Tom

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Not so very far away from the current drama and chaos at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...



A distinctly aged yet well maintained stone building sat in the still, crisp night. The old stone rest quietly among it's nest of beautiful gardens manicured with the utmost care by servants who, honestly, didn't care anymore for they only worked so hard out of fear of their master. The sprawling building fit in well enough among it's neighbors of equally massive and looming structures, all of them much older than they appeared. At a high window along the gothic arches sat a cloaked figure, staring out at the gray night sky.



The old man drummed his fingers along the ancient window sill, humming a strange tune in his rough voice as he opened the small, leather bound book in his hands. He had already read the message scrawled across the aged paper written in the familiar handwriting of his youth and seeming dauntingly arrogant with it's useless extravagance and flair. Folded between the pages, marking the open message, was a letter in a plain white envelope. The poor, torn page neatly tucked inside this envelope belonged with the other book, the twin image of this diary. Scrawled across this letter was another youthful handwriting, the writer having attempted to mimic the first messages familiar intricate penmanship. The arrival of this enveloped letter delivered by the old man's beautiful midnight colored owl made him laugh, something he hadn't done in what seemed like ages! How wonderfully ironic...



The man couldn't remember the last time he felt so jovial, so invigorated with energy and hope for a... darker future. He hummed a song from his youth, a song he could never remember the words but vaguely recalled the tune to, as he watched night birds play in the overcast skies. Sounds of screaming and crying reverberating from the mansion's first floor cast a hollow echo throughout Malfoy Manor.



Lord Voldemort paused to listen, a faint grin playing on his white lips. The mournful sound reminded him of something from his past. With some effort, he recalled a long ago visit by a banshee, it's shrill song dancing into a similarly brisk night. After a moment, the Dark Lord began to hum along with the woman's guttural cries, ever-so careful not to mask the sounds of her sobs somewhere in the vast labyrinth of the mansion below his current room. Now he could hear a man speaking loudly, cursing, as equally angered as the woman was distraught. The sounds were that of music, of a job well done, a lullaby to this old man's tired ears.



Voldemort had to admit he was feeling quite good, even in his current weakened state. With the new faint surge of energy pulsing in his withered veins, yes he felt pretty good. The young Tom Riddle was more of a help than the Dark Lord could possibly have imagined. His intention, making the diary a Horcrux so many decades past, was merely for his own self preservation. But the boy, he's grown a will of his own, a personality as strong as the old man's younger self had been, and he was smart as a whip! Voldemort vaguely remembered his youth due to the long years he endured not in his own right state of mind. After a moment of searching his own mind, he could recall Hogwarts School and the many catacombs of hallways, the teachers, the library he spent so many long hours reading, researching, discovering. There was so much history sanctioned between the school's thick stone walls. There was even more beneath the towering building, back then it was the young Dark Lord's own personal sanctuary.



The making of the diary Horcrux was equally fuzzy in his aged mind. But some points were hard to forget, for the shock of seeing himself in doubles, staring at his youthful twin in wide-eyed awe, it was a moment that never left Voldemort even through his personal turmoil and struggles later on in life. At that one fleeting moment in his teenage years, there had been two Tom Marvolo Riddles standing side by side, two of the handsome, dashing teenager, the mirror images of his vain younger self. Of course one was weaker than the other, being only a single part of the real Tom Riddle's soul. But no matter, the replication was uncanny. The Dark Lord remembered how, at that time decades ago, he had thought his likeness was perfect in every way, the ideal boy. He remembered wanting to reach out and touch him, hold him, feel him...



Voldemort's hazy thoughts paused along with his humming song to the night birds outside. A dim memory flashed back to him. The old man suddenly recalled the time he kissed himself, the two boys birthed from a single split soul and standing alone in the Chamber of Secrets so many, many years ago. When the twin Tom was created, young Tom Riddle had stayed up the entire night with the mirror boy in his private sanctuary below Hogwarts. They sat cross-legged and facing each other on the cold stone floor of the cavern, holding hands as they talked well into the wee hours of the morning. Young Tom Riddle had been enthralled by his double self. He finally found someone he could hold a conversation with, someone of equal intelligence and wit. But as the sun began to rise, the young Dark Lord remembered why he had created the twin. He had to go through with his own plan of preserving his soul eternally. Maybe one day he would come back. He kissed the other Tom then. It had been a kiss goodbye before trapping his segmented soul inside a small leather bound diary and hiding it away in the Chamber of Secrets for safe keeping.



The Dark Lord's thin lips fell into a frown. Why had he kissed the boy? That memory had been buried away for, for years. What an odd thing to remember. What an odd, odd thing...



Voldemort left the window then, planning on retiring to his bed. But sleep was far from the famed and feared Lord Voldemort's weary bones. He lay, fumbling through his picked-apart brain trying to remember so many years passed, trying in vain to remember what it had been like.... to be young.



The twin diary, recently created by the Dark Lord himself in order to contact it's counterpart at Hogwarts, still lay open across the chair by the open window. It was a portal of sorts and anything written by Tom Marvolo Riddle could equally be viewed by Tom Marvolo Riddle, and only him. The enchantments were quite simple. Voldemort had prided himself in creating the link, especially after that first time he saw his younger soul's writing appear along the pages. The moon outside emerged from behind a thick cloud, illuminating the small book where it lay. Now the message opened to the room was visible for anyone to read, if anyone was lurking in Lord Voldemort's bedroom at this hour of the night, a very unlikely thing indeed. The message was short, simple, and all that it had to be:




May this come to you in good health, as I'm sure it will.

The boy is gone, his life for ours as planned.

Long live Lord Voldemort!

T.M.R.



The sounds of a family mourning downstairs carried on well into the night; the sobbing, the yelling, the turmoil and anguish.



And the old man with his weary bones and energized spirit slept well that night.



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"Tsk tsk, Draco."



I coughed violently, unable to stop shaking as I lay curled on my side across the damp stone floor.



"You really shouldn't make me angry. I have a bit of... a short temper, as you probably know. Well, you know now at least."



More water still in my lungs, Merlin would it ever end? I coughed and spat the foul tasting lake water to the cold stone floor me as I still struggled to breath correctly. I lay with my arms wrapped around my mid-section, squeezing myself tight every time I coughed, as if to hold my lungs in place. They still felt as though they may explode as I absorbed the much-cherished breaths of air. My nostrils and throat burned something horrid, my eyes were puffy and red from the murky lake water, and my lungs, well, I was just glad they were still intact and functioning again.



I almost drown.



The sheer weight of that thought and the experience itself made me curl up into an even tighter shivering ball, feeling rather small and scared in my puddle, clothes still dripping onto the stone below me. It was getting easier to breath regularly again. However, tremors still shook my damp body, residual effects of what was probably a mild case of hypothermia, shock. But I was safe for now. That's all that mattered.



Tom sighed from beside my prone body, "It actually bothers me, seeing you like this."



Oh yeah, I thought drearily, squinting up at the boy kneeling beside me, there's still Tom Marvolo Riddle to deal with. I nearly forgot all about that...



Tom rose and stepped away. I closed my eyes, still trying to get a grip on myself. Was I ever going to stop shivering? No, probably not. I blinked, trying to focus my blurry vision. After a moment I could see two armchairs and a small end table nearby. I was laying on the corner of an old green rug, although my body sprawled mostly across the cold gray stone, a growing puddle beneath me.



I nearly breathed a sigh of relief after noticing how everything looked real enough again, unlike the Slytherin dormitory earlier. No 'dream-like' visions here. Well that was an improvement. Or was it? I closed my eyes again, not really wanting to know where I was now. Being shot from strange location to equally strange (or even down right terrifying) location was giving me a permanent headache.



I felt Tom's hands reach under my arms, "Up we go." The boy swiftly lifted me to my feet.



I managed to stand on my own, wobbly at first with tremors shaking my chilled bones. At first I wasn't sure why Tom had made me stand. Shouldn't I be lying down somewhere warm, recovering from my lovely near-drowning just minutes ago? Oh wait, this is Tom Riddle we're talking about. Maybe he wants to torture me more, as if drowning wasn't enough. I flinched when Tom started to pull my robe from me.



"Hold still," Tom removed the robe before I could protest any more and tossed the drenched thing back in the puddle I had left on the stone floor. I felt the weight of it lift off me. Ok, so that actually was an improvement. The heavy wool had been soaked with water anyway. So I had let him remove my Slytherin robe, but when he grasped the bottom of my vest, I hastily jerked away from the taller boy again.



"Fine," Tom sighed, taking a step back and placing his hands on his hips, "If you want to freeze in those clothes, then be my guest. But I won't have you standing there dripping on my nice things."



A hacking fit hit me before I could protest. Tom just stood there watching as I double over for a moment, leaning on one of the armchairs so I wouldn't fall. When I straightened myself again, I noticed the boy was glaring at me. Then I saw the damp hand print i just left on the aged velvet armchair. Without another word, Tom came at me again and took hold of the vest, jerking it off over my head.



"Merlin knows why I'm being so patient with you," Tom muttered under his breath. With the vest and robe gone, I really did began to warm up a little. My shoulders hunched as I gave in, feeling defeated as I let Tom start at the buttons on my shirt. I seriously had a bad feeling about diary boy stripping me, especially after all his lovely threats. But there really was no other way. I was little help, managing to pull off my tie. Between my shaking hands and how my legs might give out any minute, I may as well let Tom do all the work. After all, dying from pneumonia was barely a step up from drowning. I mean, either way I'd be dead, right?



The tremors of shivers continued as the dark haired boy stripped me. But with every missing article of clothing, I could feel the warmth of the room on my bare skin. Having a terrible time balancing on one foot, I had to lean on Tom's shoulder as he knelt down to pull off my shoes one by one. I carefully stepped from the water-filled shoes (however I managed to swim in the things still amazed me) and sopping wet socks, then, with a twinge of regret, my pants. Tom had began grinning when he took off my shirt and all the while after, but now his inappropriate smirk seemed to widen as I stood in my boxer shorts, arms wrapped tight around me trying to keep in any warmth I had left. The room may be considerably warmer than heavy, damp clothing, but I gooseflesh danced across my freshly exposed skin anyway. Tom tilted his head to the side, eying the boxers with a funny look on his smug face. I stood there, feeling incredibly surprised and lucky he hadn't tried yanking them down already. After an awkward moment, Tom just sighed and stepped away from me towards the bed.



"Those silly things won't do much to keep you warm," Tom called back, "You may as well lose them too."



I wasn't about to stand there naked with this guy. Not with the way he looked at me. And especially not after all our correspondence through the diary, all those eerie experiences like that time in the Slytherin washroom... I quickly shook my head, 'No'.



"Suit yourself," Tom pulled one of the thick blankets from the mattress and handed it to me, "Don't say I never did anything nice for you, Drac."



I quickly wrapped the old blanket around my shoulders, hugging it to my trembling body and relishing in it's warmth.



"You? Nice!? Did you already forget how you just tried to k-kill me," I shivered, glaring at the boy.



"Ah," Tom held up a finger, "Not true." He stepped around the two chairs and took a seat on the carpet before the fireplace



"If I had tried to kill you, Dearest Draco, you'd be dead right now. See the problem there?" Tom grinned back at me from his spot near the fire. He turned his attention to the fire, stretching like a cat and leaning back against the bottom of the green velvet armchair closest to him.



I glanced down at myself and frowned. Damn, he was right. The cold, wet boxer shorts really weren't helping keep me warm. Turning away from Tom, shoulders hunching even more with the weight of defeat, I shed the boxers and wrapped the blanket even tighter around me to conceal my nude body beneath. Maybe if I kept the blanket on, I'd be fine. Tom would have to pry it from my cold dead hands before getting to me in the buff... I paused in thought, pinching the bridge of my nose. Alright, before he saw it again. Ugg...



I took a moment to examine my current surroundings since Tom didn't seem to be sending me back to the lake any time soon, or so I hoped. I still wasn't even sure what had grasped my leg and tried to pull me down into oblivion. That thought sent a quick shiver up my spine. Beside me was the large four poster bed, it's oak frame intricately carved and draped with moth hole-riddled, faded green canopies. The faint smell of mildew, dust, and age filled my nostrils with each breath. I wrinkled my nose. All around the room, iron wall sconces with ivory pillar candles flickered, creating strange shadows. The candles looked as if they'd been burning for quite some time. The room had no windows, only one very old wooden door directly across from the bed. On the far side of the four poster bed was a nightstand with some books strewn across it's surface, a desk equally if not more covered in literature and an odd assortment of junk, and a wooden chair. Back where Tom resided were two emerald green velvet sitting chairs set at angles facing the fireplace, their fabric tattered and aged with one damp hand print on the back of the right chair (obviously my own fault). A circular end table and small lamp with a stained glass dust covered shade stood in between the two chairs. The small room appeared jam-packed with furniture and there was little room to spare for myself and Tom. I suddenly felt a little claustrophobic, being in here with him. Along the green patterned carpet, a large serpent coiled around a man in a suit of armor, I noticed, Tom sat staring back at me. How appropriate...



The boy was now holding a wine glass, which apparently had appeared from somewhere in the room's clutter, and was pouring what looked like red wine into the crystal glass. Tom placed the bottle in front of him and smiled to me, his free hand patted the empty space beside him near the fire. The fire looked very welcoming. Tom and his wine, not so much. I pulled the blanket tight around me, swearing to myself it was an impenetrable fortress and, in a state of deja-vu, I slowly rounded the chairs towards Tom. I sat down in front of the marble-lined fire place, holding my hands out to meet the warm glow of the embers. An awkward silence settled on us. I never handled these uncomfortable silences well, so I spoke up.



"I've been here before..." I glanced back at the room over my shoulder.



Tom had been staring at the fire, the sharp edged flames dancing in the black pupils of his eyes. He blinked, turning to me, "Oh?"



"You brought me here."



"I did?" Tom raised an eyebrow as he brought the wine glass to his thin lips and took a sip.



I glared back at him, "You were probably too damn busy sucking me off to remember."



At this, Tom snorted into his glass, quickly placing it on the ground beside him. He snickered as he wiped the red liquid from his upper lip.



I smirked, nearly forgetting I was mad at the dark haired boy and hastily replacing the expression with my famous scowl. Tom didn't seem to notice I had grinned at all.



"As I recall," Tom reached over and grasped another crystal wine glass from the fireplace mantle, "You were quite enjoying yourself at the time. Hell, you enjoyed it to the point of sheer...," he paused to flash his coy smile, "Well, you know." Tom poured the dark red liquid from the ancient looking wine bottle into the empty glass before reaching out to hand it to me.



I shook my head, refusing his offer. Had I really enjoyed Tom giving me head? No, of course not! I wasn't even conscious for ninety percent of it! Although, I did cum... With that memory clouding my throbbing skull, I grimaced with utter revulsion, confusion, shivering involuntarily.



Remind me not to fall asleep around this guy.



"Stop being so damned stubborn, Draco," Tom nearly shoved the glass into my hand, "It'll help warm you up."



I eyed the glass, not trusting the liquid within. Tom took a sip of his own wine, smiling, "It's not like I poisoned it. You think I'd be drinking the stuff if it was?"



"Probably," I muttered, bringing the glass to my lips. Thankfully, it appeared to only be wine, not that I would be able to taste any poisons Tom could make. I already knew him to be a whiz with potions. And I surely wouldn't cross 'poison making' off Tom Marvolo Riddle's list of potential strong points in wizardly chemistry.



"Anyway, you say you've been here before," Tom continued, "Do explain."



"Why?" I shot him another nasty look, "You should know all about it. Your the one who made those weird visions flood my head, right?"



Tom eyed me, the boy's growing curiosity filling his handsome face, "What visions?"

He really didn't seem to know what I was talking about.



"The Arctic Nether spell."



"You've been doing your research," Tom's eyes stayed on me as he took another sip from his wine.



"Well, yeah. You keep fucking with me and, naturally, I want to know what the hell I'm up against." I nearly stood up and dumped my wine on him. At the last minute, I thought better of it. Being buck naked wrapped in the boy's bedding and, of course, having nearly drowned in a lake quite recently (a form of 'torture' Tom so drastically used against me after my last attack on the boy), I did not think splashing him with some wine would be a smart move. Tom may be playing nice now, in his own seriously weird way, but I wasn't about to tempt his anger.



"Our minds were linked?" Tom's eyes squinted in thought as he turned his attention back to the fireplace, "What did you see?"



"This room," I waved my hand at our surroundings, "Just saw you in here."



"What was I doing?"



"Sleeping, I think. Why?" I was curious by Tom's odd reaction.



"You saw me sleeping?" To my surprise, Tom snickered. He glanced back over at me, "Was I naked?"



"What? No! How am I supposed to know, you had blankets over you."



"Oh, drat," Tom sipped his wine, "That would have been mildly amusing."



"Maybe for you," I muttered, continuing, "I also got a glimpse of the... deprived and awful things lurking in your head."



He looked confused, "Really? While I was asleep? How did you manage that?"



"No, no, these were other visions I had in the washroom while all those... things were going on."



Tom tilted his head to the side, waiting.



"You're a sick fuck, Tom," I took a sip of my own wine, wanting to wash the foul taste of the memory away, "Exactly how many people have you tortured, maimed, and murdered? Or did you lose track somewhere along the way?"



"What?" Tom seemed confused, "I don't torture or maim anyone, really. Sure, I might play with you on occasion, that's just a bit of tough love," Tom grinned, "I like you."



I snorted at this, mumbling under my breath, "Merlin knows what you'd do to me if you didn't like me."



Tom ignored my comment and continued, "I'll have you know I haven't actually murdered anyone. As for being a 'Sick Fuck', I'd like to point out I am perfectly rational and in good health, thank-you-very-much. The words you are most likely searching for to describe me are 'Inventive', 'Dynamic', 'Colorful', 'Irresistable', things along those lines. Or maybe 'Genius'. Yes, that has a nice ring to it."



"But I saw you killing people, lots of people!"



"Not me," Tom shook his head, staring back into the fire, "You must not have been linked with me. Unless..." he paused, a dark look in his eyes, "You were linked to the Old Man? You might know him as Lord Voldemort. I have to wonder what's floating around in his mind, for you to describe it like that."



I sat back against the bottom of an armchair, wrapping the blanket tighter around me and visibly shivered. I'd never get used to hearing the Dark Lord's name. Especially now, after all the things that have happened to me recently. Tom mistook my reaction to the name as a passing shiver from my memories.



"That bad, eh?" Tom frowned, "Can't say I know much about him. We've been separated for so long, he only started sending me messages recently, after meeting you."



"Me? Why?" I crossed my arms defensively, "Is that why you wanted me? He sent you, didn't he?"



"Don't get your panties in a twist. My apoligies, you aren't wearing any," Tom snickered, amusing himself with his own jest.



"Very funny," I scowled at him. Perhaps I could snatch the wine bottle and smash it over his head?



Tom sighed, pretending to wipe a tear from his eyes before continuing, "It's true, the Old Man told me about a boy named Malfoy who was attending Hogwarts. He met you during the summer. After you returned to your schooling and were well out of his grasp, he wanted me to find you again. The Old Man seems intrigued by you, infatuated even. But not for the obvious reasons," Tom's eyes slithered down my exposed chest. I quickly covered up with the blanket, embarrassed by his forwardness.



"No, he wanted your youth and vigor," Tom resumed his story where he had left off, "The Old Man had an idea about energy transfers (you already know some of that from whatever research you've done, so it seems). He believed I could get to you at Hogwarts and suck you dry." Tom grinned again, bringing the wine to his lips.



"Just get to the point," I muttered.



"Well, I thought it was funny," Tom's grin widened as he shot me a look, "Funny and appropriate, seeing how I literally did suck-"



"Tom," I growled.



The boy frowned, "Don't get testy with me, Draco. I have more terrifying places than a lake for you to visit, if the mood hits me."



"Ok, never mind," I held up my hands defensively, "Just... give me more wine, would you?"



"Say please?" Tom chimed, taking my glass and refilling it.



I cursed under my breath, "Please."



"Good boy," Tom handed me back my full glass. He watched me bring the red liquid to my lips and smiled, "He wanted me to kill you, you know."



I paused in mid sip, moving the glass away and staring down at it sitting in my lap, "Great."



"I never said I was actually going to do it," Tom moved to take off his shoes, stretching his black socked feet out before the fire, "When the Old Man and I were first going through the ideas, deciding what to do and how to go about it, I initially planned on killing you in the end. A very detailed and graphic death, actually."



"Oh fantastic," I groaned, "But I thought you said you didn't kill people?"



"What I said was I haven't murdered anyone, not that I wouldn't," Tom rolled his eyes sarcastically. I wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. He seemed to be bluffing.



"Anyway," Tom continued, "Once I figured out who you were, once I had the pleasant opportunity of seeing you face to face, well, my plans changed."



"Great," I snorted, "And now I'm here, wherever 'Here' is."



"Home," Tom grinned, "Instead of killing you, indeed, I brought you here with me. My own little play thing. It all works out, you see? Now you're not dead and I'm not alone anymore. Can't say I've ever had company before. Not since the Old Man left. It's quite exhilarating."



I frowned, "Wait, what do you mean by that?"



Tom shrugged, "I've been alone for a long, long time and the company is sort of nice. I even brought out some wine for your arrival. That's what people do, right? They celebrate occasions such as this by getting... oh, what's the term... 'Shit Hammered'?"



"No, not that," I looked down at my wine glass which was already empty again, "The part about the 'Play Thing'. What's that supposed to mean?"



Tom just laughed and poured me another drink.



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Two boys sat in the dark room with only the flickering light of a candle on the night stand nearby. Both were drinking wine, one more so than the other, something the drunk adolescent didn't realize. Both boys had come to the point of their conversation where there was nothing left to talk about. And now they sat in the darkened room, uncomfortably close to each other.



Crabbe hiccuped. Goyle gently snatched the wine bottle from his friend's hand and placed it back on the nightstand.



The Slytherin boys were leaning back against Draco Malfoy's headboard of his twin sized bed, the bedding still neatly in place, Draco's lonely wand in front of them on the ornate Slytherin crest of the comforter. A plethora of beer cans lined Crabbe's side of the bed along with one empty bottle of the same cheap white wine Goyle had just taken from the boy, Crabbe himself swaying slightly anytime he moved.



"We try ev'rything?" He asked, staring down at the wand as Goyle absentmindedly rolled it back and forth across the bed. Draco's wand never reacted badly when Crabbe or Goyle touched it, as if the little piece of crooked wood approved of them.



"Yep, everything I can think of," Goyle mumbled, glancing up at the diary lying on the desk top.



They really had tried everything they could come up with. But after that last inky black smeared message from someone, most likely Draco, nothing else appeared on the pages. And, oddly enough, neither Goyle nor Crabbe's blood would write on the parchment anymore. It was as if Tom realized his mistake and changed the spells on the small book. At one point, Goyle had sat staring at the damned thing, squeezing his fist over the clean parchment and watching blood spatter down onto it's surface only to disappear, as if the book was a sponge.



"You shoulda lemme burn it," Crabbe muttered.



"No," Goyle gave the drunken boy a stern look, "What if Draco's trapped inside the book? Do you want to set him on fire?"



"No, I jus thought maybe it'd do somethin', y'know?"



Goyle sighed, hugging his large knees to his broad chest and laying his head down on them, "We can't risk it."



They sat in silence again, something they've been doing a lot of all night. Goyle was starting to think their efforts to help Draco might be useless. What else could they do? Sitting here waiting for an idea to fall in their laps was hell. Crabbe couldn't take it after a few hours and started drinking. He was three sheets to the wind now, Goyle wishing he had joined him in the indulgence. Sure, he had a beer or two and some of the foul cheap wine, but at least one of them needed to keep a sober head on his shoulders. So Goyle let Crabbe pack down the alcohol as he just sat in thought. But everywhere Goyle's thoughts went, they always came to the same image in his head. It was the familiar image of Draco Malfoy, whether yelling at the two Slytherin in anger, laughing at a bad joke Goyle just told or merely rolling his eyes in that way he always did when Crabbe did something stupid and Draco and Goyle shared a knowing look. Draco's missing presence haunted Goyle whenever he closed his eyes. The two Slytherin's were lost without their leader. They needed Draco back.



As if knowing what his friend was thinking, Crabbe reached over and patted Goyle's knee, "We're gonna get 'em back, buddy. I jus' know it."



"Yeah," Goyle exhaled long and hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him as he suddenly fought back tears.



Instead, all of a sudden Crabbe broke down, letting out a loud choking sob before a river of tears trailed down his ruddy face.



Goyle's head shot up at the sound, shocked at first. Upon seeing a very drunken Vincent Crabbe bawling like a child, Goyle's heart broke. Without another though, he quickly moved to his friends side and wrapped an arm around Crabbe's shaking shoulders to comfort him.



The drunken boy leaned his head on his friend's muscular shoulder, sobbing wet tears in to Goyle's robes. The scene bothered Goyle terribly, his friend breaking down like that, even if he was only emotionally fueled by alcohol. Either way, Goyle was more than glad to be there for support.



"It's alright man, we'll get him back," Goyle spoke softly, trying to sound reassuring even though he wasn't as sure anymore if what he said was the truth.



Crabbe suddenly sat up, cursing and flinging a half full beer can at the wall above the desk. The can's contents exploded, splashing down over the desk's surface and the open diary.



"Stupid fuckin' book! Stupid fuckin' Tom Riddle! I dun care who he thinks he is! No one's gunna get away with hurtin Drac! Not when I'm still alive!" Tears still streamed down Crabbe's flushed cheeks. Where his drunken senses urged on his sadness, it also added an edge of fire to his rage.



"Hey, hey," Goyle grasped his friend by the arm and pulled him back against the headboard, "Calm down, man. That kinda shit isn't getting us anywhere."



Crabbe sighed, sitting back with his friend again, "I know man, but it felt good. All I wanna do is pound that guy's face in. Tha's all I want."



"Yeah, I know," Goyle leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes, "And all I want is to see Draco again."



"Here here," Crabbe saluted, even without his beer, as he leaned his head against Goyle's shoulder again. Exhaustion was setting in.



This had been a very long night.


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