Chapter 11: The Performance
There rarely is such serendipitous opportunity.
Tom walks the halls of the Hogwarts Castle heading for the library. It's a Tuesday morning just after breakfast and before classes. The sun rests low on the horizon, it's glow weak in the winter's frost.
With a clack of his heels, he arrives at the double doors to the library. Yet, he has no intention of wandering in and finding rest in their isolated nook. No, today Tom has more interesting plans.
Tutoring with Hill has been nothing short of fascinating. The restless twitches and twists she makes, clearly uncomfortable with Tom, are something he has yet to pin down. She's a troubled combination of emotions that makes her mind harder to sort than her peers. Tom has discerned a fair amount of apprehension, incredulity, and wonder ebb from her thoughts, but nothing to pinpoint her opinion of him.
Right on time, the echo of steps bounces off the stone walls. Hill has her eyes down as always when she walks. Yet there is no hunch to her back or timidness to her strides. She's lost in thought.
To emphasise just this, Hill walks right by him, placing both hands on the doors.
"That won't be necessary, Irene," Tom says.
She jumps, light on her feet, but no scream on her lips. When she recognises who he is, her brows furrow and there's a pulse of something familiar.
And perhaps what he thought earlier was incorrect.
Distrust has been the largest factor that seems to characterise her reaction to him.
"What do you mean?" Hill frowns.
"Today, we are going over Charms. If you'd follow me, I believe the library wouldn't be the best location for such practice." Tom fans his arm out, gesturing to further down the hall.
She, however, stays rooted to her position. "Can't we just work over the basics like Thursday?"
"As your tutor, I insist otherwise. Charms class should provide enough proof practical lessons are just as important. You are in need of correction with many of your spellcasting techniques."
Her hand brushes through her hair. "Where will we go then? It's too cold to wander outside, and the DADA chamber is busy with the second years."
"I believe the Duelling Club has an open room on the second floor."
"Duelling Club?"
"Yes. Professor Merrythought restarted it nearly fifty years ago. They have meetings every Friday evening. Have you not heard?"
"Uh, no. I don't pay attention to things outside of my routine."
"Hmm." Tom thinks this must be how she's managed to ignore most of the scathing looks the Slytherins shoot her way, despite being in a rather social group of Gryffindors. "Shall we then?"
Hill sighs. "Fine. Just promise, no duelling please. I don't think I can keep up with the DADA class's star student."
"I cross my heart, Irene." Tom places a hand on his chest. This will certainly be exciting.
They traverse the castle to the duelling hall on the second floor, a dark chamber similar to the DADA classroom but decorated with rather ornate colours and designs. With little less than an hour and a half left for tutoring, Tom chooses three spells for Irene to practise Descendo, Silencio, and Locomotor and swiftly readies the practise dolls and targets.
All set, he finds his spot at the entrance side of the hall. Irene stands facing the target that dangles from the ceiling. The first spell, Descendo, is a simple whip-like movement and an even more straightforward magic that spells objects to fall. Tom watches as Hill's movement mimics the perfect whip shape; however, the speed of her cast needs improvement. With each attempt, her magic seems to whizz out in pitiful sparks.
"Faster wand movements, Irene. Descendo is based on a whip, therefore your speed and motion must match one," Tom orders.
Hill nods and tries again. She fumbles for a bit, but quick to listen, she performs the spell perfectly in another couple of tries. Onto Silencio then.
Tom flicks his wand to the practise doll at the edge of the field. It whirls out to face Hill and begins making a ticking sound. She readies herself for the next spell.
Again, her magic sputters into pitiful sparks. He knows this isn't a matter of inadequate power despite her problems' appearance. He deduces it must be either confidence or fear of her own magic. Tom decides it's a mixture of both.
He takes his time examining her magic more closely this time. Cast after cast, her power sparks but doesn't catch, yet she makes no attempt to change her strategy. Eventually her Silencio quiets the doll, but with thirty minutes wasted, Tom can't say her methods are efficient. Strangling her own power till it takes seems to be her approach.
Tom slips his wand into his palm. "Locomotor," he spells. With a rattle, clay targets float from their position on the shelves to the centre of the chamber. Hill looks about, shifting her weight from foot to foot, surveying the discs. They float round her, then settle an adequate distance away. He clasps his hands behind his back and steps over to the centre.
This would be a suitable chance for him to charm her.
Though Tom finds it unpleasant to use such methods—both for his pride and general sensibilities—he can't deny they have expedient results. He slides behind her, just to the side of her casting arm. "May I?" he asks, one hand palm up adjacent to hers in question.
Her brows press together. "Wha—"
Tom doesn't give her the time to refute. He sidles up to her, chest pressing against her back and arm lengthened to wrap his hand around hers. Their skin touches as his hand settles to cup hers in his palm, fingers carefully entangling with her smaller ones. Tremors ripple into him. Hill shivers like prey, and Tom, the predator he is, delights in the sensation.
"Let yourself sense my magic," he orders.
A spark of power nips at his fingers. It's fierce and defiant, pulling at his own magic in ravenous waves. Untameable, unquenchable.
At least that is what Tom senses from it.
Hill's magic is a strange thing, much like her. Tom noticed it from the moment they met. A tugging sensation akin to gravity. It's gentle in its draw when there's clothing that separates them, but when it's skin to skin? It's not unlike a cavernous well that sucks one in. He noticed it drain him when he'd placed his hand atop hers weeks ago.
Unusual that not one other student has noticed.
"Do you feel it?" he asks. His magic flowing from his core and into her.
"Ye-yeah." Hill licks her lips, eyes darting away from his in a blush.
"Good, Irene," he purrs into the shell of her ear. He lifts their conjoined hands, wand still settled in the palm of hers. "Now then. Locomotor."
Her wand kicks and protests against him as he swirls it. Larch? A fickle thing. Tom grits his teeth and forces it to obey. Interesting how Hill has found her partner in such a stubborn tool when she, herself, is so terribly agreeable. With a hiss—if wands could show such behaviour—it complies, courage and indignation roiling inside it.
The discs rise and follow Tom's orders to circle around, then snake out into a line. However, his focus lies elsewhere. The pounding pulse and heavy swallow of Hill ripple into him. Her eyes are dark, dilated. Tom feels his own pulse pick up, excitement rising. Skin-ship has never failed before; he knows she'll be eating out of the palm of his hand in time.
"It's even. No force applied. I allow my magic to circulate from my core to my wand. When learning a new spell, surrender is vital." He drops the discs to the floor. Every action calculated and prepared. With an ear and mind to Hill's magic, he monitors her tells. Cautiously, his hand reaches towards her chest. But Hill's hitched breathing and irregular thumps tell him to cut his losses. Instead, he allows it to hover there, just above her heart.
"You see, magic is in our nature. We must allow it to grow unfettered, unrestrained, if we are to reach the height of our potential. Do not limit or suppress it. Our core must decide how much magic to release. In time, you will grow to understand and control it." His hands fall from their positions, and he brings them to her shoulder instead. "Now, once more, please."
Hill bites her lip, and with the flick of her wrist, she murmurs, "Locomotor."
What comes to fruition is unanticipated.
It's not just the clay discs that rise, but the multitude of furnishings spread across the room and trinkets that lay about. All rattle, dangling in the air. Hill's body shakes at the sight while Tom's hands grip her shoulders covetously. A red core? No, this is something much stronger than that.
"How…unexpected." Tom trails his hands to her collar. "You may cancel your spell. We wouldn't want to leave the chamber in disarray now, would we?"
She eagerly nods her head, dropping the furnishings down gently. Her expression isn't strained, nor exhausted. A testament to just how much magic must be hiding inside her.
This power, so easily shown, is nothing short of enthralling.
"Wonderful, Irene," he compliments, his thumbs carefully caressing the base of her neck.
Tom steps away from her and withdraws his own wand to wordlessly float the targets back to their position in the cabinets. However, as the distance between them grows, so too does something else. Overwhelming in its intensity, an emotion so raw rears its head.
It's Hill. Still as stone, she stands, not a muscle on her face revealing the feelings she holds inside. Around her, spreads a relief so palpable it clouds the space, radiates from her.
He narrows his eyes. It tastes of fear and distress.
Tom sighs, closing his Mind Arts book and placing it on his nightstand. Obliviation, Occlumency, and Legilimency can wait for now. Uncrossing his legs, he sweeps off the edge of his four-poster bed. The gold embroidered emerald curtains close behind him, rustling against the dark walnut posts as he settles in his desk chair. He withdraws the documents from their place tucked beneath the daily newspaper.
Hill's muggle school grades. It appears she kept up with her studies until seventh year. He taps his chin in thought. That would be roughly two years after she supposedly joined a coven. Her recorded classes are the common spread for any publicly schooled child. Though, upon examination, there is one interesting non-pattern. Her grades seem to deviate vastly from year to year. What she received an 'A' in she received a 'D' in the following year. However, what is also shocking is that, unlike what Hill had mentioned, there are no biology or chemistry courses.
Interesting.
He tucks the paper back underneath the newspaper and turns his attention to the other person in the room. "Rosier, what is your assessment of Hill?" Tom asks.
The green of the lake is brighter in the morning, allowing the windows to soak the chamber in its light. Ripples of opaque viridian oscillate against the stone walls and wooden furniture.
Rosier turns his focus to Tom, shifting in his seat at the desk. He has that usual apathetic expression he carries—an absence and emptiness that swallows the light. "I admit she seems average, regardless of her power, always tailing after that Fawley and hiding behind her. Hardly seems brave like other Gryffindors."
He hums. Perhaps that is what he would have thought if he wasn't witness to the incident in the courtyard. "How do you think one should appeal to her? I find that she is not swayed by baser methods." The palpable relief that flooded from Hill's mind shows he holds no physical sway over her.
Rosier's face scrunches in distaste. "You'd be better off asking Nott. He's good with that emotional drivel."
Confirming what he suspected to be true, Tom exhales. Why must all Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs be insufferable? To be leashed by weighty conscience sounds exhausting and, worse, unpredictable.
"But," Rosier uncharacteristically continues—usually a man of little words. "Now that we've seen her strengths, it's almost Slytherin of her to hide in plain sight. She avoids performing offensive spells in almost all her courses. And as for Nott's investigations…." His fingers twirl his quill in thought, the green of the lake turning grey against his pink skin. "Strange to have an Arcanus Charm for a simple apprentice."
"Yes. Her power and this concealment spell keep me from moving past her."
Rosier hums, and they lock eyes, Tom sensing the considering tick of Rosier's thoughts. His natural Legilimency is not nearly as invasive as Doyle's magic, but perhaps he can force out more. He crosses his legs and considers, considers a test of sorts. Practical applications to magic are necessary. With a stronger push and a wordless, "Legilimens" Tom urges Rosier's thoughts to the forefront of his eyes. Tom sees the rapid calculations and theories flickering in his knight's mind. To his surprise, Rosier does nothing more than breathe. By his nonchalance, he hasn't noticed the subtle Legilimency.
A good sign. He leans back in his chair. Soon, Tom will be able to use it on others.
"Regarding the need for this charm, do you have any theories?" Tom asks.
"Hmm, there are many reasons someone would need one," Rosier says.
"Tell me, what are your thoughts?" He rolls his wrist, urging Rosier to expand.
"The most common use is for bastardised children." He places his quill down and clasps his hands between his spread knees with a sigh. "You've noticed that Ravenclaw that sticks to Carrow and Lestrange?"
Tom nods. "Renatus has made her…difficult to ignore."
"Yes, well, that would be in line with the rumours."
He quirks a brow. "Her relation would be to the Lestranges, then?" That Ravenclaw, a bastard child?
"And a half-blood at that." He smirks.
"How does she hold the last name Hornby then? Adoption?"
A nod confirms his thoughts.
Tom smiles. He can use this. His fingers tap against the nightstand. Lestrange should know better than to reveal his cards to others. "So, Hill could be an illegitimate child of an unspeakable? Have we found any members from the East?"
"No, not at the moment. But that means little. She could have insisted on an unspeakable position. Whoever is her father might be tied to administration." Rosier shakes his head. "The next possibility is that she's an asylum seeker. The war has displaced many witches and wizards. One would be wise to pick up some of the more capable orphans."
Tom's jaw tightens. He knows this well, sees it every time Slughorn or one of his many guests makes an offer almost too good to refuse. But he knows such opportunities have invisible strings attached.
"There are other possibilities, but the chances of that are slim to none. My favoured scenario is that she's an orphan displaced by war and snatched up by an unspeakable."
Slim to none? But not impossible. His fingers tap across his thigh in impatient trills. "Why don't you humour me? The unlikely does not mean impossible."
Rosier drags a hand through his hair. "Yes well," He sighs. "There is one thought that I've been humouring. It fits well enough, but is a tad bit fantastical."
"Go on."
"It's possible she's in relation to someone important from the Eastern continent, a fugitive."
"A fugitive?" He blinks. "Why harbour a fugitive's child?"
"To shelter an informant, perhaps? There is a reason my mother and father refuse to travel to any of the Asian countries. Something is happening there, and no one has noticed with all our eyes and efforts placed on Europe." His fingers clench around clasped hands. "Over the last several decades, there have been some unusual laws passed in several of the ministries in the Asiatic Union."
Tom cocks his head and leans onto one knee. "Unusual in what ways?" This is the first he's heard of such matters—like Rosier said, eyes are always on Western society.
"We're constantly under threat of exposure since the incident in the States. Publicly isolation strategies have been the centre of international efforts, yet the East is working in opposition. Laws passed to work around the Statute of Secrecy. Harsh punishments for magic exposure have been whittled down to barely a slap on the wrist. Some programs even encourage integration with the muggles. There's currently a national effort in China to spread out magical society and increase numbers. But none of these actions garner significant attention. It's baffling." Rosier unclasps his hands once more to comb through his hair. "Of course, that brings us to the dissenters."
"And those dissidents are treated as criminals?"
He nods. "Quite a few become fugitives in some roundabout way, either accused of terrorism or treason, but even more have just disappeared."
"So, you believe Hill's a child of one of these criminals?"
"It's a possibility, but an improbable one." He shrugs. "There's no proof that the British Ministry has got wind of Asia's actions. And on record, there's little to no proof that these dissenters existed. My family only knows because of Grindelwald's ties to a few Asian diplomats."
Tom taps his fingers against his lap once more. From his History of Magic courses and electives on World Magicks, the East has had a tumultuous past with their muggles. Often drifting from near integration to complete isolation over the course of thousands of years. Culturally, it seems to be nothing new.
"Could this just be a natural course from centuries of intermingling? We both know Britain would push in that direction if not for Grindelwald and the current muggle war. From what I've read on the East, there hasn't been a single dark wizard recorded in the last two centuries or more, just radical revolutionist movements."
"Yes, it appears so. But does a wizard need to be dark to destabilise the Statute?"
It's night. The light of the stars shimmer behind the tall windows of the Gryffindor Common Room. Irene's eyes stare unfocused into the blackened sky. Her head is a tangled jumble of thoughts and has been since Samhain and tutoring with Riddle.
There's the numbing reality of what Evan said that seems to trickle in through every crack in her defences—despite her attempts to stave it off. What he'd called her magic is something she fears she may have already known instinctually. The churning of her stomach, unsettled and hungry, reminds her of the energy it takes, craves.
She brushes a hand through her hair, trying to think of something else. "There's only a few more days till the weekend," she thinks. The haven she's sought in Merrythought's empty classroom supplies some relief, but cannot remove all her stressors. Half-thoughts and anxiety whirl around in a tempest. It's a Wednesday meaning tomorrow is Thursday. Her fingers tug at her hair.
How did she get herself into this mess? How did she land herself lessons with Tom Marvolo Riddle?
She's cursed. That's the only explanation for why she's been assaulted one after another with bad news.
Irene slumps further into the plush loveseat. Her fingers rub circles into red jute fabric. There has to be a way to get out of this hole. A way in which she does not catch Voldemort's attention and simply fades into the background. She knows it must be possible. Her first thirteen years have taught her people are willing to ignore things they don't much care for.
"…Irene!" Evelyn nearly shouts.
The sound is enough to snap Irene out of her mind. "Uh, sorry. What were you saying?"
"We're about to play a round of Truth or Hex. Would you like to join?" she asks.
Irene glances about. There's Edmund, Graham, Iris, Blythe, Lillian, and Evelyn. All of them gathered in a circle in front of the hearth. She stares. She doesn't remember when they all arrived. "Uh," she stammers. "I'm a little out of sorts. I think I'll just watch." Her attention flickers away once more.
"I don't think you'll see much if you stare out the window, Irene." Lillian cocks her head.
And she's right, of course.
Iris pats the area left of her—an order for Irene to come and sit. Irene complies just in time to witness Iris crossing her arms and leaning towards her. "Do you want to talk about it? You've been off recently."
"No. Not now." Her answer is prompt. There's not much she can say without alerting Iris. And if Iris got a hold of what an unfeeling megalomaniac Tom Riddle is, Irene's certain she would insist on doing something about him herself. That's really the opposite of what would be best at the moment. "But if I do later, I'll let you know."
Iris nods and returns to the game.
Lillian was right. Irene shouldn't just stare out the window, lost in worry and her concerns. She's got to keep a level head, got to keep her wits about. If not, she'll only make things worse for herself.
The group makes their first few perfunctory rounds in their game of Truth or Hex. Irene observes in fascination. They've been playing it safe with mostly harmless truths. However, by the end of the current cycle, both Graham and Blythe have been hexed—Blythe sporting a bright green head of hair and Graham struggling to keep his head up with the weight of his engorged ears. Irene's glad she sat this one out.
"Okay, Blythe." Lillian smiles, looking a little devious. "Truth or hex. How far have you gone with Bell?"
"Truth. Snogging that's it," she replies promptly.
Lillian groans in protest.
But attention already locked onto Edmund, Blythe sets her target, her head turning as sharp as a hawk's. "Truth or hex. Second year potions, did you drop asphodel in Davies cauldron?"
Edmund blinks slowly. "I did, in fact." Then the ends of lips pull ear to ear in a smirk. "How did you know?"
Evelyn and Lillian gasp.
"You were the one responsible for that explosion of silver dust!" Iris gripes. "I spent weeks trying to Scourgify the sparkle off of my robes and hair!"
He only shrugs in reply whilst Graham doubles over laughing.
Blythe smiles cockily at Edmund. "Afraid you'll have to ask me when it's your turn if you want to know."
"Fine," he says. "Evelyn. Truth or hex. Girls or boys?"
Evelyn blanches at the strange question. "Truth. Girls," she grumbles.
Confusingly, her reply sparks a cackle from Edmund.
"Graham. Truth or whatever. Mind telling us why your little brother has been ignoring his house members this semester?"
"Uh…. Hex?" Graham sighs. "Please be merciful."
"Sorry," she says, not sounding a bit apologetic in doing so. Evelyn hits him with an eyebrow growing curse. The hairs above his eyes sprout like plants growing to hang just over his eyes.
Irene snickers. Graham looks like some sort of mountain creature—ears oversized and eyebrows like bangs. Iris pinches her side, and she yelps. Iris's fiancé is only fair game if it's her snickering, it appears.
Graham surveys his targets. "Lillian. Truth or hex. Girls or boys?"
What's with this question? Irene tilts her head.
"Truth. Um, girls? Because I'm a girl?" Lillian answers, mirroring the same body language as Irene.
Almost all members of the group sigh in unison, excluding the two bewildered members.
Lillian ignores that and marches on. "Iris! Truth or hex. Is it true you used to be friends with Minerva in first year?"
"Depends on Minerva's definition of friends," Iris says with a fair amount of venom bleeding into her voice. "I thought we were, but obviously I was wrong."
The group cringes with the shift in tension, but Lillian looks positively sympathetic. "You know, Minerva's a really good person. Maybe the two of you should sit and talk it out." Lillian sticks her whole foot in her mouth, completely oblivious to the mounting anger that builds to Irene's side.
Irene places her hand on Iris's crossed knee, trying to quell her growing irritation. But when she observes the tight clench of Iris's jaw, she knows it's done nothing to soothe her.
"See, I find that when I'm angry with someone," Lillian continues, "it's because I care so much about them. When Evelyn and I got into a fight last month, I was stubborn and didn't want to speak with her. But she made me realise that it only hurt so badly because of how much I love her."
This time, Irene doesn't miss the bright red blush across Evelyn's face that's paired with a hesitant smile.
"As my best friend, it only makes sense that the smallest of fights could mean so much." Lillian nods sagely and Evelyn's smile becomes a little pinched. "I think you and Minerva must mean a whole lot to each other to still be angry about whatever happened, kinda like me and Evelyn." She places her hand on Evelyn's and that breaks the tension.
Edmund is on the floor, rolling in laughter alongside Graham, who can't seem to breathe.
"Yeah, Iris. You must really love Minerva." Blythe's lip twitches in mirth.
"Oh. Bugger off, Prang," Iris hisses.
Blythe loses it as well, bursting into giggles like the rest. Iris drags a hand down her face, grumbling at the group to stop laughing, to no avail. Meanwhile, Lillian sits pleased and holding a very, very red Evelyn's hand. Their interlaced hands linger in the corner of Irene's eyes, and eventually, she puts two and two together—or perhaps she should say one and one together.
So, they, uh…. No, from what Irene's witnessed, it's only Evelyn. She likes…. Her eyes flicker to Evelyn's, who offers a shy smile. But didn't she catch her making eyes at Riddle?
"Come on, Irene." Iris stands, exasperated. "Don't expect me to counter-curse you, Graham." With a twirl, she walks towards the stairs and dorms. Irene follows behind dutifully.
Minerva is a sore spot, as usual. Irene feels thankful enough that Iris is able to be peaceable with her friendship with Minerva. They do spend one to two hours, five—no, now it's three—days a week together, and she's always nice enough. Despite Minerva's gruellingly strict teachings, at least her grades have improved somewhat. Maybe sometime next semester the professors will even call off her tutoring. That's….
Probably the best way to move forward. Irene stops walking and looks up from her feet.
If she scores well, then the professors will end her tutoring and maybe Tom Riddle will have no choice but to leave her alone.
Irene makes a mental note to talk to Dumbledore during his office hours.
There's a chill that wafts through Hogwarts'. It doesn't breeze through the wind or circulate in the air. It doesn't wind through the corridors or extinguish candles. Winter's touch simply remains in everything. An endless frost that lingers in the very walls and furniture of the castle despite the strongest of warming charms.
"Are you joining us this weekend?" Evelyn shivered. "Saturday's open mic at The Tickling Teacup."
"Ah, no. I have work on Saturday," Irene said.
Surely it must be snowing. And surely Hogsmeade must be a beautiful sight this time in the year. It's a pity the others will be out enjoying the town while Irene is stuck in here. Busy with tutoring, busy with work, busy with class, busy with homework.
Recently, it's like Irene can't get out of the castle.
The shuffling of feet and chatter signal the end of class. Irene jots down the last bullets from Professor Polaris's lecture. It makes some sense. The day and month's star alignment can determine the power of certain elemental magic. Irene can follow that well enough; however, the fact that the alignment of one's birth can determine one's magical affinity is beyond her.
Once she's copied the information, Irene gathers her books in her bag.
"Miss Hill," Professor Polaris calls her to the front.
Iris cocks a brow.
Irene gives her the signal to leave. It's been rather tame recently. No crazy cursing bigots or anything like that, so Iris nods and takes her exit. Swiftly, Irene shoves everything else in her bag before shuffling to the Professor's desk, apprehensive. His expression doesn't spell any good news. Oh, no. What has she done now?
The Professor levels a stern glare. He's one of the younger teachers at Hogwarts—somewhere around forty, Irene believes. His blonde hair is peppered with sparse silver strands and face is a kind sort even with the wrinkles between his brows. What did Fontius call them? "Do you know why I called you to my desk?"
Oh, right. Frustration lines. "No, Professor." Irene stands a little straighter.
He places a parchment on the desk. "This is your star chart's assignment. Can you tell me what's wrong?"
She scans her work. There are the eleven constellations in the Bayer family. She looks at their rotations, luminosity ratings….
"I see that it evades you." He sighs. "Your spiritual descriptions. How did your connections fare? Did the veil thin or strengthen? Were you in tune with certain elemental spirits? I need to know more than if you felt hot or cold on some nights or happy or sad on some days."
Irene's face twitches with the need to scrunch up. God. She fudged most of the charting at that end, not because she didn't try but because she didn't feel a thing during the rituals. "I'm sorry, Professor. I couldn't get in, um, tune with the stars."
A rough hand massages at the point between Professor Polaris's eyes. "Did you attempt more than once?"
She nods. If she wanted to be exact, it was a soul-crushing fifty times for the eleven constellations. But if she tells him that, he'll probably get that hopeless look in his eyes.
"I understand that muggle-borns are less…intuitive; however, you have certain reputations to uphold as an apprentice at the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. Do try to assimilate into our culture, as you are one of the rare few to make it through."
With another nod and apology, Irene grabs her bag and rushes out of the classroom to the spiral staircase.
"Irene," Tom says.
And she stops to look at him. Bathed in the grey of the winter sun, Riddle leans against the beige flagstone wall. He's in a thicker ensemble today, wool robe and Slytherin green scarf wrapped around his neck.
Ugh. Why is he loitering on the stairs? Clearly a traffic hazard. "Tom," she greets. "Are you waiting for someone?" She can only hope.
"Only you." His head tilts in the calculated way she's seen him do during their sessions.
Is it supposed to be charming? Or is it simply a quirk of his? "What for? Tutoring?"
He chuckles. "Must it be about our sessions? Couldn't I simply enjoy your company?"
What rubbish. Irene shrugs. Frankly, this Prince Charming façade is starting to freak her out. Just the night before, she'd had a nightmare about her date turning into Snake-face. "I don't see Minerva waiting for me after class." She starts down the stairs. They have Magical Theory soon. There's no time to stand and chat.
"I believe Fawley acts as repellent." Tom follows her, steps echoing behind like some unwanted ghost. "With what Professor Polaris discussed with you, I thought I'd stick around."
"I'm fine. It's nothing out of the ordinary."
"And nothing out of the ordinary means?"
Irene opens her mouth then closes it. She wants to say something. She wants to talk about the heaviness in her chest that had borne its weight on her as she left the Astronomy Chamber. To know why she's feeling so awful even though it was only a minute's long conversation that held her after class. Alone, she can't seem to piece together the reason. Or maybe there are no rationalisations for her feelings. Maybe this is the culmination of building stress.
But that does not mean she wants to talk to this budding Dark Lord about it.
"Just the usual, 'please live up to expectations,' and 'your work needs work.'"
"The Professors seem to hold you in high regard."
Irene thinks she might have heard a sarcastic tilt to the last words. "Their disappointment." She shrugs.
"You can't fault them. Your work with the unspeakables has led them to hold you in higher esteem than other students."
"Yeah, well, nearly three months of mediocre grades should be enough time for them to figure out that my employment is of little consequence concerning my performance."
"Oh? Are you perhaps a personal assistant of sorts?" he asks as they exit onto the seventh floor.
Irene barks out a laugh. Imagining her life as the Overlord's assistant is most definitely worse than what she has going on. She wipes the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Then sees Riddle staring, waiting.
That pulls the mirth out from underneath her. "Er, what I do isn't that important." It's outrageous that she has to remind herself not to let her guard down. Why does he have to look and act so normally?
She tries not to grimace when Voldemort hums in response.
The corridor they entered is lengthy and straight. No corners or curves and its wide passage carries their steps, amplifies the absence of words. Irene brushes her hair back, fidgeting. They have another two floors to go in this stifling silence.
"So…what about you, Ri-Tom?" She mentally chides herself for that one. Trying to appear as if you're comfortable with someone when you really aren't is hard. "Do you have any expectations to live up to? You're top of the class; I can't imagine that doesn't come with a number of responsibilities and pressure."
There's a pause that draws on long enough to force Irene to look at her odd company.
Riddle smiles a disingenuous and hollow smile. "You need not worry, Irene. The pressure that sits atop my shoulders is invariably of my own making." Somehow, the words seem biting—a slight at her.
The cold slithers up Irene's spine. She tugs her robe in tighter and nods. Where did Prince Charming go?
That uncomfortable silence drifts back in, as they have yet to make it down two sets of stairs to the fifth floor.
She glances at Riddle a few times, wondering if he will strike up conversation, but nothing of the sort comes. Instead, there's this edge to him she's never seen before. Irene frowns. She's not sure what she said wrong, but he's miffed. Her mind zeros in on that as they walk to the other side of the castle. Is it because she assumed he was under pressure, or because she assumed he had expectations to live up to?
But why would that…?
A kaleidoscope of colours shimmers their rays upon them as they descend the last set of stairs. It's bright, blinding. Irene shields her face from the lilac glare of the stained-glass window. Tom ignores it and moves onward, his black hair catching the stray azure and magenta from the light. She follows him, quiet and considering.
Maybe it's because she has never bothered to analyse Voldemort that it doesn't come to her naturally. He's always been the monster that goes bump in the night, the madman that plans to destroy the city, or the killer that enjoys the cruelty. Yet, when she thinks back to her schooling, her time in London as someone of Eastern descent, she realises that maybe she and Riddle have something in common. He's an orphan. And she's an undesirable. Nobody ever sees them and expects anything other than failure.
"I said something rude," Irene blurts as they turn the corner to the Magical Theory classroom. "I apologise."
Riddle's legs almost come to a halt—pace stuttering before the next step. "I'll see you this evening, Irene." He nods and leaves for the door.
Classes fly by that afternoon.
Irene plops down on the pile of cushions and pulls out her Arithmancy book. She flips pages—the leaves rustling—until she rests on the list of practices for class. There's only a few left to finish, so she gets to work.
In her trance, the mound of pillows shift—another body flopping down.
"Irene, don't tell me. Have you been in here this whole time?" It's Iris, fresh from her dance class, and by 'fresh' Irene means foul.
Irene checks the time with a Tempus; nearly two hours have passed. She points her nose to her notebook. "Yes. Tutoring starts in another hour. I should study up on what I can before I get stuck there longer than necessary."
"I thought you 'liked' Minerva." Iris smiles, excited to see if Irene hates her as much as she does.
"She does. Thank you again for those lovely sweets, Irene. However, today I'm not her tutor. Tuesdays and Thursdays are now with Tom as I am busy with quidditch." Minerva hovers above her, so close that Irene nearly screams in shock. "What is that? Two, twenty-seven. Twelve, twelve. Six, nineteen." She points to the tail-end of the equation Irene had finished despite the grief it had caused her.
"Merlin, Minerva. Please give warning if you're going to magically appear." Irene breathes out to settle her pounding heart. "It's the equation Vector gave as a bonus. Had a dreadful time solving it." She shakes her head.
"Wait. Tom? As in Tom Riddle?" Iris is so surprised she doesn't even take the time to snark at Minerva.
"Yes, who else could it be? Tom from the Leaky?" Minerva cocks a brow. "And what equation? The last bonus I remember was the questions for the theoretical model for predicting natural disasters."
"I don't know." Iris crosses her arms. "But surely someone other than Riddle, since Irene clearly dislikes her tutor. Well, maybe…." She rests her chin on her fist in thought. "Helga. You do hate Riddle, don't you!"
"I don't hate him. I just find him…unpleasant." Like a ticking bomb. Irene exhales and hopes she didn't piss him off enough earlier to place her on some sort of Voldemort blacklist. She turns to Minerva. "Not that one. The one two weeks before."
Minerva flips through her mental calendar.
"Sure. And I am best friends with Minerva. Which do you think is more unbelievable?"
"That you're best friends with Minerva." Irene replies. Because truly, future Voldemort's a madman, but she's finding Tom more tolerable than what she predicted. So yes, she doesn't hate him, but certainly wants to stay clear of this budding tyrant. On the other-hand, Iris and Minerva have been at each other's throats since Irene's been at Hogwarts. And that means they've been in this cold war since whatever happened in first-year.
"The one on lucky and unlucky days?" Minerva's eyes are wide.
Irene nods. "Yeah, that's the one—"
"Oh, come off of it. You glared daggers into the back of his head the first and second week you arrived. It was some mixture of horror and determination, like you were staring down the mouth of a lethifold. I was sure Perfect Prefect Riddle had offended you after the Lestrange and Carrow incident. But then you just went back to normal, ignoring his existence as if you never crossed paths. So, I thought I'd imagined the whole thing." Iris's eyes narrow into suspicious slits.
Now Minerva's staring at her too, a cross between worry and interest to know what the golden boy of Hogwarts did to her.
"I well, uh," Irene stammers. Memories of Voldemort placing his hand on hers, tucking her hair behind her ear, holding her tight to his chest resurface. Her face screws up in disgust, heart pounding. "He's just very, uh, physical," she whispers.
"Physical!?" Minerva all but shouts, her voice rising with indignation and shock. "Has he done something to you!?"
"No. No." Irene waves her hands disarmingly, urging Minerva to calm and quiet. "Nothing like that," she whispers and looks at Iris. "You know how he offered to spell the counter curse and heal me?"
She nods.
"He had to touch my hair and place it behind my ear. And now during lessons he's all 'handsy,' for lack of a better term. He rubs my shoulder, or back, even held my hand the one time." Irene shivers. "It just felt—" like my skin was crawling with bugs "—wrong."
"Oh, my stars. Riddle is a pervert." Iris blinks. "I never would have imagined," she says in an echo.
"Um, I don't think so. His motivations are…." Well, what are they? Oh, yes. Blatant emotional manipulation for some odd reason. "friendly, I think."
"Either way, I don't think it was right of him to touch you without permission." Minerva says.
Iris nods, and an unusual moment of agreement passes between the two.
However, as it's prolonged, the atmosphere grows awkward. Minerva coughs and changes the topic. "Regardless, if he makes any more uncomfortable advances, please do tell. I believe he's the best tutor available at the moment, but I would not be opposed to finding another. Now, what was that about you finishing the impossible bonus assignment?"
Irene groans and flips her notes back to the start of the equation. Minerva scans it with avid interest and, to Irene's surprise, so does Iris.
"This horrible two pages of scratch led you to the answer?" Iris cocks a brow and Irene nods in assent. "And you found your lucky and unlucky days or years through this?"
"Yeah, theoretically." Irene swallows. She's almost certain she came to the right answers, at least on her unlucky years, as it had confirmed age thirteen for one, which well…was the year everything went to hell. The war, the store, her….
Her throat tightens.
Irene breathes out, trying to smother her fear regarding the other numbers she'd found. "I'm not sure about my Yakubi calculations, but I'm positive I got the right Yakudoshi."
Minerva flips through the pages. "There's another thirty minutes until scrimmages. I believe it's only fair you explain this, since I've been helping you with tutoring."
"I agree whole-heartedly with Minerva. You must teach us." Iris bats her lashes.
Irene sighs. Why do they have to agree now?
She finishes her explanation haggard and neurons fried. "This is no way to start a tutoring session with Riddle," Irene thinks as she walks despairingly to the library. What was a cosy corner sequestered in books now exists solely as a torture chamber. She massages her temples, already fearing the headache that seems to accompany their sessions recently.
Irene passes the shelves that smell of distressed wood and old parchment into the throes of the Dark Lord.
"Irene," Tom Riddle greets with a smile. "Shall we get started?"
He's standing at the table, a perfectly curated set of books regarding potions stacked in front of him. Sunlight peaks in through the round window high above them, scattering against the cherry fixtures. It illuminates him in a violent shade of red that makes his dark eyes appear aflame.
And suddenly, she has the inadvisable impulse to tell him to bugger off and leave. Damn tutoring, damn her future.
Instead, Irene takes her seat without complaint, pulling out her notebook and corresponding texts.
"You are a bit later than usual today. Perhaps our discussion earlier made you apprehensive to show?" Riddle says.
"No, no." She shakes her head. "Minerva and Iris held me back. They needed help with the Arithmancy bonus," Irene says.
"The disaster probability matrix?"
"No, Sa'di Farouq's work." She fingers through her notes, focusing on working. "What are we covering today?"
So, she solved the divination equation. Even Tom hasn't finished it. Working on it the night previous, he'd come to an impasse. He hums.
Two weeks into teaching Irene Hill, and Tom's doubting her incompetency. Her learning curve is much too steep for an idiot and much too gradual for a previously educated student. It's almost as if she'd never received the teachings. Which would be absurd if a coven or enclave had properly taught her, but what if she never was?
What if she has just started her studies? What if the 'seven months' Hill referred to was a complete comprehensive review of years one through four at Hogwarts?
It's perhaps a stretch, but what if the guardian she was under prioritised certain studies? Rosier's theory that Irene Hill may have been on the run with a fugitive is improbable, but he can't discount it in its entirety. It would supply the perfect excuse as to why Hill fairs well in DADA and Ancient Runes while she fails in the more theoretical courses.
He settles to stand behind her chair, checking on her answers to the potions questions he gave her to solve.
Their corner of the library is an intimate one. Sequestered in the back by towering shelves. It grants Tom the privacy and freedom to do as he wishes if he so pleases. His fingers brush across the wooden back of Hill's seat—palm catching against rough, worn wood. But that isn't the sensation he's focused on.
It's the odd case of Hill's anxious pulses.
During the courtyard incident, he'd assumed her mind to be stuck in a state of hyperarousal, or stress, due to the nature of her encounter. However, as the weeks pass, and he grows familiar with Hill's regular mental state, Tom has concluded that her mind's nervous panic is unique to his added presence. The relief in the duelling chamber being the nail in the coffin. So, to put it plainly, she's acutely aware of him.
And isn't that curious?
Tom leans against the chair's back, two hands placed behind Hill's narrow shoulders, fingers just grazing her robes. Her quill twitches. And he smiles, relishing in the bitter restless pulses that press against his mind.
There's a brief pause as Hill rubs a finger against her temples. But soon, her quill is back on parchment. Black ink crests and slopes into a series of fine cursive letters. The current problem she struggles to solve is the procedure for a Strengthening Solution. She's done a fine job with the ingredients and mixing, but as usual, she lacks the proper preparation. Her chosen cauldron and tools are of the wrong material for the proposed potion. Destined to react adversely with the ingredients.
She'll need to review second-year texts before the weekend.
Again, it's remarkable how the information Hill lacks is really within the basics. They've spent the last few lessons simply reviewing first-year texts. And he predicts her grades will rapidly improve if only her foundation solidifies. His fingers tap against the chair in impatient drums.
Where was she before Hogwarts? What work does she supply for the Ministry? Why does he provoke such panic in her?
Tom wants to rip it out of her. Tear her mind apart piece by piece till there's no questions left unanswered. But Hill is close-lipped despite her meek demeanour, despite the sheep's clothing she dons. Nott's assurance of two weeks only serves to heighten his impatience.
He places a hand on her shoulder, feels the instant pulse of wary distrust accompanied by stiffened muscles. He smirks, wondering where the reaction stems from. "A pewter cauldron?" He cocks a brow and Hill gets the message quick enough.
Her fingers fumble for the potions text and one chapter after another, she finds the section on alchemical processes. Within due time, she fixes her pewter cauldron to a copper one. "Perfect, Irene." He smooths his hand down her shoulder.
Tremors ripple into him from Hill, although the action is subtle. However, he leaves his hand positioned on her shoulder under the guise of examining her work. He'll never tire of Hill's insatiable magic. Through clothing, it only sends spiteful sparks, but it holds the same feral nature.
"Riddle, I can't focus while you hover," Hill snaps and then, almost as if she's appalled at her own outburst, she reels back. "Sorry."
"Is this retaliation for my poor behaviour earlier?" He tests.
Irene's mouth open and closes unbecomingly. "What-no. Of course not. Earlier was my fault."
And again, she seems to mean it. Perhaps Nott had a point. Tom chuckles. "It's fine. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. However, I thought I was Tom not Riddle." He pulls away from her and walks round the table, meeting her head on.
"Right. Right," she smiles in a pinched expression and the sour note of her mind only serves to emphasise her distaste.
He waits patiently and amused. Why she feels the need to act so amiable, he's not sure. "And?"
"Yes. Sorry, Tom," she says and returns to her work.
Tom expected as much and so his fingers brush over the Mind Arts book, grabbing it to continue his own studying until Hill finishes her questions. When she finally arrives at the last question and completes it, Tom makes simple corrections and explains why.
"Thanks." Hill rises to her feet and begins stowing away her books. "I'll see you next week, then." She bows her head.
"Unfortunately, I have one last matter. If you wouldn't mind staying." Tom smiles.
Her body tenses, finger impatiently tapping her texts. "Go on."
"Regarding the Arithmancy bonus, would you mind explaining to me how you came to the answers?" He gestures back to the chair whilst pulling out one for himself as well.
He can see the cogs of distrust whirring slowly, cautiously inside her even without the aid of his Legilimency. Conversations with Nott have led to some useful understanding of his more emotional peers. "Spend time with them, have a few commonalities, offer unconditional support—or, er, what the other believes to be unconditional," he had said. It seems Gryffindors hold a saviour complex and unwise levels of guilt.
Another push then. "I understand if you cannot. I'll see you next Tuesday, Irene." He presses his chair back.
"Wait." She holds up a hand. "If I can explain it to Minerva and Iris at the same time, I can certainly help you," Hill groans and slumps back into her own chair. Her hands dig through her belongings until she finds what she's searching for and places it between them. Pages flip until she finds her notes on the bonus.
She turns it around to Tom. "This is my work leading up to the answers. You're intuitive and probably won't need any explanation."
She reacts well to guilt. He hums and analyses Hill's work. It's much like his until what seems to be a page of conversions. Tom stills. Where did she get—
"Oh, you're there, huh?" Hill leans over the table closer to him, looking at her scrawl. That acrid distaste is gone; Tom makes a note. "I was stuck for days doing the same plug and chug until I realised the problem was with my conversions." She points to the sketched wheel on the side of her notes. "This was on the board as well. I thought it was just a reference to the graph, but it was a hint at the necessary conversions."
Plug and chug? What muggle nonsense is Hill saying? Tom stares at the Runic Calendar and then it clicks. The graph. It's based on Elder Futhark Runes, which means all data plotted must correspond to the Runic Calendar rather than the Gregorian Calendar. He sighs. Of course, Vector would do such a thing.
"I must thank you," he says.
But there's no overflowing sense of pride, only Hill's blank stare reflecting. "I'm sure you would've spotted it on your own."
"Perhaps, nevertheless you've helped me, Irene." Despite layering on the charm, she turns away.
It's interesting how the foundations of people can be so varied. Vulnerability to Slytherins is like blood to dragons, but to Gryffindors? It brings out their empathy.
"About earlier," he says with a calculated hesitancy. "In the halls. I ended up leaving abruptly. That was impolite of me."
She turns back to him, brows furrowed. There are two warring emotions he senses: wariness and curiosity.
"To be honest, I didn't expect you to apologise. It took me off guard." It's true. He had not foreseen her generous reaction to his sudden callousness nor predicted the empathetic response it stirred. But either way, he welcomed it. "You see, it's uncommon for those in my house to admit our mistakes. We are all too…prideful."
"Oh." Hill blinks, and the apprehension ebbs.
"So, thank you for meaning it, Irene." Tom smiles, and that seems to do the trick.
"Uh, please don't thank me. All I did was apologise." She says curtly, but with no distrust apparent. "Any other questions?" she says to change the subject.
Tom flips the page back to the final equation and looks at the list of numbers Hill has come to. One of her unfortunate days is approaching. He notes the date—only a week from the coming Saturday. "How did you confirm your answers?"
"I used a…prior data point to confirm that I'm likely correct."
At the bottom of the page, in a small script nearly illegible, sits an equation that comes to a date Tom is familiar with.
"The Blitz," he breathes. "You were in London?" He, himself, was in the safety of the castle, but he'd read the papers and, that summer, had come home to the wreckage of bombings so destructive it was impossible to hide it's mark even with months of repair efforts.
But why was Hill in London? Shouldn't she have been with her coven?
She nods, and the twist of her lips is easy to spot. Something sad and desperate wells in Hill's eyes. Tom only catches a glimpse before she looks away. "It doesn't matter. It's in the past now," and perhaps she'd seem unaffected if it wasn't for the tight clench of her hands.
Tom represses the need to smile and places his hand on her fisted ones—calculated and cunning. "I'm sorry," he whispers. This must be tied to her mother's death certificate in the fall of forty-one.
In response, she does nothing but bite her lips. But he feels her emotions break free in the pulses that spread from her mind in helpless, sickly quakes.
Tom doesn't want to let this opportunity pass by. His fingers trail to her wrist as his hand manoeuvres to cup hers in his own. "I can't imagine," he says, and Hill's tense fist relaxes, albeit slightly in his. "When I came back to London during the summer, it was…it was a disaster. Buildings destroyed, and hundreds gone. We slept in bomb shelters at night, afraid of the attacks, but that was the worst I had seen. However, you were in the midst of it all." He cradles their conjoined hands with his other. "I'm so sorry, Irene."
"It was horrible," she says quietly, shaking with emotion. "I lost everything." Something in Hill seems to be falling apart.
Tom only wants to encourage it to do so.
Just a little further and perhaps he'll tear this wall she's built between them down. He's performed this role many times before. There's nothing new as his expression pulls downward in a sympathetic display. "Did…you lose someone?" his voice is a perfect execution of worry.
She nods. "My mother." Black eyes look up from their fixed position on the table. They meet his and they're so vulnerable, with a glimmer of something he's never seen before. Something a lot like hope. He feels her barriers collapse.
And hasn't he been waiting for a moment like this? Eyes locked, he takes that second to slip in, to graze the surface of her mind. His Legilimency focused solely on her.
Yet, he's met with resistance. Hill groans and winces. She closes her eyes as her hand pulls away from his to massage her head. When she opens them, Hill frowns.
"I-I don't…." Her teeth worry at her lip.
The moment is broken.
"I should head back." She stands abruptly, grabbing her things to flee their corner.
And Tom?
Tom is left in the quiet of the library, impatience brewing beneath his polite façade.