A/N:I wasn't going to do this, I really wasn't. But I kinda shot myself in the foot by making it so dang long soooo I had to split it. This was supposed to be a one-shot but my dang brain said otherwise so there will be a couple more parts to this before it's end. I have a love-hate relationship with this chapter. Would love to hear your thoughts on it. More to come and uncover;)

Keep in mind this story's main focus is the complex relationship between Harven and Tom and the shifts it takes, and not necessarily their years at school.

Part II

December 31rst, 1943

Hogwarts

Slug Club chambers

Winters chill rolled off the icy waters of the Black Lake, tangling into the air, threading through her fingered curls parted off one side. The crisp air kissed her bare shoulders, her pale reflection illuminated by the waxen moon rising in a starless sky. As she curled her fingers around the balcony's marble ledge it was rather mesmerizing how far her view extended. From the frosted-capped mountains to the fogged horizon of Scotland beyond. It was a welcome sight from the bitter pit in her stomach. Left from a sleepless night, riddled with murderous visions of her best friend once more performing the darkest of arts. It would've been chalked up to simply a nightmare in the past, hadn't it felt so tangible from a repeated occurrence.

And quite unnervingly so.

Her mind had only just calmed within the quiet to think. After feeling quite suffocated in a sea of the parvenus socializing inside, she'd desperately seek fresh air. Rightfully so, after Druella Rosier's, "a silly girl playing dress up," remark. Followed by seventh-year Walburga Black's dismissive chortle.

Once she'd reached the formidable age—speechless of the discovery given in a thick parcel delivered to her window—she'd been granted a small inheritance. Left in her parent's name, Potter, whose vault had been secured at Gringotts. And a small note of their love to which she'd kept in her trunk. With such privilege afforded she was able to purchase a new set of dress robes during her school shopping to Diagon Alley, women toiletries, and a feathered, snowy owl she'd fallen in love with inside Eeylops Owl Emporium.

To which she'd named Hedwig.

Because she'd had more than enough, she'd given Tom a few pouches of sickles to use for his own means. Only after realizing this was a fight he would not win, had he reluctantly accepted the kind gift. Though she had a feeling she was paying for the small "charity" after begrudgingly accepting an invite. To attend the New Years Slug Club formal gala on his arm. As a guest into the exclusive club of the elite and valued members of Horace Slughorn, and their Potions master's favored.

She'd found a gown for such an event at Twilfitt & Tattings. Her friend Beatrice Wood's taping and embellished charms fashioned an elegant gown truly befitted for a ball. The finest spider silk was woven into the sea-green material, crafted to hold the softest candlelight with a subtle shimmer. Paired with borrowed teardrop emeralds, and a polished face—Harven was left stunned once she glimpsed the woman reflecting back. Far from the studious Gryffindor hidden beneath tawdry skirts, hosiery, and loose robes.

Admittedly, the attention she'd garnered had taken some time to adjust to. Noting the subtly tighter grip Tom had placed against her back. Expressly, when they'd entered the decorated chamber swathed in glistening silver décor and floating, shimmering orbs counting down the hours. He'd looked stunning in neat black dress robes and coiffed hair, his eyes a refraction of the blue flames ensconced.

A man of few words, he'd retreated shortly after, to converse with Mulciber and Nott who'd beckoned him with a curt gesture. A familiar piece of jewelry inescapable from her notice—flashed beneath the frosted chandelier overhead, as he'd left her side. Positioned on his left hand: the middle finger, was a gold band inlaid with an onyx stone. A rather gaudy piece for a man of simplicity, it had abruptly appeared mysteriously on his finger one late August night. After he'd been away for a—very—brief stay at Malfoy Manor.

Before he'd receive his Prefect badge the week following his return.

The disturbing revelation of it all was having seen the ring in a glimpse of dreams. It had transpired a week before it was donned on his finger. Why do I feel like you're hiding something from me, Tom?

Lately, it had become harder to maintain normality in their relationship, despite having known him the majority of her life. As he strategically planned and moved pieces around his personal chessboard. Which was nothing new as he'd done so with bullies from childhood, Ms. Cole and her occasional threats to admit him, and to anyone that dared threaten his reputation. Or of which he felt compromised by, such as the very man who had introduced them to this world—their Transfiguration teacher, Professor Dumbledore. Whom Harven had a sneaking suspicion, the professor wasn't too fond of.

The summer before, Tom had exclaimed of having plans after Hogwarts. If that did not involve courtship, a teaching job at said school, or training dragons in Romania—something she did not even consider—or a further pursuit in rising above the echelons of the Ministry of Magic—what did his future hold?

The question should be what do your plans entail?

She was not a fool to believe his cohorts were innocent bystanders. Whatever plans he was formulating involved a role for them to play. Whether that was status, connections or wealth. Which, no doubt, included the affluence of the Malfoys and the infinite funding provided. Thus, each "friend" had been selectively chosen for a purpose for which blood status was of importance. Despite the reality of Tom's half-blood background. This, he seemingly buried under the pretense of superiority. Conveyed over time simply from her observation of each piece constructed in her mind, slowly being snapped together like an abstract puzzle.

"Fancy a dance, Potter?"

"You wish."

Harven rolled her eyes.

Instrumentals being strummed from a raised platform of hobgoblins in glittering suits swept through the opened French doors. Only for the music to be muffled once more as the doors fell closed. Just as a warm draft swept across her exposed collarbone, causing her heartbeat to jump from what scant skin shone. Upon any normal occasion such would be modestly covered. Yet the sweetheart neckline of the dress cupped her cinched bosom. Exposing the swell of breasts to the eye more than she was accustomed to.

Abraxas Malfoy stepped up beside her, hands shoved in emerald crushed-velvet robes. His pale-blonde hair was sleeked back in a refined bouffant. A silk necktie secured around his neck bore the Malfoy crest. "Didn't peg you as a Slug Club member."

"I'm not," Harven muttered with pursed lips of a deep crimson. "Merely a plus one. Which you already educated yourself on."

"You're a feisty one tonight, though I dare not ask if your knickers are in a twist."

"Unless you want to become Tom's footstool, I suggest not. Though I wouldn't mind a toad... From your lack of manners."

The git had never shown any partiality to her. Other than the subtle glances her way, or muttered quips under his breath over the years. Which left her curious, as to why he was out here making conversation with the 'detestable Gryffindor' herself.

To her surprise, Abraxas chuckled softly. His silver-blue eyes filled with amusement as he leaned against the balcony postured towards her. "Always such cheek." He shook his head, his sharp jawline distinct in the light as a smirk unfurled. "Though a daresay he's preoccupied over Druella's fawning."

"Oh?" She feigned mock surprise, her gaze wavering to his, unmoving. "And not in your company? I'm positively gobsmacked."

Her sarcasm was more than implied. Though that still didn't leave her satisfied because of this bizarre encounter.

What do you want Malfoy?

Only did it seem to further encourage the lofty Slytherin. "Not if her betrothed Cygnus, has anything to say about it."

"Ah a Black and Rosier. Hardly surprised by such news."

"Better the poor bloke than I. The birds practically mad."

"Oh? Dark gothic beauties, not your type?"

And let the insulting commence.

Instead, an unexpected silence followed before his lips parted with a softer reply. "Perhaps one." He stopped then with barely an audible laugh, shaking his head. As the moonlight shifted, irradiating the silvery core of variegated blue, he took a step towards her. The cupid bow of his lips stretched into a half-smirk that didn't quite reflect any condemnation. "Curiously, a Peverell is still a noble name in the ancestral pureblood lineage. Ironic given their chosen house."

Suddenly Harven wished they were back to insulting each other as rivals. This here was uncharted territory and her confusion was palpable. Why did he care what her lineage descended from? While she didn't hate Malfoy—he was far easier to deal with than the rest of the lot—hardly were they acquaintances. She rolled one shoulder in apprehension shifting slightly away from him. "Malfoy," she replied with an edge of uncertainty, "you're acting bloody mad, and... cooked." Come to think of it, now that he'd moved closer, she could smell the firewhiskey off his breath. "Oh, bloody hell you are!"

Of course, on the off chance such a Slytherin was somewhat civil...

"Oh, come off it, Potter," he leaned against the balcony, crossing one leg over the other. "I'm not pissed. Merely indulging in a nightcap." From out of his robes, he flashed a chrome flask tucked into the silk lining of his pocket. He threw her a crooked grin, "Though we're not mates, dare a swig to end such a barmy night?"

She scowled with a cross of her arms, "Though I'd never dream of ending the new year with you, I'd prefer to keep a clear conscience, thanks."

He shrugged and took a long swig, seemingly taking his time. As if it counted. Before he stashed the flask away, pulling in his lip to wipe the glazed residue.

She watched him with a quizzical brow, a small ounce of pity surfacing in her conscious as she noted the apparent stress taking hold. The frown lines along his forehead had deepened as he scrubbed a hand across the squared chin. He appeared less of the conceited teenager and more of a conflicted young man, glaringly drained.

Aged beyond his time

Whatever burdened him, was inevitably slipping through the indifferent mask he bore. Damn him. "Not that I care, but why are you out here and deciding to get piss drunk?"

"I think I like this less reserved Potter." The tired half-cocky smirk completely dissipated as his expression sobered. Those heavy-leaden eyes settled on her, a sliver of exasperation seeping through. "Merlin, Potter, do you loathe me so utterly my presence is that abominable? I simply wanted the peace and quiet as you. Who looked quite stifled in there, mind you."

"Oh, sod off, Malfoy. if you've come to wallow in my displeasure—"

"Don't flatter yourself, Potter. You may have a pretty face, but I didn't purposely seek your company where it's not desired."

There was a small pause as she mulled over this. A pang of guilt hit her; teeth embedded into her lip as she detected a hint of offense in his tone. While his subtle compliment didn't escape her notice, she didn't wish to brawl with him. It was clear he was already down and she'd be no better for it. "I," She swallowed and gentled her voice "I apologize, that was quite rude. Even if we are not pleasant acquaintances. I do not wish to exploit whatever demons you're battling."

For a moment she thought she'd said too much. But to her bewilderment, Malfoy—Abraxas—raised his head to meet her solemn gaze with one of his own. Slowly, to her inert confusion, he closed the space between them. A single strand fell from his sleek hair, hanging between his searching eyes. Watching her carefully, he brushed a finger down her forearm almost waiting for her reaction as her eyes flickered. "I accept," he whispered, one dark brow furrowed as if unsure of his actions. Nevertheless, he remained standing there less than an arm's length between them. His Adam's apple bobbed and whatever he found there gave him stoked courage. "And I confess I do not abhor your company at this moment. And... you look far from the part of a silly girl playing dress up."

For the first time of facing the usually proud Malfoy, Harven was left speechless. At this moment he looked anything but the infamous pratt from her school years of attending Hogwarts. It was almost unnerving how sincere his words were, how soft they rolled off his lips without an ulterior motive. She felt her breath hitch. Though she'd never been oblivious to the pureblood's seraphim appearance, or any man for that matter, a part of herself remained unreproachful. Because of the knotted nerves twisted up inside for her best friend.

And their considerably blurred boundaries. But for just a single instance in time, she allowed herself to wonder beyond his hold on her...

"Abraxas," a smooth voice cut in.

Instant panic like an icepick pricked Harven's spine.

The blood drained from Abraxas's face. His gaze sought hsss and suddenly appeared far more sober, mirroring the same curse that penetrated her skull.

Fuck.

Harven squeezed her eyes shut before she joined Abraxas.

Cloaked in darkness as if he'd gathered the shadows himself, stood a stone-faced Tom Riddle.

Looking positively murderous.

His eyes glinted like shards of flint. Alabaster skin appeared painstakingly stretched over sharp bone. A muscle cracked in his clenched jaw, the last vestiges of his composure. No doubt he had just bore witness to Abraxas's drunken—brazen—confession.

He was not pleased.

"I'd like to speak to Harven, alone." His tone was pure ice; this was not up for discussion.

Abraxas didn't dare chance a glance at Harven again, having schooled his features into the cool indifference much more common. He was swift with his actions and bidded Tom a subservient nod—right as Tom's head snapped to him malevolently. His voice held deep intent as he gritted out, "Remain in the Common Room, tonight."

She watched as Abraxas's spine stiffened before he slipped through the doors. A telltale sign Tom was going to punish him in some way. Just as he'd done with Billy Stubbs rabbit, Abby and Dennis, sixth-year Phineas Diggory after expressing an interest... the list had grown extensively over the years. How many more would there be? a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Over the last several months it had been growing steadily louder.

Harven felt a familiar prickle along her spine as he approached. Tom's temper was at a peak, she could feel it ghosting across her skin and simmering beneath his. Yet she didn't dare move as a still-frame image flickered in her mind to what he saw...

A gothic raven-haired beauty stranded in the moonlight; the spider silk threads in her seafoam dress glistening under the pale sheen. Lips like soft rosebuds. Eyes as deep and dark as a forest, with supple skin fair as porcelain. His porcelain perfectly preserved and he did not share—

The image rippled in her mind as the term beauty caressed her thoughts. She gasped as she surfaced to reality—only to see him looming over her, face hard as marble. Dark magic rippled off of him in waves, threatening to strike out like a deadly python if even slightly provoked.

Her mind scrambled to catch up as a flood of emotions swelled in her breast. Her heart rattled against her ribcage like a rabid, Cornish pixie. "Tom," His close presence nearly stole the breath from her lungs. Always was he like a shock to the senses and momentarily left her speech suspended. A devasting depiction of a poet's dark prince. Fair cheekbones and a chiseled jawline, leaden lashes framing deep, abysmal eyes. Sable wispy locks across a broad forehead. A sensuous curve to his lips she'd never been the recipient of. It was a wonder she hadn't fallen prey to his striking presence as others, simply bewitched.

She could still hold her own against his beguiling charm. Even as she struggled to find words as he closed the slivered gap between them. "I... just needed some fresh air. You know I don't do well with your common troupe. And Abraxas was clearly sloshed."

"Don't defend his actions," his came voice came sharp like a serrated knife. "His ill behavior is unacceptable in any clause. A stain on his reputable position that cannot be afforded."

"For whom, you?" Her brow rose as his eyes flashed in a warning. The coiling sensation down her spine burned beneath her skin, setting her own temper aflame. "He's not a solider to be commanded, Tom. Just as I am not a possession to be preserved like a doll!"

For a second it looked as if a sliver of red shone in his eyes. But like the snap of a finger, it was gone, replaced with a snarl that distorted his features. With much acrimony he shoved her up against the castle wall, breathing heavily now in an effort to contain the wrathful beast within. "I do not tolerate such cheek from others and I will not from you! Do not think I don't know the thread between us, Harven. Oh yes, I know." He added as her eyes widened in realization, unable to hide her shock from him. "Just as I can feel what you are feeling, and brush into your dreams as you have mine. Do not think I keep that door easily opened to just anyone..."

Does that mean he knows I've known about his ring? The murderous dreams? Harven felt her breath quickening, her heart frantically pounding against her chest as sweat coated her backside, chilling the bare skin against the frigid stone.

His lips curled into a smirk as his posture gradually gentled, knowing he had her ensnared. Her fingers tingled as his lips brushed her ear, goosebumps pebbling her skin. "It's just our little secret, Harven." His warm breath rolled down the nape of her neck, causing her to shudder as a warmth unfurled. "And as long as you keep it, you will be greatly rewarded... given what you desire..."

Her mouth went dry as he traced a single finger along her collarbone, slowly drifting down to trace the swell of a breast. She swallowed hard, having to breathe through her mouth while he enabled a fire to be stoked within her. "Tom," she gasped, "it's not fair to shower me with p-pretty words. You already said it will never be between us—"

"Harven," he interjected, almost with a teasing croon. A small, deliberate smile lifted the sensuous curve of his lips. "I cannot ignore that I am still a man. Tonight has more than confirmed this." He grazed a hand against her cheek, thumb tracing lazy circles that coiled in her stomach. "And I do not wish to see such beauty on the arm of another. Yes, Harven, you've been quite the distraction in my thoughts as of late. I've never dismissed the attraction there, only tampered it. But to deny myself longer..."

His words trailed off as his nose nudged against hers.

By now Harven could feel her limbs trembling, nearly overwhelmed by the reality of this. Was this truly happening? These dreams she had held for so long were now surreal. To see it being played out before her, confusion, desire, uncertainty, and anxiety... wound through her nerves, making her lips quiver. Snaked a fire through her veins. Her eyes dazedly affixed on his as a cool breath was wept into her lips as if filling her lungs.

Distantly she heard an abrupt round of applause rustling inside the walls, as cheers to the countdown to midnight began.

10

Tom breathed her name against her lips like a lover's caress.

9

His eyes sought her's now like dark arctic waters.

8

Bottomless emeralds were drawn to his.

7

Lashes brushed skin, as eyes fell closed.

6

Lips parted, breathing each other in.

5

And out...

4

A pause on his part, cautious, testing, savoring...

3

Anxiety and fear of the unknown churned in her gut.

2

With determination, and drive, he was ready to claim what was his.

1

Mine.

It rumbled like a growl in his mind, before his lips crashed to her's, pulling her into a searing kiss. Stealing her senses as the fire crackled between them. Flooding their veins. Simmering beneath their skin. Ice. Fire. His hands branded their claim as flesh fingers touched her neck, thumb pressed into the hollow of her throat. Though she was not to be wielded but coaxed, as a new hunger festered deep within and wouldn't soon be sated.

Harven curled her fingers into the silked fabric of his robes before grasping his shoulders. Clinging to him as if he were her lifeline. The blood rushed through her veins, flushing her neck and pooling in the most intimate of places. A shuddered whimper escaped her lips as Tom parted them with a slip of tongue, tasting what she had to offer and taking it for his own.

Alas, it couldn't continue on forever. And gradually, they pulled apart both panting heavily.

Tom curled his lip into his teeth, a lazy, sated chortle slipping through, reflecting off those sculpted features. His eyes were like twin blue flames, cheeks flushed from the euphoric adrenaline. As if remembering his strict position as a Prefect, he straightened their ruffled appearances with a flourish of his wand.

Clearing his throat, he extended his hand in invitation.

Though questions tore at the forefront of her mind, with a light tug, Harven was instantly pressed up against his chest, left staring up into his heated stare. Allowing the subject to drop away for now. It was obvious he wanted to continue snogging but his formality shuddered the prominent desire. An obvious affliction. She felt her neck flush hotly as he chuckled, no longer suave but velvety and seductive. He glanced at her lips once more before holding her attention, heady as sandalwood as he whispered,

"Happy New Year, Harven."

NOTES:

Fingered curls was an actual hairstyle in the 1940's and was more of a glamorous old Hollywood look.

Anywayyyys... there is alot Harven has to uncover about Tom but you're seeing that slowly unfold through dreams. And the pieces she's putting together. Wonder when she will find out Parseltongue... and what exactly is that sensation on her back...

Ah yes, sadly one Horcrux was already made...