Chapter Ten

[PLEASE READ AUTHOR'S NOTE] I am most sorry to inform you that from this point on, my updates will become irregular again, as my break has drawn to an end, and the work will be flooding back in. So hang in there, guys! This isn't to say that I won't update until 2018 or anything, I'm just letting you know this so that you'll have an explanation for all the gaping holes in the space between updates. If by the time I start focusing on this fic again I have a completely new audience and you current readers have moved on, I just want to let you all know that I have appreciated your time here with Harry, Tom, Hermione and the rest of the crew!

Harry flipped to the Felix Felicis recipe in his Potions book and hunted for the line which he was up to.

Juice a squill bulb, he read, and then doubled back over it, frowning, tapping against the name absently with the tip of his quill. A squill bulb. Whatever that was…

"Have you never heard of a squill bulb?"

Oh, you have got to be kidding me, Harry thought, turning to glare at Riddle as he sat himself down in Hermione's customary spot, bringing all of his belongings with him.

"Well, I've never heard of people sitting in somebody else's seat," Harry shot back, which sounded much stupider aloud than it had in his head. Riddle merely hummed, turning to look at Harry with half-lidded eyes.

"I hope you don't mind my being here, Delacour," he purred, "because I certainly don't mind."

Harry stared at him incredulously, almost offended. What was up with Riddle today? Just couldn't help himself from trying to make Harry's life miserable.

"I do happen to mind," he said, "because that is Hermione's seat that you're sitting in."

"Hermione?" Tom repeated, as if he didn't know who Harry was talking about, then, "Oh! You're darling cousin. Well, she seemed quite ill-disposed last I saw her in the hospital wing."

"You were with her in the hospital wing?" Harry's suspicions reared upwards in his chest, and he suddenly remembered what Margot had said at breakfast. Something about Hermione being beautiful, and the way that all the boys looked at her. It occurred to Harry then that perhaps Riddle was interested in her… in that way. Which was not allowed, not at all – Harry refused to have Voldemort chase after Hermione, it was wrong on so many levels. Perhaps it was time to pull out the protective big brother façade…

"I saw her this morning," Riddle said, as if it were no big deal. He stood, summoning two brownish-purple tuber-like articles from the ingredients cupboards. Harry stood, too, noting that the top of his head only reached up to Riddle's jawline.

Height won't matter if he's doubled up on the ground in pain, Harry thought viciously.

"This is a squill bulb," Riddle said, holding up one of the things which he had summoned. "During the dormant state of the plant, it serves as–"

"I don't care what a bloody squill bulb serves as!" Harry hissed. "I want to know what you were doing with Hermione!"

"Possessive much, hm?" said Riddle, lifting an eyebrow and allowing a smirk to quirk his pale lips. He didn't seem at all bothered by Harry's rude interruption. Harry, on the other hand, was having none of it. How dare Riddle accuse him of possessiveness! Because it most certainly was not possessiveness, it was protectiveness!

"The pot calls the kettle black," Harry snapped back, "except that the kettle isn't black at all!"

"One might get the impression that you're upset, Harry." Riddle sounded exceptionally pleased, like the cat who got the cream.

"Don't call me 'Harry'," said Harry, refusing to acknowledge that he quite liked the way that his name rolled off of Riddle's tongue. He squared his shoulders. "And answer the question."

"If you must know," said Riddle, looking down at Harry as if Harry was merely a little stray cat, "I was in the hospital wing because Francis was not feeling too well after last night."

"What happened last night?" Harry asked, glancing over at Nott, who sat in his usual place, sweating over his steaming cauldron. Sensing eyes on him, Nott looked up, and Harry looked away quickly.

"Oh, nothing special," Riddle said with a shrug, though there was a gleam in his eyes. "Francis was merely feeling… out of sorts. I accompanied him to the hospital wing, and whilst there, stumbled upon your cousin."

"Of course you did," Harry said, though he felt far calmer. So it wasn't as though Riddle had sought Hermione out especially.

"So am I welcome to sit here, yet?" Riddle asked, and there was an almost playful tone to his voice. Harry frowned. As if Riddle hadn't already set up camp here.

"Won't Mulciber miss you?" he asked, jerking his head over to the other Slytherin boy, who was idly stirring the contents of his cauldron at a table by himself.

"Cassius knows how to handle himself," said Riddle, taking Harry's answer as a 'yes', proceeding to remove his blazer and roll his sleeves up. Harry stared at his forearms, for a reason unbeknownst to him. They were pale and lean, like that of a spirit who had wandered into the world of the living by accident. And his fingers were long and thin, perhaps a pianist's hands?

"Do you play piano?" Harry asked abruptly.

"Excuse me?" Riddle responded.

"Nothing," Harry said quickly, turning back to his cauldron, blushing for some odd reason. Why the hell had he asked Riddle that again?

"Yes, I do," said Riddle. "Why do you ask?" Harry looked at him from the corner of his eye, expecting to see something mocking upon Riddle's face, and was astonished to find only a teasing smile.

"No reason," he murmured, and for some odd reason he felt bashful. Why. The. Fuck. Was. He. Feeling. Bashful? He cleared his throat loudly, and glared down at the Potions recipe, pretending to read it, even if he wasn't seeing any of the words.

"I believe you need one of these?" Riddle said, proffering one of the tubers that he had summoned earlier.

"Um," said Harry, then, "Oh, squill bulbs."

"Yes," said Riddle, sounding amused. "Squill bulbs."

Harry carefully took it from him, placing it down on the chopping board and slicing it in half. It was surprisingly juicy on the inside.

"How are you finding Hogwarts?" Riddle asked conversationally, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, why it was that Riddle was being friendly to him.

"I'm finding it okay," he said vaguely.

"Compared to Beauxbatons?"

"What?"

"You're finding it 'okay' compared to Beauxbatons?"

"I suppose," Harry said, praying that this would not lead to an interrogation about his supposed former school.

"Your English is very good," Riddle continued. "British English seems to come naturally to you. You barely even have an accent."

"Actually," Harry replied, "French was the language which came less naturally to me." Which wasn't a lie, since French hadn't come to him at all.

"Despite you living in France and attending a French school?" Riddle sounded sceptical.

"Yes," said Harry, concentrating on juicing the squill bulb. "Which was partially why Hermione and I moved schools. Because my French wasn't tip-top."

"But you have a French accent," Riddle observed.

"My parents died when I was eight," Harry said, improvising the small details. "I lived in England up until that point, but when they died, I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle in France. I picked up the French accent from them, obviously."

"Your parents died," Riddle mused aloud, eyeing Harry as he did so. "Say, were they… our kind?"

"Our kind?" Harry repeated, then said stubbornly, "Yes, they were human."

"No, no," Riddle said, as if Harry was being purposefully stupid, "were they of the wizarding world?"

"My mum," said Harry, now angry, "was a muggleborn, and my dad was a pureblood. Not that it matters whatsoever."

"Of course not," said Riddle thoughtfully.

"Then why did you ask?" Harry snapped, throwing down his knife with a clatter.

"What's going on, Harry–" Ignatius asked, twisting to face Harry from his seat up ahead – he had been completely oblivious to Riddle's arrival, and he cut off as soon as he saw who Harry's companion was, face going cold.

"Good day, Prewett," said Riddle mockingly, a sneer gracing his face. "Harry was just telling me all about life before Hogwarts."

"I–" began Harry, ready to defend himself, when Slughorn came waddling past.

"Inter-house competition, eh, boys?" he chuckled, when he saw Harry and Riddle facing Ignatius. "Nothing like it, I've found. Say, Tom, have you decided to team up with Harry? Good man, good man…" he continued on his way.

Harry stood frozen, his mouth hanging open. Riddle, team up with him? What a load of codswallop! Riddle laughed coldly, and as if he had read Harry's thoughts, threw his arm around Harry's shoulders, whispering in his ear, "Yes, team up."

Before Harry could come to his senses and shove Riddle away, Ignatius gave a snort of disgust and turned back away.

Shit. Harry ducked out from under Riddle's arm.

"Igna–" he started, but Riddle tutted softly, cutting him short.

"Gryffindors," he said. "So very temperamental, and so quick to turn on you. It's very difficult to be a Slytherin, Harry. It's very, very lonely."

Harry didn't bother to correct Riddle. He stared after Ignatius, now whispering something to Phyllis, and didn't miss the way that she threw a doubtful glance over her shoulder at him. He couldn't deny that it hurt. And he knew that it was Riddle who had initiated this.

"It's in times like this that people show their true colours," Riddle went on loudly. "For example, in this case, we can see that Ignatius Prewett is a prejudiced, egotistical–"

"What do you want from me, Riddle?" Harry asked quietly, and Riddle paused in his diatribe.

"Why, I just want to be your friend, Harry," he said.

"Not good enough." Suddenly the classroom seemed stifling, and Harry felt a rush of claustrophobia. Clumsily, he froze his Felix Felicis potion in time, chucked his books into his bag and stormed out of the classroom.

Delacour's flighty exit drew the attention of every single person in the classroom.

"Tom," said Slughorn from his place over by the Hufflepuffs, and the Hufflepuff who he was helping, Ghannam, stood frozen mid-stir. "Where in Merlin's name did Harry just run off to?"

"The hospital wing, I believe, sir," Tom said smoothly. "He hasn't been feeling himself this morning."

"Hm," said Slughorn as the classroom slowly came back to life again. "That would explain why he looked so very austere when I was speaking to you earlier."

"Certainly," Tom responded, "Professor."

Their conversation came to an end when Ghannam's potion exploded, emitting toxic fumes in clouds of poisonous green.

"Out, out, out!" Slughorn bellowed, chasing everybody out of the classroom before the gas could flood their lungs. Tom clutched his sleeve over his nose and mouth as he pushed out of the door, joining his Slytherin classmates outside.

"Stupid idiot," Lestrange snarled in Ghannam's direction as they all waited outside in the corridor while Slughorn battled the fumes inside.

"Good timing Delacour has," Nott said. "Ran out barely a minute before we were gassed. I should have followed him out."

"'He hasn't been feeling himself'," Mulciber mimicked Tom's words. "That isn't really true, is it, Riddle?"

"Of course it isn't," Tom returned. "I managed to get the Gryffindorks to doubt him, and in return, he decided to doubt me."

"Touché," said Nott. "He's a hard nut to crack."

"It requires teamwork to get through that skull of his," Tom acknowledged. "If anything, today's lesson proved that he is as stubborn as a mule."

"Huh," said Lestrange. "So somebody is going to have to move in on Poole after all?"

"I'm afraid so," said Tom. "Francis, we have Arithmancy with him this afternoon. While The Other Delacour is occupied in the hospital wing, I would like you to speak to him."

"Me?" Nott couldn't have looked less pleased with the arrangement. He took note of the hard looks that Tom, Lestrange and Mulciber were passing him, because he swallowed with an audible click in his throat and sighed. "Oh, alright. I suppose I could slip in a word or two. Not that I'll enjoy associating myself with the mudblood."

Tom was reminded of the information that he had managed to pry out of Delacour, his thoughts lingering on the little fact that he was a half-blood, the orphaned child of a pureblood and a muggleborn. It reminded Tom very much of his own predicament. Perhaps it was more than coincidence. Perhaps it was a sign that Delacour truly was meant to be a part of the Knights of Walpurgis.

"All clear!" Slughorn cried, bursting out of the classroom. "You'll have to start your potion from scratch, Miss Ghannam. It couldn't be salvaged, I'm sorry to say."

"But, Professor!" Ghannam wailed, ignoring the comforting pats on her back from some of the other students.

"Perhaps this will be a lesson for you to not neglect the correct stirring direction of Felix Felicis," replied Slughorn mock-sternly, wagging his finger at her. "Now everybody, back in the classroom. This little classroom catastrophe does not warrant an early break."

A good thing too, because Tom needed as much time to think everything over as possible.

By the time Harry emerged from the library three hours later, he felt like a man seeing the world for the first time as he walked down the sun-splashed corridors. After his perhaps unreasonably dramatic departure from Potions, he had realised that he couldn't disregard that he would be losing a number of important hours of Potions, and went straight to the library to continue working on his thesis in peace. A very rare few hours of peace, but that didn't mean that his eyes and brain didn't ache once he emerged from the dim-lit room of books.

His thinking-time had allowed him to come to the decision that he couldn't keep this up, and wouldn't deny himself Quidditch for however long he would be trapped here in the past.

Harry proceeded to march into the Great Hall, and the first person that his eyes found was Ignatius with the other Gryffindors. Harry would have liked nothing more than to sit himself down amongst them, but knew that he couldn't do that anymore, not until he made peace with them somehow. Explaining that Riddle was being a twat again seemed like a good place to begin, but first, Harry had something else to do. He found Margot and Parkinson arguing about something else stupid at the Slytherin table, and strode over to them.

"Introduce me to Crockett," he interrupted.

"What?" said Parkinson.

"Crock-ett," Harry repeated, putting extra emphasis on the syllables.

"What about him?" Parkinson's tone was sly.

"I want to go for Seeker," Harry told him impatiently, not wanting anything to do with Parkinson's mind games and deciding to come clean.

"Really?" Margot squealed, leaping up and throwing her arms around him, as if he had just announced that he had found a cure for cancer. Harry made this observation out loud.

"What's cancer?" Margot asked blankly, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Never mind," he said, trying to pry her arms off him, but she clung tight.

"Don't you like me hugging you?" she asked, pouting.

"No," Harry said flatly.

"Ha," offered Parkinson. Harry ignored him.

"Hugging me should remain exclusive to Hermione and Ginny."

Oh.

"Who," said Margot, but somebody else finished off her sentence.

"Is Ginny?"

Why does Riddle have to show up at the worst possible moments? Harry demanded of himself angrily. It was like he was cursed to have Riddle turn up when it was most awkward.

"Are you following me?" he asked Riddle brusquely, refusing to look up at the other boy.

"No," said Riddle, and his voice was eerily quiet. "I came to check on how you were faring after your flight from Potions, and instead came across this most interesting conversation. Oh, and get off Harry, Greengrass. Nobody needs to see your risqué ways in public."

Margot, with a devil of a sneer on her face, released Harry.

"Is there something you need, Riddle?" asked Parkinson cordially.

"What I need," said Riddle, and it sounded to Harry as if he was grinding his teeth, "is to know who Ginny is. Long-lost sister, I suppose? Perhaps your aunt?"

"Not that it's your concern," said Harry coldly, turning to face him, "but she's my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Riddle's voice was darker than even Harry's worst memory, his deep blue eyes piercing into Harry's own. For a moment, he had the strangest sensation that he and Riddle were alone in a bubble, and the rest of the world revolved around just the two of them, frozen in time as the temperature suddenly plummeted to an unimaginable negative degree.

The moment was broken when Margot grabbed Harry's arm again.

"You have a girlfriend?" she asked, sounding as if he had personally offended her. "And why haven't you told me this? Here I was, thinking that I was the only suitor lined up for you, or else your heart's dearest."

"Oh, yuck," piped up Parkinson. "Shut your gullet already, Greengrass."

"Is she still in France?" Margot continued, fluttering around Harry, completely ignoring Parkinson and seemingly oblivious to Harry and Riddle's stare-off. "Are you trying to maintain a long-distance relationship? That is absolutely adorable, Harry. How long have you two been together? Oh! Are you betrothed to be married as soon as you have left school? Goodness knows that that's what awaits me…"

"No," said Harry, finally breaking Riddle's glare and glancing at Margot. "It's nothing like that. I… I had to break it off when I moved here."

"Aw," cooed Margot, right on cue. "But she was your first love, right? They say that your first love is always the one that you remember the most."

"Um," said Harry, his thoughts immediately going to Cho Chang. So, technically she was his 'first love', despite it being so brief… he highly doubted that she would be the one that he remembered the most, though.

Margot gasped. Harry jumped. Parkinson chuckled. Riddle steamed.

"Ginny wasn't you first love?" she accused.

"I didn't say that," Harry argued weakly.

"Trust me, I'm a lady," Margot countered. "I know how to read between the lines, and your face spells 'guilt'."

It was true, and Harry abruptly wondered why he should feel guilty.

"Nobody here wants to discuss Delacour's love life, Greengrass," Parkinson interjected, "other than you. Wasn't I meant to be taking him to speak to–"

Margot shushed him.

"You have been getting around, haven't you, Harry?" she asked, winking slyly at him. "I don't know why I suspected any differently of a Frenchman. Who is the lucky girl, then?"

"You are stereotyping the French horribly," Harry told her, and he could feel his face burning hot. "And it doesn't matter who she was, that's nobody's concern but mine."

"I think that that is enough, Greengrass," Riddle said coldly. Harry hadn't forgotten that he was standing there in the foreground, with an expression on his face which suggested that he would have liked to tear Margot from limb to limb. Harry couldn't tell why – if anybody should have liked to do that, it was the person who was being humiliated here.

"Crockett!" Parkinson coughed from behind his fist.

"Yes!" Harry leapt on the chance to escape. "That's a very good idea, Parkinson, let's go." He didn't bother farewelling Margot, simply rushed off blindly in a random direction.

"You're going the wrong way, Delacour," Parkinson called after him, hooking his thumb the opposite direction. Exceptionally embarrassed, Harry was forced to take the walk of shame back past Margot, who looked positively delighted by his mortification, and Riddle, who still looked downright furious.

That's right, Harry thought resentfully. Because he thinks that I'm his rightful possession, and therefore can't have my own friends or… or girlfriends, or whatever.

"Run along now, Riddle," he heard Margot telling Riddle as he followed Parkinson down the Great Hall, but did not listen in long enough to hear Riddle's response, which would surely be a biting one.

"What changed your mind, eh, Delacour?" Parkinson asked, and Harry started.

"What?"

"About Quidditch try-outs."

"Oh!" Harry laughed in obvious relief at the change in subject. "Quidditch. Right. I just thought that I could do with a bit of down-time."

"Quidditch," Parkinson said disbelievingly, "is your idea of down-time?"

Harry puffed up like an indignant peacock, opening his mouth for a stinging retort, but then Parkinson said, "Oi! Crockett!"

Winky Crockett turned out to be quite a tall, broad-shouldered sixth year, brown-skinned and freckled, his dark hair long enough to tie at the nape of his neck. With a heavy brow, an exceptionally square jaw and deep-set eyes, intimidation seemed to come naturally to Crockett.

"What do you want?" he growled, pausing in his tracks. He had been on his way out of the Great Hall, and did not seem very pleased by the interruption. Also, judging from the naked animosity on his face, Harry took it that he and Parkinson were not on the friendliest of terms, despite being in the same house and year group. Quite possibly because Parkinson was not part of the majority who followed Riddle around blindly like headless chickens.

"Don't bare your teeth at me like that," Parkinson ordered, straightening his tie and clearing his throat primly. "It's most unbecoming. And besides, I wouldn't be associating myself with you like this if it wasn't for a good reason."

"Associating?" Crockett looked to be working up a bluster. Parkinson plunged onwards hurriedly.

"Let's put all of our not-so-secret hatred for one another aside for just one moment," he said, "because when it comes down to it, the two of us do share a common interest."

"What are you on about, you nutter?" snapped Crockett.

"We both would very much like to see Slytherin win the Quidditch Cup this year," said Parkinson, ignore Crockett's jibe, "and unseat those barbaric lions off of our rightful throne. But to do so, a top-notch team would have to be put together, and to achieve said top-notch team, you need as many candidates for the different team positions as possible. So here I bring a valid candidate, Harry Delacour, who also happens to share this common interest."

Crockett seemed to notice Harry for the first time, and his eyes immediately swept over the older, albeit shorter boy in strict evaluation. Harry, meanwhile, preoccupied himself with glaring at Parkinson.

"I do not recall," he said through gritted teeth, "saying that I shared that common interest with you."

Parkinson merely winked in return.

"Delacour!" Crockett barked, drawing the attention of anybody within hearing-range.

"Uh, yes?" Harry muttered in return, embarrassed by all of the watching eyes.

"You want to take down Gryffindor this year?" the Slytherin Captain demanded of him. Harry laughed weakly.

"I mean," he said, "the point of playing is to try to win the game, but I'm not irrationally biased against the Gryffindors…"

Crockett didn't appear to hear the end of the sentence, and his face split into a wide grin, which worked wonders on his approachableness.

"Never would have taken the Beauxbatons pretty boy as a Quidditch fanatic," he said slyly, leaning forward so that he was face-to-face with Harry. "Which position do you play, hm?"

Harry, who was beyond tired of being called 'pretty', because he most certainly was not 'pretty' and if anything was 'manly', fired a glare straight back in Crockett's face.

"I play Seeker, Crockett," he snapped.

"Should have known," Crockett said in a satisfied tone of voice, straightening up so he could smirk down at Harry. "You've got the build of a Seeker."

"Puny?" Parkinson offered, and Harry smacked him over the back of the head instinctively, to Parkinson's many protests.

"Wiry and spry," Crockett corrected, not once looking in Parkinson's direction. He continued to stare down at Harry attentively. "Ideal for Seekers, but that doesn't mean that a person of that build should be limited to the one position. Say, Delacour, have you ever considered playing Chaser before?"

"Chaser?" Harry repeated, eyebrows dipping into a frown. "I've never–"

"Because I'm a Chaser," Crockett said, a wolfish grin appearing on his face, "and I think that you and I could work pretty well together."

Was that an innuendo? Harry stared at Crockett in complete disbelief. Judging from the way that his expression did not change in the slightest and Parkinson allowed himself a quiet laugh, Harry took it that it most certainly was. What was with people today? Harry should have known that a day without Hermione would be a difficult one.

"I am a Seeker," he said stonily, "and only a Seeker. And I am also very straight. So I would appreciate it if we could leave it at that."

"Are you completely sure?" pressed Crockett, arching an eyebrow as if Harry's heterosexuality was something questionable.

"Crockett," Parkinson said slowly, casually using Harry's shoulder as an armrest, "if you had come further down the Slytherin table just five minutes ago, you would have heard a very animated discussion between Delacour, Greengrass and Riddle, concerning Delacour's previous flings. All of which were with the female species, I believe."

"Parkinson," said Harry, aggravated, "Shut up. And Crockett, all I want to know is when try-outs will be held."

"Upcoming Friday," Crockett said lazily. He didn't seem too bothered by Parkinson's announcement, instead disinterested in Harry all over again. "Come down to the pitch at four in the afternoon."

"Thank you, Crockett," Harry said formally. "I'll see you then." He thought about turning around and joining Margot again, but decided against it after considering the fact that she would probably just bug him for details about Ginny and Cho. He knocked Parkinson's arm off his shoulder and marched out the Great Hall doors, making sure to keep a minimum of five meters between himself and Crockett.

"I swear, that's just blatant sexual harassment," Harry muttered to himself as he walked, tempted to hex the back of Crockett's head as he walked. "When I was Captain, I never would have done that–"

"You were Captain?" Harry had failed to notice that Parkinson had hurried after him.

"No," Harry said promptly, without even thinking, then, "Yes. At Beauxbatons."

"If you made Captain," observed Parkinson gleefully, "then you have to be a decent player."

"Like I told you before," said Harry, "I'm alright."

"Modesty does not become you, Delacour."

"Why are you following me, Parkinson?" Harry veered sharply at the first left.

"I'm not," said Parkinson. "Though I might, depending on where you're going. Where're you going?"

"I'm visiting Hermione in the hospital wing," said Harry tiredly. He really wished that Parkinson was less of a pain in the arse.

"Good, because it's about time that you introduced us." Parkinson sounded pleased with the arrangement. "One would think that you didn't want me consorting with your family."

"That's because I don't want you consorting with my family!" Harry retaliated. "And you're not coming along! Now piss off, Parkinson, before I make you."

"You're a tetchy one, aren't you?" Parkinson grumbled, though he held his hands up in surrender when Harry threatened him with his wand. "Alright, I'm going. But you can't avoid the introduction forever. Your cousin and I are destined to be together… sometimes I wonder how it is that her lovely face is even related to your ugly mug."

"Parkinson!" Harry roared, and went thundering after the other Slytherin, who had finally decided that it might be a good time to run.

Smart boy.

Francis Nott didn't know why, but Tom was in the filthiest mood of all when they arrived in Arithmancy that afternoon. Normally, Professor Gwin would spend the first part of the lesson running through complicated explanations of a new numerical chart, which would have allowed Francis time to prepare himself to face the irate Tom Riddle, but as it was, Gwin set them straight into individual work from their textbooks.

Five minutes into the lesson, Francis thought that he had been very successful in avoiding Tom's mood (predominantly because of his lack of speech), until finally Tom snarled under his breath, "Well?"

Francis jumped, and then flicked a quick look up at Tom's face – his eyes were broiling pits of dark blue fire, his handsome, aristocratic face as cold as death.

"Um–" Francis began, a very literate start to his sentence, but Tom cut him off.

"The Other Delacour is not here," he ground out, and Francis wondered yet again what had thrust such a black mood upon Tom, when normally he was so level-headed.

"Ah, yes," said Francis, gathering up his work and standing. "I'll be back as soon as I have planted an… idea in Poole's head."

"See that you do," said Tom, no less vexed than before, and Francis hurriedly scanned the classroom for the mudblood, Rowan Poole.

Poole was, predictably, sitting at a table of two by himself, his usual partner stranded in the hospital wing. His hand was buried in his hair as he leaned over his textbook, a scowl of deep concentration set on his face as he appraised what the future read through the study of numbers.

"Good afternoon, Poole," Francis said, mastering his facial features into a carefully friendly expression. Poole immediately bolted ramrod straight, assessing Francis suspiciously.

"Nott," he finally acknowledged, and Francis gritted his teeth. It was demoralising, having to wait to be acknowledged by a mudblood, much less attempt to be nice to one.

"Might I sit here?" he asked, nodding his head towards the empty seat.

"Uh," said Poole.

"Excellent." Francis sat down. He sincerely hoped that it wasn't too obvious that he was uncomfortable, perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair. "I hope I'm not intruding, it's just that Riddle is…" he paused when he saw that Poole was exchanging confused glances with another Ravenclaw. He cleared his throat noisily, annoyed.

"What?" said Poole.

"I said," Francis repeated, combatting the irritation out of his voice, "that Riddle is in one of his moods again. I'm sure that you know the ones." It was an attempt to bond over something with Poole, and to Francis's massive relief, it worked.

"Ah, yes, Riddle's infamous moods," said Poole, and his tone was bordering on dry. "We all know about them, if not been the victim of one at some point."

"Hm," said Francis. "Well, I myself came over here to avoid one." He glanced over his shoulder at Tom, and Tom met his eye, inclining his head as if to say "go on".

"You can take the seat for this lesson, I suppose," Poole said. "But Hermione normally sits here, so…"

"About The Other– I mean, Hermione," said Francis, gleeful that he hadn't even had to be the one to steer the conversation down this track, "we've all noticed you two, and I just wanted to say that I think that you're a very lucky guy."

"How so?" Poole looked back at Francis blankly, and Francis sighed inwardly. What a slow numbskull.

"You're a very handsome couple," he said, spelling it out slowly and patiently. Of course, it was all a lie – quite frankly, he thought that The Other Delacour could do much better than Poole, but oh well.

"Oh!" Poole went red, and pushed his glasses up his nose clumsily. Francis thought that perhaps Poole should wear contact lenses instead – it would work a miracle on the outward appearance of his facial structure. Francis zoned back in to Poole, who was still rambling.

"I mean, we're by no means a couple," he stammered, "not that I wouldn't like to be – Hermione's very smart and beautiful and–"

Puh-lease. What an idiot, Francis inwardly gagged, cutting Poole off.

"Sorry," he said, feigning surprise. "I was so sure that you two were… an item. Very presumptuous of me, I apologise. It's just that the way she looks at you, like a woman seeing the sun for the first time…" Perhaps he was laying it on a little thick, but Poole drank it all in.

"Really?" he asked, perking up like an over-eager puppy. "I didn't realise… do you think that I could ask her…?"

"No!" Francis said quickly, and Poole flinched. "What I mean is…" he paused. He couldn't have Poole outright declaring his feelings for The Other Delacour immediately, lest she reject him straightaway, and then Poole would retreat into a little black hole, and gone would be the diversion.

"What I mean is," Francis continued, "if you're that forward with her straight away, you might scare her off. Trust me, I know women."

"You know women?" Poole could have at least looked a little less disbelieving. Francis felt vaguely insulted, though not entirely surprised that people typically saw him as a person lacking in social skills. Just because he enjoyed burying his nose in a good book now and then… raised as a pureblood, Francis had most certainly learned the pureblood ways and etiquette, and could definitely be leaps and bounds more charming than Rowan Poole.

"Yes," said Francis, "I do. So trust me. Get close to her first, but do not rush into the… romantic aspect of your relationship. She'll panic, and you'll ruin all of your chances if you do."

Francis Nott was giving Rowan Poole advice about romance. What had the world come to?

"I suppose that it makes sense," said Poole slowly, evaluating Francis's words.

His work here was done. Francis pretended to look over his shoulder and startle, before gathering his work up again.

"I'm sorry, but Riddle wants to speak to me," he said. "Maybe he needs help with something…" Poole seemed somewhat incredulous that Tom Riddle, Head Boy and overall genius, could possible need help, but he didn't say so aloud.

"Well, thanks for the advice," he muttered, returning to his textbook, though he looked a lot more cheerful than before.

"My pleasure," Francis said, biting back a chuckle, before moving back to the seat next to Tom.

"Well?" the Head Boy asked darkly.

"The seed has been planted," Francis murmured back, barely moving his lips. "It cannot be long before the flower blooms."

And when it did, Francis knew that Tom would be ready.

Cheers to Margot for unknowingly getting poor, dear old Tom jealous. XD And also, we just passed the 100 page mark, guys! WHOO. This is the perfect place to slow down the production of this story… again, I apologise for the updates returning to irregular, but… education calls. I'll be back at this at full pelt when the next break comes.

See you all then (should you choose to hang around),

XblackcatwidowX