Duende || Tom Riddle

𝖝𝖎

The day is young, a newborn, tinted in sickly grey light, when Nikita approaches the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, his steps directed at a male who could be his brother, if you'd only look at their hair, white in the strange light of this early morning, frozen angel wings and molten hellfire in the shimmer of the wintery streaks.

But the rest of their appearances is fraily different, Abraxas with his full lips and crooked nose, towering above everyone else, with enough space on his shoulders for three demons and an angel whilst one of each kind have trouble to claw themselves to Nikita's meager frame, with his legs that remind one way too much of a Greek statue while Nikita is meant to be one, not only to remind, to be white like his hair, his skin, his teeth that are oh so seldom shown nowadays that he doesn't need to charm the masses but will certainly have to sparkle in the near future, at least if Vasili approves.

He'll have to enjoy the time without having to strain the muscles around his mouth - he's very sure that his father will nod his head in satisfaction and he'll have to rise the corner's of his lips in front of the mirror, Vasili observing him, until he'll do it right and it won't look as unnatural as it feels anymore.

And this is the biggest difference because while Nikita doesn't smile, Abraxas can't help but do so, smiling with the radiance of the moon - and just like the moon, you can only see Abraxas' light in the dark and who is darker than Tom Riddle himself, heir of Thanatos and Tartaros, no child of love but of fraud?

Abraxas' teeth are shimmering like pearls in the grey light but Nikita knows that they're actually fangs, sharpened by pure blood and a wicked orphan, dripping with venom, so sweet that it tastes like manna except you never get enough but who would want Abraxas Malfoy to stay silent if you could listen to his voice that equals Orpheus', drenched in champagne and strawberry liquor, listen until you're drunk with his sweet words and hungry for more because lies are only luke, parfumed air and fill no stomachs, ask all those humans who've listened to their kings' unfulfilled promises of food. (Oh, I forgot, they starved.)

"Good morning, Malfoy", Nikita greets the blond whom he has to remove from Tom's side to suceed his mission of making Tom great - a great musician, no lord of course.

Abraxas turns around with his ever-present smile that doesn't come from glee but pain. Being consumed by Riddle's darkness isn't a pleasant feeling, no matter how much more vivid you shine because of it; you get twisted and shaped until your last angel turns into a demon too and the boy with his love for fairies is nothing more than a reminiscene, just as grey as this morning light, something that's impossible for Tom and Nikita, who're  either completely black or purely white - Abraxas is cruel and gentle, he's black and white, he's everything Nikita isn't and Tom will never be.

Abraxas smiles to convince himself that he's happy - Nikita's smiled to convince others. And Tom doesn't need to smile to convince.

Tom, who's sitting on the opposite side of the table, doesn't rise his gaze from his oat porridge, he's usually sleeping long into the day in Hogwarts, a luxury he doesn't have in the orphanage and therefore he isn't well acquainted with this grey light the narrator is excessing over. On a normal day, he'd get woken by all of his dorm mates except Nikita as he doesn't belong to their cute, little death cult and is one of the first to get up anyways.