One has never truly experienced awe if he's never met Tom Riddle - at least Nikita thinks so.

He's always in awe when being around Tom and he can't quite explain why. Is it his eerily perfect appearance? His posture which is radiating authority like it'd be the most normal thing on Earth? The strange absence of sweat?

Probably the last one.

Nikita likes to watch Tom, to listen to him, to just be part of his company even though he might not be recognized as one. There is some kind of cult around Tom, his closest friends are often treating him like a god, when missing Nikita's presence calling him even their 'lord'; however Nikita isn't a member of this elite club and he doesn't want to be one anyways. It is enough for him to be near Tom, listening to his delicate voice as if it was the most heavenly music.

Basically, Nikita likes to be around people, getting to know about all those unimportant tragedies which are happening in their boring lives, he loves to collect their dirty, little secrets without them even noticing because usually nobody is sparing him a second glance, all of them've got more or less used to his presence, so there are merely those who aren't looking at him at all really, stroking his sharp features only briefly, and those who are staring all too long, but not because they recognize him as the child prodigy he's been but because of his frory hair, his irids in the colour of half-frozen lakes and his teint, nearly resembling the colour of marble statues.

Who knows, maybe Nikita is meant to be dublicated with a statue, making the collection of gods finally complete. Another god with cold eyes and hard heart and inhuman abilities.

But over what would Nikita reign, of what should he be god? Of child prodigies and forced smiles? Busy childhoods and hours of practice? Or of self-chosen loneliness and secrets?

Better not the latter one - after all he knows nothing about Tom Riddle nobody else knows, nothing unusual, nothing inappropriate. But if you aren't even perfect in the fields you as a god are reigning over, you can't be a god and maybe this is the reason why there isn't golden ichor dripping out of Nikita's wounds when his Potions book is cutting him once more but the blood of mortals, as red as roses, its scent metallic and sweet.

Perhaps this is causing Nikita to spend his time with Tom even though he's hidden in the shadows and the Riddle boy's in the light, all spotlights directed at him, the star, who's always ready to perform. Maybe Nikita's intentions aren't just being near Tom because he's pretty and witty and blessed with this melodic voice of his but because he seems perfect, leaving Nikita in awe.

But nobody is perfect.

Nobody is.

It is possible that Nikita just wants to know about Tom's imperfections, the dark blood streaming down his hands, building pools of guilt he isn't feeling, the gaping hole in his with decaying darkness filled chest or the sweet poison dripping off his elegantly curved lips, maybe Nikita merely wants to look behind the façade of perfection to get to know the actual human being, who's struggling to breath behind the mask as it's getting strangled because nobody cares to ease the grip of the cadaverous fingers around his neck, but perhaps Nikita only wants to be around Tom Riddle because he's very likely the brightest student attending Hogwarts right now and in addition he also has a way with words - at least when he isn't talking to Nikita because he rarely seems to see the need of bewitching the blond.

They mostly talk to each other when Nikita's asking Tom a question about a subject when not really understanding what is written in the books, having more questions than which are getting answered, or when they're paired up in classes, and then both of them are doing their parts, no need to charm somebody to work more than what they're doing right now, Tom doesn't have to convince Nikita to do this or that and it is kind of relaxing for him but this doesn't mean that he wouldn't use Nikita like everybody else. He just doesn't see the need of it.

But maybe Tom's waited too long to feed Nikita his poisonous honey because when he's finally trying to, Nikita's taking a spoon full, licking every golden droplet off it and continueing his life unfazed.

Maybe Nikita has had too much poison in his life, needing a higher dose than anyone else in Hogwarts, or maybe he's merely savouring the sweetness and leaving the poison on the spoon, who knows?

But Nikita hasn't tasted Tom's sweet words nor has he tasted Tom's honeydripping lips yet.

No, right now he's enjoying a biscuit he's got from the kitchen after eavesdropping on some Hufflepuffs and finding out where the kitchens are.

Nikita's wandering through the enchanted castle of Hogwarts, mulling over if he should go practice even though he alread knows he won't, pay the library a visit or return to the kitchens, eating some more sweets. His steps are leading him to no certain location, he's merely diverging more and more from the kitchens, walking in the direction of the Slytherin common room, being deep in thoughts; nothing is really tempting him, there's no burning desire to do this or that, back then, he's at least known what to do, there hasn't been anything but his piano and even though it's not been thrilling to spend hours upon hours practicing, there hasn't ever been this tiring weight of having the freedom to do whatever he wants without knowing what to choose.

And because Nikita has enough of not knowing how to spend his spare time when not studying or listening to conversations he shouldn't hear, he just sits down on the cold stone floor, determined to live in the moment, to merely be there, in a corridor with nothing but a biscuit. He takes his time to savour the taste of the cookie, appreciating the chocolate chips, closing his eyes to increase the intensity of the experience.

And then he notices it.

In the first moment Nikita's thinking that it is just his head, producing the background music to his savoury, the full, heavy tones resembling the dark chocolate in his biscuit, the delicate pizzicato equalling the laugh of angels who're supporting his sudden decision of caressing every second of his life to escape the numbness of the freedom he's never learnt to handle - and it can only be angels laughing because Nikita's never heard a mortal plucking strings so tenderly.

But then he realizes that there is no music in him anymore, that there haven't been notes and sounds and hymns for so long when he's been awake, so why should they suddenly come back, merely because Nikita's taken place on the floor like it's a throne, except it isn't covered in velvet but coldness?

The answer is as simple as it is surprising: There's somebody playing with a soaring passion, Nikita only knows from the old recordings of his father.

A passion, he's never felt and hasn't ever been able to imitate.

Where is your passion, Nikita?

Where are your feelings, Nikita?

How do you want your audience to feel something when you don't feel anything?

Well, Nikita's managed to move his audience, to take it with him on a journey, describing his listeners the way through ancient ruins and murky valleys but never going with them to guide and show because he mostly hasn't taken the way himself ever before.

But when Nikita's felt something, he's left the audience not only stunned but breathless, the air heavy with the scent of his darkness and despair, their knuckles standing out in milky shades because their fingers are grasping their evening gowns so tightly, nearly like claws, resembling Nikita's hands playing chords so brutally as if he's stabbing somebody, the motions eerily similar.

Nikita can't see it as he's sitting on the corridor and Tom's on the other side of the wall, but the violinist's movements are now, that his playing isn't only becoming more intense but also darker, growing more tense, his bow reminding of Nikita's stabbing, their way to play seems very alike, breathtaking accuracy and ferocious energy.

Tom's eyes are closed, lashes as black as his soul resting on moon-kissed skin, his bow cutting the heavy air vigorously, nearly viciously and one could imagine the crimson streaming, staining the shiny wood.

But the bow stays clean, gliding up and down, producing lucious tones and leaving Nikita in awe.

He hasn't ever heard somebody playing violing like this, immortal fingers pressing strings down or plucking them, creating tone colours which have never found their way to his ears, colours in darker shades than black, bloodier than red and sadder than any grey in this world.

There are goosbumps all over his body, the rest of his cookie long-forgotten between his pale fingers, his heartbeat accelerating, while it feels as if Apollo himself, god of music, is clenching his gentle fingers around the organ, kissing Nikita's pallid cheeks, susurrating into his ear, how much he's pitying him for never experiencing music like this before, never so intense, never so powerful.

Nikita is intoxicated with Tom's music, the blood which Tom's bow is drawing is trickling down Nikita's throat and he craves every bit of it, wanting as much as possible because maybe he already knows deep in the inside, that no mortal can play like this and the crimson will eventually turn golden, leaving him in utter agony, alone with Apollo by his side to hush his unheard cries.

But then Tom startles, he hits a few wrong notes, plays some dissonant chords; after all the time he's spent practicing and playing he still hasn't mastered the complicated art of improvisation yet, and he just can't find back into the waterfalls of hell which have been streaming out of him mere seconds ago, causing the ambitious young man to swear under his breath because this means that he still isn't perfect, he still isn't a god, he isn't anywhere near it.

Nikita nearly bolts up when Tom's swearing because even though the latter's voice is quiet, he can't hide its melodic sound and Nikita's recognizing it immediately, after all he's been listening closely to it for nearly four years. 

While Tom's continueing his practice session, now playing scales and trying to perfect certain techniques, Nikita's eyes are opened widely, his mouth forming an silent O.

He hasn't known that Tom Riddle's a violinist and he's sure that nobody knows of it either. Because if, he'd have heard of it long ago, no matter if through swooning pupils or when listening to a casual conversation.

Nikita Pavlov's found out Tom Riddle's little secret.

Excitment is rushing through the blond's veins, tinting his cheeks in a faint but rosy shade of red, his eyes sparkling like the night sky. He's in awe, and once again the Riddle boy is causing it.

Because Nikita's found out about Tom's secret but it is making the headboy merely even more perfect.

When Tom changes from scales to a piece he's been practicing for the past few months, Nikita closes his eyes again, hides these glimmering sapphires behind soft, pale covers, and lays the head back, resting it against the wall, melting chocolate on his fingers.

A devil gets spied on without noticing,

but is it an angel or a demon,

who's sitting enthroned on the coldness of the dungeons?