Behind the Curtains

Hogwarts at night was deep and still as water. The Slytherin Common Room beneath the Black Lake had long since fallen silent, with only the pale green flames in the fireplace dancing tirelessly, casting dim shadows over the rough stone walls and making the silhouettes of creatures swimming across the ceiling look like ghosts.

Tom Riddle sat on the edge of his four-poster bed, its dark green curtains not fully drawn. He was not asleep. By the pearly white glow of a magical lamp on his bedside table—one he had recently "traded" from an older student—he intently leafed through a heavy tome reinforced along its spine with black dragonhide. Its yellowed, tattered pages gave off a scent of mildew and ancient magic. It had clearly come from the Restricted Section. His brows were faintly furrowed, and his handsome face looked somewhat pale beneath the cold white light. His thin lips were pressed tight as he immersed himself completely in that dangerous, alluring sea of knowledge.

Across from him, Ares sat propped against his own bed, a copied set of notes on the applications of Ancient Runes—the Christmas gift Tom had given him—spread over his knees. Yet he was not reading. His gaze had moved past the pages to rest on Tom, and a trace of barely perceptible concern lingered in his mismatched eyes.

This was not the first time. Tom had been immersing himself ever more frequently in forbidden books concerning dark magic and soul curses. Even during daytime classes, Ares could sense the cold, sharp magical aura around him, like an unsheathed blade. He knew Tom was conducting even more dangerous experiments in the Room of Requirement. Though Tom never spoke to him about them in detail, his growing obsession with dark knowledge and his desire to control it were almost visible to the naked eye.

"That spell," Ares suddenly said, his voice especially clear in the silent dormitory as it broke the uneasy quiet. "Have you found a way to stabilize the reverse derivation of 'Soul Rend'?"

Tom's fingers paused as he turned the page. He slowly raised his head. His black eyes were unfathomably deep beneath the lamplight, carrying a trace of irritation at being disturbed, but even more scrutiny. He had not expected Ares to so directly expose what he had been studying.

"Were you watching me?" Tom's voice was quiet, but it had an icy edge.

"I was observing," Ares calmly corrected. He closed the notes on his knees with a soft sound. "Your magical fluctuations have been unstable lately, especially after you return from the Room of Requirement." He tapped his temple. "I can feel it, Tom. That power is corroding you."

Tom's pupils contracted slightly. He hated the feeling of being seen through, even by Ares. Yet strangely, this insight did not stir his usual fierce urge to retaliate and seize control. Instead, it brought a... secret, peculiar resonance, as though the two of them alone shared some forbidden knowledge.

He set down the book and leaned back against the bedpost, his eyes still fixed on Ares. "Power demands a price, Ares. If one wishes to rise above mediocrity, one must embrace realms ordinary people dare not touch." His tone held a near-preacher's fervor. "Dumbledore and the others will never understand. They will only use their so-called 'light magic' to bind us."

"What worries me is not the price." Ares met his gaze without yielding in the slightest. He raised a hand and lightly touched the golden Blood Pact Mark beneath his left eye. "There is both light and darkness within us. If you allow the darkness to devour everything, it will only lead to destruction, not eternity."

Tom fell silent. He looked at Ares—at those mismatched eyes that seemed able to reflect the soul in the dim light, at the brooch at his collar that Tom himself had given him, symbolizing Symbiosis of Light and Dark—and it was as though he saw something deeper through him. Ares's existence was like a mirror, forever reflecting the abyss Tom was slipping toward.

After a long while, Tom spoke again. His voice was much lower now, carrying a rare, almost weary rasp. "Then tell me, Ares. If I do not rely on this 'forbidden' power, how am I supposed to ensure that we... remain at the top forever? How can I ensure that no one separates us, or... throws us back into that mire?" He put particular emphasis on the word "we."

Those words revealed his deepest fear—the fear of losing power, the fear of returning to the helplessness of the past, and the fear of... losing Ares, his only "kindred spirit." That fear was the root of his desperate, even unscrupulous pursuit of greater power.

Ares's heart stirred. He saw the crack beneath Tom's hard shell. Throwing back his covers, he stepped barefoot onto the cold stone floor and walked to Tom's bedside. He did not sit down. He merely stood there, looking down at him.

"With this." Ares reached out, not for the forbidden book, but to gently touch Tom's tightly clenched fist. His fingertips carried the uniquely cool-warm magic of Eternal Cycle, like a faint current that instantly smoothed the veins standing out on the back of Tom's hand from the force of his grip. "With the bond between us, Tom. It is stronger than any dark magic contract."

Tom's body jolted. He lowered his head to look at Ares's fingers covering the back of his hand. What came from the owner of those mismatched eyes was not merely magic, but a firm and warm will. He had never allowed anyone to get so close, to soothe him so... But Ares was different.

He seized Ares's wrist with his other hand, his grip so strong it nearly hurt him. But Ares did not pull away. He merely looked at him quietly.

"Prove it to me." Tom raised his head. Complex, unreadable emotions churned in his black eyes—longing, doubt, and a trace of dependence even he had not noticed. "Prove that your way is strong enough."

Ares looked at him, then suddenly bent down. With his other free hand, he gently brushed Tom's forehead, sweeping aside several strands of black hair that had fallen over it. The gesture came as naturally as though he had practiced it countless times. His fingertips accidentally grazed Tom's skin, sending a faint tremor through him.

"I will." Ares's voice was soft, yet it echoed through the silent dormitory like an oath. "But you need to give me time. And you need to... trust me, instead of trusting only the darkness in those books."

They were so close that they could hear each other breathe. The dormitory held only the faint light of the magical lamp and the blurred shadows of lake creatures passing outside the window. Tom tightly gripped Ares's wrist and could clearly feel the steady, powerful beat of his pulse, a stark contrast to his own somewhat disordered heartbeat.

He looked at Ares's face so close to his own, at those mismatched eyes reflecting the lamplight, at the winding golden mark. A strange sense of peace, one he had never felt before, actually overcame his burning hunger for power.

He slowly released his hand.

Ares straightened, Tom's force and warmth still lingering on his wrist. "Sleep, Tom," he said softly. "We have Charms tomorrow."

Tom did not answer. He merely watched Ares return to his own bed and draw the curtains. He remained seated on the edge of his bed for a long time before raising a hand to lightly touch the spot on his forehead Ares's fingertips had brushed. A peculiar warmth intertwined with light and darkness seemed to remain there.

He glanced at the open forbidden book. In the end, he reached out, closed it, and tucked it beneath his pillow.

The dormitory fell completely silent. Behind the curtains, however, the thoughts of the two boys were far from settled. A seedling of trust struggled to grow in the dark soil, while the vines of emotion quietly wound themselves around the branches of fate in this unseen midnight. To Tom Riddle, Ares Phoenix might have been more dangerous than any magical power he sought—and even more... indispensable.