Author's Note: Remember how I said that this is a limited perspective with a somewhat unreliable narrator? Keep that in mind for this chapter.
The Knights of Walpuris as a political organization was, more or less, formed over the course of one evening in 1942 by a group of just over half a dozen boys in the Slytherin Common room.
And it started with a simple question.
"What do you want to do after you graduate, Tom?"
Truthfully, he hadn't given it much thought. Not in depth, anyways. He was still so completely immersed in the beauty and the wonder and the power of magic, that all he had ever wanted to do was learn and grow and do more. The fact that there were restrictions, however, was bothersome.
Not that he couldn't work around them, but it was annoying nonetheless.
"I want to change things," he said, knowing it was a vague answer and knowing that these sycophantic boys would hang to his every word, "I want to build and stretch the very limits of magic, and I want there to be no barriers to what can be learned and accomplished."
As usual, the boys looked at him with wonder. Avery piped up. "Yeah, he's right. We could have accomplished so much more if it weren't for the Ministry restrictions on magic. They're only trying to accommodate the mudbloods, keeping their unstable magic in check and all, but it's not fair to the rest of us."
That was a topic that came up frequently, and one that Tom made sure to listen intently to. Having been raised away from the wizarding world, he was at a disadvantage. Certain subjects simply weren't taught within class, and while the library could be useful, the best way to learn about wizarding culture was from those who were bred from it.
While many things within the topic were debated, one thing was generally agreed upon(at least within those who spoke freely of it): their magic was unnatural, weak, poorly controlled, and a hindrance on the wizarding world.
Some of the purebloods were kinder about it all. Alphard Black, for example, had said he felt sorry for them. He said their bodies aren't meant to handle magic, and it affects them like a disease.
Orion had argued that his brother had always had a soft spot for animals and that mudbloods were no different from any terminally sick creature; Allowing them to exist, harming both themselves and the wizarding world around them, was both negligent and cruel.
Tom didn't particularly care either way, but he knew an opportunity when he saw one, and his was definitely a point he could rally followers behind.
So he listened and coaxed and praised and questioned, and they tripped over each other to be the first to fall at his feet.
He found the Chamber of Secrets at the end of his fourth year.
The Gaunt family was one of the only pureblood families left, a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and were direct descendents of Salazar Slytherin himself. Tom spent the last few weeks of the school year studying alchemy(which was difficult, since it wasn't taught as a subject at Hogwarts) and attempting to find everything he could about Slytherin.
He had first heard about the Chamber of Secrets in Hogwarts: A History in his first year, when he had first read it, but he had completely forgotten about it until he began to research Slytherin himself. The Chamber was rumored to be a myth, but he didn't think it was.
Still, he thought he may have found a way to find out.
Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth, and was notably very proud of it. Parseltongue was genetic, only able to be passed down, not learned. If he wanted to be sure that only his heir could find and open the Chamber(and control the monster inside), that would have been the safest way to ensure it.
So he asked the snakes, and they provided exactly what he needed. They told him of a large snake living underground, and they told him that it could be reached "in a place where the pipes connected", leading him to believe a bathroom. When he found a carving of a snake on a sink in the second floor girls lavatory, he knew he had found it.
Hogwarts had been his true home since the moment he had discovered it, but this, stepping into the chamber, solidified it in his mind.
A piece of Hogwarts had literally been left to him, untouched, waiting for him to find it for centuries, and had been left exactly as Salazar himself had intended for Tom to find it.
The Chamber had been designed for a reason, of course, though he couldn't just awaken the basilisk and open it now.
It would take careful planning, and protective measures would need to be put in place in case something went wrong.
Luckily, he had all summer to figure that out.
And he had people who wanted to help. Stepping back into the Slytherin common room late one evening, he told Abraxas to gather the other boys who had been "interested" in making changes within the Ministry after school.
Once they had all gathered back, his plan once again began with a question, though this time he was the one asking it.
"How about we start changing things a bit earlier than we had initially discussed?"
Over the summer, he used what little money he had(i.e. stole) to buy a diary.
Abraxas had been asked to make a list of confirmed muggleborn students(confirmed being very important: no halfbloods, no proper witches or wizards who had simply been placed among muggles; only those confirmed to be born of filth) that he could use as potential targets.
The summer was spent planning each detail of how the school year would go and how opening the chamber would play with that. Being a Prefect(it came as no surprise that he was the Slytherin boy selected), getting to the chamber to open it would be a lot easier than it had been when he found it. He no longer had as many restrictions on where he could or couldn't go, or when he could be out.
He could pass through the halls like a predator, unnoticed and unquestioned.
The basilisk traveling through the pipes meant that it could go anywhere within the school, but it wasn't omniscient. He would still have to know where each person was, and be able to describe what they looked like, to direct it to them.
It wasn't uncommon for him to fall asleep at his desk that summer, diary open and quill in hand.
Whereas before he had gotten in the habit of reading Granger's book to settle himself to sleep, that summer it remained almost completely untouched.
He wasted no time after the beginning of the school year, deciding to open the Chamber as soon as he was ready. Each of his most trusted friends had been given a task to help get it going as quickly as possible.
Abraxas continued looking for potential targets. Lestrange strangled the chickens and collected their blood. Dolohov was told to listen within the castle, to make sure that they were aware of any gossip or rumors that could come of it all.
Small, simple tasks, but it was more a test of loyalty and competency than anything. The actual opening of the chamber and the attacks themselves would be entirely up to him.
As a Prefect, stalking his victims was even easier than he imagined it would be.
When he had caught one of the boys from the list Abraxas had given him out past curfew, he knew that this was the perfect opportunity to strike. He told the boy to head back to Ravenclaw tower, knowing it was on the other side of the castle, and proceeded down to the second floor girl's bathroom to summon the basilisk.
The boy never saw it coming, and no one was around to confirm what had happened.
Tom had kept the chicken's blood hidden near the entrance to the chamber, and grabbed it as he retraced the boy's steps back to Ravenclaw tower.
It didn't take long to find the boy petrified, lying in a pool of water next to a broken pipe. Before anyone could come and find him, Tom approached the boy, pulled out the vial of blood, and began to write on the wall behind him.
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened, enemies of the heir... beware
Dippet announced the following morning at breakfast that a student had been found petrified in what he called "a cruel prank". While he assured everyone that the school was taking appropriate action and that they were taking it seriously, he still heavily stressed that it was nothing to worry about.
There was still nothing he could do to prevent the students from talking, creating the exact reaction Tom had been hoping for: fear of a power stronger than them, of which they had no control over.
In DADA, Professor Granger started explaining the importance of the OWL exams immediately after starting class. The other teachers had had a similar attitude of avoidance towards answering questions. Most likely because no one wanted to risk causing panic.
In third year, Granger had told them all that fear was a gift, and that a sense of danger could be used to keep a person safe and alert. Fear can't hurt you, she had said. But ignoring the things that can hurt you simply because they scare you absolutely can have deadly, potentially lethal, consequences.
He thought of the other teachers, and Dippet, and how they were so determined to look the other way.
Fools, the lot of them.
But not Granger.
Ironically, it was the students who seemed to be smart enough to know something was definitely wrong.
A girl in the front row, Margaret Smith, raised a hand. "Professor," matching her mousy looking appearance was a small, squeaky, voice, "I was wondering if you could tell us about the Chamber of Secrets."
Granger sighed, looking strained and a bit annoyed. She had likely been being asked about this all day, just like every other teacher.
But, since she wasn't like every other teacher, Tom found himself listening intently to her response. Much to his delight, she didn't dismiss the question.
"What do you want to know?"
About half the class raised a hand. She called on a boy in the front row.
"What is it, Professor? No one ever told us such a thing even exists."
"Salazar Slytherin was prejudiced. There was no logic and nothing more than bigotry behind his beliefs," as she glanced through the classroom, her eyes locked on him and he swore there was something in the way she was looking at him, "but he believed that certain people should not be allowed to study magic. He tried repeatedly to convince the other founders of the school, but they disagreed with him. So he left. That much is fact.
"But, according to legend, he built a chamber with the purpose of 'purifying' the school. It was designed so that only his heir could open it. However, the school has been searched repeatedly and no entrance was ever found."
He forced his face to remain neutral, despite the way his lips wanted to quirk up into a smirk.
Without even raising a hand, a boy halfway across the room shouted, "So it's not real, then?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and Tom realized with a sense of intrigue that she had backed herself into a corner here: there was no correct answer. Either she would be wrong, or she would be punished by the school for telling the truth.
"That's not what I said. I said it's never been found, at least that we currently know of. I never said if it is, or is not, real."
The mousy looking girl, Smith, raised her hand again.
"So, is it real then? Do you, Professor, think it is real?"
She took a deep breath before saying very clearly, with authority that sounded like it could not belong to her small, seemingly fragile, body, "I believe that, regardless of if it is real or not, a student was petrified. You'll do well to remember that and be careful."
With that answer, he felt like he had just watched a mouse perfectly solve its way through a maze.
It was almost beautiful.
Definitely a Slytherin.
After class was dismissed, he approached her desk.
"You don't want to be late to your next class, Tom. Is there something I can help you with?"
Her tone was amicable, but he didn't care for that kind of talk right now(and he knew her well enough to know she didn't care for it either), so he decided to go right out and ask.
"You think the Chamber of Secrets is real, don't you?"
Say it, he repeated over and over in his mind, as though he could simply think it into action.
"I already answered that in class."
"No, you gave a deliberately vague response. You do think it's real, you just can't say so. Right?" He smiled at her, trying to coax the answer out of her.
Say it,
Tell me the truth-
"Yes," she admitted, though she seemed a bit reluctant, "I think this school holds some very dark secrets and we all have reason to be cautious."
Not me, he thought.
A moment later, he added,
Not you.
He felt pride bloom in his chest as he smiled and walked back towards the door.
She was smarter than the rest of them, but of course only he got to see it.
Having another attack just before the holidays was intentional: he wanted as many people as possible to go home, and he wanted to see how many were so afraid that they wouldn't return after break.
This time, it had been a girl, Hannah Clarence. Hufflepuff, he if remembered correctly.
Dippet had told him not to worry about Prefect rounds, and said that the teachers could handle it over the holidays, but Tom had insisted he continue, never wanting to seem to shy away from duty.
So he did his rounds, taking the opportunity to explore the castle. He walked through every corridor, climbed every staircase, until late into the night of New Year's Eve, he found himself on the astronomy tower.
And he saw Her there too. Her untamed curls were unmistakable. Shining in the moonlight, they looked a bit darker and her pale skin seemed to nearly glow, making her look almost ethereal.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" He asked, pretending he thought she was a student.
Because that's what they did -the both of them- they pretended to be a normal professor, grading papers and answering questions like anyone else of her profession. And he pretended to be a kind, dedicated student, a perfect Prefect, a remodel.
They were both liars, fakes, pretending to fit in with this world when their minds were so much more than that.
But he got to see that side of her, that slightly twisted, innovative brilliance, so he rewarded her the same. She deserved it.
"Am I honestly so short that you think I'm a student?" She playfully retorted.
"Of course not, Professor." She turned around, so she was no longer facing the moonlight directly. She still looked unearthly. "Forgive me, I'm the only Prefect who stayed over the holidays so I have rounds every night. I suppose telling people to go back to bed has become a bit of a habit."
She nodded, but then turned back to the railing she had been looking over.
That was unacceptable, he decided, so he joined her. Looking over the railing with her, he lit a cigarette and took a drag. It was a habit he had developed over the summer; He found it kept him awake and alert as well as calmed his anxiety about being back in (what was only metaphorically) hell.
Her face turned to face him. That was better, he thought. He liked it when she looked at him. "Those'll kill you, you know. And shouldn't you be doing rounds?"
Her lips formed just a bit of a mischievous smile, despite the scolding.
"There's hardly anyone else here," he said, "the rounds are more performative than anything. And," he made a point to draw attention to the cigarette as he took a final drag before using his wand to vanish it, "consider that noted."
"I was actually hoping I could ask you something," he added.
She smiled a bit at that. "I'm a Professor, Tom. It's quite literally in my job description to answer questions."
"Not personal ones," he replied. Her smile faltered.
When attempting to coax someone into divulging personal information, there is always a line. A line they won't cross, a line that would end all further attempts to benefit from the interaction.
He wanted to see how far she would let him push.
"You can ask," she said hesitantly, "but no promises I'll answer."
"That's fair," he replied. "You've been teaching here for four years now, but you never go home for the holidays. Why not?"
The silence could be taken multiple ways. She could simply be refusing to speak, indicating that her home life was so unpleasant she retreated to Hogwarts as a sanctuary.
Not unlike himself.
It could also mean that she was choosing her words carefully, being particular about how much to reveal.
Perhaps she enjoyed being a mystery.
"You're not the only one without a real home," she finally responded, though her tone was cold and detached.
"So you don't have a family either, then?"
Having gotten the response he had been waiting for, he pushed further.
She didn't respond.
"What happened to them?"
She still didn't respond.
"Are they dead?"
It was a bold question to ask. Too bold, maybe. But she always answered him, and he found himself somehow dreading that this time she might not.
"Something like that," she said. Her voice held no emotion.
Before he could ask another question, to prompt her to explain, the bells of the clock tower went off, telling them it was officially 1943. Using her wand, Granger sent a single firework shooting into the sky.
"Happy birthday, Tom," she said before turning away.
He wanted to call her back, but he pursed his lips and remained silent.
It was a bit strange that she knew it was his birthday, but that wasn't what struck him;
She had no family either.
She was just as alone as he was.
As he watched her walk away, he thought of birds in cages, of butterflies, no -not butterflies, she'd be a firefly, lighting up just for me- in jars, and he wished he could keep her like that.
It would be beneath her, obviously. To be kept as nothing more than a decoration or a pet. It would be a waste.
But she wouldn't be able to leave.
Usually no one was awake early Saturday mornings, but Tom always was. He rarely slept at Hogwarts, instead utilizing as much of his time learning as possible. He could sleep over the summer, if need be.
Granger, it seemed, didn't sleep much either. Since the attacks had started, he noticed that she seemed even more jumpy than usual, and he saw that dark circles had begun to form under her eyes. In class, she seemed to hide them with dark smudges of makeup that made it all look intentional, but as one of the only people to wake up early enough to see her in the mornings, he knew she was exhausted. She had also been pulling her sleeves down a lot more than normal(especially the left one, though he assumed it was because she was right handed), which confirmed to him that it was, in fact, a nervous tick.
She also began to carry a small hand mirror with her everywhere she went, though she usually kept it out of sight and hidden within a pocket.
It only seemed obvious that she would figure it out before anyone else.
It didn't surprise him to find her awake that morning, standing outside the infirmary, clutching a book so hard her knuckles had turned white. She was staring in at the petrified forms of the two victims, Hannah Clarence and Peter Robbie(both muggleborn), with an odd expression painting her face.
Her brow was slightly furrowed, but her gaze was sharp. There was tension in the way she held her lips, pressing them into a thin line, but he wasn't sure exactly what it meant. It reminded him a bit of the way Orion Black looked whenever muggle advancements were mentioned in conversation: disapproval.
But unlike the look of moderate distaste that he saw on Orion, Granger's expression held determination.
She almost looked like she was in pain.
"Professor," he called towards her, greeting her, and watching with concealed fascination as her face suddenly banished the former expression, morphing into a look of rehearsed amicability.
He found he rather loved seeing her do that. It reminded him of a Veela morphing from a vicious harpy into an indescribably beautiful maiden.
"Tom," she greeted kindly in return. The other teachers(with the exception of Slughorn) usually called him Riddle, but Granger rarely did, he noticed.
He liked it.
He did not like how he was unable to address her by her first name(which he didn't even know, now that he thought about it) as well, but it was better than nothing.
Her smile was soft, almost girlish, and looked the very epitome of propriety, but her knuckles were tense, clutching the spine of her book so hard it wouldn't surprise him to see it crumble under her grip. The scars he had noticed the first year he met her, the ones he was positive came from her fist repeatedly colliding with something hard(perhaps a wall, or perhaps a very unlucky man's face), stood out visibly against her skin.
He felt a sudden -and surprisingly strong- urge to reach out and trace them, to memorize the feeling of those scars under his fingertips. But he didn't, forcing himself to meet her amber eyes instead.
Her right hand reached over to pull her left sleeve down again.
"You know it's a Saturday, don't you?" Her voice sounded gently teasing and almost melodic, far too innocent for how he knew her to be. It almost bothered him. Almost, because it was very similar to the mask he himself wore, even though they both knew better. "What are you doing up so early? Shouldn't you be sleeping in?"
"The library is particularly quiet in the early mornings," he replied, knowing she'd relate to his appreciation for knowledge. A hum of acknowledgement and a nod was all the response she gave.
Her smile faltered as she turned back towards the door, peering into the infirmary. She shuffled her feet back away from the entrance, like the petrification was contagious and she would fall victim too if even a single toe crossed over the line into the room.
In realty, she was one of the only people he wouldn't consider sending the basilisk after. She had secured her safety simply by being too interesting, too useful, and too intriguing for him to risk losing, though it's not like he could explain that to her.
Not now, anyways.
She was looking at the bodies, laying against the sterile infirmary beds like statues, covered in a scratchy white sheet. They weren't dead, but at this point "bodies" was a more accurate term than "people". They were petrified, frozen, so unlifelike they may as well be dead. There wasn't anything left there, not really.
It bothered him that he was standing right in front of her and she still was looking at them instead of him. It may have been his work she was looking at, but it wasn't enough.
He was more worthy of her focus, of her attention, than anything or anyone in this school and he felt mildly insulted that she wasn't giving it to him.
So he decided to rectify that.
He stepped closer and her focus shifted back to him. That was better, that was good. "I've been meaning to ask you," he started, "you mentioned in class that certain potions could have overlap with defense, but that it's not necessary to learn them as their use is generally impractical. Are their any situations in which they would be useful, or is it best to disregard them completely?"
Her expression noticeably brightened, as she turned, leaving her back towards the frozen students in the hospital wing and facing entirely towards him. "Well, that's a bit of a trick question, isn't it? No information should ever be just 'disregarded', but that doesn't mean there's not more practical alternatives in most situations."
Lips quirking upwards, he smiled at her as he subtly lead her away from the infirmary.
Of course he had always known that the basilisk could kill, it was literally bred to do so, but after the first few attacks he found it unlikely that it would.
He couldn't exactly say it was an accident that Alicia Sivler died, but it wasn't entirely intentional either.
He had come to enjoy being the first to see the bodies, the first to admire his work. He liked the way they looked: frozen, and always with a look of sheer terror in their eyes.
But Sivler didn't look like that. Rather than have statuesque limbs sticking out in front of her, or a permanent look of fear upon her frozen face, she looked limp, cold, and pale.
He didn't need to check her pulse, but he did anyways. She was dead.
He fled the scene.
When Dippet announced the school would be closing, he knew he had to find a way to stop it, to cover it up, to keep himself safe. He could not go back to Wool's.
The summers were bad enough; He couldn't live there. He couldn't be trapped in a life without magic, without the only thing that mattered to him.
A stroke of genius, perhaps, but he came up with a plan. He prayed it would work.
He knew something was wrong when it was Dumbledore who summoned him to the headmaster's office, not Slughorn. Not his head of house, but the teacher who had always been suspicious of him, led him up the steps to see Dippet, even though by all means it should have been Slughorn, or even Granger, because they were both Slytherin teachers.
The only reason Dumbledore would be if he had gone out of his way to be involved, which in and of itself was reason to be cautious.
The door opened, and Dippet, who looked completely exhausted, motioned for Tom to sit in the chair in front of his desk. Dumbledore didn't sit. He was almost positive he was about to be interrogated, even if they'd never call it that.
"Good evening, Tom," he said, and though he was obviously trying to sound as polite as possible, the strain in his voice was noticeable. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to be having, and therefore likely wasn't one Tom wanted to have either. "We just wanted to go over the details again. Make sure we know exactly what happened, so we can make sure we are acting appropriately. Please repeats what happened for us."
"Of course, sir." He didn't bother to smile, even if it would be polite. Given the stress of the situation, it would look out of place.
"I admit I knew the acromantula was there for a while, hidden down in the dungeons, but, you see, I didn't know it was dangerous, so I didn't say anything. Professor Kettleburn never talked about them in class, and I was raised by," he paused, turning away as though embarrassed, "muggles, in the orphanage."
That was partially true; He had known it was there for a while, but he made a point not to report things unless the benefits outweighed the consequences. It kept him popular with the students, who in the future may be very useful.
He sighed, feigning remorse as he spoke. "I only found out they could kill when I found something about them in the library. Knowing then, that this creature could potentially be behind the attacks, I knew I had made a mistake and needed to come forward about what I knew. So, I found Hagrid, attempted to kill the spider so it could harm no one else, and then brought him straight here."
Dippet surely looked convinced. His expression was soft and apologetic, like he felt guilty for making a poor orphan boy relive all this.
"Now, Tom, you definitely should have come forward sooner, but no one faults you for this. Looking after your peers is, after all, a highly admirable trait and one of the reasons you were chosen as prefect. Hopefully now you have learned your lesson, and we are surely grateful you were brave enough to step in."
Tom allowed color to fade into his cheeks as he bashfully hung his head. "Of course, Professor."
Dumbledore, however, did not seem equally impressed. Or impressed at all. Never one to seem outwardly angry, or even so much as raise his voice, he simply gave Tom a soft, disbelieving smile. They both knew Dumbledore couldn't just outright admit he thought that Tom was lying, but he clearly was not prepared to just drop the issue either.
"Now, did you actually see the acromantula anywhere near the body?"
To an onlooker, the question was innocent, meant simply to clarify. Tom knew better. He was sure it was a challenge, and in response put on the most innocent expression he could.
"No, sir, I already told you everything. I just think it's suspicious. It's been said that there is a monster living within the castle, and there hasn't been an attack since we found it."
Dippet, turning to Dumbledore, nodded emphatically, though it didn't seem to phase the other man.
"It's only been a few days -that's hardly proof enough to make a decision."
The door creaked, and all three of the men present turned to look as it opened, revealing a very uncomfortable looking Professor Granger. She stepped forward, in between Tom and Dumbledore. Tom was secretly glad that she had placed herself as a buffer between himself and the old man, because he couldn't have moved away himself without seeming suspicious.
He didn't enjoy the way Dumbledore kept glancing at him, watching him.
"Professor Granger, how kind of you to join us." Dippet spoke up first.
"Yes, Headmaster, I didn't mean to eavesdrop but," she took a deep breath, seemingly to steady herself, before continuing. "There may not be any direct evidence to prove the acromantula was behind the attacks, but if it was, it'd be quite ridiculous to close the school now that it's gone. Perhaps we should wait and see before coming to a decision?"
Tom glanced over her shoulder to see Dumbledore was looking at her with a look of what he could only interpret as disappointment.
By the looks of it, he had hoped the woman would have agreed with him. Not only had she not, but she had gone so far as to use the word 'ridiculous' to describe what he was proposing. No wonder the old coot was upset.
"We'll talk to the Ministry about it further, Professor. Thank you for your input. Tom, it's quite late and-"
"I'll walk him back to the Slytherin common room," she cut in, "if there is a monster still on the loose, it's not best to let students wander alone."
Tom opened his mouth to say that wasn't necessary, but Dippet was already agreeing and he didn't see the need to fuss over it. He held the door open, allowing Granger through first(she was a lady, after all) and they walked back to the dungeons in silence.
She wasn't saying anything, nor did he expect her to, but he continued to steal glances at her anyways. She was acting... odd. While she didn't look panicked(he did remember, vividly, what she looked like when she was scared), she didn't look comfortable either. Her spine was almost perfectly straight, as though she had been reminding herself not to slouch, and her muscles had gone rigid. He didn't see her wand, but he knew she kept it holstered in her sleeve, where she could get to it immediately if necessary.
Maybe she actually thought there was a monster on the loose, and was feeling defensive. Not that a wand could do much to protect someone from a basilisk, and he wouldn't send it after her anyways, but she might not know that. She had been carrying around a mirror, but maybe the finding of the acromantula(which had gotten away) made her doubt her original hypothesis.
But then why would she want to keep the school open, if she herself didn't think it safe? Why would she condemn Dumbledore's concerns when she had her own?
Before he could contemplate it further, he felt a forceful pull from the back of his neck, dragging him back into an empty classroom. It happened so fast he couldn't so much as think to question it as he found himself thrown into a wall. Her wand left her sleeve and he heard the door lock. Just as he turned to ask what she was doing, her wand pushed into the skin of his throat.
"Your pet needs to stay in its cage," she hissed, looking absolutely deranged.
Her hair was frizzing out in all directions, and her eyes had an almost feral gleam to them. In another situation, he'd have thought she looked glorious like that. The fact that her rage was directed at him made it noticeably less pleasant.
Upon realizing what she had just said, he felt his pulse quicken. She knew. She had thrown him into a wall and was holding her wand to his throat, because she knew what he had done, and he knew this was a situation he needed to handle very carefully.
He tried to placate her, to feign ignorance, as he still slowly began to reach for his wand. "Professor, I-"
"No! Shut the bloody fuck up, Tom!" The pressure of the wand pushing against the skin of his of his throat increased, and he could feel the blood in his body pulse against it, quick and erratic.
For a moment, he felt stunned -almost like she had literally hit him with a stunning spell. He had never heard a woman say the word 'fuck' before. It was another piece of the situation he would have enjoyed had he not been being threatened.
She was still talking.
"That acromantula story is bullshit and we both know it. They know it too, but they don't want to admit it so they're trying to pretend. Dumbledore is already suspicious. If your scaly friend comes out to play again, even if no one is killed, it won't matter anymore. There is nothing I'll be able to do to protect you then."
She stepped back slowly, lowering her wand, but she kept her eyes locked on him through each step. And then-
"Please."
Her eyes widened just a bit, and then she hastily looked away. It was strange, because for a moment, and only a moment, he swore he saw something flicker in her eyes. Something that looked like fear, except that wasn't it. It was more like guilt, even though he knew that didn't make sense.
And then she looked away it was gone.
He had never been slow to understanding the motives of others. It had always been quite easy for him to fit together all the pieces -body language, tone, word choice, context- until he had a clear picture of what was going through the mind of another, even if it was simplistic and often stupid.
This was different. None of the pieces she had given him matched up to anything.
She had threatened him, then given him advice which, despite the menacing way in which it was delivered, sounded genuine, and then she had said she was trying to protect him(a bizarre notion in and of itself, truly, and certainly something to be examined later.)
And then she said "please".
Why?
What was she asking for? What did she want?
When her eyes flickered back to him, he felt like he couldn't look away. He didn't understand why her eyes looked like that, like she was begging, pleading to him for something. Not knowing what else to do, he nodded.
With a flick of her wand, she unlocked the door and turned to leave. Before she could walk away, before he could question his own actions, he reached out for her, gripping her wrist.
"Why are you doing this?"
"I don't know," she replied, and he noted that she looked a bit lost, like this was as baffling to her as it was to him.
That wasn't good enough. She needed to answer him. She always answered him. "Is it because you agree?"
Perhaps that was the reasoning behind this, that she did not believe he should be punished for continuing Slytherin's noble work.
But then her gaze darkened, and her anger returned.
"Absolutely not, and I don't think you're stupid enough to genuinely believe that either," she snapped.
His grip on her wrist tightened. It wasn't intentional, but she deserved the warning.
"Salazar Slytherin was one of the most brilliant wizards who ever lived, and you dare call him stupid?"
"I'll call anyone who believes in that nonsense stupid. You're smarter than that, Tom. Use your head. You really think inbreeding is somehow going to lead to an ideal wizarding world?"
He glared at her, but said nothing, mostly because he wasn't sure what to say. He was angry, furious even, but he was also feeling confused, because he had no idea what she was doing, no idea how to figure her out, how to manage the situation.
In an attempt to control his temper, he left out a shaking breath and released her wrist. If he kept holding onto it, he might actually break it.
She examined her wrist for marks, signs of the harm done, but he knew there were none. He had let her go specifically so that he wouldn't hurt her.
He forced his voice to remain calm when he spoke again. "Then why?"
"Because you could be so much better than that, if you decided to be."
That wasn't a real answer, but she left anyways.
He wanted to grab her, to pull her -drag her, if need be- back, to ask her over and over and over again until she answered because, for him, she always answered, but he didn't.
He watched her go and grit his teeth and clenched his fists, but he let her go.
Back in his dorm, Tom spent the next several hours unsuccessfully attempting to will himself into unconsciousness.
It never worked.
It never worked, because the same question kept repeating in his head.
What did she want?
Why would she do this? What should she possibly gain from this?
If it was about her job, she would have thrown him under the bus instead of siding with him when she knew Hagrid wasn't guilty.
Not that she needed the job anyways, in fact her talent was likely being wasted doing nothing but grading plagiarized papers, but-
No. It wasn't about her job. Of that he was certain.
It very briefly occurred to him that she might just be being nice, to get him out of trouble, but the thought made him literally scoff out loud(and earned him a confused glance from a very tired Abraxas Malfoy; He shut the curtains around his bed after that, thankful for the built in silencing charms).
No, Granger is a lot of things, but she is not nice.
A nice person would certainly not be helping him cover up a murder.
Call a spade a spade, that's what she was doing: covering up the murder of Alicia Sivler for his sake. And that was not a nice thing to do.
So what was left then? He thought back to her words, to everything she had told him, and it dawned on him.
"Because you could be so much better than that, if you decided to be."
She wanted him to continue to grow, to learn, to be better, and she was willing to sacrifice the welfare of someone truly unworthy to ensure he had the chance.
She had chosen him.
Just as he saw her as special, she acknowledged him as such too. She knew he was better than the rest of them, because she was too.
Within him, she must have seen a kindred spirit, and he saw it too.
Every great wizard in history had a mentor to teach them, to guide them; Merlin was taught under Slytherin himself.
Tom knew he was destined to be the greatest of them all, and Granger was given to him to teach him like no one else could.
That's why she had looked so lost, so confused at her own actions. She was a gift from fate, and she didn't even know it. This was out of her control.
It was her fate, her destiny, even, to be given to him. To teach him, to help him in ways no one else would ever be able to.
In return, he decided he'd do the same for her, he decided. It would take time, but she'd come to him.
He thought back to those cages and jars, the ones he wanted to keep her in, and he smiled knowing that they wouldn't be necessary.
A few days after they announced the school would be staying open, he saw Granger walk into to Dumbledore's office and shut the door.
A part of him panicked, thinking that perhaps she was regretting this, perhaps he had been mistaken and she was turning him in-
But, no, she wouldn't do that. His fears quickly subsided. She wouldn't do that. She couldn't do that, since her binding to him may as well have been written in the stars. She still had free will, free thought, but she wouldn't betray him.
Still, he attempted to eavesdrop, though what he heard was all very muffled.
"Not to be negative," he recognized that voice as Dumbledore, "but I find myself quite worried about that, seeing as acromantulas do not petrify their victims. It doesn't make much sense, does it?"
"Not typically, no," Granger, definitely, "but the one that was found was simply a baby. We have so little information on the species as is, and we have no idea about how they are when they're young. For all we know, the nature of the venom could change with age."
She was protecting him. Again, she was protecting him. She was straight up lying to one of the most powerful wizards in history, and it was for his sake that she was doing so.
His heart started racing, and he wasn't sure why because it definitely wasn't fear, but-
Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching the door and he immediately began to walk away.
Granger exited Dumbledore's office, and she didn't so much as spare him a glance as she raced down the hall back to her own.
Not thinking twice, he started to follow her. Not walking too quickly, not wanting to seen suspicious, but he did retrace her steps back to her office and knocked on the door.
She didn't open it, but he hadn't been expecting her to. It would make sense for her to be upset if Dumbledore had decided to interrogate her. After testing the doorknob and seeing it was locked, he pulled out the charmed key again and made quick work of unlocking it.
Granger was sitting on her couch, knees pulled into her chest with her arms wrapped protectively around them. Her eyes looked red and slightly puffy, and if he wasn't mistaken, her cheeks were wet.
She had been crying.
Once, back at the orphanage, he had seen Mrs Cole comfort a sobbing boy by telling him that crying when you're hurt or upset is as natural as coughing when you have something in your throat.
At the time, he had scoffed at the notion. Looking at Granger now though, it made a little more sense. Despite the tears, she didn't appear weak.
It still made him a bit uncomfortable, but he was determined not to let it show.
He crossed the room and sat across from her on the couch.
"How did you get in?" She asked.
He pulled the key from his pocket, noting the way she looked at it with intrigue. "Orion and Alphard Black use this to sneak into Slughorn's liquor cabinet. I take it when I need it," he said matter-of-factly. "You've been crying. What did Dumbledore do?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. Too quickly -she was nervous. "He didn't do anything. I'm just stressed and it upset me. I'm fine."
In her mind, he could kill her at any moment and she had to operate with caution to ensure her safety. He had decided already that he had no intentions of killing her, but of course she didn't know that yet.
He'd have to teach her, show her, that he meant her no harm.
He began to pull his wand from his pocket, and she reflexively reached for her own, eyes wide with fear.
But, to prove his point to her, he didn't curse her(which would have been counterproductive to his new objective). Instead, he put out his other hand, waved his wand over it, and a daisy appeared. He gently closed his fingers around it before offering it to her. She looked at the flower like it was a hissing snake, her wand still firmly in her hand. He smirked.
A daisy could mean a lot of things; Among those things was "innocence" and he a feeling she'd appreciate the irony. Other than that, it could symbolize new beginnings, and an affirmation of secrets kept safe.
It was fitting.
"Relax," he told her, and she slowly took the flower from his hand, holding it in her own. "You're a bit paranoid, don't you think?"
"I have reason to be," she muttered under her breath, sparking a sense of both curiosity and concern within him. He'd have to explore that later.
"Does this," she gestured to the daisy, "mean you're not going to leave them on my desk anymore, now that I know it's you?"
"You've known I've been leaving them for the entire year," he stated, not bothering to hide his grin.
"And you know that how?" She retorted, and it was probably meant to sound bossy or shrewish, but her indignation was comical.
He plucked the daisy from her hand, made his way over to her desk, dropped it in the vase, and then wandered over to her bookshelves. "You've had this," he said as he grabbed a specific book off her shelves, "in your office all year. You didn't before."
It was a guide to floriography. A book literally used to translate the language of flowers, to decipher the messages he'd sent her. He noticed it the first time he went into her office that year.
Dropping it on her lap, he returned to his place next to her with a self satisfied look on his face.
"That doesn't mean I knew it was you," she replied defensively, looking quite annoyed with him.
Usually, he didn't like the word 'cute'. It was stupid and juvenile, but there really wasn't another word to describe the way she was trying not to pout at him.
"You did. I knew you'd understand it, and the reason you're sounding so put out about it is because you're not used to other people matching your intelligence."
Neither was he, for that matter. They were very much alike in that sense as well.
"You knew I'd understand it? And how exactly did you know that?"
"I'd have figured it out, so I knew that you would have," he said.
"So that's it? You just assumed that because you'd have gotten it, I would too?" Her voice was getting shrill, bossy, and he couldn't pretend it wasn't delightful to be the cause of it.
He loved that this was just another side of her that only he got to see, that only he was worthy of knowing, so he continued provoking her.
"Is that not how you've been teaching me for the last four years now?"
She huffed, but no further response left her lips.
I win, he thought with a smirk.
"You still haven't told me what the point of all of this was," she muttered, bitterness still heavy in her tone.
He shrugged. "The first one was just to say 'thank you'."
"And you couldn't have just said it yourself?" She asked, the exasperation obvious in her tone.
"And would you have thought I meant it?" He retorted.
No, obviously not. She knew from the very beginning that he was special, and she definitely wouldn't have believed any niceties he gave her, nor would he have meant them at the time.
"After that, I was more or less just curious to see when you'd catch on. You're cleverer than most. I barely had to leave you anything," he finished.
"So that's all this was about? You just wanted to see if I'd figure it out?" She folded her arms over her chest.
"I wouldn't have bothered if I didn't find you interesting, if that's what you're asking."
Interesting,
Intriguing,
Crafted just for me
Special
She cleared her throat, likely wanting to change the subject.
"What was the charm you put on the iris?"
Unable to help himself, he burst into laughter. The irate expression she gave him only made it all the more amusing.
Once he had calmed down, he told her, "I really thought you'd have figured that part out first, you know. Isn't it obvious?"
She looked over at the vase on her desk. The daisy he had just put there looked very much alive. The violet and petunia were certainly past looking dismal, but she hadn't bothered to throw them away. And the iris was looking exactly as it had the first day she got it.
"That's really it? It doesn't wilt, but nothing else?" Her shock and disbelief were palpable.
He didn't respond, but didn't need to. The smug look on his face was enough of a response.
"How did you even come up with the idea?" She asked, and though she still seemed upset with him, he detected a bit of curiosity. "Until I went looking, I'd never even heard of it. It's not very common knowledge."
He frowned; It wasn't something he wanted to talk about. But, for her, he decided, he would. She had earned honesty.
"At the orphanage, Mrs. Cole makes us go to church on Sundays. I refused, obviously, because muggle religion is pathetic. I think she thought I was possessed, because she was incredibly insistent that I go. Eventually, she told me I could go through the church's library if I agreed to go and take communion.
"The library was mostly just full of random, donated books that people wanted to get rid of. Not very interesting, but it was better than doing nothing. They had a book about it there."
"Oh." She suddenly looked like she felt guilty for asking.
"Dumbledore doesn't have any evidence," she, changing the subject. "You're fine. He just has a grudge against you."
I'm aware, he thought dryly.
"How long have you known?" He carefully monitored his tone as he asked, not wanting to frighten her.
"A while."
"That's hardly an answer."
"It's the only one you're going to get," she replied, clearly suspicious of him.
"Will you tell me how you figured it out then?"
For a moment, she looked away, debating what(or how much) to say. Then she took a deep breath and said calmly, "The sorting hat would almost surely put Slytherin's heir in Slytherin's own house, given the founder's weird fixation on heritage. That already narrows it down to a fourth of the school. The pureblood families would without a doubt brag about something like that, but they didn't. So that narrows it down further. Looking into your family history, you can see that you're the son of Merope Gaunt, direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin.
"That being said, it's not actually proof of guilt. Dumbledore knows all this, but he has nothing solid enough to do anything about it. Don't give him any further reason to look into it."
"I won't," he responded immediately, because when she had asked him, begged him, to before, all he could give her was a nod. She deserved verbal affirmation. "I'm not overly worried about that anymore. As you said, he has nothing that isn't circumstantial, and Dippet just wants this to blow over. We're going to be fine."
"We?" She questioned.
"Yes. We."
Unsure of how much he could say without frightening her, he settled for that.
For now, anyways.