Invictus [Tom Riddle / Tomione]

The Tempaestus

September 3, 1945

The Start of Tom Riddle's 7th Year...

Tom Riddle sat at a round marble-top table, which was spread with a delectable dinner for the Slug Club. A single white rose laden with static drops of dew was suspended in the air, spinning in the center of the table. To his right sat Abraxas Malfoy. On his left, Maximillian Dolohov. He glanced counter-clockwise around the circumference of the table, his dark eyes cataloging the faces of Avery, Rosier, Nott, Mulciber, Lestrange...  all of his knights sat in perfect succession, fanning out from his person like appendages. He cast a perfunctory glance at the other faces in attendance, noting Minerva McGonagall and Ambrosius Flume. A useless Gryffindor and a notorious Ravenclaw kiss-up. His eyes fell on Druella Rosier, Alphard Black and beside him, Walburga Black, who met his glance in turn with a deep blush that crept down her neck and spread to her ears. He inclined his head politely, the corner of his mouth turning upward slightly before he blinked away from her stare.

He would use her later.

The first Slug Club meeting of the year went as expected. His knights performed admirably on his behalf, plying Slughorn with veiled questions and warm praise. They discussed the unfortunate incident with Hopper Clemons that occurred over the summer.

"It's too bad, really," mourned Avery.

"He was a swell chap, after all," sighed Nott with a shake of his head.

"He was a pretentious git of a Gryffindor," Abraxas whispered to Tom, his voice low, unheard by the rest of the table.

Tom gave an imperceptible smirk.

"Wasn't he meant to be Head Boy?" murmured McGonagall, flicking her eyes at Tom.

"Never confirmed. Has anyone heard news of his progress?" asked Mulciber, casting a guarded glance Tom's way.

" Merlin , but the boy is doing much better," muttered Slughorn. "However, he will be recovering for another month or so, at least, at St. Mungo's before he will be able to attend school again. Pity, really. Nasty curse. Still no idea who cast it. He was quite prodigious, I've been told, in both Arithmancy and Transfiguration. His father is on a solid path of accomplishment in the Ministry, he deals with the International Confederation of Wizards. I had him over for tea last winter. Brilliant fellow, he gifted me with an aged elf-made wine, bottled in 1902..."

Tom watched the Slytherin Head of House drone on, his features schooled into a polite mask as he tuned out the man's self-absorbed drivel. He picked at his food, unable to stomach eating at the moment. His mind couldn't rest on anything but the task at hand. It was a nervous habit of his; he grew anxious when in pursuit of his ambitions and lost his appetite. No one would ever guess it. His expression was always one of cool self-possession. But inside his own mind and body, he would always sweat a bit. His ambition, after all, was the only thing he had in the world.

He took a sip of the dark, Elf-made wine that Slughorn had surreptitiously filled his goblet with. Being the Slug's favorite student came with a few enjoyable benefits. He lifted his glass at the same time as the professor, and the teacher gave him a knowing glance and a nod, with a silent "cheers" in the air before they both imbibed generously. It reminded him of the rich muggle cognac he found in the butler's pantry at Riddle House last year. He had said cheers then as well... to the three dead bodies littering the floor.

Both the taste and the memory both soothed his grating nerves.

He twisted the black and gold ring on his finger, his thumb stroking the facets of the stone lovingly.

When the dinner had concluded and the necessary mingling subsided, Tom stood and waited politely as the other students filed out of the room. Walburga approached him and looked up at him seductively with her slytherin green eyes.