Chapter 18 - Of Olwyns and Arachnids

Written by Nemesis

Tom went deathly pale and checked again. He could not see in the dark, but he felt something sticky and wet on his shoulder. He snapped his fingers and a little ball of fire appeared on the palm of his right hand. He was advanced enough with magic to be able to perform little things like this without a wand. By the flickering light of the tiny bluebell flame, Tom surveyed his shoulder. It was perfectly dry, and not bleeding at all. "I must be imagining things," he thought. But as he extinguished the flame, he was almost sure he felt his shoulder tingle a bit.

********************

"Tom, are you listening?" Professor Dumbledore demanded.

Tom came back to earth with a jolt, and he turned his attention to the teacher. "Yes, sir," he replied swiftly. It was nine o'clock in the evening on a Thursday, the time set aside each week for Tom's private Transfiguration lessons. He had not mentioned his dream to anyone, and had been thinking about it a lot since it occurred, which had been about a month ago.

"Well, then, would you like to explain to me how it is possible to transfigure the largest objects?"

"Pretend it's a smaller one," Tom said dully, his chin in his hands. As Professor Dumbledore indicated the affirmative, Tom's eyes wandered to the window again. He had read like a madman over the summer, and he already knew pretty much everything about transfiguration. He was an Animagus, for heaven's sake, what more did he need to know?

"All right, then," said Dumbledore. He conjured a large block of concrete in the middle of the room. "Turn this into a pigeon," he invoked.

Tom idly lifted his wand, and he barely had to think about it to transfigure it. In an instant, there was a pigeon strutting around the floor. "Are you sure that's a pigeon?" said Dumbledore. "They have the iridescent breast feathers, remember?"

"No, you're describing a rock dove," Tom said flatly. "That bird on the floor is a real pigeon."

"You learn something new every day," said Dumbledore cheerfully.

"Speak for yourself," Tom muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Tom looked up to see the teacher standing with his arms folded, brow furrowed slightly. He fixed Tom in that piercing sky-blue stare. "Is this terribly boring for you?" he asked quietly.

"I know it already… sorry…"

"Mmm." Dumbledore turned away, and Tom reverted to his old habit of lazily twirling his wand between his fingers like a baton, watching the sparks shoot out. Watching it made him even sleepier. Just as he was dropping off, Dumbledore stopped pacing, spun around, and snatched the wand out of Tom's outstretched hand.

"Hey! That's mine!" Tom yelled without thinking. He realized who he was addressing, and he bit his lip. "Sir," he added, his eyes darting down. He had found it hard to be near Dumbledore ever since he had returned from summer vacation, for Dumbledore was quite well known for reading the Muggle newspapers, and if he had found out about Tom's father…

"I want to try something new," said Dumbledore casually, putting Tom's wand in the pocket of his tangerine-colored robes. From another pocket he withdrew a squeaking white mouse. Tom's insides lurched as he remembered the rat, the first creature upon whom he had used Avada Kedavra. Dumbledore set the baby mouse on the desk. "Transfigure this into a pencil box," he said.

"Well, er, don't I need my wand?"

"Do it without."

"Okay…" Tom rolled up the sleeves of his robes (Dumbledore looked taken aback at the scars on his right arm) and concentrated on turning the mouse into a pencil box. He felt a sudden surge of energy in his left arm, so, by instinct, he held out his hand in the direction of the mouse. He stared in amazement. A few sparks had shot from his fingertips and hit the mouse, which turned into a small, oblong box.

Dumbledore looked amazed, but not exactly surprised. "Well, you did it," he said. "Do you know what this means, Tom?"

"What?"

"Most wizards can only perform color-changing charms without a wand, but you--you can do more. It means that you are an Olwyn. It's a wizard who can perform any kind of transfiguration and a few simple charms without a wand and without using Song Charms." He looked very serious. "There were very few in history. Merlin was one; so was Cliodna. And… Salazar Slytherin was one." Tom's jaw dropped. "As you can probably tell from the names, all three were Welsh, and it is widely believed that they come from the same bloodline. Nobody outside that alleged bloodline has ever been an Olwyn."

"That's interesting," Tom said, feeling very ill but not willing to show it. "Well, as far as I know, I'm not related to any of them, so it must be some fluke," Tom lied smoothly.

"I was thinking more along the lines of…" Dumbledore trailed off. "You know about the Circle of Light, don't you, Tom?"

"Yes."

"It is said that the twelfth members of both Circles will be Olwyns," said Dumbledore quietly. "Surely you know, as I do, that you show every single sign of being a member of the Circle, and I have no doubt in my mind that you could… you could be the twelfth…"

The nasty voice in Tom's head was ecstatic. "Hear that, Voldemort?" the voice cackled. "You have yet another exceptional power! Use this in conjunction with your Dark magic, and you could take over the world!"

"Shut up, you great stupid prat!" Tom thought furiously.

"Your lesson is complete for today," said Professor Dumbledore. "You can go now, Tom."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks for the lesson," Tom heard himself say. He felt a smile on his face, but his insides did not reflect it. Bidding Dumbledore goodbye, Tom slung his bookbag over his shoulder and dashed down the hallway on the way to Slytherin Tower. His feelings were mixed about being an Olwyn. Surely it was good to have some extra magical talent, but if that nasty little voice liked it at all, it had to be awful. Yet… There was something it had said earlier that stuck in his mind. However the better half of him disliked the idea, there was something alluring about the idea of world domination.

As he reached the portrait hole, he saw Francis Malfoy leaning in the corner of the hallway, Ulmer and Magnus on either side. Francis's grey eyes were glittering maliciously. "Good lesson?" he asked.

"And why the hell would you care?" Tom retorted softly.

"I have my reasons," said Francis carelessly. "Say, Mud--erm, Tom." Francis spat out Tom's name as though pronouncing it was causing him great pain. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. Truce?"

Tom smiled a little, a sarcastic glimmer in his eyes. "Why?"

"Like I said, Hamle--er, Tom, I have my reasons!" Francis said impatiently. "I need help with my homework, okay? So are we friends or what?" He held out his right hand to shake. Tom could not believe how insolent Francis was being. After three years of taunting and tormenting, he expected Tom to call it a truce? And only to help him with his homework! Without any change in expression, Tom slapped the other boy with all his might, which, especially considering how very thin he was, amounted to a lot. Magnus and Ulmer dove for him, but were thrown back against the wall by an invisible force. Still fairly deadpan, Tom said the password for the portrait of the wood nymph. As the painting swung aside, Tom heard Francis yell at his back, "You'll pay for that, Mudblood!"

"Mmm hmm. Right," Tom responded coolly, letting the portrait close behind him. He saw his friends sitting in a circle at the other end of the room, but he did not have time to worry himself with them. Earlier that day, Rubeus had pulled him aside and asked him to meet him near the entrance to the dungeons at midnight. He dashed up the stairs to the dormitory, and approximately a half-hour later, he was sitting on the floor near the dungeon entrance under the Invisibility Cloak, wondering what Rubeus wanted.

After another half was tallied to the hour, Tom checked his watch. It was twelve past midnight; where was he? This question was answered almost immediately. Rubeus appeared at the corner. "Tom?" he called. "Where are yeh?"

Tom folded up the cloak and pocketed it, got to his feet, then said, "Over here, Rubeus."

"Tom, yeh aren't goin' ter believe this. 'S amazin'."

"What is?"

"Yeh'll see. Follow me." Rubeus started down the dungeon steps, and Tom followed, at a loss as to what his friend needed. They reached the Potions dungeon and took a sharp left turn, arriving in an abandoned classroom. Tom could see a closet off in the far corner. Looking extremely excited, Rubeus dashed over to the closet and took out a basket lined with fluffy blankets and pillows. "Before I show yeh, yeh've got ter promise never ter tell anyone about 'im."

"I swear," Tom said carelessly.

"All righ', then." Rubeus folded back the blankets. "He's a bit sleepy, mind, usually he's more interestin'…"

Tom looked into the basket and felt his stomach plummet. Inside was the single largest spider Tom had ever seen in his life. There were eight glittering black eyes and eight hairy legs, each about the same length as one of Tom's arms. Tom was not arachnophobic, but the sight of this creature still made him feel nauseous. "Oh my God," he muttered.

"His name's Aragog," said Rubeus fondly, his face alight with rapture. "Just hatched this mornin'. Want ter hold him?"

"Er…" Deciding that his own personal qualms were not as important as Rubeus's feelings, Tom bit his lip and nodded. Without any sign of squeamishness, Rubeus plucked not-so-little Aragog out of his basket and placed him in Tom's arms.

It was rather like holding a squirmy puppy, only not as cute, with dribbling pincers instead of puppy drool, and with too many legs. Aragog's outer shell was a bit soft, as though it had not fully formed yet. Thus, because of the spider's incessant wriggling, it was like trying to keep hold of an enormous glob of grape jelly. Twice one of Aragog's whiplike arms swept across Tom's face, which would have hurt more if the shell was harder. "Isn' he beautiful?" Rubeus cooed. "Best pet I could ask fer, next to a dragon."

Tom immediately thought that if this was the best, he did not want to see the worst. "He's… er… well… interesting."

"Ugh, disgusting!" said someone in Parseltongue. Tom looked around Aragog to see a small dust snake sitting near his shoe. The little grey snakes were very common in the dungeon, and Tom sometimes made conversation with them during boring Potions lectures.

"I know," he whispered back to the small serpent, quietly enough so that Rubeus would not hear.

At this, Aragog suddenly began flailing uncontrollably. It tried to bite Tom's arm, but Rubeus got there first, scooping up his pet in a comforting embrace. "'S okay, Aragog… sh… 'Smatter with him, anyway?"

"I wouldn't know," Tom replied truthfully enough. Surely a spider could not tell when people were speaking Parseltongue… right?

"Yeh'd better go," said Rubeus darkly. "He… doesn't much seem ter like yeh… 'S nothin' against yeh, Tom, but I don' think it's safe for yeh to stay…"

All too happy to leave, Tom bade his friend goodbye and dashed up the staircase, waiting until he was hidden from view to wipe the spider spit off his robes. Disgusted, Tom made for the nearest washroom and washed his hands, using a Scouring Charm to get the rest of the goo off his robe front. He had never even known spiders salivated, but perhaps the giant variety was different. When he was finished, Tom pocketed his wand and left the washroom, walking head-on into Nathan Potter, who was on his way in and had not seen him. "Sorry!" Nathan said cheerfully. "Oh, it's you! Hi, Tom!"

"Good evening, Nathan," Tom replied softly. He tried to brush past, but Nathan was too fast for him. He seemed to have forgotten is errand.

"Say, mate, would you mind doing me a favor?" Nathan asked pleasantly. Before Tom could answer, Nathan continued. "My little cousin--you know, Myrtle--has been having some trouble with bullies. There's this girl, a Slytherin first-year, who's been bugging her. Olive Hornby, do you know her?"

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Unfortunately," he hissed. Olive was one of the Slytherins he liked the least. "What do you want me to do about this? I have no control over my peers."

Nathan frowned a bit. "Nothing. Just… keep an eye on Myrtle for me, okay?"

"Why me?" Tom demanded, his voice quiet but icy with suspicion.

"I--well, look, everyone knows you're the best dueler in the school," said Nathan matter-of-factly. "I figured if anyone made fun of her, you could--"

"I see. So you want me to be your cousin's mercenary."

"I never said that!" Nathan said desperately. "Look, can you just look out for her? Please?"

Tom gave Nathan a scrutinizing look. "Fine," he groaned.

Nathan looked ecstatic. "Thank you, Tom, you're the best!"

Tom watched the Hufflepuff prefect round the corner, waiting until he had gone to allow himself a whole-hearted frown. He was not sure what it was, but there was something about Nathan Potter that made him nervous. He shivered suddenly. Why did he always cringe whenever he heard Nathan's name?

********************

During the next two months, Tom found himself bogged down with work. He grew to spend up to twelve hours in the library every night, and even more on the weekends. Professor Dumbledore was teaching him Olwyn magic, which, to Tom's relief, was extremely challenging. The down side was that Tom had to read as many books as possible if he wanted to keep up. His regular studies were assigning more book work, as well. On top of this, he had started researching the Chamber of Secrets in earnest, more out of curiosity than anything else. Sure, he would like to make Muggles unhappy, but mostly he was just curious to know about it. All this, in addition to his nightly studies of the Dark Arts, meant that Tom had very little free time, and he usually only slept about two hours a night.

Whatever free time Tom had was spent with his friends, who seemed to think that he was neglecting them. In any case, Tom's view of his friends certainly had changed. Half of him saw them as supportive people who were not exactly his first priority, while the other told him to spend more time with them, for he would need their aid on his rise to power.

Power. Tom hated and loved the word; was repelled by it and reveled in it. Here he was, possibly one of the most brilliant wizards in history. Should a wunderkind spend his life working in some insignificant Ministry job? Was a career in teaching really all that interesting? No, Tom set his sights higher. He wanted control, he wanted people to look up to him. He could not be the Minister of Magic; no, that was silly. The Minister, as everyone knew, had absolutely no power, and all his decisions were made by his subordinates. Tom wanted real power… He wanted people to respect him, as they never had before Hogwarts. Both halves of him craved respect, but their views on getting it were different. The better half (or the goody-two-shoes half, as Tom called it) insisted that he had to get it through hard work and perseverance. The other thought that he should keep studying the Dark Arts and use them to get what he wanted.

In any case, Tom's workload multiplied considerably, and by the end of November, he was starting to feel it a little. He would study his schoolwork from five to nine, the Chamber of Secrets from nine to midnight, and the Dark Arts from midnight to four or five in the morning. The teachers noticed that though he was always attentive in class, he was always very pale from lack of sleep, and even fell asleep on occasion--always when his class work was finished, of course. On the thirtieth of November, Tom woke up to see Professor Twiddy shaking his shoulder, looking very concerned.

"I think you should go and see Madam Viola," she said to him.

"What? No, no, I'm fine," said Tom hastily, though he looked so pale that he could almost have been a ghost, and he had lavender crescents under his eyes.

Professor Twiddy looked at him rather sternly. "That's the fourth time in two weeks you've fallen asleep in my class, and according to the other teachers, this isn't the only class it happens in. We're worried about you."

"Don't be," Tom yawned. "I'm… perfectly all right…" This was utterly unconvincing, for at that moment he fell asleep again.

Throwing her hands up in the air, Professor Twiddy shook his shoulder again. Before he could protest, she escorted him to the hospital wing. Madam Viola told him to sit down on one of the beds and bustled off. To Tom's horror, it was Professor Dumbledore to enter next, followed by Professor Chapman. Tom grimaced, seizing the bedpost to keep himself from running away. If Dumbledore found out, he would be done for…

Professor Dumbledore sat down in a chair next to the bed, looking both concerned and--Tom could not exactly name the other emotion, but it looked almost dismal. Chapman preferred to remain standing. "Mr. Riddle," Chapman said slowly, "I think I speak for the whole staff when I express my concern about your health."

Tom gulped.

Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "It has come to my attention in particular, Tom, that you have been spending an irrational amount of time studying. You've been spending hours on assignments that most students finish in thirty minutes."

"I want to do a good job," Tom said a little defensively.

"I understand that," Chapman said, "but you have to admit, it is a little--off--to study until midnight every night."

"Longer," said Dumbledore sharply. "Francis Malfoy has informed me that Tom sometimes sneaks down to the library under an Invisibility Cloak to do even more research, and doesn't come back until around five in the morning."

Tom's knuckles went white around the bedpost, but nobody noticed. "That little bastard," he muttered.

"Are you serious?" Chapman stared.

Dumbledore nodded and turned on Tom. "That's a serious offense, sneaking into the library. Twenty points an occurrence, at least--"

"I'll kill him!" Tom mumbled, too softly for the teachers to hear. "Francis, you aren't going to get away from this alive…"

Chapman shook his head at the other professor. "It's a sign that he's driven," Chapman said. "Perhaps a little obsessive, but I don't think he meant to break any rules. Right, Tom?" Tom nodded innocently, widening his eyes in an attempt to look even less like someone who would deliberately cause trouble. "Right, then. I say give him a warning and take, say, ten points."

"Congratulations, Trahern Chapman, you are my new favorite teacher," Tom thought with relief, as Dumbledore nodded reluctantly.

"But I want you to promise me, Tom, that you'll ease up a little," Chapman continued. "And stop sneaking down to the library in the dead of night."

"I will," Tom said, trying to look blameless. As they were turning to go, Tom asked, "Professor Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore turned. "Yes?"

"Do you think you can ask Headmaster Dippet if I can stay at Hogwarts next summer?"

"I will," Dumbledore promised. With that, the two teachers left, and Madam Viola re-entered, wielding a bottle of Pepperup Potion.

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