Trigger Warning: this chapter contains a minor assault and graphic violence.

Maxamillian Nott was a young man of very little note. Apart from his sire's penning of the now widely respected and often disputed Directory, there was very little that could be considered to be remarkable about him. His awareness of this fact grated. In Tom Riddle, he saw his recompense. The last heir to the most distinguished and reputable house of Salazar Slytherin himself was not something to be scoffed at. No, Maxamillian Nott was not a young man that others would claim to be very anything, and in the damp, decaying disregard of his peers, he bloomed.

Being overlooked was an advantage that few knew how to exploit. Maximillian understood it for what it truly was. An opportunity. His position in Tom's inner circle attested to his skill. There was very little that went on in the castle without his knowing. It was for this reason alone that it came as very little surprise to him to discover that one Anastasia Zabini and Abraxas Malfoy had been sneaking around the castle when Tom was indisposed.

Several weeks had come and gone since his discovery of the witch's skulduggery and he'd yet to determine which avenue would yield the best results. Finally, as spring began to inflict itself upon the castle, Maximillian had decided upon his course of action.

He was waiting patiently for Zabini's return in the shadowy hallway that she often took to the common room after her meetings with Malfoy. The blond was sure to be on his broom once again. Plausible deniability would have continued to work to their advantage had Maximillian not seen them himself. He smirked when he revealed himself by stepping directly into her path, eliciting a small yelp from the girl. Yes, he'd certainly made the right choice by not going to Riddle.

"You know Zabini if I didn't know better, I'd think that you were sneaking back from some illicit affair."

His eyes were hawkish as he catalogued her response. How her eyes widened slightly, her hand twitched towards her wand and her posture stiffened, her bag swinging from her shoulder. The suspicion that coloured her expression was delicious. To her credit, she'd been careful. Annoyingly so, in fact. He'd only been able to actually catch the bare bones of their interactions a few times. However, years of observing his peers had sharpened his perception to a deadly point. He didn't need much to root out the truth. Scant though they may be he was certain the interactions between the two could only mean one thing.

"Well, Nott, as you've yourself just stated, you know better."

Ah, so the witch thought to call his bluff. Just as well, he'd get what he came for then report to Riddle. He took a step towards her, close enough to touch. So he did. He curled his long fingers into the mass of hair at the nape of her neck, tugging roughly to tilt her head backwards.

"If you're going to share what's Riddle's with all and sundry, it's only fitting that I get a taste. Don't you think, princess?"

He attacked her lips with fervour, devouring her surprise. She tasted of honey and cinnamon. Maxamillian groaned. Her unresponsive lips were full and tempting so he gave in biting them roughly. Her cry of pain was the only invitation that he needed, shoving his tongue into her mouth and crushing her body into the wall. The witch was intoxicating. He could forgive Malfoy's presumption in the face of her allure. When her palms rested against his chest with nary an ounce of force he smiled into the kiss, the wide spread of his lips smearing the red of her across both their faces. What a wanton little harlot. No matter, he'd help her relieve her blatant frustrations since it was clear neither of the men in her life could. He was more than capable of managing the task.

Pain was not a foreign concept to him. Well acquainted with the taste of his father's brand of brutality, with Riddle's variety of punishment. This, however, was unlike anything that he'd endured. His nerves felt flayed and raw, his skull throbbed in concert with his wildly racing heart and white blinded his field of vision. His entire existence was entombed in a cacophony of pain and there seemed to be nothing he could do to alleviate it. Shifting to his left he felt more than heard a sickening crunch. He was certain he'd cracked a few ribs. Worst of all was what lay just beyond the immediate pain. There was a dark and hungry energy that suffused the air, nipping angrily at his skin.

As his vision cleared he was surprised to see what had become of Anastasia. He'd never given much credence to rumours that had swirled around Slytherin that he could not verify. That Anastasia Zabini possessed some otherworldly power, some other magic was what he had dismissed as baseless. A parlour trick used to scare little wizards. The actuality of her inheritance was monstrous. Dark magic pulsed and writhed in the air around her, emanating from her hands which were still held aloft. The smell of charred flesh choked back his fear, clogging his nostrils, fighting its way down his throat. He didn't need to look to know that there would be twin marks burnt through his expensive robes and into the skin of his chest that matched the shape of her hands. His eyes were pulled to the blood that was smeared across her face, blood that he had drawn. Fear congested his senses. He'd miscalculated. Severely.

Her control over her magic wavered, the energy around her hands pulsating erratically before suddenly it abated. A bruise-purple whip materialising in her hands. Maximillian was tempted to scamper away from her as she approached, his injuries thwarted his retreat. Dropping to one knee, her whip of raw dark magic held aloft he came face to face with the nightmarish beauty of a monstrosity.

He flinched away as a clawed hand cupped his cheek, twin portals to a bottomless abyss staring back at him unblinking.

"It isn't polite to spy is it, Maxamillian?"

He'd hesitated for too long, the sharp edges of her claws pricked his already raw skin, a broken sob wrenched from his mangled throat.

It became abundantly clear, as he stared into the fathomless depths of her inky eyes that he had no choice but to agree.

There was something undeniably seductive about dark magic. Something that called to the emptiness in his soul, that pacified the crawling unease that marched along his skin. There was something about dark magic that stained a physical space, seeped into the cracks and crevices between the stones, mixed with the very essence of a location and settled into the bones. There was something about his witch crouched over a barely conscious Maximillian Nott, her magic perfuming the air with the potency of her displeasure that stirred his cock to life and his feet to still, his heart beating a wild metre in his chest.

Maxamillian Nott was a foot soldier that did his best work in the shadows. To find him on the cusp of death at the hands of his witch was baffling. She'd left him to the hands of fate. He'd be lucky if another student or the groundskeeper happened upon him before he succumbed to his injuries. That she would leave anyone to such a fate, far less one of his knights roused his suspicion.

He approached only after he was sure that Anastasia was no longer in the vicinity. It would not do to have her aware of his flimsy knowledge. Nott's head was propped up against the wall that he'd been flung against, the vermillion smears from his journey to the floor slicked the stone walls. He didn't have time to waste with pleasantries, instead, he battered his way into Nott's mind with little care for the consequences. The fear that manifested itself there overwhelmed him immediately. What he had managed to extract from Nott before he'd needed to evacuate were flashes of images and thick, oppressive terror.

Stumbling to his feet he pointed a shaky hand at the now unconscious man, levitating him to the infirmary.

Madame Dupont had looked at Tom with thinly veiled suspicion when he'd arrived with Nott. He was certain that the matron remembered him carting in one Lucretia Black some months earlier. The old crone had never been one to fall for the charms and easy smiles that he offered. She'd always viewed him as she had every other student. An annoyance. Her suspicious gaze seemed to dissolve as his hands shook. He quickly stuffed them in his pockets.

As she worked on Nott, Tom fought to quell the tremors in his hands. It had been quite some time since Tom had been confronted with the fear of his own mortality. Nott's fear had been a real tangible thing, causing Tom's mouth to salivate as bile roiled hot in his stomach, fighting its way up his throat. And Anastasia, she'd been —

She's brilliant and beautiful and lethal.

Apparently Mulciber was not prone to exaggeration.

News of Nott's condition reached the student body quickly. Nott had apparently startled some students on their way for an early breakfast. Madame Dupont had needed the help of several professors to subdue Nott and cast sufficient silencing charms on the ward. According to the rumour mill, he'd screamed himself raw.

Tom's focus settled on the witch beside him. She gave nothing away, showing the appropriate amount of concern for one's fellow student. It didn't sit well with him that his little cascabel proved to be so talented at deceit. For a moment their eyes locked, and Tom was transported to the cesspool of fetid fear that had corroded Nott's thoughts. Suppressing a shiver Tom dropped a perfunctory kiss to her brow. It would not do to have her aware of what he knew and how deeply it had shaken him.

Mulciber was easy to isolate after he and his knights had finished their visit with Nott. Tom did his best to put aside the rising tide of unease that threatened to swallow him. He'd been plagued by Nott's predicament at every turn. Tom didn't do well with not knowing. He was embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that he had overlooked a potential landmine.

He levelled Mulciber with an even stare, from the other man's cool demeanour he'd guess that Mulciber was well aware of precisely who had put Nott in the infirmary. Or, at the very least he had a good idea.

"What do you know about Anastasia Zabini?"

Tom used his free period before lunch and after a double block of potions to compile several tomes relating to the history of the Italian wizarding community. From his brief perusal of the subject, the name Zabini had already cropped up several times. When finally he'd compiled all that he thought pertinent to the subject he retired to his common room. The headgirl, he knew, would be gone at least until dinner, giving him the opportunity to use the space unencumbered.

He had no real reason to distrust Mulciber's gruff words, but he needed to verify. To see for himself the gem that he'd managed to unearth. The diamond he could yet fashion.

Dust particles attacked his nose as soon as he prised open the third in a pile of quickly depleting research. The Zabinis were an old and noble pureblood family from everything he had gleaned. The ancient house could be accurately traced back hundreds of centuries, all the way back to the magiks of old. He supposed that such an illustrious history could account for her mastery of magic. Afterall, he'd known that his potential, his raw magic far surpassed that of his peers long before he'd confirmed his heritage.

If Mulciber was to be completely believed there had been murmurings that followed the Zabini's from Italy about the family's alignment with forces beyond the wizarding world. It was rumoured that they had made a deal with a demon for their powers.

Tom had scoffed at this supposition. He knew muggle interference when he heard it. He'd long been subject to the insidious nature of muggles. How they could twist and defile and corrupt wizarding history with their ignorance and malice. Tom knew that demons did not exist. There were no little spirits of ill will whispering naughty things in anyone's ears. Some people were just weak to their baser nature. Even Tom fell sometimes to the call of the urges buried deep in his psyche, but unlike muggles, he'd not foist the blame of such weakness upon some unknown.

Mulciber had to have been mistaken. Closing the last of the dusty books Tom was certain that Anastasia was simply an ordinary witch. One whose magic was old and powerful, not unlike his own. He smiled to himself, a jigsaw of sharp edges and unbridled mania. He'd expect nothing less of a witch who could so easily capture his attention.

Despite his injuries, Nott recovers quickly. In less than a week, he is discharged from Madame Dupont's care and thrust once more into the dungeons. Tom observes Nott over the top of Anastasia's head as he buries his nose in the coils of her hair, how the slip of a man fidgets when the full weight of Tom's gaze pins him to his seat across the way. An image of her bloodied lip and smoking hands flits across his mind. He remembers now, as he watches the colour drain from Nott's face, the twin holes that had been seared into Nott's flesh.

"Tell me, Nott," Tom says as he disentangles himself from his witch, eyes always trained on his prey "what would give you the impression that you had any right to touch her."

Tom is vaguely aware of a warm hand wrapping around his wrist and gently tugging him backwards as he stands from his chair. His body taut with anger at his realization. How could he have been so imperceptive? So ensconced was he in unravelling the mystery that is Anastasia that he'd completely bypassed her motive.

One of his knights had forced themselves upon her. No matter how brief.

"Tom, please," she says quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

He'd been immediately reminded of her duplicity the morning after Nott's incident. How easy it had seemed for her to lie to him. Seeing her now, her large brown eyes pleading he is certain that it had been another of her attempts to sway him. A misguided effort to salvage his already blackened soul. He disregards Nott for the moment, crouching to eye level as he brings her trembling hand to his lips.

"Your attempts to protect him are admirable, my little cascabel," he says, his lips brushing against her knuckles as he speaks, "but I'm afraid Maxamillian must still be punished by his Lord."

"Crucio."

A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading. As always your feedback is greatly appreciated.