Chapter 23: Confrontation

The next morning…

Amalia's eyes fluttered open early as usual, just in time to see the first rays of dawn break on the thin curtains above the bed.

It took her a few moments to remember exactly why she was currently sleeping in The Leaky Cauldron, entangled in the arms of Tom Riddle, of all people. Heat rose in her face and she remained as still as possible. His sleeping face was right in front of hers, his warm breath tickling her eyelashes. He was incredibly handsome, she had to admit, even with the fading bruise on his left cheekbone. Instead of the awful pallor he'd had just hours before, his skin now had a healthier colour, and his breathing was deep and natural.

Some time in the night they had moved even closer, and now his arms encircled her entirely, trapping her against his chest. Their legs were also entangled - he had a possessive leg hooked over hers, his weight pressed up against her hips.

It was a novel experience for her, but certainly not... unpleasant.

She pondered her next move. It was still early, and who knew what time they'd arrived the previous night. He looked like he needed a few more hours of sleep before a late breakfast… she cautiously tried to shift away from him, then froze as he immediately pulled her back, snuggling even closer and emitting a soft snore which ruffled a few strands on her hairline at her temples.

She resisted rolling her eyes with difficulty. He was a control freak even in his sleep, it seemed.

Less carefully now, she ducked her head under his arm and pulled her legs free of his in one smooth movement, trying not to jostle him too much. To her great relief, he still didn't wake up, but rolled into the warm hollow where her body had been, one arm momentarily reaching out, as if searching for her. A frown flitted across his sleeping face, but then he seemed to settle.

She shook her head in disbelief and grinned to herself. She'd keep it a secret for now, but it was great material for the next time he annoyed her.

She collected her clothes from her trunk and then exited, heading next door to the other room she'd rented so she could have a warm shower, and then an early breakfast.

Tom groaned.

There was a shaft of pale winter sunlight shining between the gap in the curtains, directly into his eyes.

He scrunched up his face and curled away from the offending light, trying to open his eyes, which felt glued shut. As he moved a sharp pain stabbed through his side, and all the events of the previous day came flooding back in a dizzying rush.

Amalia had come to the orphanage, and…! He slowly sat up, surveying his surroundings blearily. He couldn't remember much about arriving the previous night (or had it been early morning?) but he was warm, safe, and no matter how confusing the circumstances, he couldn't help an enormous sense of relief at having escaped that place.

Where was Amalia? His room was empty, but her trunk was there, along with his shoes, some bandages and a few small potions bottles messily left on the side table, next to a pitcher of water. He assumed she was in another room, and he was very grateful for that, because... He was remembering a rather embarrassing dream. Usually, he was a lucid dreamer; the results of his legilimency training. But the fact that he'd had this dream... perhaps he'd been too tired to have any control over his mind. He raised a hand to his head, which felt thick and heavy from sleep and lack of food. It had been so realistic. He could even remember how soft her body had felt as she slept pressed up against his chest…

He shook his head, discarding the absurdity of the dream, and got up, changing into some marginally cleaner clothes that he dug out of the small bag she'd left next to her trunk. He really needed a shower, but food was a more pressing concern. He drank some more water from the pitcher, and then walked slowly to the door. He moved like an old man, but he had to admit he felt better already. Amalia's healing potion and a warm bed had done a lot of good. He exited his room, pausing on the landing. In the dining area below he spotted Amalia, reading a copy of The Daily Prophet at a table. He glanced around, but the other patrons of the inn seemed to be ignoring the presence of the two unaccompanied teenagers.

It seemed like she'd finished breakfast and was on her third coffee already.

"... Morning," he mumbled as he approached, still feeling half asleep.

"Good morning!" she chirruped, annoyingly cheerful. "Did you sleep well?"

He tried not to think of his foolish dream, and just settled for a brusque nod, as he dropped into the seat opposite her. A waitress appeared at his elbow and he ordered the biggest breakfast he could, hoping that Amalia had meant it when she'd said she would pay for him.

She looked back to her newspaper as he ordered, and they sat in silence while Tom tried to wake up completely. He was not a morning person…

Half-way through his breakfast, and the worst of his hunger pangs vanquished, he finally couldn't help asking again.

"You know, you never answered my question." He said in a low voice as he picked at his food. He'd ordered too much. "Why did you come for me?"

"I told you, didn't I?" she said lightly, glancing up from the paper. "I was curious." She shrugged.

He seemed annoyed. "Okay, but what about after that? Why did you come back?" he had such a ferocious scowl on his face Amalia wondered idly if he'd ever be able to unknot his eyebrows again.

"You're asking the wrong question." She said at last, putting aside the newspaper and forestalling his reply with a raised hand. "The right question, Riddle," she explained, "Is why wouldn't I come back, after seeing you like that? I know we've had our differences in the past -" she waved a hand as if trying to curse each other to pieces hadn't meant anything, "But I don't hate you."

"You don't?" he was honestly surprised by this.

"Of course not." She said, as if it was obvious. "I'm not petty, Riddle." She paused, and then a hint of coldness entered her gaze. "Even if you are."

"What do you mean by that?" he snapped, surprise turning instantly to annoyance again.

"Be honest," she said with a crooked smile, "You wouldn't have helped me, would you, in a similar situation?"

"You can't know that." He said smoothly, knowing instantly she was right.

She wasn't fooled by his words, and snorted, amused. "It's alright." She said, and looked away, "I wasn't expecting you to be grateful or anything." He felt like she was snubbing him in some way. "I just felt like it. So please don't read too much into it." She seemed keen to change the subject, and fiddled with the newspaper again, the papers rustling.

Tom felt a small stab of some feeling he didn't recognize as she brushed off his lies easily.

"I didn't ask for your help." He muttered, suddenly no longer hungry. He was not-

"I never thought I would see you being so weak." Amalia stated, with a note of anger that surprised her almost as much as it did Tom. "You shouldn't have needed my help. You could have escaped yourself. You're... you're better than that, Riddle."

His temper flared dangerously, and he stared at her. She had that terrible look in her eyes again. Disappointment. As if she had any right to judge him?!

"It's true." She insisted, not flinching at all at his glare which promised a swift death. "The fact that you needed me to help you at all is rather… pathetic."

"Shut up." His voice shook with fury. No one, NO ONE was allowed to call him pathetic…

"I thought you were a fighter." She said, her musical voice accusing, "At the castle you would never surrender. But as soon as you don't have your wand, you curl up and allow some muggles to beat you up?"

She didn't seem to notice the dangerous stillness coming over Tom as pure fury thundered through him. Her words were hitting him in all the lowest places.

"How could you let them do that to you?" she accused angrily, sounding quite upset. "How could you let them... hurt you like that?"

The tension holding him back snapped.

"SHUT UP!" he yelled, and slammed his fist down on the table, scaring the other people sitting nearby. They looked around at him, scandalized as he yelled at the girl opposite him. "You know NOTHING of what - I couldn't - I didn't have a choice!"

She didn't bat an eyelid at his tirade. "Your greasy little followers would have lent you money, if you weren't too proud to ask for it." She spat with just as much venom. "And if you'd fought back from the beginning... stuck up for yourself... That's what I would have done. But of course, you're too worried about damaging your delicate knuckles, aren't you?" she sneered, remembering his reluctance to touch the drunk man the previous night, "Because a wizard doesn't fight like a muggle."

"You think I haven't fought back before?" he raged, spitting his words at her, "It doesn't work! Yes, I let it happen!"

She stared at him. "Why?" she demanded, eyes oddly bright with some emotion, "Why would you let-"

"Because it's better than the alternative, alright?" he snarled, shoving himself away from the table. Amalia flinched as a cup fell off the table and shattered on the ground. "Though it's certainly none of your business."

She frowned, confused. "...Alternative? What... I don't-"

Riddle was actually too angry to speak at all. He knew with certainty that if he'd had his wand, they'd be duelling already. He would be throwing Unforgivables at her right here in this pub.

For a long moment he was silent, but his throat worked. "I don't give a fuck about what you think, Amalia Gray." He said in a deadly, soft voice, and then swept out of the bar.

"Oh dear." Amalia said to herself, massaging her temples as the waitress came to berate her over the broken mug and 'causing a scene'.

She mentally kicked herself. She'd had these thoughts milling around in her head ever since she'd seen him lying there, all broken and alone. He wasn't supposed to be like that. Riddle was strong, and unflappable, and always had a plan. He was dangerous and independent... ambitious and cunning. Seeing him lying there was a shock to the system, and she didn't like it. So she'd felt angry with him, for letting such insignificant muggles - children and drunks - get the better of him. That wasn't the Riddle she knew.

But why did she have to go out and say it? She glumly headed back to her room, then changed direction as she remembered her trunk was in his room. As she walked in she wondered what he was doing. Probably stealing a wand so he can come back and curse me into oblivion, she thought pessimistically, and scowled. "Well done, Amalia." She muttered sarcastically. Then he'll be expelled and sent to Azkaban and I will have ruined his whole life, with a couple of angry sentences… just because I can't keep my stupid mouth shut.

And just when they'd started getting along, too.

Her plan to make peace with him had backfired spectacularly. Again.

She threw herself down on his bed and buried her face in the pillow, groaning. It smelt like him, and she decided it really wasn't an unpleasant smell at all. She resigned herself to the inevitability of him kicking the door down and burning her to a crisp like an avenging angel.

She cracked a humourless smile at the thought, and sat up on the bed. She thought for a moment, and then peeked out of the window. There was no sign of Riddle in the busy street below. Perhaps she should get started with running her own errands in the meantime.

Tom walked in blind rage for a good long while, not even noticing where he was going.

For some reason he realized he had ended up in Knockturn Alley, and his mind went back to the first time he'd met her, on that strange night with Dumbledore.

Curiously, he wandered down an alleyway, trying to remember the route they'd taken… he was sure her apartment had been around here somewhere…

Suddenly he froze, and stared up in shock at the building. This was definitely the same structure. But on the second floor, where she had lived for two years in secret, was a gaping hole. The entire room had been obliterated by fire, gutted until it was barely recognizable except for a couple of charred wooden panels sticking up into the sky like blackened teeth.

He walked over to the entrance and pushed the splintered door gently - it swung open, askew on its hinges. He could feel the malicious residues of powerful, dark magic which had been used to blast through the five enchanted deadbolts. Inside, the staircase had caved in, and damp dust and ash coated every surface, which was now open to the grey sky visible overhead. A skinny orange cat was the only living thing inside, and it hissed at him and ran away.

The aftermath of the curses that had destroyed the building still vibrated on the air, no doubt the reason why no beggar had moved in yet.

Moving with purpose, he strode across the street and rapped on the door. A filthy old crone answered. She didn't know he couldn't use magic outside of school, and shrank back in fear from his forbidding stare. He'd perfected the art of intimidation from a young age. "Answer my questions, woman," he commanded harshly, "When did that - " he gestured over his shoulder, "-happen?"

Her eyes lit up at the question, and she cackled eagerly. "Ah, yes, young master, I remember the day well. The exact day! 'Twas the last day of August." his heart sped up. That would be the very day after she'd left with him and Dumbledore. He'd really thought she was just paranoid, yet another oddity of her character…

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Three… no, four blokes, I think it 'twas," she replied, with a hacking cough. She spat something unrecognizable to the side and he resisted the urge to gag, "They were lookin' for someone. An' awful angry they were, when they didn't find 'em. That's when they did that." She nodded at the burnt-out husk.

Tom turned away without saying thank you.

But as he stepped away, he heard her cackle again, "If you see her," she called out, "You tell that lass to keep runnin'. 'Cause they're around. They're always watchin'."

Her mad laughter followed him as he strode quickly away, and he tried to ignore the sudden feeling that, indeed, unfriendly eyes were following him, also.

His anger at her words that morning was suddenly overshadowed by larger concerns. Who was after her? Why? Had she endangered herself by coming for him at the orphanage, or did she do it on purpose because she was in trouble and didn't want to be alone? All these questions, and more, spun around his head, and he hurried back to the inn, which he suddenly agreed was woefully inadequate as a hiding place.

He burst into her room, which he realized wasn't locked, and then felt a cold pang as he saw it was empty. He went next door and glanced in, but his room was also empty. Her trunk stood at the end of his bed. That, at least, he knew was protected with powerful enchantments… he frowned, and walked closer. There was a note on his bed.

He picked it up. It looked blank, but as his fingers touched it, words surfaced instantly. She must have used Vanishing Ink.

Riddle,

I'm sorry about what I said. I don't want to fight, but I understand if you don't wish to stay with me for the rest of the holidays. So I've left you some money under the pillow, since it's my fault you left the orphanage.

I'm heading out to Flourish and Blotts, and will be back later if you still want to kill me.

(Tom pulled a face at her badly chosen, if not exactly inaccurate, words)

Amalia

P.S. I feel like our presence at The Leaky Cauldron hasn't gone unnoticed. I know you think I'm being stupid, but please be careful.

Tom blinked at the letter. Before, he would have just laughed at her cautiousness, but now it didn't seem so far-fetched. He looked around the room carefully, but nothing seemed out of place. There was no sign of anyone snooping around.

He took the small pouch that had lain underneath the pillow and glanced inside. She'd given him way too much money, an indication of how guilty she felt for fighting with him again. He pocketed it expressionlessly.

He went back to her room and scrutinized it carefully, too, but noticed nothing suspicious. Just because there are people after her doesn't mean they're definitely here, today, he reminded himself. She may have a good reason for being paranoid, but perhaps she was safe for the moment.

As he turned to go, he actually did realize something that knocked him a little off-kilter.

Amalia's bed hadn't been slept in. He paused and blinked at it, wondering for a moment why that simple fact seemed so important.

He knew it was a fact, because she was such an appalling slob. He doubted she'd ever made a bed in her life, and here her sheets were pristine and untouched. Didn't she sleep at all…?

His mouth opened slightly. She hadn't seemed tired, but annoyingly cheerful that morning.

Then, the dream-?

"Damn you, Amalia." He whispered, as colour rose in his face and he had to lean against the door. It hadn't been a dream at all, but a memory. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling oddly off-balance.

As he recalled her softness of her body against his, he had the strangest urge to sit down.

Or take a cold shower.

Or both.

Amalia browsed the shelves of Flourish and Blotts, searching for any books on Ancient Runes. The shop was a lot bigger inside than it looked from the street, and the far corners at the back of the shop often contained rarer tomes. Still, her research required a rather specific set of runes...

"Can I help you?" a mousy-haired male assistant materialised at her side as if hearing her thoughts. He was young, perhaps just out of school, and seemed rather eager.

"Mm," she hummed, turning from the shelves to look at him, "I'm looking for some information on Ancient Runes, specifically those in use in the late Medieval period."

He jumped to attention, gesturing at the tall shelves like an orchestra conductor, "We have a large section of texts on Runes over here... And over here..."

"Yes, I've had a look through them. Unfortunately, they don't seem to be quite comprehensive enough. Is this all you have?" she asked, gesturing at the wall of books.

He seemed crestfallen. "I'm afraid so... These are all the most popular and well-endorsed books currently on the market..."

She sighed, "I see... Pity." Perhaps she should look once more, just in case she'd missed something...? Somehow, she wasn't really surprised. If it was that easy, people would have solved the mystery of the Moving Stones a long time before now. Perhaps the runes were also encoded...?

A portly man bustled over and tried to attract the attention of the shop assistant.

"Sorry, sir, I'm busy with another customer," the young man snapped somewhat rudely, gesturing at Amalia.

She stifled a snort of laughter. He reminded her a little of Avery.

"There's somewhere else you can try, ma'am." he addressed her eagerly.

"Hm?"

He lowered his voice, "I'm not supposed to recommend other stores," he said conspiratorially, "But this place might have what you're looking for. They have more... um... exotic texts on a broad range of subjects."

She raised an eyebrow. "That sounds interesting. The address? Is it in Diagon Alley?"

"Oh, yes," he nodded. "But it's easy to miss. Here, I'll write it down." he took out a notepad from a pocket and scribbled down a few directions before tearing it off and offering it to her.

She flashed a smile at him, noting in amusement the faint tint of colour that rose on his cheeks in response. "Thanks for your help."

"Um... Is there anything else..." he stuttered.

She paused, suddenly getting an unexpected idea for her latest "pacify Riddle" mission.

"Do you happen to have any diaries on sale...?"

Emerging from Flourish and Blotts with her new purchase in a paper bag, she was extremely surprised to have her elbow grabbed, and be quite forcibly whisked away in the opposite direction to The Leaky Cauldron. By none other than the very person she'd just bought the "please-don't-kill-me" gift for.

He marched, dragging her through the bustling crowds of Christmas shoppers without making eye contact with her, his mouth a grim line, and his eyes sharp and unreadable.

She sped up to a trot to avoid being pulled so hard, blinking at him in surprise, "Um... Riddle. What... what are you doing?" she asked, completely bemused and a little anxious.

"Keep up. We're getting away from the crowds." His grip on her arm only tightened. He had no trouble touching people when it was on his terms, it seemed. He'd only ever initiated contact between them a handful of times in all the months she'd known him.

Alarm bells rang loudly in her head.

"Uh... why...?" she caught sight of his right hand. "Oh! You seem to have found a wand." she swallowed thickly, heart sinking. "That's... nice..."

"Turns out you can find just about anything in Knockturn, if you have the money to pay for it." he commented, glancing around swiftly. "Okay, here's good..."

Am I about to be cursed by a wand bought on the black market by my own money...?! she thought dizzily.

He yanked her down a side-street, a quiet, curving lane lined by boarded up stores that had evidently been out of business for a while. He kept striding on until they'd left the noise of the bustling alley behind them.

"Um... Riddle, let's talk about this-" she begged. "We don't have to-"

Air left her lungs with a huff as he suddenly shoved her into a sheltered doorway, her back slamming into the peeling wood. He kept her pinned there, his taller frame blocking her vision as he stepped right into her personal space. She could feel his regular breathing, warm on her cheek, the length of his body actually pressed up against hers... despite this, he didn't seem to be paying much attention to her.

She was feeling more than a little flustered now. "Um...?"

"Shut up." he hissed, busily looking over his shoulder back the way they'd come.

Her nose would have been brushing his collarbone, if he hadn't had his coat on.

"What are you - Mmf-!"

He quickly muffled her surprised squeak with a businesslike hand over her mouth, and went still, listening intently. The bandages around his knuckles were rough against her lips.

A moment later, she found out the reason for his odd behaviour. Amalia froze as heavy footsteps crunched on the icy, cobbled street, coming closer from the same direction they'd come.

Her eyes widened as a figure strode passed their hiding-place, hooded and cloaked. Whoever it was, they seemed too intent on catching up with their quarry to pay close attention to the dark store-fronts on either side.

It was one of Them... She stiffened, feeling the old anxiety rising within her again, feeling sick. She'd barely been in Diagon Alley for twelve hours, and they'd already found her...?

With zero hesitation, Riddle released her and emerged from their hiding place with all of the self-assured presence she'd grown used to seeing at Hogwarts. With a wand in his hand, he effortlessly took control of the situation.

"Expelliarmus." he said coldly, disarming the figure with an elegant flick of his wrist. The man - it was a man, by his build - spun around in surprise, not expecting to be cursed in the back.

Riddle narrowed his eyes, sizing up the man who been following Amalia. What were his intentions? How much danger was she in? He couldn't get a good look at the man's face - the hood was pulled low over his brow, and he was wearing a mask, just as Amalia had once said. But not a full-face, carnival-esque mask... a surgical mask, a white square of cloth covering his nose and mouth.

How curious.

"Who are you?" he demanded, as Amalia finally emerged and walked over to stand at his side. She drew her own wand slowly, and stared at the man with as much intensity as Riddle did. "Speak!"

The man cocked his head slightly at Riddle, as if he was an interesting bug under a microscope, and then turned his head slowly to the mute girl standing at his side.

"Amalia Gray." the man greeted, in a pleasant, yet utterly unremarkable voice. He took a small, deliberate step back, one hand reaching into his pocket.

Riddle tightened his grip on his temporary wand, preparing to curse him if he tried to fight or flee...

"You two have a nice day, now." with a polite dip of his masked and hooded head, the man suddenly disappeared in a flash of blue-grey light, seemingly sucked away into thin air.

Amalia sighed heavily.

She trudged forward to pick up the masked stranger's wand, left abandoned on the ground.

Riddle slowly lowered his wand, frowning. "How..." he thought for a moment, then mused, "It's obviously not Apparition. Perhaps... some kind of self-activating Portkey...? Do you think there'll be more?"

"Probably." she answered miserably, "But they won't approach recklessly for a while."

"Pity." commented Riddle, "I had so many..." he fingered his temporary wand absently with a dark gleam in his eyes, "...Questions."

The deliberate way he said that would've probably sent shivers down the spines of most people, but Amalia found her spirits brightened somewhat. This was the Riddle she remembered from school; the one who was afraid of nothing. He was a dangerous, ambitious megalomaniac... Who was on her side, it seemed. Sure, his intervention might have been mainly out of curiosity, but... Somehow, she didn't think that was the full explanation. Perhaps he didn't hate her that much, after all.

She inspected the wand she'd picked up; it looked pretty normal, no distinguishing features... She pocketed it, and turned back to her companion. "I guess I owe you some answers, then. I'll tell you everything I know, although, I'll warn you... it's not much."

Riddle stared at her unblinkingly; she seemed resigned, yet perfectly willing. Was he really going to find out the mystery of Amalia Gray's origins, at last?!

She started walking away, back towards Diagon Alley's main street.

He fell in step alongside her. "Why suddenly so forthcoming?"

She rolled her eyes, "Because they've seen us together. They might start coming after you next."

She snuck a peek at his reaction. It silenced him, but only for a moment. "Pfft." he snorted contemptuously, lip curling, "They can try."

Despite the seriousness of the strange encounter, Amalia suddenly felt a wave of... fondness?... for the cold-blooded boy walking beside her. How many people would have done what he did? In fact, why did he do it?

She was ironically reminded of his own confused questions about why she'd liberated him from the orphanage. Just a few hours ago, she'd assumed he was incapable of making the same choice - to come to her aid. He hadn't believed it either, she could tell.

Perhaps they were both wrong about what Riddle was and wasn't capable of.

"How did you know?" she asked next.

Riddle glanced at her, then away, impassive as usual, "Your old place in Knockturn was destroyed."

She blinked, surprised. "It is? ...Why did you go there?"

He shrugged, as if he wasn't sure, himself. "When I came back, I noticed your stalker lurking outside the bookstore, glancing in every time your back was turned."

Amalia shuddered delicately, "Ugh, creepy."

They paused on the side of the main street. Christmas was only three days away, so the bustling crowds cheerfully engaged in their shopping was to be expected. Families and couples thronged the streets, engaging in their own domestic dramas as they perused the brightly coloured items on display in the shop windows. Meanwhile, a man had just tried to... What? Follow her? ...Worse? If Riddle hadn't stepped in, who knows if she would have noticed him in time.

It was times like these that Amalia felt most alienated from other, 'normal' people, with their 'normal' problems. Like the rising price of racing broomsticks, or whether to buy a turkey or a roast for their family festivities.

She glanced at Riddle; he, too, was surveying the crowds, with an openly contemptuous look. She hid a grin. Perhaps the garish Christmas decorations were giving him a headache, too.

Suddenly feeling more cheerful, she said brightly, "Hey, I have an idea!"

Riddle narrowed his eyes at her. "What?" he said suspiciously.

"I'm hungry." she stated, grabbing his sleeve, "Do you want to get some ice cream? We can discuss everything over a sundae."

"...Desist." he glared at her, and she stopped tugging on the sleeve of his coat, raising her hands in a good-natured apology.

But she was no less enthusiastic about her idea.

"I know this awesome place, Florean Fortescue's, they serve the best ice cream you've ever-"

"Ridiculous."

"Oh, I think you mean delicious."

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, c'mon, Riddle," she wheedled, "It'll be great, I promise! Don't you like ice cream?"

"..."

"I've seen you eating your fudge sundae dessert in the Great Hall with great enjoyment, you can't lie to me."

Well, 'great enjoyment' might be stretching it too far; his politely blank expression was hardly ecstatic. But she'd noticed he always finished the bowl; unusual, since he was a terribly picky eater.

Riddle was silent a short while. She could smell victory.

"It's snowing." he stated, in a last-ditch effort to sound resolute, "What kind of idiot craves ice cream in this weather?"

Amalia shot him a hopeful smirk, "...I'll pay?"

A barely audible sigh escaped him.

"...Fine."

Author's note:

Next chapter, finally some background on Amalia's past!

Please leave a juicy review :D