12 September 1942 — 13 September 1942
There was a corner in the library, hidden behind towering shelves, that was fairly hard to spot if one didn't know where to find it. It was where Tom would go to do his research or seek some time for himself. Very few knew where it was, and they knew better than to seek it out for themselves. Only one had been foolish enough to do so, and Tom had refused to relinquish it — so he had sat with her and endured her questions and her prying.
Before, during his early years as a Mudblood in Slytherin, that particular corner had been a sort of haven. A place to escape, when eyes first tracked him, when rumours and slurs followed him. It had stung then, and there was no one but Droope who experienced the same struggle he did. It had taken a while, but eventually talent had won him acceptance, and it had brought him closer to securing primacy.
The insults came less often now, but it refused to leave completely. He had his friends now to come to his defence, when the pure-bloods dared to taunt him out in the open.
Open, of course, meant the confines of the Slytherin common room. It had been some time since anyone had done it elsewhere, for fear that it would cause a scene, or attract unfavourable attention from people who might disagree.
Until now.
That he would be here again, for those same reasons, those reminders of his weakness and shortcomings . . . his deficiencies.
It was stupid.
Pathetic.
Predictable.
It was also better than the alternative. Better to be here than to deal with Droope's pity or face Malfoy's ridicule — Malfoy's grudge made worse by the humiliation he too had experienced. Better here than Tom's followers' uncertainty.
They would keep their distance for now, Tom knew. Not out of fear of his reaction, but out of doubt. He would have to keep them close to him, once the initial shock had passed. He couldn't afford to scare them off now, restless and on edge as they were — he would have to remind them with his charming words and silvery promises, if he wanted to strengthen his hold.
But if he could find Slytherin's monster. . . .
Tom scowled at the books in front of him. None of the books from the library had been of any help so far. Worse still, the books on the Dark Arts, the ones that had been so promising, were gone from the Restricted Section. They were nowhere to be found, despite his attempts to look for them when the school year began. At the moment, he only had Lestrange's books to go on.
That project, at least, had borne some fruit. Lestrange hadn't been easy to persuade to Tom's side, with his closeness to Malfoy and the Blacks. It had taken some time, but Tom had managed to garner enough of Lestrange's trust to gain access to his family's library. Lestrange's collection may not have been as vast as Hogwarts', but there were unfamiliar titles that he would not have acquired elsewhere. These, perhaps, may prove useful.
Tom was in the middle of scanning a passage on little-known wards and concealment charms when the quiet was broken by Alphard Black.
"Riddle," he said. In his expensive robes and well-coiffed hair, Black was the poster boy of the perfect pure-blood.
And here he was, shifting his feet nervously.
"What Abraxas did was out of line," he started after a pause, then faltered.
"Was it?" said Tom coldly. He wasn't interested in hearing half-hearted apologies, least of all from Malfoy's pet.
Black, the loyal tagalong, shifted again. "Anyone with eyes can see it was."
"And yet he didn't seem to. I wonder why that was."
Black twitched like he wanted to pace, but he was making an effort to stay standing where he was. "Abraxas was wrong, all right? I'm not trying to defend him."
"Then why are you here, Black? I was under the impression you agreed with the consensus."
"And what is that, these days?" he muttered.
"Unfortunately, the rubbish your friend continues to spew."
"It doesn't matter what I believe. He shouldn't have done what he did."
Tom scoffed. "Save your breath. I doubt Malfoy regrets any of it, so it's pointless apologizing on his behalf."
Black's face hardened, as if with newfound resolve.
"Who said I was apologizing?" he said flatly, looking down at Tom, proud and indifferent.
Tom set his jaw. Of his family, Black was the least likely to challenge Tom, but his disdain was still there, silent and simmering under the surface.
"If that's all you have to say," said Tom with a dark look, "then I suggest you let me return to my reading."
Black's eyes flickered to the books, widening slightly in recognition.
"I didn't know Raoul let you borrow from his library," he said with the faintest sneer. "Must have taken some convincing — he's very protective of his family's things."
"He'll have them back soon enough," said Tom crossly. "It'll be like I never touched them at all. You'll have your turn, I'm sure."
Black laughed, short and bitter. "I won't. You'll be thrilled to know he's made it clear whose side he's on."
Tom met Black's gaze, and his mind teemed with memories that weren't his own — Lestrange duelling against Malfoy and Black at the party, before Slughorn had put an end to the chaos. . . . In the sixth-years' dormitories, Lestrange and Malfoy screaming at each other, nearly coming to blows, Selwyn and Lucretia Black rushing to hold them back. . . . Lestrange walking away, as Black chased after Malfoy with a thunderous look. . . .
Tom lifted the spell and felt a surge of victory. He had something now that Malfoy and his cronies didn't, however long his association with Lestrange might last, though he didn't let any of this show. He kept his features blank, jaw clenched as he continued to stare down Black, who was making an admirable effort to hold his gaze.
"I'm supposed to give you this," said Black at last.
It was a scroll of parchment with Tom's name written upon it in familiar thin, looping writing. He held back a sneer as he unrolled the parchment and scanned it — a summons to Slughorn's office, as he had expected.
Just what I need, he thought with no small amount of disdain. More of Slughorn's bumbling dramatics.
Tom knew how this would play out — how it always did, when Malfoy and the other pure-bloods' scorn for him had been more open and frequent. Slughorn would apologize on their behalf, would assure Tom that it wouldn't happen again, all while trying to make him see from their perspective, trying to make Tom understand, to forgive and forget.
It didn't matter how charming Tom was, how intelligent, how ingratiating. At the end of the day, it was evident who Slughorn would choose. When it came down to it, it wouldn't be the oh-so brilliant Muggle-born with no name or family or bloodline — it would be the pure-blood with history and connections, with more than enough fame and money to make up for what he lacked in brains and charisma.
"Well, I'm off then," said Black, clearing his throat, obviously relieved. "Try-outs ought to be starting soon. I reckon half the House will be there — probably wanting to see Smith have another go at Abraxas."
Tom almost looked up, interest piqued, but he kept his eyes on the parchment until Black's footsteps faded away into the hall, leaving the library in blessed silence.
Tom had forgotten about the try-outs. He had planned on watching it, and he had thought of inviting Lestrange to go with him — a subtle reminder to Malfoy, of where Lestrange's loyalties now rested.
But now. . . .
That was the problem, wasn't it? Loyalties.
Tom didn't doubt his followers' allegiance, but he was under no delusions either. His hold on them was tenuous at best — it always had been, and he knew that the only way he could strengthen his grip was to prove who he was. Malfoy's display was a reminder, to them and to Tom, that Tom's claims were still meaningless, no matter how true they were.
Meaningless in the face of people with real power. People with real influence. People like Ignatius Tuft, who had made it perfectly clear who they favoured.
Fucking Malfoy.
Oh, they would cling to Tom still, his little acolytes. To permanently back away from him now, would be akin to admitting they had backed the wrong horse, that they had made a mistake. But if Malfoy were to remind them again, if he were to show them how much sway he held, how much prestige . . . and if Tom didn't have his leverage, his proof by then. . . .
Tom would lose them all. His followers, his reputation . . . all the years he spent finding allies, bowing and scraping for goodwill — all of it would be ruined. All his work would amount to nothing.
He needed to find the Chamber, now more than ever. It would be his proof, his birthright, and no one would dare question him or mock him or —
Dumbledore would, Tom thought scornfully. The man had never looked at Tom without suspicion in his eyes.
And by extension, so would Ginevra Smith.
Smith, who annoyed him and intrigued him by turns. Who defended him when no one dared to. Whom he hated now more than he ever had.
How dare she? How dare she come to his defence as she did? He didn't ask for her help, he never wanted it —
And now he owed her, as much as he loathed the thought. Everyone knew what she had done, and he couldn't simply pretend that it didn't happen. People would look, and they would see, and they would wait. For his reaction, for hers, for Malfoy's. . . .
No, Tom wouldn't show his face. Not yet. He would have to soon, he knew, lest people think he was weak.
But not yet. Not until he knew what to say to her. Not until he could make, at the very least, some semblance of sense of it all.
And nothing about Smith made sense.
She was far too impulsive, too quick to speak her mind — yet her mind was as closed to him as Dumbledore's was, full of silly, happy memories that were too difficult to navigate.
She was disdainful of other pure-bloods, open about her dislike of Malfoy and everyone who thought as he did — yet she was friends with the girls in their year, and had let herself be swept away by Black, had even laughed with him. By all appearances, she seemed to treat him pleasantly despite their initial encounter.
She was friendly and charming and amiable, adverse to posturing and pretences — yet what were her actions, if not a facade?
Smith tried. Credit where credit was due, she was good at it, and Tom wouldn't have seen through it as quickly as he had if not for their first meeting, and the little things she had let slip past her mask.
She hated him. She did her best to hide it, but she hated him. It didn't surprise Tom — clearly Dumbledore had poisoned her against Tom early on, though why he bothered to do so was a mystery. Tom had thought, at first, that Smith's dislike was for Slytherins in general. It was a likely assumption, with how she kept to herself and avoided their housemates during the first week of school.
But then she befriended Droope. Smith had taken to her quickly, and had favoured Droope with her rare, genuine smiles with an ease that surprised him. Then she befriended the other girls in their year, and she interacted with them as though she was the missing piece in their little group.
And then she danced with Alphard Black, of all people, who was practically attached at the hip with Malfoy, and whose family made no secret of their disdain for people like her and Tom.
And then she defended him.
She hated Tom . . . and yet she had defended him.
It made no sense.
Tom knew it wasn't just him — Smith had come to the defence of Muggles and Muggle-borns alike, people who were below her in name and power. She would have done it too, if it had been anyone else in his place. If it had been Droope herself, Smith would have done it without blinking.
But she had done it at the expense of losing Slughorn's favour in exchange for Malfoy's wrath, of earning notoriety among Slughorn's web of connections.
Why? What was the point? Why bother?
For honour, maybe, like some common Gryffindor would.
Self-righteous satisfaction could only go so far, though. Did Smith not realize that?
It infuriated him, how she quickly she could throw away the advantages she had been born with — advantages that Tom had fought to get. It irritated him, how easily she could read him, how she would sidestep his attempts to charm her without hesitation.
He hated her . . . but it made him curious too.
Alarmingly so. There was something in the way she looked at him, the rare times she did, her eyes full of suspicion and knowing, seeing through his honeyed lies and veiled truths.
Who was she?
What was she?
Why?
Try as he might to shift his focus back on more pressing matters, Tom found his thoughts wandering back to Smith — her actions the day before, their previous encounters, her dry, pointed remarks. It was inconveniently, maddeningly distracting, so much so that he had to go over several pages again to make sense of what he was reading. He was two-thirds of the way down during his reread when he found something that caught his interest.
Due to its extreme rarity, not much is known about the language. However, it is believed that the use of Parseltongue may not be limited to snakes and serpentine creatures. Objects shaped like a serpent, such as carvings, painting, or statues, are rumoured to be able to speak the language when spoken to by a Parselmouth. Others, however, suggest that these objects must be created by Parselmouths in order to respond.
Regardless, it is generally agreed upon by scholars and linguists that objects in the form of a serpent may be enchanted by a Parselmouth to learn and follow orders. The knowledge acquired by the images may be coaxed out by proficient Parselmouths, but the type of information that can be taught and what enchantment to use to teach them are currently unknown.
For a frozen moment, Tom's heart thundered in his chest with enough force to make his head spin. Could this be it? His key?
He had learned early on that the carved and painted snakes throughout the castle could speak back. His natural discretion had kept him from speaking to them, and the few times he dared to, the snakes rarely replied. They weren't good conversationalists, and they tended to repeat the words he had spoken to them, echoing him without understanding.
But if this was true, if these snakes could be taught. . . . If Salazar Slytherin truly intended for his heir to find the Chamber of Secrets, surely he would inform someone of its location — or in this case, something. . . .
It wasn't much. It wasn't a guarantee, but it was the most progress he had made since the end of his fourth-year, when he had learned of the Chamber's existence. It might mean nothing, but. . . .
There was only one way to find out.
There were muffled, angry voices inside Slughorn's office.
Tom stood outside, struggling to make out the words, when one of the voices rose in volume before stopping abruptly, suddenly silent. He waited a few more minutes, straining to hear, but the voices said nothing else. Slughorn must have cast a spell to keep him and his visitor from being overheard.
Curious and in no mood to waste his time dawdling, Tom knocked on the door. A few seconds ticked by, where he imagined whoever was inside shushing each other and Slughorn scrambling to his feet.
"Ah, Riddle — Tom," said Slughorn, flustered and dark red in the face.
Tom bristled. Riddle — the most glaring reminder of his past, the name of his worthless Muggle father.
"What can I do for you?" Slughorn asked, as he swung the door wider.
Tom looked over Slughorn's shoulder, scanning the room for the source of the shouting. Smith was sitting in front of Slughorn's desk, arms crossed and her face glowing with defiance. She caught him looking, and the expression melted away into mild curiosity.
"I was told you wanted to see me, sir," said Tom politely, without missing a beat. "Here's the letter —"
"Ah, yes, no need for that." Slughorn waved his hand, the colour in his face fading. "Yes, I remember, but I'm afraid we will have to have our discussion another time, if that's quite all right with you. You see, I need to have a much-needed talk with Albus about Miss Smith's behaviour." He scowled at Smith's direction, and she stared back with a look that was far from contrite. He turned to Tom again with a smile. "But I suppose, you can stay, Tom, if you don't mind. Perhaps you can conduct her detention. It's not your first time doing so, if I remember correctly."
Before Tom could open his mouth to respond — an assent, because it was the only response he could give — Slughorn was already patting his shoulder and beaming.
"Yes, I knew I can count on you, my boy. I shall see you in class."
Then Slughorn was gone, leaving Tom and Smith alone in his office.
This was not how Tom wanted their next encounter to go. He wanted to be the one to approach her, so that he was in control of where they were, what he would say, what they would talk about.
Not like this, in Slughorn's cramped space, doing menial, useless tasks for God knows how long.
Smith didn't seem pleased by the idea either — she never was, at the prospect of talking to him — but she hid it well, her features set in a flat, unreadable expression. Her eyes followed him as he waved his wand to gather the bowls and baskets used for shelling peas — her last detention, so he wouldn't have to bother explaining what to do — then sat in the vacant table closest to the front of the room. He was fortunate he had brought Lestrange's books, something he could use to occupy his time while waiting for Smith's mind-numbing task to end.
"So I guess I'm not going to any more parties after all," said Smith, after several minutes had passed in silence.
Tom concealed his surprise. It was the first time she had broached a conversation with him, without his instigation. God, she must feel sorry for him.
"I suppose not," he replied evenly, curbing his ire.
She glanced at him, as if waiting for him to say something else. When he didn't, she said, "When you were outside, did you hear — what Slughorn was saying, I —" she grimaced, shaking her head. "Never mind."
Interesting. Her argument with Slughorn must have something to do with Tom, if she was trying to ask him about it. Something about what she did must have embarrassed her enough that she didn't want him knowing.
Tom tried to look into her mind to see what it was, but instead of her disagreement with Slughorn, what he found were images of Slughorn's dinner — talking to Margot and Canseliet, dancing with Black, standing up to Malfoy —
Tom drew back, vexed. He had no intention of reliving that particular memory. But he could still turn this to his advantage, to try and get some answers. . . .
He set his features in a look nervousness, with hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his robes just so.
"Ginny."
Smith, her head still ducked, stiffened almost imperceptibly. Tom wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't been waiting for it. It was one of those things he had learned to watch out for in his conversations with her, like how she would meet his eyes and then glance away quickly, or how she would pause before evading his attempts at getting information.
But this, the way she would freeze and hesitate for half a second when he said her name, was what intrigued Tom the most. From what he could see, she didn't seem to mind when it was anyone else — she only ever reacted when it was him.
"You don't like me very much, do you?" he said, keeping his tone light and hesitant.
Smith's brows furrowed. "What makes you say that?"
There were plenty of answers he could give her, all the little, revealing details that he had gathered. What he did say, though, was the one that had nagged at him for as long as he had known her.
"You call me Riddle."
She paused, her hand hovering over the basket of pea pods, her gaze on the table. Then she looked up, brown eyes drilled into the space between his eyes and eyebrows — pretending to make eye contact, but avoiding it. Another one of her curious habits.
"I do," she said blandly. "It is your name."
Tom could appreciate the lack of denial, that she didn't bother to act dumb or pretend not to know what he was talking about. What he didn't appreciate was the flicker of challenge in her eyes, daring him to ask her bluntly, instead of using discreet prompts.
He remembered their conversation before, how quickly she had been able to see through his tactics. She even had the gall to accuse him of being unsubtle, and the thought of it rankled him still.
"You're on a first name basis with Margot," he pointed out.
Smith nodded. She met his eyes for a heartbeat before she looked away again. "I am."
"And yet you don't do the same with Black."
"Neither do you."
Tom felt a mounting surge of frustration.
"We don't exactly get along," he said levelly. "I'm sure you've noticed."
"Well, there's your answer," said Smith, sounding faintly amused. "But, truth be told, I don't really know what you're asking . . . if you are asking."
Tom hated asking. Questions were too direct, too upfront, and worst of all, they revealed too much. They betrayed curiosity, and doing so could leave one open and exposed. No, questions were obvious — they were useless, clumsy attempts at gathering information.
It was better to not ask at all and to simply prompt the answers. People were inherently vain and self-absorbed; they would talk about themselves with the smallest of encouragements and with little prodding. Tom had found that there was no need to ask if he could insinuate instead — let people fill in the blanks themselves, let them talk and dig their own graves, make them unguarded, make them vulnerable.
But Smith wasn't like other people, and Tom was beginning to realize that his usual tactics wasn't going to work on her.
He forced the words out. "Why don't you call me Tom?"
If Smith was surprised that Tom had finally asked her, she didn't show it. Her face was unreadable, her lips set in a grim line.
"Bad memories."
"Oh?"
"I knew a Tom once."
The air around them seemed to shift, suddenly heavy in a way that was different from before. Something was on the verge of happening, Tom could feel it in his fingertips — like another puzzle piece about to slot in place, slowly inching its way closer to the mystery that was Ginevra Smith.
It wasn't what he had expected. He thought she would give some excuse or list the reasons for her dislike. He didn't think it would be something from her past or anything to do with his unpleasantly common name.
"What happened to him?" he asked.
The corner of her lips curled into a mirthless smile, and Smith met his gaze with hard eyes. The intensity of it caught him off guard. Again, she was challenging him, daring him. To do what, Tom didn't know.
"He died," she said.
"I'm sorry." The words came automatically, the expected response for topics such as this.
"Not your fault," she said wryly.
Her eyes darted back to the bowl of pea pods, busy again with her task, her hands quick and nimble.
Tom found he had nothing to say — what was there to say, after a revelation like that? So he turned his attention back to his book as the silence descended. The only sounds that filled the quiet were the turning of pages and the occasional squeak of her leather chair.
"It won't kill you to just ask me," said Smith, when she finished shelling the basket of peas, and Tom decided to end her detention there. "Whatever it is that's eating you, you can ask instead of trying to get inside my head."
He felt a sliver of unease at her choice of words. But she couldn't have known — he used Legilimency sparingly, and he took care not to probe too much or too long when he peered into her mind.
"For some people, asking can be seen as tactless," said Tom.
"Because of the question or the answer?" she said, her eyes narrowing. "Either way, I can't really point my finger at anyone and call them tactless, can I?"
Smith paused, but Tom merely gathered his books, waiting to see where she intended this conversation to go.
"I'm just saying," she said after a beat. "You can ask."
Tom considered it. Prompting her for answers had never worked, but there was no telling if she would answer him even if he did ask.
"You don't mind?" he said, aware he had posed the question before.
"I won't know unless you ask me."
"What were you and Professor Slughorn arguing about?"
Smith snorted. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"
"I did warn you."
"We were arguing about you," she said. "But I reckon you already knew that."
"Why?"
"I don't agree with how he's handling" — she stopped, as if to look for the right word — "what happened."
Tom forced a smile. This would be the part where he was expected to say thank you, for she had apparently defended him yet again. This would be the part where he took the opportunity to probe more into why, to try and comprehend why this girl, who saw too much and understood too little, had done what she did.
Yet her hesitation, how she couldn't even say it, the reminder of what she did and what he now owed her, roused his anger.
"I see," he said, resentment stirring within him. "I'll see you in class, Ginny."
Her eyes narrowed again at his abrupt dismissal, but she didn't question it. Smith hitched her bag over her shoulder and waved goodbye.
As Tom watched her go, his thoughts buzzed around like a swarm of angry wasps invading his already overwrought brain. He could barely wrap his mind around it all — thoughts of the Chamber, of Malfoy, of Slughorn, of his followers' loyalty.
And, again, of her. More questions with no answers.
Nothing.
Tom had found nothing.
He had been scouring the castle since leaving Slughorn's office for snakes that might aid him in his search. But like before, none of them had said anything that was particularly helpful.
"Serpent-tongue," a painting of a snake had greeted, then went back to sleep.
"Have . . . returned. . . ." was what an engraving on the stone walls had hissed back.
"Welcome," was all the Serpens constellation, on a poster in the Astronomy Tower, had to say.
"Ask . . . tell . . . others. . . ." hissed another painting, before slithering away from its frame.
Frustrated and tired, Tom was ready to rest for the night after hours of fruitless searching, when he found a statue in an alcove. A bald man with a long beard, a snake wrapped around his raised arm. Tom ventured closer, recognizing who it was.
Statues, he had found, were the worst of all the images he had encountered. When he spoke to them, they would only parrot back what he said. Transfiguring a statue, or any object in Hogwarts, into a real snake amounted to the same thing.
But he had nothing to lose at this point, and there was no one in the hallway to hear him.
Tom stared at the snake and imagined it was alive. Not truly expecting a proper response, he hissed out a greeting. At once, the snake came to life, pale grey stone turning to dark green scales that shimmered as it uncoiled itself from the statue.
"You seek the King," it said. It was less a question and more a statement — a demand.
Tom looked at it in shock, at its red eyes and slit pupils, and felt a growing sense of alarm. This was not what he had planned. He hadn't intended to turn it into an actual snake — especially not into this.
A Chinese pit viper, he recognized with dread, as words from an encyclopaedia he had read long ago came to mind. Venomous . . . causes necrosis at the wound site within minutes. . . .
Hesitantly, Tom asked, "Who is the King?"
"The King . . . you seek the King."
He asked again, but the snake only repeated the same demand.
"You seek the King."
Tom's irritation flared. He scanned the statue to see if there was another snake he could speak to, but there was none. It was just the snake currently hissing at him, curled around the hand of —
Herpo the Foul. Tom should have realized it sooner. The first known creator of the basilisk . . . the King of Serpents.
"You seek the King," the snake repeated.
"Yes," answered Tom.
It happened faster than his eye could follow. In a blink, not a split second after he replied, the snake had struck his hand.
Tom, panicked, stumbled backwards, falling on the cold stone floor. Quickly, he checked his injured hand — it had felt like his hand had been branded with a hot iron, but there was no blood, no punctures. The pain had been entirely magical.
Tom looked up. The snake was slithering back to place, wrapping itself around the forearm of the statue.
"Speak to Salazar," it said.
Tom scrambled quickly to his feet and tried to speak to it again, but it was no use. The snake had frozen back to stone and spoke no more.
As Tom returned to the common room, he felt the back of his hand itch. It wasn't painful, but there was an uncomfortable tingling, like ants crawling on where the statue had bit him. Each time Tom tried to scratch it, the sensation would fade, gone as swiftly as it had come. He would have to look into it and find out if the bite had left anything behind. There had to be some enchantment to it, something that would help him understand the snake's words.
Speak to Salazar.
How? A portrait of Slytherin, maybe? A statue?
In all the years Tom had spent discovering the castle's hidden passageways and secret rooms, he had yet to encounter an image of the Founders that could speak back. When he had been younger, he had wondered why they didn't. Of all the possible enchantments in the castle, their images were the ones that held the most history, and yet they were silent, their voices lost to time.
Tom understood now, why that was. They were so different, the four of them, and it was no small wonder that their partnership had ended as badly as it had. But their silence kept their legacy alive, as contradictory as it seemed. They had buried their secrets with them, and the unanswered questions that followed their wake turned them from men to myth.
That would be Tom one day. He wasn't sure how yet, but when the time came, he would bury his past with him. He would kill it, these unsavoury, unfortunate parts of him, and he would rewrite it. Turn it into a story that was his for the telling.
But to do that, he would have to let them die, these relics of his past, these remnants of who he once was, unwanted reminders like —
"Tom!"
It was Droope, sitting next to Smith near the window. Droope jumped to her feet, walking towards him until she was close enough for Tom to see the unmistakable distress in her eyes, gleaming with concern and pity. Always, always pity.
"You almost missed curfew," she said quietly.
"You know I would never," said Tom, smiling pleasantly.
"Yeah, but . . ." her voice trailed off, wavering. "Are you all right?"
What a stupid question.
If it had been you, he thought darkly. If it was you that Malfoy despised, if it was you who attracted his disgust, their derision. . . .
"I always am," said Tom.
Droope bit her lip, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Where were you? I haven't seen you all day."
But she already knew the answer. A memory flickered behind her eyes — the two of them at eleven years old, in the hidden corner of the library. Tears were spilling down her cheeks as she tried to stifle her sobs, Tom patting her shoulder uncertainly.
"Just doing a bit of light reading," Tom answered, an obvious opening.
Predictably, she took it.
"Light for you," she teased as she glanced at the books he was carrying. The mirth faded as her eyes flew back to meet his. "Tom, I — I'm sorry for yesterday —"
"Don't be," he cut her off immediately. He had no desire to deal with this — not her misplaced sympathy or her self-pity. "There was nothing you could have done."
Droope winced and dropped her gaze, but not before Tom was able to peer at the memories that rose in her mind's eye — an argument in the kitchens, recent, still stinging her conscience and pride. . . . Her carefully hidden anger, her deep-seated resentment, bubbling to the surface. . . . Her friends' placating words, heavy with understanding and grudging acceptance. . . . A seed of doubt, planted in her carefully built foundations, questioning. . . . And in the middle of it all was Smith — her righteous fury, the look on her face, bright and blazing. . . .
Tom pulled away.
"I understand, Margot," he said firmly, softly. "I would have done the same."
The words would appease her, he knew. They would mollify her — a reminder of who they were, supporting what they knew and understood, telling her this is what we are, this is what is and will be.
Droope smiled, tentative but with palpable relief.
"Still," she said, squeezing his arm lightly. "If you want to talk —"
"I'll know where to go," he interrupted gently, smoothly stepping out of her reach. "Good night, Margot."
Droope murmured her farewell, and Tom turned to go to his room. Almost without meaning to, he took one last glance at Smith as he left.
In the green light of the lake, with her back to the glass, Smith's expression was bathed in shadow, but it was easy to imagine the look she wore in Droope's memories, the way she had looked at Slughorn's party. . . . Fiery and resolute, red fire set ablaze in the green glow, out of place and unfamiliar. . . .
Infuriatingly, intriguingly different.
The snake bite had left no visible mark, but it did leave behind an odd, prickly feeling that would surge up suddenly and unexpectedly. At times, when Tom was walking along the corridors, it felt like a faint, light pinch. Other times, it burned as though his skin was blistering, like his hand had been set on fire.
Tom had returned to the library the next day, determined to find out what it meant, but the books there yielded nothing. The Restricted Section might have something to help him, but he had no time or desire to persuade his professors — especially Slughorn — into giving him access. Luckily, Lestrange's books provided some answers, and he had been able to use a Curse-Breaker's diagnostic spell to see what the bite and the strange, burning sensation meant.
If Tom had performed the spell correctly — and he was confident he had — the bite had left an enchanted mark that acted as a trigger when it was near other enchantments. It was a signal, and the hotter and more painful the bite burned, the nearer he was to his destination. Once he reached it, the enchantment would vanish completely.
The problem was that when the mark burned, it didn't last long enough for him to pinpoint what had triggered it. It would burn for a second or two, but it didn't lead him beyond where he stood when the pain had hit. When it did burn for longer than a moment, the pain was too intense for him to do anything but cradle his hand to his chest and wait for it to pass.
Tom was on the right track though; he was sure of it. If the bite functioned as a key, all he needed to do now was find the lock.
If only it didn't have to be so painful.
Tom had been on his way back to the dungeons, after another day spent in an unproductive search, when it hit again without warning. Not the quick, barely-there burn, but the longer, searing pain, the mark burning white-hot on the back of his hand. Without looking, without caring where he was, he dropped the books he was carrying, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes, trying to gather his breath as he waited for the pain to ebb away.
Faintly, he could hear the sound of a door opening, footsteps coming his way —
"Tom? Are you all right?"
Tom opened his eyes as the pain receded, and he was greeted by the sight of Dumbledore. The man's face was lined with concern, and in his hands were Lestrange's books.
"Yes, Professor," said Tom, straightening up, slightly unsteady on his feet. "It's just a migraine. Lost my balance, for a moment."
"Would you like me to take you to the hospital wing?" asked Dumbledore, frowning.
His gaze stayed on Lestrange's books for a second too long as he handed them back to Tom, who felt a jolt of unease. The covers may have been Transfigured, but the last thing he wanted was for Dumbledore to start investigating what he was reading.
"No thank you, sir," said Tom calmly. "I'm all right. I just need some rest, I suppose."
"Where are you headed now?"
"My dormitories, sir."
Dumbledore stared, still with that look of concern. His gaze was almost kind, but Tom could see that he was still searching Tom's face for answers, and he would never merely accept Tom at face value.
"Come inside," said Dumbledore. "Perhaps you need to sit down, and a cup of tea may do you some good —"
The door to Dumbledore's office was not far from where Tom stood. He had been so caught up in his search and by the burning of his mark that he hadn't even realized where he was.
And there, standing by the open doorway, was Smith, her brows drawn together as her eyes darted from Tom to Dumbledore.
"Is everything all right, Uncle?" she asked.
"Just fine, I hope," said Dumbledore. "Tom here seemed to have a dizzy spell. I thought it best to invite him in."
"I'm fine, Professor," said Tom evenly. "I appreciate your concern, sir, but I think I can make my way back to the dungeons."
Dumbledore gave Tom another once-over, the ever-present suspicion glinting in his eyes.
"Well, you do seem all right now," he conceded. "But I suggest you stay for a while, wait and see if another migraine hits you. If not for your sake then for mine — surely you can indulge an old man's worries."
Smith was staring at him too, scrutinizing, and Tom could do nothing but nod. Annoyed, he didn't notice Dumbledore's hand on his back until it was too late to flinch away. Dumbledore was unfaltering as he led Tom through the corridor and into his office, as though he had taken charge of Tom's movements.
"You can go ahead, Ginny," said Dumbledore, in that absent-minded tone that fooled everyone but Tom. "I won't keep Tom long."
"All right," said Smith slowly, peering at Dumbledore doubtfully. "Good night, Uncle."
"Good night."
Dumbledore's office was set up like what Tom imagined a home would look like rather than a workplace. It wasn't like Slughorn's, which was desolate and almost colourless, pathetic and empty much like the man himself. Dumbledore's was crammed with almost everything, cosy in its organized clutter — books on every subject filling the shelves, others in haphazard piles that reached the ceiling, colourful paraphernalia hanging off the walls, potion supplies and sweets in the cupboards with doors that didn't close all the way.
But what caught Tom's eye was Fawkes the phoenix on his perch, his magnificent red and gold feathers gleaming faintly in the light. He was watching Tom with bright interest, and Tom couldn't help but stare back. Tom had seen it before, but he was so rarely in Dumbledore's office that the awe he felt at seeing it up close had yet to wear off.
In front of Dumbledore's desk was a red divan, covered in a mountain of pillows and blankets. With a quick wave of Dumbledore's hand, the divan turned into a plush loveseat.
"Sit," said Dumbledore. "Unless you'd prefer I change it back?"
"No thank you, Professor."
Tom sat down, determined not to show his discomfort as Dumbledore sat on the chair behind his desk.
"Sherbet lemon?"
"No thank you, sir."
"Tea, then."
A silver tray flew to Tom's side, laden with a plate of biscuits and scones, a teapot, and a chipped teacup with cinnamon tea. There was chocolate too, large chunks of it, on the plate by the teacup, its edges already melting near the hot drink.
"I'm afraid all I have at the moment is cinnamon," said Dumbledore, still in that calm, kind tone. "I'm not all too fond of it, but it's Ginny's favourite, and it does help calm the nerves."
Tom took the cup and the plate of chocolates. "Thank you, sir."
They sat in silence as Dumbledore poured himself a cup, all the while watching Tom with wariness veiled by the mild, benevolent look he often wore. Tom knew better than to be fooled. Dumbledore was undoubtedly brilliant, and his enthusiasm for magic made even most Slytherins boil with anticipation during his lessons — yet all Tom could think about was all the things the man must be hiding.
Oh, Dumbledore was always polite, often smiling, but Tom knew. Tom knew the man had been observing him ever so carefully from the moment they met. Tom knew he quietly traced every scrap of Dark Arts that went on in the castle to see where it would lead him, and he expected to find Tom at the end of the trail.
And Tom knew that Dumbledore had secrets of his own, and he had them in abundance. He would never have recognized it in Tom otherwise.
"Are you well, Tom?" said Dumbledore.
"Quite well, sir."
Dumbledore raised his cup and took a sip.
"I don't mean to pry," he said carefully, "but I heard what happened two nights ago. I take it Horace has already spoken with you about it?"
Tom fought not to react. "Not yet, sir."
Dumbledore frowned. "Well, I'm certain he will soon enough. Rest assured, I have spoken to Horace about Mr. Malfoy's and Ginny's respective punishments —"
Despite Tom's attempts to keep his expression neutral, some of his surprise must have shown, because Dumbledore stopped abruptly.
"Does this surprise you, Tom?" asked Dumbledore, the frown etching itself deeper on his face, and Tom recognized yet another look that shone in his eyes — pity.
Tom had been on the receiving end of that quite a lot lately. How he loathed it, more than the contempt and derision and hatred. Those he understood, those he could do something about — but pity?
What good would it do Tom? It was just another reminder of what he was and what he wasn't — a reminder he didn't need. Tom knew perfectly well what people thought of him, and he didn't need these sorry, regretful eyes to tell him what he already knew.
"No, sir," said Tom, the picture of unaffected calm. "I just didn't expect Ginny to be punished as well."
Dumbledore sighed. "While her reasons may have been noble," he said, with the air of someone retreading an age-old argument, "talking back to an honoured guest and attacking another student are not actions that we tolerate, nor should they go unpunished."
Tom took a bite of chocolate and said nothing.
"I have spoken with her at length about it. Each action we take have consequences, and it's not up to us to decide whether these outcomes are good or ill. Regardless of our intentions, it is the means we take to accomplish them that matter."
Dumbledore peered at Tom from behind his glasses.
"I take it you disagree?" he asked.
"Sir?"
"It's not a very Slytherin mindset, as I understand it, to say that the ends don't always justify the means."
"No, sir, not particularly."
Dumbledore's gaze was heavy with meaning. "What do you believe, Tom?"
Tom weighed his words carefully, chewing on some more chocolate to buy himself time.
"That there are some ends that can justify the means, sir," he said quietly. "But it all depends."
"On?"
"Our own morals, sir. Our conscience."
Dumbledore didn't respond immediately, his expression pensive and his gaze as suspicious as ever. Tom wondered if Dumbledore would try to convince him, if Dumbledore was looking for the right words to sway Tom to his side.
He didn't, but Tom would have preferred it over what was said instead.
"I understand if you feel the need to get back at Mr. Malfoy for what happened," said Dumbledore softly. "And I want you to know that what's important is not what was said, but what you will do in the aftermath."
Tom felt his anger prickling beneath his skin. "Do, Professor?"
"Surely a talented wizard such as yourself would want to take action for what occurred."
Tom didn't know what to say to that. The words seemed like they were meant to be a compliment, but Dumbledore had said it so matter-of-fact, as though he was merely discussing the weather. As though he was expecting something to happen, and he knew that Tom would be to blame.
"Keep in mind that what matters now is how you will react, not in light of Mr. Malfoy's words, but despite them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Our means define us more than our intentions do," said Dumbledore gently. "Try to remember that, Tom."
"I'll try, Professor," said Tom levelly. "It's almost curfew, sir. May I go now?"
Another long, probing look. "Are you feeling better, Tom?"
"My migraine's gone, sir."
"That wasn't what I asked."
Tom set the chocolate and the untouched teacup back on the hovering tray, resisting the urge to throw them at Dumbledore's face.
"Better, sir."
"Very well," said Dumbledore placidly. "You may go, Tom. But remember my door is always open, if you ever need someone to talk to."
Tom wasn't fooled, not by the dulcet words or the kindly act. Dumbledore could pretend all he liked, but Tom knew the truth, and so did he.
Tom plastered a smile on his face. "Thank you for the tea and sympathy, sir."
He left the room, Fawkes' low, soft cry echoing behind him.
As Tom passed through a small connecting corridor — a longer but less often used pathway to the dungeons, to lessen his chances of another unwelcome encounter — his eyes flicked to a nook nestled in the middle. There was a woven tapestry of the four Founders, unassuming in the swarm of living portraits, almost unnoticeable despite their history.
For a moment, Tom paused in his step, eyes brushing over each of the Founders in turn. Gryffindor with his gleaming sword, Hufflepuff cradling her golden cup, Ravenclaw donning a sparkling diadem upon her head.
And Slytherin, fingers steepled over a thick-chained locket around his neck.
Tom's own fingers reached out to trace the curl of the S, emerald stones inset along the front of its golden casing. In this light, it almost looked like a snake. . . .
The marked burned, fierce and sudden. The stinging pain made Tom grip around the threads of the tapestry in a forceful jolt, nearly yanking it down from the wall as his eyes crushed to a close. As the pain subsided, he opened his eyes, and suddenly he could see. . . .
There was more than one snake hidden on the tapestry — the rings on Slytherin's fingers, the belt he wore, the pattern on his robes. Faint and nearly imperceptible, but they were there.
The last snake he had spoken to, that statue that had marked him . . . it told him to speak to Salazar. . . .
Tom stared hard at the tiny woven S, trying to imagine it was real, willing himself to believe it was alive. If he moved his head, the candlelight made it look as though it was moving.
"Where is the Chamber of Secrets?"
The snakes spoke, their voices, ice-cold and breath-taking, filling his head all at once.
"With the King."
"Home of the King."
"Wake the King."
"Go to the King."
"King, King, King. . . ."
Over and over, they repeated the word, chanting . . . a dozen voices in his head, all singing the same song . . . his mark burned hot, like it had been set ablaze, the fire spreading outward . . . all over his hand, his arm . . . his head . . . too many voices, too loud, too much —
"Silence," said Tom.
They stopped.
The voices were gone, and so was the pain emanating from his mark.
For one, heart-stopping moment, Tom thought he had silenced the snakes for good, but as he stared at them . . . it seemed as though they were staring back. They weren't moving, but there was something in their eyes, how they seemed to follow his movements, that made them appear alert. In the dark of the corridor, they looked as though they were glowing a bright, sickly green.
The book said these snakes could speak, that it was possible to enchant them to learn. . . . If it was possible that they could follow orders, then perhaps. . . .
"Take me to your King."
Most of you asked for Tom, so I hope you enjoyed this update! Up next, we see Ginny's side of things, featuring but not limited to: learning more about Slytherin dynamics, Quidditch tryouts (oh boy), and unhappy professors.
Thanks for reading and please consider leaving a review! If you're interested in getting updates and sneak peeks for this story, or if you just want to chat about anything under the sun, you can check out my tumblr at could-have-beens.
