He Is A Tutor
Chapter Twenty-Seven: He Is A Tutor
Hogwarts, 1939
Tom spent the better part of his evening restlessly wiling away his time in the Library. He'd finished revising his Astronomy charts with Macmillan and Fawley ages ago, had even managed to polish off a two scroll Charms essay while helping Cleantha and Hestia with theirs, and still had hours to go before he could visit Hermione for their first Defense lesson. It had taken some time to land on a viable schedule—mostly thanks to Potter being constantly held hostage by the whims of his overzealous Quidditch Captain—not to mention that the four of them still weren't quite sure where they would hold the meeting, but tonight was finally the night. Tom was anxious to get started, to see what the three Gryffindors might already be capable of doing and therefore wouldn't need to be taught; they didn't have a lot of time at their disposal and if it came down to it, it was possible that they might have to choose which subjects were the most important to focus on.
The wait was killing him. Every second between now and their appointed meeting was one more second that Hermione was left disadvantaged. She would take to the material quickly—she always had, even when they'd been making their own explorations as children. However, the fact that they couldn't meet every night from now to the end of term, that they all had a certain amount of other obligations which prevented them from studying as intensely as he would have liked, irritated him almost beyond his capacity to endure. Quirrell wasn't going to sit nicely by and allow them to catch up; eventually the man was going to make a move of some sort, and they would all have to be prepared before he did.
Tom thought back to the letters he had exchanged with Quirrell—or, rather, the darkness infecting him. The young Slytherin had written something suitably short and dismissive, distantly hoping that perhaps if he was rude enough the possessed Professor would quickly lose interest.
It has been posed to me that you desire my attention—you have it. Now the question is: why did you want it so badly in the first place?
He had wanted to sign the short missive so that there could be no doubt he'd finally been roused into communicating, but knew it was a risk that he could not take. With Hermione delivering the letter on his behalf, he had to assume she might take a peek at it—only fair, considering she'd been the one to think up the letter in the first place—but he couldn't deal with the repercussions from her learning his true identity on top of everything else he was already contending with. One day, he would tell her the truth, swallow down his distrust and unease and share everything he could with her, but not until he understood why someone like Quirrell or his darkness were so interested in him.
Hermione, though, apparently wanting to save a bit of face after their last argument, hadn't been tempted to read the letters at all.
"How'd it go?" he had asked her when they'd met up the evening following the exchange.
"Well enough, I suppose," she had shrugged, sounding tired. "We didn't actually talk or anything—I handed the note in with my assignment, and he gave me his response when he passed back some essays we'd done earlier."
He had accepted the small square of parchment from her, proud somehow that she could so nonchalantly brush against danger and come out of things no worse for wear. And yet, pride or not, Tom hadn't been able to stop himself from asking, "Did you read it?"
She'd been neither surprised nor offended by the question, calmly pointing to the wax seal as she'd explained, "It's not mine to read. Besides, I'm rather disenchanted with letters from Quirrell as it is, and I'm beginning to feel a bit like a discount owl service." At that she'd begun worrying at her lip, as if debating something, but had ultimately finished with, "You'll let me know if there's anything important in there, won't you?"
He'd been struck then by how much faith she'd put in him, how much blind trust she had that he would not misuse or jealously guard whatever information was contained within the letter. Or it was a test to see how trustworthy he was, and as much as he hated to fail, he'd been able to do nothing more than slip the unopened missive into his pocket as he'd assured her, "Of course."
It hadn't been until hours later, in the safety of his own time, that he'd dared to break the wax seal. He wasn't quite certain what he'd been expecting of the letter, but he was still thoroughly disappointed by it.
You'll forgive me for my blunt questioning, I'm sure; you can appreciate that this is not necessarily a scenario I planned for.
How did you manifest, and why under the guise of such a young child?
How did you get your hands on that wand, when I have been assured it is in safekeeping?
But above all, what do you have planned? There are already wheels in motion at Hogwarts—it would be a shame if we got in each other's way.
It was little better than gibberish to Tom. From the thin and graceful slant of the letters, he could tell it hadn't been penned by Quirrell—whose own handwriting, from what little he'd glimpsed of it, tended toward the soft and round—so this note was directly from the thing possessing him then. Tom wasn't sure whether to take its cryptic wording as a sign of madness or simple misunderstanding. A part of him wanted to assume that this creature had mistaken him for someone else, but every time he tried he was reminded of Hermione's dogged discovery of Tom M. Riddle.
There was no mistake.
What had Tom done—what would he do—in order to give these strange questions tangible weight and context? What did the creature mean by manifest? What would happened to Tom himself in the next fifty years that would necessitate putting his wand into safekeeping? Why did the darkness assume he had anything planned? Who was this to be so deeply interested in him, and why was there the pervasive feeling throughout the short letter that the unnatural shade assumed they should be working together?
Tom was left with a handful of puzzle pieces, none of which fit one another. Somehow, he'd come away from the brief communication with even more questions than he'd had going in, and absolutely no idea of where to proceed from here. One thing was clear, though: time-travel didn't seem to have yet entered the thoughts of Quirrell or his master. If there was any silver lining in this whole fiasco, it was that.
"Mr. Riddle," Slughorn's habitually jovial voice interrupted his thoughts, "a moment of your time, if you please?"
Tom looked up from where he'd been rather blankly glaring at his Transfiguration assignment, having somewhat forgotten he was even in the Library as his thoughts had wandered to the future, as they were often wont to do. He quickly tried to school his expression into something more politely curious, but must not have entirely succeeded based upon Slughorn's amused mien.
"There's no need to look so solemn, Tom," the Professor chuckled, helping himself to a seat across the table, "you're not in any trouble." This was beginning to feel distinctly like the last time he'd had a one-on-one with his Head of House and, sure enough, Slughorn almost immediately began chatting about his social entanglements. "It's wonderful to see you talking to your peers; you had us all worried for a moment there."
How was he meant to respond to that? It was uncomfortable to think that any adult—like a certain Deputy Headmaster, for instance—had been watching him closely enough to be worried in the first place. He didn't like the idea of their casual observation and subsequent judgement, as if he were little better than some small creature at the zoo to be gawked at. Coming up blank, he offered a perfunctory, "Thank you, Sir," in return.
Slughorn, who seemed to have mistaken his loss of words for embarrassment, beamed at him. "You seem quite close to Misses Selwyn and Dagworth-Granger," he observed, "lovely girls, just lovely." It was no secret that the Potions Master collected talented or well-connected students and, though he tried to keep himself aloof from the younger years, it was clear that he still had favourites. Hestia Dagworth-Granger, whose family was renowned for their innovative potioneering, could almost rival the amount of attention the young Professor paid to Tom himself—and Slughorn appeared downright giddy that a few of his favoured students were forming ties. "I told you patience would be rewarded in the long run, didn't I?"
"Indeed," Tom murmured, secretly amused at how far off Slughorn was from the truth of things—Cleantha and Hestia were quick to act familiar with him, but their relationship was first and foremost one of practicality. If a true friendship ever did develop there, it would always be balanced against their perceived usefulness, no different from how his relationship with Andrus was. An awkward moment stretched out as the young Slytherin pondered these things, one which the older man didn't seem in any rush to fill, so Tom prompted, "Was that all, Professor?" in the hopes of moving things along. Though he had more than enough time to waste this particular evening, he was not keen on on spending any substantial part of it coyly pretending that he was excited to have found his place in Slytherin—there was still far too much work to be done before he could truly celebrate his success.
Slughorn brightened, as if only just remembering why he'd come over in the first place. "Actually, I wanted to discuss your most recent assignment. Excellent work! I don't think I've ever met such an insightful First Year," he replied. Then, glancing at the stacks of books piled upon Tom's otherwise abandoned table, quietly continued, "Interesting, though, that you should choose to write about aniseed, particularly since it's not considered part of the First Year curriculum."
The careful phrasing and guarded looks made it obvious that Slughorn feared he was staving off loneliness by throwing himself into his studies, nevermind that they'd just been talking about the two "friends" he'd made. It would be easy to lie and suggest that his Ravenclaw companions had spurred his interest in research and theory—it would be safer to lie—but there was another option open to him, one that would pander to the Professor and make him feel as if he'd been helpful. During their last conversation, poking around at Dumbledore's behest no doubt, Slughorn had asked after the young witch Tom had claimed to know prior to attending Hogwarts; nothing particularly useful had come of that exchange, but the Professor had offhandedly suggested getting back in touch with the girl. It was no less than the truth, really—Tom had repaired his friendship with Hermione and had worked on that particular assignment while visiting her—and the opportunity to be honest while still obfuscating the full reality of the situation was always a joy to him. Quietly, hoping that flattering Slughorn might convince him to pay less attention to the young Slytherin, Tom started, "I took your advice, Sir, and wrote to my friend studying abroad—"
The Professor, eager and apparently easily distracted, interrupted him with a loud, "Wonderful! And how is the young lady?"
"Lonely, I think," he confessed, trying not to grimace when he inevitably thought about her misfit companions. It wasn't like the two Gryffindors even came close to matching her intellect—from what he understood, Potter and Weasley were more keen to copy her work than contribute anything useful to her thought process—so at least that honour was his alone. "She said she wasn't feeling very challenged, and it just so happened that we had similar assignments to work on, so we made something of a game out of it." She'd been a bit scandalised at first, insisting that their homework should not be turned into mere frivolity, but had eventually conceded that their competitive natures might spur them into focusing a little harder. "Whoever could get the highest marks using a subject that wasn't discussed in class or the assigned book wins."
Slughorn, who, for a Slytherin, was appallingly awful at keeping his emotions off his face, offered Tom a proud smile and replied, "I daresay I know the victor."
"Thank you, Professor, but I'm not so certain," Tom said, allowing himself a moment of truly genuine honesty. "Hermione is meticulous to a fault, particularly when it comes to research. I wouldn't be at all surprised if we end up at a stalemate." She had always seemed to labour under the impression that magic came more easily to him—perhaps it did—and tried to make up for that perceived fault by mapping out everything that could be conceivably understood about a subject. It was a compulsive habit of hers that had only deepened once they'd gained access to the Library—at times it irritated Tom to no end, but he could admit that without her over-preparation prodding against his own need to perform just as well, if not better, he might not have put even half as much effort into his schoolwork as he was beginning to.
"A shame she did not come to Hogwarts, then," Slughorn put in, barely this side of dreamily. "I'm beginning to think that the two of you in a classroom together would be quite the sight to behold!" Tom had to stop himself from imagining it, from picturing what could be—if only, if only, if only—and focused, instead, on his Professor's next question, "Do the pair of you do this often with your homework?"
"We've only just reconnected in the last few months," Tom replied easily, "but I do get the feeling that this will become a regular rivalry for us. Unless you'd prefer I stop?" There wasn't a chance he'd follow through on that, but it didn't hurt to appear as if he were willing to.
"Merlin, no," Slughorn burst out, sounding nearly aghast at the idea. He collected himself quickly and, much softer, confessed, "I know I'm not alone in noticing your boredom. That's not meant as a criticism, you understand—you're a bright young man who takes to his studies quicker than the average student." And yet, somehow, it did feel like a criticism; as if Tom's frequent disinterest had somehow made him less deserving or trustworthy to the staff. "To be honest, we were all worried that your marks might begin to slip because you weren't feeling engaged. If this is what it takes to make your assignments interesting, then by all means proceed," his Professor continued in a serious tone that was quite at odds with his usual bravado. "I can only give you points so high, and all your work this term has been exemplary, but this essay was something else entirely; it was beyond rote correctness, more than just a simple recitation of facts, and I would very much like to see more of its ilk."
Slughorn might be a softy, but he was still a Slytherin, and from him those encouragements sounded suspiciously like a challenge—one Tom was more than willing to meet and inevitably exceed in his own way. He was shocked to think that any of his professors had been quietly waiting to watch him slide into a slow spiral of self-induced failure. And he couldn't even blame them for it, really; in retrospect, he'd only ever put forth enough effort to get a perfect score, and certainly hadn't challenged himself beyond that, particularly not when his attentions were so frequently required elsewhere. It certainly hadn't helped that what little Hermione had discovered of Tom M. Riddle had all pertained to his academic achievements—in a way it had felt like a guarantee that he would achieve the sort of excellence he sought. Which was exactly the sort of false hope that made him so adamant about avoiding knowledge of his own future. Had those assurances affected his performance, or was this the way it had always been and he simply hadn't realised it?
It was a mistake that needed correcting; even knowing that his future exam scores had broken records suddenly wasn't enough. He would prove his Professors wrong, spite even those scores he knew about and allow himself to be drawn deeper into his studies, if only to show everyone that there was far more to little orphan Riddle than met the eye. So they expected mediocrity from him, did they?
He would bloody well be the best student Hogwarts had ever seen.
Hogwarts, 1991
Hermione sat in the Gryffindor Common Room, nervously waiting for the last few stragglers to finally wander off to bed. She was meant to be helping Harry, Ron, and Neville start their History of Magic assignments, but she found herself too anxious to be of any real help. Tonight was the night—once the Common Room had cleared out, she would send word to Tom, and the five of them would finally get to begin their Defense lessons together.
Her gaze wander over to Neville—who seemed a bit confused as to what was going on, but was nonetheless happy to be included—and once more wondered if she was doing the right thing. Tom had not reacted well to Harry and Ron, even with the benefit of advanced warning; to spring another Gryffindor on him without so much as asking… Well, she wouldn't be surprised by his anger, that was for certain. She could justify the action to herself, repeat over and over that Neville needed help and in some strange way Tom might actually be good for him, but it didn't ease her uncertainty or her fear.
She'd been pushing Tom a lot lately, if she thought about it: keeping secrets and starting arguments, stoking up his temper until she wasn't quite sure when he would blow. He'd taken a lot in stride for her, however she couldn't help but wonder if this, if Neville, was crossing a line. After all, the more people that came into contact with Tom, the far more likely it was that his secret would be exposed—a danger if ever there was one. Only… Tom wasn't exactly a paragon of open, friendly honesty himself. He kept secrets by the handful, lied to her when it suited him, and surprised her with information as necessary. If they were equals, then why should she be held to polite rules he clearly didn't subscribe to himself? She had to start being assertive about the things she wanted, otherwise the sheer magnitude of Tom's personality might bury her. The idea didn't settle her nerves though, and the last thing she wanted to do was anger her Slytherin so deeply that he stopped visiting again.
With her thoughts circling that daunting possibility, Hermione glanced around in an effort to distract herself. The pair of Fifth Years playing chess in the corner had finally called it a night, clearing off their board and heading up to their beds. That just left the Weasleys, then. Fred and George were pouring through a book of hexes while Percy sat nearby and shot them disapproving looks from over the top of his Herbology homework.
It was strange how much fondness the sight of those three boys could evoke from her, and she realised with a jolt that she felt a surprising amount of kinship with the older Weasleys. Percy didn't come as much of a shock; despite his pompous attitude, she'd liked him from the very first, and he had done more to help her adjust to life at Hogwarts than anyone. The Twins, though, were a bit of a curiosity for her; behind all their silly jokes was a core of rather stark intelligence. By all accounts, she should have found it appalling that they wasted their potential on such frivolous and destructive pursuits, but she honestly couldn't find it with herself to be too disapproving most of the time; they were far too charming for their own good. Besides which, she felt as if they'd been looking out for her ever since she'd confessed her troubles to Ron and Harry. Even Percy, who usually performed his Prefect duties absolutely by the book, seemed to be keeping an eagle's lookout on Parvati and Lavender, and had more than once turned a blind eye to the Twins' scheming around the two girls. There was nothing more important than family to the Weasleys and she had a funny feeling that she'd been unwittingly adopted. Being an only child, she found their arch way of helping her out a bit confusing, but then she'd never had brothers before—perhaps this was simply how it was done in large families.
It took another quarter hour before the Twins finally wandered off, Percy following closely behind with a suspicious glint in his eyes. The First Years waited with baited breath for several long moments, but when no one returned it seemed as if they'd finally been left alone. It was time to act.
Hermione packed away her mostly forgotten essay and sprang to her feet, Harry and Ron quickly following suit.
Neville glanced between the three of them and frowned. "What's going on?"
She suppressed the urge to fidget and replied, "Someone else is going to be joining us." Hermione felt a bit guilty about stringing the other Gryffindor along—she hadn't really told him much, to be honest, just that a couple friends were getting together to practice the things Quirrell wasn't really teaching them. Neville hadn't seemed too sure about the idea of going behind any of the professors' backs, but had eventually relented.
Now, though? Now, he appeared truly suspicious, round face drawn into an ever deepening grimace. "This all seems a bit dramatic for a study group, don't you think?" he asked carefully. "I mean, why all the secrecy, and why are we meeting after curfew?"
Hermione knew it was cruel of her—cruel not to tell Neville the truth and cruel to expect Harry and Ron to keep that secret—but she simply couldn't find it within herself to be completely honest just now. She liked Neville and she wanted to help him, but not at the expense of Tom's continued safety. It wasn't that she felt the other Gryffindor was untrustworthy, per se, but… Well, Neville did have a way of forgetting things, and she didn't think she'd ever met an unluckier boy in all her life, excepting perhaps a notable orphan or two. It was safer not to tell him the truth, at least that's what she kept trying to convince herself. "My friend," she replied at length, forcing the words out, "the one who's leading the group, he's a bit… different."
Ron rolled his eyes and snorted, "By which she means he's a Slytherin." As apparent as the redhead's distaste for Tom still was, he'd clearly put aside at least some of his feelings in order to protect the secret they all were keeping.
"What?" Neville croaked, eyes widening in fright.
"Don't panic," she rushed to soothe him, "it's not Malfoy or anything, I promise! In fact, I daresay you won't know him at all." Slipping the tarnished silver watch from her skirt pocket, she checked the time and bit her lip. It was getting late; they really couldn't afford to delay any longer. "I need to go fetch him so that we can get started. Are you alright with this, Neville?"
Neville struggled for a moment, looking very much like he wanted to bolt for the stairs, but eventually gave a valiant nod.
Hermione returned the gesture, then shot Harry and Ron a look—they had agreed to distract the other Gryffindor while she communicated with Tom. As soon as Neville's back was turned, she slipped to a secluded nook in the Common Room and flipped open the secret compartment of her watch.
Tom appeared beside her after a brief delay, dark eyes sweeping his surroundings in that meticulous fashion of his. And, just as she'd suspected it would, his obsidian gaze caught on Neville and narrowed forebodingly. Tom regarded her for a painfully silent moment, then sneered and asked, "Another stray for your collection?"
Disdain was better than outright anger, she could work with this if she played her cards right. "Don't be rude," Hermione told him firmly. "You were a stray once too, you know."
He raised a dark brow at that, somehow amused and offended all at once. "Are you suggesting I've been domesticated?"
"Merlin forbid," she rolled her eyes in teasing exasperation. She glanced over to the group of Gryffindors—they were all worriedly waiting to see the Slytherin's reaction. There wasn't any time for this sort of nonsense, not if they actually wanted to get any studying done tonight, so she pressed on matter of factly, "Look, Neville needs someone to help him pluck up his courage."
"And you think I'm that someone?" Tom's other brow rose to join the first, incredulous as his amusement faded. "Have you gone mental?"
"I think regularly being around a Slytherin—someone different from us, but still part of the group—will help settle his nerves," Hermione replied. Tom's dark eyes glinted, seemingly torn between the desire to argue the point with her and being secretly pleased to have been called part of the group. She didn't wait to see which desire would win out; she'd long ago learned that her orphan was agreeable to just about anything if it appealed to certain instincts, and he was very fond of teaching. Pressing quickly ahead, she added, "Besides, he could really use your tutoring."
That gave the Slytherin pause, but his natural tendency toward isolation was already rearing its head. Posture tight and prickly, he huffed, "Great, so I bring you a higher standard of education and you bring me an anxiety-riddled idiot." He glared at her then, and she was somewhat relieve to notice that it wasn't an especially angry one; he was just a bit put out, really. "Something about that exchange doesn't quite seem fair."
She shrugged, because she already knew that, didn't she? She'd been giving herself a sour stomach all night worrying about how unfair it really was—to everyone involved—but she was determined to see this through. "That's what friendship is."
"An inherently unequal balance that perpetually tips in your favour?" he asked snidely, not at all impressed by her logic.
"Tom," she bit out warningly, not having to remind him of all the times that balance had swung wildly toward him. To the approximate tune of about three years, no less.
Accusations laid unspoken between them—manipulator, liar, opportunist—and just when she thought for certain that they were about to devolve into one of their more dangerous rows, Tom breathed out a laugh. It was a quiet thing compared to the wild sound he usually made, but his humour was no less apparent. "The lengths I go to for you," he said softly, half a smile quirking his lips. With a nod toward the waiting Gryffindors, he indicated their newcomer and asked, "What do you intend to tell him, exactly? He's bound to notice something's off."
Hermione bit at her lip as she glanced toward Neville, swamped once more by the inescapable feeling that she was going about this all wrong. Still, Tom had a right to his privacy, and if Neville didn't strictly need to know… "We'll cross that bridge when we get there," she replied tightly, ignoring the guilty twist in her stomach. "For the time being, I think he'll be so nervous about standing anywhere near a Slytherin that he won't think to ask any questions."
"Is that your polite way of saying he's thick?" Tom inquired, cocking his head to the side.
"No," she frowned at him sharply, silently trying to convey that he should behave himself. "He just needs some help getting himself in order—I know Neville can learn all the First Year material, even if he doesn't think so."
"How sentimental," Tom drawled, a cold smirk twisting the corners of his mouth. "Are you aiming to be his professor or his mother?"
"Don't get nasty with me," Hermione warned him, glaring hotly. Although, truthfully, this wasn't at all like the Slytherin in a nasty mood; if anything, this was almost his idea of being playful. "Are you in or out?"
Tom let the odd look drop in favour of amused resignation. "As he's already seen me, I don't suppose there would be much point in bowing out now," he shrugged. "I'm not happy about this, but I'll allow it."
Unhappy and furious were two incredibly different things where her friend was concerned. She wasn't proud to have irritated him, but his relatively easy acceptance of Neville still felt like a victory. Offering the morose boy a cheery smile, she link hands with him and joked, "Are you going to strongarm him into protecting me as well?"
His long fingers flexed around her own as he pondered the question far more seriously than she'd intended him to. "However unwieldy, half a shield is still a shield," he finally replied. Then, after a weighty moment, added, "I think I know just the place to boost everyone's confidence a little bit."
That was excellent news! Despite Ron's best efforts, the Twins hadn't told him anything suitable—Ron had grumbled for days that his brothers were clearly holding out on him—and it had left them all scrambling to look for an appropriate location that they wouldn't be easily discovered in. So far all they'd managed to come up with was the sporadic Astronomy study room, whose very nature put severe restrictions on its usage, and the Hall of Academic Excellence, which was cramped with memorabilia and very likely the sort of place that Quirrell might show up. Tom's idea honestly couldn't be any worse than the lackluster options they'd come up with on their own.
"Is it safe?"
He smiled, clearly liking the idea the more he thought it over. "I doubt anyone will stumble across us that deep into the dungeons; the trick will be getting there unnoticed."
Hermione wasn't sure she liked the idea of wandering so far into Slytherin territory—Snape's classroom being the only part of the dungeons she was really familiar with—but Tom was a Slytherin, after all. If he felt comfortable going to this place and trusted that it was secretive enough, then she was willing to go. And getting there wouldn't be nearly as difficult as Tom assumed, thanks to Harry's own anonymous Christmas present. "It won't cover all five of us," she replied slowly, "but Harry's got an Invisibility Cloak."
With that matter settled, she pulled her friend toward the waiting Gryffindors. Introductions went about as well as anyone could expect. Tom was almost on his best behaviour, as per usual, and Neville hardly seemed able to look directly at him let alone carry a conversation. It wasn't perhaps the most auspicious start for their little group, but there was no denying that it could have gone much worse.
Everyone seemed a bit relieved that Tom, at least, had a place in mind to hold their meeting, although no one was particularly cheered by the idea of sneaking all the way into the dungeons. Still, with no better options available, there was really no point in arguing against it, and Harry was happy to lend his Invisibility Cloak to the cause. Figuring out the logistics of the Cloak took a few moments, however. It was a rather generously large garment by most standards, and at a guess she would say that it could probably fit up to two, maybe three very smallish adults at a stretch. But five children, at least two of whom were quite tall for their age? Not a chance. Tom, who seemed eager for any excuse to distance himself from the rowdy Gryffindors, volunteered to remain outside the Cloak—a suggestion that didn't sit particularly well with Hermione until he very quietly reminded her that unlike the rest of them, he could disappear to his own time at a moment's notice.
It turned out that fitting even four people under the Cloak was a cumbersome endeavor. They were cramped together uncomfortably close, scuttling awkwardly through the castle. By the time they reached the Entrance Hall, Hermione was actually a bit jealous of the Slytherin leading them.
It was strange watching Tom move through the darkness, sweeping from shadow to shadow like a whisper, barely visible save for the flash of green and silver upon his robes. He seemed well-versed in this fluid form of travel—reminding her of the pickpockets and thieves she so frequently read stories about—and she couldn't help but wonder once more what his life had truly been like prior to Hogwarts that he should be so good at this uncanny subterfuge at such a young age. She was almost certain that even if a Professor or patrolling Prefect did cross their path, those unwitting eyes would skim straight passed Tom, unable to pierce his ghostly camouflage.
Though he couldn't see them behind him, Tom could sense the Gryffindors getting more and more restless the longer it took to reach their destination. He couldn't help that Slytherin's Classroom was buried so deep beneath the school, though he was doing his best to lead them down the most direct route he knew of. It was no stretch to admit that he wasn't terrifically keen to be sharing this legacy with even more students, particularly these boys he still didn't see the use of, but they needed the bluestone's help. Between how little time was left before the end of the year and yet another vaguely incompetent boy he didn't know surfacing into Hermione's life, there just didn't seem to be any recourse—surviving Quirrell would take a miracle that only the bluestone might be able to grant them.
They reached the room without incident, a stroke of luck considering Tom wasn't enamored with the idea of traveling more than twice this evening. One round trip through the ever-worsening Void was more than enough.
Despite his reluctance in allowing the assembled company into this sanctum of Slytherin education, he was still suitably pleased with their awed reactions. All three boys looked gobsmacked, glancing around in wonder and trepidation. And Hermione…
Hermione ran her fingers between the rough-hewn slabs of stone and the polished marble worktops, taking in the room in that quietly acquisitive way of hers—as if gazing upon it and adding it to the great stores of her mind somehow made that knowledge intrinsically hers. She never sought to own these things, not in the ways Tom knew he himself did; somehow, she satisfied that greed simply through the experience and the information it left her with. His Gryffindor moved through the room with reverence, and despite the vaguely proprietary way she gazed upon the central lectern, he knew she would never dare to think of this room as hers. Which was a shame really, because out of anyone else there, Tom would have been the most willing to share ownership of it with her—something to add to the little kingdom of theirs, like the bracelets and the watches.
"What is this place?" one of the other boys breathed quietly.
And before Tom could even think of answering, Hermione beat him to it. "Salazar Slytherin's Classroom," she replied, giddy with excitement. "But I read that it was lost."
"Forgotten, more like," Tom shook his head, leaning against the throne-like podium as the others took in their surroundings. "It seems as if no one comes down to the oldest parts of the castle anymore."
Potter frowned, absently rubbing at his scar as he traversed the concentric circles that led up to the centre of the room. "I can see why," he admitted at length. "It's spooky down here."
"That's just the bluestone," Tom offered lazily, pleased to note the satisfied gleam in Hermione's eyes—she'd clearly suspected why he'd brought them to this place, "you get used to it. The point is that our magic is amplified here, so it shouldn't take as long to master new spells. In this room, we stand a decent chance of getting the four of you caught up on Defense before the summer holidays."
He gave the others a few more minutes to wander around and, more importantly, to acclimate to the bluestone. It was certainly more courtesy than he'd offered his own classmates; Andrus in particular had seemed affected by the bluestone. Then again, it was equally possible that the older Slytherin had gone pasty in remembrance of how he'd suffered at Tom's hands, there was really no saying. Still, the atmosphere of the room could be terribly overwhelming at first. The walls almost seemed to breathe, pulsing in the gentle rhythm of a beating heart, and it gave the unsettling impression that they were surrounded by something distinctly alive. Even the air itself was heavy with magic, both familiar and not—sometimes the air felt so thick that it was smothering, hard to breathe, and yet the magic teased at them, encouraging them to cast, cast, cast. Tom wondered what sorts of magic Slytherin had taught down here, what spells he'd developed and perfected, how deeply he had plumbed the depths of himself to leave behind tangible traces of his aura over a full millennium later.
"So," Weasley broke the silence that had fallen between them, startling Longbottom and interrupting Potter and Hermione's various explorations, "with this being Slytherin's Lost Classroom and all, you don't suppose that means that the…" he faltered, making a wiggly sort of hand gesture, "well, you know is real as well, do you?"
Tom was ill equipped to deal with the redhead even at the best of times, but when the boy was making absolutely no sense? He couldn't stop himself from drawling, "I honestly don't think anyone other than you has any idea how that assemblage of syllables was meant to be interpreted, Weasley."
"Come off it, Davies," the other boy snapped. "You're a Slytherin, you can't expect us to believe that you don't know about the Chamber of Secrets!"
"Do you have a sieve for a brain?" Tom rolled his eyes, ignoring the disapproving frown Hermione was trying to send his way. "How many times does someone have to tell you that I was raised in muggle London before it finally takes? I've never even heard of this Chamber before."
Surprisingly, it was Longbottom—who hadn't made so much as a sound since leaving the Gryffindor Common Room—who answered, "It was supposed to be Slytherin's hiding place, where he kept the subjects and materials that the other Founders didn't approve of."
"Yeah," Weasley snorted, "and a great big monster to gobble up anyone he felt didn't deserve to study magic."
It would be an outrageous lie not to admit that Tom loved secrets—he possessively guarded his own, and delighted in finding out the secrets of others. Though it had often been filled with tedious and irrelevant details, Andrus's society gossip over the holidays had fed a part of Tom that was always hungry. That his own ancestor, whom he still knew so little about, had amassed an entire Chamber of Secrets made him ache with the desire to find it. Imagine the things that Slytherin might have discovered and then hidden away, the rare and arcane magics that Tom might have access to if only he knew where this Chamber was! If someone like Weasley had heard of the legend then it was almost certain Andrus would know something, though it was probably too optimistic to assume that the Chamber's location would be among that information. Perhaps the Seneschal, better versed in the obscure and unknown, would be of more use on that front. After all, she had already granted Tom access to Slytherin's personal writings once—given that those tomes were completely in Parseltongue, it was possible that his ancestor had divulged a few choice secrets. Decoding the journals would take time, more than Tom rightly wanted to spend, but the prospect of discovering the Chamber's location was heady.
Hermione and Longbottom didn't appear overly interested in this turn of conversation. Weasley, of course, was glaring at Tom—but it was Potter who really caught his attention. The boy's emerald eyes glinted with curiosity, just as they did whenever the Philosopher's Stone was brought up. He seemed eager to unravel this mystery as well, an almost pathological habit that would no doubt land the boy in serious trouble one day; not that Tom could blame him, but as far as he was concerned this wasn't any of Potter's business.
Hoping to stem the flow of the boy's interest, as well as deflect some of Weasley's pointed glowering, Tom decided to play the accusation off with nonchalance. "Sounds like a fairytale to me," he replied with an unconcerned shrug, pleased to note Hermione's absent nod of agreement—the last thing he needed was her keen focus piecing together secrets that might not be safe for her to know. "Now if we're all done mucking about, could we please get down to business?"
There were a few rolled eyes in response, which he graciously chose to ignore in favour of asking them more fully what their Defense lessons were usually like. It turned out that there were some things Quirrell had taught with reasonable accuracy—like identifying and treating werewolf bites for instance—but subjects that involved any proper spellcasting had been largely glossed over or even outright lied about.
After a moment of contemplation, Tom decided to start them with the various Dueling stances, which took quite a while to correct. Hermione was easiest, as he was used to the stiff way she often held herself and she was equally familiar with his criticisms and corrections on the matter. Potter, too, required very little attention; the boy took to each new stance with a fluidity that was downright shocking considering his muggle upbringing.
In truth, and as he'd rather suspected, it was Weasley and Longbottom that caused Tom the most trouble. Longbottom held himself so tightly that he'd seemed in danger of shattering at the slightest provocation, and it took a frustrating amount of careful cajoling from Tom to get the other boy to loosen up. Weasley, on the other hand, was already familiar with several of the stances, and held himself far too languidly as a result. When Tom had pointed out that his lazy posture left him dangerously open to attack, the redhead had fired back that it gave him a better range of motion and ease of casting, which had quickly devolved into an argument that had taken Hermione's intervention to put an end to. Under threat of her fierce and darkening glare, Weasley had fussed a bit but ultimately done as instructed. Once everyone finally seemed to be on the same page, they all went through their paces a few times—Tom felt that the five of them together were a rather ramshackle troupe, but by the end of their exercise their form better than anyone could expect from most First Years.
After that, he asked Hermione to take out the notes he'd written her, and they spent the rest of their time learning one of the minor Defensive Charms. It was really only useful in deflecting small projectiles, but it seemed like a good subject to move on to. The incantation and wand movement were both simple enough and, thanks to the bluestone, all four Gryffindors managed it on their first or second try. To practice, Hermione transfigured some spare bits of parchments into a handful of small, squashy balls and they all took turns pelting each other until they could each cast the charm as if it were second nature. Save Longbottom, of course, whose distinct lack of timing left something to be desired; however, the way the other Gryffindors beamed encouragingly at the boy left Tom with the feeling that just even being able to cast the spell was something of a triumph for Longbottom.
All told, they'd covered about two weeks worth of material in a single evening—two very slow, introductory weeks, but it was still more than the Gryffindors had learned since September. If they could maintain that sort of pace for the rest of the year, then Tom was fairly confident he could have them all caught up just in time for exams.
It was very late by the time they called it a night, all of them staving off hearty yawns. Tom offered to show the Gryffindors the way back to their Tower, but Hermione urged him to go straight to bed, insisting that she could remember their path without him. He was quite used to operating on little sleep, having never required much to begin with, but he saw no reason not to allow Hermione her way in this—after all, he needed to reserve at least some energy in order to traverse the Void.
Tom watched the Gryffindors exit the room and slip beneath Potter's Cloak. Once he was entirely certain they were long gone, that no one was around to see his little trick, only then did he throw himself back through the gates of Time.
The Void, Date Unknown
It was a wildly different experience, one he certainly hadn't been prepared for, although at least the unknown had worked in his favour for once. The Void stretched before him, as abyssal and terrifying as he'd remembered it, but it flashed by him so briefly that he'd hardly had time to take it all in. Like the trips of his youth, he passed through the nothingness with an ease that had been markedly absent for a long time now.
Hogwarts, 1939
Tom reappeared in the unused classroom he had traveled from, disoriented for entirely new reasons. Ever since he'd made up with Hermione, traversing the Void had truly begun to cost him. It took a certain mental fortitude to survive the unknowable, and though he had steeled himself with whispers of Parseltongue and thoughts of doe-brown eyes shining with a fervor and frenzy that simply called to him, those cosmic forces had still taken their toll. The initial trip wasn't usually so bad, but the journeys back had always left him feeling shaken and weak-limbed; though perhaps never so much as the time Dumbledore had stumbled across him—the first time the in-between had begun to feel like torture.
Something had changed, something that deviated from the growing pattern Tom had observed. The Void had lessened, but why? Was the in-between shrinking, or was he perhaps finally gaining more control over this strange power?
Even though this was ultimately good news, he could feel his frustration rising, the building urge to mangle and break something for a bit of cheap emotional release. All these unanswered questions were wearing him down, compounding into an ever-worsening sense of failure as he continued not to understand the nature of his traveling. What the bloody hell was this inconstant constant that separated him from Hermione, and why was it the one thing in his life that he was absolutely never able to predict?