Chapter 10: Serendipitous Opportunity
Irene's racking her mind for an out, any way to escape this mess, as she settles into the chair Voldemort offers. "I can't imagine tutoring me will be easy for you, uh, Ri-Tom." The name is unnatural on her lips.
"There's no need for any concern. If I couldn't handle additional responsibilities, I would not have extended myself," Riddle says. He stands next to the seat adjacent, not bothering to sit.
"But surely you're busy being head of our class, a prefect, and having a full twelve blocks," she tries again. Maybe she can find a replacement? It wouldn't be too difficult. Edmund's a genius at charms, Evelyn creates potions as if she breathes them, and Iris could help beat the herbology into her. "Some of my friends—"
Riddle pulls the chair out and seats himself, facing Irene. The old wood squeaks and squeals under him, while the hazy grey of winter filters through the window. Here in the daylight, here in the peace of the early morning library, he looks harmless. A cautious hand brushes against her own, fingers settling atop hers. Irene's breath catches. Not because she's struck by the intimacy, but because he's warm and fingers rough. And she does not appreciate that thought passing through her mind. She does not want to know the body temperature or sensation of Voldemort's skin against hers.
"Irene, as expressed, I volunteered. It is my wish to assist you. However, I can understand if it causes discomfiture. There have been several incidents between the Gryffindors and Slytherins since what occurred in the courtyard." Riddle's brows pinch and pull downward, concerned and caring.
The expression is jarring in how earnest it appears. It unsettles her. The simple demonstration seems to bring her stomach into a twisting fit.
"If you're hesitant because of my house, realise that I will do you no harm and wouldn't dare to as a prefect," he continues.
Irene doesn't meet his eyes, her attention drawn to the bony, calloused hand that sits atop hers and the saccharine sweet voice that trickles from his lips. She feels her skin prickle and itch, as if it's come in contact with some irritant. A part of her speeds with adrenaline, a fight-or-flight response.
For some odd reason, he's trying to appear considerate. And can Tom Riddle even care for others? Absolutely not. He wants something. Or else why would he be acting so terribly charming?
She shutters. Something vaguely similar to fear creeps in. "I wouldn't want to be a burden," the words are tentative, weak.
"How considerate. However, unnecessary," Voldemort rises from his seat—his palm still spreading warmth into hers—as he steps to her shoulder and leans into her ear. "I want to help you, Irene," he all but purrs, and the hairs on her neck stand.
Irene's hand laying hidden under the table tenses into a fist. Godric, give her strength.
She pulls away, unable or perhaps unwilling to hold his touch any longer. Too overwhelmed to hide the emotions playing across her face, she thumbs through the collection of books on the table. Leather and linen bindings scratch and catch against skin. A distraction, if she allows. Modern Magical Theories. Affinity or Aversion? Why Some Elements Work While Others Do Not. She reads through the several titles gathered. All curated by the Dark Lord himself.
"Has"—Irene's tone is shrill under the tension—"has Minerva informed you where we left off? Or are you planning on starting from the beginning?"
"Yes, she has. Yet either way I would not force that upon you," Tom replies, his voice gentle, lulling.
From her position seated, she'd have to crane her neck to meet his eyes, so she keeps her gaze trained on the various tomes and bookshelves of the library. Hopefully, the anxious palpitations in her chest calm. Absent-minded, she wonders if he prefers looking down at others while speaking.
"I will be assisting you in Potions, Charms, and Magical Theory. Minerva has been kind enough to summarise where she left off in those subjects."
"I…see. So, what's the schedule for today?" She taps her fingers against the books' spines.
"Today is Magical Theory. I have taken the time to organise our tutoring sessions. There will be a priority on the courses you perform weakest in. For now, let's get started on this worksheet." He slides a parchment across the table to her.
She takes it, scanning over the list of questions that seem to go on and on for about twenty inches totalling to a horrid forty-five problems. "Promise you won't curse me if my results are less than acceptable?"
Riddle chuckles and Irene can't help but look. His eyes are curved in actual amusement, and she wonders if he finds it funny because he is the type to do such a thing.
"Now, why would I do something so terrible, Irene?"
She frowns, keeping her head down. Maybe because you're a psycho? Irene doesn't answer, afraid that she'll let her distaste slip into her tone or words.
Sunrise is a tranquil affair characterised by the rising of the sun and the silence of the early morning, but Irene is anything but calm. In the quiet of this tiny corner of the library, both Voldemort and she are isolated from the rest of Hogwarts. Vast arrays of books line the shelves, linen and mahogany scent the air. It's similar to what the antiques store smelled of—old wood, paper, leather, and dust. A place of sanctuary. However, the peace it usually supplies is nowhere to be found, as the shadow that casts over her shoulders reminds her, she's not alone. And that knowledge prickles at her skin in an itch she's unable to soothe.
Irene works on the questions, but as time goes on, her mind is eager to wander. By problem thirty, she's all but blanked out.
Why is Voldemort here? Why would he volunteer himself? She never imagined him to be the charitable sort. Furthermore, he seems the kind to do favours with a return that borders on highway robbery.
But perhaps he was 'charitable' in a sense. A façade Voldemort pieced together to endear himself to his peers and professors, and maybe this is part of the reason he snaps and kills a student. Then if his intent is to charm, who is he currently playing—who is he angling? Minerva? The professors?
Her?
Her quill cracks under her tight grip.
"Are you alright, Irene?" Riddle's fingers smooth across her shoulder. Bloody Hell, when did he get that close? "If you have questions, you need only ask." There's that smile again and a strange throbbing at the back of her head.
It's the same expression that greeted her when he healed her ear months ago. "Fake and hollow" would be an apt description. She swallows, shakes her head, and turns back to her parchment.
It's alarming—this show of superfluous care. His gentle, encouraging touches, soft, soothing voice, and kind, caring reassurances. They are all so perfectly executed, both quelling and raising her hackles.
It's twenty minutes to freedom when Irene finishes her worksheet. She double checks, then triple checks her answers, if only to delay handing it over. Her quill cleans itself with a built-in charm, and she places it to the side of her parchment. It's a wonder she's finished her work at all with the added pressure of Voldemort watching her every move. A testament to Minerva's teaching ability, perhaps.
"Shall we have a look?" Riddle settles into the seat opposite of Irene.
And then begins the longest five minutes of Irene's life. Riddle is exactly the sort of teacher one would expect of him. He makes no comments as he goes, but the precise and swift scratches of his quill on parchment tell her he leaves no question unmarked.
She brushes an anxious hand through her hair.
"Let's start our review, then." Riddle places the parchment out in front of him and beckons her to his side.
She sidles her chair over and sees that the number of corrections nearly matches the length of her answers. The grimace across her face is there before she can stop it.
He places his hand atop her shoulder. "It's all right. Everyone starts from somewhere." He smiles, kindly.
This is absurd. She's lost her mind. Surely, she's found herself in some fever dream. Irene swallows and shakes her head. Her eyes dart back to the paper after a nod. Yeah. Let's get this over with.
It's a tough review. Irene can't seem to force herself to ask questions at first, wound tight and nervous like a spring. She's ready to pop, burst out of the library—and maybe even Hogwarts—to never be seen again. However, as the questions drudge on, Irene grows distressingly more confused. First, he's mentioning something about not having a stroke diagram—what even is that? — for problems ten through twenty. Then he asks how she forgot to mention moon cycles in question twenty-three—which she hardly finds relevant regarding spell power. By problem thirty-five, she's certain he's speaking an entirely new language.
Tom sighs. "I'll admit to some disappointment regarding your last written answer. The point of adding this problem was to supply an easy point. However, somehow, you've forgotten the first step in performing a spell."
Irene reads over her answer, "To execute a spell, one must say the incantation, supply magic power, and use the correct wand movement…." That's exactly how to perform a spell. So, where's the mistake?
Seeing her confused look, Riddle exhales, tiredly, "Intent, Irene, intent."
"Intent? You're telling me I have to mean it? Emotionally?" She tilts her head, quirking a brow.
"Don't tell me." He drops his head into his hand. "Do you not visualise your spells?"
"Like imagining the outcome?"
He nods.
She shrugs. "Sometimes, like for the simpler ones. But I don't really see how I can make a mental model of other spells. Dilaborus is supposed to be the rapid decay of something, yeah? And Orchideous is supposed to conjure a bouquet of flowers. The first is kind of hard to picture while the second…well I'm not a florist, so I only know like four flowers."
"Merlin, how've you been performing magic at all?" he groans. Then perks up, hand on his chin in thought. "What do you think magic is?"
"Er, it's…magic?" She gestures vaguely.
He just looks at her, unimpressed. Irene's not sure if she imagined him murmuring muggle-borns under his breath.
"Fine, fine. It's a force that does…stuff? Um, little particles that make things, change things, or fix things, I guess?" Her hands are mussing up her hair again, but she can't seem to make herself care. "God, I don't know. Like I said, it's magic! It's not science or math, where there are rules and laws. It's not supposed to make sense. And yeah, sure, there's Gamp's. But we can create something from nothing—it's called conjuring. So apparently even that law is 'conditional', which, mind you, should make it not a law!"
Irene breathes in and out heavily. When she'd learned the basics from Fontius, there was always this hope that somewhere along the way it would make sense. Something would appear in a textbook or lecture they rushed through that would connect the so-called dots. But God, if there is an answer, Irene hasn't found it. She's not sure what's more concerning at this point. The idea, there's no sense to it; or despite all her studying, she just doesn't comprehend it.
Riddle only stares in mild bewilderment. "You have kept up with sciences as well?"
"Er." She blinks. "Yeah. I find it easier to understand. You know chemistry, biology, arithmetic. There are unchanging diagrams, calculations, laws."
His reply is slow to arrive, but based on his tapping finger, there must be plenty of thoughts whirling around. However, the finished product of all his silence is only a simple sentence. "Perhaps we should review the basics."
She groans. "Didn't you say earlier that you wouldn't force that upon me?"
"Well, earlier I was misinformed of the severity of the situation. You lack a solid foundation. Magic is not nonsensical. There are clear boundaries that it works under and the 'exceptions' are logical." He chuckles, then raises his wand.
Irene flinches from its sudden appearance, concerned she'd earned a Crucio for her complaints.
Tom ignores it. "Accio Merlin's Mysterious Magical Theories." Faint rattling from somewhere in the library echoes. He outstretches his arm, waiting. The book eventually floats around the corner and gently positions itself in his palm. He hands the text to her.
It's a bright garish blue with a considerably childish illustration of a kid with a wand on its front.
"We will start with Merlin's Theory. It simply defines the limitations of magic and its nature. However, with the time left, I can only offer a bastardised summation. At its core, magic in essence is latent energy. It intermingles and is entangled with the physical. Which is both what creates Magicals—those that hold magic—and what allows them to bend it to their will. To put it in muggle terms, you can think of magic as a sort of particle and the magic inside us as another nervous system."
Her face scrunches up. Merlin's Theory? "That one actually sounds familiar. I think the over-um-seeing boss at my, uh, work might have mentioned it once." Fontius had said something about Merlin when explaining how to feel her magic, but never expanded past a second's worth of explanation. She purses her lips. He would be a great example of intelligence impairing teaching ability.
"Did your boss help you study before Hogwarts?"
"Yeah. He enrolled me here and prepped me for courses—though it doesn't seem to be working out too well."
"Perhaps there wasn't enough time?" He hums, fingers tapping against the table once more.
"Maybe." Irene shrugs. "I guess seven months is a little steep."
"Hmm." Tom pushes back into his seat to cup his chin with his hand in thought. "We should return to the subject. I believe that was the last question to review; however, do you have any further concerns? You appeared to be frustrated earlier." His lip quirks up on one side in a smirk.
"No, that's all." She smiles and blanches.
Merlin's tit.
How did she get so chatty with Voldemort, of all people? "It's the absurdity and the contrasting normality," she convinces herself. "We should get going since it's late. I wouldn't want to keep you out any longer."
"Alright." He rises from the chair and flourishes his wand, sending the tomes back to their respective places in the library.
There are no wasted movements as she's on her feet in a flash, arms like afterimages gathering her textbooks, quill, and scrap paper. While she's stowing them in her bag, with no care for order, Irene can't help but admonish herself. Reminders to not trust Voldemort are blaring in her head. Clasping her bag, she scans the table and floor. She hasn't forgotten or dropped anything.
She pivots to the exit. However, there against the shelves, leans Riddle casually waiting for her.
"Um," Irene stops and bows her head. She still should mind her manners. "Thanks for today's lesson."
"It was my pleasure, Irene." He tips his head. "I will see you on Thursday, then."
"Where is Amedeo?" Malfoy asks over the boisterous noise of the Great Hall.
"He's off skulking about the castle," says Nott.
It's late in the evening. The windows that rise high above only shed the barest twinkle from the night sky. Students and professors alike have gathered to eat dinner and converse among peers. Around him sits Rosier, Avery, Nott, Lestrange, Black, and Malfoy engaged in chat. Tom, at the moment, has no such interest in conversation. He sits, one hand occupied with his Mind Arts book and the other mindlessly stirring soup that has already gone cold.
"A natural Legilimens is a rare occurrence. Only one in fifty thousand is said to be born with such skills, and only one in one hundred thousand is said to hold the ability to maturity…. Masters of this craft are few as the subtleties of Legilimency are difficult to grasp."
Tom sets his spoon to the side and vanishes his bowl. Drawn to the Hufflepuff table, he watches a blonde student talk whilst filling his mouth with food. His nose scrunches with distaste. Doyle may be the only other natural Legilimens within the school, but he won't be approaching him anytime soon.
"—I'm upset with the behaviour of the mudbloods. It seems having one speak up is enough to affect the others." Malfoy huffs and places his utensils to the side.
His plate is perfectly cleared, towel neatly folded to his side, and posture composed and straight. The picture of a pureblood in all mannerisms and appearance.
"You've got a point there. The other day, Brown snapped back at me. Brown." Avery slams his knife down to his side. "That absolute wimp had the nerve! It's unbelievable. I nearly forgot to break his arm."
"There has been an increase in boldness from the muggle-born students." Rosier makes an offhand remark and returns to his food. "Even Warren attempted to send a hex back at her tormenters. Hornby's been a nightmare since."
Lestrange groans. "She's always a nightmare, but Warren doing something other than whining? Impossible." He rubs the point between his eyes. "This is a shame. No one seems to respect the hierarchy anymore. Purebloods associating with the muggle-borns is becoming a regular occurrence. It wouldn't surprise me if they did away with our traditions in the coming years. We have to do something." He shoots a scathing look at Tom.
Tom ignores it and continues to read his book, ear half in the conversation.
"Do what? Involve ourselves in petty squabbles like how you and Jacques prefer to act?" Malfoy scoffs.
It earns him a glare from both Avery and Lestrange.
"Typical cowardice from a Malfoy. I can see why the Dark Lord has never bothered to court your family," Lestrange sneers.
Tom nearly rolls his eyes. Lestrange and his thugs seem to connect their senseless violence with purpose. Laughable, really.
"Are we back to this once more? Separation based on the support of Grindelwald?" Malfoy, pretentiousness as ever, quirks a challenging brow.
Nott bites his lip. "Dominicus. Your family is split as well, aren't they?"
Rosier nods his head casually. "He wants to reveal magical society to the muggles. My aunt might find it wise, but the rest certainly do not."
"Well said." Malfoy smiles at Lestrange mockingly.
"Oh, come off it." Lestrange's eyes narrow to slits. "We need numbers—labourers, serfs. Wizards waste their time on mundane tasks. Muggles solve this stagnant system. They have enough intelligence to understand basic language, multiply like jackalopes, yet lack magic. We'd never have to worry about resistance."
So short-sighted and lacking vision. That's precisely the problem with the muggles. They are many and with intelligence. A house-elf is useful because they have two distinct opposing qualities: power and idiocy. Without their foolish generosity, it'd be impossible to take advantage. However, the higher intelligence of a creature, the less compliant they become. To have so many non-magical intelligent beings aware of another smaller competitive group would be disastrous, especially considering their rabid nature.
Two apex predators can't exist in the same ecosystem.
"It doesn't matter. A war to prove us superior is not worth the magical blood spilt," Malfoy says.
And as if reading from Tom's very mind, the youngest Black enters the conversation.
"But you can't deny the muggles are beneath us," Black says.
"Yes, but we are few and far between. Even twenty deceased would be a loss. We need to focus on building our numbers," Malfoy says.
"You should take up your concerns with the Gryffindors. I swear at least one dies a week," Avery scoffs.
"Speaking of which, what is the betting pool looking like for next year's Weasley Population Wager?" Rosier asks.
"Oh, uh, Flint just added a ten-galleon bet for plus five and Greengrass put two on minus three. There are only seven slots left if you're interested," Nott says.
"No, that's alright, just curious," says Rosier.
Lestrange tosses his dinnerware on his plate in a clatter. "Sacrifice is change and change is foundation to opportunity. But I guess Malfoys sit and watch as others pave the way."
"Yes, I guess serving on the Wizengamot is a primary example of not enacting change. Please tell me more about how my family maintains a line of successful politicians drafting legislation that will revolutionise the foundations of our society while yours has lost their last viable contender to scandal." He smiles in that polite, demeaning way that purebloods never seem to tire of. "By the way, how is your brother doing? I heard his wife has left for Egypt. That wouldn't have anything to do with the Prophet's piece on that little black-haired witch he was seen with, would it Lestrange?"
Lestrange's face takes on an irate shade of red. He draws his wand, twirling it in his hands while debating on doing something, frankly, exceptionally stupid.
Malfoy only watches with one brow raised to provoke.
Tom sighs.
"What about you, Riddle?" Black asks, not bothering to pay attention to Lestrange's commonplace outburst. "Do you support Grindelwald?"
Tom claps his book shut with one hand. "It doesn't matter if I support him or not. Regardless, by the end of this war, one side will be the victor and the other an aside in history."
The rest finish eating, and Tom rises from his seat, nodding to both Nott and Rosier. They shadow him at his sides as they exit the dining hall.
"Riddle. Wait!"
Tom comes to a halt, recognising the voice. Faint lights flicker against the walls of the corridor and cast the group in an amber fog. Students pass by unhurriedly to get to their dorms.
"Black." Tom glances at Nott, who carefully steps away to allow their new addition into the group. "Is there something you wanted to discuss?" Both hands are behind his back, lax and clasped.
"Yes," Black easily occupies the space to the right of Tom. "Shall we continue to the dorms?"
He nods and they begin the walk to the dungeons and Slytherin Common Room. Gradually the students' numbers dwindle, leaving their group the only occupants in the wide hall.
"Is privacy important to our conversation?" Tom asks, eyes still forward.
"Not necessarily. I came to offer you a gift in exchange for permitting me into your duelling club." Black flourishes his wand, summoning a brown leather-bound book. "This is a copy I had made of my family's records on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. We've taken to keeping our own documents, as many of the most powerful families have hidden their most unsavoury relations." He holds it out to Tom.
That would explain why the Blacks are doing something so insane as to wed their own heir to a cousin. He offers a smile without taking the gift. "This is quite the generous trade in my favour." The Black Family's private records surely aren't loaned better yet, given without price.
"Let's just say, I do not appreciate being Lestrange's junior. Unlike him, I see little more than power when I assess an individual."
Hmm. Orion Black watches him, long-dark hair spilling over his shoulders, grey eyes assessing, cataloguing every twitch and shift of Tom's body language. He's ambitious, wants assurance regarding his importance among Tom's members. If he considers the matter, Tom doesn't mind putting Lestrange in his place by offering Black a better position in his Knights. His eyes trail to the book, still outstretched towards him.
Tom accepts the tome. His fingers graze leather, covetously. "I look forward to your attendance on Friday."
Black bows. "Then I will see you at Duelling Club, Riddle." With a rustle of his robes, he continues to the Slytherin dorms, leaving Tom with his two knights.
He flips the book round in his hands. A simple design, a circle with twenty-eight knots and embellished in gold, sits a fraction's distance above the centre. Black is no fool. He would not present this to Tom unless he was certain of its value. There may be information on the branches that stem from Salazar Slytherin. He carefully tucks the tome in his grasp and begins the walk to the common room. With this, he has one matter crossed off his growing list.
Now onto another issue.
"I need you to look into something, Nott," Tom announces in the dark of the dungeons.
Nott nods his head.
"I require Hill's muggle educational records you provided previously. Also, I have discovered another lead. If you could check her citizenship information—the date and name of her sponsor. It should be publicly available."