A/N: Tom certainly has a very methodical way of going about things... An echo of Chapter 1, perhaps. This should feel somewhat familiar.
Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, cannot emphasize this enough. I know I warned for the last odd chapter, but this is pretty disturbing, too.
"ɪ... ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀꜰʀᴀɪᴅ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, ʜᴀʀʀʏ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴍʀ. ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ, ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ, ᴀʟʙᴇɪᴛ ʙʀɪʟʟɪᴀɴᴛ ʙᴏʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ-ʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴡɪᴢᴀʀᴅ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ, ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ. ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ."
Chapter Eleven: The Ouroboros
The golden unicorn wasn't too hard to find. A careful perusal through the Pure-Blood Directory revealed that the golden unicorn was the sigil of the Parkinson family.
Well, to be fair, Tom's memory had been a bit fuzzy. It wasn't a golden unicorn. Unicorns had horns, not wings.
The founding member of the Parkinson family — Perseus Parkinson — had been a bit obsessed with Greek mythology (and, in Tom's opinion, fancied himself a bit of a hero). And so, when he designed the family's coat of arms, he chose a pegasus — the noble steed of the Greek hero he was named for.
So, simple enough. Tom just needed to find the Parkinson in Abraxas's year — not too difficult, if he paid attention. But by the time he had found this information and written it all down in his diary for safekeeping, the sounds of students flooding back into the castle after the game had begun to fill even the library.
He shouldn't stay here. Abraxas had taken to lurking around the library, though he hadn't done anything else to Tom — he was too cowardly to try anything in broad daylight and under the professors' noses.
But it certainly didn't stop him from whispering jibes — How's your scar healing, Mudblood? Learned your lesson yet? — and Tom wasn't in the mood to have the relative peace the Quidditch match had offered ruined.
All the same, Tom refused to cower behind Araminta like a scared child (although that's what I am, I suppose.)
As he set about concealing his diary inside his Potions textbook, a thought occurred to him.
Slughorn. Yes, Slughorn always seemed to like him, unlike Dumbledore, forever wary, or Merrythought, constantly aware of upsetting rich parents. Slughorn was either oblivious to the glares when he praised Tom's work or didn't care.
There was just one problem.
Tom accosted the first person he ran into after leaving the library.
"Who won?" he asked breathlessly.
"Slytherin," said the other student as she continued past him. "Honestly, didn't you see? I swear these first-years get more stupid every year."
Tom let out a sigh of relief. Victory meant that a party would be thrown in the common room — and he would be the least of Abraxas's or Yaxley's interests.
Today, it seemed that his luck would not run out.
"Professor Slughorn?" Tom asked as he knocked on the door of his office. "May I come in?"
He heard loud, shuffling steps, and the door swung open to reveal Slughorn, wearing an enormous, maroon-colored velvet smoking jacket and a jovial smile.
"Of course, Tom," said Slughorn, ushering him in. "Do make yourself comfortable."
Slughorn went towards the fireplace at once, flicking his wand at the flames and tutting to himself, all the while muttering something about "terrible drafts," "this water closet," and "damn Dippet's frugality."
Tom thought it best to keep his mouth shut.
"I was in the library," Tom explained, not desiring to reveal the true nature of his inquiry to Slughorn, "and I saw a symbol I didn't understand. May I ask you what it was, sir?"
Slughorn's forehead creased in concern as he sat behind his desk, but he nodded, all the same. "Ask away, Tom," he said gravely.
"Well — it's — you see—" Tom began, hesitating in an effort to sound polite. "A snake eating its own tail, sir."
"Oh!" said Slughorn, laughing. "You had frightened me for a minute, m'boy. I was afraid it was something of nefarious origin. No, no, no — it is a Greek symbol — the ouroboros."
"Ouroboros," Tom repeated, tasting the word for himself. It was somewhat difficult to say. "But what does it mean, sir? It's not something snakes usually do."
Slughorn considered this. "It has to do with perpetual cycles, the continual passing of time, without beginning nor end. Tutankhamun, that Egyptian fellow those Muggles dug up fifteen-or-so years ago, had one on his tomb. Cleopatra — mind, not that Cleopatra, Tom — this one being an alchemist just as the other was a great queen — linked it to the Magnum Opus."
"Sir?"
First Greek, now Latin. And yet, he could not afford to hurry Slughorn along. That would be rude.
"I apologize, m'boy. I forget you're still a first year. The Magnum Opus is what alchemists call the Great Work of creating the philosopher's stone."
"The philosopher's stone, sir?" asked Tom. This hadn't been quite what he was looking for, but Slughorn had quite the treasure trove of knowledge and was willing to share it — an opportunity that Tom certainly wouldn't turn his nose up at. "You don't mean..."
His eyes must have been straining out of his skull, because Slughorn laughed heartily before he answered Tom's question.
"If you wish to take alchemy in your third year, I suspect you will learn all about it from Mr. Flamel himself when he comes to visit once a year."
Tom actually felt his jaw drop at this suggestion. Surely, Slughorn must be pulling his leg.
"I do not jest, Tom," said Slughorn, settling back in his chair. "Though it is a curious thing to ponder. One might wonder if an endless supply of money and eternal life are blessings, after all. You've met Dumbledore's Fawkes, m'boy?"
And in response to Tom's nod, he added in a conspiratorial tone: "What do you say we ask him, eh?"
What is there to wonder about? But Tom said nothing to address that point.
"Funny that Selwyn never took an interest in it, now that you mention it."
"Selwyn, sir?"
"Yes," said Slughorn. He paused. "Seeing as the ouroboros is a symbol that the Selwyns are particularly proud of. But I am afraid that is the least interesting part of our discussion — rather lowbrow gossip, isn't it, Tom?"
He nodded, of course, but it was interesting. It was essential.
Professor Slughorn had been immensely useful. Why hadn't Tom thought of going to him before?
"I expect I should let you return to your common room before your housemates begin to worry," said Slughorn.
They won't, thought Tom, but he bit back the retort.
"Thank you for your help, Professor Slughorn," he said as he stood up.
"Anytime, m'boy," said Slughorn, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I had been intending to ask you after class on Monday, but as you are here... I am inviting a few students to a Christmas party. Dippet says I shouldn't pick favorites... but you and I know that certain students have more... promise than others, don't we, Tom?"
He did. But it wasn't polite.
Tom merely smiled in a decent approximation of humility. Slughorn seemed convinced.
"You might bring one of your friends along — Minerva, perhaps? Do let me know if she decides to come."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, though his own admission to Dumbledore echoed in his head. I don't need friends, sir.
"Excellent," said Slughorn. "I will see you in class on Monday — your essay is nearly finished?"
"Nearly, sir. Just the finishing touches."
"Do take care, Tom."
He turned away from the door. He smiled.
"You too, Professor."
Though a single day had yielded great success — not one, but two names — Tom had to be careful. He could not afford to be hasty, to draw their ire before he completed this task.
Finding the two of them alone and in an appropriate position proved more difficult than Tom had expected. He didn't want Abraxas to know that he was planning anything. The opportunity never presented itself.
Then, it dawned on him — Slughorn's Christmas party. If there was anywhere to find them alone and vulnerable (perhaps even a bit drunk), that was it. And Slughorn would be there to protect him, to vouch for him.
It was perfect.
"Minerva," he said stiffly, as they were gathering their books after Potions on Monday, "Professor Slughorn told me to ask you to come to the Christmas party with me."
Minerva, to his shock, made a face.
"Couldn't you have said that without the Professor Slughorn bit?"
"I s'pose," said Tom, surreptitiously checking that his diary was still safely hidden in his Potions textbook.
"Fine," said Minerva sharply.
Tom didn't quite understand. "Fine, you're going, or fine, you're not going? I'm supposed to tell Professor Slughorn."
"Fine," she said, even more sharply. "I'll go."
"I'll tell Professor Slughorn."
"Good. Bye."
She left very quickly, nearly colliding with another student when she reached the door.
Minerva seemed angry. How strange.
But Professor Slughorn would be pleased to see that Tom had followed his instructions.
After arriving at Slughorn's party, the first order of business was to lose Minerva in the crowd. Given the amount of people in the room, it wasn't a difficult task.
"What's the Mudblood doing here?" he heard someone mutter.
Tom turned instantly in the direction of the voice, locking eyes with someone who seemed strangely familiar. His gaze dropped to the boy's ring, then back up to his face.
Ah-hah. Selwyn.
Selwyn smirked indulgently, then slowly turned back to Abraxas. Likewise, Tom turned away, unwilling to reveal his intentions.
The tinny sound of a glass being lifted from a table.
"Put it down, Tobias."
A girl's voice.
"Oh, old Sluggy won't mind. Why would he leave perfectly good merlot lying around the place if he didn't expect us to partake?"
That was Selwyn.
"I wouldn't call it perfectly good merlot," said Abraxas. "My father's vineyards in Bordeaux produce the most exquisite grapes..."
Tom had a wild, fleeting fantasy of drowning Abraxas in a vat of not-up-to-his-father's-vineyards-in-Bordeaux-standards merlot.
The chatter made Tom wish that he had never had ears to begin with.
He made his way through the crowd, attempting to follow the gradient towards somewhere with breathing room. His face brushed uncomfortably against tweed-covered arms and silky, slippery robes; the scents of flowery perfume and woodsy cologne made his nose itch.
"Ah, Tom!"
"Professor Slughorn," he said, straightening his posture and attempting to sound regretful. "I've lost Minerva."
Tom was not regretful. Not having to deal with Minerva was the single most enjoyable thing about this stupid party, with all its flashy lights and odd smells and loud people.
"I don't believe I've seen her," said Slughorn, looking surprisingly worried. "Shall we go look for her?"
Tom nodded blankly, then turned to follow Slughorn back through the crowd. He didn't like this, being forced against all these limbs and hands and hair and people that smelled of fresh sweat and expensive fragrance.
"Professor Slughorn!" someone cried.
Tom could tell it was false; it sounded like when he said it, but with a generous amount of cheeriness heaped on top of the forced politeness.
"Mr. Parkinson," said Slughorn disapprovingly. "I do not remember inviting you. In fact, I explicitly remember banning you from Slug Club following the events of last year."
Parkinson?
Tom tiptoed around Slughorn to get a closer look.
Indeed, it was the boy with the unicorn — no, pegasus — sigil. He was blocking Slughorn's path, staring fixedly at the professor with a smile so forced that it made the muscle under his eye twitch.
Interesting. A known delinquent. Slughorn won't side with him, then.
"I'm not here as a member, sir," said Parkinson. "I'm with someone."
Slughorn's frown deepened. "Regardless," he said. "I am asking you to leave."
"As you wish, Professor."
Parkinson made a sort of half-bow — Tom couldn't tell if it was mocking or not — and slipped into the crowd.
"What happened, Professor," asked Tom eagerly. "With Parkinson?"
"Oh, nothing, Tom," said Slughorn, but he sounded distracted. "Just — ah, Leonard, there you are."
He waved his hands about, desperately signalling an austere, frowning man in navy robes on the opposite side of the room as if he were a lifeboat and Slughorn a survivor of the Titanic.
"I trust you can find Minerva — Come, Leonard, I must hear about your opinion on Minister Fawley's response to all this Grindelwald business. Of course, I read your quote in the Prophet, but newspapers are so unreliable these days..."
And with that, he hurried off.
Likewise, Tom abandoned the search for Minerva, instead following Parkinson into a dark corner hung with green and yellow curtains.
"Bloody Slughorn," someone muttered ahead of him.
He was certainly getting closer. There was a couple busy snogging under the mistletoe and a few boys talking around the fireplace with glasses of smuggled merlot (not that Slughorn was really keeping an eye on it).
Before anyone could see him, Tom crouched behind a table of hors d'oeuvres, shuffling forward to peek around the corner.
No. Not concealed enough. Not enough shadows.
He glanced around, then lifted the burgundy tablecloth and darted under it.
Instantly, comfortable darkness enveloped him. The sounds and smells of the party dulled; he felt calmer. Settled.
"Can you believe it?" Parkinson's voice rang out. "He wants me to leave, while the little Mudblood practically clings to his robes!"
"You'd better keep your voice down."
Tom stiffened. He knew that voice.
"Try not to piss yourself, Mudblood."
The boy with the birthmark was nearby. Tom thought of lifting the tablecloth to get a closer look, but he feared revealing himself.
The ground under him shuddered slightly with approaching footsteps, and Tom inched towards the wall.
"Do you see him?"
Loud chewing.
"Who? Slughorn?"
"No."
Whoever it was needed to learn how to chew and swallow before they spoke.
"Riddle."
"Haven't seen him for a while." That was Abraxas. "Slippery little bugger."
"Saw him with Slughorn," said Parkinson.
"Slughorn's off with Spencer-Moon," said the last one. "Something about Grindelwald."
"Minister-hopeful?" asked Abraxas, leaning on the table — Tom heard it groan. "As pathetic as Fawley is, at least he's easy to manipulate. At least, that's what Father says."
The other two made sounds of agreement.
"If Grindelwald is to continue slipping through their fingers, we must—"
"Not so loud!" reprimanded the last one, slamming his fist against the table and making Tom jump in surprise. "This isn't Malfoy Manor, Abraxas. Either keep your voice down, or don't speak at all!"
A loud slurping sound, then the clatter of a glass against the table.
"Well, I'm off to get some air," said the last one. "Coming?"
They all murmured some version of 'No.'
This is my chance.
Quickly calculating where each of them must be standing, Tom picked the side the other three were furthest from, lifted the tablecloth, put his wand between his teeth, and crawled out on his hands and knees.
As soon as he was clear of the tablecloth, he scrambled to his feet before they could notice him and dashed into the crowd, weaving haphazardly around the party guests as quickly as he could and out the door.
He shut it and bent over, panting for breath and finally inhaling relatively unadulterated air.
Someone might see me.
Tom slipped into the shadows, following the sounds of voices towards two figures silhouetted against the wall.
The cloud covering the moon floated away, and Tom finally got a good look at the boy's face.
"You shouldn't have done it, Archie," said Araminta. "He's just a kid—"
"He's a Mudblood," said the boy — Archie. "If they don't learn their place, where will we be in five years? In ten? We are in open war. Minister Fawley will be gone by the end of the year, and—"
"And my little brother is busying himself with tormenting children!" shouted Araminta. "Mudblood or not, he's done nothing to you!"
"His very existence offends me! Scum like that should not be allowed to mix with people like us! Are you soft or blind, Araminta?" Archie shouted back, and Tom slipped out of the corridor just as they began to bicker. He'd heard enough. The last one, the boy with the port-wine stain, was Araminta's brother.
Carrow held him down. Selwyn muffled his screams. Parkinson held his arm while Abraxas Malfoy cut the words into his skin.
How had he not figured it out before — but no matter. Everything was finally coming together.
He had planned the trap. All there was to do was to set it...
First, he'd thought of framing the four of them with some infringement terrible enough to get them in trouble with one of the professors.
The problem was, that wasn't enough for Tom. One of the professors simply meant detention, and Pringle, the dutiful caretaker, was only so sadistic.
No... if he wanted to make them hurt, Tom would have to take matters into his own hands, while maintaining plausible deniability.
Step One. Procuring the bait.
Tom opened the door quietly, and slipped back into the crowd.
Araminta wouldn't miss her perfume for one night. Tom had slipped the bottle off of the table she had left it on in the common room when no one was looking, and now, it was shrunken down using a spell he'd found in the library and inside his left pocket.
With the light hand of a seasoned expert, he slipped a bit of card paper out of someone's pocket — then a quill — then some ink. He could have found all of that himself beforehand in a less risky manner, but something about.. harvesting the equipment made the experience more enjoyable.
He quickly retreated back under the table of hors d'oeuvres to write out the note. Abraxas and his friends had gone, though the snogging couple remained under the mistletoe (or perhaps it was a different one?).
He cast Lumos, holding his wand aloft with his right hand.
My heart yearns for you, Tom wrote, carefully and in what he hoped was a mature-enough hand. Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at eight o'clock.
Your secret admirer XXXX
Satisfied with his handiwork, he cast the Doubling Charm twice to create four identical copies. Now he only had to hope that they wouldn't compare them... but Tom didn't think their egos would allow it.
Finding the nozzle on the perfume bottle was surprisingly troublesome, but he managed to get splotches of nauseating, flowery perfume on each piece of card. The air under the tablecloth turned from stale to sickening.
With the notes in hand, he got to his feet, stowed away the bottle of perfume, then surveyed the crowd.
Step Two. Planting the bait.
Of course, Tom couldn't simply go up and tap them on the shoulder. That would be incredibly stupid of him to think that he could get away with such an obvious ploy.
He had thought of using the school owls to deliver them, but that would be too disruptive.
The final solution involved a spell that Tom found particularly twee: the not-so-subtle art of turning a piece of paper into some kind of animated origami bird that could be unfolded and read only by the intended recipient. All of the girls in Charms class found it fascinating; the boys, too, when they discovered that the spell made a brilliant paper airplane that could be made to pelt their classmates repeatedly.
Regardless of his opinions on the matter, it was a feasible method of delivery. And once it was done, Tom had to make sure that he was seen by people who could vouch for his presence.
"Minerva?" He walked over to the table where she was standing and tapped her on the shoulder.
She jumped in surprise as she turned around.
"What have you been doing?" asked Minerva in a threatening tone that would have made even Mrs. Cole shiver.
Tom had not been expecting this. Perhaps she wouldn't vouch for him being there anyway — but then, she was a stickler for the truth (which drove him batty, but the professors would trust her if Tom was ever suspected).
"Nothing," he said defensively. "Just talking to people. What have you been doing?"
Minerva wrinkled her nose; clearly, his attempt at evasion had not been altogether effective. Maybe he shouldn't have so deliberately left her in the crowd.
He'd underestimated her ability to hold grudges.
After the incident in Potions, Nott and Mulciber had been on their best behavior to avoid provoking her wrath.
Tom had not considered this fate being inflicted on him.
This had not gone according to plan at all.
"Oh, nothing," said Minerva, crossing her arms and glaring at Tom. "Just standing around at this stupid party that you invited me to. I don't know anyone. Invite Minerva to a party and leave her by herself — all a big lark, isn't it? I'm sure you and your stupid Slytherin friends will have a good laugh tonight."
Tom didn't know anyone that he tolerated here, either, apart from Slughorn. He supposed they had that in common.
"I didn't invite you for a laugh. I invited you because Professor Slughorn told me to."
Minerva gave an offended sort of sniff.
He didn't quite understand her irritation — was she honestly under the impression that he was supposed to trail her around the room all night?
"Are you going home for Christmas?" he asked, in a desperate attempt to steer the conversation into more favorable winds.
Sniff.
"Aye. You?"
Her accent was thicker when she was in a huff.
"Er, no," said Tom, grasping at straws. "Terrible weather."
There were no windows in the room. For all Tom knew, the sun could be shining and the sky blue (although it was night, so that was unlikely).
Minerva straightened her posture, stuck her chin in the air, and crossed her arms even tighter.
"Hmph. I think it might rain tomorrow."
"Mm."
"Minerva!"
Slughorn's enormous figure emerged from the crowd; Tom sagged in relief, glancing up at the clock.
"I do hope you're enjoying yourselves," said Slughorn, smiling evenly. If he noticed their obvious discomfort, he gave no indication. "I see Tom has finally found you. By the way, Tom — excellent work on your essay, I've just graded it — truly impressive, the attention to detail."
"Thank you, Professor Slughorn," said Tom with a small smile.
"Kiss-arse," muttered Minerva.
Tom glared at her. "Know-it-all."
"I haven't gotten to yours, yet," said Slughorn, nodding at Minerva. "But I believe I will also be impressed." He sighed. "Sadly, I cannot say the same for... certain others..."
"Nott and Mulciber?" asked Minerva, without missing a beat. "I'd be surprised if they had the attention span to write three inches' worth of anything."
Tom put his hand over his mouth to hide his smirk. He wouldn't presume to just come out with that — but he supposed directness was a Gryffindor trait.
Slughorn laughed, perhaps a bit nervously. "Why, yes. A disappointment, in my opinion..."
Tom had to make his escape now. He had only ten minutes remaining.
He thanked Slughorn for inviting him, said goodnight to Minerva, and told them both that he was going back to his dormitory to sleep.
There. Now, if there were any questions, his whereabouts were accounted for.
Instead of heading down towards the Slytherin Dungeon, Tom glanced behind him to make sure no one was following him, then went up the stairs towards the Astronomy Tower.
He wanted to make them all feel as miserable and humiliated and helpless as they made him. First, Tom thought of branding something as equally awful on them — but his identity would be only too obvious, and Tom balked at the idea of getting his hands dirty (he considered such a thing beneath him).
But careful research had turned up something promising.
Tom was very familiar with the effects of fear; its spectre haunted him nightly. Yes, that was an appropriate punishment.
This was much more serious than any of the childish injustices he suffered at Wool's Orphanage.
What did he want them to be afraid of?
Me.
For a while, at least. For just a few short minutes.
The Nightmare Curse. It made commonplace objects terrifying, effectively turning reality into a waking nightmare. Little house spiders became Acromantulas; garden snakes became grotesque dragons with blood and bone dripping from their stinking maws.
Tom had practiced it on bugs that he found crawling around the dormitory and the common room. It was hard to tell if they were more frightened of him than insects usually were of humans, but he was confident in his abilities.
As silent as a thief, he moved into the shadows behind a suit of armor, pointed his wand at the three of them, and whispered the incantation.
Then he waited.
Skkrrsh.
A commonplace sound, but if he had cast the spell right, there should be a reaction. Tom dragged his fingernails against the suit of armor again.
Skkrrsh.
"Who's there?" shouted Carrow. "Show yourself!"
The other two turned around, wide-eyed. Scared.
Just a bit of fun.
Tom stepped out from behind the suit of armor, and they all drew back.
"Let's play a game," he suggested, savoring the fear in their eyes. It was intoxicating. Addictive.
He thought of extricating the sword from the knight's grip, but that would be too noisy, too boorish. Instead, he pointed his wand at the little white feather sticking out of the helmet.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The feather fluttered stubbornly, but the pull of Tom's magic was too strong to resist, and it floated towards him.
"What are you doing?" asked Parkinson, his voice high and eyes wide with fear (the way Tom's must have been that night).
"What do you see, Parkinson?" he whispered, nudging the feather closer. "I want to know."
"Get it away from me!"
Tom did not move the feather away from Parkinson. In fact, he urged it closer.
"Get it off, get it off of me!" he shouted, dropping to the floor in a vain attempt to escape, his watery eyes bulging out of his skull as he rolled about on the dusty stone floor, dirtying his expensive dress robes. "GET OFF!"
Tom felt his head tilt; every sense become focused, attuned to their fear.
"Doesn't it tickle?" asked Tom, more intrigued than anything. "Why aren't you laughing?"
He reveled in his own power. His control over them.
Parkinson had curled up into a ball, quietly sobbing.
"Yes, that's right. Cry in front of the Mudblood, like the useless lump you are," he mocked. "How does it feel to be shamed up by a first-year, Parkinson? Imagine being afraid of a feather... what a wimp."
Swish. The feather stroked Parkinson's face, and he screamed.
Enough. Tom turned to the other two.
"Do you want to play with us?" he asked, finally lifting the feather from Parkinson. "Who wants to go first?"
Silence. They were pressed against the back wall, clinging to each other and trembling.
Tom wondered what he looked like to them. Did he have a thousand eyes? A hundred hands with sharp, dirty nails? A mouth full of pointy, bloody teeth?
"Carrow," he said slowly, his heartbeat racing in anticipation. "You're last. But why don't you watch Selwyn?"
"Nox."
The candles snuffed out. They screamed.
"I wasn't allowed to scream," said Tom. "But scream all you want. It won't help you. No one can hear."
And with that, he set the feather on fire, the only light on the velvet darkness of the Astronomy Tower. It was a cloudy night, and the moon was new.
"I'm not going to burn you," said Tom. "I'm not silly. That would leave marks."
"Water," begged Selwyn. "Water. Please."
"The book said thirst was a side effect of the curse," Tom mused, but made no effort to step forward. He'd prepared for this, too. The idea deeply amused him.
"What's that?" asked one of them, and Tom bent to retrieve the object that he'd hidden earlier.
"Water," said Tom, swishing the clear liquid in the glass. "Listen."
He put the rims of the two glasses together, then tipped the full glass into the empty one.
It was such a hard sound to describe. There was nothing quite like the sound of water being poured; the steady, reassuring glug glug glug.
It was a sound that evoked relief, the sense that your throat was dry and your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, but you could drink soon, drink now. Put the cool glass to your lips and have that discomfort go away and your head buzz with sudden clarity.
In fact, the sound was making Tom thirsty, too.
It was torture in and of itself for Carrow and Selwyn to have to watch him.
He drank greedily, enough of it to make him feel sick and his stomach feel heavy and bloated, but the glass was still half-full.
"Selwyn?" he said, kindly this time as he stepped towards the older boy, "Do you want some?"
His hands trembled. Saliva dribbled out of the corners of his mouth (Where's your pureblood attitude now? Toffee-nosed bastard.) as he looked around, panicked. Still, Tom forced the glass into his hand.
"Why are you afraid, Selwyn? Aren't you thirsty?"
He smiled.
"Drink."
Selwyn grunted, whimpering and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.
"Drink, Selwyn," he cooed. "Drink. It will be good for you."
Selwyn squealed; actually squealed in fear as Tom placed his hand firmly over Selwyn's bigger one, lifting the glass.
"Drink," said Tom, with the same focus as when he had intended to compel Dumbledore at Wool's Orphanage.
But Selwyn was not Dumbledore. Selwyn was weak. Selwyn obeyed.
"Mmmph," he whined as the glass inched closer to his face. Selwyn sealed his lips like a toddler presented with vegetables. "Mmph! Mmph!"
Tom trembled, in awe of his own power. He felt halfway out of his own body, floating high above the Astronomy Tower.
His eyes fixed on Selwyn, he tipped the glass forward, and the boy let out the highest squeal yet, like a pig being slaughtered.
"It's just water," said Tom, laughing hysterically as the glass fell and shattered on the floor. "Get up, you'll cut yourself on the splinters."
Both him and Parkinson were finished now. Humiliated. Shattered. Broken.
Only Carrow remained.
Oh, if only Abraxas were here to play with us.
"Do you understand the rules of the game, Carrow?"
His knees trembled; his bottom lip quivered.
Pathetic.
"What should I do with you?" asked Tom. "What was it you told me... Don't piss yourself, Mudblood?"
"Nuh-nuh — no! No, please!" yelped Carrow, as Tom's wand hovered even closer to his throat.
"You started it," said Tom. "I never bothered any of you."
Yes, let him wonder... Let him wonder what I'm going to do with him.
"I'm sorry!" he sobbed, sinking to his knees. "I'm sorry — leave me alone, please!"
There was no need to do anything else to him. Carrow was already broken (the weakest out of them all.)
And judging by the dark spot on his trousers, he had already pissed himself (projection, much?).
Tom was merciful. He pointed his wand at Carrow's head; the boy whimpered.
"Obliviate."
He nudged Carrow's face with his foot, staring down at his blank, fearful expression with a sense of righteous triumph.
"You should've known better," he said, then callously repeated the Memory Charm on the other two.
They'll be afraid of me, Tom thought, But they won't know why.
So inebriated that they couldn't remember how they got to the tower and out of bed past nine?
They would undoubtedly be in trouble on top of everything Tom had done to them.
Ooh, what if Pringle finds them?
The Hogwarts caretaker wasn't afraid to use corporal punishment on students he caught wandering around after curfew. Even Mrs. Cole saw such a thing as an absolute last resort, but Apollyon Pringle wasn't shy about leaving marks.
This would certainly be enough to draw his ire.
Tom bent down to admire the snake ring on Selwyn's hand — the ouroboros, as Slughorn called it. He remembered how frightening it had been when the cold metal had been pressed against his nose, stifling his breath.
Now it was harmless.
He knelt, grasped it with his index finger and thumb, and pulled. The ring struggled against Selwyn's knuckle, but Tom pulled against it, and the ring was free.
The snake's tiny emerald eyes seemed to glint with something that was not reflected moonlight.
Pretty. Shiny. Tom curled his fingers around the ring, the tiny scales biting into his hand.
He closed his eyes and thought of his secret box in the wardrobe at Wool's Orphanage, of the soft cardboard bending under his fingers. Now, he wished he'd brought it with him.
The orphanage...
He saw Dumbledore, sitting on the old wooden chair and gazing steadily at him, exacting and disapproving.
You have — inadvertently, I am sure — been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school.
This time, it was not inadvertent.
You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you.
No. This time it had been premeditated. He had been in control.
Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.
"It's not what you tolerate, Dumbledore... It's what I can get away with."
He was right. He was justified. He was an avenging angel.
Tom was the hero of this tale. Not the villain.
They were wrong to even dare... how could they even think of trying?
If only Abraxas had been there. But perhaps this was better; perhaps Abraxas's downfall was a delicacy worth savoring.
A group of nuns came to visit the orphanage once.
Tom remembered the piece of hard candy one of them gave him — not sweet at all and overpoweringly minty. The fat circle had looked enormous in his hand; uneven red stripes radiating out like a starburst.
The mint had been near-intolerable after a few seconds, but the biting sensation that lingered in his ears for several minutes was pleasant.
Likewise, revenge on Abraxas was too potent to be enjoyed in a few fleeting minutes.
"I'm going to keep it," whispered Tom, curling his fingers even tighter around the ring. How fitting... a symbol of his triumph.
"Will you whisper to me, too?"
The snake's eyes glinted once more, but it remained immobile. Perhaps, it had been a simple trick of the light.
Footsteps.
Quick as a flash, Tom disappeared once more into the shadows.
Endnotes:
So... Tom's white torture prison is sounding more-and-more like karmic justice.
I admit I was a bit unfair with the unicorn/pegasus one, but I doubt pegasus would have been the first thing that Tom would think of. Perseus Parkinson is a real person from canon, though.
Ouroboros = snake = that comment Umbridge made about Slytherin's locket when she lied about being related to the Selwyns
And, last but not least, the clue for Carrow was Araminta being overly nice to Tom.
The ouroboros ring was originally a bracelet featured in a long-deleted scene in a night market in Taiwan that was in one of my very, very first drafts of RFMD. I don't think it's ever going to show up, but fun meta fact I guess. Also, Ruby was originally the one to use the nightmare spell - but I decided it was too sadistic for her as her character developed further, and so I gave it to Tom instead and made the effects more dramatic (the original spell just made the sleeper's nightmares real).
I'm not sure if 'twee' is also used in the U.S. or not but it means something overly cutesy. Cutesy in a bad, overly affected way.