Tom ended up the one forced out, as the only one who wasn't likely to storm across the Great Hall and pummel Weasel into the ground. Even so, his face had whitened and his fingers clenched so tightly around his wand, he thought he might break it.

It had been one thing to suspect that Weasley was involved in the assault. It was quite another to hear him admit it like this, blurting it out in the middle of lunch. The boy had frozen in shock, which was probably a good thing for him, as his brothers had surrounded him, the twins looking quite grim-faced. At least he wouldn't be ducking out of there any time soon.

Blaise's hand clamped down on Tom's shoulder, fingers digging painfully into the bony contours, but Tom didn't mind. The pain centered him, and prevented Leigh from coming out as he wished, full-bore, destructive magic flooding his pores. They were so angry. How could he? Why? If Snape hadn't found Harry in time, they could have died. If he had lain there all night, on the freezing dungeon floor, the chances of them sitting at that Slytherin table now were virtually nonexistent.

"Ronald Weasley, come with me," the Headmaster finally said. His voice was colder than Tom had heard it in a very long time. "Severus, Minerva, please accompany me. And..." Dumbledore's eyes roamed the Great Hall. "Harry Potter. Please come with me, as well."

Tom gave a singular, tight nod. Blaise's hand fell away and Tom gave him a quick look in thanks. The boy's features were oddly pinched, as if he too was moments away from a spectaculer show of rage. Even Malfoy looked angry. The older Slytherins had their masks firmly in place for the most part, although there were a few fifth years at the end of the table who looked...uneasy? Afraid? Had they been involved, too?

Probably, Jay said. He was pacing inside, his hands clenched in fists so tightly, thin trails of blood streaked down his arms. He seemed entirely unaware of the superficial injuries, though. It's not like it was just fucking Weasel in that hallway.

Tom nodded slightly absently as he followed the somber group out into the corridor, in the direction of the Headmaster's office. He was aware of a very peculiar buzzing sound in his ears and wondered if this meant he was going to lose his vaunted sense of self-control. As satisfying as that would be, it would ultimately be a mistake, he knew. Particularly around Dumbledore. His own flavor of magic had warped and bent around Harry's, creating an interesting blend, but should Albus recognize it...

Well, that certainly wouldn't end up stifling the rumours that Harry was the next Dark Lord, now would it.

"After you, my boy," Dumbledore said with that jovial tone Tom had always hated. He realized with a slight start he'd made it past the gargoyle and up the steps without even noticing. Not a good sign. Normally he was fully cognizant of his surroundings.

Ronald Weasley was perched on a narrow, spindly chair on the opposite side of the room, McGonagall's hand clamped on his shoulder like a claw, keeping him prisoner. His face was the colour of curdled milk, an unpleasant shade that went equally unpleasantly with the still vile shade of his hair.

Bastard, Jay spat inwardly. His anger felt almost tangible, and Tom had to fight to keep control for a moment. Leigh paced under the surface, just as furious. It was not a pleasant sensation, the prickly feeling of rage that ran just beneath Tom's skin. Even Harry could feel it, and it was clearly making him uneasy.

"Mr. Weasley," Professor Snape purred as he settled Tom into a more comfortable visitor's chair. It surprised the Slytherin. Apparently, no matter what his conflicting feelings toward Harry Potter might suggest, when it came to other Houses bothering his Slytherins, the man was positively dangerous.

"What precisely did you mean by your little confession in the Great Hall?"

Weasel looked around, panic widening his eyes. Dumbledore had seated himself behind his desk (cluttered with all manner of eccentric oddities as usual), but his expression was as grave as everyone else's. And McGonagall looked ready to drag the first year off by his ear for the worst thrashing of his life.

"N-nothing?" he tried to squeak out. Tom had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. Weasley was one of the worst liars he'd ever seen.

"Oh really?" Snape said, his voice still dangerously soft. "You didn't say that you almost threw up on Potter's shoes when you hit him? Thus suggesting that you are one of Potter's mysterious assailants from a week or so ago? From the assault that left Potter so injured that had I not stumbled across him a few hours later, he would have died by morning? Any of that ringing a bell?"

Tom hadn't known until that moment that Weasley's face could pale even further, but somehow he managed. Sinking down a bit in his chair, Weasley managed the courage to whisper, "Died? He could have died?"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley," Albus responded somberly, steepling his fingers and regarding the tableau in front of him with blue eyes still bereft of their usual twinkle. "If Professor Snape had not found him when he left his office, Harry could very well have died. His injuries were quite severe."

Oh, good of you to notice, Headmaster, Jay sniped inside their head. Pity you didn't notice everything else, eh? Fucking blind as the rest of them.

Jay, be quiet, Blue insisted. This is important.

Tom turned his attention back to the outside world. Ronald had taken to actually quivering in his seat like a frightened hare.

"I didn't...I didn't stay that long," Weasley admitted, his voice thick and ashamed. "I hit him-hit Potter, and he just...the sound he made...I just felt sick and I ran back to the dorms."

"Where you did not contact me?" Professor McGonagall questioned sharply. "You left a fellow classmate to be beaten by a gang and did not even think to summon any sort of help?"

"I didn't want to get in trouble," Weasel whispered. Tom's lip wrinkled in disgust. Gryffindor, home of the Brave indeed. He could have anonymously tipped off a teacher, or even Madam Pomfrey, if he was afraid of the consequences for his own involvement. It was pathetic.

"Who else was involved?" Snape demanded. His eyes narrowed in cold, implacable fury as he stood over Weasel like an overgrown bat. None of them envied Weasley in that moment. Snape was nasty when he was angry. He wasn't often that angry at his Slytherins, but they'd all seen him use the sharp side of his tongue on the other Houses.

Weasley rattled out a list of five names. Tom didn't recognize any of them. Dumbledore sighed, looking older than they'd seen him before.

"Severus, we will need to bring in Filius and Pomona for this discussion as well," he said, "seeing as how all the Houses are involved."

Great, Tom thought dryly. Finally, inter-House cooperation, and it's used to beat us into unconsciousness. How did we end up so lucky?

"Harry?" it took a moment for Tom to realize Dumbledore was talking to him and he quickly looked up to find that disconcerting blue gaze fixed firmly on his face.

"Yes, sir?" he asked.

"Go back to your dorm, would you?" the Headmaster requested. "I think...I think classes have been canceled for the rest of the day."