The Ministry Ball had always been a boring affair and Marvolo had skipped it more years than not, but with Marchbanks in charge and him being her right hand, it is expected of him to attend.
She's tiny, hunched down by age, but her eyes are as sharp as an eagle as she shakes Tom's hand.
"I'm sorry I won't get to test you." She says. "Galatea talked my ear off last I went to Hogwarts, how extraordinary skilled you are."
"Professor Merrythought is very kind to say so."
"Seems the apple didn't fall far from the tree." She huffs, looking between Marvolo and Tom.
It's clear why she needs her Undersecretary around. The Minister is not a politician by nature; she is tense and uncomfortable surrounded by conniving men that will not speak an honest word if their lives depended on it.
She is not a fan of the Sacred Twenty Eight, it's clear to see the disdain she treats them with. She especially seems to dislike Septimius, looking up at him with a determined air, her withered fingers playing with her rings to try and curb the temptation to strangle the man.
Though a pure blood, she comes from the lower class and was always looked down at because of it. Yet there she is, Minister for Magic. The Sacred Twenty Eight resent her as much as she resents them.
Marvolo is at her side, keeping spirits calm, as the newspapers gossip he does in all Wizengamot sessions.
"Look at him and that stupid little smirk. His face will freeze that way, if it hadn't already." She scoffs as soon as Septimius turns his back. "If I have to suffer him coming into my office to demand another bloody thing-"
"As I assured you, he shall come to my office instead."
"Merlin help you." She sighs but points a finger at Marvolo. It's a ludicrous image- she's half his size. "Though serves you right. Some days I resent you for volunteering my name for office."
"We needed a fierce, reliable leader." Marvolo smiles and her face softens, if only a little.
The smile must look acceptable to outsides, but Tom can see the strain in it. Marvolo's patience is wearing very thin, each interaction with these people chipping away at the disintegrating wall he's built around his rage.
"You flatterer! I forget you are a Slytherin, even if you hadn't attended Hogwarts."
"And what House were you in, Madame?" Tom asks, even though he's quite sure about the answer.
She doesn't disappoint. "Gryffindor, of course."
"Our Minister is brave." Marvolo says and dismisses Tom as a group of foreign dignitaries approach.
Blacks refuse to attend such "plebeian" affairs, since the Ministry had employed a couple Mudbloods and Rodolphus will not willingly come anywhere with his father, if he doesn't absolutely need to, so that only leaves Abraxas and Nott to keep Tom company.
The food is terrible, the room is awfully cramped and Tom is struck by a headache halfway through the event, made only worse by Abraxas incessant whining. To make Tom's night even more unpleasant, Abraxas narrows his eyes mid rant.
"What's he doing here?"
Dumbledore has just arrived, shining like a firefly in a hideous blue and pink robe. He stands out like a sore in the sea of black and grey robes.
"He rarely comes to these blasted affairs." Abraxas goes on. "Must he torment us here as well? Isn't school enough?"
One of the reasons the Sacred families do not approve of Marchbanks and needed to be compelled by Marvolo into supporting her, is her friendship with the irksome professor that always speaks about equal opportunity and ethics and all that rubbish, a thorn in the side of the Pureblood way of living.
After shaking the hands of some Ministers he heads towards her. Marvolo's gone from Marchbanks side.
"Young man!" the Minister says, sighing but pleased to see Dumbledore. "You need to learn how to dress!"
Dumbledore chuckles, kissing her hand. "I was feeling rather festive."
"That makes one of us." She murmurs.
"And where is your illustrious Undersecretary?" Dumbledore inquires, peeking around.
"Oh." Marchabanks frowns. "He was right here, a minute ago. Merlin knows, he must have needed a break, I don't know how he handles these individuals on a daily basis." She speaks loudly, starring daggers at Malfoy. "Ah, there he is!"
And indeed, Marvolo's in the middle of a large group made by blood purists. They circle around him, a veritable human shield.
"I so wish to meet him." Dumbledore says, and Tom doesn't like the way his eyes settle on Marvolo.
"You've met him, surely." She answers, frown deepening. "You are both in the Wizengamot-"
"Oh, we nod politely at each other, but he's so busy I never catch him alone."
"If you're prepared to suffer those buffoons, go ahead. You'd like Gaunt, he reminds me of you, actually. As brilliant as they come and tough as nails."
Abraxas smirks beside Tom. "Father tells me Dumbledore's been making a fool of himself, trying to speak with Marvolo, at the Ministry." He whispers. "An unsuccessful endeavour, every time."
Tom watches with interest as Dumbledore makes his way to Marvolo, but it's waylaid by several men. One after the other, they keep getting in his way.
"Good grief! We should all donate some galleons to make sure you have proper attires to wear at such events if you insist on showing up. There are foreigners here!" Septimius drawls, blocking Dumbledore's path as soon as Dumbledore gets rid of Lestrange.
In the meantime, Marvolo slips away into the crowd.
How curious.
It is too petty, even for Marvolo. The others are obviously amused, think it's a game, to frustrate the hated professor, but Tom recognizes that Marvolo is weary. With good reason. Dumbledore is perceptive, there is no point in denying it. Yet it's more than that. Marvolo hates Dumbledore with a fervor bordering on obsession that he doesn't display for anything else in his life.
"Oh, no." Abraxas cringes.
Dumbledore, seeing Marvolo had gone, is making his way towards Tom.
"Evening boys." He says, genially. Abraxas looks overwhelmed by Dumbledore's robes in such proximity.
"Professor." Tom replies.
"How are your holidays?"
"Good, sir. Thank you."
Dumbledore smiles at him. "Would you introduce me to your father?"
Tom smiles right back. "I haven't a clue where he is, sir, or I would."
He barely finishes his sentence when Marvolo is right there, between him and Dumbledore, so sudden Tom has no idea how he pulled it off. One cannot Apparate in the room.
"Ah, there you are, Mr. Gaunt."
"Dumbledore."
Tom can't see his face, but he can see the tense line of Marvolo's shoulders. He tries to move to the side, so he can at least see Dumbledore, but Marvolo moves with him, blocking Tom, as if shielding him from Dumbledore, which is ridiculous. Tom lives with the man nine and a half months a year, and no matter how bothersome Dumbledore is, he never gave an inkling he'd hurt Tom.
"Could we exchange a few words, do you think?"
"I'm afraid I have to leave. Some other time."
"I have sent you a few letters, but they must have been lost on the way." Dumbledore goes on.
"No doubt." Marvolo says. "We are leaving." He tells Tom, turning as abruptly as he'd appeared.
Tom's coat is somewhere in the back, but he knows better than to ask to go for it, Marvolo directing him out of the room as if they are marching out to war.
"Dumbledore can't take a hint." Marvolo mutters as soon as they Apparate into their backyard.
Atlas is chasing Morgana up a tree, hissing irritably.
"He's persistent." Tom agrees, watching his pets attempt to kill each other. "I can't believe you haven't yet met him, properly." Tom always thought the two had a history of some kind, what with the way only mentions of Dumbledore anger Marvolo like nothing else.
"He'll get his wish." Marvolo snarls, glamour cast away, red eyes flickering with rage. "When the time comes, he will meet me."
"You're afraid of him." Tom says, astonished, stopping in his track. The epiphany was so surprising that he hadn't thought before opening his mouth.
Marvolo turns on him, features distorted with fury. "What did you say?"
A part of Tom, raw and led by instinct, implores him to step away, faced with such animosity. The other, just as raw, calls for him to get closer.
Caught between them, he stands, frozen. Tom has never seen him this way; magic radiates off him, aggressive, and there's a glint in his eyes that Tom doesn't know what to make of.
He assumes this is his introduction to Lord Voldemort.
"Why Voldemort?" He inquires, restrained, as if addressing a wounded wild animal.
"Where did you learn that name?" Marvolo's rage doesn't subside, but he's thrown off by the abrupt change of subject.
"Abraxas heard his father mention it."
"Malfoys and their loose tongues." Marvolo spits. "Figure it out."
"Just tell me. Why do you make everything so complicated?"
Marvolo steps away towards the house. Tom's hand moves without his permission, fingers curling around Marvolo's thinner one.
It happens extremely fast- Marvolo turns and the glare Tom receives is like nothing else that's ever been aimed at him; however, it's Marvolo's wand, already in his hand that captures his attention.
Tom steps back and resists the compulsion to grab his own wand, though the impulse is so strong, his fingers twitch.
He's never been genuinely afraid of Marvolo, not for his physical wellbeing, at least. Tom had dreaded to be abandoned, to be told he's a disappointment, but he'd never feared.
Marvolo would never harm him.
But this isn't really Marvolo. It's fascinating; that face he knows so well, cold and impassive, is different. Emotions flicker upon it, twisting those emaciated aristocratic features, fighting for their chance to shine.
There's a shift, so subtle he can't identify it, but Lord Voldemort just looks wild, nothing like the composed Marvolo, magic flowing from his body like seismic waves of power.
His usual cold politeness is gone, stripped away to reveal the hard lines of a killer. Which is odd, because Tom had watched him kill, and even then he hadn't looked this dangerous.
Tom cannot stop staring. He recognises this side of Marvolo, even though he's certain he'd never witnessed it before. Yet in a way, this is more familiar to him than everything else he'd seen. He has the same sense of deja vu he'd felt so long ago, at Wool's, when he first saw Marvolo and knew him.
Tom recognises the rough, unmitigated rage burning in those red eyes. It makes him ache in tender places he'd never noticed in his life. He craves to reach inside Marvolo and soothe it because he knows how anger consumes everything, what a significant burden it is. He wants it so deeply he almost touches him anew, before his sense of awareness kicks back in, taking him from the surreal state he'd been in and back to reality where he's facing a furious, terribly dangerous dark lord.
He takes another step backward and raises his hands instead, in an universal sign of surrender. It's not fear that causes him to do it; rather an eagerness to calm Marvolo, put him at ease, comfort him somehow, though he would meet no one's definition of needing comfort.
Tom still meets the stare head on, until expressions bleed off Marvolo's face, a shadow settling over his eyes, erasing all that's been there before.
He's both pleased and sad when Marvolo's back in control, when the tense line of his shoulders returns.
Marvolo leaves and Tom doesn't stop him again, though he would like nothing more. He sits on the grass, tired and exhilarated in equal measures, his pulse racing, throbbing in his temples. He lays down. The sky is clear, all the stars shining brightly as if putting on a show for him.
Tom breathes easier, feels the tranquility he'd felt after he'd tortured the priest a week before. He'd had woken the next morning hoping to be better, but the shadows had crept back in and he doesn't want torture to be the solution. Only insane people get peace out of torturing others and whatever he may be, he doesn't want to be crazy; nevertheless, that is precisely what he is feeling, the gradual deterioration of his once great mind, turning against him.
But seeing Marvolo like that, watching the same cocktail of volatile emotions in his eyes, gives Tom hope. Shows him there is a way to be wrong, but functional. There is a path to greatness, even with his issues.
He'd always thought of Marvolo as one of the robotic beings portrayed in muggle literature, empty of everything but intelligence.
Someone, he forgets who, has told him he acted like a "little robot" because Tom never smiled or laughed or displayed any joy at all. But while it was true Tom never felt what the other kids did, never was predisposed to gentleness, affection or sympathetic behaviour, he was constantly full of high emotions, anger and desperation ravaging him from within.
He suspects he can't keep them in check anymore; they are clawing their way out from the corner of his mind where he repeatedly seeks to cram them in, and he'll lose it, he'll become a mindless, sullen beast with nothing else.
Yet he'd seen the same phenomena in Marvolo's eyes. And Marvolo is so much more than just that, even in that cold, detached style of his.
"You can come out now." He hisses but Atlas, hidden under a bush further away doesn't answer, curled around itself, petrified. Morgana is long gone. Tom thinks of his Basilisk, wonders if even she, magnificent as she is, would have cowered away from Marvolo's rage.
Tom is certain she would have.
(-)
"Master! Master!"
Tom opens his eyes, confused for a second, to find he had fallen asleep in the garden, Bitsy's face looking down on him.
"Master must come in the house. This no place for resting."
"Go away." Tom mumbles, surprised to see the sky beginning to lighten. He must have gotten some good hours of sleep, undisturbed. It's started snowing, a timid layer of white sparkling around him but not a single flake on his person.
Tom's magic protects him, as always, even when he's unaware. Except, of course, for when he'd needed it the most, and it failed to rise to the occasion.
"Bitsy would." She squeals, pinching herself for disobeying a direct order. "But Bitsy can't." Her eyes are enormous and Tom gets it. She would only disobey him if her other Master ordered her to get Tom inside. "Please, Master, come. Bitsy makes you something to snack on!"
"I'm not hungry." He sits up, pulling a strand of grass from his hair.
"Is master sick?" She asks, worried.
"Go, I'll be right over." Tom lies, and she disappears.
He lies back down. "You'll freeze." He tells Atlas, who is in the exact position he last was. "Seek warmth."
"Scared."
"You needn't be. He won't hurt you."
"Scared." Atlas insists. Tom spends the next minutes coaxing him and eventually Atlas slithers out of his hiding place, leaving a broad trail in the snow. He instantly gets under Tom's robe, wrapping his coils around Tom's legs and torso, hiding its head under Tom's neck.
He casts a warming charm on both of them, though Tom's quite warm already.
Atlas hisses with satisfaction.
He's barley calmed down when Tom feels its tongue flickering above his heart, sniffing the air before uncoiling itself and rushing out in the snow, retracing his path back to the bush.
"You may come inside." Marvolo's voice comes only seconds later.
Tom cranes his neck to take him in; he's stopped further away, more distance than is necessary between them.
"I know."
Marvolo's eyes are focused on the willow, further ahead, its branches hanging lower than usual. No flakes touch him either. "I- overreacted. It will not happen again."
It's the closest to an apology he'll get. If anyone else would have drawn their wand at him, Tom would be furious, but Marvolo is not anyone else.
"You know I like to stargaze." Tom says. I wasn't avoiding you. I'm not afraid of you.
"And yet you hate Astronomy." Marvolo comes closer.
Tom sits, but doesn't stand. "I wouldn't say I hate it. It's just mind numbingly boring." Tom doesn't want to examine charts and study celestial names, though of course he did, and he knows all it's expected of him.
He likes to watch the stars and try to think of nothing.
Marvolo finally looks at him. "You can drop the subject, after you sit your O. . You seem tired. Perhaps you have taken too much on."
Tom snorts. "The standing record for N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts is thirteen . I'll break it, and I need Astronomy for it. It's not too much. I can handle it." If Dumbledore got thirteen Outstanding , Tom can manage fourteen.
The slightest smile greets him. Marvolo's as white as the surrounding snow. He waves his hand, and an armchair appears upon which he sits.
"I did not say you cannot handle it. Just a suggestion that perhaps you shouldn't. You are overtaxing yourself."
Tom doesn't know if he should feel insulted, his abilities being questioned or if he should be grateful that Marvolo surely says it out of concern.
"I'm fine."
"Are you sleeping?"
"Sure." Tom can hear how defensive his voice is. "I just slept." He points out, but Marvolo doesn't seem satisfied. "I sleep enough." Tom says after a few more seconds.
One night out of two or three is enough. It has to be.
He rubs his neck, stiff from the hard ground. It's not usual for Marvolo to ask about such private things. Because he doesn't need to, in general. Tom prattles non stop in the school breaks, writes him long letters while at school and the little he doesn't disclose, Marvolo has never been inclined to ask about.
It used to bother Tom as a child. It seemed like a lack of interest and care, but as he grows he understands Marvolo's a very private person and he respects Tom's right to it as well.
"You shouldn't take potions frequently-"
"I know!" Tom raises his voice, irritated.
That is precisely why he only sleeps two nights a week because he can't abuse the Draught of Living Death.
Marvolo must be feeling remorseful for raising his wand at Tom, because he accepts being yelled at, though a muscles twitches in his jaw.
"Incredible." He mutters. "You are unlike other teenagers in numerous circumstances and yet you are one, at the end of the day."
"Thanks" Tom hisses.
"I understand. I remember being your age, believing I knew better than all around me. And I did, to a certain extent. I know you will not take guidance from anyone else, but I though you might, from me."
Tom can't think of anything to say. It's a little unfair; he recognises emotional blackmail when he sees it. Marvolo knows very well that Tom does his utmost best to listen to him, to do as he says.
Atlas is no longer around; Tom hopes he went inside. He should go too- he needs to pack and finish Avery's assignments for the holiday, otherwise the idiot will get another P in Charms and Transfiguration, ruining Slytherin's image.
He doesn't move, choosing to watch the dimming stars as the fauna comes to life around them.
Tom doesn't want to return to Hogwarts, he'd much rather stay home. It's not like they can teach him anything new there, and whatever gaps in knowledge could occur, Marvolo is more than capable to correct them.
But he knows it's not an option; Tom had vowed to himself he will not let whatever is afflicting him interfere with his life. He will not give up.
"What did you do, after graduating?" He asks, picking up a twig.
Marvolo takes so long to answer, Tom is sure he won't. It wouldn't be the first question to fall on deaf ears.
"I worked for a shop."
Tom would have never predicted that. "You what?" Surely, he heard wrong. Maybe he's evolved to auditory hallucinations, to keep company to his visual ones.
"It was for a brief period. I had no intention to join the Ministry, though there were some offers. I did very well in school, made the right connections."
Tom waves his hand and watches as the grass starts growing, twisting, hardening and changing until it becomes a huge pillow. It still smells of grass and retains its colour, but he hadn't really focused. He supports his back on it. Not everything needs to be perfect all the time. Sometimes practicality is the only goal.
Marvolo's hand jerks as he eyes it; Tom can virtually see the impulse to improve Tom's creation. Marvolo's magic is never just utilitarian. Everything he does, however small, however temporary, is beautiful, perfect and insanely complicated.
Tom is the same way, only he's still learning. He can do anything with a wand, but it takes time to master wandless magic to such an extent. Time and energy, which he lacks.
Marvolo leaves the pillow be. Usually, whenever he detects a mistake, however negligible, he's always swift to correct it, though he never tells Tom how to do it himself. It used to be aggravating, as Tom struggled to emulate him, without any instruction.
"I broke the record for most NEWTS." A brief pause. "The Drumstrang equivalent."
"How many?"
Another quick pause. "Fourteen."
Tom smiles, satisfied, leans more comfortably on the pillow and crosses his legs in front of him at the ankle.
"With those grades, with my skill, I would have advanced through Ministry ranks, quite fast. Yet no one named Tom Riddle would have become Minister for Magic. The Purebloods would not allow it."
Tom nods. That is true, for most Europe. Oh, they are employing halfbloods and mudbloods, but it's never high up positions. The only notable exception is Dumbledore, because of course he is, but at least his name is a magical one, unlike Riddle.
"Perhaps, in time, I would have done it. Yet what after? Ministers do not hold considerable power; they too are stuck within a legal system unchanged for centuries. It would have been a waste of my talents. Magical communities require a revolution, not new regulations. Idiots cannot be made to see reason with laws. And most people are idiots. You must speak to men in the language they understand. The great majority only respond to fear, brought about by violence."
"You sound like Grindelwald." Tom teases but Marvolo doesn't take the bait.
"Grindelwald is not , he is not the man to accomplish it."
Tom wants to point out that Marvolo is working for the Ministry. Oh, he's Lord Voldemort part time, but still a politician.
He doesn't think it's prudent to anger him twice in one night, so he bites his cheek and waits.
"I wished to travel, first thing after graduating. But I overheard a rumour this shop had access to some considerably valuable artefacts, so I delayed my plans until I procured what I was seeking. After that, I left. I traveled, all over the world, and only returned once I learned all that could be learned, saw all that could be seen."
Tom can imagine all those foreign lands- deserts, wintery hells, lush tropical forests. And Marvolo, in his black cloak, moving tirelessly between them, no matter rain or snow or scorching heat.
"I think the same way. About the Ministry." Tom admits. "But I have the right name and you work there. I would be received with open arms."
Abraxas will follow in his father's footsteps. Most of his fellow students are required to do just that. For the longest of times, Tom had believed that was what was expected of him as well.
"Is that what you want?"
Marvolo tilts his head, the way he does when he's absorbed in what Tom has to say, which is not very often.
"No." Tom would not do well, with so many people around him, with crowded rooms and spineless bootlickers. He isn't sure he can finish Hogwarts, let alone build a career of having to pretend. Forever. His entire life required to hide who he is. Sounds exhausting.
"Good." Marvolo gives a sharp nod. "There are branches of the Dark Arts that will corrupt your soul. Others will rip it apart. However, that is nothing, compared to politics. It will drain you of your greatness. I can barley tolerate it now, and I do not know for how much longer. Travel, see the world. Learn all you crave. Then you shall see what you would like to do. We shall see how the world is, when you return."
Tom doesn't want to leave. He likes to travel, but with Marvolo. Going alone for years sounds good, because he'll be away from people. But he'll also be away from Marvolo, and that is unthinkable.
It wasn't a question, so Tom doesn't have to answer.
The sun is rising, a thin orange line on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the sky.
"I like it." Tom says, after a few minutes. "Voldemort." He clarifies. The names rolls off his tongue as if he's been saying it all his life. It tastes remarkably familiar. "I don't understand, however. You bring death. There is no flight involved."
"I would argue that achieving Immortality is a perpetual flight from Death."
Tom smiles. "I suppose."
"It was the best I could come up with, at sixteen."
Sixteen. Tom just turned sixteen, hours before.
"I made some questionable decisions at that age." Marvolo's voice shifts in quality.
Tom turns his face away from the sun, to find Marvolo closer than he'd expected.
The man can move without a single noise, always did. He's bent down, eye level with Tom.
"Come to me, when you are overwhelmed."
Tom is distracted by the flecks of brown lost in the red. He wishes he could count them. Sometimes the pupils are oval shaped, longer and thinner than it is natural; other times they form a perfect circle.
Tom is overwhelmed. He feels it in his bones, in every corner of his being. But admitting this level of weakness to Marvolo is unthinkable.
"I'm fine." He lies.
Marvel doesn't need to blink as much as other people. It's unnerving.
"Do not wake the Basilisk."
"I said I wouldn't." Tom points out, though he's spent countless nights in the Chamber since he'd had that discussion with Marvolo, a year prior.
"A reminder. In case the urge shall strike you."
Tom stands, though it needs some maneuvering, caught between his large pillow and Marvolo.
"I'm going to eat." He announces and walks towards the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Marvolo standing as well.
He's looking down at Tom's transfiguration and, as if he can't help himself, he improves the color and texture, before vanishing it altogether.
Tom smiles to himself.
In a world that's shifting under his feet, when reality starts blending with fantasy, it is comforting to rely on Marvolo remaining a constant, unchanged; Tom's foundation.
(-)
With a couple more attacks happening over the holidays and the progressively restrictive measures the Ministry takes, the small Duelling Club at Hogwarts becomes popular.
"It's a waste of time." Nott, who had attended before, waves it off. "Certainly not for us. There's nothing we can learn and we're sitting our O. this year, we should concentrate on that."
Tom could take the exams in his sleep, he's not at all concerned. Neither is Alphard, who is not studious by nature but has been blessed with talent and a remarkable memory. Rodolphus should revise in some subjects, but he's not one to care about grades.
Avery is a right mess and is disheartening to educate him. Slughorn insists however that Tom should do his part and get Avery through the O. , as to not dishonor the Slytherin house.
After every lesson, Tom is growing perilously close to hurting the moron, a part of him demanding it, craving for release.
Abraxas could also pass any subjects with his eyes closed, but he is under so much pressure from his father, he devotes every waking hour revising things he already knows by heart.
"We're going to the Club." Tom announces, pulling Abraxas's Charms textbook from under his nose.
Walburga claps, delighted. "It should be entertaining."
It is.
It surprises Merrythought to have so many students in attendance, rather than the usual curious first and second years.
They have moved the Club into a bigger room on the first floor, and she's divided them by age into third groups.
First and second years practice together in the farthest corner, third and fourth years in the opposite direction and the rest right in the middle of the room. Merrythought is spread thin between them, having to stop accidental fires from the youngsters or settle a heated duel between the oldest.
When she sees his groups strolling in, she curses.
"Gaunt, keep Lestrange in check, will you?" She asks as a wand flies above their heads and a group of twelve-year-olds laugh loudly.
Within minutes, Rodolphus sends two Mudbloods to the Hospital Wing, bleeding profusely.
Tom should have stopped it, but decided not to. Fleet, the Gryffindor sixth year, had had it coming for a long time and it proved most satisfying having him shriek in pain.
"You're out of control!" The Professor yells, close to slapping Rodolphus. "What is wrong with you?"
"It was all lawful," Rodolphus argues. "Don't you teach sixth years how to block a simple cutting spell? How did that Mudblood pass his tests?"
"You were right." Abraxas drawls between Tom and Walburga. "This is entertaining."
They watch as Merrythought calls Rodolphus every name that comes to mind before banning him to duel on school grounds.
Rodolphus is not one to take a berating quietly, so he screams back until he loses Slytherin eighty points in the spams of five minutes.
Tom has fun destroying every opponent that wants to take him on; he injures none of them, it's all terribly tame, but he's satisfied by the awed looks he gets from everyone around.
One of the third years vanishes another boy's arm and Merrythought ends the meeting, complaining she can't watch over so many of them at once.
"I could help, Professor. If you want, I can watch over the first and second years next time."
"You're a decent lad, Gaunt. We'll see how many show up."
In their own exclusive group, Tom teaches them to cast the Cruciatus. He's quite certain Rodolphus already knows, but he doesn't comment on it.
The results are nowhere near as impressive as he'd witnessed in the Church. Tom doesn't like his classmates all that much, but he doesn't hate them either. And when he gets curious how it would feel and asks Abraxas to practice on Tom, he receives pain. Quite a lot of it, but not enough to even put him on the floor.
In an effort to not become addicted to the Draught of Living Death, Tom takes Calming potions before bed, but they never serve as well and not only does he wake several times during the night, he must have brewed them too strongly because they make him too calm during the first hours of the morning, before they wear off.
Tom can't be that calm, even though it is an enjoyable sensation, it's a risky one. He needs to be alert at all times.
"What's going on with you?" Walburga asks him, late at night, as they sneak under the trap. "It's like you switch personality between breakfast and lunch."
He's determined to avoid taking any potion but when he can't sleep nights in a row, when he sees shadows out the corner of his eyes at every turn and his mind insists on concentrating on the worst sort of things as he lies down in his bed, Tom needs to take something.
(-)
He's confident he could get away with it. There's no reason to let the Basilisk out and risk discovery or her death, when he can just use the Imperius on a straggling mudblood, lead it to the chamber and serve it to the snake.
It would have to be Fleet. Tom could easily catch him alone, when the mudblood goes on his nocturnal strolls to meet up with his Hufflepuff lover.
So easy. Fleet doesn't belong at Hogwarts. He's stupid, arrogant with no valid reason, boisterous and crass, with no care for wizard traditions, tramples over everything sacred in their world. The greatest feat Fleet will ever achieve is to serve as nourishment for such a noble, ancient being.
She'd be satiated. She'd feel good. She would sleep better. Until the next heir comes.
He shifts on the floor, rests his forehead on the cold tiles to cool him. The Chamber is always so cold, but Tom is always hot.
He can't see another heir coming after him.
It won't happen. There will be no wife and offspring for him. No simple, normal life.
He wasn't made for family. Tom will never create life. Why would he do that to someone, place a child in the position to be prey, for so many years, until they mature enough to defend themselves?
He'd have to be by its side, constantly, to protect it. It will hinder him. A nuisance.
Tom knows he's keeping Marvolo from achieving greater things. If it weren't for Tom, Marvolo would not play politician. He'd be leading an army. But he can't-he couldn't, with a young boy to look after.
As Tom grows, the kill count in Britain rises. Marvolo is freer to move around.
Does he see me as something to chain him down? Is he waiting for me to become an adult so he can be free of me and move on with his life, with whatever plans he has?
Graduation is coming closer each year. Will Marvolo want him out of the house? Was that why he was encouraging Tom to travel? What will Tom do?
Not even death can set us apart. Marvolo had promised and Tom clings to it, allows the words to replay themselves on a loop in his head, over and over, to keep him awake instead of other obsessive thoughts.
(-)
They're getting careless, kissing in the Common Room, late at night; thankfully, they're not in a very compromising position, Tom's hands are just going under her blouse when a bored voice startles them apart.
"She's to be my wife, you know. I'd appreciate it if you'd show more decorum." Little Orion says. Not so little anymore, the lad is growing like a weed.
"Shut up, you little shite!" Walburga snarls at him. "Go back to your room, it's past your bedtime. You better keep this to yourself or I'll cut your tongue off."
Orion regards her, eyes sparkling. "The thought of marrying you revolts me." He assures her. "Even so, I cannot wait for it. Because once my wife, I'll have complete control over you. Slut!"
Before Tom can even arrange his shirt, Walburga curses Orion so thoroughly, by the time Tom stops her, the boy looks nothing like himself.
He howls in agony, and people run down the stairs, drawn by the noise.
Tom and two seventh years struggle to sort him out, to no success. Lucretia, tame Lucretia transforms into a harpy at the sight of her little brother in that state and Alphard keeps her and Walburga apart as they try to curse each other.
"I found you like this, in the Common Room." Tom repeats it a few times, as he carries Orion to the Hospital wing. He'd lost so much blood; he moans and his eyes don't open anymore. Tom can only hope he's understood. "You don't know who cursed you."
Of course, they call Slughorn. And once the Matron identifies traces of dark magic, Dippet joins them. Invariably, Dumbledore manifests, he consistently does when Tom least wants him to.
Half an hour later, after the Matron gets Orion somewhat into shape, he gains Tom's respect as all teachers demand to learn what had transpired.
"I'm a sleepwalker." He drawls, Black superiority dripping all over the place, even if he's twelve and in a hospital gown, still white as chalk and shivering.
"If you don't tell us the truth, I'll find myself having to-"
"To what?" Orion cuts over him. "Expel me? I'm sure my father would be pleased to find out, that on top of harm happening to the heir of the Most Noble and Ancient house of Black, under your care, you're about to punish me. Go on, headmaster."
"Tom, a favour." Slughorn asks him the next day in his office. He sounds tired. Tom takes note his crystallised caramels are getting low in quantity, makes a mental note to replace them.
"Yes, sir?"
"About Orion."
"Sir, I've told you, I found him like that, I do not know who cursed him, otherwise I'd have come forward."
Slughorn waves a hand. "Oh, I know who did it. His father just wrote me. It was Miss Black. Walburga, that is. I'd like to ask you, should such incidents occur again, between them, that you bring him to me, instead of the Hospital Wing. So we can avoid-ah, repercussions. Mr. Black is not fond of them. We'll solve it amongst our own, like we do in Slytherin."
"As you say, sir."
(-)
The Charms classroom is mostly silent as the students are bent over their papers in full revision frenzy, quills dragging over parchment.
Tom has long finished with the test and is doing all he can to keep his eyes from closing. They're rough and irritated, bloodshot from the lack of sleep. He has to fight with a compulsion to rub them or just rest them for a moment.
It's the first class of the day and he's already drained.
Nott is leaned against his chair, his test also finished, hands across his chest, eyes closed. Unlike Tom, he spends his nights studying.
Tom envies the nonchalance, the lack of thought that allows Nott to simply close his eyes in a room full of people. How can one be so at ease when in a seemingly vulnerable position.
It's a classroom. Who's going to attack Nott?
He takes hold of the quill to write in his journal and focus on anything but his fatigue; he notices his hand is shaking, if slightly. Tom tries to still it, to no success. He doesn't even know if it's withdrawal from the potions or it's just exhaustion.
He pushes his belongings in his bag, a small part of his brain recoiling in disgust at the mess he's certainly created in the usually well organised space.
"Professor." He says, when he's close to the front desk. "I've finished. Would you mind if I'd leave now? I forgot my textbook for my next class in the Common Room and-"
"Yes, yes." The Professor takes the parchment from Tom's hand and waves him away.
Tom hurries along the corridor, mindlessly. He is nauseous even though he hadn't eaten anything at breakfast. In fact, he can't remember when he last ate.
He's losing control of himself, slowly but surely he's slipping away no matter how hard he tries to hold on; like sand through a closed fist.
It's terrifying.
He doesn't even see Dumbledore, would have walked right into him if not for the other raising a hand to stop him.
"Sorry." Tom blinks, fast.
"Shouldn't you be in class?"
Shouldn't you? Tom almost lets the words slip, checks them in the nick of time, biting his tongue.
"I was excused." He growls, instead. "The Professor would confirm it if you don't believe me." He glares at Dumbledore, though he's somewhat out of focus. "Sir." He adds.
"Are you alright, Tom?" Dumbledore's voice shits, a lower, calmer quality to it. "You seem…distracted, as of late."
Keeping a close eye on me, aren't you?
"A bit tired, sir. O. and all."
Dumbledore doesn't believe it, but he just sighs and steps aside.
Tom goes on his way, but by the time he settles in his bed, he is wide awake, filled with resentment. All Dumbledore's fault. If not for him, perhaps Tom could rest a little instead of fuming about the man, all the ways he stares at Tom.
He downs half a glass of Calming Draught.
His hands stop shaking instantly, but his nausea persists. He knows he'll miss Ancient Runes class, and he'd promised himself that no matter what is going on with him, no matter what addiction he's forming for certain substances, it will not interfere with his daily life.
Just this once. Just one time. He knows it's a slippery slope, but the potion makes it hard for him to worry and eventually pulls him to sleep.
(-)
Walburga is laying on her stomach on the couch, head supported on one hand, the other turning the pages of some book, the quill kept between her teeth.
Her tie is loose, the first few buttons on her blouse opened. It makes for a distracting sight. Because Tom is alternating between looking at her and trying to read some of his notes on an obscure curse he's working on, it takes him a few minutes to realise he's not the only one affected.
Abraxas is sneaking in glances every few seconds. Rodolphus is less discrete, staring at her intently. Tom needs to check the impulse to carve their eyes out, reminds himself it is a silly thing to be bothered about and that in any case, she's not his to begin with. More so, the boys do not know there is anything going on between him and Walburga, so they aren't disrespecting Tom by lusting over her.
She sighs every few seconds. Sensual little noises, deep from her chest.
"What?" He snaps at her, closing his notebook.
She raises her head to look at him, face all innocent but a knowing glint in her eyes. "Oh, it's just that I'm behind with homework. Father wants perfect grades this year, and I'm not as gifted as you. It takes so long to write my essays."
She's gifted enough to be in the top of her class is she so desires. But she's lazy. And manipulative.
He raises an eyebrow at her, to let her know he's aware of what she's doing.
She raises her legs, crossing them at the ankles, skirt raising high on her thighs.
"I'll help you." Abraxas offers in a dreamy voice.
Walburga scoffs, not even looking his way. "As if you could get an O in sixth year subjects, Malfoy."
"I assure you, I can." He brags, straightening his shoulders.
"Or I can bully that Ravenclaw nerd, in your year, to write them for you." Rodolphus sticks to his strengths.
Tom says nothing; her smile widens. She sits up, arranging her tie.
"Won't you help me, Tom?"
He would have, if she'd just asked. He doesn't understand why she plays these little games.
"I'm already writing Avery's. And Slughorn has me tutoring some morons in third year."
"Crabbe one of them?" Orion pipes up, playing with something a little further away.
Tom nods.
"He really is a moron." Orion agrees.
"I'm thinking to use him to practice memory modification on. If I fuck it up and damage his brain, no one will notice anything amiss." Abraxas drawls.
Tom has to agree with him.
Walburga stands, abandoning her notes and books all over the couch and table. "I'm off on Patrol." She announces, stretching her arms.
Rodolphus watches her go. "Black women are the most beautiful creatures on earth."
"She's my sister." Alphard snaps at him, though his eyes are closed, legs hanging over the armchair. "Don't make me curse you. Way out of your league. No one would waste one of our jewels on a Lestrange."
"I'll rip your head off, Black." Rodolphus sneers.
Orion gives Tom a calculating gaze. He kept his word and did not tell anyone what he'd witnessed that night.
"Settle down." Tom says and Rodolphus goes back to studying a French book about poisons while Alphard falls back to sleep.
Tom summons Walburga's school assignments. She's behind in Arithmancy, Herbology and Potions. He goes over the list and snorts when he sees the requirement for a twenty inches parchment about the Draught of Living Dead.
"Flint! Bring me four rolls of parchment." He calls across the room.
Flint looks startled but immediately complies, stealing them from an abandoned bag laying by the fireplace.
As Tom goes through the assignments, one by one people retreat to their rooms.
Alphard wakes in time to pull out an invisibility cloak from under his armchair, when it's just the two of them left.
"It's starting to fade." Tom warns him, able to see Alphard's form, just barely.
"It will have to do until I can find the famed Invisibility cloak from the Deathly Hallows."
Tom scoffs. "Perhaps you'll find it with the Elder Wand in its pocket."
"I expect my Ravenclaw minx will keep me up till early morning. Please wake me in time for breakfast."
Tom strikes out a phrase he's not satisfied with. "I know your Ravenclaw minx is a Gryffindor Mudblood. And I suspect so does Abraxas."
"Ah." Alphard's disembodied voice comes after a few seconds.
"Be careful not to bump into your dear sister. Unless you also discover the Resurrection Stone to bring you back, because she will kill you. At the very least get you disowned."
Alphard departs without another word.
An hour later, Walburga returns from Patrol. Her partner is red in the face, close to tears, and he's starring daggers at her back. She has that effect on most people.
She lounges back on the sofa, kicking off her shoes, eyeing the neat stack of parchment rolls on the table.
"Why, thank you, Tommy. So sweet of you to offer."
"Tell me, do you think that seeing Rodolphus ogling you makes you more attractive to me?"
She doesn't look embarrassed. She shrugs, turning on her side and tucking a hand under her head. "It should. That's what the older girls say."
Tom nods; makes sense. Men are territorial beings, they're bound to react when something threatens what they perceive as their own.
"It makes me angry." He tells her. "You don't want to make me angry."
"You're angry all the time, anyway." She says. "Will you look over my essay on Amortentia ?" She sits and searches inside her bag, handing him a scroll.
Tom was just about to finish his conclusion on Felix Felicis. His heart skips in his chest and he abandons the book, taking the offered parchment.
He was never interested in love potions more than knowing they exist and what they do.
He'd never had the curiosity to research more, knowing he'll have to study them the following year. He'd especially lost all desire to even think about them, after what he'd found out about Merope.
So he learns quite a few things, reading Walburga's essay.
Amortentia, the strongest love potion in the world, is barley regulated. Tom frowns. How can such a potion be legal, taught in school even, when it is basically Imperius in liquid form, robbing the victim of all agency.
But then he reads that on grown wizards, it is more of an aphrodisiac than anything else. It will make the drinker find the brewer more attractive, ignore bothersome flaws in character, awake an instant infatuation with the subject.
Mature, educated witches and wizards would be almost impossible to subdue with it, their own magical core able to recognize and fight the compulsion naturally, enough for them to become aware they are being dosed with it.
It is illegal to use on minors, who are heavily susceptible to all love potions, even weaker ones, and equally prohibited to be used on Muggles, of any age, sure to fall completely under the influence, to the point where they become mindless, lustful creatures.
Marvolo is not a Muggle. However young he had been when meeting Merope, he was still highly intelligent and skilled in magic, enough to break records at his school in all subjects.
A man like him would never fall victim to a love potion.
(-)
"Mr. Gaunt, show some sportsmanship, if you will." Dumbledore says.
Tom grips his wand tighter as he turns his head to give Dumbledore a look that's more loaded than it's respectful.
"I am."
In fact, Tom is being incredibly merciful on these idiots.
"This is a learning experience. As a Prefect, you should aim to help your fellow students. How can they learn if you put them down in such a short time?"
Everyone is watching them, from the youngest to the oldest. Merrythought just had to ask Dumbledore to help her with the Club, because that is Tom's luck.
"It's not his fault they're incompetent, nor his duty to teach them." Walburga drawls, standing. "Professor." She continues with a grin.
"Ten points from Slytherin, Miss Black. Insults are not tolerated here."
Dumbledore lets his eyes land on Tom's gang, each of them in part. "No one is special here. This attitude is a disservice to our school and to you as well."
"It's a good thing Rodolphus has been banned, or he'd have blown a fuse." Alphard whispers to Abraxas, behind Tom.
"Alright, sir." Tom forces a smile on his face. "I'll be sure to drag it out." He adds and turns to consider the rest of the students. "Who wants to be next?" He asks, caressing his wand.
No one seems eager, even though Tom had hurt no one outside of his associates. But they must see something in his eyes, because they don't volunteer-
"Me!" Hagrid makes his way from the other side of the room, where the younger students practice. "Please Tom, I'd like to."
Some of the girls giggle. Abraxas snorts.
Tom takes a big breath, closing his eyes briefly.
"You're too young, Hagrid." Dumbledore says, voice all soft now that he's done berating Slytherins.
"But I want to do more than just disarming spells." Hagrid says.
"I'll show your age group something else." Dumbledore promises and heads to do just that, placing a hand on Hagrid's shoulder to lead him back to the second and first years. "The tripping jinx, I think-"
"But-" Hagrid protests, looking over his shoulder at Tom.
"That's alright." Tom says, loudly. "We can meet later in the yard."
The look Dumbledore sends him is the coldest it's ever been. "No duelling unless supervised."
Tom just smiles. "As you say, sir." He speaks but makes sure his nod to Hagrid is impossible to miss.
Abraxas and Alphard flank him on either side, and they all look after Dumbledore.
"Why do we bother coming here again?" Alphard asks, sounding bored.
Tom attends because he likes to show off, same as Abraxas. But with Dumbledore in charge of the Club now, he'll be sure to not let them.
"I can do without." Walburga says, coming closer." It was fun while it lasted."
"No." Tom is still playing with his wand. "We're not quitting. He can't stop us from fighting each other and he can't admonish us for lack of sportsmanship, either, if we're evenly matched."
Tom will not let Dumbledore foil his plans, childish as they are; he's doing this to let everybody see how much better he is, and by Merlin, it will happen.
He'll make Dumbledore regret chiding him in a hall full of students.
"Abraxas." He turns and gives the blond a look. "Keep it clean."
Abraxas is the closest to being evenly matched to Tom, even if by a long shot. Rodolphus is more impressive, but he wouldn't be able to keep a duel clean if his life depended on it.
Abraxas is measured, calm and very rational. They take the appropriate distance, bow to each other, careful to comply with proper duelling etiquette and launch right into it.
Tom does not say a single spell out loud and Abraxas keeps almost half of his wordless as well. Merrythought had not yet taught them how to cast nonverbally.
They keep it clean as a whistle, all very proper but at least N.E.W.T level.
The older students come to look at them, forming a circle around. There're gasps and praises and clapping.
Tom is the favourite, because all the other Houses do not stand Malfoys and their endless arrogance.
Tom smirks, blocks a spell at the last possible moment, just for effect. He wishes he could see Dumbledore's face.
Tom makes heavy use of transfiguration, turning pieces of napkins in dummies to absorb Abraxas's hits, effortlessly.
Still not special? He thinks, freezing the floor under Abraxas who trips but makes a graceful recovery, just in time for Tom's Incarcerous to hit him full in the chest; it's a different Incarcerous, invented by himself, right there on the spot- he wills silky green ribbons to tie around Abraxas, instead of rope, just because he can and also so he won't give Dumbledore the slightness excuse to accuse him of injuring Abraxas by giving him rope burns or something equally ridiculous.
More gasps. Someone whistles. The applauses echo of the walls.
Tom goes over and extends a hand to Abraxas, helping him up. They bow again, drowned in cheers.
Immediately they are mobbed, even Abraxas, students inquiring about what spells they used, congratulating them.
Tom answers them amicably, searching for Dumbledore with his eyes. He finds him standing further back, alone. Even the midgets had abandoned him to come closer and try to get a better look at the show.
Dumbledore's expression is grave. Concerned.
Tom wishes the man would drop the act, stop pretending he's worried about Tom, instead of being a biased old goat.
Fuck you. Tom thinks, and for once he wishes he could let Dumbledore read his mind.
To make his victory over Dumbledore complete, Slughorn must have joined them at some point, because he shoulders his ways through the students, claps Tom and Abraxas on their backs.
"My boys!" He yells, smiling from ear to ear. "Twenty points for Slytherin, each! Albus, did you notice that brilliant piece of transfiguration?!"
"Take ten from me as well." Merrythought says from the table she's leaning on.
The student body talks about it for days. Slughorn is just as bad, bragging at the teacher's table, as if he'd taught them how to do it.
Careful. Marvolo writes in his next letter, word of it no doubt reaching him. It is best to be discrete.
Tom doesn't write back for the first time in his life.
Still lying. He thinks, watching the parchment burn in the fireplace.
(-)
She's curled up in many coils, head protected at the centre. Tom makes his way to it, gently runs his fingers over her scales.
She's gigantic, so much strength in her body, so much venom in her teeth, death in her eyes, and yet she's trapped there.
Even with her asleep, there are no spiders anywhere in the Chamber, the only place in Hogwarts to be devoid of arachnids.
He needs to wake her.
Such a creature should not be punished, just because it's lethal, just because weaker beings fear her.
They tried to do that to Tom at Wool's. He was better than them, greater, brighter, and for that, they shunned him. He was unacceptable.
Even now, Tom has to be contained, to pretend to be less, so others would find him palatable.
He's so resentful about it, more so every day. It's his brith right to be extraordinary. He should flaunt it. The entire castle should bow to him, acknowledge his greatness and yet he has to blend with them like they are all equal, has to be respectful, to withhold his nature just because the others won't tolerate it.
That's what's wrong with the world. Extraordinary people are told to be less, so ordinary men do not feel threatened.
He should wake her and let her teach them the lesson he cannot.
"Do not wake the Basilisk."
Marvolo's face, with the rising sun behind him, angers Tom more than everything else.
He extends his hand, ready to say the words, to call upon Slytherin's magic.
He's so willing to have the entire school succumb to the despair he's suffering. For once in his life, Tom wants to share, spread all that dread around. See how all those normal people deal with a threat hovering over every corner, with sleepless nights.
You gave your word.
He had, but why should he keep it? From what he understands, devotion has to go both ways. Marvolo's misleading him, has been lying since the moment they met and why should it fall on Tom to be the genuine one in that relationship, why should he keep making the effort?
Because you'll lose him, otherwise.
If Tom doesn't have Marvolo, what else remains? Nothing.
Walburga, his Death Eaters, books and magic-they're all distractions, fleeting pleasures. They don't fill the hollow space inside him, the one he's always felt, since he became conscious he exists, since he could scarcely walk.
But can he have Marvolo, when Marvolo keeps lying to him? Nothing is equal in their rapport, but he's long accepted it. Tom can't lie when Marvolo can. Tom can't up and disappear for weeks on end without an explanation, but Marvolo can.
What hurts the most is that Tom needs Marvolo and Marvolo does not need Tom.
And someone has to be punished for the blatant injustice, even if it's some random Mudblood that has nothing to do with it.
Use your anger to aid you, instead of letting it rule you.
He tries to ignore Marvolo's words, is determined to go on with his plan. But he cannot. No mutter how upset he is, he'd promised he wouldn't.
Tom lowers his hand, breathing deeply. He takes a step back. The significance of what he's almost done crashes on him, all at once.
He can't return to the Chamber, ever again, because he will wake her.
He pauses by one of the towering marble pillars, where initials of the other heirs are inscribed into the marble.
"T" he writes, right under "CG" which he had inferred was Corvinus Gaunt, the last Slytherin descended to have attended Hogwarts, from official records.
All initials end with "G".
"R" he scribbles after the "T" with a slight smirk, breaking the long sequence of Gaunts. If someone ever discovers the Chamber, they will be confused.
Tom Riddle does not exist, not in any records, even if there are two Tom Riddle milling around in Magical Britain, one an Undersecretary to the Ministry and one the most exceptional student at Hogwarts.
Unless Marvolo lied about that, too.
He rushes out the room, seals it behind him and hurries down the passage leading to the bathroom, to put as much distance between him and the basilisk as possible.
Tom will find out about his mother, his uncle. He will find out about Marvolo. All on his own. He's not twelve any longer to be so quickly caught in his search. He'll learn what he desires to know and he can put it behind him, because he assumes those are the only lies he's being fed.
He's so distracted by his ruminations, vague plans developing, adrenaline still coursing through him that he doesn't pay sufficient attention when he climbs out of the entrance and commands the sink to move back in place.
Just as it locks, a stall door opens and Tom turns to see a young girl gawking at him from a cubicle.
To make it worse, it's a Ravenclaw. That's just Tom's luck-it couldn't have been a naïve Hufflepuff or an uninquisitive Gryffindor.
At least she's very young. He struggles to calm down as he takes her in. Two black braids, skillfully made, a childish roundness to her face, enormous glasses sitting on her nose and wide, wet eyes behind them.
"Go use your own bathroom!" She hiccups, wiping some tears off her cheeks. "This one is for girls!".
"I apologise." He plasters a smile on his face. "I saw you in distress, down on the hallway, and I thought it prudent to make sure you are alright. It's my duty, after all." He points to his gleaming Prefect badge.
"Oh." She hiccups and new tears spill down her face.
"Can I do something for you?" He asks gently, hoping he displays appropriate expressions of concern.
"It's that stupid cow, Olive Hornby." She sobs, hugging herself. "She always picks on me, laughs at my glasses."
"That's not very nice." He says, soothing.
She nods, emphatically. "No one is nice to me. The teachers don't care she bullies me. I can't even tell mama. My parents are Muggles, you see. If I complain they might pull me out of Hogwarts. I barley convinced them to let me attend to begin with."
Muggles do always seek to keep magical children from using magic, don't they?
"What's your name? I will speak with this Olive Hornby."
"Myrtle."
"Such a pretty name."
She giggles, blushing, and represses another hiccup.
Tom is satisfied this idiot will not question his presence in the girls bathroom again. All she'll remember is a good looking older Prefect came to her defence and complimented her.
"Please try to calm down. I'll give you some privacy." Tom gives her another smile, all teeth, and makes his escape.
That was close.
It could have ended far worse.