Chapter Sixteen

Hermione was still up and sitting in the Common Room when Tom finally escaped detention, and upon seeing her distinctively bushy hair by the fire, he took a moment to consider his options.

He could feign shame and (poorly) hide what Umbridge had done and tried to do, which would incite the most outrage but also ran the greatest risk of his intentions being discovered. If nothing else, Ginny would find it suspicious. He thought he had some leeway with the girl, but if she thought he was being too manipulative, she'd probably convey those suspicions to Hermione.

He could also pretend to be completely outraged and possibly a bit murderous. That could backfire on him and leave Hermione focused on preventing him from harming Umbridge rather than revenge, but it also followed his natural inclinations and hardly counted as a manipulation at all. It wasn't as though he'd planned on the woman being evil. (Though, given Potter's luck, perhaps he should have.)

Or…

"Hey!" Hermione waved him over, and time for consideration was over. Once he'd sat on the couch next to her, she curled her legs up under her and faced him seriously. "How did it go?"

Option number three. Tom gave her a forced smile (he would never admit how much time he'd practiced different smiles in the mirror, but it had definitely paid off) and held up his hand to show her the still raw-looking skin. With equally practiced false bravado, he said, "It was nothing I couldn't handle. She tried to curse me, but she did a poor job of it, so I'll ignore it for now."

The brunette's eyes narrowed, brow furrowing as she took his hand and gingerly examined it. Tom fought not to flinch as her fingers brushed against the damaged skin, because it needed to be clear, later on, just how much he'd downplayed things for no apparent reason. "What curse did she try to use?" Hermione asked.

"Curse maybe isn't the best word," Tom corrected after considering it. "She had me write using an old artifact. It goes by different names, the most common of which are Black Quill and Blood Quill."

"A Blood Quill?" Hermione repeated, looking puzzled. "I've never heard of that, though it certainly sounds awful."

Tom nodded. "It's not an item you'd come across in your normal reading. Very few exist, and the secret to their creation is lost to time, so families possessing one will almost never let it out of their hands." He clenched his fist, and the way his skin stretched revealed the slightest hints of the letters he'd spent the last few hours writing. He showed them to Hermione. "Traditionally, one is made to write a command of some sort. The quill takes the user's blood as ink, and the words are etched physically and magically into the person. A single use will do very little, but if repeated often enough, a sort of geas is produced, forcing the user to obey that command."

In all honesty, it wasn't a very practical item. He'd mostly wanted it as a curiosity.

Hermione looked appropriately horrified though. "That's barbaric! What did she have you write?"

Tom smirked. "I must not question my betters," he said. "She really is an idiot. Using such a subjective term makes the command worthless."

Despite his words, Hermione didn't look amused. "Is it painful?" she asked.

"Naturally," Tom told her. "You're cutting through your flesh, after all. It's nothing I can't deal with by using a bit of Occlumency though, and the wounds will heal fairly quickly. A geas can't take hold of someone who's bled to death, after all."

Hermione stared at him, disbelieving. "You're just going to let her get away with it then? You're not going to tell anyone?"

"I just told you, didn't I?" Tom asked, rolling his eyes. "But yes, so long as it's only me that she's using it on, I'll let her go. If she moves on to any of the younger students though, I'll be sure to speak up. Is that an acceptable compromise?" He frowned. "I thought you'd be pleased at my restraint," he added a tad more petulantly than he'd intended.

Hermione scowled at him, but released his hand and threw herself back into the pillowy cushions. "You're not really hoping she'll leave it at that, are you. You just want a chance to play up Harry Potter's heroic persona," she accused.

Tom merely smiled at her innocently, making her huff, but the lines of her face relaxed somewhat. She stood up with a wry smile. "Fine. I don't like it… but I suppose, realistically, given your current position with the Ministry… Try not to get any more detentions though, alright? If you do, I'm going straight to Professor McGonnagall." With that, she bade him good night and went upstairs to her dorm.

That left Tom by the fire, looking at his hand thoughtfully. This would likely take a while, but using this method meant that, even should he fail, public perception of him would still improve. Still... He flexed his hand experimentally and hissed. Perhaps Severus had a potion or two that could help with the pain. He'd have to ask before he got any more detentions.

"What are you trying to do?"

He whipped around, only to sigh when he saw Ginny standing there, arms folded. He debated the merits of lying for a few seconds before mentally shrugging. "I want Hermione to take care of Umbridge." The way he said it, he was sure Ginny understood 'take care of' to mean 'murder,' although he was fine with a number of other, more creative options.

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because her morals are ridiculous and will only get in the way in the future, and Umbrdige is so unbelievably odious that even Hermione would have trouble feeling guilty over her in the event something happens. One step at a time, and all that."

Ginny closed her eyes and counted to ten under her breath. Once she was relatively calm, she fixed Tom with her most serious look. "Don't. Do it yourself if you want, but don't make Hermione do it."

Tom tilted his head curiously. "Why? I've no intention of forcing her in the first place, but why does it matter to you?"

"Because Hermione's my friend, and I don't want you to corrupt her too," the red-head said quietly.

Tom studied the girl. Whatever latent preferences she had were almost certainly not his fault, so he thought it was unfair to say he'd corrupted her. Still, she might never have realized them if not for his horcrux, so he supposed he could accept a portion of the blame. "I promise that I will keep my end of things reasonably honest," he said at last. "The only intended lie is about the degree of the injury. I plan to underplay it, which I believe is what the real Harry Potter would have done anyway."

Ginny looked into his eyes searchingly, as though she'd be able to see it if he were being less than honest. She might be able to feel it though, he reflected, so it was a good thing he saw no reason to hide it. Apparently she'd decided she could trust him, because she sighed and closed her eyes. "Thank you."

Now that that was taken care of, Tom had another issue to address. He stood and took her hand, tugging her toward his dorm.

"Wait, what're you doing?" she asked, eyes wide.

"You seemed to feel better after sleeping with me last time," he told her. "So come sleep in my bed again." Though he said that, he was aware that she could likely feel his emotions right now. It was perhaps the most irritating part of the bond - in order to know what information they might be receiving, he had to be honest with himself about his own feelings. So he knew, even if he'd rather not admit it, that he actually felt uneasy in his dorm, and his detention tonight had further unsettled him, so he wanted someone he could trust beside him when he was at his most vulnerable.

Whether she understood that or not, Ginny didn't offer any more protest. She let him cast a Disillusionment Charm on her and lead her to his bed, then waited while he applied a paranoid number of protective spells to the curtains around his bed. Once he was done, he leaned against the headboard and pulled a book from under the mattress. "I won't be able to sleep for a while," he told her.

"I know," Ginny said. She laid down and curled herself around him as he settled in to read for the night. "Good night, Tom," she murmured as her eyes slid shut.

Something tight within his chest loosened marginally, and Tom stroked her hair absently. "Good night, Ginny," he returned.

Waking up the following morning was strange, but not at all unpleasant. As was becoming normal, he'd fallen asleep sitting up while reading. He knew from experience that sometime in his early forties, his body would start to protest that treatment, but for now it just meant a different view upon waking. Tom blinked sleepily at the open book in his lap, then at his hand, which lay tangled in Ginny's hair. The witch in question was still asleep, and Tom smiled gently, some warm emotion welling up in his chest.

Fondness. Tom withdrew his hand and slipped out of bed, troubled.

It wasn't an entirely foreign experience, he thought. He'd been fond of various snakes, and he supposed he was fond of Bella and Lucious and Severus to some degree. Still, it was an uncommon feeling, and he wasn't sure he appreciated Potter's body being so susceptible to it.

On the other hand, it was just Ginny. She was basically like a pet, wasn't she? Perhaps not a snake, but a lion cub? He pondered that as he dressed, deciding eventually that it was acceptable to enjoy her presence in those terms.

He returned to his bed to find her awake and stretching. "Good morning," he said, feeling unusually cordial today.

Ginny smiled sleepily. "Morning, Tom."

Tom tried to frown at her, but he could feel a smile tugging at his lips without permission, so he hurriedly Disillusioned her and turned away. "You should leave before anyone else wakes up," he said shortly.

She rolled her eyes and left, and Tom followed on her heels. They met Hermione at the bottom of the stairs, and while he was confident that his Disillusionment Charms were perfect, the spell was inherently weakest in daylight. Hermione's eyes widened and she gaped at them, looking a bit fishlike. It wasn't a good look for her, Tom noted, but it certainly was interesting.

Fully aware what sort of ludicrous assumptions she was making, and unsure whether it amused or annoyed him, Tom decided to ignore the situation altogether. "Good morning, Hermione. Have you gotten Lovegood's schedule for me yet?"

He kept walking, smirking to himself as Hermione's mind scrambled to switch tracks. He'd reached the Great Hall by the time the muggleborn witch shoved a sheet with a timetable on it into his hands. "There. Now why was Ginny sneaking out of your dorm this morning?"

"Because she slept with me," Tom said as though it was obvious. After letting Hermione flounder for a moment, he took pity on her. "Just slept," he clarified. Then, prompted by an urge he didn't quite understand, he added, "It's… calming to have someone I can trust nearby at night." His gaze flickered away as he said it, not wanting to see Hermione's expression even as he felt understanding and amusement and concern and Merlinbedamned fondness through the bond.

"Still," Hermione insisted, "you shouldn't do that. Someone could get the wrong idea." Her cheeks pinked as she said it, having been that someone.

Ginny joined them, sliding in next to Hermione with an impish grin. "You're just jealous," she teased as she grabbed herself some breakfast.

At Hermione's scowl, Tom smirked. "Oh? Have you been hiding something from me, Miss Granger?"

Now Hermione was bright red, and she huffed. "If you're quite finished, you need to be getting to the library to 'study' Arithmancy," she told him. "Or whatever it is you actually intend to study," she added in a mutter.

Tom flashed her a grin and stood. "Very well. I'll meet you outside the library at break. We can work on our homework together." It was a pitiful conciliatory offering, but Hermione's small smile told him she'd recognized it for what it was and appreciated it all the same.

He was almost to the library when Severus stepped out in front of him. "Mister Potter," the man said, expressionless.

"S-Sir?" Tom stuttered, barely avoiding saying the man's name.

The Potions Master's lips twitched in amusement. "The Headmaster would like to see you," he said.

"Oh. Alright then," Tom said, good mood broken. "Lead on then, I suppose."

They walked in silence for a minute before Severus spoke again. "You seem to be settling in well," he commented.

"You've been watching the bond, I assume?" Tom shot the man a half-hearted glare. It wasn't that he'd expected anything else, but he was much less comfortable with a fellow Slytherin sensing his fluctuating emotions than a pair of teenaged Gryffindors.

Severus inclined his head. "Naturally." He stopped in front of the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. "Milk duds," he sneered, and the gargoyle turned away to reveal a spiral staircase. Duty completed, Severus swept away without another word.

Tom took a moment to appreciate the man's professionalism as a spy, then climbed the stairs. At the top, the door opened automatically, revealing an empty office. His eyebrow twitched.

A rustling of feathers caught his attention, and Dumbledore's phoenix flew over to settle on his shoulder. It trilled at him curiously, then reproachfully.

Tom rolled his eyes. "It's not like I had a choice in the matter," he told the bird.

Fawkes (and what a terrible name for a familiar that was) nipped his ear, then flew back to his perch. It looked pointedly at the chair in front of Dumbledore's desk, and Tom sat in it with a sigh. "When are you expecting him back?" he asked the bird. It sang a few bright notes, conjuring a feeling of soon.

Belief that the phoenix was a bird of light and goodness was entirely unfounded. The phoenix was a bird of fire, nothing more. Like fire, they were neither good, nor evil, though they did possess a human-like intelligence. Tom withdrew Potter's wand from his sleeve and felt the familiar warmth it gave him. Like his own wand, Potter's contained a feather from a phoenix - this phoenix. He wondered if this wand had been drawn to Potter because of his presence within him, or if it was some contrivance of prophecy and fate. Regardless, the fact that Lord Voldemort's wand contained a phoenix feather should have silenced all supposition about the bird's inherent goodness, but somehow the belief persisted.

Krek. Fawkes alerted him to a hidden door opening, admitting the Headmaster. Tom returned his wand to its place within his sleeve and straightened.

"Ah, sorry my boy. I got to looking for an item and lost track of the time," Dumbledore said jovially. "I'm afraid that sort of thing happens more and more as one gets older."

If you know that, then set an alarm, Tom thought, but he smiled and nodded as though he was a good little Gryffindor. "What did you want to see me about, sir?" he asked.

Dumbledore settled himself at his desk and offered him a lemon drop (which Tom naturally refused - who knew what was in those) before answering his question. "I just wanted to see how you're faring given the current situation. I've heard that your friendship with young Mister Weasley seems to have withered."

Tom shrugged and looked down. "Like you heard this summer, Ron's not interested in studying. I haven't really tried to exclude him or anything, but if he doesn't want to join Hermione and me, I'm not going to try to force him either."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Your reasoning is fair enough, but I urge you not to forget to set aside some time to relax. The coming days will be stressful enough without working yourself into exhaustion, my boy."

I am not, and never have been, your boy, Tom wanted to say, but again, he pasted on a fake smile and nodded. "Of course, sir."

For several seconds, Dumbledore just sat there, staring at him with a sad sort of smile on his face. Tom started to get nervous, wondering what the man was thinking. Then Dumbledore shook himself and clapped his hands together. "Well, that was all I wished to speak with you about. Unless there was anything you wished to tell me?"

Tom shook his head. "Not that I can think of, sir."

"Well, then best be on your way. If I remember my own OWL year correctly, I'm sure you already have more homework than you know what to do with."

Tom agreed and said his farewells, casting a suspicious glance over his shoulder on his way out. Was this sort of meeting normal for Potter? No, he needed to stop being so paranoid. The old man was right about one thing: becoming too stressed would do him no favors. Thinking about that, he resolved to move Ginny to his dorm permanently. Something akin to a Notice-Me-Not on her bed or something should stop her roommates from wondering where she was, and he could lend her Potter's Invisibility Cloak.

Despite his intentions, that plan failed to manifest that week. In fact, only two notable occurrences took place in the remainder of his first week back at school.

The first, and less stressful, occurrence was meeting Luna Lovegood for a second time. Using Hermione's meticulously mapped out schedule for the fourth-year Ravenclaws, he managed to grab the blonde waif after class and lead her away from the other fourth-years. He'd expected some manner of protest at an older boy in a different House absconding with one of their own, but instead it was so easy that he got the feeling the other girls wouldn't have tried to stop him even if he'd been in his original body.

… Although he supposed in that instance, it would be a matter of self-preservation.

In any event, Lovegood stood quietly and waited as he accessed his private configuration of the Room of Requirement, then entered when he opened the door for her. She had no shoes on, which was so terribly odd in the stone castle that he ended up asking the room for a thick, plush rug covering it.

"Thank you for coming, Miss Lovegood," Tom said, sitting in a chair rather than taking the couch facing the fire as he normally would.

"...Harry Potter," Lovegood replied, lowering herself onto the couch cautiously.

Tom examined her. Her hair was more tangled than before, and her clothes were in disarray. Added to her lack of shoes, it made for a concerning picture. "I've heard rumors about your mother's bloodline," he said.

Lovegood didn't look at him, instead choosing to examine the ceiling of all things. "Rumors fly on the wings of blibbering humdingers," she sang.

"The rumors differ, of course. Some say you're descended from the fey, others that you're a line of Seers. What they have in common is the theme of 'seeing what others cannot.'" Tom crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward. "So, Miss Lovegood, is that true?"

The blonde finally turned her gaze to him and studied him for an uncomfortably long time before giving the barest of nods. "I suppose it must be," she sighed.

Tom smiled. "Then tell me, what do you see when you look at me?"

The girl trembled but answered all the same. "When Harry Potter left school last year, he was two. Now he is one, and the one is less thin than before, but still does not fit the form." She tilted her head, dreamy gaze sharpening. "I don't believe you are Harry Potter. If I had to posit a theory, based on his history, I would guess that you are actually You-Know-Who."

Tom leaned back, surprised. For her to have guessed that much and still followed him was… suicidal. "I'd prefer if you think of me as Tom Riddle, a separate entity, but you are essentially correct. Why did you come here then? You're clearly frightened."

"The result would be the same, with or without my consent," Lovegood pointed out rationally. She was a Ravenclaw, after all. Now it was her turn to question him. "Why did you call me here?"

"I want you," Tom said simply. "Your ability is unique, and thus too precious to ignore. I don't doubt that Voldemort would simply kill you, so it's not as though I'm concerned about it falling into enemy hands, but I would much rather have it for myself if possible."

Lovegood looked amused. "I do believe you've ceased considering me human," she commented. "Is that more or less awful than one who wishes me ill despite recognizing my humanity, I wonder."

"Less, of course," Tom replied immediately. "You are, after all, speaking to a mass murderer. I hardly think my considering you human would be a point in your favor."

Peals of laughter followed that, which Tom waited out with a bemused smile. Finally, Lovegood quieted, wiping tears from her eyes. "Why would I want to help you?" she asked when she was calm enough to speak clearly.

Tom made a point of looking down at her bare feet, then back into her eyes. "I will grant you whatever retribution you desire."

A shadow crossed over the girl's face. Her feet shifted toward each other as though they could hide themselves, and her hands twisted together. "...And what would you want me to do for you?" she asked at last.

"I'm not sure yet," Tom admitted. "I don't understand your ability well enough yet to make plans for it. For now, I would like it if you would join Hermione, Ginny, and me sometimes."

Lovegood nodded seriously. "Then I accept, provisionally." Her expression cleared, and she stood. "If that's all, Tom Riddle, I think I will be going now."

"Please remember to call me Harry Potter where others can hear," he instructed.

She turned back to him with a beaming smile. "Then call me Luna, please, if we're to be provisional friends."

Tom remained there, watching the fire. Provisional friends. If she was willing to consider him such, she was in a worse state than he'd initially believed. Later, when he'd returned to the Gryffindor Common Room, he found Ginny and instructed her to find out who'd been harming Luna.

The other occurrence of note was the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts and the practice the day after. Tryouts were tolerable, as he mostly just sat around pretending to care which person saved the most goals (or whatever you called it for this sport). Practice, however, was another story.

"Potter! Are you even trying?"

Tom wasn't a Seeker, and whatever instinct let Potter catch the Snitch despite his horrendous vision hadn't carried over. Even when he spotted the tiny ball, he also lacked Potter's ability to fly with no consideration whatsoever for his own well-being. All the same, he was doing his best while frantically trying to come up with an excuse for his sudden inability to find and catch the Golden Snitch.

His best wasn't enough. Partway through practice, Angelina Johnson called him aside. "What is going on with you Potter?" she demanded.

Tom grimaced. "... I was sick over the summer, and when I got better, my eyesight was worse. I've been able to manage in classes, but…" It was the best excuse he could think of. Magic could fix eyesight, of course, but it was a fiddly and expensive procedure, and it was dangerous to perform on a minor.

Johnson groaned. "You're just now telling me this?"

Tom ducked his head and tried to look contrite. "I thought maybe it would work out somehow… I brought Ginny though," he said. He had. When he looked over, Ginny waved to him from the stands. "She's really good, and she can use my Firebolt."

Johnson pursed her lips. "I'd rather if we could have held tryouts… Send her in. If she's not good enough, you're going to be lending your broom to whoever we do end up using."

Tom hid a smile and nodded. "I'm sorry," he added after a moment's thought.

The tall Chaser shook her head. "It's… well, not fine, but it's not your fault. Just... this year of all years…"

Tom ignored the Gryffindor captain's mutterings and flew over to Ginny, dismounted, and handed her the broom. "Take good care of it, and win every match so I don't ever have to go near this pitch again," he ordered.

"Done," she yelled with a grin, already flying away.

Tom sat down in the stands in her place and watched her play for a few minutes before nodding to himself and heading inside.

As he entered the castle, Umbridge appeared. "What's the matter, Mister Potter? I thought you had practice now." Her voice was concerned, but her eyes were dead and cold.

Remembering that he was ostensibly upset about being kicked from the team, Tom gave her a weak smile. "I did, Professor, but my eyesight's worse now, so I can't play Seeker anymore."

Anger flashed across the woman's face, making Tom wonder why she would possibly care about Harry Potter's Quidditch career, before her expression smoothed out into one of deep pity. It was, in his opinion, so overdone as to come off as mocking, but it was hard to tell if that was intentional or not. "I see. I'm so sorry that you've had to quit something that gave you such joy." She paused, then gave a light, tittering laugh at odds with her expression. "But perhaps it's for the best. After all, blood does tell, doesn't it? Better to realize that now. Why, imagine if you'd gone and tried to become a professional Seeker! It would be far more painful to discover your inadequacy then, wouldn't it?"

Tom stared at her. He supposed she either meant to make him angry or was genuinely attempting to console him and simply had no interpersonal skills. Regardless, since he didn't care one whit about playing Quidditch, he just felt awkward watching her put on this absurd act. Her comments about blood, though, were mildly irritating. "I'm not sure what you mean, Professor," he said innocently. "Do you mean genetically? Like how my pureblood father had terrible eyesight and I do too?"

The woman's eyebrow twitched, but her voice remained syrupy as ever. "I meant your mother, actually. After all, from what I've heard, your father's vision didn't interfere with his ability to play Quidditch."

Tom cocked his head to the side, feigning puzzlement. "But Professor, my mother didn't even need glasses in the first place. I've never heard anything about her playing Quidditch either, so I'm not sure what she has to do with anything, really." Of course he did. He just wanted to see if Umbridge was willing to say it.

Umbridge smiled sweetly. "Well you see, Mister Potter, your pureblood father, despite needing glasses, was able to play Quidditch for the entirety of his time at Hogwarts, while you, a halfblood, are forced to quit. It seems quite clear to me that your mother's blood must have contaminated the Potter line such that a lesser wizard was produced."

Tom blinked, surprised she was willing to be so open about her beliefs. He wondered how Umbridge would have justified her blood-purist notions in regards to his true lineage. A magically weak, inbred near-squib of a mother and a muggle produced a charismatic, handsome, magically gifted genius. Using her logic, the muggle's blood was the cause. (Genetically, as he understood it, that was likely correct in that instance, but the point was she would never accept that and would instead adjust her logic to fit her beliefs.)

He'd taken too long to reply, it seemed, because Umbridge was leaving now, a smug smirk on her lips. She paused though, at the end of the corridor. "Oh, and Mister Potter? That will be two nights' detention for questioning me. It seems the lesson didn't sink in well enough last time. I'll see you Monday after dinner." She giggled and disappeared around the corner.

AN: Getting Tom out of Quidditch for the win 3 And yay for the irony of Umbridge spouting pureblood nonsense at kindof!Voldemort. I'm so tired. Toddlers are not good for sleep.