Chapter Text
Riddle would like to think that he is a better housewarden than he was at the beginning of the year. Of course, he is still far from perfect. His temper is large and his perfectionism larger.
He no longer wants to expect perfection without offering any help. He doesn’t want to be known as a heartless tyrant anymore.
Trey was the one who suggested it. The two of them offer one-on-one or group study sessions for students that are strugglings, where the two can tutor them, separately in order to reach the most students. Of course, he still needs time for all of his other duties, so he has a signup sheet in the dorm lounge.
Typically it is only the week before a large test that anyone bothers to actually use the hours. Well, Riddle’s hours, at least. Trey’s always seem to be full.
Which is fine with Riddle. He can’t force them to come. And it gives him more free time to work on his own homework and Dorm Head duties. He doesn’t wish that the students would trust him as much as they do Trey. He doesn’t care at all.
However, there is one student who has taken the initiative to meet with him once monthly, Deuce Spade. Without fail, he comes in with a barely passing score, and leaves with a greater understanding of the subject matter.
His grades have been improving. Albeit slowly. He can tell that Deuce is much more naturally inclined to athletics. Even without the plethora of broken track club records, the way Deuce holds himself tells of someone who prefers movement to studying.
The knock at the door startles Riddle from his thoughts. Meeting time already? He projects his voice just enough for it to be heard outside the door, but not disturb the other study session happening in the other room. “Come in.”
The first thing that Riddle noticed when Deuce came into their monthly meeting was his downturned expression. A stapled collection of paper clenched so tight that Riddle could see the wrinkles and creases from the other side of the room.
“Welcome, Deuce. Please have a seat.” Riddle is good at following routine. Even though they both know that Deuce can just sit down. Both of them need that level of structure that lets them know where this is going.
With his head still down, Deuce sits. Well, more accurately he plops down into the seat. Chair creaking with the weight. With Deuce looking so sad, Riddle doesn’t have the heart to truly scold him for it.
It’s silent for a moment. Riddle wants to ask what’s wrong. But Riddle is a coward. Instead he sticks to the routine. “Is there a particular class you would like help with? Or perhaps an assignment.”
“I—” Deuce cuts himself off with an inhale. “Trein-sensei gave us back our history essays.”
“Yes, I do recall you were rather stressed about that. May I see?” It was due exactly a week ago, Deuce worked rather hard on it. Spent multiple days doing the research and putting together his essay. Riddle was quite proud, though he didn’t have time to give it a look over. His Dorm Head duties got in the way.
A sniffle leaves Deuce. Riddle freezes, unsure what to do with crying first years. Thankfully, he does not break into sobs, and instead places his essay on the table, smoothing it out until the paper was visible, as was the large D- scribbled across the top of the page, smudged no doubt with tear stains.
Riddle purses his lips, unsure of what to say. Normally he would scold, give his speech about hard work and effort, but Deuce most definitely put in the effort. Looking at the essay, it’s not like the grade wasn’t deserved…
He rakes a hand through his hair, trying to think of anything that could help lift his kouhai’s morale, as well as help him improve.
“Riddle-senpai…am I hopeless?” Deuce’s voice was heavy with unshed tears. Riddle barely holds back a flinch, eyes locking with Deuce’s. Thick tears are pooling down his cheeks and falling onto his pants below him. “I keep trying so hard to be an honor student. But I’m just so—so STUPID!”
Deuce lifts his hands, fists coming down to hit at his thighs. Riddle all but vaults himself over the desk. Catching Deuce’s balled hands with his own. He’s strong, that’s for sure.
A whimper leaves Duce’s throat. “I just wanna make my mom proud, Riddle-senpai. I wanna make you proud. I’m tired of being a failure.”
“Watch your tongue!” Riddle snaps out, gritting his teeth. Deuce flinches back. His red-rimmed eyes widen and his mouth opens before snapping shut with too much force. Riddle clears his throat, guilt settling deep in his chest. “I mean—uh. You should not speak about one of my card soldiers like that.”
Deuce’s brow furrows, bottom lip jutting out in a soft pout.
Riddle settles himself back, pulling a handkerchief out of his desk and offering it to Deuce…who took Riddle’s moment of distraction to rub at his eyes with his sleeve. “You’re going to irritate your eyes like that. Use this.”
“Thank you,” Deuce mumbles, gingerly taking it.
“Now,” Riddle breathes out, moving the essay to the side. “I believe it would be best to speak about what brought this on.”
Deuce flushes. The red now overtaking his face more of a blush than the splotchy red that comes with crying. He sputters awkwardly, hands rapidly waving in front of his face. He spits out denials and assurances that nothing is wrong.
Riddle silences him by holding up a hand, though his eyes are trained on Deuce’s essay. How would Trey do this? Riddle knows nothing about comfort. He barely knows anything about people—but he knows Trey. And Trey would be the best person to do this in the first place. But…Deuce came to him. Not to Trey. Deuce trusts him. At least, Riddle hopes he does. “Since what happened with my…blotting incident, I’ve found it valuable to seek someone I could trust to listen to the problems I’ve had. For me, that was Trey. And, well…I could do the same for you. If you want me to, that is.”
Deuce moves quickly, both hands grabbing at Riddle’s extended one. He jolts, looking into Deuce’s eyes, which are once again overflowing with tears. “T-thank you Riddle-senpai. I think…I think I want to. But—what I tell you—you won’t tell anyone else, right?”
“It stays between us, Deuce.”
“So, like. There’s this guy I know, yeah? And well. He wasn’t…the best guy. He wasn’t studious. He skipped a lot of classes, got into trouble for breaking rules, bleached his hair…totally disappointed my—his mom. And I—HE. He’s trying to do better, you know? But the only thing is, nothing is working for him. Sometimes it just gets him down. You know how it is. And maybe he tries his best to write a stupid essay for his stupid history teacher and he works so hard on it, to maybe—just maybe —have something good to show mom. But it turns out, he spent so much time bleaching his hair and getting into fights that I can’t even write a simple essay that even Grim got a good grade on! GRIM! And Ace saw and so they both started makin’ fun of me and—”
“Ace did what ?” Riddle snarls out before he can stop himself. He would need to have words with the other first year, it seems. Seeing as his grades aren’t that great either.
Deuce wilts at the subject change. “I don’t care about Ace. I just don’t know how I—my friend can ever get over his past and make his mom proud.”
Deuce doesn’t even seem to realize he gave himself away as the ‘friend’ in the story.
“Your…friend's mother will love him even if his grades aren’t perfect. She must know that he’s trying,” Riddle insists, despite the fact that he can only think about his own mother. How if he were to get anything less than a perfect score, he would be met with scorn, with threats to pull him out of school, even. “From what the Prefect told me, she is quite proud of him already.”
“It’s not enough,” Deuce clenches his fists, but does not raise them again. “Anything is better than what I was. But I want to be the best.”
Riddle tries to keep his cool, despite the panic threatening to overtake him. God he regrets everything. He should have called Trey. However, it’s too late for that. “Then we will make a plan. Perhaps we can even increase these meetings to biweekly. We have a goal to reach towards.”
“But I won’t do it fast enough! I work best when I don’t think—but I can’t be an honor student if I don’t think! Even my unique magic knows I’m dumb!”
“Your strengths just don’t lie in academia.” Riddle cannot believe he’s saying this—and worse yet—actually means it. Perhaps when this is over he’ll get himself an extra slice of strawberry tart. He’s keeping surprisingly calm. “Just because you are not as scholarly gifted, does not mean you are stupid.”
“B-but, you learn so fast.”
“It comes easy to me, like track does for you. I could not run as fast as you do. And I especially could not break several records in my first year.” Riddle once again doesn't mention that his ability to learn was forced onto him since he was a child. He could not afford to fail. He cannot afford to fail. Instead, Riddle schools his expression to what he hopes is a soft smile.
Deuce looks up at him, eyes large and hopeful. He almost reminds him of a baby chick, following around his mother (Riddle is the mother in this case?) wherever she goes. “You mean that?”
“I do. Now, let’s go to the kitchen so I can make you some tea. Then we can take a look at your essay. We still have some time, and we can prepare better for the next one.” Riddle pats the top of Deuce’s head before slowly rising from his seat.
Once he is past the threshold of his desk, Deuce jolts up from his own seat. His hands fiddle for a moment. “Can I…have a hug?”
Riddle sighs, trying to hide just how endeared he feels right now. Then, he opens his arms.
Deuce moves fast, wrapping his arms tightly around Riddle’s shoulders and burying his face in his shoulder. He must be bending awkwardly in order to fit there.
Riddle’s arms come to rest around his waist. The hug is surprisingly warm. Calming. Maybe he should indulge his first year with more hugs later. Perhaps after tea.