"[A]n extraordinary man has the right – that is not an official right, but an inner right – to decide in his own conscience to overstep . . . certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). … if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound . . . to eliminate the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of making discoveries his known to the whole of humanity.
But it does not follow that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to stead every day in the market. …
[L]egislators and leaders of men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed – often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence of ancient law – were of use of their cause.
It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage."
Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (trans.)
Tom was confused, a condition he was particularly unused to. The subject of his confusion was the new Seventh Year, Hermione Dearborn. Something about her didn't make sense and, as he sat quietly during Slughorn's pathetic dinner and watched her, Tom began to wonder.
If he was not very much mistaken he had (quite without noticing at the time) been masterfully steered away from any interest about her father's work. He knew she wasn't boring: they had had a reasonably interesting conversation earlier that day and yet, she'd talked about a niche and particularly boring branch of alchemy for nearly six minutes.
The strangest thing, however, was that he knew he had been curious about her - curious enough to seek her out on the train. A home-schooled Seventh Year: quite a rarity. Definitely worth investigating. And indeed he had found her even more intriguing upon meeting her simply because she hadn't liked him from the second he walked in the door of her carriage and that was not a reaction he was accustomed to either.
And yet, for the entire term until this particular day, he'd had absolutely no interest in the girl. He couldn't remember a single occasion on which he had taken particular notice of her. For three weeks. And then today she had captured his interest, very suddenly. In the twenty minute period between Arithmancy and Potions he'd moved from hardly recalling her being in the classroom to being subjected to the forcefulness of her very presence.
That was not normal. She was not normal. He'd known that she was being personally tutored by Dumbledore and he had taken no interest until today. Why? It didn't make sense.
He looked down the table and saw that she was smiling at that idiot Blishwick, warm eyed and genuine. The smile only lasted a moment but he took careful note of it and compared it to the one he had received earlier. No, she certainly did not like him - and yet she had absolutely no reason not to. In fact, he'd made a specific effort to be charming to her in Potions, hoping she would speak favourably of him to that fool Dumbledore so that his suspicion might lift off Tom for long enough for him to actually do something interesting with his seventh year.
And there it was, rising up as it always did, that pathetic part of him that simply wanted to impress Dumbledore. He hated and despised the old man, and yet... and yet just once he wanted Dumbledore to acknowledge Tom's superiority - as everyone else had been taught to over the years.
Tom looked around the table scornfully, keeping his expression of quiet interest fixed on his face. This was supposed to be a collection of Hogwarts' brightest and best. Those with shining futures that would make tomorrow great (and keep Slughorn connected enough to ensure the continuation of his creature comforts and sense of power - the fat old spider spinning his web).
Septimus Weasley was a cretin and Potter was a blood traitor. Fifth-year Orion Black was a madman even by Tom's rather loose standards. He might agree with Tom's ideals and bow to him because he had been shown (quite slowly and painfully) that that was his only option, but Tom knew the boy despised his origins. Black's cousin Alphard was a different matter entirely - he made no secret of his lack of interest in all matters political and seemed to live solely for Quidditch. He had been invited for his surname and nothing else, although apparently other people found him amusing. In fact, as he scanned the room the only creature in this room worthy of any special attention was himself.
He was extraordinary and they were ordinary. Perhaps magically capable, even intelligent, but nonetheless - ordinary.
And it was immensely annoying that that halfwit teacher thought that girl was special. She had everything: a perfect, perfect life, a prestigious and respected name, a clever father, favour from those with power. Someone had marked her out as not ordinary and Tom decided it was time to either find out why, or show the world that she was just like them.
His methods might have become more subtle than they had been but his jealousy made him burn with the knowledge that he could make her hurt, if he wanted to.
.
.
"Actually, Professor I don't quite agreed with Tom's balancing of that equation. It would be more perfect if -" Again. That was the second time this week that the Dearborn girl had seen fit to contradict one of his answers.
"Well done Miss Dearborn. You have a real talent for Arithmancy. Five points to Ravenclaw and two to Slytherin for an otherwise perfectly correct equation. Take note, class, that the first correct answer may not be the only one. Now, if you could turn to page sixty-three, we will begin the theory behind Arithmantic spellwork."
Twice. Twice.
His wand hand twitched.
.
.
"Avery, I want a word."
.
.
I can make her hurt if I want to...
.
.
No. She is too close to Dumbledore. Caution.
"It's about Hermione Dearborn. Find out everything you can about that girl. Everything. From where and when she was born, to why she is here now. Find out and I will reward you."
"Yes, My Lord."
"Do not speak to her, do not look at her. You may go."
.
.
He imagined her lying helpless below his wand, spilling her secrets, unable to withstand the torture. Begging...
.
.
Food at Hogwarts had always held an extraordinary power for Tom: the first really delicious food he had ever eaten, the first time he had ever felt truly full had been his first night in this hall, unaware of the torture of the night awaiting him. It had been a genuine revelation that this much food existed, that such abundance and taste was even possible.
It had been more magical than the ceiling, scarred with a billion stars in reverence to the night sky, if not quite as magical as the moment he first held his wand.
And yet, as he sat pretending not to watch Hermione Dearborn, he couldn't taste the food in his mouth. She smiled at something and he starved to know what it was about her that had marked her out as special. Her own bedroom. Avery's first report had come in and he had done well: a secret special room for this secretive, unspecial girl. Even the Head Boy didn't warrant that sort of treatment.
A unanimous agreement of her talent from every teacher. That she was, as she'd said, brought up in the Welsh wilderness by a vague but brilliant father. A secret child no one had known about, the circumstances of her birth being what they were. A damned fairytale.
It wasn't right and he could feel it. There was something else lurking beneath her fading smiles as they sat chatting civilly over a hot cauldron. Something in the way that her smiles never touched her eyes, never not even now, except that one smile in Slughorn's office where for a moment he'd seen the real thing and now nothing could convince him that this girl was normal.
"Tom?" He allowed them to call him that in public. It fit his persona. Quiet, brilliant, brave Tom Riddle.
"Lestrange. What is it?"
"Could you possibly pass the treacle tart?"
Tom ignored him and examined his own tasteless portion before standing and muttering, "I wouldn't bother, it's rather below par tonight. I will be in the Library. Do remember that anything below an E on Professor Dumbledore's essay will not go unnoticed."
.
.
The Library was supposed to be his sanctuary from her irritating, unignorable presence (after all, he thought, if she had a special room why would she bother seeking peace in this hallowed space) but somehow, even though he had left the Hall first she was sitting there, tucked away in the best corner reading what looked suspiciously like a Muggle book. Did she not realise they had an essay due?
"Dearborn, don't forget we need to check the potion later. I allowed that simpleton Longbottom to check it alone earlier as there was nothing to be added but we need to add the leeches tonight." He smiled charmingly to make up for the simpleton comment, letting her share the joke.
"Of course. I've finished my essay so I can do it on my own if you need to work?"
"That's quite all right, I will accompany you. We should go at nine-thirty." As if he'd let her take credit.
"I'll be here."
Tom hesitated. He wanted to know what book she was reading but the thought of sitting with her in the library made his stomach turn. On the otherhand, she would not enjoy his imposition, which would at least make him feel less agitated and out of control.
"Do you mind if I join you? This is much the best corner for concentration - you can't hear the door and the Potions tomes shield some of that infernal whispering."
He liked the look on her face and the tension in her shoulders as she moved her bag across. Her essay was sitting there, and he itched to read it.
"Exactly my reasoning. Take a seat."
He did.
.
.
It was surprising how much more relaxed he felt, sitting next to her. Perhaps because he had taken control of this interaction, perhaps because when she was within reach he wasn't wondering what she was doing, or perhaps because she was actually very good Library company. She didn't sigh or flirt or fidget, just read quietly. After about twenty minutes of enjoyable peace, he allowed himself to glance across to see what she was reading but the title was too faint, cast into shadow by the lamp. He returned to his essay. Agitation again.
Control it. Later.
Eventually, she looked up from the book.
"What did you make of the essay title? It was a bit, well, a bit vague to be honest. I was up all night writing it and I think I've referenced just about everybody I possibly could but still - What is the purpose of human transfiguration? Really? In what context?" she huffed.
He carefully placed his quill on the table.
"The object of human transfiguration is obviously dependent on the circumstances, but I think what it really comes down to is power. In being competent in Human Transfiguration you naturally gain power - Drechler discusses it quite well in chapter fifty-three."
"Mmm he does but I think it's a test. However we answer that question is going to be so entirely subjective. And I just know he's going to be cross because I've written an extra three feet and no one wants to mark that."
An extra three feet. He hated her. Longer didn't mean better, but still. Three feet.
She put the book into her leather satchel, which resulted in a suspicious thudding sound, and after rummaging around for a while, she picked up her wand and pointed that into the bag. It appeared that she had silently summoned her inkwell and quill as she picked up her essay.
"He said last time if I went over by more than six inches he would deduct marks."
"I can have a look if you'd like?"
She paused, as though recovering herself.
"I'm sure you're terribly busy with your own essay."
"Dearborn, it's not a problem." He never did this but he was so curious... "Here you can read mine if you like."
They swapped and as he flicked through he saw how very accomplished it was, covering all the required ground and more, but that she was apparently afraid to pick an argument and run with it. Should he help her? She might beat him... but would that matter, really, because he would simply have beaten himself.
"Look, I don't think it's some sort of personality test. I think Dumbledore wants us to make a proper argument so you need to cut all of this, and this and this, and just make that part more didactic."
"I can't cut all of this! And you really ought to have read Brinhaair - here, have a look at my notes (back into the satchel, more weird summoning - what could possibly be inside that bag?) at least to dismiss the points he makes against this part..."
All too soon it was time to go to the dungeons and Tom was more confused than ever.
He had satisfied his curiosity about her academic calibre - she wasn't exactly brilliant, just thorough, but he couldn't remember ever actually enjoying an intellectual discussion with another student before. And she was... challenging. Unafraid to question his ideas (although she'd confessed that he wrote forcefully. He'd liked that).
Enjoying another's company was not a feeling he was accustomed to, either.
.
.
Tom was quiet as they carefully added the leeches to the potion, an unspoken agreement between them that this potion would be sheer perfection. He watched as she tidied away and then sat down, sending a ball of soft golden light into the air to float above her shoulder.
"I'm going to stay and watch it for a little while. I'm not tired and it's still unstable."
"I'll stay. I don't have rounds tonight." And no one really minded the Head Boy being out after curfew if it came to that. Besides, he wasn't going to let her get any extra credit for this potion just for sitting next to a cauldron.
Dearborn nodded and pulled out her mysterious book. He wondered if she would tell him what it was if he asked, and if she would tell him about her satchel. He didn't want to ask though, he wanted to find out.
He pulled out the carefully concealed text on blood-magic that he definitely wasn't supposed to be reading and conjured himself a comfortable chair. She didn't look up but he saw her lips quirk up into a half smile that he didn't understand and then he focused on his book. They sat silently for an hour, until a small noise made him look up. She'd fallen asleep, head tilted back against the wall.
He wanted to rip open her mind and find whatever it was inside it that was calling him to investigate, arousing his suspicions. He had absolute power over her in that moment, and he silently fired a charm at her, just a gentle one, to deepen her sleep until he roused her.
At last, he picked up the thrice-damned book. For all extents and purposes it seemed to be Paradise Lost by John Milton and resisted everything he could cast at it. No secrets there, it really seemed to be a filthy Muggle poem. Why was she reading this rubbish? He opened it to an early page and began to read.
My sentence is for open War; Of Wiles,
More unexpert, I boast not: them let those
Contrive who need, or when they need, not now.
For while they sit contriving, shall the rest,
Millions that stand in Arms, and longing wait
The Signal to ascend, sit ling'ring here,
Heav'n's fugitives, and for their dwelling place
Accept this dark opprobrious Den of shame,
The Prison of his Tyranny who Reigns
By our delay? no, let us rather choose,
Arm'd with Hell flames and fury all at once
O'er Heaven's high Tow'rs to force resistless way,
Turning our Tortures into horrid Arms
Against the Torturer.
Well, that wasn't completely boring. He turned to the first page, before deciding to duplicate it. He would browse it at further leisure and find out why she had chosen it. Next, he turned to the mysterious satchel and quietly opened it. It was surprisingly light, although it otherwise appeared to be normal until he put his arm inside and it just kept going.
He withdrew the arm and glared at the bag. It was bigger on the inside. She had put some charm on it that made it enormous. That was no great secret. Further examination revealed nothing, just books and various mundane items.
He scowled, replaced her things, returned to his chair, and lifted the sleeping charm.
"Dearborn. Dearborn, wake up. We need to get back to the dorms."
"What? Ron?" she murmured, her voice husky with sleep, and then leapt to her feet, wand out. "What happened?"
He laughed, quite genuinely for once.
"You dosed off, for about a minute. Relax. We need to get back to the houses. It's late."
She had gone quite pale and was staring at him with a strange expression that he couldn't place. Almost as though she knew he had just been rooting through her things. Then she turned, picked up her things and abruptly left the room with a muttered, "Good night, Riddle."
.
.
Whatever it was that had allowed her to relax in the library was quite gone for the next few days and she was surprisingly quiet in classes. He found himself more frustrated than ever and no closer to gaging her secrets. Her unqualified reaction to falling asleep had only confirmed his suspicion that she wasn't quite what she seemed but every investigation lead to a dead end.
"Well done, Tom. Quite your best piece of work. I'm not sure I entirely agree with the argument but it was flawlessly constructed. Ten points to Slytherin," Dumbledore said, actually smiling as he handed him the marked essay. Dumbledore had never, ever freely awarded him that many points before and Tom was both flabbergasted and intensely annoyed.
Finally some validation from the old man, but it left a sour taste. He hadn't gained it alone. Even he couldn't avoid that confession. However, when he turned to not-look at Hermione Dearborn he caught a surprised, pleased smile.
And Dumbledore had only given her five points. Perhaps it was worth it.
.
Well, there we are. Very nervous about this one, but I've been wanting to write Tom's POV for a while and I hope I did it credit. Thank you for your on-going support.
