Author's Note: I'm sorry it's been so long since the last update! I have no excuse. But here's a longer chapter than usual. I hope you enjoy it!

The following evening, Tom saw Charlotte looking over some books in the common room and approached her. "Do you still need help studying for Ancient Runes, or did Oliver Winship answer all your questions?"

"Oliver Winship just happened to offer—and you didn't."

"And you didn't ask."

"Does it really bother you that much?"

He didn't answer right away. "No," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to show that I—" he stopped. "What I mean to say is, it's fine. If it seems like I'm bothered, as it did just now, I'm probably making a joke and it came out wrong." He was making an effort to stop the feeling of jealousy, not for Charlotte's sake or the sake of their relationship,—obviously he didn't care about that—but because of its connection to love; he wanted to stamp out anything to do with love. It was a fire; and it was best to extinguish it before it consumed him further and left everything he had worked for in ashen ruins.

At breakfast, Charlotte sat with Valeria in the vicinity of Tom and his friends, but not exactly with their group. This was typical for them, and not the result of the potentially growing divide between the two—which was a distance Charlotte wanted to close. She wanted to move on from doubt, and in order for this to be the end of it, she felt she needed to say something to Tom about the change in her attitude that he may have noticed lately. On their way to class, she was determined to bring it up.

That something like the introduction of Oliver had strained their relationship surely wasn't a good sign. Then again, overcoming difficulties made people—and people together: relationships—stronger. Whether they came out of this broken or better depended on them, and the willpower they had to make things work. Charlotte felt all this to be true—and yet when she found the chance to speak, she lost the will to say the words she had intended.

"Tom, something has been on my mind lately," she began. He didn't ask what it was or give any indication that he wanted to know, other than a tiny nod for her to continue, after she looked at him for some reaction. "In the past week, has something been different? With us?"

"No, I don't think so. Is there something you've noticed?"

"You don't think that you've done anything unusual? Or that I've been different?"

"I've been trying not to care so much about you spending time with Oliver. Dealing with my jealousy. As for you… you may have been a little more distant, but I think it's alright," he said.

"Oh." Her plan to clear the air had been derailed, and now she worried that talking about the sense of possessiveness she sometimes felt from him might instead cause further conflict.

They continued walking in silence for nearly a minute before Tom said, "I think there was more you wanted to say. Is that right?"

There had been, but there wasn't anymore—not that she could say that. So she made something up. It was partially true, a real concern she had been feeling lately.

"That day when Professor Runewood told Valeria about her husband, she mentioned the Marchand family, and she spoke of them with… distaste." Tom waited for her to say more. "Notice that's a French name."

"Relatives of yours?" he asked. She nodded.

"Ma grand-mère, she was a Marchand."

"That bothers you? Why?"

"You heard her—her tone. Would you like to be part of a family someone could speak about with such loathing?"

Tom laughed almost inaudibly. "I remember you saying it doesn't matter who one's family was—that we make our own legacies, and that's what should count." Charlotte stayed quiet, considering this, knowing he was right and she had said that. "Why should you be ashamed to be related to them?" he continued. "Are you afraid people will think of you differently because of it? Surely you've seen that isn't the case. Not everyone feels negatively about them. It depends on whose respect you want."

"That sounds like something my mother would say," she replied stiffly.

"Regardless of that, you shouldn't let what people might think affect you, not when it's to do with something like that." She appreciated that he was trying to help, and her opposing feelings came to rest at a small smile.

Saturday arrived, and for Charlotte that meant a visit to Hogsmeade followed by time apart from everyone else spent together with Tom.

They walked down High Street, hand in hand, even though Tom didn't much like to hold hands and Charlotte could tell he felt this way. He let her keep her fingers curled around his palm, and occasionally his hand tightened around hers with a squeeze. Bringing them to a halt in front of the window of Tomes and Scrolls, Tom asked, "Do you mind if we stop in here?"

"Of course not," Charlotte answered. She liked books, but Tom seemed to love them, as shown by the extensive amount of time he spent in the library and reading in the common room.

"Looking for anything in particular?" inquired the shopkeeper as they entered; he looked exactly like the shopkeeper you'd expect to find in a bookstore—elderly, bespectacled, giving off an air of knowledge.

"Just browsing," Tom told him. "Unless there's something you'd like to look for?" he asked Charlotte.

"No," she said, but gave the old man a smile, then wandered over to the Herbology section. There were a few other students in the shop, and Charlotte noticed at least one of them reacted to her and Tom's entrance. It was an older Ravenclaw girl, who looked away when Charlotte made eye contact with her. She returned to examining the books before her.

"After you've been here a number of times, there isn't much to do," Charlotte commented.

"Hmm." Tom nodded. He didn't think there was anything of interest there to begin with—the bookstore had even disappointed him. It was only because he needed Charlotte that night that he was there at all. In a matter of hours, a mudblood would meet their end at the gaze of the basilisk. But if anyone asked where Tom was at that time he would tell them he was with Charlotte; she would say it was true, and they would believe him. Yet one question crept forward in his mind: why was it necessary for reality to match his story? He had proven before that memories and thoughts were his to shape with spells, and this gave him control over others' perception of reality, the real events. So the reason he needed Charlotte— He could not consider it. He didn't let himself answer the question, and tried to forget it had been asked at all.

"Follow me," said Charlotte, taking him by the arm. Around a corner, there was a deserted but still fairly exposed, open area. Standing close to him, she leaned in for a kiss. He stood still, for a brief moment trapped in indecision. Then he put his hands on her shoulders, holding her away from him.

"I don't want people to see," he said as calmly as he could.

"No one's here," insisted Charlotte, smiling. "Besides, do you really care?"

"I don't want people to see," he said again through gritted teeth. This was true; he didn't want to become known as a romantic person—although it might have been too late to prevent that—and kissing his 'girlfriend' publicly was a sure way to make people think things he didn't want them to. In addition to that, he was still angered by the thought of possibly having developed some emotion for Charlotte beyond what he had intended. He would not give those feelings greater opportunity to grow, take over, like some kind of mold or fungus.

Charlotte had given him some space, but she was still pathetically holding both of his hands in hers. He thought it was pathetic, but it worked to his advantage, so in a strange way he was glad of Charlotte's weakness. And was that weakness love? Did she love him? He hadn't considered this before—what it would mean if she loved him. It was unfamiliar; no one had loved him before. All he saw in how Charlotte acted towards him were ways of manipulating, exploiting and using her. Love didn't mean anything to him. And he much preferred the fear-induced tasks he forced others to carry out. These gave him a sense of power that love did not—knowing he could make others do what he wanted purely out of his own formidableness.

Next time there was a visit to Hogsmeade, Tom decided he would come up with some excuse not to go, because he didn't think he could take another day like this of aimlessly wandering around the town, wasting his time. That was more or less all they did that afternoon, until it was time to return to the castle. In the common room, having agreed to later meet on the seventh floor, they parted.

...

The sound of birds chirping greeted them as they opened the door. Tom shut it quickly. "That's strange," he muttered.

Charlotte, looking wide-eyed, asked, "Can you open it again? I want to see."

She must have been thinking about something and the room had changed itself to match her thoughts instead of his. He had no doubt he could take advantage of this, however, so he pulled the door open for them to enter.

It was a luscious garden, verdant and alive; along with the birds they had heard already, there was also the sound of flowing water somewhere.

Charlotte looked halfway between bliss and tears. So this must be—"Home," she whispered. "The garden of my home in France." Looking at Tom quizzically, she asked, "But how…? You couldn't have done this."

"You were thinking about this place, weren't you? The room must have picked up on that." He answered her somewhat vaguely, fully understanding how this had happened himself.

"Yes. I was thinking of it." She looked around in wonder. He would do his best to absorb every personal detail she was leaking out in this incident of self-exposure. But then Tom realized that she might try to return here, to visit this place and indulge her nostalgia, or her homesickness. He didn't want her to enter the Room of Requirement without him, however. It might prove necessary, he thought, to erase her memory of being there. But the mind was a tricky thing, and he didn't yet fully understand how to work magic on it perfectly; he thought it best to keep his modifications to a minimum. In his plan as it was currently, there was already a need to make her remember things differently to how they were to going to happen. That was fine, however; he wanted the practice. Charlotte had to make herself useful to him somehow, and this was one way he had found for her to do that.

She had moved through the garden and was standing in front of the source of the splashing sound—a small waterfall. Sitting down on the wall of rocks surrounding the pond, she let her hand fall into the water. "When I was a young child, I sometimes used to swim in here," she said with a laugh. "But our gardener hated that, so he put a few grindylows in it to stop me. Then you know what I did? I turned them into water lilies and went swimming anyway." She laughed again.

"You succeeded in that kind of transfiguration as a child?" he asked, shocked. He didn't think he could have so largely underestimated her power.

"Well, no, not in the way you're meaning. It was accidental. But it was still very rewarding."

He smiled at this and, taking a seat on the rocks as well, dipped his hand a few centimeters into the water. It was surprisingly warm. He wondered what Charlotte would do if he said 'fancy one more swim?'; the water wasn't very deep, not deep enough for them to swim in, but that could be fixed. He imagined the two of them undressed slipping into the pool. Then he realized what he was thinking and practically ran from the pond, rising with a leap that startled Charlotte. He headed for a tree that was in front of them, trying to look as though there was something extremely interesting about it—although he thought that was not likely to convince. Charlotte came over to him. Other times he would have immediately kissed her, as that served him well to divert her attention and prevent her from considering his other behaviors. But now of course he was not so quick to employ that method.

Strangely, she kissed him then, without asking any question. And because he had acted oddly too many times that day already, he didn't stop her. She got closer to him; he stood with his back to the tree.

"You did this to me once," she said. "Isn't it only fair we should switch places once too?" As she kissed him again, he realized Charlotte was taking control—and he couldn't have that. Tightly wrapping his arms around her, he returned her kisses fiercely. He pulled at her clothes. And then, he stopped thinking. Although he didn't actively choose to do this, he also did not reinstate his logic at that moment. Impulse governed his actions and passion seemed to justify them.

"Charlotte? Charlotte, you're falling asleep." Tom shook her gently. "I'm afraid it's gotten too late—or early, rather—for you to sleep here. We need to get back to the Dungeon. Come on." He lifted her up onto her feet. "I bet you don't even know what I was just talking to about," he sighed.

"You were saying something about… something about a colony of giants… somewhere."

"We were discussing…" She couldn't follow his explanation; she was extremely tired and her head felt clouded.

"I find it hard to believe we were discussing anything at all. I can barely listen to you right now," she answered. Tom furrowed his brow.

"We were. You said that your father once had to work with the government there"—there being whatever country he had mentioned and she had missed—"to stop the giants from starting avalanches."

This did sound familiar. "Switzerland," she said. "That was in Switzerland. I know you probably just said that, but I—"

"It's perfectly alright." He smiled.

As they were about to go their separate ways in the common room, the same order the students had been given once before was heard throughout the school. "All students will remain in their houses until further notice." This time Professor Dippet sounded even more concerned.

"We made it back just in time," Charlotte said in a whisper. She felt more alert now, having been startled by the announcement and becoming anxious to know what had happened, but not much more alert.

"We might as well stay in here," said Tom, putting his arm around her and guiding her over to one of the sofas.

"I suppose there's been another attack…"

"I wonder if it's the same as last time, or if it's something else—assuming there has been a second attack, which does seem to be the case," he said. While he spoke, Charlotte wrapped her arms around Tom's arm closest to her, not really processing what he was saying. She was so tired that she didn't even jump when the other Slytherins started to appear in the room, and saw her there with Tom, her head leaning on his shoulder.

Author's Note: I hope you aren't bored of 'what does Tom think about love?' because I apparently am definitely not bored of exploring that. I feel like I may have written the same similar bits over and over again though; I hope you'll tell me if that is the case and it's getting redundant.

The incident with the giants that is referenced isn't really a reference. I'm pretty sure there was something mentioned in the books about giants in Lichtenstein being a problem when the International Confederation of Wizards was first founded. (The way I remember these facts, you'd think they were actual history, oh my goodness.) Anyway, I just threw Switzerland in there because it's next to Lichtenstein. And, yes, Charlotte's inability to process what Tom is saying, which consequently gives me reason to leave it out of the narrative, was definitely a convenient way I came up with to not have to come up with some wizarding history factoid.

Lastly, there's some ambiguity in the events towards the end of this chapter. That is done intentionally, but it will not be permanently unknown, as I intend to explain things further later on.

Okay one last thing. I love reading your reviews, so please don't hesitate to comment. Constructive criticism is good too~