"I think the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness."

━━ THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV

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Tom Riddle [The Dark Lord]

Early this morning

When you knocked upon my door

And I say, "Hello Satan, I

I believe it is time to go"

Me and the devil walking side by side

Me And The Devil ☾ Soap&Skin

             The most advantageous part of being a Prefect, in Tom's mind, was the ability to explain away the reason for his presence in obscure locations. He could haunt the corridors past midnight, with free reign over the secluded hallways, and nobody would bat an eyelid.

             The agonizing pretence of being amiable towards some first years in exchange for this autonomy was, as he saw it, a bargain. Dumbledore had done what little was in his power to try and prevent Tom's attaining of the title, but Dippet had easily overruled him. Now the Slytherin Prefect would view the Gryffindor Head with a glint of satisfied smugness, which the professor undoubtedly noticed.

             Rain beat down on either sides of the open brick bridge upon which Tom stood, leaning over the railing and staring into the dark abyss, sheltered from the downpour by the overhanging roof.

             He was holding a Marlboro cigarette between his middle and forefingers; a dirty habit which he'd acquired from Rosier, and one which he only indulged in when his mind was racing at a pace with which he could not keep up.

             As smoke curled and dissipated around him, Tom thought about every seemingly inconsequential thing that had brought him to this point. How if Lestrange had just had the stomach to do his job, Koskinen would be dead and the Ravenclaw girl would still be ambling about her useless life.

             Tom had been doing his best to avoid crossing paths with her since the incident in the garden, not so much so that it should be obvious, but their interactions hadn't exceeded more than a customary nod of greeting. She was mirroring his behaviour, though subconsciously or purposefully he did not know.

             He, of course, was not naïve enough to ignore a potential threat for long— she was just a complication that he needed time to figure out how to solve.

             It was her, that resembled the fallen angel who had cursed Tom on the splitting of his soul. He hadn't realised it then, or allowed the phantasm to haunt his thoughts, until recently. Those streams of white gold locks and icy hellfire-filled eye sockets were the face of his damnation.

             It was a premonition, he was certain, a forewarning from whatever undivine entity had sealed the deal: Koskinen was going to be his demise. Well, she would try to be. He would emerge victorious, even if it meant stepping over her dead body.

             Sighing inwardly, he stubbed his cigarette on the ledge and glanced at his wristwatch. 23:16. His nightly patrol was almost over, and Iphitus Lestrange had an irritating tendency to go looking for him if he was a moment late to hand over.

              Scarcely any torches were lit tonight in the corridors inside, and light danced on the walls rather than shadow, trying to no avail to fend off the suffocating darkness from surrounding it.

             Tom stopped in his tracks when he saw her. Out after curfew, hood drawn over her white hair and eyes darting around the hallway with conspicuous paranoia, a ball of light levitating in her palm to illuminate her path.

             Koskinen looked frazzled. Her free hand was gripping her coat hem nervously, so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.

             It was hard to pinpoint the exact emotion that crossed over her face when she saw him, but rather than fear, it was closer to anger. She extinguished the light and pulled her wand from her pocket, and in an instant, had it pressed against his throat. If he denied the thrill that crept up his spine, he would be lying.

             "Why is it," Koskinen snarled, nearly blocking his airway with how harshly she jabbed her wand into it, "that you are always at the wrong place at the wrong time? Did you follow me from the Common Room?"

             A scoff of disbelief escaped Tom's lips, which made her narrow her eyes even further. "Of course not," he said, "Do you think I have nothing better to do than constantly trail your footsteps?"

             She said nothing, though her resolution was clear, as she stepped back and pocketed her wand, looking up to match his gaze with levelled indifference. "Go on, then," she deadpanned.

             Tom looked at her blankly, feigning confusion and an innocent smile, though admittedly unnerved by the sudden draining of emotion. "Go on what?"

             "You are a Prefect, are you not? You never fail to make that clear. So give me a detention, or whatever it is you're always threatening me with after dark." He tilted his head, trying to figure out what it was she was playing at. She mirrored the action, somewhat mockingly.

             It was clear that she hadn't been intending to run into him, for her reaction had been one of pure anger. So why now what she acting so submissive to the repercussions? Tom did not appreciate whatever game she was initiating; an enigma, once again, toying with his confusion, as though he were the prey and not the other way round.

             "Yes," he said carefully. "I suppose I should." They studied each other like that for a moment. Anger and hatred seemed to have transpired into wariness and caution. "But that would inevitably destroy your plans for this evening, wouldn't it?"

             "I have no plans," she said evenly, "Perhaps I was just aiming for a stroll, without purpose."

             Tom rolled his eyes. "I would have thought you'd learned how to lie by now," he drawled lazily, leaning a shoulder on the wall that she had him backed up against. "You're too cowardly to stroll at night. I know that you're afraid of the dark."

             A look of shock passed across Koskinen's stony face, and he felt slightly surprised at the revelation he had made himself.

             She raised her hand balled in a fist— he didn't know if it was to chastise or punch him— but he instinctively caught it with his own, holding it against his chest and wondering momentarily if she'd be able to feel a heartbeat.

             "And then you wonder," she said quietly, raking over his face with those piercing, icy eyes, "why I think you are obsessive enough to follow me from the Common Room."

             Tom thought about killing her. Surely he'd be able to explain it away? He'd wondered what her blood would look like painted on the walls; whether she bled liquid light or cardinal like him.

             He opened his mouth to answer but didn't get a chance before she clamped her hand over his mouth— her skin frigid against his lips—

             and muttered Petrificus Totalus.

             Tom froze.

             That, admittedly, took him by surprise. As he sagged against her, she, out of some modicum of kindness, lowered him gently onto the ground, with one hand under his head until he hit the freezing marble, unable to muster the strength to move a single limb.

             The wind howled in its rage, and the window was flung open, the sound of its glass shattering against the stone wall echoing through the silent hallway.

             "I'm not sorry," Inkeri whispered, closing his eyelids with ghostly fingers as though he were dead, and extinguishing the only torch in the corridor so that the darkness wholly concealed him.

             He tried to say something; a curse, a threat, anything, but he couldn't speak and she was gone.

             There was not much for Tom to do as he lay there except fall back into place with the thoughts from which he had tried to run in the first place. Suppressing the boiling rage which threatened to bubble up to the surface, he tried to think of what he would do once he was released from the body-binding curse, aside from murder the witch that had raised her wand against him.

             Never had Tom Riddle, the boy filled with hatred since he was ripped cruelly from the womb of a dying mother, his first cries echoing through Wool's Orphanage, despised someone so consumingly. Not even his father, whom he had sent his Knights to seek out, fully intent on ending the filthy muggle's life.

             And yet, the urge to kill Koskinen never materialized. Her neck was so brittle to snap, the veins in her hand so blue and prominent in her wrist to slit; but even with the knife in his hand, he hesitated to draw the slash.

             This was what he prized himself on most. If none of his other qualities could come to fruition, Tom's patience would do him justice; and he had no doubt of her possible usefulness in the future. He just had to wait for the right time. Even if it meant that his thirst for retribution, too, would have to wait.

              Iphitus, as expected, came looking for him, although it was somewhat a surprise when he actually managed to find him.

             When the counter-curse was uttered, Tom stood, dusting off his clothes and burning with chagrin, as the younger Lestrange dawdled.

             "What on earth happened?" He gushed, following as Tom took off towards the main entrance. "Who stunned you? I shall have Slughorn expel him for attacking a Prefect— just tell me his name, Riddle—"

             "I am perfectly capable of dealing with them myself, do you not think?" Riddle asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could and trying to maintain his charming façade. Iphitus irked him almost more than Orpheus did.

             The fifth year boy looked crestfallen. "Of course you can— that's not what I meant. I just wanted to—"

             Tom sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth as he listened to him trip over his own words. "Help?" he interrupted, thinly stretching a smile onto his face. "You have already done that Lestrange, and I am grateful for it." Iphitus' eyes lit up. "You may commence your patrol now; consider the duty overhanded. I need to resolve something first."

             Lestrange had the nerve to hesitate, if only for a split second, before nodding quickly and scurrying away, leaving Tom to stare at the large gate which was the entrance of Hogwarts.

             He knew that she had gone out of the castle. A rational part of him wondered, briefly, if it was truly wise to follow her out into the darkness after she had gone to such a length to keep him away from whatever secret she was trying so desperately to hide.

             Unbolting the door, Tom stepped out into the lashing storm.

             The scent of upheaved soil and damp grass pervaded the grounds causing a shiver to run down Tom's spine from the rain soaking his skin as the wind tried to push him back toward the castle— nature's own final, desperate attempt to salvage the doomed spirit.

             He wanted to heed the warning, and turn back. His judgement was better than this; seldomly misguided by the calls of a heretic but generally on the contrary, resilient to the impulses of curiosity.

             But something drew him towards the forest. An invisible cord like a sweet siren song to tempt unheeding men to their demise, and one which they followed willingly. If Koskinen was the siren then he was Odysseus— without Circe's guidance.

             The branches of the bareboned trees in the forest clawed at him. One of them tore a gash atop his cheekbone, his blood dripping onto its roots like an unholy offering.

             Tom tried to think. His mind was always a spiderweb of entangled desires and schemes, and yet now, it was as though those strings had been severed. He just had to reach there.

              But where even was there?

             Crack. The sound of his own boot breaking a twig was what jolted him out of his trance. He surveyed himself, his desperation to go onward had resulted in the blood which dripped from various wounds across his exposed face and hands.

             Intrigued rather than scared, Tom stood still in the undergrowth trying to understand how he had ended up in this predicament. The unbecoming of his own conscience, unravelling of his own self-control; someone had been in his mind.

             And they were still there.

             He could feel their presence as much as he could feel his own existence.

             Somewhere in the distance, Hogwarts' grand clock chimed midnight, echoing through the moans of the storm. And in the opposite direction, deeper into the heart of the forest, voices. This time of his own free will, Tom chose the voices.

             He reached a tiny clearing. A ring of charred trees and in the centre, a large sigil burned into the grass on the ground, tiny flames still dancing around blades of soon-to-be ash, drawn-out tracks in the ground from human fingernails dragging through it in agony and uprooting the soil.

             She knelt in the centre, her back to him but her long blonde braid immediately distinguishable. Her palms were turned downward, clutching the earth as though it may slip away from her desperate grasp. In defiance to what he had heard, he and she were alone.

             Slowly, she stood, and despite himself Tom took a step back. It had been somewhat instinctive, the caution. Maybe, though he'd never admit it to himself, the fear.

             Koskinen turned around to face him with her eyes finding him directly, her cheeks damp with rain and tears, eyelashes sticking to the bottom of her lower lids, blonde eyebrows dyed brown with dampness and hair clinging to the sides of her face. Her hood had been pulled down, her face a perfect unmasked emblem of despair.

             As the storm continued its onslaught, the wind screaming its rage and lashing out in tyranny at the groaning trees, the sound of rainfall hitting each individual leaf, they stared at each other. Despite nature's cries, the silence between them was deafening.

             Tom saw his death in her eyes even before she killed him.

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