He Is Keen
Chapter Twenty-One: He Is Keen
Hogwarts, 1990
Come to me, the malignant pollution had whispered to Tom once more. Come to me and you shall be whole, which hadn't made a single ounce of sense to him; he was whole already, wasn't he? He couldn't guess what it's interest was—Hermione had seemed to sense the darkness this time, but it hadn't appeared to speak to her the way it did to him. He shivered in revulsion, remembering its putrid touch. Even more disturbing, underneath that nauseating perception of rotting decay had been a bit of temptation. As Hermione had babbled at her Professor, Tom had struggled against the familiarity and the wholly new desire to consume this thing that confronted him, to absorb its magic and wield its power as his own. The only thing that had kept him rooted to the spot was the knowledge that the price of acquiring it would be far too high—there was a consciousness hiding in the darkness, and he was certain he did not want that inside himself.
The apparition had silently switched tactics, or perhaps simply been unable to quell its curiosity. Which one are you? How did you come to be here? Why do you waste your time in company such as this? You're younger than I imagined. Come to me!
It had been an effort just to keep his eyes blankly trained on the book in front of him. The temptation to turn around and study Quirrell had been fierce. Was Quirrell controlling the darkness, or was it controlling him? In the end though, Tom hadn't been able to do more than grit his teeth and helplessly wait for the moment to pass—he'd sooner attempt to hex Dumbledore than reveal his identity to this twisted, young Professor. And yet, even after the man in question had left, the faint whisper and the terrible impulse it inspired remained. Come to me. He'd had to steel himself against the urge, to find solace in the knowledge that Hermione was untouched by that corruption; she grounded him, offered enough openness and distraction to block out the silent whispers. Their sibilant edge remained—like a midge he couldn't fully swat away—but it was easier to ignore in the presence of his friend.
"Why are we here?" Ron Weasley's accusing voice cut through Tom's reminiscence. "I thought it was oh, so important that he not get seen by anyone."
In the aftermath of Quirrell's appearance, both Tom and Hermione had agreed that it might be a good idea to alert her… friends about the probable danger. However, he rather suspected they had entirely different reasons for this—she seemed to be seeking their counsel, but he merely sought their compliance. While Quirrell represented a threat to all of them, particularly to the safety of Tom's secret, it was Hermione who was most vulnerable to potential attack. Tom could remove himself to the security of his own time at a moment's notice, but she did not have that luxury; her best defense then was never to be alone, never to present the Professor with the opportunity to corner her. As much as he detested their presence in her life, Tom could not deny that Weasley and Potter might prove useful just now.
To that end, Hermione had quickly gathered her two Gryffindor compatriots and then hustled all four of them to a study room that was halfway up the Astronomy Tower. She seemed fairly confident that no one would stumble across them there—apparently the room only made itself accessible for a scant few hours during undocumented celestial events, rendering it more or less impractical for its intended purpose. Tom had wanted to take them to Slytherin's classroom, whose fortified depths essentially guaranteed they would not be discovered, but he'd had to concede that getting to the dungeon entrance unseen would have been next to impossible. The Tower room was not without its charm: rich tapestries hung upon the walls depicting all manner of constellations, while a scale model of the solar system drifted and glittered serenely in the centre of the room. There were several tables and desks scattered about, and the group had chosen to huddle around one of the smallest tables, furthest away from the door—not the best place for this sort of meeting, but certainly not the worst, either.
"Something's happened," Hermione began solemnly. "Tom and I were practicing spells together when Professor Quirrell—"
But Weasley, true to form, interrupted her, rolling his eyes as he exclaimed, "Not this again!"
Tom fought down a smile at the ire that instantly flared to life in Hermione. Her eyes narrowed, their usually doe-like depths glittering with an angry fire—it was quite the sight to him. Strange, almost, to see her angry at someone else for a change, but all the more enchanting for it. She rounded on Weasley within seconds, practically snarling, "I sit through your blabber about Fluffy and Nicolas Flamel on a constant basis. The least you could do is humour me in return, Ronald!"
Startled, Weasley backed away from her—interestingly, so did Potter, even though he wasn't the subject of her wrath; had they never witnessed her temper before?—however, his opinion remained unswayed. "But it's Quirrell," he emphasised, as if that explained it all. "I don't think he even has it in him to kick a cat, let alone perform Dark Magic."
Sensing danger, Potter jumped in to mitigate. "What happened, Hermione?" he asked, calmly redirecting her attention.
Curious, Tom thought as he studied their interactions. They were very different from Macmillan and Black. The three of them were deeply dysfunctional at first glance, unable to present a wholly united front and yet, on some level, they worked together perfectly. Their dissention forced them to explore every idea to its fullest, to validate every argument beyond a shadow of a doubt, to pursue avenues of thought they might never have entertained otherwise. Hermione supplied the logic, Weasley unwittingly played devil's advocate, and Potter kept the peace. For all that their friendship was flawed, they still created a truly formidable force together. It was not a welcome revelation; he'd felt a curious thrill to watch Eunice and Alphard, but to study these Gryffindors from the outside made Tom uncomfortable for reasons he didn't wish to examine.
Temper still lurking close to the surface, but quelled enough to allow her to continue, Hermione stiffly relayed, "Quirrell caught us together. I don't think he saw Tom's face, but he seemed to recognise his wand." She paused, face tight and pale with anxiety. "I think he might suspect the truth."
Tom flinched at those words; this was certainly news to him. There hadn't been time to stash his wand even if he had thought to do so; just grabbing a book to shield himself with had taken too long. He'd been worried that he hadn't moved quickly enough, that Quirrell might have glimpsed his face when he'd caught them by surprise—it hadn't crossed his mind that his wand might be just as identifying. Did Quirrell know him somehow, or had he mistaken Tom's wand for someone else's? He couldn't have seen more than a few inches of it, so it was possible that he'd jumped to an inaccurate conclusion. However, even if Quirrell was mistaken, it wouldn't change his level of interest. Tom was well and truly on the young Professor's map now and, by extension, so was Hermione. The situation was quickly becoming far more dangerous than he'd imagined.
"Well, that's his problem," the redhead grumbled over his thoughts, gesturing dispassionately in Tom's direction, "not ours."
"It's going to become your problem, Weasley," Tom pointed out coldly. "If Quirrell thinks you've had contact with me, you might be targeted for information."
Logic was clearly not Weasley's strong suit—and Hermione thought the boy some kind of strategist?—because he continued to draw the argument out. "We don't have anything to tell him; we've only met you twice."
"He's not going to know that until he's already got you cornered, so it would be best to stay on your guard," the Slytherin snapped. Really, how could the idiot not see that?
"Look, I don't want to sound rude here or anything," Potter waded into the fray once more, apparently quite dedicated to being the voice of reason, "but I honestly just don't get it—how can the two of you be so frightened of Professor Quirrell?" His question was posed without judgement, carefully hiding anything that was not plain curiosity. It was clear that the boy thought they were being irrational, but he managed to present that idea in the most inoffensive way possible. "He's harmless."
Tom studied the short Gryffindor, that errant impression of familiarity nagging at him once more—but if there was any of the darkness in this boy, Tom could not sense it. It was suspicious, though, that the two qualities felt so much the same, doubly so since the boy in questions didn't seem able to perceive the blackness that he shared something with. Was The-Boy-Who-Lived lying to them in regards to his opinion about Quirrell, or was he simply not observant enough to notice anything wrong? Being unable to piece the mysterious boy together was frustrating to Tom; he'd never failed to understand someone so thoroughly before. It made him wary, but for the time being he had no choice but to trust Hermione's judgement.
"That's just what he wants you to think, Potter," the Slytherin replied easily, pushing his distrust aside. "He's hiding something."
As if sensing that they were close to a precipice, Hermione jumped in and added, "You know I don't make these claims lightly, Harry, and if you'd been with us this afternoon you would understand." She bit at her lip and shivered in remembrance. "Quirrell was suspicious of us without cause, and when he stepped into that classroom something wrong came with him."
Potter cocked his head and considered that, but Weasley apparently thought she was just being dramatic. With another irritating roll of his eyes, he asked, "Are you sure what you felt wasn't the guilt of doing something so unnatural eating away at you?"
"I don't waste time feeling guilty—" the Slytherin began.
But Weasley immediately interrupted him with a darkly muttered, "Big surprise."
Tom clenched his jaw, but graciously elected to ignore the outburst, continuing, "—and this thing was cloying, insidious; it was the whisper of Death hidden inside the promise of power." He met the gaze of both boys in turn, staring down ice and emerald in an effort to impress upon them just how serious the situation was. "Whatever that darkness is, it seems capable of thinking independently of Quirrell, which makes it all the more dangerous because that means we could be facing two enemies at once."
Potter looked suddenly excited, cheeks flushing as his eyes took on a bright glint. "Are you sure it wasn't just the residual feeling of someone else's magic?" he asked in a rush.
Tom had a feeling that the conversation was somehow circling around to the Professor that Hermione had set fire to. He'd never seen this Snape bloke, and it was suspicious that he was so uniformly disliked, but their disgruntled Potions Master was hardly the trouble at hand. However, saying that outloud would only make Potter stubbornly cling to his idea, and the last thing Tom needed was for the other boy to get defensive. He attempted to circumvent the issue entirely, bluntly asking, "Do you really want to risk your safety—her safety," he gestured to Hermione, "on that gamble?"
She immediately stiffened, but he'd expected that. For her own irrational reasons, she had always objected to his protection, but now was hardly the time to indulge her. It was one thing if she elected to endure some schoolyard bullying, but it was quite another when her actual safety was being threatened. Still, a part of him wished she would leave for just a moment and allow him to speak freely without the worry of enraging her.
As if hearing his thoughts, she raised her brows and stubbornly proclaimed, "Whatever you want to say to them, you can say in front of me."
Tom sighed in irritation. He was trying to be a gentleman, but she seemed determined to make a fuss. "Very well," he shrugged. She already knew what he was going to say; if she got upset, then it was her own fault for sticking around to hear it. Blithely turning his attention to the two Gryffindor boys, he told them imperiously, "I'm tasking the both of you with keeping an eye on Hermione—I can't be here all the time, and I need to know that somebody's looking out for her."
"Really, Tom," she sneered, "I'm perfectly capable of—"
But he didn't let her finish, firmly continuing over her arguments, "Don't let her out of your sight; the best time for Quirrell to strike will be when you are divided. Right now he's just suspicious and probably looking for more information, but when he doesn't get any he may become desperate, perhaps even aggressive." For all their disbelief about the situation, Potter and Weasley did seem to take his command seriously. Their quick loyalty to Hermione was admirable, if nothing else. Even so, Tom knew they would be looking for danger in all the wrong corners, so he threatened, "If she gets hurt on your watch, you'll have me to answer to."
Potter smothered a laugh. "If she gets hurt, I think we'll have bigger things to worry about than your wrath," he explained dryly.
Fighting down another sigh, Tom rolled his eyes. "You're entitled to your opinion, Potter, but I do so love proving others wrong," he warned.
Hermione chose then to clear her throat. Her hands were tightly fisted into her skirt, her hair seemingly fluffed up in indignation—why was she always so perversely cross with him on the occasions that he worried about her? In a tart, clipped voice, she asked, "Are you done talking like I'm not sitting right next to you?"
"It's for your own safety," he replied evenly, fighting down the urge to massage his temples. She would only get angrier if she thought he was irritated with her.
"I can protect myself," she bit out stubbornly.
Why was it that he was having to explain the boundaries and motivations of friendship to someone who was nauseatingly in love with the concept? What was she so upset about, anyway? He was only trying to help, and not even in the way that he'd offered to help her against the Smythe brat—there was nothing aggressive or violent or wrong about asking her friends to watch out for her! Honestly, if the Gryffindors were as close as she liked to assume, then they should have been compelled to protect her regardless. He couldn't understand this behaviour of hers, this blatant disregard for her own well-being; had the tables been turned, she would have been haranguing him that it was only logical.
That was it, wasn't it? Tom was haphazardly pricking at her emotions instead of completely addressing her sense of orderly logic. Talking over her certainly hadn't won him any points, either. "I don't doubt your potential, Hermione," he began gingerly, soothingly, "but Quirrell is older and more educated than we are. We don't even fully understand what it is that we're facing." Cold, hard facts; inescapable, verifiable truth—these were the things she needed, the qualities that she required in order to appeal to her. Whatever emotional height she was climbing could not withstand the power of simple but firm logic. "In a group, you can deflect his attention. On your own… Do you really think a Grade One spell is going to stop that darkness from having at you? Or were you just intending to set him on fire and hope that he doesn't know a counter-curse?" She'd barely been able to hold her own against Tom; he didn't doubt she was strong enough to do it, but her knowledge in the matter had clearly been insufficient. Quirrell had no reason to properly teach Defense; after all, no one could conceivably stop him with the shoddy education he was providing. She couldn't honestly believe herself capable of squaring off against a man whose campaign of misinformation had left her vulnerable even to other First Years. He was aware, however, that this was an affront to her pride, that he had to soften his words or she would only be pushed further away. Swallowing thickly, he reached for her hand and murmured, "I'm sorry if I insulted you, but I don't want you in that sort of danger—and you can't deny that minimising potential risks is our best defense right now."
"I hate it when you make sense," Hermione grumbled, deflating a bit as her fingers laced through his own. "Perhaps just don't phrase it like you're trying to protect the girl."
Tom furrowed his brow in confusion. "I am trying to protect the girl. Does that seem somehow objectionable to you?" She was his only real friend, and for all her tenacity and wild temperament there was still a worrying softness about her, a fragility that girls from his own time did not possess. Perhaps it was unfair to compare her to anyone who had lived through the hell of Wool's Orphanage, but the fact remained. Besides which, any one of those hardened girls would have taken this protection as their due, would have expected or even demanded it from her male counterparts. He had a hazy feeling that this was one of those generational disconnects they'd thus far managed to avoid.
She confirmed as much, half-frowning as she replied, "It's a bit archaic, yes."
Weasley and Potter had chosen to remain studiously silent for some minutes now, barely daring to move lest focus somehow shift to them. Something told him that they both found this verbal tennis match perversely entertaining.
Tom couldn't stop himself from pressing his free hand to his eyes. Even though her words went a long way toward potentially explaining her completely irrational stance, the revelation was hardly welcome at this moment. Frankly, their Dark Magic crisis seemed a little more important than trying to bridge half a century of cultural differences. "I'm going to take a guess here and assume we don't have nearly enough time to clear this matter up, so let's leave it at this," he dropped his hand and looked at her, hoping that some semblance of earnesty—a quality that did not so often tread upon his features—was clear to her, "I'm 'protecting the girl' only because the girl is you."
There was a tense moment, her fingers tightening around his in gratitude even as an argument brewed within the depths of her gaze.
"I still think the two of you are barking entirely up the wrong tree," that simple statement shattered the silence. Surprisingly—or perhaps not, considering what Tom had already observed of their dynamics—it was Potter that diverted everyone's attention. He seemed comfortable in his role as peacekeeper, naturally inclined to level out the tempers of those around him; there was something balancing about the boy, neutral almost, that he frequently took advantage of to settle fights before they truly started. Of course, in this particular case, he'd probably only traded in one argument for another but, still, it was an interesting talent.
Hermione made a moue of disapproval. "Snape's got no reason—"
"Quirrell has less reason," Potter cut her off, Weasley distantly backing him up. "Snape's been confrontational and rude, if not downright sadistic toward us. He knows we suspect him of trying to get down the trapdoor, that's why he tried to knock me off my broom!"
"Trapdoor?" Tom frowned, turning his attention back to Hermione. "Am I missing something here?"
The redhead chose that moment to break his silence, snickering, "Oo, clever ol' Davies not know what we're talking about?"
"Stuff it, Weasley," he snapped, uncomfortably aware that there was a flush creeping up his neck—there was nothing he hated more than appearing lost or ignorant.
Weasley smiled nastily but, interestingly, chose not to taunt Tom any further; although that decision was reached perhaps less out of kindness than the practical fear of stoking Hermione's temper back up. "The third floor corridor is being used to hide something," he explained. "We don't know what exactly, but we do know that a man named Nicolas Flamel asked Dumbledore to protect it. Which is handy, because it was almost stolen from Gringotts not too long ago, and that bank is legendary for not having break-ins."
Potter nodded, adding, "Dumbledore's really gone out of his way to protect this thing, too. The trapdoor is guarded by a monstrous, three-headed dog—"
"Named Fluffy," Weasley muttered, looking confounded, "because Hagrid's apparently a maniac."
"—and it sounds like a group of Professors have added defenses beyond that as well." Potter's green eyes flashed exuberantly; for all that he seemed to recognise the danger lurking around them, he was undeniably invigorated by it. Hermione had been right: the boy had a nearly pathological love for mysteries. "Hagrid says Snape's one of those Professors, but I think he's after whatever they're meant to be protecting."
Loathe as he was to admit it, Tom could see the thread of logic that Potter was following; if it hadn't been for his own chance run-ins with Quirrell, he might have even been impressed with the boy's reasoning. Unfortunately, Tom's experience revealed the weakness of the whole premise: maybe something was wrong with Snape, but Potter was only focusing on him for personal reasons, petty complaints. Quirrell, on the other hand, was very clearly a real issue. Hoping to swing the argument around, Tom casually asked, "Got any proof?"
"Aside from his completely suspicious behaviour?" Potter returned glibly, quirking a brow at him. When Tom remained unmoved by his humour, the Gryffindor shrugged and continued, "Snape was attacked by Fluffy—I saw the wound with my own eyes—so clearly he's tried to get down the trapdoor at least once before."
Hm, that was curious. But then, trying to get past the guard dog didn't automatically make Snape a thief. While Tom couldn't quite conjure up a valid excuse as to why, the fact remained that Snape could have had other reasons for what he'd done. To that end, he pressed, "And he tried it strictly to get at this hidden thing?"
Potter snorted, as if he thought Tom was acting simpleminded. "Well, why else would he be attempting to get past Fluffy?"
"Why, indeed?" Clearly Snape merited more thought than he'd assumed. Was the Professor simply overzealous about his guard duties, or did he have some sort of hidden agenda? However, it was difficult for Tom to put together the pieces of a man he'd never met. Uncomfortable with not fully understanding the players at work, he moved his attention to something a little more concrete, asking, "So what is this coveted object?"
"Like Ron said, we don't know," Hermione shook her head and shrugged. Out of the three Gryffindors, she seemed the least interested in this little conundrum, though she still managed to sound chagrined when she admitted, "Hagrid accidentally told us that Flamel was involved, but we haven't had any luck researching him—we're all sure we've heard the name before, but we just can't seem to find it again."
That wasn't good news, though it was hardly surprising, given today's series of unfortunate revelations. The trio before him had put together a viable, if potentially inaccurate theory, but they failed to appreciate the real scope of what was happening. In a distant way, he was sure they wanted to stop Snape, but that was likely more out of petty vindication than anything else, a way to get revenge for how the man treated them—which was problematic if Snape wasn't actually the guilty party. The three of them had joined the fray for personal reasons, they wouldn't perceive true danger until it was far too late. But if Tom was right, if their Defense Professor was the true villain, then the situation was much more dire than they seemed to think. "If this object is really so desirable," he pointed out quietly, "then it stands to reason that someone like Quirrell—someone who is clearly hiding something—would be tempted to steal it." Quirrell's mere presence practically guaranteed that the object was powerful in some way. He shuddered to think what that darkness might become with access to such a desperately desired artefact.
For once not combative, Weasley simply shook his head and replied, "Quirrell wouldn't have the nerve."
If they'd seen the man as he and Hermione had, Tom doubted that they'd be having this conversation at all. It was plain that, for today at least, the two boys could not be convinced of the truth, but Tom still needed them to be his eyes and ears while he was in his own time. He would have to lie then, or provide some reasonable explanation as to why they should remain cautious. They were determined to cling to their idea, which meant he couldn't outright discount it, but perhaps he could find a way to use it to his benefit. Thinking quickly, the Slytherin countered with, "Perhaps not, but then maybe his actions are not a choice." There, the seed of doubt: they didn't know anything for sure, so it would be foolhardy for them to ignore potential enemies. "That aura around him was sentient; it's possible that Dark Wizards unknown are possessing or controlling your Professor."
Potter's head immediately whipped up. "Do you think Snape—?"
"Oh, for the love of Merlin," Tom snapped, unable to bite down on the words in time. He knew he was working against himself at this point, but it was so very frustrating how they refused to see past Snape. "Maybe he just hates you, did you ever think of that?"
Unimpressed by his temper, Potter simply raised a brow, absently reaching up to rub at his lightning bolt of a scar—perhaps he was feeling a bit of frustration himself. "Your suspicion of Quirrell seems just as unreasonable to me, you know," he replied evenly.
It took a bit of effort, but Tom managed to clamp down on his retort. He had to salvage this; he needed the two Gryffindors on his side, if only for Hermione's sake. And it wasn't exactly like they were Slytherins, after all—Weasley and Potter should be easy to manipulate in comparison. He just had to stop letting his displeasure have its way; if Tom was right, and he didn't doubt that he was, there would be time enough to rub it in later. For now, he had to bridge this gap, even if it meant pretending. "Fine," he breathed out, adding a touch of defeat to his tone, "keep an eye on both of them, if you must. Just don't let your guard down."
A charged silence followed his plea, but it seemed to do the trick. As much as the two boys didn't share his concerns, they weren't about to spite him at Hermione's expense, particularly not after he'd just given them tacit permission to continue stalking their Potions Master. He could only hope that their silly infatuation wouldn't divert too much of their attention. Potter and Weasley were only as useful as they chose to be; human shield weren't much good if they never got into proper position.
Hermione shook off the quiet first, though she hardly seemed happy to do it. Biting her lip once more—a compulsive habit of hers and a painfully clear sign of her nerves—she looked toward the redhead and awkwardly admitted, "There was one other thing we were hoping you might be able to help us with, Ron."
Weasley looked startled that they might have discussed him at all, let alone wanted anything from him. "Me?" he asked blankly.
Hermione hesitated, and Tom was certain it was because a part of her simply didn't want to know, didn't want to face the reality of what had apparently happened. He could sympathise—they had stumbled headlong into a truly devastating fact—but the possibilities would only haunt them if they did not get their history straight. If there was some sort of plague or terrifyingly destructive force that was about to consume the population in his own time, then Tom needed to know. Determined, he asked, "Your family's attended Hogwarts for generations, right?"
Weasley turned to him, plainly uncomfortable at the idea of discussing his family with a Slytherin, but still he answered, "As far back as anyone can trace. We can't prove it," he cracked a faint smile, looking a touch proud now, "but legend says that the Weasleys were among some of the first students to be taught by the Founders."
"So you know a lot about the castle, then?" Tom pressed.
"About as much as anyone from an old family, I guess," the redhead replied with a careless shrug. "Why?"
Hermione took a deep, fortifying breath, then plunged ahead, "Tom and I were talking and it sort of came out that there's been a massive attendance drop over the last few decades—some five hundred students just gone." She withdrew her hand from Tom's, fingers clenching into her skirt once more as she leaned in toward the redhead. "We were wondering if you might be able to tell us why."
Potter's interest sharpened immediately, but Weasley practically fell to pieces. His face drained of colour, leaving him sallow and pinched as he whispered, "Oh."
In that gentle but firm way of hers, Hermione pressed, "Do you know what happened?"
It was clear that he did, and waiting for him to answer felt like torture. For as much as Tom resented the wizarding world—resented how they had abandoned him to the tender mercies of London, how they had withheld knowledge of who and what he was for years on end and then expected him to be grateful when they did finally get around to informing him—he was terrified at the idea that magical society might be shrinking out of existence. Bitter or not, it was his world now, and if there was something he could do to steer it away from disaster then he would. A heady rush warmed his cheeks as it occurred to him that with this knowledge the fate of hundreds, maybe even thousands, rested within his hands; he could, in essence, control their destinies. It was a thrilling feeling to be handed so much power—people could live or die by his actions.
"Yeah, it's just…" Weasley interrupted his thoughts, squirming in his seat like it was suddenly covered in thumbtacks. "It's not something people really talk about, you know?"
"Tom and I weren't raised the way you were, Ron," Hermione reminded him, leaning even closer as if she feared to miss a single word of his; if she scooted forward anymore, she'd be in danger of falling off her chair entirely. "We don't know these things."
"Erm, well…" The redhead swallowed thickly, scratching the back of his neck while his ears flushed a dark red. "Mum won't speak about it, says it's best to keep the past behind us. Dad, on the other hand…" He gestured weakly. "Well, he lost a lot of family. I mean, everyone did, but…"
"You're not making any sense," Tom and Potter said simultaneously—Tom snapping, Potter murmuring.
"It's no secret that the family lines have been getting smaller for a long time now," Weasley explained bluntly, "but even so, the wizarding world had a balance. That was before the war though, before You-Know-Who." He looked sick just mentioning the Dark Lord. "Dad says entire bloodlines were wiped out, not to mention all the muggleborns and squibs that just disappeared."
Tom wasn't sure what a squib was, but it didn't really matter—he had his answer now, and though he had suspected the truth it was still shocking. He had focused on Grindelwald as the larger threat when studying the two Dark Lords, but he could see his mistake now: he had judged their worth purely upon the amount of information available. A part of him had childishly assumed that books written upon You-Know-Who had been scarce because he simply hadn't been worth discussing that much. After all, how dangerous could a man who'd ultimately been defeated by an infant truly be? And, in the grand scheme of things, Grindelwald was much closer to becoming a potential presence in Tom's life; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was decades off and had really only merited thought for his capacity to interfere with Tom's own plans.
"I suspected, of course," Hermione breathed out on a morose sigh, "but I never realised the war was that devastating."
Weasley nodded solemnly, his lips set in a grim line. "According to Dad, You-Know-Who shook everything up. He wasn't like other Dark Lords: he was more powerful, more persuasive. It was almost guaranteed that he was going to gain control of our world. Even Albus Dumbledore was only just holding him off—everybody kept waiting for Dumbledore to duel him, like with Grindelwald, but he never did." His gaze shifted over to Potter, who had remained eerily and uncomfortably silent throughout this explanation. "The war didn't stop until You-Know-Who tried and failed to kill Harry."
Hogwarts, 1990
For the first time in what felt like ages, Tom was unwillingly pulled back to the past. Hermione couldn't even remember the last instance of that happening; over the years, his visits had stretched from scant minutes to full hours. Then again, today had probably been his longest stay yet; as strong as he often seemed to her, even he had his limits. She couldn't say she was entirely sorry to see him go—though she always missed him deeply when he was not around, she was eager to get out from under his watchful gaze. He'd be furious if he knew what she was snooping around the Library for. In all honesty, she did feel a bit guilty about it, because she really had wanted to respect his wishes and privacy by not digging into his life. But Quirrell had recognised Tom's wand—that had to mean something! What if Tom had somehow inherited a famous wand, or Quirrell had mistaken it for someone else's? They needed to know what was going on in the young Professor's mind if they were to have any hope of evading him—if Quirrell thought Tom was someone else, then they were better off learning who that was rather than ignoring the mystery.
It had taken longer than expected to shake off Harry and Ron—they'd been surprisingly resolute about doing Tom's bidding—but in the end, Oliver Wood had solved the matter for her. There was one Quidditch match left before the holidays and he was determined that the Gryffindor team should practice every day before that. Harry had smiled sheepishly, promising to meet back up with her after he was done flying through his drills, and she'd appreciated that he hadn't tried to get her to come watch the team practice; though she supported him wholeheartedly, she could hardly think of a greater waste of her time than sitting around in the cold, empty Pitch and doing nothing. It hadn't taken much convincing to get Ron to go with him; after all, between sport and homework, Ron would choose Quidditch every time. He didn't look quite as sheepish about his decision as Harry, but there was still a surprising touch of guilt lingering around him when he waved goodbye to her. Hermione supposed she ought to feel bad for convincing him to go—it wasn't right to encourage either boy to go against their promises, unspoken or not—but she could hardly have them following her to the Library, hovering around and potentially discovering something about Tom that they didn't need to know. It was bad enough that she herself was going against the Slytherin's express wishes, she didn't need to drag Harry and Ron into it as well.
The Library was a comfort to her, although its sheer size always made it difficult to know where to start new research projects. Wandlore was a surprisingly vast and complicated subject; she came to find out that there was a lot of theory involved in the making and usage of wands. History, too, provided more information than she was able to comb through on her own—it seemed as if fantastical legends had sprung up about the wand of every famous witch or wizard through the ages. In a couple of years, she had no doubt that there would be stories about even Harry's wand, despite it having little to do with why he was famous.
Hermione's search quickly began to slow down to an idle. There weren't really directories for looking up someone's wand—unless there was one in the Ministry somewhere—and even if there had been she wouldn't have known where to start. After having been his friend for so long, it was uncomfortably disconcerting to realise that the only things she really knew about Tom for certain were his name and that he'd grown up in a place called Wool's. The futility of her search began to press down upon her; she'd been in this position twice before and she still had no idea where she was meant to find her answers. If she didn't get a move on, Quidditch practice would be over before she discovered anything helpful.
Restlessly, discontent, she left the Library, wandering the castle as she tried to regroup her thoughts. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she'd seen a collection of photographs about wands once. Something about Prefects, she thought distantly, or maybe test scores. It was a longshot that the wand she was looking for would be there, but if she could find those pictures again then she could at least satisfy her curiousity. However, flustered as she was, she couldn't quite remember where that display had been. One of the portrait galleries, perhaps? Or by the 'desperately wanted to be a Charms classroom' broom cupboard? There were so many alcoves, hidden rooms, and strange architectural quirks around Hogwarts that it was nearly impossible to trace two and a half months of her own movements. She was certain that she had glimpsed the photos before the troll incident—where had she spent the most time prior to Halloween? The answer was the Library, of course, but that had already been a bust. She knew it couldn't have been in any of the study rooms because, with the notable exception of the one hidden in the Astronomy Tower, they were usually quite free of decorations and distractions, something that Percy…
Percy! That was it! The Gryffindor Prefect took his duty to guide First Years quite seriously, and he'd developed something of a soft spot for Hermione—she had a feeling that she simultaneously reminded him of himself and his younger sister. In an effort to cheer her up one day, he had taken Hermione to the Hall of Academic Excellence. It was a largely unvisited room, museum-like in its dry presentation of exemplary O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores. Percy had delighted in pointing certain cases out to her, assuring her that there was nothing wrong with being a know-it-all, that cleverness had its rewards, and if she studied hard she could even make it onto the Wall of Wands. At the time, Hermione had thought the Wall of Wands was a bit silly—why reward academic excellence with a picture of a wand instead of a portrait of the person in question?—but now she was grateful for it.
The Hall was quite empty when she arrived; she had a feeling that most students didn't even know it existed, and she wasn't sure whether to blame that upon how close it was to the out-of-bounds corridor or on a stunning lack of academic ambition. Either way, it was just as well, because it was more comfortable to have the room to herself. Hermione strolled leisurely up and down the displays, working up her nerve to glance at the Wall. She wanted to tell herself that the chances of Tom's wand being up there were low, but the lie was too ridiculous to believe. This was exactly the sort of place that he would strive to be commemorated in, and given what a painfully clever boy he was there was really no doubt that his name would be here somewhere.
The reality of what she was doing made her breath slip out of her shakily, because no matter how noble her intentions—and they were noble; she was only trying to protect him, just as he had tried to protect her—this was still a betrayal of trust. A normally quiet part of her brain, a part that sounded suspiciously like an eight year old orphan from the roughest part of London, hissed that there was nothing to worry about, that this was only fair. Tom had already betrayed her trust, hadn't he? For no reason other than the simple fact that he could, he'd lied to her for three years straight, made her jump through hoops to learn the truth; at least her betrayal was borne out of desperation and concern for his well-being. And really, this only made them even, didn't it? Tit for tat, as he liked to say. With a rough swallow, she finally came to stand before the Wall. Even with all her justifications, she knew that what she was about to do was wrong.
She looked anyway.
Given how old the school was, the Wall of Wands did not contain so many photographs as one might have assumed. Then again, perhaps that wasn't so surprising—given the caliber of exam scores immortalised within the Hall, she figured the sort of student worthy of the Wall only came around once in a great while. The pictures had been hung chronologically, so she started with the most recent and began working her way back. A sad smile sprang to her lips when she almost instantly came across the wand of one Lily Evans—she was certain that was the maiden name of Harry's Mum. She made a mental note to show him the photo sometime; Harry knew so little about his past that she was positive he would be interested in even this admittedly small piece.
Moving quickly along, Hermione had almost given up hope on the twentieth century when she saw it: bone-white yew tapering to a delicate yet sturdy point, 13 ½ inches, and a Phoenix Feather core. The placard beneath the photograph said Tom, and her breath hitched before she realised it was not the same boy. Tom M. Riddle, whoever he was, had possessed a wand uncannily similar to her Tom—they even had the same first name, which was strange, to say the least—but they were not identical. Riddle's wand had a handle that was vaguely reminiscent of a femur bone in shape, whereas Tom's wand had been sanded down a bit to display the natural scarring and beauty of the wood. From the handle up, however, from the scant few inches that Quirrell might have been able to see, it would be easy to mistake the two wands for one another.
Curious, she turned away from the Wall and scanned the rest of the room, looking for more of Riddle. She didn't have trouble finding him: his O.W.L.'s had broken records in 1943, and his N.E.W.T. scores were still considered some of the highest that the Ministry had ever awarded. He'd even earned a Medal for Magical Merit—something she vaguely remembered Percy pointing out a copy of in the Trophy Room. It didn't escape her notice that the dates upon his various accomplishments handily fit within her window of what year Tom potentially haled from; it was possible that they were attending school together, that he even knew this Riddle fellow. Dare she ask—?
"Ah, Miss Granger," a voice smoothly interrupted her thoughts. "Just the person I was looking for."
The fine hair at the back of her neck stood on end. She knew that voice, but the cadence and the strength of it was all wrong. It couldn't be—and yet it was. "Professor Quirrell?" she squeaked.
He was standing several paces behind her, closer to the Wall. As dreadfully familiar as his turban and robes were, nothing else about the man seemed recognisable: his shoulders were squared, posture relaxed and self-assured, and the constant tremble that regularly shook his limbs was notably absent. He wasn't stuttering, there wasn't a single hint of the verbal difficulties for which he'd become renowned; his voice flowed, unnaturally soothing, and she couldn't help but feel that it wasn't really his voice at all. In fact, the changes in him were so absolute that it was almost as if a stranger stood before her, like something was wearing her Professor as a mask.
"I wanted to apologise for earlier," he—it?—replied, giving her a winning smile. Under the right circumstances she thought that grin might have made him look handsome, if a bit boyish, but at the moment it only made her skin crawl. He seemed to know the effect he had on her, too, because his smile only widened, twisting at the edges in a way she found disturbingly familiar. "I realise now that the two of you were quite frightened about getting into trouble. I wish I was in a position to encourage that sort of extracurricular activity—exploration is what being a student is all about, after all—but you know how difficult Mr. Filch can be. No hard feelings, I hope," he murmured silkily, beckoning her closer. "If you could just pass the word along to your friend—?"
"He's not my friend," Hermione interrupted immediately. This situation was a disaster and there was no clear way out of it—she hadn't expected that Quirrell would try to corner her for information so soon—but it was possible that she might be able to use it to her advantage. If she could convince him that she didn't know anything, that she just assumed Tom was a normal boy, then perhaps he would find her useless enough to leave her alone. However, that meant she would have to stop acting suspicious of him, would have to behave like the eager-to-please student she always was in class—would have to step closer because he had requested it of her. Her feet felt leaden, like all the blood in her body had pooled there, rooting her to the spot, but she eventually managed to slide forward a step or two.
He raised a brow at her abrupt tone, something she'd never seen Quirrell do before; usually he flinched at unexpected interruptions. However, his voice was not angry when he spoke, sounding blankly confused as he asked, "Pardon?"
"He's a Slytherin," she stressed, trying to paste on the sort of disgusted, self-righteous expression Ron often wore. Gryffindor courage only took her so far, though, and she had the awful feeling that her face was actually caught in a painful-looking rictus. "Of course he's not my friend. We're just study partners."
Quirrell's other brow rose to join the first, amusement flooding his terrifyingly relaxed features. "Study partners, then," he amended gently, but she was sure he was silently laughing at her. "I confess, embarrassing as it is, I didn't quite recognise Mr.—?"
Hermione would never be certain what demon prompted her to tell the truth, but the name, "Davies," fled her before she even realised that she was speaking.
"Davies," he deadpanned, amusement mixing with disbelief.
It was clear that her strategy was not working—Quirrell was more suspicious than ever, and she was the only known avenue through which he might be able to assuage his curiosity. Her poor attempt at nonchalance hadn't fooled anyone. Gaze darting away from the young Professor, she morosely defended, "That's the name he gave me."
"I daresay it's a fake, my dear." The epithet, though hardly endearing, was not particularly unusual coming from a staff member, although it seemed more favoured and more acceptable from the older Professors. However, from Quirrell's lips it sounded somehow vile—cold and mocking, yet indefinably, illogically pleasant. "Such a common muggle surname in Slytherin is unlikely."
"If that's all, Sir, I'd like to get back to my study," she said, gesturing vaguely around the room. It was a bit of an effort to hold back her grimace—why had she left the Library? It would have been easier to deflect his attention there, to brush him off without seeming overly wary or rude. "As a Ravenclaw, I'm sure you understand."
"Of course, Miss Granger. Enjoy your day," he conceded easily enough, although she thought she heard a cruelly patronising undercurrent hidden within his farewell. It was a cruelty that was proven quite apparent when he turned back around, dashing her hopes on a speedy exit, and offered her another twisted smile. "One final request, though. If you would be so kind as to tell your partner," he said that word the same way Tom sometimes said friend—disbelieving, sarcastic, and with enough snap to make it sound dirty, "that I'd like to speak with him, I'd be much obliged." Without waiting for her reply, Quirrell turned once more.
Hermione knew she had indulged in more than enough recklessness for one day, that she should accept his exit for the relief it was, but she just couldn't stop herself. It was irritating how clever, how powerful he seemed to think he was just because he knew something was off about Tom. Well, she knew something was off about Quirrell, didn't she? His uncharacteristic behaviour today was proof enough of that! "You're quite at ease this afternoon, Professor," she accused brashly.
Quirrell stopped in his tracks and the darkness—how could she have forgotten about the darkness; how had she not sensed again it before just now?—invaded the room in a suffocating flood. He quirked his head, looking at her over his shoulder, then smirked. "I'm s-sure I don't know what you mean," he stuttered mockingly in blatant self-parody. His eyes darted past her, lingering briefly on the photograph of Riddle's wand, his darkness seemingly replacing all the air in the room until he finally broke his hungry stare and left.
Desperately trying to catch her breath, Hermione backed into the Wall and slid down to the floor. The dangerous waters she had suddenly found herself in made her heart race, her hands shake—Tom's insistence that she not go anywhere alone suddenly didn't seem so archaically silly after all. For some reason, Quirrell had deliberately let her peek behind the curtains, to see the truth of him, and that truth was monstrous. He was faking his vulnerabilities, although to what end she could only guess. Letting her know that was like a slap in the face, a declaration that he was on to her and didn't consider her potentially incriminating accusation any sort of danger to himself. Whether he was being controlled or working autonomously, it was clear the Professor presented a threat the likes of which only Tom had been able to fully perceive.
It took a few minutes to get her panic under control, to stand back up on trembling legs. Worried that Quirrell might return, Hermione ran to the Library, shaken to her very core. There was so much uncertainty at Hogwarts now, but there was one thing she knew had to be true: after the nearly crazed way her Professor had gazed at the photograph upon the Wall, there was no doubt in her mind that the wand he'd mistaken for Tom's was the one that had belonged to Tom M. Riddle. And yet, Quirrell had requested to meet him; whoever this boy was or had been, it was apparent that her Professor wasn't actually in contact with him. Was Riddle a potential ally then? And, if so, on whose side?