a/n: Happy Holidays! Or, if you hate the holidays, like myself and my lovely MC, then happy end of the financial quarter! … which is likely to bring on an equal amount of anxiety for those in the financial sector... So, uh, happy…
existence during winter? Whatever.
"Three-hundred and twelve."
"Not bad, Peggy," said Dee, jotting something down in a tiny notebook.
"It's twice what I had this time last year!"
"Ilania?"
"Four thirteen."
"Nice. What about you, Cillian?"
"Eh, just two thirty-eight. And Beery can't make it. He said to mark him down with three ninety-four."
"Got it. Minerva?"
"Seven-hundred and sixty."
"Good lord, woman!" Dee exclaimed. "How the hell-"
"There was a thing with fire hexes in a corridor... It's a long story."
"Alright... You're at the top now, I suppose."
"What are you doing?"
Tom had entered the staff room to find them all huddled around the Ugly Table and looking at each other with mild excitement.
"Ah, New Guy," said Dee. "We're updating our point totals before break."
"Your what?"
"Number of House points we've taken away from students," said Tyre. "We do it every year. Friendly competition. Highest at the end of the year wins a prize."
He wasn't going to bother figuring out the ethical ramifications of that.
Dee pointed at him. "You want in? How many points have you taken away so far this year?"
"None."
They stared at him.
"You... you've gone an entire term without taking away a single point?" Dee looked astonished. "How?"
He shrugged. "I don't care about House points. I don't find them to be a particularly effective disciplinary tool."
They all burst out laughing as if he had told an extremely entertaining joke.
"Oh, oh my," cried Peggy, wiping her eyes.
He was getting annoyed now. "What?"
"Son, the points system is the only disciplinary tool that works," Tyre explained.
That was ridiculous. The points system was a waste of time and yet another distraction from rigorous study. A carrot and a stick, more suited to the disciplining of primary school students. He'd always thought so. "I highly doubt that."
"No, really," said Peggy. "Getting detention is one thing. That only affects you. But getting points taken away? That affects your whole House. And the shame that comes with it is a powerful motivator."
"So, instead of punishing students using specific, meaningful techniques, you shame them into behaving?"
Dee nodded. "Sounds about right."
"What punishments have you been using instead?" Ilania asked with curiosity.
"Detention, mostly. I've removed some mouths and hands when appropriate. At one point I think I used a thunderstorm..."
They stared at him again.
"Tom," said Minerva, "those methods aren't really-"
"Wait," Tyre cut in, "I want to hear about the thunderstorm. Tell us about that."
"No, Cillian," said Dee. "We should not be promoting unapproved methods of discipline."
They looked at each other briefly, then broke out into laughter again. Well, all of them except Minerva.
"It's not funny!" she told them. "We have an approved list for a reason!"
They laughed even harder.
"Minerva, don't be such a prude," said Dee. She turned back to Tom. "Anyway, there's no doubt creative punishment is much more fun, but taking away points is just easier."
"Noted," Tom muttered.
"What about when you were a prefect?" asked Minerva. "Did you take points away then?"
"Not really." He'd spent about ninety percent of his prefect time taking advantage of the power it gave him and doing considerably non-prefect things.
Though, now that he thought about it, his indifference toward House points as a student was probably a rare opinion. Once, after a class, he'd watched Macnair curse a Ravenclaw with permanent baldness for making him lose twenty points during the lecture. And in fifth year, one of the Slytherin girls, Pucey, had almost been murdered when she lost fifty points for being found in the boys' dorm. The entire House had ostracized her completely, right up until graduation.
Maybe that was the real reason his students liked him so much. No one loses points in Defense! You can do anything!
The little bastards…
"What's the prize?" he asked, taking a seat at the table.
Dee smiled. "We only do money now. Pure, unadulterated coin."
"Yeah, ever since Grayson used that gift certificate to Madam Puddifoot's to spy on and subsequently harass the waitresses there," Ilania said with disgust.
"What's to stop any of us from just taking away points arbitrarily in order to win?"
There was a brief, awkward moment of silence.
"He doesn't know," Dee whispered.
"How does he not know?" said Peggy.
"Oh! He didn't get an orientation," Minerva explained.
"Kindly elucidate for me what the hell you're talking about?" he demanded.
"At orientation," said Minerva, "you get a brief explanation of how the points system works. It's sort of a closely held secret. Under no circumstances can students know."
"Know what?"
"Well," said Tyre, "let's just say it's impossible to remove points without a reason. Eh, I shouldn't say 'impossible,' but-"
"There are repercussions," said Peggy. "Horrible ones. It's a bit like the concept of karma, only instead of the universe giving you any punishment you may deserve, it's an ancient, omniscient enchantment. But we keep it secret because the students can't know that we don't have the power to take away whatever we want."
That was unexpectedly ominous. "'An ancient, omniscient enchantment?' How does it punish you?"
Tyre shook his head. "It's hard to say. But it finds a way. It always finds a way."
"Anyway," said Dee, writing his name down in her notebook, "you may have a chance to catch up before the end of the year, unless Minerva has another corridor fire or whatever."
Three days before Christmas, the Great Hall had broken out into a revolting rash of decorations. In fact, it seemed the entire castle was covered in ribbon and tinsel and enchanted bloody snow.
There had already been some ornamentation here and there since early December, but now it looked as if those decorations had spread and multiplied like a merry, colorful bubonic plague, and Tom wanted to set fire to all of it.
He despised Christmas. It was at the very top of the Reasonably Long List of Things Tom Riddle Hated, right above Herbology and Herbology-related affairs. It had never been a particularly happy time for him, considering Christmas at an orphanage was basically the same as every other time of year, except the orphans were even more harshly reminded than normal of the fact that they had very few possessions and that no one was going to buy them anything.
Also, his associates tended to disappear because, evidently, being part of a secret organization dedicated to the Dark Arts included paid holidays.
The only good thing about Christmas at Hogwarts had always been how empty it became. Most of the students and teachers usually went home, allowing him to take his time exploring the castle and to carry out certain tasks without having to worry about getting caught.
With the research he had conducted over the past week, he fully intended to take advantage of the emptiness. He just needed to get through the mandatory staff holiday dinner first, which he'd already tried to worm his way out of several times until he was told that his absence would be noticed and everyone would think less of him. That was how Slughorn had put it, anyway.
But on Christmas morning, he didn't even make it to breakfast before he'd experienced a minor psychological meltdown.
Almost immediately upon entering his office he noticed two small packages sitting on his desk. One was long and thin, the other one small and square. They were wrapped in shiny paper that depicted falling snow and twinkling lights, respectively. The tag on the larger one read:
Happy Christmas!
-Ilania
It was a gift. How odd. He opened it carefully, unfolding the wrapping at the edges, and pulled out a sleek black box. Inside the box was the most opulent eagle feather quill he had ever seen.
He opened the smaller box, and inside was a note and an accurate, moving replica of a badger. The note said:
Happy Holidays! Thought you would appreciate this.
-Minerva
He hadn't wanted anything. And he certainly never asked for anything. There had been no obligation on their part to do anything at all, so why?
Why?
Had he been expected to do the same? Because that was not a thing that he did. He did not hand out "gifts" unless they were symbolic items sent as thinly veiled threats or cursed objects sent as outright attacks.
There was a chance that an exchange of gifts was expected among coworkers, and he simply wasn't aware of the tradition. The only coworkers he'd ever had were Borgin and Burke, and they had never acknowledged Christmas at all. They certainly never gave out gifts, unless he counted the extra hours he was forced to work manning the counter during the Christmas rush, which they were kind enough to pay him for. Though, why a shop filled with Dark objects and antiques would have a Christmas rush had always puzzled him.
Was this just something people did in the workplace?
But that didn't make sense, considering he did not receive presents from every single member of staff. This suggested that it was not, in fact, a requirement, and that these two specific individuals chose to bestow gifts upon him of their own accord.
But why?
He was annoyed. Why would things like this not be discussed beforehand, agreed to by all parties, and scheduled appropriately?
Surely they were exactly what they appeared to be – presents from colleagues. Thoughtful gestures of good will. Surely they had not been intended to cause any sort of anxiety.
...Or maybe they had been. Maybe it was a test. Or perhaps they found him weak and wanted to weed him out, like pruning the leaves off a plant, and had decided upon some vague, indecipherable act of kindness as a way to slowly destroy him via a sanity-eroding crisis of conscience that would surely develop after he'd realized he had not reciprocated appropriately.
Maybe they were subtle threats. We're watching you. We know where you sleep.
Good luck interpreting this.
Your move.
He could have been reading too much into it. They were likely nothing more than simple acts of kindness or symbols of friendship or whatever the hell presents were to normal people.
...Which meant that he would look like a complete arse if he did not reciprocate.
But did that not, in a way, trap him in an inevitable feedback loop of giving and receiving, doomed to throw well-meaning gestures back and forth like some horrible psychological tennis game until one or the other party died or failed to participate, after which all relationships between parties were destroyed forever?
No, subtle threats seemed like the most likely scenario. That was how he had always understood gifts, anyway.
The present that Slughorn had handed him the night before needed no interpretation. It was a book titled Understanding the Mind of the Human Female.
He really hated Christmas.
Somehow, the Great Hall had been packed with even more decorations overnight, as the amount of giant fir trees and baubles and snow had increased significantly. Walking from the doors to the teachers' table was like walking through a hellish maze of tidings and joy and maddeningly cheerful music.
The table had been rearranged into a single rectangle so that everyone could see everyone else and pretend like they were a proper group of friends when, really, every single one of them was only there for the food and the obligation.
They were all milling around, waiting for five o'clock. Ilania spotted him immediately and gave a cheerful wave.
"Happy Christmas!" she said.
"Happy... Christmas."
"Did you get my gift?"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Yes..."
"I knew you'd like it! There's just something about an eagle feather quill that screams refinement. I have quite a few of them."
"Yes, I liked it. Thank you." He watched her carefully for some expectation of reciprocity, but he did not find any.
He decided to test the waters. "I'm sorry, I didn't get you-"
"No, that's alright," she said, waving it off. "I love giving presents."
What the hell did that mean?
They were soon joined by Minerva. "Happy Christmas," she told them. Then to Tom she said, "did you like it? I thought it was funny."
Here, too, he did not detect any expectation of a return gift. "Yes, very funny. Thank you. I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"Oh, don't worry. I just happened to see it and couldn't resist." She then turned to Ilania and thanked her for the eagle feather quill she had received.
What was happening here? What were they playing at?
Oh, this was torture. Refined torture.
He was undoubtedly supposed to be feeling guilty for not having had the forethought to supply presents himself, and they were purposely exacerbating that guilt by saying they did not expect anything in return. It was all lies. Their strategy was weak. He saw right through it.
Next year, he would be prepared. Next year, he would return this psychological torture tenfold... or however that translated into "small, thoughtful gift."
They would not win.
Once five o'clock arrived he was careful to choose a seat on the opposite side of Ilania and Minerva for maximum surveillance. Dumbledore, he noticed, was conspicuously absent.
Strangely, it seemed that almost everyone was there except Dumbledore, Dippet, and Peggy. And, of course, Cornelia, who probably felt that a Christmas dinner full of British professors was far beneath her. Tom had assumed that at least some of the others would disappear for the holidays to visit family and do proper Christmas things, whatever those were. But apparently not.
"Horace, I'm surprised there's no elite, exclusive Christmas party this year," Tyre commented.
Slughorn grimaced, looking unusually tired, likely due to the after-effects of whatever the hell it was he'd taken the other day. "After the events of Halloween, I think I'm done with parties for a while."
"What happened at Halloween?"
"I'd rather not discuss it."
About ten minutes after the food had appeared, there was a loud cawing noise, followed by the sound of hooves. A moment later, a man came through the doors of the Great Hall riding on the back of a hippogriff like a knight on his steed. He was middle-aged, severely sun-burnt, and dressed like he had just returned from a safari that took place a hundred years ago.
"Bloody hell," Slughorn muttered.
"Greetings, friends!" the man said loudly, dismounting and bowing to them all. "It's been far too long!"
"Not long enough," said Slughorn.
The man held his arms out wide to take them all in. "I've missed you all terribly. So glad to be back." He took the empty seat next to Tom and then stared at him. "Well aren't you just gorgeous!" he exclaimed.
"Er- thanks."
"Silvanus Kettleburn," he said, grabbing Tom's hand and shaking it. "Care of Magical Creatures. And who might you be?"
"Don't answer him," Slughorn spat. "Maybe if he doesn't know your name, he won't be able to find you, and you'll be free from the torture of hearing his endless, meandering stories."
Kettleburn smiled brightly at Slughorn. "You love my stories, Horace. You're just too embarrassed to admit it. Ladies!" he sang, holding up his glass to Ilania and Minerva. "Looking resplendent, as always."
"Thanks, Silvanus," Ilania said dryly.
"She's going to marry me one day," he whispered to Tom, "she just doesn't know it, yet."
"I can hear you, Silvanus."
"Because you always listen to me. We have such a good relationship. It was meant to be." He laughed to himself. "Oh, yes. I like that response. Ten points to Kettleburn."
"Shut up, Kettleburn," Grayson shouted. "I'm not in the mood for your weirdness."
"Why Grayson! Still not dead, I see. How nice for you! Happy Christmas."
Grayson waved him off angrily. "Piss off you ruddy qu-"
"Professor Grayson, if you finish that sentence, I swear to God I will remove your head and cook it for dinner tomorrow," Minerva warned. "And you had better believe it won't be apples I'll be stuffing into that fat mouth of yours."
They all stared at her in silence. And a little fear. Somewhere behind them, a hippogriff purred.
"So... where've you been?" Beery asked Kettleburn, breaking the tension when no one else would.
Slughorn groaned loudly as, in an instant, Kettleburn seemed to shift into what could only be described as storytelling mode. "Well, I'll tell ye. There I was, at the start of my sabbatical-"
"Suspension," Slughorn corrected.
"-standing on the edge of Uluru, looking out across the endless Australian desert, contemplating the vastness of nature. And wouldn't you believe it-"
"I wouldn't," said Slughorn.
"-all the sudden, without warning, as if it were a sign from the heavens, a massive re'em-"
"Oh, please. You probably spent the last three months drunk on pukwudgie bile and murmuring to yourself while drooling on the floor of an Amsterdam hotel room."
"That is oddly specific, Horace," said Tom.
"And a smashing good time," Kettleburn added, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "But sadly, no. That was last year. This year, it was a re'em in Australia. And Scamander."
"Scamander?" said Tyre. "He's still roaming around?"
"Well, the man's only fifty-three, Cillian, so yes. Those of us on the lower end of middle age are still capable of field work, I'll have you know."
The rest of the dinner passed relatively quietly, with the exception of Minerva refusing to let Grayson say a single word and Kettleburn demanding to know absolutely everything about Tom. Tom gave vague and simple answers, but that only seemed to make the man ask more questions.
No one had even mentioned the hippogriff. Apparently, it was in typical Kettleburn fashion.
The Headmaster's Study had never been difficult to break into, even when Tom was a student, especially given the fact that Dippet was fast asleep in some other random part of the castle about eighty percent of the time. Every time he'd managed to find his way in, the Sorting Hat had always been in there, perched on top of the familiar locked cabinet of banned books, peering at him somehow with that eerie, eyeless face.
But he'd never noticed the Sword before.
It must not have been there while he was at school. He knew almost every inch of this office, and he would have remembered seeing the Sword of bloody Gryffindor if it had been there.
It was there now, however.
It sat innocently inside a thin glass case underneath several snoozing portraits, almost as if it were trying to hide in plain sight. He examined it closely, feeling around the edge of the case for any sign of enchantments or curses.
"Headmaster!" came a drawling voice from behind him. "I love what you've done with your hair!"
Tom turned around slowly, his mind racing to come up with an excuse - which, he realized, would be much easier now that he was a teacher and not a student - but no one was there.
"Over here, you pathetic, half-witted son of a whore!"
It took him a second to see it: over the doorway hung a large, lavish portrait of a regal, dark-haired wizard who was sitting in a velvety purple chair. He had his arms folded and was eyeing Tom up and down, clearly unimpressed with what he saw.
"Who are you?" Tom demanded, pulling out his wand in case the situation necessitated large amounts of portrait-destroying fire.
"Well, gosh, I don't know! There's this thing, you see, down there." He pointed at the bottom of his frame. "It's got words on it, and I think it might say who I am, but I can't be sure. What do you reckon?"
Tom walked across the room and approached the portrait. When he was close enough, he was able to read a faint line of text engraved on a plate of gold: Phineas Nigellus Black.
"I take it you were a Headmaster?" he asked quietly, hoping their voices would not carry.
"No," said Phineas.
"No?"
"No, you see, they found my portrait in the street and thought it was nice, so they figured they'd hang it up in the office of the Headmaster of a magical school just for fun, even though every other portrait in this room is of a former Headmaster. Those barmy wizards! Very inconsistent."
"You're not funny," Tom muttered.
"Incorrect. I find myself extremely adept at humor. What are you doing in here?"
"The Headmaster sent me to retrieve something for him."
Phineas nodded. "Ah, yes. You'd be surprised how many students he sends in here to do the same thing. What are you trying to steal?"
"None of your business."
"Also incorrect. I am a Slytherin and a Headmaster. Everything is my business, you ignorant peasant."
"So, you were a Slytherin?"
Phineas sat up straight in his needlessly lavish chair and straightened his silver and green smoking jacket. "No. I lied. I just wear these colors because I like to blend in when I'm hiding in gardens. What's your name?"
Tom was tempted to shout out that he was the Heir of Slytherin but realized it would be the stupidest thing he'd ever done. "Tom Riddle," he said, hoping the annoyance in his voice was evident. "I am a professor, and I don't have to stand here and take criticism from poorly painted art school projects if I don't want to."
"Riddle? Are you that prat Dumbledore kept warning Army about a few years back?"
"'Army?' And yes, most likely."
Phineas thought for a moment. "And now you're a professor, you say?"
"Yes."
"Well," Phineas sighed with a shrug, "Army never was the brightest."
"Actually, Dumbledore hired me."
"Is that so? Surely no ulterior motives there."
"Surely."
"What are you trying to steal?" Phineas asked again.
"I told you, nothing. I'm retrieving something."
Phineas nodded in understanding. "Of course. Of course. What are you retrieving for the Headmaster that we both know you're actually trying to steal, you pretentious, incompetent prat?"
"You are incredibly rude. Even for a Black."
"Why, thank you. Rudeness requires cleverness, you know. And I am terribly clever."
"Please stop talking," Tom grumbled, walking back across the room to examine the glass again. He had no reason to waste any more of his time being berated by a portrait.
"Well," Phineas continued, "from Slytherin to Slytherin, I can tell you that that Sword isn't worth the trouble."
"How do you know I was a Slytherin?"
"Because Slytherins are arrogant, conniving little shits, the lot of them, and you certainly fit the bill." He thought for a moment. "'Riddle...' Don't recall that name being in the Holy Book of Inbreds..."
"The what?"
"It's a record of pureblood ancestry, which you would not be aware of as you are clearly not an Inbred. There's definitely no entry for 'Riddle,' anyway."
"What about Gaunt?"
"BAHAHA," he laughed loudly, causing some of the other portraits to groan in exasperation. "Gaunt! Bahaha! The inbred-est of the Inbreds! Worse even than us Blacks! I thought they'd died out. Or maybe I just hoped they did."
He really didn't want to say it but he went ahead and said it. "My mother was a Gaunt."
Phineas looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow. "I stand by my assessment."
Tom glanced at the other portraits. Every single one of them had their eyes closed. "Why are you the only one talking to me?"
"Because when I talk, these fools would rather pretend to be asleep or dead than acknowledge my existence - a situation I am quite comfortable with, to be honest."
A few of the other headmasters grunted in confirmation.
"Why did you never say anything when I came here as a student?"
"Because I hate students. Talking to them makes me want to stick a giant knitting needle into my brain."
"I can sympathize with that."
"Anyway, the students are never as interesting as the teachers," Phineas said casually, picking at his nails in refined Black Family pomposity. "Especially now."
"How do you mean?"
He shrugged. "Well, that Dumbledore appears to have started a habit of breaking in here as well. Not interested in swords, though, it seems."
Tom shook his head. "What are you talking about? What reason could Dumbledore possibly have to break into an office he already has access to?"
"Books, apparently."
He turned around to look at the old banned-book cabinet, which he now realized was slightly open. "But Dumbledore put half those books in there himself. He always-"
"No, no. Not that Dumbledore. The other one."
It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, Tom rounded on Phineas. "I'm sorry?"
There had been no sign of Dumbledore anywhere in the castle since Christmas, but no one seemed to think this was unusual, as he often traveled during the holidays. Tom had taken Phineas's claim with a grain of salt - the man was as overdramatic as he was arrogant. Still, what he had said made a strange amount of sense.
But where would a second Dumbledore have come from? If some brazen fool had decided to attempt impersonating Dumbledore through the use of Polyjuice Potion or something similar, it would likely not end well for him. And he wasn't being particularly careful about his presence, either.
There was also the question of motive. Why do it?
Tom was sitting in the staff room, deep in thought, waiting for some unplanned meeting to start. Minerva had shown up at his door just after dinner to tell him that Dippet was holding an emergency meeting at six in the evening and that no one knew why. He was somewhat suspicious of this, but it was not terribly out of character for Dippet, who seemed to believe that any question in the universe could be answered with a needlessly long, unorganized staff meeting.
But it was ten after six now, and the only people there were himself, Slughorn, and Minerva. Ilania had been there too, but she had disappeared right after Tom arrived.
They were looking at him with smiles on their faces, and he felt strangely cornered. Were they going to murder him?
Or was this a setup for… But no. No one would have any reason to think that today was anything other than New Year's Eve. Unless…
"Today's the thirty-first," Slughorn announced in what was starting to look like a monstrous betrayal.
Tom suddenly regretted every conversation he'd ever had with Horace Slughorn. "I suppose it is."
"New Year's Eve," Minerva sang.
He narrowed his eyes at her. "That is accurate."
"Someone told us it might be your birthday," she said mischievously.
He stared at Slughorn with absolute loathing, and Slughorn simply smiled back at him like someone who thought himself very clever and not at all a cruel and disloyal bastard.
"It is not my birthday."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Yes. I don't have a birthday." He was fully aware of how ridiculous he sounded, but he did not care.
Slughorn gave him an exasperated look. "Everyone has a birthday, Tom."
"Not me."
They were grinning like idiots and it made him want to murder them and bury their bodies somewhere deep inside the Forbidden Forest. Why had none of them gone home? They had families, probably. Why were they here? Who spent New Year's Eve at work?
Was he supposed to know their birthdays? Had he already missed some essential workplace tradition by not acknowledging them and now he was being punished because of it?
It was the gift fiasco all over again.
Except, unlike the gift fiasco - which he still hadn't completely come to a conclusion about regarding the intention - this was most definitely meant to be torture.
Eventually Ilania came in carrying a cake with candles on it and Tom made to run out the door. But Minerva had already blocked it like a sadistic prison guard.
"Sit down," she commanded.
Somehow, in all his twenty-three years of life (twenty-four now, he supposed), he had only ever been subjected to the horrors of the "birthday" twice. Once, when he turned ten, the orphanage staff sang for him, and made the children that despised him sing too, and he'd hated it. Everyone had hated it. Then, in their sixth year at school, Avery thought he was clever by throwing a surprise party, and Tom still hadn't forgiven the arsehole for it to that very day.
He sat. The cake was placed in front of him, twenty-four twinkling candles floating above the icing like tiny, mocking fairies.
Then, like an expertly executed Cruciatus Curse, the singing started.
"Happy birthday to-"
"No."
"Happy birth-"
"No."
"-to you."
"Merlin, no."
"-py birthday dear Tom-"
"Good lord."
"-birthday to you."
They all stared at him expectantly. He folded his arms and sat back in his chair, refusing to take part in such utter ridiculousness.
Minerva poked him in the back. "Don't be stubborn," she said.
He stared at the candles while calculating the consequences of incapacitating his coworkers and blowing up the staff room in retaliation. The fire… The destruction… Yes, the punishment would fit the crime. And this horrible table would finally be gone.
"Birthdays are mere trivialities. There's no need to waste time-"
"Shut up and blow out the bloody candles, Tom," said Slughorn.
He cast a spell in his head and the candles disappeared. They looked at him with annoyance.
"What? I'm sure wherever they are, they've been extinguished. That counts, doesn't it?"