Loyal | Tom Riddle

26: The Near-Expulsion

Over Malfoy's shoulder, Arabella could make out a dark figure rapidly approaching with brash, angry steps. Distractedly, she nudged Abraxas.

He asked her what was wrong, and all she could do was nod in the direction of Tom Riddle, whose pale face had hardened into a livid mask, his eyes flickering with a malice she had never before seen.

Instinctively, Abraxas moved so that his body was in front of Arabella's, acting as a shield from whatever wrath that was about to be brought on by the incoming Slytherin Prefect. He took her right hand in his own, which she cleaved to like a ship docked at port.

In what seemed to take years, Tom finally arrived in front of them, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, almost as if his hands were unsure whether to clench themselves into fists or fold across his chest. It amused Arabella to see the usually calm and collected boy so unsettled, so insecure with all his movements. He had charged head first into uncharted waters, after all, and the plunge was unpleasantly foreign to him.

A moment of silence existed, unbearably loud to all three students who all waited skittishly for someone to make the first move.

Tom cleared his throat, finally settling on clasping his hands behind his back. "Good evening," he said stiffly.

"To you, as well," Arabella replied, fighting back the urge to smile. "Shall I curtsy or. . . . ?"

The tall, lean boy coughed. "Er, no. No need for that tonight -- we're in public -- wouldn't want anyone to grow suspicious, would we? I think not, Miss Travers -- no, definitely not."

Abraxas furrowed his brow. "You couldn't have come all the way over here just to wish us a good evening, though."

"Certainly," Tom sputtered, an unexpected grin stretching across his face. "I-I must make a point to. . . . to welcome all of you. Prefect duties."

Arabella arched an eyebrow at this. "Is that so? I'm afraid I wasn't informed of this."

"It was last minute," Riddle said quickly. "You weren't there when Prewett told us."

"Sure," she agreed sarcastically. "Well, you have a nice night, all right? We've got some dancing to do."

Tom rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "About that. . . ."

Arabella could feel Abraxas' grip on her wrist tighten. She waited for his response, smirking fully.

"Don't trip on your gown," Tom said suddenly. "It's long."

She couldn't help it; she laughed, and Abraxas joined her. "Thank you for your wise insight, my Lord," she managed between giggles. "I'll be sure not to."

Regaining their composure, the couple began to make their way towards the dance floor. But once again, they found themselves stopped in their tracks -- this time, it was Malfoy that Tom wished to speak to, however.

"Just a word, Abraxas. It won't take long."

He sighed heavily, reluctantly letting go of Arabella's hand. "I'm coming."

As soon as the blond was within earshot, Tom grabbed onto his elbow and directed him towards a less crowded area of the Great Hall. His uncomfortable, unworldly demeanour had been replaced at once by his usual cold aura that radiated power and sparked crippling fear.

"Haven't I told you?" he growled.

Abraxas' already pale face whitened as he hastily nodded. "Y-yes, I'm sorry. Please, f-forgive me, my Lord. I've been selfish."

"Yes, you have, Abraxas," Tom hissed. "But I will forgive you--"

"Oh, thank you, my Lord--"

"--only if you distance yourself from her."