Chapter Seven: Too bad you're a loser, too bad you waste my time

If Tom was completely honest with himself—which he never was—he would admit that he liked Bellatrix, at least a little bit. But Tom was not completely honest with himself or with anyone else, so when Quirrell expressed at the end of detention that he was glad to be rid of the face-squishing witch, Tom could only agree.

But it was not to be. Bellatrix was in Slytherin, after all. And once you've had your face squished by someone, you immediately pick them out of every crowd and you realize that your path crosses with theirs all the time. Bellatrix was a first-year Slytherin, so she was in all Tom and Quirrell's classes. Whenever she could, she sat next to Tom, whispered to and touched him. She was the worst tease Tom had ever met, but she wasn't a bully. Bellatrix was infatuated with Tom and did whatever she could to snatch his attention; she poked him, hid his things, ate off his plate…Tom's mild amusement with her was thinning and he was finding it harder and harder not to react in violence.

"Just tell her to go away," said Quirrell matter-of-factly one afternoon as he and Tom studied in the library after lunch. "She obviously can't read subtly. Best to tell it to her in no uncertain terms."

"It's not as simple as that," argued Tom, copying a map of the Eurasian Steppes for History of Magic. "She thinks I'm amazing."

"And she'll continue to think you're amazing," said Quirrell. "She is quite persistent."

"You're probably right," mused Tom. "But I don't want her to go away entirely, I just want her to tone it down a little. I'll wait it out. Maybe she'll get bored, and I won't have to make her angry."

Quirrell rolled his eyes and went back to his homework. "Whatever you say, Tom. But if she hasn't gotten the hint by now, I don't think she ever will."

"Hey, no pessimism," teased Tom, doing his best to be jovial. It felt strange, but that was just because he didn't have much experience. "Only optimism is allowed. You made me agree to that, so now I'm holding you to your end of the deal."

Tom's attempt at joking worked. Quirrell smiled; the face he made when he was absolutely delighted: sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks—Tom had never seen the kind of joy that graced Quirrell's face. Tom would do anything to keep getting to see that expression. Instead of continually prodding Quirrell in attempts to make him smile, maybe it would be easier for Tom to take a photograph. No, that wouldn't work. The best part was the beginning: when Quirrell's little mouth and worried eyes bloomed into that smile. A continuous smile wouldn't do; Tom needed to keep making Quirrell smile. Continuous beginnings of that smile. That's what Tom needed to see.

When Tom was done musing, he realized that Quirrell had already gone back to his book, face slack in concentration.

Tom looked at the grandfather clock at the end of the aisle. He closed his book. "Class is starting soon, Quirrell. Look sharp."

Surprised, Quirrell looked at the clock. "So it is! I must admit I'm excited for Transfiguration today. It's mostly practicing our Transfiguration spells, rather than lecture."

Tom smiled. He loved lectures, but hands-on days were his favorite. He put his book back into his bag, automatically reaching is hand inside with the book to make sure his wand wasn't in the way. That was odd: he didn't even feel his wand pouch. Tom dug in his bag a little further and checked the other pockets. He emptied the contents of the bag onto the table.

"What are you doing?" panicked Quirrell. "We've got to get to class!"

"I can't find my wand," explained Tom as he rifled through his belongings and then checked the bag carefully. "It's not in my bag."

"Oh," said Quirrell, moving closer to help search. "Could you have left it in our last class?"

"Maybe, I guess, but—" Tom stopped. He kicked the floor in frustration. "I left it on my bed. I went up there before lunch to get the books for my afternoon classes and I must have forgotten to put it back in my bag."

"We still have time," encouraged Quirrell with a smile. "Here, I'll finish putting all this back in your bag and you run up and grab it. I'll catch up."

Tom smiled. "Thanks, Quirrell," he said.

"Oh, no problem," said Quirrell sheepishly. "Hurry!"

Tom ran out of the library and up to the Slytherin dormitory as quickly as he could without getting caught. He had to stop for breath once he got into the Common Room. Wheezing, he climbed the stairs to his room.

Standing at the top was frizzy hair, big brown eyes and a cocky smile. In her hand was a wand: his wand. Tom was way past done with her shit.

"Give me back my wand!" Tom hollered, trying to grab it out of Bellatrix's hand.

Bellatrix yanked it back, an impish grin on her pale face. "You left it unattended, so finders keepers."

"It was in my room, which you have no business being in, by the way. And that's not leaving it unattended!" said Tom, livid. It was one thing to challenge him. It was another to steal from him: and his wand, no less!

"Give it!"

"Make me!" Bellatrix stuck out her tongue.

Tom snapped. Without magic, Tom reacted the only way he knew how. He lunged at her—

"No Tom!" cried Quirrell, who had just come up the stairs behind him. He was gasping for breath and clutching the back of Tom's robes.

Tom stopped, breathing heavily, glaring at Quirrell. "Let go."

"You'll get expelled," Quirrell said desperately, standing up more fully.

"I don't care!"

"You will, once y-you get your head back!" Quirrell frowned sternly. "Remember your dream, Tom. You want to become the greatest wizard in the world. You can't do that if you don't learn magic, and you can't learn magic if you get expelled. Dumbledore can take care of trespassers well enough.

Tom was fuming, but he didn't attack Bellatrix. Quirrell was right; he needed to think about the future. In the future, Bellatrix wouldn't matter. He probably wouldn't even remember her name once he became an adult; he would be consumed with being a professional wizard. He wouldn't have time for silly squabbles.

Keeping all that in mind and trying to act thirty rather than eleven, Tom stepped fully into the room and extended his hand, staring warningly at Bellatrix. "Give me the wand," he demanded icily.

Bellatrix clutched the wand to her chest, uncertainty playing on her features. She didn't think this game she was playing was fun anymore, but she didn't know how to ease out of it without losing. So she stood there looking conflicted, keeping the wand far away from Tom.

Tom swallowed, the only manifestation of his rage being the vein throbbing in his neck. "Give. Me. The. Wand. Or I'll tell Dumbledore and you'll be expelled. Thievery is illegal, you know, and Dumbledore told me, himself, that it is handled quite severely at Hogwarts."

Bellatrix deliberated for another moment. "Promise you won't tell on me."

"Only if you give my wand back right now," said Tom.

Bellatrix exhaled and walked forward, ready to return Tom's wand. "Here," she muttered.

Tom smiled to himself and took the end in his hand.

A mischievous glint in her eye, Bellatrix suddenly yanked the wand back, meaning to have one last poke at Tom before she relinquished her prize. But Tom's reflexes were quick and his fingers clamped onto his side of the wand and he yanked, too.

There was a sickening crunch of wood and old resin: sickening because all three of them knew what had crunched. Tom looked at his half of the wand, and Bellatrix looked at hers. Quirrell, shocked into silence, squeezed past Tom and crouched to pick up the hair and other shattered pieces of the core that had fallen out when Tom's wand had been split in two.

Tom was so angry he wanted to cry. "M-my wand," he gasped. "You…my wand…"

The impishness drained from Bellatrix. She liked to have fun, but she wasn't dense; she knew how precious wands were. She gave Tom the other half of his wand. "I…am so sorry…" she said, and Merlin's beard, did she mean it.

Quirrell stood and carefully closed the wand debris in his hands. He glared at Bellatrix and Tom thought he was going to hit her. But that wasn't the way Quirrell operated; no, Quirrell did nothing but shake his head in disappointment. His lip quivered and tears were gathering on his lashes.

"Are you happy now?" Quirrell asked in the quietest, most scathing voice Tom had ever heard; so powerful was his voice that Tom almost felt ashamed on Bellatrix's behalf.

"I—I'm not happy, no!" protested Bellatrix. "Tom, I am so so so so so sorry—"

"Yeah, you are," spit Tom, turning around and marching down the stairs. What did she want? Forgiveness? She didn't deserve it.

Quirrell followed after Tom, keeping pace and staring at his cupped hands. "It will be fine," Quirrell assured him, softly sniffing. "I'm sure lots of students break their wands. Dumbledore will know what to do."

Tom glanced at Quirrell, then ahead again. "Why are you crying?" he asked, working to cover his own sorrow with anger, which was a much more acceptable emotion for a wizard to have. He steeled his jaw and his watery eyes turned to steel. "You didn't break your wand."

Quirrell wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. "Mum says I have an empathetic heart," he explained, blubbering. "I cry when other people are sad."

Tom forced his own lip not to quiver. "Well don't," he said. "It's just making this whole thing worse."

"Sorry—"

"It's fine, just…don't."

A/N: It's all fun and games until someone breaks their wand, thinks their wizarding career is over, and ostracizes you.