[trigger warning: mention of sexual abuse of minors (non-explicit)]
The door clicked open as a young boy poked his head hesitantly through the gap.
"You asked for me, sir?"
"Yes," Tom Riddle replied. "Come in; take a seat."
The boy scurried to the old wooden chair by the desk and plopped down on it, hunching over, drawing his knees together and sticking his hands downwards through the gap in his thighs.
"I'm sorry if the previous incident left a bad aftertaste," Tom Riddle began. "I was made aware that it was inappropriate behaviour and I hope you will forgive me."
The boy looked up him through the mess of his hair. "It's OK," he mumbled.
"What I found very interesting though, was what Headmaster Karkaroff cautioned me about. He does not know that it was the snake who bit you and thought I was treating you exceptionally badly."
Tom Riddle paused to make some tea. He was not inclined to waste another drop of his exquisite gyokuro on the boy, so he had hid the tin and replaced its position on the shelves with some African bush tea.
"I noted with interest that Headmaster Karkaroff seemed to imply that being abused was a frequent occurrence for you. Forgive me for being so direct but do you make a habit of offering your body up to teachers for sexual pleasure?"
The boy nodded meekly.
"I am terribly sorry you feel a need to debase yourself this way, boy," Tom Riddle said, setting the teapot on the desk. He turned to face the boy, and crouched down just a little. He reached out and put his hands on the boy's shoulders, which was bony to the touch yet fragile and delicate. With a sigh he brought his hands down to rub the boy's arms in a reassuring gesture.
"Would you like to tell me why you do this, boy?"
"I...I..." The boy stuttered.
"Does this also happen to you at home? Was that where it started?"
The boy hung his head, cheeks flushed pink with shame.
"Would you like to tell me who first did that to you, boy? Was it your father?"
The boy nodded, then shook his head. "He's not my real father," he said.
"What happened to your parents?"
"They died. Bad people came after them and killed them. My current father came along and saved me, and he gives me food and shelter and he even had the means to send me to school here."
"But in return, he wants something special, is that it?"
The boy didn't say anything, but looked down at his feet, which he had an annoying habit of swinging wildly, or shaking up and down. It was as if he couldn't sit still.
"When I first met you, you told me your name," Tom Riddle said. "I did not pay attention to it but after I could not find that name anywhere on the school records." At this, Tom Riddle knelt down even closer to the boy and took up his hands, enclosing them in his. "I want you to trust me, Antonin Stepanovich, so between you and me I will call you by your real name, not the bastard name bestowed by an evil man who abuses you."
Antonin looked up at him, eyes glossy with welling tears. "Take me with you, Tom Tomovich," he begged. "Take me with you when the school term ends. I don't want to go back to that place anymore."
"My dear boy, I would love to but you have only just one more year of school to complete. It would be unwise for me to tear you away from what you do so well, after all, you are Durmstrang's top student and you're two years younger than your peers. You have a bright future ahead of you."
"I don't have a bright future ahead of me! I too died all those years ago, when they killed my parents and my sister and my grandmother. Now I live my days as Ivan Kasimirovich, son and wife to Kasimir Vladimirovich. I don't want that anymore, it is no life for any human."
Tom Riddle patted the boy's head in a consolatory gesture. His hair was a light honey brown and soft and silky to the touch.
"Do you sincerely think running from your problems will solve them, boy?" he asked, putting on a tone of sincerity. "Tell me, what do you think will happen if you run away? Do you think men like him will just give up and live the rest of their days alone? No, my dear boy, I tell you, men like him are no better than pigs and he will go to the streets and find another one just like you and do to him exactly what he did to you. Do you want that to happen?"
Antonin looked up at him with a face so full of innocence the sight of it would be more than any mortal man could bear, but he was no mortal man. What a beautiful boy, he thought to himself. What a beautiful weapon. This boy could prove to be the deadliest yet, only if one knew how to wield him right.
He released his grip on the boy and stood up to pour two cups of tea. "I've heard many rumours about you, and some about your wand," he said plaintively. "You swear to every single person on earth that it's got a core of unicorn hair, but I've heard from Anastasia Maximova that your wand really comes to life in her Dark Arts class. Do you think I could have a look at it?"
The boy meekly drew out his wand and slid it into his palm.
"Fascinating," Tom Riddle said, running a finger down its length. It was of a light wood, pale and nearly luminous. It was very old, and rough in texture, for splinters ran down its side. It had a core that emanated an esoteric darkness, formed of the pain and anguish of those who had met violent ends. "Silver birch," he announced, "with a core that is as far from unicorn as it can get. This wand is unholy. It is unclean. It is made with the hair of the undead."
"—Rusalka," the boy said, finishing the sentence for him.
"Indeed. And whence did you come by such a wand?"
"Gregorovitch, just like everyone else," the boy huffed.
"I trust you know what this means. Nothing happens by chance and this wand must have chosen you with good reason. You mustn't be afraid to use it, for you have been granted a special honour."
Tom Riddle paused to take a long sip of tea. When he was done, he put the cup down on the table with a clink.
"Vengeance, my dear boy," he said. "This wand is calling out for vengeance."