A/N: Sorry this took so long, guys. My muse went on vacation and I hate writing when I don't really want to. I think it reflects in the story. But here it is, at last! A rather wonderful chapter in which Tom finds that he isn't a clever at keeping secrets as he had thought, and in which two youn people grow up a bit.
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The rest of the holiday passed quickly. School began again, much in the same way it had ended. Tom didn't worry very much about finding who had given him the ring. They could come to him. He looked forward to the start of classes, but when he stepped into Greenhouse one, he found himself inexplicably nervous.
Stryker was already at the table. Tom sighed, and then berated himself for even caring. The female was unattractive and had never spoken a civilized word to him. And yet he couldn't help but watch the delicate motion of her wrist when she flicked her wrist just right in Transfiguration; the curve of her smile when there was strawberry tart at dinner; the way her eyes shined when she was being witty. She terrified him.
He sat down noiselessly next to her. They did not speak, not even after being away for two weeks. That was simply the way it was.
Tom was in the middle of transporting a poisonwood practicus plant into a larger pot when the voice came back for the first time since Christmas Eve.
It has been too long, Tom Riddle. You have been slacking off in your duties. Even treating inferior people congenially. What is your fascination with the girl?
Tom frowned. "Not now," he muttered, carefully extracting the root from its soil. "I am busy."
Why must you focus all your attention on this? We have important things to discuss.
"This is a very delicate procedure, that it why." He finished transporting the plant quickly; the bell was about to ring. A small noise drew his eyes from the pulsing red plant. Stryker was staring at him, amusement gleaming in her eyes. She gathered up her bag at the bell and moved to the door. She turned to look at him and smiled softly. "I suggest you look up schizophrenia, Mr. Morlam. Something that has you screaming in agony and talking to yourself can't be healthy." She walked quietly out of the greenhouse door.
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Tom opened the heavy tome quickly. He had spent most of the evening fruitlessly searching the library for mention of schizophrenia. It had taken a while, but he had finally found an article about it in Muggle maladies- what the poor blokes mean when they diagnose you. He flipped to page 746.
"Schizophrenia (from the Greek word σχιζοφρένεια, or schizophreneia, meaning "split mind") is a psychiatric diagnosis that describes a mental disorder characterized by impairments in the perception or expression of reality and by significant social or occupational dysfunction. A person experiencing schizophrenia is typically characterized as demonstrating disorganized thinking, and as experiencing delusions or hallucinations, in particular auditory hallucinations. Schizophrenia is often described in terms of "positive" and "negative" symptoms. Positive symptoms include delusions, auditory hallucinations and thought disorder and are typically regarded as manifestations of psychosis. Negative symptoms are so named because they are considered to be the loss or absence of normal traits or abilities, and include features such as flat, blunted or constricted affect, little emotion and lack of motivation.
If a Muggle doctor has diagnosed you with this, it is best that you go to a wizarding hospital immediately. This disease is rarely seen in magical creatures of any kind; there is no known cure."
Tom rubbed at his temples. I am not insane. That idea is ridiculous. I do not have voices in my head telling me what to do. The voice is simply…my conscience, my better half. It is fundamentally like speaking with myself. Harry does that all the time.
Tom stared at the book for another quarter hour. Finally, he realized that people were beginning to glance at him strangely from around the bookcases. He slammed the heavy book closed. He needed to be alone. Needed to think. But where? There were people everywhere in the building. He stood. There was one place…
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He sat all alone right in the middle of the Quidditch pitch.
He wasn't exactly sure of the time. Maybe it had been hours, maybe just a few minutes. It didn't really matter to him either way.
Time didn't exist here.
It was dark, and the stars spread across like silver dust scattered in a random pattern over black silk. It was serenely quiet, with the occasional hoot of an owl or a deep rustle of leaves in the trees nearby. He closed his eyes.
The soft breeze gently smoothed his hair away from his face and he closed his eyes and leaned back slightly, welcoming the light caress of the moving air. He liked it here. But he felt as if though there was something missing. Something he could not quite put a picture or a word to.
Tom began to spend less and less time with his companions, and more and more time on the Quidditch field. He slept there sometimes. He wasn't sure why it made him feel so much better, but no one ever bothered him on the pitch, not even the voice. Every moment that he wasn't in class, he spent sitting quietly in the middle of the field, completely alone.
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Natalie couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned until finally, she rose. A walk would do her good. She didn't worry about getting caught; she had learned all the passageways and shortcuts long ago. The Quidditch field would be peaceful at this time of night.
As she approached the field, she saw a lone figure sitting in the exact center of the turf. It was Oliver Morlam. He was a Slytherin. She hated him. Had hated him inexplicably since the moment she had laid eyes on him. He had done nothing to her, said nothing. But she hated him anyway. She strode noiselessly up beside him.
"What are you doing here, in the middle of the night? It's against the rules. You're the perfect student, you should know that." She said emotionlessly.
"You should know that too," he smirked, turning to look at her.
Damn. He was right.
There was dead silence once again as she avoided his gaze. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. She desperately wanted to leave, but she promised herself she wouldn't let him get to her. She couldn't leave.
She threw a look back at the school compound; half hoping Filch would appear and send them back to their rooms.
Then his voice cut through the cool air.
"I am here to find something," This time when he spoke, the smirk in his voice was gone, replaced by a more somber tone.
She took a moment to ponder his reply, and then she asked, "What did you lose?" She was about to add something rather sarcastic when the moon appeared from behind a cloud and she caught sight of his grave countenance.
"I never really found it to know what it is," His voice had dipped below a murmur, and she thought she heard him wrong.
"What…?" She asked, confused and momentarily forgetting all other thoughts.
Almost as if she was hypnotized, she sat down next to him, curious to learn more, despite the fact that she had always hated him in a way she had never hated anyone else.
"You told me to look up schizophrenia. That is a muggle disease." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Why do you know of it?"
She didn't want to tell him. She glanced at the ring on his finger. She hated him, but she was fascinated by him and everything about him. She looked quietly at the ruby on her own finger. "I'm muggle born," she said simply. "It's a common term where I come from."
He looked away, into the forest. "Oh." Then, suddenly, "I am not schizophrenic." She snorted uncivilly. A small smile twisted his scarlet lips.
"Do you hate me, Natalie?"
"Yes."
His smile widened. They sat there for the rest of the night, unmoving, without speaking.
