In which Tom is emotional, Salazar gets to Ron, and Rowena bores Harry into madness.

Enjoy!
A_A

Voldemort woke up sometime in the afternoon. He immediately got angry, and it didn't take long for him to get furious. Because he slept the day through; because Nagini wasn't in the room, and he couldn't find her anywhere in the house; because the house was a mess; because his hands shook and he broke the cup with freshly made coffee; because there was nobody he could shout at; because... because his mind was a mess, and he couldn't tell what goes where. And it wasn't caused by lack of attention, memory problems or other things he could assign to some kind of issues with his body or mind. His mind worked perfectly. It already concluded that Ravenclaw butchered the resurrection and destroyed his soul. There was no other reason for which he would experience emotions. And in such excess!

He studied emotions for some time in the past, and he knew everything there was to know about them. According to his knowledge, he suddenly experienced everything. What's worse, he couldn't really tell which emotion was which and why all of them happened.

It was maddening!

Every thought, every memory, everything caused him to feel something. The house alone was enough to drive him mad. When he levitated his dinner to the dining room on the day of resurrection, he stopped dead on the threshold, and that was it. He couldn't enter. Because it looked exactly as it did when he entered it for the first time. A little more shabby, a little more gloomy, but it was the same table, the same carpet. He could recall every detail of this evening, including the gold cufflinks of his father, how his grandmother elegantly fainted, and the furrowed brows of his grandfather as he said to his son, 'You said you solved this problem'.

Voldemort felt nothing then. He only despised them as muggles, as the shame they brought on him. And he was angry with them. That's all. Or... or maybe there were other things, but so pale, so easy to discard he couldn't remember, and now...

That wasn't all. His soul was like an old wound, one almost imperceptible, seemingly healing just fine, until the scar broke suddenly to reveal festering insides. A collection of old and new injuries, all of which threatened not only to kill but also to do it slowly, causing suffering so devastating that he would not only welcome Death as mercy, but he'd prayed to Him to come sooner!

And such blasphemy crossed his mind only on day three!

But how could it not? When he suddenly felt everything that happened to him and because of him since, starting with the humiliations of the first day of being a Mudblood of Slytherin and going on through the seemingly endless list of happenings. Of deaths, he once treated as lightly as breathing and now tried to judge again, finding his motivations suddenly soiled with emotions that pressed on him from every direction, more and more of them, all aimed at stating again whether this or that murder was needed or not. And he suddenly wanted to cry over an apple and couldn't say why, filled with murderous thoughts towards the grandfather he already killed and would kill again, and again, and again, and grieving over his mother and hating her for what she did, resentful because of the comment Abraxas made about his shoes decades ago, the shoes he saved for months for, and wondering how could he kill the woman begging for her child's life, the woman for which life begged such a faithful servant... follower... someone. And how could he not kill Lucius Malfoy, a very painful death, the minute he found out about what happened with his very first Horcrux? Those thoughts led to forgiveness idiotically granted to Rookwood for his unthinkable treason, the merciless, mindless torture of young Rosier, and things he did for money and position that now made him feel blemished, and the opportunities he ignored judging them a weakness, and that... and Alphard… He should have destroyed Rookwood!

None of this could continue.

The singular happenings of his life reevaluated time and time again for a second or two, before another took their place, and without presence of reason and logic, just a cascade of emotions.

He was losing his mind.

Because Ravenclaw broke his soul.

That was the only explanation.

He tried to brew the potion again, the one to numb him emotionally, but the doors were warded tightly, and only a vial of dreamless sleep hovered before them. The sigh made him so viciously furious, that he smashed the vial, before thinking.

But there was a person, there was a person who could aid him with a potion, wasn't there? But how could he ask Severus Snape for anything after what he did to this man, the man who braved asking his lord for mercy for the woman he cared for? And he wanted to grant that wish, so it was logical to enforce the faithfulness and bond the Potions Master further. So why didn't he? The avalanche of memories restarted from this point, and the hurt that filled him, the need for revenge, the need to take away what was taken from him clouded his mind and pushed him towards the doors before he remembered that Rookwood was already dead anyway... But this death was too easy; this was not enough; he should have killed him personally, painfully, stretching this death in time as long as Rookwood's body could endure...

His son! Rookwood had a son. He could kill the son... It was nonsense to kill the son for the deeds of his father. Especially if the father wasn't there to witness this, and... But he was dead as well. Dragon pox. And the youngest Rookwood was in Azkaban. Augustus was always faithful and devoted; he wasn't someone who deserved to die, but... He wasn't someone Voldemort would like to kill. He would, if his grandfather could see it, but he couldn't and Augustus deserved gratitude, not death... Why hadn't he killed Rookwood when it mattered? Why would he cry seeing apples? What was wrong with apples? Was anything? Voldemort suddenly felt hungry, devastated, desperate...

Gryffindor was there. He came back and again wanted something, again asked something, again said something, again ignored Voldemort asking him to leave, even if he tried doing this politely before throwing curses at him, and then...

Then, there was bliss. Everything retreated, and all he wanted was to lie in a bath for some time, enjoying bubbles and the fruity smell of soap. He couldn't remember why he left it, but he did and sat in the dining room to eat something that tasted heavenly, and all he could think of was the taste of the thing he ate, not even bothering to recall its name. When he was told to, he went downstairs to the laboratory and waited mindlessly as the potion was being brewed by people calling him Tommy. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. But there was no reason to be angry at that, there was only the beautiful shade of potion simmering gently in the cauldron, one he got to drink when pale blue turned bluish silver of a pearly hue...

And then the bliss receded.

But a flood of emotions hasn't returned.

And it became clear that they somehow incapacitated him, and the results indicated the Imperious Curse. One so strong that he didn't even notice while it lasted. He placed a glass on the counter and looked up at Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. They both seemed uncertain for some reason.

"You Imperioed me," Voldemort stated coldly, looking at Gryffindor. It wasn't a question, but Gryffindor confirmed with a nod but said nothing to explain himself. It wasn't actually needed. Voldemort recalled everything clearly enough to understand why it happened. And... truth be told, he was grateful for the retreat. "Thank you," he added, even if there was no gratitude in his voice.

"How are you feeling?" Gryffindor asked in reply, unease disappearing. So it was about Voldemort's reaction. So he cared about Voldemort's reaction. Interesting...

"Calm," Voldemort replied. "I assume you smartened up enough to brew the potion I wanted to brew this morning," it wasn't the question, and needed no confirmation, so Voldemort instantly focused on Ravenclaw, "And you came to correct your mistake."

Again, not a question, but Ravenclaw answered.

"No. I came to explain to you what happened and how we are going to proceed. How about we move to the kitchen? I'd like some tea."

There was no reason to refuse and no place to do so. The woman moved at the same time she stopped talking, so Gryffindor and Voldemort simply followed her lead. All of them were quiet, Gryffindor, exceptionally so, not only on their way to the kitchen but also while the water was boiling and the tea was brewing.

As atypical as it was for Gryffindor to remain silent, as much tension could be observed in Ravenclaw's movements. Voldemort knew already that he wasn't about to like whatever they were about to tell him.

The absence of words became more pronounced when they were all seated with three steaming cups between them. Under the pleasant aroma of tea, Voldemort smelled the faint herbal notes. Ravenclaw seemed incapable of brewing a simple, black tea. It would be annoying if the potion wouldn't weaken Voldemort's ability to experience any emotional agitation.

"As Godric told you before, during the resurrection when your magic, soul, and essence were mixing, I found foreign magical influence attached to you. One I have immediately removed to analyse. What clung to you was a set of interesting compulsions and spells aimed at modifying your perception of reality. A true masterpiece, I would say."

"I have told you before, that I would notice any sort of intervention with my core," Voldemort replied calmly, "Even if they are a masterpiece, and I wouldn't notice the symptoms, it would be visible in my core, there's no way around it."

Ravenclaw smiled in the way that usually irked Voldemort. The smile said, 'hush, child, listen and learn.' But she also nodded in agreement.

"No, there's no way around it. The interference would be perceptible for some time. What leads me to believe that those were cast at least a few months before you gained the awareness. I analysed your soul locked in the ring as well, and those spells differ slightly. In my opinion, you were close to the person who influenced you and changed the parameters in the undetermined intervals, probably according to your behaviour."

As she was talking, Gryffindor's furrow deepened, and Voldemort listened intently to say at this point, "Dumbledore. It must have been Dumbledore. If you are correct, he was the only person who would have done this while I was still a child because he was the only one convinced of my innately evil tendencies."

"Possibly," Rowena nodded, "The only proof for this is the fact that the signature of those spells is compatible with the one present in Harry's scar. Although those used on Harry are significantly more complicated. Yours are beautifully arranged but simple. After excluding the slight differences, they result in crippling your emotional life and guiding your decision-making process. You were probably unable to perceive the depth of your emotions, feeling simple pleasure or displeasure or something equally uncomplicated. Right now, however, all of your emotions are free to roam, and you are free to experience them, which must create quite a turmoil. Am I correct?"

Now, it was Voldemort's turn to look at her as if she was an utter idiot.

"No, I just enjoy making a fool out of myself," he replied acidly, each word dripping with sarcasm.

"That was my initial thought, yes," Ravenclaw replied lightly, and Gryffindor chuckled into his beard, clumsily masking it with a cough. Voldemort looked at him with contempt, even if he couldn't feel it at the moment.

"You mentioned compulsions," Voldemort inquired.

"Yes, I did. In short, they encourage you to develop antagonistic thoughts towards Muggles and people of Muggle origin and to abandon those impulses that might lead you away from pursuing blood supremacy. All very gentle and prying on your natural tendencies, especially aggression, violence, and domination. Assuming it was Dumbledore, he did evaluate you well and used it. I believe he intended to polarize society by your hands so that his actions leading to peaceful assimilation were better received, and anybody going against them could be described as being associated with ruthless blood supremacists. However, I might overinterpret it. We don't yet have the definitive proof that this is his handiwork."

Voldemort considered her words but disregarded the scientific approach to the proof. He was positive that Dumbledore was to be blamed in this case, and her assessment of the motives behind his actions was appropriate in Voldemort's opinion. Now, emotions blocked, Voldemort didn't despair over being used by the manipulative old coot. He would like to re-evaluate his own past decisions to find out how probable it was that the final result of his actions would be different, but it was inconsequential. He failed in the end, and there was no chance of reversing it. Additionally, now he knew that the direction was misguided, had changed it already, and still felt no need to explain himself to anybody. No, that was only a matter of wounded pride and revenge, but both could be dealt with at a later date.

The more pressing issue was the emotions. Because it seemed that he had to deal somehow with decades of emotions that were repressed and now fell on him all at once. It would be absolutely idiotic to make oneself dependent on the potion, so he had to find a way to go through all of this and learn how to organise and control them. He would have thought it easy just a few days ago, but then his 'emotional life was crippled,' as Ravenclaw said. No matter how humiliating it sounded. He could start by slowly lowering the dose of the potion, and he shall revisit his memories of travels through Asia. They had impressive tools for managing emotions, judging by the results he'd seen. Maybe Akshan was still alive and still interested in guiding him; that would be as beneficial now as useless it was before... If necessary, that is. He was adamant about dealing with the issue himself.

"In terms of solutions, I would suggest a dreamless sleep potion for nights and gradually reducing the dose of the stoicism potion so you could adjust to the new... situation," Rowena offered, but Voldemort only waved her off.

"Yes, yes, I can deal with the situation. Give me back my Horcruxes and the foreign magic you took so I can proceed with the research myself."

"Impossible. I need the magic to continue my work on Harry. You must realise that it's even more pressing in the light of this discovery. The poor child can be walking with a bomb in his head, for all we know. No. We can study your horcruxes together, and I could use your help with Harry. Still, you cannot possibly muster a minimal amount of sensitivity towards him while under the influence of the potion. And I fear what will happen if we allow you two to talk while you're not placated... According to Godric, you behave worse than he does, and that is quite an achievement," her eyes were scornful now, but she didn't proceed with comments she clearly had at the tip of her tongue. Voldemort chose to ignore what she had already said.

"We could just sedate the boy," he offered.

"Sensitivity," Ravenclaw replied snidely and stood up. "No. I will call for you if I'm desperate for help. Godric agreed to remain with you and care for Nagini if you won't be in a condition to do so," she added, and Gryffindor confirmed her words with a nod.

"I won't be present most of the day, but I'll be close just in case," he explained. "We won't leave you alone with this."

As much as Gryffindor meant to be reassuring, as much his words were incomprehensible to Voldemort. Why wouldn't they leave him alone with his own problem? He wasn't a child who needed a sitter. He didn't need one, even when he was a child. Of course, now the emotions were overbearing, bunched up as they were, but he was never overly emotional and dealing with them, even if challenging, wouldn't be too much after some careful planning.

Voldemort didn't comment. He just took all three cups to the counter to wash them. The simple activity reminded him of the absurd weakness of his current body. He created this Horcrux after months of wandering the Albanian forests, and he wasn't in pristine shape even before that. Quite honestly, it was the poorest and most straining time of his life. He lacked the majority of knowledge about comfortable living in the wilderness in unfavourable weather conditions, which he gained in the following years, and couldn't afford... well, it would be easier to list what he could afford. He also realised later that caring for the body was equally important as caring for the mind and that immortality was worthless if his physical self was falling apart.

Judging after all these years, Voldemort had to admit that as a twenty-three-year-old, he was brilliant, but he lacked wisdom quite significantly. And going to the forest for weeks in dress shoes was plain stupid. Even if they were the only pair he owned. Even if he lived his whole life in the city and had no knowledge about faring outside of it. Even if he put all that effort into the theoretical preparation for his search. He was plain ignorant, shamefully neglectful, and ragingly arrogant.

It took Voldemort years to get rid of those defects. To accept that he could lack some knowledge, to put effort into careful planning and preparation for every eventuality, to build up a set of skills transforming arrogance into confidence. It demanded effort and self-discipline, but he never lacked those. So he was certain that he would deal with another discovered imperfection as effectively as possible.

Ron had four classes with Harry: history, charms, divination, and care of magical creatures. Each class was twice a week, once during a single period and once double. That meant Ron had guaranteed nine hours a week with Harry. None on Mondays, one on Wednesdays, two on Thursdays and Fridays, and four on Tuesdays.

Outside of these lessons, it wasn't easy to catch Harry so they could spend some time together. They often had free periods at different times. Harry had already started flying with Hufflepuffs, and each Thursday, when – in theory – they could laze together, Harry was going to Slytherin to 'discuss a book'. Since when Harry discussed books for Merlin's sake! And when it seemed like they could spend some more time together – Harry had to go and help Ravenclaw with something, or he already had plans with Helga, Hagrid, Neville or other Hufflepuffs, and for this, Ron was, of course, invited, but it wasn't the same.

And Hermione?

Ron had only transfiguration and herbology with her, and she was always with her Ravenclaw girlfriends, whether it was during classes or not. During those lessons, Ron usually sat alone. Luckily, Gryffindors always welcomed him to sit together during defence, potions, and astronomy or join them at any other time. Unfortunately, their company only reminded Ron about what he lost, so he wasn't so keen on joining them.

And so Tuesdays were Ron's favourite days. Four hours with Harry, two with Neville, and a bearable amount of free time left, which he spent in the library or wandering around the meadows. Because that is where he went to avoid going to Slytherin's common room, it was better to be there alone and occasionally with some other people than to suffer the slimy presence of nasty Slytherins.

Today was Tuesday, so Ron grinned widely after walking into the Great Hall for breakfast and walked straight to Harry, intending to eat his breakfast with Hufflepuffs. Used to his occasional presence, Crabbe moved over, making a place for Ron.

"You look cheerful," Harry noticed, drowsy over his scrambled eggs.

"And you look awful," Ron replied, loading his plate full. "What have you done the whole night?"

"Slept," Harry shrugged, "I think it was just too short."

"It was over eleven hours," noted Dean, "You dropped dead shortly after dinner. And it was only so far from Vince carrying you for breakfast."

"The princess of Hufflepuff," Susan Bones laughed softly, "We all wanted to see that after Ernie's announcement."

"And if not for Ernie's announcement, we would see that," Dean complained, clearly disappointed.

"You shouldn't carry your princess to breakfast, but bring the breakfast to your princess," replied Harry, joking along, even if Ron was a little offended on his behalf and felt excluded from the fun that Hufflepuffs evidently shared this morning. Altogether, it slightly dimmed his good mood. It was quickly noticed at this table.

"And how was your night, Ron?" Susan asked.

"Awful," Ron shrugged, "Those slimy snakes think I'll get up precisely half past seven to go to the bathroom because there's a fucking bathroom schedule!"

"Really?" Dean laughed. "How can you decide when to pee?"

"Dean, please…" sighed Parvati, setting aside her pumpkin juice, "no bathroom talk at the table…"

Ron grimaced, painfully reminded about how the breakfast goes at the Slytherin table. He had the impulse to put up something even more disgusting, but he didn't want to spoil his own mood further. He was even more reluctant to antagonise Hufflepuffs and receive a ban for eating with them.

"Well, Slytherins expect you to control everything," he said eventually. "And if you don't, they'll do it for you."

"Are they really so bad?" wondered Susan, "I always liked Zach. Padma is very nice," she nodded slightly towards Parvati, "I spent some time with Blaise and Anthony as well, and they may be… less open than we are, less spontaneous, but I enjoy that they think about the consequences of their actions," she shrugged. "And I like you."

Dean nodded, and Harry smiled at Ron.

"We'd be friends even if you'd be the slimiest of the Slytherins," he said with a grin, "and Sal is great. A bit stiff and snippy, but I like him."

"So nice to hear that," came a dry voice from behind them, and the Hufflepuffs straightened up abruptly, jerking their heads towards Slytherin himself. Harry didn't seem to be bothered by being heard, which surprised Ron to no end, as he would never, ever want to be heard by Slytherin while talking about him. He wouldn't like to be heard by Slytherin ever. But maybe Harry was just too drowsy to think straight.

"Hi," Harry said, smiling at the man, carefree.

"Good morning," Slytherin nodded, and sat down, leisurely reaching for porridge. "Rowena asked to see you immediately after breakfast. You are excused from your classes until further notice to offer her your cooperation."

"Oh…" that seemed to bum Harry down. Ron knew that Harry didn't really appreciate hours spent with Ravenclaw; he always said they were boring, so he patted his friend's arm, trying to deal with his disappointment. He had high hopes for the day…

"Did Professor Dumbledore allow me to skip so many classes?" Harry asked, and Slytherin's hand seemed to stop sprinkling nuts on the porridge for a heartbeat. At least Ron thought so, but he might have imagined it. He wasn't so sure. But if it did, why? Had the founders and Dumbledore didn't go along? It seemed as if they did.

"He said nothing against it," Slytherin replied. Harry nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer, but Ron wasn't. He didn't dare to ask whether Dumbledore had heard anything about it to be able to say his mind on the matter, counting rather on going unnoticed. Ron supposed he didn't. And Slytherin changed the subject, looking at Hufflepuffs.

"Are you excited about the Quidditch restoration?" he asked pleasantly. He immediately received an enthusiastic response. One that Ron wouldn't expect from the house, which constantly lost the house cup. They didn't even think that Slytherin could be fishing for information for his team, which he certainly did because Ron saw no other reason for this question. It's not like Slytherin was interested in Hufflepuff's feelings about Quidditch, for Merlin's sake! And they happily blurted everything up about how George was going to be their captain and how they were flying already but hadn't held the try-outs yet, about who wanted to join the team and their strong sides… they basically told him everything, and Ron was certain they would spill the strategy if they'd known anything about it. He didn't even have to try to get all of the information!

"And how about our team, Ronald?" Slytherin asked suddenly, just when Ron hoped that his presence would go unnoticed.

And like he was about to say anything! Slytherins already had their try-outs, although not officially, and they formed a team of fourteen players, out of which seven were chosen as the primary players, and Ron was among them. Not because they wanted him but because he had something to prove and because it felt great to aim the bludger at any Slytherins. Sure, during the matches, he'd have to defend them, but he had many more opportunities to hit the ball as strong as possible and hope that Smith, the other beater, wouldn't be able to bounce it. And sometimes he wasn't, which was extremely satisfying for Ron, even if he was charged with escorting the ass to the hospital wing. But Ron hadn't said any of that to anybody, even to Harry, because as much as Ron would like any other house to win the Quidditch cup, he had something to prove.

"Fine, I guess," Ron shrugged.

"How about you tell me a little more on the matter?" Slytherin replied with a smile. "Let's say on Saturday. Visit me after lunch."

Ron wanted to groan, and his face must have said how unhappy… no, not unhappy, how terrified he was after hearing that because Harry and Susan both sent him a sympathetic smile.

"Yes, sir," he muttered the reply as if accepting the unjust punishment.

"Splendid," Slytherin announced and took a couple of raisins, probably in terms of dessert or something of the sort. He started to get up, as did the Hufflepuffs.

"We're walking straight for the care?" Harry asked, gathering his bookbag from under the table. Ron – and a couple of others – raised his eyebrows, causing Harry to furrow and then ruffle his hair in embarrassment. "Oh, yeah," he chuckled awkwardly. "Erm… could I borrow your notes later, Susan?"

"Sure thing," she nodded and jokingly added, "And I'll take care of Vince and Greg till lunch."

The last bit caused a wave of laughter, even from Crabbe and Goyle, although Ron thought that at least Goyle didn't know why he was laughing.

Ron didn't ask if he could still join them for the class; he just went along with Hufflepuffs, which was accepted as something obvious.

Ravenclaw's rooms were airy despite a multitude of books occupying not only bookshelves but also most of the flat surfaces. The oldest were neatly organised, but the majority were newly acquired, and those lay in columns and stacks already read, currently used, or waiting for their turn. Despite the mess, Ravenclaw seemed perfectly aware of what resided where, even if she constantly moved them around. For some time, Harry had an indicative idea about the system behind it, but he lost it on the way and stopped trying to understand. He actually dozed off a little, bored out of his mind. His whole participation boiled down to sitting patiently in the armchair next to her desk, moved there especially for him.

Once in a while, he answered a single question or a bunch of them; once in a while, Rowena cast some spells at him, sometimes gave him a potion to drink, and once she asked him to draw, twice he had to write down his thoughts on something, and now he didn't even recall what it was.

He felt tired, dispirited, and resigned. He actually didn't really want to be anywhere else, and once in a while, he thought that maybe he should talk with Professor Dumbledore about it. When he thought about it for the first time, he was surprised, but it wasn't actually such a bad idea. After all, Dumbledore was wise and much older, and he would surely know what to do. The only thing that stopped Harry from going to the headmaster was the persistent thought that he shouldn't be bothered by Harry. After all, he had so many things on his head.

On the other hand, Ravenclaw had tried to find the issue, whatever it was, for weeks now, and she had no idea what the problem was, so she could use some help.

"Maybe we should ask Professor Dumbledore?" he offered, looking at Rowena. She laughed softly and lifted her eyes off the book to smile at Harry, but then she furrowed.

"What should we ask him?" she wanted to know.

"Well, about the scar. He could help you find the answers, right? He's powerful and knowledgeable, so he'd surely have an idea."

She hummed thoughtfully and levitated a parchment and a quill towards Harry.

"Please write about what you're thinking today. One roll," she said and returned to her book.

"Again?" Harry whined but picked up a quill.

It was going to be a long, long day.

Godrick returned to Riddle Manor just after the lesson with Draco and before dinner. Since Monday, Tommy has been as composed as he used to be. Godric was certain that he had taken the full dose of the potion just before Godrick returned today and the day before. It wasn't surprising; the man was too proud, and his ego had already suffered too much to allow any further humiliation. He agreed that it was in the best interest of everyone to share the knowledge of the spells and compulsions with Salazar, Augusta, and Helga. Yet, he sternly protested against spreading it further. What's more, he forced Rowena and Godric to swear that neither of them would ever tell anybody about the emotional consequences he now faced without his direct permission. They both respected his privacy, and Tommy agreed to have Godric around for some time in case he needed support. All of them knew that he never intended to rely on this presence. Whether he would… well… Godric intended to be available.

They sat for a quiet dinner in the dining room, although neither of them was especially comfortable. Godric didn't enjoy the stiffness of his surroundings, and Tommy looked like something was constantly biting his arse.

"Augusta is not here," Godric said at some point, poking the potato with a fork. It rolled a little, leaving a trail in the thick sauce. Tommy only raised a questioning eyebrow in response.

"Let's eat in the kitchen," he suggested, "Here, I always have the impression that the table will break or I'll scratch the surface. And you don't seem to like it as well."

Tommy looked at the table for a moment and finally rose, picking up his plate. He left the room without a word, and Godrick followed him to the living room. Tommy sat in the armchair, conjuring a tray with legs. He still sat and ate stiffly but looked far more comfortable. Godric, content with the development, found a place on the floor by the coffee table.

"I'm teaching Draco to duel," Godric said conversationally, "He's capable. Going to be a great dueller, and I hope to make something more of him than this fancy type of dueller you have today. Does he take after his father?"

"Mother," Tommy answered shortly, proving that despite a lack of interest on his face, he listened.

"I liked her," Godrick admitted. "A shame she went after her stupid husband. Beautiful woman…"

Tommy snorted.

"Beautifull, skilful dueller, exceptional healer, yes, but she was stupid when it mattered. I heard how she spoiled the boy, and I know how submissive she was with Lucius. If she were any smarter, she'd lead him instead of following."

Godric shrugged and made a face, grimacing his displeasure and admitting that Tommy was probably correct. He didn't really know, but he trusted Tommy's judgment. It seemed probable from what he saw in Draco.

"Let's hope he gets the good things after her and the strength of will of his father," he said, "I'll try to help if he'll allow me."

Tommy didn't comment on that, and Godric supposed he simply had nothing of import to say, so he decided to say nothing.

"I'm working on Neville as well," Godric continued, regardless of whether Tommy cared or not. "He needs more confidence. Augusta is smothering him. But he grows in eyes. I can tell you he already has good friends following him around, and it has only been a fortnight." To that, Tommy raised his eyebrows disbelievingly, so Godric laughed. "Seriously, he's amazing. You won't recognise him on Yule, but the difference will be visible at Mabon already. You're joining us for the celebrations, right?" A slight nod of response caused Godric to smile widely. "You'll see then. We planted the Yggdrasil at Hogwarts, and he's…"

"Yggdrasil?" Tommy asked, this time sincerely interested. "Where have you gotten the seed?"

Godric shrugged.

"Neville had it. He got it from his idiotic uncle. This cumberland should pray to the gods that I won't meet him before my ire calms. Right now, I'd love to throw him to the sea from at least fifty feet. Repeatedly. Wandless."

"That could be entertaining," Tommy smiled, "What about Yggdrasil?"

"It's growing. We planted it west of Hogwarts. Neville picked a beautiful spot. It'll be visible from Hogwarts' windows in a year and a half and unmistakable in two years. It grows incredibly fast. We planted it just a couple of days before, and it has already sprouted and is a foot tall. I was planning to…" Godric stopped, hearing the doors somewhere in the corridor. "Barty's back?"

"No," Tommy replied. "It's somebody else… ah," he broke when a sound of clicking heels came from the corridor.

"Rowena," Godric nodded, coming back to his dinner.

In fact, Rowena entered a moment later, clearly unnerved.

"We have a problem," she announced. "I know what's behind the scar, or rather what the scar is. I need you both in Hogwarts."

"You want me to go to Hogwarts?" Tommy asked, disbelieving.

"I need your brain there. I don't care about the rest," she replied. "And nobody will recognise you…"

"Except for Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid…" Tom listed, but he stood up, vanishing both the tray and the plate.

"Stop being difficult!" She snapped.

Godric stood up and rubbed his hands.

"We'll be there shortly," he assured Rowena, "Gather the rest, and we'll meet in your rooms. I assume Harry's there?"

She nodded the confirmation but added, "Sal doesn't know yet. I told Helga during lunch, but..."

Of course, she skipped the unpleasant duty of passing the bad news on to Salazar. And informing him that his heir lived his life under compulsions… yes, that definitely was bad news. But Godric didn't really mind. Salazar's sharp tongue was all he could expect, and he stopped fearing the rebuke after the first decade. The more important thing was to organise support for Rowena and solve the problem.

As soon as she left, he started making a list of resources that he would be glad to have on hand no matter what Rowena discovered about Harry and his scar.

"If we need smart people, we could use Barty," he mused. "Summon him, would you? And tell Nagini she's going with us."

Tommy looked like he wanted to protest being bossed around, but Godric left to collect everything he felt he could need.