Chapter 24 - Rosemary for Remembrance, Pansies for Thoughts

Written by Nemesis

"Tom? Tom, can you hear me?"

"Huh?" Tom said blearily, blinking into the too-bright swirl of colors and shapes. Things started to come together after a few moments, and Professor Xavier's concerned face swam into view. "Where am I?" Tom asked, vaguely aware of the clichéd nature of the inquiry.

Xavier suddenly looked intensely relieved. "Thank God, we thought we'd lost you for a while there!"

"Ow," Tom responded weakly. "Where am I?" he repeated.

"You're in the infirmary," Xavier said impatiently. "Tom, how's your head feeling?"

Tom grimaced. "Beastly." He put a hand to his stinging forehead and felt a raised bump under his fingers. "I think I'm okay, though…" Past events came rushing at him suddenly, and he sat up with a start, making his head swim. "Rubeus!" he yelled.

"Calm down, calm down," Xavier insisted. "Rubeus is currently being questioned by the Headmaster and the Deputy Headmaster, not to mention the Minister of Magic himself. He'll be properly punished for what he's done, to be sure."

Tom felt his stomach lurch. "And Ara--the monster?"

"It's vanished into the woods," Xavier sighed. "Perhaps it's better this way, though--the creature will be nothing without its master."

Relief and guilt, like a swirl of black and white, tightened around Tom's shoulders. He felt himself cringe by reflex, but thankfully his teacher did not notice. "That's good," he said faintly. "I hope the attacks will all stop now… I hope I caught the right person…"

"Of course you did!" Xavier exclaimed brightly. "All the evidence points toward Mr. Hagrid's guilt, Tom, you needn't worry about that. With some luck he might be expelled before the week is--"

There was a sudden bang as the infirmary door flew open, slamming hard against the wall inside. Tom looked sharply in the direction of the noise, and he saw the last duo he would have liked to see at that point--Dumbledore and Rubeus. They were closely followed by Dippet and a dark-haired young man in plain brown robes. Tom knew the young man by sight--it was Dolan Clarence, the Minister of Magic. Tom had actually spoken to him directly following Lili's death--the Minister had turned up to give Tom his condolences. Besides, Mr. Clarence was constantly appearing in the Daily Prophet, and it was hard for any witch or wizard not to know what he looked like. His hair was dark brown and wavy, and his eyes were warm hazel. He was a very kind and earnest-looking person, and seemed both too young and too honest to be a politician.

"Mr. Riddle?" Dippet squeaked, flopping into a chair in his Raggedy-Ann fashion. "We'd like to have a word with you, if you feel up to it."

"I guess so," Tom said flatly. He blatantly ignored the vicious look Rubeus was giving him.

Dumbledore nodded. His eyes downcast and his brow furrowed, he seemed more taciturn, and more dangerous, than he ever had appeared before. "Raphael," he said to Professor Xavier, "I would like you to remain, but considering the circumstances…"

"I'm on my way out already," Xavier nodded. He got to his feet and quit the chamber without another word. Tom watched him go, then turned his attention to the three men and the boy in front of him. Mr. Clarence was twisting his gloves in his fists nervously.

"Tom," he said gently, "I need you to recount, in detail, what happened last night and what led you to your discovery."

Tom repeated his alibi, going slowly so that he was sure he made no mistakes. When he had finished, Rubeus was pointedly looking away from him, and the two teachers were having a heated, whispered argument. Mr. Clarence looked pensive, and he kept looking from Tom to Rubeus with a perplexed look on his face. "You say he's attacked ten people, Armando?" he asked Dippet slowly.

Dippet broke away from the argument and nodded briskly. "And one of them is dead," he said.

The Minister of Magic bit his lip, glancing at Rubeus again. "He's just a boy," he sighed. "A mere child, Armando. Do you really think Azkaban's the right choice?"

Tom's eyes widened, and he whirled around to look at Rubeus. It set his nerves to shrieking, but he hardly cared. Rubeus gave Tom a bitter glare.

"I do indeed," Dippet started to say, but Dumbledore cut him off with a look.

"Don't send him to Azkaban," Tom commanded, in such an authoritative voice that it made everyone jump. "I already told you, he never bloody meant to kill anyone. It wasn't his fault--all he did wrong was take in that monster as a pet."

Something flitted across Rubeus's face, an odd mixture of gratitude and anger.

"You're saying, then, that he is not to be held accountable for his own actions?" Dippet asked him, frowning.

"Should you hang a man if his dog bites you?" Tom responded flatly. Rubeus grimaced and turned to face the window, resentment flickering in his eyes.

"I won't authorize his admittance to Azkaban," Mr. Clarence said after a moment. "My best advice is to expel him and leave it at that. I agree with Mr. Riddle."

Tom breathed a heavy sigh of relief. No matter what happened now, the loss of Rubeus's soul was not on his hands. He watched absently as the Minister of Magic took his leave, and then turned his eyes toward the two professors once more. They were conversing in low tones, every few seconds glancing up at either Rubeus or Tom. Finally, they stopped talking. Dippet turned to Rubeus.

"As of now you are officially expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he spat. "We shall perform the proper ceremonies later. But, against my better judgement, Professor Dumbledore has requested that you remain at Hogwarts and train with Ogg to become the next Keeper of the Keys."

Rubeus bowed his head, giving Tom a slow, heavy-lidded glaze before facing Dippet again. "All righ'," he sighed. "'S long as I can stay a' Hogwarts." He hesitated. "I suppose yeh'll be wantin' me wand, then."

"Indeed. The procedure is to transpire before the school at supper this evening." Tom lifted his voice in protest, but Dumbledore silenced him. Dippet continued. "Enjoy your last three hours of being a Hogwarts student, Mr. Hagrid," he uttered spitefully. "Get back to my office."

Rubeus heaved a sigh, folded his arms over his chest, and slouched out of the room, managing to look much smaller than his actual height.

Dippet smiled congenially, acting as though this whole thing was merely a trifle. "As for you, Mr. Riddle," he said kindly.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Don't you think it's bad enough you're expelling him?" he said softly. Dumbledore shot him a look to try and silence him, but for once, Tom ignored it. "With all due respect, sir, isn't it a bit… unkind… to embarrass him before the entire school?"

Dippet gave Tom one of those obnoxious smiles that adults bestow upon children they believe to be unintelligent. "Tom, perhaps you do not understand exactly what Mr. Hagrid has done. He's possessed a forbidden creature, attacked nine students, and murdered another, not to mention his physical attack on you yourself." His tone was slow and condescending, as though explaining that one and one made two.

Had Dippet been about seventy years younger and had a shy less power, Tom would have hexed him. "And?" Tom said quietly.

"And, Mr. Riddle, he deserves the humiliation as part of his punishment." Dippet allowed his amiable smile to return to his face, though there was method behind the beam. "You know, Tom, you've done a great thing, catching the monster's master and all that." Tom was not sure how to react. Dumbledore coughed. "But, as you well know, if word of this gets out, I'll have parents at my doors demanding how I could have let a murderer get by so easily."

"So, keep my trap shut," Tom finished gracelessly. "What reason have I to do that?"

This was clearly the exact reaction Dippet had been waiting for. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "a Special Award for Services to the School--and the subsequent guaranteed entry to a prestigious wizarding postgraduate school--would work well enough?"

Tom wondered waspishly if Dippet's solution for every problem was doling out awards. How he wanted to turn Dippet down, and then go off and blab about everything… Dippet deserved the marred reputation for the humiliation he caused Rubeus. It would be a perfect eye-for-an-eye situation. However, he reasoned, he could use the postgraduate education; and while the Honor roll might get him in, this award could be a guarantee. He was torn between his two greatest values--taking revenge and taking advantage. After a few moments, self-gain won over sadism. "I guess so," Tom said flatly.

Dippet rubbed his hands together as though in glee. "Great," he said warmly. "Madam Viola informs me that you'll be able to attend supper this evening, so we'll make the announcements at that point in time. Congratulations on your award."

Tom muttered a forced thank you and took to examining the tartan pattern on his comforter. Sensing that Tom was in no mood to talk, Dippet nodded awkwardly and sidled out. Tom pointedly avoided Dumbledore's eyes, part of him desperately curious as to whether his teacher believed him or not. Tom glanced up at Dumbledore fearfully, and saw that the professor was staring at him intently, clearly thinking hard.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Tom asked quietly. Dumbledore was jerked from his reverie, and he blinked a few times.

"There are no flaws in your story," he said slowly. "Except, of course, that it's utterly impossible that Rubeus Hagrid is the Heir of Slytherin."

Tom forced a curious frown. "You don't mean to say you actually believe those old stories? My suspicion is that he just found the creature out in the woods and decided to keep it."

Dumbledore looked at Tom tiredly. "Believe it or not, Tom, I do believe those old stories," he said quietly. He hesitated. "Tom, if you ever need to talk about anything--anything at all--you know where my office is. Even if you just feel like you have too much on your mind and need to talk to somebody, by all means, I might be able to help."

"Er… okay," Tom said nervously. "Is it all right if I go back to sleep now, Professor?"

Dumbledore nodded vaguely. "I'll ask Madam Viola to rouse you for dinner," he commented absently. "Good day, Tom." With that, Dumbledore left the room in a swirl of blue cloak.

Tom fell back onto his pillow, sighing heavily. It took him a good half an hour to get even remotely close to sleeping.

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

Approximately three hours later, Tom was seated in the Great Hall, staring down at the deep green tablecloth and feeling thoroughly depressed. Madam Viola had mended his wounds as best she could, and all that remained was a jagged, thin gash going across his forehead that was adequately covered by his thick black bangs. His fellow Slytherins sat all around him, quite unaware of what was going on. There was, of course, a buzz going around the Hall about something special having happened, though it was quite obvious that no one had any clue as to what.

Once everyone was seated, the doors at the other end of the hall flew open, and Dippet strutted out of them. He waved his wand to magically magnify his rickety voice, and, with a flourish, stepped up so that he was standing at the very center of the empty staff table. "Good evening," he boomed. The chatter quieted within an instant. "It is a well-known maxim that good things come in threes. Well, to be sure, three good things have happened within the last thirty-six hours."

"The fact Myrtle's dead must be one of them," Tom heard someone snicker. He flinched.

"The first good thing," Dippet continued, "is that Professor Chapman completed the Mandrake Draught, and the Petrified students are with us again!"

Hearing their cue, the nine students trooped out of the back room. All of them looked cheerful except for Nathan--Tom supposed he had been told of his cousin's demise. There was an unruly standing ovation, though Francis Malfoy and Philip Cedric did not even applaud.

"The second good thing," Dippet roared, "is that the person responsible for all the attacks has been caught. The monster has been disposed of, and its master is to be expelled presently." The hall fell suddenly and deathly quiet as Rubeus emerged from the back room. Tom chewed on his lower lip as he noticed that Rubeus was in tears. As Dippet snapped the wand into eight small pieces, Tom proceeded to call himself as many nasty names as he knew (which made him quite uncomfortable, as a frightful lot of them involved his mother). Rubeus, still sobbing, was escorted out of the hall and back into the back room, and Tom buried his face in his hands. He heard children around him whispering in shock.

"And lastly," Dippet shouted, "the boy responsible for the capture of the criminal is to receive a Special Award for Services to the School. T. M. Riddle, would you please allow yourself acknowledged?"

Tom felt as though someone had glued his feet to the floor. He could not have stood up if he'd tried. Instead of standing up, Tom slid down in his seat until he was completely concealed under the table. There was a collective giggle from the mass of students. After a few moments, Tom saw Professor Dippet's face through the thicket of legs under the table. He had a pained look on his face, as though getting on his knees was extraordinarily agonizing. "Tom? Tom, come on now, don't be silly," he said, his voice warm but his smile slightly forced. "Come on up to the front, then." Tom shook his head childishly, sliding down still further until he was sitting in the middle of the floor.

Dippet stood up again--it looked like hard work. "Mr. Riddle's feeling rather shy," he said sharply. "But let the records stand that in this year of 1948, T. M. Riddle received a Special Award for Services to the School, and five hundred points have been awarded to Slytherin House." The other Houses gasped with outrage, but the Slytherins clapped and cheered. Someone reached down under the table to shake Tom's hand, but Tom did not budge.

An elaborate feast went on above his head, but Tom did not join in. Partly because of the nausea caused by his head injuries and partly because of guilt, Tom was in no condition to eat. He spent the next half hour examining various types of shoes, until finally he grew bored with this and turned instead to the woodgrain of the table's underbelly. He heard people mention his name, usually with a giggling lilt to their voices, and a few girls looked under the table at him and started laughing hysterically.

Once the feast had finished, Tom finally convinced himself to stand up. He tried to leave the Great Hall quickly and quietly, but people were constantly stopping him, trying to shake his hand. In the act of veering out of the way of a cluster of Ravenclaw girls that he knew were rather fond of him, Tom accidentally collided with Nathan Potter. Nathan gave him a sad, subdued smile.

"I just wanted to let you know," Nathan said, "I'm really grateful for what you did. No, no, don't get all modest about it--it really means a lot to me that the person who killed Myrtle is out of the picture."

Tom gave Nathan an uneasy look. He remembered the last time he had seen him, the way he had been possessed by that frightening mad urge to kill him. To his horror, that same part of his psyche was becoming acutely aware of the steak knives on the nearby Gryffindor table. "It's okay," Tom said hurriedly. "Listen, Nathan, I really have to go--see you around."

"Of course--sorry for holding you up," Nathan sighed languidly. "G'bye, Tom."

Tom nodded in response and tried to follow the stream of students out of the hall. Unfortunately, in the entrance hall he was suddenly mobbed by the Ravenclaw girls and had to make a run for it.

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

Exams came and went, and the last three weeks of term were meant for the students to enjoy the sun. Tom, however, had his mind on other things. Dippet had agreed for the third year in a row to allow Tom to remain at Hogwarts over holiday, so that was not bothering him.

Tom had saved Hogwarts, to be sure, but at a price he was not sure he was willing to pay. A little consolation came from the fact that he had saved Rubeus from Azkaban as well, but he reminded himself fiercely that if it were not for him then Rubeus would never have been at risk in the first place. Rubeus moved into a log cabin out on the grounds, and Tom tried to visit him dozens of times. Rubeus eventually started speaking to him again, but his voice was begrudging and lethal. It became painfully apparent that their friendship had been completely destroyed, and nothing would be able to resurrect it. Tom felt a strong sense of loss and guilt, having ruined the only friendship he had had.

This, coupled with the even more tormenting remorse over Myrtle's death, sent Tom into a state of wild depression. Instead of staying out in the sun with the others, Tom spent day after day pacing the dormitory, until he almost had started to wear a hole in the floor. His own voice rebuked him, not to mention those incessant chatterers inside his own head. Nepenthe would watch him pace, often asking what was the matter, but Tom couldn't tell him. Nepenthe had no idea the sort of things that went on in Tom's life anymore--to Nepenthe's knowledge, Tom had never committed murder, let alone opened the Chamber of Secrets. Tom would always make up some ridiculous lie, stating that he was trying to crack a rune code, or an Arithmancy equation was getting to him.

As the students vanished for summer holiday, Tom grew even more withdrawn. Some days he would not even get out of bed, knowing that he had very little to do if he got up anyway. He could not read or eat, and his sleep was plagued with nightmares--all he could do was think. Lili often teased that he thought too much, but now it was actually true.

One morning in mid-July, Tom had overslept as usual, and had not bothered to rise. He was staring up at the bed's canopy, thinking as usual, when a small ball of feathers suddenly burst through the hangings. The fluffball proved itself to be an owl, carrying a note in its talons and looking thoroughly hyper. Tom sat up slightly, and the small owl dropped the note into his lap. Tom unfolded the message and read it over.

Mr. Riddle--
Please get dressed and come to my office immediately after you receive this message.
--Professor Dumbledore

Tom sighed heavily and threw open the hangings. What had he done now? Showering and throwing on something random, Tom left the room, his light footfalls gracelessly dispirited.

After wandering the meandering passageways for a few minutes, Tom finally found himself in front of the door to Professor Dumbledore's office. The office was located directly behind the classroom, and there was a brass knocker in the shape of a phoenix. Tom rapped the knocker lightly, and within an instant Dumbledore's face had appeared in the doorway. "Ah, there you are, Tom," he said. "Come in."

Tom stepped inside and took a seat in front of the desk. He noticed a large stone basin sitting in the middle of it, but Dumbledore pushed it aside as though it meant nothing. Dumbledore seated himself, looking much older than his thirty-odd years. "This is the sixth day in a row you've not turned up for breakfast," he commented in a would-be casual voice. "You've become quite the recluse, Tom."

Tom shrugged, biting his lip.

Dumbledore leveled a gaze at him. "When's the last time you had something to eat or drink?" he asked.

"I had a bit of water last night," Tom replied, staring at his hands.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "I'm not even going to ask when you last ate," he remarked. His voice went dead serious. "Tom, I told you to come to me if anything was bothering you."

"Nothing's bothering me," Tom said flatly. "I'm just feeling exceptionally sleepy these days, is all."

Dumbledore looked unconvinced. Slowly, he tugged the stone basin to the middle of the desk. Tom looked into it. The rim was lined with ancient runes that Tom would be able to understand if he were not so drowsy, and it was filled with some swirling white substance that looked like a combination of mist and water. Two handles, in the shapes of pansies, lay on either side. "Let me show you something, Tom," Dumbledore said. "This is a Pensieve. Do you know what that is? No? Well, I must say, that's a first. Here, let me show you how it works."

Dumbledore drew out his wand and placed its tip to his own temple. The tip of the wand started to glow brilliant silver, and Dumbledore touched the wand to the surface of the Pensieve's substance. Immediately, the substance turned icy clear, and Tom could see an image in the bottom of the basin. It appeared to be a newspaper headline from the Daily Prophet. "DARK ARTS ON THE RISE; HOGWARTS STUDENT MURDERED AT HOGSMEADE", it read. The date showed that it had been December, 1946. Tom cringed.

"The Pensieve shows what's on your mind," Dumbledore explained, waving his wand. The Pensieve returned to normal. "You put your thoughts inside and it spits them back out--great way to organize your thoughts."

"So you're thinking about--?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied heavily. "The Dark Arts in general, really, but the Po family were very close friends of mine. Now, let's see what's on your mind, eh?"

Tom blanched. "That's okay, Professor," he said nervously, "but I really don't--"

Before he could finish his sentence, Dumbledore had tapped him in the middle of the forehead with his wand. Tom watched mutely as Dumbledore drew the wand away. A twinkling silver thought clung to the wand tip. Tom sat helplessly as Dumbledore placed the thought in the Pensieve, and a figure appeared inside it. To Tom's horror, it was Rubeus.

"I din' do nothin'!" the boy in the Pensieve insisted. "Yeh know Aragog 'd not harm no one, not if I tell 'im not ter…" The image faded, replaced by Myrtle Potter.

"You're never nice to me anymore!" she whined. "Why did you do it? Why?"

Dumbledore looked up mildly. "Why did you do what?" he asked, an almost triumphant note to his voice.

Tom thought fast. "A few days before she--before she died, I got a bit grumpy with her," he said, truthfully enough. "She was whining about some girl, Olive Hornby, and I told her to act her age and stop sniveling. I hadn't got much sleep, see, so my fuse was short--well, shorter than usual. I felt really horrid about it afterward."

"Maybe you feel guilty, then, about her death?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

"Maybe--I don't know…"

"Best find out, then." Eager for more evidence, Dumbledore seized another thought, this one from the left temple.

To Tom's surprise, the thought was not silver, but immaculate white. Dumbledore set the thought upon the surface of the substance, and Tom watched in amazement as a twelve-year-old version of himself appeared in the Pensieve. It was curled up in a ball, much in the same way Tom used to curl up when he was scared, and it seemed to be crying. Dumbledore looked in at it, and the little figure suddenly went ballistic.

"Help me! Help me!" it started shouting, its voice echoing slightly. "Mother of God, if you've any decency, help me! Help me!"

Tom felt a sudden, dizzying pain in the left side of his head.

"Please, I'm not joking! This isn't fake! Don't put me back in that awful room with him!" the little figure was pleading. "Dumbledore, help me!"

Dumbledore shot Tom a very serious and perplexed look. "Can you explain this to me, Tom?" he asked slowly.

"Uh… erm… that's not what I was thinking about," Tom said blearily, rubbing at the aching area around his left eye.

"But it's on your mind?"

"I…" Tom looked into the Pensieve again, at the little figure that was now down on its knees. "I've never had a thought even remotely like this," Tom mused, and he bit back a cry of pain as the sting in his head doubled. Dumbledore noticed the odd look on his face, and waved his wand--the picture in the Pensieve vanished in perfect synchronization with the abrupt disappearance of the pain.

"Odd," Dumbledore said, and he took another thought--this time from the right-hand side of Tom's head.

The contrast was freakish.

Tom first noticed a strange, elated feeling rushing through his veins. Not really thinking straight, Tom thought it felt like freedom--wild, uninhibited, euphoric, and--strangely--relieved. It was the first time he had felt happy in nearly a year, and he had no idea what the cause was. Tom felt like singing, or going out to the broomshed and going for a fly around the school. He couldn't help smiling, though he felt silly doing it without reason.

Dumbledore looked up from the Pensieve gravely--he looked rather ill, and paled even more as he saw the smile on Tom's face. "Why so cheery all of a sudden, Tom?" he asked in a rather pained voice.

"I don't know," Tom grinned.

Dumbledore nodded. "Come over here and look in the Pensieve again, Tom."

Tom peered in, and he felt as though his stomach had disintegrated. He backed away, very slowly, until he was straight-backed against the stone wall. "Holy righteous Christ," he muttered.

It was his Specter. And it was laughing its head off.

"Don't let him back in, now, Tom!" one of his voices begged him. "You're free of him, just don't let him back in… tell Professor Dumbledore thank you, now. Tell him from me, okay?" The other voice remained silent. Dumbledore gazed into the Pensieve for a few moments, lost in thought, before it happened.

Tom felt his head jerk suddenly to the left, and there was an unbearable burning sensation all throughout his body. The world went black, and while he was still aware that he was sitting in Professor Dumbledore's office, Tom could not see or hear any of his surroundings. "What the hell--?" he tried to yell, but his lips would not move. His body seemed to be frozen in position, paralyzed--he could barely breathe.

"Oh no!" cried the voice that had just been talking to him. "Tom, quick… fight against him…"

"Who?" he thought desperately.

"Voldemort… Voldemort…"

Tom was about to attempt to say something, say that he was Voldemort, but he stopped. There was the Specter, standing before him, and a crumpled heap of person was lying at its feet. The latter turned to look at Tom, and proved itself to be that same carbon copy he had seen in the Pensieve. "Help me fight him--keep him away!" it yelped. The Specter, laughing, kicked it hard in the stomach.

"How can I help?!"

"I don't know," the little Tom cried. "Just try… while you're in your right mind… just try…"

The Specter shoved the little Tom away easily and advanced on the real one. "Hello, old friend," it smiled, lips curling into a cruel smirk. "Time to come off your cloud… pipe dream's over…"

It sat down on his right-hand side and dug its claws into his immobile shoulder--injecting itself into his bloodstream, his mind. The Specter dissolved again. Sobbing, the little Tom ran forward and hugged him about the left knee--it dissolved as well.

"Tom! TOM! Tom, show some sign of life here!"

Tom blinked a few times. "Huh?" he said inadequately. He rubbed his eyes, yawning, as though he had just been asleep.

Dumbledore sighed with relief. "You looked like you were having an epileptic fit," he sighed. "You were just staring blankly, not moving a muscle--what happened to you?"

Tom was about to reply, but he felt a lurch of panic as cold, sharp hands took control of his vocal cords. "Oh, I was daydreaming--sorry about that," he heard himself say. "Listen, you know that Pensieve thing?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think it'd be possible to do something like that to another object? To put your thoughts and feelings into something and have them stay in there forever?"

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know, giving a teapot your personality or something." Tom was in a frenzy, trying to regain control of his own body, but the newly returned Specter had a firm foothold and was not about to give it up. "Is that possible?"

Dumbledore frowned sternly and stood up. "Possible? Certainly. Safe? Doubtfully. Legal? Absolutely not."

The Specter shrugged Tom's shoulders for him. "Just curious. Anyway, is that all you wanted?"

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Yes… you may go, Tom."

Tom's legs carried him out of the room and down the hallway. It was not until he reached the middle of the staircase that he suddenly regained control over his own actions. He stumbled and fell backwards a few stairs, but there was a charm on the staircase that prevented him from tumbling far enough to hurt himself. "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT, YOU BASTARD?" he yelled, his words directed toward the half of his brain that had suddenly let up. His words echoed around the deserted stairwell. There was no answer, either outside or inside his head. Tom shivered convulsively. The Specter's takeover had seemingly no motive, but it was still enough to make him ill at ease.

At any rate, he thought, he had better start acting more normally around the professors. To appease Dumbledore's curiosity, Tom must start to going to breakfast every morning and spend most of his time out on the grounds. It would be torturous, and Tom would constantly feel jittery, but it was better than having Dumbledore breathing down his neck.

As he mounted the stairs to the Slytherin common room, Tom fell to wondering. Why on earth did the Specter want to know about Pensieves?

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

Tom passed the rest of the summer feeling distinctly jumpy, and he felt as though Dumbledore was watching him at every corner. Tom took to taking long walks around the lake, eyes riveted to the ground, drowning in thoughts. Gradually, self-hatred began to fade--Tom could not stand hating himself for too long, not because he was arrogant but because it was too depressing. Instead, Tom turned his anger toward the world. After all, if it weren't for the Muggles, he would never have tried so desperately to avoid the orphanage--furthermore, he would not have had to open the Chamber in the first place. But there were other components as well.

Had Dumbledore never asked him to the office, Tom might have been spared a violent Specter attack. Had Dippet not offered that award, Tom might not feel guilty for gaining at Rubeus's disadvantage. Had Myrtle not been in that stall, the whole fiasco with Rubeus and Aragog might never have happened. Had Mandy Birch not been such a ghastly flirtatious brat, Tom would have been spared immeasurable embarrassment. Had his friends been more supportive of him after Lili's death, he might not be so lonely. The list went on for quite some time.

Only half-consciously, Tom began to avidly abhor almost all the world--not just Muggles or Mudbloods or annoying girls, but near everyone. The only advantage he could see with the people he hated was that he might be able to gain some pleasure (as well as some power) in their demises. Faces of people he hated danced around in his head, and he imagined killing each one over and over--picturing situations in which they had irked them and pretending a violent reaction. It almost became reflex--had one of them actually turned up and started picking on him, Tom might very well have drawn out his wand and muttered an Unforgivable Curse.

Autumn brought studies and the bustle of school life--Tom went about his business as usual, but he found himself in a near-constant state of fury. Every time he saw someone he disliked, his stomach would drop and his hand would inch over to his wand. The teachers noticed the change in him and started treating him gingerly, which was nothing to the way most of the other students treated him.

As September melted into October, the talk around school turned once again to that bothersome Halloween Dance. One day in the dawning weeks of October, Tom woke up with the buzz of social fanaticism already in his ears. His fellow Slytherin boys were discussing (in purposefully gruff voices) which girls they were interested in taking to the dance. Tom rolled over with the intention of covering his ears with his pillow, when he remembered that he had class. Groaning, Tom threw the hangings open and tugged on his school robes. His hair was still rather wet from the previous night's shower, which landed his shirt collar in a damp state that would likely irritate him all day.

Tying his shoes, Tom listened to the other boys' voices--Francis sighing over that obnoxious hussy, Electra Andes, while Richard Zabini pretended to be fascinated by the discussion; Adrian and Zuhayr arguing loudly over which one of them got to ask Larkin Mallory. He frowned at Adrian and Zuhayr. When had his (now distant) friends turned into such socialites? Tom noticed a recurring pattern--Richard Zabini would get all quiet around the Halloween, Holiday, and Valentine's Day dances, and he would always "get sick" and find some way of getting out of going. (Tom had no idea why, either, and it had happened every year since second.) This year, Tom was seriously considering following his lead, even if he had to sit around the hospital wing and have Madam Viola shovel potion down his throat.

Throwing on a pointed hat and slinging his bookbag over his shoulder, Tom brushed between Zuhayr and Adrian on his way down the stairs. He sidled quietly into the Great Hall and sat silently at the Slytherin table, pulling the visor of his hat low over his eyes in hopes no one would recognize him. Naturally, the minute he did so a cluster of third- and fourth-year Ravenclaw girls hustled over and sat across from him. "Hi," a blue-eyed, red-haired one said, smiling demurely.

"Good morning, Miss Parkman," Tom said, tactfully masking the venom in his voice.

"So," said Sylvia Qu, a very pretty Ravenclaw fourth-year. "Have you decided to ask any girls to the dance yet?"

Tom coughed meaningfully. "No," he replied slowly.

"You really ought to--the pickings are good this year," a tagalong second-year giggled.

"I wouldn't know, Miss Brown, as I've never looked around," Tom said evasively. He wondered if Ravenclaw House's level-headed, famously clever founder had been as much of a flirt as some of her charges.

"Well, look around! Actually, just look right over here!" Sylvia Qu grinned, striking a decidedly risqué pose. The whole lot of them burst out laughing.

"I pity you, Rowena," Tom sighed. The girls looked at him strangely, and Tom went back to his meal, completely ignoring their laughter. After a while, they returned to their table, tittering insanely.

"Wonder why they put me off so much," Tom thought grimly. He had never been one for girls--something in him always thought of himself as taken. By whom, he had no idea. Not Lili, of course, and not Hannah. But there was only one other woman he had ever ventured to love, and that was his mother. But of course it wasn't his mother--only sick psychological freaks loved their mothers romantically.

And he wasn't a sick psychological freak. Well, except for the little voices. But they didn't count.

Before he could further panic over whether or not he was a textbook example of an Oedipus Complex, Tom was jerked from his reverie by a tap on the shoulder. He turned around to see Mandy Birch. "Oh great," he thought, "here we go…"

"Heya, Tom," she said sweetly, batting her eyelids and showing off her luxuriant eyelashes. "Whatcha doing?"

"Eating breakfast. Fous le camp."

Mandy didn't speak French.

"I didn't know you spoke French," Mandy said with a grin, scooting uncomfortably close to him. "I hear you don't have a date for the dance."

"Marie mère de Christ," Tom muttered. "Tu es très egoiste si tu pense que je t'aime --tu es degoutante, Mademoiselle, et je suis très triste parce-que tu ne parle pas en français. Fous ta-même, chienne."

"That language… ohh, it sounds so sexy!" Mandy cooed. Daphne Gatefield, who was half-French and happened to be sitting a few seats away from Tom, guffawed loudly at this statement. Tom shot her a discreet smirk.

"I'm awful at it," Tom said in the most false voice he could muster. "Mon français est très degoutant, mais moins degoutante que tu. Alors, quelle est le mot dans la phrase 'fous ta-même' que tu ne comprends pas, pute?"

"Did you just ask me out?" Mandy chattered obliviously.

"No."

Mandy's face fell slightly. "Oh--well, if you ever change your mind and decide you want to go to the dance with me, you know where my dorm room is."

"Elle t'invite a sa chambre à coucher? Oui, elle est une pute," Daphne commented. She and Tom both burst out laughing, and Mandy laughed along, still painfully unaware of what they were saying.

"Au revoir, j'envie de manger mon petit dèjuner," Tom said to Mandy.

Getting the vague gist, Mandy nodded and strode away.

"Your French isn't bad," Daphne commented. "It needs some work, of course--I've never known an Englishman to truly master the language--but it gets the point across." She grinned. "That little tart…"

"Eurgh, I know…" Tom got back to his own meal and Daphne returned to hers. Tom was hit by an odd feeling of nostalgia--he remembered how, ages ago, he had laughed and joked with his friends. He hadn't had a good laugh in over a year, and it was an odd feeling.

Finishing his meal, Tom headed to his first class, Study of Ancient Runes. Professor Waltham was early, as usual, and was sitting busily at her desk while the early-bird students bustled in. Tom got out his book and started reading, trying to ignore the giggling chatter around him. When the last student, Molly Robbins, had entered the classroom, and the bell had rung, Professor Waltham cleared her throat. "Portus Fermus," she said with a wave of her wand. The two stone doors slammed shut, and Tom closed his book, seizing his homework.

"If you'll all pass forward last night's essay on the properties of ancient Welsh adjectives," said Professor Waltham. There was a collective grumble and a rustling of papers as the students shuffled through their jam-packed bookbags. Tom coolly handed his own paper to the Gryffindor girl sitting in front of him. Professor Waltham gathered up all the papers with one wave of her wand, and they landed in a tidy pile in the middle of her desk. "Today," she said casually, "we will finally be able to begin what we have been preparing for, for the past three years. You finally know enough to begin to invent your own simple conjuring spells."

Tom's interest perked. He rather enjoyed making up spells using ancient verbs and syllables--using his rune dictionary, he had picked out random words without looking at the definitions and had made up the most ridiculous spells he had ever seen. One, for instance, conjured inside-out snakes--this one had immensely disturbed Nepenthe.

After a very long and complicated lecture, Professor Waltham had all of them drag out their dictionaries and get to work on their (supposedly) first-ever invented spells. Tom threw his dictionary open and stared down at the page, suddenly completely lost for ideas. The page he was staring at was in the English-to-runes side of the dictionary, and at the top it was labeled "PARADIGM - PASTORAL". Somehow, Tom's eyes wandered over to the word "Parselmouth".

Tom idly glanced at the old Celtic symbol for "Parselmouth". He could tell by looking at it that it was pronounced "mor". Deciding this might be interesting, Tom wrote "MOR" in the center of his parchment and flipped over to the runes-to-English side of the dictionary. After going through the pages a while, Tom found an ancient Egyptian symbol, "dre". The definition read "green; verdant; Slytherin House."

"Parselmouth green… Parselmouth Slytherin, maybe?…" Tom muttered. Shrugging, he wrote "DRE" after "MOR" so that it looked like "MORDRE." Tom almost laughed at how much his invented word looked like "Murder". Still not satisfied, he turned to the "M" section and found the Latin rune "Mors"--"Death; a skull". MORSMORDRE. Tom reasoned his spell would probably make a green skull, but how on earth did you make "Parselmouth" out of a conjuring spell? His curiosity getting the better of him, Tom plucked his wand out of his bookbag. "Mors--Morsmordre," Tom murmured.

He immediately wished he hadn't--the effect was rather startling, and on such a large scale that it attracted much attention. An enormous green skull, at least six feet in diameter, burst forth from the wand's tip and rose slowly to hover near the ceiling. A poison-green serpent protruded from the mouth like some grotesque tongue. The students and professor all gaped up at it, and Tom just blinked.

"Well done, Mr. Riddle," Professor Waltham said, recovering from the shock. "Very good job--which spell did you use?"

"Morsmordre," Tom said again, forgetting he was still holding his wand. A second six-foot skull floated up to the ceiling to join the first.

"Ah--see how Mr. Riddle has mixed the languages? You don't have to stick to Latin, Greek, or Celtic, remember--mixing and matching often makes for a better spell." Professor Waltham turned and smiled at him. "Twenty-five points to Slytherin," she added.

"For what?" hissed Philip Cedric. "The thing's obviously Slytherin-made Dark magic!"

"You really think so, Phil?" asked Molly Robbins fearfully.

"You bet your pigtails!" Philip said earnestly. Tom gave him a withering look. "It's some kind of--some kind of Dark mark or something!"

"Thanks for the idea, Philip," Tom called, just to taunt. "That's what I'll call it. The Dark Mark." Though, Tom mused, it wasn't really all that bad an idea. The Dark Mark--it had a ring to it. Morsmordre. The Dark Mark. "It could be my own personal symbol--like a signature, perhaps," Tom thought. "And I could teach its spell to all my followe--"

Followers? Where did that come from?

Clearing his throat, Tom got back to his dictionary, but he felt jittery all the rest of the day.

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

In the weeks leading up to Halloween, Tom started to wonder why on earth girls seemed to find him so attractive. He knew it must be something superficial, for he was correct in his impression that he was not a very nice person. Tom would have worn a burlap bag over his head if only to stop the girls from constantly flirting with him, and, by the day before the dance, Tom was idly starting to wonder if burning huge scars across his face was the way to go.

As it had been for so many years, Mandy Birch was his most persistent pursuer. It seemed like every time he turned a corner, Mandy was there--sporting a new hairstyle in hopes he would make a comment; wearing robes from her first year, thinking they were tight enough to make him notice her figure; asking him to say something in French for her. She was like a very clingy puppy, a tagalong he could never shake--sometimes he found it hard not to reach out and slap her.

Halloween morning came, a Saturday, and Tom woke up around noon amid excited chattering. Tom rolled his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but Francis Malfoy threw his drapes open. "Hey, Mudblood!" he smirked. "Still don't have a date for the dance?"

"I find it disturbing that you, being allegedly male, are so giggly about a social event," Tom snapped. "I don't, for your information, and I frankly don't want one. Now bugger off."

"Language, Riddle."

Tom proceeded to say something several times more vulgar, which made Francis laugh hysterically.

"You're pathetic, Mudblood. I'm sorry for you, actually, that that orphanage of yours has caretakers who would teach you words like that. Why don't you have a date, anyway? Are you a homosexual or something?" Tom slowly raised an eyebrow, and Francis shot him a taunting grin. "Are you one, Riddle? Do you have a boyfriend?"

Tom put on a very earnest face. "Malfoy, I'm flattered, but… I just don't like you that way. Thanks for the offer, though--I really hope I haven't hurt your feelings." He heard Adrian and Zuhayr burst out laughing. Tom took a long look at Francis's reddening face, shot him an evil smirk, and whipped his drapes closed.

"I think I'll fake an illness today," Tom thought, staring up at the canopy. "God, anything to get out of that stupid dance…" Tom spent a few minutes practicing a fake cough--it sounded convincing in his head. If only he could remember that spell to make people cough; but then again, he wasn't sure he wanted to curse himself. He waited until all the other boys had gone down to breakfast, then dragged himself out of bed and meandered toward the infirmary.

He found Madam Viola in the hospital wing, talking with a cinnamon-haired Slytherin first-year.

"Poppy, for heaven's sakes, why would you want to be my helper?" she was saying. "It's a very hard job--"

"I'm going to be a mediwitch someday," Poppy said in what she clearly thought was a shrewd, clever voice, "and Hogwarts doesn't offer any medical courses until seventh year. I wanted to get a head start."

"I'll have to think about it," Madam Viola sighed. "Back to your common room, now, Miss Pomfrey."

Poppy smiled sweetly, and was just on her way out when Madam Viola finally noticed Tom hovering in the doorway. He coughed a couple times before beginning. "Madam Viola?" he half-wheezed, trying his best to look feverish. "I feel really horrible today… I don't think I can go to the Halloween feast."

Poppy's hazel eyes lit up. "Sit down on one of the beds," she instructed. "I don't like the sound of that cough--you might have pneumonia! Or--or whooping cough, or--ooh, tuberculosis!"

The little first-year was jumping around excitedly, and Tom coughed dramatically to mask his laughter. Madam Viola shot Poppy a reproving look. "Your common room, Missy… Sit down on a bed, Tom, I'll take your temperature." She drew a thermometer from her pocket and placed it under Tom's tongue, reminding him, as usual, not to bite.

"He looks pale," Poppy commented after a few minutes. "And kind of clammy, too." She put on a very authoritative voice. "Do you feel nauseous when you cough? Have you been coughing up blood?" she asked importantly.

Tom nodded, then acted as though it made his head hurt. Poppy was ecstatic.

"It's tuberculosis for sure, Madam Viola!" she shouted. "We're going to have to pull him from the jaws of death, aren't we?"

"Poppy Elizabeth Pomfrey, for the last bloody time, I told you--GET BACK TO YOUR COMMON ROOM!" Madam Viola yelled, losing her temper.

"Yahoo! I get to help save his life!" Poppy went on obliviously.

Frowning darkly, Madam Viola strode over and pulled the thermometer out of Tom's mouth. She looked at it, and her frown increased. "Your temperature's just fine--a little below normal, as a matter of fact."

"Ohh, he might have hypothermia!" Poppy squealed.

"I'm normal?" Tom fake-wheezed. "But I feel so awful…"

"I think what you have," said Madam Viola, "is a first-class case of nerves. It's normal to be afraid of going to dances, Tom, but honestly, it'll do you some good to get out a bit."

"But I'm sick!" Tom insisted.

"No, you're not. Maybe getting dressed and heading out on the grounds to be with the other children would make you feel better. Good day, Tom." Shooing him out of the infirmary, the old woman turned around and began scolding Poppy, who still wouldn't leave.

Tom frowned and trudged back to Slytherin Tower. Sure, it always worked for Richard Zabini--who was possibly the worst liar in Slytherin House--but of course it wouldn't work for Tom. Just his bloody luck.

Once he had reached the dormitory, he threw on a set of robes and ran down to the common room. Tom plunked into a chair and gazed into the fire. A few minutes later, Poppy Pomfrey entered the common room, looking very cheerful and carrying an enormous medical book. "Displaced hypochondria," Tom thought with a roll of the eyes, as Poppy rushed over and showed him a diagram of the lungs.

Poppy made very unusual company, though she was rather entertaining. Tom played along, and told her a rather disturbing story about the time a girl at the orphanage had died of bacterial meningitis (Poppy listened rapturously, hanging onto every word). Poppy ran down to the feast at seven, and Tom, hungry from not eating all day, followed after.

Deciding he didn't want to listen to Poppy babble about trichinosis all evening, Tom sat at the other end of the table, away from everyone else. He barely tasted what he was eating--so awfully was he dreading the dance. He knew from experience that dances were usually spent hiding behind a curtain to keep girls from coming anywhere near him. Tom had once asked Dippet why the dance was required, only to be told that it was meant to allow the shyest students to socialize themselves a bit.

Once the feast had finished, Tom returned to the dormitory with all the other boys and changed into his dress robes. Having grown out of three sets of robes (one black-and-silver, one plain hooded black with billowing sleeves, and a strange grey one that made him look like a druid), Tom had finally given in and bought some that were deep green, the same color as his cloak. The effect was interesting--he still looked gloomy and cynical, but while wearing green he looked more like a very young Salazar Slytherin than anything else.

The Great Hall looked lovely, as usual, but Tom gave it half a glance as though it were nothing. Some people were wearing Halloween costumes and some were merely dressed up--they were given the option of wearing dress robes or a costume. Tom picked Poppy Pomfrey out of the crowd--she was dressed up in a mediwizard's robes. No surprises there. Serena Birch, Mandy's older sister, was dressed as Columbine, standing and chatting with a brown-haired Ravenclaw boy in Harlequin clothes. One Muggle-born fourth-year was actually a toaster. Tom had to admit, the Halloween dance was at least more interesting than the other two--it was amusing to watch people trying to dance in ridiculous costumes.

Ambika Dawes, the half-veela Gryffindor girl who was currently dressed as a gypsy, shot Tom a grin. "Let's see--you were Hamlet in second and third year, Hades in fourth, and a druid necromancer in fifth--now you're a psychopathic Hogwarts founder? Honestly, Riddle, lighten up a bit!"

"Meh," Tom said indifferently. "I didn't intend to resemble anyone--not this year, not ever. But believe whatever you want, I frankly don't care."

Ambika waited a few moments. "So do you want to dance or what?"

"I'll go for the 'what' if it's all the same to you."

Ambika shrugged. "Your loss, Riddle." She stalked off, a trail of giddy boys following behind her.

Tom was about to go back to people-watching, when he suddenly noticed the group of Ravenclaw girls who had taken to following him about. They were headed up by Eirynn Parkman and Sylvia Qu, both of whom were looking wildly around--presumably for him. Silently as a shadow, Tom brushed past all the other students and exited the Great Hall. He strode through the darkened entrance hall, his footsteps echoing slightly. The door creaked as he shoved it open, so he sidled out as quickly as possible and shut it behind him.

It was so foggy outside that it was almost eerie, and Tom could see the vague sickle of the moon through the miasma. Tom made his way over to the lake and leaned against a nearby tree, gazing into the half-visible waters and thinking.

"I really have to get some idea what I want to do with my life," Tom thought heavily, kicking a stone into the lake. (The giant squid made an indignant noise.) "I mean, I'm almost seventeen--and I have no bloody idea what I'm going to be when I graduate."

The word "followers" hovered to his consciousness again, but he ignored it.

Furthermore, there was the issue of the Chamber of Secrets. Tom still wanted to punish Muggles, of course, but how could he? He knew he was not emotionally equipped to deal with actually bumping off students. He sighed. He could always take a disciple, teach them how to get into the Chamber--but no, he was the only person in the world who spoke Parseltongue.

The best idea, he figured, would be to store all the information in some kind of book or map--including a spirit that could speak Parseltongue. The idea expanded within minutes--just like the Pensieve, Tom could hide carbon-copies of all his darkest thoughts and feelings in the pages of some book. He would not put all of himself in it; that would be too dangerous. Instead, he would put in a shadow of the half of his personality that seemed most to enjoy the Chamber of Secrets. He would put a rather shrewder, crueler version of Tom Marvolo Riddle inside a book--a diary, perhaps, so that his new protégé could talk to him, be possessed by his ideas. It was an unnerving thought, that his darkest dreams would be lived out through the heart and soul of some poor sod--but it was better than opening the Chamber himself.

It looked like he had finally found a use for that seven-year-old diary lying in his trunk.

At that moment, there was a sudden rustling in the nearby trees. Tom whirled around and found himself facing Mandy Birch. She was wearing something that made her (in Tom's humble opinion) look like a working woman, to put it gently--Tom mused that she must be freezing, but was in no mood to offer his cloak.

"Hi, Tom," Mandy grinned.

"Bloody hell…" Tom muttered. "What are you doing out here?"

"What are you doing out here?" Mandy giggled.

"I'm standing in the flipping fog; what's it to you?" Tom snarled. He drew his cloak tighter around him and leveled a gaze at Mandy that would have made grown men shudder.

"You must be awfully cold out here, standing all alone…"

"I'm warm enough."

Mandy ignored this. "Sure you couldn't do with some company?" Tom flinched. Was it just him, or was she being more of a close talker than usual?

"Positive," Tom snapped.

"I don't know about that… I don't like to see a gorgeous bloke like you feeling lonely, especially not at Halloween…" There was no doubt about it, Mandy was standing much too close to him for comfort.

Tom winced. "Did I mention I have mononucleosis?" he lied, inching slowly backward.

"Do I look like I care?" Mandy breathed. She lunged at him, clearly aiming to snog.

Tom acted swiftly. Mere inches before contact might have been made, Tom put out his hands defensively--they landed firmly on Mandy's shoulders, right near her neck. Mandy looked disappointed, and gave a coquettish pout. "Why'd you stop me?" she asked.

Tom had a sudden, morbid idea. His hands were in the right place, he could put an end to this little annoyance once and for all…

"I have my reasons," he said softly, hands slowly inching toward her throat.

Mandy mistook the action for a caress. "Oh--you like it long and drawn out, do you?" she laughed, a rather triumphant look on her face. "Fine--take your time about it, Tom, I'm in no hurry."

"Neither am I," Tom murmured. The pressure he was placing on her throat gradually increased--he remembered how good he had been at strangling those baby chicks, and was amused at the analogy.

Mandy started to reply, but suddenly noticed there was something wrong. "Tom? Tom, what on earth are you--?"

Tom smiled innocently. "You always were a slutty little bitch, weren't you?" He allowed himself a laugh at the shocked look on her face, and tightened his grip considerably. "Couldn't take no for an answer, eh?" Mandy, by now unable to speak, tried to struggle out of his grasp, but he merely grinned. "Now, now, struggling will make it worse… You're getting attention from me, Mandy. Aren't you enjoying it? Aren't you?!"

Somehow, Tom got the impression he was gaining far too much pleasure from this. He was ecstatic in the girl's fear and pain, could not get enough of it--it was a dark, furious kind of pleasure that sent his senses reeling. This damned sin.

Common sense returned with a jolt as his eyes returned to her face.

Blue.

He let go.

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