A/N: This update is a day or so late, I apologize. But school has been hetic, as you know. And I just got snake-bites! Yay. They hurt a lot, haha. Anyways, this is basically a filler chapter that sets up furture interactions between the characters. So just letting you know. Next chapter is when the action starts. BIG, BIG, BIG, scene (or should I say scenes?) happening there. All I can say is that you Tom fans are gunna LOVE it. At least, I think you will. Oh, and sorry I have been unable to respond to reviews, I promise that I will tomorrow, but tonight it is very late and I have school in the morning -DESPAIR!- Next update should be coming along quicker.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

Chapter Ten: The Past is the Past, Doll

Very little good came of interacting with Tom Riddle, Morgan thought Monday morning. Her head hurt something terrible; every tiny noise was amplified to the point where it felt like someone was hammering against her skull. Not to mention, she just couldn't get her past out of her head.

It was very cliché, to be lost in the memories of a tragic childhood. But to Morgan that was better than the alternative. Because when her thoughts weren't on her days in the orphanage, they were circling around the very disturbing fact that her hair wasn't changing colors.

She hadn't thought of it until after midnight, but during her whole incident with Tom her hair hadn't changed color at all. Neither had her eyes. Having her mind forcibly ripped open was more than violate enough for her to lose control of her Metamorphmagus abilities. But yet, it didn't happen. Her hair stayed its same boring brown.

She practiced then, until dawn, trying to change her appearance. The effort nearly drained her, and after all her lost energy she had only succeeded in changing her hair color twice.

The thought scared her. Being a Metamorphmagus was in her very blood, and she was more than used to the quivering feeling she got before her DNA rearranged itself. Something was wrong with her. Very, very wrong.

So Morgan decided, mission be damned or not, she was going to stay very far away from Tom. Even if it meant sprinting out of rooms and scurrying around with the Gryffindors.

"Leah, what's wrong with you?" Charlus' curious voice pulled Morgan out of her unhappy thoughts. "I don't think I've ever seen you this quiet, even when you were with the snakes."

Morgan sat up straighter in her seat at the Gryffindor breakfast table. The piece of toast in front of her lay uneaten, and despite her better judgment she snuck a glance towards the Slytherins. Tom still wasn't there. Good.

"Sorry, just tired." It was the only response she was in the mood to muster up.

"We can tell," Kayden intoned, his eyes busy skimming the Daily Prophet in front of him. "It looks like someone socked you in both eyes, like a Muggle."

Morgan touched the darkened skin under her eyes and winced at Macmillan's vocabulary. She wasn't the one that got socked, Riddle was. "Yeah. I suppose." Thinking about Riddle drew her mind back to her failing Metamorphmagus powers. She shivered.

"If anyone should be sulking, it's me," James snapped. "You attacked me with birds."

Morgan shrugged, "Sorry."

"When you're tired, you're boring." Charlus sighed.

"You're almost acting like a Slytherin," Kayden added in.

Morgan wondered where exactly a certain Slytherin was. His absence was anything but good news. For all she knew he was outside plotting her death. She did break his nose.

"Do you have any Muggle relatives?" James asked, pulling the Daily Prophet away from Kayden's fingers. The headline announced updates on World War Two. Most wizards at Hogwarts didn't care at all for the war going on, but Morgan remembered James was a Muggle born, and probably had family to worry about.

Father Miller, the man who managed her old orphanage, had often spoken about growing up as a child during the war. Some of the stories he told used to scare her senseless as a kid…

Morgan shook her head violently. No, no, no.

Charlus raised an eyebrow, "Okay then…Well, we're gunna go to class now. You should…sort your stuff out. Maybe go see Madame Childs if you're not feeling well." The Gryffindors stood up all together then, leaving her alone with her uneaten piece of toast and harrowing thoughts.

---

Morgan strolled into Bragidly's class five minutes early, a piece of toast dangling from her mouth. She still had not decided on whether or not she wanted to eat the bread, and so opted to let it sit in her mouth.

"Miss Hume, what a wonderful surprise," Bragidly stated, his tall frame leaning over his paper-strewn desk. "You're almost always at least five minutes late."

Morgan just nodded sleepily, walking to the back row of seats and taking an experimental bite of her toast. She couldn't swallow it; her body was reacting poorly to her neglect.

"There is no eating in my class, Miss Hume." The Charms professor folded his hands together and sat down himself, eyeing her from across the room with analytical interest.

Morgan spat the toast out of her mouth and stared at it for a good thirty-seconds. "Do you want it?"

The professor grimaced, and was prepared to lecture his student on proper manners when the rest of his class began filing in. Morgan's presence was soon forgotten, as she was being more quiet than usual. She didn't even pretend to follow Bragidly's speech on the charm everyone would be partnering up to research. In fact, she didn't do much except stare at the soggy piece of toast on her desk.

Soon though, the sound of moving chairs and desks broke Morgan out of her trance, and she looked up at her classmates curiously. People were pushing tables together and drawing out pieces of parchment. Violetta Fanding, who was across the room, gave Morgan a small gesture with her hand. Morgan was about to stand up and walk to her when a book was gently laid down in front of her.

"Hello Leah."

Morgan's shadowed blue eyes looked up at Tom Riddle, who was standing rather calmly in front of her desk, his bag strewn across his shoulder casually. "I was wondering if you would like to work together."

Morgan blinked dumbly, "Actually, er, Violetta—"

"Is working with Nott," Riddle said smoothly, sliding into the desk beside Morgan. She glanced around him to see a very confused Violetta sitting down politely next to a burly kid. Tom looked at her then and a small grin tugged at his pale features. "Is that a piece of toast on your desk?"

"Couldn't decide if I wanted to eat it or not," Morgan replied, turning her head away from her friend. Run! Run! Her instincts tried to pull her out of her seat, but for some reason her body wouldn't comply. Curiosity finally dragged her thoughts out of their depressing loop. "Why aren't you trying to kill me?"

Tom's expression darkened at the word 'kill'. "I don't know why you would say such a thing."

Morgan noticed Professor Bragidly slowly stalking the tables by them and realized Tom was acting. She glanced at Riddle's nose suspiciously.

"It was easy enough to heal," The Slytherin Heir replied, almost as if he was reading her thoughts.

'Reading her thoughts' the expression made her face turn grim. What was she doing? Hadn't she already decided she was going to stay far away from Tom Riddle?

"I don't want to work with you." She said firmly, a dark glare masking her features. "I really, really, don't."

Tom actually looked exasperated, "You are such a child." He pulled out a piece of parchment and began writing neatly on it, his eyes darting up to the blackboard in front of the room every once and awhile.

Morgan sputtered, furious, "I'm being a child? I won't answer a few of your questions and you go and have a tantrum! Violating my mind! And—"

"Stop playing the victim," Riddle said calmly. "I thought you were, well, at least you seemed stronger than that." He eyed her distastefully. "But perhaps you are not."

Morgan's mouth gapped open, confusion brewing in her gaze. What was he playing at? First he acts like he's going to kill her. Then he enjoys pushing himself on her. And now he acts like it's no big deal, like she didn't break his nose and like he didn't do anything to deserve it.

"I…I am confused," Morgan admitted reluctantly. "So very confused."

Tom sighed, almost theatrically, "There are quite a few things you are hiding in that head of yours," Riddle motioned with his quill to Morgan's forehead. "You will tell them to me. The only question is when. And I can wait." An excited gleam entered his dark eyes, and Morgan thought she saw a tint of red. Curious.

"Not with that attitude I won't," Morgan said simply, leaning over his parchment discreetly.

Riddle shook his head, "You are terrible at trying to be inconspicuous." He paused to read over something he had written. "Not that it matters, we are supposed to be working on this together, hence the reason for partners."

Morgan sniffed, her pride wounded, "Well maybe I should take lessons from the master? Hmm?"

Tom looked at her, his pale face smoothed over, "Perhaps you should," He smiled at her very slightly, so that she almost couldn't tell he was smiling at all.

She glanced at his pale hands then, which were lying over the parchment lazily, while his face was turned towards her. His gaze bore straight into her, dark eyes seeking out blue ones, though she avoided his stare. Instead, she studied everything else about him; how he sat completely straight in his chair with his dark robes collecting neatly at his feet. How he kept his deep green tie meticulously neat, like his parted dark hair.

She ran out of things to look at after that, and finally met his gaze. She worried momentarily that he was going to use Occlumency on her, but soon disregarded the irrational fear: there were too many witnesses. "Are you going to attack me in the corridors anymore?"

"Maybe."

Not a very reassuring answer. "Just leave me alone," She said darkly.

"I don't think you want me to," Tom said in return.

For some ungodly and irrational reason, Morgan felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. She couldn't remember the last time she blushed. "I don't think you want to leave me alone!" She snapped back hurriedly.

"Well, there's no sense in denying that." Riddle leaned back and actually smiled in amusement.

Damn. He was doing it again. Trying to charm her.

"Stop it." She said seriously. "Stop trying be charming and ridiculously good looking and likeable. Because we both know you are none of those things. You're a murder," She whispered the last part, leaning in towards her adversary. "A cold hearted bastard and the proof is right there on your finger!"

Tom Riddle let out a small chuckle, but it was humorless and dark, "What do you know of that? Nothing." He said seriously, leaning in to her. "You don't know a thing about what happened, so I will ask you to not speak about it."

"You can't tell me what to do," Morgan said back. She searched his face, "You can't, and I think it bothers you."

"Well you must be right, seeing as you know everything about me," Tom spat, his tone darkening. "You're playing a very dangerous game, Leah, and you won't win."

"We'll see, Tom Riddle," She grinned, "But I know a lot more about you then you think. And as of right now, you know nothing of me."

Tom shrugged, "What is there to know of a simple orphan?"

"I could say the same thing to you." Morgan ground out, gritting her teeth. "And you have no right to talk about that."

"Oh, so you have the right to dangle bits and pieces of my past in front of my face, but I cannot return the favor?" Tom pushed out their piece of parchment then, shifting it so that it was on the edge of their table.

"That's different," Morgan protested, "I'm not like you. I haven't done the things that you have!"

"No of course not. You must be better than me." Sarcasm coated Riddle's tone.

"That's not what I meant!" Morgan sputtered out. She paused then. Wait, wasn't that what she had meant? That she was better than him because she didn't murder or manipulate? She glared down at the table, pulling out her wand and waving it erratically at her long forgotten piece of toast. It disappeared accordingly, and she dropped her head onto the wooden surface unceremoniously. She couldn't deal with this right now.

"How very mature Leah. You've been spending your entire life running away from responsibility, haven't you? Drinking when you don't think you'll ever be adopted, blaming the death of an infant on someone else. It's pathetic."

Morgan looked up from the desk to see Riddle leaning backwards in his chair, his body angled towards the front of the classroom. She opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it, unable to muster a word out of her suddenly dry throat.

She stared back down at the desk, "That was a cheap shot," She finally choked out.

"Done then, Mr. Riddle and Miss Hume?" Professor Bragidly had walked brusquely to their desks. "It looked like you were conversing about the paper, I didn't want to interrupt."

"No, we are quite done, Professor," Tom said politely with a small smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Well then, you have the rest of the period to do any other homework you might have gotten over the weekend." Bragidly said before glancing around the room. All of his other students were ferociously scanning through textbooks, looking helplessly at one another, trying to find the right charms and passages.

The Professor walked away, leaving Morgan and Tom by themselves once again. Morgan refused to look up from the desk, her head hanging low and her hands sitting limply in her lap before darting to her left forearm every few seconds. Her Dark Mark was irritating her greatly, and if she was in a better mood she would have wondered why.

---

She leaned against the great oak tree, her knees drawn up against her chest tightly while the drizzling rain peppered down on her body. Her thoughts were on repeat, unfortunately, and she couldn't stop them.

"Hume, you look terrible."

Morgan stopped staring blankly in front of her and looked up at Violetta Fanding. The witch was standing up next to her, blond hair letting off drops of water. Her fair face was composed into an impassive expression as she sat down next to Morgan.

"Why aren't you in your classes?" Morgan asked dully.

"I have better things to do." Violetta said.

"Like what?"

"Like this." Fanding crossed her legs in front of her in a very lady-like gesture. Her bag had been dropped beside her and she folded her hands in her lap. She didn't move to cast a water dispelling charm on herself or Morgan.

For a long moment the two witches stared off at the gray sky, letting the rain soak them through their robes. The tree they were under did little to ward away the chill settling into their bones.

"I don't want to tell you, because it won't be fair." Morgan said at last. And she meant it. She didn't want to tell Violetta what was bothering her, because that would only burden the witch.

"Life isn't fair." Violetta said blandly, knowing exactly what Morgan meant.

Morgan turned towards the blond, "I-well, I've just been thinking about the past."

A scowl actually worked its way onto Violetta's features. "The past is the past for a reason. You can't do anything about it, so there is no reason to dwell on it."

Morgan sighed, "I suppose you're right." She wished it was that easy. To forget about everything. But it was so hard. She had been doing a fairly good job before Tom Riddle came along…

A cold hand was placed over hers, and Morgan knew that even though Violetta hadn't turned to look at her, the gesture was meant to be encouraging.

"I grew up in an orphanage," Morgan finally began. "It was on the outskirts of a small Irish town and behind an old wooden church. Nine times out of ten we didn't have working electricity or running water. A man named Father Miller ran the establishment, and took in any child that was left on his steps.

"I…I don't know how to describe the man. He was tall and had this graying beard that brought out his black eyes. He taught us kids a lot about the constellations in the sky and how to cook and about Shakespeare. He used to read it to us." Morgan paused and sighed. "But he had a little problem with drinking. Lost his temper sometimes. Almost always ended up passing out near the alter on Saturdays. I never wanted any of the younger kids to see him like that, so I was always the one dragging him upstairs to his lodgings above the church and cleaning him up. Whenever I did that, the next morning, he would always pat me on the head affectionately and give me a piece of chocolate.

"I think I loved him," Morgan continued cautiously. "At least, once I did. But then, on the rare occasion that anyone would come looking at the kids to adopt us, he always sent me out to town, always made sure I was never anywhere near the would-be parents. He purposely made sure no one could adopt me." Anger bubbled up in her chest. "It wasn't fair, goddammit. He had no right! No right to deny me a warm home with a fire and good food!" She clenched her fists.

"And then a baby was dropped on our steps when I had just turned ten years old. I named her and took care of her and everything. I loved her. And then that bastard put her to bed and she died. Cot-death! He could have checked on her! He could have saved her life!"

Morgan willed away the tears that threatened to fill her eyes. She took a deep breath, "It just wasn't fair." She stopped, not wanting to go on, partly because she couldn't. After Anne-Marie's death Dumbledore had come to the orphanage and offered her a place at Hogwarts. He had to fight tooth and nail against Father Miller to get her to go, but eventually, Miller found out, there was no fighting against a wizard. Father Miller had always known there was something odd about Morgan, and he couldn't stop her from learning what she needed to at Hogwarts. But he had made sure that she would be forced to come home every summer and Christmas holidays.

She hated him for it. And her hate grew with each year.

But she couldn't tell Violetta that. Because Leah Hume was an exchange student, and Dumbledore didn't save Leah Hume from an orphanage when she was eleven.

Violetta seemed to accept the fact that Morgan wasn't saying anymore, though. And a soothing quiet settled between the two witches, while the rain around them steadily stilled.

"I think…I think he loved you so much he couldn't let you go." Violetta said finally. Her hands once again folded in her lap. Her blond hair had been brushed back while Morgan was speaking, and sparkled in the sun finally appearing from the clouds.

Morgan looked back down at her knees; she didn't want to believe it. She refused to. Because if Father Miller really loved her, she didn't think she would ever be able to forgive herself.

"Well, the past is the past, right?" She responded.

"So it is," Violetta agreed, her pale eyes clouding over.

Morgan pushed herself up to her feet, "Want to head to lunch? I think I'm hungry."

Fanding stood up gracefully, "Yes, I think that sounds good. You could definitely use some meat on your frame."

"You and you're never-ending supply of compliments," Morgan chortled.

Violetta shrugged, "You looked like you needed an ego-booster."

They walked in silence back towards the castle, and Morgan thought back to what Violetta said. It was impossible. People who loved others didn't hit them or hurt them, no matter what the circumstances. No, Father Miller hated her and she hated him. And that's the way it was.

She took comfort in the normality of those thoughts, and finally, after a long day, was able to push Father Miller out of her mind. He didn't matter anymore regardless. Besides, she had other things to worry about. Like stealing potion supplies from Slughorn's storage…

The thought made her grin happily.