"ʜᴀᴛᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʙᴏᴛᴛᴏᴍʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴄᴜᴘ; ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴘᴏᴜʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏᴜʀ."
― ᴇᴜʀɪᴘɪᴅᴇꜱ, ᴍᴇᴅᴇᴀ
Chapter Twenty-Five: There is Only Power
-May, 1942-
Figuring out where the pipes opened was proving to be more difficult than he had expected.
Tom didn't know the first thing about plumbing, and, although he could speak to them, not much more about basilisks.
Unfortunately, most of the information that the library had to offer on basilisks was contradictory and, furthermore, didn't enlighten him as to where the pipes opened.
(Needless to say, Hogwarts did not have any books on plumbing.)
So, his ingenuity had been rewarded by constant, irritating hissing and complaining in the walls that thankfully no one else could hear and no entrance to the Chamber of Secrets or eternal glory. And after about two months, the basilisk stopped making noises. It must have returned to its home, still "Hungry..." to sleep.
His bright idea to lure the basilisk to the surface wouldn't work, either. Although all of the sources in the library conflicted somehow, they all agreed that a basilisk was a venomous serpent with a killing gaze that could grow up to fifty feet long with fangs the length of a man's arm.
There was no way it was coming out through the shower drain. Or the tap, for that matter.
Which meant that the entrance not only had to be opened (and presumably closed), but it had to be enormous. He didn't remember any gaping, basilisk-sized holes. But perhaps Tom hadn't found every secret of Hogwarts.
While the other students went to Hogsmeade on the weekends, he wandered the hallways, looking for false panels and hidden levers, while avoiding Pringle to make sure that he didn't get caned for getting fingerprints on the suits of armour.
One Saturday in the middle of June, he was wandering around the left corridor on the seventh floor, pacing in front of a tapestry of Barnaby the Barmy making a bizarre and idiotic attempt to teach trolls ballet, and thinking that he needed a place to hide and think quietly without being disturbed by first or second years, Dumbledore, or worse yet, Pringle.
All of a sudden, there was a soft pop, and a door that hadn't been before was... well, there.
Not one to be deterred by strange occurrences, Tom did what any fifteen-year-old bored out of their wits would do: opened the door and went in.
I'm probably the only person who knows about this, he thought, looking around at the room. People would have talked about it; bragged about it incessantly. It would have, like the Chamber, become legend, at the very least.
Who else (but him) would find out about something like this and keep quiet about it?
Dumbledore, probably.
It was as strange as the door's appearance had been: filled with piles of broken and damaged furniture, thousands upon thousands of books either in tottering piles or towering bookcases, chipped bottles and rusty cauldrons of long-congealed potions, several medieval-looking weapons, a few broomsticks, and other castaway items that looked like they hadn't been breathed on, let alone used for decades.
The arched ceiling was hung with chandeliers, and the room was lined with high, diamond-paned windows that looked down onto the grounds and surprisingly not stuffy at all.
Even so, he knew it had something to do with what he was thinking about when he walked by the room. He had needed a place to think without being disturbed, and this wasn't exactly ideal, but it did the trick.
There was, once he poked around a bit, a book on plumbing. Tom flicked through it but found nothing of use, so he tossed it back onto one of the piles. However, he did keep a baroque hand mirror with a solid gold back and handle (it never hurt to see what was behind you) and tried swinging around one of the medieval swords, which quickly became less fun and more exhausting because it was much, much heavier than it looked.
After a while, he decided to do what he'd come here to do in the first place, selected the least ratty and broken of the armchairs, and sat down to finally think in utter peace and quiet.
Nothing made a sound.
Not even a mouse.
It was very pleasant.
And in that time, he thought.
Some say Grindelwald's working with the Nazis.
It made sense. The German forces had brought nearly all of Europe to her knees. Most of the governments had either fallen or fled to exile in London.
If Grindelwald wanted all of Europe's Muggles under his control, then, of course, it made sense to support his fellow Austrian. Then, once the war had been won, he would get Hitler out the way and pull the strings himself.
What if Grindelwald is Hitler?
No, that's ridiculous. One person can't be in two places.
However, Tom could not shake the thought that Britain remaining relatively unscathed had something to do with Dumbledore, and he could not help but feel a sense of grudging respect and gratitude.
But do I want what Grindelwald wants? I definitely don't want Hitler here. And I'm not interested in the least in ruling over Muggles, either. It seems pointless.
While Grindelwald's followers were busy killing Muggles in Poland and Vichy France, Tom was safe. But if Grindelwald did come to Britain, would Tom be expected to fight for him? Risk his life? Remain a second-class citizen even in the wake of this glorious revolution?
Too bad he was the closest thing to a Mudblood. Too bad he wasn't somebody else.
What do you want? What now, after Hogwarts?
Try as he might, Tom couldn't drudge up an ounce of Slytherin ambition past finding the Chamber. Right now, he just wanted to survive. Maybe feel less empty, for once.
Where would he work? The Ministry?
Not with your filthy Muggle name, you won't, unless you want to be an underling all your life.
Tom felt like he was headed for a dead end. A meaningless, insignificant, unbearable, unhappy life, while he sat trembling and waiting for Death himself.
He couldn't help but remember Dumbledore's words.
"And you feel that you have been deeply wronged by fate, of no fault of your own? That you are exempt from all responsibility? That life is patently unfair?"
Well, Tom couldn't help it if what he felt was the grim truth. He was fundamentally out of control. Fate intended to make his life as difficult as possible.
He needed some kind of magic potion. A drinkable cure for utter helplessness. For the fear that gripped him.
"You have more power than you know, Tom, if you would stop being so stubborn and self-pitying and open your eyes to what is around you."
What power, he wanted to scream. What power, Dumbledore? The world wasn't a fairytale; knights in shining armour didn't risk their lives to save princesses, and brave adventurers didn't give their last morsels of food to starving children. The world was, regardless of Dumbledore's optimistic fantasies, a grim, hopeless, and fundamentally bad place.
He wanted safety, but it was not enough to fill the gaping, hungry hole that had nestled between his lungs.
Maybe I'd just like to see the world burn, he thought, thinking of burning houses, shattered glass, and the Thames blanketed in smoke. No matter how much sand and water was tossed on the fires, the streets would still be reduced to cinder and ashes. The smoke would linger in the air and creep into his lungs.
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home; your house is on fire, your children shall burn.
And he was not the one in the wrong. He had been wronged.
They should be punished. All of them.
Tom shut his eyes, and tried to calm himself.
Well, if the room worked the way that he thought it did, Tom had just come up with a very ingenious solution. The most ingenious solution he'd ever come up with.
Maybe this was exactly what Salazar intended him to find and figure out.
If not, oh well. Paradise wasn't meant to last forever, after all.
He left the room, and before his eyes, the door disappeared.
Then, he re-enacted his earlier actions, pacing in front of the tapestry, but this time, he thought very hard about an entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
Once more, the door popped into reality.
Giddy with excitement, he pushed it open.
His footsteps echoed on the stone floor. The door behind him was gone, and all around him were the sounds of water dripping.
When he lit his wand, most of his surroundings remained dark, but even so, Tom could see that he was standing at the very end of a large hall. The stone walls were slick with moisture, the air had the musty, tangy scent of flourishing bacteria, and in each corner, the ceiling was held up by stout, towering pillars entwined with carved wood in the shape of a snake coiled and poised to spring.
Tom was sure of it. He was in the Chamber of Secrets.
He took a few tentative steps forward on the smooth stone (marble, maybe?) floor, nearly slipped, and gazed upon the enormous statue at the end of the hall, looming high as the Chamber was tall. It was of an ancient wizard with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes; it was not anyone that Tom recognised.
Or maybe he did.
Gaping, he stared up at the statue of his ancestor; he had to walk all the way to the end of the hall again and tilt his head back to try to get a glimpse of his stone eyes.
He just barely managed it; he only came up to Slytherin's ankle.
Too bad it was a statue, and not the real thing.
But it might be close enough. Like an enchanted painting.
He lit the sconces in the wall and walked around the Chamber again.
There was an enormous, poison-green shed skin (fifty feet long, exactly as the books said), but no basilisk. Which, upon reflection, was fine since he wasn't keen on running into one right now (especially if it was that hungry, it might not mind if its meal was the Parselmouth Heir of Slytherin or not). Besides, the basilisk was probably already well-accustomed to having schoolchildren for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
If the basilisk was here, he probably shouldn't be looking at anything directly. He took the recently-acquired hand mirror out of his pocket and peered over his shoulder.
No basilisk. He was almost disappointed.
"Hello?" he called, and nothing answered but his voice echoing off the stone walls. So Tom tried again, this time in Parseltongue. "Hello?"
He turned in a slow circle, making sure to check his surroundings in the mirror.
"Wake up. Speak to me."
Again, no response.
Maybe the statue really was just a statue.
No. There was something engraved on Slytherin's foot, in mirror writing:
ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ;
ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅ ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴇʏ.
ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ɪ ʙᴜɪʟᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴍʙᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ
ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴍʏ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴀᴍᴏɴɢꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴇᴠᴇʀᴍᴏʀᴇ.
This had to be part of the puzzle; he had to be able to figure this out.
He tried calling Slytherin's name in Parseltongue, as unwieldy as it was, but nothing happened.
When he tried "Speak to me, Slytherin," he thought he saw the faintest glimmer of life in the statue's eyes, but that was all. There had to be something more.
Slytherin the Great? Slytherin the Magnificent? Slytherin the Clever?
But none of these worked.
After a while, he decided that it was probably getting late, and although his curiosity was far from satisfied, he should start looking for a way out. He went out into the dark, slimy corridor (the unfortunate side-effect of building something under a lake with no upkeep, it seemed) and managed to levitate himself up the giant, basilisk-sized pipe (alright, the end bit required a bit of scrambling in the mud).
But after it was all over, he emerged into piercing, blinding daylight.
Once his eyes adjusted and he had stumbled around a bit, Tom realised he was in a toilet, which wasn't surprising.
What was surprising was that it was a girls' toilet, a luckily empty girls' toilet, with a cluster of sinks all in a circle.
If only he could remember which one he'd come out of, and quickly before anyone else came in.
Fortunately, only one of the taps had a snake engraved on it.
It was worth a go.
But when he flipped it open, no water came out, just a low, horrible gurgling sound.
"Open up," he told the snake and was forced to retreat as the sink slowly sunk down, revealing a hole big enough for a grown man and probably a basilisk too.
And then, "Close."
The sink returned to its proper place, and he left in a hurry before anyone came in, taking note that it was on the second floor.
I found it, he thought gleefully. I'm not a Mudblood.
He'd found the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
Too bad exams were next week.
And on the way back to the dungeons, he had a yet more horrible realisation.
This changed utterly nothing.
Nothing.
Tom let out a slow, shaky breath. His entire chest had seized up as if the emotion was strangling him.
Slam.
His knuckles were bleeding. His fingers were sore. He must have been punching the stone wall.
But he was a wizard ― he must maintain his grip on his sanity, he must not become even more hysterical ― he could fix his hands.
It was about all he could fix.
"Where've you been?" asked Mulciber when Tom returned to the common room (As if he cares!).
"Looking around," was all Tom cared to offer.
Mulciber's eyes lit up with greed.
"Oh... found anything interesting?"
"No."
"Oh." Mulciber's face fell. "Lestrange's looking for you."
And why would he want to do that? thought Tom. Since the incident in Honeydukes, he'd been treating Tom even more like the persona non grata than usual.
"We have studying to do," said Tom, as sharply as possible. Though he hated studying with Mulciber, one, he was being paid, and two, it was a good excuse for being unavailable and he did not want to find out what Lestrange wanted him for. "Bring Magical Drafts and Potions, your cauldron, and your potions ingredients."
Mulciber groaned but retrieved his book and did as he was told.
"Where are we going?"
"Empty Potions classroom," Tom explained. "Professor Slughorn gave me permission."
Once they arrived, Tom instructed Mulciber to open his book to page two-hundred-and-three and revise the eight potions that could be on the practical portion, and also the theory of antidotes while he set up the fire and a screen between them so Mulciber couldn't cheat, as he was wont to do.
"The first is Wit-Sharpening Potion." Which you could do with a strong dose of. "You will have thirty minutes to complete this portion of the exam."
"Merlin, Riddle, you sound like an automaton."
He ignored Mulciber, which he was becoming very skilled at, and channelled his frustration into grinding up live scarab beetles with a mortar and pestle.
The sky had darkened from pale blue to violet twilight to velvet night by the time all of the potions were finished, and Tom set about comparing Mulciber's against his.
Mulciber's Wit-Sharpening Potion was a tad on the lavender side but otherwise surprisingly decent. When Tom tried his Calming Draught, it was evident from the burning sensation in his throat which he had to down several glasses of water to soothe, that too much peppermint oil had been used. He was unwilling to taste the Shrinking Solution (it could be poisonous if brewed incorrectly), but the newt he fed it to seemed perfectly fine, even though it only shrunk to a juvenile rather than a larva. Mulciber's Aging Potion was also much weaker than it was supposed to be. However, the Pepperup Potion seemed passable, and his Weedosoros did manage to kill one of the newts, even though it was a slower and more gruesome death than usual.
Not only that, but Mulciber managed to stammer his way through most of the questions Tom asked him.
Overall, it was far from perfect, but definitely a passing grade.
"Well, how did I do?" asked Mulciber, grinning nervously. By now, he was used to Tom's unwillingness to give praise and utter silence when he'd performed poorly.
"Passable," said Tom, emptying the cauldrons.
"Passable? I thought it was brilliant."
For him, maybe.
It'll be a miracle if Mulciber passes his O.W.L. next year.
"That's it? No congratulations?"
"I'll congratulate you when you pass your exams," said Tom, turning to leave and speak to no one else for the evening. "Night."
But a quiet night for Tom Riddle was not destined to be.
He returned to the common room before Mulciber, sank into one of the sofas, and resolved not to get up for the next hour.
It had been an eventful day, and he needed to process.
Process that he just found the legendary Chamber of Secrets.
It was unbearably unfair that he wouldn't get a chance to fully explore it until next September.
But the sounds of the common room soon distracted him.
Abraxas Malfoy was drunk.
Well, not just Abraxas. Selwyn, Carrow, and Parkinson, too.
Drinking the week before their N.E.W.T.s was precisely the kind of thing a Head Boy wasn't supposed to do.
But it was predictable, for Abraxas.
Tom propped an open book over his face and ignored their shouting. Mulciber was good practice. He could take it.
Or so he thought.
Someone snatched the book from Tom's face, jeering.
The entire common room was staring. Waiting for entertainment.
"Go away, Abraxas," he said tiredly. "I'm not in the mood. Don't you have more important things to do? Exams to study for?"
"Not in the mood, are you, Riddle?"
This was very dangerous. Abraxas was drunk enough to lose his inhibitions but not drunk enough to slur, meaning he still had most of his wits about him.
Tom tried to get up, but Abraxas grabbed his wrists and leaned over him, pinning him to the chair. But Tom wasn't scared. It wasn't the first time Abraxas had him pinned down, after all.
He'd been in his fair share of fistfights at Wool's. Granted, he didn't usually win, but at least he knew where to hit to make someone hurt, and most likely Abraxas didn't.
But before Tom could plan his next move, Abraxas spoke.
"Do you want me to show them who you are, Mudblood? Show them who's in charge, so they remember when I'm gone?"
He paused.
"You didn't think I'd let you off easy, did you?"
"Get. Off. Me."
His arms were braced around Abraxas's shoulders; he was ready to push him off and send him sprawling on the ground.
"Don't talk to me like that, Mudblood!"
"I'm not a Mudblood!" said Tom, through gritted teeth. Not today. Especially not after today. "And you're not the one in charge, Malfoy. Not of this school, not of this House, and definitely not of me."
Abraxas stepped away, still grinning.
"Is that so, Riddle? Do you feel brave today?"
Everyone laughed.
They were laughing at him.
The sound was deafening. It was closing in on him.
Abraxas's mouth was moving, but he didn't hear the words. The world had bled and blurred into a kaleidoscope of righteous anger and frustration.
After four long years of holding back, Tom's temper finally gave.
"LOOK!" he shouted, jumping off of the chair and jabbing an angry finger in Abraxas's direction — the other students looked shocked by his outburst — Tom Riddle had a reputation for keeping to himself and being mild-tempered — but not today. "I'm done with your taunting, and sneering, and looking down at me! If you're so much better than me, Abraxas, then prove it!"
"Prove what, Mudblood?" asked Abraxas, his top lip curling as he looked Tom up-and-down — but they were eye-level, now.
The common room was silent. Tom saw the other boys in his year staring.
Mulciber had his mouth open slightly in a stupid expression. Lestrange looked cruel and expectant.
They want a show, thought Tom. They're animals. Give them what they want. Like Grindelwald did.
He turned towards Abraxas, determined to give the crowd a performance to remember. Something that they would find much more remarkable than the Boggart incident. A story they'd tell forever.
Tom lifted his chin.
"A wizard's duel," he said, utterly calm. He held Abraxas's steel gaze without blinking.
Abraxas laughed. "Yes, they may whisper about you, Mudblood… But I was taught magic from the cradle and duelling since I could toddle. Apologise before you embarrass yourself further."
I know I can take him. I am, after all, the Heir of Slytherin.
Tom stepped close to Abraxas — close enough to feel the other boy's whispering breath on his cheek as he leaned towards his ear.
"Oh, no, Malfoy. I won't be the one embarrassed. I won't be the one begging for mercy."
He was excited. He was ready — and Tom realised he had been ready since the very first day at Hogwarts when they'd argued in the dormitory corridor.
"On your second day at Hogwarts," said Abraxas, drawing his wand. "You were taught a lesson. Later in your first year, you had to be reminded once more. Let us see if your third punishment will stick!"
Billy called me a monster. I hung his rabbit.
Dennis and Amy thought they were better than me. So I set the snakes on them.
Carrow, Parkinson, and Selwyn attacked me while I was asleep. I tortured them.
Abraxas cut words into my arm. His punishment is long overdue.
"Selwyn!" called Abraxas. The seventh-year stepped forward, giving Tom a wary look. "You're my second. Mudblood?"
No one stepped forward for Tom, but he wasn't counting on it.
The crowd of students was drawing back to observe the spectacle from a safe distance.
Abraxas's smile was shark-like. "No Unforgivables," he said as if daring Tom to impose more limits. "No physical contact."
"Fine by me," said Tom. In fact, he preferred it that way. His heart was thudding in his chest, but not from fear.
I am going to make you cry. Suffer, like I suffered.
"First, we bow to each other, Riddle," said Abraxas, his voice low and taunting. "Thought I'd remind you, since it is your first time."
He barely inclined his head, keeping his eyes on Abraxas; he had no desire to linger on the pleasantries.
The adrenaline was terrifying; the way it gripped his head and almost made him stumble.
All of a sudden, he found himself wondered if Abraxas was right. All he could recall right now was that a good offence was the surest, if not the only, means of defence. There were hundreds of spells that came to mind, but which one?
"Expelliarmus!"
The red light was coming towards his face, but thankfully reflexes were faster than thought; still, he scrambled to get the word out.
"Protego!"
To his dismay, Abraxas's spell was stronger than he thought, and the shield splintered.
"Everte Statum!"
This time, he dodged.
It seemed to go on for hours like this; Abraxas sending hexes and curses his way, and Tom barely managing to dodge or block them without being able to get a word in edgeways. All Tom had going for him was the shield that was now draining the entirety of his concentration and a couple of opportunities where he managed to get a piece of furniture to fly at Abraxas or conjure some birds to attack him.
He was being backed into a corner; Abraxas was besting him, and they both knew it.
"Still time to give up, Mudblood," said Abraxas as he circled Tom, his teeth bared in a cruel smile.
Mudblood. Mudblood, Mudblood, Mudblood.
It made his blood boil, but hot anger was no good now.
Tom tried to force back regret as he retreated behind a Shield Charm once more.
If I could just get him to shut up.
"Cantis!"
He couldn't help but grin when the spell hit its target, and Abraxas's eyes widened in fury.
The crowd tittered when Abraxas burst into song — but more importantly, he'd have to cast non-verbally, now.
I've only bought a bit of time before he reverses it. Now what?
And before he could come up with a response, Abraxas managed to throw off the spell non-verbally.
"I'm your worst nightmare, Mudblood — Impedimenta!"
The next thing he knew was pain; his head was swimming, and he realised that the force of Abraxas's spell had thrown him back into the wall. His nose was all stuffy and felt swollen as if he'd been punched square in the face.
Abraxas was looming over him, and his head was as sluggish and empty as if he'd been hit with a Jelly-Brain Jinx. Maybe he had.
You are being sloppy. You're letting him get into your head.
But there's nothing I can do about it.
As he lay there, sort of dazed and looking up at Abraxas, he realised that Abraxas's thoughts weren't very far away at all. Like jiggling a hairpin in a lock, Tom felt around and found the right way to look at what was in his head.
He'll put his hand on the table next.
Ignoring Abraxas, Tom lifted his wand slightly to point it at the table and whisper the incantation and was rewarded with a yelp of pain from Abraxas when he put his hand on the acidified surface.
It was enough of a distraction for him to stumble to his feet, and the crowd booed.
"So you think you can fight me, Mudblood?"
Yes, he wanted to say, watching his shield warp and bow under the force of Abraxas's spells. But it was fast turning into a Maybe.
Maybe he was the Heir of Slytherin, and maybe he wanted to be Lord Voldemort. Lord Voldemort could probably turn Abraxas Malfoy into a broken, bloodied mess, just like the rook after Nott stepped on its head and ground bone, blood, flesh, and lymph into the rocks.
But the problem remained; Tom Riddle still existed, and he was a Mudblood or at least close enough, scared of Death, scared of Abraxas, too, and his nose was swollen and under his eyes too, and he could taste the metal of his own filthy blood in his mouth, and his whole body still ached from being tossed against the wall like a rag doll.
You are not ready, and you are not worthy. You are stupid and arrogant.
"Run back to your orphanage, Riddle! You don't belong here, and you never will."
Abraxas's knife cutting into his arm — slash, slash, slash — Tom was only vaguely aware that his wand and maybe his lips were moving.
Maybe Lord Voldemort was part of Tom Riddle. Maybe it was the part of him that led Carrow, Parkinson and Selwyn up to the Astronomy Tower. The part of him that hung Billy's rabbit. The part of him that agreed with Nott that he wanted to kill a Muggle.
Something snapped in Tom Riddle. He gasped when it broke.
He wasn't here to fight Abraxas. He was here to cause him the maximum amount of pain.
Tom stared past Abraxas to the fireplace and told the flames to start pouring out. Burning emerald doves and butterflies began to take flight, but heedless of their divine forms, they had no mercy; each searing kiss at his command resulted in a bloodcurdling shriek.
"You can be cruel, little Mudblood; you can be clever, ambitious and cunning all you like. You may even have that incomparable magical skill that I hear all the professors whispering about. But they will never look up to you," rasped Abraxas.
"I can do whatever I want to then, can't I, Abraxas?" he asked, stepping close so only they could hear. He yearned to drag the tip of his wand across one of the angry crimson burns (so very pretty) and feel Abraxas start. Maybe later. "You won't go to the Hospital Wing and tell them a Mudblood did this to you?"
Abraxas tried again. Expelliarmus, Relashio, all the typical duelling spells. But he didn't realise the objective had changed. Tom Riddle wasn't here anymore. He was a creature of bottomless hate and endless fury; he was Lord Voldemort.
Every spell came easier after that.
There are curses I've read about... He did say anything goes.
How far could he push the human mind? How loud could he make Abraxas scream?
There were ways to cause pain that didn't rely on Crucio. So, so many.
And each curse Abraxas sent at Tom's head, he no longer side-stepped, instead batting each spell away with the sheer force of his magic, and, if he felt like it, returning towards the caster.
He had won, but he wasn't finished.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
His favourite was when he managed to cast Flagrante on Abraxas's wand, burning a hole through the older boy's flesh and causing him to scream in pain, dropping his weapon.
Then, Selwyn joined the fray.
At some point, he must have remembered the Nightmare Curse (or maybe his Legilimency had gotten that good) from all the way back in his first year because both Abraxas and Selwyn started screaming about monsters in the walls, the sweet cacophony of their hysterical voices melting in a lovely chorus. About red, snakelike eyes, a forked tongue and a chalk-white face.
The screaming turned to whimpering, and the buzzing in his head cleared. He stared in the tall, silver-gilded mirror in front of him but did not recognise the person standing there; their face was too swollen and angry to make out any features. He was burning hot, and his sweaty uniform clung to his skin.
When Tom Riddle felt like he was standing in his own body again, Abraxas and his second were both on the floor. Their injuries made his pale in comparison. At least he wasn't covered in blood and burns.
I didn't kill them.
It was a relief.
I hurt them more than they hurt me.
So was that.
Abraxas was gesturing for him to come closer.
He knelt and put his face close to Abraxas, close enough to inhale the filthy stink of fear and sweat. He had taken care not to ruin Abraxas's face. He wanted to see the pain and shame bloom on it.
"You — win," he panted, each precious word struggling out of his lips. "I surrender."
Before Tom could stand up, Abraxas spoke again. His eyes had lost their sharpness.
"You're still filth, Riddle," he rasped. "You're still scum. No matter what."
Tom resisted the urge to kick his teeth out and walked away.
Immediately after, both Abraxas and Selwyn left the common room to nurse their injuries in private.
Tom wanted to do the same, but apparently, there were other plans for him. He'd barely begun to fix his nose when Mulciber whisked him away to sit with him and Lestrange.
Nott tried to force firewhiskey on Tom, which he refused, but he did accept the vial of dragon blood that Avery offered him. It was thicker than he expected and stung his mouth slightly, but it made everything hurt less. Meanwhile, Rosier shooed off anyone who came close to where they were sitting while Lestrange quizzed him on every spell he'd used. Tom tiredly answered his questions as best as he could.
"Where did you learn to fight like that? What spells did you use? Can you teach me?"
A lot of people looked angry, especially the seventh-years. Furious with Tom. He knew he'd have to watch his back from now on, but they should know better than to attack him while he was asleep.
Besides, the adrenaline in his veins was too sickeningly high for him to care.
Mulciber clapped Tom heartily on the back, and he coughed, his swollen eyes tearing.
"That was some duelling, Riddle," said Lestrange, grinning ear-to-ear.
They looked entertained, alright.
But something was missing...
Endnotes:
Is my version of Tom discovering the entrance a stretch? Maybe. But we do know that he discovered the Room of Requirement while at school, and he was unlikely to have gotten away with wandering around a girls' toilet and hissing at random things.
Given the time period, I find it very very hard to believe that Grindelwald wasn't involved in WWII.
Action scenes are Not My Strength (TM) and I always agonise over writing them. So I hope you enjoyed the duel!