "Mm…" he grinned, looking into the brown, scarlet speckled eyes of Tom. "They're not coming back are they?" he asked, questioning the darkened sky outside.

Tom, who hardly talked, only smirked, picking up his wand from the side-table and made the curtains around his four-poster bed surround them. "They'll come," and on a side note, he added, "later." He put a finger under the young boy's chin, bringing the boy closer, he kissed him again. "Don't worry," was the cajoling voice, and he muttered a silencing spell. It'd be silent to everyone but them.

Wiley looked at him, and grinned. "I'm tired," he pecked the older boy's lips and cuddled into Tom.