Chapter Five: Don't Ever Tell Me What I Can't Do

Tom probably could have made it back to class in time to hear the closing statements if he really wanted to, but he didn't. Instead, Tom slowed his gait and ducked into the boys' bathroom, locking himself into a stall so he could stare at Dumbledore's journal. Their talk swam around in his head. Dumbledore was right: there were a lot of bad feelings packed into Tom's heart. They made his chest ache to no end.

Writing his feelings down didn't seem like it would help—if anything, it would just remind Tom of how he felt—but Dumbledore was a great wizard, so if he thought it would, it was at least worth a try. And perhaps, doing so while in a school surrounded by so much magic would yield magical results.

Opening his bag on his lap, Tom fished out a quill and unopened inkwell. He opened the inkwell, set it on the toilet paper dispenser, and dipped the tip of the quill in it. Tom held the journal open on his lap and hovered the quill above the page, trying to think of anything he could write down. Anything at all. Something that would help but not put him too far into a slump: after all, he had to go to class in a few minutes.

His hand shaking, he pinched the quill tighter. No words were coming. He wanted so badly to write—to give Dumbledore's solution a try—but he couldn't describe how he felt. And he didn't know what was wrong. Things were just wrong.

With a groan, Tom closed the journal and put his ink and quill away. He'd try again later. It wasn't an assignment, anyway. If nothing came to him, then nothing came to him. There was no point in writing down false thoughts in a personal journal.

Oh well. Anyway, it was time for lunch, and Quirrell was likely wondering what had happened to Tom.

Tom headed down the crowded hallway. After walking about a hundred feet, Tom realized that he didn't actually know how to get to the Great Hall from Dumbledore's office but he wasn't about to ask someone the direction. Thankfully, all students had lunch at the same time, meaning that most students in the hallway were already headed there and Tom could follow them without letting on how lost he was.

The long tables in the Great Hall were piled high with all sorts of food. Smelling something akin to glazed ham, Tom realized how hungry he was. There was the Slytherin table, but where was Quirrell? Squeezing between the benches and trying not to trip on his robe, Tom scanned the tables for light brown hair and freckles. Unfortunately, neither of those features was particularly uncommon. His eyes ran across white blonde hair and an unhappy expression. Tom stopped in his tracks to glare at Lucius; their war would continue as long as Lucius continued to aggravate Tom, because Tom would never be the one to back down. Lucius needed to know that. They glared at each other long enough that some of the students around them began to notice and ask Lucius what was wrong. Lucius had hoped that Tom would be the one to break contact, but Tom had already decided he would win. Eventually, Lucius broke his gaze and silently turned back around to his food.

Determined not to break his careless exterior, Tom strode down the aisle, looking for Quirrell. Tom wanted to grin like an idiot, but he didn't. He had just bested Lucius Malfoy in a stare-down. Tom figured he would beat him eventually, since he probably had way more fighting experience than Lucius, but he thought it would have taken more of the year. He really needed to find Quirrell and tell him the good news; surely, that would make up for getting him into so much trouble.

Quirrell was near the end of the table and next to him was the boy who shook Tom's hand: Severus. They were far away from Lucius, thankfully, as Tom wouldn't know how to keep Lucius' respect through an entire meal; Tom didn't have the best table manners. There was no need for such finery at Wool's. For a moment, Tom was afraid that Quirrell wouldn't want to sit with him. Tom had gotten Quirrell detention twice, after all. Detention for anyone was humiliating, but for the little freckled, stuttering boy, it probably seemed like the end of the world. Tom thought of all this too late to turn back without forcing an awkward recognition from Quirrell, who was sitting on the other side of the table, facing Tom, and no more than five students down. Tom wrung the strap on his bag.

Munching on a buttered roll, Quirrell looked up and locked eyes with Tom. He seemed rattled, but not by Tom. He smiled and waved happily. Tom smiled back, his confidence renewed, and took a seat next to Quirrell at the very end of the bench, so far at the end that only one leg fit under the table.

"W-what did Dumbledore say?" asked Quirrell as he piled jam on his half-eaten bread roll. He talked like everything that had happened that morning hadn't happened. The fight with Lucius, their uncomfortable conversation in the hallway, but maybe Quirrell hadn't found that conversation uncomfortable. He bit into the roll, getting jam on his chin; he tried to wipe it off with his fingers, but they were covered in jam as well. Tom sighed, reached across the table for a napkin, and handed the napkin to Quirrell.

"Thanks," Quirrell smiled. "So? What did he say?"

Tom looked at his lap, thinking over their conversation. "Nothing important," he replied. "More of what he said when you were there. Just…yeah, just more of that."

"Did you get in a lot of trouble?" asked Quirrell.

"He made my detention a week longer," replied Tom, pensively spooning yams onto his plate, thinking about the diary. "Make of that what you will. But hey, I wanted to tell you, I think Lucius has finally given up."

Quirrell squinted suspiciously. "Given up on what?"

"Picking on us."

"How can you tell?"

"Well, I passed him in the Great Hall, and he broke eye contact first."

"He 'broke eye contact'?" Quirrell repeated, not getting the significance, or even quite what the phrase meant.

"We were glaring at each other, and he looked down first," explained Tom. Quirrell still looked confused, and now Severus looked confused, too. Tom sighed, frustrated. "It's a code. When you're glaring at someone, it's like a duel and the first one to look down loses. It's like a surrender, and Lucius surrendered."

"So much meaning in a glance," mused Severus.

"I've never heard of such a game," said Quirrell, scraping his potatoes into a pile. "Is it common among muggles?"

Tom almost bit through his lip. He slammed down his silverware, causing more than a few heads to turn. His ears burned bright red.

"It's common everywhere!" Tom insisted. "You obviously haven't paid attention to what glares mean!"

Bewildered, Quirrell stared at Tom, fork halfway to his mouth. Even Severus looked shocked. Glancing around, Tom saw that people were staring at him. He shrunk into his seat and wished that the bathroom wasn't so far away.

Students turned slowly back to their own conversations. "Sorry, Quirrell," Tom muttered. "It's just big news, is all."

"No, I believe you. Huge news!" Quirrell brightened back up. "If what you say is true, our problems might be solved!"

"Not all of them," Tom corrected, slowly leaning forward to mix his peas in his yams. "We still have detention."

Quirrell leaned into Tom and smiled. "But we'll have detention together," he almost sang. "At least, for the first ten days."

Tom couldn't stay sulky when Quirrell was smiling. For the moment, he forgot his shame. "Yeah," Tom said. "It will be fine. What's the worst they can do to us, really?"

Behind them, a silent shape appeared. Tom felt it in his spine before he saw it. He turned and behind him, to everyone's surprise, stood Lucius, trying to cover his embarrassment with anger and failing miserably.

"Hey, Riddle," he said under his breath. Tom raised his eyebrows and with a cocky slowness, turned fully around on the bench to face him; Tom was on top of the world today, and he could handle anything Lucius could hit him with. "Do you have a minute? I want to talk to you." Lucius glanced around at the casually interested looks that were gathering into an audience. "Privately."

Quirrell scrunched his face into a sneer. "Tom d-doesn't have anything to say to you, M-M-Malfoy."

"It's okay, Quirrell," said Tom, getting to his feet. "I'm not afraid of him."

Lucius didn't say anything until they were behind one of the stone columns in the hallway. Lucius was acting strange, but Tom steeled himself for a fight anyway, just in case.

The blonde boy glanced around to make sure they were really alone, and then looked into Tom's eyes. "I want to call a truce."

Well, Tom hadn't expected that. In fact, it was so unexpected, that Tom thought he might have heard it wrong. "Truce?"

"Yes, a truce. A pact," said Lucius steadily, with no hint of sarcasm or venom. "You've made it clear that you won't be pushed around, and I believe I've made the same point. The way I see it, we can continue to fight each other until we graduate, or we can call a truce right now and get onto the same side."

Tom didn't let his emotions show. "The same side?"

"Yes, the same side."

"And what would that entail?"

Lucius smoothed back his long hair, his fingers getting caught in the ends. He wrestled them free. "Mostly not fighting each other, I'd imagine."

Pensively, Tom stared at the floor. His shoes seemed small and new the ancient, majestic stones. No one had ever proposed this to Tom before; the mean boys at Wool's would have never done what Lucius had just done. A truce? Why? Clearly, Lucius didn't think he could beat Tom, otherwise he wouldn't have humbled himself.

"Alright," Tom said, looking up. "I'll accept your truce, as long as you accept that I'm the leader."

Lucius stuck his chin out. "What?"

"I'll only accept your truce if you agree that I'm the leader."

Lucius again smoothed back his hair. "What is that supposed to mean? Like I'm your slave?"

"It means that I always have the last word," clarified Tom. Tom was going to make sure this was as permanent as possible. It wouldn't do to have Lucius calling a truce one minute and then picking on Quirrell the next. Lucius was a loose cannon and Tom needed to be able to control him. "It won't mean anything, usually. But on the rare occasion that I tell you to do something, you have to do it."

Lucius scoffed. "Why?" he asked with all the outrage his class afforded him.

Tom frowned, his face cold as stone. "Because I'm stronger than you."

"What? You're not—"

"I'm. Stronger. Than. You," insisted Tom. "And you know it."

The boys glared at each other for ten seconds in the kind of stare-down Quirrell and Severus said didn't exist; it did exist, and Tom was winning. He could see it in the way Lucius' stern eyebrows began to waver. Finally, the pureblood lowered his gaze. "Fine," he growled.

Tom nodded benevolently. "Good." He held out his hand. "We have a truce."

Lucius shook his hand, still glaring at the floor. "Truce."

Now this is something Tom could write in his journal.

A/N: And so, Lucius and Tom were best friends forevermore. Not really, but it's a start; and besides, I didn't get the impression that Lucius and Tom were ever very good friends, even when Lucius was a Death Eater. Lucius always seemed scared of Tom and hoping to ride his coattails into power. Unlike Bellatrix and Wormtail, who seem more excited about Voldemort, himself.