Chapter Five

"You're avoiding me."

Charlotte stared at the strips of bacon traveling to Tom's plate rather than looking at him. "I didn't know you wanted me to spend every waking hour with you," she replied dryly. She was avoiding him; she'd even shown up early to breakfast, but, alas, so had Tom. "It's been less than one day since..." Her mind went blank, apparently unable to form the thought.

His face came into view as he dropped onto the seat across from her, those features she had been so captivated by the previous day, now configured into such an unfamiliar expression she thought she might lean in and smell Polyjuice Potion. But before she could say anything, the uncertainty and nervousness dissolved, something hard taking their place.

"You had me convinced nothing the purebloods could say or do or even think would matter to you."

Charlotte held herself back from wincing. "I know. And," she rushed to add, "that's true!" Tom stabbed at a tomato with his fork.

A laugh, not the sound either of them expected to hear, bubbled out from Charlotte's mouth. She couldn't help it. "I wouldn't have taken you for the brooding, moody type. But," she gestured with her chin, "to hear the testimony of the contents of your plate—" She giggled again.

Rigid and staring fixedly downwards, eyes never having left the tomato, Tom did not join in her amusement. "Forget it." He dropped his silverware with a clatter and pushed up from the table. Charlotte leapt to her feet as well, scrambling out of her seat before deciding to duck under the table to reach him faster. She didn't want to use magic on him in front of everyone—that wasn't likely to help her—so she opted for the, hopefully, less embarrassing "Wait!".

He slowed and came to a stop, allowing her to catch up to him. "I'm sure we'd both rather have this conversation somewhere else," she said, lowering her voice. Tom kept completely silent, a breath and a curt nod his only reply. "So... If you want to drop in, you know where to find me."

"I might."

And then he left.

She had thought he was being noncommittal for the same, inexplicable reason she had been so indirect, bordering on cryptic. Evidently, as he did not make any appearance in the greenhouse that morning, it was more to show Tom Riddle would do as he pleased.

Just as well. Charlotte had no idea what she was going to say to him. Even if she did come up with something, who knew what her brain and her mouth would conspire to have her spit out in the moment. Going rogue seemed to be their favorite thing to do when Tom was involved.

The trouble was, she herself didn't know why she'd been dodging him. The reason might be buried in her, accessible if she took the time to tease it out...

Instead, she speculated about how this might look and feel for Tom.

It wasn't as if he were paranoid and overreacting, but to approach her after such a short length of time to call out her avoidance— He must be especially sensitive about... something; she had no way of knowing unless he talked to her. If he wouldn't tell her what the problem was, she couldn't do anything to change what was hurting him. Which brought her full circle to her own dilemma. Perhaps, like her, he was reacting to instincts and emotions that he couldn't fully identify. At any rate, she decided that—both to give him the chance to be a bit more open, and to help keep her from saying anything else she would regret—when she saw him next, she would try to speak as little as possible.

Or maybe this was already the end of whatever had briefly begun to blossom.

What had he been thinking?

Clearly, he hadn't been thinking at all. This was why he planned. Running off and doing things impulsively led to... feeling like he didn't understand himself. Talking to Charlotte outside the context of carefully-constructed strategic maneuvers had been nothing but trouble. Worst of all, he couldn't seem to escape it now. It was as if he had entered a labyrinth and kept making wrong turns, and his frustration built with each dead end he faced. Completely out of his depth, he had no choice but to carry on with only the whims that seized him in the moment for direction, unequipped as that left him; while intuition, normally to be trusted, had little to offer. This was especially disquieting given some of his recent desires were wholly at odds with who he thought himself to be.

To his mind, love was an enemy, a temptation to distraction that most people fell prey to and he alone saw the folly of. People who loved spent time focused on others, even putting aside personal wishes and aspirations for their benefit. And where did that get them? Not seared into collective memory for great deeds, of that much he was certain. He saw no reason to contend with attacks that would call him selfish for this belief, so it remained a private thought; though, aside from the negative connotation, he was selfish. And love could have no place in a selfish soul. ...So then what was he feeling?

Charlotte exerted this pull on him, gravitational; yesterday, when they'd been walking from the greenhouses to the castle, there had been moments when he'd wanted to shift the very plates that made up the earth so the two of them wouldn't part ways so soon. She was magnetic—no, both of them magnetized, with her having polarity that drew him in and pushed him away, alternating so easily. But, following that metaphor, that meant he had another side too, one that he might find and show and not be repelled. He was, of course, taking this comparison too seriously... but it felt true. (He wasn't, after all, some impassive chunk of metal without any agency.)

So there was attraction, but nothing stood out as its cause. There was the obvious culprit, that it was physical, sexual attraction— That didn't seem right, somehow; but then, what else could it be?

Charlotte had likely given up on him visiting her and the plants today, but he thought maybe that would heighten her happiness at his arrival. Then again, if the last day or so had taught him anything about Charlotte Soleil, it was that she would fail to be predictable.

It was the warmest part of the day, but November didn't offer much in the way of comfortable temperatures. Dark clouds drifted over the sun and Tom quickened his pace. In the back of his mind, a voice hissed that he was wasting his time. His practical good sense agreed, supplying that it was likely Charlotte had already left. And yet what was most compelling was the urge to 'see what happens'.

She was coming out of the greenhouse just as he was approaching. She glanced from him, to the oncoming storm; back to him. "Looks like I got here just in time," he said. Opening her mouth to reply, she took a breath, but then only nodded, turned, and went back inside. He followed, the thought of being held hostage by the weather far more appealing than it would be in any other instance. Silence enveloped them along with the warmth and humidity of the greenhouse. Tom let it drag on as long as he could before saying, "You suggested this. I assume you have something to say?" This did not bode well; having to pry conversation out of her, though situated comfortably within his skill set, was not how he wanted to spend today.

Charlotte had made her way over to a small table laden with potted plants, bags of soil and stacks of empty pots. She busied herself with repotting something, avoiding looking at him where he stood a short distance off. Her shoulders dropped as she let out a quiet sigh. "It was my idea, wasn't it?" she muttered, scooping dirt more slowly as she started to answer him properly. "It seemed like the right thing to say at the time. Suggesting we could talk here. I wanted to stop you from being upset. It seems to have worked," she said with the inflection of a question, her mouth forming a hesitant little smile as she looked over at him.

"Upset," he repeated, half laughing, scoffing at the thought as if that could erase what truth there was to it. He certainly wasn't about to delve into why he had reacted the way he did, and this was evidently as open as Charlotte was going to be, so they would have to let the topic drop. "Well, I'm not upset now." He took a few steps towards her, held her gaze. "Do you want me to leave? Since we don't have anything to resolve."

"There's no reason you have to," she answered. "Is there?" she added, worry finding its way into her voice.

He smiled and shook his head, but impatience was starting to build in him. He ought to be profiting from this somehow, at the very least getting to know her better in ways that would help him later on, help shape her into someone he could use. A good plan, but instead he heard himself asking, "Why don't you use magic?" as he nodded towards the trowel still in her hand. "You could enchant it to do the same thing on its own."

"If we weren't meant to use our hands for things, we would have all been born with wands attached to our arms." she shrugged.

He laughed. "Yes, I suppose they have their uses..." Direct contact with someone could make it easier to read their mind, for one thing.

Charlotte turned to him with her eyebrows raised, then quickly looked away. As her cheeks grew pink, she carried on as if nothing had happened, though she determinedly avoided looking at him. His mind was scrambling for something to say, enjoying (to his surprise) that she was thinking of him this way, but annoyed because he hadn't elicited that response deliberately. What to say, what to say, what to say? A wave of frustration crashed over him.

Having put things back in order on the little worktable, Charlotte briefly examined her fingers, and abruptly curled them out of sight self-consciously. Tom came towards her, both of them surprised as he took her hand and brushed his fingers over hers. "I could have done that," she said as she watched the dirt disappear. He suspected that if that were true she would have used magic herself, not hidden her dirt-lined nails from view, hoping he didn't notice.

"You can do that one," he suggested, gesturing to her other hand. He extended his upturned palm towards her. "Or I can."

He didn't like the way he felt when their eyes locked, as she slowly placed her hand in his; the way his pulse steadily increased, and his focus slipped away—not stolen by anything in particular, just... gone. Vanished as if his spellcasting were affecting it, too. Also conspicuously absent was any impulse to draw her nearer. He realized he had been expecting to want to kiss her, touch her—something, to help him make sense of his motivations, offer a clear path for him to take. But here he was again, this damn labyrinth, dead ends at every turn.

It occurred to him then that he was touching her. Their fingers, not quite interwoven. He dropped her hand just as thunder began to rumble outside.

"Come see this," Charlotte said, suddenly excited. She grabbed his arm and slid her hand down to clasp his again. He followed her past plants he knew and and plants he didn't, and hoped whatever she would be showing him was of that second variety so he could at least attempt to match her enthusiasm. They came to a stop in front of something he was sure he had seen in a muggle garden, it looked so simple and ordinary. He cast a sideways, skeptical glance at Charlotte, but she was busy removing the nearest pane of glass with a tap of her wand. "Professor Beery just got this recently," she said, still smiling. Finally, something interesting started to happen, as droplets hit the leaves and they frosted over instantly. Which explained the name written on a label sticking out of the pot: "frostleaf".

"There's a sound." Charlotte crouched down to be closer to it, shutting her eyes. A few beats passed. "You can't really hear it with only one..." She rose, disappointed. "I once visited a place where you were surrounded and could hear them. It's magical," she said, laughing at herself as she spoke. "The way muggles think of magic, as something wonderful and mysterious, that we lose because so much of it is everyday life for us. Magical like that." She put the window back together, most of the leaves now crystalized in ice.

Tom didn't care about being awestruck by forces he didn't understand, and he didn't see the appeal of mystery, either; he loved magic for its usefulness, the power it gave him. But it wasn't as if he could say that. "I'd like to see that someday," he answered.

"I suppose it's been different for you. You didn't grow up in a wizarding family." Tom tensed at the words, at the same time realizing her tone had nothing in it to warrant that. "Learning about it all, experiencing everything for the first time at eleven..." In fact, her voice had a dreamy quality that told him plainly she was romanticizing it. He held back a derisive snort. "I envy that, just a little bit," she said softly.

"There's nothing to envy about the first eleven years of my life. But if you really feel that way, I'll let you know if I ever encounter any magic to trade pasts." He said it with the finality of closing a book, ready to move on. "So, what are these leaves used for?" he asked over Charlotte mumbling, "My childhood isn't exactly enviable either,"—which he pretended not to hear.

"Exporting to desert regions for exorbitant sums, if you're my mother," she answered. A joke, but Tom found it much more intriguing than the reply that followed. "No potions that I know of, so none that are widely used, but I think it's an ingredient in some sweets. Ice Mice and the like." She had started snapping them off their stems, collecting them in a jar. "It's best to harvest them at this point. More will grow back within a couple days, three at most."

"Are those to eat, then?" He held a leaf still attached to the plant between his fingers. "What does it taste like?"

She paused, took a leaf out of the jar, then broke the end off and placed it on her tongue, looking thoughtful.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Do you often sample unknown plants like this?"

"It isn't unknown and I would remember if it did anything extreme."

"Are you sure?" He leaned towards her, making a show of studying her face. "I think your lips are turning blue."

"No, they're not." She met his challenge with a smile.

He held her gaze a little longer, waiting for her to break, look nervous, but she kept staring right back at him until he said, "No good trying to fool you." A mix of emotions arose at this. Faint frustration, something like admiration, and—he had flipped the magnet—regret as he took a step back from her.

"I need to ask you something. Why did you take an interest in me? That is, so suddenly?"

"What makes you think this is sudden?" he deflected.

"I see, so you've been secretly pining for me since, when? The moment you saw me?" They stood now as if he hadn't taken that step back at all.

"Would you believe me if I said I'm shy?" Her raised eyebrows answered for her. "How perceptive of you," he said with a smile. Her eyes were brown, he registered for the first time, looking into them intently enough he thought he would memorize their exact color forever—dark brown, a few shades lighter than the pupil. He hoped he was mistaken about committing that to memory; if ever there was an extraneous piece of information...

"What you have to understand is, I'm fighting my instincts. To be close to someone, in any sense, it doesn't come naturally to me." Preferring to speak in half-truths, usually so guarded, he wondered if he would have shared this had he realized how sincere it was before he spoke the words. But, maybe, that was what made them feel so efficacious. "For whatever reason, that's the way I am, and I wouldn't want you to take it personally." Charlotte had hesitantly started to ease back from him, but he reached for her, held on. "It's true everything in me is saying to pull away right now," he said, voice descending towards a whisper. "But somehow, with you, I want to change that." He was too in the moment to assess how much truth was in these words.

It might have been a bit much. Charlotte looked slightly overwhelmed. He noted she didn't remove his hands from her waist, however. "You never answered my question," she said.

"You never answered mine," he tried.

"What was that?"

"You never told me what frostleaf tastes like," he whispered.

He was about to kiss her, but—

"Like an ice covered leaf; I don't think it's meant to be eaten on its own," tumbled out of her mouth so rapidly he almost didn't understand. But regardless, the important thing was enunciated with sharp clarity: this had been a grave error in judgment. "I appreciate what you're trying to overcome, but I think you're rushing things," she said more calmly, as his arms dropped to his sides. It was then that she looked at him again. Just as he was leaning away and he was filled with rage he thought he was containing, thought was expertly disguised by a placid expression. But everything was blurred, unreal; and right as Charlotte came into focus he saw a look of fear. Those brown eyes, frightened and shocked and seeing a version of him she couldn't know.

"Let's forget this happened, then."

He had joked before about erasing her memory. This time, he wasn't joking.

He told himself it was practical, that to have that distrust seeded in Charlotte was risky—and why not fix it, seeing as he could? He told himself this as he cast Obliviate. While they walked to the castle. When he saw her at dinner. The last thing before he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep that night. He did not question why it needed repeating so many times for him to believe it.

...Author's Note...

People honestly can be so contradictory in their thoughts and actions from one moment to the next, but it's so difficult to capture that in writing without looking like you simply have no clue what your character is thinking. I tried my best.

Thank you for reading!

-Edited 10/15/2020- (nothing crucial, just little changes)