I get back late to the common room one night later that week. I'm so tired that I simply collapse on a sofa and fall instantly asleep. I'm not sure what I dream about, but I wake up screaming. I lie there for a second, panting slightly, trying to organise my thoughts. As my eyes focus, I see Tom is sitting on the couch opposite me with a strange expression on his face.
"Who is Harry?" he asks slowly.
"What?" I say, confused, my voice hoarse.
"Harry. That's what you were screaming."
I search my mind, but I can't remember anything. "I don't know," I say quietly.
He narrows his eyes. "Right."
I sigh and rub my hands over my face. "What time is it?"
He shrugs. "It's not light yet."
I sit up, then stand, wincing slightly. "If it's not yet light," I say decisively, "Then it's far too early to be awake. I'm going to go to bed."
"Isn't it a bit late for that now?" he asks, a little cynically.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes again, lest he think I have some sort of twitch. "Being this incredibly gorgeous doesn't just happen naturally, darling. I need my beauty sleep." I suppose I may be being a bit irritable, but I'm tired.
A thought suddenly strikes me. Tom is sitting here, fully dressed, looking completely unruffled. Does he never sleep?
"Why are you up, anyway?" I ask. The curiosity is genuine.
He shrugs. "I heard screaming. It sounded like somebody was being murdered."
I'm tempted to say And you'd know about that, wouldn't you, but I'm not even sure whether he's actually killed anyone yet. Instead, I study him for a moment before turning and heading into the girl's dorm.
Tom continues to sit next to me in Charms, and keeps glancing at my notes, even though he has far more detailed ones of his own. I think he's probably jealous of my handwriting.
"Have you remembered that it's duelling tonight?" he asks suddenly.
"No, Tom," I reply. "I'd completely forgotten. I really think you should've tried to remind me at least several more times a day. You'd have thought you almost wanted me to forget, only telling me every time we meet."
He flushes slightly but continues on. "I told Professor Merrythought that you and Malfoy have volunteered to do an example duel."
"Have you now. I can't honestly say that I'm surprised."
He shrugs indifferently. "We need to set a good example to the younger students."
I smile knowingly at him."Of course. And, naturally, we wouldn't want to put you in danger by setting you against me. Much easier to watch one of your lackeys get flayed alive."
"You underestimate me," he says darkly, a slightly menacing smile on his lips.
"Not at all," I say calmly. "In fact, I think I'm probably overestimating you by presuming that you'd have a chance."
"We'll see," he replies.
You most certainly won't, I think. There's no way I'd go full out on Malfoy, or even him.
Evening arrives, and I leave the dormitory to find Tom and Abraxas waiting in the common room for me, their cloaks slung over their shoulders. The greenish light seeping through the windows gives their pale faces an unearthly glow. Tom smirks, Abraxas offers a slightly softer smile.
"The rest of your minions not coming?" I ask Tom casually.
Abraxas looks a little affronted but Tom carries on smirking. "They're busy," he says.
"Of course they are," I mutter.
He offers his arm to me. "Shall we?"
"Thank you ever so much."
We step through the door and into the dark stone hallway beyond, our steps eerily magnified in the empty space.
"Honestly," I begin, my voice echoing slightly, "I'm feeling quite sorry for poor Abraxas. Especially since you volunteered him for this."
"What gave you that idea?" Tom counters, sounding vaguely amused.
"Intuition."
I know that Abraxas, trailing behind, can hear every word. I twist my head round to face him. "I have to say, Abraxas, that I am truly grieved that I will be forced to harm you. It's nothing personal."
"Killing is always personal," Tom drawls.
"Of course it is," I reply, slightly exasperated, "But I wouldn't dream of killing dear Abraxas. It might get blood on that lovely duelling stage they have. And besides, the Ministry is always taking that sort of thing so seriously these days."
Tom grins wickedly, which is not at all comforting. I don't look at Abraxas' face, but I can sense his incredulity and a tiny touch of fear. I doubt that this is the first little task Tom has forced him into doing and, with Tom's reputation, it won't be the last.
On our way towards the Great Hall, we pass a girl's bathroom down a torchlit hallway. Tom's eyes stray, ever so slightly towards it, as do my own. To anyone else, this might seem inconsequential, but to me, it's all the proof I need. I really ought to pay a long overdue visit to poor Aristomache: she must be getting so lonely down in that Chamber. Plus, I need to keep her out of Tom's hands. Goodness knows what havoc he would unleash if he got hold of her- havoc that would disrupt this world that I've become rather attatched to over the centuries.
Before I know it, we're entering the Great Hall. The tables have disappeared and the floor is crawling with students from first to fifth year. A few pinpricks of stars shimmer lazily in the voluminous black ceiling that seems to suck the light from the room despite the fat, flickering candles suspended underneath, so that their amber glow barely reaches the long duelling stage before it is snatched away.
We are ambushed immediately by Professor Merrythought: a thin, aging woman with prominent cheekbones. She smiles widley, displaying a good number of teeth, before seizing me and Abraxas.
"I can't tell you how grateful I am to you!" she exclaims with great energy. "It will be brilliant for our younger students to see a nice, advanced duel!"
"Fabulous," I mutter under my breath.
Tom winks at me, disentangles his arm and saunters away. It's so, so very tempting to use just a bit of wandless magic to make him trip, but I restrain myself. Instead, I content myself with imagining his face when I finally reveal my true identity. The look of shock is priceless.
Merrythought ushers us both on to the stage and stations us facing each other in the middle. Then she claps her hands loudly, the sound magnifying around the colossal chamber. Gradually, the rumble of talk desists and a blanket of silence descends on the students assembled.
"Now," Merrythought begins, her voice stark in contrast to the previous quiet. "We're very lucky this year to begin our duelling club with a short demonstration from some of our sixth year students who are taking Defence Against the Dark Arts for their NEWTs. Pay close attention and see if you can recognise any of the spells or techniques we practiced last year. And remember: train hard, and this could be you one day!"
She nods to me and Abraxas. He offers me a shaky smile, and I give him a rare genuine one in return. "Good luck," I say quietly. "You too," he whispers. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tom leaning casually against the wall, his trademark smirk still in place, watching us with silent intensity.
We bow to each other, turn sharply and take ten paces towards each end of the stage. Then we swivel to face each other again.
A moment of absolute stillness.
Nobody sees the first spell I cast. A quick look into Abraxas' mind and I suddenly know that he's unsure of what to cast first, unsure of how advanced to begin at. I take advantage of his momentary indecision and use Expelliarmus, a nice, simple spell to start with, just to get the duel going. Abraxas deflects it easily, quickly responding with a shout of Incarcerous, which I deal with just as easily.
To probably everyone's surprise but my own, it's Abraxas who decides to go big first, with an impressive hex that he casts without speaking.
It's oh, so very easy to deflect in equal silence.
I conjure a giant, writhing black snake just to make things a little more interesting. It takes Abraxas a little longer to overcome this: after a tiny pause he transfigures it into a huge water serpent, which he then directs at me. I summon a fierce wall of flame and the snake evaporates. This provides me with the perfect opportunity, as Abraxas is concentrating on my defense and doesn't expect me to use the shield of fire as a weapon. I send it racing towards him. He barely has time to produce a small shield of water, just enough to protect him. I dissipate the fire, and he vanishes the shield. But now he's drained and has his guard down. Casting Expelliarmus again and catching his wand is the work of a moment.
The hall is silent, then erupts in applause. Professor Merrythought is smiling like a madwoman and clapping, but my eyes go to Tom, who hasn't moved. He's frowning, as if deep in concentration. I can practically read the words in his eyes: All too easy. I quite agree with him, although I have to say, I did enjoy myself.
Abraxas, having been blasted backwards by the force of my spell, picks himself up off the ground and walks towards me shakily. I hold out his wand and he takes it, smiling slightly in gratitude. "How is it," he asks, "That you only just got an E in your OWLs? That performance deserved an O at least."
I shrug. "I suppose I just don't perform very well in exam conditions."
We head off the stage together, careful to avoid Merrythought (who looks as if she's about to explode with delight) and I make directly for Tom while Abraxas hangs back warily. He pushes off from the wall and strolls towards us, hands in his pockets.
"Congratulations," he says smoothly to me.
"A little more sincerity wouldn't go amiss, but thank you," I reply.
He laughs, a harsh, cold sound that doesn't suit him. He really should work on that- nobody will ever trust him with a laugh like that. I just wait.
"Apologies," he sneers finally, sounding anything but apologetic. "Now, shall we proceed with our mentoring duties?"
"I highly doubt that you have plans to spend the entire evening mentoring," I say mildly, "But, by all means, let us aid the small children in their quest to be almost as fabulous as us."
"Lead the way," he replies, smirking.
We spend half an hour going round the students, Tom generally being haughty and unhelpful and me actually trying to improve their abilities to some degree before Tom goes to Merrythought, expressing his deepest apologies but unfortunately we have excessive revision that simply must be attended to. Of course, Merrythought is all gratitude and ushers us on our way with lots of emphasis on the importance of our studies and once again thanking us. Once we're out in the corridor, I ask whether Abraxas is leaving too. My voice sounds strangely quiet in comparison to the clamour of the hall.
"No," Tom says in answer to my question. "He wanted to stay and help."
I seriously doubt that wanted came into it at all, but I don't comment. Instead, I let Tom lead us through the labyrinth of hallways, climbing several flights of stairs rather than taking the route to the dungeons. Contrary to his thoughts, which are all too evident, I know exactly where we're heading. Finally, we arrive on the seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.
"Why are we here?" I ask when the silence stretches out.
"I want to show you something," he says softly, gazing intently at the bare stretch of corridor. Then he begins to pace back and forth, brow furrowed in concentration. When he eventually comes to a halt, a large, solid wooden door appears, seeming to mould itself out of the wall. He grins savagely and places a hand on the surface, reaching the other out towards me. I take it. His skin is cold, as cold as my own, and his grip tightens on me as he pushes the door smoothly and pulls me into the Room beyond. The door slams shut. I glance around, wondering what form the Room takes at his command and see a grand, high ceilinged space that resembles a private library, with lavish armchairs positioned by a fur rug in front of a smouldering fire. Everything has an air of grace and wealth, yet the dim lighting gives it an unnerving sense of mystery. And above the grand mantelpiece, positioned in the place of honour, is a portrait. A portrait of me.
Not of how I look now, of course, but a portrait of how I used to look, with dark, depthless eyes, sharp cheekbones and a thin, sneering mouth. My locket hangs from the portrait's neck, the serpentine S glittering slightly. I hadn't realised...
I hadn't realised how much Tom looked like me.
Not in physical features, of course. In appearance he is all his father. But the intensity of the gaze, the expression... It's the same.
He had to know. Tom had to know he was my descendant. No one looking at him and the portrait could say otherwise.
The portrait's eyes stray to my face and it smirks, just slightly. Enough to make me wonder if it knows.
Tom sees what has ensnared my attention and gazes up at it too. The reverence in his face as he beholds the portrait makes me uncomfortable. "The great Salazar Slytherin," he explains.
"I can see that." I realise too late that it came out a little sharp and amend it with "What is this place?"
"The Room of Requirement." He answers. "Essentially, its a magical room that takes whatever form I please. I'm probably the only one who knows about it."
"It's incredible," I say, in the interest of being nice, although I'm itching to say something sarcastic.
"Please," he says, gesturing to one of the armchairs. I gracefully lower myself into one of them, and Tom follows my lead. "So," he begins again, "did you enjoy yourself this evening?"
"Immensely," I reply, beginning to see where this conversation is going.
"You're very talented," he says, when it becomes clear that he's not going to get anything else out of me.
"Thank you."
"We- me and my friends, that is- could do with someone with your skills."
At least he's finally got to the point. "Don't lets pretend, Thomas," I say bluntly. "They are not your friends. They never have been. You see them as simply pawns to be moved as you see fit."
He's momentarily taken aback. Then he huffs an awkward half- laugh and turns his face away from me, smiling slightly self-consciously. "You're mistaken," he says after a moment.
"Am I?"
"Yes," he says, a bit forcefully, that strange half-smile still lingering on his face even as his brow furrows. I remain silent. After a moment, he gets up and begins to pace, then stops, staring at the wall covered in bookshelves. "Slughorn's holding a party tomorrow night," he states, still gazing intently at the books.
"I am aware of that." I reply.
He turns slightly to pierce me with his intense eyes. "Did you want to come with me?"
This is perfect. He's beginning to realise that I'm not another starstruck follower, dazzled by his looks and willing to do anything he asks. He's taking the time to win me over, which provides me with the optimal opportunity to befriend him, then use him to get what I came for.
"Okay," I say quietly. He nods, satisfied, and I take that as my cue to leave. I pause at the door momentarily, and see him standing, alone, the firelight dancing over his features. He looks so alone, so isolated, that suddenly I feel a surge of pity. He is my family, after all. "Goodnight, Tom."
He glances up and gives a quick, tight-lipped smile. "Goodnight, Evangeline."
I close the door behind me, dissatisfied with my sudden affection and care for him. He is a tool, I remind myself. It doesn't matter that you're related, he's just another person for you to use.
Somehow, the thought isn't as comforting as it usually is.