Everybody knows this one person who just has to touch their pillow to be far asleep, the one who's incredibly hard to wake and who loves to sleep on the belly, drooling a little but not believing anybody that they indeed drool, that it really is no bad joke, no lie, not teasing. (Nikita, finally accept that you're fucking drooling. You aren't crying, no, also not out of your mouth, you idiot.)

So actually, it's quite unlikely you know such a person because that's basically Nikita and usually drooling people admit that there's spit streaming out of their mouth - ask Avery about it, he tells you everything you don't want to know.

Accept that neither you nor your mouth are crying, Nikita, it's just like with your smiles, artificial, everything artificial, boys like you don't cry, they smile.

Unless smiling, Nikita isn't practicing crying and maybe that's the reason he isn't good at it. Don't understand this wrong - sometimes there are liquid crystals rolling over his pale cheeks, sparkling like young stars but filled with old woe, but the sorrow within them appears to be too ancient to stay in their translucent prison, his skin seems to absorbe all sandess and in the end there are just meaningless droplets, nearly dull, filled with nothing, no worries, no weltschmerz, just emptiness.

Maybe that's why Nikita's convinced that he's crying in his sleep - because the saliva on his pillow tells from as much emotion as his tears.

If his tears were paint, they'd be able to create awestrucking masterpieces, colours of seldom vibrancy, sparkling like whole galaxies. Why isn't anybody chatching them as soon as they spill over, bottling them up? They'd be handled like gold on the art market, plain but not to underestimate. But when they finally touch the paper the pages stay blank, everything is drained out of them and the book of his life stays black and white like it's always been, even after he's abandoned music.

Not only because of everyday utensils; documents, ink and quills, chess, fashion, tea and milk; not only because of the bear which is eyeing him cautiously with malicious black eyes; not only because of his own appearance in the mirror; no, the world seems to be black and white in general, especially in Hogwarts. They say one, who's good and who's bad, who's worth it and who's not.

To be honest, Nikita doesn't mind it. It's easier like this and what kind of Slytherin would he be if he wouldn't take the easy way?

Still a Slytherin of course but maybe Gryffindor would adopt him, after all he's soaked in godly gold and nobody'd care that the red Nikita'd had to wear then would remind him of blood.

As if Tom Riddle had heard these sacriligeous thoughts, he bolts up in his, eyes wide, hair messy.

Actually, he's merely heard Nikita snore, reminding his conscience that there's this boy who's been missing in the evening, apparently forgetting about their appointment. And if Tom can't stand one thing it's when somebody's forgetting him - but he's also one of these insufferable persons who can't procrastinate, he wants everything to be finished in a certain time and Tom definitely doesn't want to have this quite boring project on his list tomorrow.

And so, Tom jumps up from his bed and because he doesn't give a shit about the sleep of his classmates, he takes his wand and lits the candles in the dorm, leading Lestrange to grunt unwillingly and somebody farts in protest.

Men.

However, Tom isn't disturbing anybody's sleep with loud steps, he doesn't have to tiptoe or anything, it's just as if Death'd known when his heir's been born, laying his blanket of silence below Tom's feet since his soles have first graced the ground. Usually, Tom's steps are quiet but when he's threatening somebody or filled with cold anger, they tend to echo - probably because Tom's a, let's not lie to ourselves, dramatic bitch with a huge... let's call it "love" for hallways and halls; it's no wonder that the Room of Requirements into a knights hall for him - especially because his violin sounds great when played there but which instrument doesn't when the acoustic is perfect?

Tom's dark eyes immeditately find Nikita, who hasn't moved at all since the Future Dark Lord has risen, apparently not caring if he's surrounded by darkness or light. Looking at the quietly snoring boy, he compresses his lips in annoyance - he obviously isn't over the fact that something is more important than he.

Oh, if Tom'd only know Nikita's reason to forget everything around him, everything behind and ahead of him!

It wouldn't change the pang of fear the incident has caused - he's been forgotten, forgotten, FORGOTTEN - but maybe wouldn't wear this expression of... disgust? which is gracing his delicate face now.

After all he knows the matchless pull that's radiating from the instrument after one's finally done with the sometimes quite nervy scales to warm up, the moment when Apollo takes place on the cold floor to appreciate the playing, eyes closed and hands on his thighs, warming the room with approvement, golden flames warming the musician in the inside, a light sheen of sweat covering the body while being caught in their music, their emotions, their head.

Tom knows this just too well but he would have never guessed that Nikita out of all people would know it too - not Nikita who's quiet and reserved and snarky. Nikita with his pale face and porcellain frame, his hard eyes and false smiles. But also Nikit awho seems to be born to perform, his teint the only right tone to shimmer like marble in the spot light, Nikit awith the hands that are bigger than they appear to be. Nikita with his perfect posture, who looks more natural with a straight spine than when slouching - he probably isn't even realising that he's looking like a statue when not moving, his conscience remembering every harsh word he's ever received due to his pose even if he doesn't.

Shoulders back, Nikita, shoulders back! It's not that hard, boy, just push them back or are you too dumb for that?

You're slouching like a courtesan out of the gutter. Maybe that's where you belong, nobody'll ever take you seriously if you sit like that.

How do you want to be a pianist, if you can't bow properly? Bow, Nikita, bow. Lower, lower, back straight, you damned child, can't you do anything right? How do you want to be a pianist if you can't do this?

(What if I don't want to be a pianist? - You're a prodigy, my little boy, of course you want, why wouldn't you?)

Tom's hand is cold against Nikita's shoulder but the blond doesn't even stir; when his eyes are closed he really looks like a marble statue, all white and perfect.

"Pavlov", Tom hisses, shaking Nikita, who turns his head to the other boy in his sleep. "Pavlov."

He fails to wake Nikita for a few times, deciding to change his clothes before trying again. In contrary to Tom, Nikita wears long pyjama trousers and a sleeveless shirt and no raddled pyjamas like Tom who can't risk to be seen in them - Hogwarts' golden boy can't look like a destitute child of an orphanage. But who'd care for Nikita wearing average nighttime clothes, especially when nearly nobody can recall him.

Exactly, nobody.

"Pavlov", Tom tries again, now poking Nikita's head like a small child that wants attention. However, it doesn't work, and Tom isn't having the whole night - don't even speaking about his nerves -, so he just grabs the other boy's shoulders, turns him around and pulls him up. "Could you just wake up, Nikita?"

Surprisingly, Nikita opens his eyes even though they aren't really focusing, more like blankly staring in Tom's direction who actually jumps in scare but still holds Nikita in place, whose orbs are like dull, light blue mirrors, just reflecting Tom's motions but not reacting to them.

"Sure", he says. Then he closes his eyes again, a soft snore emitting.

"Come on, we have something to do!" No reaction, if you don't count Avery mumbling something about bacon. "We have a project to do, Nikita."

Like a robot, Nikita opens his eyes again. "Of course." Pale pieces of sky shimmering in golden light and then there are white clouds again, swallowing the golds and yellows instead of throwing them back, faint thunder letting his body vibrate.

"Nikita", Tom says, annoynace slightly audible, and as predicted ghostly blue orbs stare at him. "Could you stand up?"

"No."

It's driving Tom crazy that he can't deal with Nikita this way, he's in his REM sleep right now and his behaviour is a whole new level of annoying. Maybe he has to change his tone, perhaps Nikita'll cooperate when Tom's voice is a friendly one, most people act along if you're nice towards them. If nothing's gonna work, he'll have to levitate him but how should he explain why he's levitating his classmate into the library? It would look like kidnapping.

"Nikita, can we please work on our Potions homework?"

"Mmmmmmh", Nikita says, more in his dream than in reality. "Gonna consider it, Humphrey."

Tom blinks. Then he blinks again. "Nikita, we go and make this fucking project now, stand up." His voice is more serpent than Salazar Slytherin, the basilisk is opening it's deadly eyes when sensing Tom's tone but this isn't the reason Nikita's eyes are suddenly widely opened, pale blue discs frantically peering around, a joyless smile on thin lips, as fake as every other one.

"I've practiced, I really have." Nikita's smile widens and he's fixating Tom even though he isn't recognizing him but he senses that he's the source of the irritaion, an irritation he's just too well acquainted with.

To say it mildly, Tom is weirded out and maybe there are goosebumps on his arms and maybe he let's Nikita fall, who immediately snuggled himself into his blanket, snoring like a snuffy kitten.

However, Tom's missed his chance and he definitely doesn't want to speak with a practically sleeping Nikita again, he'll just levitate him and think of a good explanation why he's transporting a sleeping student.

How fortunate that his tongue's been dipped into molten silver by Satan himself, lying's never been hard for Tom Riddle. A handy skill and a necessary one at that.

Because it will look like as if a god's accomponying an angel's bier even tough we all know that looks deceive.

But while gods are meant to be whorshipped,

mortals are meant to be deceived.