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 I've been waiting to do this chapter pretty much since the beginning of the story. It's the hinge upon which it all turns. And I've finally done it! And I'm not horribly disappointed with how it turned out!
Expectations of Grandeur: Chapter 33: Ginny Simply Loved Me
Tom stormed down to the Slytherin common room and strode angrily to his dormitory, nearly ripping the drapes off his four-poster as he pulled them shut. How could she? How could she? No one had laughed at Tom Riddle before in his life, and no one would laugh at him again.
This is what I get, he thought, for trying to be a Gryffindor. He suddenly realized that, all year, he had been attempting to be a friendly, warm-hearted, and beloved Gryffindor. He had wanted Dumbledore's approbation to turn him into something that Dumbledore could actually be proud of; namely, Harry Potter. But Tom Riddle wasn't Harry Potter, and everyone knew that Tom Riddle wasn't Harry Potter, and so why the hell was he trying to be something he, obviously, wasn't? It was sickening. He was ten times, a hundred times, better than Harry Potter at everything that mattered; he was smarter and cleverer and more powerful, more studious and more charismatic when he had to be. He had charmed the entirety of Slytherin in his time there (originally, at least) and if it weren't for Dumbledore and his ridiculous desire to do right by the old man who had trusted him, well, he could have charmed the entirety of Slytherin (and much of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw as well) again. By doing it his way, which was cunning and dishonest, perhaps, but at least it worked, as opposed to this.
No one trusted him; Dumbledore's obscene faith in him had gotten him nowhere with anyone else. He was reviled by not only the Gryffindors (which he should have expected, honestly), but the entirety of the school. And the one person who, it seemed, had a chance of not overtly hating him thought him a joke.
Tom Riddle a joke.
Hatred, from a Gryffindor, he could handle. Hadn't he, in his first five years at Hogwarts? The houses hadn't changed that much over time. Hatred and disdain, although ridiculous and uncalled-for, were things he could deal with. They were tied up in fear and that could be nursed into the kind of doe-eyed reverence that he thrived upon. Curiosity, he could accept – that could easily be charmed into wonder. He had never had friendship, had never had respect, had never had anything Dumbledore would say was a positive interaction with another person, and curse the old man that had made him think, for a moment, that he would want those things.
He couldn't have friendship, couldn't be liked for who he was. He was a Slytherin, and he knew enough about Hogwarts to know that no one trusted, or liked, a Slytherin. You gave them your respect, admiration, and cringing loyalty. That was all Tom could expect.
Honestly.
What had Dumbledore done to him? That old fool, it was his fault, making Tom's life the living Hell it had been. He had put together these stories to make Tom hated by the Slytherins as well as the rest of the school. But now Tom knew what was going on. Tom knew that the old man still hated him, just like in the old days. And now he could get his revenge. Revenge on Dumbledore. Revenge on Harry Potter. Revenge on Ginny Weasley.
He imagined it, Dumbledore lying dead before him, or better yet struck mad by enchantments; clawing at his face in torment, pleading with Tom to make it stop. But it wouldn't. He deserved it. This had been Dumbledore's plan all along, to make Tom a laughing-stock, and it was time he paid for it. It was time the tables were turned. The old man would be humiliated, cast aside, shown to be weak. Tom would stand over him, and watch, and laugh.
And then he would turn to Harry Potter. Harry Potter he might keep alive; he was no real threat. Tom realized that now; the boy was a child, and not a particularly powerful one at that. All Harry had that the dreaded Dark Lord didn't was a retinue of friends who would sacrifice anything for him. And it would be more painful, far more painful, for Harry Potter to watch as one by one his friends and conspirators were killed or turned against him. Tom laughed at that idea; Harry Potter staring, slack-jawed, crushed, as Ron and Hermione lay dead by Ginny's hand.
Oh, that was a good one. He would have to remember it.
Which was proving easier said than done. Someone, something, was snatching at the image, stealing it away and ripping it to shreds. He almost leapt to his feet in anger – who had the gall to do such a thing – but then he realized, he knew exactly who it was. And he could tell that she was furious at him. Of course, she would be. It would be just like her to think that a good scolding was what he needed now. When he had finally realized that the world was against him and the only way to succeed was to destroy the established order and impose one of his own. Oh yes, she thought this was just a temper tantrum like any of her tantrums throughout the year. She thought that he just needed a good talking-to, and there it was out on the page.
Tom! She had written. What on earth is this all about? You are being utterly ridiculous and you know it. Dumbledore wants nothing but the best for you, and for us, and for every student at Hogwarts and if you can't see that you're a complete idiot! He's been nothing but kind and trusting to you, he's not set anyone against you, you alienated my brother and Hermione with your condescending treatment of them, you alienated the Slytherins by expecting them to worship you right off the bat (and you should know better, Tom, they're Slytherins) and if you would just look around for once you'd notice that there are still people who trust you and consider you a friend – or would, if you would just give them the time of day! No one, not one of the students who left, thought for a second that you were the one behind the attacks – they were all more suspicious of Harry than of you, and if you had listened you would know that too. But you don't look around and you don't listen; you just decide that something is right and you stand by it even when everything goes against it and it's obviously wrong. Yes, my brother and his two best friends don't trust you – but they know what happened my first year, and when you popped out of that Diary proclaiming to one and all that you were Lord Voldemort and you were going to kill Harry and all the muggle-born children, well, what do you expect everyone to think? I'm sure your life has been right awful, Tom, absolutely terrible, but why don't you try to see it from someone else's perspective for once? Every time I get close to a Dementor it's your voice I hear and your face I see, and I'm dying again because you're killing me, and taunting as you do it, and Harry knows that and Ron knows that and Hermione knows that and you expect them to trust you immediately anyway? You didn't even try to convince them otherwise the way you did for me. You didn't even try to make amends the way you did for me. So don't go complaining that Dumbledore stacked the cards against you, or that Harry and Ron and Hermione are horrid, judgmental people. Because they aren't and they haven't, and if you call them that then you're being horrid and judgmental and you should be smart enough to realize that. You're being awful, and horrible, and petulant like a small child – just because I went on a date with Harry you want to kill him and Dumbledore, or worse? Just because you can't kiss very well you intend to go on a spree and burn Hogwarts to the ground? Grow up! Get over yourself!
As the words disappeared, the watermark came into view, a seething mess of fear and anger. Tom laughed coldly. Fear. He could work with that. He shut off his mind, protecting it from further meddling. More worry materialized in the watermark. He was being a child? No. He had finally grown up and realized the truth of the world. He should look at this from another perspective? Why, when no one would stop for a moment and look at it from his? He laughed again as more words popped up on the page.
And now you're cutting yourself off from me and don't think that you can hide that from me, Tom, I know you're doing it, but just because you've done that doesn't mean I can't still yell at you until I run out of paper, and believe me I've had my share of practice yelling at people. Because those images, those images of Dumbledore and Harry, those are things that the old Tom, the one who was Voldemort, would think of, and they weren't right, and you know they weren't right, I know you do, because you've told me not to be so vengeful and you've told me not to be so petulant and so now it's my turn, Tom, don't do it! They were awful, and disgusting, and terrible, and I can't even believe you. You can't make me do horrible things anymore, Tom, you can't make me, I'm stronger than I was my first year and I'm better at magic and I'm closer to my friends and if you don't promise right now – and just like you can tell when I'm lying now, I can tell when you are so don't you dare try to lie to me Tom Riddle – I mean promise right now that you'll stop and you won't do any of those horrid things, I'll go straight to them and we'll go to Dumbledore and he can, I don't know, pull this memory out of my head and see those things that you thought of, and we'll make sure none of it ever happens. Do you hear me Tom? It's not going to work even if you do want it to, so you should just give up now before you do anything so stupid that you do get thrown into Azkaban and lose all the goodwill we've – I mean Dumbledore and I, since you can't deny that we've been more than fair to you – given you so far. Because I swear, Tom Riddle, if you do any of that I will hunt you down and I will lock you up in Azkaban and I will throw away the key and never, ever, ever come and visit you or let you out or anything merciful or kind because you won't deserve it, you'll have forfeited any humanity that you once had.
Tom frowned. He was too early in his plans to take down Dumbledore just yet; the old wizard could probably handle a sixth year student (he had to be honest about that at least). He couldn't afford to let Ginny get to the authorities now. She might be ineffectual, and he certainly wouldn't be sent to Azkaban for something as trivial as a thought, but if Dumbledore was tipped off to his plan then there was little chance of his success. But then again, who said that Ginny had to want to do such a thing anyway, he thought with a smirk. He enchanted a quill to write in the watermark instead of on the page, and carefully, so that it would be hardly noticeable, added a single thought; she didn't want to punish him – she really didn't. She began writing again, and his smirk spread. So promise me, Tom, right now, promise me so I don't have to go get Ron and Hermione and Harry and Dumbledore and have you sent off to Azkaban because I don't want to, I really honestly don't want to do something that horrible and condemn you forever but I promise you I will if you don't call off that awful plan of yours because it would be right, and it would be in self defense, and you know it so don't even try to argue.
He laughed outright. Ginny Weasley would do nothing, and think nothing, without his express approval. This was almost too easy. He began to erase her thoughts of sending him to Azkaban, just to be certain that she wouldn't get up to anything for at least a short while, but words appeared on the page and as he read them her plan reassembled itself. And don't you dare try to mess with my head that way, Tom, because I can tell when you're doing it and like I said before I'm stronger than that. You're not going to win so easily this time Tom, and you lost last time anyway, so forget about it.
He said nothing. Promise me, she wrote.
He could edit her mind, he knew he could, he had just a moment ago. But he supposed that as with anything, there was a backup, and unless it was subtle enough to catch her unawares and masquerade as one of her own thoughts, well, it wasn't going to fly. So he had to handle this delicately. Perhaps implant the simple thought that he wasn't lying to her. But even that might be too much at this point.
Tom, please, she wrote again. Just promise. You know I've been telling the truth, you have to know it.
Tom tried not to laugh; she really did want him to join up with Harry and the dream team. What a pathetic, naive fool, to expect something like that of a Slytherin – much less, Tom Riddle. I'm not naive, Tom, she wrote. It's not naivety to give people second chances. That's faith in human nature. This time he did laugh, although he wondered how she had guessed the word naive. Could she have broken through his Occlumency? Unlikely.
Come on, Tom, promise. I can tell you're thinking about it, you know that I'm right and you know that I'll win. So just get it over with and move on with your life.
He knew that she would win? That screamed falsehood. Although, if he couldn't effect a wholesale change in her mind, then he had been found out, and to be found out this early in the game was as good as doom for any plan. So, to tell the truth, he supposed that at this point his only choice was to convince her thoroughly that he didn't intend to act on any of his wishes.
Fine, he wrote, deciding he might as well try the bold-faced lie. I won't kill Harry or Dumbledore.
There was a pause. You're lying, she wrote. I'm telling.
And he could see, from the hazy watermark that was her mind, that she was getting up and going to Harry, or Ron, or Hermione, or Dumbledore. He couldn't have that. He hastily picked up the enchanted quill and drove into her mind with heavy strokes that she would stop. She fought it, and it slowly faded from the page, but before she could do anything he scrawled SIT DOWN into the watermark.
She did.
She didn't try to get up again, but kept writing. Don't you dare, Tom, don't you dare do that to me, she wrote. I'll tell. He laughed.
And then he made, perhaps, a mistake. He set down the enchanted quill, picked up a normal one, and wrote. And how, perchance, will you tell when you can't even walk out of your dormitory without my express permission? She wrote nothing. He continued. Besides, what will you say? Tom Riddle is possessing me again? Dumbledore is convinced of my innocence, he disbelieved your brother and the mudblood Granger when they came to blame me for nothing; how will your case be any different?
She said nothing. Instead, the watermark grew fainter and fainter until he could barely see it, a nondescript shadow on the page. She had gotten better at Occlumency, obviously. Hermione is going to tell Dumbledore right now, she wrote.
Tom just laughed. Why would she have used Occlumency unless she was lying? You're bluffing.
No, she wrote, I'm not. And I'm not speaking to you, Tom, never again.
The words disappeared, and then so did the last remnant of the watermark. Tom was left in silence, both literal and metaphorical.
It hardly mattered. She would let her guard down eventually – he knew how much, and how quickly this game had tired her the last time – and he could get to her then. This just gave him the time to figure out what to do with his newfound ability in the meantime. He laughed as he carefully folded the parchment and set it in the upper drawer of his desk, pulling out his Arithmancy text to study.
Five minutes hadn't passed when Snape stormed into the dormitory, the steam coming out of his ears only compensated for by his incredibly angry expression. Tom paled. Had she...?
"Where is it?" Snape shouted, wand at the ready, as if Tom were about to hex him.
Tom raised his eyebrows. "What, sir?" he asked with more respect than the slimy head of Slytherin house deserved. "Where is what?"
"You know what, Marvolo," Snape snapped. "Where is the parchment?"
Tom raised his eyebrows still further. "The parchment..."
"Which is probably the work of a Dark Wizard; the parchment with which you have been communicating with Ginevra Weasley! Where is it?"
Well, then. She had told. Or at least, she had begun to tell. That changed things slightly, but not particularly much. "It's in my desk, sir," he said with a deadly calm. "And I promise you it isn't the work of a dark wizard. I made it myself." Tom went to open the lower drawer, hoping possibly that there would be a parchment of about the right size for him to hand over.
"Don't move!" Snape said, wand still trained on Tom. Tom froze. If possible, Snape had become even more irate through the course of the conversation. He strode to Tom's desk and threw open the top drawer, snatching up the parchment. "Is this it?" he asked, eyes not faltering from Tom's.
The man would expect him to lie, obviously, Tom thought. "Yes," he answered.
Snape nodded curtly and motioned with his wand for Tom to stand up. Tom carefully and slowly did, as though he were interacting not with a Hogwarts Professor but with a wild animal. The comparison was not perhaps unwarranted, he thought, looking at Professor Snape's angry, wild eyes and unkempt hair. There were probably beasts in the forbidden forest who bathed as regularly as the Potions Instructor. "Wand!" Snape snapped, and, with a sigh as if all of this was unnecessary, Tom handed his wand to his Head of House. Snape looked like he wanted to snap it on the spot, but marched out of the room, parchment and wand in hand, not even gesturing for Tom to follow him. But Tom assumed, and rightfully so, that he was not supposed to let Professor Snape walk off to, probably, Dumbledore's office with his wand and the parchment. He passed a group of Slytherins on the way, who whispered between themselves and looked rather frightened. With the way Snape favoured most of the Slytherins, they probably had never seen their Head of House so angry. Tom would have laughed at their childishness, but decided it was an inappropriate moment.
When they got there, a furious McGonagall was sitting behind Hermione and Ginny. Ginny was in tears, and Hermione was trying to comfort the younger girl. Pathetic. She had won; she should have been triumphant, gloating even. But instead she was crying hysterically. Even Hermione, who had been – or rather, would have been – proud when he was discovered for having purposefully botched that rune, seemed only concerned and attentive to the young Miss Weasley. Disgusting, ridiculous wastes of space. Not worth the wands they carried.
"Mr. Marvolo," Dumbledore began, eyes glinting this time with anger and voice heavy with disappointment and rage. "Would you say I have not given you a chance to prove your true colours?"
Tom stared his professor straight in the face, plastering his with innocence. "I would say you have been entirely fair, sir."
Dumbledore stared him down sternly. "What is this we find in your possession?" he asked.
"An enchanted parchment," Tom responded, again, as though they were the most normal things in the world.
"What were you doing with an enchanted parchment?" Dumbledore asked.
"Writing to Ginny Weasley," Tom replied smoothly. "I'm sure she told you all about it."
Snape rapped him on the back of the head soundly. Tom winced. That man was going on his list, too. He would kill him, and then Dumbledore, and then Harry Potter. Once he figured out how to break Ginny. That had to come first.
"Just writing?" Dumbledore asked, obviously trying to get Tom to admit that Ginny's thoughts appeared on the page should she care to let them. Ginny had probably confessed that too, but she knew that if she let her thoughts appear on the page, she would be letting Tom in too. He wondered how much damage he could do, with the parchment in Dumbledore's hands, surrounded by professors. But from the fact that all he could sense was her dejected misery, which he guessed was false since it was certainly new, he could tell that she wasn't taking any chances.
"Yes, sir," he responded.
"He's lying," Hermione snapped. Ginny wailed louder. "He enchanted it to show her thoughts; he's started possessing her again through that parchment, sir."
Snape glared at the Slytherin, and then looked at Dumbledore, a question in his eyes. Dumbledore shook his head. So they wouldn't be forcing Tom to drink Veritaserum, he concluded. He found it rather amusing, after all, when he had been administered Veritaserum, he had told the truth – that he was no danger to anyone – and now that he had changed his mind, no one would dare use the potion on him.
Dumbledore sighed and looked at his favoured Gryffindors. "Miss Granger, Miss Weasley, you know that this is not an accusation to be handed out lightly," he warned.
"I know," Ginny sobbed. Tom almost rolled his eyes. Were they buying that? Ridiculous!
"Headmaster, if I may," McGonagall snapped, and Dumbledore nodded that the man could continue. "As eager as I am to prevent any further mishaps from happening at the school, and as much as I would support any punishment of Mr. Marvolo, should it be justified, I simply cannot fathom that a student, even as... questionable as he is, would perpetrate this sort of thing. He has continually been victim to erroneous accusations, what makes this time different?"
Dumbledore frowned. Snape turned to McGonagall and nearly shouted, "Remember who he is! This is no ordinary student!" Dumbledore frowned even further.
"Severus," he said calmly. "I see no reason to discipline Mr. Marvolo any differently than any other student. He has yet to prove himself especially dangerous. Yet, this is a very serious accusation that I must consider." He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, weary. Tom began to think that maybe he could take the headmaster after all, if he were suitably helped. "Minerva, see to it that Miss Weasley is calmed. I will be keeping the parchments, so there is no apparent danger. Severus, please see Mr. Marvolo back to Slytherin. I will have all the Professors meet here to discuss our next step."
Ginny sniffled a bit, but allowed herself to be escorted out of the room by a very concerned looking McGonagall and Granger. She looked up at Tom, a look of mixed hatred, betrayal, and fear in her eyes, before leaving. Snape stalked back to the Slytherin dungeon, and only when they had reached the entrance did he hand Tom his wand back and turn. "Don't think that because you've fooled Dumbledore you've fooled me, Riddle," he hissed. "I'm the only one of the staff to see Potter for the spoiled child that he is, and I have no illusions surrounding your perfection either."
With that he stalked away, presumably to the staff meeting. Tom sulked back into the Slytherin common room, only to be accosted by Draco Malfoy. He almost hexed the boy. "What was that, Marvolo?" Draco sneered. "The only person I've ever seen to get Snape that angry is Harry Potter. You teaming with the Gryffindors?"
Tom rolled his eyes. "No," he answered abruptly and tried to push past Malfoy.
"Then what were you up to?" Draco sneered again, a confident smirk on his face. "Have you fallen for the Weaslette too? Is that why you were writing to her?" The other people in the common room laughed at this. "I should warn you, she's too pathetic for anyone but Potter. Possessed by the Dark Lord her first year – almost died, and would have too, if her hero hadn't saved her."
Tom felt a smile coming on. What was so embarrassing about that, to him? What would he care for the story, an unfeeling Slytherin unrelated to the Chamber incident? And how could he not help smirking, related as he was. "I know the story," he said simply.
Draco laughed again, not picking up that the tables had been turned. "What, did she confide in you? Are you two best friends? How sweet," he said, pandering to the crowd behind him, some of whom looked to be catching on to Draco's impending fall. "Marvolo's got himself a Gryffindor girlfriend. Did tell you all her deepest, darkest secrets?"
Tom laughed outright. "Oh yes, all through her first year," he said. "Ginny simply loved me." He paused for effect. "We've just been catching up."
What little colour there had been in Draco's face disappeared in a moment. The Slytherin common room echoed with silence. "What are you implying, Marvolo?" Draco asked, trying to sound as confident as he had just a moment ago.
Tom stared down his rival. "My real name," he said calmly, "Is Tom Marvolo Riddle." He laughed again, ironically; he had always hated that name. "You might not have heard it before."
Draco's eyes widened a bit. Apparently he had seen the Diary, then, before his father had slipped it into Ginny's possession. "Riddle?" he whispered. "That's not possible."
Tom couldn't help himself; this was just too much fun. "I'll think you'll find it is," he said calmly. Draco stood before him, a shadow of his former proud self, gaping like a fish and eyes wide with fear. "Move aside, Malfoy," Tom said domineeringly. "I've had enough of you for the day."
Malfoy stepped to the side, still staring in terror. Tom snorted. That, he thought, was truly pathetic. But it allowed him to get to his dormitory in peace.
Which was all he needed. A good night's sleep. And Ginny would be considerably weaker tomorrow.
He had to do nothing, after all, but wait.