The Slytherin fifth year dormitory was eerily quiet during the first break of the day, a rare lull in the usual chaos of Hogwarts. Tom sat on the edge of his four-poster bed, the heavy emerald curtains drawn halfway around him, creating a cocoon of shadowy privacy. The faint, rippling light from the Black Lake outside the enchanted windows danced along the walls, casting distorted patterns on the smooth stone. His school robes were neatly arranged, his tie slightly loosened, though his hair remained impeccably combed and undisturbed from their coiffure despite the fumes of the double Potions class just prior.

His hands lingered over the snowy white envelope Osiris had brought him earlier that morning, the seal unbroken. The wax bearing Hadrian's sigil—a triangle wreathed in lilies enclosing silver antlers—seemed to gleam faintly in the dim light. The temptation to open it immediately after breakfast had been almost unbearable, but Tom had exercised restraint, unwilling to share with an audience. This letter, like all others from Hadrian, was meant to be savored away from the prying eyes and nosiness of his fellow peers.

He slipped his nail beneath the seal and opened the envelope with a care that was surprisingly gentle for the usually harsh tempered boy. But then again, Tom always took care of his possessions with meticulous attention so perhaps it wasn't all that unexpected. (Hadrian, whether the older boy knew it or not, belonged to Tom from the instant piercing dark eyes met with intense bright green.)

Inside was a thick sheet of parchment, the faint scent of bergamot and something warmer, more elusive, wafting up as he unfolded it. His eyes darted over Hadrian's elegant yet chaotic scrawl, the whimsical loops and curls as charming as their writer.

Dear Tom,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and excellent mood, though I suspect the latter is probably largely dependent on how much chaos you've managed to orchestrate within Hogwarts' ancient walls. And no, I'm not projecting. Frown all you like, I don't believe for a second that there isn't any mischief to be had even if you are the most perfect prefect to ever walk the halls of your school.

That is, of course, if your head isn't bent over some book that probably weighs more than a Hippogriff.

At this Tom huffed and purposefully smoothed out the tiny wrinkle between his brows. He could just imagine the cheekiness in that crooked smile of Hadrian's.

Anyway, I am writing to inform you that I am no longer in Switzerland. My research has led me southward, to the sunny lands of Morocco. As you're stuck in gloomy Scotland attending boarding school right now, I thought I might make you envious. (You did insist on me sharing about what I'll be up to.)

Tom rolled his eyes in an inadvertently fond manner that he probably never would have thought he might be capable of.

But, no seriously. You know how magic always seems to have these weird, twisty origins? Like, you think you've got it all figured out, and then someone tells you about a spell that only works when there's a full moon or if you're wearing mismatched socks.

Well, I've been looking into djinns—the kind you hear about in Muggle and magical stories alike. At first, I thought they were just another bit of folklore, maybe exaggerated magical creatures. But the more I dig, the more it looks like there's something much deeper going on.

Here's the thing: I think djinns might actually be the souls of ancient sorcerers. Sorcerers who, for whatever reason, got themselves bound to magical objects. Maybe they were experimenting, maybe it was a punishment, or maybe they were just really unlucky. Either way, it seems they ended up as these powerful, immortal beings that can't quite escape their situation.

Tom read on eagerly, fascinated by Hadrian's theories.

And here's where it gets interesting—or disturbing, depending on how you look at it. You've heard of Herpo the Foul, right? Nasty piece of work. He's credited with inventing a certain ritual, the kind of magic that binds pieces of a soul to an object. What if he got the idea from studying djinns? What if they were the original inspiration for his experiments? It would explain a lot about how he came up with the concept of splitting a soul in the first place.

At this, Tom's eyes widened. And his mind subconsciously jumped to the obscure text he stumbled upon in Secrets of the Darkest Arts in the Restricted Section of the library. The idea of a soul fragmented and bound to an object—neither alive nor truly dead—stirred something deep within him. It was a concept he had long pondered in his own quiet moments, a thread that tugged at his ambition and curiosity.

It's fascinating, isn't it? These djinn—these trapped souls—could be living time capsules of ancient magic. Imagine the kind of knowledge they might have. Spells, theories, even philosophies that we've completely forgotten. But they're also a cautionary tale. Whatever drove them to bind their souls, it clearly didn't end well.

I'm in Morocco right now, tracking down one of these djinns. The locals say it's over two thousand years old and bound to an obsidian lamp covered in ancient runes. From what I can tell, it's not exactly a friendly creature. Can't say I blame it, though—two thousand years stuck in a lamp would make anyone cranky. I'll have to approach it carefully. Summoning it is one thing, but convincing it to talk is going to take some serious patience and cunning.

Tom let out a soft laugh despite himself. At least Hadrian was quite self-aware enough to know how often he could resemble an elephant in a chinaware shop. But of course, he didn't doubt for one second that Hadrian would be able to hold his own against the djinn no matter how old or powerful it was.

On a lighter note, I'll be back in England by Samhain. Normally I'm not one for schmoozing but I've heard that Horace Slughorn's Halloween parties are a bit less smarmy than the usual which is as good an excuse as any to catch up with my handsome but "very distant Peverell cousin". You can finally let your Head of House know I'll be there—I'm sure the both of you will be pleased at no longer having to hound or be hounded over getting a hold of my wayward self.

Looking forward to seeing you soon. In the meantime, take care of yourself, Tom. And if you find anything interesting in your studies, don't keep it to yourself—I'm always curious to hear what you've been up to just as you are with my research and travels.

—Hadrian

Tom read Hadrian's letter once, then again, each word slipping under his skin like a spell crafted to linger. But by the time he reached the end of the letter, where Hadrian casually mentioned his return to England for Samhain, Tom's focus shifted. His grip on the parchment tightened, and a faint flash of pearly teeth behind cupid bow lips—a predatory curve that belied the sudden, possessive swell in his chest.

It wasn't soul magic theories that dominated his thoughts now, nor the tantalizing notion of bound djinns whispering ancient secrets. No, it was the way Hadrian could write something as monumental as chasing a two-thousand-year-old djinn, only to sign off as though it were an afterthought. The nonchalance of Hadrian's voice—it was maddening. Tom found himself once again torn between exasperation, bewilderment and fascination when it came to the older boy. He set the letter aside carefully, as though it might rip, before reaching for the small packet of photos that had accompanied it.

The first couple of photos was of the bustling souks and labyrinthine alleys of Morocco's wizarding district, and the wizarding riad Hadrian was staying at. The riad's mosaic tiles shimmered in the photograph, the colors shifting as if alive. Intricate mosaics and lush greenery moved gently in the frame, the courtyard filled with vibrant plants that shimmered faintly with magic. A fountain in the center spouted water that occasionally transformed into liquid silver, reflecting the enchanted lanterns hanging above.

He studied the exotic sights briefly, but his attention quickly shifted to the last photograph—the only one with the sight Tom most wanted to see. It was smaller, its frame worn as though it had already been handled multiple times. The image depicted Hadrian seated by a sunlit courtyard pool, long black tendrils that curled at the ends like the bodies of slender snakes and just as gleaming under the Moroccan sun.

He wore a richly embroidered kaftan, the deep jewel tones complementing his pale skin. Barefoot, his feet dangled into the water as he kicked at the surface, creating ripples that shimmered like gold. The moving image had caught him in an unguarded moment, his expression soft as he kicked at the water. Then Hadrian looked up, caught the camera's eye, and smiled—a quick, disarming flash of amusement that made Tom's chest tighten and his breath hitch.

That smile—it was the kind of expression reserved for someone who had captured Hadrian's attention in a deeply personal way. His fingers tightened on the edges of the photograph as a wave of possessive jealousy surged through him.

Who had taken the picture?

Tom's mind churned, conjuring images of faceless figures—strangers privileged enough to share Hadrian's company in Morocco. Were they colleagues? Locals enchanted by Hadrian's charm? The thought was intolerable. His eyes stared almost wrathfully at the photograph, obsessively tracing every detail of Hadrian's expression, the curve of his lips, the light in his eyes. It wasn't just admiration that burned in his chest; it was something darker, sharper.

He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to set the photograph down. Rising from the bed, he crossed the room to his trunk, a sleek, custom-made piece of luggage that Marguerite had gifted generously along with the wardrobe worth a fortune Hadrian had made for him over the summer. With a wave of his wand, the trunk's lid opened, revealing neatly organized compartments. Tom knelt before it and whispered a soft incantation in Parseltongue. A faint shimmer of magic rippled across the surface, and a hidden compartment slid open with a soft hiss of approval.

Inside was his shrine—though Tom would never have called it that, even to himself. It was simply a collection of objects that might've appeared like old, discarded trinkets to anyone else, each meticulously preserved and arranged with the care of a jeweler curating priceless gems.

A silver teaspoon rested on a silk cloth, its handle carved with a tiny snitch which differed markedly from the other cutlery which bore the Peverell coat of arms. Clearly, it was made for Hadrian's personal use, perhaps a gift? Tom held it up to the light, observing it between his fingers. It had been the one Hadrian favored when eating his treacle tarts back at the Château d'Ambrosia. Tom had watched many a time how the flash of silver had disappeared behind pale pink lips and heard the clink of sharp teeth scraping across the silver surface.

It had been easy enough to swipe from the dining table after their last dessert together before Tom had to come back to Hogwarts.

Beside it was a scrap of innocuous green fabric—if not for the fact that it was ripped from Hadrian's robe during one of their duels. Tom remembered the moment with a sharp clarity, the way the sunlight had glinted off the blade of his spell as it cut through fabric. Tom's eyes had tracked where it had fluttered to the grassy ground in a clearing amongst the vineyards.

Hadrian barely even noticed and Tom only had to casually pluck it up and slip it into his pocket after the duel ended. It was a trophy of course, commemorating the first hit he managed to land on the older boy. But if the strange satisfaction he had felt in keeping it seemed to run darker and more viscous than mere triumphant glee—then Tom was not one for denial.

There was also a neat stack of letters, each one sealed with Hadrian's personal sigil. Tom's Hogwarts acceptance letter rested beside them, the parchment yellowed with age but revered nonetheless. It was the first piece of correspondence he had ever received, the first tangible proof that he was not like the others at Wool's Orphanage. But it wasn't until Hadrian's letters that Tom actually had someone to send true correspondence with. (Tom did not receive letters from his Slytherin acquaintances and he liked keeping it that way.)

A small collection of magazine clippings lay under the letters and Tom sifted the stack of letters to the side just so to take a peek. Most were from old Quidditch publications, showing Hadrian in the pale blue robes of the French National team, his expressions ranging from focus, determination, and triumph. Hadrian was always very expressive, especially those large almond shaped eyes that seem to shift in shades of green depending on his moods. Tom had made a habit of deciphering them often over the summer, never seeming to cease in finding it as fascinating and mercurial as spellfire or potion brews.

Finally, there was the centerpiece of his jealous collection: a limited edition copy of Witch Weekly, its cover featuring Hadrian, barely dressed in his pale blue Quidditch robes. The photograph was infamous, sparking sensational record-breaking sales from what Tom had learned. And Tom could understand, even if he wasn't very pleased—what on earth was Hadrian thinking?!—at the risqué-ness of it all.

In the picture, Hadrian's robes were artfully torn in several places, revealing pale skin marred by fine, criss-crossing bleeding cuts. As if someone had used a thin stiletto knife or maybe a whip to paint the most beautiful canvas in the world. His wild curls, deliberately disheveled in a way that it looked like he had just finished the aftermath of a game—or a fierce love-making session in between sheets—and bruised, slightly bleeding lips also added a feral allure to his usually mild-mannered demeanor.

Tom clutched at the magazine, his fingers tracing the glossy surface as if by touch alone he could summon the boy himself. Hadrian's expression in the photo was defiant yet vulnerable, a contradiction that fascinated Tom endlessly. It was this image that had haunted Tom's thoughts ever since he first saw it and now often found itself home in sweltering dreams at night. And for the first time, he cursed his perfect memory which had allowed him to conjure countless fantasies where he was the one to leave those marks, to evoke those emotions.

(Oh, the mortification Tom felt when he woke up for the first time with an uncomfortable wetness in his pajama pants.)

Tom eventually placed the new letter and photograph of Hadrian in Morocco at the center of the collection. For a moment, he watched Hadrian smile at him from the photo, jealousy gnawed at him, an insidious voice whispering that Hadrian's attention was divided, that others might occupy the space Tom coveted. But beneath the jealousy was something deeper—an ravenous greed, a hunger to possess Hadrian's unwavering focus.

As the Black Lake's shadows played across the room, Tom allowed himself a rare moment to shed his façade like a snake shedding its skin, his guarded exterior cracking just enough to let the weight of his obsession settle over him. It wasn't enough to simply admire Hadrian. He had to possess him, completely and irrevocably.

But for now, he would keep these little memorabilia, hoard them, until the time came when Hadrian wasn't just a distant figure in letters and photographs. Until he was close enough that no one else could claim him—not the person behind the camera, not the people he knew before Tom and certainly not the slavering masses.

(For one thing, Tom would most definitely not allow a repeat of such indecent photos as the Witch Weekly one to appear. He was already filled with an acidic ire at the thought there were still 999 more copies of this issue he had snatched from the Greengrass heiress in the hands of undeserving cretins.)

But Tom could wait. Samhain wasn't far away, and patience, he reminded himself, was one of his greatest strengths.

The thought of seeing Hadrian again filled him with equal parts anticipation and determination. Samhain was just a bit over a week away—plenty of time to prepare for their reunion and to ensure he was positioned to shine in Hadrian's eyes, no matter the competition.

And Tom knew just what might impress the older boy if his search for his ancestor's legacy proved fruitful. And Tom was so close. He could taste it.

Dark eyes narrowed slightly as an anticipatory smirk crept over his face. That classically handsome face took on a wicked glow that only did more to enhance the young man's good looks than to detract from it, no matter what anyone said.

After all, never let it be said that the devil wasn't the fairest of them all.