The Diary (pottermort)

chapter twenty-five

October is well underway when Tom Riddle is approached by a tired and indifferent Atticus Avery. He hands Tom a peice of parchment and says, blandly, "An invitation to the Slug Club. I advise you not to accept."

Tom smiles, laughs, but writes Slughorn back saying he is excited to be joining the group.

Harry hears about this and writes, I'm not sure being so close to him is a good idea. When Tom asks why, Harry gives him no answer other than a thorough vibe check. Tom disregards any and all further comment.

Tom resumes his studies, rejects all invitations to talk about how he became The Boy Who Lived, and searches for the Chamber of Secrets in the meantime. He tucks away his new wand and Cloak with wards as thick as stone, changing the subject subtly when the occasional awe struck child would ask to see his trophy, the former.

Albus's gaze follows him around, trailing him like a lost puppy. He's not the only one to be watching Tom nowadays, of course, because his life is on display to all who love and hate him. Albus is different, though, and Tom is not ignorant to that, either. Albus stares and sees a puzzle, stares and sees a problem, and neither is coated in the admiration or outright distain like the others.

It is a stare of scrutiny. Albus has yet to call him into his office again. Tom hopes it never to happen again but hope, as is, is often unfounded.

He spends some nights hissing relentlessly at the odd corners of Hogwarts in hopes of discovering a secret entrance, some nights in the Gryffindor or Slytherin common room with his boyfriend, and some nights couped up in the Restricted Section of the library, the Invisibility Cloak pulled taunt around his shoulders.

The first meeting of the hideously named Slug Club arrivies in no time. Tom takes Fleamont as his plus one. He seems simply delighted at the opportunity, flushing and blundering his way in accepting the position. They dress in absurdly priced, matching dress robes; Fleamont, draped in scarlet with sage lace and Tom, sporting emerald with crimson lace. Fleamont's ball of madness masquerading as hair serves as a perfect contrast to Tom's styled look.

Fleamont gushes that they make quite the pair, and Tom cannot help but agree.

They breeze in fashionably late to Slughorn's classroom. It is 7:30, and the party (the "meeting") is to end half an half after curfew.

The classroom is expertly decorated: the room is lit with floating caged pixies; their wings glowing a rainbow of colors. The snack table's tablecloth is a moving tapestry. Upon it is treats ranging from sliders to birthday cake. There are bottles of water, goblets of various juices, and an alcohol section that seems to be more or less unrestricted. Mugs of hot coco are also present and, although Tom finds the substance repulsive, Fleamont takes to it an alarming degree.

(He chooses a mug with the cracks filled with glitter.)

The company is unsettling at best and parasitic at worst. So-called prodigies of all ages, of all Houses (though Ravenclaw and Slytherin dominate), talk and chatter. They make connections-- to both whoever they choose and Slughorn himself, although it seems less than a choice than an obligation. Tom sips on firewhiskey while spotting notable figures such as a thin lipped Avery, an incredibly drunk Lestrange, and Abraxas, who both seems completely comfortable in his environment and sure to pointedly avoid looking in Tom's general direction.

A group of Hufflepuff girls rumored to be incredibly adept at posion making play the Muggle game "Chubby Bunny" while Lucretia Black discusses the most efficient way to overcome the Trace with an all too interested seventh year Ravenclaw. Truly, Tom thinks dryly, what a time to be alive.

Slughorn, the man of the hour (s), is with a gaggle of first years. He's talking at them more than to them. His hands wander dangerously close to where they shouldn't and, although Tom wanted to ask the man for anyone he knew that had any information about the Chamber, Tom felt the hint of bile in his throat and decided that he could do it later.

He lasted about an hour and a half of talking with near strangers who wanted to be more than such before he grabbed Fleamont's hand, kissed him on the cheek and muttered, "It's go time, Flea, don't you agree?"

Fleamont's face turns utterly pink and he splutters, "Erm-- right," before Tom begins dragging them toward the nearest exit.

Orion Black stops them.

He wears a navy blue suit and a smile that is all teeth. His hair, usually kept in a bun, flows down his back. Tom's eyes narrow and he holds his chin a tad higher. "We haven't talked since-- what? Fucking first year? It's great to see you."

Fleamont bites his lip, the uncertainty reaching even someone as childish as him.

Tom squeezes Fleamont's hand in reassurance. "Time sure does fly."

"As with god damn everything, huh?" he chuckles. "I've got this club, I'm not sure if you've heard of it, and it's by all fucking accounts better than this one. I just knew you'd be interested in joining."

Fuck off Malfoy and fuck off Black, Tom thinks but does not say. He takes on an apologetic tone and says, "I'm afraid I must decline--"

"I'm afraid you fucking can't."

Fleamont flinches the tone. Tom remains unaffected. "And why's that?"

He grins, and this time, it might be from actual glee. It is no less intimidating. Orion reaches into his suit and pulls out--

Tom's eyes widen minutely.

"Fleamont," says Tom, "I will see you in the morning."

"Tom--"

"Flea." Fleamont scutters away with a frown.

Orion watches the exchange with an unwaivering grin and an unnerving twinkle in his eye. Tom squares his shoulders, his gaze never leaving the black leather diary held between his hands.