#dinoyaps

Abraxas took Eloise’s place by the mirror as the boy stepped away, his gel-covered hands shaking in the air as if trying to choke the taller boy. “I never have bad hair days,” he huffed. “The only thing that’s different this time is your bloody hair gel—it sucks!” 

“It works fine for me,” Abraxas chimed in, running his fingers through strands to set them in place. “Maybe you are just having a bad hair day. Besides, the world isn’t going to end if you go to the event without gel.” 

Eloise slammed a hand to his chest, unknowingly coating his freshly pressed and steamed dress shirt in slick. “Me without gel at an event is like a girl without rouge or perfume!” Noticing his mistake, the boy couldn’t help but cry out once more. “Fuck!” 

“Hey,” Orion said. “Should we be checking on Saoirse?” He straightened out his cuffs. “Because I thought she said that she’s never worn a dress before—the ones that she’s not used to, that is.” 

As jazz music droned from the record player, Patrick slipped his glasses back onto his nose before putting his cleaning cloth into his breast pocket. “I can go see if she’s alright. Let me just put on my shoes first.” 

“I can go instead,” Tom interrupted. “I’m done anyways. You can stay here to keep getting ready.” 

“But,” Patrick stuttered. “It’s just my shoes; I can do it…”

He didn’t get any response from Tom, though, as the boy was already closing the door by the time he turned around to face him. 

“He’s been acting weird lately,” Abraxas muttered, a low whistle passing between his lips. 

The other boys nodded, murmurs voicing their agreement. Eloise, who somehow fixed his hair into a fashionable style, gasped at a revelation. “Now, hear me out.” He walked to the middle of the room to lean against the foot of Abraxas’ bed. “What if our buddy Florian here has some competition with Tom?" 

Patrick scoffed. “You’re joking, right? This is Tom we’re talking about.”

“I know, but think about it! The guy just goes to check up on Saoirse when you could have done so. That’s weird!” 

“Saoirse did call him by his first name the other day.” Louis commented. “She usually calls us by our surnames—well, except for Patrick.” 

“Still,” Abraxas frowned. “Tom doesn’t do romance. If anything, he’s probably doing one of those…manipulation tactic thingies he does all the time. Which he shouldn’t be doing anyways.” 

The others nodded at the logic. That made more sense than Eloise’s theory. The boy, however, only clicked his tongue. “I know romance, guys; trust me.” He crossed his arms. “One of these days something is going to happen. Don’t act surprised when it does, though.”

───────────

With a knock, Tom watched as the door in front of him opened, only to reveal a girl that was clearly not ready for the ball that was to start in fifteen minutes. He was sure some guests had already arrived by now. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

Saoirse was tightlipped, her eyes landing on anything that wasn’t the boy staring at her. She muttered, her voice so low Tom almost missed it. “...I don’t know how to do my hair.” 

Tom sighed, forcing his way into the girl’s room to see her brown dress laying on her bed and her flats thrown haphazardly into its box. As he walked past the threshold, he pulled Saoirse along and shoved her into the chair in front of the old vanity. 

Much to the girl’s surprise, Tom was running his fingers through her cerulean strands. She was frozen, her eyes following the way he grabbed the comb on the counter and started to section her hair. It gave her strong tingles down her spine; the strong scent of the boy’s cologne filling her every sense. Too curious, her voice cut through the thick silence. “How did you learn to…” She trailed, unable to fumble a sliver of English off her tongue. 

Tom’s mechanical hands stilled for a moment. He would rather die than ever speak of his living situation to anyone, but she was especially vulnerable since she was letting him touch her hair. Contemplating his thoughts, he tugged at the skin on his inner cheek before revealing: “I live in an orphanage, and usually the young girls there want their hair done. Since I am one of the few older…orphans, Miss Cole, one of the workers, forced me to learn.” 

For someone as uptight as Tom, Saoirse thought, it was difficult to think of him as someone living in a place associated with poverty and poor health standards. He was always clean, always sharp in his clothing. If he did not have any guardian nor a nice place to stay, then how could he afford all of the lavish products he owns?

“I can afford everything because of my mother’s family. I inherited their vault.” Tom said. “I can hear you thinking.” 

“How?” 

“I’m a Legilimens. You have very loud thoughts, Saoirse.” 

“Legilimens? As in Legilimency and Occlumency?”

“Yes.” 

Legilimency and Occlumency was always something she had desired to learn. The idea of her thoughts being protected made her feel safe. Saoirse’s attention fell back to the mirror in front of her, in awe of the way the boy was able to manipulate her hair. “Is there a name for what you’re doing?”

“I believe it’s called a crown braid,” he muttered. “At least, that's what the girls call it.” 

As Tom finished weaving her hair on each side of her head, he secured the ends by tucking the braids in the back, using magic to hold it in place. “You’re welcome.” 

Saoirse leaned in her chair to inspect the boy’s work, intrigued by the way her hair created waves across her head. “Thank you.” 

In the mirror, the girl could see the boy fishing for something in his pocket behind her, before pulling out a small box tied together with string. In the distance, Alfred could be seen stretching on the bed. 

“You got me a gift?” She turned in the chair, finally facing Tom as he held the box out to her. 

“It’s Christmas,” he said matter-of-factly. “Do you not celebrate?” 

“Well, no; not really. But I appreciate it. Thank you.” 

She took the box into her hands, tugging at the string to unwrap the gift. Moving the green paper away revealed a white box, expensive letters spelling ‘Van Cleef and Arpels’ slapped on the middle of it. She took the cover off, and there sitting in the velvet cushion was a silver necklace, the centerpiece being three lotus flowers attached to one another. Green accents shone in each leaf, catching the girl’s eye with each detail she took in. 

“How much did this cost?” Saoirse looked up at the boy. “I can’t have this, Riddle, this…this is too much.” 

Before she could close the box and give it back to Tom, he was quick to take it from her. “Patrick bought it, actually.” he said simply. “The poor boy was too nervous to give it to you and begged one of the others to do it instead. I was the only one done with getting ready.” 

He took the necklace from its cushion. Opening the clasp, the cold metal sat on the girl’s collarbone covered in the sheer chiffon fabric from her dark, bistre brown dress with taupe accents. The other necklace she had on—the one of chains that held her ring signifying her status as a Knight of Walpurgis—left her neck cold and her left middle finger warm as Tom slipped the ring on and discarded the chain.

Looking in the mirror, Saoirse could tell that it was herself. But for whatever reason, it did not look like her at all. She felt like herself; she was not having any sort of identity crisis. Maybe it was the dress, or the hairdo, or the expensive necklace on her neck that made her seem less of what she knew, what she grew up with. There was no kimono in sight, no large obi belt sticking out from behind her, and definitely none of those horrible sandals and socks. The effects were simple, yet so drastic. 

With some shuffling in the background, Saoirse was pulled from her thoughts as Tom handed her an empty shoe box. Before she could ask the boy where her flats went, he simply crouched down to slip on said flats, his hands warm on her ankles. 

“If you find yourself speaking to anyone besides the others,” Tom sighed, standing up from his previous position. “Just be polite. I’m sure you can manage that.” 

He offered a hand to the girl, one that she took despite a nervous feeling bubbling in her stomach. They walked out of her room, arms interlocked, and made their way out of the east wing to the spiraling staircase in the middle of the castle’s infrastructure. 

Music could be heard the moment they reached the halfway point on the staircase. It was loud, yet classy. Piano and the ringing of cymbals flew through the air like little wisps of holiday cheer. Finally making it to the first floor, Saoirse let Tom guide her to where their friends congregated in a small corner of the transformed dining room. The large table was nowhere to be seen, the noir Saint Laurent marble floor exposed as the usual large carpet was gone as well. The typical golden candle chandeliers were replaced with crystal ones, large raindrops of white sparkling and twinkling in the room bustling with quiet conversation over the sounds of jazz. 

The Avery heir saw the two making their way and he threw his hands in the air in excitement. He skipped over to meet them halfway. “I was wondering where you two were, the party started almost ten minutes ago!”

When his look fell onto Saoirse, he gasped, handing his wine glass to Tom for a moment. “Oh, you look amazing, Saoirse,” he hugged the girl. “And so does your hair; did you do this?”

“No, Tom did, actually.”

“Tom, huh? Riddle, I didn’t know you had such talent.”

The taller boy shrugged, handing Eloise his glass back. “I am a man of many talents, Avery.” 

“Understandable, mate,” he smiled, patting the ebony-haired boy on the back. “Well, happy Christmas! Hopefully this event will make up for any mistakes we make on your birthday.” 

“Tom’s birthday is soon?” Asked Saoirse. 

Eloise nodded. “Yeah, on New Year’s Eve. Everyone celebrates Tom’s birthday if you really think about it.” 

Saoirse laughed at her friend’s logic as they walked over to the corner where the rest of the Knights lounged about. Though she did not question it, she noticed the way Miles and Abraxas nudged Patrick, encouraging him. After some seemingly harsh words, the Austrian finally decided to walk over to her with pink in his cheeks.

“Miles and Louis did a good job picking out a dress for you,” he smiled. “It looks nice.” Patrick took Saoirse’s right hand, lifting it up to his lips to kiss her knuckles. 

She smiled. “Thanks. I also wanted to thank you for the necklace, It must have been really expensive. Though, considering your family, maybe not that expensive.” 

Patrick frowned. “What necklace?” He looked down, his widened eyes finding a shiny silver piece of jewelry sitting on her person. “When did you get that?” 

“Tom gave it to me after he did my hair. He said it was from you.” 

“I didn’t buy that—wait, he did your hair?”

Maybe it was something he missed—a change in the air, but last time he checked, Tom was supposed to be the least of his worries. Louis had more potential to fight for Saoirse’s hand and Patrick was sure he and Cassius had something going on. To put it simply, Tom was getting on his last nerve. 

Saoirse frowned. “So he lied to me? You didn’t get this for me? He said you were too nervous or something like that…”

There was no way in Hell Tom was actually trying for her hand, right? Abraxas had to be right; he was just doing one of those manipulation tactics. Nonetheless, Patrick did not want to see what would happen if he told Saoirse the truth. There had to be a reasonable explanation for why he lied. 

“I—no, Saoirse, he wasn’t lying,” Patrick sighed. “I’m not used to courting girls, and it’s really nerve wracking especially since you’re in the group. It would have been embarrassing if you declined, to be honest.” 

He was going for the safest option by lying, really. Besides, any sane Slytherin would know when to take up an obvious opportunity. The longer Saoirse stayed quiet, the more his heart pounded in his chest at the thought she had caught him lying to her face. Then, she nodded, her shoulders relaxing and her lips curling into a pretty smile. 

“You’re courting me?” She asked. 

“I’ve been wanting to. I really like you, Saoirse, and I hope we can be something more than friends soon. My mum’s already begging to meet you because of how much I write to her about you.”

As the jazz music swelled, so did the heat in Saoirse’s cheeks. She licked her lips in thought, vanilla fresh on her tongue before she opened her mouth to speak. The foreigner was interrupted, though, as Cassius made strides up to the two with a wine glass in each hand.

“The waiter came and asked if we wanted more drinks, so I decided to get one for you, Saoirse.” He handed a glass to her. “He said it was some American brand, but I’ve never heard of it.” 

“I’ve never drank alcohol before.” She said, sniffing the glass of deep reds and purples. 

“Really? Well, then we have to get you more! Alcohol is fun to drink when you’re around friends, trust me. If you get really drunk then we’ll be here to take care of you, so go crazy!” 

Shooting the tall boy a look of doubt, Saoirse sighed before tilting the drink to her lips. It dried up her tongue, along with her throat as she swallowed. “This is gross,” she coughed, wiping her lips with the back of her hand before handing the glass back to Cassius. 

He only laughed at her scrunched up face, happily taking her drink and downing the rest of it in one go. “Your loss. I’m sure there’s something you’ll like here tonight, I promise.”

Cassius looked at Patrick, a polite smile on his lips. “Can I hang out with her for a bit? I’ve never had a conversation with her yet and I haven’t had the time to bond with her yet like the rest of you.” 

“You’re just going to get her drunk,” Patrick frowned. “Besides, I don’t think Saoirse would be interested in drinking.” 

 Saoirse shrugged. “Actually, if there’s anything that doesn’t taste like that thing you gave me, then I would be happy to try.”

The taller boy nodded in approval, putting a friendly hand on Saoirse’s shoulder. “That’s all I need to hear, lady!” 

Cassius pulled the girl away from Patrick before he could protest, the boy biting his bottom lip in frustration and stress. He had not spent time with her for a while, and he was depending on this night to hang out with her, to show his romantic interests in her. Now, he was hoping for another air raid to kill them all in a quick second. Patrick walked back to his friends, his head hanging low as they patted his back. 

“That was a hard watch,” Abraxas sympathized. “But Cassius is just dumb, you know that.” 

“I know, but I really wanted tonight to be just me and her.” 

“Is this a bad time to say that I wanted to hang out with her too?” Asked Orion. “Hey—don’t give me that look; I haven’t talked to her once!” 

Patrick scoffed. “Well, you can talk to her any other time but tonight! Cassius is already off trying to get her drunk!” He pointed to Tom, who was busy talking up a storm with a random man much older than the group. “And this dickhead is ruining my chances too. Did he tell any of you that I was going to give Saoirse a necklace? Because I didn’t, and apparently neither did Saoirse!” 

Eloise laughed, crossing his legs on the sofa. “I’m sorry to tell you, but I told you so, mate. He’s got something for her.” 

“Eloise, shut up.” Abraxas pushed. “Don’t say that, Patrick is obviously upset.” The boy stood up from his plush chair and straightened his trousers. “I’ll go look for Saoirse before Cassius gives her something she can’t handle.” 

As the blond left the corner, Tom took his seat, legs crossed and hand tucked under his other arm. 

“When did you have time to buy Saoirse a necklace?” Pressed Patrick. “And an expensive one at that; it’s from Van Cleef and Arpels’s new catalogue.”

Tom sighed, pulling at his collar before taking a sip of his champagne. “Calm down, Nott. You should be thanking me that I told her it was from you. You need to have a stronger mindset if you’re courting her. No one likes an insecure man.” 

“I’m not insecure,” Patrick argued. “I just think it’s weird that you out of all people would get Saoirse jewelry.”

“There is only one reason I would get her such a thing, Patrick; please think. I worry about you sometimes.” 

It was never easy to follow Tom and his plans, especially when he rarely told anyone anything. If it was not of significance to them, he would not say a single word about it. He was like a spider, constantly weaving and tending to his intricate web of lies and manipulation; a web that Patrick, as well as the others, purposefully fell in on their own accords.  

It was not until Abraxas and Cassius came back with a quiet Saoirse that had pink in her cheeks did Patrick let go of his issues with Tom. He stood up to handle the girl, letting her sit down in his spot on the sofa. “What did you give her, Cass’?”

“I thought she’d be able to handle some Firewhiskey…” 

Patrick sputtered, “Why would she be able to handle Firewhiskey?”

“I don’t know!”

Saoirse hiccuped, then giggled at her own noises bubbling from her throat. She slurred her words, words that none of the boys were able to understand as she turned to Miles with a friendly smile. 

The boy could only smile back in sympathetic amusement, sweat dripping from his temple. “Yeah, Saoirse, totally…Let’s just get you upstairs and in bed.” He stood up, taking the girl with him. 

She squirmed at his touch, swatting his hands away with a pout on her lips. Again, she spewed another slurry of words that were too whiny for any of them to understand. Saoirse rubbed her droopy eyes with the back of her hand, her gaze landing on the boy in the chair. He stared back, amusement and pity in his gaze. Saoirse pointed a wobbly finger to Tom, her eyes squinting. 

“Oh, darling, you have to speak English with us,” Miles sighed. “We have no idea what you’re saying. Does anyone know a spell that can help us translate?” 

Tom begrudgingly heaved out of his seat with a sigh, wand slipping from his waistband and into his palm. “Veri Lingua should work fine…” With a swish and flick of his wand, Tom and the Knights waited with baited breath for Saoirse to speak again.

“You’re so pretty,” she whispered, her dazed eyes not once leaving Tom’s figure while the others choked on air. 

“She doesn’t mean that,” Patrick laughed. “Right?” 

Cassius sighed, patting the boy on the back. “I speak my truth with alcohol, Patrick. I’m sorry.” 

Saoirse squirmed again, the spell effectively allowing the Knights to understand the girl’s whining desires to dance with the tall London boy. Did she know how to dance? Probably not, but that was the least of their worries at the moment. 

Tom crossed his arms in annoyance, a huff leaving his licked lips as he shifted his weight onto his left leg. “I’m not going to dance with you, Saoirse.” 

“Why not?” She sniffled, surprising her friends when drunk tears pearled in her eyes. They were never going to let her drink again. 

Abraxas chimed in, placing a gentle hand on Saoirse’s arm. “Tom will dance with you if you go to your room.” 

“No I won’t,” frowned Tom.

“Yes, you will.” Abraxas raised his eyebrows. “Because you’re such a nice friend, Tom, right?”

“Right, yeah.” Tom offered a hand to the girl, who gasped and eagerly pulled away from Cassius’ arms to make her way to the other boy. “Let’s get you to your room, Saoirse.” 

Saoirse had barely spent an hour at the party before being whisked away. She stumbled in her flats as Tom dragged her up the spiraling stairs in the middle of the floor and all the way to the east wing on the second level. The music from the first floor hushed, leaving the two with nothing but the girl’s constant drunken ramblings under her breath and the boy’s loafers against the carpet. 

Tom eventually rounded the corner, turning the doorknob to Saoirse’s room and pushing the girl inside. She wobbled, yelling in fear as she tried to navigate her way to the plush bed and warm sheets calling her name. Unable to hold back his sarcastic tongue, Tom kissed his teeth as he asked, “I thought you wanted to dance?”

“Later,” she scoffed. “M’tired…”

Half of her body was hanging off the side of the bed, weak attempts at wiggling her flats off amusing the boy who stood next to her. His amusement went as quickly as it came, and soon Tom was crouched down to slip her footwear off. “Will you be okay in that dress, Saoirse? I can ask one of the house elves to help if you’d like.” 

“Don’t call me that.” She whined. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Stop calling me by that name…” 

She was completely out of it. 

“I don’t have time for your drunken speech,” Tom frowned. He grabbed her ankles, pulling her body to rest on the bed entirely. “Go to bed.” 

Saoirse fell silent, soft snores occasionally breaking the silence to signify that she had fallen asleep. With a fluffy blanket draping over her figure, Tom pivoted on his foot when a cold chill tickled the nape of his neck. The candlelights hanging by the door flickered, more than usual as their luminance shined. 

Tom was never a paranoid person, not usually. Most of the time his paranoia came from the fact people around him were incompetent and it always worried him that they were never living up to their promised expectations. However this paranoia he was feeling was different, one that reached deeper into his stomach as he gingerly touched the doorknob. There were eyes on him. Eyes with a gaze so sharp, it could have been mistaken for a knife digging into his back. His hand on the doorknob squeezed, neck turning stiffly before the breath was knocked out of his chest. 

Staring back at him were a pair of light, beady eyes, floating orbs of white surrounded by a flush air of uncertainty and vivid anxiety. It was difficult to make out what he was seeing, but he was sure; so sure there was a person standing in front of him—at least, the remains of a person. Their eyes, sharp and feminine, dead set as the eyelids sagged. Their hair, or what was left of it, was all tangled up in a mass of black, covering what seemed to look like a hole in their head. Looking further down, Tom could see their floating, translucent body failed to have any details from the neck down, leaving a sad image of dripping light in his view. 

It was very different from the ghosts at Hogwarts; much different. More light passed through the ones at Hogwarts, for whatever reason, allowing for a better silhouette and more clarity. This ghost’s body was so faint, so light in its appearance that Tom almost believed he was hallucinating. 

Before he could gather any thoughts, the ghost veered into his direction, eyes wide and whatever it had resembling a mouth and jaw open slack. Tom opened the door, quickly sliding through the crack and slammed it shut. He was surprised to hear a loud thud against the wood. The ghost never attempted to phase through. Was it even a ghost? Tom had no clue for once.

TR~S

The Yule Ball lasted well past midnight, the guests leaving when crickets and other nightly creatures felt the courage to let their voices sing to the twinkling stars. The party was hardly any concern of Tom’s for those three hours, even if he did try to work his way through the social ladder and spread a few seeds here and there. Events like these were always good for social networking, but there would always be another time for him to do so. 

It was one of the few times in Tom’s life where he felt stuck. Seeing that ghost in Saoirse’s room was a setback, no matter how dramatic of a conclusion that was. Obviously, it was that girl she had killed, but it did raise more questions. While it was easy to conclude that Saoirse was haunted, as she had stated previously, it was still unclear why Saoirse killed the girl in the first place. She was very vague in her answers that day in Abraxas’ room, and Tom highly doubted that she would be up for any discussion towards the topic. 

There was also the book she lent to him. If it were him, Tom would have never let such a valuable asset fall into someone else’s hands; she was too trusting. He had tried to translate the book’s pages a few nights ago, but the ink wouldn’t budge whatsoever. Saoirse would be the obvious person to go to, but with the information he wanted, there was barely any chance of her truthly revealing what was on those pages and in its margins. The pictures and diagrams were of little-to-no help either as they were very faded. It was no wonder Saoirse failed to operate on her victim. 

So, Tom found himself throwing the book onto Abraxas’ coffee table the next morning, showcasing its cracking leather-bound cover to his Knights. Somehow, they always congregated into the same room without fail. 

Just before Patrick was about to grab the book, Tom swatted his hand away. “There’s no point in reading it. You won’t understand it, Nott.” 

The boy frowned, soothing the back of his hand. “Haven’t you tried to translate it?”

“Of course, but it didn’t work. I assume it was made that way when the book was bound to the leather. Perhaps the book board was marked.” He ran a hand through his hair, stressed. “Saoirse said I was the only one made aware of this book, but I see no reason to keep it from any of you.” 

“You’ve been making moves, Riddle?” Asked Miles. 

“Not in the way you’re assuming,” Tom frowned. “To be frank, it’s proven to be quite effective when I seek out information from the girl on my own. She’s had this book since she transferred; it’s filled with Dark Magic and it was under our noses this entire time.”

He flipped the book open, too frustrated to handle it with care as the cover smacked against the wooden table. Pressing a pale finger to a page, the other boys leaned over to stare at a faded diagram, along with a muddy photograph crusted with brown fingerprints and clipped to the side of the paper. It was nothing like the photographs they were used to, though; this one did not move. They had imagined what Himiko’s body looked like before, but now that there was a very real image of it, the boys were quick to close the book before one of them got queasy. 

“I’m getting very tired of saying this,” Tom laughed. “But you men need to step up your game if we want to figure this girl out.” 

“Tom, it’s Yule,” Abraxas frowned. “We already made progress with the Basilisk; isn’t that enough? We’ve been trying to figure that out for ages now.” 

Tom huffed. “This is different, Malfoy.” He pressed his finger back on the book. “It is imperative that she reveals her secrets to us. Every time we think we’ve found an answer, something else comes along to wipe away any progress. So, no, it isn’t enough—it’s never enough.” 

They were so dumb and gullible. They only wanted to focus on their friend, not the fact that she had an arsenal of unknown magic. They all looked at her through rose-tinted glasses and it was getting on his last nerve. He needed more; he needed more members in hopes to drive out whatever idiocracy the Sacred Twenty-Eight was breeding. He needed fresh air. 

He snatched the book from the table, tucking it under his arm as he pivoted on his foot to walk away. 

He really needed a cup of coffee. The elves knew Tom well enough to ready his daily caffeine fix in the kitchen, its warmth calming his nerves the moment it fell on his tongue. Taking another sip, the Slytherin heir shuffled out the kitchen and to the garden in the back of the manor, sitting down at one of the many round tables near the maze-like hedges that created a threshold between the main garden and the courtyard. 

It was a cool, crisp morning, with birds chirping and flying overhead in the clear skies. It was the perfect weather for Tom to sip on his coffee while going over the book once more. The smell of an old book was one of Tom’s most favorite scents, filling him with unfamiliar and bittersweet nostalgia. 

The breeze hardly bothered the boy as he got lost in its pages, despite not knowing the language whatsoever. He appreciated the book for what it was—a tomb of knowledge and power. 

A man yelled from the other side of the hedge, shaking Tom from his reading. Birds flew away overhead in fear of the noise, but the boy was only intrigued as more yelling followed. It was a girl who spoke this time, a familiar voice falling to his ears. Though he had no idea what they were saying, it was enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.  

Closing the book, Tom carefully stood from the chair once a ringing smack echoed in the garden, then a sound of pain and the sound of the girl falling to the ground. Tom held his wand tight in his hand, the tip glowing as he hastily tried to listen in to the tense conversation. The spell he made last night was on the fly, a weak attempt at trying to understand Saoirse and her drunken speech. However, it would have to do for now. 

The spell was effective, and another feminine voice gasped, “How dare you speak to us that way, you insolent girl!”

Mr. and Mrs. Itohata seemed to have ignored their conversation with the Malfoys, berating the girl—who was obviously Saoirse through a quick deduction—to no end. They ridiculed her for wearing the dress Lestrange and Rosier gifted her, which she was quick to address by clarifying she wore it out of respect for the two boys and their “kindness and hospitality.” Then, they made it a point to acknowledge the expensive jewelry on her neck, a surprise to Tom that she was still wearing it. 

“You don’t have the money for that,” sneered Mr. Itohata, a tone uncharacteristic of his knowingly soft features. “Don’t tell me you stooped as low as to lay up with some boy for his wealth…” 

“I never did such a thing!” Saoirse cried. “What’s it to you anyways? It’s none of your business!” 

Their argument heated up, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. Finally deeming the conversation now boring, Tom stepped around the corner. He put on a polite smile, rightfully scaring the three foreigners when his eyes fell to the girl on the floor, her cheek red and her palms and knees just as rough and scoffed up from the wet pavement. 

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly, helping Saoirse up from the ground. “While it’s none of my business, I do believe it is improper to handle a lady in such a manner.” 

He ignored the way their gazes burned into his being, simply wrapping an arm around Saoirse to guide her away. As Tom led her out of the garden, the adults followed, too shocked to excuse their misbehavior. The grass and snow crunched beneath their feet, the air unpleasantly moist. Before they could leave the courtyard, Tom went back to the small table he was sitting at previously to pick up the book, only for Saoirse to tense up in his touch and snatch it from his grasp. 

A gasp could be heard from behind, followed by hush whispers. Saoirse pulled his arm off her back, her gaze set on his in fiery desperation. She took no time in taking the lead and dragging him the rest of the way until they were walking up the staircase and away from Mr. and Mrs. Itohata.

Saoirse barged her way into Tom’s room, finally letting the boy go from her vice grip to slam the door shut. “What were you thinking,” she yelled. She held the book tight, swinging it around to beat Tom’s arm. “Reading this book in broad daylight—you’re such an idiot!” 

“Stop hitting me!” He grabbed the book from her hands and threw it onto his bedsheets. “You didn’t tell me I had to keep it away from them! Is the book not yours?”

“No!” She threw up her hands. “Where did you think I got the damn thing, Riddle—of course it’s not mine!” 

The spark in her eyes was gone, the natural curiosity faded into worry and anxiety—maybe even fear. Saoirse slipped her frames off, running a hand across her face before pressing hard against her temple to soothe the oncoming headache. With a heavy sigh and a droop in her shoulders, Saoirse walked past the tall boy to flop onto his bed and cover her eyes with her arm. He would have scolded her for ruining his sheets, but he figured now was not the time. 

Tom took the moment to look over the girl’s figure; her knees scraped and her palms dusted pink and brown with dirt. Her cheek, though still visibly red from being hit, was less irritated than before. Her dress, one that was new and sparkling with craftsmanship, now muddy and soiled at the recently frayed skirt hem. He could have sworn he had seen a tear slide down her cheek, but perhaps it was just a trick of the light. 

Hesitant, he took a seat next to her on the bed and it sagged under his weight. The words were on his tongue, but they would not fall in fear of saying the wrong thing—in fear of ruining the progress he had made on his own. 

“They know I killed her,” she croaked. “And now they know why.” 

Her jaw was tense and so was her hand free of her frames as it formed a fist. Tom did not have much experience with crying, and it always fascinated him that people would have such a visceral reaction in a fit of emotion—another thing he had no familiarity with. Their entire body would have a reaction, like the way Saoirse’s lip quivered in a line, the way her nose flared and took in deeper breaths than usually needed. Soon, the anticipated waterworks came like clockwork, his gaze following each and every drop that rolled down her cheek bone and to her jawline, eventually settling to her blue hair that had grown out these past few months. 

He had no way of stopping the words that came out of his mouth. He was well aware of social cues and knew there was a time and place to talk, but his curiosity got the best of him. “Why did you kill her?” 

Saoirse took a moment to gather herself, sniffling and wiping away the remaining tears on her face. “It’s none of your business,” she groaned. “Besides, there was no way of getting what I wanted once the ritual failed, and now especially with Tomoki and Namiko aware that I have the book.” 

“Tomoki and Namiko?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Itohata; any respect I had for them is long gone, and they don’t deserve to be called by their surname. Calling them by their first name—it reminds me that they ride on the history of the family; they’re nothing without it.” 

Now that irritated Tom. Saoirse could never understand the honor of having a respectable family name, something to be proud of in your lineage. His legal surname, Riddle, he never really thought of as his lineage. He could never. Slytherin, though; he could imagine himself with that powerful name. It reflected the lineage that he accepted, one that was more than worthy of being accepted. Riddle could never hold the same weight as the Slytherin name, and Tomoki and Namiko had every right to hold onto the Itohata name for that same sake. 

“Tom,” she croaked, slowly sitting up on the bed. “Last night—maybe I’m imagining this because I was drunk—didn’t you say that you’re a Legilimens? And that you also know Occlumency?” 

“Yes. Why?” 

Saoirse coughed, her fingers fiddling with the fabric of her clothes. “I just—I need help, Tom.” 

He raised a brow. “In what way?”

“There’s more to why I killed Himiko—and even if it was by accident, I did consider it. Now that they know I took that book, they’re going to want it back, with me included.” She stood from the bed, hands at her front as she lowered her back, bowing to him. “Please teach me Legilimency and Occlumency—if you’re willing.” 

Tom blinked once, then twice, eventually settling on crossing his arms in contemplation. It was a good offer, he had to give her that. Perhaps she did not think it through, but she was essentially giving him access to her mind in its entirety. “If I teach you, that would mean fighting your way into my mind. That’s not something I’m fond of giving up.” He looked off to the side, unwilling to see the frown on the girl’s lips once she straightened up. “However,” he paused for dramatic effect. “Orion is exceptionally good. You could ask him if you want.”

She huffed. “But I don’t want him, I want you!”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t mean it like that; I just don’t know Black that well.”

“Are you afraid of him? It sounds like you are.”

“No,” she scoffed. “I’ve never had a conversation with him before, and he looks mean and rude—like his cousin.”

“Rest assured, Orion is nothing like his cousin.” 

“Will you teach me or not?” 

The opportunity presented itself to him. It was too good to pass up. He sighed, standing up from his bed. “Fine, but I wish to keep this a secret from the rest of the Knights—apart from Abraxas and Orion.” 

The boy towered over her, forgetting the major distance between their heights. Saoirse could only nod, the twinkle of curiosity coming back to the green in her eyes.

TR~S

Tom did not go easy on her whatsoever, though that was to be expected. Ever since that morning, the two spent their nights together in the boy’s room, building up Saoirse’s mental walls and stability. It was only until the second night did she understand that Tom was a natural Legilimens, meaning he could enter and navigate anyone’s mind with ease, as if it were his own. 

Each time Tom would find something in her mind, he would expect an answer from her before going back in. By then, Saoirse knew he was looking for something, but with each night ending with her either exhausted or passed out in a chair until the following morning, she had no room to complain. 

Saoirse would like to say she understood the boy on a more personal level, but knew she only scratched the surface of his character. Maybe it was because she had only ever interacted with him around the Knights or in private, but he was always passionate, filled with whatever emotions he had at the time. However, there were moments prior to Yule Break where he would be a quiet boy, the model student for Hogwarts. The girls in her dorm would always ask about him whenever they could. 

He never seemed to express his emotions at anything other than their fullest; when he was mad, he was enraged; when he was arrogant, he was prideful and the epitome of hubris. When he was happy, however—well, it was difficult to depict when the boy was happy. There would be moments of serenity, yes—like when he was reading that book in the Malfoy’s library or when the group snuck out to sit in the grass—but he was never joyful or any sort of thing synonymous with happiness. He was too busy focusing on his goals.

Saoirse supposed it made sense, considering his upbringing. Apparently, she was the only one besides Headmaster Dippet and Dumbledore who knew of this, and Tom made it very clear to never mention it to anyone. The girl understood that sentiment well enough. Everyone else thinks he's living lavishly off the supposed inheritance his family left for him.

True to their agreement, Saoirse kept their meetings secret, no matter how much Patrick, Lestrange, and Avery tried to pry because of her recent drowsiness. This was important to her, and she would be damned to let it go to waste. Luckily Abraxas and Orion helped with excuses, but that only made the others more suspicious. The two boys helped the girl with Legilimency, offering their own minds for the girl to skim through while Tom mostly focused on Occlumency. This caused closer connections to develop, ones that were easy to spot amongst the other Knights. 

Any sort of interrogation went away by New Year’s Eve, December thirty-first—Tom’s birthday. Saoirse went out of her way to give each friend a simple bracelet woven with twine and thin, dyed strips of fabric. When they received their gifts—meant to compensate for the fact Saoirse did not give them gifts on Christmas, the boys could only react in fascination at the craftsmanship. 

“You made this yourself?” Avery gasped, holding his bracelet of burnt umber to the light in the stained window. “You didn’t use magic, though.” 

“In my culture, it is believed that magic doesn’t hold every answer, and should only be used when necessary,” she explained. “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but I don’t use my wand much, or any type of magic for most tasks.” 

They made noises of wonder, save for Patrick and Tom who both were quick to put on their specially made gifts. Patrick’s was dyed a light gray, while Tom’s was black with hints of green in it. 

Saoirse took Patrick’s wrist, ignoring the way his cheeks heated up to show the small stone on the bracelet. “All of your bracelets should have a stone on it. I enchanted them to have the ability to translate any language you hear. It was originally just going to translate Japanese, but I thought it would be more efficient to give a general purpose.” 

“Say something then.” Said Cassius, scooting up to the edge of the couch and rubbing his hands in excitement. 

“It’s super subtle,” she smiled. “But I’m speaking it right now.”

Though English reached their ears, the boys noticed the lack of synchronicity from her lips. Her accent was different from when she spoke true English, more smooth and confident. In a way, her new dulcet tones came from her mother tongue. It suited her much more when compared to the way she stuttered and stumbled with her second language.  

Eloise hummed in intrigue, holding a forefinger and thumb to his chin. “You can hardly tell!”

The sun was starting to set by the time Saoirse handed out their late Christmas gifts, but she still had one more gift to give for the night. So, once she routinely snuck away to Tom’s room, she was happy to hand the boy a larger rectangle wrapped in paper. 

“Happy birthday,” she smiled, placing the gift in his hands and forcing herself into his room. 

He closed the door immediately after, his eyes still on the thin object. “You didn’t have to get me a gift, you know.” He set it down on the table where the girl sat. “The others don’t bother, usually.” 

“But I’m not them, am I?” 

He was silent for a moment. “No, I guess not.” 

Fireworks started to pop in the far distance, surprising the two as they stared out the large window next to the coffee table. Saoirse had never seen anything like it, not as of recent. She had only seen glimpses of such bright and colorful fireworks at a younger age for festivals, but with the start of another war and her own personal problems, she never had time to see fireworks. 

Tom clicked his tongue at the sight, his eyes squinting at the brightness. With the twitch of his nose, the curtains closed, pulling Saoirse away from the fireworks’ allure. 

She frowned. “Hey, I was watching.”

“There are other things to worry about.” He pointed at the large book in the middle of the table, the one that gave him so much difficulty. “There won’t be any lessons tonight; I need to focus on this for now.” 

“You won’t be able to,” she said. “The inscription in the book board forbids it.” 

“I figured as such. That’s why you’re going to stay tonight to help me translate it.” He lifted his left wrist, waving it in Saoirse’s face to dangle the ends of the bracelet she made in her vision. 

Annoyed, Saoirse pushed his arm away. “Open your gift first, though, I want to see if you like it.” 

He sighed, sat down next to the girl in the unoccupied chair, and began tearing open the present. Soon, a thin journal sat in scraps of brown wrapping paper. The corners were embellished in tarnished gold and upon further inspection his name was engraved at the bottom of the back of the journal. “How did you figure out my middle name?”

“I asked Malfoy. Apparently, you spoke to him about what you did last summer in Little Hangleton. Marvolo was the name of your mother’s father, yes?”

Another firework went off; Tom’s fingers gripped the journal a little tighter. 

“Does this have any use?” He opened it up, the tattered and ragged page edges falling from his thumb. It was not anything out of the ordinary, and he deserved anything but ordinary.

Saoirse gestured to the boy, taking the journal and scratching a few lines with a ink-dipped feather quill. Slowly, but surely, the ink disappeared, seeping into the scratchy tree pulp of the journal. She closed it, handing it back to Tom before saying, “You seem like the type who thinks better with his thoughts on paper. I just thought with a brain like yours, it would get pretty messy in there, huh?”

“How did you…?” Another firework went off, closer than the rest. 

“Just some spells; I’m sure you can figure it out. You need to give a drop of blood, though, so the only person able to read the pages will be you.” 

A firework popped once more, the noise louder and more aggressive than any other. Tom let out a breath he unknowingly held in. 

“Are you afraid of fireworks?” Saoirse asked softly. 

He clicked his tongue, snapping his dark eyes to the girl sitting across from him. “You’re not as perceptive as you think you are.”

She shrugged her shoulders, throwing her hands up in defense. “I’m only asking a question. It’s hard to ignore the way you flinch, though.” 

Tom did not reply, his jaw set as he looked off to the side. Saoirse had gotten used to this behavior, having seen similar sights before now that they spent their moonlit nights with one another. “You don’t have to answer,” she sighed. “Let’s just focus on this book, yeah?” 

Silent, Saoirse pulled The Soul and Its Properties close, opening it to the pages filled to the brim with tireless scribbles she had made prior to her journeys in Europe. She fought past the tension of Tom’s struggles, clearing the air by explaining the purpose of the book, why it exists. Soon enough, Tom seemed to calm down and the tension dissipated, and the two spent the beginning of 1943 together in the seclusions of their curiosities.