A/N: Whoot whoot! two updates in one night!-yeah, I'm feeling really guilty:P
Enjoy! I really really like this chapter!
disclaimer: all familiar content belongs to J.K Rowling
Chapter Seven—Nature Vs. Nurture
"Can I speak to the owner, please?"
The dark-haired man stared blankly at Harry. "Mi dispiace, che non so che cosa stai dicendo."
Harry turned back to Hermione, running a frustrated hand through his hair. She stepped forward. "No, no, it's okay, it's Italian, which is a little easier to translate. Erm….parla in inglese?"
An expression of understanding passed over the man's face ."Oh, oh, oh, si, si, solo un attimo." With that, the man rushed out of the room, leaving the four of them to look around the shop.
"Impressive Italian, Herms," Ron said, winking, and she rolled her eyes, running her fingers over a strange statue of a skeleton horse, which seemed to be screaming in pain.
"Don't be silly…that was very basic—I'm surprised he even understood it."
The door opened and the man who they had been speaking to before rushed back into the room, this time accompanied by a tall, tanned, black-haired man whose hairline seemed to be receding faster than the wrinkles on his face could keep up. He smiled warmly at them and spread his arms wide in a customary gesture.
"Welcome, welcome!" He exclaimed in a thick Italian accent. "You are very welcome here, my friends! You come from Europe, si?"
"Yes, sir," Hermione said, reaching forward to shake his hand. "I'm Hermione, and this is Harry, Ronald, and Tom." She gestured to each boy individually. She was feeling more and more uncertain about their journey as the seconds passed. This man did not seem like the type of man that handled dark artifacts on a daily basis. "We're actually looking for something—a medallion. Salazar Slytherin's medallion…."
"Ah," he nodded slowly, rubbing along his jaw line. "You look for de medallion of Slytherin. Many have pursued dis conquest, si? I have never come across dis….medallion. It has never touched my store's shelves."
"Oh," Hermione said, feeling dejection wash over her. The man touched her shoulder, and she looked up.
"However, I….know of de man who…'as come across dis…medallion."
"Really?" Hermione's eyes brightened, and behind her, she felt Harry and Ron step closer, their breathing quickening. "Would you….I mean….could you be so kind as to direct us to him?"
The man sighed, running a hand through what was left of his hair and moving to stand behind his desk. He reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a slip of parchment and a quill. "I….do not wish to…mislead you, my dear, but….dis man….de man dat knows of de medallion…he is not a man to be trifled with. He will either except your business, or he will not."
"That's alright," Hermione said quickly, eagerly. "We can deal with it. It's….it's a matter of life and death."
He let out another whoosh of air, but then started to scribble down the directions and address, before thrusting the parchment into her hands. "Do not say I did not warn you."
Without another word, he disappeared into the back of the shop, his assistant following quickly, throwing them a wary glance over his shoulder.
"We have to go," she told the boys.
"I dunno, Mione," Ron said slowly. "I mean, this guy seemed pretty frightened of whoever this bloke is."
"But he's a shop owner, Ron," Hermione pointed out, dragging them out of the store and in the direction that the Italian man had written down. "The worst he can do is kick us out of his shop, right?"
"I dunno, Hermione," Harry muttered, and she turned her shocked eyes on him, him being the last person she'd expect to be frightened. "I've got a….strange feeling."
"Don't be stupid. If you lot don't come, I'll go on my own." With that, she marched ahead, and after a moment she heard the boys move to catch up with her. They trekked across the alley until they came to the door labeled with the correct address. Hermione took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing," she breathed, and pushed open the door.
Bells jingled as they walked inside, and through the dim lighting, Hermione could just make out the counter, where a tiny, frightened-looking young man stood, and beside him, lazily lounging in a comfortable-looking arm-chair, was a blonde, curly-haired man with a book clasped in both hands, his eyes trained intently on the words in front of him.
"Hello," Hermione said to the boy at the counter. He flinched. "Erm…we were wondering if we could speak to the owner of this shop?"
There was a beat of silence, and then, "He doesn't speak English, so there isn't any point in speaking English at him." With a jolt, Hermione realized that the blonde man in the chair was English, and, also, her cheeks reddening, that he was extremely attractive. She didn't, however, like the condescending tone of voice that he had used with her.
"Well," she cleared her throat. "Pardon me for not knowing, but seeing as you do speak English, I'd be much obliged if you went and got the owner."
He finally looked up at her, his eyes amused behind a pair of rectangular glasses. "Oh, but I don't make a habit of doing things for people who are snappish with me; it just isn't polite."
Hermione rolled her eyes out of custom. "Look, I wasn't trying to be rude, we're just in a bit of a hurry, and I'd really appreciate it if you went and got the owner for me…now." She heard Ron and Harry's amused titters from behind her, and blew a strand of fallen hair from her eyes.
The blonde man tilted his head, studying her for a moment, before smiling and rising. She swallowed thickly as she realized that he was huge, a good six-and-a-half feet tall. He gave a little bow, which she was sure was meant to be mocking, and said, "I'd be glad to," before sweeping out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Hermione whirled on the three boys, her cheeks aflame with irritation, and—much to her irk—enthrallment.
"Can you believe how rude he was? I mean honestly! Who hires a shop hand that is that incompetent! I can hardly imagine how the owner deals with him on a regular basis—"
The door swung open again and Hermione turned, her stomach dropping to her feet. The blonde man strode back through the door, no one accompanying him, and offered her a supercilious smile, holding out a hand for her to shake.
"So pleased to meet you," he said lowly, smirking at the absolutely horror on her face.
Hermione ran a hand through her hair, not even bothering to take his hand. "I….look, earlier, didn't mean to be rude. I was just a bit—"
"Oh, yes, and now she wants something, so she actually acts like a civilized young lady, how charming," he sneered, crossing his arms over his chest as he towered over her. Hermione felt her temper boiling, and her face heating up at a frightening speed.
"Look, I've apologized for acting like a child, now I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same!"
"Hermione," Tom murmured from her left, his gaze sternly commanding her to shut her mouth, but she raised her eyebrows at him, glancing pointedly at his drawn wand—so she wasn't the only one who was annoyed with this man.
"Yes, yes, listen to your boyfriend, Hermione."
Before she could respond, he turned and slid up onto the counter, resting his hands behind him as he stared down at her. "What do you want?"
Hermione immediately snapped back into business mode. "A little bird told us that you have come into contact with the medallion of Slytherin."
He let out a cold laugh. "Yes."
"And…." Hermione continued, refusing to meet his probing gaze. "We were wondering if….if you could perhaps tell us what the person you sold it to looked like—"
"Or if there was any way of tracking it," Tom cut in persistently, and the blonde man's eyes drifted over to him, arching an eyebrow in an appraisingly sort of way.
"Even if I did remember what the person I sold it to looked like, or whether or not there is, in fact, a way of tracking it, why in Merlin's name would I tell you….children?"
"We're hardly children," Hermione argued, fidgeting under his unwavering gaze. "And, because—because it's very important. We aren't just looking for it for some sort of thrill—we need it, desperately."
The blonde man studied the four of them a second more. "Tell me why."
Hermione's eyes immediately flickered over to Tom, who was picking at his nails in a nonchalant sort of way, but after a moment, he gave a short, decisive nod, and Hermione brought her eyes back to the blonde man.
"It's sort of an unbelievable story, actually. We—the four of us—attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—that's in Scotland—"
"—I know where Hogwarts is," he said sharply.
Hermione was suddenly curious. "Did you attend Hogwarts?"
He smirked, and Hermione shivered. "I did—six years ago." She mentally calculated; that made him twenty-three.
She internally groaned. Why did she even care how old he was? Tilting her head back, she narrowed her eyes, studying his face, her lips quirking up at the corners. "I'll be you were a Slytherin."
He sneered, "I'll bet you're a Ravenclaw, with a deduction like that."
"A few nights ago, Hogwarts was attacked, by some of Grindelwald's men. The thing is, we all know—and Dumbledore proved it—that the wards can only be broken from the inside, meaning that someone on the inside of the castle had to have broken the wards in order for Grindelwald's men to have gotten in. Well, a few of our friends happened to be outside, after hours, the same night. When the Ministry wizards appeared, our friends were taken into custody, believed to have been the ones who had let in Grindelwald's men. We figured if we could find the man who had the medallion, which—as I'm sure you know—grants entrance to Hogwarts, we could bring him back as evidence to set our friends free."
The blonde man was silent for a moment. "How touching," he said finally, and Hermione scoffed in annoyance. "Something still doesn't add up, though. Even if someone in the castle did break the wards, they simply would have had to open the gates and let Grindelwald's men in that way. There would have been no need for the medallion at all."
Hermione's head was pounding now, and she felt a sort of dread spread through her, making her limbs heavy. She gnawed on her lip for a moment, thinking hard. "But…we think that maybe the person who broke the wards didn't want to get caught letting Grindelwald's men in. They broke the words, and then made a quick escape, leaving whoever was wearing the medallion to sneak in and open the gates himself."
"I have a question about that," Ron interrupted. "If Slytherin's whole point of creating the medallion was so he could sneak in and out of the castle without the other three noticing, then wouldn't the entire point be moot if you had to lower the wards every time you used it?"
"But, Ron," Hermione began to explain patiently. "The thing was, because Slytherin was wearing the medallion, and the blood in the medallion matched the blood that ran through his veins, the wards didn't need to be lowered—he could slip right through them. They would of course, still need to be lowered in order to open the gate and let in the remaining followers, but still—"
"So what you're saying," Harry said slowly. "Is that someone with Slytherin's blood—someone of his descent—could have easily slipped through the wall and let in Grindelwald's followers?"
Hermione's face slowly turned towards Harry, her eyes widening as she took in what he said. "No…" she said after a while. "Because….even if there was someone of Slytherin's descent, they would have already been in the castle." Harry nodded, realizing her point, though his eyes flickered suspiciously to Riddle, and then back to the blonde man.
"So…" Riddle pressed, his eyes intent on the man. "Can you help us or can't you?"
He stared back at Riddle with such intensity that Hermione almost looked away. "I'm still missing the part where this is all my problem?"
"C'mon," Hermione said softly, and his eyes fell upon her face. "We….we've traveled miles and miles just to find this stupid medallion. Our friends—the ones that are in custody—they're seventeen years old, and I don't care how little of your problem it is, no one deserves to be condemned to Azkaban at the age of seventeen."
He frowned thoughtfully at her, his brows scrunched together in concentration. Finally, he rose, moving behind the counter, and started to shuffle things around, disappearing beneath it for a moment. From below, they heard his voice call, "The man I sold it to was German—thick accent; blonde hair, blue-eyes, rather large nose. He wore a suit, pale sort of fellow. You couldn't pick him out of a crowd. He rose from behind the counter, holding a small box which, when open, was revealed to hold a number of shrunken items. Hermione watched with fascination as he withdrew item after item from the box, obviously doing inventory; a shrunken grandfather clock, a shrunken bookcase, even a shrunken automobile. "As for tracking it…well, you would have to have someone of Slytherin blood to do that." He moved towards the door that led to the back of the shop. "Good day."
Hermione made a quick decision. She called after him, "But….what if we do have someone of Slytherin blood?"
He froze, his hand hovering an inch above the doorknob. She watched his shoulders stiffen, before he drew himself up to full height and turned to face her. The look on his face could not be described as anything less than pure curiosity.
"Well, then. I'd have to ask you to stay for tea, now wouldn't I?"
"And you're in Slytherin, too, did you say?" The five of them sat around a small table. After discussing the medallion a bit longer down stairs, the man—who they had discovered was named Zelos Armadei—had invited them upstairs to his flat for tea.
"Yeah, seventh year," Harry told him, seeming completely at ease. Hermione, however, sat rather stiffly, holding her tea with both hands, gazing around the flat with suspicion. It was unnerving, really, how quickly he had agreed after finding out that one of them was of Slytherin's descent. She could see that Tom, too, looked alert, his eyes flitting about the room. They landed on her for a moment, and, at once, they both seemed to share an understanding.
"So, I have to ask," Zelos began, setting down his tea. "Which one of you is the descendant?"
They sat in silence for a moment, none of them eager to speak up, before finally, Tom said, "Me."
"Knew it," Zelos smirked, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "You've got that same sort of….air about you—not that I knew him personally, of course, but it's depicted and implied in all of the documents and paintings. You've got that….that look about you, you know? Although I suppose that sort of thing is passed down, it's in your nature."
"So that's your stance then?" Hermione spoke up. "-On the whole 'nature versus nurture' argument, I mean. You believe that each person is inherently good or evil—one way or another? That is: it is unchangeable, regardless of circumstance."
He eyed her with the same sort of approval that Hermione often met in her Professors' eyes, and, very occasionally, in Tom's. "Yes, it is."
Hermione frowned at her lap, grappling for an argument strong enough to convince such a stubborn, obstinate man. "But—but…you don't think that, even if a person was born with the conscious enough to be evil, if they were raised by saints, it would have no impact?"
He shrugged a shoulder. "The person would, granted, develop a conscious, perhaps, and question the sins that he performed as averse to being blind to them, however, no, I believe that they would still do inherently evil things, out of natural instinct."
"How can you believe that?" Hermione groaned. "Everything a person knows—there morals, their virtues, their beliefs—is instilled within them by their parents, or guardians, or whoever raised them. If a person were to be lacking in such morals, it would be because they were never taught them, not because they had a cause to be sinful."
He peered at her over his glass, his fingers folded together in front of his face. "You're no Ravenclaw, lassie."
She tilted her head back defiantly. "What would you have me be, then?"
He smirked. "They'd create a whole new house, just for you."
"What would it be called?"
The mischievous glint in his eyes did nothing to quell Hermione's nerves. "Over-emotional."
He, Harry, and Ron roared with laughter, and even Riddle's face broke out with that rare but genuine smile. Hermione rolled her eyes, pushing away from the table and rising. "Just hilarious," she quipped. "Where's your loo?"
"Just down the hall, to your left," Zelos replied, still chuckling.
That evening, Hermione sat in front of the fireplace, immersed in Hogwarts, a History. Zelos had offered to let them stay in his flat for the night, promising that they would get started tracking the medallion in the morning. Harry and Ron had fallen straight asleep, but Hermione still felt anxious, not liking sleeping in a stranger's home with no protection.
"Can't sleep, either?" Hermione nearly jumped as Tom sunk down on the couch beside her. She took a deep breath, glancing at Tom, and was once again struck by how handsome he was.
What was wrong with her lately? First Lionel, then Zelos, now Tom…
"No," she said finally, blushing as she felt his quizzical gaze on her. "No, I don't feel quite safe enough for that."
"Me either," he admitted. "Dunno how those two did it." He threw a glance at Ron and Harry, who were both curled up on a blanket on the floor, Ron's snore reverberating throughout the room, making Hermione let out a soft giggle.
"When are Ron and Harry known for their intelligence, though?" she said, smiling, and watching with surprise as he gave her a small smile back. "Are—are you alright, Riddle?"
He frowned, turning his thoughtful gaze on the fire. "Hermione, did you—did you mean what you said earlier, about people not being inherently good or evil?"
She searched his face, trying to find even a semblance of what he was thinking. "Yes," she answered slowly. "I meant it. Dark wizards like Grindelwald are often classified as evil, but…I don't think that's entirely true…"
"There is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it." Tom quoted in a monotone, and then looked her for confirmation. She felt at flicker of sadness at how far gone he already was…so lacking in morals that he needed someone else to define them.
"That's not…exactly what I meant," she said slowly, trying to make her tone soft, patient. "Power, at times, can be even more dangerous than evil itself. The actually evil in a person is seeking out power, which can lead to people getting hurt."
"We discussed this once," Tom said quietly. "Ambition, self-preservation; you and I had different views on the subject."
"We did," Hermione agreed, and then tossed him a fleeting grin. "But I think that can be said about a lot of things between us."
A small smirk appeared on his lips, and Hermione almost sighed in relief at the familiarity of it. "Like?"
"Well…" She turned her body so that she was facing him, and crossed her legs in front of her. He turned to, bending one knee and letting his other leg stretch out in front of the sofa, his knee brushing hers. She had a strange sensation, then, of being encased by him, and she suddenly wondered what it would be like to have his strong arms around her, his tall figure forming a protective cocoon around her.
Hermione blinked, mentally chastising herself. "Well," she repeated, her mind still trying to focus on the subject at hand. "For example….you believe that dark magic is an art, and should be practiced, while I believe that it is vile and destructive."
He groaned, leaning his head back to stare exasperatedly at the ceiling, and the cords of his neck were suddenly exposed. Hermione could see the muscles flexing as he chuckled, the tightness of his shirt exposing his collarbone to her. She was suddenly struck with the desire to reach out and touch him.
"Could you possibly have picked a more typical topic, Macmillan?" He snorted, shifting so his bent leg straightened, and he lifted his other leg to rest on the other side of her. Hermione felt her face reddening as she realized that she was practically sitting in the lap of Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Let's discuss it then," he said obligingly, snapping her out of her daydream. "Do enlighten me, Hermione, why do you think dark magic is oh-so-wretched?"
She stared at him blankly, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. She spluttered, "Well—you—I mean—it's common sense, really! Spells like that—spells like the Unforgivables, are intended to harm people! You can't just go around hurting people just because you feel like it! It isn't right!"
Tom let out a heavy sigh, sitting up and leaning forward, placing his hands on his shins so he was staring very directly into her eyes. "And you couldn't even come up with an original argument, shame, shame." He shook his head disapprovingly, and she rolled her eyes. "Let me explain something to you, Macmillan, and I'll go slow, because it requires quite a lot of brain power. You know the spell Flipendo, yes?"
"Of course," Hermione snapped.
"And can you tell me what Flipendo does, Hermione?" She didn't like his patronizing tone of voice. She folded her arms over her chest moodily.
"Well…it knocks an object backwards," she answered irritably. "But, Tom, I don't see what any of this has to do with—"
"Listen, pet," he shushed her, curling a tendril of her hair around his finger. Hermione froze, distinctly smelling a mixture of cologne and a masculine musk on his skin. "Don't talk, just listen. So, you've informed me that Flipendo knocks an object backwards, yes? So, let's think of a situation, shall we? Let's say a dark wizard is holding a wand to a small child. There is a lake behind the child. The child cannot swim, and the dark wizard knows this. He casts Flipendo, and the child is knocked back into the lake. The child cannot swim, and hence, he drowns. And though this spell was not intended to be dark, it has just ended an innocent child's life."
Hermione was frozen in his gaze. Her mind was exploding with all sorts of contradictions. He was right though, technically. Spells that were not classified as dark spells could, essentially, be used for a dark intent. She looked back at him though, determined to get her point across. "But you can't possibly tell me that the Unforgivables are okay." He opened his mouth to protest. "And don't tell me about the medical advances, I know that the killing curse can be a painless way to end the suffering of a patient, and that if someone is struggling or delirious, the Imperious curse can be an effective way to calm them down, but there is absolutely no way that you can tell me that the Cruciatus curse has any purpose other than pure sadism.
Tom was quite for a moment. He gazed at her pensively, his hand absently drawing circles on the fabric of the sofa. Finally, he said, "Actually, the Cruciatus curse is more helpful in terms of politics."
Hermione looked at him sharply, having an inkling as to where he was going with his. He smiled coldly at her, his eyes glinting as she raised a hand to push her hair back from her face, resting for a moment on the skin of her neck before flickering back up to meet her eyes.
"I've found that the Cruciatus curse can be rather affective means of persuasion, haven't you?"
Her mouth opened and closed for several moments, before she looked away sharply, the flames dancing in her brown eyes. "You're incorrigible," she told him honestly.
"Told you," he muttered, and she glanced back at him, frowning.
"Told me what?"
This time, it was he who looked away, and Hermione had never seen such a look of helpless defeat on a person's face. "A person is either inherently good or evil. There is no gray area."
And Hermione was sad because she had nothing to say.