Chapter Five:
The Visit

"You are the one responsible for that diary?" Albus asks.

"Yes, why? Do you know of it?" I reply curiously.

"It nearly caused history to repeat itself once–it was destroyed, of course. You and Riddle were the cleverest students Hogwarts has ever seen, even in your fourth year, so this surprises me not. But what of the wand?" he queries quietly, as if expecting someone to be listening behind the closed door.

"Tom kept it. Now that I think of it, he must have used it to gain power. After all, he is the heir of Slytherin," I say almost boastfully, seeming to forget the anguish he has caused.

"Indeed... now... please, continue."

"You won't mind if I skip ahead a bit?"

"Whatever is necessary."

-

The school year was drawing to an end while summer was already upon us. The only thoughts that seemed to be on anyone's minds were those of freedom and an escape from endless work. Eyes wandered and drifted off to gaze out of the thick glass windows instead of concentrating on the blackboard or the notes they were supposed to be writing.

Exams had come and gone with Tom and I receiving top marks as usual, much to the dismay of those of our classmates who did not happen to be so lucky. Not everyone failed, mind you, there were a few scores to compare with ours. I never boasted about it, as I saw no need to draw such attention to myself, but that seemed unavoidable. Rumors could spread like a plague, whether good or bad, as well as reputations.

I could not walk the halls without being acknowledged by at least two people, both of whom would, as I passed, whisper about Tom and I.. Not that there was much truth to them at times. But at least the whisperings were positive ones that left the school wondering.

I could not understand my unknown significance to them. For to me, I was still the same plain, shy, unnoticeable bookworm that I had always been.

But to Tom...

I still did not know how he saw me. Granted, I was a friend; one of many, in fact. Though, we were almost closer than friends in an unromantic sort of way, yet not like siblings, really. I could not describe it.

I tried not to think about our relationship too often, always fearing what the truth of it might hold.

-

It was with reluctance that I embraced Tom on Platform 9 3/4 at King's Cross Station. Reluctance that we had to part, that is.

"Will I see you this summer?" I asked hopefully, pulling away.

He frowned. "Most likely not."

My face fell, but brightened soon after. "We can still write letters, though?"

He smiled. "Of course. Your owl should be able to find me, wherever I may be."

I poked my fingers through the thin bars of my barn owl, Rowan's, cage, and he nipped them testily. I knew he hated being locked up, preferring to have the option of spreading his wings out full.

"And, I will be able to practice my calligraphy," I offered optimistically.

Tom grimaced sadly as I climbed into the backseat of my parents' car, shutting the door behind me. I twisted myself so I could see out of the back window, waving until he was but a small speck in the distance. I will miss you, Tom, I thought quietly to myself, knowing that indeed, I would.

-

I sat with my knees bent to my chest in the bay window that overlooked my mother's garden. Blended with the sounds of the surrounding muggle neighborhoods were those of the chirping crickets and the tiny, resonating snores of our cabbages. Though the night was young, the summer air was cool, a warm breeze gently playing at the white sheer curtains that I had previously drawn back to let in the mood of the night.

My hair was loosely twisted into two braids, lazy strands poking out where I had not cared to fix them. One tickled my face was I stared pensively out at the trees swaying rhythmically, a few fireflies flickering their tiny pricks of light in and out of the leaves. Overall, it was a tranquil panorama; a soothing respite from life.

I played at a corner of the parchment I had laying in my lap, chewing at the end of my sugar quill and wondering what to write to Tom about. It was already nearing mid-July, but I had only just received my very first letter from him. I had been overjoyed when Rowan had gracefully swooped through my window and dropped a thin envelope into my lap.

I had opened it with trembling fingers, breaking the blood-red wax seal pressed with the Slytherin crest, withdrawing the hastily folded parchment. But to my disappointment, the letter itself had contained but three words scrawled in elegant, curling, green calligraphy.

I am coming.

He was coming? When?

I knew I needed to reply quickly, but I didn't know the words to use. I was aware of what I wanted to ask, along with an infinite number of questions to follow. But I did not know how to put them.

And that was why, as I sat comfortably, pontificating deeply, I heard the rapping of spontaneous pebbles upon the glass.

With a start, I peered into the dim twilight to discover a disheveled Tom, wand and broom in hand, staring up at me hopefully from the lengthy shadows created by the trees.

"Tom?" I called questioningly, rubbing my eyes in disbelief. He must have flown, judging by the weather-beaten Tinderblast he was clutching, and he looked to be shivering. I did not even know he owned a broom, or much less that he could fly. This new, helpless Tom was almost frightening as I saw how lost and unguarded he seemed to be.

Holding back a cry, I pried myself from the window, stumbling out of my room and down the stairs. I hardly felt my bare feet touch the carpet as I skidded to a halt in front of the door, effortlessly flinging it open.

Smuggling Tom into my home was easier than one would expect, seeing as my father was away on business and my mother was visiting with an old friend five blocks away. I was still cautious, however, wincing whenever one of us happened to step upon a creaking loose floorboard.

I restrained from asking any questions until I was sure that he had been properly situated on a makeshift bed in my room–he had refused my own. But once he was settled, and with a steaming mug of hot chocolate at the ready, I bombarded him with everything I could think of.

"What are you doing here? What happened to you? Did you fly here? Are you alright? Where were you staying? Why did you leave? Did they send you away? Why did you come here? Do your parents know? Are you staying here? –Not that I mind– Are you comfortable on the floor? Are you sure you do not want my bed instead? Are you hungry? Do you need anything else? Do you-"

He placed his index finger gently upon my lips, stopping me in mid-sentence and sending a pleasant shiver up my spine. "I am fine. Truly."

I tried no to let my disappointment show. I knew he would answer all of my questions in time, however impatient I was. I also knew not to ask them of him again. He looked so exhausted and worn with his eyelids drooping what he wasn't blinking them rapidly in order to stay awake. It was not even comical in the least bit, his mental and physical struggles at the moment.

Tom Riddle was desperate. Yet why?

He told me nothing more ere I watched his heavy eyelids flutter shut into the peaceful sleep I knew he required, my cheeks still pink as I extinguished the few candles that remained lit.

Finally, I resumed my perch in the bay window, keeping a watchful eye on my friend through the night, unable to join him in slumber.