QLFC Reserve League

S1, R1

Seeker: Enemies

TW: Offensive Slurs; Racist Slurs; Bigotry; Implied Torture; On-Screen Murder (not graphic)

"You stupid mudblood," Dacre Mulciber snarls thickly, spitting a wad of blood from his mouth.

Tom wrinkles his nose at the action, taking a small step back to avoid getting his brand–new shoes sullied. He'd spent 3 years saving up enough coin to purchase his clothing and he is loath to get them ruined by something as insipid as a squabble with an idiotic pureblood.

He tsks, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth as he shakes his head in the most condescending manner. "And yet you lower yourself to spitting on the ground. As if you hold no control over yourself. Apparently not even the finest tutors your family can afford can turn you into a respectable, civilized person," he taunts in a mild manner, taking savage pleasure in the way Mulciber's eyes flare with unbridled rage.

Mulciber had been waited on hand and foot since the day he was born, being the Lord–Heir to the House of Mulciber's fortune while Tom had to labor and toil away since he was born. He fought for his life as a babe because he was born in an orphanage that had a drunken bint for a matron and every fund that they could scrape up was swindled for liquor Ms. Cole truly didn't need.

He'd been working every day in his miserable existence to survive, to prove himself worthy of being alive, fighting so that he didn't have to die while the Germans bombed London.

Tom is better. He is better than the arrogant purebloods he was sorted into, better than the orphans at the orphanage, and he proves it. He's the last of the Slytherin Line, as is proof of his ability to speak with snakes, and he is the rightful Lord–Heir to the Slytherin fortune. Already, multiple Lord-Heirs have sworn him fealty, but Mulciber...

Mulciber spits on him as he is the most contemptible of scum and his very visage sets Tom's blood into a boil. His magic rages, twisting and crackling audibly on his skin, and Tom wants nothing more than to sear the bastard's skin off and reveal the rotten core inside of him. The cowardry that hides inside of his bravado, molded only by the money and influence his family holds.

But in the face of true power, he will cringe away, drop at Tom's feet, and Tom will not let him touch him because he refuses to mar his skin with his touch. It would be like a show of degradation to allow the fool to touch him—and Tom holds no affection for fools. They have no use, not even more amusement.

There is the sound of footsteps coming toward them, echoed by the emptiness of the hall, and Tom straightens his spine, tucking his wand into his sleeve holster. He casts a cleaning charm and a light healing potion to the bruise on his cheek.

When a shadow enters his peripheral vision, his face morphs into one of light concern as he takes a step forward toward Mulciber. "Dacre," he chides softly, though his very being hurts at having to address Mulciber so familiarly, "this is why Slytherins don't go anywhere alone. We must always watch our back for threats."

The veins in Mulciber's jaw throbs though Tom stares at him with a warning clear in his eyes. "I hadn't thought anybody would attack a 6th year," he grunts, nostrils flaring when Tom's fingers probe the wound that Tom had graced Mulciber with. He catches his nail in it purposefully and Mulciber makes a pained noise.

Reluctantly, Tom murmurs an "Episkey," over the wound a few times to get it slightly healed looking. He'd used a darker curse and Mulciber couldn't turn Tom in without himself facing dire consequences for retaliating with an even darker curse to try and put Tom in his place. As if Tom belonged lower than him.

"You'll get what's coming to you, Riddle," Mulciber hisses under his breath.

Tom actually has to fight to contain his laughter. "From you?" he questions mockingly before snorting derisively. "I have more a chance of dying from the Giant Squid than from you."

"You'll get what's coming to you, Riddle," Tom drawls imperiously, mockingly, as he draws the tip of his wand down Mulciber's face.

Even now, in the face of death, Mulciber sneers at Tom. It instigates a physical reaction of rage, the tip of his wand digging so far into Mulciber's skin that blood follows it down. Mulciber's muscles jump and twitch from the after effects of the Cruciatus curse.

"You say that you will harm me and yet you leave yourself open to attacks. Your defense system isn't even sub-par and you are so arrogantly confident in your wards. You are a fool, Mulciber, and you will die one," he says silkily.

There is no truly visible reaction to discern except for the fury in Mulciber's eyes, the stony set of his face, and Tom can only feel reluctant respect for how he holds up to Tom's torture. It is quite irritating, angering, how controlled the reactions Tom elicits are but it is of no matter—Mulciber will die all the same, still a fool, but Tom must still applaud his proficiency in holding himself together. If only Mulciber was as proficient in identifying threats to his safety and well–being. Maybe then he wouldn't be in this situation.

"Do you have anything that you wish to say?" he asks calmly, offering Mulciber a chance for his last will and testament to be heard. A quill is poised on a piece of parchment, ready and waiting, and Mulciber bares his teeth at him.

"You're still a mudblood, Riddle," Mulciber sneers. Tom freezes, twtiching to curse Mulciber and the infuriating man laughs. "You're still a mudblood no matter what you do and how you appear. You'll still be the same disgusting orphan." Mulciber laughs haltingly, dissolving into hacking coughs for a few seconds. "As if I'd give you the satisfaction you seek, Riddle," he snarls, not unlike their confrontation at Hogwarts in Tom's 5th year. "Get this done and over with—I have nothing left to say to you."

How Gryffindor of him, Tom thinks with no small amount of disdain. "You'll find no satisfaction from me," Mulciber continues, eyes drilling and swimming with a cruel type of satisfaction.

"If you're sure," Tom says carelessly, keeping his storm of debilitating rage within himself and hidden away from the dead man in front of him, and he twirls his wand through his fingers.

After a few moments of contemplation, rather than sending a swift Avada, Tom decides on a cutting charm. It's deep but also shallow enough that Mulciber will not die slowly.

The knowledge soothes him and he sweeps the area of his magical signature, erasing anything that could implicate him as a suspect in this, and then apparates out.

I told you to watch your back, didn't I? He thinks as he leaves the property, leaving shattered wards in his wake. This is what happens when you don't. If only you hadn't been such a fool.