Chapter 31: Revelations

Amalia was giving him the silent treatment.

He didn't mind, exactly - he couldn't say he particularly wanted to talk to her...

Although he did want to start working on the rune translations for the Standing Stones. Which was difficult if she kept leaving the room every time he tried to approach, throwing him a dirty look as she did.

Alright, so maybe he did mind.

Most of all, though, he wanted to speak about the memory - it was driving him crazy. He had so many questions. Had she really killed all those children? Did she remember more, or was that everything? What happened after she killed the man and the memory ended - how did she get out of the building? What happened next? He knew better than to ask, though, in case he provoked her into another fight. Which, without his wand, he would most certainly lose.

So he held his tongue and decided to be patient; Amalia wasn't really the type to hold grudges. And after the kiss... well, he knew she wasn't unaffected by him, at least.

There would be plenty of opportunities to explore that interesting fact, in future.

After their awkward late breakfast, Amalia disappeared to poke around in the rest of the house for more clues to her past, and Riddle reluctantly wandered back to the library, sensing that he wouldn't be welcome to join her. He was surprised to feel irritated by the solitude. It was an unusual feeling: yes, he enjoyed having others around to order about, and to use, to inspire fear and awe... But he was experiencing a different kind of solitude this time, because Amalia wasn't a follower, or an enemy. He couldn't really explain it, but it was hard to concentrate on reading when he kept glancing at the staircase where she'd disappeared.

It took a few (seemingly endless) hours for Amalia to return from her explorations, looking even moodier and now quite dusty. "Run me a bath." she wearily told Pippy, who had taken to trailing after her with an eager expression.

Amalia slowed and came to a stop as she noticed Riddle standing there in the dining room, holding an open book in his hands, his dark gaze focused on her. There was a large pile of neatly sorted books arranged on the wide oak table in front of him, taken from the library.

"What?" she snapped half-heartedly. She was really making an effort to make it obvious that she still hadn't forgiven him for betraying her trust.

"You didn't find anything upstairs?" he asked calmly, seemingly indifferent to her sharp tone.

Amalia glared for a moment, before huffing, and folding her arms. "No... It looks like everything is gone. Not even a photo-album," she said, sounding frustrated, "Never mind clues to what kind of job my parents had, or... where Alric might have gone... I don't know what to do next..." she massaged her temples, feeling emotionally wrung-out. All I needed was a bath, she thought bracingly to herself, And then some food, and-

Her train of thought ground abruptly to a halt as she noticed that Riddle looked like he wanted to say something... but he was hesitating. Riddle never hesitated.

She watched him as he closed his book slowly, meticulously sliding in a tasselled bookmark to keep his place. He looked like he was mentally preparing himself for something.

She blinked as he turned to face her directly.

"Amalia." he said in a deadpan voice, "You should be more patient." his mouth twitched up into an unnaturally forced smile, as if his teeth hurt. It came out a bit like a grimace.

She frowned in confusion, feeling a little... disturbed. "Tom... What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously. He almost sounded like... She stared incredulously at him for a long moment. "Are you... trying to... comfort me?" she guessed at last, dumbfounded.

He made no reply, but just gave her a blank stare, while fidgeting a bit with the tassel on his bookmark.

"You are." she shook her head. "Tom," she said, very forcefully, "Please stop. It's just... It's unnatural."

He instantly scowled.

"I... um... appreciate the effort," she assured him drily, "But it's-... Just don't."

"As you wish." he replied acidly, sounding much more like himself. He deliberately turned his back on her, shoulders stiff with annoyance, and opened his book again.

Amalia heaved a sigh of relief, and quickly left the room, heading down the hallway. From the walls, stern-faced distant relatives glared down at her. The paintings weren't moving - not all paintings in the wizarding world did. The secrets witnessed by their almond-shaped eyes, so similar to her own, would never be told. Alone for the moment, she leaned against the wall for a brief moment to just think.

Once again Riddle had surprised her. She wasn't shocked that he'd tried to comfort her, not really - she knew he must be buzzing with more questions after seeing that memory, and impatient to start work on the Moving Stones - and so she'd expected that he'd try to reach out in some way. Get back on her good side. All selfishly motivated, of course, like The Kiss had been. She still felt a stab of anger just thinking about it.

But instead of smoothness and charm, flawless charisma and impeccable acting, like he always used when he was trying to manipulate someone, she'd gotten... whatever that was.

And it could only mean one thing. He was really making an effort to reach out to her... a genuine effort.

It was about as close to an apology as she was ever likely to get from him - and he might not even be consciously aware of it.

But how did she feel about that? About him? He was Tom Riddle, dangerous and quick to anger and impatient and bad with waking up in the mornings, he was moody, and childish, but also sometimes unexpectedly mature and intelligent and ambitious...

And even after everything, she couldn't hate him.

These thoughts milled around in her head for quite some time, even as she took a deliciously hot bath in a ostentatious, brass lion-clawed bath-tub until her fingers started wrinkling. After stewing slowly for far too long, she dressed in her night clothes and a newly laundered bathrobe (which had probably been her mother's at some point, though she didn't dwell on it too long) and then wandered down to the kitchens, as it was almost dinnertime.

To her surprise, the old elf was there supervising dinner preparations, seated in her little wheeled box, obviously having been carried upstairs by the other elves.

"Mina!" she said upon entering the room. Instantly the elves busily preparing dinner scattered to make way for her, all bowing furiously. She waved them off absently, before hurriedly offering, "Um, can I help you with anything?" She felt a twinge of guilt; she'd promised the old elf she would come and visit her again to talk more about her past, but the whole day she'd been preoccupied with what she had privately started to call "Riddle-drama".

"Mistress Gray," Mina greeted somewhat formally, before her wrinkled face cracked into a warm - and slightly toothless - smile. "Knowing you're the same little Ammy you used to be is more than enough! So polite, too. I think I can help you, though." she gestured at a small pile of brown-covered, square-shaped books. "I heard from the others that you were looking around upstairs - but I had these for safe-keeping all along."

Amalia stepped closer and opened the book on the top of the pile curiously. "Oh!" she exclaimed breathlessly, her fingers tracing a black-and-white photograph of a small baby, blinking blearily at the camera while waving its chubby little fists in the air. "This is me?"

Mina nodded fondly. "We can look through them together after dinner." she said happily. "Which reminds me, I do have a few things to discuss with you about the running of the household."

Amalia blinked. "Oh. Sure?"

"Firstly," Mina said, sounding very businesslike, "What are your plans for this house?"

Amalia considered carefully for a moment, frowning slightly. But she already knew her answer. "I don't have any emotional attachment to this place." she said simply. "I don't consider it my home, even if it was, a long time ago." she traced the cover of the album, wondering what other memories of a happier time lay inside. "It's not exactly safe, either... he could come back." She almost hoped he would. Amalia could show him just how good she was at burning things.

Mina nodded sadly. "I understand."

"That doesn't mean all the elves need to leave, though!" Amalia stressed, "Really... I know this is your home. I want all of the elves to live safely here, away from witches and wizards who might try to enslave you again." she was well aware that she was sitting on a gold mine here; house elves were a rare and coveted commodity in the wizarding world.

Mina sucked on her cheek thoughtfully. "But are you sure you want to give up on the house? Bad memories aside, it has stood on this land for generations - it's saturated in protective charms and wards. Adding a few more could prevent your father from turning up unexpectedly." she fidgeted, "You might be safe at Hogwarts, but... if something happened, you could always come back here, you know?" she looked up with her milky, sightless eyes hopefully, "You could make it your home. Make new memories...?"

Amalia hesitated. "I guess..." she said at last, "For now... I don't really have anywhere else besides Hogwarts, and a few places in Knockturn that, quite frankly, don't meet the same standards of hygiene..." she was struck by a sudden thought. "I could tear off those hideous gargoyles," she realised. "And... hm, what about painting it a different colour?"

Mina nodded eagerly, "I'd like that."

"Then it's settled." Amalia said, feeling satisfied with this new plan of action. Making new memories... Yes, she rather liked the sound of that. It wasn't running away from her past, or letting it control her. She could control her present, and decide her own future.

"Oh, that reminds me," she said, struck suddenly by a thought that had been niggling at her for quite some time, "I've been wondering for a while now..." she gestured at the busy elves running up and down the kitchen, looking like they were catering for a small army, not two skinny teenagers. "Where are you all getting the food?"

Mina smiled. "The village." she answered promptly, as if it was obvious.

Amalia frowned, somewhat bemused. "But... they're all muggles."

"Yes."

"How are you buying it?"

Mina chuckled. "Of course, we're not buying it. That would be - haha! - Quite a sight to see...!"

Amalia facepalmed. "You're stealing food from muggles!?"

Mina waved a careless hand, "They have enough of it anyway. I believe they are convinced they have a mysterious rat problem - always spending a ridiculous amount of elaborate traps..." she chuckled again, and then sobered. "Although, I remember some times when we had to go quite far to find rarer ingredients..."

Amalia sighed. "This was happening when my parents were around?"

Mina nodded.

"They didn't even question where their food was coming from?" Amalia was reaching new levels of disgust for her family. "Well, I'm certainly not going to force any elf in my household to behave like a common thief," she said decisively. "How much do you think you'll need each month to feed everyone?" she asked. "I'll have the money sent over, and you can-"

"House elves are not permitted to use wizarding money." Interrupted Mina gently.

Amalia scowled. "That's ridiculous!" she said hotly. "That's... actually a wizarding law?"

The old elf nodded, seeming a little bemused by her reaction. "It's just the way of the world."

"Not my world." declared Amalia, getting all fired up, "Right. That's it. I'll get some money transferred here by owl as soon as I have a chance, and you can order whatever you need, alright? Have a supplier drop off everything nearby, and then just fetch the delivery - you can do that, can't you?"

Mina reached out and clutched her hands tightly, tears gathering at the corners of her sightless eyes. "I'm so glad you're home, my dear." the old elf sniffled.

Amalia found herself getting a little weepy with all the emotion. "Me, too." she sniffed thickly back.

"Time for dinner!" Pippy trilled cheerfully, bouncing in and completely ruining the moment. Amalia could tell by the way she was practically vibrating with happiness that she'd been eavesdropping at the door, and had just heard their entire heart-felt conversation.

"Pippy," Amalia said suddenly, a small smile tugging at her mouth as she had a sudden flash of inspiration, "Go tell Riddle it's dinnertime, will you?" she requested innocently. "Make sure you're extra enthusiastic and loud, okay? He's always in such a bad mood. He could deal with some cheering up."

She couldn't help but feel smug as the house-elf dashed to obey her command with zeal.

It was good to take pleasure in the small things.

Shortly after dinner...

Riddle stifled a sneeze as he ran his fingertips over the dusty spines of the books in the library, his clever eyes searching for more interesting volumes. The library was quite big; since morning he'd barely explored a quarter of the space. After dinner (during which Amalia had been marginally more civil towards him, which was progress, at least) he'd followed her to the library, hopeful that they could start of their research of the Moving Stones at last. But Amalia seemed bent on stretching his patience to its limits: she had cloistered herself with the ancient blind elf on the couches at one end of the library, ignoring him to look at photos, of all things.

It was very boring, listening to Amalia and the crippled house-elf reminiscing together – he despised such sentimental rubbish. Who cared what flower-patterned booties she wore as an infant, anyway?

Women.

To be honest, the bookshelves weren't much more interesting than the conversation on the couches behind him; it seemed Amalia's parents had been great readers of history, particularly the obscure and long-winded. Endless numbered volumes of 'Magic: A Concise Record' filled up about five shelves alone. He skipped them and wandered over to one side, where a glass display case, newly buffed by some industrious elf, contained three large volumes.

Instantly, his interest was piqued. At a glance, he realised that the volumes were all to do with ancestry and blood purity. Two older books were obviously from the same series; 'Genus Argentum', and 'Genus Aurum'. One book was heavily embossed with silver leaves, the other with gold, and seemed to have been written roughly sixty years ago. The third book looked much newer, the 'Pure-Blood Directory', which was a volume Riddle was familiar with already. It detailed the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight', a record of all existing pureblood families. The Grays would have been included, but they had been widely believed to be extinct by 1930, when the book was published. The timeline didn't match up though, since, according to Mina, Amalia's parents would have been working at the Ministry at that time. So why was there no record of them, after their marriage? It was very mysterious.

He turned back to the other two books, picking up 'Genus Argentum' and opening it. The spine made a creaking sound, as if it hadn't often been used. Skimming over the foreword, he discovered that the book was a record of all known magical families with 'mixed heritage', dating back hundreds of years. Flicking through the pages briefly, he spotted many surnames he recognised from Hogwarts.

Putting it aside for the moment, he picked up 'Genus Aurum' and examined it with more interest. This was a record of the most ancient, 'pure', magical families, and was much more comprehensive than the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight'. He quickly found the page which detailed Amalia's family. There was a spidery sketch of an extensive family tree dating back to the early 1200s, and a cramped page detailing its origins.

He read that the first record of the name 'Gray' was during the Norman invasion of England in the 11th century when an ordinary and unremarkable young wizard married a rich French heiress, Amelie de Todeni, who was from an unverifiably pure magical line at the time. Later, the author went on with a touch of asperity, other de Todenis did intermarry with Muggles and Half-bloods, making them barely a footnote in the Genus Argentum. With the backing of de Todeni's great wealth, the new, 'pure' Gray family quickly rose to prominence within the magical world, and at one point in the 1500s, was almost as prolific as the Blacks. After that, years of inbreeding and gradual isolation had slowly reduced their number, though the author noted that their wealth flourished and their purity remained pristine.

Losing interest in reading about how rich and pure Amalia's ancestors were, Riddle sat down in a comfortable reading chair and continued browsing the Genus Aurum, searching for a very particular name.

Salazar Slytherin had an entire chapter dedicated to him and his possible descendants. Riddle wondered, as he often did in frustration, how many of them had inherited his most famous of talents, Parseltongue. He had made enquiries, trying to find out if any other Pureblood families had shown the ability, but his efforts bore no fruit. After Slytherin left Hogwarts in rebellion against the policy on muggleborns and half-bloods, little was known about his movements; he became reclusive and jealously guarded the identities of his wife and children. There was a tentative connection to a family with the name of 'Gaunt', but for some reason, Riddle had never been able to find out much about that line. Perhaps this book would be more forth-coming…?

He settled in to read, taking his time to examine the history of Slytherin as it was discussed in the book with conjecture and guesswork about possible origins and relations. It all seemed very vague – this family might be related to that distantly, on the basis that the children had similar names and things along that line. Obviously the author had been very interested in Slytherin, but there wasn't much he wrote that had a solid basis in fact. Finally, Riddle got to a page addressing the rumours of a connection with the Gaunt family.

Apparently, the Gaunts themselves had proclaimed their ancestor as Slytherin, but due to a lack of information available – a full two centuries of missing records that could definitively prove a relation – their claims had been largely ignored by historians. Nevertheless, the author included a small family tree of the known Gaunts.

Riddle skimmed over the family tree, frustrated by yet another dead end; it sounded like the Gaunts had simply claimed a relation in the hopes of gaining respect and prestige.

Then he froze.

Marvolo Gaunt.

His birth date was scrawled '1850?'. There was no other information.

Heart thundering in his chest, Riddle stared at the name as disbelief and a dawning excitement broke upon him. Marvolo – it couldn't be a coincidence!

A Gaunt. He was related to a Gaunt – somehow, this had to be his grandfather – it was the only way the dates worked out. And the Gaunts claimed a relation to Slytherin – and he was a Parselmouth. Of course, it all made sense! He'd always known he was Slytherin's heir, of course… He'd felt it… but this… this was proof. And if he could somehow find out where the last Gaunts were, he could finally know the truth about his own parents. How the Heir of Slytherin had ended up in a muggle orphanage – there must be some kind of explanation.

He froze, waiting for his heart to slow down - it was racing with excitement - and gathered his thoughts.

It wasn't so shocking.

He'd always known he was different. Special. Riddle cast a look over to Amalia, cheerfully chatting away to the house-elf, and his lip curled into a superior smirk. So what if she had money? She couldn't claim to be the heir to anything but gold.

Amalia stayed up with Mina until it was quite late, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

Feeling in a much better mood, particularly after her bath, food, and listening to Mina's reminisces about her forgotten childhood, Amalia rose and stretched, saying goodnight to the old elf. She cast a look over to the other side of the library, where Riddle seemed engrossed in a large book, comfortably nestled in a reading chair next to a lamp. He seemed very focussed.

Yawning, she turned her back on him and made her way upstairs.

Once back in the room, she cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair, and then slipped out of her robe and into bed, pulling the heavy quilted covers up to her chin. Smiling, she closed her eyes peacefully.

Suddenly the door was abruptly yanked opened.

"What the-" she struggled to sit upright, glaring. "Tom?!"

He had just walked in, without knocking or anything, and he looked annoyingly awake and unrepentant. "Amalia," he said, in a businesslike tone, "Where is the Alchemical Dictionary? And your notes? Are they in your trunk?" he didn't wait for her reply, but strode over to the trunk, trying to tug it open. Of course, it was enchanted, and wouldn't open for anyone except Amalia. Frustrated, he looked up expectantly at her.

She groaned and flopped down on her back. "Ugh! Do you have to do this now?" she complained, "What is wrong with you? Go to sleep!"

"I want to get started on the rune translations." he said unapologetically. "Since you seem completely uninterested."

"I'm not uninterested!" she protested, "We can do it tomorrow, alright? I don't want-"

He sat down resolutely on the bed and folded his arms, fixing her with a stubborn stare. "I'm not leaving without that book, Amalia."

She considered hexing him - her wand was easily within reach, as always - but that would just escalate things. Again. And it would probably delay her sleep even more, in the long run.

Muttering under her breath about inconsiderate idiots with an unusual tolerance for sleep deprivation, she fought her way out of bed and stomped over to her trunk, unlocking it and digging around inside. She retrieved a chaotic sheaf of parchments with her notes on it (she'd already made a start during their last night at The Humping Crupp), and the book, and thrust them at Riddle, hoping it would be enough to move him.

He didn't get up, but merely accepted the pile with a grimace, straightening the untidy sheets with precise movements - Like the obsessive neat-freak he is, Amalia thought nastily. He looked up after a brief moment to scowl at her. "I can't read your scrawl." he told her disparagingly.

"Make your own bloody notes, then."

"That would be counter-productive," he said absently, frowning at the letters, "Since you have a better understanding of Runes anyway. Tch," he huffed, annoyed, "You literally write like a three-year-old."

Amalia couldn't help a faint flush of colour rising in her cheeks at his unusual praise - even though it had immediately been followed by an insult. "Well, this three-year-old needs her sleep," she drawled, covering up her embarrassing reaction. I'm still supposed to be mad at him! she reminded herself sternly. Mental torture equalled... at least three days of anger. And it hadn't even been twenty-four hours since she'd attempted to kill him.

Their relationship was so weird.

She shook herself out of her thoughts just in time to see Riddle kick off his shoes and then scoot back on the bed, until his back was comfortably pressed up against the wide, velvet-lined headboard, his long legs stretched out and elegantly crossed at the ankles in front of him.

"What are you doing?" she spluttered, unable to deny that the picture of "Riddle - in Repose" could definitely become a famous piece of art.

He raised an unamused eyebrow, as if it was obvious. "Come here," he ordered, patting the empty side of the large bed next to him. "Translate your scrawl into English, and then I'll go."

She stared at him incredulously for a long moment, and then sighed, all the fight going out of her in a huff of exhaled breath. It was obvious he wasn't going to budge until he got what he wanted, the selfish brat.

Grumbling, she crawled over the bed and settled in next to him, pulling the blanket over her legs. He was lying on top of the covers, at least, so there wouldn't be any cuddling this time - not if she could help it. Or kissing. Or touching of any kind-

As if hearing her thoughts, Riddle shuffled closer on the bed, until their shoulders were brushing. Amalia instantly stiffened, intensely aware of the heat of his skin on hers, only separated by his thin white shirt. For the first time since he barged in, she regretted wearing a sleeveless night-dress. In a strange role-reversal, he didn't seem to notice their proximity. Or perhaps he was doing it on purpose.

It was probably on purpose.

"Start here." he pointed at the heading on the page, "What the hell is that?"

When he turned his head to look at her, she could feel his soft breath on her cheek.

"Ahem." she cleared her throat unnecessarily, and then focused on the page. "...Translation of Moving Stones runes - Attempt 1. Isn't that obvious?" she said indignantly.

"It really isn't," he muttered, shaking his head. "And this?"

"It's obviously-" she paused, and then leant in closer, squinting, "Wait... Actually... I have no idea what I wrote there." she admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

He rolled his eyes at her incompetence, but then his mouth curved up into this little amused smirk, and Amalia found herself getting distracted again. She hurriedly dragged her eyes away from him and climbed back out of bed again, her bare feet cold on the carpeted floor. "Um... here," she said distractedly, retrieving a quill and inkpot from her bag, "Underline the words you don't understand so long..."

"Good idea," he said, accepting the items and then confidently using them to draw long lines under what looked like most sentences, with a determined glint in his eye. She had no idea where this burst of productivity had come from, but it looked like it was going to be a long night.

To distract herself from her tiredness - and the attractive bastard lying spread out on her bed - Amalia meandered over to a small side-table standing in one corner of the room. On it was an ancient radio, which she'd discovered earlier in the day and pulled out of a cupboard with the intention to test it out. She figured now was as good a time as any.

She turned the knob back and forth for a while, listening for the crackling static to change.

"… some news abroad." Came a lively voice from the machine, and Amalia stopped. On the bed behind her, Tom looked up from his perusal of her notes. "As usual we have our news correspondent, Zebadiah Smith, to tell us the damage."

A serious-sounding monotone broke in, "Well, here it is, Jordan. New reports coming in from the Continent have placed Grindelwald's push west to be just inside the French border, raising concerns that the French Ministry, already overstretched with the Muggle war raging around them, might make some sort of deal, if-"

"Now, now, Smith!" Jordan broke in, "Let's not give the French so little credit! They've held out so far, haven't they? Surely a deal with a thug like Grindelwald is only going to make things worse-"

"Speculation and guesswork is useless," Smith cut him off, sounding slightly annoyed, "However my sources do say that public opinion in France is beginning to sway to his side – you've got to remember, his entire rhetoric revolves around ruling over the Muggles – and Muggle-borns - 'For the Greater Good' – "

"I'm so sick of hearing that…" sighed Jordan.

"- And that has been gaining a lot of traction with the public in light of the Muggle war. The Muggles are killing each other by the million… It's hardly surprising that people are starting to think we should step in."

"Hm," hummed Jordan sceptically, "To be honest, it's the stepping-out that worries me. It's one thing to restore peace and order by force, but after that? Grindelwald would be stuck with a population of billions of Muggles who need to accept him as some evil overlord 'for the greater good'. I just don't see that happening without even worse bloodshed."

"You could be right there," Smith said sombrely. "And in other news," he continued, "A rogue manticore has been causing terror in the sleepy town of Rozenburg, Switzerland-"

"What's your opinion on the war?" Amalia asked Tom curiously.

He looked up. "Grindelwald is a fool." He said with a sneer, "'For the Greater Good'? Ridiculous. The magical and muggle world needs to remain separate for a reason – they're too stupid and weak to even comprehend magic. They are not worthy." He scowled, "I say let them kill each other in their petty wars – it's no concern of ours. Grindelwald thinks he can make a difference by getting involved – huh," he snorted derisively, "Self-righteous old fool."

Amalia rolled her eyes. Only Riddle could make Grindelwald sound like an annoying do-gooder – like a church-going busybody who baked too many cakes – not the tyrannical leader of an abolitionist movement. "I agree that our worlds are better off separate," Amalia said fairly, "But I don't hate muggles as you do. I think they do the best with what they have – a world without magic is a rather dull one."

"You are naïve." he said shortly, "Because you have never lived among them."

"Perhaps," she allowed, "But there are muggleborns who-"

"Do not compare me with them," he snapped instantly, his dark eyes boring into hers. "Muggleborns are the worst stain on magic to exist."

Her eyebrows rose at the almost fanatical gleam in his eyes. "…Why?" she asked cautiously. She turned the radio off to hear his response.

"Isn't it obvious?" he snarled and put down the papers. This was just about the most emotional she'd ever seen him, "Muggle sympathisers, all of them, bringing weak blood into magical families, threatening our world from the inside-"

"We've lasted centuries, Tom," Amalia argued, with a frown, "If magic was going to die out from interbreeding with muggles and muggleborns, it would have happened already. In fact, the magical population is higher than it's ever-"

"And the muggle population is many times bigger than it ever was. Soon, if it hasn't happened already, muggleborns will outnumber the rest of us, and eventually drive us extinct. All that history, all the bloodline nobility, diluted by muggle filth." He spat venomously.

"Tch," Amalia clicked her tongue, "So dramatic. If you ask me, Pureblood intermarriage is a much bigger problem. Do you know the number of Squibs the pureblood families produce? They keep it quiet, of course. Not to mention their general… instability. Callidora's got a number of crazy cousins. If wizards and witches had cared less about preserving their name and started marrying out sooner, the magical population would have been much healthier by now."

"You're a fool if you think-"

"We can agree to disagree." Amalia interrupted, noting the stubborn line of his jaw- he wasn't about to change his mind. She wasn't, either.

"You are wrong," he said irritably, "But whatever."

She crawled back into bed beside him, noting that the way they argued had somehow become so... domestic... and sighed, slumping back on the cushions. "Okay, Tom, let's figure this out." she yawned. "If I can stay awake, that is."

"You'd better," he muttered, and dragged the book closer again. "Now, you translated this part already? Here?" he pointed.

She nodded, her academic side perking up despite her tiredness. "Mm... I think it's right, although the translation reads quite differently if you reference it to Chapter Three... Look, I'll show you..."

But despite her best efforts - and Riddle's annoyance - she kept nodding off as soon as there was a lull in the conversation, and eventually she fell completely asleep, even forgetting to remind Riddle to go back to his own room.

And she didn't find out until the next morning whether he had or not.