He Is Confused
Chapter Nineteen: He Is Confused
Hogwarts, 1990
Hermione sat near the fireplace—glad for the gentle heat after spending so long outside that day—and attempted to revise a few essays. However, no matter how hard she tried to focus, her attention kept wandering off. Why did Tom always have to be so difficult? Every time she thought their relationship had found an ounce of peace, he pulled the rug out from under her. Not that she really thought his introduction to Harry and Ron would have gone much different, but she was still a bit upset that Tom hadn't at least talked it over with her first. He'd left such a mess in his wake that she didn't even know where to begin. Ron was brooding near the stairs to the dormitory and hadn't even been able to look her in the eye when she'd tried to talk to him. Harry, at least, was sitting across from her, although he too kept studiously silent—as if the strange boy from the past didn't exist if none of them mentioned him.
How was it that the two Gryffindors could latch onto the mystery of the three-headed dog—and really, Hagrid, Fluffy?—and yet be filled with such hesitation in the presence of a time-traveler? She knew firsthand that Tom wasn't always the easiest person to get along with, but Ron hadn't even tried; he'd seen the Slytherin crest on Tom's robes and allowed that to form his opinion, something he'd made very clear he would not back down from easily. Harry, for his part, seemed curiously indifferent, though she thought his silence was telling enough. All throughout primary school and those long years of forced solitude when she'd wanted nothing more than even a fairweather companion, she had never imagined that having friends would be this difficult!
"Cheer up, Hermione," Harry said, finally looking up from his Transfiguration book to give her a faint smile. "It's not all bad."
His consolation fell somewhat short of reality. She couldn't stop a heavy sigh from popping out of her when she thought about what had happened on the shores of the Black Lake. "That was a disaster."
"Yes, it was," he laughed, eyes glittering with amusement. "I doubt it would have gone any better even if you'd planned something, though."
She nibbled her lip and peeked over at him; he appeared to be in good spirits, but then Harry usually did. He was either great at taking things in stride, or he honestly didn't care. "You're not upset, are you?" she asked curiously.
"Davies is your friend," he responded evenly while giving her an encouraging grin, "I understand why you were trying to protect him. I mean, you could have told us sooner, but I get why you didn't." He shrugged. "No point in being upset about that."
"Thanks," Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Is Ron still angry with me?"
Harry just barely appeared to stop himself from letting out a derisive snort—while he'd not exactly enjoyed that afternoon's ambush, he did seem to think that Ron was overreacting. Quietly, he pointed out, "It's not you he's angry with."
It was a sweet thing to say but not, she felt, wholly accurate. Her frustration was mounting. "Then why is he sulking on the complete opposite side of the Common Room?" It was hard enough never knowing what went through Tom's mind most of the time, she didn't need to find herself caught in the emotional tides of Ronald Weasley as well! He couldn't have expected her to only socialise with Gryffindors—that was simply unreasonable!—and yet his sullen attitude made it clear that he was not at all comfortable with this turn of events. Perhaps if Tom had been a Ravenclaw it wouldn't have been such a big deal, but Ron's hatred of Slytherin was like second nature to him.
As if reading her thoughts, Harry chimed in. "I think his family must have some kind of bad history with Slytherins," he shrugged. "Whenever he talks about them, it's only ever about how evil they all turn out to be." Then, with a chuckle, added, "Scared me straight out of even considering the House during our sorting—he said there wasn't a single witch or wizard who went bad that wasn't in Slytherin. I don't think that's true, actually," he shot Hermione a guarded look, as if encouraging her not to break out into an impromptu history lesson, "but he certainly believes it. I think it's going to take him some time to warm up to your friend, especially if Davies always acts like that."
There was absolutely no way to hold in her unladylike snort, not in the face of an understatement of that magnitude. "That much, at least, I understand," she replied with an exasperated shake of her head. "It actually took me ages to get used to Tom—he's not the most sociable boy, and he was even more standoffish when we first met, if you can imagine that."
He didn't look particularly surprised by that news, merely curious. "What changed?"
"Time, I guess," Hermione shrugged. It was strange to be able to discuss Tom with other people, to voice the thoughts and concerns she'd kept silent for several years. "The longer we spent exploring our magic together, the more personable he became. I don't think Wool's Orphanage really provided him with the opportunity for friends, and at first he honestly didn't understand how to act around other people his age." Looking back, it was actually astounding how much Tom had changed; the confrontational and imperious eight year old she'd met was a far cry from her curious and—dare she say it?—caring friend. "It took a long time to earn his trust and to give him my own in return." Although, if she had to be perfectly honest, building the trust between them was still an ongoing process—she hadn't been kidding when she'd told Tom that he wasn't precisely forgiven for his lies. She wasn't going to hold his extended absence over his head, but it had shaken her faith in him.
"He feels threatened by your making other friends," Harry realised, giving her a knowing look.
"Probably," she nodded, because there was no point in denying it. Her time-traveler was a solitary creature—no family, and if he had other friends he never spoke of them—in fact, it sometimes seemed to her as if she was the only point of light in his otherwise dark world. That he should covet the brief moments when they were together didn't seem unusual, but he had a definite problem with sharing those precious minutes. It had to be exhausting, living like that; she couldn't even imagine being in his shoes. "He doesn't mention anyone from his own time, so I don't think he's likely met anyone new. Deep down, I know he must be lonely, but he's never gone out of his way to make friends. He seems satisfied with just me, and I don't know how to convince him that he's not somehow losing me to the two of you."
"Invite him over from time to time," Harry suggested without hesitation. It seemed she'd been right: his inherent curiosity was working in her favour. She hadn't got the impression that Harry necessarily liked Tom, but he did seem drawn somehow to the other boy. "We could play a game or something—help him get used to the idea of us spending time together."
Adding an element of rivalry into their already strained social interactions seemed like a recipe for disaster. "I'm pretty sure that would end up exactly like today." If not worse; Tom was competitive down to his very marrow—something she'd never personally minded because she enjoyed matching wits, but she knew that he would not hesitate to burn bridges if it meant securing even the most petty of victories. She could overlook that, and maybe Harry could too, but Ron would only be driven further away.
However, Harry seemed to think that the plan had some merit and refused to let it go, explaining, "Maybe, but if he could see first-hand the way you interact with both us and him, it might help reassure him that everything's okay, that you can have more than one friend without any problems." He paused, glancing furtively around the Common Room, then slipped from his seat to join her on the small sofa and whispered, "Is he really from the past?"
"I think so," Hermione replied quietly. "Tom's clothes have always been very different, and he did seem quietly awed by the more modern contraptions back in London, though he tried to hide it." A part of her was honestly surprised that Harry was willing to contemplate the possibility without any tangible evidence—even she had trouble believing it sometimes—but she was not about to squander this opportunity. "He won't tell me what year he's actually from, but based on his uniform and mannerisms I've narrowed it down to likely somewhere between 1920 and 1950."
His emerald eyes glittered with delight, positively burst with wonder; it was a strangely hungry expression, not too dissimilar to the one he wore whenever he spoke about Fluffy. "How does he do it?" he asked eagerly.
"I don't know," she answered, fervently wishing that she did understand it, "and neither does he. Tom said the first two times were an accident and then he started controlling it, but how exactly it works is a mystery." Of course, Tom had mentioned his theory that it wasn't specifically time-travel at all—that he was really just bridging the distance to her—but she wasn't sure if she believed that, particularly since there seemed no way to research it.
Harry ate the information up, filing it away as if it might be useful in the future. "Must be strange for him," he said after a pause. "I wonder how different everything looks?"
Hermione nearly laughed. "He's never said," she whispered, recalling Tom's staunch refusal to learn anything about himself. "He's kind of sensitive about the subject actually, doesn't want me to go looking him up."
"What's the point in having access to the future, then?" Harry frowned, and she couldn't help agreeing that it felt like a wasted opportunity—particularly strange considering that Tom was usually one to take full advantage of every situation that he could.
"I think he's afraid of what he might find," she admitted. "I mean, I certainly wouldn't want to hear if I got saddled with a boring job or died young or something."
His frowned deepened, unimpressed with the logic. "But knowing would help you prevent it from happening!"
"We should probably be grateful that he isn't interested," she cut him off. "If the timeline is changeable, who knows what havoc he could have wreaked?" The sentiment felt a little naive though; just because Tom wasn't looking for specific information didn't mean he wasn't potentially changing the past. As much as she valued her friendship with the orphan boy, it was hard to keep from wondering if they were doing something wrong or unnatural. Surely his visitations had some sort of consequence! Then again, what little research she'd been able to do hadn't been at all conclusive—for all she knew, this was simply the way it had always happened.
"The Void", Date Unknown
Tom had always regarded the Void as an abysmal nothingness, a hellish realm devoid of stimulation or physical presence. There had been nothing to see or hear, no way to know if he still had a body at all or was just a free floating consciousness drifting through eternity. He imagined that's what death was like: a complete lack of anything, no reprieve or escape from his own increasingly panicked and mad thoughts, just the unrelenting and unknowable passage of Time crushing down upon him. The very idea of being trapped there filled him with a primal terror, with a fear so great he found himself having to justify his traveling.
He would not, couldnot abandon Hermione again, particularly not after finally understanding just how firm of a fixture he'd become in her life—he was important to her, just as she was to him—and he would move heaven and earth just to catch a glimpse of her if he had to. However, he could not deny that the price knowing her was sharply increasing again; his power had seemed blessedly free of consequence at first, but after three years the circumstances were quite changed. After Halloween, he'd been shocked and disturbed when it had taken nearly a full minute to travel to the future, but that was nothing compared to today. Today, that obscene journey had approximately doubled, revealing a host of new problems to be worried about.
The Void was changing. There was still nothing to see, but he could perceive his own body enough to feel sandwiched in an uncomfortably tight place. Sound, too, must have rejoined his repertoire, because he could sense a dissonant note piercing through his head—simultaneously high and low, pervasive on a cosmic scale, as if two great landmasses were slowly but inexorably moving away from one another. The dissonance hurt in a way that wasn't physical, like a set of sharp claws grating against his very soul. And if that wasn't disturbing enough, there were whispers now, hundreds of disembodied conversations happening all around him, the words bleeding together until they were hardly even recognisable sounds.
Tom sat immobile, the fibres of his being unraveling as they were consumed by these sensations; he was ripping apart, shattering even as something terrible pressed down into his very core. Every last particle of him was simultaneously flying apart and coming tightly together. He tried to rally his magic, to cocoon himself in its soothing protection, but there was no magic here—just cold, hard uncertainty. His previous trips through the Void had been a piece of cake in comparison to this nightmare; this was the edge of madness, a screaming insanity that humans were not meant to endure.
And yet he found the strength to grit his teeth and ride out the storm. He thought of doe-brown eyes and a sharp, sharp mind, of reckless abandon and a sort of contentment he'd never found anywhere else. The universe could throw horrors at him all it liked, but he would not back down; there would never be another girl like Hermione, and he would rather struggle with the Void than wait fifty-two years just to see her again. Wool's had taught him well: wanting something meant being willing to fight for it tooth and nail, and Tom Marvolo Riddle was not one to give up on his desires.
Hogwarts, 1938
With unpredictable abruptness, the world reformed around him. The dusty corridors of Hogwarts had never looked so inviting. He had been sure to travel from a relatively unused portion of the castle, always careful not to be caught doing something he could not explain. His privacy here was a tenuous thing but—as Tom's legs gave out and his knees cracked against the hard stone floor—he was glad for it. He couldn't stop shaking, tremors coursing through his body so fiercely he was nearly convulsing. It was an unprecedented moment of vulnerability so, of course, that was exactly when his least favourite Professor rounded the nearest corner.
Professor Dumbledore stood several paces away, shocked and then very clearly suspicious. "Mr. Riddle?" he asked, and Tom was surprised to hear the genuine concern in his voice. Dumbledore had ranged anywhere from indifferent to his presence to outright suspicious of him—he was often encouraging in class, but lacked the clear enthusiasm his colleagues possessed for the young boy. "What happened? Are you all right?" His gaze darted around the empty corridor, as if expecting to find some older students beating a hasty retreat.
Tom felt a bit insulted at the Professor's assumption; not only was he underestimating Tom's ability to defend himself, he was also showing a gross misunderstanding of how Slytherins operated. The Purebloods didn't care about him enough to bother hazing him; for now, he was so far beneath their notice that he only registered as a vague irritation, a distant embarrassment in the face of their ideologies. Knowing it would be futile to explain any of that to Dumbledore, Tom grit his teeth and pulled himself together, lying, "I just got dizzy for a moment, Professor." His stomach was roiling with nausea, there were still fine tremors shaking his muscles and his legs felt weak and hollow, but when he managed to stand they thankfully held his weight. "I'm fine."
Dumbledore eyed him critically. "Are you sure? Perhaps a trip to the Infirmary—"
"I said I'm fine," he interrupted firmly. No amount of lying would cover how tired he felt, not to someone as perceptive as Dumbledore, but he had absolutely no desire for anyone else to see him so unsettled.
"Nevertheless," the Professor hummed affably, "better safe than sorry. Have you visited Madam Pomfrey before?"
Tom had a feeling there was no talking Dumbledore down from this, not if the gentle but irrefutable grip on his shoulder was anything to go by. He cursed internally, but gave in to the inevitable; the sooner the Professor was satisfied, the sooner he would leave. With a sigh, he grudgingly began walking and replied, "No, Sir."
"Ah," Dumbledore smiled, always so strangely cheerful despite the fact that Tom knew he made the older man uncomfortable, "you're one of the lucky ones, then. Most students find their way to her within the first few weeks of a new term—even magic can't seem to keep us from spreading around a touch of fever." They reached a crossroads of sorts, and Tom was tempted to just dart down into the dungeons, something the Professor must have sensed because he carefully steered them in the opposite direction, pleasantly murmuring, "This way, if you please."
A silence fell between them, easy but not pleasant. Tom couldn't help but think of the last time Dumbledore had been leading him somewhere—on their way to Diagon Alley all those months ago. Remembering their conversation, he could almost kick himself for what he had revealed. Why on earth had he thought it had been a good idea to let Dumbledore know that he was a Snake-Speaker? Had he really been so desperate to gain the approval, the admiration of a man he hadn't even really known? He could scarcely fathom his own recklessness. It was almost worse than knowing that Professor Dumbledore had looked at a destitute orphan and neglected to mention that being a Parselmouth was a hereditary trait—that Tom had a family and it was an exceedingly important one. Why the man should want to cover up his roots didn't seem quite as important as the simple fact that he had tried to. The very idea made Tom seethe, made it impossible to hold back his accusator question, "Professor, why didn't you say anything to me about my ability to speak Parseltongue?"
Dumbledore's vitality faltered for a moment; though his auburn locks and placid features never changed, he seemed indescribably old for a brief second. "It is a rare gift, my boy," he replied, sighing heavily, his tone resigned enough to indicate that he'd expected this conversation for a while now. "That journey of discovery had to be your own. Likewise, what you now do with that information is not my decision to make." He looked at Tom over the rim of his half-moon glasses, not precisely grim but nor was it his usual glittering gaze, either. "I would advise you to use discretion, considering the controversial nature of Parseltongue, but I cannot tell you what to do."
His opinion was abundantly clear, though. A Gryffindor through and through, Dumbledore was wary of anything that was serpentine in nature—never mind that the skill came naturally to Tom. And it was a bit hypocritical, to be honest; he never would have cautioned the Heir of any other House to maintain their silence, but for some reason the Heir of Slytherin was a thing to fear. What a load of nonsense; it was almost as if the old goat was purposefully trying to keep Tom at a disadvantage! "You don't think I should tell anyone," he said, trying to keep the recrimination out of his tone but not completely succeeding.
Dumbledore sighed again, hopefully regretting his whole part in this unnecessary interaction. "You take to magic quickly, and you've been a dedicated student thus far. If the past few months are any indication, you have a bright future ahead of you—it would be a shame to jeopardise that."
Tom's nausea had subsided, and though he still felt weak-limbed his anger filled him with new energy. He could feel his magic rushing through him, a dark flush creeping up his neck. "But it's a part of who I am—who my family is," he replied, aiming for neutrality but likely missing the mark; it was hard to sound unaffected through gritted teeth. "Why should I have to hide that?"
If the Professor was offended by his tone, the man did not show it. In fact, there was almost something disgustingly like pity shining in his pale blue eyes. "I appreciate that this isn't the answer any orphan would want to hear, but sometimes appearances must be kept, Mr. Riddle. You are young, unknown; until such a time when the magical community has a better understanding of who you are and where your attitudes lay, it would perhaps be best to sit on this information." He slowed to a stop just outside the Infirmary door and faced his student, trying to soothe, "I'm not saying you must renounce your heritage, merely that exercising caution would be for the best."
Tom could not stop himself from sneering, "Wouldn't being honest be more brave, Sir?"
But Dumbledore merely chuckled. "Just the same as protecting your own interests would be more cunning, I imagine," he said and then, with one last gentle urge toward the Hospital Wing, left the boy to his thoughts.