He Is A Show-Off
Chapter Twenty-Four: He Is A Show-Off
Hogwarts Express, 1991
Hermione idly rubbed her thumb around the smooth door of the pocket watch, wishing she could flip it open and talk to Tom. The Hogwarts Express was far too busy to chance it, however; the train was full to bursting with prying eyes. Perhaps if Harry and Ron were there to shield her from anyone dashing into the compartment, she'd take the risk. Then again, if they were both there, she probably wouldn't have been feeling lonely enough to entertain the idea in the first place. Just as her fingers began itching to press against the little latch, the compartment door slid open.
"Do you mind if I join you?" Neville asked a bit tearfully. "Malfoy and his cronies have been stalking me up and down the train since we left London."
"Of course not," she smiled comfortingly, gesturing to the seat across from her. He shuffled over morosely, hunching in on himself as he huddled into the corner. His defensive posturing struck a chord with her and she couldn't stop herself from murmuring, "You know, they only pick on you because they think you're an easy target."
"I know," he answered with a helpless shrug. "I am, though."
Hermione worried at the note of defeat lacing his tone; it reminded her strongly of herself during primary school. Neville deserved better than to be plagued by the Andy Smythes of the world. "The Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor," she reminded him gently, trying to build up his spirit, "that has to mean something, even if it's just because you requested that it place you there. That takes a sort of bravery too, you know."
He regarded her for a moment, surprise reflecting in his eyes as he asked, "Did you ask the Hat to put you in Gryffindor?"
"It thought that Ravenclaw would be a better fit for me," she confided with a nod. "But just because another House is deemed suitable, it doesn't mean that's where you belong. Do you understand?"
And yet, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd made the right choice. Gryffindor had called to her because she'd been in awe of the powerful witches and wizards that had once graced its Tower, but she had to admit that it didn't always feel as if she fit there. She had almost nothing in common with anyone else in Gryffindor, save studious Percy, and though she highly valued her relationship with Harry and Ron she had to admit that it had been a hard fought battle just to gain their attention.
Maybe the Hat had been right, maybe she would have been more comfortable in Ravenclaw. However, something about that selection hadn't sat well with her—Ravenclaw had its share of innovators and they prized knowledge just as she did, but… Well, their attitude had struck her as rather dull and useless. She didn't just want to know everything, she wanted to do everything as well, make some grand discovery or change. She wanted to leave her mark on society, to prove to everyone who'd been so quick to judge that they'd been wrong about her, that she wasn't just a know-it-all, that she'd been able to apply herself in order to achieve things they'd never even dreamt of doing. It wasn't a very Ravenclaw-like desire, to be honest; wasn't very Gryffindor-like, either. In fact, it tasted a bit like ambition.
Visions of green and silver flashed through her mind, but she pushed them aside. Ambitious or not, there wasn't a House she belonged in less than Slytherin.
Unaware of the turn her thoughts had taken, Neville dried his tears. Though he remained tucked into the corner of the compartment, he seemed heartened by her words. "I think so," he replied, giving her a wobbly smile. "But what do I do about Malfoy?"
She didn't really have any advice to give in that respect. Her own tormentors had taken advantage of her for years, and the only thing that had eventually warded them off had been Tom's steady and unexplained presence. "I don't know," she admitted, hating that she couldn't help him more. "I'm not very good with bullies either. A friend of mine keeps telling me that I need to stand up for myself."
He went white at the very idea, sneaking a glance at the compartment door as if fearing the Slytherins in question were sure to pop up at any moment. However, amid the hustle and bustle of students wandering up and down the train in search of friends, no one paid the two First Years any mind. Relieved that Malfoy and his goons were nowhere in sight, Neville confessed, "I'd be too scared."
"Of what?" Hermione scoffed lightly. The blond Slytherin was certainly annoying, but he wasn't exactly threatening or dangerous in her opinion.
"Crabbe and Goyle, for one," he replied, dumbfounded by her nonchalance. "Besides, Malfoy's better at magic than I am."
That sent her scoffing anew. "Nonsense," she replied firmly. "Getting a little nervous in the classroom doesn't mean you can't do magic. You just need to practise a bit more, that's all." It was probably generous to call his disposition simply nervous—depending on the Professor, Neville ranged anywhere from just average to an outright disaster; Snape in particular had the unerring ability to turn him into an hysterical mess—but surely that was a response that could be tempered! His problem was clearly more to do with the environment than talent; he got flustered and fearful around Slytherins. It had nothing to do with magic at all.
Her thumb brushed across the pocket watch once more. For one brief, mad moment she considered introducing him to Tom, that maybe getting Neville over his fears meant exposing him to them on a constant basis, but that was silly. Tom would almost certainly do his best to keep Neville afraid; he would find it amusing that this boy lacked Gryffindor's infamous brashness and courage. Then again, she couldn't deny that Tom's help might greatly benefit Neville; her Slytherin had a peculiar talent for teaching others. He'd hate having to reveal himself to another person—the more that knew, the more likely his secret was to get out—but she felt like Neville was trustworthy enough. Probably more trustworthy than Ron, if she really thought about it; Neville, at least, wasn't spiteful when irritated.
Tentatively, Hermione offered, "Once we're back at the castle, I'm going to devise a study schedule so that I can begin preparing for exams straight away. You can join me, if you like." If Tom said no to allowing Neville into their group then she'd handle his studies herself, but either way she was determined to help the other Gryffindor.
"Do you mean it?" he asked, clearly shocked at the offer. "I won't slow you down or anything?"
She gave him her best encouraging smile. "Not at all! By the way, thank you for that lovely Christmas present; it was very thoughtful of you."
Neville beamed at those words, finally cheering up enough to unfold himself a little. They spent the rest of the ride chatting merrily and discussing their studies. Unlike others in their year, he didn't seem at all put out or intimidated by her enthusiasm; in fact, once Herbology came up, he returned it tenfold.
They eventually parted ways in the Great Hall—with a wave, Neville headed off toward Dean and Seamus while Hermione split over to Ron and Harry.
She'd hardly even sat down before Harry leaned close and excitedly whispered, "We found Nicolas Flamel!"
She stared at him for a moment, having quite forgotten that they were in fact even looking for Flamel. "Excellent," she finally replied, offering the two boys an apologetic smile. "So the Restricted Section paid off after all. What book was he in?"
"You're going to hate this," Ron laughed quietly.
Harry couldn't fight the smile off his face as he explained, "The Library was a bust at first; he was mentioned on a Chocolate Frog card."
"What?" Her eyes went wide in shock. Of all the places she'd thought to hunt for information, collectors' cards hadn't been among them. The boys had to be joking, a friendly little rib because she'd gone home for Christmas instead of helping them search.
Harry's green eyes flashed with amusement, but she could tell he was being serious when he replied, "Yeah, on Dumbledore's." He shrugged. "Apparently, Flamel is an alchemist."
"Once we knew where to look, he wasn't that hard to find," Ron jumped in eagerly. "The man's over six hundred years old, so it's no wonder we couldn't place him in any of the modern history books we were looking through; he's not exactly a spring chicken."
"Six hundred?" Hermione whispered raggedly, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She couldn't conceive of a life that long—to see first hand as the world changed around her, to watch everything she knew and loved crumble away through the years—it sounded crazy and awful. And yet… the days were so short sometimes and there were always so many books left to read. She wouldn't mind spending a couple of extra years tucked into the Library, just until she'd browsed through the whole thing. Six hundred years sounded like bit much, though. "That can't be normal, even for a wizard. Is that what's hidden past Fluffy, some sort of magical life extender?"
Harry leaned in close again, his excitement palpable as he rushed to explain, "Flamel is the only known creator of the Philosopher's Stone which, in addition to turning any metal into pure gold, produces the Elixir of Life."
"So he's effectively immortal. I can see why he'd want that under heavy protection," she murmured. Although, truth be told, she didn't quite understand what something like the Philosopher's Stone was doing in the third floor corridor. Wouldn't it be safer if Dumbledore just wore it under his hat or something? The strange, shadowy security precautions that the Headmaster had come up with really only encouraged people to try stealing the Stone.
"What would Quirrell want with something like that, though?" she pondered aloud. It was a rhetorical question, but the answer echoed up from the back of her thoughts—a horrible, terrifying answer. Because it wasn't really Quirrell who wanted the Stone, was it? It was the smooth-talking, slimy darkness possessing him that wanted it. She wasn't exactly sure what that thing would do with the Philosopher's Stone, but she knew it couldn't be good.
"Snape, you mean," Ron corrected, interrupting her thoughts. "Besides, who wouldn't want something like that? The chance to become fabulously wealthy and live forever sounds like the sort of thing everyone secretly desires."
She thought that over for a moment. A few extra years was one thing, but eternity was something else entirely. "I wouldn't."
Ron gave her a funny look, sort of fondly exasperated. "I swear sometimes, you're not human."
"I'm going to regret asking this," Harry cut in, giving her a sideways glance, "but why not?"
"I read somewhere once that, statistically speaking, becoming immortal guarantees the eventual probability of getting trapped somewhere for all eternity," Hermione explained. Immortality struck her as a monkeypaw wish—brilliant on the surface, but fraught with danger underneath. What good was living forever if you were buried alive or trapped underwater?
"I don't think that's as much of a problem for witches and wizards," Ron replied evenly, flourishing his wand a little as if to remind her that they all possessed magic. "You could just charm yourself free or Apparate away."
"Oh, right." She ducked behind her voluminous hair, hiding her face as it flamed a bright red. Spending the holidays in London, forbidden to perform and cut off from magic had clearly affected her thinking. She tamped down her embarrassment, quickly changing the subject. "So you didn't get into any trouble sneaking into the Library?"
"Wait until you hear this," Ron crowed, practically leaning over the table in his excitement. "Harry got an Invisibility Cloak for Christmas!"
Harry shushed him, frantically looking around to see if anyone had heard, but no one else in the Great Hall seemed to be paying them any mind. With a conspirator's grin, he whispered to Hermione, "My dad left it to me before he died."
She had read about Invisibility Cloaks; they were incredibly rare and highly prized objects. Harry was lucky to have received it at all, lucky that whoever had been looking after it hadn't simply decided to keep it. A family friend or a bank manager, perhaps? Someone in charge of the Potter's estate? Unable to figure it out on her own, she asked, "Who had it until now, then?"
"Dunno," Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "The note just said that it was being returned to me and to use it well."
Wasn't that strange, especially since she'd had a relatively similar experience. "I got an anonymous gift too," Hermione confided with an undercurrent of frustration, "but I still have no idea what it is."
Ron cocked his head to the side and smiled bemusedly. "You can't tell just by looking at it?"
Irritated anew at her inability to solve this mystery, she explained a bit snappishly, "It's a pretty wooden box and there's definitely something inside it, but I can't figure out how to open the blasted thing!"
Harry gave her shoulder a calming squeeze, pondering aloud, "Who would send you a present that can't be opened?"
"There was no note or anything," she replied, getting her temper back under control, "I didn't even recognise the owl. Maybe it came to me by mistake?"
"Maybe," Ron allowed, not looking wholly convinced, "but owls are usually pretty reliable, excepting old ones like ours." He grew silent for a moment, his attention wandering away, clearly not very interested in this particular mystery. When his blue gaze finally drew back to his companions there was a teasing and slightly belligerent light within them. "So, how's your lunatic best friend doing?"
"Ron," Harry groaned, frowning at him in chastisement.
Hermione chose not to be bothered by the redhead's words—she couldn't control how Ron felt, and even though he was still being a bit boorish about the whole thing he was taking small steps toward tolerance. "He's fine, thanks for asking," she replied brightly, as if he'd honestly enquired. "In fact," she leaned in close to the two boys, unsure how they would take this news, "he's made a very generous offer to all three of us. Tom's noticed how spotty Quirrell's teaching is and has proposed a sort of study group to catch us all up on the material."
Ron bit out a hard laugh. "Does anyone else see the irony in learning Defense Against The Dark Arts from a Slytherin?"
Harry, however, was eager at the prospect. "Quirrell's class is a bit of a joke though," he argued seriously, trying to sway Ron, "and it is an important subject."
"Davies is just a First Year like us," the redhead scowled. "What could we possibly learn from him?"
"He's clearly got the better Professor, though; I could hardly keep up with him when we were practicing Defense together," Hermione replied. If this resistance was any indication, Ron was going to be exceedingly difficult at every turn, but he couldn't really afford not to attend the study group. "Besides, Tom already wrote me up a copy of all his notes, and if that's anything to go by then he could teach us quite a lot."
Ron seemed to be weighing the idea in his head, but finally gave in. Heaving a great sigh, he grumbled, "Fine, but only because I eventually want to pass my O.W.L.s."
Harry bumped shoulders with her, plainly excited. He'd confessed to her once that he'd been really looking forward to Defense Against The Dark Arts, and that Quirrell's classes had been quite a let down. "When will we meet?"
"We're still talking about it," Hermione admitted. "We need to pick a night when everyone is free."
"That'll be tough," Harry snorted, "Wood's running Quidditch practise whenever he can sneak it in, which turns out to be almost all of the time. I don't even know when the other teams manage to get onto the Pitch, because it feels like our team practically lives out there."
She grimaced at that; Harry's schedule was unpredictable at best, but surely he could appeal to Oliver Wood to get off one night a week for study. He'd be taken off the team if he failed any of his classes anyway, so it was really in Wood's best interest to allow it. Putting that thought aside for later, she broached the other big hurdle they were facing, "We'll also need to figure out where we can hold these meetings. It has to be somewhere secluded, where it isn't likely anyone will stumble across us."
"So not the middle of the Great Hall then, got it," Ron muttered sarcastically.
Hermione glared at him. How could he act like something that was entirely to his benefit was such a burden? "You could at least try to be helpful," she snapped.
Ron was silent a moment, weighing his options carefully. Apparently deciding that it wasn't worth it to irritate her right now, he replied, "I could try asking Fred and George if they know a place; I don't know if they'd tell me anything useful or even true, but it's worth a shot."
"Thank you."
Hogwarts, 1939
Tom stood in the shadows of the Entrance Hall, watching as students energetically filed back into the castle. Gone were the silent corridors—everyone was chatting merrily as they caught up with each other—and he knew in his bones that the extended peace of the holidays was officially over. The racket was deafening, a roar of voices that ebbed and flowed like ocean waves, cresting in delighted squeals and underscored by beleaguered but good natured groans.
He would miss the quiet, and yet at the same time he could admit that in the depths of the holidays he had felt at odds without the liveliness, the chaos of a full castle. It didn't surprise him really, he was used to London, and London was always on the go; he craved the stimulation, the constant stream of sound and information. Without Lestrange's daily owls, he had no doubt that the break would have been an unbearably dull affair, perhaps even tedious enough to have braved Hermione's soppy Christmas cheer. Not that he held her high spirits against her, but he was in no way eager to ever endure them if he could help it.
A flash of dark hair caught his attention. Speak of the devil: it was Lestrange, surrounded by his customary cloud of extended family. And there, whispering urgently in his ear was none other than Alphard Black. Black's expression was pinched, but whatever he was saying seemed to amuse Andrus, much to the Carrows' displeasure. The exchange ended abruptly, Black storming off into the Great Hall leaving Andrus shaking his head, a secretive smile playing about his lips.
Tom could guess at the nature of their conversation; no doubt Black was eager to unravel his secrets. Tom would be more than happy to lead him down the wrong path; he had spent the entire holiday committing to memory every scrap of information—every frivolous rumour, urbane anecdote, and vicious morsel of gossip—that Lestrange had sent to him. The only way he could have better prepared to play at being a Pureblood would be if he'd actually been born one.
The Great Hall was noisier than he'd ever heard it. The start of term feast in September had been marked by a hushed anticipation, but there were no such reservations in January, it seemed. Everyone was eager to return to their classes and friends.
For a moment, Tom gazed at the Slytherin table and wondered what it would be like to see Hermione sitting there, waiting for him, anxious to catch up after so many days apart. The unrivaled desire to have uninhibited access to her, to be able to see her always and know that she was not in danger burned through him. A red haze settled over his vision as he indulged in the fantasy: Hermione draped in shades of green and silver, her temper keeping the other Slytherins in line while her talent and intellect swiftly proved their prejudices to be utterly baseless. Together, the two of them could turn the House into something new, something better—fueled by power, ambition, and cunning as it should have been from the very start. His housemates would squirm to know what the Heir of Slytherin truly thought about the state of things, and no doubt their delicate sensibilities would be offended by how he wished to change the status quo.
Someone brushed past his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. The haze lifted, revealing the Hall for what it was: a challenge of a different sort entirely. To control the Slytherins, he had to become one of them; it was time to play the abandoned aristocrat.
Alphard Black was surrounded by a gaggle of other First Years, mostly boys, many of whom seemed to be vying for the seats beside him. True to his word, however, Black had kept the seat to his right free, much to the confusion of his posse. It was obvious he hadn't told any of them about their little bargain—Tom suspected that Black had done this on purpose, wanting to see how he might react to an inhospitable welcome, but Alphard would soon discover that Tom was nothing, if not adaptable. He slid silently into the seat, not bothering to ask permission or offer a greeting—a calculated rudeness that the Purebloods themselves often employed. Besides, why not take what he knew was meant for him?
One of the attendant boys immediately froze, a sneer creeping over his blunt features as if a rotting carcass had been tossed before him. "What do you want?" he asked, glaring through watery eyes as his lips curled in disgust.
Black heaved out a sigh and chastised him, "Now, now, Yaxley, that's no way to treat our guest."
All gazes whipped toward Tom at those words, a heavy silence falling between them. He offered a sharp smile to the lot, but chose to remain silent—for the time being, it was Alphard holding court, and he was curious to see how the other boy handled his peers.
"Guest," Yaxley repeated incredulously. "Alphard, you must be joking!"
"He's a Mudblood, for Merlin's sake," another boy broke in, muttering angrily through his curtain of dark hair.
Alphard sniffed disdainfully, as if offended by their language. Chin raised, he cocked a haughty brow and replied, "I've found his company surprisingly stimulating."
A third boy joined the fray. "You know he—"
But Black had heard enough; he was obviously not used to this level of opposition. Setting his cutlery down with a sharp bang, he snapped, "You've seen him in class, you know what his marks are like. Do you honestly believe a Mudblood could be that talented?"
The second boy smoothed his long hair back to take a proper look at Tom, but he didn't seem at all impressed by what he saw. "If he's not a Mudblood then who is he?" the boy asked, grimacing as if he'd bitten into something sour.
"That's an excellent question," Alphard replied brightly, facetiously. "Don't you think so, Tom?" He turned toward the orphan expectantly, dark eyes glittering in anticipation.
However, if he was expecting an explanation so soon, he was to be disappointed. Tom's entire game rested upon Black being too interested in learning his secrets to turn him away. He'd take over all these Slytherin boys eventually, but they had to learn to tolerate him first. Outright declaring himself a Lestrange would be foolhardy—he could only imply it—and ultimately he wanted to be able to reveal the truth of his origins when the time was right. He had to work up to that, however, as most of the House currently despised him; calling himself the Heir of Slytherin right now would lead them to believe he was either a liar or delusional, and that distaste would quickly turn into hatred when he inevitably proved them wrong. For the time being, his plans were best served by cultivating an air secrecy; no hard feat, to be honest, as he'd always been controlling of what others knew of him. To that end, he offered a lazy smile and avoided the question entirely, casually asking, "Oh, are we on a first name basis now, Alphard?"
If Black was put out by his evasion, he hid it well. "Eunice spent the entire holiday talking my ear off about you," he said, switching tracks seemingly at random, "don't think she even realised she was doing it. Couldn't have praised you more if she'd tried."
"How generous of her," Tom deadpanned disinterestedly, shifting his focus toward his dinner. In truth, Miss Macmillan's mounting interest in him was good news, particularly since she had the power to sway her cousin's opinion over time. But affecting a casual boredom would irritate Black, and irritation would sharpen his curiosity. The trick was making sure he didn't offend the other boy so much that he became alienated.
From the corner of his eye he could see Black's jaw tense for a moment, his fingers drumming idly as he scrutinised the orphan beside him. "She's regarded as a blossoming genius amongst family members."
That nearly got a chuckle out of Tom. Eunice was clever, of course, but the honey-blond couldn't begin to compare to his wild girl from the future—if she took it into her mind to do so, he had no doubt that Hermione could single-handedly put the whole of Ravenclaw to shame.
"Really?" Tom hummed mockingly, finally looking back up. "Of course, she's developing quite the eye for detail and she's always quick to recite a fact or two, but—and do forgive me for saying so—she's not particularly innovative."
Black's posse, which had sat frozen for some minutes now, seemed to hold their collective breath at that proclamation, gazes darting between the two combatants.
"I wonder what she would think to hear those words?" Alphard mused threateningly. "From the mouth of a friend, no less."
Tom laughed nastily at the very idea of Black turning tattletale. His love for Eunice far outweighed his dislike of Tom—he would never risk hurting her feelings just to spite the newcomer. And, even if the young scion did work up the nerve to relay those words, it was unlikely that Miss Macmillan would be at all surprised, let alone wounded by them. "I daresay she already knows my opinion, Alphard," he confessed lightly. "She is a Ravenclaw and I treat her as one." Frivolous as she could sometimes be, Eunice still possessed the unerring bluntness that all Ravenclaws seemed to share; she'd never been offended on the occasions that he'd shared a frank assessment with her. Merlin knew, they'd already spent hours debating theory versus experience!
Aware that his bluff had been called, Black huffed and switched tracks again. "Must have been a dull holiday for you," he needled, dark eyes surreptitiously darting up the table toward where the Second Years sat, "being separated from Andrus for so long."
"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean," Tom drawled. He glanced abortively toward Lestrange before dropping his attention back to the table in what he hoped Black would misinterpret as a cagey sort of tell. "And neither, I suspect, do you."
"Watch your tongue, Riddle," one of the surrounding First Years growled, finally snapping to life.
Alphard did not seem at all upset by Tom's continued stonewalling; if anything, this latest turn appeared to have at least somewhat validated his suspicions—it was a far cry from actually confirming that Tom was an illegitimate Lestrange, but one hardly needed proof when they had conviction. Spirits lifted once more, Black offered Tom a genial if somewhat insincere smile, and quietly chastised the boy who had spoken, "There's no need for such boorishness at the table, Nott."
Nott shrank back at the rebuke, but the long haired boy—Dolohov, if Tom remembered correctly—quickly took up the issue in his stead. "You were calling him no less than a rat and a pretender before the holidays," he accused of Alphard incredulously. "What happened?"
"Indeed, Mr. Black," Tom chuckled, curious to see how the other boy might explain his sudden change of heart, "what happened?"
Alphard shot him an impatient glare, but quickly turned back to his comrades. Instead of divulging his suspicions or even mentioning Slytherin's classroom, he simply pointed out, "Andrus Lestrange has taken an interest in him, we'd all have to be blind not to see it."
"But the Carrows and the Rosiers haven't," Yaxley argued. "You would trust Lestrange's judgement above theirs? Without explanation?"
"I don't doubt that the Carrows and Rosiers may have their reasons for disliking Tom," Black replied smoothly, "but even you can't deny that Lestrange's opinion carries more weight than theirs. His family is beyond reproach; they are Purebloods in every sense of the word. Do you really mean to tell me you think someone like Andrus Lestrange, who stands to inherit quite a sizable and noble estate, could be so thoroughly fooled by common filth?"
Dolohov and Yaxley both snorted in disgust, a few of the other boys wore expressions of contempt, and Nott was so agitated he looked ready to spit. "So one Pureblood vouches for him—"
"But it's not just one," Black interrupted the pack of harpies.
All too happy to prod them further, Tom began counting off on his fingers, "Lestrange, Macmillan, Fawley—Black."
There was a girl seated adjacent to Tom, and while it wasn't clear if she'd previously been part of the group she now gave her opinion anyway. "Slughorn practically gets stars in his eyes every time you enter a room," she put in. So far, she was the only person at the table, save Black himself, who was honestly addressing Tom directly. Her eyes were cold and pale, assessing him with clinical detachment as she concluded, "He's already hanging some grand hopes on you, and you're only a First Year—I've been told he doesn't usually start cultivating until closer to graduation."
"I'm afraid our Mr. Riddle comes aptly named," Black slid back into the conversation smoothly, "we can only guess at the secrets he's keeping."
Tom had grown up watching the buskers and hustlers around London. The most successful charlatans always left their audience wanting more, so he ignored Black's pointed interjection. With a smile and a nod toward the cold-eyed witch, Tom tsked, "You've forgotten your manners, Alphard. Aren't you going to introduce me?"
Not one to be deterred, Black countered, "Make it worth my while."
"Come now, you didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" Tom laughed, affecting a lackadaisical grin he'd seen Andrus wear on occasion. Black's persistence was admirable though, and it played straight into Tom's hands.
"Tell me something, at least," the young noble pressed.
The other First Years seated around them seemed to be holding their breath once more. Only about four or five students had been part of the initial conversation, but it suddenly seemed as if most of the Slytherin First Years were listening in now.
Tom took a moment to revel in the fact that he finally, finally had their attention. A part of him wanted to scream, wanted to watch their faces crumple as he laid claim to their precious House, but it was too soon for that. The cautious side of him demanded patience, that he stay the course with the plan he and Andrus had concocted. Leave them wanting more. With a careless roll of his shoulders, he parried, "Why so determined to ruin my mystique?"
Black pursed his lips, unamused, and continued to dig, "Or why Dumbledore seems so hesitant about you, perhaps?"
Tom was a bit surprised anyone had been watching him close enough to notice that. And, to Dumbledore's credit, the man hid his hesitations well: he'd never treated Tom differently from any other student. Then again, that was likely the giveaway; all the other professors he had couldn't sing Tom's praises enough, and Dumbledore alone remained scrupulously, conspicuously neutral.
Tom glanced quickly around the table. There were a lot of eyes surreptitiously trained in his direction, waiting for his response. It was a thrill to pique their curiosity at long last—he would have to put on a bit of a show for them, to make sure that their fickle regard of him began turning in the proper direction. Of course, a little demonstration in Parseltongue would leave the most lasting impression, but it was far too soon for that. No matter, he had other tricks up his sleeve. Shrugging nonchalantly, he told Alphard, "Dumbledore was the one who delivered my Letter. I believe I shocked him over the course of our meeting."
Black cocked a brow in that familiar, haughty fashion of his, patronising and disbelieving as he asked, "Indeed?"
Smooth as silk, Tom steepled his fingers—in plain view of all, so that no one could later doubt what they'd seen—and wandlessly summoned several of the goblets across the table from him. "I can only speculate, of course," he murmured, running a finger along the rim of one of his purloined cups.
It was ridiculously petty magic as far as he was concerned, but a hush fell upon those who witnessed it. The First Years fell silent, their quiet rippling outward until those who'd missed it were glancing down the table to see what had happened. From several seats away, Andrus shot him a funny look—not quite the dull horror he'd worn in Slytherin's classroom, more like an abstract worry of his potential—but then just as quickly looked away. Conversation resumed in short order, most students baffled by what had caused the rolling hush to begin with, but the Slytherin First Years sat mute, gobsmacked.
The cold-eyed witch recovered first. She fluffed her auburn curls nervously but then shook herself and, practically leaning across the table to reach him, offered Tom her hand. "Cleantha Selwyn," she introduced herself evenly.
Selwyn… That name was familiar. He knew her from lessons, of course, though she seldom spoke, and her family was among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but Tom felt like there was something he was forgetting. It finally came to him as they briefly exchanged pleasantries—Selwyn had been the surname of one of the Marvolos he'd managed to look up back at the beginning of the school year. With her pale eyes and reddish hair, there wasn't much resemblance between Cleantha and Tom, but was it possible? After all these years, was he finally meeting a blood relative?