Chapter 34: Indifference

Riddle really hated Transfiguration.

He detested sitting in the classroom, listening to the old fool drone on... As if he was such a great teacher. The other students certainly seemed to think so - Dumbledore was even reasonably popular among the Slytherins, though of course he was biased towards his own house. Favouritism wasn't exactly an unusual concept – Slughorn, for example, almost exclusively invited Slytherins to his Slug Club. But Dumbledore, well, he pretended he didn't have favourites, but the truth was obvious.

He narrowed his eyes as he watched the old man beckon Amalia to approach the front of the classroom. He tensed, feeling his stomach clench uncomfortably…

This was the reason he'd arrived uncharacteristically early for Transfiguration, before the bell had even tolled the start of the period; it was their first Transfiguration class since they'd gotten back from Christmas break. Everyone was chatting quietly with their friends, taking the few minutes to catch up after the holidays.

Vapid and irritating, the lot of them, he sneered internally, glancing to the side as a nearby Hufflepuff girl tittered idiotically at something her friend had said. His eyes quickly slid back to Amalia, rising from her seat next to Callidora in the front row.

Riddle was not sitting in his usual spot, choosing instead to position himself strategically in the centre of the classroom. He had predicted this, prepared for it… He could only hope Amalia had, too.

She looked as composed as ever, almost serene, as she approached Dumbledore's desk with a warm smile of greeting.

But Riddle had spent a good few days in her company, and he could tell she wasn't completely at ease – her fingers, almost hidden in her loose sleeves, were clenched, white-knuckled…

"Good morning, Professor!" she chirruped winningly, with a charming flick of her hair.

Riddle gave a soft snort. Such a consummate liar.

"And to you, my dear," Dumbledore was saying, friendly but with a hint of clever suspicion in his blue eyes, "So, tell me… How was your Christmas?"

That was it. The big question.

To Amalia's credit, she seemed utterly innocent as she tapped her chin thoughtfully for a moment, pondering her response – though Riddle was two hundred percent sure she'd prepared and rehearsed for this conversation.

After a moment, she beamed. "It was… enlightening." She said earnestly. "I got to see a side to… family life I'd never been exposed to before."

Riddle stifled an odd-sounding cough. The audacity-! He was almost impressed.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, completely unaware of anything off about her response. "…I'm glad. You stayed with the Blacks, correct? The whole holiday?"

She nodded. "That's what it says on my Permission Slip." She quipped.

"Hm." Suddenly Dumbledore seemed a little less convinced, eyeing her speculatively.

Riddle pressed his lips together, a simmering rage slowly building inside him. Was Dumbledore using low-level Legilimency on her? In the middle of the classroom? His fingers bit into his desk, knuckles turning white at the thought. It was so unethical.

Amalia's smile seemed a bit strained as she weathered the scrutiny.

"What did you do for Christmas Day?" Dumbledore prompted next, his light tone suddenly making his interrogation seem quite casual.

"Callidora's mom made a gigantic turkey." Amalia answered immediately. Riddle mused that the lack of hesitation was probably from listening to that loud-mouthed friend of hers talking about her holiday. "And I got home-made cookies as a present," she added, "They're really delicious." As if struck by a sudden thought, she suddenly reached into her satchel, which had been conveniently slung over one shoulder, and drew out a brown-paper packet. "I actually have some with me – would you like to try one, Professor?"

Dumbledore seemed momentarily taken aback, but then the last of his suspicion seemed to melt off his face, as he smiled warmly at her and accepted a cookie. "Don't mind if I do, thank you."

Interrogation passed, Amalia managed another charming smile and then turned, to return to her seat.

"Oh, just one moment, my dear-" Dumbledore waved her back, and gave a regretful smile. "I must ask. Did you use magic at all during the holidays?"

For a moment Amalia seemed to freeze in place, and Riddle leant forward slightly, curious to see how she could get out of this one. Because Dumbledore had a way of knowing when you lied, or were too evasive, and this question was so direct-

"Yes." She said at last, looking slightly shame-faced. "I'm sorry, Professor. It was hard to adjust, not being able to use my magic all the time. I slipped up a couple of times."

He gazed at her for a long moment, expression unreadable.

For Riddle (and Amalia, he assumed) the moment seemed to stretch on for eternity. Because if Dumbledore asked for specifics, she was done – and by extension, so was Riddle. It would only take one hesitation, one flicker of uncertainty, and Dumbledore would demand to know every scrap of information about how she spent her Christmas.

But it seemed luck (and Amalia's acting skills) was on their side, because he eventually nodded. "I appreciate your honesty." He said solemnly. "I'll overlook it for now… but do try harder in future, Miss Gray, please… Our wizarding laws are in place to protect us, remember that."

"Of course, Sir," Amalia agreed hastily. "Thank you for understanding... I'll be more careful."

Riddle's jaw almost hit the table. Amalia walked on very slightly wobbly legs to her seat, looking a little dazed at her success.

Her gaze flickered up at met his – he quickly schooled his face to calm impassivity.

She gave him a wry smirk.

"He appreciates your honesty?" Riddle mouthed, glancing behind her – but Dumbledore had started writing the title of the lesson on the blackboard, and had his back to them.

Her grin widened. "Honesty is the best policy." She mouthed back, and then added on a sly wink.

Riddle suddenly remembered his Plan, and busied himself getting out his textbook and notes, abruptly ignoring her.

But she approached anyway, and he could tell she was frowning now, with his peripheral vision.

"Tom," she started in a low voice, "Can we talk later? In the Libr-"

"Get lost, Gray." He interrupted coldly, avoiding eye contact as if she annoyed him. "Class is about to start."

She seemed on the verge of speaking, but then abruptly turned on her heel and went back to her seat, her shoulders high and tense.

His lips twitched up into a small smile.

He wondered if she was angry at his tone, or if she felt… Hurt, by his indifference.

How sentimental.

How pathetic.

It was amusing.

Two days later, the Slytherin Common Room…

"Amalia."

"Hm… What?" Amalia looked up, blinking, at Anne's quiet voice.

"You're doing it again."

She looked down at the armrest of the couch, and then yelped and snatched her hand away. "Whoops." She said sheepishly, and used her wand to repair the five burn-marks seared into the material by her bare fingers.

Charlotte's nose wrinkled as she waved a hand in front of her face, "How do you do that without noticing? It smells awful when it starts smouldering."

Amalia shook her head slightly, forcing a smile for her friends. "Just… lost in thought, I guess."

"Must be pretty dark thoughts," joked Callidora.

You have no idea, Amalia thought sourly to herself. She'd fallen into a pretty bad mood in the last two days – Riddle had resisted all her efforts to just talk to him, and she still hadn't figured out why. She was starting to actually believe he did hate her – or, at least, wanted to hate her so much that he was willing to forget everything that had happened between them.

"Hey," Callidora added, her easy smile slowly slipping off her face as she watched Amalia glare into the fireplace with a quite frankly dangerous gleam in her eye, "You're not planning on doing something… I don't know… Amalia-ish, are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she threw back, with no real interest in the conversation.

Callidora thought for a moment. "Well, are you thinking of burning someone instead of the couch? Like you did with Davies?"

Amalia stood restlessly. "I'm not sure yet." She said grimly, and strode off.

Behind her, she heard Charlotte's confused voice, "Are you going to bed-?"

And then Callidora's excited guffawing as they realised where she was heading, "Someone is getting toasted - that's the boys' dormitory-!"

She ignored their loud voices, and paused in the stairwell, listening. By the sounds of it, most of the fifth-year boys were in their dorm, with the door wide open. But they were quite subdued – Riddle had to be in there, too. She knew that if she asked to talk to him again, he'd just tell her to clear off.

Suddenly she was fed up with all of it. Perhaps taking a riskier, less predictable approach would get his attention long enough for her to find out what the hell was going on?

Without giving herself time to overthink it, she glanced surreptitiously around and then quickly shapeshifted into her animagus form. Now a black cat, she slinked down the stairs with a confident, purposeful gait.

It was strange how she always felt stronger, somehow, when she was in this form, even though in reality she was smaller and somewhat vulnerable.

She minced right into the large room and immediately focussed her amber eyes on her prey – Tom, reclining comfortably on his bed next to a pile of dusty-looking books, one of which he was fully engrossed in reading, his clever, dark eyes flying across the pages.

Without slowing down, she trotted right over and sprang up onto the bed, her sharp claws gripping the plush fabric.

He looked up at the feeling of her light weight landing on the edge of the bed.

For a moment they just stared at each other, unblinking onyx eyes to amber. Amalia also became aware that the rest of the boys in the room had fallen silent, and were staring in shock at their leader, who was suddenly face-to-face with a sassy-looking black cat.

"…Is that-?" Dolohov said faintly.

"It's a cat." Said Avery dumbly.

"But why is it here?" hissed Dolohov.

Riddle blinked first. "No idea." He said after a moment, and then turned his gaze dismissively back to his book.

The cat's tail instantly started lashing in irritation.

The Slytherin boys all watched with open mouths as it twined sinuously around Riddle's forearm, pulling its slender body onto his stomach, so that its head poked up and blocked his view of the book.

He sighed.

"Um, do you want me to take it out?" Rosier offered, always the first to come to his aid.

The cat crouched down, its claws sinking warningly into Riddle's shirt, just pricking his skin. It would not be removed without a fight.

"Hm." He hummed. "No. All of you, leave us. Go to the Common Room until I call you back."

"Leave you… and the cat?" Rosier repeated in disbelief.

The cat started purring loudly in triumph.

Riddle smirked. "That's right."

The others started filing out of the room, muttering but too cowed after recent events to question the command.

Rosier hesitated. "Uh, Riddle…" he started cautiously, "Please don't kill someone else's pet…"

His smile only widened. "Out, Rosier."

Rosier left reluctantly, closing the door behind him.

"So." Riddle turned his attention to the black cat sitting on his stomach, purring like a small tractor. "I didn't think you would get separation anxiety like this. We only spent a few days together, Gray."

The cat stopped purring, narrowing its eyes in warning.

"If I'd known you would get this attached," he continued conversationally, "I would have chosen to remain at the orphanage. It's rather pathetic."

With a swish of a tail, the cat bounded off the bed and had barely hit the floorboards before Amalia had shapeshifted back into her human form. "And if I'd known you were going to be such a frigid arsehole," she snarled right back, "I would have left you there!"

His smile melted away as if it had never existed. "Speak your piece, and get out." He told her. "I'm rather busy."

She deflated slightly, almost missing the passionate back-and-forth of their past arguments. It was preferable to this… indifference.

She glanced at the titles of the books he was reading, and frowned. "Curses? Spell-breaking and magical traps-?"

"Indeed." He inclined his head at her, watching her expression, but still seemed somewhat… detached. As if the conversation bored him. "I thought it might be useful, given what is happening this weekend."

Amalia started to get a really bad feeling. "What's happening this weekend?" she asked uneasily. He couldn't mean-

"Don't tell me you forgot?" Riddle raised his eyebrows incredulously. "We made a pact, didn't we? One last duel. One survivor."

Her mouth was dry. "But that was – before-"

"Before what?" he said icily. "Before we ate ice cream together? Bonded over redecorating your house? Which will be mine, by the way, once you're dead." He shrugged, "I'll have to do something about those house-elves… Well, they should fetch a good price, at least..."

She clenched her fists. "Tom, are you… really serious?" she said hollowly, staring at him. "You really want to do this?"

He glared at her. "Are you going back on your word?" he demanded.

She licked her lips. "… No."

"Then get your affairs in order, Gray," he ordered simply, "Because it all ends on Saturday night. I was going to send you a note with the precise details, but we might as well do it now. Meet me at the location of the Moving Stones at midnight – I think that's rather appropriate. Make your excuses to your friends – we agreed nothing will lead back to the victor of the match-"

"This is ridiculous!" She burst out, frustrated. "What's wrong with you? I don't want-"

"I don't care what you want," he stated simply, cutting her off. "But even if you don't have the stomach for it, at least try to make it a challenge." He held up the book in his hands – an encyclopedia of curses – and smirked, "You should look up the companion book to this in the Library, or it will be a very short match indeed."

"Screw you, Tom Riddle!" she hissed and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Amalia walked with heavy steps up from the boy's dormitories, a heavy scowl on her face. How on earth was she going to figure this out? She didn't want to kill him – hell, she barely understood her own feelings for him at all, but they were strong, and certainly not of hate. (Well, right this moment she was pretty angry… but not enough to consider murdering him…!) However, if he really wasn't interested in her, at all, even as a platonic collaborator on the Moving Stones, then perhaps this was inevitable-?

"Amalia?"

She looked up to see Rosier staring at her in confusion, and gave him a weak smile, her mind still on her disturbing talk with Riddle. "Hm?"

He looked suspiciously from her to the stairwell, and then his eyes widened. "Were you… No… What?!"

She winced, realising he'd just figured out her "super-secret" special ability. She should have known it was too reckless. "Shhh, okay? No one else knows."

His eyes were like saucers. "You were talking to Riddle?"

She nodded, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "It didn't exactly go well." A thought struck her. "You don't know what he's planning, do you?" she asked hopefully. "This weekend? Has he mentioned me, at all?" She seriously doubted he would risk everything in a "fair" fight – no, he would probably lay some kind of trap, hence his research materials.

Rosier shook his head violently at her question, and actually took a step backwards, "No!- Amalia, don't start with that again-"

She blinked at him. "What do you mean? Rosier-" she took a closer look at him and did a double-take, "Are you… are you okay?" he looked on the verge of tears.

He gave a long sniff. "I'm f-fine…" he tried to turn away.

"You're obviously not." Amalia said firmly, and took his arm, "Come, let's… Why don't we sit down?" she suggested, "Tell me what's wrong."

He let her lead him to the couches, and they sat down together. For some reason the Common Room was empty – she assumed her friends had gone to bed, and perhaps the banished Slytherin boys had relocated to the Come-and-Go Room. With no one around to witness them, it seemed Rosier was getting quite emotional. Amalia squeezed his hand comfortingly.

"I just…" he started, his voice wavering slightly, "Riddle's been in a really good mood this week, and I thought it had something to do with the holidays… He was with you, wasn't he? He wouldn't tell me, but I figured it out anyway-"

Amalia was surprised at this admission, but it started to make sense as she thought about it; Rosier had spent the last five years at Riddle's beck and call. Of course he would be able to read between the lines, and pick up of subtle hints through close observation.

"I was hoping you weren't enemies anymore, but now-" he shrugged helplessly. "…I… don't like it when you fight." He ended in a small voice.

"Neither do I," she assured him quickly. "Trust me, I want things to be… better between us. It's just, at the moment," she struggled to find words to explain the fact that they might be murdering each other in a few days, without freaking him out further, "We, um… want different things right now." She explained, wincing, "But I'm hopeful that things will improve… Soon." Before it's too late. "He's just very stubborn, that's all." And potentially a psychopath.

Rosier looked down at his hands, an unhappy frown on his face. "I hate being stuck in the middle. Like I have to pick sides."

Amalia shook her head, "That's not what I want! Really… I won't ask you to choose. I'm sorry I made you feel that way." Damn, she thought, depressed, Now I can't use Rosier to find out what Tom's up to – he might really start crying. "You should know that… whatever happens… I still care about you. And it's not your fault."

If I have to kill Riddle, you're going to hate me… she mused, resigned. Likewise, he might never forgive Riddle if Amalia was murdered and buried somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. This whole situation didn't have a happy ending for anyone involved.

She forced a smile and patted him on the shoulder. "Do you feel better now?"

Rosier managed a small smile in return. "A bit."

"Riddle probably knows you spoke to me, through your little pocket-watches." She pointed out.

"How do you know about them?" Rosier asked, surprised.

Amalia smiled pityingly at him. "I'm not an idiot. You all suddenly develop an interest in checking the time on identical watches every five minutes, and speak his name as if it's cursed. Obvious, really."

"… Oh." Rosier shrugged and shook his head. "I don't think he checks up on me that much. He knows I wouldn't betray him." He gave a proud little smile.

Amalia gritted her teeth.

I'm sorry, Rosier, she groaned internally, But I really don't have a choice… I might just have to kill that cold-blooded bastard.

Author's note:

Riddle thinks it's unethical of Dumbledore to use Legilimency on his students (lol). Bit like the cauldron calling the kettle black, isn't it?

Also, isn't Amalia and Rosier's conversation a bit like they're discussing a messy divorce...? ;D