XI - A Glimpse Into the Past
Several weeks before exams began, a poster was pinned to the school noticeboard, attracting a huge crowd in the Great Hall foyer. The Hogwarts Annual Picnic was scheduled for the last Saturday of May; a brief treat before exam fever gripped the school. Each year group was assigned a tutor and several staff members, with the picnics being held at different locations throughout the forests. Partly rigorous exercise, since the round trip was upwards of ten miles and partly to act as a bonding experience. To remind everyone while they were deep in study, that a world still existed beyond the library walls. The poster showed a group of students walking across heather moorland; some were deep in a forest feeding a unicorn and others were racing sticks in a stream. Dippet smiled serenely from the top left, occasionally raising an eyebrow. It was a poster which took several minutes to fully appreciate.
Vivian traced her finger along the text at the bottom. 'First form — in the care of Professor Beery — will picnic at The Adder Stones of White Moon, deep in the Forbidden Forest.'
'That's a shame about Herbert Beery,' Gary added. 'We'll get lost and have to eat each other to survive.'
'My study please, Mr Box.'
Beery was reading the poster further back. Everyone remained silent and Beery bounced on the balls of his feet for a moment or two; then he clasped both hands behind his back and followed Gary over the viaduct.
On the Saturday of the picnic, first formers were the last to depart. They had the least distance to travel, plus Beery was still busy organising their picnic cart. Hauled by a pair of thestrals, the cart was ancient, rugged and piled high with food for seventy-five pupils.
Betty spent several hours getting ready in Vivian and Eudoras' dormitory, high up in the Ravenclaw Tower. On sunny mornings, light streamed through the latticed windows, while dust slowly rotated in its beams. It was a comfortable, happy place for her and kept homesickness at bay. Something she struggled with in the dungeons of Slytherin.
Betty had lent Eudora a skirt she'd bought in Paris; despite her protesting it was far too beautiful for the forest. A bold, floral print, dark blue with pale pink roses; Eudora's mouth opened when she saw it, but her immediate reaction was to retreat for safety's sake. 'I shouldn't, it might catch on a thorn.'
'It doesn't suit me, but it's just right for you,' Betty insisted. 'Hang on a moment.'
Betty stood behind Eudora and took her plaits: hanging down on either side. She passed them over Eudora's head and using hairpins, secured them on either side.
'You have a beautiful neck. You really shouldn't hide it.'
Eudora was transfixed by her reflection. She almost looked sophisticated; as if some of Betty's effortless style had rubbed off on her.
'Dora, they're gonna love that,' Vivian said. 'Now, shake a leg, or you'll be keeping the spooks company.'
Eudora wasn't sure who they were.
A trail of students followed Professor Beery, with his flame-coloured, frizzy sideburns quivering in the breeze. Beery always smiled, not from contentment, but nerves. At any moment, whatever he was doing might self-destruct; taking everyone down with it. He was accompanied by Dorothy Cronin and Ludmilla Onegin, all three of whom had a passion for the dramatic arts. You might say they enjoyed each other's company, because few others cared to know them, but that was only partly true. All three lived and breathed for muggle theatre. During the holidays, Dorothy Cronin — with her muggle connections — frequently organised trips for them to London's West End.
Their motley crew also included Klebhorn, who was attached to Hogwarts' support staff. He'd lived at the castle for over thirty years and no one — including himself — had any idea of his age. Around seven feet tall and thin as a rake; he also had the strength of ten men. Klebhorn helped in the kitchens, assisted the caretaker and roamed around the castle: a solution in search of a problem. It was rumoured that he couldn't speak and was confined to Hogwarts for stealing babies, but that was just teenage cruelty at work. His thick, unkempt hair and imploring eyes, gave him a tortured appearance, but he was always gentle, hard-working and reliable.
Setting off at nine-thirty, they took a ten minute break at eleven, then pushed on again. The cart's wheels stuck several times, but Klebhorn heaved it out of the ruts with little difficulty or fuss.
The forest was at its most dense as the sun passed overhead and dozens of pupils were now losing the will to live. They crested a ridge and finally their destination lay before them: a plateau, more than a hundred feet above the valley floor. Towering pines behind the back wall, drooped in the heat and a waterfall cascaded over the rock face: providing a rumbling soundtrack and ground-level rainbows. The plateau was bathed in sunshine, while insects warbled in the heat. A clutch of adder stones: round boulders with holes through their centres, littered the plateau surface. Adder stones were the work of lone serpents, piercing the boulders with their tongues. Moss and lichens covered their surface, giving them an ancient, sponge-like texture and sprays of wild flowers and daisies, swayed between the tree roots.
Klebhorn unpacked the cart, cracking open immense blankets and guiding them in controlled flutters to the grassy surface. Most students took their shoes and socks off, then squeezed the grass between their toes.
The house-elves of Hogwarts' kitchen — as usual — had produced a range of tasty morsels. Cold pork lattice and Cumberland pies; bridies; wheels of mature cheddar; three dozen cottage loaves; Scotch eggs; homemade coleslaw; tomatoes; cucumber and celery from the kitchen greenhouses. Oat crackers; sausage and sage rolls; cheese scones; potato salad; spiced aubergine flan; Arbroath smokies and pumpkin juice. Strawberry tart; individual cherry cakes; Battenberg; Victoria sponge; chocolate-dipped ring doughnuts and fruit salad. The chatter died away as everyone tucked in. None of it would keep, so everyone was encouraged to eat until it was gone. Exercise from the walk, was an excellent excuse to push the boat out.
Gary and Tom were on the same rug as Vivian, Eudora and Betty, but sitting on opposite corners. Beside Tom were: Daniel Joshi; Brian Downer; J.P. Magwaza; George Emery and Dougie Kernow. Gary sat cross-legged with his back to the girls.
Eudora and Betty had finished eating and were resting their backs against an adder stone. They got around to the subject of summer holidays and the imminent war; there was a possibility that they might not be able to return to school, but who knew for sure? Most didn't want to face the prospect of a war, so they looked for any opportunity to change the subject. Betty confided that she felt at home in their surroundings for the first time. Eudora's first thought was to chime in: me too. However, her friend was wrestling with something; turning the conversation towards herself, would be inappropriate. Betty glanced at Tom.
'I'm going to miss everyone.' Then the idea of never returning, prompted her to blurt out.
'I like Tom. I think about him when I'm alone. I know it shouldn't matter, but it does.'
Eudora felt like she'd been dealt a low blow. Applying as much self control as possible, she replied.
'He is handsome.'
'I know. I don't think it's that though. I often feel alone and when I look at him, I think I see the same kind of… Not loneliness. More of being alone and not quite measuring up to what the world expects of you. Which doesn't make sense, I'm sure. I just want to tell him that it's fine, he should always be the way he is. It feels like there's a part of him missing when he's in the courtyard, sitting down to lunch, or writing furiously in class. I want to tell him that he's got a friend, no matter what.'
Betty's smile was fixed in the distance, before she snorted. 'I'm rambling. Just ignore me.'
'No,' Eudora placed her hand over Betty's, 'you're not at all.'
It didn't sound like rambling to Eudora; it sounded exactly like the voice in her own head. The one she never talked about. How a boring morning lit up with interest, if she passed Tom in the corridor. For several hours afterwards she would imagine herself shopping: picking out beautiful clothes for her children. Their children. Her and Toms' children.
She wanted to screw her face up in despair. She wouldn't dream of mentioning anything so pathetic and here was Betty, being more honest than she could ever be. She was better than Eudora at being honest too. Eudora's lip was quivering and her eyes prickled with tears. She was destined in life to be a runner up: a cautionary tale for those who dare to hope. A friend who offered heartfelt advice, despite nursing a delicate heart of her own. She couldn't like Betty any less for it, but often — in the absence of someone else — she resorted to familiar ground and blamed herself. Useless! Eudora breathed deeply with a ragged sigh; she was about to screw her face up into its ugliest form and shed tears. The shame of it hardly mattered.
Then she saw Gary Box edging his way across the blanket towards Vivian, who had no doubt encouraged him. The fear of becoming a laughing stock, chased the self-sympathy away. With the back of one hand, Eudora dabbed at her tears and forced a mechanical smile.
Gary leaned forward and whispered into Vivian's ear.
'Tom and I are staying on. Thought you lot might be interested in staying too.'
Despite keeping a straight face, Vivian's eyes couldn't conceal a twinkle of excitement. 'I'll see if I'm busy.'
'Back of the line at five. If you're not busy.' Gary edged back to join his friends.
Tom watched Vivian's face while Gary whispered in her ear and knew at once that his friend was right: they would stay behind. He didn't mind Betty and liked what she had to say. She was pretty, beautiful in fact. He'd like it more if it were just the two of them and not for the reason Gary would assume: so he could steal a kiss. It had never crossed his mind until now. It was just that? Nothing was a big deal when they were together. There was no pressure to be funny, or clever; she saw past that. So yes, Tom was pleased they were coming. He had to be careful though; he was casting the spell and on a teacher too. The punishment for which, would be swift, severe and likely to fall squarely on his shoulders.
The first-form party packed up reluctantly at half-past four, with everyone helping Klebhorn to load the cart. Beery with the other teachers, circulated their picnic site and removed any litter with a flick of his wand. Several students stood nearby and held a sack open to catch the flying debris. When they were satisfied that the location was left as they'd found it, Beery and his colleagues formed the pupils into a long line. Gary and Tom joined the rear, then backed towards the woodland edge. As they approached it, Gary hissed at Vivian. She grabbed Betty and Eudora, then nodded her head towards Tom and Gary, miming come on! Eudora wanted to resist, but saw Betty picking her way through the bushes, so she followed without complaint.
There were several Scots pines with trunks broad enough to hide their group. Meanwhile, Beery travelled down the line of students, tapping each one on the head as he counted.
Gary tutted.
'Did I ever thank you for that detention, Beery? No, I don't think I did.'
Tom flicked his wand. 'Imperio.'
'Consider yourself thanked.' Gary put a hand on Tom's shoulder.
Had anyone been paying attention to Beery, they would have noticed his usually-flamboyant self, stiffen with awkwardness. He hesitated, fully aware that heads needed counting, but before reaching the end of the line, he already knew that everyone was present and correct. Despite having no number to fall back on. Curious, but at the same time, hardly worth mentioning.
'Onward Mister Klebhorn, onward.' The party shuffled down the bridleway and took many minutes to disappear among the trees.
'We'll be missed. Someone's bound to notice we're not there.' Eudora instantly feared the worst and began to obsess about expulsion.
'Relax, Brian Downer's saying he's seen us up front. He'd never cover for anyone, so they'll believe him. No question.' Gary was probably right in that respect.
'Why is he covering for you then?' Vivian was suspicious.
'He owes me and we'll leave it at that.' Gary half-closed his eyes and nodded.
They decided to follow Tom's suggestion and climb to the top of the ridge, then gather wood and light a fire. With each step, Eudora became more afraid of her shadow. Eventually, she realised that things weren't so bad after all; followed by the shocking discovery, that she might actually be enjoying herself. The person most likely to put a stop to her having fun, always seemed to be herself.
They talked for hours, comfortable in each others' company and glad they'd decided to stay. Finally, the sun disappeared below the horizon, igniting the sky. They sat admiring the blood-red spectacle and feeling refined for appreciating such simple pleasures. Gary, who was moved by the scenery, announced, 'we're the lost guardians of White Moon.'
'Speak for yourself,' Betty giggled and the laughter spread.
'All right, all right. Let's poke fun at the northern lad.' Gary shook his head
It was late and the walk back in darkness was a surreal experience: like a waking dream. Disembodied voices, laughter, no awareness of distance and branches rearing up at the last moment. They bumped into one another from time to time, not sure who was who. Despite taking longer, the journey flashed by and with disappointment, Eudora spotted the lights of Hogwarts Castle first. They left the Forbidden Forest and crossed the moonlit lawns, breaking into two groups before entering the school. Tom, Gary and Betty to Slytherin, Vivian and Eudora to Ravenclaw. Little was said as they went their separate ways. Climbing into bed later, Eudora closed her eyes and drifted to sleep between cool sheets. She could still hear the jokes, twigs snapping and laughter during their journey back. It was one of the few times in her life that she'd broken the rules on purpose and try as she might to suppress it. Her smile kept returning.
The following Sunday morning, Eudora woke later than usual. Her normal Sunday routine was a quick circuit of the school, then breakfast when the doors opened. Waking from such a deep sleep, she lay drowsy and motionless under the covers, so Vivian tapped a foot that was poking out.
'Hey, sleepy head, make it snappy or you'll miss breakfast.'
Eudora sat bolt upright, gathered her clothes and headed for the girls' bathrooms. She was plaiting her hair, when Betty looked round the door.
'Coming to breakfast?'
'Yes, just two minutes now.'
When they arrived at the Great Hall, there was a new poster in the foyer. This one was larger and ran along the undecorated wall beside the entrance. It showed pupils in Hogwarts house colours, racing above the treeline of a nearby peak. The racers wore goggles and rode long, streamlined broomsticks; the speed they were travelling and the length of their brooms, meant turns were wide and sweeping. Gary Box nudged his way to the front and read the text at the bottom aloud.
'The Brush Sweepstakes: Hogwarts 800,' he paused. 'Aside from being a terrible pun, what does it all mean?' Then he continued reading: 'Inter-house relay competition. A challenging, cross-country course of 800 miles. 800 miles! Each house to supply a team of four racers and two reserves, selected in whichever manner their tradition dictates. Saturday 24th June at 12pm. Spectators to assemble from 11am.'
'Well. Last exam is on the 23rd. So, I expect we'll all be there.' While the picnic was to relax students before exams began, the Hogwarts 800 would give them something to look forward to afterwards.
Eudora and Betty slipped into breakfast, seconds before the doors closed.
'Why announce it now. With exams and everything just around the corner,' Eudora wondered.
Jane Moran, a Slytherin fifth-former, was sitting opposite them, sipping tea and reading a book. She didn't look up until the last moment.
'Because there's a war coming and people like to pretend it's not happening. Bring out the traditions, get everyone cheering. Anything, as long as we don't have to deal with what's right in front of us.'
Jane looked at the two fresh-faced first formers, with something approaching sympathy.
'It's a fun event,' Eudora tried to explain. 'Enjoy yourself once exams are over and... Really... To settle who wins the house cup.' Jane gathered her plates and turned to leave.
'House cup? It's for first formers. You get over it once you've more important things to worry about. You girls have a fun morning.'
The sarcastic exchange jarred Eudora, but Betty less so.
'Don't worry, you saw the size of the crowd. Except for a few miserable individuals, everyone's looking forward to it.' Betty squeezed her shoulder.
Eudora smiled back, but the way Jane Moran had dismissed their enthusiasm, stayed with her most of the morning.
That afternoon, broomstick practice groups sprang up all over the school grounds. Betty was right; older pupils may be less bothered about winning house cups, but the competition lit a fire under most students. First and second formers who had little hope of selection, arranged themselves into teams; laying down jackets as markers, then recording their runs using precision sand timers.
Jane Moran was not far from the truth; Dippet and Hogwarts' staff all read the Daily Prophet and were well aware that war was imminent. Although it ran along different lines to the world of the everyday wizard or witch; muggle society and their own, were fundamentally linked. The Hogwarts 800 was a useful way of keeping the students focussed and optimistic.
Eudora and Joan de Manio from her Ravenclaw dorm, were taking an afternoon walk. They needed some air after a brutal stretch of revision and were keen to see what was happening down by the quidditch pitch. There were dozens of students in groups, dotted around the outside of the stadium, since its wooden skeleton provided a convenient circuit to race around. Most were in the sixth form — joking — but with serious intent. They were also wearing protective gear and high speed goggles, with no cape to slow them down. Younger pupils were hypnotised as they flashed by, practising changeovers and showing off to an appreciative audience. Eudora spotted Gary, Brian and Tom nearby, conducting their own trials; with Brian keeping a check on times.
Tom was a gifted flier, perhaps not a naturally smooth glider, but certainly a brave risk-taker. Gary — in contrast — was pedestrian, safe and destined never to make the school team. Unconcerned by his lack of ability, he loved flying, even if it was from the back of the field. Tom was completing an entire lap of the open ground; skirting the edge of the woods and focussing more on stamina, than sprinting speed. Gary saw Eudora and beckoned her over.
''Dora.' Vivian's nickname for her was starting to stick.
Gary turned to Eudora's dorm-mate.
'Afternoon Joan.'
'Hmm.'
'Come out to lend us your support?'
'No,' Joan replied, 'just for the walk.'
'Joan, stop breaking my heart.' Gary pretended to stumble backwards clutching his chest.
Joan faintly shook her head, before wandering over to Brian.
Gary checked Joan was out of earshot.
'There's something I need to tell you. Well, show you. Meet me after tea in the Fountain Courtyard, over the greenhouse side.'
Tom came speeding towards them and pulled the front of his broom to one side, releasing his feet from the stirrups. Powerslides meant you could dismount on rapidly slowing legs; which was impressive, but more so because he never seemed to care about impressing people. Tom removed his goggles and pushed his hair back; powerslides reminded him of leaping from the rear platform of buses.
'Eudora.'
'Hello, Tom.'
'I need one of the long brooms, but fifth and sixth formers got them all, before I knew the school had any.' Tom looked over at the senior boys barrelling into high speed turns, with a mixture of admiration and envy.
Joan finished talking to Brian and nodded in the direction of school, raising her eyebrows. Eudora agreed.
'I'll see you later, Gary. Bye, Tom.'
Both boys surrounded Brian and began to plan a new route. Hoping to squeeze a fraction more from their ancient broomsticks.
Eudora made her excuses and left tea early. As promised, Gary was standing in the shadows of the Fountain Courtyard; over-dramatically she thought. There was a moment of awkwardness, before Gary suggested they leave for Hogsmeade immediately. Without really thinking about it, she agreed, though Eudora felt more exposed than usual without Betty by her side. The trip also represented a significant risk, since there was no cover of darkness to rely on.
In Hogsmeade, Gary led them to a cottage on the fringes of the village, whose back garden and gate were accessed by a path. There was a steep, grassy slope on the other side, which dropped several hundred feet to the valley below. Gary let them through the gate and they walked casually up the path; with Eudora presuming that the house belonged to a relative of his. He produced his wand and tried to unlock the back door, but nothing happened. Eudora suddenly woke up. Gary was breaking in! Then, not fully understanding why, she leaned forward and twisted the stiff handle; it was already unlocked.
'I knew that were open.' Gary tucked his wand away. 'Just testing you.'
Eudora felt sick once they entered the house: this was all wrong. Gary whispered that he'd followed Tom here, earlier in the week; he didn't mention why, but said that Tom had returned several times. It was likely Tom knew the owner.
'What are we looking for?' Eudora hissed.
'Whispers are supposed to be quiet, y'know?'
'Well I can hear your breathing a mile away.' She'd wanted to say something earlier and now he'd given her good reason to.
'Shhh. We're here for clues, not to squabble.'
They walked in slow motion, rolling their feet, but this didn't prevent the floorboards creaking, so both of them had pained expressions as they crept forwards. Passing through the kitchen and into the hall, they saw a staircase leading to the next floor.
'How 'bout up there?' Gary pointed at the low ceiling.
The staircase produced a symphony of squeaks and groans. If anyone was in the house; they had unlimited warning that intruders were sneaking about. A table at the top of the stairs had an envelope on it, which Eudora turned over. The corridor only had one window at the far end, meaning it was too dark to read. 'Lumos.' It was Eudora's first attempt to use a spell in anger and she was amazed that it actually worked.
'That'll be nothing,' Gary nodded at the envelope. 'I know Tom, he's very particular about hiding things. Only if it's well hidden, is it worth finding.'
Gary opened a door to one of the bedrooms; the curtains were drawn, so he began rooting around. After a minute or so, he realised that he was alone. Gary poked his head back onto the landing.
'Eudora, please! We're supposed to be looking. Otherwise this is all a waste of time.'
There was silence, then the suggestion of a sniff. Gary lit the end of his wand and held it up; Eudora was dabbing her eyes with a sleeve.
She'd been feeling homesick earlier in the day, despite having friends to lean on, but Gary had just shouted at her. Whispered, to be fair, but he'd done it loudly. The tears came without warning; Eudora was trying to help, but didn't want to get into trouble and there were also exams to worry about.
Gary was genuinely shocked and reviewed his last few sentences. He might have sounded cross, or even, dare he say it: bullying. Everyone knew Eudora was a soft touch; if you pretended to strain a wrist, she'd carry your scrolls to class. Even if you could wrap her round your finger, you shouldn't. That's what feeble-minded people did.
Gary handed her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket.
'Don't, you'll start me off.'
Eudora tried to laugh, but it stuck in her throat.
'I'm so sorry, Eudora. I'm worried about things too, but I meant nothing by it. Please. Don't cry.'
Eudora unfolded the handkerchief which was freshly laundered and ironed. She assumed a hankie belonging to Gary, would be in a shocking state; then realised that she hardly knew him at all and was just making assumptions. Besides, he'd apologised so sincerely and was always honest to a fault. She dabbed her eyes and handed back his handkerchief, resisting the temptation to blow her nose into it.
'Shall we look in there now?'
'You lead the way,' Gary said.
They rifled through drawers; under the bed; in cupboards; along shelves; underneath things; on top of things and behind things. Once you began, it was easy to forget you were looking through someone's personal belongings. They found nothing out of the ordinary.
'Let's move that,' Gary suggested, pointing at the wardrobe.
Their first effort, moved it fractions of an inch. It was extremely heavy and scraped along the bare boards, but by easing each side, they could slowly walk it away from the wall. Gary expected a doorway, or a cache of treasure, but there was just the ghostly outline of a wardrobe and bare floorboards below. Eudora pointed the tip of her lit wand, at the floor. She was about to move away, when Gary grabbed her hand and pulled it back. Two knots on one floorboard were missing, leaving finger shaped holes. He dropped to his knees, lifted the plank and an arm's length of wood came away. There was a dusty carpet bag below the floor; the two handles of which, were clearly visible. Gary lifted up two more planks, revealing a hole large enough to crawl into. He heaved the bag, but it flew into the air; there was something so light in there, it practically floated. He set it down and opened the zip. Eudora gasped, while her face was bathed in yellow light.
The bag was full of gold galleons, hundreds probably. Gary picked one up and tossed it in his hand. They were traditional, quintuple-sovereign galleons, more than double the usual size and very heavy. A spell was enchanting the bag; presumably, so it could be lifted by less than ten people. Lying on the gold to one side, was a sheaf of papers. Gary reached up for Eudora's wand tip and steadied it above him.
'Thanks.'
He picked up the papers and read a broken summary of what they contained: title deeds and solicitors letters. 'This property, Middenfell, is owned in title and freehold by Tom Riddle Esquire, purchased on this seventh day of March, Nineteen hundred and thirty-nine. Signed by the Grand-Witch, Land and Leasing Coven (Hogsmeade branch).' Below it, was documentation for a further house in Greenwich, also owned by Tom Riddle Esq.
'Tom owns two houses. That must be nice. Let's have a count of this money.'
'Why?' Eudora whined. It was getting late and they'd ridden their luck so far. Plus there was the walk back.
Gary thought that at least a few of the galleons were rightfully his, but had no intention of explaining why.
'You know? In the interests of gathering facts.'
He picked the bag up and carried it around the room, impressed by how effective the spell was. Near the entrance, the bag plunged to the floor, pulling Gary down with it. Whichever spell was enchanting the bag, it only worked inside a small radius.
'Help,' Gary shrieked, tugging at the bag, but it wouldn't budge. Tom would know if the bag moved even an inch; he would also know it was Gary. They grabbed a handle each and despite tugging in every direction, it stayed where it was.
If they set off for Hogwarts any later, Gary and Eudora would certainly be missed. More than ten minutes of heaving and both of them were already exhausted. Red cheeked and catching their breath, they looked into the gold for answers.
'Why don't we take a few at a time and pile them over there?' Eudora suggested. 'Then move the bag back and put the galleons in the bag?' Anything was worth a try.
Gary scanned his peripheral vision for several moments before agreeing.
'Brilliant.'
For thirty minutes they piled up coins, running the few feet between the bag and the wardrobe. When empty, they picked up the bag, which floated to waist height as they approached the hole. Then they guided it back into the space and tossed a dozen coins in to anchor it. The remaining gold was returned to the bag as quickly as possible and Gary totted up the value as they went along: 213 quintuple-sovereign galleons (worth 1,065 ordinary galleons). A mind-numbing sum; nearly £5,000 in muggle currency and enough to buy ten more houses. Tom had certainly been busy. Gary replaced the sheaf of documents, shifted them till they looked unmoved, then folded the handles back and replaced the floorboards. Despite finger fatigue, heaving the wardrobe back posed no problem. They burst through the back door and ran up the path, ignoring any twitching curtains.
Eudora developed a stitch as they ran along the cart track. 'Just run it off.' Gary wheezed when she began to slow.
It was nearly dark and several lights were burning in Hogwarts at ten-fifteen; then it hit Eudora hard. Forget about Tom finding out; we could be expelled for this! Her heart thudded as she climbed the stairs to Ravenclaw. Creeping in, Betty grabbed her hand.
'Quick, get changed, I've said you're at the owlery, but you have to get into bed. Quickly.'
Eudora was flooded with relief. She changed and leapt into bed, plumping her pillow and pretending to look on the verge of sleep. Matilda Horne — a research associate in non-wand magic — was also a Ravenclaw house tutor. She opened the door and held up a lantern.
'Miss Pippincraft. Junior girls never visit the owlery, late on a Sunday evening. Perhaps there are rules I'm not aware of; special rules, which only apply to yourself?'
'No, there are. Not. I mean, Mrs Horne.'
'I'm certain it won't happen again, because I know Headmaster Dippet would be very disappointed to learn of your nocturnal activities. To say nothing of your flagrant disregard for school rules.'
'It won't happen again, Mrs Horne.'
Gary found his bed with far less drama.
Tom was still awake and propped on one elbow.
'Where have you been?'
'Trying to get into those kitchens again. It's a long time till breakfast, my friend.'
'You'll never get past the charms.'
'Slughorn miss me?'
'No, his mind was on other things. If you know what I mean.'
Gary let out a whistle of relief and tried to forget that he'd just spent the evening, rifling through his best friend's possessions.
Approaching the dark arts classroom in the main teaching block, Tom passed Dumbledore going the other way. The professor was wearing a three-piece suit, paisley cravat, silver rings on each finger and had his long hair tied back. He held several scrolls under one arm.
'Good morning, Tom.'
'Morning, sir.'
Tom hoped they would just ignore each other. Dumbledore obviously mistrusted him and the feeling was mutual.
He raised a finger and Tom was obliged to stop.
'Quick question. Have you reconsidered joining us in transfiguration? We'd certainly value your contribution.'
'I'd prefer to stay with the muggle studies group, sir.'
They locked eyes, Dumbledore peering in and Tom defiantly closing the door.
Dumbledore walked on to his appointment.
'You're welcome any time, Tom. Never forget that.'
Back in Slytherin, Tom took stock of his achievements so far. He'd deciphered many of the foundation riddles in The Map of the Mind, those to get you started. They were straightforward enough and when solved, a tiny section of the map was revealed, along with a further riddle. It was a learning document: solve this, proceed here, think some more, but always moving forward; knocking down obstacles as they appeared. All of which, should reveal where the entrance was located in the lavatory. However, finding the entrance was just the first hurdle. Navigating the maze below the dungeons and qualifying for admission, was probably years away. Years at Hogwarts was what he had; all he needed now, was to take the first step on his journey.
Gary was reliable and meant well, but he'd discluded him from this part of the quest for good reason. It was dangerous, possibly life threatening and Gary was less able to defend himself, should anything happen. Every reference he'd uncovered about The Chamber of Secrets and the Rabisu, contained a footnote. An explicit warning that the magic involved was unpredictable and should be avoided at all costs.
Tom felt no fear when he read these warnings. The finality of death made him anxious, but far less so than the prospect of an anonymous, humdrum life.
Danger was always compensated, by a belief that he could gain the upper hand in any confrontation. Occasionally, the risk of what he was putting himself through, crept up on him. Then the tremors that had plagued his early childhood, would return; fingertips shaking, eyes flicking left to right and his mouth too dry to speak. Building and bubbling, swelling like a genie, until the only release was to tip his head back and scream.
During his first years at Wool's, the tremors ended with actual screaming, but in time he controlled those urges. The fear had not vanished entirely and part of him believed that one day, it would break free of its dungeon.
Passing Dumbledore was probably a coincidence, but the intensity of his stare troubled Tom. Finally revealing the entrance, involved neither riddles nor spells; he must access a particular window, in rooms occupied by a member of the teaching staff. That teacher was Dumbledore. Why, of all the people in Hogwarts castle, it had to be him, was probably just bad luck. He suspected that Salazar Slytherin may have been the original occupant of Dumbledore's living quarters.
Tom would face several trials, which the book assured him, were designed to discourage all but the most driven. Completing the trials would also demonstrate his ambition to the creature. Tom was more than prepared to face the Rabisu again and whatever riddles he had planned for him. Most of his research after their first meeting, focussed on Babylonian magickal tradition, especially in its defensive form.
Tomorrow evening, Tom would enter Dumbledore's quarters and complete the last of his preliminary tasks. Then, if the texts he'd studied were to be believed, the entrance to The Chamber of Secrets would be revealed. It would mark the end of his old life and the beginning of a new one. Sometime in the future, he would walk down a busy street and confidently make eye contact with other pedestrians; he would know who he was and where he came from. Then, where he was going should become clearer.
The next evening Tom stole into the kitchens: an area of Hogwarts strictly out of bounds to students. The main kitchen floor was half the size of the Great Hall above, with the remainder split into larders, workstations and pantries. Cast-iron ranges — laid out like a box maze — filled the centre, with curved, brick ovens set into the far wall. Hopper windows above, flooded the far wall with amber light and tall shadow. Eight house-elves zipped between appliances, tapping loaves of bread, turning joints of meat and pushing potatoes into ovens, with floating wooden paddles. Shifting pans over the ranges, simmering sauces and sieving vegetables; all performed by clicks of their fingers. The house-elves' slick apparating, meant relatively few could operate such a large kitchen.
Teaching staff who were working late, could request a tray from the kitchens; a popular option during exams, when the workload peaked. It was not unusual to pass a steaming tray along the corridors: floating above head height to avoid collisions.
Before entering the kitchen, Tom enveloped himself in the Babylonian charm of smoke and mirrors. As a person moved, the smoke in front reflected a copy of their background; effectively, they disappeared from view. A keen eye might notice the ripples of a shape moving, but it was the height of service and the house-elves' were far too busy. In the hot-prep larder at the back, were two dozen trays, each with a note identifying who the tray was for. Tom saw Slughorn's name and Beery's too.
Dumbledore's was in the third column and it included a polite request for three slices of toast with mashed banana — for Fawkes, his phoenix. Tom backed into the corner and waited. Eventually, a house-elf apparated onto a stool in front of the trays; plates of food then appeared by course, which she covered with cloches decorated in Gaelic fretwork. For a second Tom thought he'd missed his chance, but no puddings had arrived yet. The house-elf tutted, then vanished. Tom reacted immediately and lifted the cloche covering Dumbledore's dinner: cottage pie with greens, carrots and peas. He tipped his sleeping draught over the meal and froze when it pooled on the surface. Finally it sank into the mashed potato, so Tom edged back into the corner.
The house-elf returned, closely followed by the puddings: jam and coconut sponge with custard, served in bowls covered by side plates. With a snap of her fingers, the trays set off — zipping overhead to private studies across Hogwarts — so Tom backed away. He needed at least two hours to be sure; making the sleeping draught act quickly, would only raise suspicion. With the concoction he'd brewed, Dumbledore would become progressively tired, before eventually seeking out his bed. It paid to be cautious, when dealing with someone of Dumbledore's intellect.
Standing outside Dumbledore's rooms — again — Tom had the feeling that a pivotal moment in his life was approaching. He might fail the challenge, or equally likely: Dumbledore might interfere with his plans. Even if he did succeed, there was no easy path and failure would almost certainly result in his death. His younger self would have avoided all this risk, but Hogwarts had changed him; he was like an insect, desiccated and buried below the ground at Wool's. At Hogwarts, vital drops of moisture had awoken him and now he was crawling towards the surface. For the first time, safety would play second fiddle to his driving ambition.
Braced for the door to creak, Tom was surprised when it slid silently on its hinges. Dumbledore's study was empty, then something moved! Over there, under the window. It was Fawkes, asleep on a wrought-iron perch. The bird shifted from one claw to the other, then after stretching its neck to one side, settled down again. Tom finally breathed.
It was the blueprints for castle extensions at the turn of the century, which informed him of the layout. Dumbledore's chambers consisted of three rooms, unusual at a school where many staff made do with two. Firstly, there was the study, then the practice and finally the bedchamber. Tom was currently opening the door which led into Dumbledore's practice; the heavy latch arm clicked from its receiver when he turned the spindle, but nothing stirred. This was a favourable layout. The phoenix was in the study and shutting the door behind him, there was now a barrier between each potential alarm.
The practice room was larger and also circular in shape, with a higher ceiling. There were several tables of mixed height, bookshelves and along the wall: a gantry, with wooden steps leading upwards. A single blue flame — Dumbledore's night-light — burned in an iron chandelier above. His wand lay on one of the tables, beside two open books, a piece of cheese and several water biscuits. An amateur detective would deduce that tiredness had crept up on the professor, so he'd retired to bed in the middle of something.
The gantry ran below two windows, so Tom climbed up and rolling his feet, approached the first latch. It was stiff and after applying more pressure, he prepared himself for the inevitable noise. When it finally gave way, the window let out a grinding squeak; Tom tightened like wire and paused: listening for sounds of movement. Fawkes was cooing and softly gobbling next door: possibly awake, so he had no choice but to sit tight and wait it out.
More than ten minutes passed before calm was restored; Dumbledore's breathing in the next room, now sounded like a rusty squeeze-box. Pushing the window open, he could see a crude, wooden balcony set into the stone; it had a rail running at knee height, offering little in the way of protection if you tripped. The night was crisp, clear and studded with stars, but despite the scene's serenity, this was where the most terrifying few minutes of Tom's life were about to unfold.
With involuntary clenching in his stomach, he knew the final moment had arrived; it was this balcony, in front of this window, which would provide his passage. He was sure his conclusions were right, but a shred of doubt still persisted; failure would mean his end. For all eternity. There was no sense in prolonging the agony, so Tom shuffled forward, or at least tried to. A wave of undiluted fear froze him to the spot; he wanted to live so badly, but not as some footnote in history. The war raging inside him, would only intensify if he continued to be a person of so little significance. Tom had to find out whether he belonged to the chosen few, or the faceless masses.
He was expected to recite an incantation, then step off. It was more than ten stories to the rocks below and if you survived the fall — which you wouldn't — there was tumbling lifelessly into the ravine to consider. More than a hundred feet further, flipping and somersaulting, shattering his body, before plunging into an icy finger of loch. He'd done the very thing he'd promised himself not to and imagined the fall in detail.
The incantation in Akkadian, came from a textbook of eastern magickal tradition and felt deeply unfamiliar. All he could think about, was whether his pronunciation was up to scratch.
'Alaktu gerru kūru.'
Now he had to step over the edge; which sounded so simple when you said it. Tom tried to swallow, but his throat was parched; his lips were stuck together; he felt sick; he couldn't feel his toes and his head was pounding like another heart. Without warning, Tom stepped over the rail. He rotated forward as he fell, until his fragile skull was pointing directly at the ground; with arms thrashing, he imagined being found in pieces. Tiny pieces. He'd made a terrible mistake and was about to pay the ultimate price.
Tom landed feet first, with no momentum. Not on the rocks below, but in a room: a dungeon, probably in the castle, but there were no clues to guide him. He had pronounced the incantation correctly and despite feeling enormous relief, there was still a job to be done. He took the map from his inside pocket, hoping it would give him some idea of where he was. It was still blank. Had he failed; had he disappeared without a trace; was this what the afterlife felt like?
His determination rallied: steely, after its brutal test. He'd endured plenty of hardship in life, so there was no reason why he shouldn't be confident of finding a way out.
'Lumos!' The ferocity of Tom's resolution, projected the beam fifty yards in every direction. He continued forward, but as he did so, the map faded in his hands; not the detail drawn on it, but the map itself. It became tissue-like and flimsy. He had to stop, or risk losing it altogether.
The map was no longer fading: moving was the cause, so Tom retraced his footsteps. The map's markings grew in definition, until it was its old self again; once he'd returned to his starting point.
This was another challenge: the first tested his courage and this presumably, was testing his resolve. In order to receive something of value, you first had to risk losing everything; if he lost the map, his past and future would be lost too. An hour or more passed. He rejected ideas such as protecting the map with charms or spells, apparating outside the dungeon, or in fact, any form of magical solution. He knew none of them would work; this challenge wasn't a first form potions test.
He must rely on the principle of logic. In order to win the prize, I must risk losing everything. A person could be satisfied in life with being anonymous and ordinary, since it was available to everyone. You risked nothing and nothing extraordinary happened. There was a deal to be struck in life, as there was in this dungeon. He could not entertain the idea of losing his past, so that was what he must do.
Tom put the map down and walked in the direction he'd initially taken, surrounded by a dome of light. For more than thirty minutes he walked, listening to his footsteps echoing, but never rebounding. In time and now plagued by doubt, his footsteps deadened as he approached a rock wall.
Set into it were three rectangular doors; it was likely one would return him and the others? Well, they were probably concealing a harsh penalty, but the risk had to be faced head on. There was no question of backing out now. At that moment, the map appeared at his feet; reward for his driving ambition and for accepting the risk without regret. The cavern he'd walked across, was just a tiny room on the map and surrounded by blank parchment. It was part of an access route to The Chamber of Secrets, and sat alone in the centre of the map.
The three doors differed in their finish, otherwise they were exceptionally ordinary. The one to the right had more elegant hinges, the middle door was steel, without handle or features and the door to his left contained several timbers beginning to rot. It would be easy enough to look through the gaps.
Foolish! Tom reprimanded himself.
It was a test. The door with elegant hinges, he rejected outright; it represented the wasted path in life. For those attempting to replace what was missing, with baubles and trinkets. The other two were more of a challenge.
The decaying door, he saw as the path of least resistance; the easy way out, leading to certain failure. Or it could be the honest, unembellished path. The steel door with no means of entry, was either the demanding path and promised success for those whose reach exceeds their grasp. Or the impossible path, for those whose ambition exceeds their ability. Hours may have passed as Tom deliberated, before he finally tended towards the steel door. Despite his life depending on the decision, he was far from confident in his selection and the steel door would usually be his last choice, since it was in the middle. However, he had to consider the challenge from Salazar Slytherin's point of view; his frame of mind when the chamber was created. Progress should not be easy and access should only be earned through bold and fearless action.
As he approached the middle door to test its surface, deadbolts dropped inside and the door swung away from him. He passed through it and into Dumbledore's study; Tom had survived the trial. It demonstrated how high the price of admission was to The Chamber of Secrets. Failure would end in certain death. He crept over to the door leading into the staff corridor and opened it carefully. As he turned the spindle to lower the bolt, it slipped and dropped with a loud clunk. Fawkes woke immediately and let out a blood-curdling shriek.
Tom's first temptation was to sprint away, but he gathered himself in the corridor. You were more likely to meet other teachers, if you turned right towards Slytherin. So he turned left and ran for the tower staircase; leaping three steps at a time as he spiralled downwards. Tom could hear voices above him, but they were overshadowed by the one in his head. The one reminding him that he was on a journey into his past now; he wanted to shout and didn't care who heard. At the base of the tower Tom ran up the corridor to Slytherin House, with no pretence at stealth.
Moments earlier, Clifford Leavey — Professor of Arithmancy — scrambled along the corridor; where Tom had correctly guessed, a pursuer would follow. With his wand raised, Leavey was more afraid than angry, since his imagination was especially vivid. He'd imagined a wild beast had set Fawkes off; something large: a dragon whelp or chimera perhaps? He would be surprised to learn, it was nothing more than a first form pupil out of bed. Tom was too quick to be seen, but the faint sound of his footsteps did reach Leavey. Once Tom was back in his dormitory, he pulled the covers up high and pretended to be asleep. Several seconds later, the door was pushed open and a face appeared in the gap. Satisfied it was a roomful of sleeping boys — rather than a seething nest of wild beasts — Professor Leavey concluded his investigations and wandered back to bed.
After the night before's commotion, Tom forgot to check the map; then at breakfast he was joined by Gary, so couldn't slip away. During lessons that morning, Tom found it impossible to concentrate. Had it worked? How could he have been so forgetful? To endure the trial and not check afterwards whether the entrance had appeared. Unbelievably stupid. Broomstick practice between eleven and twelve, at least took his mind off the map. He broke away from the main group when the lesson finished and luckily, Gary was asked to gather up the equipment.
Tom ducked inside and ran along the empty corridors. His stomach fluttered with nerves when he unfolded the map, then a flood of relief; the markings in the bathroom had altered. His finger touched the map and room layouts extended upwards, revealing a three-dimensional elevation of the castle. Extending downwards from the bathroom — below the map's surface — was a staircase which stopped without warning. The map was beautifully rendered, with fine detail of the castle's endless rooms above. Numerous gaps, suggested there was a hidden warren of viaducts, passages and caverns below.
Someone was approaching, so he hastily folded the map and the elevation collapsed like falling sand. Tom tried to hide his smile as he headed towards the girls' lavatory; there wasn't time to explore right now, but what was the harm in looking?
The second-floor girls' lavatory was empty during the day, as most lessons were confined to the main teaching block. Tom orientated the map, so that it matched where he was standing. The entrance might be below a central pedestal, which he had to walk around to reach the sinks; it was not clear why it was there at all. Perhaps footings for a column that was never built? Behind Tom were the lavatory stalls and in front, there was an oval, Gothic mirror above the sinks. By pacing and checking the map, Tom was certain the entrance was directly below the pedestal. He crouched down to examine it more closely and discovered there was no seam in the stone, no hinge, nor any telltale sign of an entrance.
He felt rising frustration; what more did he have to do? Had he not completed everything that was asked of him? Why then, was he still being denied access? Answering his thoughts, a rumbling below his feet shook the sinks and other fixtures in the room. Dust, disturbed from the ceiling overhead, settled on his hair and jacket. The pedestal dropped through the floor, broke into uniform shapes and was absorbed under the stone flags. When all movement had ceased, Tom peered into the cavity and saw steps leading down to a short landing, then a few more steps, then shadow. He walked down to waist level and hesitated. It was real. An entrance to The Chamber of Secrets did exist and Chosen One or not, he'd found it.
Tom was keen to investigate further, but had revision and other immediate priorities to deal with. More than six years remained at Hogwarts, so there was plenty of time to explore; he would pace himself and try to remain anonymous on this particular journey. Tom backed away from the entrance and as he did so, a glimmer of light caught his eye. Something resting in a hole, along the outer wall of the shaft below. He climbed back down until the cavity was at eye-level, then he reached in and took out a glass ball the size of a marble. Several strands were floating inside, expanding and contracting in a hypnotic fashion; it was probably meant for him, or whoever had revealed the entrance. Tom climbed back up and headed for the exit. Stone blocks rose from below and ground back into place; the pedestal reformed and silence followed as the fine dust settled.
Tom raised the orb to eye level and took out his wand. He was aware of pensieves and other methods of storing memories, but had never been interested enough to investigate them further. Their security was limited and the prospect of a third party experiencing his private memories, was unthinkable. There were other methods of storing memories, more discreet methods, which included glass orbs; perfect for hiding about your person, or concealing in hidden nooks. This orb was different. It contained three strands woven together, suggesting they were a collection of memories. He placed his wand tip against the orb and the strands clung to it. Tom drew them out, reciting a simple incantation and they floated — near weightless — when exposed to the air. He had somewhere to be, but it wasn't urgent, so he lowered the strands to his temple and they burrowed below the skin. Around him, the background fell to the floor and was replaced by another scene.
He was standing in an elegant front room, with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. They overlooked lawns, which undulated down to a lake surrounded by reeds and a pair of willow trees. The furnishings were antique: rich, polished woods, grand oil paintings and exquisite china plates — presented upright on glass shelves. A Napoleon mantel clock occupied the centre of a pale-green, marble fireplace; the walls were papered in matching green flock and the Persian carpet contained beige, white and gold detail. Doric columns carved from cream jade, were set into the walls and gilded in distressed gold leaf. Tom immediately felt uncomfortable surrounded by such affluence.
He turned back to face the windows; cloud cover was total and his eyes followed the driveway, which disappeared into ancient woodland half a mile away. To someone from an orphanage, the sense of space was unnerving. Tom turned and realised he was not alone. A man was sitting in a wing-back, leather chair, reading a paper; he coughed and the chair creaked, then the man coughed again. Leaning forward, he reached for a nearby bell and rang it briskly. In his early twenties, he wore a Norfolk jacket with tweed breeks and mirror-polished brogues; the man was slim, dashing and vaguely familiar. The paper he was reading — The Little Hangleton Gazette — appeared to enrage him.
The door opened and a man of forty with Brylcreemed hair, stood to attention.
'Wintour, see to all this, will you.' The seated man waved a hand at some nearby cups and plates.
'At once Mr Riddle, sir.'
Tom's mouth fell open; the man looked familiar, because Tom saw a similar reflection every morning. The absent father; the one who left his baby in an orphanage to fend for himself. While he? He endured all this miserable luxury. Tom wanted to strike the man, but this was just an echo of previous events.
The butler piled Riddle's crockery onto a silver tray, then he paused at the door.
'One other matter, sir.'
'What?'
'A young woman from the village, sir.'
Riddle pretended to look confused. What was Wintour was talking about?
'A Miss Gaunt, of the Gaunt family. Local, sir.'
Riddle's face was a cocktail of impatience and irritation.
'No! No, no, no. I spend one evening, a single evening in the, er… Company of this insufferably, silly girl; out of politeness, I might add. Now and I'm at a loss to account for it, she seems hell-bent on tormenting me. Thinks we have some sort of a connection? What do you make of it all, Wintour?'
'I'm sure I don't know, sir. She was rather insistent, with important news to relate.'
Riddle cut him off.
'She's here?'
'I showed her into the reception study, beside the china room, sir.'
'Well show her out!'
'At once, sir.'
'Wintour?'
'Sir.'
'Check nothing's missing once she's gone; inform the constabulary if necessary. We know nothing about this girl's state of mind.'
The scene faded.
Tom was now standing beside a meagre, wooden cabin; behind which, rain came sloping in across the fields. Nearby, a young woman around twenty years of age was holding a baby. It was tightly wrapped in Orkney linen and her pretty, but world-weary face was protected by a shawl. An older man standing in the doorway, was pointing and shouting at her.
'You're not my daughter and far as I'm concerned, you never 'ave been. That abomination has no rights to the family name. Now get! You're not needed here no more, see? Go catch yerself some la-di-da, fancy muggle-man, seeing as how you're so keen on 'em.'
He turned, but not before adding a parting shot.
'Never, think to come here again.' His face contorted with hatred. 'And it'll be too soon!'
The man slammed the door as flecks of snow whipped over the roof of the shack. The young woman held the baby's cheek to hers, reassuring him. Tom was seeing himself and his mother for the first time.
She squeezed both eyes shut and when they reopened, the streets of London surrounded her. It was Deptford, where he'd grown up and his mother was sitting on the pavement, in front of a pub. The snow settled around her as she pressed against the tiled wall, trying to shelter further under the eaves. Merope's hand was outstretched; too tired to ask for help, pity was now her only means of escape. Tom recognised the pub as the Dog and Bell, in Prince Street and its windows bloomed with a cosy glow, far beyond her reach. The few pedestrians that passed, looked the other way.
The baby was making no sound, so Merope checked his face: cold to the touch and a tinge of blue around the eyes. She rose to her feet in alarm and screwed her eyes shut once more. They were in Parnaby's study at Wool's. He could barely look at this pitiful excuse of a mother standing before him; meanwhile, her baby was rushed away by the matron. Merope signed the form in a looping script.
Mother: Mrs Merope Riddle (née Gaunt), Little Hangleton, Father: Tom Riddle. Issue: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Born and registered under the Seal of said office: on this 31st day of December, 1926.
His mother wept;she'd changed her mind and wanted Tom back. Instead, Merope was shown the door and had it closed in her face by a stony-faced Parnaby. No father present, told him all he needed to know; the boy had resulted from an extra-marital affair. He felt nausea when he tried to imagine the depths this fallen woman had descended to and nothing but sympathy for her husband and family. The shame they must have endured at this woman's expense?
Merope searched the nearby streets, but there were only faceless factories and yards, with no workers at this late hour. She found shelter at the side of the orphanage, beside the generator shed and drew up her knees. Staring at the bricks ahead, she no longer felt cold, or anything at all. Her reason for living had just been snatched away and now she was alone in a bleak, frozen landscape. It was an hour before midnight and the new year; a year which Merope would never see. The buildings dissolved and Tom was back in the girls' lavatory at Hogwarts.
He stood for many minutes reviewing what he'd just seen. Parnaby told him his mother was Merope Gaunt, but that was just a collection of letters and sounds, not a real person. He wiped a tear from the corner of one eye; she had loved and cared for him, but the others hadn't lifted a finger. His grandfather, father and Parnaby? Not a shred of decency or compassion between them.
Tom walked back to Slytherin. He knew something about who he was and an enormous burden was easing from his shoulders. His mother had cared and now he understood why Wool's had been her destination. She was from a magical family, so he was from a magical family. He'd been right to loathe Parnaby; plus, his father and grandfather had been instrumental in his admission to an orphanage. The scales of justice had always been tipped firmly against him, no matter which way you looked at it. Their time would come.
He had to move these sensitive memories somewhere more secure; they were far too important to risk losing. If well hidden, the orb could also prove useful for storing a selection of his own precious moments.
Early Friday evening, an unusual meeting was taking place in Hogwarts Library; Gary, Vivian, Eudora and Betty were there, but not Tom. Gary and Eudora felt pangs of guilt, but the purpose of their meeting meant he couldn't be included. As usual, they'd secured their end table by the windows: not easy during a period of such heavy revision.
Eudora arrived directly after tea and placed open books in front of the empty seats. The others are just stretching their legs, if anyone asked. Leaning forward, she made some changes to her revised study schedule, then sniffed and reviewed it. The schedule contained few periods of sleep and wildly optimistic instructions like: rise at 5.30am, potions classroom for 2 hours study before an early breakfast. It made depressing reading. When Gary told her about a planned meeting: whispered like a spy in the corridor; she'd secretly been delighted. Now, waiting for the others to arrive, Eudora turned her attention to the meeting's purpose.
Tom had amassed a fortune — far in excess of wealthy adults — at the tender age of twelve. How? There was no known family, so he couldn't have inherited it. Gary did have an idea where the money came from, but wasn't about to share that with anyone just yet. Their plan was to let Betty and Vivian know about Tom owning several houses. Perhaps the other two could explain how that might be possible? She couldn't bear to think of Tom engaged in illegal activity.
'Pigtails.' Eudora looked up. It was Gary's new nickname for her and despite being demeaning, she did prefer it to not having one.
'Vivian and Betty?' Eudora asked.
'On their way. This seat taken?' He pointed at the one beside her. Eudora paused. 'Not just now.'
'I like to see everything spread out before me. The comings and goings.'
'Me too.' Eudora looked down the aisle, demonstrating how true this was.
Vivian and Betty arrived, so Gary told them about their visit to Tom's house, then Eudora took over; he was spinning the story in his own particular way. The two girls were suitably shocked by the discovery of money and property deeds. Vivian spoke first.
'What do we have to do with what goes on in Tom's life? I like him, but we're not his mommy.'
Gary interrupted. 'Tomorrow there's a practice for the Hogwarts 800, over on the west coast, at Loch Maree. Tom's second reserve and they'll be gone all afternoon. We should be ready to go, soon as they leave.'
'Go where… And why?' Vivian couldn't spare the precious revision time.
Gary was concerned for his friend, but even more so for himself. Was a share of Tom's fortune rightfully his? It was self-interest, dressed up as concern.
Gary also wanted to know if he was aware of their last visit. Tom was a good friend, but crafty; he could know all about them invading his home and still keep it a secret. The uncertainty was eating Gary up. Tom was supposed to be his partner when dealing with Sheldrick; he'd promised as much and this twisted logic, was how Gary justified his actions.
Betty responded.
'I'm not saying I don't believe you; I'd just prefer to see it for myself. If I can help, I feel I owe it to him. He'd do the same for any of us.'
Which was true: he was probably the most loyal among them.
'What time do we meet?' Vivian knew when she was beaten.
Tom was in the entrance hall with the other squads, waiting for their transport to the practice session. They'd naturally broken into houses, whispering among themselves and eyeing up the opposition. All were in house colours, with protective leather padding: issued on the basis of knowing where to get it and when. Consequently, Tom had none. They'd also been given racing goggles and flight helmets by their heads of houses. There were teachers on hand to arrest falling riders, but insects and wind were your enemies during high-speed flight. A few students were already fully decked in their safety gear, but most — including Tom — were too self-conscious. Teams had four racers and two reserves. Two seniors, one middle and one junior. The two reserves were both juniors, since they could substitute any leg, which the older riders could not. Tom was the only first-form reserve, with the other houses opting for second formers. For this reason, Tom stood alone. The seniors mocked one another, keen to give the impression that this was some run-of-the-mill event, but inside everyone knew the truth. The Hogwarts 800 was a way of destroying your reputation and picking up a severe injury along the way.
Slughorn strode to the centre of the entrance foyer, hands behind his back.
'Attention competitors, over here. We'll make our way down to the longship in a moment. Klebhorn's already there, stowing the necessaries aboard. Please confine your chit-chat to the bare essentials and the sooner we're all seated, the sooner we can get going. That's all I plan to say, so let's shake a leg. And cut it out Roddy Capshaw. Tripping people up, is not nearly as funny as it seems.'
The longship held their party of thirty, just. Slughorn stood at the centre of the vessel, tapped his wand against the mast and a canvas sail with vertical green stripes unfurled. Oars breached the sides of the hull and probed their way into the water; then the boat picked up speed, bumping over wavelets on the loch's surface. Without warning, a warm gust inflated the sail and they took to the air at a steep incline. Slughorn, gripping the mast at an alarming angle and grinning inanely, shouted.
'Don't worry, we're perfectly safe. Statistically it's safer than being on the ground, so they tell me. You've gone green, Flemyng. Over the side lad, not between the seats; think of your fellow shipmates. Twenty minutes till we land, so hold on tight and keep your limbs inside the vessel at all times.' Slughorn lowered himself onto a seat in the prow; then the longship levelled, before plunging into a rain-bearing cloud.
When the teams snaked down to the boathouse, Gary, Eudora, Vivian and Betty reached the bottom of the Grand Staircase. They'd followed Tom's progress from the tower windows overlooking the entrance. Guilt had also spent the last hour gently twisting Eudora's stomach into a tight knot.
They walked in silence to Hogsmeade, because each of them sensed the others' discomfort. Vivian would rather be anywhere else; Gary was concerned that Tom knew about their last visit. Eudora was terrified Tom had stolen the money, which refused to sit comfortably with her daydreams. Betty was thinking about Tom leaving for his practice session: alone at the back. She'd wanted to shout good luck from the window — to reassure him — but that would hardly have been sensible.
Breaking into Tom's house was more chest-pounding than Gary and Eudoras' last visit. Now they were a small group, on a busy Saturday morning. Gary's plan was to skip the planning stage and just let themselves in through the back door; Eudora thought this was asking for trouble, but when pressed, had no alternative suggestion. The others agreed. If someone looked out of their window and saw several young people creeping about, then of course they'd be suspicious.
Gary was explaining. 'They'll assume we know Tom, which we do. So why creep about? The only person we don't want to meet is Tom and we know he's not there.'
So, with every nerve pulsing from head to toe, Eudora and the others casually walked up the garden path at the back. Gary knocked on the door in case anyone was in; another last-minute-Gary idea. Nothing stirred inside, so he unlocked the door with his wand.
'Alohomora.' The whole exercise took less than a minute. Gary then led them through the kitchen and up the stairs to the first floor landing. It was silent in the cottage, except for their footsteps and an enthusiastic greeting from further up the road.
Gary opened the door to the bedroom they'd searched previously and it appeared unchanged, with curtains still drawn in semi-darkness. Betty pulled the curtain back a chink and surveyed the street below.
'Any chance of an 'and over here?' Gary was gripping a corner of the wardrobe.
Once shifted, he loosened the floorboards behind, then pulled them up. Gary stopped moving. The carpet bag was gone and he raised a hand to massage his forehead.
'Tom knows we've looked through his stuff. It were right here, a bag of gold with paperwork on top.'
Eudora leaned down and lifted out the satchel in its place. Inside was a leather-bound book, which she turned over; the word Diary was embossed on its spine. Gary suggested they read it. He was worried it might say something like: My so-called friends broke into the house today, then looked through my things. Disappointing.
'No,' Eudora insisted. Being a diarist herself, she knew how wrong it was to read someone's diary. An unforgivable breach of trust.
'Eudora's right,' agreed Betty. Though a small part of her wanted to know whether she featured anywhere inside it.
Gary slumped against the wall: his feet in the hole where the floorboards were.
'Don't read it, just leave it be,' he warned. 'Tom will have protected it with a jinx; I know it's there to tempt someone to open it. At least he thinks it's enemies looking through his personal stuff and not friends. Which is worse, now I think on it.'
Vivian shook her head. She'd been unhappy since they met up and now she wanted to leave.
Eudora crouched near the satchel, opened it and slipped the diary inside with a shudder. She imagined the violent colour of her cheeks, if Tom caught her reading his diary. There was an object beside the satchel, beneath Gary's feet, but further back, so she leaned forward, pretending to adjust the satchel. It was a small heart and her own leapt. Without thinking, Eudora covered it with her hand; the wardrobe shielded her from the other two girls and Gary couldn't see beneath him. She stepped up from the space below the floor and the others replaced the boards in sequence. Then Gary wiped away the dusty handprints with his sleeve.
Eudora moved aside, her knuckles pale from gripping the wooden heart; too late to put it back now. They stood at each corner and walked the wardrobe back against the wall. So she took the opportunity to slip the heart into her pinafore pocket. Eudora often wore her school pinafore at weekends, to protect her clothes underneath, but never noticed she was the only girl who did.
Deflated, they headed back down the stairs. When Gary was near the bottom step, a key was inserted in the front door. Eudora's stomach clenched like a fist; not only were they trespassing, Tom would also discover she was a thief. Caught between wanting to run as if her life depended on it, or bursting into tears and begging forgiveness, she froze. Gary had other ideas and held a finger to his lips. The second-from-bottom step creaked, so he turned towards them with a grimace and his eyebrows raised. Was he smiling? What was wrong with him?
Tom had let himself into the front room and left its door open. Gary eased forward and peeped one eye around the frame. Tom was building a fire, not to warm up, but to dispose of some nearby scrolls. The figure then turned to reach for a log: it was Sheldrick and he relaxed a little.
Gary mimed that the others should follow him. The trick was to do everything as slowly as possible, rolling their feet with no sharp movements. The group made it as far as the kitchen, before they heard footsteps behind them. With feet planted to the floor, everyone waited for an angry shout. Sheldrick needed some matches from the back parlour, but was too busy examining a locket to look up. Eudora thought she might faint.
Sheldrick returned to the living room and his fire. Meanwhile, Gary opened the latch carefully, remembering it had a tendency to drop. He motioned for the others to wait on the step, then eased the handle back with extreme care, as if handling a bird's egg. Gary relocked the door and whispered to the others. 'We leave together, normal speed. We're visiting our friend, is all.'
They walked down the path, along the garden walls and onto the cart track leading to Hogwarts: apparently without a care in the world. No one screamed, stop! So after several minutes, Eudora risked looking back. They weren't being followed, but each of them remained silent for the return journey.
Vivian had her arms tightly folded. She was still unhappy about wasting the entire morning and they'd achieved nothing: as predicted. Also, Vivian didn't fully trust Tom, despite what the others said. Betty was thinking about the diary and chastising herself for caring most about whether she was in it or not; rather less on why Tom had a fortune stashed in a house, he owned. Gary was trying to forget the carpet bag was gone. Tom knows. The diary was probably just a trap to catch them in the act.
Eudora was concerned about several matters. Firstly: what was the heart for and was it engraved, or intended for someone? Secondly: how could she return it? Now Tom would certainly know someone had been in his house and that someone had graduated onto stealing his possessions. Everyone would turn on her for being selfish. How had she fallen so far; from a person with morals, to a common thief? She wasn't going to keep the heart, but that was the kind of excuse thieves used when they were cornered. So Eudora forced herself to think about something else. Gary had impressed her in the house; he hadn't folded under pressure at all. In fact he'd come alive.
They reached the main entrance, separated and went off to revise in different parts of the castle. Tom returned from Loch Maree later and Eudora saw him talking to Gary during their evening meal. She sat on the far side of the hall by herself, not because she felt like being alone, but because the wooden heart was consuming every scrap of her attention.
Eudora's first action on returning to her dorm, was to walk corner to corner with her fist clenched. Where should she put it? The heart felt like it was attached to her hand. Only once before — as a young girl — had she stolen anything: a square of toffee from the corner shop in Trim. She was caught leaving and couldn't make eye-contact with the shopkeeper; tears were rolling down her face and the shame made every inch of her skin sizzle. The shopkeeper, Mr Walsh, could see Eudora was sorry, so he let her go with a mild telling off. When she turned from the counter, he said that this would be between them and Eudora nodded, still crying. For months afterwards, when she heard a knock at the door, Eudora imagined it was Mr Walsh. He'd had a change of heart and was now keen to share her atrocious behaviour.
Eudora hid Tom's heart in the Ravenclaw girls' junior lavatory; that way it would be difficult to trace back to her. It was also unlikely that Tom would have any reason to be in a girl's lavatory. She'd tried throughout the afternoon not to think about the heart, but kept wondering why it was heart shaped. The voice in her head was flattering: there might be something about you in there. Happiness would briefly trickle out, before it was plugged by another voice: why would he be interested in a thief? A plain thief at that. He's not interested in you; not when Betty's available. What can you offer that Betty can't? Better Betty, bests ordinary-thief, Eudora. Again. Her heart plummeted into her shoes.
Eudora ate only half her tea before slipping from the Great Hall. Now resolved to investigate the heart, the last thing she needed was to stop and have a chat. What did it contain? She'd seen a hairline crack surrounding the heart, hinting that there might be two halves which came apart. The optimistic side of her kept insisting there would be a short verse, or key to unlocking Tom's heart inside; so she broke into a run and immediately suppressed it. Someone was bound to ask her why she was running along a corridor.
There were three pipes in the corner of the lavatory, travelling from floor to ceiling. They serviced the washbasins along one wall, with the lavatory stalls along the opposite wall. There was one large and two identical, smaller pipes, so she'd hidden the heart behind the large pipe: at the point where it met the floor. It was still there, so she dusted it off and decided to open it in a stall, behind the safety of a locked door.
Bringing the heart to within six inches of her face, the weight on her chest grew heavier. It was grained and heavily polished, with hand-carved patterns: front and back. It had a tiny, silver eye at the top, so the heart could be attached to a chain and worn as a necklace. Eudora twisted the heart: nothing. Panicking, she twisted it anti-clockwise and the front came away. Inside was a glass orb containing several milky strands, suspended in what appeared to be a thick liquid. Eudora's mouth drifted open and she clamped it shut. There was no denying it: she was disappointed. In her heart of hearts, Eudora knew there was never going to be anything in there about her, but hope's torch always burned brightly. Right through to the bitter end.
She loved Betty, but girls like Betty were the objects of romance and passion, not the Eudoras of the world. What would she do if there had been anything in there about her? She didn't know the first thing about being someone's girlfriend. Confronting such an inner truth was painful, so she kept a palm over one eye, trying to hide from herself. Eudora wanted to be married one day and have children so much, she could barely breathe the idea out loud. Most of her growing up and playing in County Meath, involved imaginary picnics and days out with her dolls. However, the dolls were actually the playthings of her imagined children; her deepest and darkest secret. Eudora was old enough to understand that wanting a large family, was probably caused by the token size of her own. Up until recently, her daydreams never included a husband. Even saying the word husband, sent a chill through her, or was it a thrill? Her father travelled a great deal and her mother had always been distant. Eudora's extended family were magical scholars and researchers: bookish types who preferred working alone, but she was different. She wanted to be surrounded by life.
So Eudora pressed her lips together and stared into the orb; trying not to let her enthusiasm slump. Bookish types were useful in some respects though. Her Auntie Finola conducted research for The Phoenix Institute, at Trinity: something Eudora mentioned far too often. Trinity was usually regarded as a muggle university, but the library had a mirror, whose reflection contained the larger, magical half of Trinity. Trinity Aisling — pronounced ashling — or the Vision of Trinity. Ireland's finest magical scholars learned their craft there.
She would send Auntie Nola an owl, asking her what the orb was for and if it was dangerous. Eudora wondered how many times over the years she'd bothered her aunt for assistance, but that was just her apologetic nature speaking. Auntie Nola might actually appreciate Eudora treating her as a confidante: like a friendly, older sister. Yes, that's what she'd do. Eudora blew her nose and dabbed her eyes; then politely asked if she might pull herself together and stop crying all the time. Replacing the wooden heart behind the pipe, she breathed in and out a half-dozen times, before returning to her dormitory to read. The picture of a calm and carefree girl, who never kept secrets from her friends.
