Pairing: Alastor/Tom.

Rating: PG-13.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: Hogwarts, 1943. A tale of two sixth-years, their attempts to deal with unreasonable emotions, and their equally unreasonable relationship. Chess, Quidditch, enchanted trousers, best friends, fellow prefects, slumbering professors, tragic pasts, and dangerous futures set the scene.

:chapter two - silver:

Tom Marvolo Riddle, October 17, 1943  

Curtains closed, locking charm, silencing charm, a prod to relight the jar of witchfire strung over my headboard. Wand in the pocket next to the witchfire, quill and ink out, book out from under the pillow. A ritual I've had since first year--although it's hardly necessary now--when Derrick Junior decided it would be good fun to steal the Mudblood's diary. Ironically enough, it was when he read it that he finally believed I had wizarding blood.  

An equal part of the ritual: the five minutes of silence before I begin to write. The play of witchfire on green velvet curtains, the familiar weight of the book in my hand, the worn softness of the black leather cover. Time to rearrange my pillow and lean back against the footboard--the headboard is cluttered with the jar of witchfire and the pocket for my wand, strung between the posts on securely knotted rope. Time to slowly unscrew the cap of my inkwell, revealing the sparkling field of the No-Spill charm, and lose myself in the depths of the black liquid within. Time to bury my bare feet in my blanket, unbutton the top two buttons of my pajamas, and breathe.  

Then time to write.  

Quidditch was quite exciting today. If I had caught the Snitch a heartbeat later, Moody would have scored for Gyffindor, and the game would have tied. It was rather a stressful catch, but most enjoyable.  

That game also leads to the interesting strategic question of whether it is better to take your own head off or let a Bludger do it for you. I had to wash copious amounts of muddy grass out of my hair after I rolled to dodge a Bludger while several feet from the pitch. Had the Snitch not been within feet of myself and the other Seeker, I would have risked a hit. However, Ajax took it in the arm, which did rectify the situation. I caught the Snitch, at any rate. I also might have collapsed afterwards, when my knees started shaking, but it was not a problem, as most of Slytherin carried me off the field.  

Dear Symus was most excited at winning, it being his first time at captaining, and my attempts to explain that it was not his doing did nothing for him. Manxes and Kylee, insufferable as usual, held a party, and Parkinson commenced the usual debaucheries. Dealing tomorrow with the aftershocks of that is going to be annoying. I excused myself as soon as I could to finish my Charms study, as I had to work in the Restricted Section for at least two hours. It was the extended section on tracking charms for my advanced credit--fascinating. Perhaps I could do the essay on comparison between the theory behind tracking charms and that behind some of the Dark spells for bodily control? Certainly would not need to worry about disturbing Coulter with such a topic.  

Moody did nearly beat me out for the score. Worth consideration.  

I set my quill back into the inkwell and lean back to stare at the upper canopy of my bed. Time to take my mind off Quidditch. There are greater things. Such as the importance of a certain Gryffindor Chaser.  

Alastor Moody, sixth-year, same as I. Appointed Prefect due to his excellence in classes, although he tends to be awkward at best and irresponsible at worst with his duties. Taking advanced DADA credit in noisily publicized hope of being an Auror, and in the higher unit of Transfiguration, along with myself and the other fifteen or so best students of our year. Highly dangerous in combination with Mundungus Fletcher, as they are aggravating pranksters. Even more dangerous on the Quidditch pitch, once you add the Head Girl and Stoffenson.  

It might be time to pay attention to him.  

* * *  

The perfect opportunity to do so, of course, is at the Sunday prefects meeting. It takes place in a pentagonal room in the North Tower, brightly illuminated by elaborate stained glass renditions of the four House crests and the Hogwarts crest, one per wall; the only furniture is a massive, five-sided oak table and suitable numbers of chairs. I am exactly two minutes early, as I have been since my first week last year. The only others yet there are Dippet, close to slumbering at the center of the faculty's side, basking in the sun under the window with the Hogwarts crest; the four heads of house--Coulter, Westingham, Fustusson, and Dumbledore--flanking him; McGonagall at the seventh-year girl's seat on the Gryffindor side, on the right of the professor's side; and Bones at the seventh-year boy's seat of Hufflepuff, other side of Gryffindor. They have their own meeting, just the professors and the head boy and girl, before the prefects come in; technically they adjourned several minutes ago, and I am always early.  

I set my bag down and nod about at the circle.  

"Professors, Minerva, Joseph--good day."  

"Hey, Tom," says Bones cheerily. I pull out my chair--sixth-year boy's at the table to the teachers' left, with green light splintering over my robes--and sit carefully, resisting, as always, the urge to scream at the idiot. When a Hufflepuff is Head Boy, Hogwarts is in dire straits indeed.  

Not so next year.  

Two of the Ravenclaws are next to arrive--including Damian Mulciber, who spares me a brief nod, and I return the favor--then the Rosier cousin, Aurelian, who takes the fifth-year Slytherin boy's seat right next to me. More Ravenclaws and Slytherins filter in--Warrington and The Tiger are arguing again, and she, as usual, has the upper hand--and the two other Gryffindor girls, and then the Hufflepuff prefects arrive all in a pack, grinning and waving and babbling at Bones and Fustusson. The rest of the Gryffindors arrive together as well, Weasley seventh-year, Weasley fifth-year, and Moody. I watch him as he takes his seat, looks over the table, nods at Dumbledore and Dippet, and spares a glare for the Slytherin side. A final Ravenclaw, little de Vries, trickles in, panting from the stairs and her overloaded bookbag, and Dippet waves his hand to close the door.  

"Settle down, settle down," Dippet wheezes. "I have a few words first, then we can move on to House reports..."  

Most of us rustle out parchment and quills. Weasley fifth-year just looks over at Weasley seventh-year and makes a face, and Weasley seventh-year nods and waves him off. Stebbins, Hufflepuff fifth-year, has a Muggle notebook color-coded with little bits of paper; Moody is using a mere torn scrap of parchment. I smooth a blank sheet before me, set out my blue ink, and prepare for the usual lingering torture by deadly boredom. I pride myself on not doodling or chewing on my quill, as others do. Instead, as Dippet drones on and sounds more like a vacuum-cleaner with each passing minute, I will write down the incantation of every hex I can think of, or the ingredients and quantities of the most complicated potion I can remember, or run through some simple Arithmancy exercises. Thus it is not all a total waste of time.  

Today, however, I am studying Moody.  

He is, as always, looking out the window, quill brushing the sleeve of his robes as he taps his fingers silently on his parchment. He does not look comfortable in the least; his eyebrows are lowered, making his face look more hawklike than usual, and there is a sharp frown stuck at the corner of his mouth. He's got a halo of gold and red in his hair, light from the window behind him trapped in his springy little curls.  

"--Weasley, Arthur Weasley apparently initiated the fight."  

I tighten my grip on my quill and curse myself. McGonagall is giving the Gryffindor House report, including an account of yet another spate of fisticuffs between disgruntled first-years. How long have I been looking at him?  

Impossible. I have more control than that.  

I shove the thought to the back of my mind and concentrate on the inevitable argument.  

"The Weasleys and the Malfoys have been feuding for generations," says Annabel Goyle--the Tiger, we call her, one of our seventh-year prefects. "You can hardly expect them to stop now." Ah, so Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy went at it again. Incorrigible brats.  

"Can we, Miss Goyle?" Dumbledore, of course.  

"Two of young Arthur's brothers are prefects," Westingham, head of Ravenclaw, muses aloud. "Yet they are naturally in Gryffindor, and the Malfoy boy will respect neither their authority nor that of the Head Boy and Girl." His penetrating gaze turns to the Slytherin table. "Forgive me for being blunt, but you six are the only students with any authority over Mr. Malfoy, and I have not seen that authority being exercised."  

"And forgive me for correcting you bluntly, sir," I reply, twisting my quill on the parchment, "but the only person with any authority over Malfoy Junior is Malfoy Senior. Have you considered owling his parents?"  

"Have you even attempted to discipline the boy?" Fustusson now, twirling a bit of his salt-and-pepper hair around one finger.  

"I have not, sir. I cannot speak for my colleagues. Any attempt on my part to discipline Malfoy would be useless--he has more wizarding blood than I."  

Dumbledore raises an eyebrow.  

"Is this really a matter of blood, Mr. Riddle?"  

"It is Slytherin, sir," Warrington says quietly. "Everything is a matter of blood."  

Easy enough now to leave this conversation--my father has excused me. A deception, naturally, but any explanation to this council of why Malfoy might actually listen to me if I told him to behave would have to include unnecessary details of the boy's disturbingly worshipful attitude towards me. A bare glance from Coulter, silent as he always is in these arguments, asks that question; a bare glance from myself answers it. Saving our face is now up to my fellow prefects, all of whom can trace their pure blood back to at least the sixteenth century, and all of whom have done this almost every week since they first received their badges. This sort of thing is constantly an issue, as the other houses often blame us Prefects--and sometimes even Coulter himself--for the disruptive actions of our baby serpents. We do not condone them, but we would hardly discipline for them either--without them, Slytherin House would not be the same. And I suspect it will be a while before even Dumbledore dares to owl Lysander Malfoy.  

Moody has a sharp line between his eyebrows and is glaring at all of us. The Weasleys just look disgruntled, McGonagall studiously neutral, Finnigan petulant, Narayan aloof. Next to them, the Hufflepuffs pout; next to them, the Ravenclaws scribble studiously, except for Damian Mulciber and Claudia Snape, who sit still as statues. I can feel both of them watching me, their gazes heavy and curious--Damian because he knows me, Snape because she does not.  

"It occurs to me," Westingham says quietly, having sat in pensive silence through the defense of Slytherin--delivered this time by Tiger in full form. "Might this brawl not have been sparked by yesterday's game?"  

The tension level in the room jumps up at least one notch, and the eyes of all are upon myself and Moody. A spark of pure anger forms in Moody's dark eyes as he glares at me. I set my quill down and force myself into calmness, even as I speak words that might be words of anger.  

"Professor, Quidditch is Quidditch. Should I have caught the Snitch a second later to attempt to save us from first-years with jelly legs?"  

"We are hardly implying that." Fustusson again. Well, they did bring up Quidditch--natural that he, with his little golden charm bracelet of badgers and Snitches, should join the fray. "Any change in the outcome of the game, and that fight would probably still have happened. It's the attitude towards it all, within the Houses, that's the problem. Quidditch is a game, not an excuse for violence."  

But, my friend, games are the ultimate example of violence. I do not say that, but I write it on my parchment, and watch the ink lose its shine as it dries in the green light of the window behind me.  

McGonagall clears her throat.  

"Professor, the maturity of the teams and the maturity of the prefectural leadership of both houses can hardly be called into question." With the exception of Mierka Kylee, of course. Unspoken, naturally, but it is there in the twitch in Moody's eyebrow and the rolling of eyes from the Hufflepuffs. And Mundungus Fletcher, I want to add savagely. The things we cannot say at prefects meetings.  

I do have to admire the boldness with which she speaks. The Tiger or I would give such a statement for what it was--an implication of attack on a teacher's statement--but I would never have expected to hear it from the Head Girl. She hides any anger she might feel deep behind bland professionalism, but Fustusson shifts a little uncomfortably, and I have to suppress a smile.  

"The maturity of first years, on the other hand," she continues, "cannot be expected. Weasley picked a fight with Malfoy because--what were his words again?--'We shoulda won that game but their Seeker's a cheating bastard.'" She delivers the insult deadpan, keeping an eye on me the whole time. I merely raise my eyebrow. Every play I made was legal--I'm very careful about that--and she knows it. Coulter raises an eyebrow as well, but she does not flinch under his stern gaze. Fustusson snorts, and Dumbledore readjusts his glasses with a weary sigh.  

It should be coming any minute now.  

"Oh, I think a certain amount of maturity can be hoped for," says the Tiger--quite cheerfully, really, without a hint of malevolence in her voice. "Malfoy at least, no matter how resentful he may be of the talent amongst the Gryffindor Chasers--" a curl in Moody's lip at that, almost triumphant, "does not automatically write off any skill or creativity from the opposing team as unfair."  

Any minute. Bones is starting to develop a frown. It doesn't fit well with his round face--looks more as if he badly needs to visit the lavatory than anything else.  

"Now, now, have you spoken with the boy, Goyle?" Bones bursts out. "And you must admit, no matter the integrity of individual players, that enough fouls come from the Slytherin team that it's really not surprising that somebody would think that..."  

The second insult to my honor in as many minutes. I dig my quill deeper into my parchment and flash Bones a full-blown glare. He blanches slightly.  

"Anyone who thought that Tom was cheating obviously wasn't paying attention!" Parkinson--the other sixth-year Slytherin--interrupts Bones' trailing-off sentence loudly. I grit my teeth. So tempting to rip out the one shred of tact she possesses and stab her with it.  

"Children, children." Dippet's wheezing voice breaks into the discussion for the first time since the fistfight was brought up. We all fall silent and look at him, attempting to stifle our varying degrees of outrage. Finally--I'm surprised, given his track record, that the old man let it go on this long. "I assume Malfoy and Weasley have received detentions?"  

"Yes," Tiger and McGonagall both say quietly.  

"People are always going to get worked up over Quidditch." Dippet waves his hand. "We've weathered the worst of it, I'm sure, after yesterday's match, and it's not going to do us any good to make a tempest in a teacup. Let's shelve this discussion for the time being and get on with the agenda, shall we?"  

Parkinson and both Weasleys fishmouth indignantly for a moment; the rest of us merely sigh and readjust our parchments. I suppose it is the old man's idea of peacekeeping--to simply shelve any discussion that gets even remotely out of hand and never bring it up again. Dumbledore and Westingham have never seemed happy with the strategy--nor are some of us--but Fustusson supports him out of principle and Coulter out of practicality, since otherwise he'd be in the center of a three-hour weekly debate on the honor of Slytherin House. Bones stops looking like someone had stuck a pole up him, and the rest of the Hufflepuffs smile a little beleagueredly at the Headmaster and stop having those twitchy expressions which mean they're cowering in their seats. The Tiger does not change expression, nor does McGonagall--and nor do I.  

Moody is staring at me.  

I do not answer his challenging gaze, but I feel the weight of it upon me, dark and beady and furious. I add another few words to my parchment, making the letters as tiny as I can--Dippet is a coward. It was the Gryffindor House Report that had stalled us; so we move onto Hufflepuff, where Joseph Bones cheerily reports no serious incidents, and Ravenclaw, where Claudia Snape does the same and then launches into a long, impeccably worded, and exceedingly dull requisition for two more desks for the common room. Dippet gives his approval; Westingham says he will inform the curator.  

Moody is still staring at me.  

Warrington and the Tiger have a brief staring contest; she, still sparking from the argument, wins, and delivers our House Report, noting that the incident with young Mr. Malfoy has already been reported, and lying with a straight face to all the present prefects and faculty that Mierka Kylee has been disciplined for her antics at the post-match party, which was not in fact condoned by any prefectural authority within Slytherin House, and we will do our best to prevent such happenings in the future. I know she's lying because she was the one who smuggled in the butterbeer, mixed the cocktails, and apparently danced half-naked on the couch with Kylee and Parkinson. Rosier reported that to me in high excitement; Symus reported that Rosier passed out. I had been the one to comfort a traumatized Barty Crouch.  

Moody is still staring at me.  

"Any reports of Cornelius Fudge going about the school naked and at a high speed are false," the Tiger finishes with a satisfied sort of tone. They weren't, naturally--Fudge had made the extremely bad mistake of entering into a bet with several of his year-mates, including Kylee. But it's a ritual of vast conspiracy, every time a House party occurs, to concertedly cover up as much as possible. Half of the room is obviously trying not to giggle. My House parties hard, and I can never figure out whether this improves or damages our reputation with the rest of the school. A few notes about discipline shot back and forth, and a highly amused comment from Dumbledore, and we're finally ready to move on.  

Moody is still staring at me.  

I wonder how much of the conversation he's lost.  

The meeting is finally winding to a close. Moody has not said a word throughout. I've often noticed this; he's awkward and silent in meetings, seemingly irresponsible with his duties. Hogwarts prefect badges are pure silver, and one wonders what he has done to earn that weight. Or what he has done for Dumbledore to maintain the position.  

One wonders why he's staring at me.  

No, I can guess that, and it's far more savory than imagining Gryffindor sodomy. I cruelly beat him out to a Slytherin victory yesterday. He must be absolutely enraged. He must want to hurt me. I can see it in his eyes now, and I have to beat down a delighted grin at the prospect. Oh, this could be entertaining.  

"Armando, you mind if I add a few words?" Fustusson says. Dippet waves his hand at him, so he clears his throat and props both elbows on the table. "Look, I don't know how many of you follow the news, but there was another skirmish with that Bavarian wizard a few days ago, and some folks are starting to get nervous. Your kids, they're going to be worrying that we've got a war on our hands, if they've heard, they're going to be worrying that Wizarding England is going to come under attack as well..." All the Mudbloods look at him very carefully, and deadened, animalistic fear hangs in the room.  

I know the stink of it. I was in Muggle England during the summer of 1940, after all.  

Fustusson goes on for a while about solidarity and courage and loyalty, about how nothing can really hurt us if we just stick together. One proper, ruthless strike and the whole Wizarding world could be in a panic, I observe calmly with quill and parchment, and the Ministry has no more solidarity than Annabel Goyle and Joseph Bones trying to plan a ball.  

Then I feel another gaze upon me, one that has prickled the hairs on the back of my neck ever since I first came under its full scrutiny last June. Dumbledore. He regards me for only a few moments, but--without willing it--I meet his eyes. He raises one shaggy eyebrow and bloody twinkles at me; then he looks away, and I suddenly realize he's been watching Moody.  

Damnable man. Watching the watchers indeed. Probably making sure his pet Prefect doesn't go for broke and attack me--because, oh, he must want to. Probably biding his time to destroy me himself.  

"And that's all I've got to say, my friends," Fustusson says, and leans back with a satisfied smile.  

"Hear, hear!" Bones exclaims, and most of the room echoes him--Moody with a sudden and sharp smile, Dumbledore with quiet amusement, Coulter with quiet disdain... I mouth the words; my voice would be lost in the jumble anyway.  

"Well, if that is all..." Dippet lets the silence grow until several of us nod. "Dismissed."  

There is an immediate clatter of chairs, and Weasley fifth-year jumps to his feet like a cannonball, and de Vries squawks as her bookbag is upset all beneath the Ravenclaw chairs, and Moody flashes me one last glare and stuffs his parchment back into his pocket. Dippet asks the Weasleys to stay as Coulter rises and adjusts the elaborate clasps of his robes with one gloved hand, and I see the Gryffindors exchange nervous looks and Weasley fifth-year gulp visibly as the Head of Slytherin looms like a monolith of deep green velvet next to the Headmaster's chair. I carefully stow my parchment and leave with another bare nod at Damian Mulciber--though he is my friend, I do not need to speak with him now. There will be better times.  

When I get outside, Symus is waiting for me, books in hand--we'll soon be off to the library. Weasley first-year is also waiting, hat jammed over carroty hair, shabby-robed and biting his lip. He peers anxiously up at the cluster of Gryffindor prefects watching past Symus and I, and I realize that they'd probably told him they'd have to bring the scuffle up in the meeting. McGonagall looks down at him with a stern sort of sympathy and opens her mouth, but Moody puts a hand on her sleeve.  

"Minnie, let me."  

They're the first words I've heard out of him all day, aside from the cheer after Fustusson's little speech. I'd been watching out of the corner of my eye, but now I give the scene my full attention without turning my head, as Moody lets go of McGonagall's sleeve and steps forward and sinks into a crouch before Weasley.  

"Look, kid...Arthur..."  

I can feel Symus' questioning gaze upon me, but I merely mouth, "Wait," even as I continue to pay very close attention.  

"Look," Moody goes on, "we all love Quidditch just as much as you. And we're all ticked off about yesterday's game--it was frustrating as all hell the way things fell, and I'm not going to pretend it was easy for any of us, team or prefects or anybody, to take that loss. But it is the way things fell. I gave it my darndest, and so did Minerva here, and Ajax, and everybody else, and the reptiles all gave it their darndest, too--heck, Riddle nearly killed himself--and they won and there's nothing we can do but accept it."  

"Malfoy called me names!"  

"But you didn't have to fight him. He's not worth it--all it'll do is get you in trouble. Look, you think I haven't wanted to pop Riddle a good one ever since the match? But I haven't, because it would get nobody nothing except ten points from Gryffindor, and I don't want that--do you?"  

Weasley shifts and squirms and shuffles his feet, and scrubs his nose with one hand, and bursts out, "But Riddle--!"  

"Plays scrupulously by the rules," McGonagall breaks in. "Yes, he is aggressive and ruthless and will do anything he can without fouling, but he does not foul. And remember what the Sorting Hat said about Slytherins? He's doing exactly what he thinks he should, just as we try to be brave." She looks down at him sternly through those little square glasses. "You, on the other hand, did not play by the rules yesterday."  

Weasley goes flaming red at that, and stares at the floor, and mumbles something wretched and incomprehensible.  

"You understand what we mean now?" says Moody, still crouched before him. Weasley nods, still looking at the floor. Moody suddenly smiles, and gently pats Weasley on the shoulder. "Let me see your face, kid." Weasley looks up slowly, then turns his head, and I can clearly see the massive purple hex stain. "You did see Nurse Bob?"  

McGonagall rolls her eyes; Weasley giggles weakly.  

"He gave me med'cine."  

"Good." Moody tweaks Weasley's hat, then rises with a smile. "Perk up, kid. You've learned your lesson, and that's all this is about. Go flying if detention gets to you, get some wind in your hair before they hand you over to the Black Widow. Always does wonders for my mood."  

McGonagall frowns again at the nickname for Lady Peeves, the caretaker; Weasley giggles again, and smiles weakly at Moody.  

"Weasley," McGonagall says firmly, and the smile vanishes. "I want you to apologize to Mr. Riddle. You've insulted him." Weasley practically wilts in his tracks. "Mr. Riddle?"  

So she knows I'm still here, pretending to talk quietly with Symus. Moody startles and turns to glare at me with narrowed eyes. Weasley turns bright red and sullen and looks anywhere but at me. I turn as if it was the first thing I'd heard.  

"Yes, Minerva?"  

She faces me with blank professionalism.  

"Young Mr. Weasley has an apology to make."  

I arch an eyebrow, and know without looking that Symus has as well.  

"Does he, now?"  

"He is under the impression that he has insulted your honor." She is perfectly deadpan; I cannot keep a slight smile from my face.  

"Is he, now?"  

"It was her idea," Weasley mumbles, almost inaudibly, held in place by McGonagall's hand on his back. I offer him my hand with a smile, feeling inwardly as if I'm approaching an alley cat.  

"Apology accepted, Mr. Weasley."  

He startles and looks up at me properly for the first time.  

"'M sorry!"  

We share an awkward little handshake, and he scurries back to Moody's side as soon as he can. Then McGonagall congratulates me on the match, as I'm sure she feels she must, and we shake, and then she notices Symus, and does it to him as well.  

Two can play this game, and a Slytherin can play for far different stakes. I take a step towards Moody and intensify my casually friendly _expression to the best I can muster.  

"And you, Mr. Moody--you played excellently. I would not have grudged you your score."  

I hold out my hand, and he shakes it with the sort of _expression that implies he'd rather break it against the wall than do anything polite with it. He wants to hurt me, but does not dare; and I can feel the little calluses on his fingers. Oh, I must continue to pay attention to him--this is simply delightful.  

"Thanks," Moody says tersely, and he breaks the handshake as soon as he can. McGonagall watches me with one raised eyebrow; I flash her a smile.  

The door opens again, and the professors and the two elder Weasleys file out. Dumbledore and Coulter both give me weighty looks, so I add, clearly enough for them to hear and with another smile for McGonagall, "I wish you and your fellow Chasers the best of luck in your next game."  

Nothing to see here--just the hero of the Chamber bestowing his dashing charm upon those he has left alive. The two elder Weasleys soon rustle away McGonagall and Moody and their younger brother, so I touch Symus' shoulder and steer him towards the library.  

"And here I was thinking Moody was an utter incompetent," I tell him quietly as we walk, fighting back the urge to laugh. "Not a word the entire meeting, but he can communicate with first-year Weasleys. A precious talent indeed, in Gryffindor. He's earned his silver after all."  

Symus smiles that faint smile which I know means he is both amused and slightly annoyed by my latest interest.  

"And what are you going to do to him?"  

I slide my arm around Symus' shoulders and smile.  

"Why, what indeed...?"  

* * *  

Curtains closed, locking charm, silencing charm, a prod to relight the jar of witchfire strung over my headboard. And here we have the intrigue of Alastor Moody.  

Symus is right: this new fascination will draw me inexorably, like a moth to flame, and I will go willingly--for, if nothing else, I am slave to my curiosity. But I wish to do more than study Moody. He startles so prettily. I wish to do something that will probably shock my dear friend as badly as my intended victim. Who would have guessed that a skinny little Gryffindor would pique my interest so?  

But it is not his body, nor his face--it is his anger and sullenness, mixed with his brilliance in the classroom and his hopes for his future. Of course I know he plans to be an Auror--everybody does. He wants to walk up to evil, stare it in the face, and beat it into submission. But he will never defeat me. It would not matter if there were a hundred of him. His power means nothing to me.  

No, I know what intrigues me. He dares to hate me. Oh, I can tell. I recognize the _expression. I've seen it too often in my own mirror. Even if it is simply because I beat him out at Quidditch, even if he suspects nothing of my true nature, he dares to hate me. The others, the other people who fancy themselves good, pretend I'm one of them--or, if they distrust me simply because I wear the Serpent's colors, they pretend to like me anyway. But Moody does not mask his distaste for me, has not for years. It merely took yesterday's game to bring it out so strongly.  

Sanctimonious little Gryffindor brat.  

I reach for my quill with a smile. I have found a new plaything, and I intend to have entirely too much fun.