Chapter 1:

"Harry! No no no no no! No, don't close your eyes! Harry! HARRY!"

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Sorry, Ginny… Too hard to keep them open.

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"Merlin, no, Harry, please! This is all my fault! I'm so sorry! Please wake up!

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Don't blame you… Voldemort's fault, not… yours.

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"The tears worked, didn't they? The wound is closed, so why aren't you waking up?! Harry, please, WAKE UP!"

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Venom… most deadly kind there is. Too much… in my system.

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"Ron! Ron, he's not breathing! Harry! HARRY!"

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"Well, well, it appears that we are now in this together, Harry Potter."

OoooOoooO

Harry Potter's eyelids slowly fluttered open as the sun's rays poured into the room that he found himself in. For a few seconds he wondered if he had died, but such thoughts vanished the moment he realized that he was back under Madam Pomfrey's tender care. Merlin knew he'd been a patient enough times to recognize the omnipresent scent of various medicinal herbs and potions, and that was without his near daily visits to Hermione since she'd been petrified a month prior. The Hogwarts Hospital Wing was practically Harry's second dorm at this point. Madam Pomfrey wasn't the best roommate by traditional standards, but she wasn't that bad given the circumstances.

"Guess she saved my life once again," Harry muttered quietly, his voice hoarse and scratchy from disuse. Merlin, just how long had he been asleep?

"It's not me you have to thank this time, Mister Potter," Madam Pomfrey declared as she stepped out of her office. "I've done a lot for you since you were brought into my care two weeks ago, but by then your life had already been saved. I admit that I did not believe it at the time, but I was wrong."

Two weeks? Damn, new record… "Who saved me?"

Madam Pomfrey's wand was awhirl as she cast a series of diagnostic spells on him. "The Headmaster's phoenix if Miss Weasley is to be believed, which she is since phoenix tears were the only substance keeping the basilisk venom from reaching your heart."

"Fawkes saved me with his tears?" Harry asked, slightly in awe of the legendary creature and all that he accomplished in the chamber.

"Apparently so," the healer murmured, her quill moving a mile a minute as she jotted down notes on his condition. "That bird is also the one that carried yourself and the two youngest Weasley siblings here. Had he not done so in such a swift fashion you very well may have lost your arm."

Pomfrey's slight gesture towards his right arm was all that was needed to pull his attention towards the perpetual, burning pain that extended from the tips of his fingers all the way up to his shoulder and even into his chest. There were still numerous bandages around the exact location where the damned snake had impaled him, but more noticeable than anything else was the black veins that stuck out against his pale, wiry frame.

"Fucking hell…" It was a testament to how messed up the right side of his body really was that the matron did not immediately chide him for his language.

Gentle was not a word many would use to describe Poppy Pomfrey. Few doubted that she was incapable of being gentle should the situation call for it, but more often than not Madam Pomfrey was the type of woman that offered her patients a lecture rather than commiseration. The comely matron had an acerbic tongue like no other, but no one would dream of accusing her of not being good at her job. Harry was rightfully shocked when the matron of Hogwarts spoke softly as she took a seat at the foot of the bed.

"I tried everything I could think of that might help, Mister Potter. I spoke with half a dozen specialists over the last few weeks, and the headmaster owled many more. No one had any clue how to reverse the damage."

Harry couldn't bring himself to respond to the healer's explanation. His focus was riveted on the scarred, unnatural appearance of his right arm. In another life he could have seen himself coming to appreciate the unique aesthetic value that it offered, but the fact remained that his arm was clearly damaged. It was wrong.

"Basilisks are incredibly rare creatures born from powerful, dark magic," Pomfrey continued, her tone still quiet and placid. "There are no case studies on how to treat the venom since the mortality rate is so high. You are one of only six people that are known to have survived a bite from a basilisk, and four of those individuals were bitten by newborns in a controlled environment. The size and age of the beast that bit you combined with the effects of the phoenix tears… Your arm is now almost as much of a magical wonder as the scar on your head."

That proclamation successfully pulled Harry from his reverie. "What? How? Isn't it just curse damage? I know dark magic doesn't heal very well. Isn't this the same thing?"

"No, Harry, it's not," Pomfrey said, sadly. "Neither I nor any other expert can explain how, but there is still basilisk venom flowing through your darkened veins."

Harry stared at the witch, utterly dumbfounded. "You're kidding, right?"

"I wish I was, Mister Potter. It's a phenomenon I cannot truly explain."

"How in the bloody hell am I alive then?" Harry exclaimed, his heart pounding loudly in his own ears.

"Ah, the answer to that question, Harry, is magic. Though I imagine such a reply is not a very satisfying response at this time."

Harry turned to the new speaker and saw Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway. The white-haired man was dressed in resplendent, periwinkle robes that always appeared in danger of dragging on the ground but never quite doing so.

"Ah, Headmaster. Perfect timing." Madam Pomfrey rose from the bed, padding nonexistent wrinkles out of her uniform. "I have to grab a specific tonic that we keep locked away in Severus' stores. Do keep an eye on my patient for me, please. Since you are already here and more qualified than I on phoenixes, perhaps you will be able to provide some measure of consolation for the boy."

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling through his signature half-moon spectacles. "It would be my pleasure, Poppy. I was just about ask your permission to speak with Harry privately anyway."

"Very well," Madam Pomfrey said, nodding sharply. "But when I return this boy is going back to sleep whether you two are done talking or not. Do I make myself clear?"

Dumbledore smiled congenially at the woman. "Absolutely, he is your patient after all."

Harry felt a small weight fall off his shoulders as he observed the byplay between the laid-back Headmaster and the return of the stern Matron. There was a sense of normalcy to watching them. The phenomenon that was his royally fucked up arm felt a tiny bit less important in the face of the world's continuation.

Dumbledore watched the door close behind the matron before turning to Harry, a warm smile present on his face as he looked down on him through the same half-moon glasses he always wore. "How are you feeling, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

"Like sh- I mean, not too well, sir," Harry said, catching himself before he started speaking profanely in front of the most esteemed wizard in Britain.

Dumbledore hummed as he stood at the foot of Harrys bed. "That is to be expected given the ordeals you went through. While many of the details still elude me, the testimonies of Ronald and Ginevra have provided a rough picture of what took place within the Chamber."

Harry wasn't necessarily looking forward to that recounting, but he knew it needed to happen sooner rather than later. The events from the moment they'd discovered the crumbled paper in Hermione's hand down to when Harry had plunged the basilisk fang into Tom Riddle's diary… it had been a very hectic night, and not all of it made sense to him.

"And my arm?" Harry pressed, seeking any bit of clarification he could on the newest change to his person. Never mind that focusing on the present allowed him to not ruminate on how many times he'd almost died when last he was conscious.

Dumbledore chuckled though there was little humor in it. "I wish I had more to offer beyond saying it was magic, Harry."

"Sorry, Professor Dumbledore, but that really isn't enough to explain this," Harry said, awkwardly drawing attention to his bandaged arm by flopping it in place.

Dumbledore took a seat on the bed adjacent to Harry's own and smiled warmly. "Truth be told, Harry, we're not exactly certain as to how your arm achieved its current state."

"I know, Madam Pomfrey said as much… but surely you have some sort of explanation? Even a half-baked one?" Harry asked, practically pleading with the wizened man for answers. Surely if there was anyone who would have answers then it'd be Albus Dumbledore! The man was practically unrivaled when it came to magic.

"I have many theories, Harry, but they are impossible to test or prove at this juncture."

Harry sighed forlornly. "A guess then, please?" He would take anything he could get. Some measure of understanding to alleviate the confusion and fear he felt welling within him. The perpetual burning, the black he kept seeing out of the corner of his eye. He needed to know why.

"Very well," Dumbledore acquiesced, lightly rubbing his beard. "Before I begin, I beg you to please bear in mind that this is nothing more than a theory."

Harry nodded at the old man to continue, loath to interrupt the explanation before it could even begin.

"First of all," The aged headmaster began, "you must know that the tears of a phoenix, while powerful, are not omnipotent. There are many types of physical injuries and maladies for which phoenix tears can do absolutely nothing for."

Harry started tracing the now prominent veins that went up his arm. "Then how am I still alive?"

"I believe that the phoenix tears Fawkes shed into your wound acted as a neutralizing agent for much of the venom," Dumbledore continued. Harry did not know much about the subject of alchemy, but he was starting to understand why Dumbledore was one of the foremost experts on the subject.

"But not all of it?"

"Indeed, not all of it. The potency of a basilisk's venom increases with its age, and the beast you battled was very, very old. Fawkes' tears could only accomplish so much."

"I think I owe Fawkes some treats, Professor," Harry said, the quip sounding hollow even to his ears.

Dumbledore chuckled lightly. "I believe he is very fond of candied fruits, should you come across some."

"I'll have to remember as much," Harry muttered, his eyes still riveted on the evidence of the blackened blood that flowed through his veins. "What happened to the rest of the venom though? I thought almost any amount of basilisk venom could prove fatal?" The chapter of the book that Hermione discovered had gone into a great amount of detail on the king of serpents. Due to being an artificial creature, the basilisk didn't have the same level of renown as a Nundu, but between its eyes and its venom many considered it the deadliest magical creature in existence. And I fought one with a sword and a couple of dueling spells… Merlin, I'm thick.

"That is the great mystery, Harry," Dumbledore said, his hands animatedly keeping up with his words as he raised them aloft in a shrug. "A question that is puzzling to everyone that has reviewed your condition. I myself believe that somehow your body adapted to the poisonous substance rather than succumb to it. Magical evolution, as it were."

An expert on anything magical Harry was not, but even with his limited knowledge that wasn't a very satisfactory answer. From what little he knew about evolution it did not rapidly happen as a reaction to trauma. "So, my blood is now what, venomous?"

"Yes, it is," Dumbledore said plainly, as if was the obvious answer to a normal question. "The strange mixture that is now your blood is not as potent as actual basilisk venom, but it is still poisonous to such a degree that I fear for any creature that should try to bite you going forward."

Harry almost laughed at the quip, but the state of shock overrode any such instinct. "That sounds impossible," he said quietly, struggling to process how his body accomplished such a feat seemingly all on its own. No matter how he looked at it, it didn't make sense. Then again, the scar on his forehead didn't make sense either.

"Ah, I have learned that there are few things that are truly impossible when it comes to magic Harry," Dumbledore said, sagely, a small smirk playing at his lips. "The catalyst for your specific phenomenon remains unknown to us, but as is clearly evident, it was not impossible."

"Sir, could it be related to the protection my mum left on me?" That mysterious protection was the only explanation Harry could think of. It was the only aspect of himself that would set him apart from others. It had allowed him to survive as a toddler; it allowed him to burn a man to ash with his bare hands; maybe it was the reason his body integrated basilisk blood as well.

Dumbledore hummed in consideration. "I admit Harry, the thought also crossed my mind."

Harry could practically hear the unspoken word. "But?"

"But I do not believe your mother's protection is the cause behind your miraculous survival," Dumbledore finished firmly. "Not in this instance."

"Any particular reason?" Harry was trying to stay polite, but the lack of answers surrounding his own survival was becoming an unfortunately common trend.

"Just the hunch of an old man, my boy."

That answer wasn't enough for Harry, not by a longshot. The troubled teen took a deep breath and clenched the sheets with his unmarred arm. Though he greatly wished otherwise, for now the lack of answers would have to do. He had his fair share of issues with the aged headmaster, but the man hadn't yet given Harry any reason to doubt his magical knowledge, and he couldn't imagine any other reason that would warrant secrecy. Dumbledore wasn't perfect, but Harry felt that he could trust him at that moment.

"Are we going to speak about what happened in the Chamber now or later?" Harry suddenly asked, looking to change the topic. If he couldn't get answers then he wanted to just move on as best as he could. A distraction serviced him in that regard better than most things. Never mind the fact that he actually wanted to go over the events that had transpired.

"Later would be for the best," Dumbledore said, rising from his place on the bed. "Madam Pomfrey will return shortly, I imagine, and I would hate for our conversation to be cut short."

"Tomorrow then?" Harry pressed. His conversation with the school age version of Voldemort had been interesting to say the least. Dumbledore had known Tom Marvolo Riddle personally. Harry needed to speak with aged headmaster.

"As long as Madam Pomfrey has given you permission to leave the hospital wing, then yes, tomorrow evening would work well."

Harry could wait one day. "See you then, sir."

"Rest well, Harry."

Madam Pomfrey still had not returned as Dumbledore exited the room, a fact that pleased Harry as he had a few brief moments to himself before the matron hoisted some manner of sleeping draught onto him. Never mind that he had been out cold for 14 days straight, apparently more sleep was required of him. The dark-haired teen barely paid any mind to the numerous cards and sweets that had been gifted to him by his friends. His attention kept getting drawn back towards the unnatural appearance of his right arm.

"As if people didn't stare at me enough already," he muttered despondently. Being the center of attention had never been comfortable for him and this new feature certainly wouldn't help in such regard. The one saving grace he was holding onto was that most of the student body was likely ignorant of the details as to what exactly had transpired. In his first year everybody had known that there had been some manner of altercation between himself and Professor Quirrell, but no one knew that it involved Voldemort or the Philosopher's Stone, nor did they realize that Harry had been forced to kill a man at age fourteen.

Ignorance is bliss, I suppose, Harry thought to himself as lay back down, his eyes flickering between the all too familiar ceiling and his very unfamiliar arm. They'll probably all know that I fought a basilisk, though they'll assume a small one or maybe some other kind of magical serpent. Maybe word will get around that it was a dark artifact that caused everything? The rumor mill is impossible to predict. I guess I'll just find out tomorrow.

As Harry sat around waiting for Madam Pomfrey's return, he happily took note of the fact that he was the sole occupant of the hospital wing. The beds of all the petrified students, including Hermione's, were empty. Harry and Ron had visited Hermione every day that she had spent petrified, a month straight of sitting awkwardly next to a statue and hoping for a miracle. Harry wondered if his friends had done the same for him. Probably so, given their past behavior. Harry smiled widely, probably looking like an absolute fool. Merlin, they really were a sentimental lot, weren't they?

Harry chose to lay down while he waited and much to his surprise a deep-seated weariness settled over him. Damn woman, Harry thought tiredly, probably has the beds enchanted. Rather than fight his flittering eyelids, he chose to succumb to his body's desires. The instant he closed his eyes the world of dreams had claimed him once more.

OoooOoooO

"Hey there, Tom, we weren't sure you were going to make it."

Tom Riddle stepped into the compartment that his friends and fellow third year Slytherins had already chosen to occupy with his head held high. "As if I, of all people, would miss the opportunity to return to Hogwarts," he said, a small smirk complimenting his handsome features. "Thanks to the bombings, muggle travel times have become impossible to predict, so I admit that I was running a bit behind schedule."

"I know we were reading about the bombings in the paper all last term," Marcus Avery spoke up from his place in the corner, "but until I returned to one of my family's homes in London to see the damage for myself it hadn't really sunk in..."

Tom could relate to that more than he let on. Even he had become numb to the articles discussing the widespread destruction and he had been raised in the muggle society; he was well aware of what muggles were capable of. The written word could never compare to seeing something in person. The crumbled brick and devasted buildings that made up his homeland were almost indescribable.

"Was your home damaged?" Emily Rosier asked, looking up from her journal long enough to grace Tom with a cute smile visible through the long blonde hair that framed her face as she patted the seat next to her.

"Fortunately, it was not," Marcus replied. "Parts of the grounds were fairly scuffed, but the wards protected our home well enough." The sandy haired teen trailed off for a moment. "I will tell you though, neither of my parents said so much as a single negative word about muggles while I was home."

Inwardly, Tom smiled in spite of himself. He was by no means a fan of the muggles, vastly preferring the wonders of magic to anything technology had to offer, but the dismissive attitude the magical world displayed was a mistake in his mind. Somehow, the first world war and the damages it wrought had not been enough to open any eyes, but it was apparent that the second world war was proving more fruitful in such regards.

"I'm in the same boat," Elliot Mulciber said, the tall teen sitting up even straighter as everyone listened to him. "Normally my father would make snide comments about muggles every single day, but this summer all he would talk about was how bloody dangerous they were. And it wasn't as if he was making light of them, he actually seemed nervous at times."

"And to think, our parents laughed when it was revealed that Grindelwald was behind the escalating muggle tensions," Sophia Lestrange chimed in, her tone derisive. "Couldn't see beyond their own arrogant noses long enough to realize the man's plan was worthwhile."

"To be fair, we thought he was crazy too," Elliot countered neutrally

A haughty, scornful laugh escaped the girl's lips. "Honestly, Elliot, who raised us? Who taught us how to think and behave? It's no wonder we almost ended up as fools ourselves after being raised by them." Sophia's acid tongue never missed a beat, especially not when she turned her ire towards those whom she thought should be better than what they displayed. "Regardless of who wins this war, I think the world will be better off for it. Either Grindelwald wins and a competent leader is in charge, or he loses, and the fools of our world will have been forced to change in order to achieve their victory."

"That's a surprisingly optimistic outlook coming from you," Tom teased, taking the offered seat next to the petite blonde. He actually quite agreed with Sophia's outlook. War would always breed change, that was an immutable fact of life. If you asked Tom, the magical world was long overdue for some change.

The pale, dark haired girl raised an eyebrow at him in return. "Weren't you the one that taught me that optimism and confidence go hand in hand?"

"Touché," Tom said, laughing lightly, "I'm glad to see that lesson stuck." The image of Sophia's naked body splayed about atop his sheets came unbidden to his mind. Given the smirk playing on Sophia's lips, Tom would guess she had recalled the same experience.

Being in Slytherin House as a wizard of unknown descent was difficult, to say the least. Tom rightfully considered himself to be intelligent, gifted with magic, and attractive, yet even he had faced considerable hurdles in carving himself out a place within the esteemed House. There was still much work to be done, and every day was a challenge to reach for the top as no one else had. Almost everyone in his House wished to see him fail for one reason or another, but Tom had sworn that he would step over their broken bodies to prove if necessary. He would show the world who he was without fail. Success was a foregone conclusion, he just needed to make it happen.

Tom Riddle, the one whom no one had ever heard of before his name was called in the Great Hall, currently sat in a compartment surrounded by pure-bloods, three of which belonged to families that were a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and yet he was the one they all deferred to. Emily Rosier, the second daughter of the Rosier's main family line, was clever and had realized rather quickly that he was different from the other students in the school. Marcus Avery, second son of the Avery family, had observed from a distance before making the calculated but risky decision to go all in on the boy with no name. Elliot Mulciber, third son of the Mulciber family, had mistakenly turned towards violence in order to put the presumed 'upstart mud-blood' in his place; he paid for his folly with five nights in the hospital wing. Once Elliot had been shown the error of his ways, there was never a more loyal individual. Then there was Sophia Lestrange, first daughter of the Lestrange branch family, though still third in line for the head seat of the main family. The beautiful, brilliant girl that would have been considered a star had there not been someone else who shone even more brightly. Even after almost two years of begrudging respect and mutual attraction, Tom had not anticipated their slowly mounting rivalry to find its culmination in the bedroom, but he had no complaints about the end result. Since then, Sophia had been nothing but an asset to him, and he in turn to her.

Tom's friends were not the heirs to their respective houses, not yet at least, but they were still powerful individuals from influential families. They turned to Tom because in him they saw a future that would take them beyond their current stations. They had placed their trust in him, and he would see it repaid in spades. Someday, the whole world would know his name, and his friends would be there right alongside him.

"In this regard I'd say it's misplaced optimism," Emily added, her soft voice still carrying across the sizable compartment rather easily. "The widespread destruction that muggles can reap onto the world will only grow as their technology continues to advance. The magical communities of the world must put a stop to them before it's too late. Grindelwald is the only one willing to do that."

Tom was not surprised that Emily would hold such views. The group of friends had all discussed their respective opinions in great detail, and their discussions had proven that Emily was inarguably Grindelwald's greatest present supporter. Most would assume it was because her cousin was a lieutenant in Grindelwald's forces, but anyone who knew Emily would attest to the fact that the girl's thoughts were her own. Rosier women were simply cut from the same cloth.

"While I do understand where Sophia is coming from, I must say that I too hope for Grindelwald's victory," Tom said, twirling his wand between his fingers. "Regardless of the victor, the end result will be better than before, of that I have no doubt," he inclined his head towards Sophia, who sat there with a pensive look on her features. "With that said, take it from someone who has been forced to live among them and learn their history: the muggles will never stop pushing. With every war they wage their explosions will only increase in size; their toxic fumes will become even more deadly. Electricity gave muggles a taste of what was possible and now they will strive forward without a care as to the consequences. Eventually, they will have to be dealt with, so I say the sooner the better."

"Fair point," Sophia muttered, her eyes fixed on the window. A prideful girl, but not so much that she would refuse to admit when she was wrong. Tom appreciated that about her.

Elliot sat there looking ever more confused with each passing second. "Wait a minute, then why did Grindelwald start a muggle war? Surely the number of muggles killed doesn't outweigh the destruction, right? They're bombing half of Europe to bits. Is that worth it?"

"An unfortunate necessity," Marcus replied, glancing up from the book he'd pulled out. "The muggle war not only gives his enemies something else to worry about, but it allows Grindelwald the freedom to move more openly, more brazenly, without immediately risking the Statute of Secrecy falling apart. With the war going on, it gives the Veil even more explanations to work with."

The Veil truly was Tom's favorite example of magic. A permanent, self-maintaining, ever evolving illusion placed over every single muggle on Earth that forced them to rationalize any magic they saw. A brilliant and unrivaled work of magic, the complexity of which Tom could barely imagine. Tom was not the type of person to be intimidated by such lofty achievements, however, instead they were benchmarks that he sought to surpass.

"I guess that makes sense?" Elliot said, still clearly trying to wrap his head around the rationale.

Tom doubted that Elliot had genuinely grasped the reasons behind Grindelwald's actions, but that was okay, he didn't have to. Elliot was the type of person that was always destined to follow orders rather than issue them. A solider need only understand the what, not the why. The youngest Mulciber son was more than capable in his own right, but even he would be the first to admit that he was not of the intellectual variety.

The door to their compartment suddenly being slammed open pulled everyone's attention to the girl that practically demanded it from them. Cassiopeia Black was considered by many to be the best witch in her year. Devilishly pretty, extremely talented with a wand, and a consummate Slytherin to top it off. Tom would have held the girl in high esteem were she not such a blatant blood purist. Toujours Pur was her family's motto, and she stuck by it rather ardently. Riddle was not a known pure-blood name, and so Tom had immediately gained a great degree of ire from the otherwise brilliant witch. If the girl knew of the suspicions Tom had about his lineage, then she would not be so quick to cast stones, but that was a secret best kept to himself until confirmed beyond all doubt.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Cassiopeia?" To those that knew Tom well, the flattery was obviously just another attempt at manipulation. Fortunately for Tom, very few truly knew him well.

Cassiopeia glanced at Tom but deigned not to respond to him directly, instead she gestured to the perfectly polished Prefect badge that decorated the front of her robes. "Professor Slughorn asked the prefects to inform all Slytherins that they should exercise even more caution than usual this year."

"The war, I presume?" Tom asked, deliberately making eye-contact with the older girl. He knew it would bother her, and that was precisely why he did it. The lack of response beyond a slight narrowing of the eyes was surprising though. Tom knew his reputation within the House had continued to grow after the scene he was forced to be involved in at the end of the previous term, but he hadn't expected Cassiopeia Black of all people to be cowed by such a display.

Perhaps Slughorn is behind the change in her disposition? Tom mused. Even a daughter of House Black can't afford to overlook his connections, and I am one of his favorites after all. Tom owed much to the portly professor. Horace Slughorn was frequently castigated by fools due to his formation of the 'Slug Club,' but he was an unrivaled networker and thus an unrivaled resource. Professor Slughorn cared only for connections, building them, maintaining them, and benefitting from them. A tried-and-true system that the man had mastered in the decade that he'd been a teacher. The fact that the man cared not a whit for blood status or financial standing was the cherry on top; though it certainly didn't hurt that he was also both brilliant at potions and a skilled teacher to boot. Tom knew that Horace saw him as a resource and the feeling was certainly mutual, but even then, Tom still considered the man to be his favorite professor in the school.

"Yes, the war," Cassiopeia bit out. "Tensions have continued to rise, and as they do so more fools are conflating our House with the ideologies that Grindelwald espouses. Personal opinions aside, Slytherin House will not make any public declarations one way or another. To mitigate the misunderstandings, we will endeavor to not draw undue attention to ourselves. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Tom said with a smirk. Again, Cassiopeia chose not to respond to what would have once been deemed disrespect by the arrogant girl. Clearly, something had changed over the summer, and Tom was very curious as to what the cause was. The prefect simply accepted Tom's words as affirmation from the group, nodded sharply, then turned to leave. Tom was about to dismiss her physical presence from his mind when he noticed that she hadn't reached forward to slide open the door, her body still facing half of the compartment. Her eyes were riveted on the floor, but her mind was apparently focused elsewhere.

"Was there something else, Miss Black?" Tom asked, his eyes narrowing in consternation as he examined the attractive prefect. The normally decisive woman was biting her lip, indecision coloring every expression. Is that a hint of concern I see? The odd display had even managed to pull Emily's undivided attention, a rather rare feat. Cassiopeia took a deep breath and clenched her fists before turning to look Tom in the eyes. The fiery temperament had returned in an instant.

"I need your help, Riddle."

Oh, this is going to be interesting. "Is that so? A surprise to be sure, but please, take a seat," Tom said, gesturing to the empty place across from him that had just been vacated by Elliot. Tom did not try to hide the grin on his face as Cassiopeia swallowed her vaunted pride in front of him. This was a memory he would hold dear for quite some time. He couldn't even begin to guess why the normally conniving Slytherin had chosen to be so direct, but by the gods he was going to enjoy it.

Tom relished in the discomfort Cassiopeia so obviously felt. Whatever her reasons for doing so, her choice to ask him of all people for assistance was so far outside the girl's comfort zone that it beggared belief. "Now that we're both comfortable," Tom said, a hint of condescension laced in every word, "please inform me how I may be of assistance to you." The small smirks worn by all of his friends were of even greater pleasure to him, it simply wouldn't do if he were the only one having a good time. His friends had faced a fair degree of scrutiny since tying themselves to him, and it was all too satisfying to prove that their trust was not misplaced.

Almost thirty seconds passed before the Black daughter managed to finally speak. "It's about my younger sister," her words were strained but forcibly polite. Tom could see how her nails dug into her palms further with each ground out syllable.

"Dorea Black, first year. I am aware of her." Tom had the genealogies of every major pure-blood family in Britain memorized completely. Information was always an extremely valuable resource.

"Dorea will be a Slytherin, of that I have no doubt," Pride entered her voice the moment she spoke of her younger sister before it was overshadowed by a mixture of shame and concern, the emotions warring against each other as she turned to the scorned, nameless pariah for help. "But, with everything going on she's not prepared," Cassiopeia continued. "There are too many students within Hogwarts with families involved in the war."

"And as you said earlier, tensions are high," Tom finished for her.

Cassiopeia nodded slightly. "The rumors that abound do my family no favors right now, not in this nation."

Tom's slight chuckle echoed the unbridled sardonic laugher emanating from Sophia. "Right, the 'rumors' that your uncle, Sirius Black II, is the one leading Grindelwald's rebel faction in Britain?" He asked, confident in the answer without even needing to hear it. Everyone in their compartment was very well aware that the rumors were factual, but Cassiopeia's insistence otherwise was amusing all the same.

"Yes, rumors," Cassiopeia maintained, her attempt at stoicism marred by her near palpable worry. "Rumors that many have taken to heart without so much as a shred of evidence. My sister is ill-equipped to handle the conflict that may likely come her way as a result of such heightened emotions and incorrect assumptions."

"A Black daughter who is unable to defend herself?" Marcus remarked, the disbelief in his voice apparent. "How did that happen?" Marcus' question was a valid one. The Blacks were one of the oldest and most respected Houses in Britain, and many would argue that they were also the most feared. It was far beyond the norm for one of their children from the main line to not know spells intended for self-defense.

Cassiopeia's eyes never left Tom's even as she answered Marcus' question. "Dorea didn't take well to those kinds of lessons. She's a smart girl, but sometimes that's not enough at Hogwarts. You can attest to as much, right, Riddle?"

Tom did not bother replying, simply allowing his ever-present smirk to speak in place of any words; he felt no need to answer the rhetorical question they both knew the answer to. The apparent demeanor of the younger Black daughter was an interesting detail, one Tom would have to consider the implications of at a later date. "Why come to me, Cassiopeia?" The Slytherin teen could think of a dozen potential answers each with their own degree of plausability, but he wanted to hear an explanation straight from the source.

Though it was almost imperceptible, the slight tensing of her jaw told Tom that she was desperately hoping to avoid this explanation, but that just made him want to hear it that much more. "If you want my help, you will answer my question," Tom stated, the steel underneath the velvet glove finally making its presence known. He was the one in control at that moment and he would not hesitate to wield his authority.

Only a moment had passed before the tension evaporated from Cassiopeia's body. Her composure was not lost, but for the briefest of moments Tom saw genuine desperation paint her features.

"Fine, Riddle," Cassiopeia said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm asking you for help because you're the only student below sixth year that I believe is capable of protecting Dorea in my stead. I need help keeping an eye on her, and you're the only option I have. Does that answer satisfy you?"

Tom would give Cassiopeia a measure of credit, it took a certain degree of honest self-reflection to swallow one's pride. The eldest Black daughter had not looked away from him for a single second, even as his victorious grin mocked her every word. She was truly desperate; the teenaged girl had found herself in a situation that she could not escape from on her own, and in her quest for aid had been forced to turn to one she'd spent years ruthlessly belittling at every opportunity. The irony was so delicious he almost couldn't stand it. Schadenfreude truly is a beautiful thing, he mused. The pleasure he felt from watching Cassiopeia squirm was made far sweeter in the wake of enduring years of her naïve prejudice and derision.

Tom would exploit her desperation for everything it was worth.

"It certainly satisfies me," Sophia muttered, pure glee in her eyes as she watched the eldest daughter of House Black metaphorically prostrate herself before an orphan of unknown blood status. The Lestrange family were almost as pure-blood centric as the Black family, so Sophia had faced a large degree of criticism for aligning herself alongside Tom, a fair amount of it from Cassiopeia personally. Sophia had earned every bit of satisfaction that she was feeling.

"You understand that my aid comes with a price, correct?" Tom said, leaning back in his seat and elegantly crossing his legs. Cassiopeia may have been his elder by two years, a pure-blood heiress, and a prefect to top it all off, but he was the one in control and they both knew it. "Just how much are you willing to pay?"

"Any amount. I'll pay anything," Cassiopeia said firmly. That answer had been instantaneous. She knew his price would be high, and she was willing to pay it all the same. The love she had for her younger sister was pure, admirable even, but it was also abusable.

"Alright," Tom said, leaning forward confidently. "In that case, I'll take everything."

Cassiopeia's eyes went wide. "W-what?"

"I said, I'll take everything," Tom reiterated, slowly and clearly enunciating each word. "Within reason, of course. I'm not about to demand you bankrupt yourself completely. In essence, you belong to me. If I ask something of you and it is within your capabilities to do so, you will do it without question or complaint. Those are my terms."

"You're being serious right now, aren't you?" She asked, utterly astonished. There was a slight amount of fear in her voice, and Tom loved hearing it.

"I am," Tom replied as Elliot openly started laughing. "In exchange, I swear that no one will harm so much as a single hair on Dorea Black's pretty little head. Anyone that even thinks of doing so will regret it before the hour's end."

Cassiopeia was silent for almost an entire minute, but Tom didn't take his eyes off her for a single second. He couldn't help himself, the barely discernible shift of her eyes, the twitch of her lips, the furrowing of her brow… Cassiopeia was trying to think of anything else she might be able to offer in turn, but it was a futile effort. Tom would take everything from the girl, or he'd leave her sister to the mercy of the wolves.

"Fuck!" She whispered; hands balled into fists as she bit her lip near to the point of drawing blood. "Fuck! Fuck!" Someone else might have seen the gorgeous 18-year-old in a moment of weakness and felt sympathy for her, but that wasn't the Slytherin way. In that moment, Tom saw nothing but his victory. "Deal, Riddle," Cassiopeia eventually bit out, "but damn it all, if she gets hurt, I swear –"

"We both know she won't, Cassiopeia," Tom interrupted her, raising the palm of his hand, "that is the reason you came to me, after all. Dear, sweet Dorea Black will not have to face so much as a single threat at Hogwarts so long as you honor our terms."

"The terms where you own me?" Cassiopeia said sullenly, seemingly on the verge of tears as she faced him.

Tom was fairly certain that her fears were worse than his intentions for her, there was no use to be found in a broken toy, after all, but he was not about to allay those concerns in the slightest. "Those terms exactly," he replied coldly. "Now, compose yourself and then resume your duties as prefect. Professor Slughorn gave you a task and you will see it fulfilled. We shall speak more tomorrow about what I will be expecting from you in the near future."

It was a testament to the girl's strength of will that by the time she rose from her seat and smoothed her uniform it would be impossible to guess that she'd practically just sold herself on behalf of her sister. Tom really did find her loyalty and love for her sister to be commendable traits, but he was also impressed by her ability to instantly mask all of her emotions behind arrogance and disinterest.

"Right, I'll talk to you later, Riddle," she said, offering a small nod towards the rest of the compartment's inhabitants. A sign of respect that they all relished in. When they'd left Hogwarts at the start of the summer, Cassiopeia Black had looked upon them as if they were bugs, now she had to pay them acknowledgment before leaving the room. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

"Ah, one last thing, Cassiopeia," Tom said, stopping the girl in her tracks. "You and I are friends now, so please, call me Tom."

OoooOoooO

Authors Note:

This was just a little plot-scenario that's been sitting on my computer for the better part of a year. I might craft it into more of a full story if the inspiration strikes but we'll see.