Disclaimer: This story includes characters and situations that are part of the Harry Potter universe, which is copyright J.K.Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Brothers, Bloomsbury, etc. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made in the production of this FANFICTION. Not many outside resources were needed this time, but I (as always) made extensive use of the Harry Potter Lexicon when writing this chapter.
Author's Note: So, a little while on this one due to wrist injuries and so forth, but here it is. The denouement of Halloween continues, Dumbledore has been doing strange things to the Chamber of Secrets, Draco Malfoy is a prat, and Tom finds something frigtening on his pillow. Otherwise, joy abounds? Thanks go to Fantome (Neville's bravery is a huge caveat of mine – I've been looking forward to that line for a while), Mango (w00t w00t, Aleta Quinn indeed), Lady Lestrange, and Voldy's Pink Teddy for their reviews.
Expectations of Grandeur: Chapter 16: The Writing on the Wall
Tom, or Ophicus, or Lord Voldemort, or whoever he really was, was bent over a text in the library, dutifully taking notes, when he heard a commotion in the hallway outside. Blinking, he was about to stand and head to the doorway to see what it was when Madame Pince slammed the door shut, glaring at the noisy students outside and then smiling sweetly at him. While vulture-like and snappish to most students, she was certainly one to appreciate a quiet studier, and as the young man had been doing nothing but silently taking notes all day, she was in quite a good mood towards him at the moment. Tom shrugged and went back to his notes.
He had been in the library since just after breakfast that day, forced to remain at the school more out of duress than active choice; for he had no legal guardian and neither Dumbledore nor Snape had been forthcoming with the necessary signature. The orphanage he had called his home as recently as the past summer had been condemned and torn down twenty years ago, the land it had been on was now a park with transplanted grass, recycled playground equipment, and fledgling imported trees to please the families that had been shipped into the burgeoning suburbia over the years. Anyone who could have signed the form was gone, and so Tom had no option but to remain at Hogwarts. It wasn't that bad, considering he'd never have to return to that hell-hole again, but at the same time he was certainly disappointed that somehow over the years they had misplaced the caretaker's signature. It meant that his world was severely limited – fenced in by so many stone walls.
His aim, upon entering the library with a bright and glorious day ahead of him, was to find out as much as he could about Ginny's strange psychosis. As such, he pulled from the shelves the entire section on wizard and Muggle psychology, and half of the books on psychoactive spells, and perused each of them carefully before throwing them aside (carefully, because Madame Pince's unforgiving attention was wholly turned upon him, the library's only inhabitant) and picking up the next. He found nothing.
Or at least, close to nothing. The Muggle books said he should talk to Ginny to try and find out her opinion on the matter, the wizarding books said that any sort of spell to delve into someone's subconscious had to be done with their full approval and assistance (unless, of course, you happened to be a Legilimens, in which case everything would be much, much easier). Tom read up on Legilimagi enough to discover that while there was a chance he could develop the ability to perform a crude sort of mind-reading, he was hardly adept at it yet, and he certainly wasn't about to waste the time and energy necessary to become one simply for his pet project in Ginevra Molly Weasley.
So he turned that aside, running his hands through his hair in frustration (but making no noise, for Madame Pince was still staring at him, just waiting for him to make some mistake so she could throw him out and have the library to herself) and wondering where to go next. Carefully, he replaced each of the books on their respective shelves, and silently he returned to his table where a long scroll of notes on mind reading and possible psychological explanations for strange behaviour such as Ginny's stood out in bold letters.
Near the top was Stockholm Syndrome, which he supposed had much more of a likelihood than many of the other things on his list. It at least partially explained why she wouldn't avoid him like the plague even if she thought he was evil incarnate. The only problem with that logic was that, as far as he could tell, she didn't identify with him in the slightest, but rather found him a bit of a pest and a good Potions tutor.
So maybe it really was as simple as that, he thought idly, looking at all of the psychological terms in front of him and finding each more absurd in relation to Ginny than the last. Maybe she was just as confused about him as anyone could be – oscillating between believing the truth that he was an innocent victim and falling back on the story she had been told for years and years and accepted as the truth, the one that seemed so much more logical, the one that said he was as bad as they come. Maybe she was sorting everything out just like he was trying to do, and honestly just didn't trust him farther than helping her with her Potions work. It was probably the most likely situation that Ginny Weasley was perfectly sane but very, very confused.
He had, at that point, looked up at a clock and realized that lunch was already half over in the Great Hall, and so he hurried out of the library and continued his thoughts over a meal.
All in all, Tom decided, it would probably be useless to know any more about psychoactive spells or psychological illnesses until he knew more about Ginny, and knowing more about Ginny would be greatly aided by actually speaking to her about something other than Potions. And that required either Ginny to suddenly become proficient in the subject or Tom to figure out another reason for Ginny to spend time speaking to him. And all things considered, the former was most certainly not going to happen without some help. However, spending even more time with the youngest Weasley wouldn't exactly endear him to either her friends or his own acquaintances, and he was rapidly running out of hours in the day between prefect duties, and studying, not to mention keeping track of what the fifth years were doing in Potions so he could be sure he would be able to help Ginny on her newest subject of trouble.
He resolved, therefore, that he would have to find a way to spontaneously effect change in Ginny's ability in Potions, which meant he would have to be ahead of the game. Upon returning to the library, he strode directly to the Potions section and pulled out a few choice texts, trying to remember precisely what it was he had done in his fifth year. It seemed so long ago, even though he was only in his sixth. But soon he had come up with a list and was checking subjects off quickly, copying down foot after foot of choice passage in the texts as helpful notes for Ginny. She was a voracious note taker, but had the mental retention of a sieve when it came to Potions. Anything would help.
The fourth book that he pulled out, when he attempted to flip to the index, instead fell open onto a page on a Draught for accentuating Animagus powers in wizards who weren't talented enough to come by them naturally, revealing two pages of worn out notes. On one side was a list of names, things like Wolfie, Antlers, Rover, and Whiskers or Howler, Squeaky, Horny and Paws, finally ending with Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, with a flourish and a title: The Marauders. The other side was much more elucidating, featuring notes on how to make a parchment speak for itself. Thoughts of the Diary flew instantly to mind, but the pages, while yellowed with age, were not old enough to be before his time, rather twenty or twenty five years old at most. He read them, entranced, and praised whichever of the self-named Marauders had taken such detailed notes, because they pointed to several more books that weren't in the Restricted Section.
Tom had thought of trying to figure out what had gone on in the Diary, but he was almost certain that it was dark magic, and such things were almost entirely housed in the Restricted Section, so he had given up that ghost long before he pursued it. But these texts were all available to the entire school, and he pulled them from their shelves eagerly, flipping to the indicated pages and reading them as fast as he could.
By the time he looked up from his note-taking, startled by the sound of frightened students outside, it was quite close to dinner and students should have been returning from Hogsmeade. Tom merely shrugged and turned back to his notes, finishing the last book on the list and adding the last dot to the last I in his last sentence with a sense of finality that caused Madame Pince's beaklike nose to be pointed, once again, straight at him. He sighed (silently, of course) and carefully picked up the texts to return to their shelves, falling back into his seat a few minutes later, a smile creeping onto his face.
His problem of communicating with Ginny Weasley was at an end. He pulled out his wand and two bits of spare parchment and set about enchanting them, reading his notes carefully and whispering every necessary incantation (were he to speak any louder, Madame Pomfrey would realize that he was doing magic in the library and finally be able to throw him from its sanctuary). Finally, ten minutes later, he was finished, and dabbed a drop of ink onto one of them to see the result.
An identical drop showed up on the other. He wrote a sentence, 'I am testing this – does it work?', and the words written on one page formed themselves on the other. He smiled, and after a few seconds on the page, they disappeared. He would have laughed, had he not been afraid of being kicked out of the library. Here was the way of communicating with Ginny – in just the way they had spoken before, only hopefully without the painful soul-sucking and transplantation that any user of the Diary was prey to. He searched his notes for ways to perfect it, and was whispering an incantation to preserve the words on a page until they had been read when the doors opened, therefore missing Draco Malfoy's entrance and being quite surprised when the other boy slid into the seat across from him.
"Ophicus Marvolo," he sneered, "Just the man I was looking for."
"What is it, Malfoy?"
"I have a message for you – but apparently you need help with your Quick Quotes Quill – it's the quill that does the copying, not the parchment, you know," the blonde boy drawled, much to Tom's disdain.
"I assure you I know exactly what I am doing, Malfoy."
Malfoy, instead of listening or changing his behaviour, instead pulled the original sheet of notes from beneath Tom's parchments and began perusing it. "What's this," he sneered. "Wolfie? Moony? Looks like good old Lupin had himself some friends – what a surprise." He looked up at Tom and smirked incredibly. "Want to become a Gryffindor, Marvolo? Worshipping Scar-head's old man and his friends just like the rest of them?"
Tom frowned. "I have no idea what you are talking about, Malfoy."
"These notes," he said. "The only werewolf to have attended Hogwarts went by the name of Remus Lupin, close friends to Sirius Black, unregistered canine Animagus, and James Potter, altogether useless father of an altogether useless boy who happens to have a scar on his forehead. Wormtail is the only acceptable one of the bunch – finally saw the light and sold his pathetic old friends to the Dark Lord as comeuppance or some such. At least, that's what they're saying now – it used to be that Sirius Black was the one what betrayed James and Lily Potter."
Tom blinked and raised one eyebrow. "As elucidating as that speech was, Malfoy, it fails to explain exactly why my gathering information with some similarities to the work of certain former Gryffindors constitutes me wishing to be in Gryffindor, although I can hardly say that any house in the school wouldn't be more pleasant than sharing a room with you and your two goons."
"What's that?" Malfoy snapped.
"They snore loud enough to wake fossils, Malfoy."
There was a bit of silence in which Malfoy had no idea what to say, because indeed Crabbe and Goyle snored at decibel levels unknown to him before he attended Hogwarts, so it was no use denying Tom's point. But Malfoy had been sent on a reason, and so he quickly fell back on that. "Dumbledore wants to see you," he muttered, "About the Heir of Slytherin – he's back. Don't see why Dumbledore would want to see you, though, it's not as though you have anything to do with it."
Tom's eyes widened and he stood quickly. "Of course I don't," he muttered. "Barney old fool, I'll be back in a moment doubtless." He shoved all his parchment into his bag and tried to be as business-like as possible as he marched to Dumbledore's office.
How could the Heir of Slytherin be back? Voldemort was far too powerful, far too known in the world at large, to resort to scheming tactics like frightening Hogwarts with stories of the Heir to Slytherin's monster, especially when the Basilisk had been killed by Harry four years ago. And certainly Dumbledore couldn't think he had anything to do with it, not unless he thought Ginny was just as guilty as he, because in all actuality she was just as guilty as he. Tom rounded the corner and found the gargoyle in front of Dumbledore's office before he realized that he had no idea how to get in. Fortunately, Dumbledore must have known he was coming because at that moment the gargoyle swivelled in place and allowed Tom to pass through to the Headmaster's office. He entered and sat unceremoniously. "Malfoy says you wanted me?"
Dumbledore cleared his throat, and nodded. "Yes, Tom. You must have heard about the writing on the wall?"
Tom shook his head. "No sir, I've been in the library all day. I heard a commotion a few minutes ago but I have no idea what it was about."
"Someone is up to tricks again, I believe," Dumbledore said in a serious tone. "Someone has written The Heir of Slytherin has returned – the school will soon be mine on the wall outside the first floor girls' bathroom. You know the one; it has been closed off this year."
Tom nodded slowly. "Why would someone do that?"
"Inspire fear in the hearts of the students, force about a regime change by allowing professors and parents to be terrified at the thought of a repeat of the events of four years ago, simply for the amusement of watching students younger and less knowledgeable than they shriek in terror through the hallways. The desire to see other people frightened is nothing new, Tom."
Tom nodded slowly. "And what if this really represents a threat?"
"What are you implying?"
"What if Lord Voldemort somehow got into the Chamber of Secrets – and is gloating, as he tends to do?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "Impossible. The wards around the school prevent anyone from Apparating in, and the walls around the school prevent other forms of unauthorized entrance. No, the school is entirely safe from Lord Voldemort."
Tom shook his head. "You were breaking enchantments on the Chamber left and right when you found me. Isn't it possible that something went wrong?"
Dumbledore stared at Tom defiantly. "Are you implying that I don't know what I'm doing, young man?" he asked, voice rumbling low in challenge.
"Of course not, sir. I'm just wondering if you really have taken all the precautions necessary."
Dumbledore closed his eyes and nodded sadly. "Yes, of course. Of course I have, Tom. I'm sorry to bring you up here; I know you had nothing to do with this. You may go."
And with that, a rather frustrated Tom left Dumbledore's office and returned to the Slytherin dungeon.
Tom realized belatedly that Dinner was already mostly over and he hadn't had a bite to eat, but by the time he would be able to make it to the Great Hall the meal would be cleared from the tables and he would be out of luck. Sighing, he sunk into a chair in the common room instead, and prodded at the matched parchments, wondering if there was anything left to do to them and how he would deliver it to Ginny.
An hour later he had perfected the parchments and yawned as he shuffled up to his dormitory, heedless of the calls from Malfoy trying to egg him into a fight. He ignored the boy and fell onto his bed, hearing a crunch as his head hit the pillow. It was dry and crisp and papery beneath his head.
Which, Tom reflected, was entirely not how a pillow was supposed to feel. He reached behind his head and pulled open the envelope to reveal a letter. He recognized the hand easily – it was his own.
Tom Marvolo Riddle, it began,
I find it laughable that you actually believed I had been defeated by that infant Potter. Of course I survived, and my only surprise was that you did as well. What a shame that I shall have to sully my hands with my own blood once more before you finally die. But worry not; I shall derive much pleasure from watching you suffer before you die. Perhaps the best part in all of this is that your suffering shan't be from my hand at all – in fact, you will receive more pain from the hands of those you wish to protect with your idiotic chivalry than from the hands of your enemies. How irony suits me.
You never did make a very good Slytherin, and you never will.
- Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Tom swallowed hard and, letter in hand, stormed back to Dumbledore's office. There had to be an explanation to this, and he was going to find it.