Chapter Text
It was gone. Lost. Stolen. A rage like he had never felt before itched inside him. Tom was going to destroy the person who stole it. His journal. His precious Horcrux. How did someone dare to touch his property? That notebook held too much sensitive information. And he was not above murder. Anger bristled under his skin, and his left hand reached for his wand. It was vibrating—a warmth engulfed his hand. Tom closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath. Panicking would never do good. His roommates were still sleeping. Abraxas was mewling, surely, having a strange dream. And Justus Mulciber was snoring like a pig. Tom sneered in disgust. How could a pure-blood do something so plebeian, he would never understand? He twirled his rings in his hands—pacing silently inside the room. Where was it? No matter what he did, he could not feel his journal. Tom clicked his tongue and climbed the stairs to the common room. And he waited.
He could not sleep. Ever since the ritual, his sleep cycle had become sporadic. He used the time the study his new favorite book in the Come and Go room he had shown Harry. His mind stuck on him. Harry. The boy he had saved. The boy who had given him everything. “He is such a precious thing,” he thought absentmindedly. Even since the ritual, Tom swore he could feel Harry deep within his soul. The book mentioned how unstable the soul could be after the split, and Tom believed it. His skin felt like rubber. The tips of his fingers were always cold no matter how many warming charms he cast on them. If he slept, his dreams were always the same. It was always about that night in the girl's bathroom when Myrtle Warren was killed. “I never meant to kill her,” a part of his brain supplied. And wasn’t that wild? Tom Riddle had never meant for her to die. Not it that way at the least. Tom slumped against the sofa with a huff.
His thoughts drifted to Harry again. The young boy had grown beautifully into a great Slytherin, and Tom was certain he would continue doing so. However, something still bugged him. That day in the Come and Go room was still replaying in his mind. “You will have to see me die…if you live forever,” he had said. Tom did not know how to answer. He remembered quite clearly how he had felt when Harry had dared utter these words. And wasn’t that ironic? Tom had been bested by an eleven-year-old. His world had collapsed like a house of cards. It had not been difficult to put back together, but it was a pain in the ass nonetheless. Tom sighed. He waved his wand—casting a wordless Tempus. 4:56 am. There was a little more than one hour left before breakfast. Tom closed his eyes in an attempt to get some kind of rest.
His eyes travelled to Harry. The boy was laughing with Rowle and Avery. Tom scowled. Why was Harry so far away from him? He strained his ear—hoping to get a hint on what they were talking about. Avery was quite loud against the other conversations.
“Don’t ya think havin’ a Gryffindor on board might—”
“Avery! If you finish that sentence, I will obliterate you,” Rowle sneered.
Harry let out the most jovial laugh Tom had ever heard. “Why won’t he laugh like that with me?”
“We let your baby doll join in! Why can’t ya let me have fun?” Avery asked.
“Because your definition of fun could absolutely get us sent to Azkaban,” Rowle countered. “And she is not my girlfriend.”
Harry giggled behind his hand, and Tom wished he had done it. He desperately hoped to be the only one gracing Harry with such joy.
A cold prickle ran down his back. And Tom’s gaze subtly shifted toward the Head Table. Professor Dumbledore avidly watched Harry like a blue-eyed hawk ready to snatch a living prey. Something akin to the feeling he had when he went to Little Hangleton boiled inside him. And despite pushing it down, Tom knew that once the feeling settled in his veins—nothing could make it go away. He twisted his ring—the one Harry gave to him—around his finger. Professor Dumbledore must be more than stupid if he thought Tom would not intervene. Around him, the student body rose to walk to their classes. And Tom paid it no mind. He watched Professor Dumbledore stand from his seat and skip across the hall with his ugly orange robes. “I’ll kill him,” Tom thought. And wasn’t that wonderful? He closed his eyes and basked in the fantasy of Professor Dumbledore dead at his feet and Harry by his side.
“Milord…”
The hushed whisper pulled him from his daydream. He scowled and turned toward the voice. Mulciber.
“Justus, not in public, dear friend,” Tom cooed.
“Of course, My Lo—T…we must go,” Mulciber stuttered, a deep blush spreading to his neck.
Tom nodded and stood. He walked toward the potions classroom—Justus at his feet. An evil smirk etched across Tom’s face. And he took a liberating breath. How wonderful. He did not need anything else. The cold spreading to his fingertips and ears was nothing compared to the warmth coming from his Knights. He could be cold forever for he knew just where he stood. Above all of them. And their tiny scared voices could never reach him, could never bring him down. But there was always something there in every one of his fantasies. Harry was always there—showered with gold and silver like the prince he was. Truly beautiful. But first, Tom had to find his journal and deal with whoever dared to steal it. That was a promise. And never forgot his promises.