Chapter 7 - The Parselmouth
Written by Nemesis
Tom was no less than miserable for ages. When he first started classes again, he studied as hard as ever, but rarely volunteered information. He spent most of his time looking as lost as he had in his orphanage days, avoiding human contact as much as he could. By mid-November, he had almost completely abandoned his social life, pouring all his energy into schoolwork. Nearly every day, he would turn in a pile of extra credit for each class, and he had yet to receive a grade below a perfect score.
The others thought he was only trying to show off, but Tom studied because it dulled the pain. When he was thinking about the twelve uses of dragon's blood, Tom did not have to remember that his first true friend was dead. When his nose was not in a book, he was despondent. His friends forgave him his taciturnity, but they did find him to be rather depressing as a companion. He never talked about his sadness, but he hid his grief so poorly that it was obvious he was thinking it.
As Tom slipped farther and farther away from humans, he found himself spending more time in the company of animals and ghosts. He would talk to Nepenthe for hours on end, and whenever he had free time, he would wander the halls and look for specters. Tom quickly gained popularity among the ghosts. Even Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington, the Gryffindor ghost, liked to chat with Tom on occasion. Tom's favorite ghost was not the Bloody Baron, but the Grey Lady, a silent, elegant female ghost. She would only speak to Tom, and whenever she did, she would tell beautiful, sad stories in her chimelike voice.
"You really should be a Ravenclaw," the Grey Lady told him once. She was the Ravenclaw ghost, and was amazed at Tom's House assignment. "You understand me. Most people do not."
In fact, Tom found himself understanding far more ghosts than anyone else could. Some ghosts remained invisible all the time, but Tom could see them all. He trained himself to see them all. He was fond of the ghosts, for most of them reassured him, telling him that Hannah was either happy as a ghost or resting in peace. Some of the ghosts were horrible, though, not because of their personalities but because of the way they had died. Tom knew a ghost (whom he dubbed the "Lonely One") who looked as though he had been only seventeen or eighteen at death. In any case, the young ghost had had his face dreadfully mangled in the fire that killed him, and he had no cheeks connecting his cheekbones to his jaws. His mouth hung open all the time, and the other invisible ghosts hated him. Ghosts like that made Tom feel lucky.
Eventually, Tom began to accept everything. When he saw the unhappy ghosts wandering around without heads or missing limbs, Tom knew that Hannah was at least better off than they were.
By the first of December, Tom was almost back to normal. He finally started talking again, to everyone's relief, and he relaxed a little when it came to his studies. He still got perfect scores on everything, still turned in extra credit often, but he could spend his time doing other things without feeling awful. He began to enjoy his school life again, and was soon able to smile and laugh once more. However, his friends noticed that he remained rather aloof, and he would not mention Hannah if he could help it.
His friends thought he was reserved because he had been embittered by the angst he had gone through, but the truth was, he was afraid to get too close to anybody. The risk that one of them could die was too great, and Tom never wanted to feel that anguish again. He turned his back on most affection, and though he continued to like his friends, he never allowed himself to love.
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Tom's twelfth birthday would be the twelfth of December. He had never had a very good birthday, and most of them (courtesy Gregory and Mr. Carney) were hellish. Because of Francis and Philip, the prospects for this one were equally gloomy. Philip refused to stop calling Tom "Pun." Francis, in addition to calling Tom "Mudblood" constantly, had taken to referring to him as "Hamlet" because of his previous brooding. Tom's friends always had to restrain him to prevent him from attacking the two of them.
On the eleventh of December, Tom woke up with a start at six o'clock. He had had the dream again, only it was more vivid this time, and the reflection had taken less time to transform. By the time he got down to breakfast, he was still shaking, and he looked stricken and pale. Tom noticed that Professor Dumbledore was looking at him oddly, with a mixture of concern and slight suspicion. Tom forced a small smile and started on his French toast, not feeling well at all.
"Are you all right, Tom?" the Professor asked. The Slytherin table was directly adjacent to the staff table, and Tom had seated himself on the end nearest the teachers. Tom looked up, swallowing hard.
"I just had a bad dream, that's all," he laughed nervously. Professor Dumbledore continued to give him that strange, penetrating stare. Tom tried not to let it bother him, but could not help but think that his teacher either disliked him or thought there was something seriously wrong with him. What was the matter with having nightmares, anyway? Tom could not understand why people thought trivial things like nightmares and being left-handed meant anything at all.
Tom had barely had time to eat another bite when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Tom saw that it was Philip Cedric, and a surge of hot hatred washed over him. Philip was grinning broadly, which Tom knew could not be a good sign. "Do you have something you need?" Tom demanded, surprised at the coldness in his own voice but not doing anything to curb it.
"Heard your best friend died, Pun." Tom's hand went to his wand, but Philip did not notice. "Was she Squib or Mudblood? Because I know you would never actually associate yourself with proper witches--"
"Hakirvis Machav!" Tom cried, and a jet of red light shot out of his wand. It hit Philip in the stomach, and he doubled up, clutching his mouth and retching.
Professor Dumbledore rushed over from the high table to aid his student. Philip was now burping slugs, which were dribbling down his robes. "There isn't a counter-curse, Philip, you should just get along to the hospital wing," Professor Dumbledore said, while the Slytherins quaked with silent laughter. Only Tom was not amused, and this was because he was clearly still furious. He was glaring at Philip with the deepest of loathing. "An explanation if you please, Mr. Riddle," Professor Dumbledore commanded.
"He insulted Hannah, Professor," Tom responded, amid the giggles and snorts of his fellows.
Professor Dumbledore's frown softened slightly. "I see. Well, I can't let you off for cursing a student, Tom, but considering the circumstances… Let's make it five points from Slytherin." Tom sighed with relief as Professor Dumbledore walked away.
Larkin and Annie turned up just then, tousle-haired and yawning. "You're up early, Tom," Annie sighed.
"And already busy," a second-year girl chuckled. "He just cursed that Cedric rat from Gryffindor. Gave him the Slug Curse like it was nothing!"
Sir Nicholas, who was breezing past, gave Tom a very hurt look and stormed away. Tom buried his face in his hands. "I'm having a very bad day," he moaned to his friends. "Don't talk to me; my luck, or lack thereof, will rub off on you. If you'll excuse me, I have to go apologize to Nick." Tom got up sharply and hurried off, leaving most of his breakfast unfinished. "Nick!" he called. "Nick, wait up!"
The Gryffindor ghost sped up and walked through a solid wall, leaving Tom alone in the entrance hall. Tom sat down heavily on the marble staircase, staring at his shoes and feeling awful; upset because of the dream, angry because of Philip, and sad because of Nicholas, sad because of so many things. He had the feeling today was going to get worse as it went on.
Tom's prediction was, unfortunately, as good as its word. In Herbology, Tom had to work at a Mimblewug with a group consisting entirely of Ravenclaws: Sven Kristiansen, Christine Laughlan, and Lili Po. Lili, who was shy and quiet, was not the problem. Sven and Christine, however, quite made up for Lili's lack of enthusiasm. They kept on calling him names Tom would never allow himself to repeat. Apparently, they were either still angry about Francis calling them fatheads or they liked Philip Cedric. In any case, they were so awful Tom had to put all his energy into keeping his left hand away from his wand.
Lili, ironically, seemed very upset by all of it. Every time Christine or Sven made a comment, she would give Tom a pitying look and bite her lip, blushing with embarrassment. When the other two were not looking, Lili passed him a note, in very tidy, loopy, tight penmanship.
I'm sorry. Please don't think I'm at all like those two. They're just jealous. I think you're talented, no matter what the others say. Just ignore them.
Tom scrutinized the note closely. There was something oddly familiar about it, but he could not figure out what. He did not have the time to let this flummox him, however, for he had his section of the Mimblewug to sap.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was boring, for once. Professor Xavier gave them an enormous pop quiz, which Tom aced in ten minutes. The other children had considerable trouble, and Tom had to spend two hours watching the others write, his chin in his hands. The first snow had begun to fall, and the swirl of white outside prevented Tom from even gazing out onto the grounds.
With Transfiguration came the usual, hands-on lesson, but Tom hated it. Professor Dumbledore was still looking at him suspiciously. It was probably because of Philip, Tom mused, turning beetle after beetle into shiny black coat buttons. Professor Dumbledore was still angry because of Philip. That had to be it. Tom could not think of any other reason for his teacher to keep looking at him like he was a bomb ready to detonate.
Charms with the Hufflepuffs was a horrible experience. After learning Hover Charms, Professor Flitwick paired them up so that they could practice on each other. He made the mistake of partnering Tom to Francis Malfoy, who gave a vindictive smile as Tom edged toward his desk. "Heard what you did to that Gryffindor, Hamlet," he snarled. "Didn't know a Mudblood could do that kind of thing."
"Well, I didn't know a pureblood could fail in every single class, but the proof of that possibility is standing before me," Tom replied silkily. "I'm not having a very good day, Francis, so if I were you, I wouldn't get on my bad side. After all, based on your grade point average, you shouldn't be wasting precious study time belching slugs in sick bay."
Francis glared at him. They continued through the lesson grumpily. Tom managed to levitate the shorter boy in the first minute, but Francis had an immense amount of trouble with the charm. "You're pronouncing it incorrectly," Tom informed him coldly, but Francis paid no attention, and spent the rest of the class gloating and insulting instead of working. Tom left the room ahead of everybody else, eager for dinner. He did not have any real homework, so his evening, at least, was free.
"Diffindo!" Francis cried behind him. Tom heard his bookbag split at the seams. His books tumbled out, and the cap came off of his inkbottle, sending emerald-green splashes all over the floor. A couple of people helped him pick up his things, and when Tom looked up, he realized that they were both Hufflepuffs. One was a boy with thick glasses and brown hair by the name of Arthur Jiro, and the other was a blonde girl named Sara Harbin.
"That jerk," Sara muttered. "Here, Tom. Is this your diary?"
Tom looked at the little black book. He had taken to carrying it around with him, in case he ever fancied to begin writing in it, but it was still blank. Tom shrugged, and thanked Sara as she handed it to him. He repaired his bookbag with a wave of his wand, likewise put his ink back in its bottle, and gathered up his belongings. "Thanks for helping," he said. He rounded on Francis, who was standing with Richard Zabini and roaring with laughter. "Quite witty of you, I must say," he snapped sardonically.
"Are you trying to start something, Riddle?"
"No, but you clearly are," Tom spat. "I will take no part in it, Francis. I'm going to dinner." He spun on his heel and left the scene, his face burning at the cackling behind him.
"Watch your step, Mudblood!" Francis called.
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Tom sat up late in the common room, Nepenthe coiled around his neck. He was staring into the fire, still feeling extremely peeved. "I hate him," Tom hissed to Nepenthe. "I hate the two of them, Philip and Francis both. Why can't they just die? Nobody wants them here anyway."
"Ignore them," Nepenthe replied. "They are harmlessssss." Tom tutted and dismissed the idea with a wave of his willowy hand. Nepenthe made a noise of exasperation. "You cannot do anything to hurt them, not right under the noses of a dozen teachers."
"I can curse them," Tom said petulantly, pulling a piece of yarn from the afghan on his chair and hurling it into the fire. "I'm good at that."
"A curssssse is one thing. You were talking about murder." Nepenthe's voice was more serious than Tom had heard it ere now. Tom forced a laugh which was not his own.
"Am I not allowed to fantasize, dear Nepenthe? I'm just rambling. They make me so angry sometimes."
Nepenthe slithered down Tom's arm and rested his chin on the back of his master's hand. "You need to get over that temper of yours," Nepenthe barked, and Tom was surprised nobody else heard this. "It will get you into trouble one day."
A sudden, piercing scream rent the quiet air. Tom spun around sharply, accidentally knocking Nepenthe to the floor. To his amazement, nobody else was confused or shocked. Most people were just continuing what they had been doing earlier, reading, studying. The voice came again, just as loud but actually forming words.
"NO! PLEASE, I'LL DO ANYTHING! NO, NO, NO!" Through the yelling, Tom heard a familiar snicker.
"Great, now put him in the box. That's it…" Francis chortled softly.
Tom acted quickly, stepping over an ottoman and trying to get closer to the wailing voice. The noise led him to Francis and Richard, who had their backs to him. "No, not that! Back, you evil--you--GET ME OUT OF HERE! HELP ME, HELP, HELP, HELP!" All the while, Francis and his friend were sniggering and whispering.
As Tom got closer, he could see over their shoulders, and he felt himself shudder with anger. They had a flesh-eating slug in a shoebox, and were trying to force a young garter snake into the box to meet the slug. Tom suspected that they were trying to fight the two creatures, which was positively cruel considering that the mollusk would eat any meat it could find. The source of the sobbing voice was immediately explained. The tiny snake, seeing Tom, began pleading piteously. Tom heard Nepenthe coming up behind him. "Go away, Nepenthe, I'll take care of it," Tom shouted. He shoved Richard out of the way, grabbed the garter snake, and tore back to his chair.
"Are you all right?" he asked the snake, checking its heartbeat frantically.
"The monssssster bit me," it replied meekly. "Ssssee? My tail." Tom realized that blood was spilling into his hands from a nasty cut in the garter snake's side. Nepenthe hurried over.
"Is she hurt?" Nepenthe asked fervently.
"I'll take care of her," Tom responded, taking out his wand. He tapped the snake's cut, mumbling, "Ferula." The snake was immediately bandaged. "You'll be okay now," Tom whispered soothingly, stroking the snake's head.
Francis and Richard appeared at his side, looking furious. "You ruined our game, you worthless Mudblood!" Francis sputtered, his face slightly pink.
Tom, the wee snake still clutched in his right hand, pointed his wand at Francis. His eyes were more fiery now than ever before. Tom wondered, briefly and vaguely, why he was so upset about a snake. Perhaps it was characteristic of Parselmouths to defend all serpents by instinct. Right now, Tom did not care about anything. "Get away, Malfoy. Now. Go away or I'll blast you to bits. Both of you," he added, and Richard gave a squeak. As they were walking away, Tom turned back to both snakes. "They won't hurt you anymore, little one," he said. "Off you go, now." He set the little snake on the floor, and it made for the nearest crack in the wall.
"That was rash," Nepenthe murmured. "You should not have ssspoken ssso loudly." Tom was about to ask what Nepenthe meant, but he suddenly realized that the room was dead silent. He turned and looked over the back of his armchair, and saw that the eyes of the Slytherins were on him. Only a few were left, just a small set of first- and second-years, but those who remained looked like they had been given the shock of their lives.
Tom cleared his throat. "If any of you--ANY of you--tell anybody that I am a Parselmouth, I'll make sure that person gets the same as Philip Cedric." Even Francis and Richard nodded silently, their faces white. As Tom left the common room, he heard the multitude erupt with whispers. Somehow, however, he knew that nobody was about to tell.