The day is young, a newborn, tinted in sickly grey light, when Nikita approaches the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, his steps directed at a male who could be his brother, if you'd only look at their hair, white in the strange light of this early morning, frozen angel wings and molten hellfire in the shimmer of the wintery streaks.

But the rest of their appearances is fraily different, Abraxas with his full lips and crooked nose, towering above everyone else, with enough space on his shoulders for three demons and an angel whilst one of each kind have trouble to claw themselves to Nikita's meager frame, with his legs that remind one way too much of a Greek statue while Nikita is meant to be one, not only to remind, to be white like his hair, his skin, his teeth that are oh so seldom shown nowadays that he doesn't need to charm the masses but will certainly have to sparkle in the near future, at least if Vasili approves.

He'll have to enjoy the time without having to strain the muscles around his mouth - he's very sure that his father will nod his head in satisfaction and he'll have to rise the corner's of his lips in front of the mirror, Vasili observing him, until he'll do it right and it won't look as unnatural as it feels anymore.

And this is the biggest difference because while Nikita doesn't smile, Abraxas can't help but do so, smiling with the radiance of the moon - and just like the moon, you can only see Abraxas' light in the dark and who is darker than Tom Riddle himself, heir of Thanatos and Tartaros, no child of love but of fraud?

Abraxas' teeth are shimmering like pearls in the grey light but Nikita knows that they're actually fangs, sharpened by pure blood and a wicked orphan, dripping with venom, so sweet that it tastes like manna except you never get enough but who would want Abraxas Malfoy to stay silent if you could listen to his voice that equals Orpheus', drenched in champagne and strawberry liquor, listen until you're drunk with his sweet words and hungry for more because lies are only luke, parfumed air and fill no stomachs, ask all those humans who've listened to their kings' unfulfilled promises of food. (Oh, I forgot, they starved.)

"Good morning, Malfoy", Nikita greets the blond whom he has to remove from Tom's side to suceed his mission of making Tom great - a great musician, no lord of course.

Abraxas turns around with his ever-present smile that doesn't come from glee but pain. Being consumed by Riddle's darkness isn't a pleasant feeling, no matter how much more vivid you shine because of it; you get twisted and shaped until your last angel turns into a demon too and the boy with his love for fairies is nothing more than a reminiscene, just as grey as this morning light, something that's impossible for Tom and Nikita, who're  either completely black or purely white - Abraxas is cruel and gentle, he's black and white, he's everything Nikita isn't and Tom will never be.

Abraxas smiles to convince himself that he's happy - Nikita's smiled to convince others. And Tom doesn't need to smile to convince.

Tom, who's sitting on the opposite side of the table, doesn't rise his gaze from his oat porridge, he's usually sleeping long into the day in Hogwarts, a luxury he doesn't have in the orphanage and therefore he isn't well acquainted with this grey light the narrator is excessing over. On a normal day, he'd get woken by all of his dorm mates except Nikita as he doesn't belong to their cute, little death cult and is one of the first to get up anyways.

"I've heard that Lovegood is waiting for someone in the lavatory." Nikita's voice is low; it's a secret after all, even though he hasn't heard that one. Instead, he's seen Xerxes Lovegood sitting on the floor of the restroom with a sad expression, telling him something about fairies while Nikita's been washing his hands, nodding along to the soft rhythm of his words.

Abraxas' smile turnes from a silent scream to an unheard hymn and after a curt "I have to pay the toilets a visit, my lord" he disappeares, leaving a void for Nikita to fill.

It's been a fortunate coincidence that he's met Xerxes as Nikita hasn't really known how to tell Tom about his luck - a world stage in front of him, a future of which many can only dream! But when he's seen Tom's and Abraxas' empty beds after waking up and Xerxes in the lavatory, he's known that the fates are fond of him and the moment to reveal himself to Tom has come (it's already come some time ago but you'll never know, Nikita).

"Good morning, Riddle", Nikita greets after taking a bite of a pear he's taken from the fruit bowl.

Tom grumbles something before looking at Nikita. "Haven't you said this to me already?"

"Not today."

"Aha." Tom eats another spoonful of his porridge, then he sighs. "Could you stop doing this?"

"Riddle, I'll very likely do nothing if you continue with these bad manners. I mean, you haven't greeted me back, haven't asked nicely with a please and I don't even know what I shouldn't do. Your mother has failed your upbringing quite a bit."

There's a hard line around Tom's mouth and after a glance at Nikita's thoughts he continues his meal. Silly boy.

 "Stop staring at me while I'm eating. It makes me rather uncomfortable and it might surprise you, but I don't like that feeling."

"Well, I'll stare at the teacher's table, while speaking to you then." Nikita bites into the pear again and the sweet juice graces his tongue like angels' tears. "I don't know if you're into tattling", Tom receives a side glance, light orbs beneath even lighter lashes, "but I certainly like collecting secrets and I have to confess that I've thought you'd have really spicy ones like, I don't even know, serious world domination plans or two illegitimate children or something but what I've found is quite pleasant, I won't deny that."

Tom continues eating unfazed, not really listening to Nikita's words but even though he's somewhere dark and warm in his head he looks as fine as always - at least from the far, where you can't see the even darker bags beneath his eyes. The Dark Lord (haha) just needs his minimum of eight hours of sleep and after the nightmares he's encountered this night, he's roughly made five hours - the porridge should save him now, Abraxas has said that oatmeal with lots of fruit would give him energy and that he should drink as much water as possible but Tom hasn't felt any energy boost yet.

When he notices that Nikita's silent, probably waiting for his response, Tom quickly checks Nikita's mind to see what he's missed - not much apparently. He drinks some water before asking: "So what do you exactly want from me?"

"You play the violin and I play the piano, don't you want to step on the world stage with me? You'd probably look quite good in a suit and the paparazzi likes pretty people." Nikita shrugs, eyes pinned to the teacher's table. "Ew, I think Dumbledore just winked at me."

Tom refills his goblet. "Aha."

He seems calm, as if he'd already known all of this and it's not exactly puzzling Nikita but he isn't really happy about the reaction - or the lack of it - either. He's just revealed that he knows about Tom being a violinist and he himself being a pianist of worldclass or at least having been one - and then he receives nothing but an uninterested aha?

For what are secrets good if not to surprise others? To shock them, shape their lips to a startled O, open their eyes until the white apples of sin and sight nearly fall out of the sockets as if this would help, as if they'd be able to see more now, see past, present and future and everything in between, all secrets they've missend and will never discover, even with their eyes wide open and their mouths lacerated by the scythe of wonder because sometimes you learn more when staying blind and silent, nobody suspecting you to listen because you're blind after all, you're mute, so why wouldn't you be deaf, too?

Or maybe they haven't seen you, have forgotten about your existence in the moment you've closed your mouth unlike them, their jaws wide open, the gate to their very own castle, gaping like the entrance to hell whilst they're tearing each other's mouths in small, bloody shreds about lives of other girls, other boys, other humans, never closing their black holes, ready to devour everything they can get, the oh so touching stories, tragedies and comedies, dramas with no end, and if they'd close their mouths after faking empathy and tears of laughter and sorrow, filling up the caves of their with anitcipation masked faces, taping them shut with the rotting patches of each other's skin, they'd feel like choking, suffocated by truth and reality, having no grasp on air after having no endeavours at breathing for eons - oh, how easy breathing's been when they've talked about others and haven't had to think about themselves, their sorry lives and lone fates. When they've longed for more treasures and more tear-stained gold and more jewellery to hoard in their cave - oh, hail greed! Hail Mammon, master of us all!

But you're greedy too, aren't you, Nikita? You collect all these stories like Tom collects power and Abraxas and Xerxes collect fairy kisses, like your mother's collected feathers and your father prices, back then, in the good old times (when you haven't been born) (when I didn't trust the wrong people) (be careful, Nikita) (I'm sorry).

Oh, Nikita, have I thaught you nothing? Good manners and white smiles and practice. Collecting secrets only to feel the power of knowledge is a Faustian urge and you'll never be satisfied, just sit down and practice, my boy, practice till the night of your young days with their grey light arrives and you'll feel much more full than after thirsting for knowledge that's still unknown to you.

Nikita, sit down and practice, for God's sake!

"Yes, I know that it's not polite to listen to people practicing when they even hide in the cellar to stay unheard but I'm just exceptionally good at hide and seek."

"It's not the daytime to discuss this." Tom eats another spoonful before his eyes suddenly get sharp. "And stop manipulating my friends."

He stresses the last word weirdly, either he doesn't have friends (Nikita knows that Tom has no friends, a lone boy in a full hall) or he wants to show Nikita that he doesn't belong to his friends (Nikita knows this too, so many jewels in his always closed mouth, his own pearls all too seldom shown).

But Tom,

is freedom 

manipulation?

props to bohemianrage and fantasydeprived because they've reminded me to write a chapter, yey (thank you so much, your writing is a huge inspiration and you're such amazing people)

it's a rather chaotic one but so are all chapters, so yeah 

(i love abraxas and mammon)