November 1940

Patience. A virtue or the tool of simpletons who did not know how to get their way in a timely manner? Depended on the situation. Tom knew his patience in searching the school for the Chamber of Secrets would be rewarded with the receipt of power his ancestor had granted him. He also knew his patience with Dumbledore's persistent questions and rambling stories only served to pull him into the professor's orbit more often, rather than give him the information he would need to reach that sacred place. It might be worth it, in the end.

Just as listening to Slughorn blather on for nearly two years had finally gotten him solid information about his father, much good as that had done him. It had been months, but Tom still didn't want to believe his father was really a pathetic Muggle living a life of leisure with his parents. His mother had surely suffered after Tom Riddle, Sr. had left her—what other reason would there be for her to abandon her son? More importantly, what reason did she have for cursing him with the name of another coward? So that he could carry on the family legacy of abandoning whatever pursuit had lost its luster over time? Unacceptable.

Tom frowned, crossed his arms and leaned his chair back, his eyes closed. It was maddening, this patience. He had to wait to confront the man whom he knew had allowed for his life in the orphanage, for no better reason than a Statute of Secrecy that prevented the school from letting the coward know what he'd done. It was idiotic, to be sure, but the patience required to wait until a suitable time gave him leisure to think of what he would do when finally able to confront Tom Riddle, Sr. Now, the question remained, would he be able to get away with it?

"Tom?"

If I ignore her, maybe she'll go away, he thought. He knew better, but he couldn't help hoping one day it might be true. If only for that one instance.

A few seconds passed before the girl said his name again. Tom opened his eyes. Walburga Black smiled down at him. As he sat up, a tentative smile tilted her lips at the corners. Tom glanced around the library briefly before returning his gaze to the girl who'd interrupted his thoughts.

"May I help you?"

Walburga smiled and ran a hand over her slick black hair in what should've been an inviting gesture. He supposed she was attractive by most people's standards, in spite of her grating personality. Over the years, Tom had found all of the Blacks to be interchangeable. They all possessed the same dark hair and wide eyes, pedigreed background and the natural snobbishness that accompanied their good lucks and family status. Best and most useful of all, they possessed intelligence and cunning—earning every member of the family a place in Slytherin.

This last was the only reason he allowed Walburga, her siblings and any of her extended family members to annoy him on a regular basis. It was baffling why they all seemed drawn to him. He knew the family and their connections might be useful one day, once he was far away from the confining hall of Hogwarts. If only he didn't have to suffer under the oppressive, insistent nature of the female family members' hormones. If it wasn't Walburga pinning him down for a study time, it was Lucretia inviting him to a Quidditch match or Cedrella wanting to sit next to him at dinner. As with Slughorn and Dumbledore, Tom felt sure the annoyance would one day be worth it.

Still smiling, Walburga moved to sit next to him, placed a hand over his on the table and began to whisper in his ear.

Tom frowned quickly, before forcing a quick smile onto his face. Walburga continued to flirt with him, oblivious to his disinterest. Reading her banal thoughts from several feet away, Dumbledore couldn't blame Tom for not being the least bit interested. She was boring and, though intelligent in her own right, didn't come close to competing with him on an intellectual level. Not that many could. Albus knew, without even having to ask, that Tom would never take more than a token interest in someone he felt had little to offer him, either in the way of favors or, at the very least, stimulation of some kind. Especially someone who could spark an interest in that sharp mind of his. This fourth year girl was nowhere close. Tom was too polite—or simply couldn't be bothered—to tell her as much.

It was amusing to watch her try to capture his attentions. Dumbledore found himself observing the pair for several minutes, almost hoping Tom would say what he was really thinking—though it might send the Black girl out of the library in tears. He wondered briefly if the boy knew what he did—that he wouldn't be interested in Walburga Black if she were the smartest, prettiest girl at Hogwarts. There was one fundamental component that would render her forever beneath his notice. It had been obvious to Albus for a while, noticeable even to Horace Slughorn once he'd spent some time with the boy. How long would it be before Tom Riddle, Jr. was ready to acknowledge just why he felt different from most of the other boys?

Albus sensed that would be a remarkable day in the castle.

Hearing the door to his office open and close, Slughorn looked up from the tests he'd been grading in surprise. "Riddle, my boy. I wasn't expecting you today. " He smiled. "What brings you to see me?"

Tom returned the smile and glided forward. "I just wanted to thank you again, sir. I never expected to be nominated for that award and to win was just—"
"Nothing less than you deserved," Slughorn finished for him. "Your work in my class has been little short of brilliant and that essay on the possible uses of powdered mandrake in modern medicine was worth every bit of praise it received from the committee. You keep this up and I see a great number of awards in your future."

Tom blushed and nodded at the praise. "I have no doubt, under your guidance, I'll be able to achieve a great deal."

"But I'm not the only one guiding you, am I?"

Tom glanced at the Potions professor in surprise. His tone had changed, becoming slightly more serious. "Professor?"

"I just meant that you've spent quite a lot of time with Professor Dumbledore," Slughorn said. He began tapping his fingers on the stack of ungraded tests. "I don't believe I've seen him take such an interest in a student in all my years of teaching."

Tom began to frown. For a man who rarely noticed anything beyond the constant fawning and gifts he received from students current and former, he was remarkably observant about things that did not concern him.

Slughorn shrugged. "You are by far one of the more brilliant students I've encountered, but there must be something more to you that he finds fascinating."

It had escaped him before, but Tom knew the tone that now inundated Slughorn's words. Hard to believe, but he was jealous. Of what, Tom couldn't imagine. Unless the other man knew his time with the Transfiguration professor was voluntary while his meetings with the talkative Slughorn were more a means to an end—but even that was a minor technicality. Tom wasn't overly thrilled with the company of either man when he felt they were getting in the way more than helping. And childishly harping on who he spent more time with was hardly going to endear him to Professor Slughorn any more than lectures on proper conduct had made Dumbledore his companion of choice.

"I can't imagine what you mean," Tom said. Momentary surprise had flustered him, but he'd quickly gained control of his emotions. "We've spent some time talking about things—academic things—but I don't know what there is about me that is so different from other students."

"I don't mean something negative," Slughorn assured him. "Just that…he likes to pick the brains of those he finds most interesting. Tends to spend more time with them than anyone else. I've told Albus it's a rude habit, but he insists that it doesn't happen as often as I suspect."

"I'm sorry?" Tom frowned. "What's a rude habit?"

"Dumbledore—I'm sorry, boy. Don't you know? He is a very skilled Legilimens," Slughorn smiled and leaned back in his desk chair. "Over the years, he has developed the most awful habit of discerning people's thoughts at will. He's become so skilled, even those who are gifted at Occlumency can hardly tell when he is at it." He waved a hand in the air absently. "As I was saying, he must find your thoughts or something else rather fascinating if he's been keeping company with you as often as I suspect." Slughorn's eyes narrowed. "What do you the two of you talk about?"

"Just the usual, school and such," Tom repeated. "In first year he promised to tutor me as long as I maintain my grades."

"You've both kept up the bargain, I see." Slughorn smiled again, but there was no mirth in it. Just a thoughtful expression in his eyes Tom wished he could decipher as easily as the man's obvious jealousy. The Potion professor's eyes went back to the tests and he picked up his quill from the inkpot. "Let me know if you need any help with your homework assignment, Riddle."

With that, Tom knew he was dismissed. He waited for Slughorn to catch his eye again before he left. When nothing happened, he rose from the guest chair and headed for the library, his thoughts consumed with half-formed plans of how he would evade Dumbledore's probing.

That settled it. He wouldn't be able to spend time with him ever again. Tom frowned and paced in front of the window. Not even safe sitting in class, am I? Avoiding him was no use and he knew it—Dumbledore probably knew it as well. No wonder he had no objection to having me poring over books in his office twice a week. Makes me easier prey.

Tom considered the books on Legilimency he'd found in the Hogwarts library. Not only had Dumbledore been able to read every thought as he had them, he was able to pick up on past thoughts and emotions, fantasies, dreams—the staggering amount of information he could've plucked out of the thirteen-year-old's head was nauseating in its capacity. Of course, if Dumbledore really had read some of his darker thoughts, Tom felt sure he would've tried to draw some sort of confession out of him—for the pranks, the thoughts of his father, his ongoing search of the school.

But the lack of confrontation did not mean he was not aware of these things. The professor was intelligent, after all. He probably knew it would be better to wait until Tom had done something substantial before stepping in with well-timed advice or detention, as the situation would merit. As nothing truly dangerous had happened, he had simply remained uninvolved. Not that the supposition that he would not interfere unless necessary was comforting. It just meant Tom would have to be even more careful.

He would have to learn Occlumency. That was a priority. The instructions in one of the books had seemed simple enough. Tom thought he could master it before the weekend was over. That left him four days to avoid the Transfiguration professor in the Great Hall. With all of the minds available there, it would probably be more difficult for him to read—

"Tom, is there a reason you're out of your common room at this hour?"

Tom stopped pacing and turned to face Professor Dumbledore. The soft glow of moonlight through the window highlighted the small glints of silver in his auburn hair and beard, but the gloom of the night shielded his eyes. While Tom was apparently an open book, the professor was as hidden to him as the Chamber his ancestor had built, a creature behind his bright eyes holding both the wisdom of the ages and the means to destroy Tom's world if it were to ever be unleashed. Although wary of what could come, he felt he had to respect that kind of power. And learn to use it to his advantage.

Tom's eyes shot to the floor. He clutched the worn copy of Practical Defensive Magic tightly to his side. "I wasn't aware that it had grown late, professor. I was just leaving the library, sir."

"Professor? Sir?" Dumbledore echoed. Tom heard a small chuckle from him. "You haven't called me by a title in months. Have I done something to offend you?"

"No," Tom said quickly, looking up. A frown tugged the corners of his mouth down. Is he doing it now? "I apologize for missing curfew. It won't happen again." Before Dumbledore could respond, Tom turned on his heel and walked briskly to the closest set of stairs.

No more, Tom thought as he escaped. He would learn more than Dumbledore was willing to teach him, even if he had to spend every spare moment manipulating Slughorn. There would be no more opportunities for the Transfiguration professor to take advantage of him.