You went much longer than he thought you would without speaking to him, without even interacting with him. He was elated, that he had final been able to show you that he was not one to be trifled with, that he would be everything he had said and more. That small part of him however, the part the saw you as not just pretty and powerful to collect, but as something vivid and detailed, colored, something that stood out, that part of him missed you.
It did not take any special gifts to see that you and him were the same. Plenty of people saw it, those who were able to look past the façade, past the curtain that everyone had up around themselves. He was an orphan, no matter how high his marks were, how many people followed him, he would always boil down to be nothing more than a boy who did not have a single coin to his name. He was aware of this, and those who cared to see it, Slytherins, were aware of it as well, which was why he would still never really be accepted by them all. Why the Blacks feigned loyalty just to try and make a mockery of him.
You on the other hand came from a respected family, but even so did not fit into the pureblood lifestyle that he so longed to be a member of. Of course now he knew why you never had clicked with that life, you were a swan trying to fit in with geese. He was (and begrudgingly so seeing Dumbledore's odd affection towards them) a phoenix, rising from the ashes of his past life with the power some never achieve. A swan and a phoenix, while an unlikely pairing a useful one.
Swans are as agile as they are beautiful, but behind the beauty and grace they are destructive. He could really care less about Phoenixes besides the good metaphor and the main thing they were known for, the newest thing to catch his eye. Immortality.
This newest goal of his is what kept him occupied for the rest of the school year, since he didn't have you to win over. He already had one foot in the door when it came to you, there was no way you could stay away forever (although he would never say it to your face, for you would do it out of pettiness and spite). So he kept his focus on immortality. Not like there was actually anything to focus on. The Hogwarts library was void of any books on the topic, which infuriated him. What was the point of a school that did not encourage every aspect of learning, even the darker parts.
It was not from lack of effort that he had no results thus far. He spent all his free time in the library, forgoing quidditch practices and meetings with his knights. Usually he would look down upon such lack of responsibility, but in the long run this mattered the most. The closest thing he found was a book on Sir Nicholas Flemmel. An alchemist and a fool, in his opinion. A man of such magical prowess and experience to have lived hundreds of years and still rely on the same object? It was a crime.
As much as he frowned upon the ancient man's methods, he had considered stealing the stone for quite a while. The only thing that turned him away from that prospect was, of all people, Albus Dumbledore. It seemed as though the professor and alchemist were acquaintances.
Now he sat in a compartment of the Hogwarts Express with the rest of his Knights, using small spells under the cove of shadows, trying to hold on to his magic for as long as possible. That was until you opened the compartment door.
You surveyed the room, and within an instant his eyes were locked with yours. "Out." The command was off his tongue at the same time it left yours, with matching commanding tones. It did not matter that glances were not spared to his traveling companions, they scurried out of the compartment. A small flare of agitation sparked within him, now that he was unsure whose orders the boys had been following.
You sat across from him, in the seat Avery had once occupied. You were much more interesting to look at than Avery, blood splattered across your throat would paint such a prettier picture, a thought he quickly pushed from his mind. "You've decided to speak with me. I knew you would."
"I'm going east this summer. I thought you should know."
"You thought someone should know. Because you won't tell anyone else. Why not Zara? Why tell me Ivetta, who in the past month you've done nothing but ignore." Your face was cold, hair cascading around in perfect disarray.
"I told you because you already know why. Zara would have me explain. Someone needs to know. I chose you. But I'm still not speaking with you."
He leaned across the aisle and reached out a hand. You flinched, and to anyone else it might not have been noticeable, but he had wanted to see it. A small smirk appeared on his face as he brushed the tiniest piece of hair behind your ear. He saw the fury build onto your face, the elegance broken, and the look you gave him would have had an ordinary man cowering. He leaned back and crossed his arms. "I could make you speak to me."
"You will not touch me Tom Riddle. You will not curse me. We may not be equals but you need me. I will not let you treat me how you treat those fools," You gestured outside the compartment, "Or else you will never have my loyalty. You may have my fear but fear is no match for respect. And respect is not something you can force. And you do not have my respect Tom Riddle."
His expression did not change but his mind was whirring. Respect? He had no need for you to respect him. He would rather be feared than respected. He feared though that without your respect he would never truly have your loyalty. That, he wanted, that and much more.
So when you went to leave he did not stop you like every fiber of him ached to do. He did not curse you to turn around and sit in the seat for the rest of the train ride, so he would never have to go back to looking at Avery. He did not obliviate you so you forgot you wanted to go with Grindelwald this summer. So even though it tested his entire being, he let you leave, knowing that this was a step for you to come back.
***
His return to the orphanage was grim. The streets of London were bleak, and somehow the world seemed even greyer than what it already was. Yet even the polluted air of a war torn muggle London was better than what waited for him inside the gates of Wool's Orphanage.
There was no greeting for him as he entered the door. The only comfort he had when he walked up to his closet of a room was that he had killed the man whose fault it was he lived hear. He took a sick sort of pride in the fact that he was now truly an orphan, and he had done it himself.
His room was neat, how he had left it. He had very few belongings, by choice. Everything he owned could, fit in his school trunk. The room was completely bare besides the bed, wardrobe, and small collection of muggle books he would never bring inside of Hogwarts. The one plus about being back at this Salazar forsaken place was he was able to wear the Gaunt ring that had been stored in his trunk. The metal was cool against his finger, and with it an odd sense of surety and power flooded through him.
He sat on the too small bed with the book he had stolen from the library, and he read as he waited.
***
Two weeks before he was to return to Hogwarts, the letter arrived. He knew the owl belonged to Avery, sleek and grey, with a letter clasped in its talons written on the finest of parchment.
The letter was not addressed, but the message made it oh so clear that it was meant for him. His Knights, who had the inner workings of pureblood society at their fingertips, had been given instructions for summer break. To inform him of any gossip concerning you. Here in his hands he had what he needed.
She appeared for the first time all summer at a charity ball. This is out of character of both her and her uncle, for she will be sixteen and is still not betrothed, she should've been at every event of the summer. Old Alexandrov was fuming, wouldn't let her out of his sight all evening. She has a scar on her arm too, I only know because Zara saw it. I think it may be new. But the weirdest thing is I overheard my father talking with the Minister. He had been to visit Constantine, and she hadn't been there, just a week prior. I'm sure you know, but he's never let her out alone. You said to report anything strange. I hope this qualifies.
It certainly did. Although it wasn't strange to him, he could come very quickly to a conclusion. Somehow you had left Grindelwald, either under instruction or fleeing. With no other option you returned to your uncle. Who had sworn that spring he would make your life miserable, before you had ran off with a Dark Lord. Your uncle who despised everything about you.
He started moving in an instant, grabbing the parcel that Avery had included with the letter. It was just approaching twilight as he left through the gates of the orphanage. It took him twenty minutes to reach the small building which had been his first true experience of the wizarding world.
The fireplace in the back of the Leaky Cauldron was open to all who wished to use it, and with the floo powder he had received from Avery, he would be able to. He remembered the small magical inn that was around a three kilometer hike from you uncle's home. It was doable, especially now that he was in the best shape he ever had been. He murmured the name of the inn into the fireplace, not wanting anyone to overhear him.
By the time he made it to the clearing that displayed the sprawling manor home, it was approaching midnight. The stars twinkled the way the only seemed to do during the summer, nd the moon cast a faint glow on everything. There was no light coming from the home itself, and so he let his path be illuminated by the skies alone.
He remembered the time spent in the third floor bedroom that winter, remembered how the windows were enchanted shut. This glorious home was no less of a prison than the orphanage with their awful gates. Getting to the third floor would be his problem. Enchanted windows, however, were no match for him, or for the acid potion he had stored in his pocket.
He had no desire to climb up the side of the house like a barbarian, but alas it was the only option that seemed to be available to him. He cursed his lack of judgement, Avery should have sent him a broom as well.
So Tom Riddle found himself doing something he never thought he would do, or was capable of doing. He scaled a wall. It wasn't as impressive as that, he reasoned. The chinks between stones were large enough for fingers and toes, and there was a steady growth of vine that proved to be a strong rope. But he managed to haul himself up three stories. All for you. He almost burnt a hole through his hand with the acid. All for you.
He landed gracefully on the hardwood floor of your bedroom. It was pitch black, save for one candle slowly burning down by the side of your bed. The soft yellow glow of the flickering flame just barely showed the deep red of your hair. Oh how he had missed seeing that dark red of your hair that reminded him of other dark red things.
"Ivetta." His voice was a hiss, yet he saw you stir. It did not surprise him that the faintest of noises woke you, the same went for him. People who lived in prisons tended to keep a much closer eye-or ear-on their surroundings. It took you all of a minute to come to a state of consciousness, but he could see the dreams clinging to you like rain on pavement.
"Who's there?" Your voice was groggy, yet alert, and he reveled in the hint of fear that accompanied it.
"It's Tom, Ivetta."
"Riddle? What the hell are you doing in my room?" It was only then that he realized, that while you were completely awake, you weren't moving. Cautiously he approached.
"I thought you were going to be east all summer."
"I trained and then I was sent back here. Where I am useful." It was the move he would have made, what with the higher powers that Constantine Alexandrov associated with. "Why are you here, Tom?"
"Your reappearance caused quite the stir at that ball. I was dully notified, told I should be concerned for your wellbeing. He took an even smaller step forward.
"There's nothing to be worried about. I'm fine." But he had gotten close enough to see what you had been shielding from him. Even with just the faint glow of the firelight, the gleam of metal was unmistakable. At first he thought only your arms were chained down, but he saw more and more, metal snakes wrapped around your legs, your torso.
Out of some humanly instinct, something he hadn't known he still possessed, he rushed to undo them, clearly they were biting into your skin. "No, Tom. They're done by blood magic."
"And you're blood won't work because you aren't human." It was cruel, any other spell would have been just as effective, but this one was just another way for Constantine to flaunt his distaste. Something in him cracked. "I will get his blood then."
"No. He is mine to kill."
"I didn't say anything about killing him." It had been his plan, but plans could be modified.
"Just leave. There's no use for you here." Ah. You were still angry with him. Despite his anger, he smiled.
"Ivetta why would I hurt you when so many people already do?" You didn't seem very comforted by this. He was rather infuriated. You weren't some angel child yourself! You worked with dark lords, he suspected you had a hand in the death of your parents, and clearly you planned on killing again. Yet you acted as if he was some monster just for testing a theory! He liked you fearing him, but he missed your defiance.
"I don't think you're a monster. You will be one, you probably are one now. So am I, in every since of the word. But I don't think it. Not really. I have seen to many monsters, you have seen them too. There is no shame in it, but we're different. We're going to do the right thing, miraculous things, even if people don't see it that way."
How wonderfully naïve you were. So pliable, so easy to move, to manipulate without realizing he was the puppet master. He sat on the very edge of the bed, fingers reaching out to glaze over the nearest chain. "Yes," his voice was barely a audible, barely a breath, but they were close enough in this moment he knew you heard it, "Miraculous things."