He Is Alone
Chapter Eleven: He Is Alone
Hogwarts, 1938
Tom awoke customarily early and spent some time making sure that his uniform was just so. His classmates had proven indifferent at best, but he still had a chance to impress his professors and he intended to take full advantage. Having never worn one before, his tie proved somewhat difficult to tame, but once he had that down and tucked beneath his vest, he thought he looked rather sharp. Everything was neatly in place; not even Mrs. Cole would be able to find fault in his appearance.
Thoughts of the Matron had his lips pulling into a frown. She had been easy to handle, easier to subvert, but his experiences with her had provided him with no useful insight in how to handle his professors. For starters, he'd never once cared what she thought about him so long as she didn't try to have him carted off. And, for another, he'd never strictly wanted anything from her, other than perhaps to be left alone. The same could not be said about his professors; they possessed knowledge and skill-sets that he was eager to develop. There was only so much that could be learned from a book after all, eventually an expert was required. A part of Tom knew that they were obligated to teach him to the best of their abilities, yet he still wanted to impress upon them how capable of a student he truly was. If he gave a little—earned high marks and mastered the course material quickly—then he might get a little—well-deserved praise, perhaps even a few extracurricular lessons. Unfortunately, that wasn't something that could be bullied out of them, not like the way he'd handled Mrs. Cole. For the first time in his life, Tom knew he had to be on his best behaviour or he could very well cut off valuable relationships before they even had the chance to develop. He'd made a miscalculation of some sort during his introduction to Professor Dumbledore, if the man's supposed interest meant anything; he could not allow the same to happen with any of the other professors.
With that final thought, Tom quietly made his way out of the dormitory and up to the common room—no one else seemed to be awake yet, though he rather suspected that some of the more diligent upperclassmen had already made their way to the Great Hall to await breakfast—so he took a moment to study the room unobserved. Slytherin House was not only located in the dungeons, but was submerged under the Black Lake as well. The thick, leaded windows streamed an eerie green light, shadows gliding by as creatures unknown swam through the murky depths. There was a large fireplace that did its best to throw heat around the room, tinted lanterns and lamps providing more even lighting. The furniture, a series of fainting sofas, tall-backed armchairs, and thick looking tables, were all made of dark, glossy woods with green leather accents. Here and there, a silver tapestry hung upon the cold stone walls, adding a splash of light into the unrelenting darkness. The overall impression left by the common room was like a cross between a sunken pirate ship and a gambling den.
Slytherin was not so ostentatiously decorated as he might have guessed. The way his housemates had carried themselves suggested nobility, but these were far from the quarters one would expect of aristocracy. Though not barren by any stretch of the imagination, the common room provided little diversion from the heavy reality of dungeon stone. In fact, there was only one painting in the whole room, just above the fireplace—not of their founder, strangely, but of his chosen emblem instead: a milky-yellow python draped serenely over a tree branch.
The snake eyed him reproachfully, spitting out, "You! There were whispers of your ignoble name last night." It reared in indignation. "Such filth in my halls, it's an embarrassment!"
Tom heard footsteps approaching and so gave no indication of understanding the serpent, just as he hadn't the night before when it had whispered amusingly nasty things to the new students. One of the Prefects stumbled across the common room, blearily making her way to the exit. She took no notice of the younger boy, but he held his tongue anyway. After Dumbledore's stilted reaction to finding out he was a Snake-Speaker, Tom had decided it would be best to remain quiet about that talent until he could look up some information on those other supposed Parselmouths.
Once the girl was gone and the stone wall closed back around the entrance, he turned his attention to the snake. "You're quick to pass judgement," he hissed, smiling genially. The python might be rude, but Tom had always enjoyed his conversations with serpents. "Were you Slytherin's?"
The snake did a poor job of hiding its surprise, eyes flying open comically wide. Who knew when it had last spoken to anyone? Trying to recover some of its haughty air, it sniffed disdainfully and replied, "A Slytherin, yes, but not Salazar. He left the school in a snit, you know. However, his descendents were happy to return." The way the creature eyed him—as if he were mere pestilence undeserving of even that attention—told Tom well enough how it felt about him. Parselmouth or not, the python considered him no more qualified to reside in Slytherin than a louse. "It was their birthright, after all."
"But not mine?" He quirked a brow cooly. Snakes were usually drawn to him, could somehow tell what he was and how he might be able to help them, but the painting clearly did not share this talent.
"You haven't blood enough!" It bellowed savagely, then quickly subdued itself. After a long pause it tried to taste the air, continuing, "And yet…"
Tom allowed himself a knowing smile and guessed, "I am a Snake-Speaker."
"Mind you," the python hedged, seeming reluctant to assign him any admirable qualities, "I'm not a real snake."
He bit out a cruel laugh, sarcasm lacing his tone as he asked, "I'm faking it, then? We're having a perfectly intelligible conversation in the serpent-tongue completely by chance?"
"Point taken," it replied resignedly, knowing it was backed into a corner. For a brief second it allowed itself to look at him favourably. "There's something strangely familiar about you, boy."
He edged closer to the fireplace, curious what this snake that wasn't really a snake might be able to tell him about the school, or perhaps even his own family. Was it possible that they had been Parselmouths too? "The Sorting Hat mentioned that Slytherin was in my blood, whatever that means."
"That self-important scrap of fluff?!" The python reared back, once more in an angry lather.
He smiled lightly, happy to hear someone maligning the less than helpful headpiece. "Not friends then, are you?"
It fixed Tom with a deathly glare. "He's a charleton! All that singing about the Founders' legacy and what they prized, but he mostly just puts students where they ask to go." The snake stared around the common room despairingly, as if remembering different times, then said softly, "It's been an age since proper cunning has walked through the Halls of Slytherin. And all because that glory hound is too lazy to do his job! You'll be no different; no doubt you asked to be here, the same as anyone else!"
The painting was back to being difficult, but he found he didn't mind so much. It wasn't as if it could talk to anyone about him—except for other snakes perhaps, and real ones had always been naturally inclined to enjoy his presence. "It was the more favourable outcome of my choices but, no, I did not ask."
"Ha," it snapped, fangs flashing in the low light, "you're a Ravenclaw if ever I saw one!"
His expression went blank. "You've a sharp tongue, little snake," he told it in warning, suddenly finding himself in a far less indulgent mood. "Be careful that you do not upset the wrong predator."
But the snake was unimpressed, rolling its eyes in a very human gesture. "Oh, so you think you can prove me wrong?"
Tom smiled—wide, twisted, a touch feral—and whispered conversationally, "There are so many ways for a painting to get damaged, you know. A little too much heat and your paint would crack and peel, or too much damp and you'd moulder straight out of your pretty frame." He ran one pale, long finger down the gilded edge in question, and the python shivered as if he'd stroked along its spine. "What would happen to you then, I wonder? Do paintings have souls, or do you simply cease to be?" His black eyes drilled into it heartlessly for a long moment. Then he shrugged casually and flashed it a conspirator's smile, saying, "Besides, think of it this way: mis-sort or not—and I'm telling you right now that I am not—you'd have precious little company without me."
His threat clearly made the serpent wary, yet it still hissed out, "And I'm supposed to be grateful for that—for the companionship of a suspected Mudblood?"
He was unfamiliar with the term, but it was rather self-explanatory. His cheeks flushed an angry red at the slur, but he managed to keep his growing temper in check. Loftily he replied, "Sometimes the status quo must be upset in order to achieve progress. You wanted cunning back in the Halls of Slytherin?" He bowed deeply, self-important if just a touch mocking. "Well here I am. Or would you rather go back to your unambitious Purebloods, whose greatest contributions to the wizarding world are simply to have been born?"
The snake elected not to answer, quickly slithering out of its frame before he could get another word in.
Tom grit his teeth and silently admitted that this was an inauspicious start to his new life. Despite Dumbledore's brief lecture on the subject, he'd failed to take into account how important an issue blood purity truly appeared to be. Then again, coming from such humble means, perhaps he'd been willingly blind to the subject. It was a mistake that would take time to rectify—he was positive that there was wizarding history in his family, he just had to find the connection. Until then, there was little else he could do on that front other than endure the disdain and ridicule of his peers. He wasn't particularly worried, he'd just add it to their tally of sins. In the meantime, he had so find some way of connecting to the student body, if only so that his professors didn't think there was something wrong with him. The last thing he needed was the entire staff rallying under Dumbledore's banner; he had to divide at least some of them into his favour.
But first, he would visit Hermione. He wondered how she was getting along; if, coming from a muggle family, she was facing the same hardships as he. Once more, he was frustrated that he could not carry her into his own time—at least then they would have been truly together.
Hogwarts, 1990
Hermione bit her lip nervously, clutching her letter tight as she scurried through the corridors. She hoped to find the owlery soon; dawn was only just beginning to spill through the tall windows, but she didn't wish to be late for breakfast or, heaven forbid, her very first lesson. Hogwarts was a sprawling nightmare of interchangeable halls and twisting pathways, and though she was certain she'd get the hang of it before long, her current uncertainty had her breaking out in a cold sweat. No one else seemed to be up just yet, save the odd cat or ghost; even the portraits were sleeping in their frames. Turned around as she was, she wished someone would cross her path—at this point, she'd even be grateful to see Filch, the mean-looking caretaker.
Just as she thought that, a ghost slid through the wall ahead of her. She remembered him from last night—the House ghost of Hufflepuff. He was a small, round fellow, rather pleasant and jovial for being so long dead. Perhaps that was simply the nature of a Hufflepuff, or the Friar was truly just that kindhearted. Either way, he was only too happy to direct her, floating off serenely before she had a chance to ask if he might show her the way instead. The dead clearly no longer understood the trials of being alive, she thought exasperatedly.
Hermione continued determinedly on her way, but just as she was passing a colourful tapestry depicting one of the Goblin Wars, her plans were derailed. A hand shot out from the shadows, drawing her in past the tapestry. There was an alcove behind the heavy curtain of fabric, small and darkish, but despite the poor lighting she could tell who had pulled her in. It was an effort to cut off her instinctual shriek—she didn't think Tom would appreciate the sudden burst of noise in such close quarters.
He smiled at her winningly, looking a touch more relieved than she thought he ever had before. She was so happy to see him, so happy to have her immediate fears put to rest, that she hugged him straight away. It was funny though, he usually stiffened at the contact before gradually loosening up. However, today he reciprocated almost immediately, holding her tight for a long moment before eventually reclaiming his customary distance.
Her joy faded with every inch he slid back, curiosity and a touch of anger taking its place. "Where were you yesterday?" She demanded hotly, tucking her now useless letter into a pocket. "I walked up and down the train twice, but you were nowhere to be seen. And then during the Sorting Ceremony…" Hermione abruptly cut herself off, catching a flash of green in the low light. Squinting, she truly took him in for the first time. Crisp shirt, wool pants, vest—grey coat?—outer robes, green and silver tie. "You're a Slytherin."
"You sound surprised," he drawled, quirking a dark brow at her.
She snorted. "I can't say I am, actually." He certainly had that streak of cunning, that touch of moral carelessness in the face of his own desires. While she hesitated to put him on the same level as the Slytherins she'd met yesterday, she had to admit that no other House really would have done him justice. Still, a part of her had hoped he might have found his way to Ravenclaw, as he was certainly clever enough—a hypocritical thing to say since she herself had requested Gryffindor.
Tom's long fingers reached out, gently pulling at her tie. "I had you pegged for Ravenclaw," he admitted, running his thumb over her bright red and gold stripes.
"The Hat considered it." She batted his hands away, straightening her uniform.
He smirked, a strangely bitter little quirk of his lips, and sarcastically announced, "Well aren't we the strange pair?"
Hermione eyed him critically. He was disappointed—in her or himself?—and she wanted to ask him what was wrong, but not before her initial curiosities had been laid to rest. "Aren't you going to answer my question?" She needled, doing her best to keep her temper down before she'd heard his explanation—no doubt there was a perfectly logical reason for his late arrival. "Where were you? I was worried sick!"
His dark eyes flashed coldly, amused at her expense, though he tried to hide it behind a friendly smile. "Remember when I told you you'd notice something off once we got to Hogwarts?"
She frowned, already not pleased with where this was heading. "Yes."
"Congratulations," he sang, smile widening.
Hermione grit her teeth and flushed an angry red, her uncomplimentary thoughts from yesterday coalescing into a deep ire. "Sometimes you are absolutely infuriating to be around," she told him, thinking of all the times he'd said one thing but done another; all the times he'd casually done something that belied the idea they were truly friends. Or the way she'd justified his actions, explained everything away because of his poor circumstances—a habit he'd clearly not only come to expect but was also actively exploiting. "I am still deeply upset by the fact that you lied to me for three straight years—and now you're making jokes about it? What's to stop me from just walking away, Tom?" She pulled back the tapestry to demonstrate her willingness to do just that.
He smiled indulgently, apparently having decided she was bluffing. "Your curiosity," he replied lightly before catching sight of her expression. She must have looked fierce and thunderous, because his own face went studiously blank as he tried to explain himself, "I would hope that three years of steady companionship would stay that impulse. I dug a hole for myself," his expression shifted, eyes going soft and wide in what she thought might be a calculated effort at pleading, "I understand that and I am sorry—"
"I wish you wouldn't say that," she snapped, interrupting him, "you never mean it."
For once, Tom appeared flabbergasted. "What?"
"You offer apologies like they're talismans, like their mere presence will make everything better. Slap a few platitudes on it and everything's fixed." She gave a heavy sigh, tired suddenly and sad that they were having this conversation at all. "But then you always go and do the exact same thing again—so either you completely fail to learn from your mistakes or you're not actually sorry."
He frowned, upset, maybe even genuinely wounded, and took a step closer. "Where is all this coming from?"
"You hurt me, and you're continuing to lie to me even though it would be easiest to tell the truth," she pointed out, trying to push him back. "Do you honestly expect me to take that in stride and be happy to see you? What do you take me for, some sort of toadying pushover?"
"You're angry with me," he realised, sounding perversely surprised.
Hermione felt like exploding. "How can you have only just realised that?" She moved to hit his shoulder—not her proudest moment, but her anger had filled her with restless energy. "You're so clever, and yet so blind!"
Tom caught her wrists up easily, gathering her close as he confessed, "I thought our friendship would get us through this." His words sounded desperately lost, blindsided by her temper.
But for once, she refused to relent. "You're the one who put that in jeopardy!"
"It's been a month since I told you about my secret," he snapped, his own temper moving to meet hers, "why are you angry now?" Then, as if only just realising what she'd said, his grip on her tightened and he asked with eerie calmness, "Are you saying we're not friends anymore?"
She tried to jerk away from him, but his hold was relentless—not tight per se, but certainly implacable. Her useless efforts only served to make her more angry. "I've tried not to be upset," she explained hotly, "to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you just get me so frustrated sometimes and you don't even seem to understand why I'm offended!"
"Hermione," he shook her carefully, strangely gentle even though she could see the livid flush staining his cheeks, "are you telling me that you're walking away from this friendship?"
"Not yet," she told him baldly. "Maybe not ever, but it would be a lie to say that I actually want to see you right now."
Something moved in his dark eyes at those words, something lonely and forgotten—a window opened, a vulnerability unintentionally revealed. There was a painful sense of desolation in his voice as he whispered, "That's hurtful."
But she was beyond caring about his feelings at this moment. A bitter blackness was tearing at her thoughts, a desire to hurt him in the same way he'd hurt her with his lie. She did her best to mimic his bearing and tone as she offered one of his insincere apologies back at him. The simple, "Sorry," she drawled out was cutting for all its emptiness.
Tom let go of her as if burned, stepping away as his expression went terrifyingly cold. "Fine then," he replied acerbically, the spirit of a thousand bitter winters lacing his words. "Wish granted, but just remember it was you who wanted this!" And before she could even react to that proclamation, he was gone.
Hermione didn't usually think of herself as the sort that had to have the last word in an argument—in fact, she very much went out of her way not to have arguments at all—but his abrupt departure did nothing to sooth her temper. It wasn't until sometime later during breakfast, when he was once more conspicuously absent from the Great Hall, that she wondered at his strange choice of parting words. She'd assumed that he'd meant he was going to ignore her for a while, not outright disappear again. He couldn't avoid lessons though; eventually, they would have a class together. Perhaps by then they'd both be in the mood to communicate a little more reasonably.