Chapter 3: First lessons
That night Tom dreamt vividly.
He knew he was dreaming - he'd long ago mastered the art of lucid dreaming, as part of his legilimency training - he often used the skill to plan, to strategise and clear his head. Rarely if ever did he indulge himself in idle imagination, but for some reason tonight he let his mind roam, curious to find out where it would take him.
He was standing in a restless, faceless crowd, in a space big enough to be the Great Hall. He glanced around, mildly curious. Soon, he became quite sure that it was the Great Hall, since overhead there was a carpet of stars and an inky night sky, yet he was under the distinct impression he was indoors.
It was utterly silent, as dreams often are, and had the quality of a moving black-and-white photograph, the people inhabiting the dream blurred at the edges.
The crowd seethed, one big mass of insignificant bodies busy doing whatever mundane tasks normal people did. He stood alone, an island of stillness within the crowd, as they walked around, past, behind him, never even glancing in his direction.
He wasn't angry, or afraid, but coolly aloof, secure in the knowledge of his superiority. He had no feelings at all for these people, but a mild ennui and a general air of contempt tugged at him persistently.
Then, suddenly, something changed. He recognised a face in the crowd. Another body, just like the others, but standing still, as he was, as if waiting.
Their eyes met, and there was an instant flash of recognition in her clever brown eyes. The dream-Amalia was even more beautiful than she was in real life, her eyes large and bright, her lips red and full, splashes of colour in an otherwise colourless world.
She grinned at him, showing white teeth, her expression playful and challenging. Quick as thought, she tipped him a lightning-fast wink, just as she had in the real-life Great Hall when she'd so boldly sat down across from him.
Just like then, her wink was a secret communication, a sign only for him, a message. I know what you are.
And she wasn't afraid.
In the dream Tom smirked back at her, a pleasant excitement replacing his previous apathy, as they both drew their wands.
The Hall was abruptly empty, the faceless masses fading like wraiths… and they faced each other, breathlessly tense with expectation before the duel…
He gave a mocking bow.
Her grin widened.
They raised their wands, and-
"R-Riddle?" the nervous whispered voice came from Rosier, and Tom blinked his way into wakefulness, scowling at the fair-haired boy hovering just outside of striking range next to his canopy bed. Bright morning light streamed in - though the Slytherin dormitories were located in the dungeons, the castle was situated on a mountainous outcrop of rock, and the window was like a small porthole, out of which the glittering surface of the Lake could be seen.
Tom lurched upright, rubbing his face as the excitement which had flooded his stomach from the prospect of the duel slowly faded. He glanced around sleepily, and ran a hand through his mussed-up hair. The rest of the dormitory was empty - the others had gone for an early breakfast, leaving Rosier the unhappy task of waking Tom up.
He should be in a hellish mood - as usual - especially since he'd had a late night, but the strangeness of the dream had a curiously energising effect on him.
To say Tom was not a morning person was putting it mildly. Several of his followers had been painfully and lastingly cursed for dressing too loudly on mornings when he'd wanted an extra lie-in, and since then there was always a vicious - yet utterly silent - race to get out of the room before Tom woke up.
The only one willing to come near him was the ever-faithful Rosier - or perhaps it was simply because he was the smallest, and the others bullied him into wake-up duty. They all knew that the consequences of letting Tom be late for class didn't bear thinking about, so someone had to do it.
Rosier's apprehensive expression wasn't the most cheerful thing to wake up to, for sure, but Tom decided he didn't care, and threw back the covers briskly. His good dream, though interrupted, had put him in a good mood, and he almost chuckled when he heard Rosier's almost-inaudible sigh of relief after seeing Tom's relaxed expression.
He dressed swiftly, making sure he looked impeccable, and scrutinised himself in the long mirror next to the door to the dormitory. His hair was behaving, and he didn't have any bags under his eyes, which was a relief since he had been out late the previous night. He frowned and straightened his tie, his long, pale fingers deftly unpicking and re-tying the knot so that it was in perfect proportion. Thus satisfied, he exited the room, with Rosier in tow, and strode confidently to the Common Room.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he entered the room at the same time as the four fifth-year girls. Three of the four looked rather worse for wear - their eyes bloodshot and their expressions wan.
"Mornin', Riddle." Yawned Callidora Black, spotting him walking out. He gave a courteous nod in return. Callidora was a strange girl - she was intimidated by him, he was sure, but at least she still had enough pluck to pretend otherwise.
The fourth girl emerged after her three companions and eyed him with interest. He eyed her right back, unable to help comparing dream-Amalia to the real deal. She looked a little tired, but otherwise didn't seem to have suffered the same ill effects as her roommates. Her eyes were still sharp, her skin flawless, her mouth pert with a hint of stubbornness. Her delicate nose flared slightly as she sized him up. Her thin eyebrows raised expectantly over her liquid brown eyes, framed with long, dark lashes. She was waiting for him to make the first move.
He smiled his most devastating smile at her, his eyes crinkling with friendliness, and said charmingly, "Good morning, Ms Gray. I hope you're settling in well?"
Surprise registered in her face, swiftly followed by a calculated understanding. She knew exactly what he was doing.
War has been declared.
"Oh, very well," she said cheerfully, copying his easy tone, "Everyone has made me feel so welcome." The slight inflection on the word everyone was a small jab meant especially for him.
Callidora, Anne and Charlotte seemed a little taken-aback by this normal exchange - after all, they were more used to Tom Riddle being either morosely aloof, or coldly polite. Even Rosier, gaping at this spectacle from behind Riddle, looked rather confused.
"That is good to hear." Riddle replied serenely, and fell into step with her as if they were old friends. They approached the Common Room entrance side-by-side, their friends trailing after them, speechless.
"I'd hate for anyone to make you feel uncomfortable." As the falsely-sincere words dripped off of his tongue, he chivalrously took Amalia's hand to help her through the narrow stone entranceway: to any onlooker the absolute perfect gentlemen.
Amalia, however, knew better. As soon as he'd touched her, his hand had closed like a vice around the delicate bones of her wrist, and he gripped the joint painfully, his fingers surprisingly strong as they sunk into the softer parts around the bone, hard enough to bruise. Pain shot up her arm. This violent act contrasted starkly with his earnestly friendly demeanour, and Amalia strove to keep her face similarly composed, though a muscle clenched in her jaw.
"Oh, do not concern yourself, Riddle," she said in a perfectly genial tone, maintaining a broad smile, "I assure you I can take care of myself." With that said, she stomped deliberately into his instep, the heel of her well-crafted boot sinking into his foot with a satisfying crunch. Her action was hidden well as they both wear long school robes, and she was instantly rewarded by a faint hiss of pain through clenched teeth, as his smile became strained.
Out of the porthole, he dropped her wrist and stepped away to a safer distance. Amalia seethed with anger as she ponders this turn of events - she hadn't expected him to physically harm her. What kind of person does that? Did he really hate her that much? But no, she realised immediately, Riddle was merely testing the water, seeing how far he could push her. The game had only just begun.
She opened and closed her left hand experimentally, hiding the movement in the long sleeves of her robe as Callidora joined her, chattering away. She listened with half an ear as an unpleasant numbness spread from his treatment of the abused nerves of her wrist.
She snuck a glance at him as they walked in silence to the Great Hall, side-by-side. His expression was serene, unruffled.
But Amalia felt a small smirk curl the side of her mouth when she noticed that he suddenly had a very slight limp that he couldn't quite disguise.
Callidora and Anne exchanged an incredulous glance as they witnessed the spectacle before them.
Charlotte and Rosier were also watching with wide eyes, following the conversation like a tennis match. It seemed like a rather strange war was being waged over breakfast in the Great Hall that morning.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Tom with false surprise, "Did you want this last piece of bacon?"
Amalia and Tom sat opposite each other, their forks hovering over the almost-empty tureen between them, as if they were about to start fencing with their utensils.
Tension crackled like electricity between them as Amalia forced a rather scary smile. "By all means, if you want it-"
"Oh, I couldn't possibly. I know how much you've been enjoying your bacon." However blithely he said it, the jab at her enthusiastic eating was obvious to all.
Amalia glared at the offending piece of bacon between them and felt her stomach growl. "Well, if you insist-" she muttered grudgingly.
Tom's answering smirk was proof that he considered this a small victory.
But before she could claim the bacon, another fork speared the meat and fished it away.
Callidora gave a nervous laugh as both Amalia and Tom's heavy gazes fell on her, the bacon turning to ash in her mouth as her attempt to break the awkward tension back-fired. "Th-there's another bowl right over there, you know." She said weakly, pointing about half a metre down the table, where an untouched tureen of bacon sat. "There's no need to fight over food…"
Amalia put her fork and knife down neatly on her plate, and used a knapkin to wipe her mouth primly. "We should get going." She said, ignoring Callidora's words. The hall was almost empty - everyone was already heading to their first classes.
Tom hid a sigh of relief. Somehow, they'd ended up silently challenging each other to an eating competition, trying to lay a claim on each of the dishes in front of them while keeping up a polite façade. He wasn't used to eating so much in the morning - indeed, some mornings he would be so distracted as to skip meals altogether - and felt slightly nauseas. Where did she put it all? Toast, tomatoes and bacon was all very well, but three eggs and a large fruit salad as well? Was she preparing for a fast?
He laid down his utensils, and stood, stretching languidly. Rosier and Mulciber, who had joined them in the hall, rose with him.
"Are you looking forward to Charms?" he asked her.
She didn't seem able to muster a smile for him anymore, and merely kept her face neutral, though her eyes got a little brighter at the mention of her first class. "Of course."
Tom sniggered inwardly at her annoyance. She was quite competitive, it seemed, even over a piece of bacon. "You seem somewhat tense," remarked Tom genially as they left the Hall, "Is something the matter?"
Amalia looked at him sharply, noting the teasing look in his eyes. He was laughing at her, inside. For some reason, it suddenly made her want to laugh as well… Really, was she letting him get to her so easily? Over bacon? The fun is just beginning, she vowed wickedly. You'll rue the day you declared yourself my enemy, Tom Riddle! She had intended to keep a low profile at school, but screw that! She had nothing to fear here. She certainly didn't fear him! Perhaps there would be an opportunity during Charms…
Amalia gave him an evil glare, which contrasted sharply with her bright smile, which followed seconds later, "Oh, well," she said with an embarrassed chuckle, "We had quite a party in the dorm last night… Firewhiskey was going around."
"Amalia!" exclaimed Callidora, flushing as Tom's gaze rested on her. "He's a Prefect, you know!" she hissed. And not exactly known for leniency…
"Oh, that's right," chuckled Amalia, unperturbed. She winked cheekily at him. "Perhaps you could forgive me this time, Riddle? It was my first night at the castle, after all."
Tom's answering grin was wolfish. She was testing him again, seeing how far he would take the pretense of being her ally. It was tempting to give her a detention, just to see her reaction, but he suspected that it would play right into her hands. It would be easier for her if they were openly enemies, but that would delay his plans…
"I'll turn a blind eye this time, Ms Gray," he said smoothly. "After all, we're friends, aren't we?"
"See you in class, Riddle." Amalia said with a smile that promised trouble.
Tom felt a shiver of anticipation run up his spine as he turned and walked away, melting into the crowded corridor, pushing past the faceless masses, his mind only filled with that confident curve of her lips.
Callidora's mouth dropped open as he walked away, the crowd of students quickly separating them in the bustling halls.
"What floor are we on, Dora?" asked Amalia, glancing around.
"Fourth." She answered shortly, and then seemed to struggle with herself for a moment.
"What is it?" Amalia asked blithely, knowing perfectly well what she was thinking.
"You and Riddle!" blurted Callidora, somewhat accusingly. "What- Why is-?!"
"Do you know him?" asked Anne with a frown, cutting off Callidora's splutterings, "That is, did you know him, before school?"
"I met him a couple of days ago," shrugged Amalia, "Just like I told you last night. You must have had more Firewhiskey than I thought."
"But why's he being so nice to you?" chirped Charlotte, her face quizzical, as Callidora looked highly sceptical.
"I don't think he was being nice…" commented Anne dryly, making Charlotte even more confused. "But something is going on."
"Exactly!" exclaimed Callidora loudly, waving an arm and almost punching a passing second-year, who barely ducked in time with a squeak, "It's like he's a different person!..." she gasped suddenly, her curls bouncing with the movement, "What- do you think he likes you?" her eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets as she goggled at Amalia.
At that Amalia snorted. "Of course not," she said, chortling, "Quite the opposite, in fact."
Anne looked thoughtful, Charlotte still with her quaint expression of bewilderment, and Callidora looked about to explode with fresh dramatic theories, but fortunately Amalia noticed that they'd arrived at Charms. She spotted some students she recognised entering, so she escaped further elaboration by striding in ahead of her group.
The classroom was large and shaped somewhat like an amphitheatre, with levelled benches ringing the room facing a deep central plinth, on which stood a teacher's desk.
The back wall was lined with large blackboards covered with chalked arcane scribblings and formulas, drawing Amalia's gaze instantly. Her musing about Riddle faded, replaced by excitement at the prospect of learning new spells. Eyes shining, she took a deep breath and sighed with happiness. Her reverie was shattered by Callidora who grabbed her arm and towed her to a bench on the furthest side of the class away from Riddle. The determined and ferociously curious look in her eyes told Amalia that her interrogation was far from over.
Amalia felt mildly irritated by their interest. She wasn't accustomed to having to explain herself to others… and yet it was strangely pleasant, to have people who cared. But what was so special about Tom, anyway? Apart from the fact that he was handsome and everyone seemed either smitten or terrified of him. Was he very powerful, or was that another exaggeration of his many so-called talents? All she knew for sure was that he had a malicious streak - that much was evident by the faint bruising on her wrist - and he had turned his focus on her, for some reason. Was he merely bored, or should she be more concerned...?
"Quiet down, quiet down!" said a quavery voice from the front of the class. A crumpled-looking wizard was stooped there, peering at them all timidly with rheumy eyes. "Welcome to fifth year Charms. As you should all know by now, being seasoned students and all that… I am Professor Merrythought. However, I understand we have a new student with us…?" he peered around, blinking.
Amalia hid her discomfort as everyone turned in their seats to gaze at her. She felt rather than saw Riddle's sharp eyes on her, but resisted the urge to glance at him. She stood and curtseyed as well as her bench would allow. "Good morning, Professor Merrythought," she said quietly, "My name is Amalia Gray."
"Ah… Ms Gray." He gave a weak smile at her, "Welcome to Hogwarts, my dear. You may be seated. Do not be discouraged if there is something you do not understand. Mm… just ask, my dear, we're all friends here."
Hmm, yes, friends… thought Amalia as she sat down, her eyes flickering to Riddle despite herself. He smirked at her. She rose her eyebrow at him disdainfully, feeling competitive.
"So, today I thought it may be a good idea to ease us into the new year, by reviewing all the charms of movement we've learnt thus far." He chuckled as the class groaned. Movement spells were boring and basic - each year they learnt a new spell starting from first year with Wingardium Leviosa, to more complicated forms such as Arresto Momentum, Locomotor and so on. "Ah, don't be so quick to judge!" Professor Merrythought added, "I think you'll find even the simplest spells a little more challenging this year. Please, everyone come and collect a handful of sand from this bag." He waved his wand and a heavy-looking sack of fine, white sand appeared on his desk, "Your goal is to move the sand without losing any grains in the process. Begin!"
Benches scraped and muttering filled the air as he waved them to carry on.
"I'll get yours," offered Anne confidently, and motioned at Charlotte and Amalia to stay seated. They watched as she went to the front with Callidora and levitated a small pile of sand, drifting it back to their table without spilling any, to the approving nod of Professor Merrythought. It hovered shakily in front of them, but stayed together.
"Show-off." Teased Callidora, returning with her handful of sand. Anne just flashed her a triumphant smile and sat down with a flourish.
Amalia took a handful of sand and placed it on the desk before her, and pondered what to do with it. She knew many movement spells; it was a very common branch of magic… and whatever Merrythought said, it was boring.
She glanced at Charlotte next to her, who was staring at her sand and muttering, a light sheen of sweat already on her brow as the sand fought her control.
On her other side, Anne was confidently waving her wand, moving her sand non-verbally in jerky movements in the air in front of her.
At the end of their bench, Callidora was laughing as she waved her wand enthusiastically, spraying the back of the neck of the disgruntled Hufflepuff girl seated in front of her.
Lastly, Amalia glanced across the room and found Tom. He looked as bored as she felt, resting his chin on his hand with his elbow on the table, as he lazily flicked his wand. His sand danced effortlessly in the air above him, forming geometric shapes in a mesmerizing display of skill. Professor Merrythought and half of the class watched with wide, admiring eyes in a hushed silence.
Amalia analysed his movements expertly, and wasn't disappointed. You're good, she admitted to herself, somewhat grudgingly, Better than good, actually… She rolled her eyes at her own admiring monologue and pushed up her sleeves briskly. She wasn't about to join the Tom Riddle Fanclub because he could make pretty shapes out of sand! She muttered an incantation and waved her wand in a complicated series of movements.
A miniature cyclone formed where her sand had lain, and then it began to take form. A shape sprang into being - quite literally sprang, since it had four paws and a delicately waving tail - and stretched languidly in midair.
Her friends and the students sitting nearest were the first to see white sand-cat pacing in the air in front of them. Anne and Charlotte looked amazed and delighted, while Callidora lost control of her sand, dumping it on the unfortunate Hufflepuff's head altogether in favour of clapping enthusiastically.
Tom looked up at the commotion happening across the class, and narrowed his eyes as he saw Amalia at the centre of it. What had she done now? He looked around and followed the rest of the classes wide gazes to… the air above him.
He blinked as he took in the white cat currently playing with his geometric shapes, batting the squares and spheres like balls of string. The girls of the class squealed and awe-ed as the cat playfully rolled around, imitating a living cat very realistically.
He glanced at Amalia and saw her quiet smile as she focused on controlling the little sand-creature far above them all.
He flicked his wand and felt his magic leap to obey.
Students gasped as suddenly the geometric shapes reformed into a nest of spikes, pointing directly at the cute white cat, who rolled back onto its feet and crouched watchfully, its tail swishing back and forth, as if it was ready to pounce.
Another flick of his wand and the spikes shot forward, skewering the cat forcibly in a spray of sand. But Amalia wasn't finished, and leapt to her feet with a wolfish smile, her bench scraping the stone-flagged floor in the sudden hush, and waved her wand in response.
Her cat reformed, in a miniature cyclone of sand that swept up all the stray grains, but there was something different. The cat now looked bigger, somehow even lionish, and Tom felt a twinge of annoyance as he realised she'd stolen some of his sand to reform her animal. He stood up too, his bench scraping the floor and waved his wand, gathering the rest of his remaining sand to form a glittering array of miniature weapons, such as a butcher's cleaver which flashed out suddenly and severed the lion-cat's tail, stealing back that amount of sand.
The cat whipped around and batted the cleaver away, shrinking slightly as its tail regrew, then dodged Tom's next attack with a spear, somersaulting flexibly away and landing on its feet in midair.
The class "oohed" and "ahhed" as the cat was chased around the ceiling by a selection of Tom's sand-swords for several minutes, neither side giving ground in a breath-taking display of skill.
When at last the swords seemed destined to behead the cat, it shifted into a form with large bat-like wings at the last possible second, and they flapped strongly. The solidified sand created a wind which dissolved Tom's swords momentarily, but then he replaced them with a creature of his own - a sand-serpent uncoiling in the air directly around the bat-creature, which turned back into a cat and clawed and bit at the tightening coils.
The serpent and the cat fought viciously, rolling around in the air above the class, until eventually the two animals had become so entwined it was impossible to see where the snake began and the cat ended. The sand mingling, Amalia and Tom's magic now vied for dominance, and with a muffled thump as the shape exploded into individual grains again. They froze, drifting in a glittering heat-haze above the class as Tom and Amalia fought for control, neither willing to give up the sand they felt they'd won.
"Ah, well done, students, but perhaps we should stop there-" Merrythought's uncertain voice was ignored as Tom waved his wand violently, annoyed at Amalia's dogged persistence.
There was a clap like thunder and a bright flash of light which made everyone except Amalia and Tom duck and flinch away as a faint smell of brimstone filled the room.
Slightly blinded, Amalia blinked spots from her eyes as the loud noise faded. Where their cloud of sand had been there was just two equally-sized anomalous globules of blackened, molten sand, floating in the air like glassy bubbles.
She chuckled and coaxed one of the globules towards her, reforming it into her cat again. It was much smaller - just big enough to fit on her palm, like a blown-glass figurine, black and shiny as night. It was quite cool to touch. She looked up from her prize and met Tom's dark eyes, which were gazing at her intensely with something akin to hunger. She inclined her head in the approximation of a bow, watching as his eyes widened in surprise at her formal gesture, which didn't seem to be mocking… but rather… respectful…?
He blinked and returned his glass back to sand, dumping the purified white grains back into the sack on the teacher's desk below. As he looked away from her and took his seat he became aware of his surroundings again, and of the smattering of applause that their display had earned them.
Tom passed the rest of the class in a pensive mood, reviewing what he'd learnt of Amalia so far. She seemed likewise quiet, smiling absently at her friends' excited chatter, but not really returning the same enthusiasm. Three times their eyes briefly met across the class, and Tom saw his own guarded, contemplative expression mirrored in her eyes as her black cat figurine preened itself on her desk.
The next class was History, and Tom found the ghost and teacher Professor Binns to be as boring as ever before. Even though it was the first class of a new year, the teacher made no special effort but simply started droning on about goblin wars. Most students in the class instantly got glazed-over expressions and slept on their arms, but Tom kept focus and took notes as well as he could, despite the tedium. He had to keep up appearances, after all. Beside him, Rosier stifled a yawn and dutifully jotted down the occasional note as well. Out of all the Slytherin boys in Tom's little group, Rosier was the only one who made any effort in class.
One row in front of him, Tom could watch the back of Amalia's head as she and Anne Flint had a whispered conversation while listening to Binns with half an ear and taking notes every now and then.
He wondered what they were talking about. His fingers twitched, itching to take out his wand - he knew a good eavesdropping spell that would take their whispers right to his ear - but he hesitated. Amalia was a strong witch of unknown capabilities. It was possible – no, likely, given her paranoia – that she had some charm up her sleeve to detect spells of that nature.
He tried to curb his impatience as Binns' gaze fell on them and the girls stopped whispering. It probably wasn't important anyway. He then spent the rest of the class watching her take notes in messy handwriting, and doodle a small sketch of a black cat in the corner of her page. At the end of the class, they all groaned as Binns assigned them a monstrous essay due in one week on fifteenth-century goblin raids.
As the class filed out, Professor Binns turned and blinked owlishly in surprise.
"Excuse me, sir," Amalia said politely, "I have a question."
"Ce-certainly." He said faintly. He didn't think this had ever happened before.
"You were talking about Zirza the Cruel, the goblin general who sacked parts of northern Italy…?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Well, I read that he took many priceless artefacts from Rome, and then claimed they were goblin-made. However, in another book, it says something completely different."
"Ah, yes," Binns said, a flicker of enthusiasm entering his dull eyes, "It depends on the source you consult. That's precisely what I was getting at… history is not as fixed and… boring… as most think. In certain wizard-approved manuscripts, the story clearly places Zirza as a tyrannical invader, a ruthless thief and liar. But read a text penned by goblin historians (rarer, yet no less valid) and he is painted as the avenging saviour, retrieving stolen artefacts that were once thought lost."
Amalia frowned, a crease appearing between her eyes, "But then, which is true?"
He nodded sagely. "That, my dear, is the real question, isn't it?"
Understanding lit up her eyes. "Is that why you set the essay?"
"Indeed."
"But one version of history is wrong." She argued. "It's not what happened."
"A common misconception in the study of History," He said dismissively. "The only truth is that both versions of History are equally valid to those that recorded it - therefore, both versions are equally, hmm, you might say 'true', although that is perhaps a loaded term-" he trailed off, muttering, with a thoughtful look.
She blinked at him, confused. "How can you say that?" she demanded, feeling almost defensive. "Everything that happens now hinges on the past - if the past is a lie, then -"
"Ah, but now you get to the heart of it," Binns said, and his vaguely translucent eyes refoused on her. "What happened in the past does not actually affect the present at all. Not in the slightest." he raised a finger to forestall her interruption, "As soon as a moment is swept away, you see," he explained, "It ceases to exist. What, then, remains? Only memory." he concluded decisively, "Open to interpretation, warped by emotion, imagination... Fallible. Even events witnessed by multiple people, all corroborating the same account, can be misconstrued, misunderstood. Even your own memories are not to be trusted as fact, as no one is an impartial or omniscient viewer of their own lives."
Amalia frowned. "I... never thought of it that way," she admitted, subdued. "But, my past made me-" she stopped abruptly, flushing as she swallowed whatever she had been about to say.
Binns shook his head slowly, pondering her strange words. "No. Your perception of the past controls your present. Do not misunderstand. Think of the present moment as the only fixed point. The past and future only exist in your imagination. Rather than the past, it's our understanding of the past, our memories… that is what informs our decisions and affects our actions. And memories are not always truthful." Binns said sombrely. "Therefore, history is always subjective. A discussion, an argument..." His eyes were kind. "History is a mystery we can only try to unravel, solve and interpret, to better understand ourselves in the present."
She suddenly seemed miles away. "What if I can't solve it?" she said, in a small voice. "My own memory... my own truth?"
Binns gazed at her in silence for a long moment. Then he sighed, and said, "If you are interested in the truth, there are ways to find it. You must learn to think like a detective. Follow the trail of facts, verify them at every opportunity, until the bigger picture emerges." He made a shrugging motion, "That is how the historians do it, anyway."
"I have been trying… but it isn't easy." Her eyes refocused on him. "The truth is important to me."
He hesitated, "It is possible to lose yourself in questions of what was... Do not lose sight of the present, my dear." he hummed, "Which might seem somewhat disingenuous coming from a ghost," he gave a dry cough. "Well, I suppose a good place to start practising is this book, which you can find in the library… Here, write this down-"
The next class was Defence Against the Dark Arts, and the rest of the class was already seated by the time Amalia wandered in with an absent-minded expression.
She seemed to shake herself out of it when she realised the class and the teacher was looking at her, askance.
"You're late, Miss…?"
"Uh, Gray." supplied Amalia, rallying herself. She took one look at the skinny grey-haired woman with her sour expression and beady eyes and decided she didn't like her. She stood a little straighter and said composedly. "I apologise, Professor…?"
"I am Professor Fairchilde."
Amalia made a peculiar sound that she managed to turn into a cough. "A-ahem! I apologise, Professor… Fairchilde. I'm afraid I got lost."
The skinny woman's mouth pulled tight in annoyance at Amalia's less than respectful tone, and her nostrils flared as if she smelt trouble already. But she said nothing of it, replying curtly, "That's understandable, given it is your first day. Please, take a seat. Note that tardiness in future will not be tolerated."
Amalia gave her a sweet – yet oddly poisonous-looking – smile, and took her seat between Anne and Callidora.
"Now, turn to page 10 of your textbooks, and we'll start with –"
"How could you get lost?" hissed Callidora in Amalia's ear. "We're in the same corridor. Didn't you see the door I pointed out to you?"
Amalia looked a little embarrassed. "Haha, well, my sense of direction is really not a strength of mine, and all the doors look the same…"
Callidora tsked and turned away, but felt secretly relieved that there was at least one thing Amalia was not good at.
"What did you ask Binns?" asked Anne out of the corner of her mouth, pretending to study her textbook as the skinny professor swept by them.
Amalia waited until Professor Fairchilde was preoccupied demanding why a Hufflepuff girl in the front row had sand in her hair, before replying, "A question on history, and the philosophical basis of memory and truth." she said, "It was very interesting. He recommended a book. Perhaps after the next class-"
There was a light chuckle from behind them, and glancing back Amalia came face-to-face with Tom, who somehow seemed to have ended up right behind her. "You have got to be the first student in the history of Hogwarts to actually enjoy History." He said dryly.
Amalia felt a shiver of excitement at the intensity with which he gazed at her, but hid it well and shrugged. "I'll admit his voice is rather boring, but the content is interesting, at least."
"And how is that?" Tom was sceptical, and seemed eager to hear her opinion.
"It's important to know what came before." Amalia argued, "To know where you came from… Your past is-"
"Miss Gray!" came the reedy voice of Professor Fairchilde, "Just because you are a new student doesn't mean you don't have to pay attention!"
Amalia's eyes widened as Tom smirked at her lazily. He was trying to get her into trouble! She turned slowly in her chair to face the front again, forcing a contrite expression.
The woman stalked forward. "I would have thought you would be more interested in concentrating on catching up with the rest of the class, since you are a new student."
Callidora exchanged rueful looks with Anne. If she had known what had happened in Charms…!
Amalia raised one thin eyebrow, meeting the woman's eyes directly. "Defence Against the Dark Arts is not a subject I'm worried about." She stated bluntly. Internally, she cursed her short temper. This was no way to speak to a teacher! But she couldn't help herself when people spoke to her like that.
Professor Fairchilde folded her arms, drawing herself up. "Is that so?"
The rest of the class waited with bated breath.
"Then, Ms Gray, could you tell me the proper defence of the Deprimo Fundus jinx?"
Amalia didn't bat an eye at the abrupt question. "Deprimo Fundus causes the ground to vanish beneath your feet, and is therefore somewhat more difficult to block." She started, speaking normally in a slightly bored tone. "A Land-locking charm would counter-act the effect, or a mid-level Seraph's Orb barrier would block it."
The professor looked both surprised and annoyed at this textbook answer.
But Amalia wasn't finished yet. "However," she said next, "In actuality the best defence is often offence. As the wand movement for Deprimo Fundus is rather obvious and the incantation long, a simple Stupefy would reach your opponent long before he or she vanished the ground under your feet. Which is way it isn't a spell commonly used in duels, and I question the relevancy of its status as a 'Dark Arts' jinx."
"You seem to have many opinions on this, Ms Gray." Gritted out Professor Fairchilde, scowling. "You should bear in mind that this syllabus was designed by witches and wizards older and more experienced than you."
"Nevertheless, there are plenty of Dark curses out there that aren't covered by the textbook-"
"We are not here to learn about Dark curses, Ms Gray!"
Amalia looked equally annoyed, "Then how are we expected to defend against them?" she demanded, and tacked on a hasty, "Professor?"
"By studying the theory, and practising defensive spells that can be employed in a variety of instances!"
Amalia sighed. "I noticed that duelling is not listed as a part of our syllabus." She stated.
"Certainly not!" steamed Professor Fairchilde, "And I have no idea why a young lady such as yourself takes such an interest in violence and combat! The Dark Arts are forbidden by law- we're not about to practice it in a classroom!"
Amalia held her tongue with difficulty. She shouldn't get into trouble with her teachers on her first day! Even though it was ludicrous that Hogwarts didn't take this subject more seriously. Didn't they know how dangerous the real world was?!
Professor Fairchilde seemed smug when she realised Amalia had stopped arguing. "Now," she said in a calmer tone, "Seeing as you have so many opinions on the matter, why don't you write me an essay on merits of this year's syllabus, over other, cruder methods of learning."
Amalia glared at her. "As you wish, Professor." She said coldly.
Satisfied she'd won this round, Professor Fairchilde turned back to the class and nodded briskly, "Then, let us return to more important matters. Will everyone please turn to page ten…"
The last class of the day was Transfiguration, and Tom didn't look forward to it. It was his least favourite class, for the simple fact that it was taught by Dumbledore.
The work was not difficult – to be absolutely fair, the old man wasn't a completely inept teacher - but Tom found himself unwilling to listen too intently to the old man, or even perform at his usual level of brilliance, simply because he didn't want to attract his attention , specifically those accursed patronising blue eyes of his. As if he could grasp even an iota of what Tom was thinking!
Transfiguration was directly after lunch, and Tom used the time in the Great Hall to observe Amalia. She was surrounded by her three friends, and most of Tom's group too, the boys having the first chance to talk to her after her escapades in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts.
He'd found himself surprised by her vehement argument with the skinny old crow, ironically named Professor Fairchilde – he actually agreed with most of what Amalia had said. Dark Arts were not theoretical, and he'd been similarly exasperated when he'd discovered that it wouldn't be taught in any practical sense at Hogwarts. Of course, unlike Amalia, he was not interested in it in an academic or defensive sense… But he agreed that the syllabus was lacking. The only way he knew practical duelling magic was through his own studies, and he knew for a fact that none of his classmates could match his skill. But what about Amalia? Did she have experience in actual duels? It was always a regret of his that he couldn't often practise duelling himself - he'd taught his followers some basic dark magic, but even then they were no match for him. His mind went to the dream he'd had, and he imagined the anticipation of facing her in a real duel. In Charms he reluctantly conceded that they'd been evenly matched. But that was hardly a real test…
His mind was buzzing with plans and schemes as he walked to Transfiguration. Entering the class, he saw the four Slytherin girls moving to the front of the class, and grimaced. There was no way he was sitting anywhere near Dumbledore. He would sit in his usual spot, at the back of the class near the door.
"Rosier." He commanded imperiously.
"Yes, Riddle?" said his ever-present shadow instantly. Riddle looked at him for a moment coldly. Rosier was quiet and unassuming, but out of his group he was the just about the only one with the brains to be discreet. "Sit there, and tell me if she says anything interesting." It was obvious who 'she' was. Rosier nodded obediently and walked to the front of the class, sitting next to Amalia without any hesitation, though there was a flicker in his eyes which might have been irritation as he did so.
Amalia turned with surprise to see the slight, fair-haired boy slide into the bench next to her.
"Rosier," she greeted with a friendly smile, though she was a little bemused. He hadn't seemed interested at all in her during lunch - in fact, he'd been the only other boy besides Riddle not to bombard her with questions and comments…
"I just wanted to say that I agree with you - about Defence Against the Dark Arts." He said, with a quiet smile. But Amalia's friendly expression slipped as she realised his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
She glanced around the class, and a lightbulb went on when she saw Riddle sitting at the back of the class. She lowered her voice and leaned in close. "Ah, I see." She said slyly, "Riddle sent you over here, didn't he?" she chuckled at his frozen expression.
Rosier realised that a denial was pointless. He straightened up and suddenly looked serious. "He seems interested in you." He stated bluntly, his pale blue eyes glancing sideways at her.
"Well, you and I both know that attracting his interest might not be a good thing."
Rosier's eyes widened. So she knew about that side of Riddle, too? He'd never encountered a girl that wasn't instantly smitten with him. "Why do you say that?" he said, stalling as he considered this new information. He'd thought she liked him, and was trying to get his attention… were they truly enemies, then? For some reason that made him happy.
Amalia shrugged. "It's just that, out of all Riddle's friends, you seemed closest to him."
Her casual observation elicited a surprising and extremely interesting response. The colour in his cheeks rose a little at her words. "Riddle doesn't have friends." He muttered, feeling flustered.
Amalia was silent for a long moment, watching him with sharp eyes like she'd just figured something out. "Rosier," she said at last, "Are you in l-"
"Good afternoon, fifth years!" came a familiar voice, as Dumbledore, clothed in bright orange robes strode in, beaming at them.
"Afternoon, Professor!" greeted a tall Gryffindor, prompting a few other students to echo him. It seemed Dumbledore was a rather popular teacher.
Amalia leaned away from Rosier, who'd gone a little pale at her words, and faced the front, eager for the lesson to begin.
"I trust you've all had satisfactorily long and lazy summers, and have sufficiently emptied your heads in preparation for this year?"
In the back row, Tom moodily burnt a hole in his desk with the tip of his wand. He didn't want to be reminded of his summer.
"This year is O.W.L.s year, and I'm sure you've all heard the horror stories of the upcoming exams in June. Yes, it will be hard work and we have a lot to cover, but if you're diligent and stay on top of things - I'm looking at you, Longbottom -" the tall Gryffindor boy who'd spoken before gave a theatrical groan, causing a few titters from the class, "Then you should have nothing to worry about."
Dumbledore walked to the board and tapped it briskly, causing it to float down and display a complicated-looking diagram of arrows and shapes. "So, without further ado, let's dive in. Don't be alarmed! This is just a glimpse of what we'll be learning in the time up to Christmas, by which point you will be able to Vanish and Rematerialise objects using a variety of spells for specific instances." Amalia sat a little straighter. She knew a vanishing spell that worked most of the time, but didn't work on large objects. Finally, something new to learn!
"For today, we'll speak about Muncheon's Third Theorem of displacement magic, and you can all attempt to vanish a matchstick. Those of you who succeed can try larger objects until we find your respective levels." His twinkling blue eyes seemed to rest on Amalia for a moment knowlingly as he said it.
By the end of the lesson, Amalia, Tom, Anne and a sallow-skinned Ravenclaw had progressed to vanishing teacups. Amalia guessed that Tom was holding back, and could probably do more, but he didn't seem willing to volunteer, and perhaps more surprisingly, Amalia noticed Dumbledore seemed equally satisfied with ignoring his best student. He even went so far as to give Amalia, Anne and the Ravenclaw girl five house points each for good effort, while Tom sat silently at the back of the class, scowling.
Amalia liked Dumbledore, but was it really okay for a teacher to be so biased?
As the bell chimed the end of the lesson, the students rose and started leaving the class, but Dumbledore waved Amalia over.
"Would you mind delaying a short while to have a chat with me, Ms Gray?" he asked with a smile.
She shrugged, and waved her friends to leave without her. "Sure, Professor." The class emptied quickly, and Amalia perched herself on one of the front desks, her legs swinging. "What did you want to talk about?"
"How was your first day? Are you finding Hogwarts a suitable home?" his genuine concern was strangely touching. Amalia wasn't used to having people worry over her well-being.
She gave a serious answer. "Yes." She said simply, "I think… I think I can be happy here." It was only after saying it out loud that she felt a great weight of tension lifting off her shoulders.
"That's good to hear." Dumbledore beamed, "I knew you would do well. Professor Merrythought was quite beside himself singing your praises this morning in the staff room."
"Ah, really…" Amalia flushed slightly with pleasure. After her argument with Professor Fairchilde she'd almost forgotten her antics in Charms.
Dumbledore's smile faded. "Hm. Though from the sound of things, it seems you were involved in some kind of competition with Tom?"
Amalia pondered his changed expression. "That's right." She admitted easily, "We seem to have become rivals of some kind. I know you wanted us to be friends-"
Dumbledore twirled his wand between his fingers with a rueful expression, "Actually, I did not expect Tom to take any real interest in you at all."
Amalia cocked her head. "Are you… Worried, that he has?" is this another person who knows Tom's real face? And if so, why did he introduce us in the first place?
Dumbledore paused before replying. "I'll be honest with you. I didn't think you'd end up in Slytherin."
Amalia blinked at this unexpected confession. "You… thought I'd be in Gryffindor?" she guessed shrewdly. The Sorting Hat had considered it.
He nodded. "You possess many of the qualities my house prizes. Bravery, confidence, a certain disregard for authority, if I'm to believe Professor Fairchilde-" he chuckled.
"What's wrong with Slytherin?" she couldn't help a hint of coldness entering her voice, which Dumbledore noticed. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"Nothing, of course… I was just surprised." He sighed. "I am glad you seem to be fitting in well. But if you can heed an old man's advice… stay away from Tom Riddle. You've made friends with Ms Black, Flint and Yaxley. You don't need Tom's friendship."
Amalia knew that he wasn't wrong - Riddle was dangerous - but all the same, she felt a stab of annoyance. Had he just decided Tom Riddle was a bad egg? People can change! And what was with a teacher advising a new student to stay away from another? It left a bad taste in her mouth.
"I don't think I can." She said coolly, raising her eyebrow disdainfully (it really was a favoured expression of hers).
Dumbledore blinked. "Oh?"
"Mm. You see," Amalia explained, "Tomorrow is Potions, and if I recall correctly you were the one to suggest that he can help me." She inspected her fingernails. "I'm really useless at Potions. Even if we don't get on, I plan on using him to get an Exceeds Expectations O.W.L."
Dumbledore sighed again, taking in her determined expression. "Alright, as you wish," he said, admitting defeat, "But do take care of yourself. I'm always here if you need to talk."
Recognising her dismissal, Amalia nodded politely and took her bag, exiting the classroom. She had a lot to think about.
For some reason, Dumbledore's words kept coming back to her.
You don't need Tom's friendship.
That was probably true. And what about him? Didn't he need friends? Although, given his treatment of her... she absent-mindedly massaged her wrist - it was laughable to consider getting close to him. Rosier was right - Tom didn't have friends.
And yet, if she was completely honest, she felt as if they already had a bond of some kind. A bond of animosity, perhaps, but a bond all the same. She couldn't help it that when he was in the room, she felt a heightened sense of awareness, of danger… it was exciting. She'd lived with danger and anxiety for a long time now, a hunted animal always looking over her shoulder for a faceless enemy. Tom had declared war on her openly, and an enemy she could face did not scare her. In a way, it was oddly reassuring, like he'd acknowledged her worthiness as an opponent.
Here at Hogwarts she was no longer alone, and yet she still stood apart from Callidora and the others. Everyone was safe, everyone was normal… except Tom. Just like her, he was different.
And different was interesting.
Author's note:
A story in the Harry Potter universe is not complete without a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor that we intensely dislike!
I apologise in advance for my creative license with Rowling's work… I'm sure there are many inconsistencies. J. K. Rowling's world is massive and though I have read all the books several times and watched the movies, I'm not perfect. What's more, in the interests of originality, I'm writing from my own imagination, which may differ from the explicit descriptions in the books/movies. But I'll try to keep the changes to minor details.