She'd royally screwed up, and she knew it. Rarely had an attempt at intimidation gone so awry. After Potter left, Tommie paced the room: Round and round, change direction, round and round some more. When she tired of that, she ripped apart some cushions the room conjured in a flurry of stuffing and feathers. But even property damage failed to calm her burning self-reproach. (The cushions instantly repairing themselves did not improve her mood. If she was going to glory in destruction, she wanted it to be permanent, like premeditated murder.)
Oh, how she wanted to leave this place, to revisit her old haunts and explore the world that had left her behind.
"Ready to go?" Potter strode through the door the mext morning, again without knocking, a dark wooden trunk floating behind her.
"Once I've eaten."
"Of course. I didn't forget about that." Potter dropped today's parcel of meat without ceremony, sitting upon her trunk and studying her bitten-off nails as she waited for Tommie to finish.
As she ate, Tommie scrutinized Potter (her favorite activity of late). Her grief at leaving Hogwarts was muted, overladen as it was with dread. For what, Tommie didn't know. (Somehow, she doubted it had much to do with her. Unfortunate, really. That would need to change.) Potter had put on Muggle clothes: A plain gray T-shirt and black trousers. (Oh dear, was Potter a Mudblood? If so, then damn''') She'd tucked her hair haphazardly behind her ears, where it refused to stay. "I presume we aren't taking the train," Tommie said hopefully.
"Absolutely not," Potter replied. "I have things to do today, and compartments are cramped enough already without adding an invisible sphinx to the fun."
"Good. How will we be going, then?" Tommie asked.
"Apparition, of course." Potter was not happy about this, her distaste bitter in Tommie's throat. "So, er, let's get it over with as soon as we can."
"Fine." Tommie stood, stretching and fluffing out her fur. Potter Disillusioned her—more gently this time, and they left the room side by side.
The corridors were eerily silent. Most of the students must have already left for the train. That was quite all right with Tommie; it meant she could appreciate the sights and smells of her one true home mostly unobstructed. The statues and suits of armor they passed were exactly as she remembered. She didn't see a single new portrait; every one they passed was as snobbish and... annoying... as they had been on her first day in the castle. This was reassuring in a way, but at the same time vexing. Hogwarts was a ghost of its own past, a relic to an age that needed to be put to rest once and for all.
A gray cat poked its head out from behind a suit of armor and hissed ferociously, glaring balefully at the spot Tommie stood, then turned its ire upon Potter. "Oh, get the fuck out of my way," Potter snapped, with relish. "I'm leaving for good, all right?" The cat swiped at the air with unsheathed claws, then scampered away down the corridor and out of sight.
"I won't miss her," Potter groaned. "She's the caretaker's cat. Between her stalking and his misanthropy, people get detention for pretty much anything." Tommie huffed a laugh. The rest of their trek through the castle was peaceful until—
"Miss Potter!" Oh dear, it was Dumbledore, dressed in an outrageous set of purple and green striped robes, radiating gentle concern and goodwill as he approached them. Tommie stiffened, and moved so that she crouched directly behind Potter.
"Hello, professor," Potter said, admirably suppressing her sharp annoyance.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked.
"On the contrary, professor, most of the others have already departed."
"Forgive me," he returned. "I would have thought one such as yourself would linger for a bit to enjoy the castle fully one last time."
What was Dumbledore implying? He'd often said passive aggressive things in this vain to Tommie herself...
"I can assure you, professor. I've gotten my fill, for now." Tommie noted the tenseness in the line of Potter's shoulders. Potter's annoyance, meanwhile, was steadily morphing into a simmering anger. Delicious...
Dumbledore didn't seem to notice. "Indeed? In that case, I won't keep you." He gave her a swift, patronizing pat on the shoulder. "But remember, Miss Potter: I will be watching your career closely. Good luck." There was no twinkle in his eyes. They had gone hard, glacial. Yet to Tommie's confusion, she could sense no evidence of this, merely the same concern. Ah... So this was why she'd always been wary. The old goat had more tricks up his sleeves than she'd ever suspected.
"Thank you, sir. Goodbye." Potter walked past Dumbledore, who obligingly moved aside to let her pass. Tommie kept close and silent at Potter's heels, resisting the urge to swish her tail in agitation.
The grounds were blessedly peaceful as they strolled to the gates, both looking about to catch final glimpses of the lake (peaceful and glassy, a perfect mirror of the sky), the forest (dark and foreboding), and a faint view of the deserted Quidditch pitch (lonely and remote). Potter peered off into the distance longingly. "Come on," Tommie hissed. "I am not eager to run into Dumbledore again."
"Believe me, neither am I," Potter replied. "He's never been such an asshole to me before." They reached the iron gates, which swung open at their approach. They pushed eagerly through, and stood beyond them to take in one final sight of the castle, resplendent as always against the deep blue sky with its turrets and towers. "God, I'll miss it," Potter murmured. Tommie allowed herself to enjoy Potter's nostalgia, for it tasted so much like her own.
"Shall we go?" Tommie asked after a moment.
"I suppose." Potter opened her bag and removed a wad of silvery-gray cloth, which she proceeded to shake out.
"Is that an Invisibility Cloak?"
Potter nodded.
"Why do you need it?"
"We're Apparating into a heavily populated Muggle area, and I don't want to risk being seen by anyone."
"Muggle!" Tommie protested, her suspicions ratcheting up. "Where precisely did you say we were staying again?"
"My aunt's, but it's only for a couple days." Potter was far from pleased by this admission.
Tommie was even less pleased. "And you didn't think to tell me this sooner?"
"I knew you wouldn't like it, and it's the only option. But," Potter said with a grimace, "I could always leave you here for Dumbledore to find..."
Tommie growled with impotent rage. "I'll go with you."
"That's the spirit." Potter grasped her Lightened trunk in her left hand, then raised her arms. "I'm going to hold onto you while you stand on your hind legs."
"Oh please," Tommie sighed. Potter threw the Cloak over herself, and Tommie reared up to place her paws on Potter's shoulders. Potter's arms came around her in a tight embrace. "If you Splinch me, God help me if I don't rip you to shreds," Tommie promised. Potter's arms were warm about her, Potter's scent was heady— No, no. She hated this position, and wanted nothing more than for this to end.
Potter took several steadying breaths, her emotions entirely placid, the even movement of her chest making Tommie want to... stay right where she was, despite any discomfort. "We'll be fine," she said. With that, they turned on the spot and vanished into the suffocating tunnel of Apparition. Goodness, Tommie couldn't remember it being this bad...
The awful sensation let up at last, and Tommie looked about to discover they'd appeared in an alley between two aluminum-sided apartment complexes. "Home sweet home," Potter quipped as she eased Tommie off her. Hissing much like the gray cat in the castle, Tommie landed on all fours. Potter ignored this, stowing her Cloak back in her bag and leading the way out of the alley to a short flight of well-trodden steps. "Up these and to the right," she said.
Tommie padded stiffly after Potter, wishing she'd been aided by a far richer Pureblood sort. None of this wandering about Muggle residential areas. She'd had quite enough of that in her life already.
"In," Potter murmured, unlocking a somewhat scratched door with a dull brass number seven on it. "It's Saturday, so I expect both my aunt and cousin will be here."
Ah, yes. Tommie could feel the uninteresting, lazy contentment of two people enjoying a quiet summer day. It sharpened noticeably into displeasure as Potter walked inside.
"Hello, Aunt Petunia, Dudley," Potter greeted the two people sprawled upon the sofa.
"Hey, Potter," the broad-shouldered, blond young man with watery blue eyes and who appeared to be around Potter's age, mumbled, waving briefly over the back of the couch. He turned immediately back to the television, which Tommie observed to be in full color. Strange... What else had changed during her absence?
The woman—thin, horse-faced, and with hair to match her son's—actually bothered to get up. She grasped Potter's hand in greeting, then nodded toward a short hallway. "Your bedroom is exactly how you left it," she said.
"Thanks," Potter replied, starting to leave the room.
"You know, you don't have to move out so soon," Potter's aunt said awkwardly. She did not want Potter to stay here at all, but made the offer out of some sense of familial courtesy, if her dull-flavored indifference was anything to go by.
"Oh, that's all right," Potter returned. "I'll be out of your hair by Wednesday, and then you never have to see me again, if you want."
"Right," her aunt said. "I suppose I should congratulate you on winning that competition you were in."
"Yeah, maybe." Potter walked swiftly down the hall, and opened the door to the first door on the left. "Bit dusty," she quipped, wrinkling her nose and sneezing explosively. She Vanished the dust with a twitch of her wand, and stepped fully inside. Tommie entered after her, and Potter closed the door, sighing. "Well, that could have gone worse."
"Could it?" Tommie murmured. "I'd rather not imagine how." Potter didn't respond. She removed the Disillusionment Charm and put up a Silencing Charm, sitting on the bed heavily once she'd finished, the mattress giving an ear-splitting squeak in protest.
"You aren't a Mudblood, are you?" Tommie asked pointedly. Why hadn't she bothered to ask before? An odd sense of familiarity left her ill-at-ease.
"Are you really trying to antagonize me right now, after I brought you here?" Potter grumbled. "No, I'm not Muggle-Born."
"Half-Blood, then."
"That's right." Potter sounded ambivalent. Tommie's déjà vu increased.
"Funnily enough, I'm not trying to antagonize you," she said flatly. "It's just that I, too, am Half-Blood and Muggle-raised."
Potter was unimpressed. "Okay. Look, I'm going to head over to Diagon Alley to pick up your Dicta-Quill and meet a couple associates. I'll be leaving the window open for my owl, so don't do anything to piss her off when she gets here. You'll be able to entertain yourself while I'm gone?"
"Do I have any choice?"
"Suppose you don't." Potter left the room eagerly, calling brief farewells to her relatives as she closed the front door behind her.
Well, alone in a cramped space again...
She wanted to run, to feel the wind through her fur, to enjoy the glory of the hunt, to tear live prey to pieces with her claws.
No, no. That wasn't it! She needed to focus, to ignore the insistent keening of the feline's mind. Did the curse intentionally make the animal brain so difficult to ignore?
Potter's scent clung to her coat. Well, in that case... Tommie was never petty. Truly. So naturally, the proper revenge for Potter's manhandling was to lay on her bed, getting dark fur all over the blankets in the process.
Perfect.
Too bad the mattress was terribly springy... and squeaked loudly when she rolled over...
"You look comfortable, Riddle."
Tommie woke to find herself sprawled unceremoniously on the floor, Potter standing over her, wand in hand, her eyes alight with mirth. A large snowy owl perched on Potter's desk, glaring suspiciously.
"Bitch," Tommie growled.
Potter actually had the nerve to laugh. "I couldn't resist. You looked so peaceful... in a manner of speaking."
Tommie's tail twitched.
"What does it mean when your tail moves like that?" Potter asked, settling on the bed Tommie was so recently forced out of.
"It means that I am unutterably pissed off," Tommie replied shortly.
"Oh, that's too bad," Potter said. "Maybe something I bought for you will help, hmm?" With a flourish, she produced a beautiful, black-and-gold Dicta-Quill. "It made me think of you when I saw it," she admitted. "Looks a lot like an arrogant bastard, doesn't it?"
"I will not dignify that with a response," Tommie sighed. "Thank you, I suppose."
"Whatever." There was an awkward silence, in which Potter sorted through her myriad purchases—joke shop paraphernalia and parchments, mostly—while Tommie watched, and the owl drank noisily from its water bowl.
"That's Hedwig, by the way," Potter informed her, catching Tommie's glance toward the owl. "You ignore her, she'll ignore you." It almost looked as though the owl nodded in agreement.
"Ah, okay."
As she continued sorting, Tommie noted that Potter's hands were deft, precise. Her fingers were stubby—definitely not musicians' fingers—but they were wiry.
"See something you like?" Potter asked.
"Can't say," Tommie admitted. "You look like a Quidditch player, and I've never had much interest in them."
"You wound me," Potter said, dramatically clutching at her heart. "I am so much more than just a Quidditch player. I am the winner of the Triwizard Tournament and the Hogwarts dueling champion three years in a row."
"Is that so?" Well, now, that last bit was interesting...
"I also captained the Gryffindor Quidditch team to the Cup last year— Well, they canceled Quidditch this year, but I'm sure we would have won the Cup again. The team we put together was brilliant."
Ambitious, yet... too humble to be purely Gryffindor. And the way she emphasized her practical magical prowess left Tommie terribly intrigued. Bleeding-hearted Half-Blood or no, Potter had power. She could work with this... (The inexplicable fascination she felt for this girl was irrelevant, dammit.)
But first she needed Potter to trust her enough to confide in her. Sacrifices would need to be made...
#
The rest of Friday passed uneventfully, with a predictably maudlin Leaving Feast (heavy food, crying Hermione); a Seventh Year farewell party for the ages—with more booze than Harriet had ever seen at once, most of it generously provided by Aberforth—and she was pretty sure Ron, Dean, and Seamus had thrown her over their shoulders and paraded her around the common room, singing drunkenly about her victory to much applause; and a mad scramble by most students to pack (not Harriet this time, because she was far too stressed to let it wait).
And really, when she woke up on Saturday morning with the worst hangover she'd ever had, Harriet knew she shouldn't have been surprised. Aberforth's booze was high-alcohol content and way too good to be allowed in wide circulation (where the fuck did he get that stuff, anyway? He and his disreputable sources''').
"It's your own damn fault for drinking so much," Hermione groaned, cradling her own head. "I tried to warn you. I tried to break up the party at midnight, but no one listens to me anymore." She glowered down at her now pointless Head Girl badge.
"Ugh, you had a good run," Harriet assured her. "Those fourth years you chased off to bed were terrified."
"They were, weren't they?" Hermione laughed.
"Oh Merlin, shut up, both of you," Parvati pleaded. "Or find a fucking hangover cure."
"Ab sent some over with the booze," Harriet assured her, tumbling out of bed and finding the precious bottle buried beneath Friday's robes. "Two sips each ought to do it."
The four of them—Lavender having woken with an almighty groan as the rest of them bitched—passed the potion around.
"That tastes like shit," Lavender said fervently.
"Hey, but your headache's about 75 percent better, right?" Parvati sighed.
"More like 67," Lavender grumbled. "I hate all of you."
"We'll miss you too, Lav," Parvati replied. "Anyway, I'm out of here. Said I'd meet Padma in fifteen minutes."
"I, meanwhile, have a badge to return," Hermione said regretfully. "At least I think I'm supposed to return it. Professor McGonagall wasn't particularly clear."
"I have to... pick up something," Harriet hedged. "So, I guess this is goodbye."
"Guess so." The four of them hugged one final time, all of them looking around fondly at the room they'd shared for seven years.
And, well, wasn't that the most depressing goodbye ever.
After Dumbledore's third suspicious grilling in as many days, Harriet was ready to leave Hogwarts and return only when he was gone for good—dead, retired, she wasn't picky. She couldn't remember him being such a dick before... Riddle didn't seem surprised by the confrontation, and that somehow made it worse. Riddle had been a wily Slytherin without scruples, so of course she and Dumbledore hadn't gotten along. But Harriet wasn't like that, had never been like that (as far as Dumbledore knew''').
And to make her Saturday absolutely fan-fucking-tastic, she had to Apparate while hugging Riddle like a... pet? or close friend? No, neither of those encompassed what they were. Distant acquaintances, reluctant allies, but never friends. (Harriet really didn't want to test Riddle's promise about what would happen if she were referred to as a pet again…)
Riddle's fur was... really soft. And she smelled like a cat, but not in a bad way. (Cats, when they were clean and well-cared-for, had a rather nice smell. Crookshanks did, anyway. And, fuck, she wasn't comparing Riddle to Crookshanks!)
And then to top off everything, she came back to Petunia's from her trip to Diagon Alley—during which she'd upped her initial one-hundred-galleon investment in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to six hundred, thanks to her winnings—to find Riddle sprawled on her bed, sound asleep.
Ugh, she thought for the thousandth time as she watched Riddle breathe in and out, her expression curdled even in sleep. What the hell was I thinking? Hedwig's reproachful hoot only confirmed her misgivings.
#
"Do you want to read?" Potter queried some hours later, as Tommie whispered useless drafts to her Dicta-Quill.
"Are you going to turn the pages?"
"Yes, but I'm done studying for the day, and I need to unwind. You may as well sit next to me and follow along." Potter showed her a hardcover novel she'd extricated from her trunk, lovingly dog-eared.
"Villette, hmm?" Tommie said, interested. "That isn't what I expected..."
"Hermione hates it," Potter admitted, smiling. "Far too pessimistic, she claims. But I've always enjoyed it."
"Not much of an unwinding sort of book," Tommie mused. "I'd try something lighter. What other books do you have?"
"Tamora Pierce novels," Potter said, dropping several thin paperbacks onto the bed. "Published long after your time."
"Fine. I don't care." Tommie curled up next to Potter so as to see the text as Potter read it. They passed in peaceful silence for the next hour, the sun setting and leaving them in comfortable twilight.
"Alanna is very Gryffindor," Tommie concluded.
"Yeah... Hufflepuff, too. She had people that loved her while she was growing up," Potter said sadly. "Maybe that makes all the difference."
"I doubt it's that simple, Potter." The opening she'd been waiting for... "I'm an orphan, too, you know."
"I never told you I was," Potter replied sharply.
"No? And yet you live here with relatives that took you in because they had no choice."
"Petunia had a choice," Harriet snapped. "She chose to raise me rather than to stay married to her abusive, awful husband."
"Again, that is not much of a choice, and says far more about the state of her marriage than any feelings for you."
Potter clenched her teeth. "Who raised you, then?" Potter asked, peaked.
"The infinitely kind and generous matrons of Wool's Orphanage," Tommie replied caustically, "where I was an outcast and a freak." Oh, saying that was worth the taste of Potter's shock.
"Dudley always called me 'freak,' when we were younger. Then he and his friends would chase me and beat me up." Potter smiled humorlessly. "I learned to defend myself, all right. I think I even flew, once."
"I could make them hurt, if I wanted to," Tommie said unashamedly.
"Did they deserve it?"
"Who's to say? It certainly felt justified."
"You enjoyed it," Potter said, stiffly throwing the paperback onto her bedside table and watching Tommie closely. The intrigue she'd been waiting for was there at last.
"Would you turn me away if I did enjoy it?"
"Look, I know what you're trying to do," Potter said, resigned. "But we won't be anything after we break this curse. I help you, and you go on your way to take over the world, or whatever you can manage. That's it. We're not friends. We're not anything." They said no more that night, merely sleeping fitfully.
Sunday passed with little fanfare. They ate breakfast. Potter studied quietly. Tommie drafted letters to past supporters (Potter pretended to ignore this). Potter got into a loud argument with her cousin over the hot water ("Why the fuck is it okay for you to take forty-minute showers, you asshole!" "Fuck you, Potter!" "Would the two of you shut up!"). Tommie completed a letter to Abraxas Malfoy during the time Potter and her cousin fought, signing it as Lord Voldemort and feeling immense satisfaction. Abraxas had always been loyal. He'd be the perfect foundation for her new webs.
"Abraxas Malfoy is dead," Potter said, reading over her shoulder, the scent of her shampoo saturating the air.
"Is he?" Tommie blinked. How could that be? He was only in his early seventies... "No matter. I'll come back to this." But both of them knew she'd need Potter's help if she really had a chance.
"Were you in London during the Battle of Britain?" Potter asked, adeptly changing the subject.
"They evacuated us, of course, but it's still unforgivable that I was sent back to the orphanage at all during the summers." Tommie sighed bitterly. "Mudbloods in danger were no concern to anyone."
"That's not surprising in the least," Potter said. "And yet here you are on the side of the Purebloods. That doesn't make any sense!"
"The Purebloods have the power, do they not?" Tommie purred. "A just utopia is still my goal, no matter the means by which I get there."
"There's no justice in a path like that, not for the people who need help most," Potter said. "But you just want power, don't you? It doesn't bother you how you get it."
"You know me so well," Tommie said, smirking. "If only I knew you half as well."
"I'm not very interesting."
"I disagree! At least tell me how your parents died."
"That's not a small thing," Potter sighed. "It was an accident of some sort when I was three. Potions mishap. Blew up the house. I got lucky."
"Dramatic," Tommie said, attempting a sympathetic expression. "Fitting for someone with as much potential as you."
Potter glared, anger spiking. "I'd rather use the fame and connections I cultivate for myself than some fucked-up origin story."
"Of course. Forgive me. Is that why you entered the Tournament?"
Potter nodded. "In a nutshell."
Tommie smiled. "Seems my first impression really was quite far off. But what is it that you want, Potter?"
"For justice to be served, for society's proper order to be achieved." Potter parroted Tommie's words mockingly.
Oh, well. One day at a time...