That same morning that Draco was calmly working out his plans with Charlus to visit the now hospitalized Dorea, Tom woke up with his heart beating twice as quickly as normal, breathing shallow, and eyes puffy. He felt his anxiety before he understood it, trying to trace it to a bad dream that he had the night before—he often experienced nightmares, the effects of which carried into his first few waking moments.

But his blood ran cold that he remembered it was not a nightmare that was troubling him. It was his behavior last night that was the source of the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Tom shot an accusing glance at the discarded empty bottle that had once held Felix Felicis. The clear container was sitting in the corner precisely where he had carelessly thrown it the night before, mocking him. It was a unique shape, too, more round at the bottom than most similar potion vials. Hermione would have known it immediately had she noticed it.

But of course, Tom thought with venom, Hermione failed to spot it because she was too distracted by my erratic, uncontrolled behavior. Sobbing, he corrected himself. Uncontrolled sobbing.

Yes, as he had acknowledged to himself the previous evening while he was still under the influence of that drug—he now derisively thought of the substance—it made sense to give the diary to Hermione. But the handover was botched.

First, he should have taken down the information himself before giving it to her. Then, he could have researched an antidote simultaneously. He could have had his followers gather the required ingredients and have it brewed as quickly as possible. Tom wavered, following his own train of thought and realizing that if he had the information, he would not be able to leave it to her when it came down to it.

Agitated and slightly embarrassed, Tom dressed quickly in hopes of leaving the common room before there was a chance of running into Hermione. Unfortunately, she was up bright and early, studying with her cat curled up next to her. Tom barely shot her a glance before he darted out of the room, not wanting to converse with her whatsoever.

On his way to the Great Hall, Tom tried to think of tasks that could distract him while he waited for Hermione to finish reading the diary. She had promised she would read it, but said nothing about the speed, and it was a long tome.

He thought back to his goals at the beginning of the year, chief among them securing the loyalty of his followers and growing his base. With Abraxas dead, the only followers left were Lestrange and Avery, both of whom were terrified of Tom at this point. And Malfoy may have replaced Abraxas in every other way, but clearly not as a follower of Tom's.

Tom's train of thought was interrupted when he uncharacteristically nearly ran into Slughorn while walking to the Great Hall. "Apologies, Professor. My mind was elsewhere."

"No need to apologize, m'boy. Actually, I have been hoping to speak to you, Tom." Slughorn looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting his balance between his feet and seemingly undecided on whether or not he should smile. Tom's anxiety spiked and he began to mentally count all the potions he had stolen from Slughorn recently, not to mention the ones he directed his followers to steal. There was no telling how careful they were, and perhaps he had overestimated Slughorn's obliviousness.

Tom sighed inwardly but outwardly smiled at Slughorn and responded, "How can I be of service, Professor?"

"Let's speak in my office," Slughorn said, placing a hand on Tom's shoulder as they began to walk in the direction of Slughorn's office.

As they sat down, Slughorn's face took on a concerned expression that made Tom wary.

"I'm sure you've noticed, Tom, that I haven't had any Slug Club gatherings since school has been back in session."

Of course I have not noticed, Tom thought with distaste. "Yes, sir, I confess I had been wondering about that."

"I would like to start them again. It's a critical time in your life, Tom, and this is when you need my connections most, and the other seventh-years naturally," Slughorn added as an afterthought. "I have high hopes for you."

Tom managed to smile instead of grimace; he did not need a second-rate professor to succeed but it never hurt to have as many as possible in his corner. "I appreciate that, Professor. I can only hope to live up to your high opinion of me."

Slughorn shook his finger at him. "You are too modest, Tom. Too modest. I've always said that." His expression sobered. "I hope I am not overstepping, Tom, but I've noticed that you and Ms. Prewett are no longer together."

Merlin, is this really what he dragged me over here about?, Tom thought, willing himself to keep his expression neutral. He refused to waste the past six-odd years he spent playing his role as a kind, humble student. At least it seems he failed to notice the missing potions.

"Yes, sir. That's correct," Tom replied blankly, unsure of how he was supposed to act.

"Well, Tom"—Slughorn lowered his voice—"I am not going to invite Ms. Prewett after her rather unladylike behavior, but—and I'm sure you understand, Tom—I must invite Abraxas, and I can't tell him not to bring her." The Potions professor shrugged apologetically. "You do understand, don't you, Tom?"

What an imbecile, Tom fumed, not sure whether he was more irritated about Slughorn judging Hermione or for the colossal waste of time this conversation had turned out to be.

"Of course, sir," Tom replied evenly. "I am very accustomed to seeing them together, Professor. Although I appreciate your concern, please don't halt your Slug Club gatherings on my account."

Slughorn beamed.

By midweek, Hermione was already about a third of the way through Dorea's diary. Her writing was surprisingly infectious for an eleven-year-old and Hermione found herself wrapped up in it the way she had with novels long before she received her Hogwarts letter. Since she had been admitted to Hogwarts, she had rarely read fiction, preferring to soak up all the knowledge she could about the strange world she had never known existed. Of course, Dorea's diary was not fiction, but it had the intimacy that was lacking in the more informational books she had read for the past several years. It had been so long that she had not even realized how much she missed connecting to strangers—or near-strangers, in this case.

When Tom had first thrust the diary into her hands, she had left it on her shelf, staring at it as though it would bite her like Hagrid's first book he assigned in third year. Hermione couldn't help feeling fearful after what Tom had said about the diary somehow being related to her strange sense of disconnection to reality and her dreams. But she quickly snapped out of her hesitation. She was Hermione Jean Granger and she simply refused to fear knowledge. If there was something in this book that would shock or upset her, it was best to know. It was always best to know.