"ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ᴍʀ. ꜰʀᴏᴅᴏ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ."
― ᴊ. ʀ. ʀ. ᴛᴏʟᴋɪᴇɴ
Chapter Eleven: Class Fight
Voldemort had never much cared for the festive season, the long, cold march through December bedecked in snow, ice, and merriment. The Malfoys' attempts to include him seldom made it any more bearable. The ending of the year, after all, was always a time to reflect on shortcomings and failures as well as good fortune and success.
Their liaison with the Ministry had gone well, he supposed. Narcissa seemed to be settling in and above reproach from all sides. Soon, Dolores Umbridge would be Minister.
Soon, this petty world will crumble to ashes.
On the other hand, the affairs of Hogwarts remained a dark object, a black hole into which observers could not look because not a single strand of light escaped.
So typical of Dumbledore to be so utterly infuriating. The old man had always played a good game of chess. Voldemort had to give him that, at least.
He gazed, as was his habit, out of the topmost room of Malfoy Manor, looking out onto the snow-covered grounds, the dense yew hedge which protected the estate from prying eyes startlingly green against the white landscape.
How he resembles Abraxas!
Draco Malfoy, just returned from Svalbard on holiday and practising spellwork in the courtyard, was now the spitting image of his grandfather on the day Tom Riddle met him. A narrow, aristocratic face was pointed up at Voldemort's window, most of the boy's white-blond hair covered by the hood of his emerald green cloak. Karkaroff was a fool and a traitor, but his knowledge of martial magic had undoubtedly paid off if Malfoy was anything to go on. The Nott and Malfoy boys were an interesting set of pawns: a poison and a sword.
My weapon nears readiness. Some polishing, however, is required.
"I have been teaching him, My Lord."
Bella. He did not turn. After all, he had been expecting her, the way she came to the room once a day like clockwork, despite her pretence of just passing by casually.
Then again, was Bellatrix Lestrange ever casual?
"That is wise."
He did, indeed, note Bellatrix's personal flair. Some of the little flourishes indisputably were hers.
"Cissy says the pieces are all falling into place, My Lord, just as you predicted."
Her voice was as reverent as ever as she drew closer to him, delicately and exquisitely aware of the narrowing space between them.
"Too early yet, I think, for him to take the Dark Mark."
Bellatrix's gaze darted from his face and back to the window. Voldemort had still not looked at her.
He was correct, then. Narcissa and Bellatrix had been discussing it.
"And what do you think of the matter, Bella?"
Colour came into her face; her robes snapped around her as she turned to face him, her eyes shining with devotion.
"To take the Dark Mark is the highest honour! And for it to be bestowed upon so many amongst my family, My Lord..." She trailed off, something darker in her tone. "Narcissa worries for him. She thinks of our cousin. But I can, I will convince her to see sense. I know she will."
"You have always been able to grasp the bigger picture," Voldemort praised. "It is something I highly value, yet so many around me lack..."
His thoughts turned to the success of the Dementors. Rookwood's conjecture was correct. Fear breeds fear, and in fear, those monsters multiply.
The distant howls of the Dementors outside were an ever-present, lingering fear. As she prepared to leave, Mafalda realised with a shudder that she was getting used to this arrangement.
Mafalda's second-ever Order meeting was also held at the Tonks' house. But this time, knowing of the location, she had the opportunity to Apparate, which was a marginally more pleasant means of transportation than Portkeying. Besides, she could arrive early and go in the front door like a normal person.
Ted Tonks, a large, fair-haired man with an easy smile, was the one to greet her this time. After taking her coat, he tapped his wand on the coat rack overflowing with wraps, robes, and witch's hats, and a brand-new hook appeared.
"Mad-Eye's here today; he'll want to do a security check down the hall," Ted pointed out as Mafalda shook the snow off her boots.
"Oh, joy." She remembered quite vividly Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody's reign of Organized Terror and Security during her sixth year.
"Can't be helped, at least that's what Dora says."
Mafalda shuddered and continued down the hallway. A makeshift checkpoint had been set up, consisting of a bored-looking Tonks with her usual spiky pink hair and Mad-Eye Moody himself, a stocky, gruff-looking wizard whose face was crisscrossed with scars and, most noticeably, a vivid, electric-blue eye that whizzed around in its socket, utterly independent of what the other one was doing.
'Dung' was being made to empty his pockets of contraband, mostly toads and potion ingredients of highly questionable quality. Tonks, under duress, was going through the contents of a witch's bag.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and Mafalda spun around to see a wizard with long red hair tied back in a ponytail and dressed like a rock concert attendee.
"Bill! What are you doing here?"
He reached out to hug her and then, as if remembering that Mafalda wasn't a touchy-feely kind of person, went in for a side hug instead. "So you're not excited to see your favourite cousin?"
"Who said you were my favourite? You didn't even tell me you're in the Order!"
"Who did you think recommended you? This is an invite-only gig. Unless you thought everyone at the Ministry gets handwritten notes from Tonks?"
"Who says they don't?" asked Tonks archly, Bill and Mafalda having found themselves at the front of the line.
"Bag, Weasley, if you brought one," said Mad-Eye, his tone as gruff and irritable as Mafalda remembered it. Tonks gave Mafalda an apologetic look as she turned out her pockets.
Finally, they all managed to shuffle into the living room. Mad-Eye had taken Andromeda's previous seat at the head of the table, and she sat at his right hand. Mafalda sat between Bill and Tonks, all three of them taking care to give Dung a wide berth.
"News, Alastor?" asked Andromeda, her voice cutting through the ambient chatter. Moody regarded them all, his brown eye staring fixed ahead and his blue eye whizzing from face to face. Mafalda didn't think she'd ever get used to that.
"What's there to tell?" Mad-Eye rasped. "Same story each week. Every time we deal with a cluster of Dementors, another springs up in its place. Pointless. Like trying to cut the heads of a Hydra; it won't die until you get to the root of the rot."
A young witch whom Mafalda vaguely recognised spoke up. "Well, what about the houses?"
"What houses, Hestia?"
"I assume they've got safehouses, just like us," Hestia pointed out. She began to count off on her fingers. "There's the Notts and the Malfoys, I'd focus on them first. Completely above ground as far as the Ministry is concerned, which gives them a lot of leeway. The Carrows, too, and the Yaxleys and Averys. There's others, of course, but there's a start."
Mad-Eye was stroking the whiskers on his chin. "Spying devices... Nott and Malfoy work at the Ministry... not a bad idea."
Again, very disconcertingly, his brown eye stayed fixed ahead, and the electric blue rotated, this time towards Mafalda.
No. Not me!
"Prewett, you'll plant a spying device on Narcissa Malfoy. Diggle—" Moody nodded toward a short wizard in a purple top hat "—is our artefacts expert. He'll make sure you're properly equipped—"
"You want me to plant something on Narcissa Malfoy! That woman doesn't miss anything! It's impossible!" Mafalda felt her voice rise in pitch with indignation.
"I assure you," said Andromeda coldly, "she's as fallible as you and me."
And after all, I have got her card, said a little voice.
"Mafalda, you can say no," said Bill under his breath.
But I don't want to. There was Slytherin competitiveness in her, the same feeling as playing Quidditch and diving after the Quaffle—
"There's that holiday party on the twenty-fourth," said Tonks brightly. "Everyone's got a bit of firewhisky in them, guards are down, and I'll be there, so I can help." She accidentally upset a candlestick with her elbow and righted it, grinning at Moody.
"Who's to say we get anything useful out of Narcissa's conversations?" asked Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had been uncharacteristically quiet.
Mad-Eye regarded him steadily with both eyes. "Remember how we got Evan Rosier?" His gaze swivelled back to Mafalda. "No harm, no foul. Diggle?"
"Got just the thing!" said the tiny wizard, at least half a foot shorter than Mafalda, as he set a large carpet bag on the table and began to pull gizmos out of it. "That one — no, no, no, of course not that one — how about—"
"So, what do you think?" asked Hermione at breakfast in the Great Hall, her head propped up on her hands and gazing expectantly at Harry and Ron.
"Of what?" said Harry.
"Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status. It's a new campaign."
Hermione, unsurprisingly, looked quite breathless.
"I've—" Ron shared a long-suffering look with Harry "—never heard of it."
Harry had a sneaking suspicion. "Does it have any members?"
"Well," said Hermione, looking slightly shifty, "it's got three projected members."
Ron groaned. "Is this about that house elf you met last month?"
"I've been reading—"
"Of course."
"Reading about house-elf history, you know, and how they're treated. There've been so many human-rights, oh, I mean, elf-rights abuses over the years, and someone should do something about it!"
"Why don't you ask Dumbledore to join?" Ron suggested in a faux-helpful tone.
Not hearing the sarcasm, Hermione got up and dashed over to the professors' table.
"That's probably the last we'll hear of that."
"I dunno, maybe she has got a point this time," said Harry grudgingly, thinking of Dobby's mournful eyes, and his resigned "Dobby will doubtlessly have to shut his ears in the oven again for this, Harry Potter."
Ron groaned again, sliding a hand down his face exasperatedly. Harry, too, was at his wit's end, but not over Hermione's latest passion project.
After the Snape incident (and despite a painful week of detention), they'd returned to search the Quidditch changing rooms, but their efforts were just as fruitless as last time.
There has to be something we're missing. There just has to be.
The sickening thought remained; Harry hadn't seen Riddle since he'd pushed him down the sinkhole that led to the Chamber.
With any luck, he cracked his skull, and he's currently decomposing. Serves him right.
But as soon as that vindicating feeling came, so did a second one, a cold, solid pit of guilt in his stomach. Riddle deserves it. But who was Harry to be judge, jury, and executioner?
And he'd probably survived. He was probably keeping a very low profile. If anything, Harry had just made it impossible to get to the bottom of this mess.
And the longer it takes me, the longer Ruby gets blamed, the longer we're all in danger.
It was certainly going to be a long three weeks of holiday, with the castle full and the real poisoner still lurking about. He knew that the professors had been rigorously testing everything that left the kitchens, which lent credence to Hermione's theory about the two-part poison. Their vigilance had turned up nothing, which only caused an atmosphere of discomfort to settle over the school as they waited in suspense for the next victim.
Some, Harry reflected, were in an excited sort of suspense. The cheer Mudbloods next! usually went up whenever someone broached the topic in a crowd.
Hermione made her way back towards the Gryffindor table, a huge grin on her face. Ron exchanged a bemused look with Harry.
"So, what did Dumbledore say?"
"I'll have you know, he said it was a very noble cause, and he approves very much," she said, sitting down in a flutter of excitement. "Though he did suggest a shorter name. Oh, maybe it can be part of my Ancient Runes project for O.W.L. year!"
Ron looked, again, at Harry with an expression of utter bewilderment.
"Er, maybe we should go outside?" asked Harry, well-attuned to the beginning of an argument between his best friends.
They knew, of course, exactly what he was trying to do, but acquiesced anyway. It was a difficult offer to pass up, with picture-perfect snowflakes wafting gently from the heavens and settling into a fluffy, sugar-spun quilt. The grounds were full by the time Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way outside; people were building enchanted snowmen that talked and moved and skating on the frozen part of the Black Lake.
Fred and George had just finished building a large and very life-like snow-Scrooge who insulted people as they passed by.
"Oi, you mangy, carrot-top oaf!"
"Sod off!" said Ron, making a rude hand gesture at Fred and George, who started laughing raucously.
"Scarhead! Beaver-teeth!"
All of a sudden, Fred yelped, and Harry looked to see the cause. Hermione was laughing and patting a second snowball together in her mittened hands, and Fred had wet snow dripping down his cheek.
"Please get one of them in the eye," said Ron, sneering at his older brothers.
It erupted into a full-on snowball fight: Harry, Ron and Hermione versus Fred, George, and their friend Lee Jordan, the Quidditch commentator. Shrieking and laughing filled the grounds as more and more students joined in; each team started to organise into throwers and snowball-suppliers, dashing and darting through the throng to lob snowballs and evade incoming fire. Ron did get George in the eye with a well-placed shot, but not before Fred managed to dump a handful of wet, cold snowflakes down the back of his robes, and then Harry managed to get him in the back of the head but had to make a hasty retreat to wipe snow off of his glasses. As he did, a snowball whizzed past his head at a higher speed than normal. He turned his head; a gang of Slytherins had arrived.
"Oh, look," said an older Slytherin Harry didn't recognise. "A Muggle-style snowball fight. Why don't we show them how it's done?"
What seemed like hundreds of snowballs rose out of the ground and zoomed towards their targets with pinpoint accuracy, faster than anyone not using magic could defend themselves.
"Bole, that is not fair!" someone called out, but the onslaught continued. Everyone else tried to fight back, but even with magic, for some reason, they were losing.
"Get the Mudbloods!" someone yelled. Harry hastily finished wiping off his glasses and stumbled to his feet as more snowballs sailed into the air, but this time, they seemed to have fewer targets, and when they hit them, Harry heard not the soft, wet thump of snow, but a loud, sick crack.
Rocks, Harry thought. There are rocks in the snowballs.
The grounds erupted into chaos. Spells flew, coloured light arcing above Harry's head as he ducked under them, scrambling towards Hermione.
He'd seen Percy and Cedric cast it; he'd even tried it before, there was nothing to do but try—
"Protego!" he shouted, and he knew it had worked because a curse clattered against it and fizzed out harmlessly.
The two figures, one sitting, one lying down, seemed far away behind the dodging and swirling bodies. Harry finally forced his way through to Ron, his face so stricken and pale that Harry could count his freckles, and Hermione, her face screwed up in pain and blood seeping through her robes. Her nose was swollen and bloody, and she was taking rasping, gurgling breaths of cold air.
Harry's heart dropped.
"Those snowballs were cursed! Those bastards! I'll kill them!"
"We've —" Harry was trying to stay calm, but he was also trembling all over "—we've got to get her to Madam Pomfrey."
Ron gently put his hand under Hermione's shoulders to try to sit her up, but she groaned in pain. He and Harry exchanged a worried look.
Fred and George appeared behind Ron, their faces uncharacteristically serious.
"Episkey," muttered George, tapping his wand to Hermione's nose. She stiffened as if in surprise, as the flesh and cartilage knit back together and the swelling went down. "That should help a bit."
"Do you think you could sit up, if I helped?" asked Ron.
"Y-Yeah," Hermione managed to croak out, her voice strained.
Harry looked over his shoulder. Everyone around them had begun to disperse, and even the Slytherins had disappeared back to wherever they'd come from.
Strange...
When he turned back, one of the twins had picked up Hermione and started to head back towards the castle; Harry hurried after them, his feet kicking up snow.
Fred yanked the Main Entrance doors open. They went left past the Great Hall, quickly past the stairs, and straight towards the Hospital Wing, where Madam Pomfrey seemed to be expecting them.
"Come, sit her down," she said hurriedly, guiding George towards an empty bed, where he set down Hermione, and Madam Pomfrey helped her sit back against the pillows. Harry's stomach squeezed. Her face had a greyish tint, and her eyes were glassy.
"That's Blood-Replenishing Potion. Yes, I know it tastes awful, dear."
Hermione grimaced but drank the rest of the dark red, syrupy potion nonetheless. Beside her, a similarly pale boy was lying down, his eyes swollen shut, and a girl with piles of quilts on her bed was shivering and chattering her teeth.
At Harry's questioning glance, Madam Pomfrey answered, "Yes, all Muggle-borns. Those snowballs were cursed."
Dobby was right. Disaster has struck.
The doors to the Hospital Wing swung open, and three figures entered: Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape. Madam Pomfrey started, nearly dropping a roll of bandages.
"We heard there was a disturbance," said Dumbledore, casting an evaluative gaze around the room.
"That's one name for it," said Ron under his breath.
"What happened?" asked McGonagall, frowning under the broad brim of her witch's hat.
Fred cleared his throat. "Slytherins attacked us with Dark magic, but no one can say that's surprising."
Snape sneered, flicking his long, lank hair away from his face.
"Professor Dumbledore, do you think..." McGonagall trailed off.
What? thought Harry. Do you think what? Has it got to do with Riddle?
Madam Pomfrey had drawn the curtains around Hermione's bed, probably attending to her wounds.
"If you could remember any names," said Dumbledore, something strange behind his gaze, "that would be very helpful."
Harry and Ron exchanged a look; neither of them had gotten a good look.
"Lucian Bole, I think one was," said George.
"And Peregrine Derrick, that's the other Slytherin Beater," Fred supplied.
"Any others?"
"Loads of them," said Ron. He had sat down on one of the unoccupied beds, his face grim.
Dumbledore looked contemplative, and Harry wondered if he, too, was thinking of Tom Riddle. But Harry wasn't sure if he should suggest it in front of everyone.
"Severus, it would be advisable to call a House meeting," he said slowly. Something almost imperceptible passed over Snape's face, and he swept out in a billow of black robes. The other two professors exited on his heels, leaving the Hospital Wing quiet once more.
It had been a long time since he had found himself in the Slytherin common room.
For seven centuries, no outsider has set foot in our home.
I'm no outsider.
Tee stared long and steadily at the familiar emerald flames licking at the top of the fireplace. It was as if he'd never left. Students were sprawled on the same black and green leather sofas and gossiping or studying, albeit in modern clothes, and just like old times, no one noticed his entrance.
And why should they notice another student? He could easily pass for a seventh-year.
Just take a seat. Pretend to be normal.
He found an empty space on one of the sofas and pretended to be engaged in watching two students play a very loud and competitive game of wizard chess. Almost without realising it, he cast his eyes around the room, looking for a flash of platinum hair.
The basilisk seems to have encountered someone else in the Chamber, someone very good at hiding. I just need to know if Mordred's around. I'll know if I spot him.
Hopefully, I don't get spotted first.
Just then, the door to the Slytherin common room loudly banged open, and a black-robed, ill-countenanced man stormed in. Tee recognised him as the surly Potions Master; Dumbledore had mentioned he was the current Head of Slytherin House.
Hoping to avoid being recognised in turn, Tee slouched over, hoping to evade notice.
"House meeting," the Potions Master snarled. "Now. You two!" He pointed at a boy and a girl wearing Prefect badges, who both immediately sat up straight. "Get the rest of the students from the dormitory."
"Yes, Professor Snape."
The prefects leapt from their seats and dashed down the stairs to the dormitories. No one moved a muscle. There was no chance Tee could slip past this man. He'd have to try to stay and blend in.
I wonder what this is about. He recalled Slughorn's House meeting in his first year after he'd lured Parkinson, Carrow, and Selwyn up to the Astronomy Tower to exact his revenge. That seemed a lifetime ago now. But this Head of House was clearly much more fearsome than Slughorn and looked as different from the friendly, portly old man as was humanly possible. This man exuded an air of authority and control. And he recognised the cold, penetrating gaze of a fellow Legilimens. Maybe Dumbledore likes to collect them.
Absently, Tee wondered if Slughorn was still alive. He had been one of the few bearable people at Hogwarts.
A group of students led by the two prefects was loudly ascending the stairs, Ruby amongst them, and Tee angled his body away as they filed in as not to be seen. Snape's boots clicked softly against the rug-covered stone floor as he moved to stand in front of the fireplace.
"It has recently come to my knowledge that several of you attacked Muggle-born students earlier today."
Now, this is interesting. Some things never change, apparently. Tee had been under the impression that blood supremacy, even in Slytherin House, was less fashionable these days. But it seemed like it had never gone away, instead festering quietly and increasing in subtlety until enough pressure mounted to cause an outburst. He was intrigued to see the 1990s style of dealing with such things.
Instantly, a loud uproar rose up.
"Silence!"
The chatter petered out. The light from the fire silhouetted Snape's face, making his expression even crueller. The students gathered in the common room appeared transfixed, like a room full of wax statues.
"Now, whatever 'beliefs' you may privately hold, I do not care, but this behaving like craven bullies is unacceptable! I expect such displays from Gryffindors! This is the house of logic and cunning!"
"Slytherin's is the house of the pure of blood!" someone shouted.
Tee felt a chill go down his spine. He noticed similar flinching throughout the room, presumably from the half-bloods and, surprisingly, from the Potions Master, too.
"Blood traitors are a good start, but Potter should start doing Mudbloods, too!"
"Immediate detention for the next to make a sound," said Snape softly.
When he spoke again, there was venom in his voice. "While I am your Head of House and while you sleep under this roof, you will do as you are told and refrain from breaking school rules. Now, those of you who were involved in this, step forward."
A few students made their way through the crowd, upper-years mostly, grinning and looking not in the least bit contrite as they came to stand before the Snape. Tee counted seventeen. For a second, he imagined he saw Cornelius Yaxley and Cygnus Black amongst them. Were they dead by now, or still alive, meddling in Ministry affairs and spending the lion's share of their time on hobbies?
"Those of you who are on the Quidditch Team — Bole, Derrick, Warrington — consider yourselves suspended indefinitely."
A groan went up in the common room.
Tee had to admit he'd never seen the point in tossing balls around in the air, and it seemed this professor agreed.
Snape's cold eyes searched the rest of them. "I expect Professor Dumbledore himself will address this incident personally. As for myself: detention every week until the end of term. It will occur in the Quidditch practice timeslot. One more infringement of school rules, and I will see to it personally that the guilty party is expelled at the end of spring term."
A threat of expulsion carried a heavy weight when Hogwarts was the only place in Britain completely impervious to Dementors.
"As you were."
He left as suddenly as he had entered, but his aura of coldness seemed to linger in the common room. Slowly, the students stirred and began to move about again, settling back into their previous occupations. Tee found that the sofas were yet more comfortable than he remembered. A quiet, meditative sleepiness had begun to come over him, and he felt his eyelids drooping. Maybe a little rest. Twenty minutes wouldn't affect his search for Mordred.
The sofa dipped underneath him. Startled, Tee's eyes flew open as he regained full wakefulness.
A boy who looked about twelve, but by his demeanour, Tee would've guessed about fifteen, had sat down beside him, too close for a stranger. He regarded Tee with a beady, stern gaze, raking his eyes over the older wizard. Tee let him without comment. He's no Legilimens, after all.
Finally, the boy said: "You're him, aren't you?"
"Who?" asked Tee, half-irritated, half-intrigued.
"The Dark Lord."
Tee started; the sofa was no longer so gloriously comfortable. He turned completely towards the boy, ever aware of the many watching eyes in the common room.
"I'm Theodore Nott," the boy went on in a self-important tone. "I was surprised, too, at who Ruby Potter brought to Hogwarts. She showed me the diary, and I helped her look for your name in the school records."
At that, Tee stiffened. He'd entertained the idea of being Ruby Potter's little secret. Apparently, it was not so. And Thaddeus Nott, who must be this boy's father, was always so annoyingly rash. Theodore Nott was the model Slytherin.
He must take after his mother, whoever she was.
"What do you want?" asked Tee through gritted teeth.
Nott Junior shrugged. "Just curious why you decided to turn up today. I suppose this means you were a Slytherin? Of course, that's what everyone thinks, but this confirms it. How else would you know where the common room is?" He looked Tee up and down. "T. M. Riddle."
His stomach twisted. Tom Riddle is dead. The Mudblood of Slytherin House does not exist.
"If you'll excuse me," said Tee coldly. He got up and swept past the unsettling boy.
It's bad enough Dumbledore suspects me of poisoning children. Now this little twat knows who I am, too. And he doesn't look like the type to keep his mouth shut.
Now, if I were Mordred, where would I hide?
Tee peered into all of the skulls and under all of the sofas. He even ran a finger around the junction between the fireplace and the wall; a few people even, assuming he was a fellow student, asked if he'd misplaced something and offered to help him find it. It seemed hopeless, but Tee knew the locket wasn't lying in the grass under the teacher's apartments. He'd checked. It was gone and in someone else's possession, just as he'd suggested to Mordred. He even tried 'Accio Slytherin's Locket', but unsurprisingly, it had been warded again summoning.
A terrible thought came to him. If Ruby Potter had been the owner of one Horcrux, why not another?
He slowly turned to face the common room. It wasn't long before he noticed two dark-haired fourth-year girls discussing something in low tones. Both of them had a rolls of parchment spread over a nearby table, and, as he approached, seemed to be talking about a Transfiguration essay.
The one he didn't recognise looked up, and Ruby chose to fix her eyes on a curled-up corner of parchment.
"Hello," said the stranger haltingly, her eyes wide. Tee nodded tersely at her in a last-ditch attempt at trying not to be rude and draw too much attention and then cleared his throat.
Even here, he could feel Theodore Nott's eyes boring into the back of his skull.
Ruby looked up, but her eyes did not meet his.
"You know him?" asked the other girl, her face strangely radiant.
"Will you excuse us?"
The girl looked nervously between him and Ruby, stood up, folded her hands primly in front of her, and walked away to a respectful distance, but Tee noted with irritation, not entirely out of earshot. He sat in her spot, and Ruby flinched.
"I think you have something that belongs to me," he said quietly.
"I have nothing of yours, you creep," said Ruby angrily. She finally turned towards him.
Tee caught the flash of a gold chain on her neck, but it wasn't the locket, just the same necklace she'd always worn. But perhaps she would keep it in a pocket, or a bag, or wedged between her bed and the wall?
He stared deep into her eyes but saw nothing—no hint of the locket or of Mordred. She had been telling the truth.
Tee got up without fanfare and decided to leave, depressingly empty-handed. Checking the dormitories would only be possible with a sufficient excuse.
Still, his thoughts could not help but be drawn to Theodore Nott...
How does he know so much?
He continued out of the Dungeons, vaguely noticing the door to the common room open again and a small figure creep out towards the belly of the school.
Tee's stomach gnawed. He'd been forgetting to eat again.
The thing about being trapped in the diary was that sometimes he did forget he had a body (though he was grateful for it) that needed sleep and nourishment.
Despite his earlier outburst, he did miss Mordred. He'd been bored out of his mind the past few months with barely anyone to talk to.
Well, now I know what it feels like to be a castle ghost, aimlessly wandering the corridors until the end of time.
"It is late, Tom."
Dumbledore — who else? — appeared, the gold stars on his robes giving off a dull shine in the dim light of the lower levels. He regarded Tee over the rims of his half-moon glasses as he had what felt like a lifetime ago in the warm firelight of the Transfiguration Professor's office.
It was to those simpler times Dumbledore alluded, he suspected. The headmaster probably yearned for those times, times when he could trust his students.
"Would you like to come to my office? We have not talked in quite a while, it seems."
Dumbledore's voice was light, and his expression was pleasant, but there were storms behind his eyes, in the long, steady, probing look that Tee knew so well.
Nonetheless, Tee nodded, and the two wizards fell into step with each other, the soft, comforting sounds of the castle at night all around them.
"You know," said Dumbledore, his voice still light, "sometimes I think I know the halls of Hogwarts more than I know my own mind."
Tee knew what he meant. "But somehow, the castle always has more secrets to reveal."
"Quite like a person, don't you think, Tom?"
"Yes," he said, and it filled him with a strange and unbearable fondness, like the warmth from a hot drink.
As they drew near to the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore spoke the password to it, and it leapt aside, revealing the spiral staircase.
"After you."
With an uneasy glance behind him, Tee began to climb the stairs, pushing open the double doors when he reached the top. The office was lit by firelight in the dark, making it look all the more like Dumbledore's old office. Fawkes, the magnificent-plumaged, swan-sized phoenix, sat on his usual perch and glared at Tee with one amber, knowing eye.
Dumbledore retrieved something from behind his desk and, surprisingly, sat down in one of the chairs facing the desk, not behind it. Intrigued, Tee quirked an eyebrow.
"Hot cocoa?"
Tee nodded and accepted the mug. Cradling his own, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, looking, Tee thought, strangely ancient all of a sudden.
"You'll forgive me," said Dumbledore, "if I wonder about the poisonings. It does, you must agree, fit your modus operandi."
He said this as casually as if he were discussing the weather.
Something cold coiled in Tee's stomach, so he lifted the mug to his mouth and sipped. It was the perfect temperature, very chocolatey and rich. He was reminded of that night in Bathilda Bagshot's house. It had been nearly a year, and he was no closer to making sense of anything.
"Your new protégè already asked. Didn't she report her findings?"
Dumbledore looked a little taken aback, either by the venom or the content; he could not tell.
"Yes," he said haltingly. "But you have kept far greater things from her before."
His identity, Tee supposed, was what he alluded to.
"What would I have to gain?"
"Well," said Dumbledore, regarding him steadily, "your counterpart very much wants Harry dead. As for Miss Weasley being caught in the crossfire, there lies my doubt. One cannot accuse you of being sloppy."
It was, Tee thought, an odd kind of grudging praise, like shaking hands across a chessboard and saying, "Good game."
"Well, I didn't." Tee shrugged and drank more cocoa. Dumbledore stared intently at him as if expecting him to drop the calm 'act', crack, and confess to his crimes.
When he didn't, Dumbledore said in a tired voice: "How are you, Tom?" and that brought the walls of the Transfiguration Professor's office right back to him, those long, strange days of denial and misery.
"I'm fine," he said, as was habit.
And then, the dreaded and unexpected came: "What are you, Tom?"
The telltale intensity of Legilimency was burning in Dumbledore's gaze, boring into Tee's mind like an unrelenting diamond drill.
His heart was stuttering against his ribs. Surely, Dumbledore could hear it. It was all over now, but no, he must not despair; he must cling to his story as he had fifty years ago.
"I told you before. I was messing around with a time spell and got myself—"
"Do not lie to me!" Dumbledore was truly angry now, the façade of the kindly old man gone and replaced with the true face of the fearsome wizard under it, eyes flashing like blue lightning.
Hives erupting on the back of his neck, Tee dug his nails into the chair's armrest and squirmed under that gaze.
He was foolish to think he could lie to Albus Dumbledore's face after breaking his trust. He saw that now.
"I was messing with something I didn't understand," said Tee, because that was true. And bizarrely, the truth felt freeing.
Things whispered in the dark always come to light anyway, Minerva had said, in her strange, common-sense wisdom.
"I was desperate. I was misled. I was stupid. I was," he admitted, unable to lie under that gaze, "selfish. I knew I shouldn't've."
Dumbledore's expression was searching, unreadable. Tee found his thoughts drawn to a long-forgotten memory, another evening spent in the Transfiguration Professor's office, another of their many debates. One of their last ones, in fact.
The surroundings melted away. Dumbledore was far younger, only streaks of grey brushing his auburn temples. His face was far less lined, and his smile was quicker and livelier. Tee felt the weight of the cloak that had been part of the full uniform in those days, of the prefect badge pinned to it.
"To live without love is a weary existence, Tom. To lose it forever is miserable indeed, but to live wholly without it..."
Something cold ran through Tee, the profound, sudden realisation of his Calming Drought-and-nicotine-masked misery.
"To live wholly without it is an empty experience. A doomed experience."
"Isn't death the ultimate doom, sir?" He felt his mouth shape the words, the voice the same tone, but with a long-lost naïvety.
"Do not pity the dead, Tom. Pity the living and, above all, those who live without love. It is the futile things that make life worth living."
He still did. He still did pity the dead, and himself.
He had been mired in his self-pity and yet refused to acknowledge it.
"Isn't life itself worth it?"
"Not if the only difference between life and death is simply a beating heart."
"That's your opinion, sir."
"Is that so? How would you like to live and experience nothing?"
Tee jolted. In light of the diary, it seemed like a threat. Now, he knew that to be a horrible fate, the likes of which he'd only wish on his worst enemies. Yes, there was more to live than survival. He understood that now.
"I'd prefer it to death. Who knows what happens then?"
Yes, it still frightened him, the uncertainty, the ending, the utter helplessness.
"One day, it may be too late. So I suggest that you try now, Tom, before you find yourself incapable."
The image faded. Dumbledore's stern expression remained.
"What good would it have done?" snapped Tee. Of all their conversations, why had Dumbledore shown him this? Of all the things they had discussed, why was he (then and now) so fond of harping on about Tee preferring to keep to himself?
"Because," said Dumbledore, his voice strangely raw. "I hoped it might have been your salvation."
"There is no one coming to save me, Professor Dumbledore. To—" It was almost too ridiculous to dignify with a retort "—to love me. There never was. My father is dead. He died the moment he left."
The words, as he said them, as he thought of his reflection in the Mirror of Erised, were acid on his tongue. You wanted him; you want him more than anything. ... you cannot separate desire from the bone. Tom Riddle is dead, but the yearning survives.
Dumbledore looked at him awhile, unmoving. And then his gaze went to a framed picture on the desk, one Tee vaguely recognised as being from the very beginning of his fifth year.
"I did, Tom," he said heavily. "In my own, clumsy way. I felt a great responsibility for you. I trusted you. I made excuses for you. I hoped against hope that you would turn out to be a decent young man despite the things I had been told, the things I kept secret. It was little use, I see now, as you had decided, quite determinedly, I might add, to write yourself off as an impossible case."
The rebuke, admission, or whatever it was, stung more than if Dumbledore had stood up and backhanded Tee across the face. Tee almost wished he had done that instead. He actually felt, strangely, like crying.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
The mug in his hands had gone cold.