Behind the Curtain

Hogwarts' night was as deep as water. The Slytherin common room at the bottom of the Black Lake had long fallen into silence. Only the pale green flames in the fireplace leaped tirelessly, casting dim shadows on the rough stone walls, making the shadows of creatures swimming on the ceiling appear like phantoms.

Tom Riddle sat on the edge of his four-poster bed, the dark green curtains not fully drawn. He wasn't asleep. Instead, by the light of a magic lamp on his nightstand that emitted a pearly white glow (which he had recently "exchanged" from a senior student), he was engrossed in flipping through a thick tome, its spine reinforced with black dragon hide. The pages were yellowed and worn at the edges, exuding a scent of mold and ancient magic, clearly from the restricted section. His brow was slightly furrowed, his handsome face appearing somewhat pale in the cold white light, his thin lips pressed together, completely immersed in that dangerous and alluring ocean of knowledge.

Across from him, Ares leaned against his own bed, the copy of notes on the application of ancient Runic script that Tom had given him for Christmas spread across his knees. But he wasn't reading. His gaze drifted over the pages, landing on Tom, a hint of imperceptible worry in his heterochromatic eyes.

This wasn't the first time. Tom was increasingly immersing himself in forbidden books dealing with dark magic and soul curses. Even during daytime classes, Ares could feel the cold, sharp magical aura surrounding him, like a drawn sword. He knew Tom was conducting more dangerous experiments in the Room of Requirement. Although Tom never elaborated, the growing obsession with and desire to control dark knowledge was almost visible.

"That spell," Ares suddenly spoke, his voice exceptionally clear in the silent dormitory, breaking the uneasy silence, "the reverse derivation of 'Soul Rend.' Have you found a way to stabilize it?"

Tom's fingers paused as he turned the page. He slowly raised his head, his dark eyes unfathomable in the lamplight, carrying a hint of annoyance at being disturbed, but more so, scrutiny. He hadn't expected Ares to directly expose what he was researching.

"Are you spying on me?" Tom's voice was soft, yet carried a cold edge.

"I am observing," Ares corrected calmly. He closed the notes on his knees with a soft sound. "Your magical fluctuations have been very unstable lately. Especially after you returned from the Room of Requirement." He pointed to his temple. "I can 'feel' it, Tom. That power is eroding you."

Tom's pupils contracted slightly. He hated this feeling of being seen through, even by Ares. But strangely, this insight didn't ignite his usual strong desire to retaliate; instead, it brought a... secret, peculiar resonance of them sharing some forbidden knowledge.

He put down the book in his hands, leaning back against the bedpost, his gaze still locked on Ares. "Power requires a price, Ares. To surpass the ordinary, one must embrace the realms that others dare not touch." His tone carried an almost fanatical fervor, like a preacher. "Dumbledore and the others will never understand. They will only bind us with so-called 'white magic'."

"I'm not worried about the price," Ares met his gaze without flinching. "It's about getting lost. When you pursue power, do you ever stop for a moment to look at yourself?" He raised his hand and gently touched the golden Blood Pact Mark beneath his left eye. "We both have light and darkness within us. Letting darkness consume everything will only lead to destruction, not eternity."

Tom fell silent. He looked at Ares, at those heterochromatic eyes that seemed to reflect his soul in the dim light, at the brooch he had gifted, symbolizing the coexistence of light and dark, and as if through him, saw something deeper. Ares's existence was like a mirror, constantly reflecting the abyss Tom himself was slipping into.

After a long while, Tom spoke again, his voice much lower, with a rare, almost weary hoarseness. "Then tell me, Ares, if I don't rely on these 'forbidden' powers, how can I ensure that we... always stand at the top? How can I ensure no one can separate us, or... push us back into that mire?" He emphasized the word "we" heavily.

This sentence revealed his deepest fears—the fear of losing power, the fear of returning to that powerless state of the past, and the fear of... losing Ares, his only "kindred spirit." This fear was the root of his desperate, even unscrupulous, pursuit of immense power.

Ares's heart was touched. He saw the cracks beneath Tom's hardened exterior. He threw off the covers, stepped barefoot onto the cold stone floor, and walked to Tom's bed. He didn't sit, just stood there, looking down at him.

"With this," Ares extended his hand, not to pick up the forbidden book, but to gently touch Tom's clenched fist. His fingertips carried a trace of the unique, alternating warm and cool magic of the "Eternal Cycle" wand, like a subtle electric current, instantly smoothing the bulging veins on the back of Tom's hand caused by his exertion. "With the connection between us, Tom. It's stronger than any dark magic contract."

Tom's body jolted. He looked down at Ares's fingers covering the back of his hand. The owner of those heterochromatic eyes exuded not only magic but also a firm and warm will. He had never allowed anyone to get so close, to... comfort him. But Ares was different.

He clasped Ares's wrist in return, with considerable force, almost hurting him. But Ares didn't pull away, just looked at him quietly.

"Prove it to me," Tom looked up, his dark eyes churning with complex, inexplicable emotions: longing, doubt, and a hint of dependence he hadn't even realized himself. "Prove that your way is powerful enough."

Ares looked at him, then suddenly leaned down. With his free hand, he gently brushed aside a few strands of dark hair falling over Tom's forehead, his movement so natural it seemed rehearsed countless times. His fingertips brushed against Tom's skin, sending a faint shiver through him.

"I will," Ares's voice was soft, yet like a vow, echoing in the silent dormitory. "But you need to give me time, and you need to... trust me, not just the darkness in those books."

The distance between them was negligible, their breaths audible. The dormitory was filled only with the faint light of the magic lamp and the blurred shadows of creatures swimming outside the window at the bottom of the lake. Tom tightly gripped Ares's wrist, clearly feeling the steady, strong beat of his pulse, a contrast to his own somewhat erratic heartbeat.

He looked at Ares's face up close, at the heterochromatic eyes reflecting the lamplight, at the winding golden patterns, and a strange, unprecedented sense of peace surprisingly overshadowed his anxious craving for power.

He slowly loosened his grip.

Ares straightened up, the lingering pressure and warmth of Tom's hand still on his wrist. "Sleep, Tom," he said softly. "You have Charms class tomorrow."

Tom didn't reply. He just watched Ares turn back to his own bed and draw the curtains. He remained sitting on the edge of his bed for a long time before finally raising his hand and gently touching his forehead where Ares's fingertips had brushed, where a strange, intertwined warmth of light and dark seemed to linger.

He glanced at the open forbidden book, and finally, reached out, closed it, and tucked it under his pillow.

The dormitory fell completely silent. Behind the curtains, the hearts of the two youths were far from calm. The seedling of trust struggled to grow in the dark soil, and the vines of emotion, in this unseen midnight, quietly entwined themselves around the branches of fate. For Tom Riddle, Ares Phoenix was perhaps more dangerous, and more... indispensable, than any magical power he pursued.