Lestrange's mind was nothing but utter chaos. Thoughts came and went as soon as they were born. Tom could hardly take them in before they flew by. He tried to stop them, slow them down, but it was a losing game. Summer — that's what he wanted to see. What happened during summer. At his push, Fulcran's mind only became more giddy, soft sunlight enveloping his thoughts, warm wind brushing past them. Nothing of importance. Tom banged around for good measure, just like he had done in Rosier's — tearing and ripping whatever came his way. He wanted to give them the worst headache they'd ever experienced. If he had to suffer, so should they.

Legilimency came easily to him. He'd first done it in his youth — accidentally. Stolen glances were just enough; recognizing lying wasn't harder than taking a breath. But getting around in people's minds was much more sophisticated. They were all so different, so unpredictable, so unnatural. Lestrange's kind was the worst — keeping memories in feelings, smells, and spliced-up pictures. Reading them was no more than a guessing game. What should he believe? Lestrange's perspective had dyed them unrecognizable.

He was once again in the classroom given to the Goblin Wars Society, a damp, musty smell flooding his lungs. The memory of long gone curses hung heavy in the air, prickling his skin. Lestrange's amber eyes came alive with a few fast flutters of his lashes; a light grimace tainted his features. His red hair stuck to his forehead; his face wore the colour of plaster. His breaths were shallow and quick. One of his legs was shaking. Pathetic.

They were practicing Occlumency and Legilimency — at least according to them. It wasn't a lie. Tom wanted to polish his skills, he needed to. He wanted to become a proper Legilimens before leaving Hogwarts. However, knowing what he had missed during his vacation was of more importance.

"This was enough, my head's splitting," Lestrange finally spoke up, breath still laboured.

"You're not getting any better," Tom said, slight scolding in his tone, even though he
couldn't care less. Nott and Abraxas were coming along just fine.

"I was never good at clearing my mind." Fulcran stood up; he seemed unsteady. His hands trembled by his sides.
Rosier snorted, smirking at Lestrange as if he looked any better. His eyes were still bloodshot, his hair almost black from sweat.

"How's the duel going?" Tom asked, turning over his chair.

The two blonds were standing still, silently casting. They could only hear the whistle of some hexes and their deaths on shield charms.

"Nothing much. They are getting tired," Nott said. His eyes were tracing the spells and the movements of the wands. "Abraxas used something peculiar a while back; I couldn't recognize it."

Abraxas might have heard them. A small quirk of his lips said as much, at least. The next second,frost conquered the floor, and his Protego broke as he fell onto his face. His wand wasn't in his hand when he tried to push himself off the ground. Tom cleared off the ice before it became more embarrassing.

"That was dreadful," Rosier commented. "I've seen better at the Hufflepuff Duelling Club."

"I'd like to see you duel non-verbally, Gratian," Abraxas jabbed back. He took the hand Avery offered him, and cast a Tempus as soon as he got his wand back. "We should get going, we're going to miss supper."

"You should try utilizing your surroundings more, and cast spells that couldn't be countered by a simple Protego — whether due to their scale or effect. Move your enemy, make them unstable, uncomfortable," Tom meant it for both of them. It took Avery way too long to come up with that third-year charm. "Abraxas, you should have a steadier stance." Malfoy acted like he had never been to a duelling lesson, standing there like he was queuing at a chippy. "But next week, you could show us the spell Theodore didn't recognise." Malfoy perked up at this; it must have been a fine enough balm to his bruised pride.

The walk towards the Great Hall was filled with Malfoy giving a lecture about the hex he found whilst looking through the library of their summer manor. He fled there after his father brought the London Zoo home. It paralysed the opponent's arm each time they reached for their wand. According to Abraxas, the feeling was akin to burning alive. He hadn't managed to find the counter-curse. Good. A proper curse didn't have one readily available. If there wasn't one, making it would be a great project for the Knights.
Fulcran and Gratian still looked sick. Their faces were pale, and the tremor in their hands remained when they picked up their silverwear. Tom couldn't have been more satisfied with his work. He filled his plate with a rather large portion of chicken and mash. He just hoped his stomach would bear it better than it did the last few days. After the feast he almost became catatonic, filled to the brim, nausea tainting the long forgotten pleasure. It was worse each year. His stomach couldn't comprehend the change.

"When are you coming back from patrolling, Tom?" Avery asked between bites. "Are you planning on missing the coming back party again?"

"Sluggy took me hostage last year; I wouldn't call that planning," Tom answered. He poured himself some pumpkin juice. It wasn't a bad chat with their Head of House, but he still didn't understand why it had to be had so late in the evening. "But if everything goes well, not later than eleven."

"Then we will wait for you with the better wine."

"I'd appreciate that, Vasilis," he nodded with a soft smile. He would have turned back to his plate if a too-familiar spectacled owl hadn't landed in between them. It came with a newspaper — or rather a fragment of one. It wasn't rolled up, just haphazardly folded.

It started nipping the finger of Rosier, then changed its mind and started eating off his plate.

"Bacchus, stop it! You fat dolt!" Rosier tried to push its face out of his food, but the owl didn't seem to care. "At least give it to me first!"

Tom would have killed it by now. The owl seemed to know. It never touched his meals. Rosier's was free for the taking, even Avery's, sometimes Lestrange's, but never Tom's.

Rosier managed to get his hands on his mail, the article was circled and several sentences underlined. Angry dots of ink tainting it at some places. It was an interview, and

Tom didn't have to read the name to know who was the subject. Rosier's father did this often: sent the afternoon paper over, if the articles were interesting enough. However, he only sent cut-outs if he got outraged by it before finishing the whole thing. Only one man was able to do that, Henry Potter. It all started during the Great War, and it never got any better as the years went by. Now, that another war started raging on in the Muggle world, Potter once more couldn't keep quiet about his Muggle saving delusions. Rosier's father got banned from his mailing list during the Blitz, so he had no other choice but to bother his son about it. Not that Gratian minded it.

"He just can't shut up, can he?" Rosier mumbled to himself as he skimmed through the article. The witch on the other side was cut in half, she was still trying to clap with her only hand but it kept disappearing with each try.

"It's not like he is in the Wizengamot anymore," Avery said as he started putting together a plate for the owl, as it already finished Rosier's meal. He knew he would be next.

"He still has seats — he just doesn't sit them himself," Rosier murmured, still reading through the interview. Avery rolled his eyes in response, as he placed the finished plate as far away from them as possible. Luckily most of their house had finished their dinner by now. The ceiling of the Great Hall was already dark — the moon hung low, cradled by heavy clouds. A storm was brewing high above them. The room was draped in soft shadows, caressing everyone's face as the candle lights danced in the draft. Rosier's brows were furrowed, growing closer to each other with each line. "I just can't. Is he paid to be this daft? Did Sleekeazy sweep into his brain?"

"Gratian, you are just pulling our leg," Abraxas sighed. "It can't be worse than his bomb-catching—" Rosier held up his hand, stopping Malfoy in his tracks.

"Impact Grid,'' Rosier spat as if the words were on fire, correcting Abraxas. "And no, it's worse."

Tom doubted that. The conversations around the Impact Grid set British wizarding politics back at least a century, paralysing it for almost a year. Henry Potter was a man that shared his thoughts just upon dreaming them up, never considering the consequences. A visionary, as his supporters called him, a delusional dolt as others did. Tom felt nothing but contempt towards him. He could get past him being thick, but he could never forgive the time, energy and words wasted upon the supposed peril of Muggle-kind. On those roaches burning up their own world, dragging wizards into the cross-fire. Chasing them out of their homes, countries. Henry Potter and the other blood-traitors of the Wizengamot would never waste a breath on the witches and wizards that lost everything to this war. They did nothing but tear away every possible opportunity the council got to help their own kind. Traitors.

He still couldn't finish his plate.

"Read it," Rosier held out the paper towards him. Tom placed it between Abraxas and himself. The cup in front of Tom started to tremble, droplets of pumpkin juice racing towards the table clothes. It was indeed worse than the bomb-catching net. This man was mad, rich, and out of touch.

"He wants us to starve," Malfoy stated it with disbelief. Rosier nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Does he know how many Muggles there are? There are less wizards than people in Rutland," Tom added. He knew his brows were furrowed; he was more affected than he would allow himself to be. He hated this man. The rich were always generous, they wouldn't be touched by scarcity either way. Their bread would always be white, not even the idea of barley infecting it.

"But Tom, we will feed them all. Don't you know, food is endless, as if importing isn't hard enough as is since the blockade. What does he want? Should we feed them with multiplied slop? Or shouldweeat multiplied slop?" Rosier's voice was growing louder with each sentence.

"You can shout as much as you want, he won't hear you," Lestrange took the article for himself. "My head is killing me; shut up!" His frown grew deeper as he dwelled deeper into the article.

"I'm telling you, he will make us donate our lands. The Muggles deserve it more anyways. They can't grow shite, but who cares. If they starve, we should starve!" Rosier let out a sharp laugh.

"You are wasting your breath on this. No one would agree to this nonsense," Nott said, his voice ever so faint. The interview was in his hand by now. "People will take him even less seriously after this, if the Impact Grid debacle wasn't enough," he shook his head. "This is nothing more than the rambling of a mad man."

"Those are on the rise, though," Rosier retorted. He pushed his plate to the side, taking a swig from his cup.

"We should get going." Tom stood, his patrolling duty was creeping up on him.

"Yeah, yeah, we should. The fifth-years will hog the best seats and waste them on Exploding Snaps," Lestrange agreed, following suit.

"They wouldn't dare," Abraxas shook his head.

The fifth-years indeed hadn't dared, but Greengrass and Zolotov had. They were already nursing a pint each when they entered the common room. They started early, the first-years were still playing by the windows. Zolotov was sporting a sly smile when he saw them, he lifted a newspaper from the coffee table between them.

"Rosier, have you seen this? Your favourite man just gave an interview!" He waved the afternoon paper high above his head. His wide grin showed the gap between his teeth.

"Obviously!" He waved his own copy of the interview back.

Rosier marched over and threw himself down by Greengrass, taking his beer. His voice followed them till their dorm room, only closing the door managed to cut it off. Tom hoped he would get it out of his system by the time he got back from his patrol.

Tom climbed into his bed, closing the curtains. The Silencing Charms awoke as he waved his wand; a soft hum enveloping him as he loosened his tie. He grabbed his diary from his pillowcase, it flew open by his touch. His own magic caressing him back. The blank pages began bleeding ink, filling with words.
He found this spell last year when he was looking for books about Legilimency. It took his thoughts and turned them into ink, just to be swallowed again by the pages. He had to extract them as soon as possible. He wasn't willing to waste any information.

He felt a light tug on his mind, a soft silver thread bridging the distance between him and his diary. The pages of the journal kept filling and turning. The strict lines of his cursive conquered the open space. Then, it abruptly closed. He tucked it back into his pillowcase.

He would reread them when he got back.

When he opened the drapes, only Avery was there. He was changing into his proper robes. They weren't much different from their uniforms — dark and shaped the same. But even Tom could tell that the material was better. The lines crisper, it held itself better. It had a green sheen to it. It could have been the fabric, or the airy light brought inside by the windows facing into the Black Lake. Vasilis ran a comb through his hair, reining in all the stray strands that got loose during his duel. He tucked it back inside his pocket. Tom didn't know why he didn't just charm his hair if he cared so much.

He waved to his house-mates as he passed by, pointing to his badge when they asked him where he was going. The disappointment in their eyes was an ointment to his irritation. He would waste two hours dawdling about the castle, breathing in the damp dungeon air and listening to paintings moan about the light of his wand. While they had nothing else to do but drink their fill from all the beer, and wine they managed to steal from their parents' cellars.

Slytherins and Hufflepuffs usually took care of the lower floors. Tom knew it was for efficiency's sake, understood it even, but he hated it. There was nothing to see there, nothing more to see. He had been everywhere, even ventured into the kitchen. He had far too much time on his hands during his first couple of years at Hogwarts. Schoolwork was sparse and not even Slughorn allowed him access to the restricted section of the library. Dark times were those, filled with useless extracurriculars and hours spent staring at the lake. He did everything so he didn't have to spend time in his common room.

He greeted the Fat Friar as he climbed the stairs on his way to the second floor, the ghost's laughter followed him for far too long. He almost hadn't caught the noises coming from the girls' washroom. Sniffling and rustling. The door was wide open, no light bleeding out. He knocked. The whimpering stopped, then it bubbled up once more. Tom knocked again.

"I'm Tom Riddle, Slytherin prefect. Would you mind coming out?" He had no idea how something like this should be handled. "It's past curfew; you should be in your common room by now." The crying just got louder. "May I come in?"

"Yes," came the choked-out response. The girl's voice was rough. She must have been at this for a while now. Tom rolled his eyes. No patrol of his could just pass without someone squandering his time.

"I'm coming in, then. Do you need help? Should I get one of your prefects? Or a professor?" He wanted to get out of this situation as soon as possible. Crying children had been the bane of his existence for far longer than he could remember. But the girl wasn't much help, she just kept weeping, louder and louder with each second. The tiled walls were mocking her, echoing it back.

This was a rather strange lavatory, not that Tom had been in many ladies' rooms before. Stalls lined the walls facing the doors, framing a marble column in the middle, the washbasins were carved into its surface. It was much more elaborate than the boys' one on this floor. It didn't smell of piss either. He leaned against the pillar, facing the snivelling cubicle.

"They all hate me," she cried out. "They think I'm dumb and annoying."

Tom could absolutely see why. She had the kind of voice that just irritated people, high and sharp — the Northern accent didn't elevate the experience either.

"I'm sure you've just had a bad day" he answered, he was rolling his wand between his fingers. The things he did out of duty.

"I can't get in. They won't tell me the password," she sniffled. "I'm not worthy to be a Raven—" she wailed again, cutting herself off abruptly.

Tom never missed knowing the Patronus Charm this much in his entire life. He could just summon Gamp or Selwyn with a flick of his wand this very second and leave this mess up to either of them.

"I'm sure you are not the first one. I've heard those riddles are anything but simple. Don't beat yourself up over it." They were easy, according to any Ravenclaws he ever talked to at least.

"I never get it. It's always about some… some wizarding thing. How could I know what a Kneazle is? I didn't grow up here!" Tom rolled his eyes again. The wizarding school was asking wizarding questions. The terror.

He swallowed an almost too loud sigh as he grabbed onto the basin he leaned against. He let it go that very second. It buzzed with magic, static dancing against his fingers. The feeling vanished as soon as his fingers left it.

"That is really unfair…" He lead his hand on the edge of the basin, the buzz got more and more powerful as he neared the tap. Was it charmed? He wanted to open it. Was the water different? "They shouldn't expect you to be familiar with all of this right after you get here, it's not your fault. That password system makes no sense. It keeps students of other houses out just as much as your own. Who would come up with that?"

"You don't think I'm dumb?" Tom knew she was dumb.

"Of course not. The Sorting Hat put you in Ravenclaw, it's never wrong." Tom had no idea what that damned hat was about half of the time. Most of his house-mates had nothing Slytherin about them either, other than being birthed by an alumna of the house. "Let's get back to your common room, I'll help you with the riddle."

"You really would?" Tom couldn't believe it either. Climbing up to the Ravenclaw Tower was not something he would do willingly. At least the spiral staircase didn't have the annoying habit of diverting his path.

"Of course, why wouldn't I?"

The lock of the toilet stall finally opened with a soft click, and the girl stumbled out with not so confident steps. Her hair was dark and bushy, tied into uneven pigtails, her red eyes covered by smudgy glasses. Her gaze was fixed on the floor. Her robes were creased, her tie missing. Tom could take so many points for only that.

"Wash your face, I'll wait for you outside." He gave an encouraging smile to the girl as he left the room. He wanted to touch that sink again, but he would never do it with an audience. The girl's face flushed with red, as their eyes met.

With each step toward the tower, Tom wished they met any other patrolling prefect or professor. Myrtle Warren, as he got to know, wasn't acquainted with the beauty of silence. She talked, talked and talked some more. About the weather, about her roommates, about her Herbology homework and how she will ask for an owl for her birthday.

Tom could barely keep up with nodding along, his face hurt with the smile he forced onto it.

Once they stood in front of the great door with the bronze knocker, the eagle head came to life with a rather long yawn, its tired eyes studying the both of them.

"The more you take, the more you leave behind, what am I?" It croaked out.

Tom looked at Myrtle, waiting. There was no magical component, she had no excuse not knowing this one. She just turned to him with her still puffy brown eyes, her lips trembling.

"Footsteps," he whispered, before the tears bubbled up again. He heard enough crying for this day.

"Footsteps!" Warren repeated the word to the knocker with a wide smile filling her face. The eagle nodded in agreement, as the door opened. "You're so smart! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She squeaked out.

"Don't mention it — but the next time you can't get inside, ask your head of house. I'll have to deduct points if I found you after curfew again," he scolded her with a light tone. He never wanted to see this girl again.

"Yes, of course! Good night!" She waved goodbye with a grin as she disappeared behind the door. Tom had a feeling his words weren't taken to heart. He shook his head as he turned towards the spiral staircase, making his way down to the dungeons.

He welcomed the snores of the sleeping portraits, navigating by the faint Lumos of his wand. When he got to the second floor, he made a confident turn towards the lavatory. He had to see that pillar again. He wanted to feel its magic.

He looked around as he entered the bathroom, closing the door behind himself as softly as possible, whispering a locking charm on the knob.

He circled the column, his hand on the edge of the basins. The magic seeping from the marble caressed his skin, playing with his own. It was calling to him. He could see his bewildered face in the mirrors. Was this some kind of incentive for people to wash their hands? He knew the men's room would benefit from one of these as well. He opened the tap closest to him. The magic was undeniably the most powerful there, he didn't want to let it go. It took away all his worry, all his frustration. It took him in, accepting him, enveloping him. It felt like home. He stumbled back, letting it go like hot iron. He missed it already. His hand felt empty. His heart felt empty.

He stepped away, he had to clear his mind. He had to think and with that feeling it was nothing but impossible. He stared at the sink, as if it could speak up and tell its secrets. He charmed the tap to open, putting his hand under the water. It was just water, cold water. He wasn't sure if he should taste it or not.

He went a circle around the pillar instead. Looking for anything that might give its secrets away. Then it winked at him. The emerald eyes of a snake glinted in the light of his Lumos. It was tucked away under one of the taps. Shaped exactly like the serpents carved, embroidered and painted all over his common room. One could find five of these in any room of their house even without looking. But never hidden away. Slytherins were proud, Slytherin even more so.

He touched it. He could feel it move, breathe.

"What is this?"he didn't mean to speak Parseltongue, the words were dragged out from his throat, from his soul.

He didn't have time to dwell on it, as the silver snake came to life, turning around itself, biting its tail. The whole pillar followed suit. It separated along its edges, pushing itself apart without a single sound. The familiar magic flooded the room along with the smell of sewage. Warm air washed over him, making him gag with the smell. Not even the Thames reeked this rancid on the worst of summer days.

He stepped back, covering his nose. He had to make distance between himself and the gaping hole that just appeared in front of him. Not just because of the smell.

He found the Chamber of Secrets. He really wasn't a Mudblood. He was the Heir of Slytherin. He did have a legacy. He had a family. He had a family whose history could rival any of his dormmates. He did belong. His chest felt warm, light as if the weight of a lifetime was lifted from it. He was smiling. Laughing.

The gaping hole echoed it back — laughing with him.

He didn't know much about the Chamber. He had, of course, read the tale about the place where Slytherin practiced the darkest of arts, and hid the monster that would cleanse the school in his stead. He was threatened with that beast too many times to forget about it. That it would hunt him down by the stench of his filthy blood and water the grounds with it. He never believed it. Just like he had never believed in the Loch Ness Monster.

He stared down in the seemingly bottomless hole, the smell making his eyes water. Could it be down there? Could it still be alive even after a millennia? Was it really a monster or was it a curse that would struck every Mudblood down with a flick of a wand?

He cast a Tempus. It was almost eleven. He didn't have the time to find out. He couldn't ruin this moment by getting caught by a professor doing their midnight rounds.

"Close?" he said without confidence, but the marble blocks slipped back into their original place. Only the smell remained, and that foreign warmth in his chest.
His steps were light as he made his way down to the dungeons, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. He was the Heir of Slytherin.

There was still life in the common room when he got back. Smoke tinted the air, the smell flooding his nose. Walburga wouldn't be happy about that. The common room had been rearranged while he was away. Sofas and armchairs had been dragged into the middle, making a misshapen circle, taken up by the sixth-years of their house. They weren't having five different conversations as they usually did. All of them were looking at Ceridwen as she took a large gulp from a too elaborate goblet and handed it to Rosier. The way Rosier looked inside the cup, one could assume, he had never seen beer before.

He felt his face shift, his brows furrow as he stepped closer to the cluster of his year-mates. Avery noticed him the earliest, moving his robe into his lap, making him some place. The others, smiled at him as he sat down. Their eyes were already dull — clouded by alcohol — their faces smoother.

"Gratian is trying to predict the future from the beer foam," Vasilis whispered into his ear. His tone was playful; his breath rich with wine. "We alreadyknow, Lestrange will finally ask out that Ravenclaw girl, she will turn him down though," he giggled a little.

"Vasilis, shut up, I'm trying to think here!" Rosier's voice was almost slurred without any ire. He must have been too many pints deep. "I'm seeing a dragon, snake-like… The constellation! Other than that, I'm also seeing a circle, close to the dragon. Therefore, I'm predicting there will be a significant change in your life, cyclical in nature." Tom smiled at the way Avery rolled his eyes at that.

"The circle could also mean engagement, and that so close to Draco could mean that your engagement is coming up soon." Even though Rosier's tone was self-assured, Tom knew he didn't take this seriously either. He had to listen to him rant about the lesser branches of divination too many times to not know better.

"I could have told you that without the divination, Parkinson was already hinting at it at Lughnasa," Lestrange commented before lighting a cigarette.

"I'm just telling you what I see," Rosier shrugged in response. He turned to Tom, extending the goblet towards him. "Tom, do you want to give it a try?" Rosier's cheeky smile almost didn't fit his face.

"Why not?" He took the goblet, as the eyes around him waited in awe. He usually didn't participate in activities like this, it felt too juvenile, but had never been this content before. He could have some fun. The beer tasted fine, but it had a weird aftertaste. The chalice must have been enchanted to keep its contents cold, but not by someone with experience. The magic was bleeding out. He handed it back to Rosier.

"I'm seeing a split arrow, a deer, a triangle, and a shoe?" Rosier cocked his head to the side. "Yeah, that's a shoe. This is quite interesting… The split arrow, arrows are bad luck, but a split one is worse, it means betrayal. The deer is a symbol of happiness and gentleness, the triangle means change and the shoe symbolizes new beginnings. So, a betrayal is coming your way, however that will bring you gentleness for a change, or the gentleness that brings you change will result in a betrayal. I'm not too sure," Rosier trailed off, still looking into the cup.

His jaw clenched as he laughed as if the prediction was nothing more but a joke to him. It shouldn't have meant more. He took a swig from Avery's better wine.