A/N: Just a heads up, I recommend/encourage you to go back and reread 53 in full before you start 54.

A murky blur of greens, browns, and greys painted a woefully uninteresting landscape for Tom's eyes to trace as the world sped by beyond the glass. Dread slowed his churning thoughts as time passed too fast and too slow for his liking. The train ride might have been peaceful if he wasn't racing ever closer to the one place in the world he'd avoid at all costs if given the choice. He'd rather go back to the Room and try to tell Hermione farewell without making her cry–an infuriatingly impossible task–a thousand times than continue to creep ever closer to Wool's.

If it wasn't for the day-long gaps between exams, Tom wouldn't have managed to get enough sleep to maintain his composure the last few weeks of term. Of course, three people knew there was something wrong. Flynn and Abraxas were his roommates, so their knowing about his fitful sleep was unavoidable, but their secrecy was assured. Hermione's knowledge he couldn't account for, as he hadn't expressed more than general fatigue or absent-mindedness since the morning he'd met her and Harry in the Room of Requirement. Despite this, her eyes seemed to trace him differently since that day, always searching for signs he buried beneath his occlumency, yet she almost never reacted to whatever she shouldn't have been able to see in his face.

But he could tell when she knew he was hiding. Somehow she always knew if his head was fuller of memories-turned-nightmares than not. And he knew that she knew because her hands pressed more tightly against his back when she hugged him. She'd roughly claw her nails over his shoulder blades through his robes, a kneading sort of scratch that made him think of her similarity to her fuzzy menace of a cat.

And for a few moments, she could drive the nightmares away.

He did not understand how or why, nor did he have the energy to try and work out the mystery in his present state. Every passing moment brought him closer to a prison he was normally resigned to, but this year was different. This year, some of his memories had shaken loose and rewritten themselves in hellish technicolor several nights a week, most of which took place in the very halls he'd be forced to walk through in order to get to his room. A few stages had even been set in that same room, where he was meant to sleep and spend so much of his summer.

There was a pressure in his torso that started that morning, eased during his farewell to Hermione, and steadily worsened again the rest of the day. For most of the train ride, Flynn and Abraxas quietly discussed their hopes and plans for the summer. Flynn would be visiting some aunt or cousin or other in the States with his parents for a few weeks before coming to Malfoy Manor, but promised to write detailing the differences between American and British wizarding culture. Tom requested all his letters be directed to the Malfoys, as he'd be unlikely to find interest in them before he joined Abraxas. Abraxas, on the other hand, fully intended to sleep in and be as lazy as possible while he waited for Tom's arrival.

Tom would spend the next week counting down the minutes to his escape.

He didn't eat his share of the snacks purchased from the trolley, but he did silently pack them away in his bag despite how many of them were sweets. He didn't want them, but he knew the quality of the food he'd be presented with for the next week was even worse. Assuming, of course, that he could stomach anything at all.

The trolley passed a second time and Abraxas bought even more food, this time a variety of sandwiches wrapped and charmed to stay cold, packets of nuts and crisps, and dried meats. Most of it, he shoved towards Tom without breaking the flow of his conversation with Flynn. Despite his discomfort, Tom packed those away too. He'd figure out a way to return the favor before they came back to school.

The discomfort and pressure in his stomach had become twisting pangs by the time they pulled into King's Cross. Tom was determined to hide his discontent from the world until he was shut into the quiet and solitude of his otherwise unpleasant bedroom at the orphanage. The strain of blocking out his internal unease while simultaneously trying to deafen himself to the cacophony of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters left him little energy for much else. Their classmates spilled out of the train in droves, racing towards their waiting families in excited agitation. Tom had hidden his plain-muggle attire under his school robes for the ride. Once he crossed back onto the muggle side of the station, he'd put his robes away for the summer. But until then, he was a wizard and would continue looking as such.

Abraxas invited Tom to come meet his parents before they separated, an invitation Flynn echoed, and Tom felt compelled to accept. He scarcely had the energy to put on his usual charms and airs, but he did his best. Lord Nikolas Malfoy was polite, but said very little after the standard pleasantries. There was something in his posture that made Tom believe Lord Malfoy did not fancy the crowded atmosphere, though he would be surprised if the man were much more talkative at home.

"Where's Maman?" Abraxas asked.

"Unexpected business to attend to, I'm afraid," answered his father, in a tone Tom couldn't place. "She asked me to pass along a promise to make up for her absence when you join us, Mr. Riddle."

Flynn's parents, too, were pleasant enough. There was a whisper of sadness in the eyes of his mother echoed in the detached civility of his father that made Tom remember they would've had two children to collect had Flynn's sister lived long enough to attend school.

After assuring Flynn's kind but impertinent mother that he did agree it was a shame to be so very dark-haired when being blond was much more in fashion, Tom made his general excuses about needing to off, and made his adieus.

Stopping to talk had let some of the traffic clear out, making it much easier for Tom to make his way towards the pillar that would take him back to muggle London. With his trunk and belongings secured, he strode forward, and left the wizarding world behind.

With several brief stops to catch his breath, it took over two hours to reach the orphanage. The exercise distracted him from his dread for a while longer, but as he neared the tall, dreary building, all the apprehension from the train ride came rushing back. It twisted his stomach with enough force to stop him in his tracks. One hand reached out to brace himself against the gate as he tried to breathe through the urge to wretch.

"Seven days," he panted. "It's only seven days, grow up."

The metal squealed as he pushed the gate open and forced himself to drag his trunk up the low steps to the large dark-oak double doors. It was unusually quiet on the other side, but perhaps most of the inhabitants were away on a trip to the sea already. That would make his week pass in relative peace and he hoped more than anything that such was the case.

His knock at the door was answered by Mrs. Roddingham, an unpleasant woman with graying brown hair, a stern countenance, and a decidedly unsettled expression on her face.

"There you are, lad," she whispered fiercely, glancing over him. "Hopefully she'll give you a moment to clean yourself up. Unbearable, this heat."

"Who, ma'am?" he asked, only just remembering his manners through his exhaustion.

"There's a lady here to see you," was the unhelpful answer he received. "She's been waiting for hours already, be quick, boy."

Roddingham hurried him inside as Tom tried to hide his grimace and stifle his confusion. There was no reason for him to have a visitor. In the muggle world he was insignificant. No one knew him. No one came looking for him. His mother was dead and his father unknown to him outside of a name they supposedly shared. He had no friends or family outside the orphanage or otherwise who would come looking for him.

He needed a shower and a change of clothes, but before he could ask Mrs. Roddingham if his guest could give him ten minutes to make himself presentable, the admin office door opened across the room.

A shockingly beautiful blonde woman, followed by a man with equally pale hair and similarly envious features, entered the room. Both were dressed smartly in formal attire, though the woman wore much lighter colors. A pale blue A-line dress with a full skirt and a thick white belt at her waist was complemented by navy kitten heels. The skirt swayed as she walked, but her head was turned towards the man behind her. His navy suit spoke of wealth as much as the earrings of the lady did.

The man noticed him first, catching the woman's attention. As her gaze met his, Tom found himself too shocked to move.

"Deed he walk 'ere?" she demanded. Her accent, lightly French and as pleasant as her voice, did little to soften her displeasure. "How far away is ze station?"

"Only a few miles, Mrs. Malfoy," said Mrs. Cole from behind the two visitors. "He walks every year, since the distance is not very far."

Madame Malfoy turned to face the other woman with an expression so carefully neutral that Tom saw Mrs. Cole tremble slightly.

"Madame," began Madame Malfoy. "Were you not just telling me 'ow uncommonly warm it is today? Yet zis young man was left to walk, with his luggage, for several miles?"

"He always walks," Mrs. Cole replied hesitantly.

"I see."

Madame Malfoy shared a look with the man at her side, who didn't bother to conceal his unfavorable opinion on the subject, before she turned once again to look at Tom.

"You must forgive me, Mr. Riddle," she said as she crossed the room towards him. "'Ad I known just how insufficient your caretakers have been sooner, this would have been handled years ago."

"I…" Tom began, but words were failing him. "Forgive me, Madame Malfoy, but…what are you doing here?"

She blinked at him, her eyes even bluer than her dress, and said, "Retrieving you from zis horrible excuse of a living place, of course. I 'ave been trying to understand how and why you were allowed to stay 'ere in ze first place."

"I'm not allowed to stay at the school during the summer," he said. "I was told it's forbidden."

"And no one tried to find a new home for you once they knew where you've been this whole time?" she asked. "Zey certainly have not contacted me on the subject, but I know you and Abraxas were not always as close of friends as you have been zis year."

Tom resisted the urge to correct her labeling of her son, but could offer her no further information.

"André," she said over her shoulder. "I want ze paperwork today. I will take it with me and bring it back in a week or so after I have discussed the matter with my 'usband. Where is Mr. Riddle's room? Has he any other belongings to collect?"

Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Roddingham both jumped in to inform her that his room was on the fourth floor. The former insisted on needing to speak to Madame Malfoy privately before she continued, but the lady in question wouldn't hear her.

"I do not care what opinions you 'ave of zis young man!" Madame Malfoy snapped, her pale brows narrowing in an expression so uncommonly angry for so pleasant a face. "How any child could grow up 'ere and turn out pleasant is beyond me, but I don't care what his behavior 'ere has been for you people. Tom Riddle does not belong 'ere and 'e will be leaving with me today. 'Ave I made myself clear, madame?"

The ladies, already appropriately afraid of the Malfoy matriarch, scrambled to do whatever her bidding entailed, while Tom stood dumbly in the same spot, sweat cooling uncomfortably on his skin as he tried to wrap his mind around what was happening.

Madame Malfoy turned back to him, a slight frown tugging at her lips. "When we get 'ome, I will have ze elves draw you a bath first thing," she told him quietly. "But if zere is anything else zat belongs to you in zis wretched place, go get it now, please. If I have my way, you'll never come to zis place again."

Tom swallowed dryly but nodded and set his trunk out of the way with numb fingers. "I'll double check," he said quietly.

A short nod of approval was her only response before she resumed staring impatiently in the direction of the admin office and joined her companion again to whisper in low, quick tones. None of the sounds were very familiar to him, so he could only assume the man understood French as Tom made his way up the stairs.

The pressure in his stomach was still there, especially as he walked the hall to his bedroom and flashes of nightmares danced behind his eyes, but he shook them off. He would've stayed downstairs, would've avoided refamiliarizing himself with the halls of his childhood hell, but somewhere in the back of his mind he had the inkling that he had something hidden in his room.

When he started at Hogwarts, Tom's belongings of worth were so few in number and small in size that they fit in his trunk. He'd grown out of stealing and hiding things from the other orphans years ago, though he used to amuse himself with the pastime during the summer when he was younger, but those items were of next to no worth to him.

He ignored most of his bedroom, not wanting to add more details to his memory, and moved to the small cupboard behind the door. As a boy, he cut a piece of the wood with a knife he'd stolen from the kitchens, creating a little secret compartment in the shadowy corner of one shelf. A few books from the library had a home on said shelf, which he moved before willing his forgotten treasures towards him.

An old encyclopedia slid out of the wall. Tom brushed dust and cobwebs from the volume before flipping it open.

He didn't know what he was looking for, only that he'd hidden something from everyone — including himself.

Using pages stolen and glued from a few magazines, Tom had created a hollow pocket in the back of the book when he was younger. The alteration was obvious at a glance since the pages weren't quite the same dimensions as the rest of the book, but invisible if the book was shelved. A neatly folded stack of papers was hidden in the cut out, but he was too shaken, too fatigued to investigate them. Instead, he took the small bag in the bottom of the cupboard and put the bundle inside. As a boy the bag had been used to help him carry more books upstairs than he could manage with just his hands, but it was a good enough way to keep the bundle of papers and letters together until he got downstairs.

No other fleeting memories or impressions bid him to investigate more of the room, nor did he wish to take any momentos with him. Anything that would make him remember this place more than he already did was unwelcome.

He trudged back downstairs.

His exhaustion was getting to him. His feet and legs ached from walking so far. He was dreadfully tired — certainly too tired to make sense of everything that had taken place since he arrived at Wool's, at least. And Merlin how much he longed for a shower.

Madame Malfoy's brows furrowed in concern when she saw him coming down the stairs again. "Mr. Riddle? You're ready to leave?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

André handed her a stack of manilla envelopes five or six inches thick, then inclined his head. "I will get his trunk, Lucienne, then we can go."

Madame Malfoy bid him to come to her, an order Tom followed in silence. She reached out a hand to cup the side of his face, her eyes full of concern again, and he felt a gentle ripple of magic rush over his skin. All the discomfort of sweat vanished from his person as a slight cooling sensation washed over him. A sigh of relief left him before he could think to stop it and her hand moved to his forehead.

"Zis will not do," she murmured. "Have you had anything to drink since ze train?"

Tom gave a slight shake of his head. "No, ma'am."

"And how long have you been sleeping poorly?"

He blinked tiredly in surprise. "Several weeks."

She nodded, frowning as she brushed some of his hair away from his forehead. "Let us hope you are simply overheated, but I'm worried you've overexerted yourself to the point of illness. Not the most pleasant start to your holiday, but we'll see how you're feeling after a mineral and potion bath. And perhaps a few hours of rest before dinner, if you like?"

Tom tried to nod his head and express his gratitude, but he was too tired to stay present, and focused only on following orders until he could get his bearings again.

Her heart ached and the burn of anger could only do so much to stifle the sensation.

The boy had shut down just before they left the pathétique excuse for an orphanage. She spoke to him softly the whole way home, detailing every next step of their journey though his few responses were mechanical at best. A medical-grade portkey took them from London to Wiltshire, and from there she apparated them into the manor as gently as possible.

If the travel made him uncomfortable, Tom Riddle didn't show it.

She brought them directly to his rooms, called for two of the house elves, and gently led him into the bathroom.

"Can you undress yourself and get into the tub?" she asked him.

A silent nod was his only reply. An elf returned with a pitcher of cool water and a glass, which she filled for him.

"Drink, mon chou, slowly."

As the bathtub filled, the elves brought her healing salts and potions to mix into the water.

"I will step away to let you undress," she told him. "The bubbles will give you privacy. Once you're in the water, I wish to return to help wash your hair. May I?"

He nodded again.

"I will step away for a moment then," she told him. "Will you knock on the edge of the tub twice to let me know you're ready for my return?"

Another nod.

"Thank you, sweet boy."

Lucienne left the bathroom and stood impatiently in the bedroom she'd put together for him, trying to hold herself together. So much time had been lost due to the ignorance of all involved. How much torment could she have spared him if she'd known the truth sooner?

But it did little to dwell on such thoughts. He was with them now and that's all that mattered.

She wiped tears of frustration from her eyes when two soft raps of knuckles on porcelain reached her ears. She'd finish tending to the boy, get him tucked into bed, and there would be plenty of time to be upset at the injustice later.

Tom awoke slowly. His limbs were sore as he stretched and tried to feel his way around the unfamiliar, blissfully comfortable bed around him.

He couldn't be at Wool's. The sheets were too soft.

Blinking into the near-darkness, Tom idly scanned the unfamiliar room. On the bedside table were several notes with small vials sat atop them, and two glasses of water under stasis charms.

He slowly sat up, gratefully downed the first glass of water, and investigated the notes.

If your head aches, drink this one.

This one for nausea.

This one if you think you're falling ill.

He took the vial for headaches and drank it, chasing it with half of the other glass of water before he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Sitting up was unpleasant, but he needed to wake up if he wanted to figure out where he was.

After returning the vial to the dresser, all three and all the notes vanished. In their place, another sheet with the same pretty cursive appeared.

There are fresh clothes at the end of your bed for you. When you're ready, join us downstairs. If you're not ready, call for Ipsy, and she will bring you supper in your room.

And below that, directions for how to get to both a dining room and a drawing room.

Tom found the clothes: A simple gray shirt, a thin black outer robe, black cotton pajama bottoms, and gray socks. Only then did he realize he was already wearing equally unfamiliar clothing: a soft white shirt and gray sleeping shorts.

He set his befuddlement aside long enough to change, then started looking around for his trunk. The moment it took him to find it tucked neatly in a corner of the room was just enough to get his heart rate up, but he sighed with relief and padded towards it. He could feel the hum of his diary across the room, and wondered just how long he'd been asleep.

His memory of everything after leaving the train station was weak. He couldn't remember if he wrote to Hermione at all, which was unfortunate since he'd promised to at least let her know when he arrived at Wool's in safety.

Hey, how's the train ride? Not too boring I hope.

Are you alright? I hope you're getting some rest on the train.

Tom? Shouldn't you be off the train by now?

Please let me know you're okay when you can…

He grimaced at the shakiness of her handwriting of the last line and grabbed a quill from his trunk. After verifying that it was still the same day, for him at least, he began writing.

Hello, Dove. Apologies, a lot happened after I got off the train, but I'm fine. Don't fret. I hope you're asleep by now, so we'll talk more when we're both awake.

And by then, Tom would hopefully know what was going on enough to explain his absence properly.

After tucking his journal safely away in his trunk again, Tom grabbed the note with directions for navigating elsewhere in the house, and set off towards the drawing room.

A/N: You're not crazy. I didn't give you the Tomione goodbye scene. We all know how it went and I have way more important emotional damage coming for you in the next 20k+ words... THAT said... :))) Lucienne is finally here! Y'all don't even know what she has in store for that boy... But I bet you have guesses. Theories in the reviews?

Also, a heads up that I'll probably repeat next chapter: I am not writing out Lucienne's accent for long. Once Tom's used to how she talks in a chapter or two, I'm taking the phonetics out of her dialogue, for my sanity as well as yours!

Mwuah~! XOXOXO