A/N: So, we are at chapter three. Helpfully I'm heading back to London again this weekend, so I've another couple of train journeys which I can spend writing. They're proving to be most useful at the moment. Thank you to all those who have reviewed, you are all my favourites. ;) Also, and this is the point where I go off on a tangent, I've just been reading the bit about the image manager and story covers. That all sounds rather exciting. I might have to look into knocking up a cover. That'll be fun. =] Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter - let me know if you do! Or if you don't. But I'm being an optimist. =]
Blank Canvas
by Flaignhan
The Slytherin common room is dark, richly furnished, and more than a little creepy. The low light means that shadows loom in quiet corners, and Clara feels exceedingly tiny in the cavernous room.
Tom has made himself at home in the most luxurious velvet covered winged armchair the common room has to offer, and Clara takes a seat on the nearby sofa, resting her hands on her knees. She watches the fire crackling in the grate, and it's only when she can retain her question no longer that she tears her eyes away from the fireplace.
"Why doesn't Professor Dumbledore like you?" she asks, the words tumbling from her mouth without so much as a shred of delicacy.
Tom smirks and Clara is surprised to see him take the matter so lightly. "He never has liked me," Tom tells her. "And I don't suppose he ever will."
"But why though?" Clara presses. "There must be a reason, surely?"
"Well, we got off on the wrong foot," Tom admits. "What you have to understand, is growing up in a place like that, being treated the way I was treated..."
"How were you treated?"
"Like a nuisance... So when Dumbledore came to take me away, I was hardly the friendliest child he'd ever met."
"And he held that against you?"
"Well he's never warmed to me, let's put it like that," Tom says, his fingertips tracing patterns on the arm of his chair.
Clara frowns and looks down at the threadbare rug on the floor. Something is bothering her - something Dumbledore said, but she can't decide whether she ought to mention it to Tom or not. Deciding it will play on her mind if she doesn't say anything, she bites the bullet.
"Dumbledore says you don't have friends."
Tom's face drops and his fingers still on the chair. Clara watches, waiting for an answer. Slowly, his fingers begin to trace circles on the velvet once again, and his face regains its neutral expression.
"I do tend to keep myself to myself," Tom confesses. "Growing up in an orphanage means you get very little time to yourself, and I tend to make up for that when I'm here."
Clara purses her lips, but asks no more of Tom. If he likes to keep himself to himself then why is he spending so much time with her? Is she being a nuisance to him? Would he rather be left alone? Would he have preferred it if she had been placed in Gryffindor house?
"Come on," Tom says, after a short silence. "I said to Professor Slughorn I'd be arriving at half past three."
Clara gets up, her mind still asking a million and one questions, and she follows Tom out of the common room and into the corridor beyond.
When they arrive at Slughorn's office, Tom knocks on the door three times. It seems to Clara that everything he does is perfect, even knocking on a door- not so loud that it sounds demanding or rude, but just loud enough for Slughorn to hear. Considering he was raised in an orphanage, his social skills are surprisingly sophisticated. Not that he ought to have turn out feral, of course, but Tom's demeanour hints more at a privileged upbringing.
The door opens, and the first thing Clara sees is a large round belly. She looks up, and is greeted by an equally round face, rosy cheeks and a thick mop of straw coloured hair sitting atop Professor Slughorn's head.
"Oho!" he says, his arms stretched wide in greeting. "I see you didn't waste any time, Tom m'boy!"
"No sir," Tom says softly. "This is Clara, though I'm sure the headmaster has already told you..." he trails off, and Clara glances towards him. She's curious to see if he will continue, and if he does, how exactly he will go about explaining her. He'd probably do a far better job than she would, she thinks. But no further explanation is required as Slughorn steps to one side, and gestures for them to enter with one great sweeping motion of his arm.
"Of course, of course!" Slughorn booms. "And may I say, Clara, what a pleasure it is to have you in my house. The headmaster sent me an owl just a few minutes before you arrived."
"Oh, thank you sir," Clara says, looking around the office. It's rather small, with a great number of fine objects crammed into it - portraits, trinket boxes, figurines, several crystal decanters filled with amber spirits, and, at the centre, a large mahogany desk which takes up most of the office. Behind it sits a handsome green leather high backed chair. Its brass studs are brightly polished, though some of the colour has faded from the leather on the arms.
"Sit down, sit down," he says, drawing up two rickety wooden chairs that rather lack the splendour his own possesses.
"Thank you sir," Tom says, taking his seat. Slughorn busies himself with a small china tea set in the corner, and Clara sits down next to Tom.
She's not entirely sure what to make of Slughorn. He seems friendly enough but there is something about his overly jovial voice that doesn't quite set her at ease. He is nothing like Dumbledore, with his quiet wit and gentle nature, nor is he like Dippet, whose fussiness and kindness are more akin to an elderly relative than a headmaster. Slughorn, however, she is unsure of.
"Here we are then," Slughorn says, setting a gleaming silver tray down on the desk. "Ladies first." He passes a cup and saucer to Clara, and she thanks him, declining his offer of sugar.
"I suppose she's sweet enough already, eh Tom?" he chortles. Tom smiles in response.
"Very good sir," he says indulgently. Clara stares at him, and he arches his eyebrow ever so slightly. Slughorn doesn't notice it, but Clara gets the message straight away. She allows a small smile to form on her lips, similar to Tom's. She has nothing in this world. Nothing except Tom, and he's trying to help her, just as he must be trying to help himself. He knows what it is to have nothing, and yet he's managed to become a prefect, the teachers' (except Dumbledore's) favourite. When you have no money, no social standing, no family, no memories, this is how you work your way up - and where better to start than with your head of house?
"So," Slughorn begins, now settled in his chair, "Clara. How are you finding Hogwarts?"
"Oh I like it very much, sir. It's far nicer than St Mungo's at any rate."
"I should imagine so!" Slughorn agrees heartily. "Food's better too, I'd wager."
"Absolutely," she nods her head emphatically, then picks up her teaspoon to give her tea a stir. "Better company too."
"Oho..." Slughorn grins, his bright eyes darting towards Tom, apparently looking for some sort of reaction. Clara doesn't turn to look, and trusts that Slughorn's smile means that whatever Tom's reaction was, it was positive.
"I suppose Tom's been looking after you, hasn't he? You're a lucky girl, Clara. Tom's one of the few young men here who knows how to treat a lady."
Clara has no idea how to respond, and so she smiles, then takes a sip of her tea.
"Oh really sir. You can't be serious," Tom says with a chuckle. "I'm sure there are plenty of boys here who would treat Clara as she deserves..."
The conversations continue in the same bizarre three way flattery competition for the next hour, and by the time Tom announces that dinner will be soon and they'd best let Slughorn get ready, Clara has had quite enough.
Slughorn's cheerful laughter disappears as the heavy wooden door of his office closes with a soft thud. Once they have descended the first flight of stairs, Clara lets out a sigh.
"How often do you put yourself through that?" she asks. Tom lets out a breath of laughter.
"Just often enough," he replies. He reaches out a hand to guide her over the trick step on the staircase, but Clara skips over it before he has a chance to assist her.
"How did you know that was there?" he asks, his eyebrows contorted into a small frown. "This isn't the way we came."
Clara shrugs and looks at him blankly. "It's just habit I suppose," she says at last. "Or instinct. I don't know."
Tom continues to stare at her for a short while longer, and Clara starts to feel uneasy. Sometimes when he looks at her, it's like he can see right inside her, like he can access all those memories she can't. It's almost like he knows her better than she knows herself.
"Strange," he says, and then continues down the stairs.
Clara follows, her head swimming with thoughts.
Very strange.
