He Is A Mirror
Chapter Twenty-Five: He Is A Mirror
Hogwarts, 1991
The girls' dormitory was lively that night; Hermione chalked it up to the other Gryffindors wanting to enjoy the last few precious hours they had before the holidays were officially over. She did her best to join in the various conversations, but having been looking forward to lessons resuming for some time now her heart simply wasn't in it. Time away from the school had been a pleasant reprieve, but London's distinct lack of magic had left her feeling anxious; she was only too eager to feel the comforting spark of power flow down her fingertips as she learned some new, more complicated spells.
None of the other girls seemed particularly surprised that she wished to go to bed early. Lavender pouted at Hermione as she pulled closed the velvet drapes around her bed, complaining loudly that she was being a spoil sport—an annoying and unnecessary gesture considering they both knew that Lavender was only too happy to be rid of her.
Inside the drapes it was cosy and dark, prompting Hermione to cast a quiet Lumos. Wand in one hand, pocketwatch in the other, she darted a nervous glance toward the drapes. By now, however, the other girls were being particularly riotous—so long as she whispered, it seemed unlikely that anyone beyond her drapes would hear her. Mind made up, she flipped open the watch, waiting patiently for Tom to respond. She didn't have to wait long, he appeared in the mirror within a matter of moments—a bit hazy, a little indistinct, as if a fog kept rolling in and out between them, but it was unmistakably Tom.
"How are you?" she asked quietly.
His dark eyes—one of the few aspects of his image that came through quite clearly—rolled in impatience. Tom had told her once that he didn't see the point in greetings and small talk; she'd tried to impress upon him that exchanging pleasantries was only good manners. He'd laughed at that. A part of her was sure that he made the effort elsewhere, that she was the only one he expressed those sort of opinions to and she was never certain whether to be flattered or insulted by it. However, it wasn't as if he never conceded for her benefit—somehow, Tom always seemed to be riding that thin line between perfectly behaved and utterly without boundaries; his true nature was really anyone's guess. Above all, though, he was adaptable which he proved by offering her a rather perfunctory, "I'm well, thanks."
The holidays had left her in an odd mood, burning for a sense of connection while simultaneously feeling withdrawn from all avenues that might provide it. Perhaps that was why the stiffness of his reply, the deliberate emptiness he gave purely out of selfishness pricked at her temper. It was just like him to perform as expected while still twisting the sentiment to suit his own purposes. There had always been a strange blankness in his interactions, as if he were perpetually holding himself back, aloof from the rest of the world, and it seemed distinctly unfair to her. He rarely elected to share his thoughts or feelings unless it was to prove a point or win an argument. She'd often thought of him as self-contained—a quiet boy who had developed keen observational skills in order to compensate for his less than ideal circumstances—but it suddenly struck her that she was also as cut off from him as anyone else. A nasty thought, and despite the fledgling sense of trust growing between them once more, that realisation hurt.
The protracted silence sat between them, heavy and awkward. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Tom's features shifted through the fog and she got the impression that he was raising a brow at her. "Did you not want me to be well?" he enquired dryly.
Hermione couldn't stop herself from sighing, uncertain how to explain her sudden upset. A quiet voice at the back of her thoughts—a curiously bitter creature that she usually kept silent—murmured that he wasn't likely to even understand her point of view. As a younger girl she'd once imagined a chasm gaping open between them, and it was awful to realise now that, no matter how much they'd both come to understand and even rely upon each other, that chasm was still there. With a helpless shrug, she replied, "No, it's not that."
"Then what was that dramatic sigh for?" he demanded, a touch accusing. Not that she could blame him; from his end she was sure that their conversation had taken quite the bewildering turn.
"It's just…" She trailed off, suddenly unsure if she even wanted to broach the subject. Tom seemed amiable enough at the moment, but his moods were often fickle and she wasn't sure if she wanted to disturb their simple peace in favour of a topic she knew would upset him to some extent. The problem, of course, was that he never failed to take advantage of her silences—if she didn't speak up then nothing would change. Drawing upon her courage, she decided to forge onward and hope for the best. "Ever since I found out the truth about your traveling, I feel like you talk without really saying anything; you never tell me what's going on in your world," she explained. "Do you have friends, enemies? What's it like in Slytherin? Who are your Professors and what are classes like in your time? You know everything about my life, but I only get to know what you deem unimportant."
He laughed a little at that—a quiet sound that bore no true resemblance to the cold and wild reality of his honest laughter—it was like a huffing of air that expressed both derision and disappointment. "Well," he drawled in a transparent effort to avoid the topic, "aren't we feeling maudlin tonight." Hidden below his deadpan nonchalance was a surprising amount of weariness however, and she wondered for the first time if perhaps he had a Lavender Brown of his own to deal with. He'd hinted during their reconciliation that the notion of blood purity had caused him some amount grief; for as much as he embodied the cunning and ambition of Slytherin, she wondered if he was actually happy there, if he fit in.
But Hermione refused to be deterred by her sudden sympathy, instead pressing, "I simply don't think it's fair that I'm the one paying the price for your actions!"
"I pay my dues in other ways," he replied seriously. "I'm not unaffected by the distance between us, you know. There's hardly a moment when you are not on my mind, when I'm not worried for you there in a future that I can't be a part of all the time. My access to you is limited and that knowledge consumes me—next to that, everything else pales in comparison."
She desperately wished that she could see him more clearly in that moment, because while there was a certain amount of expected fondness in his words, she was almost certain it was being eclipsed by that chilling, feverish greed of his. Hermione squinted at the little mirror, but his expression seemed to shift and he carried on before she could decide what that peculiar glint in his eyes meant.
"Yes," he continued, unaware of her scrutiny, "I have friends, I probably even have enemies if I ever stopped to think about it, but they're not the same as you. They get the unimportant parts, Hermione—the excuses about where I was or what I was doing, the brush off to invitations to study together because I know they can't keep up with me." Tom had always been very good at selling his sincerity, whether he meant it or not, but she couldn't help feeling a bit flattered, a bit special, by his steady declaration. Then came those dreaded words—the ones that had ultimately torn them apart for so many weeks—and her instinct was not to trust him despite the fact that he seemed baldly earnest for once. "I'm sorry that you feel cut off, but in truth you've seen more of me than anyone else. You know me better than anyone else, even without all the silly little details."
His tone was laced with such a strong note of solemnity that she knew he must be telling the truth, and yet as he elaborated upon his hardships she somehow felt that there were still certain facts he'd elected to keep hidden from her, the nature of which she couldn't be sure. That was always the tricky thing about Tom, and sometimes she was almost convinced he wasn't even aware he was doing it: he kept everything close to the vest, no matter how trivial, because somehow holding onto that information made him feel in control of the situation. Having lived in an orphanage for so many years—the victim of changing tides, fate always left up to the fickle whims of uncaring strangers—she could understand his ingrained need to master the world around him. She only wished he would realise that his sense of empowerment didn't have to come at her expense.
Perhaps she was the one being selfish now. He was in a tricky situation, straddling a precarious line between past and future, existing in both but really only belonging in one. Was it wrong to want more from him, to demand all the little details so that she might piece him together like an exotic puzzle, so that she might finally understand all the little parts of him that had never truly made sense? It seemed his greed was catching—not that she felt her desire was an unreasonable one, but it wasn't exactly fair to ask more from him than he was willing to give. She couldn't help but want that balance between them though, to finally be equals in the truest sense. Left a little melancholy at that thought, she burrowed deeper into her pillow and quietly asked, "Would you ever tell me everything, do you think?"
"Merlin, I want to," he replied in an equally soft tone. She was surprised to hear the familiar burn of craving in his voice—apparently she wasn't the only one bothered by a troubling sense of isolation—however, his next words dashed whatever hopes had briefly sprung up. "But I know you, Hermione, you wouldn't be able to resist looking me up and you've never been very good at keeping secrets from me. I know I've said it before, but apparently it needs repeating: I don't want to know my future."
She looked away briefly, trying to push down her disappointment. It wasn't as if theirs was a bad friendship—though they certainly had their fair share of trouble—and they were seeing more of each one another now than ever before. But try as she might to be happy with what they had, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. "It's as if there's this wall separating us now that didn't used to be there," Hermione sighed gloomily, turning her attention back to the hazy image in the mirror. "As though however many decades keeping us apart weren't bad enough."
"I know," Tom murmured back comfortingly. For once it seemed that their desires were actually in alignment—if only he would jump that last hurdle and trust her not to tell him anything he did not wish to know! "We've never had an easy time of it, have we? There's always something standing between us," he chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "But you know what? I don't think we'd be friends in quite the same way if things had run smoother. We're both confrontational, competitive, and problem solvers to boot; any less friction and we probably would have drifted apart years ago."
She cracked a weak smile at that. "I suppose you're right."
"Cheer up," he urged, "we'll be studying together soon. Speaking of, how did your Gryffindors take it?"
"Well enough," Hermione shrugged, simultaneously glad and disappointed to be changing the subject. "Harry seems pretty excited."
"But not Weasley," Tom guessed with a derisive snort.
She found herself having to hold back an indelicate sound of her own. "We both knew Ron was going to be stubborn," she replied with an exasperated, albeit fond quirk of the lips. Then, remember the concession Ron had finally made, added, "He seems willing to give it a shot, though—he even said he'd ask his older brothers about rooms where we could have some privacy. If anybody knows of a place where we won't get caught out of bed, it's the Twins."
Tom didn't seem particularly heartened by that news and he narrowed his eyes, asking, "You don't think they'll get suspicious or try to follow us?"
"Fred and George?" She pondered it for a moment—they were mischievous to a fault, after all—but somehow she just couldn't picture them caring too much when they had devilish business of their own to attend to. At length, she answered, "No. As long as they think they're helping us to break the rules, they'll be happy. What we're actually doing probably wouldn't interest them very much even if they did learn about it." She paused once more, this time considering the venture they were about to undertake. There was no denying that she was excited to begin their extracurricular studies, but it seemed a very ambitious undertaking for a group of First Years, particularly with only one term left before the summer holidays. "Are you sure you have time for this, Tom?" she asked, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "It's a big commitment, and I wouldn't want you to fall behind on your own studies; exams will be on us before we know it."
His image sharpened, the fog easing enough to see him more clearly. He was amused by her fretting, one dark brow cocked haughtily as he replied, "I don't have so much to do that I can't help out a friend. Quirrell's been indulgent with us so far, but that could change at any moment—the basics won't save you against someone like him, but they might buy you enough time for help to arrive. If that means I get a nine-out-of-ten instead of full marks then so be it."
She couldn't help but grumble, "Arrogant," at his impressively nonchalant demeanor.
"But honest," he returned, smile twisting the corner of his lips.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but decided to let him have his overconfidence. Instead, she allowed her thoughts wander to her Gryffindor compatriots and the secrets they had uncovered in her absence. The way she saw it, Quirrell was beginning to look like an even bigger problem than they'd assumed, and that was saying something.
She must have pulled a strange face at that thought, because in no time at all Tom was demanding, "What's that look for? Are you keeping secrets from me again?"
Brushing the accusation aside, she began to explain, "Harry and Ron found out who Nicolas Flamel is."
"Without you?" Tom asked, sounding genuinely surprised, which she found a tad insulting on behalf of her friends—they weren't stupid boys, after all, just occasionally frivolous and a bit shortsighted. "I have to admit, I didn't think they had it in them to do their own research."
She rolled her eyes once more, replying, "You're missing the point, Tom. We know what Fluffy is guarding now."
"Well?" he urged, sound both interested and yet undeniably bored all at once. If she had previously been unimpressed with the mystery of Fluffy, it was nothing compared to Tom's own disregard on the matter. As far as she could tell, he'd approached the whole thing as a mere curiosity, a simple distraction that paled in the face of a threat like Quirrell. However, if she was right, then that was all about to change.
"Flamel is a successful Alchemist," Hermione answered, "he's managed to create the Philosopher's Stone." There was a sudden tightening around his eyes and mouth—it had always pained Tom to admit he didn't know something—so she quickly explained, "It can turn any metal into pure gold and supposedly grants its possessor immortality."
He seemed momentarily stunned by that news, bursting out, "Surely Dumbledore wouldn't keep something like that in a school full of children—it's irresponsible!"
She couldn't help but agree; the Headmaster might as well have personally invited thieves to try their hands at breaking into the castle. Still, slightly mad or not, Dumbledore was said to be one of the strongest wizards alive, so he had to have some confidence in what he was doing. "Apparently he is hiding it here, though," she answered with a shrug. "I've read that Hogwarts is the safest place in the world, excepting maybe Gringotts. But the thing is, someone already tried to steal the Stone from Gringotts. In fact, they would have succeeded if the vault hadn't already been emptied."
And Tom, whose mind was so well-versed in thinking parallel to her own, understood her theory immediately. "Do you suspect it was Quirrell?"
"It's all a bit convenient, don't you think?" She gripped her wand a little tighter and began to lay out her thoughts as clearly as she could, "Harry mentioned that, along with a lot of other people, he met Professor Quirrell in Diagon Alley that day, so we know he was there at the time in question. Then later the bank gets broken into for the first time in history, but the clearly powerful robber doesn't make any panicked attempts on the Stone after that first botched try." Continuing, a touch rhetorically because she could already tell that the Slytherin was on the same page as her, she pressed, "Why?"
"Because he doesn't have to," Tom answered knowingly. "Quirrell's already in the castle, so he can take as much time as necessary not to raise suspicions."
"Exactly," Hermione nodded. She was hesitant to lay out the next bit of her theory, because this was where the logic got a little murkier and a lot more reliant upon guesswork, but she forged on regardless. "He's being possessed by a disembodied evil—what if that spirit's just barely hanging on? It's powerful, we both know that, but is it alive? And if it is, how? What's keeping it that way?" She shuddered to think upon her brief encounter with that specter—its oily charm and soft-spoken malice had revealed an unrelentingly insidious character. The thought of it being separated from Quirrell, unchained from the handicap of its parasitic nature, was terrifying. Her fright no doubt came through when she added, "Maybe it's after the Elixir of Life because it needs something more to help keep its inevitable death at bay."
Her friend paused, his mind whirling in a slightly different direction as he asked, "Is Quirrell being coerced, then? What would he even be getting out of this deal that would lead him to cooperate with such a vile invader?"
"Gold probably, perhaps immortality as well," she answered evenly, although somehow she doubted that the shadowy spirit was generous enough to share anything so unique as the Elixir of Life, "but that's only assuming he wanted anything to begin with." To be honest, she'd never really considered what the Professor's motives might be; he just naturally seemed like the toadying sort.
Tom was not particularly impressed with that last answer. "Who would go to such lengths for no reward?" he asked, sounding almost scandalised by the very idea.
"Someone who wishes to impress the spirit, or earn its approval," Hermione replied. It only made her that much more curious about the true identity of the parasite. Who could possibly be deserving of such blind devotion?
Tom's lips curled downward into a sneer, clearly disgusted by her explanation. "Wasted opportunity, if you ask me."
"Then I suppose we should all be grateful it isn't you," she quipped back lightly, but a part of her truly meant it. Her Slytherin was often too smart for his own good—what disaster could befall them all if such an evil managed to get its hooks into him? She didn't wish to say that his morals tipped toward the questionable side, because he had come a long way from that angry and violent young boy she'd first met, but there were times when decency seemed to fall away in favour of other considerations. Too often, Tom seemed to view life as little better than a game and other people were no more than combatants to be defeated. He could be coldly logical and was imbued with a strange power over Time, both of which could spell disaster in the hands of that dark creature—and while Tom had never been particularly accepting of authority figures, under the right circumstances she could see how a powerful and compelling monster might be able to twist him into a weapon of destruction. The fact that the spirit was already attempting to make contact with Tom only worried her further; they had to be kept apart at all costs. "Don't underestimate them," she advised seriously. A frown pulled at her lips when she noticed him ever so faintly rolling his eyes, prompting her to accuse, "I know you, Tom—you think less of them because they don't take advantage of things the way you would have, but that doesn't mean they're weak."
"Hermione, if there's only one thing I know right now, it's how much of a danger Quirrell presents to you," he replied in exasperation. "I can take the threat seriously and still find it somewhat lacking, you know. I'm not underestimating them; if anything, I'm thankful that they aren't as competent as they could be."
His words were only vaguely comforting and she couldn't help pressing the issue, concerned about where his true thoughts might lie. "You have a tendency to lose perspective," she warned him, "too caught up in the small details—"
The fog rolled back across her mirror, but she hardly needed to see him to know that he was angry now. Voice low and heated, he snapped, "You're one to talk!"
"I'm just asking that you stay focused on the larger picture," she replied, aiming for soothing—though she rather felt she missed the mark and ended up more around nagging.
"Yes, My Lady," he bit out sarcastically. "Any other faults you'd care to address while we're at it?"
"Don't be like that," Hermione implored. "You know I'm only saying this out of concern." Which, in retrospect, she should have done in just about any other way. He'd always been defensive when confronted about perceived faults—unable or perhaps simply unwilling to reflect upon himself.
There was a pause on his end, as if he were trying to collect his thoughts. Then, instead of firing back, he grew very quiet, hollowly stating, "It's getting late."
Those words were chilling and leaving the conversation there felt wrong. Hadn't her mother always said never to go to bed angry? "Tom—" she started loudly.
But he cut her off. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he said, quickly closing his watch.
Her mirror went back to normal, glinting her own reflection at her mockingly—a mixture of disappointment and anxiety swimming in her gaze—and the sudden silence practically left her ears ringing. It took her an embarrassingly long moment to realise what that silence meant; she'd let her guard down and was no doubt about to pay a price for it. With only seconds to spare, she managed to slip her pocket watch underneath her pillow and did her best to look as innocent as possible. The drapes of her four-poster were quickly ripped back, revealing none other than Lavender Brown.
Lavender's lips were pursed, her eyes darting around the previously enclosed space. The three other Gryffindor girls crowded behind her curiously, and they all seemed a touch disappointed when they found nothing out of order. Still, Lavender refused to let the opportunity go; frowning, she asked, "Who were you talking to?"
The girl's nosey demand irritated Hermione so completely that she felt the innocent look melting straight off her face, instinctively replaced by a glare. After ending her conversation with Tom on such a sour note, Lavender was honestly the last person she wanted to deal with. She could only hope that the annoying girl would go away quickly. "I was just practising a few spells," she lied, indicating her still lit wand. The challenging glare that was still tightening the corners of her eyes probably didn't help sell that idea very well, but there was little she could do about it now.
"I heard a boy's voice," Lavender insisted, and there were several murmurs of agreement behind her.
Without really meaning to do it, Hermione could feel her expression shifting to one of Tom's: a haughtily quirked brow and a mocking twist of the lips that aimed to make its opponents feel as small and misguided as possible. It wasn't an expression she could recall using before, but she couldn't deny how right it felt against such intrusive roommates. "Do you see a boy in here?" she asked, voice dripping with sarcasm and noticeable disdain—after all, if she was already borrowing Tom's looks, she might as well adopt his imperious tone as well.
Lavender looked taken aback by such unexpected venom, and rightly so as the usually quiet bookworm had never bothered to stand up to her tormentors before. Faltering, she tried to counter, "No, but—"
Hermione, who wanted to put the issue to rest as quickly as possible, did not let the girl finish. "I suppose I'm hiding him nefariously in the shadows then, am I?" she drawled sharply. It wasn't usually in her to so openly ridicule others, but this was a drastic situation. She had to discredit Lavender, to make everyone feel silly and mistaken, because any lingering curiosity about the night's events would pose a risk to Tom and his secrets. It was nerve wracking enough expecting Quirrell around every corner, she didn't wish to add fluff-headed girls looking to expose some sort of scandal to her list of concerns.
Kate and Fay, who weren't always on good terms with Lavender to begin with, looked chastened by Hermione's words and quickly broke off to the other side of the room. The remaining two Gryffindor girls, however, did not appear quite as convinced of her innocence.
"There's something strange going on with you, Granger," Lavender accused. "I heard you were found alone in a bathroom with a Slytherin boy," she added, smilingly nastily when Parvati gasped from behind her.
That was certainly the last rumour Hermione wished to hear. Had Harry or Ron mentioned the mysteriously vanishing Slytherin to other students prior to being sworn to secrecy about Tom? Or had the three of them discussed their clandestine adventures a little too loudly over breakfast one morning? It was so easy to forget that Hogwarts had ears everywhere, easy to grow complacent and assume that no one was listening in to private conversations. In light of all the other troubles facing her—Quirrell and his shadow, the Philosopher's Stone, the mystery of Riddle and his wand, not to mention keeping top marks in all her classes—she'd become dangerously lazy about protecting her time-traveler from notice.
"That was Halloween," she finally replied, "which, you will no doubt remember, was when that troll attacked me in the girls' bathroom. There was a Slytherin boy there," she admitted, because denying it at this point would only make Lavender more certain that she was lying about something. "He heard the commotion and came to see what was going on. There certainly wouldn't have been any time for whatever it is you think you're implying."
"Then where is it you're disappearing off to all the time?" Parvati asked, finally chipping in.
Emboldened by her friend's support, Lavender placed her hands on her hips and practically shrieked, "I think you're fraternising with the enemy!"
The enemy? Why was everyone so enamoured of that stupid House rivalry? What did it matter if her best friend was a Slytherin? And, more to the point, what right did people like Lavender and Parvati have to judge the company Hermione chose to keep? A swift fury flushed through her; she could forgive anything they'd said about herself—the petty teasing over her appearance and petulant resentment of her clever, bookish nature—but she could not, would not, forgive their implication that Tom was beneath them.
Distantly, it struck her that perhaps this was how Tom had felt about Andy Smythe, in which case perhaps she had been too hard on him; not that she condoned his violence, but she understood now why he had been so upset with her when she'd failed to understand him. This was the sort of anger that could not be denied, that did not wish to be subverted into lesser action. She would not hurt the bratty girls before her, but for once she found that she did not wish to back away from the confrontation.
"And I think you're a stuck up ninny who needs to learn how to mind her own business," she all but shouted. Her magic swirled around her, wordlessly pushing the two Gryffindors back until they'd stumbled far away from her bedside. Cheeks burning red, Hermione had to stop herself from doing anything more. A small thrill leapt down her spine at the wide eyes that stared at her from around the room—not so unlike the feeling she got when she knew the answer to a tricky question that no one else understood—but she knew she had to reel herself back in. She'd stood her ground, although she hadn't so much dissipated suspicion as just flatly told them to stop prying, but that was enough. With one last angry look, she snapped her drapes closed once more, hoping against hope that she'd not just made a terrible mistake.
Hogwarts, 1939
Tom stared at the pocketwatch blankly, wrestling with the terrible desire to hurl it against the nearest wall. He wasn't stupid! Hadn't he been the one to identify the threat Quirrell posed? The one to realise that Hermione's Defense Professor was possessed by a powerful, sentient evil? Hadn't he been the one to insist on certain safety measures for her, because the idea of that familiar blackness anywhere near her made his chest tighten uncomfortably?
How dare she think— How dare she say— !
He took a deep breath, fingers clenched tightly around the metal casing of the watch, until he felt sure his knuckles would split straight through his skin like stones through wet parchment. Objectively, he knew that Hermione hadn't actually been criticising him, that she had only been expressing her own concern for his safety, but that didn't leave him feeling any less attacked. She had no right to accuse him of such tactical blindness, not when she was the one who'd taken unnecessary risks in the pursuit of information! Risks that, in the end, hadn't even paid off in any measurable way and had left her more vulnerable to her Professor than ever. Perhaps he was underestimating Quirrell and his darkness—lulled into a false sense of security by the distance between them and the unshakeable idea that, whatever they were planning, Tom could no doubt devise a better way of doing it—but at least he wasn't the one ambling around and openly inviting their enemies to take advantage of them!
He took another deep breath, forcing himself to calmly place his watch down upon his bed lest he do something unforgivably rash. Even as angry as he was in that moment, he could not risk losing any connection to Hermione over what ultimately amounted to no more than a small spat between them. It was hard to fight his temper back down, but he knew that there was no sense in being upset. Had those words been uttered by anyone else Tom would have made sure they paid for it, but Hermione was the one person he couldn't imagine seeking revenge upon—not only was he certain that she would prove a formidable opponent once provoked, but the very idea of raising his wand against her seemed as pointless as striking himself. They were a set, twined together, individual weaknesses balanced out by the other's strengths. If they could not present a united front—if they fell apart now—then they would be vulnerable to outside attack, capable of being pulled apart, separated. Which was unacceptable, obviously. In the three and a half years that they had known one another they had only truly been apart twice—once soon after they'd met, and then again after arriving at Hogwarts for the first time—and he had vowed never to do that again regardless of how volatile their relationship got.
Because really, and this was the truth of it as far as Tom was concerned, without him Hermione had no one. Well, to be fair, she did have Potter and Weasley, but two boys who could stare Death in the face and then assign blame to completely the wrong man weren't worth their keep. They couldn't protect her. Not that she necessarily needed protection—that was one of the many brilliant things about her—but the thought of her curiosity and temper, her sharp wit and ingenuity silenced forever left a cold ball of dread in the pit of Tom's stomach. Hermione was a diamond in the rough, a mirror to his own strengths, and he couldn't help but want her close by and unquestionably safe.
So there was really no sense in being angry over her accusations. Anger would only fester between them, fostering distance until Quirrell—or someone like him—could worm their fingers into that gap and pry the two of them apart. If anything, now was the time to strengthen their bond.
For the first time, Tom truly considered telling Hermione about himself, of demolishing those last few walls that he had erected between them. They had been placed there in an effort to keep himself safe, but she was undeniably a part of him now and those barriers didn't serve much purpose anymore beyond generating a lingering distrust. What was the worst that could happen? She had already tried and failed to find out who Tom Riddle was—aside from a few perfunctory facts about his schooling, it seemed that there was nothing for her to find. Her anger was a bit of a deterrent, though; she would be furious that he'd lied about his name for so long, and he couldn't even begrudge her that because he knew that he, himself would react poorly in her position. His truest worry, however, was that in her anger she would no doubt renew her research efforts and, motivated by spite, it was possible she would find something she'd previously overlooked.
He didn't have to tell her his name, though. She'd already narrowed him down to somewhere in a span of about thirty years, and he didn't think the incidentals of his life would help her identify a more specific time. The surnames of any classmates he might give her would no doubt still be familiar in her own time and not very helpful at all in pinning down his era. The Professors, too, were all long-tenured at Hogwarts, so what did it matter if he discussed his lessons more completely with Hermione? Perhaps he had been holding himself a bit too far aloof, paranoid that even the most insignificant of details would result in her returning to him with disappointing anecdotes of his failures in life or, even worse, a premature and unremarkable death.
He was tired of Lestrange being his only true confidant. Hadn't Tom fantasised about bringing Hermione into the fold, of being able to plan and plot with the benefit of her keen insight and driving energy? Of being able to share the burden of his scheming across two equal sets of shoulders? True, she was still a world apart from him, and he was certain that her golden heart would be shocked, perhaps even appalled, by his ultimate goal; somehow, she just didn't seem the type to throw her support behind aspirations of ministerial conquest and potential Dark Lordship. He could ease her into the idea though—slowly, over time—dress it up in some other sentiment, something that she'd like and feel drawn to, couldn't he?
He'd felt the distance between them—as if it had been a living, breathing thing, growing larger and more tumultuous by the day, not so very unlike the Void. She'd been slipping through his fingers in a way he couldn't quite explain, drifting further and further from him, across the waves of an uncharted ocean he did not know how to navigate. Her affection had never ceased, and yet there were suddenly parts of herself that she'd begun holding back from him, a distance that had never before existed. It had felt like, piece by piece, he'd been losing her; the process was undoubtedly slow and would have taken years to truly overcome them, but eventually they would have become fractured and estranged. If he gave her his secrets then perhaps she would spill her own in return, and the distance between them would shrink again until it was as if it had never existed in the first place. Given how tightly he'd always controlled himself around others, how determined he'd been to leave them with nothing of his true self, the idea of suddenly sharing almost everything with Hermione should have appalled him, but in truth he found himself strangely elated by the idea. She would be by his side more completely than ever before; true, it would not be the same as having her in his own time, but it was the next best alternative.
Tom reluctantly set those thoughts aside—there was other work to be done this night—and returned to the research he'd been engaged in before Hermione had contacted him. Though it was tedious and dull work, he'd been brushing up on some of the Pureblood families, paying particular attention to those he'd been introduced to that evening.
Dolohov, Yaxley, and Nott had been the most outspoken of the group. All of them were from relatively lesser families—Purebloods, but not held to the same esteem as lineages like the Blacks or the Lestranges. According to Andrus's letters, the Yaxleys were in financial straits: Yaxley Senior was apparently a bit too fond of the gambling tables and routinely lost more than he won. The Notts were engulfed in some sort of legal concern, the exact nature of which even Andrus hadn't seemed to know for sure—though he had speculated that they might be contesting the Will of a recently deceased relative who had tried to leave a substantial part of his estate to his mistress of-insultingly-questionable-origin. And then there were the Dolohovs, who were desperately trying to keep the world from knowing that three separate Squibs had all been born to them in a single generation, terrified that other Purebloods would think their bloodline had become dirty along the way and was now losing its magic. Despite these obvious defects, however, their names still carried enough weight to allow each family some heavy involvement in the Ministry; they were certainly well-connected enough to have gained Black's favour even though he came from an objectively more powerful family. The insipid trio of toadies were not the sort of company Tom would have chosen, personally, but he had to start somewhere—their shameful secrets made them vulnerable at least, easy to trap and sway without much further thought.
His true interest, of course, laid with Cleantha Selwyn—the girl who was possibly related to him. She was somewhat harder than the others to pin down, unfortunately. The Selwyns were an intensely private family, as it turned out, and even publications like Preserving The Pure only had the barest amount of information on them despite the fact that they were part of the illustrious Sacred Twenty-Eight. Their silence was suspicious, made him wonder if perhaps they were trying to keep secrets of a serpentine nature—if he spoke in Parseltongue to Cleantha would she be able to respond? It was too risky to try it though, not without somehow confirming his suspicions a bit further. He would have to speak to Andrus, see if the Lestranges knew anything useful about the Selwyns.
A part of Tom was undecided as to which outcome he truly wished for on that front. On the one hand, he'd never had blood relatives before and was curious why everyone seemed to hold the phenomenon in such high regard. On the other hand, if Cleantha turned out to be a sibling or a cousin, it meant that he was not the sole Heir of Slytherin, and he was quite sure he didn't like that diminishing importance. However, either way it brought him closer to Slytherin himself, because if the Selwyns were not related to Tom then at least that crossed one of the Marvolos off his list, leaving him with only two other possibilities to explore. He would find his relatives eventually—he was sure of it—and, one way or another, Cleantha could prove to be instrumental in that quest.
When Tom finally went to sleep that night, he dreamt of snakes and cold, red eyes. Within the dream itself those visions comforted him, and yet upon awakening he could not displace the feeling of that familiar, choking darkness which seemed to now haunt his every hour. He was hardly surprised that his mind chose to linger upon the shadowy specter, seeing as it was one of his chief concerns these days, but he did resent that it apparently couldn't keep itself confined to the future, where it belonged.
Breakfast was a curious affair that morning. Never one to linger in bed, Tom was one of the first students to enter the Great Hall. He'd barely even touched his porridge before Andrus was sliding into the seat beside him.
"You really don't hold back, do you?" Lestrange asked with a grimace and a put upon sigh.
He wanted to laugh at that—as if sliding a few cups across a table was great magic! What would they think to see his wandless fire, or to witness what he and Hermione could do together? It was pathetic, really, how easily these Purebloods were taken by surprise. "From that sort of reaction," he replied, turning disinterestedly back to his breakfast, "I can only surmise that you couldn't even begin to imagine how much I do hold myself back."
Andrus made a valiant effort not to flinch at that admission—it was amusing how frightened he could appear over such a petty little thing. "You never mentioned that you could do wandless magic," he accused.
Tom raised a brow and shrugged. "I suppose I didn't really think it worth mentioning, all things considered." After all, Hermione could do wandless magic as well. Not to mention that when they'd first met, Dumbledore had seemed to imply it was a soft skill—something anyone could learn to do—and that Tom was only unique because he'd managed to learn a bit of wandless magic so young.
"This is big, Riddle," Lestrange cut through his musings. "Are you really so arrogant that you don't get that?"
Still not seeing what all the fuss was about, Tom snapped, "What would you have had me do, Andrus? Not being able to tell anyone I'm a Parselmouth limited my options. I've only got a finite amount of time left to gain some traction and I needed the First Years' attention."
"Well, you certainly got it," the older boy laughed humorlessly. "I thought you were going to breadcrumb our 'illegitimate Lestrange' plan—we spent weeks devising that."
For some reason, Tom suddenly felt as if they were talking about two entirely different events. Why did Andrus assume he'd abandoned all their hard work? "I did stick to the plan," he answered simply.
Lestrange was puzzled by that. "It didn't work?"
"The whole affair went surprisingly well, actually," Tom shrugged once more. "Alphard was only too happy to jump to conclusions."
Andrus floundered, giving him a hopelessly confused look. "Then why—?"
"What's with you?" Tom demanded, tired of dancing around whatever was bothering the young aristocrat. "You're acting like I blew my cover."
"The Common Room is boiling over with rumours about what happened," Lestrange replied, fingers twitching agitatedly. "If anyone did suspect you of being my bastard half-brother, they won't believe it for very long. There are only a handful of wizards that can perform controlled, wandless magic."
His concern finally started to make sense. "And the Lestranges aren't among them," Tom hazarded a guess.
"Even the Blacks aren't among them," Andrus replied lowly. Then darting a glance to the High Table where the staff dined, added, "But Dumbledore is."
"Ah," Tom breathed, processing the information. It would be a rather inconvenient conclusion for the whole of Slytherin House to suspect him of being related to the Head of Gryffindor. Their Transfiguration Professor was held in high esteem and there was no denying that he was a powerful wizard, but House rivalries were sacred and ran deep at Hogwarts. The only thing equally as bad as Tom's own House calling him a Mudblood would be some misguided notion that he was only a Gryffindor pretending to be a Slytherin. Their disdain would know no bounds and all his hard work would come to naught. Still, just because he and Dumbledore shared a skill didn't mean that their being related was any sort of logical conclusion. "Dumbledore is noticeably hesitant about me," he argued slowly, thinking carefully, "even Alphard managed to put that much together."
"Don't underestimate the cleverness of our House, Riddle," his companion cautioned, eerily echoing Hermione's own warnings. "If properly motivated, the Purebloods are interconnected enough to work in tandem, and together they could land upon the truth of what you are much sooner than you want them to."
Even if he were to generously overestimate the intellectual capabilities of his Housemates, Tom still didn't think they had all the right information to figure out the reality of him. Lestrange was simply being overcautious. "You can see the path clearly only because you already know the truth, Andrus," Tom explained quietly. "Without that final piece, without knowing that I am a Speaker they have no reason to land upon Slytherin as a legitimate consideration. He lived over a thousand years ago, as far as anyone other than you or I are aware, it seems possible that he wouldn't even have any surviving descendents. Our plan hasn't changed so much as you think—if at all."
Ignoring that last sentence, Lestrange grimaced and cautiously pointed out, "It's not as common these days, but there have been claims to Slytherin's lineage made by a number of families, you know."
"The Selwyns?" Tom questioned immediately, finally voicing the thought he'd been silently pursuing since the night before.
Andrus cocked his head at that, almost visibly tallying everything he knew about the mysterious family. "Not that I'm aware," he replied after several long moments, "but then they do keep to themselves."
Tom felt like growling in frustration. Not that he didn't respect a healthy sense of solitude—particularly since most Pureblood families seemed to lack it entirely—but the Selwyn's tendency toward isolation was damned inconvenient. He narrowed his eyes, viciously jabbing at his breakfast as he told his companion, "I don't like Miss Selwyn presenting such a mystery to me, Andrus."
Lestrange bit out a helpless laugh, which he quickly muffled under the force of Tom's resulting glare. "Look, most of the Pureblood families are connected in some way," he explained, apparently not knowing how else to diffuse the younger boy's temper. "Go back far enough, and you'd probably discover that you and I actually are related, most likely distant cousins. That's the way it works in our families. So if you suspect that you and Selwyn share a common bloodline then you're almost certainly right," he soothed; then, taking a fortifying breath, continued, "but to suggest that her family might be the missing link between you and your own ancestry is a bit of a leap."
Thinking of his clandestine search for a man named Marvolo, Tom could only reply, "I have my reasons."
Lestrange raised a brow at that. "I don't suppose you'd like to share them?" he asked dryly.
"Don't suppose I would," Tom replied, flashing his companion a twisted smile. There was no reason to hold out really, but he felt as if he'd been hemorrhaging information lately—there was hardly anything about him that Andrus did not know, and very soon Hermione would be joining that selective club in some fashion. It was uncomfortable being so openly honest, and it made Tom want to hold on to whatever he could, no matter how petty.
"Fine, keep your secrets," Lestrange huffed, though there was no real strength behind his words. "Just remember that I'm only as useful as you let me be."
This was more familiar footing between them, their usual mocking and disaffected back and forth. Allowing his smile to bloom more fully, Tom crooned, "You're doing a marvelous job, Andrus, don't fret."
Lestrange rolled his eyes and stood to join his fellow Second Years. Half turned away, he quietly drawled, "You know, I actually think I regret introducing myself to you," but his words were empty of any true sentiment and they both knew it.
"And yet you stay because you know it'll pay off for you in the long-run," Tom reminded him lightly, if somewhat pointedly.
"Somehow, banking on your undisclosed vision of the future isn't too much of a comfort," Andrus replied with a snort. He paused then, visibly hesitating before he delivered a final caution, "Watch your back today—you might actually be a target of interest now," and with that, he was gone.
Up to that point the Slytherins had largely left Tom alone. They'd been disdainful of him and his apparent lack of heritage, but not truly interested enough to spare him any attention—he'd been considered beneath their notice, unworthy of even the effort it might have taken them to bully him. Lestrange seemed convinced that last night had changed that, either because Black's willing interactions with Tom had ruffled some feather or because Tom had finally proven that he was someone to be wary of.
Regardless of the reason, there were gazes surreptitiously trained in his direction now, watching him from the corners of curious and calculating eyes. It was a bit unnerving, to be honest—Tom was used to occupying a blind-spot, coming and going as he pleased because he knew no one was watching. That was no longer true, and yet he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry about it; though it would make concealing some of his more unusual talents a bit harder, he ultimately needed all the attention that Slytherin House could spare him if he was to have any chance of taking them over. He could only hope that no one was enterprising enough to try bullying him because, for once, Tom wasn't certain how he'd react; he had a horrible feeling that instincts sharpened from years of enduring Wool's cutthroat lawlessness would not be denied. The last thing he needed right now was for his temper to draw the eyes of authority in his direction—his Professors were blind to the truth of his nature and he was determined to keep it that way.