I figured Tom deserved a little bit of *his* story told sometime soon, so I included part of his POV in this chapter. Gosh, he's so hard to write now! And it gets even more complicated, what with...well, you'll find out in this chapter. Anyway, I tried to keep him in character as much as possible while trying to change subtle things.
As soon as she got to the library, Danielle wished she had brought along her Invisibility Cloak. Two figures were closely entwined against one of the bookshelves—one with mahogany hair and the other white-blond.
Olive Hornby and Abraxas Malfoy looked very annoyed at Danielle's appearance. "What are you doing here, Ashford?" Olive snapped, pulling her face back from Malfoy's long enough to glare at her victim. "Shouldn't you be out with Tom or something?"
"Very funny," said Danielle, trying to pretend they weren't there.
"Let's go, Olive," said Malfoy, looking at Danielle as if she was something unpleasant oozing up the wall. "Somewhere where we won't be disturbed."
Olive nodded and the two of them swept out of the library, pushing past Danielle. She felt a slow, burning anger in the pit of her stomach. "Guess it won't be a good idea to go into the girls' dormitory for another couple of hours," she said to herself, shooting the retreating couple a death glare.
It soon became clear, however, that she wouldn't even be leaving the library for another couple of hours. She realized she had absolutely no idea what books she should be looking for, and so was reduced to scouring the shelves for titles that might be of interest.
There was a reference in Hogwarts, a History to "Salazar Slytherin's darkest and most infamous magical curse" but that was all Danielle found.
She'd almost given up hope when she saw that the entrance to the Restricted Section was slightly open, and Madam Pince was nowhere in sight. If there were books about the curse at Hogwarts—and Riddle had said there were—they would be there.
Danielle pulled out her wand and whispered, "Abscondo!"
An odd feeling, almost as though she were being doused in cold water, coursed through her body as the Disillusionment Charm shielded her from view. It was a very rudimentary job—she wasn't sure how good her spell had been—but hopefully it would do its purpose.
As Danielle had suspected, some careless person had left the door to the Restricted Section open. She prayed it wouldn't creak as she slipped through it.
Here were the books she wanted. Ancient and Vile Deeds of the Fourteenth Century…Magick Moste Evile…A Concise List of Dark Curses…there! Danielle grabbed the third volume she saw and balanced the ancient, heavy book in her hands, trying not to sneeze.
"Is anyone here?" Madam Pince called from somewhere outside.
"Bloody hell," Danielle mumbled. Stuffing A Concise List of Dark Curses under her jumper, she hurried out of the Restricted Section, pausing only to lock the door behind her and lift the Disillusionment Charm.
"It's just me, Madam Pince," Danielle said politely as Madam Pince rounded the corner, feeling the book press against her chest. "I was about to finish a Potions essay."
The librarian scowled at her, but could apparently find no reason to complain. Danielle smiled widely. With a humph, she stalked off to find some other poor student to harass.
As soon as she had disappeared, Danielle nearly sprinted away from the Restricted Section and out of the library, running down the stairs so fast she almost tripped on several occasions. She didn't stop until she was safely inside the Slytherin common room.
Surprisingly, there was no one there. Danielle was confused until she realized it was after six o'clock; everyone must be upstairs eating dinner. That was a luxury she couldn't afford, however—she had limited time to peruse the book and return it to the library. Two hours, in fact.
Collapsing onto the nearest couch, she flipped the book open and scanned the index for the name "Slytherin." To her relief, the book appeared to have several pages devoted entirely to him. She'd picked the right one.
Hands shaking, Danielle turned the pages until she saw what she was searching for: a portrait of a short, monkey-like man with a long gray beard and dark eyes. He sneered at her as if he knew exactly what she was doing.
The Vetus Periculosus curse, rumored to have been invented by Salazar Slytherin*, is one of the most mysterious Dark curses known to wizardkind today. Though it has been studied at great length, much of its history still remains a secret.
Heinrich Schefflur, a researcher of ancient curses at Germany's Zaubererschule in Berlin, states that "To perform the curse, one must have created multiple Horcruxes and be an experienced practitioner of the Dark Arts. The incantation is still unknown, though the general consensus is it must be performed non-verbally to have any effect on its intended victim."
According to Schefflur, the effects of the curse are slow; it can take years before signs start showing themselves. Similar to the Muggle ailment multiple personality disorder, sufferers of Vetus Periculosus appear to have a split personality. One side is their normal self; but there is a monster-like tendency always lurking beneath the surface. Strong bursts of emotion, such as anger or sadness, can trigger their "opposite self", so to speak, and they will become a monster. Victims have been known to kill themselves, commit murder, and perform acts of magic that would be impossible in their normal state. No amount of coaxing or talking will get the victim to snap out of it. Some episodes have been known to last days, others only a few seconds. In rare cases, however, the victim has enough mental control to be able to repress the curse in very mild episodes. After, they will have no memory whatsoever of the incident.
Schefflur's research has also showed that aside from the victim's unstable mental nature, the curse has a physical effect. This typically comes into play after a particularly violent episode. Excessive bouts of vomiting, bleeding and coughing usually occur. As the curse gets stronger and stronger, the physical strength of the victim weakens until their eventual premature death. In fact, no documented victims of the curse have lived more than twenty years after it is first cast.
Schefflur believes that Vetus Periculosus is hereditary as well: if a sufferer fathers or gives birth to a baby, their offspring will be born with the curse and will therefore not live past twenty years of age.
Due to the violent nature of the curse, all sufferers are to be reported immediately to the law.
Vetus Periculosus has no known cure.
*One legend states that Slytherin originally cast Vetus Periculosus on his son after he failed to obey his father's orders and fell in love with Helena Ravenclaw. The two had an illegitimate child together; therefore, all remaining descendants of Slytherin have the curse. But his line is largely believed to have died out, thus marking the claim as no more than a myth.
Danielle had to read through the passage several times before she began to comprehend what she had just read. Things were beginning to fall into place. Riddle's odd behavior finally had an explanation.
It did raise one main question, though: If victims could only live for up to twenty years, how had Riddle survived to become Voldemort? Had he somehow found a way around the curse?
The door to the common room swung open and Danielle quickly stuffed the book under the couch cushion. But it was just Dylan, still looking miserable.
"Hey, Clara," he said wearily, coming over and sitting down beside her. "Why weren't you at dinner?"
"I wasn't hungry," Danielle lied as her stomach growled loudly.
He looked at her suspiciously. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah—don't worry about me." She managed to grin.
"Maybe you should get something anyway. Lyssa said you weren't feeling very well."
"I'm better now," Danielle told him. "It's fine. So, how was dinner?"
"Everyone was talking about Riddle. Apparently he's in the hospital wing."
"Really?" Danielle tried her best to look surprised.
"Nobody knows why, either. He's never been there for as long as I can remember. In fact, I don't think I ever remember him being ill." Dylan frowned.
"Perhaps he's paying for it now," Danielle mumbled. She wished he would change the subject. Her heart hurt every time she thought of Riddle.
Luckily, Dylan seemed to sense Danielle wasn't interested in the topic. He lapsed into silence and the two of them sat quietly for a number of minutes.
"Clara?" he finally asked, clearing his throat. "Do you—do you fancy anyone?"
Taken by surprise, Danielle looked up. "Do I fancy anyone?" she repeated. "Er…"
"I was just wondering," Dylan said, his face turning red. "I mean—not that I actually care or not, it's just—"
"Yes you do, Dylan," Danielle replied, watching him turn steadily redder. "You still fancy me."
He ducked his head, ashamed. She reached over and turned his face to meet hers. "Honestly, I don't know what to say," she said.
"You can say you fancy me back," Dylan replied, giving her a crooked smile.
Danielle wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but suddenly she found her lips were on his, and he was pulling her closer. Is this really my third kiss in a month? she thought idly. Am I suddenly more attractive as a Slytherin? In Ravenclaw the boys would barely give me the time of day.
But as Dylan deepened the kiss, something recoiled inside her and she pulled back. "I…I don't…" she stuttered. "I just don't fancy you, Dylan. I've told you this before."
Disappointment showed clearly on his features. "I know," he said quietly. "I just thought that…if I gave you some time to think…"
"It's never going to change," she whispered. "You're one of my best friends, but that's all you're ever going to be."
Dylan released his grip on her, and Danielle stood up. "I'm sorry, Dylan," she whispered, and fled the room.
It wasn't until she was safely outside before she realized that in her haste to leave she'd left her book still stuffed under the cushions. She couldn't very well go back and get it, could she? Well, actually, she could, but her cowardly side refused to go back and face Dylan.
Danielle didn't pay attention to where she was going until she found herself outside of the hospital wing. Her unconscious mind knew her better than she wished it did.
Yes, I do fancy someone, she thought to herself. I fancy the last person alive who will return my feelings.
She pushed open the door warily, not sure what to expect. The hospital wing was just as empty as it had been that afternoon. Riddle's bed still had curtains drawn around it.
"Hello?" Danielle called, but there was no answer. She slowly walked over to the one occupied bed, all the while keeping an eye out for Dippet or Dumbledore.
They weren't anywhere in sight, though she could hear Madam Cutteridge bustling away in her office.
Carefully, Danielle opened the curtain flap and peered down at Riddle. He was asleep again, looking vaguely more peaceful. She was relieved to see the ashy tinge was gone from his skin.
One of his hands was clenched in a tight fist. Moving as silently as she could, Danielle knelt down and took his hand, unclenching his limp fingers so they lay flat on the sheets. She meant to let go quickly, but she found herself just kneeling there, his hand in hers. It was unnaturally cold, she thought, almost as if he was…but no, there was a pulse beating steadily in his wrist.
"Tom," she breathed. "Out of all the boys here, why does it have to be you?"
When Tom awoke, he felt as if something had changed. The curtains around his bed were slightly open and the chair had moved several feet to the left. Who had visited him? Not Madam Cutteridge, surely—ever since Dippet had told her about his condition, she had refused to see him alone. The foolish woman had taken to magically levitating his sleeping potion onto his bedside table.
Perhaps Dumbledore (Tom felt disgusted at allowing himself to be completely vulnerable in front of that man) or Dippet had come to see him. That was hardly logical, though. Neither of them would have sat down and watched him sleep. Unless they were performing tests on him…
Tom resisted the urge to shudder, feeling the first stirrings of anger. Dippet had taken his wand; he didn't suppose he would be getting it back voluntarily any time soon. It was up to him to reclaim what was rightfully his.
For the first time, Tom noticed a folded piece of paper on the bedside table. Suspiciously, he reached for it, hating the fact that he did not have his wand to defend himself in case it was cursed.
But as soon as he saw the writing inside, his other thoughts vanished to be replaced by surprise.
Riddle,
I wanted to apologize for earlier today. If it hadn't been for my "meddling in your affairs," as you yourself stated, I would have been blissfully ignorant of your "condition" and you wouldn't be in the hospital wing. I do believe I have made everything far more complicated than it should be.
Clara Ashford
Tom stared at her words, not entirely sure what to make of them. Stupid girl…he had already told her it was not her fault. And now here she was, apologizing like everything that happened in his life revolved around her.
She must have come in again while he was asleep. The idea of her being there while he was weak and defenseless admittedly angered him, but he couldn't muster up the courage to feel as disgusted as if Dumbledore had been the one there.
He folded up the note neatly and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. There was something about that tiny, insignificant piece of paper that made him want to hold onto it. Had she somehow charmed it into making him want to keep it?
Tom sat up in bed, feeling as though he had just been hit with a particularly nasty spell. After each episode of the curse, he always felt as though he could barely move. Madam Cutteridge's potions had helped some, but not enough. With a slight sneer, he thought that seeing as how Hogwarts was funded by the Ministry, they could at least hire a more competent matron. Even Clara Ashford could probably do a better job of Healing than Julia Cutteridge.
He had long ago grasped the fact that the carnal part of himself wanted the girl. Every time she was around him he found himself looking at her. Every time she moved even the slightest bit his eyes were upon her, imagining what it would be like if she was completely and totally under his control…Clara Ashford hypnotized him in a way no other female had ever done before. Once she was on his side, the possibilities would be endless. The two of them would be unstoppable, an invincible force. Tom smiled. Even though the curse dictated that he would only live for another four years, he wasn't planning on dying. As soon as he created his first Horcrux, his soul would split and he would therefore be immortal. Then he could truly call himself the most powerful Dark wizard to ever walk the earth.
Something inside of him attempted to stir up, but Tom quickly forced it back down. After sixteen years of living with a monster inside of him, he had learned to control his "opposite side" for the most part. It was just strong emotions that caught him off guard, anger being the most prominent one. What had he been thinking about that triggered it today? The last thing he remembered before waking up in the hospital wing had been sitting in the Slytherin common room, thinking about Clara Ashford with Dylan MacDougal…
A hot, powerful surge of anger washed through him, and Tom had to clench his hands tightly to stop himself. The image of the two of them kissing at the train station seemed to be permanently etched into his brain, appearing at the most inopportune moments. In fact, the two of them could be together at that very moment.
Tom had had enough. He got out of bed and non-verbally cast a Silencing Charm so that Madam Cutteridge would not hear him leave. Even though he did not currently have a wand, his abilities were strong enough that he could perform spells without one. What fifth-year student in the history of Hogwarts could ever say that?
He easily made his way out of the hospital wing without the matron noticing he was gone. Once he was out in the corridor he lifted the spell and headed downstairs, toward the place he knew Clara Ashford would be.
The Prefects' common room turned out to be deserted, save for a lone figure sitting in the armchair by the window. Tom watched her for a moment before clearing his throat.
She spun around quickly, and her eyes widened when she saw him. "Good evening, Miss Ashford," he said, walking over to her.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing. "How did you escape from the hospital wing?"
"I have ways," he told her. "I came here to ask you exactly why you wrote me this note." He pulled the small piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.
She stared at it as though deliberating what to say. "It's an apology."
"I am aware of that," he replied. "But have I not already told you that it is not your fault? Must I explain once again?"
With baleful eyes, she shrank back into her chair. Tom noticed with amusement she was watching him rather as if they were playing a game of cat-and-mouse. "As your memory appears to be failing you, I will tell you that—"
"I know what you said," she responded. "My question is, what is Dippet going to do to you now that he knows?"
The exasperating feeling of not having an adequate reply burned inside Tom's chest. "He will presumably send me to St Mungo's," he said tonelessly. "In his mind, I am a danger to students and will most likely harm one of them if I am not closely monitored."
Amusement flickered in her eyes. What could she possibly find so humorous? "And you're just going to sit back and let that happen?" she asked.
"I have no other choice," he said, though it was a lie. He had many ideas on how to stay in Hogwarts, the least of which was opening the Chamber of Secrets.
"Liar," the curly-haired girl replied, a slight smirk pulling at her lips. "You're going to find a way to stop that from happening."
How was it she could read his intentions like an open book? It unsettled him—or at least it had used to. Now all he was feeling was curiosity. "I can do nothing, Miss Ashford," he said, his voice muted.
"Like I just said, you're a liar, Tom Riddle," she said flippantly.
He merely looked at her, keeping his face blank. A ray of light from the setting sun was shining in through the window and illuminating her face in a most interesting way. "I daresay you will have another Prefect soon," he said, more as a way of distracting himself than anything else. "Perhaps Mr MacDougal will be appointed next."
"Dylan is far too careless to be a Prefect," the girl said, an odd look on her face.
"And you are not?" Tom asked.
"No," she said, and smiled for the first time that day.
Something about that moment struck him. Their faces were abnormally close—Tom had unconsciously moved closer to her during their conversation—and all of a sudden, he had a sudden urge to kiss her.
It was probably the most unnatural thing he had ever experienced in his life. It clouded his judgment and removed the logical part of his brain, which of course was the only part of his brain worth having.
His fellow Prefect looked as surprised as he did, but she managed to cover it up quickly. She swung her legs over the side of the chair and got to her feet. "I—I guess I'd better go," she said, running her hand through her tangled hair nervously. Had she felt what he had? "And…maybe you should go back to the hospital wing. You'll get into a lot of trouble if Madam Cutteridge finds you missing."
Tom nodded, though he hadn't heard a word she said. "Good night, Miss Ashford," he said mechanically.
She made to leave, but hesitated, biting her lip. "One more thing…"
"Yes?"
"I might not be allowed to call you Tom, but you can call me Clara." She attempted to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Then she was gone.
Tom sat down on the chair Ashford—Clara—had just vacated. He remembered his outburst from that afternoon and felt a relatively unknown emotion: shame. He hated his name, absolutely loathed it. Tom Riddle…it was so plain, so Muggle-like.
But if that was the case, why did it sound better in her voice?
You are becoming weaker, a phantom whisper hissed. You are growing too fond of the girl. Let her go.
Tom dug his fingers into the palms of his hand. Clara Ashford was becoming his greatest weakness, that was true. Something he was not even sure of himself was drawing them ever closer. But it did not matter what that was. He had to sever the ties between them before…what, exactly, was happening? Was this some side effect of Vetus Periculosus?
Maybe she was right. It was all her fault. She was weakening him, speeding up the effects of the curse rather than slowing them down. Thoughts of her were what was triggering the incidents.
Only one thing could be done now. Tom had to eliminate her.
And he knew exactly how to do that.