Rewritten 22th January 2016.

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It's in our Blood

Chapter III

Eyes narrowed slightly, he looked towards the young girl at the back of the class.

Without trouble, rather at ease, she had just performed a transfiguration that had stunned the class silent, and a bitter taste swelled inside his mouth as he raised an eyebrow at her. The witch had her attention directed towards the professor, to whom she nodded slowly at in response to the awarded points. He exhaled sharply through his nose, crossing his arms tightly across his chest in distaste. So far he did not hold her in high regard. In fact his feelings for the witch bordered on absolute dislike.

One could argue that he did not like any of the students, with their loudness and rowdy behavior, though her even less so.

But why?

His brow creased further.

He did not exactly know the reason behind this immediate aversion towards the other first year Slytherin, but it had manifested almost on first sight in Potions.

Quickly turning his gaze away as dark blue eyes flickered to him, he suppressed the scowl and forced his heartbeat to still. He had only known her for a single day – well, rather call it a brief cooporation in Potions – but he already knew exactly what kind of person she was. Everything about her rubbed him the wrong way. And if only that had been all, yet the witch had even resulted in him getting a detention. On his first day at Hogwarts. Him – without any other reason than him being present at the scene. Fingers fidgeted with the feathery quill, dipped the sharp tip into the ink bottle with more vehemence than truly needed, and he thoughtfully scribbled his name on the top of the parchment.

Tom Riddle.

"Shall we get everything back into place?" The Professor spoke, light blue eyes considering the tobbled chairs and tables, scattered belongings and papers with an unveiled spark of amusement. A loud scramble quickly followed the wizard's suggestion and, shortly after, everything had been put back in place. His fellow classmates returned to their seats. "Once more it is my pleasure to welcome you to Transfiguration. What you all witnessed moments before – also, as performed by Miss Fowl – were both displays of an alteration of an object into something entirely different in appearance."

Trailing a perfect, straight line beneath his name with sharp jabs, the young Slytherin turned his attention towards the professor; the very same man who, only months before, had first told Tom he was a wizard – in Wool's Orphanage; in his small, dingy room, had his entire world changed and opened up to something else. Something entirely different. Another scowl flickered across his features at the memory; of how Dumbledore had accused him of stealing in an attempt to scare, intimidate him. How such actions were not welcome at Hogwarts.

He had not stolen anything; he had merely punished the other children as they deserved.

He pierced the thin parchment.

Tom Riddle found himself stuck in a room with two people he, in no sense of the word, felt comfortable around and his skin prickled at the thought.

The young boy suppressed a sigh, running cold fingers across the arch of his chin, and tried to keep track of the class. It was not long before the allure of magic piqued his interest and previous thoughts were soon forgotten, as he latched onto the wizard's every word. "I must warn each of you to never take Transfiguration lightly, for it can so easily have disastrous consequences if approached seriously." The old wizard clasped his hands behind sapphire blue robes and his tone changed. "Of course, before you will have a chance to work with any such spells, we will focus on a more theoretical level. Because to perform transfigurations one must first understand the rules behind."

Tom spent the rest of the lesson taking notes, while Dumbledore gave a long and detailed presentation on the subject of Transfiguration; the four branches of magic – Transformation, Vanishment, Conjuration, and Untransfiguration – of humans turning into animals, on bringing items into being or make them completely disappear. Its nature and limitations. While many had sunk back into their seats, with an air of boredom and disinterest, Tom's quill scraped across parchment after parchment, never missing even a single word or detail.

Ever so often he could feel the professor's gaze upon him, and every time he suppressed a threatening glower, not wanting the old wizard to know it was bothering him in the slightest. But Tom did not like being observed. Watched. When the Professor dismissed them – with three chapters of reading material as homework – Tom quickly scooped together his belongings; rolled up notesheets, books and ink set were carefully placed into the tattered bag, before he curtly nodded a goodbye to the old wizard and steered towards the door.

The Ravenclaw and Slytherin first years filed out of the Transfiguration classroom, a mesh of black robes, and he ignored everyone around him as he fell into pace with the crowd. Growing up in the enmity of the orphanage, as well as due to his special abilities – which, it had turned out, were not all that special after all – had made him all too used to isolation. And it, if he was honest, suited him perfectly. He was not there to make friends.

Tom regarded Hogwarts as a place of learning and his long sought escape, sanctuary, from the dreadful orphanage he had been forced to call home for eleven years.

No outsider would be allowed to ruin it for him.

Two girls passed by him, chatting together over something trivial, and they once again vanished in the mass of students that had filled the hallway in between classes; a boy quickly caught up with another, giving off a friendly clap on the shoulder and they too disappeared ahead. His keen eyes trailed over every little detail; the many portraits, moving about in their frames; the armoured suits' creaking movements from time to time; the classroom doors bursting open whenever a class ended, allowing more witches and wizards to fill the cramped area.

Tom felt suffocated in the narrow space he was given.

He yanked the bag, slipping off his shoulders, further upwards.

His brow furrowed in thought. He did not understand why, but his attention was constantly guided towards her, caught by the smaller frame of that arrogant pureblood. The witch had been slow to leave the class, and Tom spotted the long black hair in the crowd only a bit ahead of him. She was alone, just as he was. It was not that she was anything extraordinary when it came to looks – on the contrary, she was rather plain perhaps.

There had been plenty of pretty girls in the orphanage, but beauty had no effect, no appeal, to him – it was not the clear angles well defined against pale skin that held his interest, nor the dark blue orbs and ever haughty gaze of disregard for those below her standing. Fowl had a regal, stoic air about her which he, undeniably, sought himself. A bearing that demanded attention, obedience. It spoke of power. She had been born with everything so very unlike him and knew exactly how to exert it.

It annoyed him beyond anything.

He lowered his pace, keeping a few steps behind the Slytherin girl, as dark eyes never left her straight back.

People brushed against him, yet Tom swiftly cut through the crowd in order to not let her out of sight. He was unsure of what his purpose was, or if there even was any; a curiosity born from envy, an interest in eyes mirroring his own? He ducked out of sight, behind a pair of large Hufflepuffs, and slowed further. Something had caught her attention, and with a soft tilt she turned her head sideways. An unreadable look spread across her face, yet not before Tom noted the flicker of a scowl sweep over her features. Then she sharply changed direction; cutting past the other students she stopped at three older Slytherin wizards. They appeared to have waited for her.

Tom pursed his lips slightly and quickly rushed past without a second glance in their direction, telling himself it was none of his business.

His brow furrowed.

No, he did not care.

Amidst a sea of students he descended the intricate maze of stairs. Further, further down, leaving the witch to her own as Tom headed for a quick lunch before the afternoon classes. Hands buried deep within his robe pockets, he followed the steady flow of witches and wizards, pausing ever so often as the staircases shifted and moved; dark orbs took in his surroundings in an attempt to memorize the many movements, hallways, floors, on his way towards the ground floor.

A loud ruckus ahead caught his attention.

The first floor corridor was blocked; a large group had gathered, necks craned and voices a mixture of fascination and disgruntled impatience. With brow furrowed, Tom stopped quickly to watch the scene. A loud shriek erupted, followed by a maniacal cackle and a thunderous bang. Mutters welled up and people pressed further forward in interest and in the hopes of catching a glimpse. Two older witches brushed, elbowed, their way against the crowd; faces flushed scarlet red and hair disheveled. Both had badges fastened to their robes with a large P across their Ravenclaw house emblems. Another bang, this time louder – and closer. The taller Prefect paused. "Go fetch a professor, Erica," she breathed, motioning for the second girl, who was covered in a sticky green substance, to continue.

When the witch passed close to Tom, a putrid smell made him cringe and those near to her blatantly shy away in a hurry.

"Oi!" A Gryffindor wizard hollered, pressing on with his tall frame and matching badge in ease through the crowd. "–Collins, what's this fuss all about?"

The female Prefect, shoulders slumped as she looked back at the commotion, turned in the direction of the call and wiped her brow. Her face scrunched up. "Peeves," she sighed in response. "Been tossing dungbombs all over the place. Blocked off the entire staircase, and I'm pretty sure there's a couple of first years stuck in a broom cupboard ..." When yet another boom reverberated throughout the hallway her features hardened. "Everyone clear out!" The witch, Collins, yelled over the noises of the gathered, voice heavy in exasperation. "Make room for when the professors arrive and let us Prefects get room to work!"

Green smoke crawled towards them across the ceiling. "What got him even started?" The wizard asked, wafting away a pair of mousy haired girls, who were far too busy staring to even notice his attempts.

"Some first year thought him to be a ghost and tried to run through him."

The Gryffindor stifled a chortle. "And how'd that go?"

He was worthed no response except another skin-crawling howl of laughter and three successive explosions.

Several orders – and detention threats – later, the two Prefects managed to gain control of the situation to some extent; people started to turn back and away from the ruckus, some more reluctant than others. Several students, mostly the younger ones, were far more interested in whatever was happening further down the corridor; but it did not take long before the authoritarian instructions had them follow suit. Tom, with slowed steps, reluctantly followed the crowd yet made sure to linger behind; shadowed by the older students he stayed close against the wall, out of sight.

Blowing stands of hair from her face, the Ravenclaw shifted her gaze. "Shouldn't Erica be back with someone – anyone soon?"

As the crowd thinned, Tom managed a clear view of the hallway. Green goo caked the walls and hung off the portraits, where the inhabitants had fled to safer frames, and a strangely colourful creature flickered in and out of his vision; disappearing, swooping through the air with orange eyes gleaming beneath a bell-covered hat. It looked like something taken directly out of some macabre nightmare.

Apparently that was the school's poltergeist.

"Hey, kid." He felt a hand on his shoulder, immediately tensing at the contact while he turned his gaze upwards to meet the Gryffindor Prefect. The much larger wizard, with half a grin, nodded towards the commotion. "You should get going before the professors arrive. Peeves' a real piece of work, even for them. Off you go." Mumbling a response and with a nod, Tom reluctantly walked away without another glance back; he quickly followed the loudness of the crowd, cut off from his only known path to the Great Hall.

A pair of professors, led by the second Ravenclaw witch, rushed past.

The poltergeist was clearly someone to avoid running in to – or through, for that matter.

Elana, clasping her hands tightly behind her back, circled the cold skin of her wrist with a thumb. Through half-lidded eyes she kept her head down and watched the tiles below her feet. "What could possibly make you act up like that? A detention on your first day of school." The witch kept her gaze fixed on the stone floor, biting back a response because her brother was surely not finished. She could hear the mutters of people behind her, the sound of voices. They were watching; she knew it. "Do you think I enjoy hearing whispers involving our name? Some were not even whispers."

Her ears burned.

Did he think she enjoyed it any more than he?

The detention was not even deserved. The professor had punished her, surely for the simple reason that Elana was in Slytherin. Because she had been attacked – and not the other way around. Though, knowing well her place was not to interrupt, she kept her tongue. He exhaled sharply. "Tell me, then." Identical blue eyes met as she looked up to meet his gaze. With arms crossed in front of his chest, he silently awaited an explanation.

"It was not my fault," she started, slowly, considering every word and every sentence with care. "I was affronted by a boy from Gryffindor. I defended myself when he drew his wand, and I disarmed him. Then a professor – who had not even witnessed the entirety of the situation – punished me and another from Slytherin with a detention, for actions that were clearly justifiable."

Her brother's face, previously pulled into a mask of indifference, shifted; with a brow creased in thought, dark orbs shifting towards Selwyn at his side. Elana waited motionless, posture rigid. "Who was the professor?" The latter wizard asked quietly, giving her half a smile. Elana shook her head lightly, shrugging her shoulders in response to the question.

She knew not who the elderly woman was.

"She was–" Elana fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. "Old. And tall. She also seemed rather against Slytherins – called me a snake." The last word rolled off her lips with thinly veiled distaste. "Her hair was in a bun if I remember correctly." She recalled the grasp, fingers like vices against her skin; the yank as if she was one to be tossed around, treated as such. Her temper flared. "She grabbed my arm quite violently as well."

The wizards exchanged looks once more.

"Aurora Beery," Gamp growled, for the first time taking part in the conversation. He crossed his arms and shifted. "No doubt about it. The other professors would know better than to lay a hand on a Slytherin." He pulled a face, as his gaze flickered towards her briefly. "Let alone a Fowl." Her eyebrows furrowed in an attempt to remember if the professor's name had showed up on her schedule.

It had.

Herbology.

"I am having classes with her later today," Elana said, a bitterness pressing against the insides of her mouth. "What shall I do?"

"Do nothing. It is a waste of time to argue with her, so I prefer if you keep out of any trouble with her from now on." With a dismissive wave of his hand, Elliot shook his head in response. Elana wanted to argue against the accusation of ever possibly stirring up trouble, but remained quiet. She shuffled her feet, glancing away. His eyes narrowed with his next words, forcing her to lock gazes with his. "If you can do that much."

The words stung. "Of course," she said, indignation wrinkling her forehead ever so slightly.

"Well, then," Selwyn cleared his throat. "Elliot, may I suggest leaving any further discussions for someplace less crowded?" His attention was directed towards something further down the corridor, behind the company's only witch. His voice dropped a notch. "It would seem we have an audience." With a final look at Elana, eyes slanted slightly in a smile, the pureblood moved past the group. "Friends of yours, Elana?"

A practiced mask of politeness eased its way across her features, breathing stilled as she clasped her hands behind her back. Elana turned around and smiled. "Ah, they are from my dormitory–" Her eyes shifted onto her brother, his attention likewise now fixated on the two witches with a similar civility. Kind. Attentive. A pureblood's pretended niceness, the disguise against indifference. "–and quite intrusive," she explained, finishing the sentence in barely a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow lightly. "Are they now?"

The Fowl siblings quickly joined the other pureblood wizard, who exchanged a few pleasantries with a very fretting blonde; her hands ran across dark robes, smoothening out non-existent folds, then tugged at long curls until once more resting limply against her sides. The other first year witch appeared rather collected. "Brother, this is Miss Greengrass and Miss Newell." Elana first introduced the bespectacled girl, then looked towards the half-blood with a forced smile. "Miss Newell's father is Ralph Newell, a very renowned potioneer. Is that not so, Margaret?"

The girl, pearly white teeth bared, smiled in appreciation at the introduction and nodded. She knew not that Elana had quite a different reason behind her words; for what was thought to be kind appraisal served as nothing more than an indirect, clandestine sign to the older Fowl about the witch's heritage. "Yes! Even professor Slughorn asked to my father," she said. "He showed a great deal of interest in any new research progress."

With the slightest angle of his face, Elliot feigned polite interest and made the young witch fumble through her curls with trembling hands. "Did he now?"

"Well," she hesitated for the smallest of moments, but her behaviour did not go unnoticed by any of the purebloods present. Gamp, whispering in Selwyn's ear with a smirk, was waved off dismissively; though the latter could not hide a faint line of amusement. The blonde's restless fidgeting increased. "He's working on a new project, but there have yet to be any real results."

Elana, impatient, glanced around. Did her brother not have anything more suitable to spend his time on? "That is a shame," he responded kindly. "But we should best be off now, have a pleasant day – Miss Greengrass, Miss Newell." With impeccable politeness, the wizard nodded to both girls and turned to leave. His friends were quick to follow and the younger Fowl, gaze flickering towards the first year Slytherins, pulled her bag further up her shoulder and joined her brother down the corridor.

"Shall we go to Herbology together, Elana?" Newell asked, running to the pureblood's side.

An umistakable sense of annoyance washed over her, the corners of her mouth pulling into a scowl while she turned her dark blue eyes to the other girl.

Then she tilted her head in agreement, smiling. "Very well."

Elana was angry.

Her cheeks stung with harsh embarrassment, jaw tightly clenched as she seethed silently. No, perhaps angry was not the right word to describe how she was feeling. Furious fit the situation far better. Her blood boiled in her veins and, brushing off a strand of hair from her eyes, ignored the curious glance from the half-blood next to her. Fingers trembling, she tucked the loose bangs behind her ear as her gaze, hard, stared straight ahead. "Uh, Elana ...?" Newell inquired slowly, hesitant, and appeared quite unsure of how to approach the subject. "About what just happened–"

"I would appreciate it very much if you did not meddle in things that are none of your concern," the pureblood cut her off curtly, voice strained with little effort in hiding the indignation; the only reason why Elana did not blatantly snap at the other girl, stemmed from a feeble attempt to preserve some sense of civility towards her classmates. But the icy cold anger pressed through, an underlying tone that made her voice come out even more tersely.

"But it was–"

"She is right, Margaret. It is none of our business," Greengrass said with a soft sigh and sent a pointed look towards the other girl over the edge of her book, Goshawk's Guide to Herbology. Newell closed her opened mouth, eyes flashing towards Elana. The three girls, along with a handful other first years, were standing outside the greenhouses. Only a gentle breath of late Summer winds brushed against them, tousling their uniforms and hair, while they were mostly shielded by the glass frames surrounding them. The pureblood wanted to just skip classes and walk until her annoyance had died out, rather than stand in the narrow space between Greenhouse One and Two. And even less with the two Slytherin girls as company, who had – much to her displeasure – witnessed everything.

She could tolerate the fact they had the nerve to watch the earlier scene, but Elana's temper had flared when Newell began questioning her. Elana felt coldness brush against her face, pulse slowing as she tried to control her breathing to its usual calm. She should learn how to keep her temperament under control – anything else was unbefitting of someone her status. She ran her tongue over her teeth before gritting them tightly.

Annoying. So very annoying.

The entire situation made her head throb loudly. The news of her run-in with the Professor after Potions had immediately spread throughout the Slytherins, and the story had, of course, reached her brother's ears. News unfortunately travelled fast. Elana had known for what purpose he sought her out the moment she saw him, waiting patiently for her in the hallway. Trouble on the very first day was not something he could overlook. Gamp and Selwyn ever present, wordlessly listening during the conversation; two looming figures at her side – like guards. They had stood out in the corridor.

She understood perfectly well why her brother had confronted her, but to have done so in public, with the other first years so close, was humiliating.

He should have known that.

Her ears stung.

It was an odd, scraping screech that made Elana snap out of her train of thought and she winched inwardly at the sound; all the gathered students from the Slytherin and Ravenclaw houses looked towards the greenhouse door as it was pulled open. The professor – Aurora Beery – appeared in the opening and she scanned the crowd with a sharp glare, heavy eyelids surrounded by furrowed wrinkles; the pureblood felt the old witch's eyes linger on her for a split second longer than on anyone else.

Elana suppressed a sneer.

With the click of her tongue, the first year witch averted her gaze to the clouded skies above, heartbeat pounding loudly in her chest. Calm down, she told herself. She should not allow the woman to rile her up so easily; without a doubt it was what the professor wanted. "Why are you all just standing around? Come on in. Quickly, now." She urged them all inside, stepping to the side to give each and everyone of them a look-over as they entered. "Gather around the table so we can get started."

The insides of the large greenhouse was filled with a faint flowery yet mouldy smell, plants lining the glass walls and Elana felt her shoes crunch from the faint layer of dirt and fertilizer below. The air was heavy with warmth. She glanced sideways as movement caught her eye and, without really meaning to, took a step away from what she saw; a green vine was lazily snaking over the wooden table, trying to reach out for the students as they passed by.

It nearly caught hold of a Ravenclaw girl's sleeve, but she stumbled away from it with a loud gasp.

The sun's rays were reflected through the dusty glass frames, heating up the insides of the greenhouse to an almost uncomfortable heat; Elana felt her cheeks burn from the sudden change of temperature, as she took a spot next to the other Slytherins. Her eyes followed the professor. The latter walked down the side of the long table, where the students had spread around, coming to a halt at the end. "Most of the faculty here starts off class with something easy, in order to let you get a hang of things. It will not be like this in my class."

After a short introduction to Herbology, it did not take long before they were all ushered to take on thick and heavy leather gloves, while Beery left Greenhouse One. They were too big for her hands, and Elana attempted to pull them further up her wrists. At her side, Newell tried her best to hide her nervousness with a peculiar, fake laughter as she pulled on her pair. "She is just trying to scare us," the witch said.

Elana glanced towards her from the corner of an eye.

She felt the rough leather against her hands, bending her fingers lightly and felt the fabric tighten in response. The professor once again appeared in the greenhouse, a large clay pot levitating in front of her. With a loud thud, the pot came to a rest on the table. The plant inside looked ludicrous yet dangerous at the same time; Elana was not sure if she should laugh or prepare to fight it. But when the green herb suddenly moved and straightened, as if waking from a deep slumber, she knew to not take it lightly.

Surely there was a reason as to why the plant had yellowy spikes all over, running up and down its curled vines and leaves. And most likely not for decorative purposes only. "That explains the gloves," she muttered lowly, once more feeling the leather against her skin. It certainly looked to be a lot of fun.

"This is a Spiky Prickly Bush, rather obvious if I may say so." Professor Beery started off and motioned towards the plant with a hand, slapping away one of the branches as it moved towards her. She, too, was wearing a pair of gloves. "When dealing with this type of plant it is a good idea to keep at a certain distance," she explained, pointing a finger towards the large, yellow spikes. "When you enter its natural territory it will become hostile in order to defend itself, which makes the adults incredibly difficult to approach. But the leaves are used for quite a few potions and therefore make them rather valuable. We will learn how to immobilize them this time around – and possibly in the next class, if you cannot master this spell in, what I assume is, plenty of time."

In a fluent movement she had her wand drawn, pointed directly at the potted plant. Everyone leaned over the table in excitement, attempting to get a good view of what was going to happen next; everyone was eager to witness the use of magic. Elana could not resist the curiosity and glanced down the row of Slytherins, arms crossed. A greenish yellow light flashed with the sound of 'Diffindo!' and the bush's vines were cut and severed in several small flakes.

The plant curled up around itself in defense, a small bundle of green that had lost all its ferocity.

"The Severing Charm is usually something taught in second year, but it is very likely you will encounter things in my class where it is useful." Professor Beery stepped closer to the injured bush and examined it closer, lifting a few vines with rough movements and collected the branches and leaves into a small pile in her hand. "The Spiky Prickly Bush is rather resilient and can survive as long as the roots are left intact," she once again overlooked her students. "Everyone take a pot from the back and work on using Diffindo. Do not worry, the plants you will be handling are merely sproutlings and can most likely not deal any real harm."

Elana, and probably others as well, latched onto the professor's choice of words.

Any real harm.

Tom stared, rather bored and with little interest, at the small bush in front of him; it barely had any spikes, and the plant seemed rather vulnerable with a wand pointed at it. He sighed. Herbology barely stirred his interest as some of the other subjects did. "Oh, I really don't think I can do this!" A girl exclaimed across the table, voice trembling, and he glanced upwards, eyes hidden under bangs of black hair. "It looks so adorably harmless."

The blonde Ravenclaw girl almost had tears in her eyes as she stared in pity at the plant in front of her. A couple of boys from her house saw it as their sign to play brave heroes and rushed to her aid, gently reassuring her it would be all right. Tom rolled his eyes in exasperation. But then a single word from his left caught his attention; it was barely loud enough to be heard. "Unbelievable."

The Slytherin witch, eyebrow raised in mild attention, watched the rival house in obvious distaste.

Once again it was her.

Constantly. In order to get rid of the annoyance that had slowly crept up on him, he pointed his yew wand at the plant and muttered: "Diffindo." The Spiky Prickly Bush was cut down in a bright, green flash that spread throughout the greenhouse; a few gasps were heard from around him. Tom was first to perform the spell. He noticed the professor's gaze upon him, her lips pursed in dislike; she gave no praise or recognition, but merely watched him from the end of the table in silence. Quickly diverting his dark eyes, Tom observed his work with satisfaction.

"Oho! Not bad! Not bad at all." Tom suddenly felt a hand against his back in what seemed to be a friendly clap – not that he would know how that felt, though he assumed the gesture to be as such. He stiffened. Another Slytherin boy grinned broadly from his right, leaning close. "I'm Avery by the way, Peter Avery," the wizard introduced, sliding into the spot next to Tom's and nodded in acknowledgement at the severed plant, as if admiring his work. "Poor thing, huh?"

"Tom Riddle," he merely answered, eyes flickering towards the hand still firmly placed on his shoulder. Tom suddenly found himself in a rather uncomfortable situation. Why was the blond boy approaching him? He could not see through the wide grin that plastered the boy's face, nor did he quite understand what the other could possibly want from him – if anything at all. Something like this had never happened to him.

Tom's brow furrowed. People usually avoided him.

He was used to people avoiding him.

"And that's Nott by the way," Avery said and nodded towards a second boy, watching them with disinterest from behind Avery; he grunted and Tom took it as a greeting of some sort, responding with a short nod. Tom eyed both, taking in the familiar, unconcerned tilt to their features that spoke clearly of their heritage; casual, at ease in a way only those born to wealth and nobility could be. "You're quite good, you know? Practiced the spell at home?" The wizard trailed off, as if carefully thinking his words through. Then the blond boy ran his tongue across his lips before speaking again, pearly white teeth bared in a smile. "Riddle, that's not a name I have heard of before, I think?"

The black haired Slytherin did not answer.

Fingers weaved their way past vines and picked severed leaves with pretended care and concentration, without an attempt to answer the question; Avery seemed to understand the silent allusion, a smirk widening as he eased his way back to his own spot at the table. From the corner of an eye, Tom regarded the pair in quiet observation. Where Avery was rowdy, demanding the attention of others with his presence, Nott was soundless, attentive and appeared a far greater threat to Tom than his companion.

He looked away.

Tom had spent the rest of class scrutinized, feeling gazes linger on him ever so often. But each time he had looked up, he had found no one watching him. While the other students attempted, some failing more miserably than the next, to perform the spell, he, with plenty of time on his hands, had tried to understand whatever plans were behind Avery's introduction. What would he gain by approaching him?

Friends?

It sounded highly unlikely.

Class came to an end; everyone put the pots away, collected their belongings and Tom was on his way out of the greenhouse when the professor spoke up above the noise. "You two, come here for a minute." The first years glanced back towards her, and the witch motioned for Tom and the Slytherin girl from earlier; the whispers that followed were rather obvious, as none tried to hide their curiosity when the two cut their way past the crowd, heading the opposite direction.

The black haired girl reached the Herbology professor first and stopped up, arms crossed over her chest as an unreadable look spread across her face; distaste and impatience. "What?" She asked impatiently, without any politeness, while she tried to pull her book bag further up her shoulder. Tom came to a halt next to her, also waiting to hear what the professor wanted. Since it was only him and the pureblood, he had an idea what it might be about.

His unfair punishment.

For her it was completely justified if anyone asked him his opinion.

"Both of you have detention tonight, so meet up outside the trophy room on the third floor. At six, and not one minute late. Understood?" Beery looked at them sharply, while she pulled off the gloves; a taunting and gleeful spark deep down in her eyes, watching the two first years. Tom was fairly certain she was enjoying herself at their expense. He swallowed a sour remark, and in stead nodded with no wish to create further problems with the woman.

"Yes, professor."

The young witch next to him did not seem to share his feelings. "Is that all, professor?"