He Is Unsettled
Chapter Fifteen: He Is Unsettled
Hogwarts, 1990
Hermione felt a pang of loss when Tom left; to have their conversation cut so short when they had only just begun speaking to one another again seemed cruel somehow. There was still so much left to say, but she didn't begrudge him his abrupt exit. To be honest, if it hadn't been for the troll he likely would have vanished the moment Harry and Ron had burst into the room—hanging around for one of the Professors to see, any of whom could be capable of recognising him, would have been dangerous. The spot beside her still felt unbearably empty, though.
Professor McGonagall burst through the door, followed closely by Snape. They both allowed their gazes to be drawn away from Professor Quirrell—who was slumped against a stall, whimpering—to the unconscious troll sprawled across the floor and the two young Gryffindors standing guiltily before it. Incredulity was writ large across their features.
"Merlin preserve us," McGonagall rallied first. Her lips tightened into a grim line and she turned to Harry and Ron expectantly, demanding, "What on earth were you boys thinking?"
Hermione nibbled at her torn lip; she had only a split second to make a decision because the boys were already opening their mouths to fabricate some sort of story. No matter what they said they were likely looking at detention—Harry and Ron were imaginative, but they lacked a certain practicality that might have been useful just now—and that didn't seem fair. Could she possibly come up with anything better, something that deflected attention and made the troll fight seem necessary? She didn't want to directly take the blame herself, because it wasn't her fault that she'd been in the bathroom, but she had to admit that at least some part of the truth could prove useful here. Professor McGonagall was a notoriously strict woman, but she liked Hermione. Perhaps that softspot could be taken advantage of, just this once?
Mind made up, she stepped forward. "I'm sorry, Professor," she said, not having to fake the nervous tremor in her voice—between the adrenaline still coursing through her and the prospect of earning a severe punishment, she felt like she might shake straight out of her own skin. "It's my fault they're here."
Professor McGonagall turned in shock, obviously not having seen her in the corner of the room. "Miss Granger?"
The only truth that the staff was aware of was that Hermione did not get along with the other girls her age, and so that was the truth she would have to give them now—the truth that they would believe—otherwise Ron would seem responsible for this whole mess. "There was a… well, a disagreement with one of the other girls this afternoon, and I reacted poorly." The words tasted sour in her mouth, but it wasn't terrifically different from what had happened, so she buried her guilt. With her lip bleeding and her eyes still swollen from crying most of the day, it didn't take a lot of effort to sell the lie. "I've been in here since the end of second lesson—I didn't know the school was in trouble. Harry and Ron were just coming to warn me." There, that absolved all of them from any wrongdoing, and made the boys seem selfless and heroic rather than just guilty.
Both boys looked momentarily shellshocked, but it was Harry that managed to recover first. "She was already cornered when we got here," he jumped in, "we didn't have much choice other than to try fighting the troll."
Snape was clearly not even listening to the story anymore, and Professor Quirrell was busy doing deep breathing exercises to keep his terror at bay. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, looked furious. Hermione's implication had been fully received: she was here because she'd been bullied that afternoon. Though she'd been careful not to name any names, it was clear that she didn't have to; Lavender Brown was the obvious suspect. And Professor McGonagall, well she was a woman of principle—the idea that such boorishness existed anywhere within the noble walls of Gryffindor was a black mark against her House, something she would not stand for.
However, her lecture, when it came as assuredly as the sunrise, was somewhat softer than expected. She was strict, but not unsympathetic. In place of any punishment she gave them a firm talking to, trying to impress upon them how reckless they had been. She seemed to realise that there had hardly been any other recourse though, because she didn't deduct any House points—but nor did she award any, which seemed unfair. They were probably the first group of eleven year olds to ever take down a fully grown mountain troll, didn't that deserve some sort of recognition?
After what felt like an eternity, the three students were dismissed with the final warning that the Headmaster would be informed of what had transpired. Hermione had barely taken more than a step before Professor McGonagall called out, "Miss Granger, a moment please?"
She swallowed nervously, her palms suddenly breaking out in a cold sweat. Had her story not been that convincing after all? It had largely been the truth, she'd just substituted out tormentors. What was so unbelievable about that? It was an effort to turn around, to suppress her nervousness, but she did her best to adopt one of Tom's blank expressions when she returned, "Yes, Professor?"
McGonagall drew closer, the hard look in her eyes softening a touch more. When she spoke it was in the same stern tone as ever, but there was also something a little coaxing, a little comforting present as well. "As your Head of House, I want you to know that you can and should come to me any time you're being made to feel uncomfortable." Her language was as couched and coded as Hermione's own had been. The word bullying hung unsaid between them, an uncomfortable reality that neither of them exactly wanted to address. "I understand that you may not wish to speak ill of another classmate, but Hogwarts does not tolerate that sort of behaviour. If someone is breaking the rules, it is your duty to report it."
Lavender had certainly earned her ire: for two months the other girl had done nothing but make her feel like the most unattractive, loathsome creature to crawl up from the primordial mud. It would be so easy to whisper her name now, to confirm what the Professor already suspected, and let the chips fall where they may. It was just karma, after all, wasn't it? Lavender's vitriol deserved this sort of reward. "It was just a silly argument, Ma'am," Hermione forced the words out. As nice as it was to picture Lavender serving a week's worth of detention, it just wasn't right to get her in trouble when it was actually Ron's fault she'd been crying. Even with her denial, Lavender would be under scrutiny now, she'd slip up eventually and get her own—punishment was already assured, it was just a matter of when. In light of that, and just wanting the whole situation to be over at this point, Hermione attempted to downplay that afternoon's outburst, "It wasn't serious, just got out of hand is all."
Professor McGonagall studied her for a long minute. There was frustration in her eyes, but under that was a sort of pitying admiration for remaining loyal to a housemate. "Very well," she nodded in resignation. "However, do not hesitate to come to me in the future. As you can plainly see, these sort of disagreements can have consequences more far reaching than imagined." They both took a moment to consider the troll, to marvel anew at just how lucky it was that they'd managed to knock it out. "You're a very bright girl; I would hate to see you in this sort of danger again."
When she was finally allowed to slink off, Hermione was surprised to see Harry and Ron waiting for her in the corridor. They walked toward Gryffindor Tower in an amiable silence, making sure they were well out of earshot before they spoke.
Surprisingly, it was Ron who piped up first. "S-sorry," he stammered, looking pale and uncomfortable. His fingers were twitching along the frayed edges of his sleeves, the very image of an awkward child. "I never meant to put you in danger or anything."
It was rather poor, as far as actual words went. Then again, having grown up as one of the youngest children in such a male dominated family, it was possible Ron had never really been taught how to express himself properly. "It's all right," she shrugged. Because it was, honestly; no one had gotten seriously hurt, they weren't in any trouble, and at long last she could stop chasing after the redhead because the boy had finally come to her. She allowed herself a satisfied smile and continued, "There aren't many pleas for forgiveness quite so grand as knocking out a troll."
Well, that wasn't entirely true; Hermione could think of at least one gesture that had been far more grand. Never in a million years would she forget the sight of Tom kneeling before her, his tall frame arched down, dark gaze trained low as he'd offered her more honesty and earnestness than he'd probably ever given anyone. In that one moment, he'd allowed himself to be stripped of all artifice, vulnerabilities laid bare as he'd begged her for forgiveness. It was humbling to see what she'd done to that clever, intractable boy, to have some measure of assurance that he was just as deeply affected by her as she was by him. What had once been impartial curiosity seemed to have become genuine respect; she wasn't sure how long she could trust that quality to remain, but she did like the change.
In retrospect, she'd sometimes wondered if she'd been little better than a plaything for him, a posable doll for Tom to bend and twist as he'd pleased. He had not understood friendship or kindness when they'd first met, and though an honest affection had developed between them, she realised that his impartial edge had endured until tonight. Tonight, it was as if he'd truly seen her for the first time—not a toy, not a toadie, but a real and complex human being—and he'd been awed by the sight. Gazing up at her with his unfathomable black eyes, Tom had quickly rearranged his own universe, and she had seen the very moment when his gaze had begun to glitter with a new light: We are equals. The mere memory of it made her shiver with delight; it had taken three years and countless attitude adjustments, but she'd finally managed to really connect with the guarded, orphan boy.
"Strange, though," her thoughts were interrupted by Harry, "that there was someone else out of their dormitory." His pensive, emerald eyes turned to Hermione curiously. "Who was that boy that was with you?"
Hermione winced internally. She'd known this was coming, of course—you didn't soon forget the face of a person who helped you incapacitate a twelve foot monster. But what could she say? Tom's secret was not really hers to tell; not until they'd had the opportunity to discuss it, anyway. She wasn't precisely comfortable with the amount of lying she'd been forced to do this evening, but there was nothing for it, really. Though she was loathe to do it, it was clear that right now she would have to play dumb. Adopting what she hoped was a decently innocent expression, she hummed and asked, "What boy?"
Harry's eyes sharpened, but if he suspected that she was dissembling on purpose he kept that revelation to himself. Instead, he gave her a confused little smile and clarified, "The one who helped us; he was using the same fire charm as you. Tall, black hair, Slytherin robes?"
She felt like blanching. Harry was unnervingly perceptive in the heat of action; that didn't bode well for the secretive nature of her friendship with Tom. "Oh, him," she hummed again, keenly aware that it was an unseemly tell they might catch on to. Striving for nonchalance, she shrugged, "Don't know, really. He showed up just before the troll did, said he heard me crying from outside the door."
Ron furrowed his brow and shook his head. "You should be careful, Hermione," he said warningly. "Slytherins aren't known for showing concern; they're a pretty untrustworthy lot. I mean, a lone Slytherin wandering the corridors during a feast? You can bet he was up to no good. Who knows what he might have done if we hadn't shown up!"
She had tried her best to keep an open mind about the supposed war between the Houses—what else could she do when her best friend had ended up in the rival camp?—but even she had to admit that there was some merit to Ron's concerns. Had it been any Slytherin from their own time, the troll would have been the least of her worries. Tom was different though, and even if she couldn't really explain why out loud, she still felt compelled to defend him. "I don't think he meant any harm," she replied evenly, aware of how naive that probably sounded to her two new friends, "and he did help us, after all."
Ron looked to be winding up for another round of warnings, but Harry deflected the argument before it could start. "What I'd like to know," he jumped in quickly, excitedly almost, "is how he got out of the room without any of the Professors seeing him. One minute he was there and then the next he was gone!" A speculative look glittered through his eyes, that impishness of his returning when he gave a wicked smile and asked, "Do you think there's a secret passageway in the girls' bathroom?"
Hermione was appalled, "I certainly hope not!" It was a well known fact that there were secret passages scattered all throughout the castle, but no one was really sure how many or where they all laid. She supposed it was entirely possible that some unknown tunnel could lead to and from a bathroom, but the very idea was abhorrent.
Harry and Ron shared a grin at her moral outrage, a warm sense of camaraderie quickly swelling between the three of them.
Hogwarts, 1938
Tom spent the rest of his evening searching for information. There were not many books concerning time-travel in the Library, fewer still that addressed his own confusing method of doing it. Exactly none of them provided any insight into how to master and expand his aberrant talent. In fact, according to the scant texts he'd been able to lay his hands on, he shouldn't have been able to travel at will at all—it apparently took years of preparation and several complicated rituals to do what he achieved with a mere thought. And those rituals only ever went backward in time, at that. In short, the meager books were in agreement that his skillset simply shouldn't exist; time-travel was still largely theoretical and he'd already broken completely through the boundaries of what was considered possible. He was flying blind, completely on his own, unless… unless there were more helpful scripts elsewhere in the castle.
The restricted section was beyond his reach; access would require permission from a staff member, and he doubted any professor was likely to give carte blanche to an eleven year old so that he could study some peculiar, extracurricular interests. The Hogwarts Archives, on the other hand, were not so heavily guarded. In addition to the school records, the Archives also contained a wealth of information penned by former Headmasters and renowned scholars; it was possible that somewhere within that hidden morass of tomes was a treatise or two that might prove useful to him. The Seneschal would be happy to see him again—doubly so since he was no longer looking for students that didn't exist—he could just picture the iridescent scales around her eyes tightening in excitement.
That thought suddenly gave him pause. The Seneschal was very likely descended from mermaids and so she had a vaguely reptilian cast to her features, but Tom wasn't sure he'd go so far as to say that she was overtly serpentine in nature. Still though, the thought remained. Was it possible that his ability as a Snake-Speaker, as a Parselmouth, might help him charm her? With the exception of the Milky-Yellow Python—which wasn't a real snake in the truest sense—serpents were drawn to him, inclined to listen and obey. The Seneschal had deeply enjoyed his brief company—perhaps for reasons beyond simple loneliness? If that were true, if he could entice her into helping, then it was possible to get to the restricted section through her; either she could sign permission for him, or collect the materials on his behalf. There was no guarantee that there would be any useful information there, but he wouldn't know until he tried.
He would have to wait for some other day to begin visiting the Seneschal, though. It was nearly curfew already and he wanted to see Hermione again before he lost himself to research. Was she all right? Had that putrescent darkness sensed her, hurt her somehow? It set Tom's teeth on edge not to know, and he found himself having to stay the impulse to travel to her immediately. Passive or imminent, it was clear that she was in danger from this hidden threat—she could already be twisted in pain, screaming for help.
But he could not rush in so soon on the heels of discovery. He had no way of knowing how long she would be in the company of school officials, and the last thing he wanted to do was make a sudden and inexplicable appearance before any adult. The likelihood of the Ministry getting involved in a case concerning time-travel was high—it would cause far too much trouble for him and Hermione. He simply couldn't risk it; they might both be taken from school, locked out of sight and treated like a research experiment. Then again, was that really such a bad idea when the whisper of Death permeated the castle? She would certainly be removed from the danger then, but so would he and being denied their education for a rather dubious sense of safety was just too big of a sacrifice. And yet the uncertainty that she could be in agony this very moment, while he was forced to do little better than wait it out, haunted him.
Tom did not sleep that night. Everytime he closed his eyes, he felt the phantom memory of that hungry darkness surrounding him. It had been thick and pervasive, the sickly edge of decay not diminishing the sheer power he felt there. The sense of familiarity had caught him off guard, and for one very brief moment it felt as if the darkness had swept through him, taking his measure. It had not spoken to him in words—there had been no time—but he had felt its coaxing all the same: come to me. The very idea made him shudder in disgust—nothing good could possibly come from obeying that spectre, and he could only hope that if Hermione had felt a similar calling she had the good sense to ignore it.
Dawn, when at long last it arrived, was a relief. Exhausted as he was, he was still glad to abandon any other potential nightmares. He rose from the haunting visions and dressed quickly, practically throwing himself into the future. Much like last night, it belatedly occurred to him that he had no idea where Hermione was or who she was potentially with. If only they could work out some way of communicating while they were apart, then she would be able to tell him when she was alone, when it was safe to appear.
The Abyss consumed him for a full minute—twice the length it had previously—driving him into a steady panic. The nothingness ate away at his sense of control, his sense of self. By the time he rematerialised, he was panting and very nearly shaking. It took a few moments for the warmth of the room around him to permeate his frozen limbs.
Tom found himself in what had to be the Gryffindor Common Room. It was a round affair, draped with rich red and gold tapestries, and outfitted with squashy-looking armchairs. The picture it presented was not quite as stately as Slytherin, but it had an airiness about it that was appealing enough. No one was in the room so early, save Hermione who seemed to be frantically attempting to catch up on an assignment. She was so invested in her work, she hadn't even noticed his arrival.
He took a moment to compose himself, but his heart began racing anew when he remembered the dreams that had plagued him all night. The need to be certain she was unhurt drove him forward. In a flash, he had her up from her chair, running nervous fingers down her arms as he checked her over for injury.
Hermione startled at his abrupt appearance, dropping her quill and a bottle of ink to the floor. Though she didn't seem to understand his urgency, she did not push him away. "This is starting to become a habit with you," she murmured dryly, no doubt thinking of when he'd done much the same the night previous.
When no physical pains made themselves known to him, he tucked his hand below her chin and lifted her gaze to meet his own. He studied her soulful eyes for long minutes, wishing he could understand her thoughts, see the past as she'd seen it in order to better understand what he himself had experienced. There was no malignant kiss of evil lingering about her—whatever it had been was apparently confined to the young Professor—and he got the distinct impression that she hadn't even sensed it as he had. Had the darkness called to him on purpose—let him sense it—or was this just a case of him being unnaturally perceptive?
Her brow furrowed in the wake of his protracted silence. She pulled his grip away from her face but did not let go of him, offering the abstract comfort that small connection might provide. It was her turn to study him, his worry finally making an impression. "Tom, what's wrong?"
He blinked down at her, unsure how to broach the subject at all. A snake had slithered through the grass before them and she'd not noticed the danger coiling mere metres away. How was he meant to point out that threat when she couldn't perceive it as readily as he did? Thoughts whirling, all he managed to get out was a quiet, "Are you all right?"
"Oh, yes," she smiled faintly, misunderstanding the question. "The three of us managed to get out of the whole fiasco without earning detentions or losing any House points. Although, really, I don't think it's fair that Professor McGonagall didn't award us anything." She took a step back, pulling out her wand to clean up the shattered mess at their feet. Her tone was conversational, no longer concerned at all. In fact, she sounded downright chagrinned when she continued, "We knocked out a troll for goodness sake, and we haven't even covered those in Defense yet! Surely that's worth at least five measly points?" She was not, by nature, a greedy person, but it seemed that in his absence she'd developed a strong desire for acknowledgement.
McGonagall, he thought distractedly… That name sounded familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. He brushed the wayward pondering aside; he had enough mysteries to contend with already. Instead, he merely pointed out, "Perhaps she considered the lack of punishment reward enough."
Hermione rolled her eyes, nose wrinkling in irritation, but she did agree, "I suppose." Mess taken care of, she pushed her homework aside and pulled him down to sit next to her.
It was tight quarters in the single armchair, but Tom found he didn't mind so much. The gentle heat of her pressing into his side was soothing after his long night of worry. If he'd had any lingering doubts that she'd been injured, they were put to rest in that moment. By and large, neither of them were overly physical creatures—their relationship had always been more intellectual than tactile—yet he found that, after so long apart, these soft and easy touches felt like a necessary reaffirmation of their connection; a way to prove that she was real, that they were together again. And, if he was being perfectly honest, part of it was just the result deprivation: he'd not known how nice it could really feel to be so physically close to a friend; after a young lifetime of that isolation, he found himself starved for the contact. He leaned into her, and if she noticed she had the grace not to mention it. Her left hand quietly slipped into his right, and they took a moment just to enjoy the liberty of each other's presence.
He was tempted to let the moment spiral outward, to let this easy peace define their morning, but there was still so much to say. With an internal sigh, he broke their silence, "Did any of the Professors see me?"
"I don't think so." Hermione turned slightly to look up at him, continuing, "Harry and Ron asked after you, of course, but none of the Professors did—and Snape is Head of Slytherin; so they must not have noticed, otherwise he would have been asking questions."
Tom had a moment to ponder how distasteful it seemed that she was on a first name basis with at least one of the boys that had put her in harm's way. She spoke about the pair as if they were her friends, but he couldn't see how one measly troll fight had led to that. However, right now it wasn't really important—her Professor was far more significant. "Snape?" He had to admit that he wasn't very surprised that sort of darkness could permeate and fester inside Slytherin; it was bound to happen with so many hungry individuals grouped together. "Was he the bloke in the turban?"
"In the—?" Her eyes went wide and she began laughing as if he'd told her a particularly amusing story. "No," she suppressed her mirth, but he could still feel her shoulders shaking, "that was Professor Quirrell! He teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts, although why is anyone's guess."
That was an objectively strange answer, particularly since it was very clear to Tom why a man like that might wish to teach such a subject. It was a touch brilliant, actually; he could hide his practitioning of the Dark Arts behind the ready excuse of scholarly pursuit, and any oddity he displayed could be explained away as being in service of better preparing his students. What better way to hide his extracurricular interests than to make them seem like a noble sacrifice? However, Hermione appeared to be under a very different impression of the man, so he forced himself to ask, "What do you mean?"
She nibbled at her lips for a second—a bad habit that would soon split the tiny cut open again—clearly not wishing to speak ill of an authority figure. Eventually, however, she gave in, replying, "He's a very timid, nervous sort of man. His classes are…" Again, she paused, searching for the most inoffensive way to phrase her thought, though she appeared to come up dry. "Well, they're a bit of a joke, really. He's too afraid of his own subject to teach it properly. I heard that he used to teach Muggle Studies, which sounds better suited to his temperament so I'm not sure why he didn't stick to it."
Admittedly, it did seem strange for someone to switch over from such benign pursuits; but if there was one thing Tom understood, it was that the seeds of darkness lay buried in every heart. All Quirrell would have needed was a push—curiosity, desire, intervention—for those seeds to take root. Something had happened to the man, something had changed him irreparably and in such a way that no one else seemed to notice. It was such an odd conundrum to Tom that he couldn't help pushing, "So he doesn't strike you as a particularly dangerous person, then?"
Hermione pulled away slightly and frowned up at him. "Professor Quirrell?" she asked incredulously, apparently unsure they were talking about the same person. "He nearly fainted at the sight of an unconscious troll!" Speculative now, she continued, "No, if I had to pick any Professor that might pose a risk I would say Snape, and even that's a stretch—he's mostly just a bully."
There was no telling what was wrong with the Head of Slytherin, but it was hardly his concern. It had not been Snape that he had spied last night. "Right, but this Quirrell chap—"
"What's going on, Tom?" She pushed further away to get a better look into his eyes, equal parts confused and concerned. "He might be an ineffective Professor, but Quirrell is harmless."
Tom could only shake his head and reply, "I don't think he is."
The disbelief in her gaze turned sharp. "Based on what? You couldn't have seen him for more than a fraction of a second!"
"That was all I needed to sense something off about him," he said evenly, aware that this conversation was not appealing to her rational nature. "Hermione, he's hiding something."
"I don't believe this!" she burst out frustratedly. "Harry was just telling me that he thinks Snape is some sort of clandestine thief and now you're telling me that there's something suspicious about Professor Quirrell?"
Tom shushed her soothingly, not wanting to draw attention from the dormitories. "What better way to hide in plain sight than to make yourself an object of pity?" he asked quietly, pulling her back until they were pressed close once more. "People are so busy cataloguing your faults that they don't have time to suspect you."
Hermione let him rearrange their positioning, but it was clear that what she actually wanted was to jump up and begin pacing. "Of what?" she demanded. "What exactly are you accusing him of?"
"I don't know yet," he replied in frustration, struggling to put his own vague unease into words, "but there was a shadow hanging over him—a powerful miasma that reeked of the grave."
She stilled, carefully considering the implication of his words, before asking, "Do you think he was maybe practising the Dark Arts? They say that leaves a mark on you." Then, apparently unwilling to speak badly of the man, she continued, "And he is the Defense Professor, after all; surely he's tried a spell or two in the interest of academic understanding."
Which was really just an affirmation of what Tom already suspected—Quirrell had made himself a blind spot. He could get away with just about anything, because no one would suspect the Defense Professor of wrongdoing. Equal parts admiring and frustrated, Tom simply shook his head and replied, "This was big, Hermione, deliberate. And it almost seemed… self-aware."
She frowned up at him. "That's an awful large assumption considering how little time you were in the same room." But he could see the doubt clouding her eyes now.
"I know what I felt," he said firmly, confidently.
At his insistence, Hermione appeared to give the situation a little further consideration. "I've heard of possessions before," she told him, linking her arm through his own, "but the victim's behaviour is always noticeably erratic. Professor Quirrell's demeanor all term has been nothing short of consistent."
"Unfailingly consistent?" he challenged. "Timid people still have moments of bravery, you know; there's more to a person than just one notable characteristic." Tom shook his head once more, and gently elbowed her in the side to be sure she was paying attention. "It sounds to me like any Defense Professor who's afraid of a troll that isn't even conscious—one that was knocked out by a group of First Years, no less—is really just playing an elaborate game of pretend. Otherwise, how did he even get his job in the first place? He had to display some level of competency in order to get the post, or he'd still be teaching Muggle Studies."
She cocked her head in that inquisitive way of hers, and though she seemed to be adopting at least some of his suspicions, all she said was, "I find this very hard to believe."
"I'm not saying he's an immediate threat," Tom replied, "but I'm also not discounting the possibility. Just keep an eye out for him, all right?"