Tom had a dilemma.

It was imperative that he regain his body as soon as possible, and for that he needed a...sacrifice. But Sherlock, it seemed, would not be easily overcome. Perhaps he ought to try a Hufflepuff after all? There was no denying that Holmes was brilliant, even if he was a Mudblood. Perhaps, once he had his body back, he could recruit Sherlock to the side of truth –

Suddenly, words began to appear on the page.

"You've got someone in your pocket, or at least you did back in 1942. Who was it?"

"And good morning to you too, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock."

What the devil is a sherlock? "I...beg your pardon?" Tom asked carefully.

"Sherlock. It's my name, so you can stop with this 'Mr. Holmes' business. And don't think you can dodge the question either. In 1942 you won an award for Special Services to the School, and I want to know how you managed it."

"Why, I rather think the name says it all – I performed a service for the school." Tom felt rather pleased with himself. Evidently his last attempt at conversation hadn't been a complete failure, if the boy had been researching him.

"I haven't been reading up on you, don't flatter yourself. Got a detention polishing old trophies. I know there's something dodgy about it. They didn't even give one to Potter, and he defeated the Dark Lord twice."

What? No, it couldn't possibly - "What Dark Lord?" Tom scrawled. "Who is Potter?"

There was a pause.

"You don't know about the Boy-Who-Lived," Sherlock said at last. "Interesting."

Tom fought down a wave of impatience. "Perhaps you might inform me."

No answer. Tom felt a surge of rage such as he had not experienced since his days in the orphanage.

"Do not play games with me," he wrote. "You will not like the outcome."

"I'm not playing games," was the immediate reply. "You've still not answered my question – "

The words trailed off in a scrawl of ink. The world seemed to flicker, and Tom felt his rage evaporate in a blissful sensation that he hadn't experienced since – since –

After a moment, handwriting appeared again, hurried and slightly unsteady.

"Did you do that? Was it on purpose?"

"Do what?" Tom's mind reeled. "Did I – are you injured?" I could not possibly have cast Cruciatus from in here…could I?

"I got a bit of a jolt, rather like the discharge from a nine-volt battery. I wonder if it's reproducible. Could you do it again?"

"Do it again?" Tom was dumbfounded. "You cannot mean to say that you enjoyed that!"

"Well, not as such, no, but for the sake of experimentation – "

So that is what they call it now. Even in his disembodied state, Tom felt rather ill. He had heard about this sort of thing among the Muggles, but to use the Cruciatus that way was...beyond the pale. Still more reason to keep that filthy lot well away from Magic…

"I am sure you have schoolwork to do," Tom wrote. "I have…matters to consider."

If he continued this conversation he would only end up cursing the boy again, which wouldn't be a problem in itself, only the little bastard was apparently enjoying it - !

Much to his surprise, there was a reply:

"Don't you want to know about the Dark Lord?" Tom fought down another wave of fury.

The Dark Lord can go hang and so can you! Honestly, he would be better off with a Hufflepuff. At least then he could get on with the business of regaining his body, and not have to carry on maddening conversations with insufferable little brats who refused to give you a straight answer.

Tom let the question fade into the paper and said nothing.