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: Thank you to ObsidianSage and Chucky1982 for your comments!
Expectations of Grandeur: Chapter 34: Revenge
If Ginny Weasley was tired, she wasn't letting it show. Easter holidays were coming up, Tom had been foiled in his plan – whatever it was – Dumbledore was looking out for her, and she had resolved to enjoy the holiday and the remaining time at Hogwarts with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. So decided, she walked through life with a forcedly empty mind, concentrating only on her studies and the shallow interactions that she was able to have with her fellow Gryffindors. Hermione was, of course, very supportive (almost to the point of absurdity), and Harry and Ron were game enough although they hardly knew what was going on.
It was all for the best, she told herself.
It was all for the best. She had to do it, after all.
She thought, briefly, of getting someone to go to Dumbledore so she could steal the parchments back and destroy them. She felt like she wouldn't really be safe until they had been shredded into small pieces and burned to ash, and possibly buried deep under the lake. But she realized that if she were caught stealing something from the Headmaster's office there would be Hell to pay, and she would surely be caught if she didn't have something to replace them with. And, of course, she was fairly certain that enchanting two pieces of parchment like that was beyond her.
She mentioned it to Hermione once, saying that she didn't think she could keep the Occlumency up forever, and she wished she could destroy the parchment and have done with it. Hermione smiled warmly, a look full of pity and condescension, and said she would look in the library for things that would help. That had been hopeful, but when she came back with books of advice on long-term Occlumency, Ginny knew the older girl wouldn't actually sign up for stealing anything from Dumbledore.
Ginny wondered vaguely if she could blame Tom for the theft, but decided that the fact he didn't have the parchments would be a fairly sure-fire proof of his innocence on that count. So she couldn't just blame him and let him take the fall.
Ginny wished, briefly, that she could open the boundary in order to see in to Tom's mind and see what he was planning. So they could be forewarned. But it went both ways, and fighting her way through to his thoughts would be granting him access to her own, and she couldn't have that. So she read the books Hermione gave her, drank tea with ginger and chamomile to keep her alert and calm, and generally proceeded through life as though Tom Riddle was dead and gone and a thing of the past. Much to Hermione's anguish, she even tried to get her hands on some runespoor eggs to make her sharper (to the point of owling Charlie to see if he couldn't get some for her on the black market).
All in all, it wasn't too bad. She spent enough time studying for Potions that, with Hermione's direction, her grades didn't fall noticeably, and she finally began to feel that in Harry, Hermione, and Ron she had made friends who could be trusted, relied upon, and would come through for her in a crisis. She just had to survive like this for the foreseeable future; until Tom made some mistake severe enough to get him the Dementor's Kiss in retribution.
Ginny could hardly wait.
Patience was a virtue, Tom told himself. Patience was a virtue to be lauded, and if he simply remained patient, postponed his attack for a few weeks, history would repeat itself and Ginny Weasley would play right into his hands once again.
But after a week of being stubbornly blocked by the girl, Tom Riddle was running out of patience.
He had never had very much of it, all said. He was thinking, perhaps, of slipping scurvy-grass into her morning tea, in the hope that in a fit of anger she would forget her occlumency.
Easter holidays were arriving, and he was glad of it only because it would remove Malfoy from his horizons. The snotty pure-blood had first acted towards Tom with disbelief, until Tom had answered so many stupid questions about his fifth year that even the dullest sot couldn't have a doubt as to his true identity. That had taken three days. At this point Malfoy was treating Tom with a mixture of fear and reverence that Tom found almost as aggravating as the boy's former petty hatred. It was as if, realizing that Riddle was the Dark Lord's younger self, Malfoy had suddenly decided that they had best be close friends, the self-aggrandizing git.
"Let me get that for you!" Malfoy whined, passing Tom the mashed potatoes with a look of pure adulation. Tom rolled his eyes and didn't even mutter a "Thank you". He felt a twinge at the back of his mind – had she already given up? – but a surreptitious glance towards the Gryffindor table revealed only that she was mocking Malfoy and Tom's behavior with her brother.
He would have to continue waiting, while she joyfully mocked him to her idiotic friends. Harry Potter was laughing. Of course Harry Potter was laughing. Why wouldn't he be?
They were all enjoying a joke at Tom's expense.
Well, let them, Tom told himself. It wouldn't last. He would have the last laugh, being a true Slytherin.
Malfoy must have noticed the glance because he had jumped to his feet. "Do you want me to go harass Potter, sir?" he asked. Sir. The boy was the same age as he. Tom almost laughed at his spinelessness. Some Slytherin he was.
"You have no imagination, Malfoy," Tom said. "Why engage in childish bullying when you know he will always make a fool of you? Better to stay out of it entirely, until you can beat him soundly."
Draco's eyes went wide. "Beat him soundly? You have a plan, then?" the boy seemed almost impossibly young. Of course, he was just a spoiled child at heart.
Tom laughed, smirked, and said nothing, while Malfoy looked at him in mute awe.
"Draco," whined a girl some distance down the table. "Draco, what are you doing over there?" It was Pansy Parkinson, unused to Draco's disdain.
"Shut up, Parkinson," Draco called with derision. "Grow up."
Tom could barely control himself. Had Malfoy just sloughed off the adoration of Pansy Parkinson for the sneering condescension of Tom Riddle? And so easily, too? How absurd. Tom thought anyone who would choose disdain over reverence was a born coward, a born minion, ignominious and cringing and pathetic; Draco, who had put himself forward as the pinnacle of Slytherin, ambitious and self-serving and proud, was now first in line, volunteering to kow-tow. How truly pathetic. Tom looked down the table to see Pansy sniff with anger and derision. Apparently they agreed on that much, if nothing else.
Tom mused briefly if Draco Malfoy were perhaps homosexual, and that was what made it so easy for him to disdain his lover and throw away her affection as if it was nothing. The idea was amusing, he supposed, but he decided that Draco had probably been raised to believe that he would always be surrounded by sycophants, and the only people he had been taught to respect were his father, his mother, and the Dark Lord. Adorers were a dime a dozen.
So this was disgustingly predictable in that way.
Tom finished his meal and went back to the common room to study, ignoring Malfoy who followed closely behind him, babbling about all the things they could do to Potter to make his life miserable. The boy's imagination seemed stuck at the banal, childish, taunting insults. "Hah, we could get everyone to hiss at him; he hated that our second year. Or those badges, the badges were genius," Malfoy babbled, apparently certain he sounded intelligent and cutting.
Tom turned to Malfoy as they rounded the corner to the Slytherin common room. "We are not going to mock Harry Potter," he said calmly, "or annoy him. In fact, we are going to do nothing to Harry Potter. I am going to kill everyone he holds dear, and force him to watch until he begs for death himself. And then, if I feel merciful, I will kill him. You are free to do whatever you want – I have no need for you."
Malfoy looked put out for a moment, and then said "Oh. I should have imagined you would say something like that."
Tom said nothing, not even looking behind him as he strode through the portrait hole, Malfoy tagging along behind him. "But won't you need help, with the, erm, the killing and all that?" Malfoy asked just before the door swung shut behind him. "I can get you an army, Riddle. People to help." Draco trailed off lamely and shuffled his feet on the floor a bit before running to catch up with Tom, who pretended no one had said a thing. "You'll need help; Potter may be a light-weight, but some of his friends can hold their own."
The boy was obviously thinking back to the Bat-Bogey hex of previous years. "I don't think," Tom hissed, "that I have to worry about a Bat-Bogey hex, Malfoy."
"I... I..." Draco stuttered, his face growing cold with confusion and rage. "I'm not incompetent and I'm not a fool. And I would appreciate it if you would show me the respect I deserve rather than treating me like a miserable minion!" the words came tumbling out of his mouth, and after he said them he looked vaguely shocked, as though he couldn't believe he had the gall.
"Like the miserable minion you are?" Tom said quietly. "Prove you're worth respect, and maybe then I'll respect you, Malfoy." A thought occurred to him; he might as well use Malfoy's service. "In the meantime, get me some scurvy-grass."
Draco snorted petulantly, and left the room. He would be back within the hour – it had happened several times over the week. Tom was grateful, however, for the spare moment without having Draco Malfoy to deal with.
He needed a way to get the parchment back. Even if Ginny gave up – when Ginny gave up; Tom would make her give up if she didn't on her own – on the Occlumency, he needed the parchment in order to change anything. He thought perhaps he could reach her with a sort of meditative state – he had heard they were used to tap into past lives in Divination – but he decided that was too much of a long shot. All the same, it would take some planning to sneak into Dumbledore's office and plant a fake parchment inside, taking his.
He could perhaps wait for some distraction – or better yet, have Malfoy cause some distraction – that needed Professor Dumbledore's full attention and draw him out of his office. Tom could then sneak in and replace the parchment, provided of course that Dumbledore didn't keep the thing on him constantly.
That was absurd; certainly Dumbledore didn't think this was serious enough for him to carry the parchments with him wherever he went. It wasn't worth thinking of.
So Tom needed a good facsimile of his parchment – one that would behave the same way, reacting properly to Ginny's parchment, but which wouldn't show her thoughts. Tom frowned. The enchantment was hard enough with both parchments in front of him.
Then again.
He could, he supposed, steal both of them. It would make it much easier to destroy the evidence should he ever need to. He smiled to himself.
By the end of the Easter Holidays, Tom had at his immediate disposal not only fake parchments, but a healthy portion of Scurvy Grass that would drive Ginny Weasley into a fit of hysterics and crack her shell quite effectively. He assumed that, at the very least, he could transfigure it to look like a tea bag and slip it into the mug of tea she constantly carried with her anymore. Probably ginger and ginseng to keep her mind sharp and help with the Occlumency. Hermione would have thought of that. But in the meantime, he had bigger fish to fry. He approached Professor McGonagall after the first Transfigurations lesson after the break and expressed his sincere, heartfelt desire to speak with Professor Dumbledore.
"Excuse me?" she asked. "You should perhaps take this up with your own head of house," she said sternly, and went to rearrange the essays she had collected for easier transportation.
Tom cleared his throat. "I would, Professor, but Professor Snape has taken an unaccountable dislike for me. He refuses to listen to a thing I request, and would refuse this out of hand."
McGonagall cleared her throat. Again, the appeal to fair play and honorable intentions worked. She was a Gryffindor to the heart; it was almost cute. "What seems to be the matter, then, Mr. Marvolo?" She asked.
"I have nowhere to go when the term ends. The orphanage I would go back to ordinarily was foreclosed years ago – I wanted to make sure Dumbledore would allow me to stay at Hogwarts over the summer, since I have nowhere else to stay."
McGonagall's face was stern and unforgiving, somewhat dismayed as though thinking that there were other orphans who she would much, much rather spend the summer looking after. But she nodded curtly and motioned for Tom to follow her, which was all he could ask for anyway. When they reached the Headmaster's office, she said the whimsical password (Chocolate Frog) in as businesslike a tone as possible, and they rode the moving staircase with stiff professionalism.
Dumbledore was waiting inside. McGonagall introduced Tom's request and then left with just as brisk and professional a manner as she had entered. "I'd be grateful, sir," Tom said, "If you could let me stay here this summer."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Well, since you stayed here all of last summer, I don't see what the concern is, Tom," he said warmly. Tom was peering around suspiciously, trying to be unnoticeable, but probably not succeeding. Dumbledore continued, after clearing his throat. "Are you sure there isn't anything else?"
Tom shook his head curtly, still not seeing the parchments. They must be in the old man's desk, he resolved. "No, sir. Thank you, sir," he said. "I only asked because so much has changed since September." He smiled warmly, to match Dumbledore's foolish grin, and then bid the Headmaster a respectful goodbye, and left.
Chocolate Frog. The old man was childlike in his senility. But if Tom acted within the week, he could guess that the password would not have changed. He found Malfoy immediately upon returning to the Slytherin common room, and slid next to the other boy with a conspiratorial grin on his face. Tom relished the look of joyous adulation on Malfoy's face.
"I need to break into Dumbledore's office," Tom said calmly, coolly, waiting. Malfoy had to bite his lip no less than three times, but he kept his silence. The boy was learning. "He has something of mine. You'll create some problem to distract him at dinner tonight. I'll make my way into his office and get what I want."
Malfoy nodded mutely, a look of determined shock on his face. With a bit of a laugh, Tom stood up. "Whatever it is you do, do it at precisely six thirty in the evening. I need at least fifteen minutes." Malfoy again nodded.
Tom didn't go to dinner. He instead spread the rumor that he would dine in his dormitory, and knew that the other Slytherins would cover for him out of love for Malfoy if not himself. He perfected his duplicate parchments, and slipped out of the door at six twenty, making his way almost to the Headmaster's office before he cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and approached the Gargoyle. "Chocolate Frog", he said, and the moving staircase appeared. It was six-thirty exactly. Perfect.
The parchments weren't in the first drawer he opened, but they were in the third, which was close enough to perfect that he didn't much mind the difference. It was only six thirty-five. He smiled to himself as he closed the drawer, leaving everything exactly as he found it.
He approached the doorway, and almost yelped out of surprise when he felt something bite him, hard, on the shoulder. He turned to find Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, flapping his wings madly to hover mid-air and jutting his head out towards Tom, ready to strike.
He rolled his eyes. How very stereotypical of the Gryffindor; his pet was so loyal to him and so magically powerful that not only could it see through the disillusionment charm Tom had cast, but the beast insisted on following him to the door and pecking at him as though it wanted a fight. Fawkes looked rather stunned for a moment before lunging again, this time catching Tom in the gut and scraping his stomach. Tom grimaced and pulled out his wand, casting a quick reducto on the bird, and then a spell to quench fire – meant to be particularly effective against Salamanders and Phoenixes.
Fawkes was thrown across the room and lay, crumpled and smoking, squawking pitifully. Tom thought of mentioning that it should perhaps have thought of this before it attacked him, but quickly came to his senses and realized that the bird couldn't understand him and certainly couldn't have had the foresight to realize that attacking Tom Riddle was a bad idea (even for a Phoenix).
Tom slipped through the door, and down the stairs, the real parchment snug in his pocket. He reached the bottom and watched the gargoyle slide back into place. It was six forty-five.
He heard footsteps down the hallway. He ran.