Saludos desde Argentina. Sorry if this chapter isn't up to par and slow coming, I've been abroad for a long time.
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Potter disappeared after their Sunday breakfast, and Tom didn't bother to look for him, enjoying the respite from the constant company. He sat in bed, the sole occupant for the first time in almost a week, leaning against the frame while he read Moste Potente Potions.
Somehow, he'd forgotten that Potter was not the only person to avoid, or even the most irritating one.
"You do realize that you're causing quite a stir?" Abraxas interrupted his solitude, speaking from the doorway of the dorm.
Tom carefully turned the page, vaguely entertaining the thought of ordering the blond away without hearing him out. He hadn't bothered to find a more isolated spot this time, knowing that Potter would find him regardless of where he lingered. He should have remembered that Abraxas had taken far too much interest in the whole situation; his lack of foresight now forced a bothersome conversation he needn't yet have. He eyed the blond over the cover of his dark arts book, one of the more illegal ones that he refrained from using around Potter.
"There's whispers that he might be the more powerful of the two of you, and that's why you indulge him," Abraxas persisted, not needing to clarify to whom he referred to with 'him'.
When some people grew angry, they vibrated with rage, an explosion of energy as they lashed out. Tom, on the other hand, grew eerily still. His every movement became deliberate and graceful, a sharp clarity that held until he found precisely the correct moment to snap.
"You do realize," Tom spoke, his voice terribly soft. "That anyone who dares to question my authority will be left with none of their own? Potter has proven competent, but he will follow me, as he should."
Still, he knew this matter was to become even more pertinent as the potion's end approached. Potter's current absence and apparent willingness to separate did make Tom wonder if today served as the last of the potion's potency.
"I respect your position, of course," Malfoy said smoothly as he approached slowly, trailing his fingers over the mahogany wood of the nightstand. "But others fear you might be...slipping. They're concerned that Potter will not respect your position, once he escapes the influence of the Mollis Caritate. They fear inner conflict. Preposterous, if you ask me, that their loyalty is so fickle after your mastery of the House for the past three years."
"Yes...it may be time to warn them of the dangers of forgetting the true extent of my power," Tom mused quietly, dark irritation staining his thoughts. Potter had proven his proficiency, but for the others to dare assume that Tom had yielded to another as a result-
"There's one other concern flitting through the minds of the lesser cast," Abraxas murmured with barely concealed apprehension, his eyes carefully lowered.
He was doing Tom a favor—or rather, a duty—by imparting the rumors which others would not dare whisper in his presence. Tom acknowledged the necessity of knowing the popular opinion, but for something that even Abraxas felt disinclined to share meant that Tom truly wouldn't appreciate the recent gossip. It meant that he feared that Tom would take out his subsequent fury on the messenger, a legitimate concern: but Abraxas also knew he would suffer a far worse fallout if he failed his task.
"Oh?" asked Tom.
"Others are concerned that you may be...attached to the boy," Abraxas said at last, and Tom's lips twitched into a frightening smile.
"Are they?" he asked softly, and the blond gave a small cringe at the dangerous undertone.
"You've been rather tolerant of the boy's condition," he pointed out warily, clearly concerned with Tom's simmering temper.
"I see," he said with languid contemplation.
He supposed it wasn't a terrible problem, although this did little to settle his ill temper. The rumors would have only caused him inconvenience if he had felt attachment, since others would try to target Potter to manipulate him. Given the inaccuracy of the speculation, however, the worst he'd experience was a perceived weakness, yet he could exploit any such misconception on their part.
He felt nothing for the boy. The only foreseeable problem resulted from his desire to recruit Potter for his cause, which meant that his protection of the boy could be misinterpreted as affirmation of this supposed weakness.
"Potter has proven himself a competent duelist, at the very least," Abraxas mused, emboldened by Tom's apparent calm. "You'll hardly need to hold his hand. They're idiots, if you ask me. As long as you can keep his loyalty after the potion, I'd think that the recent sentiments are nothing you can't use to your advantage. Potter's allegiance is an asset. He successfully proved that he's overcome any taint that might be in his blood, and that he can make his own name for himself regardless of his illegitimate status."
"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Abraxas," Tom stated mildly, twirling his wand absently between lithe fingers.
"Of course," the blond gave a predatory smile, giving a polite half-bow. "I'll just dismiss myself then, shall I? I do apologize for the interruption."
Tom flicked his fingers dismissively, approving the request, and Malfoy stole quietly out of the room.
It seemed he couldn't escape Potter, even when Potter himself had disappeared, the echo of absence reverberating even more in any empty space he left behind.
Tom felt a swelling hatred at the persistence of the boy in his thoughts, in his conversations, and he rose abruptly to his feet, casting an Entrail-Expelling curse on the spider crawling across Potter's bedframe.
He'd barely refrained from calling back Abraxas and using the blond as human practice, when Lestrange came bursting in, babbling about—what else—Harry Potter.
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As Tom took off down the hallway, robes swirling around him, he couldn't help but remember how Potter had tugged his robes to hide the bruises, or the tripping jinxes Tom had pretended not to notice, not wanting to be more involved with Potter than he already was. Children bullied, and when they grew up, they still did as adults: it was the way of the world. Tom had dealt with his own tormentors by himself, and had instead become the tormentor. If Potter wanted to avoid such situations, he could very well manage on his own. Tom had no interest in interceding when he'd already fought to claw his way to the top.
As such, when Tom found him, he thought it might be best to turn around and feign ignorance when he eventually heard about the fight. Four Gryffindors surrounded the boy, one of them MacDougal, and Potter had been slashed from his collarbone to his waist, the blood running down his skin in sporadic rivers, visible through his torn robes. Tom recognized the work of a mild Severing Charm.
Potter was holding his own, but only just, and the opposing hexes grew more vicious as a result.
It simply lacked subtlety. The Gryffindors—and Potter for that matter—were all nearing the age of majority. Yet they still squabbled in duels in the hallway, like the children in the orphanage who would wrestle for each other's food as soon as the matron turned her back, or shove at each other so they tripped at another outstretched leg.
It was too bold, too reckless, and Tom didn't want the fight on his record. As Head Boy, he should find a teacher, perhaps put up a few shielding charms.
But then the duel escalated.
Perhaps the original intention had been to humiliate Potter, catch him off guard and outnumber him, and press the advantage to use a few hexes and embarrassing spells when he couldn't fight back. Enough for the Gryffindor's to feel that they'd fought to preserve their house's dignity (as though it had any), but with spells mild enough that it would only result in detentions and a stern scolding if caught.
They likely didn't expect Potter to fight back so effectively, against four nearly full-fledged wizards. In the heat of the moment, in the panic of a plan going awry, the atmosphere shifted with desperation to salvage the situation.
Tom noticed the spells turn nastier, and yet he still did nothing, hidden in the shadows.
"Confringo," MacDougal yelled, a streak of flame he probably expected Potter to deflect, and which he likely would have done, had he not been busy sending a counter-curse at MacDougal's Gryffindor companion, and dodging a Relashio from the other. As he ducked away from the rope, the fire that would have caught him in the stomach caught him high across the cheekbones instead.
Potter gasped and staggered back, his hands hovering over his face but not touching the tender, angry skin, some of it still burning and blackening painfully as he observed.
Potter's eyes were tearing up, but he lifted his wand unsteadily to defend himself, and then he caught sight of Tom.
"Tom?" he rasped, looking confused at the sight of him, and Tom realized it would look terrible if he acted as only a bystander now.
The situation could be used to further ingratiate himself with the boy, however. As Abraxas had so keenly pointed out, the potion wouldn't last forever, and would likely wear off any day now. Acting the part of rescuer would certainly work in his favor. It might cause problems with the staff, but it would give Potter reason to trust him, undeniable hard evidence.
Besides, at this point, he had the excuse he needed to intervene without consequence. He could insist that he'd had no time to fetch a teacher; the burn across half of the boy's face would likely blind him in one eye if it wasn't treated immediately. With four-on-one odds, and Potter clearly injured, he might very well receive an award for intervening.
Of course, Potter had done considerable damage to the other boys, his competency as a duelist obvious, but the boy was soft. His hexes did no permanent injury, unlike the Confringo. Boils handicapped the redhead on the right, scattered up his arm and likely continuing on his chest, and one of the others had been silenced with a Sticking Charm to the mouth. Another seemed to have been hit by a vindictive Stinging Hex, and MacDougal himself had a nasty bruise beneath his right eye.
"Together," Tom said sharply, lifting his own wand to the Gryffindors. Harry stared at him for a long moment, before nodding shakily.
Coldly, Tom channeled some of his earlier rage, and snapped. Tom knew he must refrain from using anything particularly damaging, sticking to Disarming Spells and light attacks, at least at first. Even injured, Potter managed to hold his own, but he clearly suffered, and Tom grew impatient.
So although he kept his curses mild, Tom allowed some of his power to slip. One of the boys, a mousy blond boy with a crooked nose, screamed horrifically as an enormous snake Tom silently conjured began to crush the air out of his lungs. The boy passed out more from fear than actual suffocation, and Tom vanished the snake with another flick of his wand.
"Avis," shouted Harry, voice twisted in pain, as he took care of another attacker, the one Harry had muted with the Sticking Charm. This one Tom recognized as a Gryffindor Chaser as a flock of furious birds took after him, forcing him to flee down the corridor.
Another Gryffindor laid at the other end of the corridor, the apparent victim of a stunning spell, so Tom took care of MacDougal, the last one standing. He diverted a Bat-Bogey Hex with a flick of his wand, his mouth frowning in distaste. He cast a curse that would trap MacDougal in sleep, nightmares haunting him even while he collapsed.
MacDougal couldn't know the countercurse, too unusual, which would be Tom's justification for using it: it was not a dark spell, but certainly pushed the limits. With a powerful enough caster, one could even choose the nightmare the victim suffered. Tom chose a relatively mild form, so that MacDougal would feel as though spiders, leeches, and centipedes crawled over his skin, a constant jittery feeling. To intensify the impression, the nightmare was of pure darkness: MacDougal would not see the creatures, as long as he slept, he would only feel their constant presence and skittering. Tom hoped he'd stay asleep long enough that the feeling would persist even after he awakened, a phantom reminder.
In the end, with the two of them, the battle actually turned out rather dull, given that Potter had already handicapped all four of them.
Yes, the whole cleanup proved remarkably easy, so of course when Potter shouted at him to look out, jumped in front of him, and shoved him out of the way, he found himself momentarily wrong-footed.
He should have expected it. It was such a foolish, noble, almost-Gryffindor sort of thing that Potter would do, if only it wasn't a cowardly Gryffindor who'd caused the action in the first place.
The fourth Gryffindor, presumably petrified earlier by Potter, had shot a Conjunctivitis Curse from the floor, having just regained consciousness. Perhaps Potter's stunning spell had been weaker than intended, given the distraction of his burns.
Potter cried out as he took the curse; Tom quickly sent another petrifying spell at the fourth teenager, not caring that he'd overpowered it. The boy keeled over, staggering into him unbalanced, Tom the only reason he didn't collapse to the floor.
"Potter," he said urgently, needing the boy to lift his head so that he could see the extent of the damage.
The Conjunctivitis Curse could only be healed with the Oculus Potion, but with one of his eyes already badly burned by the Confringo, Tom found himself uncertain of how they'd combine, but he had an unpleasant theory.
"Potter, look at me," he commanded, the boy trembling and giving no response. "Pott– Harry, look at me!"
When the boy remained unresponsive, breathing heavily in silent sobs, he lost his patience. He used one hand to peel away the boy's hovering fingers, and the other to tilt up his chin.
The damage was horrific, all blackened and reddened skin, his eyes swelled shut, tears and mucus leaking from the corners, skin wrinkling unnaturally and blood seeping through the cracking wound.
Tom, despite his talent at healing, despite his talent at all magic, didn't dare try to heal him, or even alleviate the pain.
"What has happened here?" came an incredulous voice of Headmaster Dippet, and Tom dropped Harry's chin as though it had burned him as well.
He tried to let go of the boy's wrist, but Potter scrambled and clung to his hand desperately, his trembling growing into violent shaking. It looked like he was trying not to cry, not because he had enough presence of mind to care about his dignity, but because the tears likely made the pain worse, the salt stinging the damaged skin.
"Headmaster," Tom said earnestly, although he felt a flicker of unease when he realized that Dippet stood next to Dumbledore, who eyed him with utmost distrust. "I'll explain, but Potter needs immediate medical attention. He was hit by a Confringo and Conjunctivitis Curse in quick succession."
His feigned concern came with unusual naturalness for him, to his surprise, perhaps due to the adrenaline still running through his veins.
Dippet's attention quickly diverted with the announcement, but Dumbledore's gaze lingered on him, unrelenting.
After that, Tom was dragged into many troublesome niceties, not the least because Potter refused to let go of his hand. He couldn't slip away, not with Dumbledore scrutinizing his every action, and yanking away from someone in such obvious pain would make it so easy for the trickle of doubt to turn into full certainty.
As it was, he'd endured the Hospital Wing for the idiot, listening to jabbering adults and incompetent fools. Slughorn was called at some point, gushing praises about Tom's 'heroics', and Dippet went on a rant about students who performed such a cowardly act, relenting only to thank Tom for his quick thinking.
Tom barely listened; he didn't have to, any inattention on his part would be credited to concern. In truth, he believed Potter's injury affected him little. Still, Tom let the boy cling to him, because it cost him nothing but a small inconvenience, and would pay off in the long run. Even if there was permanent damage, the gamble could very well prove worth it.
"Thanks to Tom's timely intervention-"
"Can you imagine? It could have been much worse, if not for Tom-"
"I always knew Tom would grow into a fine wizard-"
A large part of him that scoffed at the praise that droned around him, because he could have prevented any damage at all if he'd intervened immediately. His heroics were so impressive because he'd specifically waited until it would be heroic for him to intervene: hardly the actions of a true hero. The stupidity of those around him did not surprise him.
What did surprise him was that a different part of him wished he'd saved the boy from the start, the advantage of waiting be damned.
But no, Potter's injury worked too much in his favor; it made him a hero. This was good. He forcefully disregarded any lingering regrets; if the boy was blinded, it hardly mattered to him aside from the loss of a potentially useful follower.
Besides, the past could not be changed. He could not have known the burning would soon be exacerbated by the Conjunctivitis curse. So he moved forward. He bowed his head, feigned humility and worry, and insisted that Harry was the hero; the curse had been meant for Tom, and that he'd jumped in front.
In the privacy of his own mind, though, Tom thought Potter more of an idiot than a hero, because it would have been infinitely easier to treat the two spells if they'd been cast on separate people. In one, they resulted in something much more severe.
Tom's delayed intervention was to blame for the injury, but the potion had manipulated the situation just as efficiently. Potter's 'protective' actions no doubt stemmed from the Mollis Caritate.
In other words, Tom had complete control over the situation, and every aspect could be turned to his advantage.
So he found himself frustrated that some part of him didn't feel satisfied with this, with Madam Jones' declaration that she could do nothing for the boy. She carted Potter off to St. Mungo's, Tom in tow.
They spent the entire afternoon in the hospital, and then well into the night. None of them slept, Potter in too much pain and the rest of them too busy. Well, Slughorn dozed off in one of the hospital chairs, but Dippet fire-called the parents of the four Gryffindors and worked on legal technicalities, contacting the School Board, of which MacDougal's father just happened to be a part. That would not bode well for the family's standing, Tom thought with concealed and remorseless delight; he'd never been fond of the imbecile.
Potter would lose his eyesight if they didn't perform a very risky, very expensive procedure, on both eyes. The Conjunctivitis Curse had interacted poorly with the burns, and while Potter would only lose eyesight in one eye if healed superficially, the other would be permanently blurred.
Potter only clutched at Tom's hand harder when he heard, but didn't respond otherwise, obviously in no condition to make any proper decisions.
Dumbledore, having been left to supervise the Healers, gave them the go-ahead. Tom watched impassively; Potter would be in debt for the rest of his life, unless the House of Potter willingly bailed out an illegitimate son, which Tom doubted, given that he'd never heard Harry mention the family, nor had he heard of the boy before his arrival at Hogwarts.
This, too, he could use to his advantage. Cygnus Black owed him several favors; Tom could pay off Potter's surgery, and once again he'd have physical evidence of his supposed goodwill. Potter would be in his debt; Tom could even insist on receiving no 'repayment', since his 'generosity' would likely make the boy feel even more indebted.
Tom sat straight-backed in the uncomfortable chair by the hospital bed, ignoring his aching hand, bruised from where Potter gripped it. The boy laid unconscious while Healers moved quickly and efficiently around him, preparing for the operation.
Dippet fretted, Slughorn napped, Dumbledore observed.
Tom plotted.
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Thanks for reading! :)