Greetings, creatures of the fan realm. I won't take long – just a tiny note confessing my undying love for all of you. Thank you.
PLEASE REVIEW.
Disclaimer: I own Harry Potter (not).
"That's a very fascinating theory, but I doubt I am subconsciously capable of conjuring up huge hidden rooms," Victoria sighed and leaned back, laying her quill down on her half-finished essay, "are you sure you can't help me with the essay?" she added hopefully.
Tom shook his head, exhaling irritably and flipping through Hogwarts: A History almost feverishly.
"How don't I know about that room?" he muttered, staring at the pages as if commanding them to reveal the exact nature of the hidden room on the seventh floor.
"I advise you drop it," Victoria said darkly, "who knows what would happen if you try opening it again?"
Tom shook his head, snapping the book shut and drawing a second one closer to him. This one was bound in red leather, with a huge golden clasp. The embossed gilt letters on the cover simply read Hogwarts and nothing more.
He cast a look around, feeling both his temper and desperation rising. All around him, students sat at small tables, their heads bent low over their work, scribbling away on parchment. Madam Pince prowled the shelves, narrowing her eyes at anyone who looked up for more than a few minutes.
"You know," Victoria said in a low voice, snapping Tom back to reality, "usually when people want to discuss conspiracy theories, they ask the other person if they would care to partake in the discussion also."
Tom opened the heavy crimson book and sighed exasperatedly.
"This is a thousand and sixty eight pages," he said, closing it with a thud. Madam Pince snapped her neck in his direction so swiftly, he thought she surely must have cricked it.
"Tom," Victoria said loudly and forcefully, "I'm really not interested in finding out about the room."
He sighed, his stomach giving him an uncomfortable nudge when she said his name. He had tracked her down to the library where she was trying – and failing – to finish her Potions homework, and had regaled her with a hundred or so theories of what the room possibly was and how they could find it once more.
"You're really the only one who knows about it," he said, reluctantly opening the heavy book once more, "and I need to discuss this. How are you not even faintly curious?"
This, on Tom's part, was somewhat a lie. The day they had discovered the colossal room had been the day his entire life had taken a rather strange turn. Suddenly, Hogwarts housed a thousand more mysteries, and he had to solve them one by one. A sudden fleeting moment of panic had overtaken him as he had realized he barely had two more years left at Hogwarts, and that his curiosity and manic desire to find out about the room had to be sated immediately.
Coupled with this was the single irrefutable fact that he could not stop thinking about Victoria. He feared it had progressed from wary, detached interest to a certain level of liking. It made him angry, and confused, and made him want to shut down his mind and refuse to accept the direction things were heading. It was simply unfathomable that he could bear someone for more than two minutes, and then too after finding out what use they could be to him.
But Tom had accepted, though grudgingly, that she was too independent to be made use of. Not that he would try.
Which was another thing that irked him – how he treated her differently. Never in sixteen years had he voluntarily sought someone out and speculated about a hidden room. Deep down, he knew it was only because her take on things fascinated him. He blatantly refused to accept there was anything more to it.
"That was five days ago," she replied, without looking up from her essay, "can't you just accept the fact that it's magic?" she sighed, looking up and dropping her quill once more.
"That's not a satisfactory enough explanation," he said stubbornly, turning a page of the book. It was an odd sensation, knowing that she accepted him in turn. He had wondered if she would shun him; maybe tell him to go away once he sat down on the same table as her. But she hadn't, and he was more than fine with that.
Shut up, he thought viciously to himself.
"What's the name of that stone that cures poisons?" she asked, chewing the end of her quill thoughtfully, "Bozo?"
He looked up at her. Her expression was completely serious.
"Bozo?" Tom intoned incredulously, "Are you serious?"
She frowned and crossed out the word.
"Fine. Beezo?"
"It's a bezoar," he sighed, smiling a little, "we learned that in first-year."
"That was six years ago!" she said defensively, amending the sentence on her parchment.
He exhaled once more and pulled the essay toward him.
"I still don't know how you made it this far," he muttered, reading through the essay.
"Magic," she said contently, pulling the book he had abandoned nearer to herself and riffling through the pages absently.
"You know," she said thoughtfully after awhile, "maybe I can discuss your crazy theories if you do my Potions homework for me."
Tom looked up, his eyes narrowed.
"That's dishonest," he said dismissively.
"So is stealing a book from the Restricted Section," she shot back, her expression mimicking his.
He glared right back, noticing the way her hair fell around her shoulders, how her eyes were this strange shade of blue-green –
"I'm leaving," he said abruptly, getting up.
"But the essay!" she protested, following suit, "I was only joking about the book, you know."
He paused for awhile, picking up the mound of books he had collected in the past half hour. He couldn't quite explain to himself, let alone anybody else, how violated and strange he felt when he harbored such thoughts about her, as if it were fundamentally wrong. Which, he supposed, was in his case. After all, when was the last time he had even remotely felt this way? Quite honestly, never.
Which made it all the more frustrating.
"The essay's fine," he said, moving away. She waved her wand and it tightly furled itself into a scroll. She shrugged, looking a bit crestfallen.
"If you say so," she shrugged, sitting back down and pulling out a fresh piece of parchment from her bag, "I'll just get started on Arithmancy, then."
She busied herself in her work. Tom walked away, his back rigid, his expression stony. Just looking down at the pile of books in his arms seemed daunting; going through each one seemed a laborious task, and one which he was not at all ready to go through. Not when he knew he had better things to do.
As he walked out of the library, only having borrowed one of the numerous books he had picked out, the back of his mind nagged at the book he had left in the hidden room. He wondered if he could nip up to the seventh floor during lunch when everyone was in the Great Hall. However, he realized with a crushing sense of reality, he really was helpless without Victoria. She was the one who had somehow opened, so she was the only one who could do it again.
He was creeping up along the sixth floor staircase, trying not to make a single sound. He had narrowly avoided the Bloody Baron twice; despite being the Slytherin ghost and him being a Slytherin himself, he knew that he would not be treated preferentially if he were found creeping around the castle at four in the morning.
Leaving the common room had been a task. First, he had to avoid Nott who was curiously up during the odd hour, practicing a non-verbal spell. Obviously, Tom had been questioned endlessly, and Nott had offered to accompany him on his seemingly ambiguous nightly excursion. It had been difficult to evade him, but miraculously, he had.
Then there had been the slight delay when he had run into the group of house-elves, all of them either replacing the logs in the fireplace or straightening the ornate emerald green rug which lay in the center of the common room. Upon seeing him, they had all shrieked in unison and disappeared with loud, resounding cracks. Unnerved, he had still ventured out.
And now he stood in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, who guarded the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. He had thought it through carefully. He was confident he could get in, provided his strategy worked.
The plump lady snored away, her head resting on the frame. She was snoring quietly, her huge chest rising and falling with her steady breaths.
Tom cleared his throat sharply, and the Fat Lady awoke at once, her eyes flying open. As if on instinct, she grabbed the thin-stemmed wine glass poised next to her.
"Who is it?" she questioned blearily, flicking her eyes around until they finally rested on Tom. "Oh," she said, placing the wine glass back on its small painted table, "I thought it was the Baron."
"No," Tom said, smiling just a little, "just a student."
She narrowed her eyes, unconsciously straightening her pink silk robes.
"You're not a Gryffindor," she declared, her mouth set, "no entry."
"What if I had a password?" he asked teasingly, smiling his best smile.
She was not to be moved.
"I doubt you do," she said with finality.
Tom paused, and then moved closer to the portrait. Her eyes widened, but he gave her a reassuring smile.
"Just examining this beautiful artwork," he said quietly, "such fantastical, accurate strokes."
"Oil paints," the Fat Lady replied smugly, relaxing a little, "one of the oldest paintings in the castle."
"Really now?" Tom asked quietly, raising his eyebrows in careful incredulity, "How fascinating. And not even a single tear."
The Fat Lady smiled even more contently, fixing her brown tresses, "Well, I am restored periodically. Can't have a valuable portrait fall to disrepair, can they?"
"Of course not," Tom agreed, nodding, knowing that his charm was working on the woman, "in fact, had you not told me, I would have thought you were a new portrait. Either portraits do not age, or you're just that new."
"Really?" she asked a little worriedly, "Do you mean that?"
"Every word," he said earnestly.
She lightly touched her face, pulling her flabby cheeks tighter against her lost cheekbones.
"I was going to ask someone to fix my skin," she said, looking at him imploringly, "it seems to be getting rather loose, isn't it?"
Tom shook his head, frowning.
"I think everything looks perfect," he said, flashing her another smile, "I would change nothing."
She tittered, and the settled back contently, beaming at him widely.
"Now," he said, slowly, still carefully holding that air of light flattery, "it would be a pleasure if you could let me enter the place you guard. They picked possibly the best portrait in the castle for this purpose."
She regarded him, with just a hint of suspicion. Then her face broke out into a smile, and she shrugged.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt, if you put it that way," she said slowly. Tom kept on smiling, his face muscles hurting slightly now, "but only if you tell me what the portraits are like around the dungeons," she dropped her voice, "I've never gone there before."
"Oh, we don't even have a portrait," he said at once, "I suppose Dippet doesn't consider us worthy enough for one."
She nodded distractedly once more, then she added, "I'll only let you in for ten minutes. Nothing more. This is breaking rules but," she let out a small, nervous laugh, "sometimes it's okay, I suppose."
"It's more than fine," he reassured her, holding out his prefect badge, "trust me."
She held his strong gaze for a moment, then swung open to reveal a circular hole.
Without further ado, Tom clambered through it, and stepped into a spacious common room, stocked with plushy red armchairs and a warm-looking fireplace. There were large windows, and a staircase that led up to the dormitories.
This was the point he was unprepared for.
Now what? He thought, blankly looking around.
He heard a door close upstairs and cast around for someplace to hide. He took out his wand, tapped the top of his forehead and quickly muttered a Disillusionment charm under his breath. He looked down to see his hand disappear from view just as someone reached the bottom of the staircase and look around.
His mind – and stomach – performed a series of jarring flops, when he saw it was Victoria. She was casting a look around sleepily, a green dressing-gown pulled around her. Her hair was open and messy, sleep still evident in her eyes.
She stifled a yawned and shuffled to an armchair and plopped herself down in it.
Tom moved slowly towards her and lifted the charm before he faced her, so as not to scare her. Then he walked around the side of the armchair.
At first, she blinked up at him blankly, then her eyes widened and she let out a scream.
Wincing, he clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling her yells.
"Shhh, he said frantically, "are you insane?!"
Victoria – her eyes wide- frowned. She wrenched his hand away and said in a low but furious voice, "I could say the same! Why are you here? Are you out of your mind? How did you get in here?" she paused, her eyes getting wide once more, "Oh, my god. Are you here to kidnap someone?"
Tom shrugged, saying, "In a way, yes."
"What?!"
"Look," he said, checking the clock on the wall above the fireplace, "I have only six minutes left -"
"For what?"
"Would you shut up and listen to me, just this once?"
Victoria folded her arms and retorted, "I'm not the one who broke into someone else's common room. How did you even do that?"
Tom slapped a hand to his forehead.
"Why can't you just shut up?" he hissed, exasperated.
"Okay, fine. Please, continue with your thrilling tale of kidnap."
"I can't, only five minutes left."
"Then hurry up."
He observed her for a moment then said carefully, "We have to go to the seventh floor corridor."
Victoria's mouth fell open. She stared at him in utter disbelief.
She let out a weak laugh and said, "You're joking, right?"
Tom shook his head, checking the clock once more.
"I am serious," he said, moving to the portrait hole, "this is the only time we can go and actually investigate."
"I'm not budging, Riddle," she said adamantly.
He let out a frustrated yell and started pacing, saying, "I did not wake up in the middle of the night for you to throw a tantrum. Now can we get out of here?"
She seemed to be considering him, and enjoying his frustration at the same time. Finally, she got up and said, "You do my Potions homework for a week."
"No way." He said firmly.
"Then go find the room yourself," she said airily, turning back and heading toward the staircase.
Tom weighed the situation, his eyes flicking over to the clock once more. Finally, he gave in.
"One week," he said stiffly.
She turned around, grinning.
"Let's do this then," she said happily, striding past him and out through the portrait hole.
