He Is Learning
Chapter Twenty: He Is Learning
Hogwarts, 1938
The very next afternoon, Tom breathed out a sigh of relief as he finally made his way toward the Library. He'd wanted to check in with the Seneschal immediately after his experience with the changing Void—surely, by now she had to have found some writings that concerned the strange nature of time-travel—but he'd ended up stuck in the Infirmary longer than he had counted on. Madam Pomfrey and her young daughter, who was serving as her apprentice, had been determined to run every diagnostic spell on him they could think of. In the end, all they had been able to do was heal his bruised knees, cluck disapprovingly at his weight, and send him off with strict instructions to eat better lest his unexplained dizziness get worse. All in all, the visit had been a spectacular waste of his time, but he had no doubt that Dumbledore would be checking in with the two Mediwitches, so it wasn't as if he could have avoided it. In fact, he was taking something of a risk by sneaking off to the Library when he ought to be eating lunch, but he'd already put the trip off for more than long enough, in his own opinion.
The door to the Archives' antechamber swung open on creaking hinges, catching the Seneschal's attention immediately. Her pointed face brightened when she saw him. "Ah, Little Speaker," she smiled, unafraid to show him her inhumanly sharp teeth, "I was wondering when you would return. I searched through every shelf, drawer, and trunk of the Archives for you." Her pale hand reached into the recesses of her desk drawer, withdrawing a single lonely scroll of parchment. "As I suspected, there wasn't much to find."
He slid over to his usual table and sat down hard, disappointed. "This is it?"
"I'm sorry," she murmured quietly, handing the small text over to him. "The Ministry's Seneschal confirmed that there is more research being done regarding the theories of this scroll, but the proceedings are all being kept in secret. I'm afraid time-travel is not a widely explored topic outside of fiction."
Which he'd suspected, of course. After the sad turnout of the standard Library's collection, it hadn't seemed terrifically likely that the magical community had all that much to say on the subject. It was problematic for Tom, to say the least—he'd learned what he could about his power and its consequences through observation, but there was still so much that he did not understand, particularly now that his experience was changing. What was the Void? Why did he have to traverse through it? Why was the length of that trip increasing, and why was the very nature of that hell turning into something completely new and exponentially worse? He'd never felt so ignorant in his life as he did when facing that cosmic unknown; it was maddening. But, honestly, what more could he do? "It will have to be enough for now," he replied evenly. After all, one scroll was better than none. He carefully rolled the parchment between his hands, hesitating as his thoughts shifted.
The Seneschal's ocean-colored eyes caught his nervous gesture. "You have other questions," she realised.
Salazar Slytherin weighed heavily upon his mind. After eleven years, it was strange to reconcile himself with the fact that he had some sort of heritage, that his past was no longer a blank slate. For ages he'd wished to find out anything about the Riddles—any detail would have been welcomed, no matter how small—but he'd never imagined a truth so grand as the secrets his mother's family had hid. "I read Silver-Tongued," he whispered, "it was rather illuminating."
"I imagine it was," she chuckled, eyes glittering merrily. "Not quite what you envisioned while stuck in the muggle world, is it?"
"No," Tom shared her laugh. "Of course, every orphan dreams that they might be related to someone important, but this is beyond even my wildest imaginings. It does present me with a few problems, though."
She frowned, baffled. "Oh?"
"I know almost nothing about Salazar Slytherin," he admitted gravely, bitterly, "and everywhere I turn people are telling me to keep my mouth shut about this connection." His brief conversation with Dumbledore echoed endlessly in his thoughts. Both Andrus and Dumbledore had cautioned him not to rush, not to let his impatience potentially cripple his reputation before it even had a chance to develop. He could appreciate the sentiment, but it still made him gnash his teeth—their advice was as infuriating as it was sensible. Why should Tom have to remain so powerless when he could easily improve his situation? Would it really be so bad to come out as the Heir of Slytherin? It would certainly silence those Pureblooded fools quick enough, make them sit up and take notice of him at last. The frigid silence that followed him around the Common Room would finally shatter and give way to something familiar—deference and a healthy dose of fear.
"Information I can help you with," the Seneschal's musical voice interrupted his train of thought. "There are plenty of biographies throughout the Library, and the Archives have a sizable collection of Slytherin's own writings."
No one had particularly gone out of their way to explain the rules at Hogwarts. Students were generally expected to follow the example of their older family members or learn the hard way; not ideal for anyone coming from a conspicuously non-magical upbringing. Tom was normally very quick to learn those sorts of ins and outs—after all, one didn't survive a place like Wool's or a city like London without learning how to read the tides—but Hogwarts continued to surprise him at every turn. He had assumed that the more fragile texts of the Archives would have been locked up tighter than even the books of the Restricted Section. "I don't need some sort of permission to handle ancient documents?" he asked carefully, unsure he understood what was being said.
The Seneschal smiled at him fondly, her words taking on a decisive edge when she replied, "In this part of the castle, there is no authority greater than my own. If I wish to show you something, none may stop me—save the Headmaster himself." She made an indelicate sound, a sort of gurgling laugh filled with derision. "And, I assure you, Armando Dippet will neither know nor care."
He didn't doubt it; Headmaster Dippet hardly seemed to know what day it was most of the time. In fact, if it weren't for his Deputy, Tom had no doubt that Dippet wouldn't even be aware of half the goings-on in the castle, particularly since he seemed to view most students as little better than a necessary irritation; if he could have run a school without students, he would have. The Professor of Transfiguration, however, seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere. "I doubt Dumbledore would like it, though."
She raised a brow and scoffed at that. "Dumbledore is merely the Deputy Headmaster—he doesn't have to like my decisions, but he does have to respect them."
That was a shockingly cavalier attitude. Most of the school seemed to worship the ground Dumbledore walked upon; it was not an easy thing to stand apart from the masses. "You don't think it's dangerous to annoy the man who will one day take over leadership of this school?" he asked curiously.
"He is the reason I am here, and he would not send me away after so many years," she replied. Her tone was wistful and sad, almost as if her position at Hogwarts filled her with an indescribable discontent; not surprising really, considering how isolated she was from the rest of the castle. The real question was why she didn't just leave? "Besides, it's not his place to decide what you can and cannot know, particularly not in matters related to your family. Your heritage is your own business, and you have a right to understand it."
Tom shook his head; he agreed with her, of course, but he felt as if they were perhaps the only two people in the whole castle who felt that way. Then again, Dumbledore had seemed very resigned about the whole situation, and he hadn't been at all surprised that Tom had learned the truth about his own bloodline. "I don't think he cares so much about what I find out," he said, trying to separate his thoughts, "he just wants me to keep quiet about the whole thing." Which was ridiculous and yet another reason he did not understand his Transfiguration Professor. Did wizards not understand that knowledge was power? Was he just expected to lock everything he learned away until it might be needed solely for scholarly reasons? That was a complete waste of potential in his opinion, and it made him wonder, too—how much else wasn't he being taught because people like Dumbledore had decided it wasn't in his best interest to know? Were disciplines like Dark Magic really just filled with spells and potions that weren't inherently good or evil, but concerned theories that select individuals had decided they simply didn't wish anyone to know more about?
As if reading his thoughts, the Seneschal murmured, "This sits ill with you."
"Why bother knowing if I can't use that information?" he replied heatedly. For as long as he could remember, he'd wanted to know everything, to understand the length and breadth of reality and to leave his mark upon it. Yet now he was being faced with strange edicts: know, but don't act. That was exactly the attitude that made him so fed up with his Ravenclaws from time to time—knowledge, theory was only half the battle; eventually you had to get your hands dirty, to experiment ruthlessly, or the world would stagnate. Why cry caution when caution would gain him absolutely nothing? And, more to the point, how could he ever accept his Professor's advice if doing so meant denying what Tom was? "Dumbledore clearly doesn't understand—I was born a Speaker, it's not some learned skill that's easily suppressed." The old man might has well have asked him to pretend he wasn't a wizard while he was at it; the idea was obscene and thoughtless. "Do I just never talk to another snake again, even though we are drawn to each other and share a profound connection?"
The Seneschal's hand hovered in the air, almost-but-not-quite patting him on the shoulder. "He expects too much of you; you cannot deny yourself." She huffed out a sad sigh, and it struck him then how similar they truly were: through little better than an accident of birth, she was considered potentially evil, the world frowning down upon impulses and instincts that came to her as easily as breathing. "A mermaid pup hunts from the very first day it is born, to do otherwise would be unnatural. It is the same with you: you must do what is in your nature as well."
It was not necessarily a revolutionary philosophy. Tom had always hated the idea of conformity, had ever prefered that others adapt to him rather than he to them. Strange to hear that opinion voiced aloud, though; shocking, even, considering that she was the only adult figure in his life who seemed at ease with the thought. Not too long ago, he had considered that the Seneschal, being partly mermaid and so deeply isolated, would hold a point of view too alien for him to connect to. How wrong he'd been! Despite her gentle temperament, her thoughts were eerily similar to his own. And yet, as much as her opinions validated his feelings on the matter, it did not change the fact that their opposition still had an ounce of logic on their side. "Dumbledore's not completely wrong, though—as much as I hate to admit that," he said grudgingly. "There's a very real chance that people will think I'm a Dark Wizard if this all gets out."
She rolled her eyes and finally sat down beside him, her pale hands twitching once more as if she wished to soothe him. "Dark is a point of view, Little Speaker, a subjective assessment," she replied heavily. With a vague gesture to her own unearthly features, she continued, "I have never cast a single spell solely for the purpose of being mean-spirited, and yet I am considered a Dark Creature. There will always be those that are afraid of that which they do not understand."
It was a solemn truth that was causing him far too much trouble. Tom did not necessarily want to frighten others, as that would not serve his purpose until much later down the line. Fear was a handy motivator of course, but for the moment it was more prudent that others should perceive him as nothing more than a brilliant student; domination and control would come later. He had read Hermione's books, studied the rise of Grindelwald and, to a lesser extent, the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—Tom had memorised their recruitment campaigns, their strategic wins and losses, identified the problems he felt had largely contributed to their respective downfalls. All that information had come together to form a workable template, a knowable path that would eventually lead him to power. For now, it was enough to fit in, to win everyone's trust, to work from the inside so that no one would really be able to pinpoint when he had gained control of society. The two impending Dark Lords had made a mess, would make a mess of their grand militaristic takeovers; they had wasted resources and ended countless lives when it would have been easier and more effective to simply assume control of the existing system. Tom would not make the same mistake—he would claw his way to the top of the Ministry, and once he reigned supreme the wizarding world would finally understand what a mistake it had made by leaving him to grow up amongst muggles.
It was a long game to play though, and reward would not come until well into adulthood—and that was only if reward came at all, as failure potentially lurked around every corner. Great Britain would be understandably leery of handing over power to anyone who had a poor school record. His marks were beyond reproach, but his social life was in shambles and it had the potential to become infinitely worse if Hogwarts collectively decided that being the Heir of Slytherin made him untrustworthy. Then again, proving he was descended from one of the Founders was the only thing that might give him some easy political sway.
"How am I to know what to do?" he asked, feeling crushed under the weight of that question. He could see so many different outcomes, so many different options, each of them bearing their own set of consequences.
"There is no right or wrong answer," the Seneschal replied sagely. "I could tell you what I might do in your position, but I am not you—I do not have your experiences or desires. You must decide for yourself what is best."
That was a diplomatic non-answer if he'd ever heard one, and yet it somehow made him feel a bit better, eased his growing fears back into manageable territory. The future was his to shape, and whatever path he set down upon was his own decision. There was the ever-present temptation to go to the future and study what he could of his own life, but that was a rabbit hole he was certain he did not wish to go down. He would make his decisions because they had come to him organically or not at all.
So what to do in this situation? Tom knew he was holding an incomplete picture of Slytherin, that he did not understand enough about his ancestor to reach any sort of conclusion. "Can I look at Slytherin's writings?" he requested, polite mask slipping back into place as his thoughts calmed down. "Maybe if I had a better idea of who he was, I could decide on my best course of action."
She raised a brow at him; she was perhaps the only person in all of Hogwarts who was capable of recognising his mask for what it was, because she wore one of her own—the disguise of a predator attempting to blend in with its own prey. Her gentle temperament did not belie the fact that mermaids were notoriously cruel creatures, just as his own amiable facade hid his dark thoughts. To say that she was unimpressed with his turn in behaviour was a bit of an understatement though; he supposed there wasn't much point in playing pretend around someone who actually understood his basest nature. He allowed the look to drop in favour of something more genuine—the desire for knowledge and the burning greed he felt for the collection that she protected. She laughed in response, her beautiful voice ringing out, "You should have been born one of us, Little Speaker; you certainly have the heart of a mermaid." Before he could even respond, she had slipped behind the door to the Archives, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Not one to waste valuable time, Tom began to read the scroll he'd already been given. To his deep disappointment, it contained no viable information concerning the Void; it was, however, still incredibly interesting. The small text appeared to be a research paper of some kind. Much of it was incomprehensible to him, boasting long sections dedicated to subjects he had not yet even begun to study—such as Arithmancy and Ancient Runes—but he understood and was intrigued by the base theory the paper presented. The author seemed to be convinced that Time was malleable to a certain extent and could, in fact, be "turned over" in small quantities. His interludes with Arithmancy appeared to be laying the foundation for the sort of enchantment he would need in order to achieve this effect. True to form, however, the scroll only spoke of going back—never, ever forward, and certainly not in leaps so vast as Tom routinely traveled. Interest aside, the text was as useless to him as everything else he'd read on the subject.
Before his frustration could mount too heavily, the Seneschal returned. She carried with her perhaps half a dozen texts—although carried was not exactly the right word. Despite the preservation spells heavily enveloping each book, she chose not to touch the texts at all, levitating them instead. He wasn't sure if she did this out of a desire to keep them as pristine as possible or if she simply did not wish for her skin to make contact with them for some reason; Tom wouldn't exactly put it beyond someone like Slytherin to have cursed his own writings. She carefully set the books down and handed him a pair of pixiehide gloves; they were not as tough as dragonhide and were less likely to inadvertently damage the ancient vellum.
He put the gloves on and began examining the texts immediately. They were all hard-bound in glossy, well-oiled leather, the parchment pages strung together neatly. Despite their age, there were no obvious signs of decay, aside from a little bit of yellowing and a few faded words here and there. Calling them words was painfully generous, however—Slytherin had written in some sort of language or code that Tom did not immediately recognise. Was it possible that wizards had once had their own language, something apart and distinct from Old English? The chaotic swirls and spiralling lines were unlike any written language he'd ever seen, different from the sharp-edged script he'd found in medieval texts elsewhere in the the Library. Was this a dialect of some sort, or Slytherin's own invention?
When the answer finally came to him, Tom could have hit himself for being so thick. After all, the Seneschal would not have brought him writings she expected him to be unable to read. And what extremely rare linguistic talent did he have in common with his ancestor? This had to be the written form of Parseltongue. But how to bloody read it? He'd never seen any of these symbols before, so how was he meant to attach any sort of meaning to them? Parseltongue came to him naturally but only when spoken, and it was still entirely possible that Slytherin had just made the whole written system up. Without any sort of key or guide, these books were useless.
Sensing his frustration, the Seneschal pulled out what was likely the oldest text amongst the lot, opened it to the first page, and commanded, "Read."
"How?" he shouted, hands coming down upon the table sharply. He'd always excelled on the academic level; not being able to read these books was more than just problematic—it was an affront to his pride.
"Aloud," she deadpanned, cuffing him lightly by the ear to show she was unimpressed with his short temper. "You speak the language, do you not?"
"That doesn't mean I can read it!" The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth. How many orphans had he heard use that exact excuse to to justify their own illiteracy? In many ways, Parseltongue was closer to being his mother-language; it came to him more readily and with a deeper and more inherent sense of understanding than English did. He had fought hard to teach himself how to read human language, and it appeared he would now have to do the same for the serpent-tongue as well.
"You're overthinking this," the Seneschal soothed, brushing his hair back in a disconcertingly maternal gesture. "Relax. Allow your mind to drift as your eyes and fingers trace the symbols. The words will come to you if you read them out loud."
That was frustrating, paradoxical advice, particularly coming from someone who was only vaguely a Parselmouth. Still, he did his best—with little success at first, but the more he relaxed and allowed his subconscious to take control, the easier it became. Reading in Parseltongue was an uncomfortable experience: the writings meant nothing to him, but as he slowly and painstakingly deciphered each word verbally, their meanings began to take shape. With practice, he might one day become fluent reading the serpent-tongue, but it was a little hard to have much confidence when he wasn't sure if any of the words he spoke actually corresponded to what was written on the page.
His hisses were slow, methodical, delayed all the more by the fact that he was writing everything down lest he forget the thread of the sentence between words. He was, in essence, being forced to transcribe Slytherin's writings, an endeavour that would take him much longer than he could have imagined. Still, there was a certain amount of peace in the work: allowing his serpentine whispers to curl and twist through the air was almost meditative. There was no urgency to connect and hold a conversation, for the first time he was able to simply take in the beauty of Parseltongue, to soak in the majesty and structure of a non-human language. Tom was so lost to the charm and elegance of the experience that he nearly missed the Seneschal's low warning.
"Someone's coming," she said, quiet but urgent. It took a moment to understand her words, to shift English back into focus.
The door to the antechamber abruptly slammed open, revealing Eunice Macmillan. She was a waif of a girl—small and delicate, pale enough to seem sickly if not for the faint pink of her cheeks; she dutifully kept her honey-coloured hair tightly plaited with Ravenclaw-inspired ribbons, making her look even younger than she was. In other words, in most matters of appearance she was Hermione's complete opposite, too proper to have a taste of the wildness he found so appealing in that girl from the future.
"See?" Macmillan grated stubbornly to her companion. "I told you he'd be in here."
Beside her stood Alphard Black, a whippish boy with dark eyes and darker hair. He was paler than Andrus, but they shared a number of similar features—expressive brows, sloping noses—enough that if someone had told Tom the two were brothers, he might have believed it. Black even seemed to possess Andrus's sharp perception; his dark eyes were trailing over the room suspiciously as he asked, "What was that sound?"
Eunice shook her head, already exasperated for some reason. "What are you talking about?"
"There was a funny hissing noise just as you opened the door." Black's eyes narrowed skeptically upon Tom for a moment before slipping away to settle on the Seneschal.
Miss Macmillan, on the other hand, kept her gaze trained anywhere but at the woman in question—she was clearly uncomfortable around a partially non-human entity. He didn't personally understand the aversion. It was true that the Seneschal was no great beauty, but her features were still more human than mermaid. And she exuded such a distinct air of calm that it seemed ridiculous to be frightened of her. However, it was clear that Eunice was frightened, something she tried to hide by shifting her attention back to her cousin. "Alphard Black, if you dig your heels in one more time, I shall write to your Mum," she threatened haughtily. "Don't you dare try to change the subject again. Now go on," she pointed toward Tom, "apologise to him!"
Tom quirked a brow, surprised. He had absolutely no idea what was going on, although that might have been owing to the fact that he'd been busy studying their family dynamic—Andrus had been right, Eunice and Alphard acted much more like siblings than cousins. Tom tried not to show his interest, but their behaviour was fascinating to him; it was like peeking into the windows of a home he'd never have in order to behold comforts he would never experience. There was such warmth between the two, an almost tangible sense of caring; had he met them back in London, he might have actually goggled at the obvious tenderness that made up their relationship.
He shook himself back to the present, surreptitiously covering Slytherin's writings as he offered Eunice a benign and blankly polite smile. "What's he apologising for?"
"Oh, Tom, there's no need to protect him," she rushed out in assurance. "He told me all about the nasty rumour that you'd done something to Andrus Lestrange—which I don't believe for a second," her blue eyes glared hotly at Alphard before softening and turning back to Tom. "When I heard that you ended up in the Infirmary yesterday it was obvious to me what happened. I'm so sorry about him; my cousin's always been something of a thick-headed brute." She whipped around to smack Alphard's arm, unladylike but amusing. "Apologise already! Have you no manners at all?"
Black danced away from her, rubbing his shoulder as he defended himself, "I didn't do anything."
That was precisely the wrong thing to say. Eunice's face turned ruddy and she began shouting, "Alphard Ignatius Black, if you do not do the right thing immediately, I'll not only rat you out but I'll take down your likely equally-guilty cronies as well!"
"You're a harridan sometimes," Black sniffed disdainfully, "did you know that?"
"He's my friend," she growled. "Now get on with it."
Black rolled his eyes and huffed. "Well, Riddle," he drawled, smooth and distinctly insincere, "I'm deeply sorry for whatever the hell happened to you yesterday, although I still maintain it was not me—and if it was your comeuppance for what you did to Andrus, then I can't say I feel all that badly about it." He eyed Eunice's thunderous expression and bit down on whatever else he'd been about to say, instead continuing, "But in the interest of not starting an interfamilial feud, I apologise ever so sincerely."
Tom was secretly amused by Black's cheek, particularly since they both knew nothing had happened between them, yesterday or otherwise. He supposed he could have stopped the other boy from having to apologise for something that was decidedly not his fault, but he found the sight funny. A noble son from the House of Black being forced to acknowledge the Slytherin pariah—it sent a thrill down Tom's spine, especially since he knew that eventually everyone in their House would have to do the same.
"That was pathetic," Macmillan sneered at her cousin. "Are all Slytherins incapable of remorse?"
Fun as it was, the charade had clearly gone on long enough; after all, Tom didn't want to alienate the other boy. Black still presented his best possible way in among the other Slytherin First Years. With an easy shrug and what he hoped looked like a sheepish grin, Tom replied, "He's right, though. He didn't have anything to do with yesterday."
"Thank you," Black enunciated haughtily as he folded his arms across his chest. "You see, Eunice? Didn't I tell you?"
Macmillan wrung her hands, contrite now but not entirely remorseful. "Well, what was I supposed to think?" she snapped. "You kept going on and on about Lestrange!"
"As a point of interest," Tom broke in amiably, drumming his fingers upon the table in a show of nonchalance, "what are people saying I did to Andrus?"
Black's eyes were immediately drawn to the strange books before him, no doubt remembering the out-of-place hissing he'd heard. His gaze slid back over to Tom, suspicious once more, and countered, "What did you do?"
It was unclear if the other boy suspected him of being a Parselmouth—Black kept his thoughts close to the chest, which was problematic to say the least. It wasn't likely the boy could see or understand anything in the books before them, but their presence seemed troublesome to Black for some reason.
This was not at all how Tom had imagined his introduction to Alphard going. It appeared Andrus Lestrange was proving more trustworthy than he'd anticipated; word of Tom's possible connection to Slytherin obviously hadn't made it into circulation. Black was only confronting him because of how shaken Lestrange had continued to behave. Still though, just because things hadn't ended up the way he'd anticipated didn't mean he couldn't salvage this situation. Not needing two potentially ticking time-bombs on his hands, Tom decided not reveal his Parseltongue ability to Alphard just yet—for now it would have to be enough to play the usual Slytherin game of social politics. "Come now, Mr. Black," he crooned silkily, "you know that's not the way the world works. A little tit for tat, if you'd be so kind."
"So you're a Slytherin after all," Alphard laughed humorlessly. "The Rosiers are convinced that you tortured him, although I fail to see how a First Year could without leaving any evidence behind. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Andrus has become noticeably worried about you." He paused, eyeing the taller boy speculatively. "Where did the two of you go that afternoon?"
Tom smiled widely, a touch sharply, aware that he was bordering on off-putting but Black would hardly expect less of him. "I like to wander the castle, you see," he replied brightly. "While I was exploring, I found the classroom that Salazar Slytherin himself likely taught from, and I wanted to show Lestrange."
Black found that immediately questionable. Not an unwise impulse, as their House wasn't exactly renowned for its generous outlook. "Why?"
"Andrus has been helpful to me these past few months," he explained truthfully enough. "I thought it might be prudent to give him something in return." Not wanting Eunice to think anything untoward had happened, Tom added, "Perhaps he was simply overwhelmed by the experience." However, he rather suspected that Black, at least, could hear the mocking undercurrent in his voice.
Alphard was sharp, he picked up on cues quickly, but in this instance he seemed to have misinterpreted something—that, or his concern for Lestrange was clouding his judgement. "And where is this room?" he asked snidely; it was clear that somewhere along the trail of his thoughts he'd decided Tom was lying.
"I could show you, if you like," he replied, happy to prove the boy wrong. Black would learn soon enough that it was never really what Tom said that was questionable so much as what he'd failed to mention. Why lie when the incomplete truth was much more effective? "For a price, of course."
"Steady on, Tom," Macmillan frowned. "That history belongs to everyone."
Black shook his head fondly and chuckled at her. "How very Ravenclaw of you, cousin," he drawled arrogantly. "You miss the point entirely: he wouldn't be a Slytherin if he asked for less." He turned back to Tom and gave him a considering look, something slightly less hostile but still relatively suspicious. Decision reached, he offered, "If you show me this place, though I highly doubt it's real, I'll let you sit with me in the Great Hall."
The young Heir of Slytherin's grin twisted at the edges. It was a clever bargain, really—it gave Tom exactly what everyone knew he needed while still providing Black with the opportunity to suss out some kind of information. "Trying to keep an eye on me?"
Black didn't bother denying it. "Two of them, in fact."
Tom gave a chuckle of his own and held his hand out to seal the deal. "I'm honoured," he confessed with a smirk.
Alphard accepted the gesture—somewhat awkwardly since Tom had offered his left hand—and shortly thereafter found a reason to leave with his cousin in tow. Black did not trust him, that much was abundantly clear. What wasn't quite so plain was what the boy suspected him of. Was Black wary because he thought that Tom had somehow hurt the Lestrange boy, or was he in fact beginning to put together the larger picture? Andrus's curious silence combined with the unexpected and obviously unexplained hissing Black had heard didn't necessarily lead to the logical conclusion that Tom was a Parselmouth—and therefore the Heir of Slytherin. It was entirely possible that Black just thought he was mad and a little dangerous, but the boy was displaying infinitely more wariness than that theory should have warranted. Alphard thought he knew something, whether it was actually the truth was what Tom would have to pry out of him in the coming days. In the meantime, he would simply enjoy the fact that the first social door had finally cracked a bit; it was only a matter of time now before the whole of Slytherin House stood open to its rightful Heir.
Hogwarts, 1990
Harry's suggestion sat at the back of Hermione's thoughts for several weeks, long enough that he actually started to badger her about it. She just couldn't work up the nerve to schedule a play-date between the four of them—it seemed unbearably childish and she knew for a fact that Tom would consider it a waste of time. Looking back on their relationship, she had to admit that they'd never really played together; both of them were too academically minded to find much value in youthful whimsy. Their version of fun had always consisted of trying to one-up each other while exploring their magic. What silly board game could compete with that? And yet she couldn't deny the wisdom of Harry's advice; Tom needed reassurance of his place in Hermione's life and the easiest way to give him that was to have all four of them in the same room together. If he could observe their dynamics, assess the different ways that she behaved around each of them, then perhaps Tom would stop viewing the two Gryffindor boys as a threat. Obviously, it was a bit of a long shot, especially after the time-traveler had gone out of his way not to mention the other two boys since that fateful day on the shores of the Black Lake, but she had faith that it would work eventually. After all, how long had it taken him to grow tolerant of her? They had bonded over their magic very quickly, but they hadn't actually become friends until quite a while later. Still, it was a lot to ask of him, particularly since she knew he wasn't interested in getting to know anyone better, hence why it was taking her so long to work up her nerve.
Today would be the day, Hermione decided as she and Tom snuck toward an abandoned classroom, if for no other reason than because she was tired of Harry giving her Significant Looks over breakfast.
They were about as far from Gryffindor Tower as it was possible to be—Lavender Brown was on the war-path, convinced that her recent string of academic difficulties were somehow Hermione's fault. In all likelihood they were a bit, because it was clear that the troll incident still weighed heavily upon Professor McGonagall. She supposed it wasn't really fair that Lavender was being surreptitiously punished for something that wasn't her fault, but considering all the bullying that girl had gotten away with, Hermione considered this justice all the same. Still, it paid off to keep away from the snotty Gryffindor just now; the last thing she needed was for Lavender to find out about Tom. While she seriously doubted that the other girl would be clever enough to realise he was from the past, Hermione didn't wish to invite the scrutiny of a notorious gossip. Knowing Lavender, she'd blab immediately about Little Miss Know-It-All fraternising with a Slytherin, which would not only scandalise the more conservative students but also make her relationship with Tom that much harder to conceal.
"You're very quiet," the boy in question commented as they slipped into the empty room.
Hermione pushed thoughts of Lavender away to focus on the matter at hand. She was a bit shocked at the nervous lump that formed in her throat—after all, it was only Tom. "Harry wants to invite you over to play a game," she blurted out, mentally scolding herself for sounding so apprehensive.
Tom set down his schoolbag. "What, like cards or something?" He frowned, clearly baffled. "Why?"
She nearly laughed at that—leave it to him not to understand the value of socialising. Instead, she just replied, "So that everyone can get the chance to know each other."
He made a vague sound of disgust and rolled his eyes. "Meaning you want me and Weasley to come to some sort of understanding."
"I'm not blaming you for how he reacted," she rushed to explain, "but I do think there's a way to smooth things out." Ron was high strung and occasionally unreasonable—after finding out her secret, it had taken him days just to look her in the eyes again—but there was one thing that always put him in a good mood. "Do you know how to play chess?"
"No," he snorted.
"Really?" She couldn't help but be genuinely shocked at that news. "I thought that would be exactly the sort of game you'd play."
Offense immediately sprang across his face at those words, like she was implying he must be stupid not to already know how to play chess. Obsidian eyes flashing, he told her stonily, "There's no way Mrs. Cole would ever spend money on something so frivolous. Entertainment was never really a primary concern at Wool's."
Hermione winced at his cold tone. It was never a good idea to let his thoughts linger on the orphanage too much—he vacillated wildly between being completely nonchalant and confrontationally defensive about his circumstances. He was waiting for her to take that bait, to let this snag turn into a full-blown argument the likes of which they hadn't indulged in ages, but she ignored it. Instead, she smiled brightly and assured, "Oh, you'll love it! It's a very strategic game, you know." Frowning, she couldn't help but add, "The wizarding version seems unnecessarily violent, but it's still the same basic set of principles. And it just so happens that Ron's an excellent player—he's already taught most of the boys in his dorm." She set her own schoolbag down and hopped up to sit atop an empty desk, swinging her legs as she urged, "If you asked, I'm sure he'd be happy to show you."
Tom visibly let his anger go, settling instead for just looking vaguely put out by the whole conversation. Sliding up to sit beside her, he replied, "That sounds like an unbearably tedious waste of an afternoon."
"Well, think of it this way, then," she teased, bumping shoulders, "you can never beat him if you don't know how to play." He paused at that, clearly taken with the idea; she could only hope that attempting to engage his competitive nature wouldn't end in disaster. Tom would very likely pursue the game single-mindedly until he began to consistently win. Ron was a talented player and on the rare occasion that he'd been beaten he'd accepted defeat well, but she had a suspicious feeling that things would be different between these two—Tom was rarely gracious in victory and Ron was already looking for more reasons not to like the Slytherin.
"You know," Tom frowned at her playfully, "I'd be insulted by how transparent your attempts at manipulation are if they weren't so effective."
Hermione grinned, mentally crossing her fingers and hoping she was doing the right thing. "Gryffindor bluntness has its rewards. So will you do it?"
"It seems as if you and Potter have already decided for me," he said, clearly still a bit annoyed. "Who am I to refuse?"
"We can set a time limit, if you're honestly not that keen," her smile slipping a bit. "I'll just tell Ron that we have to study."
"Speaking of—?" He grinned widely, gesturing down to their bags.
"Oh, yes, right," she nodded, gaze following his motion. They had spent a good portion of their day looking for an appropriate place to try out a few new spells together. Between all the fuss at the start of term and the still prickly situation concerning Ron, it felt to Hermione as if she and Tom had not had the opportunity to perform any magic together since the summer. She was aching to get back on even footing, to fritter away their afternoon in the bright excitement of exploration.
Still though, that didn't mean she wasn't without her reservations—they'd stuffed some thick pillows into their bags to use as padding, but the simple fact of the matter was that they were about to fire actual spells at one another. She kept telling herself that it was no different than when she'd practiced hexes with Harry and Ron, but that simply wasn't true; Tom had an intensity about him that she'd never seen anyone else match. Their little non-verbal pushes and pulls of childhood would be nothing compared to proper incantations. Meaning, pillows or not, quite a lot could stand to go wrong. Excited as she was to be doing this sort of thing together again, she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, we won't even be learning proper dueling spells until next year. Maybe we should just work on Transfiguration instead of Defense."
He arched a dark brow at her, his expression mocking even as he patiently explained, "You know just as well as I do that everything has to be practiced in order to get it right, even jinxes." With a quick jump, he left the desk and walked across the room. Drawing out his pale wand, he turned back around to face her, teasing lightly, "Now come on, stand and deliver!"
With a bow to one another and a double-check to make sure they'd both secured the pillows round their middles, the pair each took up a stance and began dueling. Hermione felt completely foolish: she had no idea how she was meant to stand or move, she didn't even know if she was performing her spells correctly. Tom seemed more confident, more at ease, but then he'd had the benefit of a Quirrell-free education. She did her best to keep up with him, but that was difficult when he clearly knew what he was doing. It didn't speak highly of her Defense Professor's skill as an educator that she was left scrambling to defend herself against another First Year. If Tom had been a Dark Wizard, she would have been done for. For his part, the Slytherin was enjoying himself immensely. Every once in awhile, he'd take pity on her and call out some instructions, but by and large he seemed happy to let her sink or swim at her leisure.
Her spells were growing weaker, she could feel it—her frustration and confusion was rapidly dividing her focus. Had this been an actual class, Hermione would have been embarrassed by her performance. Tom's spells, on the other hand, were only getting stronger, each jinx impacting her pillow with a forceful thud. Slowly but surely, she was being pushed back across the floor by the power of his spells, and all she could think was that she was grateful for the padding because she could only imagine what his jinxes would be like if they hit true.
Unfortunately, she very shortly found out. His aim waivered, just high enough to strike her chest, and her legs immediately went out from under her. She recognized this one immediately—the Jelly-Legs Jinx—and she supposed she ought to be thankful that he'd stopped throwing Stingers, but she couldn't really muster up the enthusiasm. A part of her was fairly certain he'd misaimed on purpose.
Another spell whizzed just over her head. The nerve of him! She was already on the ground, and he was threatening to hit her a second time? "Watch it!" she bit out, instinctively using her magic to push him back a few paces.
He stumbled and laughed. "What's the matter, Hermione," he called out mockingly, "can't keep up?"
She glared at him while performing the Counter-Jinx. Once back on her feet, she marched straight up to the Slytherin and poked him in the chest, growling, "I haven't actually been taught this yet, you know."
"Really?" Tom looked surprised, maybe even a touch guilty—which only made her angrier because that meant he'd simply assumed she was abysmal at these spells instead of just confused. "My class covered these jinxes weeks ago. What are they teaching you?"
Hermione had to stop herself from rolling her eyes when she thought about her Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. "Professor Quirrell mentioned them," she said at length, "even gave us the incantations, but he didn't show us the wand movement or let us practice them or anything."
Tom's slight frown deepened, his voice dripping with disdain as he asked, "So he just lectures for the entire lesson?"
"He doesn't like practical demonstrations," she shrugged. "I told you once already, didn't I? He seems afraid of his own subject. We spend most of the class on theory or listening to anecdotes about his travels." Next to Professor Binns, Quirrell was probably the least effective teacher on staff. It was almost as if he went out of his way to prove how incapable he should be at serious or powerful magic, and yet she couldn't help but remember what had happened to Harry's broom during his first Quidditch match. That spell had been strong, if minor, Dark Magic; Snape was a better fit for the culprit, but she couldn't shake Tom's warnings about her Defense Professor. If Quirrell really was hiding something, then that meant he was teaching them poorly on purpose—a thought that made her blood boil.
"That sounds dreadful," Tom interrupted her thoughts. "My Defense class almost always has a practical component."
Grimacing, she started, "Well, Professor Quirrell—"
"Y-yes, Miss Granger?"
Hermione's head whipped around as the rest of her froze in place—guilty and worried all at once. For a moment it felt as if time stood still and she gazed in dawning horror at the man who was casually peering into the room. She hadn't even heard the door open, and yet there stood Professor Quirrell. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? Her throat felt desert-dry and her mouth flopped open uselessly a few times. Eventually, she found her voice, but all she managed to get out was a weak, "Professor!"
Quirrell's head cocked inquisitively, his face open and earnest as always, but there was something dark and calculating in the depths of his eyes. Or was that perhaps just a trick of the light? "St-strange place for t-two students to meet."
She managed to turn her head just enough to catch sight of Tom. Apparently having decided it was too late to make a clean getaway, he'd elected to stay. His back was turned fully to the door, his head almost literally buried in a textbook to hide his face—which might have looked comical if not for the seriousness of the situation. Honestly, were it not for the tense set of his shoulders, he would have presented the perfect picture of nonchalance. Knowing that he would not risk speaking just now, Hermione rushed to answer the Professor, "We were just trying out some of the jinxes you told us about in class."
"I w-wouldn't recommend that," Quirrell smiled, stepping into the room. "Easy sp-spells, of c-course, but if Filch found you using ma-magic outside of class you'd get in tr-trouble, you know."
Nothing had changed about the man—he was still pale and trembling, still affecting a general sense of quiet desperation—and yet there was something else there as well, something extra. A dark aura had filled the room upon Quirrell's entrance. She tried to tell herself that she was imagining things, but even from the corner of her eye she could tell that Tom sensed it too. The young Slytherin's head was cocked ever-so-slightly, as if listening to a whisper that no one else could hear; for some reason, that sight filled her with dread.
Quirrell cleared his throat and, realising that she'd let the silence drag on for far too long, she rushed to say, "Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." Plastering on her most helpful smile, she grabbed her own Defense text and added, "It won't happen again. We'll just study from the book."
"G-Good idea," he nodded. "D-Don't forget to turn in y-your essay assignments before the holidays." And yet, even after the finality of what was obviously his parting statement, the Professor lingered, his eyes trained on Tom's wand. The long stick of yew was barely visible over the edge of his book, but even that small glimpse seemed somehow familiar to Quirrell. His trembling dropped for a moment, something distinctly like awe and horror flitting over his face, but it was there and gone so quickly that it was hard to say she hadn't imagined it. At length, Quirrell's gaze darted over to her, disconcertingly speculative now, but he turned and left before she could study the look any further.
Hermione was shaken, her hands covered in a cold sweat as she stared at the door. A part of her expected Quirrell to come back or another Professor to peer in, but the minutes dragged by and nobody appeared. Lost in her worries, she nearly shrieked when Tom took hold of her hand. He drew her in close, as if trying to surround her, his black eyes staring off into the distance. She wasn't sure whether he was quite as rattled as she was, but something was clearly bothering him—something more than the fact that he'd been caught by an adult. Whatever those worries were, they drew out a strangely protective instinct in him; despite his frequent standoffishness, this was the second time that the aftermath of Quirrell's presence had prompted Tom to seek physical assurance that she was unharmed. Several moments passed between them, silent and anxious but, thankfully, not frantic like the last time.
Tom blinked, gaze finally focusing, and drew in a deep breath. Then, calm as could be, commented, "That's a very inconsistent stutter."
"What?" she gaped. How could he focus on that at a time like this? He had her pressed so close that her face was nearly squished into his chest, but when she finally managed to glance up she could hardly believe his expression. Blank. Perhaps slightly analytical but, by and large, blank—whatever he was feeling, whatever his thoughts were on the situation, he'd pushed them down so far she had no chance of seeing them. She wasn't sure if that was meant to be for her benefit, if he was trying to put up a brave front for her, but watching him become so cut-off alway left her cold.
"The Matron used to have an aid who had trouble talking—she always got stuck on her S's and T's, but that was all," he explained. Then, with a nod to the closed door, he added, "Your Professor Quirrell, on the other hand, just seems to be choosing stutters at random."
The implication was not lost on Hermione. "You think he's making it up?" Was Quirrell's speech impediment just another possible layer of deception? As much as she disliked Snape, studiously harmless Professor Quirrell and his uncomfortably dark aura was beginning solidify his position as the true threat inside Hogwarts. Of course, everyone posed a risk to her relationship with the time-traveler, but the idea of that information in the hands of her Defense Professor suddenly seemed genuinely dangerous.
Tom shrugged, "I don't know." His blank expression eased a bit, allowing a touch of concern to creep over him. "Do you think he was suspicious of us?"
She sighed and stepped back a bit, wearily rubbing a hand over her eyes. "I don't see how he couldn't be. Catching a Slytherin and a Gryffindor together isn't exactly a common occurrence. Not to mention that you wouldn't even look at him. And it has to be pretty noticeable to Quirrell that you're unfamiliar." And yet, despite that, there had been a greedy sort of longing in his bearing. Had Quirrell really recognised the young Slytherin's wand? And, if so, why had it struck such a chord with him? "He's been a Professor here for a number of years and there are less than three hundred students—"
"What?" he interrupted her, grabbing her shoulders suddenly.
She looked up quickly, taking in his widened eyes and dumbstruck expression. "You're surprised by that. Why? How many students are there in your time?"
Tom looked suddenly sick in his confusion as he answered, "Just under a thousand, Hermione."
It was her turn to feel nauseous. "Do you mean to tell me that your House alone has nearly as many students as my entire school?" Quirrell was instantly pushed to the back of her thoughts. Instead, the empty corridors of the castle swam to the front of her mind, the massive expanse of a Great Hall that never seemed full even when everyone was present, and all the towers and abandoned classrooms that stood as testaments to a different era. "I've always felt that Hogwarts is unnecessarily large for the number of people who reside here, but that's just ridiculous!"
"Merlin," he breathed, "what do you think could do that to the population—some kind of magical plague?"
She shook her head. "There have been a couple of wars…" she admitted slowly. "Maybe Grindelwald—?"
But Tom didn't let her finish the thought. "No," he interrupted. "I read up on him. He's never going to gain a foothold here—a few rogue supporters and a lot of opposition, but no actual presence." He let go of her shoulders and cocked his head, asking, "What about the other one, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"
Hermione felt like wringing her hands in frustration. "Not much specific information is available. All the history books seem to go out of their way to be vague." Which was frustrating, to say the least. Coming from a non-magical background, she had made great efforts to catch up on modern events, and yet it felt as if the most important information of all was being studiously ignored. How could they overlook a Dark Lord so thoroughly? Of course, she knew the answer to that already. "I think You-Know-Who is still too fresh in everyone's minds. Even ten years later, they're still too scared to talk about what happened. I've found a couple of important battles mentioned, a few suspected victims, loads of transcripts covering the criminal trials of his supporters, and Harry's story of course, but nothing really about You-Know-Who." And she had looked, high and low, for any glimpse of this man that Ollivander had once compared her to, but each book had left her more frustrated than the last. "No name, no age, no real dates—it's like he just sprang into being, fully formed in the late 60's. No one seems to know how many deaths to really attribute to him." She bit her lip, searching for other explanations in the population drop, not wanting to assign blame to a figure that she hardly knew anything about. Tentatively, she suggested, "There are other magical schools, you know. Maybe people just moved away from Britain."
"Over five hundred students seems like an unreasonable number of transfers," Tom pointed out solemnly. "Attendance numbers are going to vary from generation to generation, but to go from nearly a thousand students to less than three hundred in just a matter of decades?" His dark gaze flit back to the closed door and narrowed suspiciously. "British magical society must be on the brink of extinction."