Part XV
"I was informally, then more officially, adopted by two pureblood families by the time I graduated," he began. "To the annoyance of Dumbledore, Headmaster Dippet and Professor Slughorn were happy to confirm that I could spend my summers with my classmates if they were amenable to the idea. Abraxas and Flynn took turns hosting. I think I spent a week at Wool's before Slughorn would fetch me to spend the rest of my summer with the Malfoys or Averys in the summer between my fifth and sixth years."
He didn't mention how he'd spent that week reminding the other orphans why they'd been afraid of him for his, and their, entire lives and earning his reputation with the few new additions to the Wool's 'family'. Nor did he mention how he clung to his diary when he wasn't scaring away snot-nosed muggle brats.
"As far as pureblood society was concerned, my connects to both families made me a pureblood as well. Most of the time, people forget that isn't the case. It's really only brought up when Rita and I decided it would benefit the emotional impact of a press piece. When we were in our late twenties, the boys and I founded the Order of Hermes. A private political faction ran by the three of us with a stringent application process and selective admission. Many of our former classmates wanted to join us in our ever-growing spotlights. The majority of them were turned away."
"Shocking," Hermione muttered. Tom smirked.
"As the Order slowly grew in size and power, so did the group of rejects. Dumbledore saw an opportunity to thwart my goals and started to round them up. He separated them, told some that they were to help him with his more important plans, and didn't let either side know about the other. The underground activists, those who truly mean well but don't think they have a better shot at making a difference in the world without allying themselves Dumbledore, came to be known as the Order of the Phoenix. He left the others to name and organize themselves however they saw fit, as long as they completed the goals and tasks he gave them. Death Eaters was the name they came up with."
Hermione frowned with distaste and Tom shared an understanding glance with her. "This goes without saying I think, but the Death Eaters consists of the people I rejected for their lack of mental stability, obsessive tenancies, overall lack of magical prowess or control, and generally unstable nature. They're a terrorist cell that only has any level of organization because Dumbledore helped them structure themselves."
"Why hasn't he been arrested?" she asked.
"DMLE doesn't have enough proof yet," he said. "Excuse me, the DMLE doesn't have enough legally acquired proof."
Her lips twitched and he winked. "I may or may not have been documenting and keeping a reserve of information against him for years. So when it finally does come out that he's a fraud and the leader of a terrorist cell, the investigation will receive an anonymous box full of years of documentation that can all be traced back and proven correct. All I need is for Dumbledore to get a little too confident. To be fair, he already has."
Hermione squinted. "Why do I get the sense that his overconfidence is tied to Sirius' trial."
Because you're too clever for your own good. "It is. Dumbledore is Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and has been for decades. He's also the person who encouraged the Potters to switch secret keepers when they were hiding from the Death Eaters. He convinced them to distrust Sirius. The position went to another friend of theirs from their school days - Peter Pettigrew. Coincidentally, Peter had been recruited as a Death Eater while the Potters, Black, and several others had joined the Order of the Phoenix."
Hermione's eyes were wide and full of fire. "He knew."
"He also knew the Dursleys were mistreating Harry and wanted to use the emotional gaps in Harry's psyche to his advantage. Even went so far as to convince everyone that someone was checking on Harry a few times a year. They were, but Albus purposefully didn't do anything with that information. He's been playing nice in the papers so far, but the man can't hide behind that dotty old father Christmas facade he loves to wear. He's furious that I'm unraveling his plans and he doesn't know how I'm doing it."
Hermione's lips curled into the cunning smile she'd already started to learn from his younger self. "Because he doesn't know about the diary."
"10 points to Slytherin," he said with a smirk. "Needless to say, Sirius has been made aware of these things and is cutting all ties with the Order of the Phoenix. He was formally added to the OoH roster yesterday, as were a few other new recruits. Your new Defense professor, for example."
"Is there anything I can do?" she asked. "To help get Prof…get Dumbledore out of the way?"
"Yes," said Tom. "Be careful. Peter Pettigrew is still on the loose and Albus doesn't have perfect control over his Death Eaters. Your professors, and the Headmaster, will claim Hogwarts is the safest place you'll ever be. That is only true, in your case, when you're in the Room of Requirement with me. Be mindful of your surroundings. If you get nervous, ask me to teach you more combative magic, although if memory serves, we've already started on defensives, haven't we?"
Hermione nodded. "I started studying fifth year Defense at the end of last term."
"Good girl," he said. "Keep that up. And try not to spread yourself too thin." The words tasted like ashes as they left his mouth. He knew they were futile, but part of him panicked, if only for a moment.
He couldn't change the past.
Her pinched expression made him relax. "I wanted a challenge this year," she said. "We get to choose electives, finally."
He ignored the temple that had started throbbing again and asked a question he already knew the answer to. "Which ones were you planning to take?"
"All of them."
Tom had to slowly breathe out through his nose to calm himself. "Chuck Muggle Studies," he said tersely.
Familiar indignance took over Hermione's expression. "I want to experience the wizarding viewpoint!" she argued. "And it'd hardly be difficult-"
"You cannot take every elective, keep up with your homework, interact with your peers enough to stay sane, and take care of yourself without magical aid," he said impatiently. "I'm not giving a soon-to-be fourteen-year-old a Time-Turner; especially not when she's already juggling two connected timelines."
She scowled at him and he returned the gesture with an annoyed brow. "No. Muggle. Studies."
"You're the sponsor," she said bitterly. The acid dripping from her tone may as well have hit him square in the face.
"Pray…tell," he hissed, "just what you're trying to say, Dove."
"It's your money in the long run, right?" she continued. "So I don't even really have a choice here, do I?"
"I will not allow you to choose the fool's route," he said darkly. She didn't need to know that there was much more about her self-imposed curriculum that he'd love to keep her from, but couldn't. She'd have to figure out some things on her own or with the help of his younger self. "You've chosen to take everything else. The one thing I'm not going to allow is Muggle Studies. You're welcome to torment yourself with every other elective I consider useless to your education if you really think you want to."
She'd only think that way for one year. Just long enough to drive him to the brink of insanity, but he had to remind himself that it was only one year.
Her scowl deepened. "Yes, well, in that case, I'm eternally grateful that you're allowing me to go to school."
"You don't have time for Muggle Studies," he said. "You're muggleborn, for Salazar's sake. You live in both worlds. That class only ends up being beneficial to those who end up involved with muggles or muggleborns in some way. You will never be at a disadvantage in that situation."
She glared at her shoelaces. "Fine." She blew a wayward curl out of her face only for it to slip back down against her cheek. Little Hermione didn't meet his eyes again. "I was really only worried about Harry's situation…"
Her unspoken dismissal made his blood boil, but the sting of his nails in his palms kept his mouth shut. There wasn't a single thing he wanted to say that he could say. He couldn't tell her to stop acting like they weren't friends, because as far as she knew, his younger self didn't consider her as anything but a clever acquisition. He couldn't tell her that she'd overwork herself even without Muggle Studies. Couldn't tell her to remember things she would forget.
He couldn't. Do. Anything.
Instead of risking that his tongue would win the war with his good sense, Tom stood and made his way to the doors.
He didn't say goodbye. Neither did she. And he didn't look back. He didn't stop walking until he reached the entry hall of Malfoy Manor. Once he'd apparated back to Proserpine Park, he didn't stop until he was in his study.
The doors wandlessly shut and locked behind him. He threw his robes unceremoniously onto one of the chairs across from his desk and took his seat.
He undid the glamours on his left hand and reworked them so they only applied to those under the age of 19. Just in case.
His head fell into his hands once his elbows were resting against the desk and he kneaded his temples. It didn't help.
When three quiet knocks sounded from the door, Tom's hand twitched for his wand. It took him longer than he cared to admit that he hadn't felt a trigger in the wards. There were very few people keyed to his wards in such a way that they didn't always tell him when those select few came and went. Very, very select few.
Tom begrudgingly unlocked the doors with his wand and gave the newcomers a tired glare.
Abraxas had two bottles of white wine. Flynn had three tumblers.
"Wine glasses would look really pretentious right now," said Flynn. "But we have it on good authority that you need a drink."
Tom scowled and turned to Abraxas for a more concise explanation.
"We got a message from a little bird," he said. "'Help him remember how he's gotten this far. Don't let him forget who I am.'"
Tom's laughter was low and bitter. "And here I was about to talk myself out of getting pissed and spending the night in my pensieve."
Flynn tossed Tom's discarded robe towards the coat rack in the corner, missed, shrugged, and took one of the seats in front of his desk before he set their glasses down. "Birdy left us orders and I plan to follow them."
"You may not like hearing this, but she's scarier than you are. Or will be," Abraxas added. "So your opinions on the matter are overruled."
"Taught her too well," said Tom, but he sighed and sat up a little straighter. When Flynn vanished the first cork and passed him a tumbler full of pinot grigio, he downed it without hesitation.
"You're supposed to savor wine," said Abraxas. Tom made to glare at him, but rolled his eyes when he saw the blond's smirk.
"I'll savor my wine the next time my wife brings me a glass," Tom grumbled. "Until then, bugger off."
Flynn smiled and sipped from his tumbler. "So where are we starting on memory lane?" he asked. "Before or after the Kiss of 1963?"
"Oh sod off," Tom grumbled. But Abraxas refilled his wine as Flynn kept talking, talking, talking. Until Tom was half a bottle deep and tired enough to throw memories across the desk without his usual guarded sarcasm.
Remember this?
Remember that?
He remembered it all. Too well, some might say, but by the time they'd finished the first two bottles of wine and the few Tom's sole house elf fetched for them, the frustration and nausea and pain had numbed. Only fatigue was left now.
He unsteadily stood from his desk and slowly made his way from his study to his bedroom.
"Hey, Tink," he said around a yawn. His elf popped into the room as he sat heavily on the edge of his bed and kicked off his shoes. Without prompting, Tink snapped her fingers and Tom was in pajamas. His Slytherin sweater was over a plain grey tshirt and he wanted to be annoyed that Tink knew he'd been planning to keep it on.
"Can you put the idiots in their usual rooms?" he asked slowly, shuffling up his bed with difficulty. He wasn't sure why it was so hard to just pull the damned covers down. He heard another snap and the stubborn textiles were out of his way. Tom used the last of his energy to throw himself at one of his plump, oh so very soft pillows and sighed once he'd burrowed into his sheets.
He didn't remember reaching for his blankets, but they ended up covering him anyway.
"Tink will take care of Master's friends."
"I don't have friends Tink," he mumbled. "I have a friend. You haven't met her yet. She'll be really annoyed with me about you one day, though."
"Tink will teach Mistress," said the elf. "Master sleeps now. Tink will take care of Master's friends."
Tom's efforts to correct his house elf was a string of mumbles that were further muffled by his pillow. Not that it would've done him any good. Tink was easily as stubborn as her master.
For those confused about how the history of the Potters' murders and such works in this universe, this chapter isn't meant to explain everything. But it does explain some things. (No, Tom didn't kill them. Or have anything to do with it except letting history repeat itself.)
And Happy Tuesday.