Tom and Charlotte were making the long trek up to the North Tower, where Divination was held, unaccompanied by Valeria, who had opted for as few classes as possible and took only two electives. She was now fully recovered from her bludger "accident". There had been an inquiry as to who may have handled the ball before it was brought to the quidditch pitch that day—but the person responsible would not be caught, Tom was confident.

On the way, they encountered Oliver Winship, who claimed he was just on his way to his next class as well, but Tom thought he had seen the Gryffindor boy far too often recently. Charlotte greeted him cheerfully, like she had no regard for Tom's feelings. His feelings? What feelings were these?—he questioned himself sharply. With reason, he could assure himself that Oliver could do no harm to him and his objective. Charlotte's apparent disregard for his feelings was irrelevant, given that his affection for her was counterfeit, non-existent; however, he felt that Oliver's presence was an affront to him. This was irrational, but it was just as he had said to Charlotte when she'd noticed he was jealous—he wanted her all to himself.

He had heard the word "possessive" used to describe this. It fit. Some people said it like it was a bad thing, but, as with many other supposedly bad things, he thought their judgment was flawed. Why shouldn't he be possessive? Charlotte had no reason, none that she could be aware of, to look for anyone else. His desire to monopolize her attention, at least romantically speaking, was as it should be, he concluded. He wanted, however, to hear her say it—to say she belonged to him, was his and only his.

When he first chose to involve himself with Charlotte, he would not have imagined such thoughts belonging to him. In fact, at the present time he was still somewhat disbelieving that these emotions existed in him. However, the urge to seclude Charlotte from other potentially interested romantic candidates was instinctual; he felt he could say with certainty that it did not stem from love.

Their interaction with Oliver was brief—and briefer because Tom had, without revealing too much hostility, reminded Charlotte that a number of flights of stairs remained between them and Divination, which they did not want to be late for.

...

Walking to Care of Magical creatures, Tom was pleased to be alone. No Charlotte. No chattering. No strange sensations of jealousy and… whatever else she conjured up in him. Then, from the stairs behind him he heard a girl's voice, mid-sentence, saying, "…strike you as being out of sorts today?"

Another girl replied. "Yes, she did. All through the lesson. I think I know why though." There was a pause. "My brother told me that, in his first year, on this day six years ago, her husband died…"

"Oh," said the first with sadness. "That explains it then. She was so gloomy by contrast, with her students all practicing Cheering Charms…" They had gone around the corner into another hallway and he could no longer hear them, but he had caught enough to deduce that they were speaking about Professor Runewood. Cheering Charms were from the third-year curriculum and Runewood taught third-year charms. This could explain her magical sounding surname clashing with the dirty blood he suspected her of. If only he could confirm that she was muggle-born… They hadn't had Charms yet that day,—it was their very next class—but he couldn't bring it up himself; he wanted to avoid everything that could make him look like the Heir of Slytherin. That was why he needed Charlotte. (In the past, recalling this had brought a scowl to his face that demanded suppression; now, he had come to think of this fact with indifference, feeling neither the aversion to her, nor the love that he knew would not form in him.)

Arriving at Care of Magical Creatures, he was struck by an idea, a potential solution to his dilemma. He did not usually speak much with Valeria in this class, or at any time when they were not both with Charlotte, so he would have to come up with a pretense for engaging her in conversation before bringing it up, but if he could, in passing, mention to her what he had learned about their Professor, he could put the thought into her head—non-magically in this case—to say something once they got to Charms.

"Valeria," he said, approaching her after class. She turned, her face showing surprise at his addressing her. "It's good to see you're doing better."

"Thanks," she answered. "Although I can't say I'm entirely better. It's unnerving, knowing someone probably tried to harm me intentionally; I don't feel safe anymore."

A perfect opportunity. "Well, would you like me to walk with you back up to the castle?" He gave her a smile. She laughed—the giggle that he found rather irritating.

"That's thoughtful of you, and I accept." How ironic that he was the one she ought to be afraid of.

With there now being a need to make conversation, he was able to implement his plan. "It seems Professor Runewood is likely to be dispirited today in class," he commented nonchalantly.

"Why's that?"

"I heard that she's mourning her husband. Today is the anniversary of his death." He didn't give her time to say anything, such as inquire where he had gotten this information, before he said, as though the thought had just occurred to him, "Maybe you could cheer her up."

"Me?" Although she said this as a question, her face and the tone she took on were not indicative of incredulity about whether she could accomplish this, or surprise at him thinking her capable. As usual, flattery allowed for all kinds of advantages.

"You are extraordinarily friendly, Valeria." She smiled at him. "I think you could ask her about it and she wouldn't mind." Now he paused, as though thinking. "You could ask her what his name was… how they met... People like to reminisce," he said. With any luck, Valeria would get the answers he needed out of the professor, and with no risk to himself.

...

At the end of Charms, Valeria hung back. Charlotte was starting to leave, but Tom caught her by the arm and said, "Don't you want to wait for your friend?" She agreed and they went to stand near the door so Valeria could catch up with them—Charlotte, thinking she would only be gathering her things; Tom, knowing better.

"Professor, I couldn't help noticing—you aren't yourself today," said Valeria. Tom's pulse quickened in excitement for his stratagem to go into action; hardly anything gave him more pleasure than seeing his manipulation at work.

Runewood gave a sad smile. "No. No, my dear, today is an unfortunate day for me."

"May I ask what happened?"

Professor Runewood had been walking around the room, collecting papers, and now sat down at one of the student desks near Valeria. "Grindelwald. Isn't it always?" She gave a joyless laugh. "Six years ago today, he killed my husband."

"I'm so sorry…"

"We knew it might happen. To call it inevitable would only be slight hyperbole." She was staring straight ahead of her, lost in memories, but still speaking. "They went to school together, at Durmstrang, before Grindelwald was expelled, of course; they knew each other. He was never a supporter of Grindelwald, always was against him. He could have very easily taken the wrong side; he was pureblood. But he, by some miracle, was raised differently. And it hardly showed more than when he married me, a witch with muggle parents. It's shocking really, considering his parents sent him to that school, known for the Dark Arts and favored by so many pureblood families—those with less… accepting views. The Gaunts, the Marchands…" She named these two families with no small degree of bitterness, trailing off into silent thought. Tom felt another rush of exhilaration at the mention of his ancestor's surname, of which he was proud. Runewood's disdain for them only added to his loathing and low regard of her.

"What was his name?" asked Valeria quietly, taking one of Tom's recommendations, which at this point had become unnecessary inquiries, as he had all the information he required.

"Robert," she answered abstractedly. "Robert Runewood..."

"He sounds like he was a very kind and brave man," Valeria said gently. Professor Runewood smiled at her and she took her leave of the teacher with the final words, "I'll leave you to your thoughts."

The Heir of Slytherin had found his next target.

Charlotte couldn't get Valeria's conversation with Professor Runewood out of her head.

The three of them had left the classroom and walked on to the their next lesson without saying anything, other than expressing sadness at the story they had just heard, but Charlotte had wanted to say a lot of things.

She felt somewhat hurt at how Professor Runewood had made a connection between villainy and being pureblood—the way she had described her husband, as if simply the fact that he was pureblood made him more likely to join Grindelwald. But it wouldn't have been right to criticize her then, after learning of her loss. She had had no idea her Charms teacher had been through that.

Tom hadn't noticed the way she had reacted to the story; he had been listening very intently. She wondered what had captured his interest about it. But whatever it was, she was thankful for it; although Tom already would know the reason, she still was glad he hadn't paid attention to her pale with fright, upset face.

"'Grindelwald. Isn't it always?'"—how true this was.

There was a grassy slope leading down to the lake, on which, particularly when lying down, one was mostly hidden from the view of the surrounding area. Charlotte was relaxing there, her eyes closed, serenely listening to nearby birds, with Tom next to her, lying on his side with one arm resting over her stomach. The repose was about to be cut short.

With his other hand, he wove his fingers into her hair, and simultaneously she felt his touch travel from her waist to her shoulder, and a pressure applied there. The radiation of body heat told her he had his face very near to hers when he spoke, extremely softly. "You'll never want to be with anyone else, will you, Charlotte?" There was something subtly commanding in the way he said it that communicated what her answer must be.

"What?" she asked, letting her eyelids flutter open, pretending she had just been roused from a light sleep and not heard him, when really she had understood perfectly. Never was a serious word; she couldn't really promise that, could she?

He repeated his question in the same way, informing her, "I said…", and the weight on her shoulder became less than gentle. But maybe that was only the result of him repositioning himself, centering his face over hers. After only a few seconds, he whispered in a teasing sort of way, "You're taking too long to answer." Brushing his lips across her cheek towards her ear as he spoke, he said this with more romance, balancing the contrast of his previous commanding tone.

"No," she replied. "Or would it be yes?"

A very small smile twitched across his face. "Say exactly what you mean," he said.

Placing her hand on his face, she said, "I never want to be with anyone other than you," and kissed him." His hand exerted less force on her shoulder. "And you? Will you always want to be with me?" He smiled and then kissed her again, with a great passion.

"How's that for an answer?" he whispered.

"I'm almost convinced," she replied playfully. "But you should make sure there's no doubt about it." He laughed quietly before putting his lips to hers once more.

...

Alone in her dormitory later that same day, Charlotte lay on her four-poster bed, tracing the embroidered patterns on her bedspread as she thought about Tom Riddle—conflicted thoughts; not blissful, dreamy, romantic ones. Yet again he had forced her—no, that was too strong a word—caused her, rather, to exaggerate her emotion towards him. She thought about Valeria's question, when she had told her about their exchange of I love yous: "Does he make you feel pressured?" …Was the answer still "no"? Just that afternoon she had sensed something in the way he spoke to her. A demand for her to say what he wanted to hear. And she had said it. Why? Why was he able to have this effect on her, and why did she let him? She had no answer for herself. However, she had answered her previous question; he did make her feel pressured—at least in that moment, he had. Stopping the absent-minded movement of her finger across the bedspread, her hand clenched the fabric into a tense fist. With a violent movement, she pulled the covering over her, turning onto her side facing the other way. Nestling beneath her blanket provided no comfort.

"Charlotte, you're mine." Tom had never said this to her, but she could hear the words in her head, in his voice. She wanted to stop thinking about him, but her subconscious was waging war, firing both memories and imaginings to wound her. It was working—driving her mad, at any rate. Throwing the bedspread off of her, Charlotte sat up, summoned her shoes, and tried to think of someplace she could go to take her mind off— She stopped herself from even thinking his name.

She prayed he wasn't in the common room, and luckily he wasn't—at least not that she saw; she kept her eyes fixed on the door and walked briskly towards it. Still without any particular destination in mind, she took off down the dimly lit dungeon passageway. Then a familiar voice called out to her from behind.

She turned around. "Oliver? What are you doing down here?" she asked, surprised.

He caught up to her. "Professor Slughorn wanted to see me. Apparently he knows he someone he thinks would be a good contact for me if—when," he corrected himself confidently, "I become an auror. Which I guess isn't that surprising for him." He laughed. Charlotte, weakly, laughed too. "What's wrong? You seem upset," Oliver said, noticing the look on her face, which had reverted to an expression of the distress she was feeling.

"I probably shouldn't talk to you about it," she replied. Her hesitancy came from the fact that she didn't know Oliver that well and she felt he wouldn't want to hear about her issues in her relationship, but she was suddenly overcome by the thought that she was complying with Tom's desire to prevent her from speaking with Oliver, and the words burst forth from her anyway. "It's Tom," she said forcefully. So much for getting him off her mind.

Oliver's eyebrows went up. "Things not going so well with the two of you?" he asked. She tried to discern if there was any basis for Tom's jealousy, but Oliver seemed disinterested in that regard. "I got the impression you were pretty happy together. He seems to love you a lot, from what I hear."

"Perhaps a bit too much," she said hotly. He gave her a puzzled look.

"You mean that about him loving you? She nodded curtly and began to pace in front of him. "How can someone love too much?" She stopped.

"That's a nice thought," she answered, with an entirely different mood. She sighed, turning to face Oliver. "He suffers from jealousy. In fact I have no doubt that he would be pretty angry if he were to find me with you right now."

"Well that's no good. He shouldn't tell you who you can and can't spend time with."

"Exactly!" Charlotte exclaimed irately. "And today he— Never mind." Catching herself, she stopped; that was definitely not an event she wanted to relate to him. She wasn't even sure she could tell Valeria.

As if knowing her concerns, Oliver said, "I may not be the right person, but I think talking to someone will help you figure things out. Like what's-her-name—Valeria?"

"Maybe," came her unconvinced reply. "Thank you for listening," she said, managing to smile at him. "I'm going to go now before you-know-who shows up and I have to deal with it." She marched away, leaving behind a frowning Oliver.