He Is A Mystery
Chapter Twenty-Two: He Is A Mystery
Hogwarts, 1990
Hermione closed her book and sighed in frustration. Over the past week, she'd done everything she could to look up more information on Tom M. Riddle, but so far it was all very perfunctory: he'd attended Hogwarts between 1938 and 1945, and had obviously been an excellent student in addition to being a Prefect and Head Boy. After that, she'd come up bone dry, frustratingly similar to her search for Nicolas Flamel. Even Miss Adelaide's Book of Renown—which was little better than a voracious gossip rag pretending to be a reputable publication—had only mentioned Riddle in regards to his astounding test scores, and for performing some special service to the school, though it hadn't mentioned what he'd done. There were no pictures of him, no articles from school publications or The Daily Prophet, no hint of what the boy had been like or gone on to do. It was as if Riddle had stepped outside of Hogwarts and simply vanished, which was suspicious to say the least. Even more suspicious was how little presence he'd left behind at the school; gifted students tended to leave their mark, and she had trouble believing that someone as promising as he'd seemed had failed to impact the school at all. It was almost as if… but she bit her lip and tried to push the thought away. Because that was just ridiculous, wasn't it? There was no reason for anyone to erase his memory from the castle, and certainly not so sloppily—if they'd really wanted reminders of him gone, then why leave behind any vestigial references to his achievements?
She didn't quite know what to do with her disappointment. Against her better judgement, Hermione hadn't told anyone about her second run-in with Quirrell. She'd wanted something—some explanation for why Quirrell was focused on Riddle, some proof of their involvement together, or at the very least some indication of why Riddle's wand should be so desirous—before bringing up her worries, but she'd found exactly nothing useful. Would Harry and Ron even believe her if she tried to tell them now, a week later and with no proof? She didn't wish to sound like the girl who cried wolf—silly, dramatic, attention seeking—but they deserved to know about the danger around them, even if they ultimately misattributed it to Snape.
Although, perhaps a part of her had stayed quiet for a different reason entirely. From a purely objective standpoint, nothing about her conversation with the Defense Professor, or whatever had been wearing his face, was strictly untoward; his words had been polite, inquisitive, apologetic even. But their real conversation hadn't been conducted in words, it had been in the physical nuances: in his upright, domineering stances and careful, silky movements, in her shaky advancement and quiet, but resilient defiance. If she told that to Harry and Ron, she had no doubt that they'd start to think Quirrell was secretly some kind of pervert. While that opinion would direct their attention to where they needed to focus, she worried that they would do something reckless like try to threaten their Professor into staying away from her. Quirrell was a predator of a different sort entirely, and it would be a mistake to allow the two Gryffindor boys to assume he was after something so earthly as a taboo, physical gratification. If she were ever to use the word violation in conjunction with Quirrell, it would only be in regards to that pervasive darkness that she'd briefly struggled against. Not that the reality of the situation was any better—either way, he was a monster that knew precisely how to hide in plain sight—but it would be foolish to give them any reason to confront the man when they didn't fully understand what he was.
She hadn't told Tom either, which was definitely one of her worst ideas yet. Hermione couldn't think of a single way to explain why she'd been alone in the Hall of Academic Excellence without having to lie her arse off—something Tom would undoubtedly see through. Maybe if she'd found something useful on Riddle she could have worked up the nerve to broach the subject, but as that lead had gone depressingly cold she didn't see the point. Telling Tom that she'd dug into the past would only make him angry, and without any valuable information to counterbalance his temper, well… She could already predict how explosively volatile he'd react, and she didn't wish to argue again. It felt wrong not to tell him, but really there was nothing to say—they both knew Quirrell was dangerous, nothing about that had changed, and until she could figure out the mystery surrounding Riddle's wand there didn't seem to be much point in letting Tom know she was digging into the past. Besides, it wasn't as if she was digging into his past, it was this Riddle bloke she was after! And if it just so happened that she managed to find Tom along the way, then that was simply coincidence and not her fault.
Except it was her fault, wasn't it? Because she knew she was not supposed to be looking, that she'd promised Tom she wouldn't pry into his life, that she was using Riddle as a way to justify her own curiosity, that it made her feel awful to go behind Tom's back like this—but it didn't stop her. She told herself that sometimes a bit of privacy had to be sacrificed in the face of larger problems, but that platitude didn't make her actions feel any less selfish. As strange and frustrating as it was that he didn't want her to know any more about him, it was still his right to keep that information secret. He wasn't being unreasonable about his desires, not really; being a time-traveler put him in a delicate position, one where it was entirely possible for her to learn more about him than even he knew about himself. How would she feel if someone showed up one day and claimed to know every action she took years before she even considered doing it? Boxed in, certainly. Perhaps even a bit desperate to prove the knowledge wrong, which could lead to all manner of reckless or irresponsible decision making.
Her thoughts were sidetracked when Harry and Ron entered the Library; Quidditch practice must have ended early. They quickly made their way over, joining her at what had become their table—a nice, cosy spot near a window so that Hermione had some natural light to read by and the boys could daydream whenever they needed a break. A few of the older students sometimes gave them dirty looks for claiming such a prized spot, but no one ever shooed them away. She had a feeling that nobody wanted to be known as 'The Kid Who Bullied Harry Potter Over Library Privileges'. Uncomfortable as Harry was with his fame, there was no denying that the little parts of life were immeasurably easier thanks to him.
Harry slid into the seat across from her, all the while giving her a quietly reproving look. "You were supposed to wait in the Common Room for us," he reminded her in a hushed tone.
"Sorry," she murmured, drumming her fingers restlessly against MissAdelaide, "there was something I really wanted to look up. Anyway, what's the point?" Hermione shot the boys an accusing, if somewhat tired glare. "You two don't even believe that Quirrell's dangerous."
"Not for a second," Harry agreed, "but Davies made us promise to keep an eye on you. And anyway," his gaze darted around in suspicion before he leaned in and continued, "with Snape sculking around it doesn't hurt to be cautious—you're not exactly his favourite student."
Hermione grimaced, because that was true enough, however, "I'm not his least favourite, either."
"I dunno," Ron chuckled teasingly. "The way you stood up to him during our first lesson… He looked so angry, I thought steam was going to start spilling out his ears!"
Harry gave a scandalised gasp and pasted on an overly affronted look, quietly crying out, "And here I thought Snape and I had something special! He made deathly overtures and everything—what an absolute tease!" He almost laughed at her grudging smile—Harry was endlessly amused by his own sense of humour, probably the product of having to find his own entertainment while growing up. For a moment, he let the easy peace linger, then made the conscious decision to focus and admitted, "Look, what if Davies is sort of right and Quirrell's being controlled by Snape to misdirect our attention or something? Seriously, Hermione, if you got hurt when Ron or I could have prevented it, I am positive that Davies would come screaming out of his own time just to strangle us."
"That's generous," Ron snorted, rolling his eyes. "Him being a Slytherin and all, I figure he'd just go straight for the Killing Curse."
Hermione jammed an elbow into Ron's side. "Stop it, he would not," she snapped. "Tom can be a bit intimidating, but it's only so that others don't realise how concerned he really is."
The redhead grimaced and gingerly pressed a hand to his ribs, grumbling, "He's sure got a funny way of showing it."
"He was raised in an orphanage, Ron," she stressed, because he of all people ought to know how important family was, "in London, likely during or in the aftermath of at least one of the World Wars—we can't even imagine the things he's lived through that he hasn't told us about." She barrelled over him when it looked like he was about to interrupt, continuing, "I'm not completely excusing his behaviour, but you can see why that might make it hard for him to connect to other people. Tom's got very few positive experiences to inform him on how he should behave. He's actually come quite a long way in terms of proper socialising. If you would just give him a chance—"
Ron raised his hands in surrender, wide-eyed as he replied, "Merlin's pants, Hermione! I wasn't criticising—" He winced at her sour expression, and turned to Harry for help. Harry, though, seemed content to let him dig his own holes, only going so far as to offer him a supportive smile but no more. Finally, Ron sighed and admitted, "Okay, I was criticising. I don't see the appeal of being his friend, and I still think that it's stupid to put your trust in a Slytherin."
"Merlin himself was a Slytherin," she countered heatedly.
"But," he interrupted loudly, earning them a dirty look from Madam Pince. Lowering his voice, he continued, "I don't have to trust him—I trust you. Just don't ask me to like him or anything."
She knew those sparse words were about the best she could expect from him, but the sentiment was lovely all the same. At the very least, it was nice to know that he'd finally gotten over his initial shock and was back on even footing with her again. "Thank you."
"I still think he's dangerous, though," he mumbled, unable to stop himself.
"Careful Ron," Harry laughed, grinning wide, "you're dangerously close to becoming outspoken on that."
The redhead rolled his eyes, voice dropping as he regarded the other boy and pressed, "You can't honestly tell me you don't think he's lying to us."
"We definitely know he's hiding something, even if it's just the exact year that he's from," Harry replied with an easy shrug. "His concern for Hermione feels genuine, though. I mean, he gave us strict instructions to watch over her even though she was irritated by that." He shook his head and chuckled. "It's not exactly lulling someone into a false sense of security when your actions only serve to annoy them—that's something a friend does because they're worried. Wouldn't you do the same?"
Hermione glanced between the two boys and nodded encouragingly. "He wouldn't bother if he didn't care."
She admired Harry's easy acceptance of Tom's place in her life. Given Snape's relentless campaign against him and Malfoy's constant and unwelcomed presence, The-Boy-Who-Lived had very few reasons to tolerate or trust a Slytherin—but Harry was nothing, if not intrigued. If it weren't for the mystery of Nicolas Flamel, she had no doubt that Harry would have been doing his level best to learn everything he could about her time-traveling friend.
"I s'pose," Ron admitted slowly, grudgingly. "Still, might be nice if Davies could express that concern in a slightly more normal way. I mean, really, Quirrell?"
"You weren't there, Ron," she snapped, tired of having to go over this again and again. Prejudiced as it was, she could understand them not taking Tom's word on the matter, but that was no excuse for not believe her either! "I know what I felt."
Sensing their mounting frustrations, Harry stepped in and placated, "Either way, nothing's really changed—we still need to be on our guard, and our best course of action remains finding out who Nicolas Flamel is."
Hermione wasn't really so sure that the Quirrell and Flamel mysteries were at all related, but if she indulged the two boys then perhaps they would indulge her in return. In that spirit, she turned to glance beside her and asked, "Any chance your parents might know who Flamel is, Ron?"
"Maybe," he shrugged, fiddling with the edge of her book, "but they'd be suspicious if I owled them about it."
"Owled?" She frowned. "I thought you were going home for the holidays?"
"Change of plan," Ron replied, looking sheepish—although it was anyone's guess if that was honestly for not having told her the news sooner or if it was something else entirely. "They're visiting my brother Charlie instead, so the lot of us are staying at Hogwarts."
Hermione bit her lip. As much as she had come to enjoy the castle, she couldn't imagine not going home for the holidays. She was homesick and nothing sounded better than spending some time with her family, going through the comfortingly familiar traditions of Christmas, and getting to sleep in her own bedroom again. "I'm sorry."
But Ron didn't seem all that bothered. "I'm not," he said bluntly, breaking out into a goofy smile. "I'll get to spend all that time with Harry, and we'll practically have the Tower to ourselves, apart from Percy and the Twins. That's loads better than it would have been at home, to be honest. I'm just sorry that I won't get to tell my little sister, Ginny, about the troll incident until summer now." Turning fully toward her, his grin dropped and he asked seriously, "Any chance your parents might know about Flamel?"
"They're muggles, Ron," she reminded him gently, "unless Flamel is universally famous, they won't have a clue who he is or what I'm even talking about." It never failed to amaze her how little Ron seemed to understand about the muggle world but, then, she supposed he probably felt the same about how little Harry and she understood about the wizarding world. Pushing the thought aside, she continued, "I could ask Tom to search around in his own time, but for all we know Flamel might not even have been born that far back. Honestly, I think the two of you have better odds sneaking into the Restricted Section."
"Are you really okay with this, Hermione?" Harry asked, shooting her a sympathetic look.
She wasn't, to be honest. Over the past few months she felt as if she'd developed a bit of a free-spirited attitude in regards to lesser rules, but this was something else entirely. The Restricted Section had to be restricted for a reason—what if it was dangerous to enter without permission?—but even she had to admit that it was fast looking like their best prospect. "I just want to know what's going on," she replied evenly. "If that means that we have to break a few rules along the way, then so be it. Besides, it's not as if we're hurting anyone." It was, in essence, the same justification she'd been using to poke around the past, however in this case, at least, the words were actually something of a comfort.
Hogwarts, 1938
Something was bothering Hermione and it set Tom's teeth on edge that she would not confide in him about it. She obviously thought she was hiding it well enough, but he could see the anxiety written all over her—pinched features, furtive glances, she couldn't have been more obvious if she'd tried. However, she wouldn't tell him what was wrong and he knew better than to press her on the matter; that didn't help him shake the feeling that she was hiding something from him, though. A part of Tom was aware that it was hypocritical to think so, but the idea that she might be lying to him about something made him angry. But then maybe he was just overreacting, maybe she was simply worried about spending day after day so close to Quirrell and his Dark Magic—Merlin knew, Tom hated that idea more than enough for the both of them!
He couldn't help but feel that there was something else going on though, something she wasn't telling him and he could hardly guess what. After being friends for so long, it was strange to think that there was anything he didn't know about her. Had something happened? Had Quirrell threatened her and, if so, why wouldn't she just tell him that? He hated not knowing, hated the fifty-two years that facilitated that ignorance, but he didn't see what else could be done. He could not stay in her time and she could not be brought back to his, so short of making her recount every minute of her life that they were apart—and though Hermione hated lying to him, he knew that she would if she felt she had to—he didn't know how to get the information out of her.
Between the unspoken presence of her secret and the knowledge that she was actively in danger, Tom felt like he was nearing his wit's end; he wanted to keep a constant eye on her, but knew he couldn't. And the very real fact that her Defense education was spotty, at best, hardly improved his mood. He had half a mind to start tutoring her in Defense Against the Dark Arts, if only so that she might stand a chance of surviving a tough situation—in fact, if he really thought about it, he ought to tutor Potter and Weasley as well, since they were meant to be looking out for her. Loathe as he was to share his time with Hermione, it was clear that Quirrell had sabotaged their education, and the two Gryffindors could not help her if they did not know how. If Tom was to be honest—and, really, there was no point in lying to himself—he enjoyed tutoring, enjoyed the idea of shaping others with his knowledge. It was a bit of a throwback to when he'd first met Hermione and had endeavoured to teach her everything he'd then understood about magic. Even the potential presence of her little pets did not minimise the thrill he got at the idea of being able to properly explore with her again. Who knew, maybe the two boys might surprise him and turn out to be halfway competent. They might even thank him in the long run, considering it didn't seem likely they'd be able to pass their O.W.L.s under Quirrell's guidance alone; he'd be doing them a favour. He would have to begin studying his notes as soon as possible so that he could figure out how to catch the three Gryffindors up on a whole term's worth of material after the holidays.
The Christmas holidays had snuck up on everyone, and Tom had found his bargain with Alphard perpetually delayed in favour of last minute exams and assignments. It wasn't until the very day the train was scheduled to take the students going home back to London that there was even time to consider venturing to Slytherin's room. Of course, Black was returning home—most students were—but Tom found this actually worked in his favour: it gave him an incredibly narrow window to hustle the other boy to and from the classroom with very little opportunity to linger. With any luck, they would have to move so quickly that Black simply wouldn't have the time to memorise the way there and back—the room would remain Tom's.
What he hadn't planned on was Black coming with his own coterie of guests. In Black's defense, bringing Andrus Lestrange along was a well-played move—he could watch the older boy for signs of interest or distress in an effort to piece together the truth. What didn't make as much sense was Eunice Macmillan's presence. Although, judging from the pinched look upon Alphard's face, Tom got the feeling that Eunice had invited herself along. Which he supposed was fair since they had brought the classroom up in her presence, not to mention the fact that she seemed determined to guard Tom from Alphard's callous regard. Her presence complicated matters, forced Tom to act on his best behaviour, but it was worth it for the petty irritation that it inspired in her cousin.
The journey to Slytherin's lab was filled with quiet chatter that became more and strained the deeper they ventured into the dungeon. Determined to obfuscate the way there, Tom led them through a series of long, confusing, and unnecessary corridors—there were more direct routes available, but he enjoyed watching his companions squirm amidst the ancient and foreboding stones. He took them through so many twists and turns that he was positive not a single one of them would be able to find their way back on their own. Eventually, they reached their destination, Eunice looking intimidated but bright with excitement while Andrus was already starting to appear a bit apprehensive.
Alphard, however, seemed nothing short of dumbfounded. "I…" he trailed off, swallowing thickly. His gaze darted from workbench to workbench, frantically trying to take in the whole of the ancient Potions lab. When his eyes finally lit upon the throne-like podium situated in the raised centre of the room, he burst out, "It's true! Slytherin's classroom!"
Tom raised a dark brow as he helped Eunice up the stairs—something he noticed made the other boy clench his jaw in irritation—and shot over his shoulder, "Didn't believe me, Black?"
"I had no reason to," Alphard replied bluntly. "No one knows who you are, Riddle. In our House, everybody knows everybody, so you being a mystery doesn't sit well with a lot of people."
Standing beside Slytherin's throne, Tom turned around and asked, "And now?"
Alphard pressed his lips together until they practically turned white, but he refused to answer.
Sensing the growing animosity, Eunice cleared her throat and pasted on a politely interested smile, inquiring, "How did you find this place, Tom?"
His natural inclination was to brag, and had be been alone with the two other boys he would have. He didn't want to put the Ravenclaw off, however—she liked him best when he played at humility—and she was still useful to him as a subtle means of controlling her recalcitrant cousin. Keeping that in mind, he gave her a shy smile and replied, "It was an accident, really. You see, I think Hogwarts was built atop an older fortress."
"And you went looking for its foundations," she guessed with a smile of her own.
From the corner of his eye, Tom could see Andrus Lestrange leaning against a workbench and desperately trying not to call attention to himself; it seemed that his foppish attitude was perpetually stripped in this room, incapable of keeping up the farce. He was once more gazing at Tom with that vague sort of horror he'd worn upon realising that the younger boy was the Heir of Slytherin. Lestrange had seen a hint of what lurked behind his mask and, if he had to venture a guess, Tom supposed it was a bit disconcerting for the other boy to now bear witness to his completely dichotomous politeness. Strategically, the Second Year had to understand the importance of his camouflage, but to watch it up close while understanding what laid beneath inspired a distinct unease in the other boy.
Not wanting Alphard's attention to shift from his cousin over to the Second Year, Tom turned back to his conversation with Eunice. "I wanted to see if there were any identifying marks left behind that could help decipher what this place was before the school was built," he continued lightly. He let his smile turn a bit sheepish and added, "There weren't any writings, but I'd say I've definitely found some of the remaining structure. The stones here are unlike any other used in the rest of the castle. I looked it up—it's bluestone."
"Like Stonehenge?" she asked, cocking her head as she studied the large podium before them. "But that would have to be quarried and transported all the way from Wales! Even with the right spells, getting them so far up into Scotland would have been tricky."
Tom shrugged, "It would have been worth the effort, though. Bluestone resonates with magic, even amplifies it to an extent." He traced his fingers across the ornate SS carved deep into the throne and thrilled at the little sparks of magic that bit into his skin. The bluestone reminded him strongly of the massive crystals that had been within the seaside cave—they both seemed to breathe and pulse with a power all their own. "The early students that got to learn in these rooms likely would have found it easier to control their magic here."
That made the girl frown, a half-formed hypothesis spilling from her lips. "But if easy control only works within these rooms, wouldn't that actually handicap the students? Stunt their growth?"
Tom considered it for a moment, but then shook his head. "I don't think so, no. They get the benefit of learning in a magically rich environment so, theoretically, by the time they leave the bluestones they'd be confident enough to perform the spells unaided. The effects would perhaps not be as strong as during their lessons, but it would still work."
"Is that what you do?" Black asked loudly, suddenly right behind the pair of academics.
"Alphard," Eunice chastised her cousin warningly, but the boy paid her no mind.
Black slid smoothly between the pair, forcing them to step back from each other. Tom wasn't precisely sure what the other Slytherin was getting so defensive about—he'd been socialising with Miss Macmillan for quite some time, so it seemed strange that he should begin to take exception to their companionship only now. With a snort of disbelief, Alphard spoke over his cousin, "You're top in the class, but no one seems to know where you go outside of lessons—you're certainly not in the Library as much as your marks would indicate you should be."
Black was suspicious of him, but it wasn't exactly clear what he was accusing Tom of. Unable to keep a hint of self-praise out of his voice, Tom replied, "As much as you'd like to think that my uncertain pedigree would make me resort to cheating, the truth of the matter is just that I'm talented."
Andrus Lestrange made not a single sound, and yet somehow managed to draw all gazes as he went sickly pale at the mention of pedigree.
"Full of yourself, you mean," Alphard shot back instantly, but his eyes lingered consideringly upon the older Slytherin. A frown marred his dark features, the wheels beginning to spin.
"Black, it isn't arrogance if it's true," Tom chuckled, restraining himself from outright laughing, if only because of Eunice's presence. "You said it yourself, I'm top in our class."
Seemingly changing subjects at random, the other First Year boy gazed out upon the room and pondered, "I don't think anyone's been this deep into the dungeons in generations. I wonder why?"
Confused by the abrupt conversation shift, Eunice drew closer to her cousin and asked, "What do you mean?"
"Hogwarts has gone through a couple of renovations and expansions over the years, but you'd almost think something like this would have to be deliberate," Alphard replied quietly. "I mean, it's Salazar Slytherin's classroom; there's no reason to lose track of that unless you wanted to." He paused and frowned before calling down to the Second Year, "Are you alright, Andrus? You look like you're going to be sick."
Indeed, Lestrange was looking a bit green around the face now. Tom wasn't sure if it was the effort to keep his tongue silent that was taking such a toll on him, or simply the disquieting atmosphere of the room; perhaps he really was overwhelmed. "There's something strange about this place," Andrus finally replied, sounding a bit strangled. "The air is heavy, like something here is alive. It's unsettling."
Eunice looked excited once more, rushing to ask, "Do you think Slytherin's magic still lingers here?"
There was a familiar hint of darkness in the air, not terribly unlike the deathly shade he'd encountered in the future. He supposed it was possible that the stones had absorbed a bit of character from its inhabitants, but he had the feeling that the most Slytherin thing in the room was he himself. Tom's smile bloomed wide at that thought, twisting with just a hint of irony as he murmured, "Wouldn't that be something."
Andrus didn't appear to appreciate the humour of his little joke, rolling his eyes at those words. Tom might have been offended by that if it hadn't been the older boy's first truly unafraid gesture of the morning.
Alphard, though not in on the joke, rolled his eyes as well and practically snarled, "All the more reason to question why someone like you was able to find this place."
Macmillan's eyes went wide and she angrily grabbed at her cousin's collar in order to haul him down to her level. "Alphard Ignatius Black," she began to threaten hotly.
But Tom interrupted with a soothing, silky tone, telling her, "No, it's alright, Eunice. I know what the rest of my House thinks." He locked eyes with Alphard, continuing, "I know the word they use to describe me. You're wrong about my blood status, you know."
Though still clear across the room, Lestrange's flinch at those words, at the unspoken slur that hung heavy between them, was visible for all to see.
Alphard waved his cousin off—Eunice stepped back from him as if burned, muttering darkly under her breath—and focused on the older boy once more. His confusion was deeply apparent; he didn't know what to make of Lestrange's reactions at all, or Tom's proclamation that he was not a Mudblood as everyone had assumed. The only thing that remained obvious was his suspicion of Tom, though the precise nature of that suspicion was as murky as ever.
"Remember your promise, Black," Tom cut through the heavy silence. "After the holidays are over, you have to let me sit with you and yours in the Great Hall."
"Oh, don't worry," Alphard replied, trying to give him a hard and searching look, "there's no way I'm letting you out of my sight now."
Tom allowed himself a small smile, not so secretly amused at the other boy's nerves. "We should head back now; it would be a shame for any of you to miss your train." Wanting to enjoy Black's irritation to its fullest, Tom offered his arm to Eunice, having to suppress a laugh at how the other boy sulked at the gesture. Apparently far too annoyed to bother with subtlety, the young Pureblood quickly pulled Andrus into a whispered conversation as they navigated the twisting corridors. Tom only managed to catch a word or two, but he could guess at the nature of the interrogation. Eunice, meanwhile, couldn't stop telling him how wonderful it was that he was still giving her cousin a chance even though the boy in question was being perfectly horrid to him. Only time would reveal the true effects of their little outing, but Tom was fairly confident in considering the morning's events a relative success.
The group split as they reached Slytherin House, Alphard quickly taking over escort duties as he led his cousin toward Ravenclaw. Tom was left alone with Andrus, who seemed to shy away from even looking at him as he hustled into the Common Room. The House, thankfully, was already empty—eager students flooding the Entrance Hall in their excitement to leave—so Tom spoke freely, taunting Lestrange's retreating back, "Are you frightened of me now, Andrus? It was just a snake, you know. It didn't even bite you."
The other boy stopped, stiffened, hands clenching at his side. "You spoke to it, with it. Am I frightened of you?" He let out a strangled laugh as he turned around. "I know what you are now, and the possibilities of what the Heir of Slytherin could further become are endless. The others laugh about you behind your back—"
Tom rolled his eyes and crooned mockingly, "Filthy little Mudblood Riddle."
The Second Year flinched at the slur, but continued, "—and I can't even tell them to guard their tongues, to stop slandering you within the walls of your House. I'd rather not be anywhere near you when you get your revenge."
"It's too late for that, my dear Lestrange; everyone shall feel my revenge." The younger boy considered him for a moment. He hadn't realised that Andrus had become so deeply alienated by his actions. Lestrange was feeling isolated because he understood the truth, and yet he had steadfastly kept Tom's secret despite the fact that divulging it might have eased his discomfort. Though not at all what he had expected the boy to do, Andrus's actions were admirable. And was that not deserving of reward? He could only string the Second Year so far along before he lost that tentative loyalty. Licking his lips, Tom decided to dangle a carrot for the other boy. "You've been… not kind to me, per se, but more helpful than others," he continued quietly. "I could be persuaded to protect you from my future wrath if you continued to provide me with support."
Lestrange slumped into the nearest chair. "What could you possibly need?" he asked derisively.
Tom followed suit, settling into a chair opposite the other boy as he explained, "I understand the emotional drives and basic social politics of Slytherin House but for all that, I still only have an outsider's perspective. You know the families, their histories, how they are related, who is feuding and who is allied."
"Macmillan and Fawley would both know all that," he replied wearily, rubbing the heel of a hand into one eye.
Tom pressed his lips together and gave him a chiding look—he hated these coaxing games, hated having to coddle someone and pretend that they weren't being completely thick, but it was necessary for the moment. "As Ravenclaws, their assessments would be clinical and lacking appropriate insight," he pointed out, secretly wondering why that wasn't painfully obvious to Lestrange. "You are a Slytherin, you understand the value of specific information. I'm not offering you the world, Andrus, but this is an opportunity to stand beside an Heir—and, when the time comes, I will not forget your help."
The older boy considered this carefully as he began to reconstruct his long forgotten mask of aristocratic ease. It was a relief to see the return of his truly Slytherin nature—the fear that had edged him had been amusing at first, but it would cloud judgement and impede negotiations. After several quiet moments, he finally asked, "What's your plan, ultimately?"'
The young Heir of Slytherin offered him a twisted smile, demuring, "It would be a bit rash for a First Year to commit to anything, don't you think?"
Lestrange rolled his eyes. No doubt recalling their previous conversations of social mobility and politics, he accused, "You're too ambitious not to have something up your sleeves."
Tom's smile softened as he considered the future—he had at least two Dark Lords to weather, one of which he might have to personally stop from killing off large swaths of the population. He had admired both men for their destructive talents, learned what he could from their tactics, but he'd ultimately found both Grindelwald and You-Know-Who lacking in the end. It had never really crossed his mind that either Dark Lord had the potential to interfere with his plans, but You-Know-Who was dangerously close to rewriting them entirely. What good was taking over the wizarding world if he was really just inheriting the ruins and rubble from another man's war? He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named would have to be stopped; Tom had at least twenty years to build a powerbase and throw together a workable defense. In the meantime, he didn't see much point in deviating from his original plan. "I could see my way clear to taking over the Ministry," he shrugged nonchalantly, "if nothing else strikes my fancy before graduation."
Anyone else might have laughed to hear those words coming from a First Year, but Lestrange took them quite seriously. "Well, that explains Fawley, at least," he chuckled snidely, "what with him being the Minister's nephew and all. You really do choose your companions carefully."
"I'm choosing you as well, Andrus," Tom replied pointedly, "and you're the only one who has been allowed to see the truth of me."
"Is that supposed to make me feel privileged?" he snapped, but there was no real heat to the question—seeing behind another Slytherin's facade was a rare privilege, and once the truth about his ancestry got out, Tom would be as good as royalty among their kind.
"That's your decision," Tom shrugged, knowing the Second Year's words were likely empty at best. "Will you stand beside me or not?"
Lestrange snicked, a confident sound that no longer belied the nerves he'd exhibited earlier that morning. "Better to help the devil than stand in his way."
"That's the spirit," Tom smiled.
The older boy shuffled in his seat, stretching his legs out before him in a casually lazy move. For perhaps the first time since learning about Tom's Parseltongue ability, he looked content—solidifying his standing within the young Heir's machinations had given him back a necessary measure of confidence. With a languid smile and a bored air, he commented, "I suppose you want to know what Alphard was whispering to me about."
Tom did not take offense at Lestrange's aristocratic act; it was interesting to study the change in the older boy, and it provided a useful example to follow when dealing with Purebloods. They considered themselves nobility, and in order to gain their trust Tom would have to act more like them. However, it could only ever be an act; noble as his blood apparently was, he knew that at his core he would always be the angry orphan from the wrong side of London; he would always be an outsider resenting the things he hadn't been given. That was alright in the end, though, because his resentment translated into ambition, drove him faster and further than the idle aristocrats surrounding him—they played at politics like the useless children that they were while Tom was quickly mastering the game.
He relaxed his posture and allowed his own smile to unfurl, the sharp one that showed off too many teeth and inspired a certain unease in others. Gesturing carelessly, he off-handedly urged, "If you'd be so kind."
Lestrange barely suppressed a shiver at how quickly Tom was able to mirror his mannerisms. His smile slipped a bit, but he managed not to tense as he replied, "You'll be pleased to note that he doesn't think you're a Mudblood anymore."
"Oh?"
"No," Andrus sang conspiratorially, "he thinks you're the product of a Pureblooded love affair now. A scandalous, unclaimed bastard."
"An illegitimate Lestrange, no doubt," Tom mused, drumming his fingers upon the arm of his chair. "He noticed you flinching whenever pedigree was brought up. Is your family prone to affairs?"
Andrus didn't seem offended by the blunt question, in fact he very nearly laughed. "Most Pureblood families are," he explained easily. "A lot of the marriages are arranged for political or financial reasons, and if love is desired it is found elsewhere. Those infidelities rarely result in a child, though."
As used to time-travel as he was, Tom ever so briefly felt that he'd stepped in the wrong direction and taken a turn toward the past. Yet, somehow, the idea that the Pureblood families still engaged in something so archaic as arranged marriages was not at all surprising—as he'd first observed in Diagon Alley, the wizarding world's mentality seemed stuck back in the Middle Ages for some reason. Returning to the conversation at hand, he pressed, "And when a child is born?" Because there had to be indiscretions—he'd witnessed enough back alley trysts in his short years to know that extra-marital affair were rarely so neat. Magic or not, bastards were inevitable.
"They're foisted onto a spinster cousin or sibling to raise, not given a muggle name and dumped off in an orphanage," Lestrange replied pointedly. "Alphard is either going to think that something is genuinely wrong with you to have deserved abandonment, or that you stood to inherit an important lordship if you'd been acknowledged." He paused and eyed the other boy. "The real question is: what do you want him to think?"
"I shall have to consider it over the holidays," the younger boy commented distantly, mind already running through the possibilities. "Would there be any benefit to the ruse?"
Andrus turned the idea over for a second, nodding slowly. "Though not as prestigious as what you really are, pretending to be a Lestrange would make you distant cousins to Alphard's branch of the Black family—perhaps even closer, depending upon your suspected parentage," he mused aloud. "Alphard would be more welcoming, more trusting of family, even if it is illegitimate. His promises to keep an eye on you could very well turn from suspicion to protection. He's fiercely loyal to his relatives; he could prove to be a useful ally in easing your way around the House."
"Then let us hope that Black is the type to keep his word." There were problems with the idea, of course—namely the Rosiers and Carrows, who were much more closely related to the Lestranges and therefore in a better position to know that he was lying. Still, their open animosity might help convince Alphard of the falsehood. However, he would have to learn far more about Andrus's world if he was to stand a chance of pretending to be the illegitimate brother or cousin. In that spirit, he asked, "I don't suppose you'd be so good as to introduce me to some of your acquaintances?"
Andrus gave him a carefully chiding look and replied, "Not until Alphard gets you properly situated amongst the First Years. The older the student, the more skeptical they'll be. You need to start with the youngest relatives and work your way up." The message was clear: he was warning Tom not to get ahead of himself. As irritating as that advice was, it possessed more than enough merit to heed. "After that, new students will naturally fall in line; they're always given to trusting pre-established authority. The next batch of Firsties won't question you, but you have to be in position first."
Tom sighed. He was tired of toiling at these small steps—a part of him just wanted to shout out that he was the Heir of Slytherin and be done with it—but he understood the necessity of starting small, of carefully coaxing others to his side. However, that didn't stop him from grumbling, "Meaning I have only one term left to impress my roommates."
Andrus seemed amused by his sudden petulance, but did not comment upon it. Instead, he merely countered, "Your marks are more than enough to impress them. What you really need is to own them, to get them so far into your debt they'll never be able to leave you."
He offered his sharp smile once more, lightly joking, "Trying to spread the misery around?"
"I'm not indebted to you," Lestrange pointed out evenly, "just very aware that irritating the Heir of Slytherin is not within my best interests. If protecting myself means that I have to sell out other Housemates, then so be it."
"I enjoy your practicality, Andrus," Tom murmured, nearly crooning, "it's bluntly honest." It was strange to have an ally in his machinations for once, someone willing to facilitate his ambitions in the hope of receiving fringe benefits. He'd never been one to collect hangers-on at Wool's, preferring to remain solitary with very few exceptions, but Andrus's help was proving invaluable. Distantly, he couldn't help but wish that he could tell Hermione the truth and bring her into the fold—her cleverness and steadfast logic would take them far—but he knew that her moral hangups would impede them every step of the way. As much as it sometimes felt that his life revolved around her, he just couldn't figure out how she might fit into his plans; ideally, he wanted her by his side, but he instinctively knew that she would not support his grab for power unless it was her only alternative. And that was only if he ever managed to bridge the fifty-two years between them in the first place. He pushed the thoughts aside, acknowledging that they were problems to be solved some other day. Returning his attention to the matter at hand, he instructed the Second Year, "Poke around over the holidays if you can, find me some useful leverage in case our Mr. Black falls a bit short in the social arena."
Andrus stood to go finish packing and offered him a crooked smile. "I might as well just move in with my Auntie Agatha," he grumbled good-naturedly. "There's not a bigger gossip in all of Europe. Aside from the Bagshot woman, I guess."
"Whatever it takes," Tom replied, waving him off. "Just try not to come back empty handed." His words were light, even, but Lestrange appeared to hear the warning within them all the same. Tom had no doubt that learning every relevant fact he could before classes resumed would turn into a rushed mess, but it would be worth it to have the First Years finally listening to him.