a/n: Thank you to AFamiliarWitch and unspeakable3 for, once again, helping me actually get things done.
He had returned to the Room of Requirement a few days later to find several stacks of books sitting on the table and Dumbledore lounging in one of the chairs - which had, at some point, changed itself into a sofa.
"Where did all this come from?" he demanded.
Dumbledore shrugged, closing the book he had been reading that previously did not exist. "I suppose your special room is under the impression that I would be much easier to interrogate if I were placated first. I cannot say I disagree."
Tom wanted to be annoyed. He really did. But he couldn't bring himself to care.
The sudden expansion of the Mystery Forest had caused quite a lot of chaos, and the entire staff had spent the last seventy-two hours making the castle safe enough to live in while ignoring the fact that it probably should have been permanently evacuated a month ago.
He was tired. Physically tired.
Apparently, if you were younger than the rest of the staff, it was assumed that you would have no problem staying up all night, hacking at roots that shouldn't exist and fixing classrooms while everyone else went to bed thinking "ah, he's young. He can handle it."
He originally had every intention of continuing his interrogation of the impostor, even though he was exhausted, but when he walked in to see that the prison cell had decided to change into a slightly less uncomfortable reading room, he felt somewhat discouraged.
He sat down, moved a newly manifested pile of books out of the way, then laid his head on the hard, cool surface of the table.
Yes, this was definitely proper behavior befitting the Greatest Dark Wizard of All Time.
"Rough night, I take it?" Dumbledore asked with a grin.
"Please do not talk to me."
"I've had nights like those, I can assure you."
"Please stop talking."
"Revelry, dancing, music… And, of course, heavy inebriation. Oh, to be young again."
"I do not have a hangover."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Oh? You have leaves in your hair. I assumed you had participated in some sort of drunken excursion, as young people are wont to do, and ended up deep in the Forest somewhere, likely getting intimate with a lovely-"
"Stop talking before I kill you."
"Am I to understand there will be no violent continuation of our previous conversation, then?"
Tom did not respond.
Normally, the interrogation of an enemy would not include a lengthy pause during which the interrogator disappeared for several days, and then returned showing a distinct unwillingness to do anything by laying his head on the table like a drunk at closing time. That was not how proper interrogations worked.
But it really didn't matter because he had, so far, found no reasonable method of extracting information from this bastard.
The Cruciatus Curse did not work, Legilimency did not work, and he couldn't even keep his fucking wand in his hand, apparently, because the impostor had the ability to employ disarming magic that completely ignored the safeguards put on his wand specifically to prevent disarming.
The only method that had provided any answers was not a method he had any ability or desire to use at the moment.
So, he was going to sit there with his head on the table and hope that Dumbledore would kindly decide to reveal his secrets out of… he didn't know. Pity?
"Not likely," Dumbledore said suddenly.
Tom lifted his head. "What?"
"I will not likely reveal my secrets out of pity. But I do have pity for you, friend. I, too, have had the unpleasant experience of working with colleagues who-"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm sorry?"
"How are you… You should not be able to-"
"Read your mind?"
"No, that's not-"
"Yes, I am aware you hate that term. You prefer 'Legilimency' because it sounds fancier."
Tom was standing now. "What you're doing is not possible."
Dumbledore ignored him and rambled on. "You are quite loud, you know. Do you always shout in your head when you're thinking? I thought I ought to say something. Perhaps you might benefit from some sort of anger management-"
"Not possible." Maybe if he said it enough times, it would be true.
Dumbledore thought for a moment. "Unfortunately, you may be correct. It seems you are beyond the point where any sort of psychological intervention would help."
"I- what? No, I mean it is not possible for you to penetrate-"
The impostor snorted.
"-a mind like mine. There is no way you can-"
"I understand the confusion." He held up the book he'd been reading. "It seems the magic here is woefully underdeveloped. It's unfortunate, you having to use such primitive methods…"
"What do you mean 'here?'"
A bell rang in the distance, indicating the start of classes. He would have no time to sleep, not that he would be able to with the sudden realization that this idiot had been reading his mind the whole bloody time they'd been talking. Why had he not just gone to bed? He knew he wasn't going to accomplish anything by coming here.
"I was wondering the same thing myself, actually," said Dumbledore.
"Get out of my head, old man."
At least he was able to confirm that the Room would not change (much) if he left it.
"It's quite a perceptive little space."
"Stop it."
He could not let anyone that was able to penetrate- (the impostor snorted again) -his mind so freely continue to live. But if he killed Dumbledore now, he would never find the Sword… And anyway, if the Cruciatus Curse was useless, it was likely the Killing Curse would be as well. So, short of a knife to the throat, he wasn't even certain he could kill the man-
"Probably not."
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"
Despite wanting to sleep for a week and then spend all his time interrogating his prisoner and subsequently stabbing him to death with the Sword he stole, Tom was forced to turn his focus back to teaching, and to something he had been dreading since the beginning of the year.
He had no desire at all to do it, but it was already in his lesson plans because Dumbledore had insisted that it be included in his lesson plans.
He forced himself to enter the staff room. Tyre was, as always, sitting by the fire.
"Cillian, do you have a moment?"
"Sure. What can I do for you, son?"
"I need…" He sighed. "I need a Boggart."
"Is it that time of year again? I hate those bloody monsters. Eh… I'll talk to my supplier. Well, I say 'supplier…' Pest control, really. I can probably have one for you in a couple days."
"Thank you."
He shrugged. "Good luck with the lessons. Just pray you don't get a wet one."
Tom stopped on his way out the door. "A what now?"
"Heh. A wet one. Almost every year some kid's got a fear of jellyfish or bog monsters or something disgusting like that, and it usually ends up wet and messy."
"Jellyfish?"
"Aye. They're lethal, apparently. Anyway, Merrythought said she had a kid once with the fear of being put inside out. Blood and innards all over the classroom. Thank god the kid managed the spell. Honestly, the things children come up with." He shook his head.
"Fantastic."
The Boggart came a few days later, sealed inside an old, plain wardrobe. He was not looking forward to the lessons at all, not only because children really did come up with the most disgusting ideas, but also because he generally wanted nothing to do with it.
Or, rather, he did not want it to have anything to do with him.
After the wardrobe had arrived, he stared at it for a long time.
It sat there, innocuous and silent and taking up a considerable amount of space in the middle of his classroom. A completely normal, nondescript wardrobe with a completely normal, incorporeal non-being inside.
All he had to do was leave it alone until the next day's lesson, and he would deal with the unpleasantness then. There would be far too many students in the room for it to have any reason to focus on him. And even if it did decide to focus on him, it was not as if the thing could actually frighten him.
Could it?
Perhaps it was better to know ahead of time, just to be safe.
No. He did not care what form it would take, as it was merely a psychological manifestation. Thus, whatever it turned into would be harmless.
He stared at it some more, promising himself he wasn't going to think about it and then promptly thinking about it. He was fairly certain he knew what his greatest fear was, or at least the general idea of it. It was likely something abstract and ineffable, like the concept of death. What would that look like?
Well, nothing, he supposed, if it was ineffable.
No, it didn't matter. He really, truly could not have cared less. He was perfectly capable of just leaving it alone. No curiosity about it at all.
He opened the wardrobe and the entire room exploded.
He swore loudly as desks and chairs were violently thrown against the walls. The space had filled with fire for a brief moment, which dissipated quickly, leaving heavy, gray smoke in its place. The Boggart sat there now as a pile of metal shrapnel surrounded by concrete rubble. In the distance - or whatever the Boggart equated to distance - there was the sound of a siren.
Bombs.
Why, after almost a decade, would he still be afraid of bloody bombs? Utterly ridiculous. Clearly the thing was confused.
He walked up to the shrapnel and kicked it in frustration. "Bastard," he muttered.
And then he smelled it.
It was a smoky, metallic smell, like dirt mixed with blood and set on fire. And it was painfully familiar.
It was unfortunate that smells recalled memories so easily. All he could think about were the countless trips to the Underground, where he and the few other orphans who hadn't been evacuated over the summer sat for hours every time the sirens went off. The smell was everywhere - a pungent, persistent reminder of the destruction that surrounded them - and it had lingered in the streets of the city for what felt like years afterward.
In the tube station, there had been no way to tell time unless someone had a watch - which, of course, no one ever did. Not that you could really see one in the dark. And the clocks that hung on the walls had all been broken. So, they would sit in silence for an unknown length of time, waiting with pounding hearts and shaking hands to hear the telltale signs of bombing that would either come or not come. And he would think about the wand in his pocket, clinging to the idea that it would save him, should saving be necessary, but knowing that, in fact, it probably wouldn't.
He came out of his unpleasant reverie even angrier than before.
"You can really stop now," he said, knowing full well that talking to a Boggart was useless.
It responded with more sirens, followed by an impressive imitation of airplanes flying overhead.
He cursed the thing out of existence.
"Cillian," he said to Tyre at dinner that evening, "I may need another Boggart."
"What happened to the first one?"
"It was broken."
Tyre seemed confused. "Broken? Is that even possible?"
"Sure."
The Boggart lessons, unsurprisingly, did not go according to plan, but at least he didn't suffer a repeat of the bomb incident.
Instead, he had to deal with a student whose greatest fear was a plague, to which the Boggart had responded by making it appear as if everyone in the room had painful, red pustules all over their skin. It took an unreasonable amount of time to calm the class down.
"But it looks so real, sir," one of them said, scratching furiously at his arm.
"It's not." He turned to the idiot with the plague fear and glared at him. "Do the spell, Aronson. We don't have time for this."
"Don't come near me!" Aronson screamed, backing into a corner. "You're all infected!"
"I told you, it's just an illusion. I would be more than happy to curse you with a real plague if you like."
That brought the boy to his senses.
This was followed by a student whose greatest fear was, of all things, cows.
It stood there, staring at them, chewing on something in its mouth and relieving itself on the floor. Completely harmless.
"BLOODY UGLY FUCKING HORRIBLE BASTARD-"
"It's… a cow, Trent."
"I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING MONSTER!"
"A cow, Trent. Do the spell and stop screaming. Good lord."
"UGLY BASTARD-"
So, that took a while.
Most of the children managed the spell easily enough. Most, but not all. Unfortunately, Boggarts were considered Dark for a reason.
"Go on, Clarkson," he said to the small Ravenclaw boy who looked like he wanted nothing more than to become invisible so that he did not have to do this.
Merrythought's voice echoed in Tom's head: 'Go on, Riddle. Everyone's got to try it at least once.'
"I don't want to, sir." He was more terrified than any of the others had been, and he hadn't even faced the thing yet.
Before Tom could respond, the other children shoved Clarkson forward until he was close enough for the Boggart to react.
It morphed into a rather average-looking man in brown robes who stared at Clarkson with disgust on his face. There were confused murmurs among the students, but Tom had a fairly good idea of what was happening. He'd been expecting to see something like this at least once.
"Remember the spell," he said quietly as the man stepped closer.
Tears were streaming down the boy's face. He raised his wand, hand shaking. It was then that the Boggart decided to speak, which Boggarts were not supposed to be able to do.
"Don't you raise your wand at me, boy," it said in a low, threatening voice.
"The spell," Tom said again.
"I can't-"
The man flew into a rage. "This is my house, boy! You will show me respect. You're lucky I didn't throw you out on the street! Is that what you want?"
Clarkson dropped his wand and sat down on the floor, holding onto his knees and rocking back and forth.
He would not stop crying, so Tom sent him to the Hospital Wing, along with a sealed note to give to Madam Sable, instructing her to ask the boy about his family situation.
That was the protocol, anyway.
Still, he wished Dumbledore, in all his righteousness and wisdom, could have been there to see that. Then perhaps he would not have been so insistent upon throwing that lesson at children every year.
The next class was somehow even more annoying.
There were two methods of dispelling a Boggart. One pushed it back into its container, to be dealt with later or hidden away. The other required an immense amount of power and essentially removed the thing from existence altogether.
He had lectured them on both methods, and instructed them to use the former, which sat well within their level of ability. No child, and very few adults, could even attempt the latter method.
But some virulent strain of stupidity had evidently infected the Hufflepuffs, because quite a few of them were insistent upon trying it anyway.
"De Rien!"
"Tilly, why are you-"
"À Rien!"
The Boggart, now in the shape of a bear, shuddered slightly before rearing on its hind legs and roaring loudly.
"Sorry, Professor. I thought that would work."
"I told you to use the standard spell."
"I know, sir," she said, speaking very quickly, "but it just felt right, you know? I thought I should at least try it. I mean, you wouldn't teach it to us if you didn't think-"
"Come on, Tilly!" yelled the girl who was next in line. "Stop flirting and get out of the way. I want to try!" She was almost bouncing with excitement.
When it was her turn, she, too, tried the more difficult spell, but with far more unfortunate results.
"De Rien!"
"Please don't-"
"À Rien!"
The spider that she had been facing exploded into thousands of tinier, infinitely more annoying spiders. They were everywhere. It was almost as chaotic as the plague had been, with most students jumping up on desks to escape the writhing mass that now covered the room.
It went on like that for half an hour, each one of them attempting ridiculous feats of magic, failing utterly, then commenting loudly about how amazing the whole experience was while the Gryffindors stared at them in confusion.
"You're next, MacLeod."
MacLeod paced back and forth with a hungry look on his face while he waited for Tom to open the wardrobe. When the Boggart appeared, it came in the form of an obnoxiously colorful clown.
MacLeod seemed determined. He pointed his wand steadily at the clown's big, brightly colored head, but before he could say the incantation, the clown took out a large horn and started making loud honking noises and smiling mischievously.
MacLeod dropped his wand and ran at full speed toward the Boggart.
"AHHH!"
He pinned it to the ground and started punching it in the face repeatedly.
"MacLeod, that is not the method I instructed you to-"
"AHHH!"
Tom sighed.
Either something odd was happening, or he had, for most of his life, seriously underestimated Hufflepuffs.
No, that wasn't possible. Something odd was definitely happening.
"What is wrong with you all?" he demanded.
"What do you mean, sir?" one of them asked innocently as MacLeod continued to scream and violently attack the Boggart in the background.
"You know exactly what I mean."
No one spoke.
"If someone doesn't tell me what is happening, I will start taking House points from each of you."
More silence. Apparently, that was not intimidating enough.
"And you will all receive detention."
Nothing.
There was a sudden tinkling sound, and a tiny, empty vial rolled across the floor and stopped between Tom and the students, who were making poor attempts to pretend they hadn't noticed it. He picked up the vial and examined it.
"What is this?"
Nobody came forward.
He had to hand it to Hufflepuffs. Their solidarity was impressive.
"These edits are… interesting," said Beery, shuffling through the perfectly written script Tom had given him. "They'll definitely require some set and costume… changes."
"You're welcome."
"I'm glad to see you kept it as a musical."
"That was the agreement. I can make whatever changes I want as long as there is still… singing."
"Yes, but-"
"But?"
Beery smiled politely. "No offense meant, Tom, but musicals tend to be a bit less… morose."
He was offended. "They all die in the end. It's morose. My portrayal is accurate."
"Well, yes, but the story is meant to teach a lesson, you know. One we should try to convey-"
"What lesson? Don't make shady deals with someone calling himself 'Death' and expect a good outcome? Or don't build bridges over rivers?"
Beery sighed. "I suppose we'll see if it works in the first rehearsal. You are staying for rehearsal tonight, yes?"
He had promised himself he would rewrite Beery's pathetic script and that would be the end of it. "No. I did what I said I was going to do."
"Right, but you should be there! We need you to tell us whether we are accurately portraying your- er- complex writing."
Clever bastard.
Tom did not have time for such nonsense.
He also was not willing to allow his writing to be butchered by children who could not act and a director who wanted everything to be either a cheerful song or a poorly reasoned commentary on society.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the Great Hall once again, watching students act poorly.
He decided he would stay for one rehearsal – one – just to make certain they weren't going to turn the whole thing into a travesty, and to threaten them with torture and maiming if they did.
They managed to make it through several scenes without issue, but when the first musical number came along, things became a bit chaotic.
At the beginning of the song, their Cadmus - a boy named Selwyn - started screaming the words, and it took a while for them to realize that screaming was apparently his version of singing and that he wasn't having some sort of emotional breakdown.
"ALRIGHT!" yelled Beery, interrupting him mid-scream. "We'll… We'll work on that."
"Yes, sir. Understood, sir. I'll have it down next time, sir." He was talking very quickly and bouncing around with a strange amount of excitement for someone who was being forced to sing in a school play.
The next lines were a sad lament about the character's fiancé dying horribly. But Selwyn did not seem sad at all. In fact, he made it sound like the woman's death was the most exciting event of his life.
"Selwyn," Tom called.
"Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir?"
"Your part-"
"It's a great part. I love it. Can't wait to-"
"Your part does not require obnoxious enthusiasm. You are supposed to be melancholy."
"Yeah. Right. I know. Melancholy. Definitely. Got it, sir."
He still looked like he was ready to burst with excitement, right up to the moment his head suddenly started expanding like a balloon and he began to drift upwards toward the ceiling.
"Well, that's not normal," said Tom dryly.
"This is amazing!" Selwyn yelled as they all watched his slow ascent and Beery threw charm after charm at him in a desperate attempt to pull him down before he fell.
Tom was reminded of the Hufflepuffs and their recent unusual behavior. He was willing to bet Selwyn had an empty vial stashed away somewhere.
It happened again less than an hour later. They were reviewing the bridge scene, and while the other children ran through their lines, the horribly incompetent boy Beery had chosen to play Death had begun to sweat and shake.
"No need to be nervous, Barker," Beery assured him.
"I'm not nervous, sir. I don't feel well."
The other children backed away from him a few paces, which was a good thing, because seconds later, the script he was holding caught fire.
He dropped it on the ground, where it shriveled into ashes. Beery handed him another script, which promptly burst into flames the moment he touched it. Then his robes started to spark.
"Barker," said Tom, "is there a reason you have suddenly become highly combustible?"
"No- no, sir," he mumbled as he removed his robes, which immediately turned into a small pyre once they fell to the floor.
By the end of the night, half the cast had disappeared due to mysterious "illnesses." Judging by the number of tiny vials Tom had been seeing, it was probably some illegal potion or other.
It wasn't unheard of. In his third year, there was a series of accidents during exams involving a new intelligence-enhancing potion that, instead of making students cleverer, left them unable to speak in anything but mathematical equations and, occasionally, rendered them comatose. It had been quite nice, actually. Meals in the Great Hall during that time were pleasantly quiet.
On his way to breakfast the next morning he discovered a small, purple envelope on his desk.
His first name was written on the front in loopy black letters. He opened it, and a cloud of glitter escaped and rose into the air like a colorful puff of smoke. He waved it away and unfolded the letter.
It said:
I know your secret.
Love,
You Know Who
Who the hell would call themselves "You Know Who?" How was he supposed to have any idea who they were? And what secret were they claiming to have knowledge of? He had a lot of secrets. Enough to create a categorizing system for them. Not that he ever would…
He threw the letter away and headed down to breakfast, wondering if it was a joke or if he was going to have to kill someone.
In the corridors, it seemed like every student that walked by was looking at him and smiling. No – smirking. It was as if they all knew something he didn't.
Tyre reached the doors to the Great Hall at the same time Tom did. "Morning," he said. "You're a murderer."
Tom froze. "What?"
"I said these cold mornings are murder."
"Oh. Right."
At the teachers' table he took a seat next to Ilania, who was staring blankly ahead, ignoring the food on her plate.
"Hello," he said.
She turned her head slowly to look at him. Her eyes widened in what was presumably fear, and without a word, she got up and left.
"Good morning to you, too," he muttered.
He took some bacon from the middle of the table, set it on his plate, then watched it fly into the air as an owl landed with a loud thud right in front of him, knocking everything everywhere.
It deposited a large, pink envelope onto the bacon tray and flew off in a huff, tipping his glass of orange juice over for good measure.
He removed the now greasy envelope from the bacon, wondering if it was another sinister note, and if someone was attempting to blackmail him. Inside was a card covered in hearts. The message read:
Thinking of you on this Valentine's Day.
Love,
A secret admirer
Not a threatening note, but not much better.
Apparently, it was Valentine's Day. One of the most meaningless days of the year, second only to Christmas. He tossed the card aside. A student, no doubt. He had hoped that, after an entire term had passed, his unwanted popularity with the female student population would pass as well. Evidently not.
About five minutes later, another owl showed up, dropping two envelopes onto the table in front of him.
Before he could even reach for them, a third owl landed on the empty seat beside him and poked a small, red envelope his way.
By the time the fourth owl appeared, carrying five more colorful envelopes, he started catching the attention of the rest of the Hall.
Seventeen additional letters later, he had given up on eating, and almost everyone was watching him with great interest. He wished he could curse them all.
"That's quite a library," said Peggy, gesturing to the pile of envelopes as she sat down next to him. "Reminds me of Minerva's first year. Except the boys didn't send her cards. She did get enough flowers to fill a room, though."
"I see."
She smiled. "You killed your father."
He nearly choked on his orange juice. "What?"
"I said I don't know why they bother. They're never going to get anywhere with her. She won't even pay attention to men her own age."
"Right."
Something was wrong.
"Anyway," she continued, "the girls are worse. Watch yourself. They can be sneaky."
"Sneaky with what?"
"Love potions and the like."
"Brilliant."
He had no desire to open any of the letters, but decided it was probably better to do so, in case any more threatening notes showed up. And if whoever was foolish enough to threaten him was in the Hall at that very moment, watching, then they would see he was not intimidated.
Yes, this was a clever strategy.
So, he opened the first one, fully aware that most of the students and Peggy were still staring at him.
You are mine. No one else's. Mine.
x
Well, that wasn't menacing at all.
The next one had a poem so awful he wanted to burn it right then and there and then remove the memory of ever having read it.
But the third letter said:
How many have you killed?
This one was much more specific. He glanced around the Hall nervously. There was no way to tell who was responsible or how much they knew.
The rest of the letters appeared to be benign Valentines, except for the last one.
I know where they're hidden.
He stood up suddenly, took out his wand, and set the pile of letters on fire right on the table while the entire Hall looked on in confusion. So much for not appearing intimidated.
He made his way out of the Hall, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him, and the faces that clearly said, "we know all your secrets."
He needed to find the bastard behind this.
Back in the entrance hall he saw Grayson, who was walking in the other direction.
"You killed that girl," Grayson muttered as he passed by.
"What did you say?"
The old man turned around slowly and repeated, "you killed that girl. It was you."
"I don't- what are you-"
"He did," said someone from behind him. "Everyone knows about it."
He turned around to see who was speaking, but no one was there. And when he turned back, Grayson was gone.
He tried to calm himself. Clearly something was wrong. Either he was hallucinating, or someone had uncovered all his secrets and told the entire school about them. But who would do that? And why? And how would they know about-
"Professor!"
One of the seventh years was bounding toward him carrying a package wrapped in red paper.
"I got you something," she said sweetly. "For Valentine's Day."
"What?"
She offered him the package. "Open it!"
He was no fool. Whatever it was, it was probably laced with love potion. "What is it?" he demanded.
"Just open it!"
"No."
The girl looked confused and disappointed. Then she realized something. "Oh! Don't worry, it's not love potion. I'm not that pathetic."
He surveyed the corridor. It was filled with students who had all stopped to watch him. Plenty of witnesses. If she poisoned him, she would not get away with it.
He opened the package carefully. It was a small, black book.
It took several seconds for him to comprehend what he was looking at.
His diary. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, with witnesses all around him, holding the diary he had made into a Horcrux.
He backed away from the girl, who was now sporting a fantastically evil grin.
"Are you alright, Professor?"
"What is this? Where did you get this?" He had his wand out and pointed at her before he could stop himself.
"It's just a box of chocolates, sir!"
He looked down and, sure enough, it was not the diary he was holding, but a small, square box.
"What on earth are you doing?"
Minerva had appeared, looking furious. She shooed the girl away and then rounded on him. "Is there a reason you had your wand pointed at a student?" she asked angrily.
When he didn't answer, she started to look concerned.
"Are you alright?" she asked. "You look distressed."
"Do I?"
"What happened?"
How did she know something had happened? "Nothing," he said, scrutinizing her with poorly hidden suspicion. Then he glanced up and down the corridor. He felt eyes on him from somewhere.
He was being watched.
He could sense it.
"Tom, maybe you should go see-"
"If you tell me to get a psychological evaluation again, Minerva, I swear to god I will blow up the entire Hospital Wing."
"Don't be a prat," she said, unmoved by his very serious threat. "I was merely suggesting that you killed your grandparents."
"What did you say?" he demanded loudly, pointing his wand in her face.
She shook her head. "I said I was suggesting-"
"Who told you that?"
"What?"
"Tell me right now. How do you- Who told you-"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I was trying to help you, you arse." Then she walked away, muttering about rudeness and unprofessionalism.
He was fine. This was fine. Whatever was happening, he could handle it. Either someone knew his secrets, or everyone knew his secrets. So, either he only had to kill one person, or everyone. Simple logic.
He found his way to his classroom, sat down at his desk, and waited for the first bell. As the students came in and took their seats, he monitored each one carefully. None of them were acting suspiciously. He took a calming breath and started to put notes on the board.
"Professor?" one of them called.
"Yes?"
"What's it like making a Horcrux?"
He nearly dropped the lesson plan he was holding. "What did you say?"
He turned around and they were all staring at him with large, mischievous grins.
Unsure of what to do, he retreated into the corridor and closed the door behind him.
What was happening?
Did they know…?
They couldn't possibly know…
But if they did…
He headed for his office and found Cornelia standing in front of the door.
"Are you alright?" she asked in an unusually concerned tone.
He glanced up and down the corridor several times. "I'm fine."
She raised an eyebrow. "Obviously. Except you look like you just witnessed a murder or something."
"A what?"
"Murder."
"I don't know what you- what you're implying."
"Interesting," she said quietly, looking into his eyes like a doctor examining a patient. "I did not realize how weird you people could get until today. Ilania's acting strange, too. And Peggy. Anyway, enjoy… whatever this is."
She gave him a smile and a wave before walking away.
He paced back and forth in his office for half an hour, trying to determine whether he was going mad or if someone really had divulged his deepest, darkest secrets to the entire school. He tried to recall what had happened that morning, and what he'd seen, but he couldn't concentrate. Maybe he'd been poisoned. Peggy did warn him, after all. Valentine's Day…
Minutes later he was knocking on the door to Slughorn's office.
"Just a mo'!"
The door opened and Slughorn greeted him, looking exhausted. "Let me guess," he said. "Hallucinations?"
"What? No, I was just…"
"Come in," he said. "Join the party."
"Party?"
Ilania and Peggy were standing on opposite sides of the room, staring daggers at each other. Grayson was on a sofa near the fire, muttering to himself.
"Grayson thinks World War Three has started," Slughorn said, rummaging through a large store cupboard in the corner. "Won't stop talking about the Statute of Secrecy and Muggle spies, or some nonsense."
"They're everywhere!' Grayson exclaimed. "They want to steal our women and corrupt our children with picture boxes and popular music!"
Slughorn ignored him. "Dee had been found shouting at her students about some sort of Russian conspiracy, and then flew off on a broom. No idea where she is. And I nearly had to stun those two." He pointed at Ilania and Peggy. "They had almost killed each other by the time Minerva found them and brought them to me. Then they tried to kill each other in here."
"She threatened me!" Peggy said, pointing to Ilania.
"Yes, because I love threatening pregnant women. Why don't you tell me why you tried to blackmail me?"
"I didn't!"
"Normally," he continued, "it's students and love potions I've got to deal with on Valentine's Day. Not this nonsense."
He gestured for Tom to sit down in a chair and gave him a mug of clear liquid.
"What is this?"
"Vodka."
"Right."
"Now," he said, rubbing his eyes, which had deep circles under them, "tell me your secrets."
"What?"
"Tell me your symptoms."
Tom shook his head. "I don't have any symptoms. It's everyone else. They've been-"
"Telling you about the murders you've committed?"
He stood quickly, nearly knocking the chair over behind him. "What did you say?"
Slughorn sighed in frustration. "Never mind. I'll add auditory hallucinations to the list, along with extreme paranoia."
"I am not paranoid. Nothing is wrong with me. I only came here to-"
"It's the middle of the day, all of us should be teaching right now, and you look like you just saw the ghost of Merlin himself. Clearly something is wrong. Be quiet and sit down."
Slughorn disappeared for a while. When he returned, he handed Tom a glass of something that was smoking and giving off a disgusting smell.
As he took the glass, he noticed that the man's hands were shaking badly. "Did you get poisoned too?" he asked.
Slughorn suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Er- no."
It took a while for everyone to calm down as their mental states slowly changed from terrified and suspicious to miserable and embarrassed.
Peggy was the first to break the silence. "How did this happen?"
Grayson shook his head. "No idea. I've been here a long time and I've never seen anything like this. Nothing quite so… odd.
"Purple," Tom said suddenly.
"What?"
"There was a… purple envelope on my desk this morning. It had…"
"Glitter?" asked Peggy. "I got one too."
"As did I," said Grayson.
Peggy voiced what they were all thinking. "If this was some kind of paranoia potion or something, I doubt a student is behind it. But who would target us?"
"And worse," Ilania added, "who would be perfectly alright with poisoning a pregnant woman?"
"I don't know," said Slughorn. "Whoever it was, they had a strategy. Clever of them to send it via letter on Valentine's Day."
Tom was furious. How could he have been foolish enough to open a suspicious envelope on the one day a year it was guaranteed that someone would try to dose him with something? Lestrange would have been appalled.
When he finally returned to his quarters sometime later, he pulled the letter out of the rubbish bin and examined it.
The paper was blank.