Accomplice's Brand

The touch and conversation in the darkness that night were like a stone dropped into a calm lake, sending ripples of unrest through Tom Riddle's closed-off heart. After that evening, the atmosphere in the dormitory became somewhat different. Tom still delved into the ancient texts he'd acquired from the restricted section, but Ares could sense that the sharp, cold magic power around him had become somewhat restrained, no longer as aggressive as before. He would occasionally put down his books late at night, his gaze drifting towards the curtains of the opposite bed, lost in thought.

Ares was not a doll devoid of emotion. Dumbledore's compassion and Grindelwald's obsession flowed within him, granting him an innate, extraordinary insight and resonance with feelings. He could clearly perceive Tom's inner struggle—the fierce clash between his desire for absolute power and his reliance on their unique bond. He knew he had to carefully maintain this fragile balance.

An opportunity soon arose. It was a weekend afternoon, and as planned, they were preparing to head to the Room of Requirement for magical practice again. However, as they passed through a secluded corridor on the seventh floor, they ran headfirst into the caretaker, Argus Filch, and his scrawny, malevolent-eyed cat, Mrs. Norris.

Filch scrutinized them suspiciously with his clouded eyes, especially when he saw the restricted book Tom was holding, disguised with an ordinary cover (though disguised, its ancient, dangerous aura seemed difficult to completely conceal).

"You two! What are you doing sneaking around here?" Filch's voice rasped like rusty hinges. "What's that in your hand? Let me see!"

Tom's body tensed instantly, but his face quickly adopted that flawless, perfectly anxious expression of a model student. "Mr. Filch, we were on our way to the library. This book is recommended extracurricular reading from Professor Slughorn." As he spoke, he seemingly obediently handed the book over, but Ares noticed his other hand, hanging down, had already quietly gripped the wand hidden in his robes.

The atmosphere suddenly became tense. If Filch insisted on checking and saw through the disguise, the consequences would be unimaginable.

At this critical juncture, Ares stepped forward, placing himself between Tom and Filch. He didn't look at Filch, instead fixing his gaze on a still life painting of a fruit basket on the corridor wall. A faint silver light flickered in his heterochromatic eyes (he had activated the seductive magical trait inherited from the Grindelwald line, combined with the "misdirection" rune from Ancient Runes).

"Sir," Ares's voice carried a strange, mind-numbing tranquility, "did you hear that strange noise from the suit of armor corridor over there? We thought we saw Peeves go in." He casually pointed in a direction.

Filch's attention was indeed drawn away slightly. He glanced suspiciously in the direction Ares indicated, then looked at Ares's heterochromatic eyes that seemed to draw in the soul, his expression momentarily blank. Mrs. Norris also flicked her tail agitatedly, baring her teeth and growling towards that direction.

Taking advantage of this brief respite, Ares lightly touched Tom's arm. Tom immediately understood, quickly but subtly tucking the restricted book into the deepest part of his dragonhide satchel, which had been enchanted with the Extension Charm.

When Filch snapped back to attention and turned his suspicious gaze back to Tom, Tom's hands were empty, his face a mask of innocence and slight, wronged indignation.

"Hmph! You'd better not let me catch you breaking school rules!" Filch, finding no evidence, could only glare at them fiercely before stomping off with Mrs. Norris in the direction of the suit of armor corridor.

The crisis was averted.

The two walked away quickly in silence until they had rounded several corners, ensuring they were completely out of Filch's sight, and stopped under the shadow of a deserted statue.

Tom leaned against the cold stone wall, breathing a little heavily, not from fear, but from the intense concentration and the near-exposure of the past moment. He looked up at Ares, who stood before him, his dark eyes shining with an unprecedented light—not mere gratitude, but more like a… burning confirmation.

"What did you just use?" Tom's voice was low, laced with inquiry and a barely suppressed excitement. "It wasn't a normal Confundus Charm; I could feel it."

Ares didn't answer directly, merely looking at him calmly. "We're in this together, Tom. You take the risk, I cover. That's the agreement."

This statement held more power than any explanation. It declared them not just allies, but "accomplices" who shared secrets and served as each other's shield. Tom gazed at Ares, at the brooch of intertwined light and dark at his collar, at the powerful, unique yet kindred force hidden beneath his calm exterior, and a strange sense of satisfaction and possessiveness surged within him.

He suddenly reached out, not with the probing force of last time, but with his fingertips, lightly touching the golden Blood Pact Mark beneath Ares's left eye. The movement was swift, a touch and a release, like a feather brushing past.

Ares stiffened slightly. He could feel the warmth of Tom's fingertips, distinct from magic, and the unspoken acknowledgment and… intimacy behind the gesture.

"I know," Tom withdrew his hand, his tone returning to its usual calm, but deep within his dark eyes, something seemed to have ignited, locking onto Ares. "We are accomplices."

From that day on, their tacit understanding reached a new level. In class, when they needed to display extraordinary magical talent, Tom would take the stage to capture all the awe and attention, while Ares, at the opportune moment, would use his unique, essence-touching questions or precise supporting magic to solidify their image as the "genius duo." In Professor Slughorn's club, Tom navigated between pure-blood families and influential figures, while Ares acted as a quiet observer, always providing a crucial piece of information or a perspective to break the deadlock when needed.

They even formed an invisible field in the common room. When other Slytherin students tried to get too close or pry into Ares's affairs, a single cold glance from Tom was enough to make them back down. And when someone showed contempt for Tom's Muggle-born status, Ares merely had to look at them calmly with his heterochromatic eyes, and they would feel an inexplicable pressure, as if their shallowness had been thoroughly seen through.

They were each other's sharpest spear and most solid shield. This deep, exclusive connection, in the Slytherin environment that valued power and bloodline, was both feared and envied.

One evening, in the dormitory, Tom was practicing a Silencing Charm, attempting to make a Galleon flip a specific number of times in the air. He failed several times, a familiar frustration beginning to cloud his brow.

Ares put down the Ancient Runes scroll he was reading and walked over to him. Without a word, he reached out and grasped Tom's wrist, the one holding the wand.

Tom's body stiffened but he didn't pull away.

Ares guided his wrist, feeling the flow of his magic, and then used his own gentle yet firm magic, like a stream guiding a slightly turbulent river, to help him complete the complex gesture.

"Will isn't just about forceful pushing," Ares whispered in his ear, his warm breath brushing against his earlobe. "It's about precise guidance. Like this…"

The wand traced a perfect arc, and the Galleon spun lightly in the air seven times before landing steadily.

Tom looked at the Galleon that had stopped spinning, then down at Ares's hand, which had yet to release his. He could feel the warmth of Ares's palm and the magic, so different from his own yet perfectly intertwined.

He turned his hand, grasping Ares's, this time not with a tentative touch or a warning, but holding on tightly, with a sense of confirmation.

"I understand," Tom said, his voice slightly hoarse. He looked up, meeting Ares's gaze. In the darkness, their eyes met, as if silent electricity crackled in the air.

The mark of accomplices had long since gone beyond secrets and danger. It was quietly seeping into their blood, entwining their souls, taking root and blossoming in the deep, dark dormitory beneath the lake. At eleven years old, they couldn't yet grasp the full scope of these complex emotions, but the pounding hearts and clasped hands had already written an indelible footnote to this fate of shared light and shadow.