For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Darkest Art

Gwen sighed drowsily as she plucked a piece of toast from a plate in front of her and topped it with cream cheese and some thin slices of freshly cut smoked salmon. It was one of her favorite meals growing up, with the rich hickory flavor of the fish contrasting greatly with the mild, sweet and slightly tangy taste of the cream cheese.

Simon sat next to her, scarfing down some bangers and mash while he attempted to read out of his History of Magic textbook. Every once and a while, his fingers would find a glass of pumpkin juice and the sweet liquid would drip down his chin as he gulped it down earnestly. He let out a loud burp, causing Gwen to look up from her breakfast.

But as she did so, she spotted a familiar figure stiffly sweeping into the Great Hall. Her eyes narrowed as Tom walked with a slightly faltering step into the room, looking extremely pale, more so than usual. He appeared almost sickly, like he had come down with an illness of sorts. His normal proud posture wasn't present and was instead replaced by a weary slouch.

He was surrounded by his "Syltherin Horde" as Simon had deemed it, and it looked as though the boys made extra effort to give Tom a wide berth of space as he staggered toward the Slytherin table. Gwen noticed that he looked particularly disheveled that morning, his jet-black hair messy and uncombed as if he had merely woken up and gotten dressed.

Even Lucretia Black seemed to see that something was just a little bit off about the Slytherin Prefect she idolized. She nervously fiddled with her long black curls as she stole anxious looks at him from her seat next to Walburga.

"Is it just me or does he seem a little bit off-color?"

"Huh?" Simon muttered as he looked up from his plate. He wiped his mouth with a magical napkin and looked to Gwen. "Who are you talking about?"

"Tom," said Gwen, gesturing the dark haired boy who now sat at the Slytherin table. "He looks sick."

Simon squinted his eyes. He hadn't bothered to get a new pair of glasses since the Hogsmeade trip. He wasn't on the best terms with the rest of his family, and couldn't rely on them to send him another pair of spectacles by owl. He had managed to get through his classes with the help of Benedict and Gwen.

"I can't really see from here, but it seems that the blob that I think is his face looks a bit paler," he said as he took another sip of his pumpkin juice.

Tom's gang of friends all sat in a tight knit circle around the boy, close enough as to not irk him, but near enough so that no one would try to impede on their conversation. Their body language was not welcoming, and instead conveyed a message of warning and detachment. They seemed distant from the rest of the students at the Slytherin table, untouchable in a sense, as if they were better than everyone else.

Gwen watched from afar as Abraxas Malfoy leaned in close to Theodore Nott, obviously saying something he didn't want other people to hear. His pale, chapped-looking lips whispered secrets Gwen desperately wished to know, and soon her curiosity got the better of her.

"Does Quillish ever talk about what he discusses with his friends?" she asked, making sure that her voice didn't possess too much interest. She didn't want to seem nosey.

"I couldn't care less about what those blithering muppets talk about, Gwen," huffed Simon as he ripped apart an apricot Danish.

"I know, but I was just wondering-does he?"

Her blue eyes flitted over to the table yet again, where her gaze landed on the drained, gaunt form of Tom Riddle. Simon sighed next to her, following her gaze with a quirked brow.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't know," she said vaguely, "it just seems as if something's wrong with Tom."