Author's note:

I'm glad someone got my "demonic butler" reference in the last chapter, haha! I'm totally channeling Sebastian for inspiration when Tom is being all evil yet charming.

Also, I got a review from a reader who disabled PMs, which I'll just answer here to clear up any confusion anyone else has:

The review: I noticed that in one of the first few chapters, Amalia didn't want to get her hands dirty in Herbology, but Tom didn't really mind. Then, just a few chapters ago, Tom didn't want to get his hands dirty with that kid who beat him, but Amalia did. It doesn't seem consistent.

It's not supposed to be consistent - even Tom thinks it's weird that Amalia is totally okay with touching Harold. I was trying to imply that Amalia was so upset on Tom's behalf that she didn't really notice it, and also, people don't gross her out as much. Herbology in her mind is just glorified gardening, and it's got more to do with the fact that she thinks it's beneath her. Tom, on the other hand, is fine with getting his hands literally dirty, unless it means touching people. So you could say they have opposite ideas of what they consider "dirty". Sorry if that wasn't clear!

This chapter was supposed to contain more plot, but I got sidetracked by writing eccentric characters. The HP universe is awesome because you're really not limited at all with how weird you can make people. However, it's quite long and I'm happy with how it all turned out :)

Chapter 25: Hags and Werewolves

It wasn't difficult to follow the directions on the piece of paper Amalia had from the eager book shop assistant. In no time at all, Amalia and Riddle found themselves standing outside a narrow doorway on a quieter stretch of Diagon Alley, above which a peeling sign vaguely read 'Emporium Obscurum'. On either side of the door there was some sprigs of dried herbs entangled in what looked like beaded muggle dream-catchers. They exchanged a jaded look - from the outside, this didn't exactly scream 'legitimate establishment' - but nevertheless, they had come this far already. Riddle pushed open the door and led the way inside.

A faint tinkling bell sounded as the door swung wide, announcing their arrival.

It took a few moments for Amalia's eyes to adjust to the gloom in the store; there were no windows. The only light came from shaded lanterns attached to the walls, barely visible since it was also lined with shelves upon shelves of curious knickknacks and unidentifiable objects. Everything was covered in a layer of dust, and the air felt heavy and dry. The rest of the store receded into darkness, with many display cases and tables of varying size piled high with odd trinkets blocking the view to the back of the room. There was obviously no particular order or arrangement to the haphazardly placed items, so Amalia had no idea where to look. She wandered over to the nearest shelf curiously. It was stuffed with books of all shapes and sizes; some in languages she didn't recognise. They all looked like they were limited or one-edition books, some even handwritten. It was a treasure trove of rare knowledge, despite the dream catchers outside.

Amalia felt excitement flare within; surely, there must be something that could help them in amidst all the junk.

"I've never been here before," she mused, a little surprised. She'd really thought she'd been in every store in Diagon Alley, but clearly she'd missed this place. So did other people, it seemed, judging by the absolute stillness inside. They were the only customers despite it being the busiest time of the year for Diagon Alley.

She ran slim fingers over the cracked spines of the nearest volumes, ignoring the dust swirling in the air, which was already making her nose itch, and looked up to the next shelf, observing what looked like some creature preserved in a jar. It had five octopus-like legs and one roving eye, which moved jerkily, as if searching for something.

"We shouldn't waste time," reminded Riddle, sighing impatiently as he noticed her gravitating next towards another shelf of fat books decorated with esoteric symbols and pictures.

"Mm." She hummed distractedly, not hearing a word he said.

Riddle was reminded of her obsession with rare books; the extensive collection she'd proudly displayed in her Knockturn apartment (now secreted in her trunk), and the amount of time she spent cloistered in the Library. He remembered that the promise of books had been the thing that had eventually persuaded her to come to Hogwarts. Riddle understood the hunger; acquiring knowledge, potentially things no one else knew, was a compulsion they shared. But it was getting late, and they had unknown enemies stalking them. Lingering would be unwise.

"Gray."

"Mm."

She was leafing excitedly through a large, square-shaped book which was covered in what looked like the hide of a zebra. It was so bulky she struggled gamely to keep it steady with one arm as she paged.

He felt a spike of annoyance. "Amalia."

The unusual use of her name at last caused her to look up, and she caught his irritated expression. "Riddle! Check this out!" she said excitedly, "This is a book handwritten by Livingstone himself! I can't believe it isn't in a museum somewhere!"

"Sounds fake." he said immediately.

"...It smells old." she said stubbornly.

He rolled his eyes. "That means nothing conclusive."

"It's covered in the skin of a zebra," she said, as if that settled the matter, "Livingstone explored Africa."

"You're unbelievable."

She stuck out her tongue at him, and grinned. "You're the unbeliever."

"We shouldn't waste time." He reminded her, giving up.

She closed the book carefully and hoisted it under her arm. "I'm taking this." She said decisively, her eyes already darting back to the shelves.

"You're the one with stalkers. It's getting late." he reminded her, "I would have thought you'd have more of a sense of self-preservation by now."

"Oh, stop nagging, Riddle." She said airily. "And they're not my stalkers – they're our stalkers. Where's all that big talk about ambushing and confronting them? Don't tell me you're getting paranoid." She took great joy in throwing his caution back in his face; he'd done nothing but mock and belittle her 'paranoia' ever since they'd first met.

She half expected the usual death-threat to follow her teasing, but he merely gave her an unimpressed, flat stare, and then rolled his eyes. "Come. Let's get this over with. We should ask the proprietor of this dump if they have any information on those runes; searching manually would take ages."

Amalia shut her mouth in surprise, shocked that for once he didn't snap at her. He had completely overlooked her teasing. She fell in step with him as he walked past the bookshelves, musing that if this new… tolerance… continued, it marked a significant step forward in their alliance... Relationship? Partnership…?

They came to a dead end formed by three lop-sided, high cabinets. Backtracking, they took a different route and ended up at a crossroads formed out of piles of junk. They paused under the dim red glow of what looked like a salvaged Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling.

"Hello?" Riddle called out, his voice ringing with quiet authority and a hint of annoyance. "Is anyone here?"

After a few moments, they heard an answering, quavery woman's voice say, "Come further in, my dear." a breathy chuckle, "Further in... Into the bowels."

Amalia's nose wrinkled at this unpleasant image, made worse by the red light, "Um... Ew."

They headed down a narrow corridor of shelves, in the direction of the voice. Fortunately, they at last emerged and noticed a large, squat desk in the corner of the room, behind which a lumpy shape of a woman lurked, sitting in shadow. There was sickly sweet incense burning, the sticks glowing a faint orange as they slowly curled into ash on a plate in front of the woman. The air was hazy with smoke. It was very melodramatic.

A muscle ticked in Riddle's jaw, "I can just tell, this is going to be a weird one." he said grimly in an undertone to Amalia. "You can talk to her. This was your idea, anyway."

"Oh, thank you," Amalia drawled sarcastically, stepping around him and taking the lead.

She hitched a bright smile on her face, peering into the dark corner. The woman seemed rather bulky, sitting in shadow and smoke, and it was hard to get a good fix on her face. For some reason she was swamped in various shawls, one draped around her head, which seemed... misshapen, somehow. She had a fat double-chin, and also... what seemed to be some kind of growth, the size of a grapefruit, on the side of her face...?

"Good-day, ma'am," Amalia said politely, trying to discreetly squint at the woman, "I'm wondering if you'll be able to help us? I'm looking for information on some unusual runes... I haven't been able to find them in any of the usual runic lexicons. Since your... collection is rather extensive, I'm hoping you can point us in the right direction."

"Runes, you say?" repeated the woman in a surprisingly throaty, slow voice, completely different to the rather high-pitched, quavery voice they'd heard before. The woman's entire bulk shook with each ponderous word, the glittering shawls swishing softly.

Amalia blinked a few times, her eyes adjusting to the gloom at last. She promptly wished they hadn't. By her side, she sensed Riddle was staring, too.

"Um... yes, runes." she managed to confirm, swallowing hard.

Don't stare, don't stare, don't stare... she thought desperately, and elbowed Riddle discretely. He blinked as if coming out of a stupefied daze and cleared his throat unnecessarily, trying to shrug off his momentary lapse in decorum.

"S-so... can you help us?" Amalia asked weakly. Merlin's beard, I'm staring again.

"Perhaps we have something that can help you." the deep voice said.

"But perhaps not." piped up the higher voice.

"Perhaps not." agreed the deeper voice solemnly.

Riddle made an impatient noise from beside Amalia. She discreetly trod on his shoe; the sooner they got through this, the sooner they could leave. Which would be great, since Amalia was starting to feel nauseated just looking at this... person.

"Perhaps we don't want to help you." wheezed the higher voice, with a breathy chuckle that seemed more malicious than teasing.

"We may not like you." Added the deeper voice. Her jowls wobbled as she nodded ponderously.

There was an awkward silence.

"You're staring." tittered the small head bulging grotesquely on the side of the fat woman. Its pinched features contracted into a creepy grimace.

"Well, I'm sorry," Amalia apologized, diverting her gaze to the walls, ceiling, floor... "It's just that... Um..." Was there any way of saying it without offending her?

"You have two heads." Riddle stated bluntly. He seemed fixated in horrified fascination.

"Riddle!" hissed Amalia, face-palming. They needed information, which meant not deliberately antagonizing this person!

"What?" he shrugged dismissively. "She does."

"How rude!" screeched the smaller head, contorting its wizened features, "She doesn't have two heads! We have one body!"

"That's the same thing, isn't it?" Riddle threw back, utterly impassive.

"Oh, you little-!"

"Hush." Chided the other head. "It's not the first time, nor the last." Heavy-lidded eyes dragged up to stare at Riddle's unimpressed face, and she intoned solemnly, "A curse gone awry, a spell backfired. Now two are one, until we expire."

Riddle made a scornful sound, most likely about her terrible little rhyme, and the woman's eyes narrowed malevolently. "You have something to say, boy?"

"It was Side-long Apparition, wasn't it?" he said, sounding bored and more than a little scathing. "There was no curse, you just got Splinched."

The woman swelled with indignation, a dull flush creeping over her face in embarrassment, telling them that Riddle's guess was spot-on.

"Ahem." Coughed Amalia, her patience running thin and she sensed the situation was deteriorating, "Moving on… I have a few of the runes sketched out on some parchment. If you could take a look and recommend any books you may have, I'd be very grateful." She rummaged in her bag hurriedly.

The smaller head sneered, "I don't like you, boy. You have an ill look about you."

Amalia's eyebrow twitched. An 'ill look', really? That was coming from this hideous, two-headed hag?

The bigger head asked ponderously. "What's your blood status? Who is your family?"

Amalia finally found the paper with her notes on it, and placed it on the desk with a flourish. "There's no need for that, is there?" she said reasonably. "If you'd just have a look, we'll be on our way, and-"

"Not so fast, girl." The woman raised a pudgy hand covered in gaudy rings. Her eyes were fixed on Riddle. "Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

His jaw clenched, but he sounded utterly bored when he replied, "... Tom Riddle."

"Not a wizarding name, that one!" squawked smaller head, suddenly sounding triumphant.

"Indeed not." agreed the other. "I could tell. And I thought today would be interesting." Her wide mouth stretched into an unpleasant smile. "But it's just another thrill-seeking mudblood, fouling up the air with his muggle stench." she glared at Riddle up and down with a sneer, "Leave. We don't deal with your kind here."

Amalia's fists clenched.

Was this how he was always treated by wizarding society? If so, no wonder he was so sensitive about his heritage. They lived in an intolerant time, and this had obviously happened to him before. She felt him stiffen beside her, but he held himself back, face like stone. His restraint was admirable.

She had never enjoyed exercising restraint, herself.

WHAM. The misshapen form jumped slightly and both heads let out a shriek of surprise as she slammed both hands (and the heavy zebra-skin book) on the desk, leaning forward aggressively. Her magic crackled around her, raising the ends of her hair and forcing the air from the woman's unhealthy lungs in a strangled gasp which sounded more like a whimper. An unnatural wind whipped away the stink of incense, causing dust and loose pages to flutter in the air around them.

"Now, listen here, you two-headed bitch," Amalia snarled viciously, eyes flashing, "We didn't fucking come here to hear your bigoted, ignorant bullshit about blood purity. Riddle is the top student at Hogwarts," she spat, jerking her head at her (now-staring) companion, "It's not an exaggeration to say that he's the greatest prodigy since Dumbledore himself. One day, he'll be the wizard that surpasses him. Do you know who Dumbledore is? Or are your heads so far up your own ass you never get out of this dusty shithole?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Riddle was still staring at her incredulously, possibly at the sudden torrent of bad language. A faint tint of colour rose in her cheeks, though she tried her best to ignore him. She was only speaking her mind.

The woman's mouth opened to say something, and in the blink of an eye Amalia drew the wand that had belonged to her stalker and shoved it in the woman's face, the tip sparking threateningly. "Just give me an excuse," she said menacingly, "I beg you."

She would risk using magic if it meant she could curse this ignorant hag, particularly since she had the advantage of not using her own wand. Both heads looked cross-eyed as they tried to keep the wand in sight. The smaller head was whimpering. The muggle dream-catchers outside, the stinking incense, the fact that this woman had been splinched... all of this told Amalia that she was dealing with a charlatan, a witch who probably had very little skill in magic, choosing to hide behind books instead.

Her tirade seemed to have left the woman frozen in momentary shock. "Now that I have your attention," Amalia continued sweetly, "I'd really like it if you could look at the fucking paper and tell me what I want to know."

"…Th-there's no need for unpleasantness," the woman stuttered, finding her voice at last.

"No need," squeaked the smaller head in agreement, twisting her face uncomfortably as if wishing she could detach herself from the larger body and run away. Riddle was still staring at Amalia as if he'd never seen her before.

"Here." Amalia shoved the paper over and took a small step back, though she didn't put her wand away just yet. "I'm waiting."

The two-headed woman was silent for a long moment, looking down at the parchment miserably. She broke out in a cold sweat as the seconds trickled slowly by.

"It's an alchemical symbol, not a rune." the strange woman said resentfully at last, shifting uncomfortably and plucking at her shawl. "They aren't in any practical use anymore, though. Not since the early days of Babylon."

"Babylon? The first civilisation?" Amalia traded a glance with Riddle. "The timeline's a little wrong for where I found them."

The woman shrugged. "They've been studied and documented extensively since then. The Sumerians were believed to be the first to consciously use magic, and they recorded their spells and potions on stone slabs. You might be able to extract some kind of meaning from this with a Sumerian alchemical dictionary."

"I see." Amalia played idly with the wand in her hands. "And would you happen to know where we could find one?"

The woman glared weakly at her, then made a 'harrumph' sound and levered her bulk up, waddling away down an aisle of books and other knickknacks. She found the right text remarkably quickly, a rather unassuming, thin book, bound in black leather. Inside was a neatly printed, very technical-looking discussion of Sumerian symbols and runes.

'We'll take it." Amalia said decisively, flicking briefly through the pages. It was precisely what they needed; she even recognized one or two symbols from her cursory glance. She hoisted the zebra-skin book. "This, too. How much?"

The woman pursed her lips, her beady eyes darting down to Amalia's wand nervously, before she grunted mutinously, "Perhaps I don't want to sell."

Amalia narrowed her eyes, and tucked the two books very deliberately under her arm, "Well, then," she said coldly, glaring, "I appreciate the gift."

She reached into her bag, drawing out a single gleaming Galleon, and flicked it at the dumbstruck woman, who flinched as the heavy coin hit her shoulder and bounced off, rolling on the floor. "Consider that a donation for your good service." Amalia sneered, and turned on her heel, striding out of the store.

She was vaguely aware of Riddle trailing after her. He still hadn't said anything since her outburst.

Their boots crunched on the dirty ice as they made their way along the twisted streets of Knockturn.

Amalia had conjured some wheels for her trunk and was pulling it beside her as light snowflakes swirled down from the darkening sky. It irked her that she hadn't quite mastered Vanishing objects that large just yet. At least it was enchanted to weight very little, so it wasn't too much of an inconvenience.

By the time they had returned to The Leaky Cauldron and retrieved their possessions, the sun had already set. Now they were on their way to a new and hopefully more discreet place to spend the night, and both teenagers felt very aware of unfriendly eyes following them. It was unclear whether they were being followed or if it was simply the dodgy inhabitants of magical London's worst neighbourhood taking an interest in them as they passed.

"Okay, what is it?" Amalia snapped at last.

"What's what?" Riddle asked nonchalantly.

She snorted at his attempt to sound blasé. "You've been staring at me this whole time."

"I have not." he denied, and immediately started taking an interest in over-flowing trashcan they were walking past.

"Is it about what happened at that shop? You've not said a word since that ignorant hag called you a mudblood."

His shoulders stiffened at the memory, but then he just shrugged, "I think you said all that needed to be said." He glanced at her with a small smirk, "Even if I was surprised by your foul mouth."

Amalia grinned sheepishly, "Yeah, well... I tend to do that when I lose my temper."

"I've noticed." That sharp tongue was usually directed at him, after all.

"I meant every word," she said adamantly, looking fierce as she recalled the confrontation. She wondered if this was the first time anyone had ever spoke up in his defense. Was that why he was acting strangely? "Ugh, intolerant idiots like that bitch really piss me off. Blood purity... I just don't get the point." She threw a meaningful look at him - his own intolerant views were ironically just as bad - but he ignored the jibe. Silence fell as they continued walking.

"You're staring again." she said dryly, glancing at him, sidelong.

His expression was closed off, unreadable. "Did you mean everything you said?" he asked at last, dark eyes watching her intently for any trace of deceit.

She thought for a moment, wondering which part of what she'd said was causing him to obsess.

"You talking about..." she said slowly, pretty sure her hunch would be correct, "...What I said about you surpassing Dumbledore?"

His silence and continued staring was answer enough.

She nodded. "Yes. I have no idea what he was like in school, but I'm pretty sure you'd measure up. And Dumbledore only wants to maintain the status quo. Unlike him, you have ambitions, plans... Purpose. You have the power and the will to do whatever it takes to succeed."

He was silent, a small frown creasing his forehead.

Amalia hid a smile at his confusion. "We're almost there." she murmured, pausing at an ice-covered street name and trying to remember how many blocks further on their destination was.

"What about you?" Riddle said abruptly, facing her as they paused.

She met his obsidian eyes fearlessly, and her lips curled up in a smirk, "I'm the same." she said simply, "That goes without saying. Or do you disagree?"

After a beat of silence, he looked away, prompting a surprised smile from Amalia, who had expected some kind of scathing comment about how she could never measure up. Then, just as she'd accepted and made peace with the fact that he wasn't actually going to answer her, she heard a quiet... (not malicious, not cold, not angry)

"... No."

And then, stilted, awkward, so quiet she barely heard it...

"...I don't disagree."

Warmth suffused Amalia's face as she goggled at him in shock. He was glaring fixedly down the street, a dark scowl on his face.

Her grip tightened on the handle of her trunk as she considered the significance of what had just transpired. In one single phrase, Riddle had just done the impossible; he'd indirectly... hesitantly... somewhat resentfully... implied that they were equals. Of course, he hadn't said so exactly, but... taking his superiority complex into account, it was about as close to the admission as he was ever likely to get.

Amalia suddenly had a weird urge to squeal and throw her arms around him (her inner Ravenclaw fangirl rising again). She didn't, of course. She didn't actually have a deathwish.

So, before the moment was ruined, she just cleared her throat and weakly said, "Um... it's just three blocks this way."

They continued their journey in deafening silence, Amalia internally bemoaning the fact that she'd just shyly "Um'd" like an idiot, and Riddle...

Well, who could tell what Riddle was thinking about.

According to Amalia, The Humping Crupp was a pub/inn similar in function to The Leaky Cauldron, but with a much less savory clientele. Admittance was, however, quite exclusive (given the criminals and low-lives that frequented the establishment), so, ironically, it was the safer option. The entrance was just a rusted manhole in a dirty back alley. When tapped thrice with a wand, the grate slid open with a heavy grinding noise to reveal narrow, descending iron steps.

At the bottom of the steps was a grimy lantern with a single flickering candle inside, emitting a magical blue light, illuminating a plain wooden door. The manhole slid closed behind them.

Amalia led the way and placed a hand on the doorknob, but when Riddle stepped after her, the candle flickered and turned from blue to red, and they heard a heavy bolt slide home on the other side of the door.

Amalia sighed tiredly. "He's upgraded his security. I'm guessing the door only opens to people the owner recognizes. He doesn't know you."

"So, what now?" Riddle didn't bother hiding the irritation in his voice. He was exhausted and hungry, and cold, and his healing ribs throbbed abominably from being on his feet almost all day.

She rapped her knuckles smartly on the door. "I'll introduce you. Be nice." she warned.

He just huffed in response. He could be charming when he wanted to, but he was tired and Amalia seemed more than up to the task.

In no time at all a slot in the door slid open, and Riddle could see narrowed eyes under bushy brows, deep-set in a wrinkly face, looking suspiciously from left to right. They set on Amalia's face and widened in recognition.

"Little Miss Gray!" he exclaimed in a pleased, scratchy baritone, "Why, it's been ages since yer last visit! Thought ye'd fergotten about me!"

Amalia chuckled. "Ringori Two-foot, how could I ever forget you? Do you mind opening the door? I'm bringing a friend tonight- I hope that's okay."

Riddle found himself being appraised by sharp brown eyes, "Well... that would depend on the friend, innit?"

He gave a stiff nod of greeting, but decided not to say anything.

"I'm vouching for him. Isn't that good enough?" a hint of steel entered her voice.

"Alrigh', alrigh' little miss, no need t'get testy." said the old man, and the door rattled as he unbolted his side. It swung wide to admit them. "Any friend o' yours is a friend o' mine."

Riddle wondered what exactly Amalia had done to earn this man's friendship.

They walked into a wide, vaguely circular room, with chairs and tables arranged in separate booths around a wide central stone pit of fire. By the rusted attempts at decor on the walls and furniture Riddle surmised it had originally attempted to follow a Celtic theme.

It wasn't empty; in fact, the other shady-looking patrons numbered enough to almost fully populate the booths and chairs around the room. And all of them looked with varying degrees of interest at the new arrivals.

Seemingly unbothered by the stares they were attracting, Amalia gamely made her way straight to the bar, squeezing onto a stool next to a massive man with a red beard, who eyed her somewhat appreciatively. Riddle slid into the one open chair next to her and met the man's eyes with his best 'Back off' glare. It seemed to work, as the red-bearded man grunted and hurriedly turned his attention back to his tankard.

"We need rooms." Amalia said, businesslike, as 'Ringori Twofoot' took up his position behind the bar. "For tonight... perhaps tomorrow night as well."

Now that there was sufficient light, Riddle could easily believe that the proprietor was a werewolf, from his greying, shaggy hair and fiercely bushy eyebrows, to his generally lanky frame which moved with a noticeable muscular grace, despite his age. When he started swiping a dishcloth at a glass beer mug, Riddle noticed his abnormally long, bony fingers, ending in thick, yellowed nails. He was also missing a leg from the knee down, though with the help of a carved crutch, it didn't seem to impede his movement.

The werewolf caught his gaze and sniggered, signalling his stump, "The name's ironic."

"Ringo," Amalia pressed, "Rooms."

"I got no space, m'fraid," the old werewolf said cheerfully, turning to her and waving vaguely at the packed inn, "Even fer yer ladyship." he flashed crooked, slightly pointed teeth in a faux-apologetic grin and tipped an imaginary hat.

"I told you not to call me that." deadpanned Amalia, unamused. She meaningfully slid a closed hand across the scratched counter, "Well, perhaps I can change your mind."

He accepted what she offered with a casual swipe of his long-fingered hand and glanced down, the bribe hidden by the dirty dishcloth.

His craggy face split into a wide grin at the generous 'contribution'. "O' course, for a friend," he said smoothly, "I kin always make an ess-ception. For you and yer man, Missy, I got a spare bed in the basement. Very discreet."

"... Bed, singular?" clarified Riddle sharply, ignoring the sidelong glance Amalia immediately threw at him, wicked amusement lighting up her eyes.

"Aye." nodded the old man, looking between them knowledgeably, and winking, "It'll be righ' cosy, an' ye won't be disturbed." His leer widened, "I got some chains in there, too... to use on a monthly basis, if you catch my drift," the old werewolf winked, "But since the full-moon's still some time away, yer welcome to use them for... yer own needs." he sniggered at the innuendo.

"Sounds perfect." Amalia said nonchalantly.

The old werewolf shuffled off to serve another of his customers, and Amalia turned to Riddle with a mischievous smile. The chance to tease him was just too good to pass up. "Did you hear that, Riddle? This might be a good opportunity to try out bondage."

His flat stare didn't look amused in the least, but then she noticed his eyes flicker down her body, a glance so brief, most would have missed it.

She choked. "Oh my god." She leaned closer to him, eyes wide, "...You imagined it, didn't you?"

A hint of defiance entered his dark gaze as he cocked his head thoughtfully. "You know, Gray," he murmured back, a dangerous, husky undercurrent of malice making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle pleasantly, "Your tongue has been extremely sharp today. We're essentially on the same side for the moment, but even my patience has its limits."

On the surface, it was the usual threat, impossible to tell whether he was utterly serious or not... And yet, there seemed to be a subtly playful edge to his words that Amalia was picking up on. Was it her imagination, or...? She tilted her head in a parody of his posture, challenging, "...Are you saying you don't like my tongue?" she stuck it out cutely and then wet her lips with deliberately slow strokes, liking the way his eyes caught the movement.

Suddenly he was right in front of her, and then his head was bent towards hers, and before she could move she felt his warm breath caressing her neck.

"I'm saying, Amalia," she suppressed as shiver at the sound of her name murmured with such dark intensity into her ear. "...That if you annoy me any further this evening, I might just be using those chains in the basement... and I promise you won't enjoy it."

She might disagree with that last bit, especially if he kept using that tone with her. She was suddenly paralyzed, and very aware of her own erratic pulse. Damn teenage hormones! she groaned internally.

He withdrew, looking smug at her flustered appearance. As usual, he had not a hair out of place, while it took her a while to find her voice again. "A-asshole." she finally managed, knowing she had just utterly failed at hiding the fact that her brain had just flat-lined.

Fortunately for her, further conversation was interrupted by the return of the grizzled werewolf.

"Ringo," Amalia said with some relief, tearing her eyes away from Riddle's amused smirk. "Let's catch up."

"What's new? Besides the boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend." Amalia said hastily, "Just a... friend... from school."

"I'm not her friend." Riddle said immediately, folding his arms with a scowl.

"What- you-" Amalia spluttered.

"She actually kidnapped me." Riddle informed the werewolf, with an affected, long-suffering sigh.

Ringo cackled loudly at the dumbfounded expression on Amalia's face, "That sounds like 'er ladyship, alright!"

Amalia groaned and hid her face in her arms. Of all the times for Riddle to find a sense of humour!

"But I'm glad yer not still gallivantin' about on yer own, missy." Ringo said to Amalia, nodding at Tom. "Ess-specially with those masked bastards creepin' 'round."

"You've seen them?" asked Riddle, surprise evident in his tone. One slim eyebrow rose and he leant forward slightly, fixing the older man with a no-nonsense stare, "How do you know about that?" he demanded, all traces of levity gone.

Ringo gazed at Riddle steadily for a few long moments, before turning back to Amalia and jerking a thumb at him. "I like this one." he told her. "Protective, eh?"

Amalia snorted - Riddle and 'protective' was like an oxymoron - and laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Relax." she told him, "Nothing happens around Knockturn without Ringo hearing about it from his patrons, some time or other. He's known about my little problem for a while now." Riddle threw off her hand with an irritable twitch, as usual, but some of the tension in his posture eased.

She turned back to the werewolf, and asked quite seriously, "They haven't been here, have they? Recently?"

"In this pub?" Ringo shook his head slowly, "Nope, not a chance. Ye can ask around, though," he offered, "We get all types through 'ere. And I can put some feelers out for ye. See what the word on the street is."

"That would be helpful." Amalia said in relief. "We're going back to Hogwarts after Christmas, so we just need to lay low for another week."

"So, Hogwarts, eh? Always knew you was destined fer somethin' more'n this shithole. How's yer classes been goin'?"

As Ringo inquired about her new life, sounding weirdly paternal and a little wistful, Riddle glanced around the room, eyes flicking assessingly to each shady-looking patron. They were all men, except for one old crone he suspected was at least part hag. He tensed as he realized that many of them were looking their way, with an unhealthy amount of curiosity.

In fact, they were staring at Amalia; she stood out like a sore thumb in her expensive clothing. He stood out less, wearing dirty shoes and with a faded bruise on his face, but her neat, fashionably short haircut and clean face, not to mention her obvious youth and beauty, was drawing a lot of attention. Their eyes were hungry and sly; either they were thinking about robbing her, or they were interested in her for other reasons. He suspected the only reason they hadn't already been approached was because of her obvious close relationship with the innkeeper. He subtly angled his body between her and the onlookers, shooting the worst of them an icy, challenging glare. After a moment, it seemed to work and they averted their eyes; he looked older than he was, and they must have seen something dangerous in his gaze. He returned to the conversation Amalia was having with the bartender, paying attention to their surroundings more as he did so.

"Ye look like ye need a drink." Ringo pushed a cracked shot glass of something in front of her. It was a murky, greyish-brown colour, and disturbingly, it was smoking slightly. She sniffed it gingerly, and abruptly jerked back. "Oh, Merlin... What is that? It smells absolutely foul!"

The innkeeper cackled with glee at her reaction, causing the large, red-bearded man on her right to look up. Seeing her disgusted expression, his mouth stretched into a leer, displaying crooked teeth.

"That, m'dear," explained the man, "Is Ringo's house special. Fouler'n bubotuber pus and stronger'n firewhiskey, and he won't tell us what's in it. Drink a pint o' that an' you'll be seein' stars for days."

Amalia pushed the glass back towards Ringo. "I'll pass." she said hastily.

"Y'sure ye don't want to try summat a little stronger?" said the man, sidling closer, "We could get t'know each other better-"

"Like I said, I'll pass." Amalia deadpanned, edging away from the man.

"Aw, don' be like that, sweetheart-"

"Do you like your beard?" Amalia demanded suddenly, a dangerous gleam in her eye. "I know a magic trick with beards. It involves fire. Do you want to see?"

"Lay off this one, Felchly," Ringo advised with a snigger, "She's a spirited one."

"I kin handle meself!" protested 'Felchly'.

Ringo rolled his eyes. "Sure."

Amalia opened her mouth to argue further, but was stopped by a tight grip on her wrist.

"You should get some sleep." Riddle said firmly, giving her a meaningful look. Their interaction with the man was attracting even more unwelcome attention; he was pretty sure if they stayed, she'd be surrounded in minutes by curious drunkards, friends with the proprietor or not.

She evidently sensed the changing atmosphere and hesitantly nodded. "But... We should ask around for information, first."

"I got somethin' t'show ya!" leered the red-bearded man, gesturing crudely, "It's pretty excited t'meetcha, too!"

Riddle and Amalia ignored him, Ringo cuffed him over the head, and he pouted and went back to his tankard, muttering.

"We'll have time in the morning." Riddle said firmly, as if the interruption hadn't happened, "Go."

She nodded slowly. "I guess. I'll... go downstairs then." She got up from her stool, and frowned when he made no move to join her. "What about you?"

"I'll be along shortly." he said dismissively, turning back to the bar.

She shrugged - perhaps he had some kind of plan, or perhaps he just wasn't keen for sharing a bed. Either way, she was pretty tired.

"You shouldn't order any food here... for health reasons. I've got food in my bag." She opened her small shoulder bag and reached in, grateful for her decision to raid the Hogwarts Express food trolley. "Pumpkin pasty or... steak and kidney pie?"

He stared at her for a moment, blank-faced.

"... Both." he said at last.

She just grinned and passed the food over, then signalled Ringo, who came to help her drag her trunk down to the basement.

It was late when the trapdoor to the basement finally creaked open.

Amalia was lying awake, her eyes closed, the open zebra-skin book face-down on her stomach. She had a lot to think about, plans to make... and somehow she hadn't been able to get to sleep knowing that Riddle would be coming to share the (fortunately queen-sized) bed at some point in the night. Seeing as they were in the basement, it was impossible to know what time it was, but Amalia estimated it was around midnight at least. After their late night the previous night as well, she was quite exhausted. She knew Riddle must be feeling even more tired; he was still in the process of recovering from his injuries.

She heard him pause on the steps down into the basement, feeling his eyes locating her form in the dim light. Clearly, he was wondering if she was sleeping.

She considered pretending to be asleep, just to see what he'd do, but... she wanted to talk to him.

"Are you just going to stand there all night?" she drawled, yawning and stretching like a cat.

"Shut up." He snapped immediately, and she heard his footsteps shuffling nearer. His retort was rather... simplistic. Riddle was an eloquent guy, and his ability to tie you up in barbed invective was particularly impressive. "Shut up" was just not his usual go-to response.

She narrowed her eyes at him thoughtfully in the gloom, but she could barely make out his silhouette as he approached. Was he in a bad mood?

She rolled onto her side to face him with a smirk. "Come to bed, darling." she purred in a sultry voice, patting the space on the threadbare mattress right next to her.

She blinked in surprise as she saw him stumble slightly, possibly at her words, possibly because of the dim light.

"Touch me and you're spending the night on the floor. With the cockroaches." he warned coldly, with just a hint of a slur. A slur?

Amalia's mouth dropped open as she sat up. "Are you... drunk?"

"Of course not." Riddle retorted instantly, trying not to sway. How the hell had she noticed? He'd barely walked in and said one sentence, and the room was very dark. The pleasantly loose-limbed buzz he'd been feeling after indulging in Ringo's 'house special' evaporated. Now he just felt irritated and slightly dizzy.

He was suddenly very aware of Amalia, and very aware of the sleeping arrangements. He'd been planning to kick her out of the bed - doubtless a hoarder like Amalia had a sleeping bag or something similar in her bottomless trunk - but now that it came to the actual kicking-out, he was less sure of his success. His eyes wandered over to the wall, where heavy iron chains were attached to the wall; Ringo hadn't been joking. He told himself that it would suffice as Plan B, if she got too annoying.

With that reassuring image in mind, he made it to the end of the bed and sat down gingerly.

"You've been drinking." she shuffled closer on the bed and gave an inquisitive sniff, right next to his face - he jerked back, glaring.

She rocked back onto her knees. "You did," she said wonderingly, staring at him.

He rolled his eyes and yawned, "Jus' a taste." The stuff had been incredibly strong, and he'd only tried a couple of mouthfuls out of curiosity.

"Did it taste as god-awful as it smelled?"

His silence was answer enough as he unbuckled his belt and rolled it up neatly, placing it on a dusty side-table.

She laughed.

He gave a barely audible sigh and pulled off his shoes with a grunt of relief. It had been a long day. "We should take that wand to Ollivanders tomorrow." he said, changing the subject abruptly, and showing that, even intoxicated, he was still planning ahead.

Amalia became more serious, lying down on the other side of the bed with her hands behind her head. "I thought of that. But he might want to know where we got it."

"Leave it to me. I can handle him."

From his tone, Amalia assumed "handling" Ollivander would probably involve some form of unpleasantness.

"Okay." she agreed. "I've been thinking, too."

"And?"

"We'll need to drop by Gringotts. I'll explain more in the morning-"she yawned again, "For now, let's just sleep. I promise I won't touch you." Riddle could almost imagine the eye-rolling that accompanied that last sentence.

Riddle decided the best strategy was just to ignore her presence in the bed next to him - and, truth be told, his mind was foggy enough to care less about the sleeping arrangement. He lay down on his back and closed his eyes. The bed wasn't uncomfortable, and it even seemed relatively clean - besides for a faint whiff of wet dog.

Amalia made a thoughtful, humming sound, and shifted about a bit, getting comfortable a polite arms-length away. The minutes slipped by in silence, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing slowly evening out.

"...You know, you're really not bad company." she whispered some minutes later, so softly that Riddle, half-asleep, almost missed it.

His eyes fluttered open, but he remained silent.

Then, so quiet he barely heard it at all... "I wish we could always be like this."

Always... Like this... together? It was disturbing how little this thought disturbed him. He blamed Ringo's special brew for doing strange things to his mind.

He gave a contemptuous snort, "Stuck with you?"

Amalia made a small, surprised movement, like she'd thought he was asleep.

"I wouldn't have the patience. Go to sleep, Gray."

But even though his tone was as cold as ever, it wasn't impossible for Amalia to imagine some hint of fondness there, too.

Even if he didn't realize it himself, just yet.

Author's note:

"Into the bowels" is a little reference to the Molag Bal quest in Skyrim :) For some reason it just sprang to mind when I wrote that scene.

The name "Ringo" is not a reference to The Beatles, I'm afraid. Actually, I got it from "ringor", which according to Google Translate (a very reliable source, right...), literally means "woof" in latin. Who knew.

Also, Amalia is definitely falling for him. Not surprising considering she, like Tom, has always felt alone, and struggled with the fact that she is mentally and magically superior to her peers. Even if she has friends, they can never quite be on her level, which creates a certain amount of distance.

Next chapter: we find out even more about Amalia's mysterious past! Also... Goblins and elves! Look forward to it!