Time Or Manner

by LadyWoot

Voldemort uses a time spell to keep The Boy Who Lived from killing him. In his weak state, it backfires. Enter 1991. An amnesiac 10 year old Dark Lord is signed up for Hogwarts, and can't seem to figure out why a certain green eyed hoodlum is their hero.

10. Chapter Nine

A/N- I don't always approve of long author's note. After all, you're here to read the story, not about me. General nature of this note is to thank the readers and especially the reviewers.

Disclaimer- IF Any of that were mine, I'd have bought a new laptop by now.

-Time Or Manner-

Chapter 9

Potter didn't waste any time before protesting as the Ligatio dragged them up the corridor. "Professor McGonagall…Tom and I…we didn't-"

"It's out of my hands, Potter," she returned sombrely. For a short moment, her eyes drifted toward Tom's, her expression revealingly calculating.

Even she cannot resist thinking that I must have done it, Tom thought scathingly, returning her gaze with defiance. If I do this correctly, the result may come easier than I might have hoped.

It seemed that the Ligatio was much more merciless than the last time Tom had been at odds with it. The force which pulled the two boys was much stronger and much more painful as they raced down the corridor at an unflattering speed, leaving their Head of House to watch in that same calculating manner. Tom chose not to allow this to bother him all that much since it was through this that he could develop his theories of possibility. The first being that Dumbledore wasn't as omniscient when it came to the activity of his spell on Tom, and the second concluded that the old man knew, but was unmindful of the fact that Potter may have been involved in this attack.

As before, Dumbledore's office was empty but for his ridiculous furniture, and Tom—along with his newly acquired accomplice—was forced inside as the large wooden door slammed shut behind them. There was a brief struggle as the Ligatio attempted to push them both into the same chair, but as the middle of the thread broke open to chain Tom in place, Potter rolled out of the way, his hand raised high to avoid the unseen magic.

Tom shut his eyes as the last of the pain ebbed and the Ligatio settled, knowing its victim was immobile.

"Wh-what was that?" Potter spluttered, sitting up from his spot on the floor.

Tom shifted so that at least his sitting position demanded some dignity. The Ligatio had forced him into an unkindly position where it might have seemed his spinal cord was in pain as he sat back, having to lean his weight against the arm of the chair where his right hand was tangled. He didn't look at Potter, however. "It is the way by which the Headmaster seeks to control me and supposedly prove that I am guilty."

It didn't take long; Potter soon stood at Tom's side. "Why," he began slowly, "are you sitting like that?"

"The alternative would be to kneel on the floor," Tom returned shortly. It was not within Tom's agenda to gain Potter's sympathy, but he knew it would be essential to have the other boy on his side before Dumbledore arrived.

He was pleased to see the look of resolution cross Potter's face as he stated, "Well, I'm a witness this time and I know you didn't do it."

Tom considered the other boy carefully. "And if he comes to suspect you?"

That made the other boy go very quiet into a sudden state of introspective silence.

"Anyway," Tom added. "It's all for the best in the end. He may do as he likes, but when we drag the heir out from hiding, he will be forced to re-think his actions."

Potter was no longer listening; he had wandered to a shelf near the right end of the room. Tom twisted around in his seat to see what had so fixated the other boy. He was just in time to see the Sorting Hat go down over the other boy's eyes.

"What are you doing?" Tom demanded, but was met with silence and the prospect of glaring at the unresponsive bottom half of Potter's face.

Mere seconds passed before Potter pulled the hat from his head, an expression of frustration crossing his features. As he replaced it in its position on the shelf, he glared at the hat as if it had insulted him. There was a pause as Tom continued to observe him. "What is it?" he queried finally.

It seemed as if the boy-hero had quite forgotten Tom's presence as he started and focussed his gaze on Tom. "What? Oh…it's noth-"

He broke off as a horrible gagging noise filled the silence. Tom, who couldn't turn his head in that direction, leaned back as Potter made his way to the other end of the office.

"I think it may be dying," Potter muttered, then as if on a whim, he broke into something like bitter laughter. "All we need now is for Dumbledore's pet to die right when we're alone in his office-"

Tom felt a flash of heat and heard a cry of pain at the same time as Potter's shout. Whatever it was that Potter had spotted had clearly caught fire by some circumstance. Tom opened his mouth to demand what was happening when the office door opened and Dumbledore stepped inside.

Potter's protestations and cries lulled the rage that Tom felt rising up. It was too much to be near the old fool now, knowing his condescension went beyond the level of teacher-student, but as a controller to his puppet. Tom could hardly bear such a notion as, through slitted eyes, he watched the Headmaster slide the door shut behind himself.

The old man's eyes drifted for a miniscule second towards Tom in the chair, before his gaze descended on the boy-hero standing in the corner.

"Professor, your bird-- we couldn't do anything—he just caught fire—"

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore replied, calm-as-you-like. "About time, I'd say; he's been looking dreadful for days. I've been telling him to get a move on."

Tom stopped listening as he quickly began to formulate the best manner by which to push this issue to the front and the best manner to retain control over the conversation. Clearly-- though Dumbledore was fully aware that Potter had been there with Tom-- his manner was not as grave as he made light chit-chat about such a useless animal as a phoenix.

It was as Dumbledore finally made his way towards his large claw-footed desk that Potter followed suit to stand by Tom and caught Tom's eye, followed with a frown up at the Headmaster. "Er...Professor, about the attacks…Tom and I didn't do anything. We were just walking from the library, and then we found-"

"Harry," Dumbledore cut in carefully. "Harry, I'd advise you not to worry over this issue. Innocence isn't something one acquires through obstacle, but something one has innately." Here the Headmaster smiled warmly, but for a blind second his icy blue gaze swept over Tom, who glared with even more fury. How was it that Dumbledore could address both of them in a completely different manner over the same issue?

"You don't think it was either of us who did it?" Potter exclaimed.

Dumbledore considered the both of them, the tips of his fingers poised in the form of a steeple as his eyes flickered between both boy's faces. "I'll admit to have made a miscalculation. The foundation of it is, Harry…Tom…do either of you have anything to tell me? Anything at all?"

The Ligatio's grip on the chair fled and Tom was able to sit normally as he stared incredulously at the old man. That was it? A mere word from the Boy Who Lived and all guilt was cleared. No, Tom thought bitterly. That's fundamentally impossible! He noticed quickly that Potter was looking at him, in what he seemed to think was furtive askance. Tom had nothing to tell the old fool, and he rather wished Potter would decide the same. He returned the furtive glance with an eye-roll as if to say, "Figure it out, idiot."

"No," said Potter, turning to face the Headmaster, "there isn't anything, Professor."

Potter left the office first as Tom was still adjusting to the strange vertigo that came with being abruptly released from the Ligatio. He didn't even bother to look at the Headmaster as he took his leave, but rather he fixed his expression into a deliberate state of impassivity. It was only as he settled his hand on the door handle that Dumbledore's sombre voice broke the silence.

"While it is true that I've miscalculated the lengths you would go to ensure your immunity, I can only warn you that the security in Hogwarts tightens with each attack. At this point, Tom, you could agree with me when I tell you that you've very little room to move from now on. I advise you to be very cautious about your future decisions."

Tom turned slowly; very slowly letting his heel swivel on the spot as he fixed his eyes on the fool before him. "Your only miscalculation, Professor, was to suspect me."

---

Tom heard them before the stone door at the bottom slid open.

From the sounds of it, he was quite certain it could only have been Hermione, Weasley, and Potter. Clearly, the discarded duo wished to reconcile with their fallen hero. Tom stepped silently out of the doorway leading from Dumbledore's office.

Potter was standing at the entrance in front of Tom, not looking at his friends; his expression stony as Hermione and Weasley glanced at Tom.

"Look, I've just had a lot to think about these last few days," he was saying.

"Harry, that can't be why you've been avoiding us," Hermione entreated, her arms crossed, but a visible glaze of feeling in her stare. "If something's bothering you, you could've at least said something."

Weasley gave an awkward fidget. "She's right, mate. I mean, maybe if we'd been here, then you wouldn't have been called into Dumbledore's office to start with."

Potter remained stony-faced as he looked at a point beyond their heads. "There wasn't anything to tell."

Now Hermione had become frustrated. It seemed the conversation had already escalated during the few moments Dumbledore had kept Tom. "Harry, you stormed off right after telling us about your-your-"Here Hermione lowered her voice significantly as if to shield Tom from the word, as if she were protecting Harry from his own truth. Her brown eyes widened as she reached out. "…about your Parseltongue."

Tom knew it would happen before it did. It was, after all, inevitable in the face of all that had been bugging the other boy during this time. The very ideas that Tom himself had awoken in Potter were forefront in his grudge against his friends. That they couldn't accept this thing about him the way it was would always impair the boy-hero from his own personal progress. Potter shrugged out of Hermione's hold in a rather vicious way causing her to stumble back in sharp alarm.

Ron Weasley chose that moment to step in. "We just want to know what we did; whether we can fix what's bothering you." The redhead attempted a comical grimace as he shot a significant look at Hermione's currently bowed head. "She's been mad about it these past days, you know. Can't be that bad, can it?"

Hermione raised her head. "We really want to help, Harry, but we can't if you don't tell us how sometimes."

Tom suddenly felt as if a scale had just been tipped and it was soon apparent to him that understanding had left him. He had expected two types of behaviour from Potter's former friends, but neither suited this response. Hermione should have begun to cower under Potter's newfound anger and Weasley should have distanced himself from the situation, willing it away with obscene casualty, and gradually Potter would cease to rely on them, and just as gradually begin to rely on…

Potter's frown broke and he slipped into his usual grim, but level expression. "I've always been a Parseltongue; it's been with me since birth…" Green eyes flickered over to Tom for a miniscule second. "It has nothing to do with the Heir of Slytherin!"

Both of Potter's friends stared at him in remarkable shock. Hermione's voice was no more than a gasp. "Harry," she cried. "We never thought that-you don't understand at all! We know you're not the one doing it!"

Weasley seemed to be experiencing a surprise beyond words as he stared with expressionless wonder at the boy-hero.

Potter spluttered. "But you said, 'for all we know, you could be'! You said that!"

Hermione looked helplessly at the redhead. "Oh goodness, I meant the others! I was trying to make it clear that they have the freedom and room for suspicion to think that you could be the Heir. I didn't actually think you are!"

Tom looked away, out at the circle of blue outside the window nearby. Of course, he thought snidely. It's all so simple for people like that. Words and words, then everything's all right. Fools, the lot of them.

It was only as Tom walked away that he heard Weasley say, "If we thought it was you, then why would we be planning this thing with Malfoy?"

---

It was within the next week during breakfast that Professor McGonagall handed out the sign-up sheet for those going home for the holidays.

"My uncle's library has a little section on Vivacity charms and plants with energising components. I want to see if there's something there I haven't read here," Neville began immediately as he signed the sheet, looking apologetic.

Tom gave a vague nod as the sign-up sheet was passed to the people across.

"Not that you'll really be in need of the company, will you?" continued Neville, and Tom found he had to look up at the strange irony in the other boy's tone. Neville was sending a contemptuous glance at Ginevra who had just seated herself across from them.

"Good morning," she said deliberately, not breaking eye contact for a moment as Tom shot her a glance of exasperation. He knew it now. Her ideas about him had intensified upon her finding that he and Potter were in such frequent communication. To reach Potter through him was her foremost intention, and Tom was definitely not having any of that…at least not until he had found the appropriate thing to take from her in exchange.

He leaned forward over the table and gave her a warm smile. She appeared startled at first, but returned it hesitantly.

"Ginevra?"

She nodded.

"Do pass me that sign-up sheet when those people next to you are finished with it," he returned promptly.

She obliged readily, thereafter Tom set to ignoring her.

Neville leant over. "You're going home for Yule?"

Tom motioned for him to lower his voice as he muttered quietly. "I am testing Dumbledore's reach outside this school"

The other boy looked hesitant. "What…what if Potter finds the Heir while you're gone?"

"What's come over you, Neville? Usually your confidence in me is immoveable. Has the possibility of Potter's victory this year weighed on you that much?" returned Tom, with an ironical smirk.

Neville appeared suddenly quite stricken. "N-no, that's not what I was thinking at all!"

Neville's spluttering tone and evident desire to clear his words reminded Tom of Potter and his friends. It was an irritating reminder.

"Neville, that's exactly what you thought," cut in Ginevra suddenly.

Tom, already irritated, looked across at her. "And upon what law were you authorised to eavesdrop, you deliberately stupid girl?"

Ginevra's mouth tightened with visible angry distress, but before she could audibly react, Tom felt a strong grip on his upper left arm.

"What did I hear you call my sister?"

Tom tilted his head back casually. After all, it would be prudent to know precisely who his audacious assailant was before he could allow himself the indulgence of rage.

It was Ron Weasley.

Tom had always been casually aware of the red-haired portion of the Potter Trio's feelings about him. Tom's attitude towards such enmity was stolid indifference. However, Tom felt that his indifference to anyone's simple-minded emotive-based behaviour extended to a mere icy and wisdom-based suppression. In other words, he did not care for anyone to act on their feelings toward him.

So naturally upon catching sight of Weasley, Tom cast a glance at Neville, who jumped to his feet instantly. Neville's hand came down on Weasley's as his other reached for his wand.

"Make way for Slytherin's protégé! He's coming forward for breakfast, isn't he?"

The horrible Weasley twins had recently taken it upon themselves to be Potter's spokespeople about the Slytherin's Heir issue and made it a strong point to satirise the possibility of the boy-hero being the much-feared Heir. This was one of many entry announcements commonly made for Potter.

"What's going on?"

Tom didn't even need to turn; he was immediately aware of the speaker and this fuelled that suppressed irritation so much more. Tom straightened in his chair, his gaze passing over a now much-excited Ginevra, if only to look elsewhere as he spoke. "Potter, call off your ginger dog; you know what could happen to him."

Tom heard Potter let out one of his sighs, but his irritation was still mounting. Weasley did not release his arm and just the same, Neville did not loosen his grip; rather both hovered over Tom, which gave him a distinctly juvenile disposition.

"Ron, what's up?" Potter queried then.

By now the rest of the Gryffindor table was eyeing this spectacle.

"This git's taking a pop at my sister!" The irate Weasley hollered, and several Hufflepuffs from the next table over looked up.

"What'd you say to Ginny?" Potter asked, now developing a pattern to his untimely mediation.

Tom, of course, still wouldn't look at the other boy. "Perhaps this would be the most opportune time for you to become familiar with the idea that not everything is your concern, Potter," he returned slowly.

The tension solidified. Weasley shrugged out of Neville's hold, and Neville backed down, but didn't bother to replace his wand in his pocket.

It was the undeniably parental tone in Potter's voice as he said, "Tom…" that made Tom turn in his seat, readily spoiling for a fight. The other boy's eyes were fixed determinedly on him; it wasn't a look of injured questioning as Tom had come to expect from Neville in such a situation, rather he gazed at Tom with a look of calculation towards something inexplicable. This only served to anger Tom all the more. The deep truth was that Tom hadn't the faintest idea what he would do once he began, but the general frame of his motivation rested on the idea that he would not need Neville to put the boy-hero back in his place.

"I should very much like to know what has given any of you the idea that wand-waving in the Great Hall is in any way commendable behaviour!"

McGonagall had, of course, returned to retrieve the sign-up sheet, and her sharp narrow eyes seemed to be apprising all four of them at the same time of her great displeasure. She seemed to decide that her gaze was merit enough for such behaviour as she snatched up the parchment and walked back to the head table. Tom's eyes followed her and met the wide blue fixed on him.

Dumbledore was watching him. A slightly complacent smile had lifted the old man's expression and Tom knew precisely why this was.

Enough, Tom thought. It wouldn't do to be here like this anymore. Lifting his gaze above the crowd and past the tiresome gaze of the Headmaster, he rose and departed.

"Tom!"

It was obvious who it was. Tom just didn't want to respond. He wanted to continue walking until he got to the Common Room where there would be some quiet before their next lesson. No, in truth, he wanted to whirl around and reply something quite scathing to boy-hero. He wanted to make the world aware of its stupidity in the cruellest possible manner. Most of all Potter.

Most of all.

"Would you wait a moment at least?"

Feeling only contrary, he stopped with the intention of waiting but a short minute. "Why are you following me?" he called out.

"Because I have something to say to you, that's why," Potter called back. "I've been trying to talk to you since last week. Where've you been?"

Tom finally turned. "Accomplishing things apart from wasting time with people who haven't the faintest clue as to what's going on."

Potter folded his arms, sighing. "I keep telling Ron and Hermione that Malfoy's not the Heir and that he has nothing to do with the Heir at all, but they still want to…look, Hermione's planning it so that we polyjuice into Crabbe and Goyle and question Malfoy."

Tom's eyebrows turned downward in disbelief. "What?"

Potter shrugged. "Well, we figured he would let something slip to his friends since he likes to brag…but if he's not the Heir, then…"

"It's the most ridiculous plan I've ever heard!" Tom exclaimed. "Do you realise that you'd be easily detected particularly since you've spent so little time with neither Malfoy nor his friends?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"And you were just planning on doing this strictly placed on dumb luck?"

"It's not dumb luck…it would only be for an hour, and Hermione says we'll be talking to Malfoy alone…"

Tom shook his head. "Even listening to yourself, you should know that this could only go wrong. The best thing to do in such a situation is-" he broke off abruptly. What am I doing? I'm attempting to give him advice on a subject of so little benefit? "Look, it's a foolish idea, and it has no merit. I don't need to get involved in something that wastes so much time."

"Well, that's why I came to you," Potter returned tentatively. "I reckoned you knew what we could spend this Christmas doing…then I could sort of, you know, distract them with your idea. I mean, what do you plan to do next week when classes end?"

Tom paused. He hadn't really intended to let Potter know that he was going to Diagon Alley for the holidays. Point in fact; he didn't intend to tell anyone. He could go for those two weeks, and then come back. He knew quite well that it would be outside the confines of the school that he would find all the information he needed. It would also be easier to contact Mr. Malfoy.

"I won't be here," he replied quietly.

Potter's blatantly expressive eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I've signed up to leave the school this Yule."

The other boy made a strange sound of disbelief as a half-smile sprang up in his expression then faded to make room for something like outrage. "You can't leave now."

Tom was highly surprised. "Excuse me?"

It took a deep breath for the other boy to repeat himself, but he did. "You can't leave."

Obstinate anger overtook all the other emotions, and Tom could only glare. "I'm leaving, Potter. Don't make a fuss over it; I have to since there's little I can learn whilst under the Headmaster's eye. You of all people should know this."

Potter seemed to shake his head as if to clear it. "I'm sorry; I just…it's like you're the only one I can talk to nowadays, you know."

Tom rolled his eyes. "That's because I'm the only one perceptive enough to handle your oddities, Potter. Holidays are a mere two weeks. Don't be another source of idiocy at this school, please."

Potter grinned, but it felt something like that sheepish laugh a week ago in the face of a subject too heavy for a simple forgiveness like that. There had been a grudge there between Potter and his friends, but so suddenly it had disappeared with nothing but Potter's fleeting, boy-like grin. "I'd like to ask you something, Potter. Answer me honestly."

He nodded.

"Your friends…what do you gain from them?"

Apart from being startled, Potter paused and appeared to give this significant thought. "Isn't friendship itself…like gaining?"

Tom lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. "No, it isn't. Friendship is an abstract, you cannot steal it nor take it away. It is a state of bond. It is something you restore at will provided there is benefit. I should rephrase the question, then: what do they offer you that such a serious thing as trust can be compromised for their company?"

Potter tilted his head in confusion. "Now I don't know at all what you mean."

Of course, he would have to patient. It would be difficult for just about anyone to understand, but he knew somewhere behind the social brainwashing plaguing the boy-hero, Potter was insightful toward such things and Tom could feel free to take the time to explain them. "Within a minute, you were able to forgive your friends of the wrong they did you. I assume you had some sensible reason for doing so."

"Well…" The other boy was looking at him intently with that familiar puzzled and thoughtful expression. "It was a misunderstanding, right? I thought they thought I was the Heir, but it was never like that. They were worried about what other people would think."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "I see how it is. However, if you thought they had wronged you, if they didn't trust you…"

"I'd feel bad about it," broke in Potter abruptly, defensively. "But I'd understand and I'd leave them alone."

---

The weather that Christmas was horrible. The winds from beyond the Forbidden Forest swept over the trees blowing ice-like rain against the windows of the school. Making it from the school to the train station seemed such a daunting task due to the cold.

However, despite the horrible weather at Hogwarts, London was ten times the worse. Sleet cascaded from the smoggy grey above the city. It was with relief that Tom stepped through the old wooden doors of The Leaky Cauldron.

"So yer did show, did yer?"

Tom looked away from the strange Barman as he set his bag on the counter. "I said I would in my letter, didn't I?" he returned curtly.

"Aye," the Barman muttered, seemingly looking at Tom in a shrewd manner. "Well, best yer get settled so yer can git to work by the mornin'."

"Yes," was Tom's reply.

It was more than likely that motivation for progress put Tom in a position to take on this strange new responsibility. It was low work and unbelievably demeaning, but Tom found the rhythms of dish-scraping, fire-stoking, and floor-scrubbing to hold a definitive order where chaos had seemed to grab hold of his life from that time at Hogwarts.

Of course, Tom was barely given the opportunity to regret this decision with the essential benefits that came with it. He was given a room to himself near the wine cellar where it was warm, he was hardly a hearty eater and this allowed the Barman to offer him a bit extra in pay once Yule arrived.

Mr. Malfoy visited often, however the most informative visit was the first day. The Barman had asked Tom in his usual gruff, but polite tone to bring a bottle up to one of the private meeting rooms. Tom obliged.

He was quite startled when he opened the door to find Mr. Malfoy seated in one of the faded velvet armchairs facing the window. The older man's profile seemed to synchronise with the icy sleet outside; his nacreous features stern with thought in that short moment before he turned at the sound of the door opening. Those gelid grey eyes narrowed at the sight of Tom, but the next moment imitated a smile.

"Of course," Mr. Malfoy began, "I was not informed that you'd left the school. I left Draco with specific instructions to pass on my letters, however…" He allowed that to trail off.

Tom frowned; it sounded too much like an accusation. "Where I am and why I'm there shouldn't really be why we discuss anything...Mr. Malfoy," he replied testily.

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up in a decided expression. "Right," he said. "Yes, of course not. To be more precise, Tom, there was much I wished to tell you regarding this year's events. Do have a seat."

Tom set the tray with the bottle on the table. "I am working just now…for the Barman here."

"Indeed. And he works for me. Naturally, once I had learned of your employment at this place, I requested that you be put at my disposal at any hour of the day. Such an arrangement provides you with ample opportunity, Tom."

"I want access to the history annals of Hogwarts," Tom demanded immediately.

The pale smile was back and the corners of Lucius Malfoy's aristocratic mouth quirked. "Surprisingly, that won't be necessary. Please, be seated and I shall tell you about certain events which took place at Hogwarts some time ago."

Tom took his seat, prepared to listen intently.

"Some years ago…fifty years to be exact, the Heir was upon his first rise. His primary objective was "the cleansing" of the school. Unfortunately, under the eye of so many opposed to the ancient movement, his actions were undermined. In other words, "Here Mr. Malfoy sat forward, "things were moving much the same as they are now."

Tom frowned. "Yes, but what I would really like to know is what he intends as the end result. It seems so ineffectual to fill the school infirmary with invalids."

Mr. Malfoy supplied a very satisfied smile. "Indeed not. However, cemeteries—regardless of whether they are primarily Wizarding or a mere Muggle ones—always have more room."

"Ah," Tom murmured slowly. "That's how it is. Cleansing is elimination as the nineteen-forties defined it."

"As it has been since the rise of the first movement," replied Mr. Malfoy, nodding. "I will be honest with you, Tom. Many of those in agreement to this cause would agree that it is your arrival that marks the final and victorious rise of this political cause."

Tom couldn't help his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "My arrival?"

"Of course. As I once said to you-

"My parents…do you know about them?" Tom demanded suddenly. "You talk so much about me as if there's some secret you want to tell me, but then the next moment you seem to decide not to tell me. You should understand when I say that I've become more and more frustrated with our conversations."

"Apologies. I never had any intention of being cryptic with you. However, there is information that is still unclear to me at this time. I feel the best person to answer your questions is yourself. You will learn more about yourself at a surprising rate just from your own investigation."

It didn't matter; Tom hadn't been expecting much of an answer anyway. He nodded, eyes never leaving the older wizard's. "All right, it doesn't matter now. I have more to ask you anyway."

"Good. Feel free to ask me anything."

"The last time the Heir was working, did he manage to cleanse the school?"

"He managed to put a significant dent in the school's reputation for welcoming those of impure descent."

"OK, but do you say that to mean he killed hundreds of Muggleborn students or that he only managed to scare the Muggleborn population of the school."

"Very aptly put, Tom. As there is today, there were many obstacles in the way of the movement's course. Particularly those who make it their business to meddle in matters out of their control," the older man returned, his mouth set in a bitter line causing Tom to realise precisely what he was saying.

"Dumbledore," Tom murmured quietly. "He was there the last time as well. He knows who the Heir is."

Mr. Malfoy's face lit up. "Ah, but that is incorrect. Think for a moment, Tom. If you were the Heir, and you knew evidence was closing in on you. How might you go about relieving this pressure?"

He barely needed to take a moment's pause to think before he replied, "I'd find someone; someone whom they'd all be willing to accept is the Heir and I would work hard to place convincing evidence to support my claim."

"Precisely," Mr. Malfoy beamed at him.

Tom hesitated. "Do you mean to say that there was a culprit found last time, but it was not the actual Heir?"

"I mean just precisely that."

"Then…who-"

"Ah, if only it could be that simple, Tom. There is much about the Heir that mirrors you. Your only option at this time is to find him, and thereby answer these questions, and I've observed how it is you think. I believe that you do not need much help in uncovering the truth in this situation. What you must do instead at this time in order to ensure your successful victory, you must accrue the most loyal followers, and I can assure you that my son will be among the most loyal."

"Followers," Tom murmured. He thought about Neville, whom he knew would follow him to hell if he wished it; he hesitated on the thought of Draco as the brat was spineless and useless at times. He liked the idea of accruing followers throughout the school from different houses and different years. It would be a brilliant network.

He glanced at Mr. Malfoy who chose that moment to appear severely impassive.

---

The evening of Christmas day, Tom had received three letters. The first was from Neville. It started off mainly as a greeting, but flowed into a convoluted mess of estimates, numbers, and confused ramblings over the digestible content of esters within a potion. It was clear the boy had become one hundred percent devoted to his self-imposed mission of healing the Malfoy's offspring. Tom found such an indebted motivation for action completely beyond him.

The second was from Ginevra. It was a long letter. Something chatty and simpering along the lines of particular gifts she hadn't been given that year though she'd explicitly had asked for them.

It was the third that truly caught his attention. The large spidery scrawl at the end saying, "Harry" made him scan to the beginning.

Tom,

Happy Christmas! The plan you said wouldn't work ended up working after all. Must be Hermione's luck except she got turned into a cat. (Don't ask.) We had a chance to talk to Malfoy and I got a chance to say I told you so to both of them since, like you said, Malfoy's not the Heir. Of course I'm not just writing to tell you that, but I sort of had a question. You see, Malfoy said something that I had to tell Ron couldn't be true. He said you were meeting with his dad all the time, talking about how to take Dumbledore down. I don't think you are, but I just thought it's better if I tell you that Malfoy's spreading that around. I didn't think you'd like that. Hope your holidays are OK. I'll talk to you later.

-Harry

Tom's first instinct had been to curl the parchment up in his fist and throw it into the fireplace, but he felt that would only be like procrastination. It was best to deal with the issue right away. So, out of all the letters he'd received that day, he replied to only one.

He wrote:

As much as it's amusing comfort that you've concern for my reputation, there is little need. You're a societal idiot sometimes, Potter. Quit paying so much homage to principles you don't believe in.

He left it at that and sent it with the Bar owl. He felt that Potter's questioning things at such a time was more trouble than necessary. He was quite right for a few hours after he'd sent the owl, it returned with a new letter attached to its leg.

Does that mean that what Malfoy said was true?

Tom couldn't take it; he had to reply.

You speak as if there is consequence to be faced from your knowing of my involvement in this trivial thing.

Tom knew he was supposed to go downstairs to the main room and collect the copies of the Daily Prophet for the guests, but he found himself shirking his chores for the evening in wait for Potter's reply, which came mere hours later.

It's not about that. Dumbledore's really powerful. Do you think you or Malfoy's dad could do something like that alone? Plus, Dumbledore knows what he's doing. A lot of people trust him and I know maybe he's making a mistake by thinking you're the one who's been doing the attacks, but you don't want to get mixed up with the Malfoys. Ron's dad's in the Ministry and he knows how Malfoy's dad works. He bribes people to give him what he wants and hates Muggles and anything that has to do with them. I'm worried Just don't get involved and come back to school where we can figure this out together.

It seemed to be a letter with an intent to settle the issue or if anything, stop the argument, but Tom found the whole discussion to be fantastically disconcerting. What did Potter really hope to accomplish by lecturing him in this way. What hold did the other boy think he had over him? Tom folded the scrap parchment and slipped into his pocket with the others as he turned to make his way back downstairs.

However, the ordeal had given him an idea. The words, "do you think you could do something like that alone?" had stood out on the page as if they'd been scratched out in red ink. He knew that, at some point, he would have been able accomplish such a feat by his own ingenuity, but certainly not anytime soon. After all, he was willing to admit that the old man was a seasoned expert and had many accomplishments to speak of; those of which would cause Tom to pale in comparison all too quickly. Mr. Malfoy had been right; he must find some way to accrue a set of followers or even supporters. With only Neville at his disposal, his movements would be little and effect very minor changes. He had to think of the right people to deal with, people whom he could offer something for which they would offer their loyal support.

It only occurred to him when he was placing the letters he'd received that day in his bag.

He saw Ginevra's slanted, girl-like print across the folded page in his hand. He remembered how she had all too quickly mastered a spell that had taken Neville months to remember correctly. He recalled the vicious and deliberate way she had sought to make use of his acquaintance. She was a cunning thing, and not without merit. Of course, that would mean promising her what was an inestimable trade. She was enamoured with The Boy Who Lived, and seemed about ready to stop at nothing to gain his attention, even going through someone she could barely stand to be around.

He unfolded the parchment.

---

When he arrived back to school, it was early morning on 2 January. He hadn't been expecting to run into anyone at five-thirty in the morning, but as he entered the Common Room, he spotted Ginevra. She was scribbling away in that little black diary of hers again, curled up in the armchair next to what seemed to be a newly-lit fire. It wasn't the most opportune time, but he would have to do it as some point.

He quietly set his bag on a nearby study table, pulling a small box from it, eyeing Ginevra to ensure she didn't turn around. Almost silently, he stepped quickly up behind her so that he was standing behind the armchair, looking over her shoulder. Before he moved again, he saw her scribble out the words: I've been really scared recently. Something isn't right; I think it's me.

Ignoring this for now, he opened the box he was holding and pulled out a small shining bird. He pressed the front of it, which opened a clip. Gingerly he reached down and combed back her hair, pulling it up so that one side of her heavy hair was swept back from her face. Surprised and venerably startled, Ginevra pulled away and stood up, looking at him with wide eyes.

"Wha-?" she began

Tom only leaned against the back of the armchair, looking at her with a smile. "Didn't you say in your letter you wanted one?" he inquired politely.

Seeming to only have come to the realisation that something was in her hair, she reached up and felt around for it, slowly pulling it out so that her hair fell back the way it was. She looked down at it wordlessly, her eyes still wide. "Oh," she uttered in surprise. "You bought it. I didn't think-"

Tom straightened. "Here, you didn't let me put it on you properly." He rounded the chair as she silently held it out to him, her expression nonplussed. Carefully and precisely, he set the little combs of the clip in as she held up her hair for him. Very quickly that fiery swathe was pinned up in half-pony tail. Barely noticeable, however, was the subtle sheen which had come upon it as the loose strands, which had once made her look so waifish, gathered together in tight ribbons of pretty tress.

"There," Tom said smugly. "All better."

Ginevra hesitated. She was clearly trying to read his expression, but judging from her new look of frustration, could find nothing. Finally, she touched her nearest lock and smiled tentatively. "Th-thank you."

Immediately, Tom's polite smile faded to be replaced with his fiercest look of scorn. "No," he snapped. "Not thank you, Ginevra. Saying thank you is the farcical manner by which you might pretend that all is even and restored. We are out of balance now, you see?"

She looked vaguely horrified.

Tom looked away from her. He sat down on the armchair and looked at the crackling fire. "I know you know what I'm talking about."

Ginevra sighed, picking up her diary where she'd dropped it earlier. "Yes, I know," she returned a little sharply, taking a seat in the loveseat next to the armchair. "Nothing's free with you, of course. That's all right, though. What I want…I think it's worth it."

Now Tom's smile was back. He looked at her with a meaningful attempt at affection. He could feel it not quite working. "The sad thing is I know exactly what you're digging around for. I couldn't possibly figure out why you'd go to so much effort, but that doesn't mean I won't help you in some way. This is, of course, provided that you're willing to pay the price."

She stared at him, her vague, brown eyes deep in thought. "Did you want to know why?" she murmured.

"Know why what?"

"Why I would do this…for him."

Tom surveyed her quickly. She was such a strange thing. Claiming to care so much for another person, and yet with a desire for personal progression in the underlying motivation of her actions. Tom couldn't quite decide whether or not she was a hypocrite. "All right," he said. "Why then?"

"Because I love him," she replied simply. "Everything he is and everything he's going to be."

It was a moment before Tom realised he'd been looking at her in open-mouthed silence for some time. He began to say, "What?" but chose not to, then decided that asking, "What?" might be the only course of action as he blinked in complete consternation. "What?" he demanded.

"I'm serious," she insisted. "I'd always heard stories about him when I was little. Conquering an all-powerful wizard as an infant… Then when I met him, finally, last year in September…he was…he was even better." She withdrew for a single moment into a content and dreamy silence. "I haven't told many people this, but…and I honestly think that…well…I'm the one for him. It's this feeling in me and you know, Tom; it's so possible."

Tom was smiling. Not with any forced kindness, but with a distinct satirical edge. "It's also possible that you might be mad, you know. But no one in this room right now is casting that judgement. You're free to delude yourself as you please. Now, I've been at some research about magical vows, and I think I've found just the one for our exchange."

She broke from her reverie instantly. "Vows? What do you mean?"

"I mean that I hardly trust you, and that's because I haven't been kind enough for you to trust me. That is all right. We're going to do a vow so that betrayal is not an issue here."

Now she seemed quite alarmed. "But don't those usually end in…death?"

He frowned. "Don't be stupid. I'd never deal in my own death so casually. It's just one that ensures that you keep your end of the deal as long as I help you achieve your goal."

"And if not?"

"Then you'll no longer feel a natural obligation to my end," he returned matter-of-factly. What he had chosen not to mention was that he designed the spell so that he would not necessarily be obligated to orchestrate a positive outcome, but that he would only need to make particularly well-strategized efforts in the goal's general direction. In other words, there was very little vow on his end while Ginevra would be required to do precisely what he needed her to do.

Very tentatively, she nodded, eyeing him carefully. "Fine then. We don't have to go somewhere else, do we?"

Tom withdrew his wand. "Not at all. This will only take a second."

---

A severe restlessness had come upon Tom. The weltering and foggy feeling of a stagnant existence drifted silently over his head as he began to attend classes again, as he moved from library to Common Room, as he sat still in the Great Hall—scribbling away meaningless notes in his notebook. How could he have it all when this was all he could work with? Was he fooling himself into believing that he would achieve what he wanted from this banal and shallow routine? Did he even know what he wanted anymore?

Immunity. Such a thing was by far the easiest answer, but the question lay in which way he might want to acquire it. Political immunity seemed such an appealing facet to life, but there was also something heaped beneath his memories; he couldn't define it well enough, but each time he would sit and think on it, the idea of death came upon him much like it had that day near the Philosopher's stone. Ah, immunity from the magic that could destroy him.

Death was a fierce subject for Tom. He could waste a whole morning speculating on the subject, which he had begun doing quite often in those days. He'd sit with Ginevra and Neville at a corner table in the Common Room as they both went about their business in fiery progression, and he would count the manner by which he might invite death, ways that it could happen unexpectedly. He was in a state of mind like that of a child during a horror film, watching the worst parts because the thrill of fear is unfamiliar.

He knew it was ridiculous. He knew it was a waste of time. He also knew he would be able to pull himself from the stupor easily enough. Weeks passed and they were at the close of January. Tom decided to distract himself…

It was a Friday evening in the library and Neville had gone to the front to do his customary book exchange as he juggled both his school work and his newfound hobby all at once. Tom looked up from his book to eye Ginevra seated across from him. She had her hand on her chin as she scribbled out on a little piece of decorated parchment. Frustration emanated from her side of the table.

"What are you doing?"

She jumped. It seemed he had sunk so far into his personal reverie that neither she nor Neville expected his address. "Oh…erm…just writing something…for-" She broke off as Tom snatched the parchment from her.

He read aloud. "What's this? 'His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled-'…you must be joking, Ginevra."

She shrugged and made some form of noncommittal noise.

"Don't tell me this is for…him?"

She acquired an irritable look. "Well, with Valentine's coming. I thought I'd just send him something."

"As per our agreement, I am required to tell you now that if you send this, it is guaranteed to embarrass you for the rest of your existence. Even if we somehow manage to get him to notice you, this atrocity will follow you there."

Ginevra did a funny thing just then. She cast an apprehensive look to her diary, as if in fear of it, as if in fear of a tangible reaction from it. It sat there at her elbow, emanating nothing but ambiguity as Tom focussed his own gaze there upon it. "Then what do you think I should do?" she whispered, turning her head to him as if excluding someone else from the conversation.

"First of all, no boy like Potter is interested in a girl's poetry or whatever it is you would call this. You want to give him something he can use; something he can take with him." Tom held up the small shred of parchment. "This can be thrown away, lost, or mocked if anything,"

A protracted silence followed. Ginevra looked down at her fingers on the table. "What would he take with him? What can't be thrown away?"

Tom crushed the paper in his fist. "Magic," he muttered, tossing the ball of parchment back at her. Without a further word, Tom reached into the side pocket of his book bag and unearthed his own folded piece of notepaper. He had not spared this a glance since that day in the summer. Potter's birthday; the sunny day the other boy had deserted him, the day he still refused to admit he had waited for so long. He gingerly unfolded the side of the paper and laid it flat on the furnished wooden table.

Ginevra sat up and leaned forward over the table to read the words on it. "Luminus Caecus. What's that?"

"A blinding light; anything hit with this hybrid will be blinded; it's something powerful enough that Potter could probably face his arch nemesis, blind him, and carry the upper hand easily."

"Hybrid?"

Tom smiled with not a little pride. "My own invention; it's a mix of any charm, hex, or curse to make something altogether incredible."

She laughed a little excitedly. "Oh, he'll love this."

Tom pretended the shrug he gave her didn't actually cause in him something foreboding. "Just send it to him. Whoever gave you the idea to send poetry must not have really cared for your success."

He watched her send a worried look at the diary again.

"Tell me," he said simply and her fearful honey-brown eyes squinted against his demand.

"I'm…afraid, Tom. I think…there's something wrong…with me," she whispered, her head bent low over the table.

He looked at her for quite a period of time. She'd been afraid since he'd met her. Insecurity, he'd identified it as. Now she seemed to shudder with the weight of it, and he found it, as he found many things about her, inexplicable. He looked away again, reaching into his bag for a couple textbooks. "Whatever's making you afraid, get rid of it."

---

During the advent of February, the attacks had completely ceased. A new storm of hope seemed to have flooded the castle. Students walked up and down the corridors no longer fearful of oncoming danger, the teachers were no longer eyeing the tables of students suspiciously during meals, and it had all turned into something of a weak laughing matter.

Of course all of this did not even touch Tom. It mainly served to curb whatever state of progression he felt he might have been able to achieve through this ongoing disaster. The peace mocked him in every way even as Neville's ridiculousness increased by three meters and Ginevra's concentration on his "little lessons" became less out of fear, but more out of application. He hadn't spoken to Potter much since he'd arrived back, and Potter seemed duly distracted by other matters as he didn't seek out Tom's company as ardently as he had once.

Tom didn't care. He wanted something to happen, so he could be the one to stop it, so that all these questions nagging at him would either be obliterated or completely answered.

It was on Valentine's, however, when the matter came to a severe and shocking head.

The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had taken it upon himself to celebrate the day in all enthusiasm. The Great Hall was decked with an awe-inspiring array of pinks, whites, and reds. Neville, who had come to be usually distracted, appeared not to notice as a surprising onslaught of cards found their way into his book bag. Tom received a surprising number at the Great Hall during lunch, those of which he stared at in complete consternation, wondering how in heaven anyone could be seized with the desire to put the words, "The glacial purple eyed, raven head boy" in description of him. He lifted a spoon and subtly studied his reflection.

Brushing a little basket of heart-shaped biscuits aside, Neville leaned over. "I have to find a way to Knockturn Alley this summer. Some of these Ancient residents of Ur passed down their tablets of healing to future generations. Record has it that it was last seen in one of the shops there. I couldn't imagine why; it's not really a Dark Arts object, is it?"

Tom set down the spoon and sighed in exasperation. "Must you really waste all this time on that?"

Neville paused, looking down at his notes for a moment. "You know, before…it used to be all about fixing what I did, but it's all so interesting, Tom. You'd never guessed what I've learned just from practicing on small animals."

Tom took note of this. "You're mad, Neville." This newfound attribute to the boy was amusing, still, and it all made him smile.

Neville smirked back, turning back to his books.

It was then that Ginevra sat down in her usual place across from them, looking ashen. She set down her book bag on the bench beside her and fixed Tom with an aggravatingly fearful look. "I don't think I can do it," she breathed.

"I'm surprised you think you can do anything," Neville remarked, not looking up. He never missed a moment, Tom thought.

"What are you on about?" Tom demanded irritably.

Almost at the point of hysterical nerves, she reached out for the basket of biscuits and started on them. "I can't just, you know, walk up to him and hand him the paper. What'll people think?"

Tom sighed. Why did all the people he had surrounded himself with have such ridiculous and trivial problems? "You'll give it to him or I'll do it for you."

When she looked hopeful at this, he backtracked. "Of course that means I'll take credit for the spell."

She shook her head, looking around, as she munched quietly on the biscuits, with hunted eyes. "Oh, what do I do? Because Ron might be there, and he'll be awful about it."

If Tom had been irritable before, he was now annoyed. "Listen, you imbecilic, weak human being; if you claim to want something this badly, why are you so afraid to take it?"

She cringed. It was just then that one of those unbelievable dwarves waddled past, tossing another card in front of Neville. He pushed it off his book and went to write something down. Tom gave Ginevra a significant look and she jumped in realisation. "Oh," she murmured, getting up to chase after the infantile figure.

Such was Tom's mood that afternoon that he decided to skip Charms and stay in the Common Room. As classes ended, more and more of the students drifted in, all in good humour about the nature of the day. Neville joined him much later, pausing to toss two pink letters in the bin. "This is such a strange day," he remarked, pulling out his Potions homework.

"Indeed," Tom returned darkly, reviewing his Transfiguration essay.

By around eight that evening, the Common Room had become quite noisy.

"Oi, Harry! What was in that Valentine?" one of those horrible twins called from across the room.

Tom observed Potter passing without a word, determinedly making his way to the dorm. Probably to test out that spell, Tom thought a little smugly.

About an hour or so later, Ginevra burst through the portrait hole. She looked wildly around the Common Room until she spotted Tom. She was stark white, her freckles barely visible as she bent down near him. Tom inclined his head to listen as she whispered to him frantically. "Harry has it! He has my diary, Tom! Oh, you have to get it from him!"

He sat back indifferently. "How on earth did he get it from you? Did you drop it?"

"Not exactly. I…two weeks ago, after our talk, I threw it away. I didn't think he'd go where I threw it; I didn't think anyone would go there! He has it now, Tom; he'll figure out how it works and-oh gosh- he'll know. He'll get everything! All the things I told it, the vow, and…Tom, please."

He could feel the twins watching him from where they'd signalled Ron Weasley. All of them were staring at Ginevra suspiciously from her begging position beside his chair. Even Neville had looked up from his books, his eyes narrowed at her.

"Neville, make sure no one follows. I'll go and get it," Tom finally conceded, standing up.

There was an odd feeling as Tom made his way up those winding steps. It was a palpable presence, and he associated it with the feeling he kept getting from Ginevra, and even more the feeling from Potter on some off days. Familiarity and frustration. Here, however, it was as heavy as dark smoke and tangy in his mouth. He could feel his limbs begin to shake as he approached the door. A million and a half things jumped down on him from the four corners of his brain; half-baked memories and they all touched his senses. He was approaching something he knew, something he'd approached before.

As sensible as he could be most times, Tom felt he could believe his emotions right then. He felt the draw of power, but couldn't rationalise it. He opened the boy's dormitory door.

The room was empty.

He looked to Potter's four-poster. The black diary lay open on the red coverlet, seemingly flung there. Tom carefully approached, knowing quite instantly that something wasn't right. He'd only just rested his hand on one of the poles of the four-poster when the pages began to flip. The image before him seemed to bubble and broil and he stepped back, alarmed. In a massive explosion of light, Tom felt himself flung back on his own bed.

It was only as he opened his eyes gingerly, that he felt the impact of Potter's form being flung down from somewhere, the diary jumping up and landing on the other boy's stomach.

Tom stared at him.

Potter sat up from his splayed position on his bed, panting like he'd run a marathon. He looked up and around until he spotted Tom in a parallel on his own bed. He sat up, sweating and shaking.

"What-?" began Tom, sitting up as well.

"I think…the person who stopped the Heir last time…I'm pretty sure…" Potter gasped for air. "I think it was your father, Tom."

---

The room ceased to have a bottom. Tom felt everything tilt and swarm into the massive black hole in his middle. He could feel himself standing, but he couldn't feel the floor beneath his shoes. "What?" he murmured. "What are you saying?"

Potter had now stood as well, his green eyes still wide with the realisation he'd come to. "I saw him, Tom. You must've been named after him; he looked just like you! He stopped it…it's all…" Potter grabbed the black book and held it out to Tom. "…all in here. He must have kept his memories or something in here, but he's in there; he spoke to me and took me back to that time when…when…when he caught…th-the person."

While Tom had sat down again, the diary in his hand in front of him, Potter had lapsed into a subdued silence. His words still rang in their repetitive and gasping tone. Father. Tom didn't know what to do with this information. It was that rapture he could've felt when he stepped outside himself, but instead a cold sense of confusion started suffocating his mind, disallowing him the ability to think.

Something nagged at him amidst all this, though. It was a little thought, a little question that cropped up as he looked down at the little black book. He took several moments, but he rifled through his thoughts as quickly as he could, ignoring Potter's stare. Why did Ginevra's diary have his father in it?

Before anything else, he must answer this one question. Standing up once more—he faltered a little-- he refused Potter's gesture of help as he moved quickly and quietly to the door.

Ginevra was sitting there, biting on one of his quills nervously. When she saw him descending the stairs, she immediately looked to his hands. Once she spotted the diary, she beamed and rose to greet him. He didn't return the endearment. His tone was cold. "Come with me," he said, heading for the portrait hole.

He led her down through the hallways and her step behind him was uncharacteristically silent. She didn't question when he opened the door to their Charms classroom that would be empty according to schedule. Once he closed the door, he rounded on her.

"This diary, where did you buy it?"

She froze, the mystified smile on her face dropping instantly. "W-why?" she gasped.

He raised it to her eye-level. "Simple question!" he spat. "Answer it!"

She jumped. "I don't know," she whispered.

No, he didn't have the patience for any of that sort of thing. He was going to make her tell him. He pulled his wand out. "Where did you get it, Ginevra?"

She'd been clever enough to bring her own wand with her, but even she knew it would do her little good against him. "I said I don't know," she cried. "I found it in my books at the beginning of the year. It was just there. When I realised it was just a blank diary, I just wrote in it!"

He lowered his wand a fraction. "And did it write back to you?"

She hardly seemed surprised with the question. "Yes."

"Who was he?"

"What?"

"Did he tell you who he was?"

She had become silent, staring at him.

"Visveres!" he hissed. He stepped forward as she toppled, "Well?"

She had landed against one of the chairs; she laid there, a wounded bird, flinching. "I…"

He raised his wand again. "Do I have to do it again?" he snapped, completely at the end of his tether.

Ginevra raised her eyes slowly to his, an earnest look of imploring mixed in with her fearful expression. "I thought it was you," she whispered.

Tom quickly bent down beside her, lowering his wand. "You…thought it was me?" he demanded incredulously.

A blush rose from her ears to her cheeks, now visible with her hair pulled back. "Well, it had to be. I mean, except that he's says he's sixteen years old. He talks just like you, and he told me that at some point I wouldn't have to talk to him through the diary, someday he could help me… face to face. And I remembered how you were the first person I met in Diagon Alley, how you kept telling me to get over all the things I was afraid of. I thought they were clues! It was why I never mentioned you in my writing. I thought you had picked me like you'd picked Neville. I asked Neville; it seemed to all fit. But then…you started sounding different, saying different things than him and you even…" she trailed off embarrassedly for a moment. "…you even told me to get rid of it. I thought maybe your spell on it had stopped working and it was making me afraid, afraid that it was changing me…in bad ways."

He stared at her, now in true disbelief. She sat up, her knees drawn up looking up at him bent over her. "What, exactly, do you think I am?" he inquired a bit lightly, curiously.

Her gaze didn't waver. "I think you're the only one who understands me, Tom."

In his mind, the opposite was true. Understanding her would take hours of ill-used time; time he wasn't willing to sacrifice at present. It was such a weak sentiment she was placing upon him and he couldn't yet decide whether this was beneficial at all. After all, he knew that even Neville would be unable to give himself in such reckless abandon as this little girl would. But he could deal with it later, couldn't he?

"I have to go," he muttered. He had to talk to Potter, had to find out what this character had told him, and whether he could prove it was his father. He was delaying the inevitable eclipse of emotions rising to make him crazy. Tom couldn't let go of the ideal that this had to be some mistake, but at the same time he wondered whether this wasn't what he really wanted.

---

Tom had barely even taken a step toward the Gryffindor Common Room when Potter rounded the corner at the end of the hall. He saw Tom and stopped dead. Tom couldn't see his expression from that far, but he could feel some type of intensity from whatever emotion was wafting over Potter's magic aura. The boy-hero trotted towards him, those eyes behind spectacles bright with concern.

Tom looked down at the diary in his hand. "You say he's in here?"

"You're the splitting image of each other. You weren't alive fifty years ago. It has to be some kind of ancestor, and anyway, his name is Tom too. His name is on the cover."

T.M. Riddle stood out in faded gold on the cover. "Riddle?" Tom whispered, still gazing down at the book. Was it really all this possible? The idea of finding his father out of the blue like this seemed all too convenient. And could this, the missing edge of his identity inscribed in gold on this insignificant little diary, be his surname? He was in a state of ambivalence, unsure whether to feel exultation or disappointment. Tom was soon thinking back to his dream only a summer ago. The man who was supposedly his father looking at him in disgust; he'd been Muggle-like, aristocratic, and foolish. Tom had wanted to kill the man deep down. How did he feel now?

His thoughts scattered as he felt a hand brush his own. Looking up, he saw Potter standing there looking at him in significant empathy. He'd caught at Tom's arm with a vague and distracting ardency. "There's something else I need to show you," he was saying.

Tom followed him to what turned out to be the trophy room. He immediately freed his arm from Potter's grasp and walked toward the rows of immense glass cases filled with golden plaques and trophies. "What is this? Why've you brought me here?"

Potter moved toward a cabinet at the far end. "Here." He gestured toward the large burnished gold shield leaning against the back. "It's an Award for Special Services, then here…" he walked toward the next case of awards. "There's a list of Head Boys from 1930 to 1950, and he's here in 1943, then over here…"

Tom followed Potter as he went at last to one of the main cabinets. Tom read it first. "'For displaying remarkable talent and immense creativity within the field of Charms and Curses, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry bequeaths this award for Magical Merit to Mr. Tom M. Riddle in this year of his graduation, 1944' This is him?" Tom murmured at the other boy.

"Yes, that's him."

Tom reached out and let his fingers brush the glass of the cabinet. There had been something, yes, something above all this, something he knew despite his incredulity at the situation. He knew he had had some connection to whatever happened fifty years ago, but he had never allowed himself the luxury to guess at something like this because then that would mean he was tied to some legacy, that he wasn't a blank slate about to make his way in the world. This meant that things were ten times more complicated because as he thought the name Riddle in all seriousness, he knew that whomever it was that Potter or Ginevra had been speaking to, must be alive to answer the questions Tom didn't want to ask.

No.

He was being ridiculous. Why must this be something he would rest his mind on? Why did he give into the slavery of angst on such an occasion; it was time to deliberate.

"I thought you might want some time to talk with him," Potter was saying. He was holding out his quill with that same unbelievable expression of empathetic graciousness.

Tom shook his head. "You thought wrong. So we know the man might be my father, but that has little relevance to the outcome of this mystery. There's little I can do by speaking to a sixteen year old who has neither the knowledge nor the intention of bringing me into this world."

Potter paused. "I never mentioned he was sixteen, did I?"

Tom observed a space above Potter's head. "You must've. I wouldn't have known otherwise."

"Right," was the uncertain reply from the other boy's direction. "Anyway, I noticed something when I was in the diary. Dumbledore was talking to him the same way you said he talks to you. He must have been suspicious of him too."

"I've noticed you seem to be avoiding the topic of who the Heir was back then."

The boy-hero froze. He'd been foolish enough to think he could avoid the subject entirely, leave Tom in the dark. "Now look here," Potter began, his brow furrowed. "People make mistakes sometimes, and some people's mistakes are bigger. I don't think the person who was caught last time was the Heir, maybe just someone who thought the whole thing about the creature in the Chamber of Secrets was all rumour, someone who cared a little more about the creature than the people who might get hurt. He probably didn't think anything would happen."

Tom looked at the other boy with faint disbelief. "You're blathering about something, and I don't care what it is, just tell me who it was."

Potter stepped toward him, his bright eyes imploring. "Tom, I need you to make a promise…"

"What?"

"A promise," he insisted obstinately. "You promise not to do anything. I know the school is important to you; you proved that last year, but this person didn't mean to hurt anyone. Even he…your father knew that."

Disdain was filtering its way up, and Tom didn't care to listen to any such nonsense anymore. "As far as I can remember, I've never made a promise to anyone based on such a shallow incentive. What makes this different?"

The other boy paused, visibly troubled. "Isn't it enough that I'd do the same for you?"

Tom thought on this. Such a promise could work to his benefit after all. "Yes, I suppose it is. And you will do the same for me quite soon, I think. All right, I promise; no action will be taken against this person."

He didn't expect Potter to look so satisfied at those words. "Good, then. It looks like Riddle…thought Hagrid was the Heir, but he's not; he can't be."

Tom paused. He had almost readily agreed aloud. However, his mind had retreated back to a particular conversation he'd had during the holidays. I'd find someone; someone whom they'd all be willing to accept is the Heir and I would work hard to place convincing evidence to support my claim. And Lucius' reply then: There is much about the Heir that mirrors you. He'd known it, then. Secretly and deeply, he'd known it. The moment that Potter had sat up from the bed and gasped out the truth, Tom had felt it coming, that grain of frightening, but fulfilling truth. This stranger, fifty years ago, had mirrored Tom's movements, and now Dumbledore could see it, and he knew precisely who the Heir had been. When Tom had walked into the school, what had been the Headmaster's best way to react? But Tom was not attacking anyone, really. It was a conundrum, indeed.

Tom glanced at Potter, who was watching him expectantly. Potter could not know his thoughts, and could never know. He had to mislead him. "Well, we both know this may be true. However, it doesn't cancel out his involvement. Much like you said earlier, perhaps the groundskeeper saw the monster as something benign and kept it in good health."

"Right," Potter replied slowly.

Tom knew exactly what he had to do next, but he was wary of what Potter's own course of action would be. "So…what will you do?"

The other boy perched on the edge of a low cabinet, removing his glasses and rubbing them absently against his sleeve. The act made him look two times more intelligent. His words did the contrary. "I reckon since the attacks stopped, we might not need to do anything."

For a still moment, Tom was torn between berating Potter for his uncharacteristic complacency and leaving things as they were for his benefit. His jaw tightened as he murmured, "Quite so."

Potter grinned and hopped down from his spot on the cabinet. "We should go; I think it's Snape's turn to patrol tonight."

Tom made for the door without response. He was distracted; he had to get to the owlery tonight somehow without detection. Maybe if he pretended to go to bed, then left after he was certain Potter and the others were sound asleep…

"Oh, and Tom?"

He turned; Potter was holding a familiar bit of notepaper with a sheepish grin on his face. "Thanks, you know, for the spell. Can't wait to use it."

Tom would later wonder to himself why he hadn't bothered to correct him.

---

Tom had written a quick, urgent note to Mr. Malfoy the night before, and was currently waiting for his reply as he sat at breakfast the following morning. Neville and Ginevra were arguing about something inconsequential having to do with Ginevra's insistence on borrowing his First-Year notes and failing to return them.

"I don't see why you still need them, Neville; you're in Second Year now, aren't you?"

"It's the principle of the thing, Ginny. Anyway, if Tom had lent them to you, you wouldn't have been so careless with them."

"Well, he's Tom, isn't he?" she snapped, standing up and collecting her bag.

"Where're you going?" Neville exclaimed incredulously.

"To class! It's difficult enough reading ahead when you're here acting like a real git."

She flounced off. Tom looked curiously at the high windows where the owls were expected. He barely noticed Neville looking at him until he heard an impatient sound of irritation from Neville's end.

"What is it?" he asked listlessly.

The tops of Neville's cheeks were pink with irritation. "You know what I really don't like about her?"

Tom shrugged, eyes trailing back to the high windows.

"She's the perfect example of those shallow little girls who just use other people to get where they want, but then she doesn't even know what she wants. She says she's crazy about The Boy Who Lived, but then she goes on about you all the time, then asks me for help when it pleases her! I hate that!"

Tom gave Neville a side-long look. "Now really, Neville," he sighed. "You and I both know there's little to be gained in blaming the user when the one being used is the truly repulsive being."

Neville stopped short, looking hatefully at the door where Ginevra had made her exit. "Well, she won't use me."

"Not so long as you're my friend," Tom returned with a little smile. Neville seemed rather pleased at that, and turned contentedly back to his books.

It was late afternoon in the Common Room when the letter arrived. It was frustratingly brief.

I will make an appearance at the school quite soon. Bear with your questions for now. We're about to deal with the meddler.

As much as the thought of Dumbledore being crippled pleased Tom, he was still irritated at Mr. Malfoy. He hated to be put into second priority especially when he was eager for answers. Especially when he was on the cusp of his truth, of the true answer to his existence.

"Tom?"

Tom turned at the voice near his shoulder. Ginevra had come back from lessons; she looked slightly mollified from this morning, but she didn't look at Neville who kept sending scathing glances her way.

"Yes?"

She leaned on his shoulder and lowered her voice. "D-do you think I could have it back?"

"What back?"

"Th-the diary. I…kind of need it."

He stared at her for a moment. "No, you don't," he returned matter-of-factly. While Tom had forborne from opening the pages of that diary, he still carried it with him. He refused to think on what was keeping him from communicating with this being, and just what he would ask him when he did. In truth, it felt weak to give in to that curiosity eating away at him and just write a few words of introduction or something. At this juncture, he could only look down at its leather spine and wonder if the dreams he kept having had anything to do with it. He would wait to speak with Mr. Malfoy before he allowed himself such a weak-willed indulgence.

"But…"

"Absolutely not."

"Well, it's mine, Tom. If I could just have it for a bit; he listens a little more than you have the time to and…"

"No."

"Please."

Tom glared at her in exasperation. "Why are we discussing this? I said no."

She gave him a forlorn look before she turned away to the girl's dormitory.

Too often had Tom underestimated the people around him, and too often did this backfire on him. Months passed and he received no further word from Mr. Malfoy. He was irritated to see Potter seemed to have forgotten about the issue completely as the other boy concentrated on the upcoming Quidditch match, leaving early for training and arriving late in the evening, sopping wet from the April rains.

Easter holidays passed.

It happened on a Saturday afternoon. Neville had gone ahead of him from the library to have a bit of nap before his evening study session, and Tom remembered that he'd left the diary in the dorm room at which he promptly decided it was better to keep it on him.

He'd barely made it up the stairs when Neville came running down. He spotted Tom and his look was alarmed. "Tom, someone's been in the dorm, and it seems they were searching for something. Your things…" He trailed off as Tom quickly loped up the stairs ahead of him.

It was as he feared. His trunk had been completely ransacked, his books and clothes strewn everywhere. Tom's first reaction was to search for the diary where he'd put it under his pillow. The bed spread had of course been pulled away from the mattress and remained bare. Next, Tom was extremely vexed. He turned on Neville. "Bring Ginevra outside beside the school entrance; I'll deal with her there," he hissed. Neville slunk away just as Potter walked in, broomstick in hand.

"What happened?"

Tom didn't reply. He pulled out his wand and began levitating his things back into the trunk. How dare she? What suicidal stupidity had inspired such an act? Oh, she would pay!

Potter gingerly stepped over the mess toward Tom, wary of the cold furious look on his face. "The diary," he murmured suddenly. "Where is it?"

Tom still didn't answer; he turned on his bedspread and replaced it with another levitation spell. Soon Potter reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "Where's the diary?" he demanded quietly, those eyes fixed fiercely on him. It was right then that Tom's rage took a new turn on Potter, but right before he could say a word, that old pain lashed across his forehead and both of them stumbled back from each other as if lightning had forged their contact.

"What?" Potter gasped, hand over his face. "This again?"

Tom swallowed his cry against the sharp pain.

The other two boys in their dorm and Ron Weasley walked in just then. They looked warily at Tom who was just as pale as Potter right then.

"Harry mate, what happened?"

Dean Thomas swore loudly.

"Someone's been in here, searching through Tom's things," Potter said finally, straightening up.

Weasley was looking significantly at Tom's still strewn about clothing. "Looking for something, right?" he muttered at Potter.

"The diary," Potter mouthed back at him.

Tom finished his clean up and promptly exited. He would get it back immediately, and Ginevra would never think of doing such a thing again once he was through with her.

Assuredly, Neville was there waiting with Ginevra by the arm. Ginevra looked at him with a strange fire-filled gaze. This only served to anger him further. He pulled out his wand.

"Explain yourself, and I might just listen."

"I don't have anything to explain," she snapped.

"Where's the diary?" he demanded.

"I don't know!"

"Don't you dare lie about it. I told you 'no', and yet still…"

"I'm telling you I didn't do it."

He stepped very close to her; if she was lying, he would know it, he had to know it. "Didn't you? You're the only one who knows about it."

It was as if her face had been wiped clean of expression as Tom looked deep into her; it was if she had become another type of girl as she stared at him evenly, her brown eyes dark as the forest behind them. "I did nothing," she whispered, her eyes never leaving his. "And I do not have the diary."

Since the day he'd met her, her expressions had been written all over her face, but in that small moment as she went still in Neville's hold, her eyes blank like that, Tom couldn't read a thing. He had only to believe her, and wonder forebodingly just who had taken the diary and why.

---

The school had become too complacent. No one was ready, and Tom would later admit that he had been the least ready for it. He hadn't even known what had happened that afternoon. The rest of the school had gone off for the Quidditch match, and he was debating about it silently. It was just as he stood at the exit of the library that he heard it, loud as ever.

"Kill them this time. Rip, tear…I smell them…"

Instinctively, he followed the sound, the soft and endearing voice saying such incredibly vicious things. He passed the Entrance Hall towards the dungeons when he realised with some disbelief that he'd been walking under the voice, and not near it. It was upstairs where he'd begun.

Tom wasn't given the opportunity to move even the slightest. He'd forgotten. The Ligatio. It wrapped viciously this time, chaining him, pulling him to the floor this time. He felt the icy thread wind its way over his torso, pressing him to the stone. He couldn't help crying out as his insides resisted the pain.

"It seems," Dumbledore said, striding towards him, his expression pitying, "that you did not keep your end of the bargain, Tom."

The pain became more than his mind could conceive. He felt the world swirl around him before the thick wall of blackness rose up over him.

It hurt to open his eyes, but the floor beneath him was cold, and he felt a strange sense of enclosure. He was in a nondescript grey room with a bed and table, but Tom was on the floor in the corner; judging from the dampness of the ceiling, he was somewhere near the dungeons. He felt he was being stared at, and looked up to notice a strange fiery bird looking down at him curiously. A phoenix?

"Good to see you've woken."

Tom felt like it took a severe amount of strength in him to turn and look up at the Headmaster, who sat serenely on a high-backed chair, looking down at him.

"I apologise," the old man continued. "I had no intention of causing you such severe pain, Tom. The Ligatio is a tricky charm-- responding only to the wearer, which can mean it might react negatively where negativity and resistance co-exist. You may take your time in getting up; I can see you're in a great deal of pain."

Tom snarled as he forced himself up, his features contorting themselves against the heated knives of pain in his limbs. "Remove it, you senile old-"

"My, my," Dumbledore murmured. "It's a wonder the things young people will say during such moments. Now, to business, since I'd hate to take anymore of your time, Tom."

Having realised quite suddenly, after a quick search, that his wand was not on him, Tom stared balefully at the Headmaster.

The Headmaster acquired a sudden serious look. "I find the time for bargains and deals has come to an end. Two girls have been attacked this very afternoon, and it's become difficult for me to continue to allow you such lee-way here at Hogwarts. I am now in the process of dealing with issue, but you, on the other hand, must remain where you are."

"What?" Tom demanded quietly.

"That is to say, Tom—as Headmaster—I have been given the authority to place you under…what's the term…house arrest. Of course, in this instance, one might call it school arrest. Food will appear when necessary and you may conduct your studies as regular when I bring your books."

"I'm…to stay here?" Tom echoed tonelessly.

"Yes, Tom. Until things settle and I can find some way…" Dumbledore trailed off, looking sadly down at him. "For there must be some way to solve this without anything so drastic as magical arrest."

---

Being confined to that room would have driven him mad within the next week, and Tom knew this.

However, no more than six hours had passed when the wall of his little enclosure disappeared and he raised his head to see Mr. Malfoy looking down at him with visible relief. Tom couldn't even define his own feeling of relief and gratitude as Lucius handed him wand and helped him up. Another man stood, hovering nearby, behind Lucius. He was a dithering man, dressed in a colourful pinstripe cloak complete with a emerald bowler hat.

"Tom," Mr. Malfoy said composedly. "This is the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, and he's here to witness Dumbledore's treatment of one of Hogwarts' prized students."

Cornelius Fudge was staring down in consternation at Tom, who eyed the man with some suspicion. "This is…?" the man gasped.

"His name is Tom, Minister," Malfoy prodded. "I believe he looks rather familiar to you, doesn't he?"

"Well, yes….but there's been no word from him since…graduation. I…"

"He has been under such treatment for the majority of the year, Minister; surely the Ministry wouldn't condone such behaviour in this school."

"Oh, Merlin, Lucius…I'd never have dreamed Dumbledore was capable of such…"

Tom set his jaw as he pocketed his wand. He faced the Minister with nothing short of resolution. "I should tell you now, Minister, Dumbledore has proven easily that he is no longer fit for the position he retains."

Lucius Malfoy beamed down at him with a very pale smile. "Yes, well, there's little worry of that anymore, is there? As of today, Dumbledore has been suspended by the school board."

"This is truly a calamity," Fudge cried. "If the Prophet hears of this…"

Tom cast a glance at Malfoy, who appeared to be waiting with some bated anticipation for Tom's reply. Of course. This was what he had been waiting for. The primary opportunity for that sort of immunity, and it was suddenly so simple.

"Minister Fudge," Tom broke in, politely. "I do not mind keeping silent about the situation. It's just…"

Fudge rounded on him eagerly. "Yes, yes, the Ministry would be willing to offer you anything at this time."

Tom smiled, ensuring he looked pleasant as well as innocent. "Oh, but sir…I couldn't…"

"No, no. We're happy to offer you anything that would allow you to deal with all…" The Minister gestured as if to encompass the entire situation in a sweep of his hand. "…all this unpleasantness."

"I shall have to think about it, sir. Right now, I…would just like some rest."

"Of course," Fudge returned benignly, patting Tom on the shoulder. They both followed Lucius from the room, Fudge's hand resting in a fatherly manner on Tom's shoulder.

They had walked to the nearby town in Hogsmeade to see the Minister off and it wasn't until Fudge had left that Tom had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Malfoy.

"I know who the Heir was," Tom announced as soon as the sound of Fudge's apparating faded.

Malfoy turned to him in mild surprise. "Ah, and?"

"Tell me about Riddle. He's my father, isn't he? It's why Dumbledore has been pointing the finger at me; why he's always looked at me that way."

The spring night was rather warm. The grey in the sky had since faded. Lucius Malfoy looked out at the lights of Hogsmeade, his expression thoughtful. "As to whether he's your father is up for question, Tom. Yet, there's no question when it comes to Dumbledore's motives. If things go as planned, you needn't worry about him anymore. Indeed, Riddle was the Heir of Slytherin…"

"Was?" Tom echoed warily.

"Well, that too is questionable, isn't it? I should tell you, Tom, that this is all as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I can only hope to re-invoke old loyalties in mentoring you like this."

"Who was he?"

The older man paused in thought. Tom watched his eyes narrow in remembrance. "If there ever was a word, wizard, Tom; that was he."

---

The panic had touched Hogwarts again. Hermione Granger and another Ravenclaw Prefect girl had been attacked. Despite the fact that Lucius and the Minister had sent the groundskeeper away to the Wizarding prison, students were unable to go from class to class without a teacher escort, and all students were expected to be in their respective common rooms by six o' clock pm. And one afternoon Potter had come looking for Tom, who had chosen to disregard the new rules and retreated to the library. He was determined to find more information in the annals about any student with the name Riddle. Fifty years seemed too great a gap for his relationship with the man to be simply father-son. It had been Lucius Malfoy who had made him think about this possibility.

Potter plopped down in the seat opposite him. It took a moment when Tom looked up at him to realise that the boy-hero had fixed him with a definitive glare.

Having experienced much frustration at his unsuccessful attempts, Tom had little patience for the other boy's nonsense just then. "Now what?" he snapped when the other boy said nothing.

Potter still said nothing. His eyes were hard and staring for a long time as Tom glared back, determined not to be the one to look away. Finally the other boy broke out, his tone cold and bracing. "I saw you the other night…you were walking with Lucius Malfoy and the Minister for Magic out of the castle. You seemed…on good terms with them, I noticed."

Now Tom knew what Potter was getting at, and it only irritated him. He glared still challengingly at Potter. "And?"

"And…" Potter looked at him for a bit longer as his glare faded. "And…I believe you kept your promise," he ended lamely.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Do you really? Could've fooled me otherwise with that look."

"OK; I was a little worried, but why were you with them? What happened to you? Everyone thought you were attacked too."

"Dumbledore took special actions to ensure that I do not let loose Slytherin's beast again. I was in the dungeons."

Potter spent a moment in silent incredulity.

"You will understand if I do not share your sentiments regarding his absence," Tom added bitterly.

Potter sighed. "Well, I was there when they arrested Hagrid, and I'm still convinced they were wrong to send him to Askaban. But I don't understand Dumbledore…"

Tom shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

He hoped that would settle it.

Despite Tom's desire to figure out who had taken the diary and who the man in the diary was, it was a relief to have some silence after so much hubbub. Professor McGonagall had recently announced that exams would continue as planned, then soon after she announced that the cure for the petrifications was almost ready. This meant that the identity of the Heir would soon be apparent, and Tom's questions would be answered without his having gotten involved. This would help, he felt, as he was already on the Ministry's good list and he had much to gain from that in the near future.

He intended to use the following summer to do his own research of the matter. After all, whoever was identified as the supposed "Heir" would undoubtedly have taken the diary; Tom was quite certain about it all. Of course, that was a mistake.

Having not been too keen about Ginevra's company, Tom had kept clear of her for the most part of May and the beginning of June. He had, now and again, noticed her pallor increase, but he assumed it must have been the attack on Hermione.

"Something's going on," Neville said that afternoon as they walked from Defence Against the Dark Arts with Lockhart ahead of them. Tom glanced at him and saw Potter speaking animatedly to the idiot professor with Weasley in tow. If Tom knew anything about Potter and anything about the nature of their DADA classes, he knew that Potter did not like Lockhart. Even to the point that Neville knew something was up.

They had confirmation as Potter and Weasley slunk away a few moments after Lockhart turned a different corner.

"What do you suppose…?" Neville began.

"I'm receiving an ominous feeling of déjà vu," Tom replied irritably. "If they're not back by the middle of next class, then I'll have to track them down and figure it out. For the mean time, it's better not to get involved."

Neville nodded.

As Tom surmised would happen, neither boy returned for the remainder of their class with Professor Binns. He told himself they must've been taking advantage of Hermione's absence to play truant, but Tom's instincts knew better than to decide that so easily. With a sigh and a glance Neville's way, Tom rose and left, quite certain the old ghost would hardly notice his absence.

---

The walls of the castle were orange with the sunset and the dark corners of the corridors were not yet lit with fire. The sound of his own footsteps were the only thing trailing him besides the distant sound of classroom chatter. He decided he would check the Common Room first before he moved on.

It was the noise that startled him once he reached the hallway near the deserted passage of the second floor. Even in the dark, it was the shining bird hair clip that glinted and he stopped in his tracks. Squinting through the dense shadows of the corridor, he saw her pale hands rise, the tips of her fingers wet with something red as she finished painting what seemed the end of a sentence. Tom, nearly aghast, walked slowly and quietly toward her.

Her back was to him and she was clearly unaware of his approach until he could read the red words, vivid as fresh blood.

HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER

Tom stopped in his tracks, shock reverberating through his muscles and nerves. He must've made some sound because she turned abruptly, and that made Tom step back. Her eyes; the look in her eyes was the same as it had been those times; the same as it had been when she'd lied so easily to him two months ago, and something began to make sense to Tom in a vague and insensible way. He couldn't let the words take form. This was insanity.

Slowly, very slowly, her blank expression stretched into a familiar smile. A smile Tom had sometimes seen in the mirror. "Go ahead; figure it out. I know it's on the tip of your tongue."

He felt as if he had been holding his breath, they way his chest hurt so suddenly. Air would not enter his lungs. Parseltongue. Ginevra was smirking at him, trilling away in the inhuman language only he and Potter knew.

No.

Not Ginevra.

Involuntarily, he stepped forward and this-thing-that-was-not-Ginevra did the same. In a strange and vague gesture, she raised her hands, still red with paint and curled her fingers in. A strange beckoning. She seemed suddenly older, but not a woman, something else, something that had entered a state of timelessness and immortality. She was beautiful and horrible all at once. "For someone so directly connected to me, you haven't been very useful, have you, Tom?" she murmured in her husky girlish voice in a tone that didn't suit.

He had pulled his wand out as she approached, step after step. It was as if she hadn't walked before in those shoes, as if she was testing her feet. Walk, test, walk, test. Tom was beyond words. She was soon standing right before him, and he could see the details of each feature, changed and altered by the mere expression on her face. She reached up and he stepped back immediately.

"What are you?" he demanded, wand pointed directly at her throat.

She didn't laugh, but her smile twisted into something a little bestial when her teeth showed. "You can hurt her now, but remember that I'm the one between us who knows how to kill." He hadn't even seen her reach into her pocket; it was as if her wand materialised into her hand in just the same moment that he felt its tip press into his Adam's apple.

Definitely not Ginevra.

"If you would call yourself my son, then you've a lot of work to do. They say I am dead, but I intend to return and you must be the first to come to me, Tom. For now, you're to wait because I do not believe in you."

He didn't say it, but he thought it. Father. It was a painful weakness, and Tom was looking it in the eye. Through Ginevra's eyes, he saw the missing piece of his existence and it was a soul's power. It was immortality and power, these must be his because in that moment, as he looked down at this spirit with the wand at his own throat, Tom felt his weakness, felt his possible worth fade away to nothing. To this man who had possibly brought him into being, he had become nothing. He was both angry and hurt.

"Swear yourself to me and I will not kill you, little Tom," it said in plain English, the wand tip pressing deeper into his throat.

It was repulsive. He would never swear to anyone. Yet, for his life, for the chance to go on and rise above this shadow of a man, he must. He nodded, whispering the single hiss, "Yes."

The thing in Ginevra gave him an indulgent smile. "Stupefy!"

Redness clouded his vision and the floor was hard against his head.

---

"Enervate!"

Tom started up, struggling away from the hands that held him. He was in complete darkness and he squinted as a torch nearby sprang into light. Dumbledore was leaning down over him with a look of concern. "I'm so sorry, Tom," the old man murmured with feeling.

Tom could only look blankly around him. Potter was standing there, a sword in his hand, looking down at Tom with a look of abject horror. He heard a sob nearby and looked to see Ginevra, her head in her hands, crying quietly.

"It seems you've given us a bit of a fright, Tom," the old Headmaster was saying. "Upon my not finding you where I left you, I was just on my way to look when I met Hary and the others half-way. He'd taken you for dead."

Tom was staring from Ginevra to Harry calculatingly. "The Heir…" he whispered.

Dumbledore reached down and hauled Tom up with a surprising display of strength. "There now; all will be explained in due time. To my office, I think."

In Dumbledore's office, Potter recounted the whole tale to Ginevra's family, McGonagall and Dumbledore, and Tom listened with a kind of numbness, not knowing what to feel precisely. Potter had apparently figured out that Slytherin's beast was a Basilisk and had also learned that the ghost of a girl resided in the girl's bathroom where he would later conclude the entrance to the Chamber was. Having heard the announcement of Ginevra's being taken hostage, he'd gone after her. Tom stared at Harry, waiting for him to say how he did it; waiting for him to make clear the manner by which he'd expelled Tom's father from Ginevra without killing her in the process.

Potter paused; he was looking at Tom, and when Tom looked back, Potter looked away and gazed at Dumbledore.

"What interests me most," said Dumbledore gently, "is how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny when my sources tell me that he is currently in hiding in the forests of Albania."

Tom started, taking in a large breath and nearly choking on it. Uproar from Ginevra's family, and Tom's own little panic attack went unnoticed. So he'd thought until he looked at Potter, who was gazing at him with deep concern. The diary was soon passed to Dumbledore who peered at it calculatingly before quietly explaining that, "very few people know that Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle."

Ginny's weak-willed sobs were the only echo of feeling Tom could remember from that night.

Even when the Weasley's left the room and it was only he, Potter, and Dumbledore there, Tom couldn't force himself to express anything. Dumbledore gave him a cup of tea that he forbore from drinking. His thoughts were everywhere at once. It was his father; everyone knew; Dumbledore was sorry; Potter wished he hadn't found anything; Ginevra was off crying; no, Tom didn't see anything; he was unconscious.

"Voldemort," he kept murmuring carefully, quietly to himself. "Voldemort," he whispered even when he tried to sleep that night because something about it all still didn't fit, something in Tom would not let him rest until the word, "Voldemort" made a little more sense to him.

---

On the train ride home, Tom wrote a letter to Lucius Malfoy.

I understand the legacy and what I must do. However, Voldemort is dead to me. We will go about this my way or we will end up dead once again. It is your opportunity to let me know just where your loyalty stands on the issue. I wait for your answer at the Leaky Cauldron where I intend to be.

Potter came in, looking wary.

"Get out," Tom muttered.

It wasn't loud enough or Potter didn't care. He crossed the compartment and sat in the seat opposite Tom.

"You're not your father no more than I am mine," the boy-hero announced.

Tom looked up from his parchment. "And if I am?"

Potter frowned. "I trust you with my life, not Voldemort. It's you."

Something about the statement struck Tom as rather funny. He laughed. "What'll they think when they learn that Harry Potter's a nutter?"

Harry gave him a grudging smile.

"So," Tom continued, still in the remnants of his good humour. "What's it like being friends with the Dark Lord's son?"

Harry stood up, his expression blank. He was honestly thinking on the question. "A lot nicer than would think," was his reply.

Tom should've known. The only person to ever think being so connected to an evil wizard was "nice" would be Harry Potter.

---

A/N- All right. Constructive criticism much needed. After all, this isn't the work of a professional, but rather a wanna-be. Here's to Book 3! Love you all!