For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Twelve: The Prophet

"The Prophet is here, Father."

He placed it on the desk, along with some other household invoices that had arrived. He moved to grab the carafe and crystal glass to vanquish his thirst from walking to the owlery and back, but a flicker of movement and the awkward clearing of his father's throat stopped him.

The words were already halfway out of his mouth when the boy's hematite-colored eyes widened slightly and he finally registered what was happening in the room. "Wait until you see the front cov-"

Augustus Fawley sat in his office chair, dressed in a fine day suit of Acromantula silk, glass of sparkling water at his side. Everything appeared normal, other than the fact that he was not alone.

He sat in his father's chair impeccably straight and proper, and yet with an air of relaxation that would surely impress even the most decorated politicians. His elbows rested on the arm rests as he leaned into the back of the chair just slightly to seem comfortable yet poised—like a king seated upon a throne in the war room. Callous but maintaining a presence of pure control.

An observer would never fathom that a business meeting that balanced on the success of a sale was occurring. Rather, they'd believe it to be a simple gathering of two friends sitting down for a conversation.

How wrong could they be.

Benedict awkwardly cleared his throat, feeling sheepish for forgetting the day's schedule.

But had he really?

Nonetheless, he recovered quickly.

"Sorry father, I thought your meeting was not for another hour."

Tom Riddle's eyes were blank and intense, and Benedict had to scratch his mind to remember if he had ever really looked at the former Head Boy in detail before. He really hadn't a reason to. After all, all he did at Hogwarts was keep his head down and attend class. And while the female population at Hogwarts interested in the opposite sex seemed to have an obsessive fascination with the captain of the Slytherin Horde, Benedict had no time or interest to weigh in on the matter.

Unlike the rest of his family members, it was difficult to earn top marks without intensive studying. Back then, what seemed to take his classmates minutes took Benedict hours—not because he was stupid or unmotivated, but because his focus waned, and then suddenly something overcame him, and he had the insufferable urge to go and build something in the Aviation Club with Simon.

Or perhaps he had a new hobby he wanted to nurture, like fire crab husbandry. Or bone carpentry.

Or improving his snogging skills with Yasmin.

And when he did manage to sit down to study, the letters or runes, depending on the class, seemed to almost always float all over the page. It was an utter waste of time. By fifth year, he began asking professors if he could record lectures on vinyl discs so he could listen back to them, just like muggles did.

Oh, Augustus Fawley had a field day when he found out that.

And for some reason, he had always imagined that Tom Riddle's eyes were blue. He wasn't sure why he thought that—it was probably because of some unconscious bias, but Benedict wasn't entirely certain and didn't feel like investigating further on the matter. He had just always imagined that trait, not stopping to second guess it.

Now that Riddle sat so close to him, in his house, actually, closer than ever before, he noticed that instead, they were...

Brown? Green?

He wasn't quite sure. And there wasn't enough time nor interest in the unfolding moment to decipher their hue.

Why is he here? That was the question festering at the forefront of his mind.