It wasn't difficult for Tom to don a Malfoy-esque scowl, irritated as he was with his plight of having to pose as the pathetic spawn of his late follower. He had attempted to heal Malfoy throughout the day with the help of Lestrange and Avery but was ultimately glad of his foresight in asking Lestrange to procure polyjuice. Malfoy was still unconscious by the time dinner rolled around, and Tom had decided it was best to go to dinner as well as detention so that the younger Malfoy wasn't missed at too many meals. He dragged Avery with him, not wanting to create more suspicion than necessary. As it were, Lestrange and Tom were seemingly absent. Lestrange was more trustworthy and more skilled, so it made sense to leave him with Malfoy. And better to keep an eye on Avery when possible.

It was going to be a several hour affair, so he brought some of the potion with him. He would have to be creative with taking it in front of Dumbledore, but Tom had no concerns about being unequal to the task. He kept things light at dinner, chatting idly with Avery about Quidditch.

Ultimately, Tom left for detention early, preferring to wander the castle rather than continue the mundane conversation with his follower. Besides, he was still irritated with Avery for going to the hospital wing after Tom tortured him—what if Madam Ward had detected the Torture Curse? It would be an odd thing to check for, but still an unacceptable risk to take.

As he was walking, he saw Hermione step into view at the end of the hall.

"Abraxas!" Hermione shouted after Tom as they approached one another in the hall. Without ceremony, she dragged him into an empty classroom. Assuming that she intended the repeat the activities that had landed "Abraxas" in detention, Tom felt mixed emotions. On the one hand, it was impossible to deny how much he not only missed her but craved her. But to have her like this—as another wizard—an inferior wizard? Even she did not seem worth degrading himself in that manner.

Regardless, he misread her intention. She immediately began to lecture him about his failure to transfigure his eyes, the dangers he was exposing himself to, and how he needed to take this more seriously. The more she spoke, the more difficult it was for Tom to suppress a smirk. This was her great love? Treating Draco like a child? She would never have spoken to Tom in that manner because she considered him a true equal. If he had not transfigured his eyes, she would have presumed he had a purpose because she presumed him competent.

"What are you smirking at, Malfoy? I know you wanted space but that does not mean I'm going to stand by and watch you engage in these self-destructive behaviors."

Space? Although Malfoy's request suited Tom just fine, he couldn't help but feel anger. How dare Malfoy presume to want space from Hermione, who was his superior in every way?

"Now hold still," Hermione demanded before whispering Caeruleus.

Tom remembered it, internally groaning at the realization that he would have to take Polyjuice on the hour and re-transfigure his eye color as the potion likely would override the prior spell.

"Thanks, Hermione," Tom drawled, assuming that Draco would thank her.

"No need to be so cold, Draco. I get it. I'm leaving now."

Hermione looked like she was about to cry, which only made Tom angry, so he excused himself with a simple, "I'll go. Detention won't serve itself."

She merely nodded, turning away from him as he left. Tom, on the other hand, was fuming. Tears? For Malfoy?

But as Tom neared detention, he continued to mull over the impromptu meeting. There had been something nagging him but he was too distracted to interpret it at the time: although Hermione didn't say anything specifically, there was a current of untruthfulness under all her words. It wasn't overt as the feeling Tom had when someone was lying, more like something was tainted.

Tom had to dismiss his thoughts as he found himself almost outside his least favorite professor's door. First, he ducked into a corridor and took a swig of Polyjuice. He conjured a mirror. Just as he suspected, his eyes were gray once more. He attempted to perform the charm silently in front of the mirror and was relieved to see it worked perfectly.

Tom carried that feeling of triumph with him as he made his way to Professor Dumbledore's office, lightly knocking.

"Come in," Dumbledore's voice called out. Tom smirked; he recognized that voice for what it was—similar to the tone Dumbledore used to address him. Apparently, there was no love lost between the headmaster and the other Malfoy. This made the upcoming performance much easier to pull off.

Draco groaned as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room he found himself in. He felt lightheaded and there was a dull but persistent throbbing near the front of his head.

"Ah, you're awake." The voice belonged to one of his grandfather's friends—Avery or Lestrange? Perhaps Lestrange.

"Lestrange, where are we?"

"Your favorite room," Lestrange sneered, "although I imaging you prefer it when you're in here with Prewett."

Prewett? It took Draco a moment to remember the word as Hermione's false last name.

"You have me there," Draco responded drily, coughing and tasting the unmistakable copper of blood. His hazy thoughts tried to reason why there would be blood in his mouth and then remembered where he had passed out. And he felt his blood—or what was left of it—run cold. Riddle knew everything. He had confirmation that Hermione was a time traveler and Draco, in his stupid blood-depleted state, had somehow decided that it was wise to tell the Dark Lord that Hermione had time traveled in order to murder him. He had to find Hermione.

Summoning what strength he had, Draco bolted for the door.

Lestrange lazily levitated him, setting him down gently on the floor before paralyzing him completely. "Abraxas, I don't want to hurt you more, but you're making that rather difficult. Perhaps you can behave better with the Body Bind Curse to aid you."

"Tea, Mr. Malfoy?"

"No thank you, Professor," Tom responded shortly. He knew Dumbledore well enough to know that drugging was not outside the realm of possibility.

"I could not help but notice at dinner tonight that your eyes were not transfigured. I thought you had made a habit of doing it in the morning." Dumbledore's tone was seemingly light, but Tom knew him well enough to sense the accusation underlying it.

"You may have notice I overslept this morning, Professor. You know how it is—once a routine is thrown off, it can affect your entire day. Luckily Hermione also noticed my error and approached me after dinner."

"Very well," Dumbledore responded mildly. "I am glad that Ms. Prewett is keeping an eye out for you. I would hate to see what would happen if someone else noticed—such as the person that killed your grandfather."

Their eyes met briefly, and Tom knew he was unable to suppress his hatred for the man across from him, hoping that Dumbledore would interpret it as hatred for Tom instead. "There is no need to remind me of the possible consequences, Professor. My grandfather's funeral, though informal, is burned in my memory." Tom added the last bit because it was the most detailed information he knew about the relationship between Draco and Dumbledore. It seemed to work because Dumbledore's eyebrow quirked in surprise before giving Tom several stacks of papers to alphabetize. Tom paid attention to the clock, but he was dismissed before the hour was up, Dumbledore citing a headache that Tom decided was almost certainly fake.

From there, Tom went straight to the Room of Requirement, surprised to see Draco awake and pleased to see him paralyzed. "You have done well, Lestrange, and you will be rewarded."

Greed flashed in Lestrange's eyes before he bowed his head slightly. "My lord, it is an honor to serve you." Tom displayed no surprise at Lestrange's behavior, which was even more obsequious than normal.

"You are dismissed, Lestrange. I will take it from here."

Lestrange slipped out with another "my lord."

Tom undid the spell on the face only so that he could converse with the newly awake Malfoy. "Malfoy, I trust there is no need to explain that you must keep quiet about the events of the last day." Tom felt his features change and rolled his head luxuriously as he reveled in being returned to himself. "As for me impersonating you, I served your detention and attended dinner. Do not attempt to make excuses for either. As for breakfast, you merely overslept. Lestrange and Avery saw you in the dormitory last night, naturally."

"Naturally," Draco said with spite.

"Is there anything else you would like to say?"

"No." Draco sounded exhausted and defeated.

"Well, you seem well enough now. I do hope we can stop meeting like this," Tom said with a laugh.

"Me too."

A short time later, Tom was finally alone with over a gallon of his rival's blood and Dorea's diary. He set aside a bit of blood—once he initially used Draco's blood to open it, he would only have to use a negligible amount, just as Dorea herself would have used it.

He poured the main portion of the blood directly onto the book. The book didn't flinch but soaked the blood up easily as though it were water. At first, Tom became concerned it wouldn't work. And then the diary began to grow vertically, its seeming number of pages rapidly multiplying, before springing open to the first page, which read, in unfrivolous print:

Property of Dorea Black, 1939—

Tom's smile was triumphant as he began to search, not knowing what he was looking for, only that there must be something.