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Chapter Text

The tall, dark-haired teenage boy paced distractedly up and down in his small room, a dark scowl twisting his (otherwise extremely handsome) features. The old floorboards of the muggle orphanage he lived in during the school holidays creaked under his restless feet.

His name was Tom Riddle, and he was a wizard.

A threadbare metal-framed bed, a narrow wardrobe, a battered-looking travelling trunk and a rickety table and chair cluttered the small room, making it rather pointless to pace. A couple of spellbooks were stacked neatly on the table. The door was locked. Every since Mrs Cole had fallen ill with pneumonia three years previous, things at the orphanage had quickly gone from almost bearable to completely intolerable. Now the management of the orphan boys was under the cruel hand of Mistress Miranda, a sadistic woman who drank too much, and even worse, the man who occasionally warmed her bed, Harold. If the orphanage had been in a small town, not London, Harold would have been the town drunk. He had no business being around children, but assisted Mistress Miranda in matters relating to "discipline". Beatings were frequent, and he seemed to have formed a particular dislike of Tom, who didn't seem to exhibit any fear like the other boys. At night the doors were locked, making the orphanage seem more like a prison.

But during the last week Tom had kept a low profile, avoiding conflict and remaining out of everyone's way. The reason for this behaviour was because a new term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was just about to begin, and he didn't want to go back looking like he had just endured hell. Which he had.

He reminded himself again that as soon as he graduated Hogwarts he would return and burn the building down. With its occupants inside to feel the flames. Until then, however, he had to maintain appearances.

He scowled again as he thought of the school. It was two days before the end of the holidays, and he was supposed to have received word from them days ago. He was waiting for the letter informing him of his new book lists for fifth year and his train ticket, as well as the pitiful allowance Hogwarts gave him so that he could head to Diagon Alley. It irked him that he relied so heavily on it, but he couldn't leave without money and the lists. Why hadn't it arrived? It was very suspicious. If he was any other student, he might have suspected foul play, but that was laughable. Only Slytherins were inclined to pull off those kinds of pranks, and they were too scared of him to consider something like that.

For four years each summer holiday the owl with his letter and allowance arrived on time to the hour… why not now? No, not for four years, he suddenly remembered. The first time Albus Dumbledore had appeared to deliver his letter in person. His temper darkened even further as he remembered that encounter. That blasted old fool had looked down on him ever since…

He stiffened suddenly. But no, surely that wasn't the rea-

Darkness fell in the room as the street lamp outside went out with a flicker, as if the gas lamp's luminescence had been sucked away.

Tom strode to the window and froze as anger and dread in equal measure burned through him. The familiar, hated figure of a tall wizard with an greying auburn beard in bright purple robes strode down the street towards the orphanage.

At the front door downstairs the wizard looked up and Tom saw moonlight glinting off of half-moon spectacles. He shrank back from the window and schooled his face into an expressionless mask, feeling like the old man had seen him even through the dark and dirty windowpane.

He heard a polite knock on the front door, and then a short silence, followed by the sound of the door opening, an unintelligible conversation, and closing again as Dumbledore was admitted.

Tom's mind raced as he considered the possibilities. He suddenly grew convinced that he was about to be expelled. Dumbledore had finally found a reason to kick him out, and had come to snap his wand. His legs felt strangely weak so he sat down hurriedly on his thin mattress. Did they find out about his… little experiments on the other students? He hadn't damaged anyone beyond repair though… Had one of his "friends" betrayed him? He had done any number of small transgressions…What did they do to expelled students?

He was so distracted by these disturbing thoughts that he barely registered that a key was jangling in his door. He had just enough time to sit up straight and try to look aloof before the door swung open and admitted the purple-robed wizard.

"Good evening, Tom." Said the old man in his kindly voice, though Tom noticed his warmth didn't reach his eyes.

Tom inclined his head, every inch the model student, "Professor." He said deferentially.

From the doorway came another voice. "Tom, my dear," simpered Mistress Miranda in a tone completely different to her usual nasal whine, "Your teacher tells me he has come to take you back to school early this year. Isn't that so nice of him?"

I'm not going to be expelled?! "Is that so, Professor?" Tom asked blandly.

A slight knowing twinkle entered Dumbledore's blue eyes for a moment, as if he could hear how Tom's heart was racing as he waited for confirmation that his world wasn't about to end.

Enjoy it while it lasts, old man, Tom snarled in his mind, I know what you really think of me. Yes, they were all liars in this room. Tom was not the polite student, Dumbledore was not the kindly teacher, and Miranda was a hag with a drinking problem, pretending to be a diligent carer. They all wore masks.

The twinkle vanished, and Dumbledore gave a small sigh, as if he'd heard Tom's internal monologue. When he spoke, he was more businesslike. "Yes. There is a small matter I need your help with before the school term starts, so I thought I would deliver your letters and money in person. I'll explain more on the way."

Tom nodded, as if this was completely expected, and stood up languidly from the bed. "I'll just collect my things, then, sir." He strolled over to his wardrobe and pulled out some of his clothes, placing them into his trunk. He did the same with his spellbooks, moving without haste though his fingers trembled with suppressed excitement. He was leaving two days early! He didn't even care that it was with Dumbledore, or what the old fool had planned. He would shortly be back in the magical world, where he belonged.

Dumbledore watched him impassively, while Miranda offered him tea, which he politely declined. She didn't seem to mind that he'd come bursting in like this late at night, but then, maybe she was just happy to be rid of Tom sooner than usual.

The feeling is mutual… "Will I be needing my wand, sir?" Tom asked indifferently.

"Probably not, but perhaps it would be best if you kept it with you anyway." Came the surprising reply.

Tom hesitated, taken aback, but only for a moment. Now his curiosity flared up at the possibilities. What could the professor need from him that might require underage magic? He pocketed his long, pale wand, savouring the familiar feeling of it at his side.

Dumbledore waved his wand and the trunk disappeared into thin air. Miranda didn't seem to notice, but from the slightly vacant expression on her face Tom could tell Dumbledore had cast a minor Befuddlement Charm on her.

"Come, let us be off." Said Dumbledore, and Tom followed him out of the orphanage.

Once out onto the street, Dumbledore walked quickly with long strides, making Tom trot to keep up.

"Tom, how are they treating you at the orphanage?" he asked suddenly as they walked.

Tom didn't let his mask slip at all as he replied tightly, "I can't complain." I won't complain.

Dumbledore didn't seem convinced. With a note of impatience, he said, "If you say you are unhappy there, I can make other arrangements-"

"Can I stay at Hogwarts during the holidays?" asked Tom bluntly.

"No."

"Then I have nothing to say, sir." He had a perverse sense of satisfaction as an uncomfortable look flickered across the old man's face. He knew they were treating him badly there. But Tom would rather endure it a thousand times over than admit he needed Dumbledore's help.

Dumbledore was silent as they continued, and Tom felt somewhat smug. "So, where are we going, Professor?" he asked innocently, after the silence became awkward.

"Knockturn Alley." Came the curt response. Tom's eyebrows rose.

Dumbledore saw his surprised expression. "I need your help retrieving a… valuable item." He said cryptically, seeming to enjoy Tom's confusion. "It's a new student." He explained, after a moment.

Dumbledore abruptly stopped and glanced up and down the darkened street. "This is a quiet enough spot." He offered his arm and looked at Tom expectantly.

Tom very nearly grimaced as he realized he would need to actually touch the man, but held back his disgust. He touched his arm and was immediately pulled into the crushing darkness of Side-Along Apparition.

Fifteen minutes later, and Tom found himself in the unlikely position of sitting on a conjured bench next to the professor he most despised in a grimy alleyway, watching the entrance of a ramshackle building opposite them.

"This student lives here?" asked Tom, disgusted, as his eyes followed shady-looking passers-by. Only Knockturn could still be busy at this time of night. The folk who dwelt here were more like cockroaches.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, "She really isn't an ordinary witch." He chuckled.

Tom looked at the old man and waited impatiently for an explanation. This had turned into a very strange night indeed. Dumbledore pondered for a long moment, during which Tom had to restrain himself from throttling the truth out of him.

"Two months ago," he started at last, "A shipment of invaluable Time-Turners was ambushed by thugs, who made off with a number of them. A ministry inquiry was launched and the search began to track down the missing items, which, as you can imagine, could be devastating in the wrong hands."

Tom wondered briefly what he would do with a Time Turner…

"Anyway," continued Dumbledore quickly. Perhaps he had seen the covetous gleam in Tom's eye and was afraid of giving him ideas. "All of them were tracked down without fuss within hours, except one. It somehow ended up here, in Knockturn Alley, in a shop on sale to the highest bidder. But when the ministry official arrived to retrieve it, it was discovered that it had been stolen again, this time from the shop, by a bold and resourceful young girl."

"And she lives here?" Tom gestured at the building opposite.

"That's right."

"If you already know where she is, then why do you need-"

"Patience, Tom, patience. I haven't finished the tale yet." Dumbledore said mildly.

Tom compressed his lips and tried to rein in his temper.

"The ministry official chased the girl in circles for the next few weeks, but each time he got close she managed to slip away. He did however manage to find out her identity, which came as a bit of a surprise. Her name is Amalia Gray. I assume you've heard of the Grays?"

Tom nodded, surprised. They were an old Pureblood family known for their wealth and power, but like many Pureblood lines, theirs had disappeared some years ago.

"After the marriage of what I can only assume are her parents, all records of her family seem to have vanished. There are no other Grays left. We wouldn't even know of her existence at all if she hadn't drawn the attention of the Ministry in this matter. As far as I can tell, she's been living as an unregistered witch in Knockturn for at least the last two years."

Tom frowned. There was no way a first-year could survive in Knockturn… "How old is she?"

"Fourteen. I assume." He sighed, "It's hard to tell. She has had a Time-Turner for two months, after all."

"So, how did you get involved?" he realised he didn't sound strictly polite, and hurriedly tacked on a hasty, "Professor?"

"Well, it just so happens that her family, like many Purebloods, had a long-standing agreement with the school. She has a place by birthright at Hogwarts. And since the ministry official seemed to be getting nowhere… I was asked to intervene."

Dumbledore to the rescue, thought Tom sourly, The ministry is so pathetic.

"I hastened to find her, and met with her last week." Dumbledore gave a somewhat rueful chuckle. "It did not quite go as planned."

"Did you retrieve the Time-Turner?"

"I did, but she was incredibly suspicious, and seemed convinced I was about to murder or kidnap her at any moment. Once I realised she would not believe my friendly intentions, I decided to leave her Hogwarts letter and give her some time to think about it. Tonight, we shall attempt to present a united front and convince her of our earnest goodwill."

"That's why I'm here?" Tom thought he understood.

"Indeed. I hope that seeing a student will reassure her, and I have noticed that you seem to be, well-" he gave a soft chuckle, "Rather popular with the young ladies at Hogwarts."

Tom didn't smile. He knew what this was - a test. But was it for him, or this new student? Or possibly both? Things were never so simple with the old man.

"In addition," continued Dumbledore serenely, "You can consider it a school duty, as you have been made Prefect this year. Congratulations, by the way." He didn't sound particularly happy about it.

Tom blinked. "Thank you, sir." Of course I was made Prefect, you old twit, he thought arrogantly. "What year will she be going into, Professor?" he asked next.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, as if it was obvious. "Fifth. And as her classmate, you can ensure she settles in well." He'd clearly thought of everything.

He hid his annoyance. He didn't have time or energy to run after some dimwitted new student! "I thought she was fourteen, sir." He said instead, primly.

"Indeed, but her magic is rather advanced. I'm sure she won't have any problems academically; she seems a very capable young lady." His eyes suddenly caught sight of something and he smiled. "Ah, speak of the witch, and she doth appear!"

Tom looked around hurriedly, curious to see what the mystery girl that had dragged him from the orphanage looked like.

His eyes caught a slight figure cloaked in a dark robe, with a heavy cowl covering her face. Indeed, if Dumbledore had not been gazing directly at the figure, Tom would have dismissed her as yet another of Knockturn's strange inhabitants. She was tall for her age - only half a head shorter than Tom - but otherwise her cloak hid any other distinguishing features.

They watched as she reached the grimy black door of the building opposite and paused on the steps, before taking out a key and her wand. Then she glanced over her shoulder up and down the road somewhat furtively.

Dumbledore stood up, revealing their presence, and Tom scrambled to do the same. The old purple-robed wizard gave a cheery wave at the dark-robed figure, who had stiffened immediately as soon as she'd seen them watching her.

Dumbledore walked forward unhurriedly, beaming kindly. "It is good to see you again, my dear." He said gently, as if talking to a skittish horse.

Now that Tom was closer, he caught a glimpse of her face. She had fine features, everything in proportion, with a straight nose and high cheekbones. Her mouth was full and delicate, with a hint of stubbornness in the set of her jaw. Her eyes were large and brown, and flickered suspiciously between himself and the old wizard. But he didn't get the impression she was afraid… no, it was more like she was sizing them up. As if she was considering who to curse first.

After a moment, she gritted out a curt greeting, "Dumbledore," with a barely perceptible nod.

"This is a student of mine, Tom Riddle." Dumbledore said, indicating Tom, who gave a small smile that dripped of false friendliness. The girl didn't respond in kind, but narrowed her eyes slightly at him, causing Tom to bristle with annoyance, though he kept his carefully friendly mask in place. "And may I remind you that I am Professor Dumbledore." The girl's eyes flashed away from Tom and back to him. "May we come inside and talk?"

"I haven't yet decided that you will be my professor." She deadpanned back, with no sign of contrition at his small rebuke. Tom almost laughed out loud as he glanced back at Dumbledore and saw the old man blink. "But, I suppose you may enter." She added, rather grudgingly, after a slightly awkward pause.

Dumbledore sighed as she turned to the door and began unlocking it. But he reasoned that it was a sign of progress that she at least felt comfortable enough to turn her back on them. He watched in amusement as she inserted the key into no fewer than five locks, each seeming to require a different whispered password and wave of her wand before he heard the heavy bolts sliding back.

At last, the door swung open and she stalked in, not bothering to see if they followed.

"Close it behind you." She ordered bluntly over her shoulder as she ascended a rickety staircase rapidly.

Tom, being last through, pulled the door shut behind him as he stepped into the grimy, narrow hallway, and then watched as the five complicated bolts moved on their own back into place, sealing the door shut. He briefly wondered how Dumbledore had managed to get in the first time he'd visited, before he followed the professor up the stairs and into a room at the top.

The staircase and entrance hall had been musty with dark, damp wood panelling painted peeling black. But this contrasted starkly with the room that the strange girl called home. He stepped into the light and dry warmth of a large room and looked around with interest. A large fireplace dominated the centre of the room, with a cheerfully crackling fire burning unattended in the hearth. Next to it was a narrow bed, still unmade and strewn with crumpled clothes. She was quite messy. Nearly every surface in the room was stacked high with stuff. Books, quills, parchment, newspapers, clothes, miscellaneous crockery… even the brightly patterned carpet of the floor was barely visible. There was a large four-legged wooden table in the centre of the room with a single chair, groaning under the weight of more clutter, but that wasn't what Tom looked at first. His eyes were drawn immediately to the stuffed bookshelves that lined every wall except one, from the floor to the high ceiling. The one open wall was papered with notes in a cursive scrawl and what seemed to be newspaper clippings, chaotically layered like a strange artwork.

It gave Tom a slight headache just looking at it, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably as he saw the only purely decorative item in the room, a painting of a Scottish landscape, hanging askew.

The girl took off her cloak and cowl and tossed them carelessly onto her bed, adding to the growing mountain of clothes there, and ran a hand through her hair, which was brown and cropped short to just above her shoulders. She wore a grey high-necked dress and black tights, and unlike her cloak, it looked expensive and well-made. There was even lace cuffs at the ends of her long sleeves. Tom suddenly remembered she was a Gray. Did that mean she had access to an inherited fortune like the Malfoys and the Blacks?

She seemed slightly more relaxed in her own space, and waved her wand at the table, shifting the piles of books and papers to another corner of the room. Tom didn't miss the fact that the spell was non-verbal, although that wasn't particularly hard…

"I'll prepare some tea." She said, in a tone that was marginally warmer than the one she'd used before, and went over to the fireplace, where a heavy black kettle hung on a iron rod.

"Splendid." Said Dumbledore, and conjured two extra chairs at the table for himself and Tom.

"Your collection of books is impressive." Tom commented politely as he sat down, remembering that he was supposed to ingratiate himself to her.

She glanced at him as she added tea leaves to the pot. "…Thank you." She said stiffly, after a moment.

Tom glanced at Dumbledore, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

"You know," continued Tom slowly, as if remarking on the weather, "The library at Hogwarts is the most extensive magical library in Europe."

"Is-is that so?" although she tried to hide it, she couldn't quite stop the eagerness from infecting her voice.

Tom smiled charmingly, knowing he had her full attention. "Indeed." He said, and then gave a chuckle, "A student could spend years reading and not get through even a quarter of the books."

The girl looked oddly subdued as she brought the steaming pot over to the table, as well as conjuring a pitcher of milk, a pot of sugar, and three cups complete with spoons. Tom didn't miss that, once again, all her wand work was non-verbal. The spells were quite simple, true, but the speed and ease at which she accomplished her tasks even while she was obviously distracted was… impressive.

Dumbledore commenced pouring the tea and then addressed her. "So, Amalia, have you given any thought to my invitation to Hogwarts?"

She sighed and laid down her wand carefully next to her hand, within easy reaching distance. She accepted a cup of tea from the old wizard, and nodded slowly. Tom eyed her wand. It was nondescript but in good condition - a light brown colour with a carved handle, almost as long as his.

"I did some research about you, and Hogwarts," Amalia admitted, "And it seems like a good school."

"But?" prompted Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling kindly at her.

"I don't really have a choice at all, do I?" she said seriously. "The Ministry won't let an underage witch run around without a formal education. Now that I was found-" it was almost comical the way she sounded so cross with herself, "They won't let me be."

Dumbledore didn't bother denying her words. "Perhaps you are looking at this the wrong way," he said instead, "Hogwarts is not the Ministry - they do not have jurisdiction over its students. I know that you distrust the Ministry, but I can assure you that you will be safe at Hogwarts."

Tom could tell by her frown that she didn't believe him.

"Amalia, you can find a home at Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, his voice earnest. "It can't have been easy, living here by yourself all this time."

"I don't mind my own company," argued Amalia, but Tom could tell she was beginning to cave in.

"It may be a bit of an adjustment at first," Tom said, with false sympathy, "But there is no need to be afraid…"

She glared. "I'm not afraid," she growled instantly.

He raised his hands in a placating gesture, barely concealing his smug look at her predictable response.

"Then you will become a student at Hogwarts?" prompted Dumbledore, raising his eyebrows at her in mild expectancy.

Amalia looked in irritation between them, and Tom half expected her to hiss like an annoyed cat. Then, she sighed and looked away. "Fine." She snapped.

"Excellent." Dumbledore said, satisfied.

"On one condition, Professor," Amalia interrupted, raising one finger.

"Oh?" said Dumbledore indulgently, "And what is that?"

"I know it is customary for the Ministry to question anyone who has been in possession of a Time-Turner. I will answer any questions about it, but not to them." Tom eyebrows rose at her venomous tone when she spoke of the Ministry, and he wondered what she had against them.

Dumbledore surveyed her for a moment, and then nodded. "That is not a problem. I can take your statement and pass it on. You do not need to have contact with the Ministry at all."

She nodded, looking relieved. "Oh, and I don't wish to talk about my past." She added hastily. "I moved to Knockturn two years ago. Before that… It isn't relevant."

Dumbledore looked mildly surprised. "That's two conditions, my dear." He read the firmness in her eyes and inclined his head. "Nonetheless, I accept them. However, if you do wish to talk to me about anything, please remember that my door will always be open."

She nodded, hesitated, and then in a surprisingly formal gesture she stuck out her hand. Dumbledore took it in his stride and solemnly shook it across the table. Tom fought with himself not to roll his eyes.

After that, the atmosphere seemed a little less tense, and they all sipped their tea in silence for a short while. Then, clearly making an effort to demonstrate her goodwill, Amalia gave a polite smile and said, "I got the fifth-year course books and had a look through them."

Tom felt a stab of annoyance as he realised she had a head-start on him…

"Oh, and what did you think?" inquired Dumbledore.

"They all seem pretty straightforward," she said seriously, and Tom couldn't detect any boastfulness in her tone, only honesty. She hesitated. "Except Potions. I think I'm far behind in Potions."

"I'm certain you'll manage just fine," Dumbledore said reassuringly, "And Tom here is top of his class in Potions. I'm sure he would have no issue with helping you should you need it."

Her large brown eyes travelled to him and once again Tom felt like he was being sized up. He felt a prickle of annoyance at her directness, but still managed to force a smile onto his face. "Of course." He said smoothly, "I'd be delighted."

To his surprise she narrowed her eyes slightly at him, as if suspicious. Had she seen something in his expression…? Her eyes slid back to Dumbledore. "What happens now?" she asked.

"Well, as you know, the school term starts in two days. You are welcome to meet Tom and I at the train station-"

"Professor, are you staying nearby?" she interrupted him.

He paused, then replied, "The Leaky Cauldron."

She nodded with a bird-like movement, a shifty expression coming over her face. "Then if it is alright with you, I would like to stay there until the term starts." Her eyes darted to the door as if she expected enemies to come bursting through at any moment. "This location has already been compromised." She muttered to herself in a low, serious voice.

Tom couldn't quite hold back an incredulous snort at her paranoia, but then tried to cover it up with a hasty cough.

Amalia wasn't fooled, and glared, looking down her nose at him.

If Dumbledore had thought her request was odd, he certainly didn't show any sign of it. "Very well," he said genially, "Would you like any help packing?"

"No, it's alright, thanks." Amalia said, and rose from the table. She looked ruefully around at her cluttered room, as if unsure where to begin.

After a moment's deliberation, she strode over and dragged a large trunk out from where it had been concealed behind a chest-high stack of books. It had an ornate crest engraved on the lid. Tom wondered if it was her family crest. She heaved it open, and began waving her wand. Books leapt out of the shelves and flew into the trunk at speed, making muffled thumps as they disappeared inside.

"It's enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm," she explained as she walked around the room, "It was very expensive, but worth it, I think."

"If I may ask," said Dumbledore politely, "Did you inherit money? Hogwarts has a fund for students who don't have any of their own."

A dark expression swept over her face, but she decided to answer, "Yes, whatever family I may have had left a small fortune at Gringotts."

May have had? So, she'd never met her family? Tom rose quietly and walked around the table, interested in the wall papered with newspaper clippings and written notes. Amalia was distracted by folding her crumpled clothes on the other side of the room with an irritable expression.

"Mysterious fire in Hampshire" read the headline of one clipping, and the picture of a burnt-out ruin was frozen - from a muggle newspaper. It was dated two years ago.

Next to it was a list of names, about twenty of them, under the scrawled heading "Involved?" Three had been crossed out.

"Mind your own business." Interrupted a sharp voice from behind him, and Tom turned with a bland expression.

She scowled darkly up at him and angrily waved her wand. With a ripping sound, all the papers came free of the wall at once and sorted themselves into a messy pile in midair. Another wave and they, too, disappeared into the seemingly bottomless trunk.

Tom shrugged, as if he wasn't burning with curiosity, and walked casually back to the table, which he leant against and folded his arms to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the room was absolutely cleared of all traces of her existence, except the bare furniture.

Dumbledore vanished her trunk, like he'd done with Riddle's, and then they descended the stairs and exited the building in silence. Amalia closed the door behind her and locked it, and couldn't quite hide a small sigh as she left the building for good. But she squared her shoulders and looked resolute as she followed Dumbledore through the twisting roads of Knockturn towards Diagon Alley.

As they travelled, Tom kept expecting her to start babbling, as in his experience girls were wont to do. But she seemed more tense outside, and he started getting annoyed with the way her eyes flickered back and forth constantly, eyeing the shadows as if they could bite. Every now and then she would look behind her quickly, as if to catch a follower by surprise.

It was with some relief that they walked into the familiar bustle of The Leaky Cauldron, busy even at this late hour. Tom found he was ravenously hungry, and almost forgot his dislike of Dumbledore when the wizard insisted on ordering massive plates piled with food for each of them.

Dumbledore watched in amusement as his two charges fell on their meals. They were both on the skinny side, after all.

"It's not going to run away, Ms Gray," chuckled Dumbledore, and she blushed slightly over her almost-empty bowl of stew.

Tom's Sheppard's pie had already disappeared entirely, and his knife and fork were neatly crossed on his plate. He was already thinking longingly of the bed that awaited upstairs.

Amalia made an effort to chew slower, and swallowed carefully. "Eating was such a headache while using the Time-Turner," she said, unexpectedly forthcoming.

"Oh?" asked Dumbledore, inclining his head.

Amalia nodded, and rolled her eyes. "It was easy to forget, and then realize I had to leave food in the past for my future self… very confusing."

"You had the Time-Turner for two months, correct?" asked Dumbledore, a small frown creasing his forehead.

Amalia nodded. "Don't worry," she said easily, "I kept extensive records of what I was doing each day, so that I wouldn't get confused and be seen in the same place at the same time."

"I see." There was a stern look in his gaze, "However, you could have easily made a mistake and endangered yourself, or others."

Amalia didn't look contrite, but she did nod. "I know. But it was necessary, and I was as careful as I think I could have been."

Dumbledore read honesty in her gaze, but didn't understand. "Why was it so necessary?"

"I needed to learn how to defend myself in a short amount of time." She explained with a shrug. "They were attacking more often, and I knew it was only a matter of time before they found where I was living."

"They?" asked Tom, raising a skeptical eyebrow, "Who?"

Her expression darkened as she glanced at him, as if she'd forgotten about his presence, and was annoyed that he was in the conversation. "How am I supposed to know?" she asked hotly, as if he'd asked a stupid question. "Sometimes they'd be Ministry men, and other times they had masks!"

"Masks?" he sneered.

Dumbledore interrupted before Amalia could argue back. "And what did they do, when they… attacked?"

"Well, sometimes they would just try to kill me," she said matter-of-factly, "And other times they would try to capture me… I don't know why, so don't ask me!" despite her tone, she seemed quite upset, and looked at her stew, unhappy.

"The Ministry was just trying to track you down for the Time-Turner," explained Dumbledore, trying to calm her down, but she shook her head emphatically.

"No," she argued, "It's the other way around. The Ministry men were the ones trying to kill me. Not those idiots searching for the Time-Turner - they never got close enough to do anything."

Tom looked at the ceiling and struggled to hold back his laughter. Crazy as a coot, this one was…

Dumbledore certainly didn't sound convinced, as he said wearily, "And you have no idea why any of these men would seek you out?"

Her fork clattered in her empty bowl as she stood up abruptly. "I don't! I know you don't believe me, and I don't care." She raised her chin defiantly. "I'll give you my notes on the Time-Turner - that was the deal. I mostly used it to sit in my room and practice magic, anyway. Please don't concern yourself with any of my other problems."

"Amalia-"

"Good-night, Professor." And she stalked off to her room on the upper floor without another word.

Tom barely hid a grin at the look of frustration on Dumbledore's face - he didn't often see that. "Do you think she's telling the truth, Professor?" asked Tom, with false concern etched in his voice.

Dumbledore sighed, and looked even older than usual. "I think she believes it's true." He said thoughtfully, "But, I also think she's been living alone for a long time."

Even Dumbledore thinks she's nuts, Tom thought smugly. "I think you may be right." He said somberly, and stood up as well.

"Good night, Professor."

The next day went by in a blur of activity. Tom left Dumbledore and his new charge to do Amalia's shopping in the morning. He felt right again as he did his own long-overdue shopping, and saw many Hogwarts students among the throng in Diagon Alley as it was the day before the start of term. He stayed out late, and only arrived back at The Leaky Cauldron when it was already getting dark.

He spotted Dumbledore in a discussion with a group of awestruck-looking old wizards in emerald robes, but didn't know what language they were speaking in. He resisted rolling his eyes - what made him so great, anyway?

But as he passed by, Dumbledore looked over and motioned to him.

He fixed a polite smile on his face and walked over.

"Tom," said Dumbledore when he was close enough, "Before you go to bed, tell Ms Gray we are leaving at precisely eight o' clock tomorrow morning."

Tom nodded, his cheerful mood somewhat dampened at the thought of speaking to the neurotic girl. But he went upstairs and paused at her door and called out, "Ms Gray, are you in there?" he heard no reply, so he raised his hand and knocked.

As soon as his knuckles connected with the wood of the door, a surge of energy like a bolt of electricity flashed through him, and he jerked back, cursing. There was a red welt on his hand where the spell had burnt him.

He glared at the door and considered blasting the damn thing into splinters. Who in seven hells put a Stinging Hex on the door of an inn?!

He heard footsteps and the door cracked open, and Amalia stood there, pointing her wand at him suspiciously. "Oh, it's just you." She said, and her eyes lost their interest. He felt a prickle of annoyance. He knew for a fact that all female students at Hogwarts would have squealed in delight, or shrank back in fear at the sight of him at their door, not curled their lip in barely disguised disdain!

She left the door open and walked back inside. He stalked after her.

She walked over to the bed and picked up a book which she had obviously just been reading. It was Advanced Potion-Making, Year Five.

"We're leaving at eight tomorrow," he spat, still rubbing the welt on his hand, "Don't be late."

"I won't be." She answered emotionlessly.

He turned on his heel to march out before he hexed her out of annoyance.

"Riddle," she said suddenly, making him pause.

"What?" he snapped.

"What house are you in?" she seemed genuinely curious.

"…Slytherin." He replied.

She nodded. "Is that the best house?"

"Of course." He said arrogantly.

She seemed thoughtful. "Do you think I will make it into Slytherin?"

He looked into her big brown eyes and said coldly, "No." Slytherin was no place for paranoid hoarders, after all.

She blinked. "Oh." She looked down at the Potions book and traced a finger over the cover.

"Dumbledore mentioned you live in a muggle orphanage." She said suddenly, "Is that true?"

Tom just looked at her, with ice in his eyes, while he imagined cursing Dumbledore in the worst way possible for the umpteenth time.

Amalia saw the answer in his stiff expression, and inclined her head. "Are you muggleborn?" she asked next, in a matter-of-fact voice.

Tom, who had been determined not to give anything else away, couldn't help a disgusted expression flitting across his face, and he snarled, "No!"

"A Half-blood, then." Concluded Amalia simply, and, seeing confirmation in his glare, she shrugged and returned her attention to her book.

Tom tried to contain his fury with difficulty. How dare this insolent little girl speak to him like this…?! In his pocket, he felt his wand heating up under his fingers as he itched to curse her pretty little face right off… not that he thought she was pretty, of course…

He was distracted from his rage by her next words. "I sometimes wonder… why aren't there any magical orphanages…?" she murmured, as if she'd forgotten Tom's presence entirely. She sounded… wistful.

Magical orphanages? … Was she an orphan, then?

… I moved to Knockturn two years ago. Before that… It isn't relevant.

… Yes, whatever family I may have had left a small fortune at Gringotts.

Tom's rage faded to a dull roar at the back of his mind as he was gripped by a terrible curiosity.

Who was she? What had happened in her past?

Whatever her story was, she was certainly different. And different was interesting…

As he left her room, he pondered everything he knew about her. It wasn't much. And now she knew he was Half-blood. Though it wasn't exactly a secret at Hogwarts, he certainly didn't broadcast it, and those that did know also knew to keep their mouths shut. Could she use this against him…?

He shook his head at his own folly. There was no way she posed a threat to him. The notion was laughable. But he wanted to understand the mystery that was Amalia Gray… and he vowed darkly to himself that he would do it… Even if it meant he had to get his hands dirty in the process.

He threw himself down on his bed and let an evil grin twist his handsome features. This might actually be quite fun…

Chapter Text

Tom watched Amalia carefully as they approached Platform nine and three-quarters, but she showed no sign of nerves. Her face was composed, her movements sure, and as they got closer she didn't seem as suspicious as usual of the muggles that thronged the busy train station.

Dumbledore explained how the entrance to the platform worked, and Amalia showed immediate interest. She even abandoned her trolley loaded with her newly acquired school supplies, complete with a rather aristocratic-looking barn owl, and stepped next to the brick wall, tapping it gently with her wand and whispering a short spell. She leaned in close as if to listen to the reverberation in the bricks. Tom thought he saw the bricks shiver, as if they were a reflection in a pool that had been disturbed, but it stopped when he blinked.

Looking like her curiosity had been satisfied, she drew back and then pushed her trolley through the barrier without hesitation or a backward glance and disappeared.

Dumbledore chuckled at her behaviour - his eyes sparkled with admiration for whatever she had done. Tom felt a stirring of anger, and quickly pushed through the barrier after her. Just wait until you get to the castle, he sneered to himself, We'll see who's impressive there.

The platform was heaving with students and their parents, and he swiftly lost sight of both Amalia and Dumbledore, who went their separate ways. The train whistled loudly, adding to the cheerful cacophony of noise that irritated Tom even further, though he strode through the rabble purposefully. He hated crowds.

"Riddle!"

He recognised the voice and turned his head slightly, acknowledging the speaker. "Rosier."

"D-did you have a good summer?" asked the smaller fair-haired boy in a slightly breathless voice.

Tom felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the glassy submissiveness in his classmate's eyes. This was how he should be treated. He ignored the question coldly and said, "Tell the others to wait in the usual compartment. I've been made Prefect, so I will be joining you all later."

"Of course." Agreed the boy immediately, with an eager dipping of his head.

Riddle gestured and Rosier hurried to take his trolley to the baggage car for him. As Riddle stalked off towards the nearest entrance to the train he heard Rosier's voice carrying over the crowd.

"Mulciber! Get over here and help me. Riddle's just arrived - he's going to meet us inside…"

"Excuse me, ladies…" Tom murmured to a bunch of third-year girls blocking the doorway. With high-pitched giggles and instant blushing, they pulled each other away from his path, staring with wide eyes hungrily at his handsome features, but too frightened to say a word.

He smirked at them as he passed and they almost fell over.

"That's a useful trick." Said a chuckling voice from right behind him, and he turned to see Amalia following him through the gap he'd created. She'd gotten her luggage onto the train already, and was looking around with interest at all the people around them. She was tall enough to tower over the third-year girls who immediately stopped their giggling, looking shocked.

He scowled at her. "Are you following me, Gray?" he demanded coldly. The third years followed them onto the train and gasped and whispered to each other, watching the exchange with wide eyes. Who on was this person who spoke so informally with Tom Riddle? Why did she wear Hogwarts robes undecorated by any house colours?

"You're the only person I know, remember?" she reminded him, one eyebrow raised as if she didn't think much of his tone.

"So what?" he snapped, regretting it as he noticed they were starting to draw attention. Riddle, the perfect gentleman, arguing with a new student…? His reputation was on thin ice here.

She scowled at him. "I wanted to share a compartment with you." She stated, as if it was obvious.

He felt his lip starting to curl at the thought of it, but he held back the venomous rejection teetering on the tip of his tongue and instead gave a stiff, apologetic smile, glancing from their onlookers back to her. "Unfortunately," he said, false sincerity dripping from his words, "I have Prefect duties to attend to. You will have to find a compartment on your own."

She didn't seem dismayed at all, but merely nodded and looked past him, as if disinterested. "Alright then, see you later." She said dismissively, and, "Scuse me…" she pushed past him, heading further into the train.

He grimaced at her rudeness - she'd actually dared to touch him as she passed - and stalked off in the other direction, grateful to leave her far behind.

Amalia walked down the train passage purposefully, peering into each compartment briefly before moving on. They were mostly full, and the few ones that were reasonably empty invariably seemed to contain pale-faced first years. While she knew she had the most in common with them, she was seeking more than just someone to sympathise with. She needed information on the school. The more she knew before she arrived, the better equipped she would be to deal with whatever this new chapter of her life would throw at her.

She noticed an empty compartment and hesitated. She wondered if anyone would join her if she entered alone… but it wasn't ideal. She glanced back where she'd come from and noticed the giggling third-years from earlier. They seemed to be following her, judging by the badly concealed glances and nudges they were giving each other when they looked at her. She remembered how they'd acted around Riddle and barely avoided rolling her eyes.

She tensed in annoyance - she hated girls like these - but fixed a friendly smile on her face anyway. Just because she disliked them didn't mean they couldn't be useful, after all.

"Hello." She said warmly, "This compartment is empty. Would you mind sharing it with me? I'm a new student this year."

A girl with heavy-lidded eyes and a pretentious smile stepped up, eyeing her somewhat rudely. "You're a little old for a first-year, aren't you?" she sneered.

The girls behind her collapsed into titters at her words.

Amalia forced her smile to remain fixed on her face, but felt a muscle in her eye twitch. "It's a good thing I'm going to be in fifth year, then," she said, with a trace of sharpness, and inclined her head at the compartment. "Shall we?"

Something in her challenging gaze must have intimidated the girl, because her smile slipped off her face, and she hesitated, unsure how to respond. She glanced uncertainly at her friends, then shrugged with false bravado. "Sure." She said, and her and her two friends followed Amalia in.

"I'm Amalia Gray." She said genially, seating herself by the window. She crossed her legs elegantly and watched as the other three sat down awkwardly across from her, as if called into a meeting with the principal. Her calm eyes measured each of them carefully until they shifted uncomfortably, and then she casually pulled out her wand and flicked it - the door slid shut with a gentle click.

The heavy-lidded girl found her voice again with an effort. "Olive Hornby," she said bravely, "And this is Becca Harrows and Marcy Edwards."

"It's nice to meet you." Amalia said politely.

"How do you know Tom Riddle?" blurted out the blonde girl seated next to Hornby.

Hornby smirked. "Marcy here's got a crush on him." She told Amalia, causing the other girl to blush furiously.

"Yes, he's very attractive, isn't he?" Amalia agreed, and gave a very un-Amalia-like giggle. "Clever, too." She smiled bashfully, "We talked for ages about the classes we're going to have together, and he even agreed to help me with Potions."

"No way! Really?" squealed Marcy, and the slightly overweight girl, Becca Harrows, gasped enviously and almost fell off her seat.

What fools, sneered Amalia to herself, I almost feel sorry for them. "So what's he like in school?" Amalia asked curiously, "I only spent some time with him in the holidays." She exaggerated easily, seeing the admiration in their vapid expressions. She listened attentively as they gushed on what was clearly a favourite subject for the next half-hour. By that time, the train had departed the station and was taking them further and further into the countryside.

Amalia felt her heart lightening as she left the dreariness and danger of London far behind. Her research had told her that Hogwarts was one of the safest places in Europe, impregnated with so many protective wards and enchantments that it was considered nigh impossible to infiltrate. If she wasn't safe there, she wouldn't be safe anywhere. That safety was worth even the tedium of letting some bird-brained girls chatter on about Riddle if they wanted to.

Gradually they exhausted the topic of extolling his many virtues (which Amalia was highly doubtful of), and she managed to slip in questions about more important matters. She learnt about the Sorting hat, the different houses, the teachers, ghosts, classes and the library.

She also picked up more information than she wanted about who to make friends with. The three imbecilic girls were in the academically brilliant Ravenclaw, which she found ironic since they seemed so silly. Gryffindors were loud and annoying, she learnt, while Hufflepuffs were alright, if a little dim.

Slytherins were generally an unpleasant bunch - with a few exceptions, like Riddle - but she also gathered from their tone that they were quite elitist. After all, some of the most powerful magical families called Slytherin home. She had no idea which house she wanted to be sorted into - they all seemed rather restrictive.

As the food trolley came around, she surprised her companions by buying a massive amount of food, and eating it with enthusiasm, too.

"Aren't you afraid of putting on weight?" asked Hornby in a somewhat scandalised tone.

"Yes, you should be more careful," agreed Marcy, her blonde ponytail bouncing with earnestness, "You're so pretty and thin already!"

Amalia glanced at the overweight Becca Harrows, who flushed and tried to hide the chocolate frog she'd been about to eat from her friends. "I don't care much about my weight," Amalia said with a careless shrug, and took an enormous bite of a pumpkin pasty, "Life's too short to worry about that kind of thing… Don't you think?"

Olive Hornby still looked scandalised, and shook her head disapprovingly, but somehow she felt like she'd been gently chastised. This Amalia Gray seemed so self-assured - she looked graceful reclining against the window seat with her long legs stretched out on the seat beside her, and there was something refined about her even as she stuffed her face. How was that even possible?!

Marcy Edwards gave a shrill squeak as she caught sight of a certain dark-haired Prefect passing their compartment, and they all looked around.

Amalia, still pretending that she was on good terms with him, waved cheerfully, and was rewarded by a curt nod before he moved on.

As Tom walked past he heard her laugh merrily as the girls started pestering her with questions about their "relationship". He fumed silently and felt his fingers twitch as they itched to close around her slender neck at the thought of her telling those idiot girls Merlin-knew-what about him…

"Who's that?" asked the sallow-faced boy following close behind him. A Prefect badge also glinted on his chest. He was curious about this girl who seemed to be friendly with Riddle.

"No one important, Dolohov," snapped Tom, an ugly look entering his eyes. "Some new fifth year."

"If you say so," acquiesced the other boy quickly, but looked back somewhat wistfully. "It's just… she's kind of attractive, don't you think?"

"I don't agree." Said Tom coldly, as they arrived at the compartment where the rest of his little group was assembled and waiting for him. "As I already said, she isn't important."

"Who isn't important?" asked Leonard Avery, the lanky youth seated closest to the door as they walked in. "It's good to see you, Riddle."

Tom merely nodded as he pushed through the group to the window seat that had been left open for him.

"There's a new student coming into fifth year," explained Antonin Dolohov eagerly, missing Tom's irritable expression, "She looks… interesting. Riddle knows her."

At his words the other boys stirred, grinning. Avery, the loud-mouth of the group, instantly demanded a description, and Dolohov enthusiastically obliged.

Tom felt like hitting his own head against the window beside him at their stupidity. When had these fools become hormone-crazed imbeciles?! Amalia was half-decent looking, he had to admit, but they didn't know she was paranoid lunatic with a hoarding problem.

"Don't get too excited," drawled a broad-chested boy with shoulder-length black hair. His voice was deep and somewhat harsh. "What's her blood status? Do you know, Riddle?"

Tom felt annoyed that they were still talking about her, but Silas Lestrange, the one who'd asked, was looking expectantly at him. He shouldn't start ordering them around as soon as he walked in… He might as well indulge their curiosity for now. "Pureblood." He answered curtly, and raised an eyebrow at Avery, who actually punched the air and said, "Yes!"

"Calm down," chided Theodore Rosier, who sat closest to Riddle and seemed to sense his mood, "Riddle already said she isn't important."

"At least tell us her name," begged Avery, with his usual flair for the dramatic. "You can't blame us for being excited, Riddle, the girls in our year are all trolls."

Tom smirked as they all looked at him expectantly, and paused, dragging out the silence. "Fine." He said with an indulgent sigh, "Her name is Amalia Gray."

"Gray?"

"But that's-"

"Nott, didn't you have an aunt that was related to a Gray-?"

"I thought the Grays were extinct." As usual, Lestrange's harsh words cut through the other's chatter.

"I thought so, as well." Said Tom quietly. He looked around the group. "I tire of discussing this. My last word on the subject of Amalia Gray is that I think she's hiding something." The other boys exchanged glances at this interesting news. Tom met each of their eyes, the cold expression in his gaze reminding them just who was in charge. "If any of you find out anything of note about her, I want to be informed. That is all."

"But-"

"This subject is now closed, Avery." Warned Tom in a softly dangerous voice, and the other boy swallowed nervously, nodding.

"Now, to other matters." Announced Tom coldly. "Now that I am Prefect, it's going to be much easier to get around the castle. I think we can move our meetings to a better location…

Definitely not a Hufflepuff, chuckled a sly voice in her ear, as she waited for the Sorting Hat to make a decision, At least we can eliminate that possibility…

She blinked and looked out at the Great Hall, where a sea of faces stared at her. All the first-years had been sorted, and with the eyes of everyone fixed on her, she felt the first flutterings of nerves since she woke up that morning. She didn't mind being in a crowd, where she could blend in and observe, or talking to people one-on-one, where she could control the conversation… But she didn't like being the centre of attention. Here, sitting on a stool in the middle of the open space in front of the teacher's table, anyone could attack her and she'd be helpless to react in time.

I'm not in Knockturn anymore, she reminded herself, quelling the jittery feelings with sheer willpower, I'm safe here. Hogwarts is safe. I'm not afraid.

Bravery in the face of overwhelming odds… But also a dislike of dependence, noted the hat as it listened to her thoughts, A preference for your own company over that of others.

"I can't argue with that," she said ruefully in her mind.

So not a Gryffindor, then, surmised the hat. What about Ravenclaw? You prize learning and enjoy the challenge of discovery-

"Ugh." Her nose wrinkled as she thought of Olive Hornby and her silly little friends.

Alright, then, said the hat, it'll have to be…

"SLYTHERIN!" The hat shouted, making her jump slightly even though she'd been expecting it.

She gratefully took off the hat, thankful that the ordeal was over, and stood, as the green and silver house on her far right clapped and cheered. Her eyes searched until she found Riddle, who was sitting near the end of the closest table, and looked like he was sucking on a lemon.

She gave him a brilliant smile and strode purposefully towards him. See, she thought smugly, I did make it into Slytherin, despite what you think of me! He had a dark expression on his face, but Amalia doubted anyone else noticed, because they were still busy staring at her.

Her eyes flicked past him to the ones sitting around him - a group of boys, clearly a posse. She felt surprised - he didn't seem the type to have friends. Although he'd seemed perfectly polite most of the time she'd been around him in the past two days, she had immediately noticed that his smiles never reached his eyes. She was good at spotting danger, and something about the way he looked at the people around him gave her chills. She'd noticed it in The Leaky Cauldron, and at the train station. He was not what he seemed.

But his 'friends' seemed normal enough, at first glance. At the last minute, she swerved away from Riddle and stopped instead at the bench directly opposite him, where two large boys were staring at her in delight.

"Would you mind making some room for me…?" she started asking shyly, brushing her hair behind her ear. She needn't have opened her mouth. Even as she said it they were standing up.

"Of course!" one babbled with a grin, while the other shoved the boy next to him - "Move over, Nott!"

They didn't leave a space for her at the end of the bench, as she assumed, but instead gestured at the gap they had created between themselves.

She nodded and accepted the seat without complaint, looking slightly embarrassed as the loud-mouthed boy on her right insisted on holding her hand as she stepped over the bench and sat down gracefully.

She looked up just in time to see Riddle rolling his eyes, and shot him a lazy grin before turning to her new benchmates.

Tom stiffened in disbelief. Had she just tipped him a lightning-fast wink?! Surreptitious glances at everyone else told him they hadn't noticed. His eyes narrowed at her. Was it his imagination, or was there something challenging in the way she'd grinned at him…?

"Amalia Gray, as you heard," she introduced herself warmly to the two lovestruck Slytherins, while all the other boys except Tom listened in enviously.

"I'm Leonard Avery," the loud-mouthed boy replied eagerly.

"Antonin Dolohov." The other gushed.

"It's nice to meet you." She said politely, and was spared further conversation by Headmaster Dippet, who had shuffled up to the podium and was waving his arms for silence.

"Now that we have greeted all our new students," he said somewhat pompously, "I trust that we have a fulfilling and enlightening year ahead of us all." The stiff smile on his face vanished, and he scowled sternly, raising a finger into the air as if he was about to start conducting an orchestra. "Misdemeanours," he barked, "Will not be tolerated! As always, the Forbidden Forest remains forbidden, the corridors are off-limits after hours, and break-ins at the Restricted Section of the library shall be dealt with most severely." He glowered at them for extra emphasis.

Amalia let a grin steal across her face and looked around at Tom's group. "Well," she whispered theatrically, "I feel right at home already. Is he always so cheerful?"

The boys that had caught her words broke into sniggers, and Tom restrained himself from kicking them in the shins as Headmaster Dippet's heavy gaze fell on them.

"Ahem," coughed the man, clearly put off his speech by their antics, "Yes. Well… Study hard, respect your teachers, respect the name of your school." He clapped his hands. "Let the feast begin." He seemed relieved to be able to leave the podium.

Amalia gasped in genuine shock as the feast magically appeared on the table. Avery and Dolohov laughed at her expression.

"This is amazing." She muttered in awe, and immediately started piling her plate high with a bit of everything. The food she'd eaten on the train seemed like a distant memory.

There was a brief silence as everyone fell on the food. Amalia glanced up from her plate and caught Riddle staring at her with a flat gaze. He gave a razor-thin smile at her that didn't reach his eyes.

Holding his gaze, she raised her goblet and drank from it, giving him a tiny, mocking toast. She watched his eyes widen at her gesture, and then narrow. He had very dark eyes, she mused, and when he glared they seemed even darker, obsidian, almost reptilic.

Her eyes flicked away from him at last, and she turned to Dolohov, seated on her left. "So, could you introduce me to everyone else? I'll try my best to remember your names. Though I've already met Riddle, of course." She shot him a friendly smile, which he didn't return.

"Sure," said Dolohov easily, "This is Nott, Mulciber, Lestrange-"

"My pleasure," said the dark-haired boy on Riddle's right-hand side. He had a rather pronounced brow, and large nose and strong jawline, and yet, the heavy features suited him. His voice had a queer, almost guttural quality to it. His smile was more of a leer as his eyes travelled slowly up and down the parts of her that were visible above the edge of the table.

"-And Rosier." Finished Dolohov, nodding to the slight, fair-haired boy which sat on Riddle's left at the end of the bench.

Amalia was getting tired of smiling so much. She wished she didn't have to be around these boys - they stared too much and she'd rather eat the delicious food in peace and quiet. But she knew how important first impressions were, and she was resolved to fit in… at least until she found her feet.

So she kept smiling politely as she devoured a steak and succulent roast pork, with a side of healthy vegetables too.

"So, Amalia - May I call you Amalia? - What's your story?"

She noticed Tom look over sharply at this, and chewed her steak slowly, as if pondering her answer. But she'd already rehearsed what she was going to say.

"You'll have to excuse Avery," Dolohov interrupted with sneer from her other side, "He has the manners of a Blast-Ended Skrewt."

Amalia swallowed her piece of steak and chuckled at his words, but turned to Avery and shrugged. "Sure, I don't mind." She picked up her goblet, but noticed she'd finished her pumpkin juice. The jug stood further along the table.

"Hmm, my story," she mused, as she slipped her wand out of her robe, "Where to begin…" she flicked her wand at the jug, which rose and floated easily down the table towards her, prompting some startled looks. In mid-air the jug tipped and filled up her goblet, without spilling a drop. "Does anyone want a refill?" she asked politely, while the jug hovered. "Avery? Riddle? No?" at Avery's mute shaking head and Riddle's icy stare, she sent the jug back down the table, setting it down gently. Then she took a dainty sip, seemingly oblivious to the way she'd just gotten everyone's attention.

"My story is quite simple." She said, putting her goblet down. "I've never been to magical school, though I know a fair bit. I suppose you could say I was… home-schooled, after a fashion," she shrugged. "As for my family, I have none." Now a sad expression came over her face, and she looked down as if she couldn't bear to meet their eyes. "I… I don't like talking about it." She looked up, and now she seemed ashamed. "Neither do I have many friends…" her eyes flickered around the table, "But that unhappy situation will not last long, I'm sure." She smiled sweetly, and Avery and Dolohov hastened to assure her that she was very welcome indeed, and if she was uncomfortable discussing her family they'd of course refrain from being nosy... They seemed to have forgotten Tom's orders rather conveniently. Tom narrowed his eyes at her. Where had the suspicious and secretive Amalia gone? Who was this… this… social butterfly, who deflected questions about her past so easily? She had a very expressive face, and she certainly wasn't stupid. Unlike his classmates…

He surveyed her carefully. He suddenly noticed that her wand was still out, on the table next to her hand. He noticed her knuckles go white around her fork as some Gryffindors at the table behind her abruptly roared with laughter. He saw her eyes glance twice, three times over the hall, to where the great double doors stood, as if she was wishing she could leave. No, for all her calm exterior… underneath she was still a neurotic mess.

He smirked. "So, Gray," he said abruptly, "Why did you decide to come to Hogwarts?"

She looked at him in surprise, and then hesitated. He knew why…

"There must be some important reason," he goaded her, Go on… start raving about the ministry men coming to kill you, go on… we'll see how fast Avery and Dolohov run away after hearing that… "For you to decide to just move here after so long by yours-"

"It was because of you, Riddle." She suddenly interrupted, with a bright smile. There was definitely a challenge in her eyes now.

He froze in shock, and then scowled when she continued sweetly, "Don't you remember? You were telling me about how big the library is… and how Slytherin was the best house…" a muscle twitched in Riddle's jaw as she fluttered her fake doe-eyes at him. He could tell she was laughing at him inside. "… So I just decided. I had to see it for myself!"

Now he was even getting curious looks from his followers-! Did they think that he liked her? Now his previous refusal to talk about her seemed like jealousy…

"You're going to love Hogwarts," assured Avery eagerly, from her right-hand side, drawing her attention back to him. "And you're in the only house worth being in, too."

"Is that so?" she said, with false interest. "What makes Slytherin the best?"

She listened attentively as Avery chattered on, filling the air with words, allowing her the chance to eat the last few pieces of her food in peace.

After a while it became apparent that he didn't require much from her by way of a response beyond the occasional nod, and she let her eyes drift around the table, assessing each of the Slytherins she'd met according to their level of threat.

Her eyes accidentally met the dark gaze of Lestrange, who was busy devouring what looked like the leg of a large turkey by hand. His direct stare pinned her with amused malice as his teeth ripped a strip of flesh from the bone, and she looked away quickly, hiding how disconcerted she felt at the sight.

Next to him, Riddle was also staring at her during Avery's monologue, but he was being much more discreet about it, more calculated than creepy. Even so, Amalia realised as she glanced between the swarthy, almost-feral Lestrange and the coolly handsome Riddle, with the correct posture and impeccable manners… they were both wolves among lapdogs. Which was more dangerous? She needed to be on her guard.

Dessert passed without much drama, and Amalia found she was able to get by without saying much. Avery and Dolohov competed for her attention, which she quickly found tedious, but they seemed satisfied with an occasional monosyllabic response and a half-hearted smile.

Tom watched her carefully throughout the meal, but his efforts at uncovering her secrets seemed to have hit a brick wall. She was surprisingly charming - that was something new - and if she kept it up he might have a hard time reining in his own followers. This would need some careful thought…

Once the feast was over, he had to lead the first years to the Common Room, and it was with some disquiet that he watched her get escorted out of the Great Hall surrounded by his cronies. Dolohov, also a Prefect, remained behind.

"Gather round, you little shits," Dolohov called cheerfully, waving the first-years into a small group. They numbered only eleven, all puny white-faced little things that made Tom's lip curl. He didn't remember ever being that small.

As they herded their charges out of the Hall, Dolohov turned to Tom. "I see now what you meant," he said in a low tone.

Tom raised one eyebrow, but didn't deign to respond.

"You know, when you said she was hiding something. She doesn't want to talk about herself… very suspicious." He didn't sound suspicious at all, just like he was saying this to earn some points with Tom.

"Indeed." He replied dryly.

"You know…" Dolohov said cautiously, "If you want to… uncover her secrets," he coughed meaningfully, "The old-fashioned way, you only have to say so." He seemed to perk up when Tom made no reply except a withering glare. "Otherwise, you can just leave it to me." He sniggered.

Tom looked at him up and down, and then smirked. "Sure, go ahead." He said generously, "I don't mind."

"Really?" Dolohov seemed surprised.

"I told you all on the train I didn't find her interesting. I'm only interested in whatever she's hiding."

"Oh. Alright, then."

They arrived at the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room and ushered the first years inside. "Oh, Dolohov," Riddle said smoothly, as the lanky boy made to enter.

"Yes, Riddle?"

"Good luck." Something about the falsely sympathetic way Riddle said it made Dolohov's cheerful smile falter.

Riddle grinned wolfishly as he walked away from the Common Room. Somehow, he knew Amalia was far too smart to fall for the likes of Dolohov… or even worse, that idiot Avery. She didn't take any of them seriously. But him… the way she'd looked at Tom was different. She wasn't fooled by his mask any more than he was by hers.

He'd lied. He found her immensely interesting... on that basis alone.

"It's so great to have another girl around!" enthused a bright-eyed girl with long, curly black hair.

Amalia followed her and two other girls down the winding stone staircase into the girls' dormitories. The third door down was for fifth years. She was quite surprised to see the spacious room, outfitted with four enormous four-poster beds complete with green silver-edged canopies and drapes. Her trunk and other belongings were neatly stacked at the foot of one of the beds.

"Wow, this is mine?" she sat down on the bed and gave an experimental bounce - the mattress was soft and the cover thick with expensive silk-lined quilting.

"Most of the girls' dorms have between five and eight beds per room, one for each year, but we were only three!" Explained the curly-haired girl eagerly, jumping onto her own bed on Amalia's right.

"That's why you were so popular with Riddle's lot at the feast." Explained a long-haired girl with a serious face. "They don't get to speak with girls much. I'm Anne Flint, by the way. It's nice to meet you."

"Merlin's pants, where are my manners? Sorry! I'm Callidora Black." The curly-haired girl bounced off her bed and insisted on grabbing Amalia's hand in a firm handshake.

Amalia returned her friendly smile, and felt a knot of tension loosening inside her. She liked this overly-demonstrative girl, somehow. She seemed… fun, without putting on airs.

"But we just call her Dora, unless she's being particularly annoying." Contributed Anne in her sombre way.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"And this wilting wallflower is Charlotte Yaxley," introduced Callidora officiously, giving a dramatic flourish to the fourth girl in the room.

Charlotte, a small-boned girl with a pixie-like face, went pink when Amalia looked at her and mumbled shyly in a voice that was barely a squeak, "Hi."

"It's great to meet you," Amalia said with a rueful smile, "I was beginning to think I'd signed up for an all-boys school."

Callidora guffawed loudly. "Ah, they're not too bad, I guess, for cretinous leeches!"

"Where did you go to school before?" Anne asked, and Amalia was forced to launch into her rehearsed story again. Homeschooled her whole life - no family left - please don't bring it up.

The girls seemed to take her mysterious background in their stride, and treated Amalia to a short breakdown of their own histories.

Callidora Black was one of many Blacks currently at the school - all in Slytherin, and all related in some way.

"That must be nice?" Mused Amalia somewhat wistfully.

"It most certainly is not!" exclaimed Callidora dramatically, "Most people come to school to escape their family, and everywhere I turn I'm faced with a bloody dreaded cousin…"

"They're not all bad." Interrupted Anne, in her role as seemingly a counterweight to Callidora's constant exaggerations, "Alphard - he's in fourth year - is a decent sort."

"The one you have to steer clear of is Walburga Black." Said Callidora with an affected shudder. "If I wasn't related to her I would say she's definitely part troll."

"And hag." Added Anne.

Callidora nodded. "And hag."

Amalia laughed. "She's really that bad?"

"Oh yes. And she's sixth year- and a Prefect. So try not to get on her bad side. Not that she has a good side, come to think of it."

After that, Amalia learnt that out of the bunch, Anne was the studious one, Charlotte the "girly" girl of the group… and Callidora quite predictably was the trouble-maker. This was affirmed when, about an hour after they'd started talking, she pulled out a dusty bottle of firewhisky from her trunk.

The evening quite quickly degenerated after that. At first Amalia had been wary of the other girls, cautious of some ulterior motive, but soon she found herself laughing and joking along with them as though they'd been friends for years. The alcohol certainly helped.

It was just before midnight when Amalia accepted the last inch of firewhiskey in a small tumbler, feeling pleasantly dizzy.

"Damn. Sh'all gone." Slurred Callidora, and chucked the empty bottle back into her open trunk, where it hit something delicate with a crunch that made them all wince.

"Uh… I can't believe we have classes tomorrow…" Anne said mournfully, shaking her head.

"I can't wait." Said Amalia truthfully, her eyes lighting up. Dumbledore had signed her up for all the classes that could possibly fit on her timetable - and she couldn't wait for all of them.

"Me, too." Said Charlotte quietly, and hiccupped, blinking into her own empty cup in seeming surprise.

"Tha's because you can't wait to see… Lestrange," slurred Callidora with a wicked grin. Anne laughed and Charlotte blushed red like the setting sun.

Amalia turned to stare at the tiny, delicate girl in shock. She could not imagine her with the hulking, predatory Lestrange.

Callidora correctly interpreted her surprised expression and snorted. "It's unrequited, don't worry," she said with a chuckle. "Yaxley just has a thing for bad boys, I think."

"And you two?" Amalia asked, "Any of the boys interest you?"

Anne and Callidora shook their heads violently. "Definitely not!" shouted Callidora.

"Shush!" hissed Anne, and then fell about laughing as Callidora clapped a hand over her mouth in belated shock.

Charlotte was the first to announce the end of the festivities, by falling back on her bed and emitting a soft snore.

Anne went over to her trunk and began laying out her clothes neatly for the next day - hampered by the fact that she could barely stand straight.

Callidora found a pen from somewhere and proceeded to approach Charlotte slowly…with the stealth of a three-legged centaur, with the clear intent of drawing on her sleeping face.

As much as Amalia wanted to see this risky venture to its conclusion, she suddenly felt a pang of loneliness and regret.

"I'm - bathroom." She mumbled, and walked unsteadily to the door.

Somehow she found her way to the girl's lavatory just down the hall. It was deserted this time of night, and she splashed her face with water unhurriedly, her mind clearing slowly. Her dorm-mates were everything she could have hoped for. Warm, friendly… normal.

She didn't belong with them.

This bright and pleasant world, filled with friends and family and safety… it was alien to her. She mustn't forget who she was, what she'd been through. She mustn't forget that this was a temporary safe haven - outside the walls of Hogwarts, her demons were waiting. She mustn't forget…

Tom walked down the dungeon passages to the entrance of the Common Room, whistling a cheerful tune. He spoke the password and entered, feeling pleasantly tired from his long-overdue patrol of the halls of Hogwarts. He was home again.

Suddenly he froze, his good mood evaporating.

The girl was lying on one of the couches, one arm thrown carelessly over her eyes. He thought at first she was sleeping, but then at the sound of the entrance closing behind him she raised her arm and tensed, looking up.

She stopped when she saw who it was.

"Oh, it's just you," she said dismissively, and slumped back down again, looking sleepily at the warm fireplace. It reminded her a little of her room in Knockturn.

Tom felt a now-familiar stab of annoyance as she ignored him on sight.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he hissed, annoyed that she'd caught him sneaking out. He was a Prefect, but he still wasn't allowed to go wandering the corridors so late.

Her jaw cracked with a massive yawn. "Mmm… I just… needed some air." She glanced at him. "What about you?"

He bristled. "None of your business!" he snarled.

She raised her eyebrows at his tone. "Fine. Not like I care."

He huffed and glared at her, his good mood now completely ruined.

"Riddle, why do you hate me?" she suddenly asked.

"I don't." he lied quickly, startled.

"Yes, you do." She corrected him, and sighed. "Well, whatever…"

She stood up and walked away slowly from him. At the stairs to the dormitory she turned her head and looked back at him. "We don't have to be enemies, you know." She said suddenly, serious.

He just glared at her.

"I have too many enemies already."

He laughed at that, a mocking laugh.

Her gaze hardened. "I know you don't believe me, Riddle," she said tartly.

"You're delusional." He said scornfully, shedding his polite mask entirely. It felt so… freeing.

She appraised him for a moment with an approving look, acknowledging that he had finally decided to drop the act. "I'm not afraid of you." She said matter-of-factly.

"You don't know anything about me."

"That won't be the case for very long. And you don't know me, either."

"For now." He echoed her words with a mocking smile.

She laughed softly. "If that's how you want to play it, very well. Good luck."

He blinked as she inadvertently used the same words he had with Dolohov, in precisely the same tone.

"But imagine, for a moment, that I am telling the truth." Now there was definitely a challenge in her stare, and Tom's smile melted off his face as he met her gaze. Tension like electricity crackled between them, and Tom tried to resist the urge to plunge his hand into his robes and pull out his wand. "If I'm telling the truth," she continued, her tone serious, "Then scores of wizards older and more powerful than you have tried to kill me. None have succeeded."

A thrill of excitement ran through him.

"Just bear that in mind before you decide to become my enemy." She finished quietly, and then turned on her heel and disappeared into the stairwell.

Tom remained where he was for a short while, pondering her words. He ran his fingers over his long, pale wand. He wasn't used to being threatened. A bloodthirsty grin broke out over his face, and he found himself hoping she had the skill to back up her words. He did relish a challenge…

Chapter Text

That night Tom dreamt vividly.

He knew he was dreaming - he'd long ago mastered the art of lucid dreaming, as part of his legilimency training - he often used the skill to plan, to strategise and clear his head. Rarely if ever did he indulge himself in idle imagination, but for some reason tonight he let his mind roam, curious to find out where it would take him.

He was standing in a restless, faceless crowd, in a space big enough to be the Great Hall. He glanced around, mildly curious. Soon, he became quite sure that it was the Great Hall, since overhead there was a carpet of stars and an inky night sky, yet he was under the distinct impression he was indoors.

It was utterly silent, as dreams often are, and had the quality of a moving black-and-white photograph, the people inhabiting the dream blurred at the edges.

The crowd seethed, one big mass of insignificant bodies busy doing whatever mundane tasks normal people did. He stood alone, an island of stillness within the crowd, as they walked around, past, behind him, never even glancing in his direction.

He wasn't angry, or afraid, but coolly aloof, secure in the knowledge of his superiority. He had no feelings at all for these people, but a mild ennui and a general air of contempt tugged at him persistently.

Then, suddenly, something changed. He recognised a face in the crowd. Another body, just like the others, but standing still, as he was, as if waiting.

Their eyes met, and there was an instant flash of recognition in her clever brown eyes. The dream-Amalia was even more beautiful than she was in real life, her eyes large and bright, her lips red and full, splashes of colour in an otherwise colourless world.

She grinned at him, showing white teeth, her expression playful and challenging. Quick as thought, she tipped him a lightning-fast wink, just as she had in the real-life Great Hall when she'd so boldly sat down across from him.

Just like then, her wink was a secret communication, a sign only for him, a message. I know what you are.

And she wasn't afraid.

In the dream Tom smirked back at her, a pleasant excitement replacing his previous apathy, as they both drew their wands.

The Hall was abruptly empty, the faceless masses fading like wraiths… and they faced each other, breathlessly tense with expectation before the duel…

He gave a mocking bow.

Her grin widened.

They raised their wands, and-

"R-Riddle?" the nervous whispered voice came from Rosier, and Tom blinked his way into wakefulness, scowling at the fair-haired boy hovering just outside of striking range next to his canopy bed. Bright morning light streamed in - though the Slytherin dormitories were located in the dungeons, the castle was situated on a mountainous outcrop of rock, and the window was like a small porthole, out of which the glittering surface of the Lake could be seen.

Tom lurched upright, rubbing his face as the excitement which had flooded his stomach from the prospect of the duel slowly faded. He glanced around sleepily, and ran a hand through his mussed-up hair. The rest of the dormitory was empty - the others had gone for an early breakfast, leaving Rosier the unhappy task of waking Tom up.

He should be in a hellish mood - as usual - especially since he'd had a late night, but the strangeness of the dream had a curiously energising effect on him.

To say Tom was not a morning person was putting it mildly. Several of his followers had been painfully and lastingly cursed for dressing too loudly on mornings when he'd wanted an extra lie-in, and since then there was always a vicious - yet utterly silent - race to get out of the room before Tom woke up.

The only one willing to come near him was the ever-faithful Rosier - or perhaps it was simply because he was the smallest, and the others bullied him into wake-up duty. They all knew that the consequences of letting Tom be late for class didn't bear thinking about, so someone had to do it.

Rosier's apprehensive expression wasn't the most cheerful thing to wake up to, for sure, but Tom decided he didn't care, and threw back the covers briskly. His good dream, though interrupted, had put him in a good mood, and he almost chuckled when he heard Rosier's almost-inaudible sigh of relief after seeing Tom's relaxed expression.

He dressed swiftly, making sure he looked impeccable, and scrutinised himself in the long mirror next to the door to the dormitory. His hair was behaving, and he didn't have any bags under his eyes, which was a relief since he had been out late the previous night. He frowned and straightened his tie, his long, pale fingers deftly unpicking and re-tying the knot so that it was in perfect proportion. Thus satisfied, he exited the room, with Rosier in tow, and strode confidently to the Common Room.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he entered the room at the same time as the four fifth-year girls. Three of the four looked rather worse for wear - their eyes bloodshot and their expressions wan.

"Mornin', Riddle." Yawned Callidora Black, spotting him walking out. He gave a courteous nod in return. Callidora was a strange girl - she was intimidated by him, he was sure, but at least she still had enough pluck to pretend otherwise.

The fourth girl emerged after her three companions and eyed him with interest. He eyed her right back, unable to help comparing dream-Amalia to the real deal. She looked a little tired, but otherwise didn't seem to have suffered the same ill effects as her roommates. Her eyes were still sharp, her skin flawless, her mouth pert with a hint of stubbornness. Her delicate nose flared slightly as she sized him up. Her thin eyebrows raised expectantly over her liquid brown eyes, framed with long, dark lashes. She was waiting for him to make the first move.

He smiled his most devastating smile at her, his eyes crinkling with friendliness, and said charmingly, "Good morning, Ms Gray. I hope you're settling in well?"

Surprise registered in her face, swiftly followed by a calculated understanding. She knew exactly what he was doing.

War has been declared.

"Oh, very well," she said cheerfully, copying his easy tone, "Everyone has made me feel so welcome." The slight inflection on the word everyone was a small jab meant especially for him.

Callidora, Anne and Charlotte seemed a little taken-aback by this normal exchange - after all, they were more used to Tom Riddle being either morosely aloof, or coldly polite. Even Rosier, gaping at this spectacle from behind Riddle, looked rather confused.

"That is good to hear." Riddle replied serenely, and fell into step with her as if they were old friends. They approached the Common Room entrance side-by-side, their friends trailing after them, speechless.

"I'd hate for anyone to make you feel uncomfortable." As the falsely-sincere words dripped off of his tongue, he chivalrously took Amalia's hand to help her through the narrow stone entranceway: to any onlooker the absolute perfect gentlemen.

Amalia, however, knew better. As soon as he'd touched her, his hand had closed like a vice around the delicate bones of her wrist, and he gripped the joint painfully, his fingers surprisingly strong as they sunk into the softer parts around the bone, hard enough to bruise. Pain shot up her arm. This violent act contrasted starkly with his earnestly friendly demeanour, and Amalia strove to keep her face similarly composed, though a muscle clenched in her jaw.

"Oh, do not concern yourself, Riddle," she said in a perfectly genial tone, maintaining a broad smile, "I assure you I can take care of myself." With that said, she stomped deliberately into his instep, the heel of her well-crafted boot sinking into his foot with a satisfying crunch. Her action was hidden well as they both wear long school robes, and she was instantly rewarded by a faint hiss of pain through clenched teeth, as his smile became strained.

Out of the porthole, he dropped her wrist and stepped away to a safer distance. Amalia seethed with anger as she ponders this turn of events - she hadn't expected him to physically harm her. What kind of person does that? Did he really hate her that much? But no, she realised immediately, Riddle was merely testing the water, seeing how far he could push her. The game had only just begun.

She opened and closed her left hand experimentally, hiding the movement in the long sleeves of her robe as Callidora joined her, chattering away. She listened with half an ear as an unpleasant numbness spread from his treatment of the abused nerves of her wrist.

She snuck a glance at him as they walked in silence to the Great Hall, side-by-side. His expression was serene, unruffled.

But Amalia felt a small smirk curl the side of her mouth when she noticed that he suddenly had a very slight limp that he couldn't quite disguise.

Callidora and Anne exchanged an incredulous glance as they witnessed the spectacle before them.

Charlotte and Rosier were also watching with wide eyes, following the conversation like a tennis match. It seemed like a rather strange war was being waged over breakfast in the Great Hall that morning.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Tom with false surprise, "Did you want this last piece of bacon?"

Amalia and Tom sat opposite each other, their forks hovering over the almost-empty tureen between them, as if they were about to start fencing with their utensils.

Tension crackled like electricity between them as Amalia forced a rather scary smile. "By all means, if you want it-"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly. I know how much you've been enjoying your bacon." However blithely he said it, the jab at her enthusiastic eating was obvious to all.

Amalia glared at the offending piece of bacon between them and felt her stomach growl. "Well, if you insist-" she muttered grudgingly.

Tom's answering smirk was proof that he considered this a small victory.

But before she could claim the bacon, another fork speared the meat and fished it away.

Callidora gave a nervous laugh as both Amalia and Tom's heavy gazes fell on her, the bacon turning to ash in her mouth as her attempt to break the awkward tension back-fired. "Th-there's another bowl right over there, you know." She said weakly, pointing about half a metre down the table, where an untouched tureen of bacon sat. "There's no need to fight over food…"

Amalia put her fork and knife down neatly on her plate, and used a knapkin to wipe her mouth primly. "We should get going." She said, ignoring Callidora's words. The hall was almost empty - everyone was already heading to their first classes.

Tom hid a sigh of relief. Somehow, they'd ended up silently challenging each other to an eating competition, trying to lay a claim on each of the dishes in front of them while keeping up a polite façade. He wasn't used to eating so much in the morning - indeed, some mornings he would be so distracted as to skip meals altogether - and felt slightly nauseas. Where did she put it all? Toast, tomatoes and bacon was all very well, but three eggs and a large fruit salad as well? Was she preparing for a fast?

He laid down his utensils, and stood, stretching languidly. Rosier and Mulciber, who had joined them in the hall, rose with him.

"Are you looking forward to Charms?" he asked her.

She didn't seem able to muster a smile for him anymore, and merely kept her face neutral, though her eyes got a little brighter at the mention of her first class. "Of course."

Tom sniggered inwardly at her annoyance. She was quite competitive, it seemed, even over a piece of bacon. "You seem somewhat tense," remarked Tom genially as they left the Hall, "Is something the matter?"

Amalia looked at him sharply, noting the teasing look in his eyes. He was laughing at her, inside. For some reason, it suddenly made her want to laugh as well… Really, was she letting him get to her so easily? Over bacon? The fun is just beginning, she vowed wickedly. You'll rue the day you declared yourself my enemy, Tom Riddle! She had intended to keep a low profile at school, but screw that! She had nothing to fear here. She certainly didn't fear him! Perhaps there would be an opportunity during Charms…

Amalia gave him an evil glare, which contrasted sharply with her bright smile, which followed seconds later, "Oh, well," she said with an embarrassed chuckle, "We had quite a party in the dorm last night… Firewhiskey was going around."

"Amalia!" exclaimed Callidora, flushing as Tom's gaze rested on her. "He's a Prefect, you know!" she hissed. And not exactly known for leniency…

"Oh, that's right," chuckled Amalia, unperturbed. She winked cheekily at him. "Perhaps you could forgive me this time, Riddle? It was my first night at the castle, after all."

Tom's answering grin was wolfish. She was testing him again, seeing how far he would take the pretense of being her ally. It was tempting to give her a detention, just to see her reaction, but he suspected that it would play right into her hands. It would be easier for her if they were openly enemies, but that would delay his plans…

"I'll turn a blind eye this time, Ms Gray," he said smoothly. "After all, we're friends, aren't we?"

"See you in class, Riddle." Amalia said with a smile that promised trouble.

Tom felt a shiver of anticipation run up his spine as he turned and walked away, melting into the crowded corridor, pushing past the faceless masses, his mind only filled with that confident curve of her lips.

Callidora's mouth dropped open as he walked away, the crowd of students quickly separating them in the bustling halls.

"What floor are we on, Dora?" asked Amalia, glancing around.

"Fourth." She answered shortly, and then seemed to struggle with herself for a moment.

"What is it?" Amalia asked blithely, knowing perfectly well what she was thinking.

"You and Riddle!" blurted Callidora, somewhat accusingly. "What- Why is-?!"

"Do you know him?" asked Anne with a frown, cutting off Callidora's splutterings, "That is, did you know him, before school?"

"I met him a couple of days ago," shrugged Amalia, "Just like I told you last night. You must have had more Firewhiskey than I thought."

"But why's he being so nice to you?" chirped Charlotte, her face quizzical, as Callidora looked highly sceptical.

"I don't think he was being nice…" commented Anne dryly, making Charlotte even more confused. "But something is going on."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Callidora loudly, waving an arm and almost punching a passing second-year, who barely ducked in time with a squeak, "It's like he's a different person!..." she gasped suddenly, her curls bouncing with the movement, "What- do you think he likes you?" her eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets as she goggled at Amalia.

At that Amalia snorted. "Of course not," she said, chortling, "Quite the opposite, in fact."

Anne looked thoughtful, Charlotte still with her quaint expression of bewilderment, and Callidora looked about to explode with fresh dramatic theories, but fortunately Amalia noticed that they'd arrived at Charms. She spotted some students she recognised entering, so she escaped further elaboration by striding in ahead of her group.

The classroom was large and shaped somewhat like an amphitheatre, with levelled benches ringing the room facing a deep central plinth, on which stood a teacher's desk.

The back wall was lined with large blackboards covered with chalked arcane scribblings and formulas, drawing Amalia's gaze instantly. Her musing about Riddle faded, replaced by excitement at the prospect of learning new spells. Eyes shining, she took a deep breath and sighed with happiness. Her reverie was shattered by Callidora who grabbed her arm and towed her to a bench on the furthest side of the class away from Riddle. The determined and ferociously curious look in her eyes told Amalia that her interrogation was far from over.

Amalia felt mildly irritated by their interest. She wasn't accustomed to having to explain herself to others… and yet it was strangely pleasant, to have people who cared. But what was so special about Tom, anyway? Apart from the fact that he was handsome and everyone seemed either smitten or terrified of him. Was he very powerful, or was that another exaggeration of his many so-called talents? All she knew for sure was that he had a malicious streak - that much was evident by the faint bruising on her wrist - and he had turned his focus on her, for some reason. Was he merely bored, or should she be more concerned...?

"Quiet down, quiet down!" said a quavery voice from the front of the class. A crumpled-looking wizard was stooped there, peering at them all timidly with rheumy eyes. "Welcome to fifth year Charms. As you should all know by now, being seasoned students and all that… I am Professor Merrythought. However, I understand we have a new student with us…?" he peered around, blinking.

Amalia hid her discomfort as everyone turned in their seats to gaze at her. She felt rather than saw Riddle's sharp eyes on her, but resisted the urge to glance at him. She stood and curtseyed as well as her bench would allow. "Good morning, Professor Merrythought," she said quietly, "My name is Amalia Gray."

"Ah… Ms Gray." He gave a weak smile at her, "Welcome to Hogwarts, my dear. You may be seated. Do not be discouraged if there is something you do not understand. Mm… just ask, my dear, we're all friends here."

Hmm, yes, friends… thought Amalia as she sat down, her eyes flickering to Riddle despite herself. He smirked at her. She rose her eyebrow at him disdainfully, feeling competitive.

"So, today I thought it may be a good idea to ease us into the new year, by reviewing all the charms of movement we've learnt thus far." He chuckled as the class groaned. Movement spells were boring and basic - each year they learnt a new spell starting from first year with Wingardium Leviosa, to more complicated forms such as Arresto Momentum, Locomotor and so on. "Ah, don't be so quick to judge!" Professor Merrythought added, "I think you'll find even the simplest spells a little more challenging this year. Please, everyone come and collect a handful of sand from this bag." He waved his wand and a heavy-looking sack of fine, white sand appeared on his desk, "Your goal is to move the sand without losing any grains in the process. Begin!"

Benches scraped and muttering filled the air as he waved them to carry on.

"I'll get yours," offered Anne confidently, and motioned at Charlotte and Amalia to stay seated. They watched as she went to the front with Callidora and levitated a small pile of sand, drifting it back to their table without spilling any, to the approving nod of Professor Merrythought. It hovered shakily in front of them, but stayed together.

"Show-off." Teased Callidora, returning with her handful of sand. Anne just flashed her a triumphant smile and sat down with a flourish.

Amalia took a handful of sand and placed it on the desk before her, and pondered what to do with it. She knew many movement spells; it was a very common branch of magic… and whatever Merrythought said, it was boring.

She glanced at Charlotte next to her, who was staring at her sand and muttering, a light sheen of sweat already on her brow as the sand fought her control.

On her other side, Anne was confidently waving her wand, moving her sand non-verbally in jerky movements in the air in front of her.

At the end of their bench, Callidora was laughing as she waved her wand enthusiastically, spraying the back of the neck of the disgruntled Hufflepuff girl seated in front of her.

Lastly, Amalia glanced across the room and found Tom. He looked as bored as she felt, resting his chin on his hand with his elbow on the table, as he lazily flicked his wand. His sand danced effortlessly in the air above him, forming geometric shapes in a mesmerizing display of skill. Professor Merrythought and half of the class watched with wide, admiring eyes in a hushed silence.

Amalia analysed his movements expertly, and wasn't disappointed. You're good, she admitted to herself, somewhat grudgingly, Better than good, actually… She rolled her eyes at her own admiring monologue and pushed up her sleeves briskly. She wasn't about to join the Tom Riddle Fanclub because he could make pretty shapes out of sand! She muttered an incantation and waved her wand in a complicated series of movements.

A miniature cyclone formed where her sand had lain, and then it began to take form. A shape sprang into being - quite literally sprang, since it had four paws and a delicately waving tail - and stretched languidly in midair.

Her friends and the students sitting nearest were the first to see white sand-cat pacing in the air in front of them. Anne and Charlotte looked amazed and delighted, while Callidora lost control of her sand, dumping it on the unfortunate Hufflepuff's head altogether in favour of clapping enthusiastically.

Tom looked up at the commotion happening across the class, and narrowed his eyes as he saw Amalia at the centre of it. What had she done now? He looked around and followed the rest of the classes wide gazes to… the air above him.

He blinked as he took in the white cat currently playing with his geometric shapes, batting the squares and spheres like balls of string. The girls of the class squealed and awe-ed as the cat playfully rolled around, imitating a living cat very realistically.

He glanced at Amalia and saw her quiet smile as she focused on controlling the little sand-creature far above them all.

He flicked his wand and felt his magic leap to obey.

Students gasped as suddenly the geometric shapes reformed into a nest of spikes, pointing directly at the cute white cat, who rolled back onto its feet and crouched watchfully, its tail swishing back and forth, as if it was ready to pounce.

Another flick of his wand and the spikes shot forward, skewering the cat forcibly in a spray of sand. But Amalia wasn't finished, and leapt to her feet with a wolfish smile, her bench scraping the stone-flagged floor in the sudden hush, and waved her wand in response.

Her cat reformed, in a miniature cyclone of sand that swept up all the stray grains, but there was something different. The cat now looked bigger, somehow even lionish, and Tom felt a twinge of annoyance as he realised she'd stolen some of his sand to reform her animal. He stood up too, his bench scraping the floor and waved his wand, gathering the rest of his remaining sand to form a glittering array of miniature weapons, such as a butcher's cleaver which flashed out suddenly and severed the lion-cat's tail, stealing back that amount of sand.

The cat whipped around and batted the cleaver away, shrinking slightly as its tail regrew, then dodged Tom's next attack with a spear, somersaulting flexibly away and landing on its feet in midair.

The class "oohed" and "ahhed" as the cat was chased around the ceiling by a selection of Tom's sand-swords for several minutes, neither side giving ground in a breath-taking display of skill.

When at last the swords seemed destined to behead the cat, it shifted into a form with large bat-like wings at the last possible second, and they flapped strongly. The solidified sand created a wind which dissolved Tom's swords momentarily, but then he replaced them with a creature of his own - a sand-serpent uncoiling in the air directly around the bat-creature, which turned back into a cat and clawed and bit at the tightening coils.

The serpent and the cat fought viciously, rolling around in the air above the class, until eventually the two animals had become so entwined it was impossible to see where the snake began and the cat ended. The sand mingling, Amalia and Tom's magic now vied for dominance, and with a muffled thump as the shape exploded into individual grains again. They froze, drifting in a glittering heat-haze above the class as Tom and Amalia fought for control, neither willing to give up the sand they felt they'd won.

"Ah, well done, students, but perhaps we should stop there-" Merrythought's uncertain voice was ignored as Tom waved his wand violently, annoyed at Amalia's dogged persistence.

There was a clap like thunder and a bright flash of light which made everyone except Amalia and Tom duck and flinch away as a faint smell of brimstone filled the room.

Slightly blinded, Amalia blinked spots from her eyes as the loud noise faded. Where their cloud of sand had been there was just two equally-sized anomalous globules of blackened, molten sand, floating in the air like glassy bubbles.

She chuckled and coaxed one of the globules towards her, reforming it into her cat again. It was much smaller - just big enough to fit on her palm, like a blown-glass figurine, black and shiny as night. It was quite cool to touch. She looked up from her prize and met Tom's dark eyes, which were gazing at her intensely with something akin to hunger. She inclined her head in the approximation of a bow, watching as his eyes widened in surprise at her formal gesture, which didn't seem to be mocking… but rather… respectful…?

He blinked and returned his glass back to sand, dumping the purified white grains back into the sack on the teacher's desk below. As he looked away from her and took his seat he became aware of his surroundings again, and of the smattering of applause that their display had earned them.

Tom passed the rest of the class in a pensive mood, reviewing what he'd learnt of Amalia so far. She seemed likewise quiet, smiling absently at her friends' excited chatter, but not really returning the same enthusiasm. Three times their eyes briefly met across the class, and Tom saw his own guarded, contemplative expression mirrored in her eyes as her black cat figurine preened itself on her desk.

The next class was history, and Tom found the ghost and teacher Professor Binns to be as boring as ever before. Even though it was the first class of a new year, the teacher made no special effort but simply started droning on about goblin wars. Most students in the class instantly got glazed-over expressions and slept on their arms, but Tom kept focus and took notes as well as he could, despite the tedium. He had to keep up appearances, after all. Beside him, Rosier stifled a yawn and dutifully jotted down the occasional note as well. Out of all the Slytherin boys in Tom's little group, Rosier was the only one who made any effort in class.

One row in front of him, Tom could watch the back of Amalia's head as she and Anne Flint had a whispered conversation, while listening to Binns with half an ear and taking notes every now and then.

He wondered what they were talking about. His fingers twitched, itching to take out his wand - he knew a good eavesdropping spell that would take their whispers right to his ear - but he hesitated. Amalia was a strong witch of unknown capabilities. It was possible – no, likely, given her paranoia – that she had some charm up her sleeve to detect spells of that nature.

He tried to curb his impatience as Binns' gaze fell on them and the girls stopped whispering. It probably wasn't important anyway. He then spent the rest of the class watching her take notes in messy handwriting, and doodle a small sketch of a black cat in the corner of her page. At the end of the class, they all groaned as Binns assigned them a monstrous essay due in one week on fifteenth century goblin raids.

As the class filed out, Professor Binns turned and blinked owlishly in surprise.

"Excuse me, sir,"Amalia said politely, "I have a question."

"Ce-certainly." He said faintly. He didn't think this had ever happened before.

"You were talking about Zirza the Cruel, the goblin general who sacked parts of northern Italy…?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well, I read that he took many priceless artefacts from Rome, and then claimed they were goblin-made. However, in another book it says something completely different."

"Ah, yes," Binns said, a flicker of enthusiasm entering his dull eyes, "It depends on the source you consult. That's precisely what I was getting at… history is not as fixed and… boring… as most think. In certain wizard-approved manuscripts the story clearly places Zirza as a tyrannical invader, a ruthless thief and liar. But read a text penned by goblin historians (rarer, yet no less valid) and he is painted as the avenging saviour, retrieving stolen artefacts that were once thought lost."

Amalia frowned, a crease appearing between her eyes, "But then, which is true?"

He nodded sagely. "That, my dear, is the real question, isn't it?"

Understanding lit up her eyes. "Is that why you set the essay?"

"Indeed."

"But one version of history is wrong." She argued. "It's not what happened."

"What happened in the past does not affect our future." He said dismissively.

She blinked at him, confused. "How can you say that?" she demanded, "My past made me-" she stopped abruptly, flushing as she swallowed whatever she had been about to say.

Binns shook his head slowly, pondering her strange words. "No. Your perception of the past controls your present. Do not misunderstand. Think of the present moment as the only fixed point. The past and future only exist in your imagination. Rather than the past, it's our understanding of the past, our memories… that is what informs our decisions and affects our actions. And memories are not always truthful." Binns said sombrely. "Therefore, history is always subjective. A discussion, an argument..." His eyes were kind. "Our past is a mystery only we can solve and interpret, ourselves."

She suddenly seemed miles away. "What if I can't solve it?" she said, in a small voice.

Binns gazed at her in silence for a long moment. Then he sighed, and said, "If you are interested in the truth, there are ways to find it. You must learn to be think like a detective, working logically to find the truth."

"I tried… but it isn't easy." Her eyes refocussed on him. "The truth is important to me."

He nodded. "Then, a good place to start practicing is this book, which you can find in the library…Here, write this down-"

The next class was Defence Against the Dark Arts, and the rest of the class was already seated by the time Amalia wandered in with an absent-minded expression.

She seemed to shake herself out of it when she realised the class and the teacher was looking at her, askance.

"You're late, Miss…?"

"Uh, Gray." supplied Amalia, rallying herself. She took one look at the skinny grey-haired woman with her sour expression and beady eyes and decided she didn't like her. She stood a little straighter and said composedly. "I apologise, Professor…?"

"I am Professor Fairchilde."

Amalia made a peculiar sound that she managed to turn into a cough. "A-ahem! I apologise, Professor… Fairchilde. I'm afraid I got lost."

The skinny woman's mouth pulled tight in annoyance at Amalia's less than respectful tone, and her nostrils flared as if she smelt trouble already. But she said nothing of it, replying curtly, "That's understandable, given it is your first day. Please, take a seat. Note that tardiness in future will not be tolerated."

Amalia gave her a sweet – yet oddly poisonous-looking – smile, and took her seat between Anne and Callidora.

"Now, turn to page 10 of your textbooks, and we'll start with –"

"How could you get lost?" hissed Callidora in Amalia's ear. "We're in the same corridor. Didn't you see the door I pointed out to you?"

Amalia looked a little embarrassed. "Haha, well, my sense of direction is really not a strength of mine, and all the doors look the same…"

Callidora tsked and turned away, but felt secretly relieved that there was at least one thing Amalia was not good at.

"What did you ask Binns?" asked Anne out of the corner of her mouth, pretending to study her textbook as the skinny professor swept by them.

Amalia waited until Professor Fairchilde was preoccupied demanding why a Hufflepuff girl in the front row had sand in her hair, before replying, "A question on history, and the philosophical basis of memory and truth." she said, "It was very interesting. He recommended a book. Perhaps after the next class-"

There was a light chuckle from behind them, and glancing back Amalia came face-to-face with Tom, who somehow seemed to have ended up right behind her. "You have got to be the first student in the history of Hogwarts to actually enjoy History." He said dryly.

Amalia felt a shiver of excitement at the intensity with which he gazed at her, but hid it well and shrugged. "I'll admit his voice is rather boring, but the content is interesting, at least."

"And how is that?" Tom was sceptical, and seemed eager to hear her opinion.

"It's important to know what came before." Amalia argued, "To know where you came from… Your past is-"

"Miss Gray!" came the reedy voice of Professor Fairchilde, "Just because you are a new student doesn't mean you don't have to pay attention!"

Amalia's eyes widened as Tom smirked at her lazily. He was trying to get her into trouble! She turned slowly in her chair to face the front again, forcing a contrite expression.

The woman stalked forward. "I would have thought you would be more interested in concentrating on catching up with the rest of the class, since you are a new student."

Callidora exchanged rueful looks with Anne. If she had known what had happened in Charms…!

Amalia raised one thin eyebrow, meeting the woman's eyes directly. "Defence Against the Dark Arts is not a subject I'm worried about." She stated bluntly. Internally, she cursed her short temper. This was no way to speak to a teacher! But she couldn't help herself when people spoke to her like that.

Professor Fairchilde folded her arms, drawing herself up. "Is that so?"

The rest of the class waited with bated breath.

"Then, Ms Gray, could you tell me the proper defence of the Deprimo Fundus jinx?"

Amalia didn't bat an eye at the abrupt question. "Deprimo Fundus causes the ground to vanish beneath your feet, and is therefore somewhat more difficult to block." She started, speaking normally in a slightly bored tone. "A Land-locking charm would counter-act the effect, or a mid-level Seraph's Orb barrier would block it."

The professor looked both surprised and annoyed at this textbook answer.

But Amalia wasn't finished yet. "However," she said next, "In actuality the best defence is often offence. As the wand movement for Deprimo Fundus is rather obvious and the incantation long, a simple Stupefy would reach your opponent long before he or she vanished the ground under your feet. Which is way it isn't a spell commonly used in duels, and I question the relevancy of its status as a 'Dark Arts' jinx."

"You seem to have many opinions on this, Ms Gray." Gritted out Professor Fairchilde, scowling. "You should bear in mind that this syllabus was designed by witches and wizards older and more experienced than you."

"Nevertheless, there are plenty of Dark curses out there that aren't covered by the textbook-"

"We are not here to learn about Dark curses, Ms Gray!"

Amalia looked equally annoyed, "Then how are we expected to defend against them?" she demanded, and tacked on a hasty, "Professor?"

"By studying the theory, and practising defensive spells that can be employed in a variety of instances!"

Amalia sighed. "I noticed that duelling is not listed as a part of our syllabus." She stated.

"Certainly not!" steamed Professor Fairchilde, "And I have no idea why a young lady such as yourself takes such an interest in violence and combat! The Dark Arts are forbidden by law- we're not about to practice it in a classroom!"

Amalia held her tongue with difficulty. She shouldn't get into trouble with her teachers on her first day! Even though it was ludicrous that Hogwarts didn't take this subject more seriously. Didn't they know how dangerous the real world was?!

Professor Fairchilde seemed smug when she realised Amalia had stopped arguing. "Now," she said in a calmer tone, "Seeing as you have so many opinions on the matter, why don't you write me an essay on merits of this year's syllabus, over other, cruder methods of learning."

Amalia glared at her. "As you wish, Professor." She said coldly.

Satisfied she'd won this round, Professor Fairchilde turned back to the class and nodded briskly, "Then, let us return to more important matters. Will everyone please turn to page ten…"

The last class of the day was Transfiguration, and Tom didn't look forward to it. It was his least favourite class, for the simple fact that it was taught by Dumbledore.

The work was not difficult – to be absolutely fair, the old man wasn't a completely inept teacher - but Tom found himself unwilling to listen too intently to the old man, or even perform at his usual level of brilliance, simply because he didn't want to attract his attention , specifically those accursed patronising blue eyes of his. As if he could grasp even an iota of what Tom was thinking!

Transfiguration was directly after lunch, and Tom used the time in the Great Hall to observe Amalia. She was surrounded by her three friends, and most of Tom's group too, the boys having the first chance to talk to her after her escapades in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts.

He'd found himself surprised by her vehement argument with the skinny old crow, ironically named Professor Fairchilde – he actually agreed with most of what Amalia had said. Dark Arts were not theoretical, and he'd been similarly exasperated when he'd discovered that it wouldn't be taught in any practical sense at Hogwarts. Of course, unlike Amalia, he was not interested in it in an academic or defensive sense… But he agreed that the syllabus was lacking. The only way he knew practical duelling magic was through his own studies, and he knew for a fact that none of his classmates could match his skill. But what about Amalia? Did she have experience in actual duels? It was always a regret of his that he couldn't often practise duelling himself - he'd taught his followers some basic dark magic, but even then they were no match for him. His mind went to the dream he'd had, and he imagined the anticipation of facing her in a real duel. In Charms he reluctantly conceded that they'd been evenly matched. But that was hardly a real test…

His mind was buzzing with plans and schemes as he walked to Transfiguration. Entering the class, he saw the four Slytherin girls moving to the front of the class, and grimaced. There was no way he was sitting anywhere near Dumbledore. He would sit in his usual spot, at the back of the class near the door.

"Rosier." He commanded imperiously.

"Yes, Riddle?" said his ever-present shadow instantly. Riddle looked at him for a moment coldly. Rosier was quiet and unassuming, but out of his group he was the just about the only one with the brains to be discreet. "Sit there, and tell me if she says anything interesting." It was obvious who 'she' was. Rosier nodded obediently and walked to the front of the class, sitting next to Amalia without any hesitation, though there was a flicker in his eyes which might have been irritation as he did so.

Amalia turned with surprise to see the slight, fair-haired boy slide into the bench next to her.

"Rosier," she greeted with a friendly smile, though she was a little bemused. He hadn't seemed interested at all in her during lunch - in fact, he'd been the only other boy besides Riddle not to bombard her with questions and comments…

"I just wanted to say that I agree with you - about Defence Against the Dark Arts." He said, with a quiet smile. But Amalia's friendly expression slipped as she realised his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

She glanced around the class, and a lightbulb went on when she saw Riddle sitting at the back of the class. She lowered her voice and leaned in close. "Ah, I see." She said slyly, "Riddle sent you over here, didn't he?" she chuckled at his frozen expression.

Rosier realised that a denial was pointless. He straightened up and suddenly looked serious. "He seems interested in you." He stated bluntly, his pale blue eyes glancing sideways at her.

"Well, you and I both know that attracting his interest might not be a good thing."

Rosier's eyes widened. So she knew about that side of Riddle, too? He'd never encountered a girl that wasn't instantly smitten with him. "Why do you say that?" he said, stalling as he considered this new information. He'd thought she liked him, and was trying to get his attention… were they truly enemies, then? For some reason that made him happy.

Amalia shrugged. "It's just that, out of all Riddle's friends, you seemed closest to him."

Her casual observation elicited a surprising and extremely interesting response. The colour in his cheeks rose a little at her words. "Riddle doesn't have friends." He muttered, feeling flustered.

Amalia was silent for a long moment, watching him with sharp eyes like she'd just figured something out. "Rosier," she said at last, "Are you in l-"

"Good afternoon, fifth years!" came a familiar voice, as Dumbledore, clothed in bright orange robes strode in, beaming at them.

"Afternoon, Professor!" greeted a tall Gryffindor, prompting a few other students to echo him. It seemed Dumbledore was a rather popular teacher.

Amalia leaned away from Rosier, who'd gone a little pale at her words, and faced the front, eager for the lesson to begin.

"I trust you've all had satisfactorily long and lazy summers, and have sufficiently emptied your heads in preparation for this year?"

In the back row, Tom moodily burnt a hole in his desk with the tip of his wand. He didn't want to be reminded of his summer.

"This year is O.W.L.s year, and I'm sure you've all heard the horror stories of the upcoming exams in June. Yes, it will be hard work and we have a lot to cover, but if you're diligent and stay on top of things - I'm looking at you, Longbottom -" the tall Gryffindor boy who'd spoken before gave a theatrical groan, causing a few titters from the class, "Then you should have nothing to worry about."

Dumbledore walked to the board and tapped it briskly, causing it to float down and display a complicated-looking diagram of arrows and shapes. "So, without further ado, let's dive in. Don't be alarmed! This is just a glimpse of what we'll be learning in the time up to Christmas, by which point you will be able to Vanish and Rematerialise objects using a variety of spells for specific instances." Amalia sat a little straighter. She knew a vanishing spell that worked most of the time, but didn't work on large objects. Finally, something new to learn!

"For today, we'll speak about Muncheon's Third Theorem of displacement magic, and you can all attempt to vanish a matchstick. Those of you who succeed can try larger objects until we find your respective levels." His twinkling blue eyes seemed to rest on Amalia for a moment knowlingly as he said it.

By the end of the lesson, Amalia, Tom, Anne and a sallow-skinned Ravenclaw had progressed to vanishing teacups. Amalia guessed that Tom was holding back, and could probably do more, but he didn't seem willing to volunteer, and perhaps more surprisingly, Amalia noticed Dumbledore seemed equally satisfied with ignoring his best student. He even went so far as to give Amalia, Anne and the Ravenclaw girl five house points each for good effort, while Tom sat silently at the back of the class, scowling.

Amalia liked Dumbledore, but was it really okay for a teacher to be so biased?

As the bell chimed the end of the lesson, the students rose and started leaving the class, but Dumbledore waved Amalia over.

"Would you mind delaying a short while to have a chat with me, Ms Gray?" he asked with a smile.

She shrugged, and waved her friends to leave without her. "Sure, Professor." The class emptied quickly, and Amalia perched herself on one of the front desks, her legs swinging. "What did you want to talk about?"

"How was your first day? Are you finding Hogwarts a suitable home?" his genuine concern was strangely touching. Amalia wasn't used to having people worry over her well-being.

She gave a serious answer. "Yes." She said simply, "I think… I think I can be happy here." It was only after saying it out loud that she felt a great weight of tension lifting off her shoulders.

"That's good to hear." Dumbledore beamed, "I knew you would do well. Professor Merrythought was quite beside himself singing your praises this morning in the staff room."

"Ah, really…" Amalia flushed slightly with pleasure. After her argument with Professor Fairchilde she'd almost forgotten her antics in Charms.

Dumbledore's smile faded. "Hm. Though from the sound of things, it seems you were involved in some kind of competition with Tom?"

Amalia pondered his changed expression. "That's right." She admitted easily, "We seem to have become rivals of some kind. I know you wanted us to be friends-"

Dumbledore twirled his wand between his fingers with a rueful expression, "Actually, I did not expect Tom to take any real interest in you at all."

Amalia cocked her head. "Are you… Worried, that he has?" is this another person who knows Tom's real face? And if so, why did he introduce us in the first place?

Dumbledore paused before replying. "I'll be honest with you. I didn't think you'd end up in Slytherin."

Amalia blinked at this unexpected confession. "You… thought I'd be in Gryffindor?" she guessed shrewdly. The Sorting Hat had considered it.

He nodded. "You possess many of the qualities my house prizes. Bravery, confidence, a certain disregard for authority, if I'm to believe Professor Fairchilde-" he chuckled.

"What's wrong with Slytherin?" she couldn't help a hint of coldness entering her voice, which Dumbledore noticed. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Nothing, of course… I was just surprised." He sighed. "I am glad you seem to be fitting in well. But if you can heed an old man's advice… stay away from Tom Riddle. You've made friends with Ms Black, Flint and Yaxley. You don't need Tom's friendship."

Amalia knew that he wasn't wrong - Riddle was dangerous - but all the same, she felt a stab of annoyance. Had he just decided Tom Riddle was a bad egg? People can change! And what was with a teacher advising a new student to stay away from another? It left a bad taste in her mouth.

"I don't think I can." She said coolly, raising her eyebrow disdainfully (it really was a favoured expression of hers).

Dumbledore blinked. "Oh?"

"Mm. You see," Amalia explained, "Tomorrow is Potions, and if I recall correctly you were the one to suggest that he can help me." She inspected her fingernails. "I'm really useless at Potions. Even if we don't get on, I plan on using him to get an Exceeds Expectations O.W.L."

Dumbledore sighed again, taking in her determined expression. "Alright, as you wish," he said, admitting defeat, "But do take care of yourself. I'm always here if you need to talk."

Recognising her dismissal, Amalia nodded politely and took her bag, exiting the classroom. She had a lot to think about.

For some reason, Dumbledore's words kept coming back to her.

You don't need Tom's friendship.

That was probably true. And what about him? Didn't he need friends? Although, given his treatment of her... she absent-mindedly massaged her wrist - it was laughable to consider getting close to him. Rosier was right - Tom didn't have friends.

And yet, if she was completely honest, she felt as if they already had a bond of some kind. A bond of animosity, perhaps, but a bond all the same. She couldn't help it that when he was in the room, she felt a heightened sense of awareness, of danger… it was exciting. She'd lived with danger and anxiety for a long time now, a hunted animal always looking over her shoulder for a faceless enemy. Tom had declared war on her openly, and an enemy she could face did not scare her. In a way, it was oddly reassuring, like he'd acknowledged her worthiness as an opponent.

Here at Hogwarts she was no longer alone, and yet she still stood apart from Callidora and the others. Everyone was safe, everyone was normal… except Tom. Just like her, he was different.

And different was interesting.

Chapter Text

Amalia was feeling mischievous.

It had taken her longer than expected to find her way to the Great Hall after her talk with Dumbledore, and during the journey she'd thought a lot – about Tom, mostly. So much about him was a mystery – what was his true face? What were his motives? Why did Dumbledore warn her away from him, while many others thought the sun shone out of his every orifice?

In the Great Hall she decided to keep up their charade of being friends and sat next to him without a word. Although this time Tom hadn't initiated it, he greeted her with an impeccable smile nevertheless.

Inside, however, Tom felt a spike of annoyance. She'd just plonked herself down next to him (much to Callidora, Anne and Charlotte's incredulity – they were sitting among the other Slytherin girls) even going so far as to get Rosier to move up to make space. Though Rosier was hardly pleased at having his place taken, he acquiesced once he saw Riddle's terse nod, hidden beneath a pleasant smile as she sat down gracefully.

Her arrival also didn't go unnoticed by the other boys.

"Where were you, Amalia?" asked Avery in his usual obnoxious way.

Not to be left out, Dolohov also leaned forward, his brown hair falling in his eyes, "Yeah, you missed the start of the feast." He flicked his hair out of his face in what he hoped was a cool and alluring manner. He glanced at Tom, who was looking away with a bored expression, and breathed an internal sigh of relief. After their antics in class, he'd been half-convinced that Tom had lied the previous night when he'd said he wasn't interested in Amalia in that way… but it seemed he really didn't care after all. It was obvious that he had some kind of agenda, though, and for that Dolohov felt sorry for her. She seemed nice.

Amalia was already digging into a loaded plate. In between enormous bites, she shrugged and said, "Got lost on my way back from Transfiguration." She poured herself some pumpkin juice and chugged it down, and then sighed in satisfaction. "My internal compass is very unreliable," she explained, pulling a face.

At her words she saw Tom turn to gaze at her in his quietly intense way, though she initially ignored him. What was he thinking? That it was a weakness he could exploit? She smirked slightly as she tucked into her roast potatoes – he must be desperate. But he still said nothing, even though he was clearly burning with curiosity about something. She could tell by the way his body language had gone all stiff. Or was it because she was sitting too close? She reached for a bowl of greens and shifted infinitesimally closer, so that their legs just brushed.

She saw his fork pause on its way to his mouth, and the smallest of micro-expressions contracted his brow as she glanced at him. He doesn't like being touched. She realised with wicked delight. Well, well, Tom Riddle. Now that's a weakness that can be used.

Filing that away for future use, she put down her knife and fork and sat back, looking openly at him. He returned her gaze coolly. She idly wondered what kind of expression he'd make if she messed up his perfectly groomed jet black hair. But she wasn't quite brave enough for that… yet.

"If you want to ask me something, just go ahead." She told him in a normal tone. In the loud hall, no one heard them except Rosier, quietly eating on her other side.

"I don't have anything to ask." He said smoothly back, and looked resolutely back to his plate, slicing his steak with unhurried precision.

Amalia stifled a chuckle. He's childish, she realised. She noticed his eyes flick out over the hall, and linger on Dumbledore, who was seated at the teacher's table next to Dippet, and then when Riddle looked back at his plate, he stabbed a potato with a little more force than was actually necessary.

"You really hate him, don't you?" Amalia commented. "Dumbledore?"

Riddle kept his face blank. She was far too observant for her own good! Although to be fair it was hardly a secret…

"What do you think about him?" broke in Rosier, interrupting Amalia's scrutiny of Tom's expression. She turned away and Tom felt annoyed that he hadn't answered immediately with some kind of denial or off-hand confirmation.

"Me?" Amalia seemed to take the question seriously, and thought carefully about her answer. "I think he's a good person. A great wizard. But…" for some reason her eyes flickered back to Riddle as she paused, "He has flaws just like anyone else."

Rosier felt annoyed. Why couldn't she ever give a normal answer? He saw Tom's eyes afire with questions, and Amalia turned back to him as if she felt the curiosity burning off of him like a heat.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Riddle," she said with an amused chuckle, "If you have a question, just spit it out."

Riddle felt like cursing her on the spot for her impudence – she'd actually laughed at him – but curiosity won out in the end, and he just settled for an icy stare to show his displeasure. "What did you talk to him about, after class?" he asked at last, stiffly.

Amalia grinned like a Cheshire cat. "You."

What . Riddle fought to keep his face from showing his emotions, but it was difficult, and by her widening smile he could tell it didn't fool her.

"What do you mean?" Once again, it was Rosier who saved him from replying, though suddenly Tom wished he wasn't in the conversation. Dumbledore had mentioned him? Why? What did he say? Was Amalia lying? Why would-

"Well, we didn't just talk about Riddle, of course," Amalia amended, keeping her tone light and casual, "He wanted to know how I was doing and so on, too."

Tom found his voice again. "So," he drawled, as if the subject bored him, "How was my name brought up?" his finger idly traced the rim of his goblet.

Amalia paused. Then, she winked at Rosier, and leaned very slowly and deliberately onto Riddle's shoulder, bringing her lips right to his ear. Predictably, he froze, uncomfortable with the proximity, and the rest of the group suddenly went quiet, dumbstruck at the sight of their seeming intimacy. But though they stared, Amalia whispered quietly enough so that only Tom could hear.

"He wanted me to stay away from you." She breathed.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, and Tom's eyes suddenly went black. For a moment his hand tightened on his fork and knife, his already pale, long fingers turning white. He was angry… but at her or Dumbledore, or possibly both, Amalia couldn't tell. He turned his dark gaze on her, and the sheer weight of the malice in his eyes sent a shiver up her spine. Their faces were so close, and her heart sped up, but whether it was from adrenaline or something else she couldn't be sure. His magic was so oppressive it seemed harder to breathe. It was like being eye-to-eye with venomous snake. His obsidian eyes didn't blink. "And what was your reply? Tell me." he said, and though he kept his words deadly quiet, the authority in his voice was unmistakable. It was a demand, not a question.

She forced herself to grin, even though she started to break out in a cold sweat, and leaned in even closer, drawing it out while her warm breath lightly tickled his ear, "…I refused."

Of all the things he'd expected her to say, that was the least expected, and the surprise stripped away his anger at Dumbledore, and even erased the discomfort he felt at her hand resting on his shoulder. His oppressive magic lifted, replaced by suspicion. Had she really said that? Did she mean it? ... Why?

He opened his mouth to question her further, but her attention was suddenly elsewhere- dessert had arrived. At the arrival of food, the mission "torment Tom Riddle" seemed to be postponed in favour of apple pie and whipped cream, and for that Tom was secretly quite glad. He had plenty of questions for her, but this behaviour was infuriating. He would have to move his plans along faster than he'd anticipated…

"What was that about?" Avery suddenly blurted out, frowning, actually frowning, at Tom! He felt his fingers twitch with the intent to curse the stupid boy into oblivion. It had been obvious that Amalia was trying to make them jealous, and it angered him that it seemed to have succeeded so easily. Only Rosier seemed to have caught on, since he was looking irritated at Amalia, and Lestrange seemed oblivious to everything, mostly because he was preoccupied with singlehandedly devouring a trifle.

Amalia winked at Tom as if they shared a private joke. "Oh," she said with a bashful smile, "You'd have to ask Riddle."

Dolohov, Avery, Mulciber and Nott looked at the coldly glowering Riddle and traded dismayed glances. There was no way they'd ever find out.

She got up and waved a cheerful goodbye, trotting off to meet her friends who had just finished and were waiting for her at the entrance to the Great Hall.

She was aware of Tom's eyes following her, frustrated, but didn't notice another – a pair of blue eyes behind half-moon glasses which had thoughtfully watched the entire drama at the Slytherin table unfold.

Outside the Great Hall…

"You have to spill, now!" Callidora's voice brooked no argument.

Amalia raised her hands in a gesture of peace. "Okay, okay. But let's not talk here." Students were coming out of the Hall in droves already.

"Common Room?" chipped in Charlotte hopefully. She looked tired, and her pixie-like face split into a child-like yawn.

Amalia looked apologetic. "I'd love to see the library."

"Good idea." Anne said enthusiastically. "We can start our essays."

Charlotte yawned again and shrugged. "I'll see you guys later, then." She headed off in the direction of the Common Room.

"Ugh, the library," Callidora groaned, but grabbed Amalia and started marching her there anyway. She was keen to gossip. "Try and remember this route, Amalia." She said bossily. "So you don't get lost again."

Amalia nodded, her wide eyes drinking in the moving portraits and staircases. It would take a long time to get used to the castle, she could tell. Perhaps she should draw a map…?

The library was amazing. It was the most amazing room in the castle, in her opinion. The sheer volume of books, the endless possibilities hinted at by their intriguing shapes and sizes… she knew at last beyond a doubt that she'd made the right decision in coming to Hogwarts.

But her amazement was briefly put on hold, when Callidora dragged her over to a wide table next to a large bay window. The heavy fabric of dark satin curtains that hung on either side made the corner seem more private, and Amalia was under the impression this was their regular library haunt. This suspicion was confirmed when she saw an ornate "C.B." scratched into the leg of the table – casual vandalism of school property was seemed to fit Callidora's character.

As Anne started packing out her homework and essay-writing materials, Callidora commenced the interrogation.

"Let's start at the beginning. Charms – what the heck was that? Where did you learn such awesome magic?"

Amalia shrugged, "Books, mainly." She tried to sound nonchalant, not evasive, but she could tell Callidora was not completely convinced.

"Uh huh. Sure. Why a cat?"

Amalia grinned as she remembered, and reached into her bag, pulling out the black, blown-glass figure. "I'm a cat person." The remnants of the movement charm she'd cast on it hadn't worn off yet, and the figurine preened itself daintily on the tabletop. She wondered if the spell Tom had cast to create the glass hadn't somehow charged the molten sand, changing the spell and strengthening it. Perhaps there was a book somewhere that she could-

"Earth to Amalia!" Callidora snapped her fingers bossily in her face, jolting her out of her reverie. Her gaze, which had been drifting towards the bookshelves, reluctantly returned to Callidora's stubborn face. "I'm not finished yet. How come you and Riddle ended up putting on the bloody Charms Olympics in front of everyone, anyway?"

"I wanted to see what he'd do."

"So, you are trying to get his attention, then?" surmised Callidora, waggling her eyebrows somewhat suggestively.

Amalia snorted and shook her head. "No, nothing like that, of course." She sounded exasperated by the insinuation. "I just wanted to see whether he could keep up with me."

"You got it wrong, there," Anne said in her quiet way, without looking up from her essay, "Riddle's the most gifted student at this school. He was holding back."

Amalia nodded. "I thought as much." But she hadn't exactly gone all out, either…

Though it had been a close thing, and she doubted most students noticed, Riddle had just slightly edged her out at the end. If Anne was right, that meant he was powerful indeed.

"Anyway," continued Callidora, interrupting her thoughts, "Why did you sit next to him at dinner? I saw you talking."

Amalia sighed and folded her arms. "If you must know," she said somewhat irritably, "I was drawing battlelines."

"… Battlelines?"

"Yes, Dora. I think he's an arrogant git who needs to be taken down a peg."

Dora blinked. "Oh. But it certainly seems like you like him-"

"Well, I don't." Amalia snapped.

Callidora was deflated for only a second before rallying again. "Love is only one step away from hate, you know-"

Amalia stood up. "A good thing I don't hate him, then." She paused, "Yet. Now, if you'll excuse me… I have some reading to do." And she marched off.

"Just leave her be, Dora," said Anne, idly flipping a page of a book. "She said she doesn't like him."

Callidora scowled at Amalia's back before it disappeared around a corner. "That's what they all say…" she muttered.

Amalia browsed the shelves in a slight trance, brushing her fingertips lightly across the ribbed spines almost reverently. At times she thought she heard faint voices whispering, as if the very books themselves were entreating her to open them and delve into the secrets held inside.

Very soon, Amalia was levitating a large pile of books to float behind her as she wandered deeper into the library. After about twenty minutes, she remembered Professor Binns' recommendation and took out the small scrap of paper she'd written it on.

Maudlin's Mysteries of Magicke   it was called, by Maximus Maudlin. She had no clue how the sorting system in the library worked, so she approached a rather pudgy-looking woman behind the large librarian's desk.

"Good evening," she greeted politely, "I'm looking for this book…?"

The woman stifled a yawn, and tapped a cabinet behind her with her wand.

A card shot out of it and landed in her hand, and she squinted at it with a bored expression. "Oh, it's on special reserve." She informed Amalia, and yawned again. "Arghh- 'scuse me- that just means you can't take it out of the library." She indicated the shelves nearest the librarian's desk. "Third row, top shelf. Return it to me when you're done."

"Thanks."

Amalia hurried off, wondering why a book like that would be put on reserve. The only reason she could think of was that it was valuable in some way, or perhaps simply fragile.

Despite having directions, it took her a good ten minutes to locate the peeling spine of the volume. She made a triumphant noise and waved her wand, causing the book to leap out of the shelf and soar towards her hand. However, it was intercepted by another before she could catch it.

Amalia whipped around, half expecting it to be Riddle, but then blinked.

"Oh, it's only you."

Rosier seemed annoyed at her slightly disappointed tone.

"This seems like an odd book to choose on your first day in the library." He eyed the peeling gold title on the black leather cover with fake interest.

Amalia tugged it out of his hands. "Spying for Riddle again, are you?"

He scowled. "No, actually, I wanted to speak to you myself."

"Oh." She looked at him with more interest. "What's up?"

Rosier folded his arms and looked down his nose at her. This was an impressive feat, since they were roughly the same height. "I'm only going to say this once." He said haughtily. "Stay away from Riddle."

Amalia raised an incredulous eyebrow, and then snorted with laughter.

Rosier flushed, and scowled. "What's so funny?" he snapped.

She smiled. "It's just… you're not the first one to say that today."

Rosier narrowed his eyes at her. "I mean it. You won't talk to him, you won't put on another display like in the Great Hall earlier-" his lip curled at the thought.

Amalia's eyebrow rose even higher. "… I won't?" her eyes seemed suddenly brighter.

Rosier held his ground. "You won't… if you know what's good for you."

"Are you… threatening me?" she said in a disbelieving tone.

The air between them for a moment seemed heavy and thick, while the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees. "Well… no…" he stuttered hastily, his bravery evaporating. He glared at her and tried to ignore the sudden urge he had to back away. "You don't know him, you don't know what he's capable of-"

"Oh, and what is he capable of?" she asked immediately, looking interested.

He shut his mouth instantly, but the sudden nervous glance he threw over his shoulder told her volumes.

Amalia sighed. "I know he's a dangerous cretin, Rosier, and I appreciate the warning. But I'm not about to-"

She broke off as an frustrated expression crossed his face.

"Oh, I see." She said with a knowing grin. "You're not concerned about the poor new girl after all. No, your motives are quite… selfish, aren't they?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He said mechanically, not liking the smirk on her face one bit.

Her grin widened maliciously, and she took a step forward. "I've seen the way you look at him, Rosier," she taunted, and he took an involuntary step back. "I've seen the way you hang on his every word."

His mouth was suddenly dry, and he regretted confronting her. Oh, he regretted it so much…

"Tell me, Rosier," she said, her brown eyes laughing, "Does your heart beat faster, when he touches you…?" she reached out and brushed his cheek almost tenderly with her thumb.

He thrust her hand away from his face and stumbled back, his eyes wide and shocked. Any trace of guilt she may have felt at taunting him about his secret was overshadowed by her annoyance at being threatened. She enjoyed his discomfort and chuckled quietly to herself as she watched him beat a hasty retreat, almost running in his eagerness to get away.

Callidora looked up as Amalia emerged from the shelves with a floating pile of books, and a large black one clutched to her chest.

"Why are you humming?" Callidora asked suspiciously.

"Am I?" said Amalia airily, and did a small pirouette before sitting down. She was curiously… cheerful.

"What's that?" asked Anne, indicating the black book as she looked up from her essay.

"A mystery." Amalia replied cryptically, opening the book to the yellowed first pages. "Or several."

"You're weird." Remarked Callidora matter-of-factly, and Anne laughed.

Chapter Text

Rosier was staring blankly at the green and silver patterned wallpaper of the Common Room when the owl found him.

He yelped in alarm as tawny wings buffeted his head, and then the bird landed with an officious-sounding hoot, it's wickedly sharp talons biting into the plush upholstery of the couch next to the space his head had recently occupied. Which it occupied no longer, since he'd tumbled rather ungracefully off the couch in shock.

It was the middle of the night, and he tried to keep the volume of his cursing down as he shakily righted himself, glaring weakly at the offending bird, who glared right back at him. It had impressively aristocratic-looking feathers sticking out of its head, much like over-sized cartoonish eyebrows, fixing its expression into one of perpetual disdain. He half expected the owl to roll its eyes, but it merely hooted impatiently once more, and stuck out its leg.

For the first time, Rosier noticed the small white scroll tied there.

"That's… for me?" he asked perplexedly. The owl narrowed its eyes coldly at him, and twitched its outstretched leg in irritation, as if to say, Duh.

Rosier pulled himself upright and glanced around carefully, but he was utterly alone. The dormitory was silent - it was the middle of the night, after all. He quickly untied the note and unfurled it.

Upon being relieved of its burden, the owl immediately hopped off the back of the couch and launched itself into the air, disappearing with agile, powerful strokes of its wings back into the passage that led to the girls' dorm.

The parchment was blank, but after a moment words surfaced like a spreading stain - he suspected Vanishing Ink. He could guess who had sent it - but why?

It read, in a messy, distinctive hand:

I'm good at keeping secrets.

Let's be friends! (thereafter followed a sketched cheerful face which alternated between winking and grinning somewhat creepily up at him).

If you ever find yourself in some kind of trouble, don't hesitate to ask me for help. What else are friends for?

That was all.

He collapsed back onto the couch and sagged, running a frustrated hand through his fair hair. What kind of game was she playing? Was the first line meant to be a reassurance or a subtle threat…? She wanted to be friends with him…? That was unlikely. But she seemed to have made Tom her enemy, and so having something… or someone she could use against him was useful. He bit his lip. The truth was, as loyal as he was to Riddle, the consequences of the dangerous youth finding out about his own… feelings… towards him did not bear thinking about.

Suddenly Rosier felt like he'd just been skilfully manoeuvred like a pawn on some great, invisible chess board... And there wasn't much he could do about it.

The next day…

Herbology greenhouses, 9:24am.

Riddle smirked as he watched Amalia's expression turn from mild disgust into full-blown horror at the task Professor Beery had assigned them. Of course, it wasn't like he particularly enjoyed fertilising sprouting bubotubers with mooncalf dung himself, but he could handle it. Amalia, on the other hand, clearly seemed to object with every fibre of her being.

She eyed the pulsating tuber in its clay pot and held it at arm's length. "But why do I have to touch it," she whined, to her unsympathetic friends. The three girls merely laughed.

"Now, now, Ms Gray," chuckled Professor Beery, sweeping over with a dramatic flourish, "It's only dung and a tuber, not an incurable disease."

"I can use a spade to repot it, can't I?" she cried out, thrusting the pot away from herself onto the table and withdrawing a step. She wrinkled her nose and turned her face away from the strong-smelling pile of dung next to it. "Or… or magic?" hope kindled in her eyes and she looked imploringly at the guffawing professor, "I could use a levitation spell that-"

"Absolutely not, my dear," Professor Beery cut her off with a reproving shake of his head. "Magic effects magical plants in… interesting ways. I'm afraid some elbow grease is the only way."

"You have gloves." Pointed out Callidora pragmatically, repotting her bubotuber with brisk efficiency. She seemed unconcerned by the smudge of something unmentionable on her cheek, or the smell.

Amalia's face was a comical study in despair, and Professor Beery was suddenly struck by an exciting thought.

"You seem to have quite a gift for dramatics, Miss Gray," he commented, trying not to sound too eager, "I happen to be putting together a little acting troop for this year's Yuletide production. Would you be interested in taking part?"

"A play?" Amalia was taken aback, and somewhat flattered.

"Indeed!" beamed the professor, "You could audition for the role of the beautiful heroine…?"

A not insignificant part of her rather liked the idea of being on a stage. Though she despised being the centre of attention, like at the Sorting feast, playing a character that was not herself was different It sounded quite amusing. It was so much more her style. "…I don't know…" she said thoughtfully, hesitating.

"I have the script already worked out." The professor continued, "Just consider it for now. But if you are interested, I'll need your reply within a fortnight."

She nodded. He beamed at her again, and opened his mouth to say something else, when he was suddenly distracted by something happening over her shoulder.

"Longbottom!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up, "Just what do you think you're doing with that Pungous Onion?! It's not actually edible, you know…" He flounced off to berate the now-gagging Gryffindor.

"Thinking of a career in the dramatic arts, are you?"

Amalia looked over at the sound of Riddle's friendly-sounding comment.

She shrugged.

"It would suit you."

"Should I take that as a compliment, or an insult?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes slightly at him. The horrendous smell of mooncalf dung had put her in no mood for verbal fencing.

He gave a light laugh, and raised his hands as if in surrender. "It was just an observation."

Amalia threw a look of pure hatred at the bubotuber she was supposed to fertilise, and stripped off her gloves irately. "Well, it looks like I'll be failing Herbology." She said, with no trace of regret, folding her arms stubbornly.

Anne, who'd stayed out of the entire conversation to concentrate on her own plant, looked up with a deeply shocked expression. "Oh, you can't mean that!" she protested, as if she was personally offended by the off-hand remark. "You can't give up in your first class!"

Amalia shrugged. "I'm a student of magic. There's nothing magical about gardening - it's ridiculous."

Riddle placed his newly-fertilised bubotuber onto the table and stripped off his own gloves, satisfied to see that no trace of dirt had soiled his robes. He, too, disliked dirt, but unlike Amalia, he would accept nothing less than an "Outstanding" OWL in all his subjects this year. It seems he had misjudged her yet again. She was proficient in magic, but did not care for grades. That was an interesting contrast. Well, she has spent two years on the run from the ministry, he reminded himself. And even stole a Time-Turner, to boot. She's a thief and who-knows-what-else? Of course she doesn't care for grades.

To his surprise, none other than Rosier stepped forward. "I'll take care of it for you, Amalia." He offered nervously.

Tom stared at him. So even Rosier had fallen to her charms? Pity.

Amalia beamed. "Why thank you, Rosier." She said, "I really appreciate it."

Rosier avoided her eyes, and Riddle's. "N-no problem." He muttered.

Riddle's gaze flicked away from the shorter boy and back to Amlia. "And how are you feeling about Ancient Runes?" he asked her, careful to keep his voice polite and genial.

She shrugged. "The textbook seems straightforward. And I've dealt with Runes before..." Her eyes flickered as if she hadn't intended to say that last thought.

His interest was piqued. "Oh? And why is that?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "That's none of your concern."

"As you wish." He said, although his eyes had taken on a rather scary, covetous gleam.

As if he wants to eat my brain, Amalia thought uneasily, as he gazed at her forehead with an odd intensity.

"Anyway." She said hastily, keen to change the topic, "The class I'm really worried about is Potions. You said you'd help me, right?"

He blinked and shook his head slightly, refocusing on her. "Sorry, what?"

"We're partnering up in Potions?" she repeated, speaking with exaggerated slowness. She looked expectantly at him.

He almost sneered at her, but then his eyes travelled passed her to look at Anne, Callidora and Charlotte, who were listening with wide eyes to their conversation. He forced a smile instead. "But you'll be leaving one of your friends without a partner," he pointed out, "Seeing as there are only three of them."

She simply smiled back at him. "Oh, don't worry about that. I'm sure I can find another friend somewhere to take my place."

Something about the way she'd said that made him highly suspicious, though he missed the way Rosier twitched while he was repotting Amalia's bubotuber.

Later that day, Potions…

As Riddle led the group of Slytherins into the passage of the dungeons where the classroom was located, raised voices and laughter could be heard, as well as the acrid smell of burning. He stopped and the others clustered around, listening curiously. Amalia and Callidora pushed themselves to the front to see what was going on.

Suddenly the door to the classroom banged open, bouncing off the wall, and Professor Slughorn stalked out, muttering bad-temperedly. Amalia was surprised, since he'd always seemed to be in a jovial mood whenever she'd seen him around the castle.

A class of dishevelled-looking sixth years filed out after him, still laughing, though they tried to stifle it under Slughorn's disapproving glare.

"Sir?" asked Riddle mildly, standing aside to let the older students pass.

Slughorn's expression brightened considerably at the sight of his favourite student, and he sighed theatrically. "Tom, m'boy, you don't know the half of it! Apparently, some of the sixth year boys thought it might be funny to slip one of their friends a badly-brewed Love Potion. I swear, this is the last time I teach this to students!"

A bulky Hufflepuff boy was towed out by two of his friends, almost crying with laughter as he kept trying to shake them off and turn back, with a glazed-over expression of longing. Riddle noticed some nasty-looking burns across his face and chest.

After him, none other than Walburga Black strutted out, looking smug. The end of her wand was smoking. As she passed Callidora, Amalia noticed her eyes narrow into a malicious sneer, which Callidora responded to with a frosty glare.

"Someone you don't like?" Amalia asked her, watching the taller girl passing. She was skinny, but had a broad frame, so that she seemed to be made of angles and wiry muscle. Her dark hair was chaotically curly like Callidora's, but she'd tamed it in a tight, rope-like braid. Her eyes were small and mean over a rather beakish nose.

Callidora grimaced. "My least favourite cousin. Try to stay out of her way – she's kinda crazy."

Amalia nodded. "Noted."

Slughorn motioned Riddle to come closer, and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, as if they were best buddies. Only Amalia seemed to notice how uncomfortable this contact made him.

"Tom, I need to go brew a cure for that idiot, Bones, and make sure he gets those burns sorted out in the infirmary." He raised his voice and addressed the waiting fifth years, "Get settled in and start- the instructions are on the board, and in your textbooks. I assume I can trust you all to keep your hands to yourselves for fifteen minutes…? Good. Riddle's in charge while I'm not around."

"Leave it to me, Professor." Tom said confidently, every inch the perfect little prefect. Amalia had a sudden urge to roll her eyes.

Filing into the class, Riddle got them all seated and set up in relatively short order. He surveyed the potion on the board - a medium-difficulty Restorative Potion - meant to sharpen the senses and induce wakefulness.

The rest of the class, even those not in Slytherin, seemed content to follow his directions and settled down quickly, getting their ingredients and starting work in their pairs.

Turning, he came face to face with Amalia, who was waiting by a table in the front of the class, and empty space beside her. She raised an eyebrow at him expectantly.

He kept his face inscrutable, noticing that his usual partner, Rosier, was setting up somewhat miserably with the mouse-ish Yaxley girl at the back of the class. He briefly wondered why he had suddenly become to compliant to Amalia's wishes.

But at least it gave him an opportunity to get to know her a little more.

"You set up our equipment and I'll get the ingredients." Riddle ordered. She grinned and started immediately.

Riddle steeled himself as he went to the ingredients cupboard, joining the throng there. Why did he have the sudden feeling this was going to be a long class…?

Amalia's problem, Riddle was rapidly discovering, was that she had a complete inability to follow directions. Slughorn had arrived back, but was offering no help, seeming amused the few times he'd walked by their table and heard them engaged in arguments over their cauldron.

"No, it's just three fireweed roots," he exclaimed, intervening before she ruined the potion for what seemed like the hundredth time, "Then you add essence of sandalwood, and then the other two roots…"

"But that doesn't make sense!" she protested, gazing at him earnestly. The steam from their cheerfully bubbling concoction had made bright spots of colour on her cheeks and the ends of her hair go slightly curly, "Why does the order matter… it's not like the mixture changes after adding the essence-"

"Of course it does!" he exclaimed, exasperated.

"How?" she demanded, looking genuinely bemused.

He caught himself before he said, "It's magic", but it was a near thing.

"It's just… the properties of the ingredients react to each other." He explained, but she didn't look convinced.

To be honest, he'd had the same reaction she'd had when he first arrived - things just didn't make sense in the magical world sometimes. But she had grown up in the magical world- hadn't she? She should be used to it by now. He froze for a second. Unless… she hadn't been in the magical world that long…? But she was so skilled. That couldn't be.

Amalia hadn't noticed his sudden silence, and was preoccupied with glaring at the page in the textbook again. "Shake the poppy seeds in a ceramic container with your left hand for fifteen seconds before adding it to the mixture…" she read incredulously, and then huffed, "Oh, well, now it's just getting ridiculous."

"Stop." He caught her wrist before she could carelessly dump the unshaken seeds into their potion, which through some miracle had just reached the ideal colour described in the textbook. He pushed the intriguing thoughts of her origins out of his mind, for now. He forced the irritation out of his voice too, and tried reasoning with her, "You said you wanted to learn, didn't you?"

She looked sheepish. "Well… yeah…"

"Then just do as I say, and trust me, it'll work out."

Riddle waited as his words finally seemed to reach her, and she nodded reluctantly.

"Good." He held out the ceramic bowl. She looked at it and scowled, and then back at his expectant expression. Sighing, she took the bowl and began shaking the seeds under his watchful gaze.

Amalia was feeling quite taken aback.

Working with Riddle in Potions wasn't turning out to be quite what she'd expected. She'd been prepared for him to be either achingly polite and attentive- as part of his fake, nice-guy persona, or perhaps cold and controlling, as she knew lay beneath that friendly façade.

But right now…

She looked at his expression, intensely focussed as he compared their potion's progress to the list of indicators in the textbook, a small unconscious frown in between his dark eyes. His usually perfect hair had fallen forward onto his forehead, and he hadn't even noticed. His usually inscrutable face was animated, engaged… human.

"Gray," he suddenly addressed her, looking up and pinning her with that sharp gaze of his.

She shook herself out of her thoughts. "What?"

"Where's the extract of rue?"

"The what?"

He sighed. "It was in a small bottle, about this big?" he motioned with his long, pale fingers.

"Ooh, that." She gave an embarrassed laugh. "I, er… I thought that was the essence of, eh… the essence of-"

"The essence of foxglove? So, you already added it during… step six?"

"Um, yes. But it's still the right colour, so maybe it's not so bad…?"

He shook his head. "No, the potion is useless without the extract at this stage, in order to counteract the side-effects of the other ingredients."

"Oh." She looked down, feeling bad after all their efforts. Mainly, his efforts.

He tapped the textbook thoughtfully. "Well, we still may be able to salvage it…" she watched as he walked over to the ingredient's cupboard and rummaged around in it for a while, before returning.

"This," he said triumphantly, holding up a small wooden box, "Is the flakes of redwood." His voice took on a lecturing tone, "It has the properties of healing, fire resistance, immunity to stun effects and is most efficacious during a full moon…- What?"

Amalia shook her head, smiling. "Nothing. You're just… kind of… incredible, do you know that?"

He frowned, unsure whether she was mocking him or not. She certainly looked sincere. He decided to ignore her, and opened the box, taking out a carefully measured pinch before adding it to their concoction. "I believe it may act as a substitute for the missing ingredient." He explained, and handed her a ladle. "Here, you do it."

They both watched the potion intently, as Amalia stirred it twenty times in a clockwise direction, as per the textbook.

On the twentieth stir, the potion turned a brilliant green - just as the textbook described the ideal end stage.

Amalia gave a delighted laugh, and even Riddle managed a small smirk at their success.

Slughorn swanned over and announced their Potion was "just about the most perfect Restorative Draught he'd even seen", before awarding them both hefty points for Slytherin.

Amalia watched as little-by-little, Riddle's mask slipped back into place, a fake smile on his face and a calculating look in his eye. But now she knew what lay beneath.

"You're actually a good teacher," she remarked as they packed up their work table. And she meant it, too. Of course, he had been impatient with her, and rude, too, but he'd taken the trouble to explain everything he was doing. And he'd given her a chance to do everything herself, helping her when she was confused, correcting her when she was making a mistake… and throughout it all, there had been a kind of unguarded honesty about him that she'd never seen before. He was brilliant at Potions - well, he was brilliant at most things, it seemed - but more than that, he genuinely enjoyed it, too.

His eyes widened in surprise at her off-handed comment, before his blank mask re-asserted itself. "Well…I can't say you're a good student." He replied coldly. The rest of the class was loud and preoccupied, so he didn't bother being polite.

She just laughed, gazing at him with something like admiration. He was used to seeing that look in others' eyes, but not on Amalia's. When his classmates and teachers looked at him like that, he felt nothing but contempt for them. But now a tingle of pleasure ran through him, and it confused him no end.

"I'll practise," she promised, "And next time, I'll be better." She tipped him a wink and swung her bag over her shoulder, before sauntering out of the classroom.

Next time?

How ridiculous. As if I care what she thinks of me…!

"You're just… kind of… incredible, do you know that?"

Lestrange sauntered over to where Riddle was irritably clearing his table with a clenched jaw. The rest of the class was empty, and even Slughorn had disappeared into his office. "That little girly giving you a headache?" he remarked in his gravelly voice, smirking.

Riddle stiffened, and shot the bigger boy a dark look. Lestrange had never treated him with quite the same amount of deference as the others. And yet, he had a malicious streak that the others didn't, a willingness to go as far as was needed… and that made him quite useful. "Watch your tongue." He said coldly.

Lestrange was not immune to intimidation, however, though he was better at concealing it. He nodded, accepting the rebuke, and lowered his gaze from Riddle's challenging stare. "Is there something I can do?"

Riddle snapped the clasp of his bag shut decisively. "There is." He said, then lowered his voice. "I've changed my mind. I want it happening on Friday."

Lestrange's eyes widened. "…You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." Riddle snapped. He needed to get to the bottom of just who Amalia Gray was, before she worked her way into his head any further. "You remember what we discussed? Just do your part, and leave the rest to me."

A truly wicked smile lit up Lestrange's usually heavy-lidded expression.

"I look forward to it."

Chapter Text

By the time Friday came around, Amalia was pretty sure Riddle was up to something. At first she blamed it on her paranoia – she didn't mind acknowledging that she had a bit of a problem there – but as the week went on and the signs increased, she became convinced that something was going to happen.

Throughout the week she noticed Riddle's posse having whispered conversations that stopped the minute she walked by, and Dolohov and Avery were walking around with expressions like they were at a funeral. They were reluctant to meet her eyes.

Riddle, on the other hand, became positively stand-offish in class, neither making things harder or easier for her. When she happened to glance his way, he'd get this little faraway smile, as if he was looking forward to something, and it downright creeped her out.

Of all of them, Rosier was the twitchiest, and Amalia could just see the internal conflict in his eyes every time he looked at her. Fear of Riddle, or fear of her exposing his secret… to Riddle. She actually felt sorry for the guy, since she'd put him in a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation.

Even so, she decided to give him a chance to make his own decision, and see how things turned out.

Her patience was rewarded when she woke up on Friday morning to a tawny owl perching on her side table.

"Who's that from?" Anne was the only one awake, already dressed as she neatly combed her hair into a long pony-tail. Callidora and Charlotte were still snoring softly in the dim early morning light.

"I have my suspicions." Amalia yawned, and sat up, holding out her arm. The owl hopped forward and waited patiently while she untied the note on its leg.

There was only one word neatly inscribed on it.

Today.

Amalia pulled a face and crumpled up the note.

"What is it?" Anne asked curiously, as the owl flew out of the dormitory. Amalia hoped it had the sense to return to the Owlery, not the boy's dorm.

"Nothing to be worried about." Amalia said with a smile. "Just Riddle being an evil git."

Anne raised her eyebrows and stopped combing briefly. "Riddle again? What is it with you two…?"

Amalia thrust back her covers and got up, stretching briskly. Today looked like it was going to be interesting… "Never you mind." She strode over to her neighbour's bed and shook her shoulder. "Dora! Up and at 'em! Rise and shine!"

She was rewarded by bad-tempered swearing and a violently launched pillow, which she cheerfully ducked.

Later…

Amalia was getting a little creeped out by Riddle's friends again.

The class was gathering outside the Herbology greenhouses, having just completed another class Amalia considered utterly useless.

The Hufflepuffs were leaning against the greenhouse glass wall, enjoying the sunshine and chatting quietly. The Ravenclaws had already departed early for their next class. The Gryffindors were laughing loudly as the ever-gregarious Longbottom levitated a Putrefied Tuber and made it fly around his friends’ heads. It was a relatively harmless magical vegetable, but it did burst if handled roughly, and the smell produced by its innards was particularly horrible. The Slytherin boys looked on contemptuously… all except one. This time, it was Lestrange staring at her. Well, leering was probably the best word for it.

She decided to ignore him and turned her attention back to Callidora, who was, as usual, getting wildly enthusiastic about something.

"… And that's why Fridays are my favourite day out of the whole week!"

"Sorry, I completely zoned out… What?" Amalia deadpanned, making Charlotte burst into a fit of giggles.

Callidora gulped air for a moment. "A-Amalia! Seriously, you weren't listening to a thing I just said?!"

Amalia pursed her lips with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Mm… something about a cake they only serve on Fridays?"

"It's not just any cake! It's Black Forrest Gateau, with real berries and cream made with-"

Longbottom was so busy dodging the flying Putrefied Tuber, that he backed right into Charlotte, his broad frame sending her sprawling onto the ground with a surprised cry.

"S-sorry!" stammered Charlotte, blushing furiously as she righted herself.

"Oi, Longbottom! Watch it, you great oaf!" exclaimed Callidora, hoisting her up while glaring at the lanky Gryffindor. "Charlotte, you're not the one who needs to apologise!"

He flinched at Callidora's fierce tone and coloured. "Geez - sorry, Yaxley." He glanced back at his friends, who were laughing, and then back to Callidora's fierce expression. He stepped up quickly and stooped to help pick up her fallen bag. "Uh, are you okay?"

She went mute and nodded, avoiding his eyes. It was not a common occurrence for Slytherins to speak with Gryffindors. He gave her bag back to her with another mumbled apology and beat a hasty retreat.

"Honestly, Charl," Callidora said sternly, "You should stick up for yourself more!"

Charlotte, redfaced, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like another apology.

Amalia chuckled, and dusted Charlotte's arm off kindly. "I don't think you're helping." She told Callidora.

"C'mon," ordered Callidora, appraising her with a critical look, "You're full of mud. I'll go with you to the dorms before our next class."

Amalia and Anne watched them head up to the castle and set off at a slower pace, heading to Transfiguration. Anne shook her head. "It's hard to believe she's a Slytherin, isn't it?"

"Charlotte? Why do you say that?"

"Nothing," Anne shrugged, "It's just… Most Slytherins are independent, ambitious… Sometimes I wonder if she wouldn't be happier in a different house."

Amalia smiled. "Without you two to take care of her?" she teased, "She'd be miserable!"

Anne returned her smile and chuckled. "You're probably right. Although it's mainly Dora's hobby, I think."

Anne linked her arm through Amalia's, and she felt a warm glow of joy spreading through her at the casual gesture. So this was what it was like to have friends? At first she'd only been interested in Hogwarts for the promise of safety, but now…

Perhaps she'd finally be able to build a normal life here with Anne, Callidora and Charlotte.

Dinner in the Great Hall…

Amalia was starting to relax. She'd been very careful the whole day, and she thought for sure she'd foiled Riddle's efforts. After all, he could hardly ambush her in front of all of their classmates. All in all, she was feeling quietly triumphant as she sat next to Callidora as they waited for the feast to begin.

Charlotte, on the other hand, was on the verge of tears.

"What's wrong?" Anne asked, frowning at her.

"I just realised that I forgot to hand in that essay for Binns!" Charlotte wailed.

Callidora threw her hands up in exasperation. "Charlotte, we were just in class half an hour ago! You really forgot?"

She nodded miserably.

"It's the first essay of the year." Anne pointed out, "It's kind of a big deal. Well, I'm sure Binns won't be too harsh if you hand it in on Monday. Half the class are usually late with theirs, anyway."

"But last year I almost failed History!" Charlotte whined, pouting. "I really want to hand it in." she glanced towards the teacher's table and leaned in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "Binns just arrived. If I sneak out now, I could just go and get the essay from the Common Room, and put it on his desk…?"

"It's just an essay," Amalia said absently, preoccupied with scanning the Slytherin table again. "Like Anne says, hand it in on Monday." Dolohov was still avoiding her eyes. Rosier looked miserable… Lestrange was missing. Hmm…

"No, I want to hand it in tonight."

Callidora shrugged. "It's up to you. We'll make up an excuse if anyone asks."

"I- do one of you mind coming with me?" Charlotte bit her lip. "The dungeons are haunted, you know."

"Grow a backbone," snapped Callidora, folding her arms. Amalia turned to look at her with raised eyebrows, then remembered – Friday was Black Forest Gateau night. There was no way Callidora would pass up the opportunity to eat her favourite dessert, even for Charlotte. She'd waited the whole summer holiday to taste it again.

Anne also looked annoyed at the smaller girl. "Wait for Monday," she advised, "If you're caught you could really get into trouble." Oddly for a Slytherin, Anne was quite vehemently against rule-breaking.

"But I can't afford to fail this essay!" Charlotte exclaimed, and turned her eyes beseechingly to Amalia.

Amalia hesitated. She really didn't want to be roaming the halls, not when she was getting such weird vibes from Riddle… her eyes suddenly caught the doors of the Great Hall, which opened a small crack. It was none other than Lestrange, making his way with his usual casual swagger back up the table to sit near Riddle without comment. She shook her head as if to clear it. She was just being paranoid. Every one of Riddle's little group was now accounted for.

"Alright." She said, turning back to Charlotte, "I'll go with you."

Callidora stood, looking guilty. She was used to taking care of Charlotte. "Well, I guess I could-"

"There's no reason for all of us to go." Amalia said logically. Callidora tried not to look too relieved, and sat back down slowly. Her mouth was already watering at the thought of the first slice of her favourite cake.

Anne scowled. "You two had better not get caught."

Charlotte nodded eagerly, and Amalia gave a reassuring smile. "We'll be back before the end of the feast," she promised, and then let herself be towed out of the hall. It wasn't an odd sight, as students were allowed to go to the bathrooms and walk about during dinner. Afterwards, however, Prefects would do a headcount and make sure everyone was accounted for. They needed to be back by then.

Charlotte was quiet as they walked quickly through the darkened halls, the flames of the torches casting eerie shadows on the stone. But it wasn't unlike her to be that quiet. Amalia rather enjoyed it, actually, relishing the chance to do something against the rules. Even if it was something as basic as skipping supper and dropping off an essay on a teacher's desk.

"Do you remember where you left it?" Amalia asked, as they descended the last flight of steps into the lowest floor of the castle. As always, the air was colder the further in they walked.

"Mm." said Charlotte absently. "The table by the fireplace… I think."

Amalia spoke the password to the entrance of the Common Room and entered first.

She walked over to the fireplace and looked around.

"Charlotte, it's not here. Are you sure you-"

"Sorry, Amalia." Charlotte's soft voice was devoid of emotion. "Petrificus totalus."

"Enervate."

Amalia opened her eyes gingerly, blinking herself back to full consciousness. For a moment she was disorientated, unable to grasp what had happened, but then everything flooded back to her and she felt a bizarre laugh trying to bubble up.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the near-total darkness, and she could see the castle, its cheerful light casting a halo of safety onto the grounds. Unfortunately, she was no longer in that halo of safety. Oh no, she was kneeling on the damp grass near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, it seemed, while three tall, dark figures stood before her, casting shadows like bars across the lawn. Their hoods were up and she couldn't see their faces, as the light was behind them.

As someone who had been kidnapped before, however, the effect wasn't quite as terrifying as it was meant to be.

She remembered Charlotte casting the body-bind curse (she didn't feel too angry, but rather impressed; the sneaky little brat had actually managed to curse her).

Then, she remembered lying on the floor, smelling the carpet of the Slytherin Common Room for several long minutes, rueing her uncharacteristic lapse of judgement, while Charlotte hummed a song cheerfully from the couch nearby.

A short while later, someone else entered through the Slytherin entrance, and she strained her ears trying to hear the short, low conversation the person had with her traitorous friend. Then the person said in a deep, male voice, "Stupefy", and she knew nothing more until she'd woken up kneeling on the lawns.

She suspected Lestrange, which would also explain the Charlotte connection. Her obsession with him was apparent, and she wasn't smart enough to think up a plan like this by herself, anyway.

In which case, the shadowy person who stood relaxed and smug in front of her was-

"Riddle." She greeted politely, as if they'd just met for tea. Shifting slightly, she noticed her hands were bound behind her back.

He gave a high, cold laugh that sent shivers down her spine. But it wasn't really fear… she was pretty sure he wouldn't kill her, and that meant she'd have ample opportunity to mess up his plans, whatever they were. Rather, she felt a rush of… excitement. She hadn't been attacked in months. He was going to regret this.

"You don't lose your composure, even in this situation? How brave of you… or stupid." His voice was mocking, and she could just feel his smirk from where she was kneeling. It really pissed her off.

Her eyes flashed, and her smile was wolfish, more like a snarl. "Would you prefer me to beg?" she spat. She affected a childish whine, basing it on Charlotte's usual whimper, "Oh, please, don't hurt me! Why are you doing this?" the shadowy figures shifted, seeming surprised by her sarcastic tone. Her next words cracked like a whip, harsh and contemptuous, her face hard, "Stop fucking around. You have questions? Ask them and then let's duel. You want to find out who's stronger, don't you? I'd love the chance to send you back in a matchbox." She snarled. The figure on Riddle's left shifted uncomfortably as Amalia's magic oppressed them, like a tangible weight on the air. She wondered which of his cronies it was. He was too tall to be Rosier, unfortunately. The hulking figure on his right was clearly Lestrange, from his broad shoulders.

But Riddle merely gave a short laugh again, and she saw him shake his head. "Brave words, Gray. And you're right, I do want to duel you. But first…" he drew his long, pale wand out of his robes and couched down onto her level. Now she could make out the details of his face, could read the cruelty and malice there. "I don't need to ask questions to get answers."

"What-" she began, eyes wide, caught by his dark gaze.

He placed the tip of his wand on her temple.

"Legilimens!"

His black eyes were dark pools, dragging her inexorably into their inky depths…

What are you hiding, Gray? Just what are you?

"…You're a witch, Ms Gray, and you belong at a school like Hogwarts." Dumbledore's face, earnest and perhaps a little exasperated, swam up to the front of her mind.

She folded her arms. "I know exactly what I am. And I'm perfectly happy where I am, thanks all the same," she replied stubbornly, indicating the door with a jerk of her head.

He stepped reluctantly out into the alley in Knockturn. "I'll be back in a week, Ms Gray, and I hope you will have reconsidered…"

She slammed the door in his face, making sure all the locks slid back into their correct positions…

She felt him sorting through her memories like a player shuffled cards, and gritted her teeth, her head swimming.

Further back…

A dusty shop filled with strange artefacts. She stiffened behind the moth-eaten bust of a woman, overhearing an interesting conversation.

"What is it?"

"Nothin' short of miraculous, I promise, guv'nor." The grimy man withdrew a small object from the depths of his coat and showed it to the shopkeeper, whose eyes widened.

"Fool!" he hissed, "How could you bring somethin' like that down here? The ministry will have us in Azkaban for goin' near a Time-Turner-"

Time-Turner? She thought, excited. That was just what she needed. Finally, some good fortune. She'd have more than enough time to prepare for the next time They came-

He was irritated now. Further back – further – Who are "they"?

She felt a sickening swoop of nausea as images flashed across her eyes, speeding up faster and faster until…

Riddle frowned, feeling a massive blank in her memories, a slippery grey field of fog through which vague shapes could barely be discerned. Frustrated with his efforts to see through it, he pushed further back into her past, to one of her earliest memories. Perhaps it would work to go chronologically, from the beginning. As he did, he felt a sudden spike in Amalia's emotions, red-hot anger like jagged glass snagging at his temples. He ignored it and concentrated.

A wide room brightly lit with fluorescent lights swam into focus, along with the harsh smell of cleaning chemicals.

"634, exemplary, as usual." The man in the white coat's voice was blank, but she felt a warm glow of pride nevertheless as she concentrated, the wooden alphabet blocks floating several inches off the ground under her shaking, five-year-old hands. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick.

Around her, the other dull-eyed kids watched enviously, sitting in an unnaturally silent circle in their blue hospital-gowns. The man ticked something off on his clipboard, one eyebrow raised.

The room faded, only to be instantly replaced…

Their footsteps echoed on the linoleum, hers pattering as she trotted to keep up with the tall man, who held her hand in a vice-like grip, almost towing her down the passage.

She wasn't afraid. The fear would come later. For now, she was just pleased at being singled out from the group. Was he taking her somewhere new? Would it be fun? Was she finally going to see what it was like Outside? Her little heart was almost bursting with anticipation…

"You're different from the others." His abrupt statement drew her wide eyes to his impassive face. His words were clipped, precise, educated. "Did you know that, Amalia?"

She blinked up at him, and then giggled nervously. "Who's Amalia? I'm 634." She informed him, pointing at the number embroidered on the front of her blue gown.

Get out of my head.

He shook his head slowly. "No, my dear. When you were born, your name was Amalia Gray. We put you with the others and gave you that number, but that's not who you are. You're very special, indeed."

"I am?"

This is private…

"You're very strong, my dear. I knew you would be. We're stopping right here…" he paused at broad double-doors, and pushed them open. Beyond she was disappointed to see yet another clinical-looking white room, and a few nurses standing about.

He lifted her effortlessly, roughly, onto the metal table. She tried not to yelp at the rough handling, tried to be strong, like he said she was.

It's private, you bastard…!

A nurse approached with a metal syringe, and she couldn't help it, she blanched, and instinctively clutched at the man's arm. He shrugged her off, face blank.

"Don't worry." He told her dispassionately, nodding at the nurse to continue. "You won't remember anything."

The nurse approached, the light catching the cruel syringe, and she began to scr-

Get OUT!

The memories disappeared in a flash of colour and light, and Amalia gasped as pain flooded her senses, her wrists hurting something awful. But at least she'd broken free. The ropes fell to the ground behind her, blackened and burnt through by the fire she'd managed to conjure without her wand.

She'd always had an affinity with fire.

She lurched to her feet, rapidly regaining her faculties. He hadn't discovered much. Nothing that could be used against her, anyway. But having Legilimency performed on her wasn't pleasant, and she felt a wave of rage towards him. This bastard was going down.

She sensed rather than saw the two figures on either side of Riddle drawing their wands, surprised at her sudden movement, and knew she only had seconds to act. Riddle was still crouched in front of her, his eyes unfocussed, trying to sort through the memories he'd just fished out of her brain. Legilimency, it seemed, didn't come easily to him yet.

She used this window of opportunity, and did the only thing she could – she snapped her leg out in a vicious kick, sending him sprawling, and then threw herself down next to him, dodging the jet of red light that had come from Lestrange. The other figure she could now see was Dolohov, and he seemed reluctant to curse her. Fool. Riddle would no doubt have something horrible planned for him later, for this hesitation. But it was to her advantage. She reached into the inner pocket of his robe as Riddle shook himself out of his daze.

With a triumphant grin, her hand closed on the familiar wood of her wand, just as Lestrange's yanked on the back of her robes. Her eyes glinted.

"Regero hostibulus!" she commanded, and Dolohov and Lestrange were blasted backwards several metres, where they lay unmoving, stunned by the force of the spell. She was on her feet a moment later, panting slightly.

"You're going to pay for that, Riddle," she spat. "Raise your wand."

She stepped back a few paces, waiting while Riddle rose to his feet, nursing a bleeding lip from her kick. To his credit, he kept his composure remarkably well, though the air virtually shivered with his killing intent.

"That was rude." He said, cold rage evident in every syllable, "I wasn't finished yet."

"Legilimency. Hardly a skill they teach at Hogwarts…" she gave him her best sneer, "I'm impressed. It's a neat trick...But you don't seem very good at it yet."

He returned her sneer with an utterly confident smirk. "I only started learning this year. I'll just have to practise, then."

"You won't get a second opportunity." She vowed.

He was unimpressed. "We'll see."

"Why are you so interested in me?"

His smile was chilling. "Boredom… I suppose."

She shifted into a duelling stance, her right foot edging forward and her left shoulder angling back, reducing the target area. "I'll have to do something about that."

He tensed, and raised his wand.

For a moment they stared at each other, both intent on the imminent fight, as the world around them shrunk into insignificance.

Riddle had a wave of de ja vu from his dream and was suddenly breathless. Amalia stood before him, her hair messy and her face flushed in anger, her fearless eyes reflecting the lights from the castle like stars. Quite simply, she was… Beautiful.

Then-

"Ustulo inimicio!" she shouted, and a ribbon of fire burst forth out of her wand, flying at him at breakneck speed.

He broke out of his paralysis and reacted immediately, conjuring a shimmering blue shield with a quick flick of his wrist that absorbed the attack, sparks flying and scorching the grass, before responding with "Debilito!", a concussive shockwave that would have slammed her into the ground, had she not instantly negated the spell with its counter-curse, lips moving in a blur.

For a moment they paused, as the grass smouldered, and the thunder from his spell faded like a distant storm.

"Not bad." He complimented her, shocked to find he actually meant it.

She stared at him for a moment. "… You, too." She finally replied.

Next, he sent a jet of purple light towards her, moving with quick steps to his right. She dodged it expertly and slashed her wand, making the ground quake as a black cloud coalesced in mid-air and flew towards him. He watched it warily, conjuring three types of shields, as he didn't recognise the spell. It was a good precaution, as the cloud ate holes through the first two shields like acid, draining his energy as it did, before meeting the third shield and dispersing. He narrowed his eyes at her. That was almost certainly a Dark curse.

She inclined her head at him, as if to say, So what?

With a muttered incantation, spikes of ice rained down on her from the night sky, but she merely smirked and conjured a greenish shield that turned the spikes to gentle snowflakes that floated down and settled lightly on her head and shoulders, before harmlessly melting away.

Next they dispersed with such showy magic in favour of speed and power, trading a multi-coloured flurry of spells, dodging some while others rebounded off magical shields. Neither could gain the upper hand, and neither could afford to relax. Both of them used fast, easily pronounced curses and spells, though Tom noticed she occasionally used Dark magic as well as the usual duelling spells. He did the same, of course. For the moment, neither of them were aiming to kill, although each spell was incredibly dangerous. The first to fall would no doubt have some pretty horrific injuries.

As Tom was hastily fending off a hail of flaming arrows, he heard a curious sound over the reverberations on his shield.

His mouth opened slightly.

Amalia was laughing. A reckless, wild laugh of pure exhilaration, as she sent brutal curse after curse at him. And it wasn't as if she was besting him- he could even spot a rip in the material of her shoulder where one of his hasty Cutting Hexes had caught her. The hem of his own robe was smouldering, and his arms already ached with the speed at which they traded spells. Though the night air wasn't very warm, both were sweating from exertion.

Even so… the same savage excitement was kindling in the pit of his stomach, too, and though he didn't laugh like her, he could understand the impulse.

Amalia dodged a particularly impressive Dark Curse, seeing the spot she'd just occupied get vaporized into a small crater, with a reckless grin. Usually, she was a pacifist by nature, and preferred to end conflicts with words, not actions. However, when her life was endangered, she found that something inside her seemed to snap, and all fear would leave her. Perhaps she went temporarily insane. She felt like a red haze had descended, like the bloodlust of Vikings in a bygone age. But it didn't come from anger – even the annoyance at Riddle's invasion of her mind had faded. She was having way too much fun.

She felt herself settling into the rhythm of the duel, relishing the give and take of it, the split-second decisions which could change, or drastically shorten your life, all happening in a matter of moments. It was as if they were engaged in a deadly dance… and Riddle was an excellent partner.

She watched his movements closely, looking for an opening. He was fast and surprisingly agile at dodging and attacking, closing or retreating whenever he needed to. He'd stopped smirking, which she took as a good sign. Instead, his expression was focussed, but slightly abstracted, as he attacked and reacted to her attacks with predatory grace. She had to respect his skill. However…

He might have an instinctive knack for duelling, but she had experience on her side.

She launched a barrage of simple attacks, aimed at keeping him on the defensive, as she stepped forward. As expected, he was unable to attack for a brief moment, stumbling backwards, concentrating on a hastily-constructed defence, and she used this brief respite to cant a longer, double-layered spell. It had come from an old, yellowed tome that some years ago had been issued with a Level 6 Dark Arts "Burn-Upon-Sight" warning. Living in Knockturn had some perks, and access to rare, forbidden magics was one of them.

Perhaps such a powerful spell was cheating… a bit, but as fun as it was, all duels had to come to an end sometime.

She let the spell fly from the tip of her wand, feeling the powerful curse bursting free as if it had a tangible weight. "Block that, you bastard," she smirked, seeing his eyes widen as he saw the spell, a shapeless blob emitting a sickly-looking golden glow as it swooped towards him.

He just had time to conjure a blue sphere around him before it landed, wrapping itself around his circle of protection. He watched in shock as cracks formed on the shell – incidentally his strongest barrier - and then the sphere shattered like glass.

He exhaled sharply as the golden spell slid like oil over his skin, paralysing him like an insect trapped in amber, and he felt an unpleasant pressure not unlike a grasping hand slithering up his throat, cutting off his air-supply… what it would do when it got to his mouth and nose, he did not want to find out.

"Expelliarmus."

The golden spell suddenly melted away into thin air, releasing him. He gave a choked gasp and fell to his knees on suddenly weak legs. Amalia caught his wand with one hand, examining it with detached interest. It was a little longer than she was used to, but all in all it didn't feel too bad in her hand.

"I win." She said mildly, and pointed her wand at Dolohov, then Lestrange. With muffled groans, they started moving again. Unfortunately for them, they'd missed the whole fight.

He struggled to his feet, feeling a blistering wave of white-hot rage at her… and himself. He had… lost. He never lost. "Why did you stop?" he demanded, as she walked towards him. His wand and hers were held loosely at her side. His hands itched to close on her slender throat.

She met his murderous gaze with an amused look. "That spell would have ripped you apart, Riddle. How would I explain the body to Dumbledore?"

He was unsure how seriously to take that, and was still glaring at her when she stuck out her hand towards him. He instinctively reached out and took the wand she'd just offered him back, dumbfounded. Instantly he tensed, wanting to curse her into oblivion for daring to be so impudent, but… he hesitated.

She caught his hesitation, and rolled her eyes. "It's over, Riddle. If you want, we can duel again some time - if I feel particularly pissed off at you - but I suggest we make it some other night." She nodded up at the castle, and he followed her gaze. "Our antics seem to have already attracted attention."

"Shit." There were figures moving at the entrance. They'd obviously observed their duel, which must have looked like fireworks in the dark.

"I assume you had a plan to cover your kidnapping of the damsel in distress?" her voice was achingly dry.

"Of course," said Riddle promptly. He put his annoyance at losing to her on the back-burner for now, satisfied with her promise to duel him again. Next time, things would be different. For now, all they had to do was not get expelled. "We can enter through a maintenance door, near the greenhouses."

Dolohov and Lestrange approached uncertainly, looking dazed and confused. Their leader and their kidnap victim were standing side-by-side looking at the castle, their wands loosely clasped at their sides, and they seemed to be having a cordial conversation. How on earth did that happen? Meanwhile, the ground for about fifty metres on each side resembled a war-zone. Amalia's shoulder was bleeding from a shallow gash, and the hem of Riddle's robe was smouldering. He also had a shadow forming in the shape of a hand at the base of his throat, a purpling bruise that didn't look natural.

But from their expressions it would seem as though they'd been taking a stroll.

Amalia glanced at them. "Let's not delay. Dolohov, you go first."

"Uh…sure." He stammered, and they set off at a fast walk, making a wide arc and keeping to the shadows as the approached the castle from the side.

"Incidently," Amalia remarked into the awkward silence as they walked. "How were you planning to keep me quiet about this when you were done with me?"

Riddle glanced at her. "Memory charm." He said dismissively.

She stopped walking.

Lestrange just stopped in time to stop himself from walking into her back.

Riddle turned, one eyebrow raised.

Her expression was cold, and more serious than he'd ever seen it. "Riddle." She said quietly. "I'll only say this once, so listen carefully. If I ever catch you trying to put a memory charm on me, I will kill you. It's not a warning, it's just a fact."

Lestrange gave a snort behind her, but she ignored him.

Previously, Riddle might have sneered at her for a comment like that, but now… as much as he hated it, he had to admit she was capable. If she'd wanted him dead tonight… he would have been.

He thought back to the grey, blank space he'd seen in her memories - a gap spanning several years…

"Alright." He said. "Rules of engagement." If I do cast a Memory Charm on you, I'd just better be damn sure you don't find out, he added privately.

They continued walking.

The greenhouse entrance was quiet and deserted.

"After you." Riddle murmured, holding the door open for Amalia.

"Thank you." She said politely, and stepped through.

"Lestrange, Dolohov," Riddle said coldly. "I want a word before we continue."

"Then, I'll see you later in the Common Room," Amalia said, and Riddle nodded, his eyes already fixed on Dolohov, whose hands started shaking, and Lestrange, who seemed suddenly a little paler than usual.

She tried to feel sorry for them, but couldn't quite manage it, so she just left. The kidnapping was too fresh in her mind.

Amalia cleaned off the sleeve of her robe as she walked away into the dark castle – she would take care of the cut herself with her Healer's Compendium. And perhaps some Murtlap Essence.

But mostly her thoughts started turning to how she was going to deal with a certain little brat's brazen betrayal…

Chapter Text

"Where were you?" demanded Callidora instantly, as Amalia entered the girl's dormitory. She stopped her pacing and stared, taking in Amalia's windswept hair, sweaty face and the gash on her shoulder, just visible through the bloody rip in her robes. Also, it was past midnight.

Anne frowned, hesitantly stepping forward with a concerned, "Are you alright?"

Amalia didn't answer immediately, but looked carefully between them. She felt a wave of relief. She'd been uncertain whether they'd been involved, but one look at their concerned expressions and she knew her fears were unfounded. She grinned. "I'm absolutely fine," she assured them. With the knowledge that they, at least, hadn't betrayed her, she felt positively cheerful, still high after the buzz of beating Riddle. Seeing his disbelieving, outraged face as she disarmed him had been worth all the shit he'd put her through...

Her gaze came to rest on Charlotte, who was perched nervously on the edge of her bed, pale as a ghost.

"I've just had a rather... memorable... evening." Amalia drawled. I still remember everything, you little-

The petite brunette cringed, her gaze darting to the door as if she was considering making a run for it.

Anne and Callidora were too preoccupied with staring at her to notice Charlotte's odd behaviour, so Amalia merely sauntered past her to sit on her own bed, pondering how best to take her revenge. Charlotte clearly didn't want Anne and Callidora to find out about her little betrayal - she wondered if this was something that might actually cost her five years' worth of friendship. But that was a little too direct for Amalia's taste. She wanted to see the little snake squirm, first.

"Charlotte, did you tell them where I went?" she asked lazily, shrugging out of her robe and laying it on the bed.

Anne hissed at the sight of the long, yet shallow bloody gash across her upper arm, and the minor burns on her wrists from where the ropes had spontaneously ignited.

Charlotte didn't seem capable of speech, so, as usual, Callidora came to her rescue. "She said you went to the library?"

Amalia nodded, "Ah, yes, so I did." You couldn't come up with anything better, you idiot? she sneered internally. "I went to the library." she waved her wand and a heavy, worn-looking book soared out of her trunk, as well as a small vial of yellowish-looking potion and a ream of white bandages.

Anne sat down next to her on her bed and picked up the book curiously, tracing the words "Healer's Compendium" on the front. "Who attacked you?" she asked, opening the book.

Callidora bent closer to get a look at her wound as Amalia dabbed at it with murtlap essence on the end of a bandage. "Who do you think?" she threw back.

Callidora frowned. "The only one who could beat you in magic is- But... I thought he liked you?"

"It was Riddle," confirmed Amalia, wincing as the essence stung her wound, "Doesn't this just prove what I've been saying since the beginning? We're enemies, Dora."

Callidora sighed. "I believe you now." For some reason she looked disappointed.

Anne found the page dealing with minor cuts and burns and held up the book as Amalia recited the spells to speed healing. The burns on her wrists instantly turned a healthy pink, though it still felt sensitive, while the cut on her arm itched and closed slowly.

"Are you going to tell Dippet?" asked Anne seriously. "Or at least Slughorn?"

Amalia snorted with laughter. "Why would I do that? No one needs to find out." she tipped a leer and a wink at Charlotte just to let her know that it was far from over... the smaller girl's throat bobbed nervously as she swallowed.

"But he hurt you!" argued Anne, sounding offended on her behalf. "He attacked a girl-"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Callidora interrupted loudly, scowling. Amalia hid a smile - Callidora was quite a feminist.

"She's bleeding, Dora!" hissed Anne, indicating the wound.

Amalia shrugged. "Actually, the bleeding's stopped now. And anyway," she gave a satisfied chuckle, "You should see him."

All three of them turned in unison to stare at her. "Why... What does-? Did you-!" Dora sounded way too eager to hear the details.

Amalia thought pleasantly about how Riddle must be dealing with his own wounds at that very moment. "Well," she started with relish, "First, I kicked him in the face-" Callidora bounced on the bed and whooped, cackling, while Anne tried to look disapproving, but couldn't help raising her eyebrows, impressed. "Then," Amalia ticked it off on her hand, "I think I managed to give him a nasty burn on one leg... And he'll have some serious bruising here," she indicated the area around her neck.

"Duelling is against the rules," chided Anne half-heartedly, as Callidora snorted with laughter.

"I thought your dream was for Riddle and I to sail off into the sunset together or something," Amalia said mildly.

Callidora wiped a tear away from her eye with a dramatic flourish. "Nah, this is better. He's had it coming for a long time."

"Why would you say that?" Amalia was honestly surprised. Since she'd arrived, she'd heard nothing but praise for Riddle, albeit with a couple of cautionary words. People seemed to sense there was something dangerous about him... but he kept his true face carefully concealed from everyone. She hadn't met anyone who actually wished him ill, yet.

Callidora and Anne traded looks. "We've known Riddle since first year... he was... different then." Anne started slowly.

Callidora nodded. "Scarier."

"The first few months," Anne explained, "He ignored everyone. If you tried to speak to him, he'd look at you like you were some kind of bug."

"So what changed?" Amalia asked, curious.

"Well," said Callidora in a hushed voice, leaning closer, "Some of the older students started, you know, picking on him. It was obvious he was different - and he wasn't really respectful to anyone except the professors."

"He was bullied?"

Callidora snorted. "Not exactly. No one knows what he did to them, but all of a sudden it was clear that they were petrified of him."

"I see."

"That's not the end of it," Anne added seriously, "Eleven-year-olds don't go around scaring sixth years-" Amalia raised her eyebrows at that, "Without people noticing."

"He got in trouble?"

"Someone must have talked to the professors, because there was an enquiry and everything." Anne continued, "But nothing came of it - suddenly, all the boys - Dolohov, Rosier, and the rest-"

"-Who previously didn't want anything to do with him," added Callidora.

"-They all testified that he was the true victim, had only acted in self-defence, and so on..."

"And that worked?"

Anne nodded. "He didn't get punished, for whatever he did. And ever since that scandal, his record's been spotless. It's like he's a different person."

"Or not so different, after all." Amalia hummed thoughtfully. So it had taken Riddle some time to cultivate that friendly mask of his? Beneath his handsome face, however, was someone much uglier. She felt a thrill of pleasure at the thought that she, alone, had broken through that facade... and then immediately a wave of confusion. Why was she happy about that? She'd spent the last three years trying to stay out of danger. She wasn't a masochist - so why did she care if he treated her differently...?

She shook herself out of her inconvenient thoughts. "Anyway," she said decisively to her two friends and the traitor, "I want you to keep on acting like nothing happened."

"But-" Anne started.

"Do you have a plan?" Callidora asked shrewdly, eyes bright. She seemed to thrive on the intrigue.

Amalia waved her wand and a nonverbal spell made the book, potion and extra bandages fly back into her trunk, which closed with a thunk. "Of course." she said calmly. She reclined against the headboard, sighing in contentment as her tired muscles relaxed. She closed her eyes. "This means war."

Callidora enthusiastically snapped a theatrical salute, while Anne just shook her head, trying to hide a smile.

"You won't win." Charlotte's voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, but Amalia thought she detected a tiny note of resentment. It seemed there was yet another person in Slytherin who was hiding an uglier side under an angelic exterior.

Amalia cracked one eye open, but Charlotte avoided her cold gaze, studying the pattern on the carpet instead.

A traitor and a liar... but mostly a coward, Amalia mused.

"Why would you say that?" she asked quietly. Anne and Callidora looked between the two girls in bewilderment, bemused by the sudden change in the atmosphere.

Charlotte just shook her head, watching the green-patterned sock on her right foot rub her left ankle in a nervous tic. She regretted speaking at all.

There was a moment of tense silence... Then Amalia gave a light laugh. "Don't worry so much, Charl'. It takes more than a little ambush to put me down." she swung her legs of the bed and sauntered over to Charlotte, looming over her. She flinched as Amalia rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. To Anne and Callidora, it must have looked like a comforting gesture - but there was nothing comforting about Amalia's vice-like grip, her nails biting into her narrow shoulders. "I don't forgive easily," Amalia explained with an edge to her voice that made Charlotte look up with wide eyes, "So it's not like I can just let this go. You understand that, right?"

"Y-yes..." she squeaked, frozen in place.

Charlotte felt her heart-rate speed up as a strange pressure constricted her breathing. Was this... magic? Only the strongest witches and wizards could make their power felt without a conduit like a wand - besides from the unpredictable bursts that everyone experienced in childhood, of course. Amalia was... really scary when she was angry.

"Don't be scared," Amalia urged with a scary smile, as if she'd heard her thoughts, and released her shoulder at last, patting it gently instead. "I protect my friends." there was a not-so-subtle threat in her honey-sweet tone.

Charlotte regretted getting involved at all. She sniffed. "I'm sorr-"

"Shh," interrupted Amalia, before the idiotic girl spoilt everything and blurted out a confession. She was conscious of Anne and Callidora's ignorant, bemused gazes on her back, "There's no need for that." She reined in the urge to strangle the girl with an effort. Honestly, how could she take pleasure in revenge if she didn't even fight back? It was pathetically easy to scare her into submission. It wasn't even satisfying.

A kernel of an idea started forming in her mind. She turned away from Charlotte and smiled at the other two. "Let's all get some sleep, shall we? It's late."

Callidora blinked as the tension which had inexplicably filled the air just moments before seemed to suddenly disappear. Had she just imagined it...?

Anne shrugged and crossed the room to her own bed. She sighed. "You've only been here a week," she told Amalia as she started laying out her clothes for the next day. Amalia noticed they were casual robes and suddenly remembered it was the weekend. "Skipping roll call, duelling, making enemies... Declaring war? Don't you think you should slow down?"

"I think it's awesome." announced Callidora. "Things haven't been this interesting since you tried to perm your hair."

"What?" laughed Amalia, as Anne turned beet red and chucked a pillow at Callidora.

In a cheerful mood, three of the four girls fell asleep soon after that. But Charlotte stayed awake longer into the night, dreading whatever revenge Amalia had in store for her...

The next day dawned bright and early, and Amalia rose with the sun as usual. Overnight, her wounds had healed well; there was barely a trace of the burns on her wrists, and the cut on her shoulder had already faded to just a red line, easily hidden by her clothes.

It was just dawn - the others would sleep for a long time yet since it was the weekend. She felt tired after the events of the previous day, but there was so much to do, and she was looking forward to it. She rolled out of bed stealthily, and drew her wand. First, she cast a useful little spell that would muffle sound, and then stalked over to Charlotte's bed. The little traitor was snoring peacefully.

"Silencio." Amalia muttered, and then cheerfully shook her awake.

Predictably, she yelped as she became aware of Amalia looming over her with a scary smile, and then grew confused when she realised her yelp was completely silent. She pawed at her throat in panic as she realised she couldn't make a sound.

Amalia rolled her eyes at her thrashing. "Relax." She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. "I estimate we have about two hours before the others wake up - get dressed."

Looking like she was on the way to the gallows, Charlotte complied, her mouth downturned and her eyes shifty.

As soon as they were both presentable, Amalia led her out of the dormitory, through the Common Room and into the dungeons, where she soon found an empty room. It may have been used as a classroom at some stage, but for now it was only full of dusty broken desks and other debris. She waved her wand and cleared a space, sweeping all the junk up against a wall. Then, she motioned Charlotte to come into the room, and stood opposite her with a relaxed posture that contrasted sharply with the other girl's tenseness.

"Finito," Amalia said, ending the Silencing Charm.

"What are you going to do to me?" squeaked Charlotte immediately, hugging her sides as if she wanted to disappear completely.

Amalia gave a wicked grin. "I just have some questions before we begin."

Charlotte sniffed, "B-begin?"

Amalia ignored her. She was ninety-five percent sure most of her 'scared-girl' act was just that - an act. "First," she started cheerfully, "Let's start with an easy one. Was it Riddle who put you up to it?"

Charlotte shuffled in place.

"Lestrange, then? He asked you to do it?"

Charlotte seemed even more reluctant to speak, telling Amalia she was on the right track.

"Who taught you the Body-Bind Curse?"

"I already knew it." Charlotte said resentfully.

Amalia raised her eyebrow. "I see. Was it your first time using it?"

She nodded miserably.

"One last question - and this one is the most important. Were you promised anything in exchange for helping them?"

"... No."

"Then, did they threaten you?" Charlotte seemed to hesitate. "Did Lestrange or Riddle threaten you?" Amalia asked again, impatient.

"... No." Charlotte was looking less and less scared, and more annoyed by the minute.

Amalia smirked. "So then... Did you simply do it because you wanted to?"

A baleful glare was her only reply.

Amalia laughed. "You must really hate me, huh?" she folded her arms and tapped her chin ruminatively with her wand. It wasn't really a surprise that Charlotte hated her - Amalia was an outsider, who had just arrived at Hogwarts, yet she was already fast friends with Anne and Callidora. It was immature jealousy, that was all.

"Clearly, you have some issues with me you should sort out." she stated calmly. "Raise your wand."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Slowly, Charlotte took her wand out of her pocket, staring at Amalia the whole time. "Why?"

"There's something you should know about me," she started coolly, "I don't enjoy getting cursed in the back. If you wanted to curse me, you should have done it to my face, and you should have made sure I stayed down. So... why don't you try again?" she stretched her arms almost as wide as her wicked smile. "Take your best shot - if you can."

An almost invisible bead of sweat formed on Charlotte's temple, and she licked her lips nervously. "I don't want-"

"Here, I'll demonstrate," Amalia offered generously, before slashing her wand with lazy confidence, "Petrificus totalus."

Charlotte didn't even have time to twitch before the spell hit her, instantly making her muscles seize in paralysis. She teetered for a moment, eyes wide and shocked, before falling forward and feeling a lurch of panic as the hard stone floor rushed towards her very fragile and frozen nose-

"Immobulus," sighed Amalia, and Charlotte paused, her face ten centimeters from smashing into the unforgiving ground. "Really, you just suck the fun out of everything," the other girl muttered, releasing Charlotte from both spells non-verbally, "At least make it a challenge..."

Charlotte gasped, her knees hitting the dusty ground as she tried to process what had happened. She'd been entirely unable to react... at all-

"Unpleasant, isn't it?" Amalia said cheerfully, "At least now you know. Honestly, this is precisely why it's important to teach students how to duel."

Charlotte found a shred of pride from somewhere and glared balefully from her position on the floor, "You couldn't do anything when I hexed you," she spat.

Amalia laughed at her defiance, and shrugged, "That's true, that's true. It was my fault for turning my back on you in the first place. Rest assured, I won't make the same mistake again. That's not why I'm annoyed, though."

"It's not?"

Amalia flapped a hand at her, "Charl', you're speaking to a witch who lived in Knockturn for three years. I'm more annoyed that I actually got cursed by you - with something as boring as petrificus totalus, no less - within a week of being at school. I must be going soft."

Charlotte's face was the picture of bewilderment as she tried to process this. "Wait, so... you're not actually annoyed at me-?"

Amalia shrugged. "Okay, a bit. You're a traitorous bitch who doesn't deserve to stand in Dora and Anne's shadow-"

Charlotte winced.

"- But mostly I'm just annoyed with myself."

"I... see..." Charlotte decided to ignore the part about being a bitch for now. All things considered, perhaps she deserved it... "Wait." a thought suddenly caught up with her, "You lived in Knockturn- Knockturn Alley - for three years?!" her voice rose to almost a squeak at the end of her sentence.

"Mm. You ever been?"

Charlotte shook her head rapidly. Her parents had told her dreadful tales about Diagon Alley's most unsavoury offshoot. It was apparently full of Dark Wizards, creatures, beggars, halfbreeds... and even Squibs. She shuddered delicately.

"It was educational." nodded Amalia. "Which brings us to the real reason why you're here." she glanced at her watch. "We have about an hour left."

"For what?" asked Charlotte suspiciously, clambering slowly to her feet again.

Amalia looked businesslike as she rolled up her sleeves, tossing her hair back with a determined gleam in her eyes. "The next time you try to curse me it will be with a much less boring spell. That's why we're here."

Charlotte blinked, nonplussed.

"I'm going to teach you a couple of useful jinxes," Amalia explained impatiently, rolling her eyes at Charlotte's blank expression. "But first, you need to also learn some basic blocks, or you won't last three seconds against me. I assume you can cast protego, at least? It's horribly ordinary," she said that as if it actually offended her, "But it'll have to suffice for now. Cast it and let's see how strong your barrier is."

"What?"

"Cast. It. Just do it."

"I... - P-protego?" a wavering blue-tinted barrier shimmered into existence, barely covering her upper body.

Amalia snorted. "Mordeo," she said in a bored tone, the Stinging Hex breaking through the barrier instantly.

She was rewarded with Charlotte leaping about a foot into the air and squeaking, clutching her arm.

"Oh, stop it with the dramatics," Amalia said breezily. "It won't even leave a mark." It was pleasant to get revenge in this small way. Even though she wasn't using even half of the power she would usually have. It wasn't enough to leave a mark, but the pain was real enough, about the same as a sting of a flicked dishcloth. It would last less than three seconds. She wasn't a sadist, after all.

Clearly, Charlotte didn't agree, her eyes watering as she whimpered pitifully.

"Again." ordered Amalia sternly.

To her surprise, Charlotte obeyed without comment, and this time, her barrier was slightly stronger.

One hour later found them both back in the dormitories, just in time to see Callidora and Anne waking up.

When asked where they'd been, Amalia shrugged and simply said, "Library," but couldn't help whistling cheerfully as she waited for the other two girls to get dressed.

The impromptu lesson hadn't exactly been pleasant - Charlotte was resentful and pathetic in equal measure - but she had shown marked improvement even over the short time they'd practiced, and Amalia knew she would be grateful on the day she ever had to defend herself. They hadn't had time to get to offensive spells, but Amalia wasn't too worried. They had time for that - and she wanted Anne and Callidora to join in. It seemed prudent, especially since their opponent was Riddle and his cronies. He had proven that he wasn't above trying to get to her through her friends.

Then again, she also wasn't above using others in their little war. Rosier was only the beginning...

Charlotte had stopped flinching every time Amalia looked at her about half way through their training, and now she seemed to be quite willing to ignore her existence. She gave only monosyllabic answers to Anne and Callidora's morning greetings, and quickly crawled back into bed, facing the wall with the covers drawn up to her chin.

"Don't you want breakfast?" Anne asked, puzzled by this behaviour.

Charlotte mumbled something about feeling tired, and then ignored all of them.

Amalia was trying to think up an excuse before Anne and Callidora suspected her of ill-treating their friend (... pet... she sneered internally), when Callidora caught Anne's eye and shrugged, jerking a head at the door. Amalia followed them out curiously.

"I wonder if she's feeling sick," Anne wondered, once they were on their way through the quiet castle halls.

Callidora rolled her eyes. "You know how she is," she said sourly (Callidora was never in a good mood in the morning), "She's probably sulking about something again. It's just a cry for attention."

Anne sighed, seemingly accepting the explanation.

Amalia suppressed a smile. Really, it's just too easy.

With Charlotte taken care of, she only had to deal with Lestrange and Dolohov. She was determined that everyone involved would learn immediately that there were consequences to targeting her...

"By the way," Callidora said as they ascended a staircase, leaving the chilly dungeons in favour of the warmly-lit entrance hall, "Isn't it going to be awkward when you, you know, see him this morning?"

"Why?" Amalia hadn't really thought about it - she'd been too busy scheming.

"Are you still going to act like you're being friendly?" Callidora seemed to still be having trouble believing she and Riddle were really enemies.

Amalia considered. "I'll follow his lead, I guess," she said at last, as they walked into the Hall. Her eyes swept the table, but they were some of the first students there, and so it wasn't strange that he hadn't arrived yet.

Something she'd also noticed during the past week was that Riddle usually arrived as late as possible to breakfast, and his mood was even worse than Dora's. She inferred that he was just not a morning person.

Though she tried not to show it, she couldn't help looking up every time a new knot of students entered the hall. When Riddle did finally arrive, flanked as usual by his posse of "friends", he even later than usual. Amalia noticed with a smug glow of satisfaction that he seemed to be walking rather stiffly - no doubt compensating for his injured leg. Perhaps his magical skills didn't extend to healing - a childish oversight for someone who clearly had a lot of interest in duelling. She ignored him as he limped past, buttering her toast. He seemed determined to ignore her too, not even glancing her way as he passed to sit further down the table, in his usual spot. She almost felt disappointed.

After breakfast Callidora insisted they take a walk down to the Lake, seeing as Amalia hadn't yet had a chance to tour the grounds. She was keen to start on the book Binns had recommended, but the weather was warm and everyone seemed keen to enjoy the outdoors. They took a slow stroll to the Owlery, and then continued on to the Quidditch pitch, where students from Gryffindor were getting in their first practice of the first season.

According to Anne, who'd been giving Amalia a running commentary of each new place they visited, the Gryffindors were historically the most zealous at sports, though not necessarily the most successful. Slytherins didn't practice as hard, but their ambition and ruthlessness ensured that they won about half the time anyway. Ravenclaws occasionally put together a good team, but were more interested in academics, particularly around exam times. Hufflepuffs seemed to lack a competitive streak entirely, and so were usually bottom of the rankings. They didn't lack skill, but rather the motivation. Their supporters often pre-empted the inevitable and threw their support behind one of the other houses, cheering them on good-naturedly.

Anne yawned, leaning against the stands as they watched the players fooling around with the quaffle far above. "I can't tell - are they any good this year?"

Callidora seemed rather keen as she watched the players zipping about far above, an excited gleam in her eye. "Mm. We might have some trouble. Longbottom even made the team..."

Amalia chuckled. "He's the last one I would have let anywhere near a bludger - look, he's wearing a Beater's kit."

"...suits him..."

"I didn't quite catch that?" Amalia asked blithely.

Callidora went a little pink. "Nothing." she said hastily.

"...I see."

Anne yawned again, tearing her eyes from the Gryffindors to turn back expectantly to Callidora. "Can we head back now?"

Callidora sighed, casting an envious look at the line of spare brooms left on the side of the pitch. "I guess so."

Apparently, she'd tried out the previous year to be a Chaser for the Slytherin team, but Walburga Black had bullied the team captain into refusing her a place out of spite. Amalia really couldn't see the attraction of flying around on a flimsy-looking stick used for household cleaning, but she tried to be sympathetic. "Will you try again this year?" she asked.

Callidora pulled a face. "This year it's even less likely; Walburga herself is the new captain. Ah - it's so unfair!" she scowled and led the way back towards the castle.

On the way, Amalia saw her chance to confront Dolohov - he was walking with Avery and Nott across the clock tower courtyard.

"I'll see you later," she hurriedly told Callidora and Anne, and rushed to intercept him even as she got a startled "Er... Okay...?" from Anne.

He froze when she stopped in front of him, and looked down guiltily.

"Hey, Amalia," greeted Avery with about half of his usual bravado. The falseness in his voice told her the rest of the boys in Riddle's group must have heard some version of the events of the previous night already. At least they felt bad about it.

She ignored him. "Dolohov," she said instead, sweetly, "Could I have a word?"

"Sure," he mumbled, and followed her miserably around the corner, to a deserted stretch of corridor just out of sight of the other students that were milling about.

She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"I - are you okay?" he asked awkwardly into the silence. "After last night - I mean, I didn't see-"

She suddenly realised that he wasn't aware of the outcome of the duel. He hadn't seen her win. He'd only seen the before and after, making it seem as though they'd both stopped - like Riddle had stopped before he hurt her seriously. Of course, Riddle wasn't about to admit to the truth of the matter.

"I thought we were friends." she sighed, crafting a hurt expression, "And yet, you actually helped Riddle attack me..." She rubbed her arm as if the healed wound still pained her.

"I - I didn't want to!" he assured her hurriedly. "He... made me-"

"He did?" polite disbelief coloured her voice, and she turned her full attention on him, eyes wide and innocent. "How?"

Dolohov abruptly closed his mouth, wincing before he said something he wasn't supposed to. "I'm sorry." he said instead, sounding sincerely miserable.

Amalia surveyed him for a few moments - Damn, he's got these boys well trained, she sneered to herself, before nodding and favouring him with a small smile. "I believe you." she told him solemnly, and was rewarded by his relieved look. "And furthermore... I forgive you. Riddle really is despicable, the way he treats people," she sniffed as if holding back tears, "He's so manipulative..."

Dolohov looked torn, hesitating between his fear-induced loyalty to Riddle and Amalia's puppy-dog eyes. "Amalia, I-" he breathed dramatically, "Don't worry, I'll - it won't happen again..."

She blinked innocently at him. "Really?"

He nodded eagerly, missing the hint of smugness in Amalia's gaze. He even had the audacity to step closer and tentatively take her hand. She let him, raising her eyebrow at his forwardness. "Is there anything I can do, to make up for it?" Unbelievable, she thought dryly, He's using this as an opportunity to flirt.

Nevertheless, it gave her an idea.

"Perhaps you can help me..." she said, cocking her head at him and placing a hand over his.

"Anything," he said eagerly.

She smirked. With that promise, the charade could finally be dropped. About time too, because a muscle above her eye was beginning to twitch. "Very well." She pulled her hand from his grasp and folded her arms instead, fixing him with a steady gaze. "I want you to fetch Lestrange." She said abruptly, "And have him meet me at the greenhouses in one hour." At this time of day, that part of the grounds would be deserted.

His eager smile dropped off his face instantly. "What? ... Why?"

Her gaze narrowed, and he almost took an instinctive step backwards.

"You said 'anything', didn't you?" she snapped.

"Yes, but-"

"Well, this is what I want." she interrupted him. "I just want to have a chat with him, that's all. Consider your debt... forty percent absolved, for this." She thought that was pretty generous.

Dolohov looked uncertain. "He won't come."

"Make him."

"How? Wh-what should I say?"

She rolled her eyes, irritated now. "Why don't you tell him Riddle's waiting, and losing what little patience he has. That should get him moving."

"I -" Dolohov blinked helplessly a couple of times before admitting defeat. "... Okay."

"Good." she flashed him an dismissive smile and turned to go. "And don't keep me waiting," she warned over her shoulder, "I don't have much patience, either."

Watching her stalk off with a jaunty sway of her hips, Dolohov shivered as if feeling a sudden chill.

True to his word, Dolohov saw to it that Lestrange sloped out of the castle barely an hour later, looking annoyed but entirely unaware of the ambush that awaited him next to the greenhouses.

Since she wasn't a fan of attacking while someone's back was turned, she stepped into the open in front of him once she was certain he'd come alone.

He stopped abruptly, tensing as he saw her wand held loosely in one hand, a subtle threat.

"Hello there, Lestrange-" she started in a friendly tone, before he interrupted her.

"The fuck do you want?" he snarled, drawing his wand in a fluid movement.

Her gaze sharpened. "We need to talk." she said simply, dropping the smile. Charm was clearly not the way to go with this one.

"I have nothing to say to you," he spat, and turned on his heel, making for the door he'd just come through. She noticed he kept one eye on her over his shoulder as he walked, and hid a smile. It was nice to finally not be underestimated. Perhaps he was smarter than she'd originally thought.

"Colloportus," she cast quickly, rewarded by the door slamming shut and a heavy bolt being pulled into place with a heavy thud.

At her word, Lestrange had spun about, raising his wand in case he needed to block a spell. His reflexes were good. As soon as he noticed the target wasn't him, he switched from defense to offence in an instant, snarling, "Everte statum!", a spell which would have blasted Amalia off her feet if she hadn't blocked it instinctively with her favourite barrier ("Circumcingo!"), which had the benefit of protecting her from all sides, whilst being stronger than a simple Protego.

Not flinching, Lestrange narrowed his eyes and slashed his wand, sending a Dark curse her way with crude force. She identified the incantation as one of the few that might breach her barrier, and said calmly, "Deflecto," instead, changing the trajectory of the spell instead of nullifying it. A pane in the greenhouse next to her shattered in an explosion of glass as it was hit by the curse.

Lestrange paused, clearly frustrated at her unchanged, serene expression.

"Well, you're certainly putting up more of a fight than Charlotte did," Amalia remarked, more to herself than to him.

But for the first time, his sneer seemed to falter. "What?" He said sharply.

Amalia watched him carefully. "Charlotte," she repeated slowly, "She didn't put up as much of a fight earlier."

He swore furiously. "What did- You didn't- You bitch-!"

Amalia hid her surprise - so it wasn't as one-sided as she'd been led to believe?

She stalled, drawing out the silence lazily before remarking casually, "That's right... She wasn't at breakfast, was she?" She shrugged with exaggerated confusion. "I wonder what happened..."

Her implied meaning was not lost on him. His eyes widened, and for the first time she read fear in them. It would have been sweet in other circumstances. "Leave her out of this!" he snarled, furious.

"I wasn't the one who involved her, in the first place." she reminded him, and was rewarded by a fleeting look of guilt in his dark eyes.

"If you hurt her-" he started threateningly, but his words were hollow and he knew it.

She shook her head, interrupting him. "I'm not interested in bullying Charlotte of all people," she said whitheringly, "Really, that girl's just not worth it..."

His throat worked at her disparaging tone, but he said nothing, obviously relieved at her professed disinterest.

"Even so," Amalia continued seriously, "I share a room with her. If you let her become a tool in this fight again," she warned, "I won't hold back."

She met his dark gaze and waited for him to give a stiff nod.

"I'm glad we understand each other," Amalia said, satisfied. "The... animosity between us is because of Riddle, but it doesn't have to be that way... We don't have to be enemies."

One look at his glare told her that this was one battle she wouldn't win. Lestrange would not be charmed to her side, nor did he seem to take kindly to intimidation. He had picked Riddle because he was a malicious git, and nothing Amalia offered would change that. But, perhaps he would think twice before getting involved again, at least for Charlotte's sake, and that was good enough for now.

She shot him a grin and inclined her head. "I guess that's all that needs to be said." she waved her wand and the door behind him sprang open.

He sent her one last hateful glare, and then disappeared into the castle without another word, anger etched in the tenseness of his shoulders. She wondered if he was going to storm right off to check on Charlotte. Or perhaps the idiotic girl didn't know of his feelings - he treated her like an annoying bug in public, usually, and ignored her the rest of the time. She'd never even seen them speak to each other in class.

Amalia remained behind for a short while to repair the damaged window, mulling over her progress. All in all, she thought she'd done well with her scheming, so far. Who knew school drama would be this fun?

Just after lunch, Amalia finally got her wish and escaped to the library, finally cracking open the book Binns had recommended, Maudlin's Mysteries of Magicke. Since it was on reserve, she couldn't remove it from the library, but she found she didn't mind.

Once she'd retrieved it from the bored-looking librarian, she ensconced herself in a corner of the library, using the same table Anne and Callidora usually sat at. It was quiet and blissfully devoid of other people; most students didn't have a reason to go to the library on the first weekend back at school.

Starting at the prologue, she propped her chin up on her steepled fingers and began reading by the bright sunlight filtering through the velvet drapes of the window. The book was heavy, the yellowed pages well-thumbed and occasionally spotted with unidentifiable stains. A musty smell rose from the binding, and she wondered how old it really was.

The only sounds was the distant ambient noise of the castle and a dry rustle as she turned a page, soon getting absorbed. The old language and unfamiliar, flowery style of writing was at first a challenge - she had to reread every few sentences to puzzle out the meanings. Whoever "Maximus Maudlin" was, he certainly had a flair for the dramatic - the first three pages alone were spent warning the reader that they would die in horrible ways if they pursued his collection of unsolved mysteries. The next few pages then exhorted the reader to "abandon thy plebeian whims of apathie and worriment; steele thy heart and harden thou thy wandering eye; thou mightest yet find thyself number'd among the great hoste of lusty pioneers, such as I." She didn't think she was the "lusty pioneer-ing" type, but eagerly turned to the contents page. It was decorated with fantastical moving illustrations of strange beasts and glittering hoards of treasure in the margins.

The book seemed to be a vast and unfiltered list of myths, legends and rumours all pertaining to Great Britain, from unconfirmed sightings of ghosts to an immortal dragon apparently living in the Thames. To her delight and surprise, about a third of the book was dedicated to just Hogwarts and its surrounds. It seemed that as a famous place of magical learning, it had become a serious attraction for amateur adventure-seekers. There were myths and rumours of hidden rooms, strange creatures, wonderful treasures and otherworldly knowledge, all apparently hidden in Hogwart's labyrinthine corridors. The Forbidden Forest also contained an entire chapter on ancient moving stones, a magical orchid that could grant you a glimpse into the future, and an ancient civilisation of cannibalistic imps that lived in crystal tunnels. Even the Great Lake was purported to host the animagus of none other than Godric Gryffindor himself.

After a while, she got up to retrieve one of the library's many copies of "Hogwarts: A History", thinking it was a good way of filtering through Maudlin's crazy ramblings. She thought she understood Binns' purpose in recommending the book; it was filled with so many impossible and ludicrous tales, that to find the kernel of "truth" - the origin of the rumours - much more research was needed. Basically, the book was a useful starting-point; a springboard to other texts in a search for fact. It would be an exercise in discerning truth from lies. For various reasons, so much about her own past was a mystery to her. She'd reached a dead-end in figuring out her own history, and it depressed her. This would be a useful - a necessary - distraction.

Whenever she found a correlation or mention of something in both books, she would note it down for further investigation. As the hours ticked by, she found she had several promising leads already.

She was eagerly noting down the location of a tapestry on the fifth floor that purported to point the way towards "a treasure propitious in extremitie", (which could only mean something awesome) when a calm, male voice interrupted her.

"That looks like an interesting read."

She couldn't help her startled jump, looking around with wide eyes.

Riddle was leaning nonchalantly against a bookshelf, watching her.

She tried to calm her racing heart with a few deep breaths. How long had he been standing there?

"I hope you're not planning to ambush me again so soon," she said lightly, trying to hide her surprise.

She could tell by his smirk that it hadn't worked. "Not today," he replied smoothly. "And trust me, next time will end differently."

She glanced at her watch and closed the book. It was almost time for dinner. "Well, it'll certainly start differently," she said drily.

"What do you mean?"

She pulled the chair out slightly so that she was facing him more directly, but remained seated. She refused to be cowed by his sudden appearance. "I've already taken steps to ensure you can't repeat the same tactics." she informed him. "If you're planning another ambush, you'd better do it yourself."

He snorted, his mouth curved in an arrogant, crooked smile. " 'Taken steps'?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes. It was laughably easy. You've known these people for five years, but they really don't feel any loyalty, do they?" her voice dripped with fake sympathy. "I was done before lunch."

His smile slipped off his face, and was momentarily replaced with something uglier. She could see him trying to figure out if she was telling the truth, and if so, what she'd done. Then his face was carefully blank again. "Sounds like a waste of time."

She hid a smile. "We'll see."

He pushed himself away from the shelves gracefully and approached her slowly, looking down at her with unreadable, dark eyes.

Under the table, her hand drifted close to her wand.

Then he smiled.

His face softened into an expression of such friendliness, such warmth, that she was momentarily taken aback. The transformation of his face was uncanny. He looked... angelic. If she didn't know him she might have been taken in by it. But then, after a moment, she finally saw what had been there all along; those dark eyes, long lashes framing a blackness which gleamed with a bottomless malice. And yet...

She had to admit - there was something about him that drew her in. That fascinated her.

It wasn't just his perfectly sculpted ivory skin, that narrow slash of a mouth that curved upward in one hell of a smirk... There was something in the way he was watching her - like nothing else existed - like she held some kind of answer to something he'd been searching for. The sheer intensity of having his focus narrowed on her...

It made her heart unsteady, her breath catching in her throat. Perhaps it was because he usually looked so aloof and cold, indifferent... bored and apathetic. But when he was looking at her, he seemed to come alive.

The pure intensity of his smile and his stare rendered her momentarily mute, and that surprised her. She always had something to say.

Damn, she thought numbly, struck by an epiphany like a lightning bolt from the blue, Could it be that I - I actually... He- Unbidden, pleasant tendrils of desire uncurled slowly in the depths of her stomach as she gazed into his pitiless eyes.

He leaned over her, still smiling, one hand braced on the arm-rest of her chair as he brought his face close to hers, until she could make out the individual, long eyelashes half hiding his pupils in a sultry expression.

She swallowed the moisture that had flooded her mouth.

She shifted back instinctively. Get a grip, Amalia! she told herself in dismay, You do not feel attracted to him! You just don't!

"Don't get too confident, Gray," he warned her in a low, melodic voice, still smiling that predatory smile without any idea what it was doing to her. Or maybe he did. He probably did.

A shiver crept up her spine as his obsidian eyes trailed oh-so-slowly over her face, lingering on her slightly-open mouth before flicking back up to her startled gaze.

"This is only the beginning."

She only remembered to breathe again once the sound of his fading footsteps had completely disappeared, and he was long out of sight.

Chapter Text

Sunday passed with comparatively little drama, all things considered.

Riddle had gone back to treating her politely in public, Charlotte had stopped sulking, and Amalia got quite a lot of research done between lunch and dinner in the library. She had just started on her punishment essay for Professor Fairchilde when the back on her neck prickled with the sense she was being watched.

Suspicious, she whipped her head around instantly, wary of an ambush after Riddle had so successfully snuck up on her the previous day. But this time it was only Rosier, hesitating nearby.

She exhaled in relief and hitched a smile on her face, hoping it didn't look too forced. She couldn't help it if her nerves were a little frayed after everything that had happened.

"Hey," he said quietly, and approaching, evidently deciding to end his dithering.

She rolled her shoulders, working out a crick in her neck. "Hi, Rosier. What's up?"

He glanced shiftily around, but they were alone. He slid into the chair across from her. "What... happened on Friday?"

She put down her quill carefully. "I would have thought Riddle's kept you up to speed." she smirked at him. "Aren't you... friends?"

He fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, and then chose to ignore her comment. "Riddle said his plan worked." he prodded, "But... Lestrange and Dolohov are acting weird, and you seem-" he frowned, trailing off.

"Perfectly intact?" offered Amalia calmly. She pretended to wipe away a fake tear as her voice dripped with poisonous sarcasm. "I'm just concealing the emotional trauma deep within."

He blinked, unamused at her flippancy. "Did you get my warning?"

She nodded. She hadn't forgotten about the note that had arrived via owl on Friday morning. "Mm. Thanks for that. Though it wasn't much of a warning, to be honest. Next time, specifics would be appreciated." she continued writing her essay, her quill scratching the parchment as she wrote in her messy scrawl. Since it was an essay about why duelling was unnecessary, she was determined to make it extra messy.

Rosier shifted nervously. "I... didn't know Yaxley was involved," he admitted sheepishly.

"Neither did I," Amalia said dryly, dotting an i so carelessly, she almost punched a hole through the parchment, "Which is the only reason why the ambush worked. Embarrassing, really."

"So you did actually get taken?" breathed Rosier, looking shocked. "Then, what happened?"

Amalia grimaced. "There was brief time that I was... incapacitated. There were ropes. It didn't end well." she absently rubbed at her wrists - the skin there was still pinkish, but had almost completely healed.

He drew himself up, looking grimly satisfied. "I hope now you realise how foolish it is to go up against Riddle-"

"It didn't end well for Riddle," she corrected absently, scratching out a misspelling with ugly slashes of ink. She looked critically at it and decided to smudge the ink, too, wiping the back of her hand deliberately across the page. "We duelled. I won. We went back to the castle."

"You won?" the disbelief in his voice was somewhat insulting.

She rolled her eyes. "Believe what you want. You're welcome to ask him for clarification."

Not going to happen, Rosier thought immediately. "But Lestrange and Dolohov said-"

She snorted. "I'm sure they had lots to say. They were face-down in the grass for the entire conflict. I suppose they neglected to mention that?"

Rosier's surprised expression told her everything she needed to know.

She snorted. "Typical."

He was silent for a long time after that, mulling it all over. Amalia finished up her essay and then pushed it across the table to Rosier, who blinked and looked up, startled out of his thoughts.

"Tell me what you think," Amalia said with an proud grin.

Rosier looked down at the essay and started scanning it with a slight frown.

"Your handwriting is horrible," he informed her before flipping over the page. She shrugged, fiddling with her quill as she waited.

He read to the end of the second page and sighed. "Gray," he said wearily, "You are going to get detention for this."

She burst into laughter. "Is it that bad?"

"It's... very..." he struggled to find a word to describe it, before settling on, "Sarcastic."

"It's a matter of principle," she explained, taking the essay back and stuffing it unceremoniously into her bag, crumpling the paper. "If I have to turn in an essay about why duelling is useless, then I'll at least make it entertaining to read. It's fiction, after all."

"What else are you busy with?" Rosier asked, changing the subject. He was looking at the stack of notes she'd made next to her copy of Hogwarts: A History and Maudlin's Mysteries.

She yawned. "I'm researching legends and secrets at Hogwarts. It's quite fun."

Rosier twisted his head to read the parchment on the top of the pile, and then his gaze flicked back to her. "Riddle's already found this - the Hidden Corridor."

She scowled, looking a little put-out. "Oh, really? He takes an interest in these mysteries too?"

Rosier shrugged. "Just... Hogwarts in general, I guess." He didn't tell the whole truth - that Riddle was obsessed with Hogwarts. It went beyond boredom or curiosity. He was possessive over its secrets, too... This may spell even more conflict between them, he fretted.

She frowned at the parchment in question, and then crumpled it up with a sigh. "Well - where does it lead? The corridor?"

Rosier shook his head. "Nowhere. It's enchanted to be an infinite loop - Riddle spent an entire night in our third year figuring out how to get back."

"That's... disappointing." She looked at the other pile of notes and bit her lip.

Rosier was following her train of thought. "He's probably looked into many of those, as well."

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "There's got to be something in here he hasn't got to yet." she riffled through the pack and pulled out a sheet, turning it over. "Here - The Come-and-Go room. It was only briefly mentioned... But it seems pretty amazing. Did he find this one?"

"No." Rosier answered just a little too quickly.

She saw right through him. "Damn." she muttered. "And, judging by your expression, it's not a dead end."

Rosier felt unnerved by how easily she read him, and quailed at the thought of Riddle's reaction if he knew he'd just inadvertently given away his secret hideout. If she decided to follow and figure it out for herself, she would know where they had their secret meetings...

More to distract her than anything else, he quickly reached over and tugged the pile of scrawled notes closer, glancing through them quickly.

She watched him, one eyebrow raised.

"Here," he said at last, triumphantly pointing at a paragraph she'd jotted down in passing. "I know for a fact Riddle hasn't touched this."

His ploy at distracting her worked, and she eagerly scanned it with renewed interest. "The Moving Stones - in the Forbidden Forest. '...epic quest... treasure hidden by one of the Founders-' " She looked up. "It sounds interesting. Why hasn't Riddle looked into it?"

Rosier gave a small smile. "He doesn't like trekking through forests, I guess."

Amalia snorted disparagingly. "I suppose he does seem more like an indoor animal, doesn't he? Very well. This is where I will concentrate my efforts." she stood up and began packing away all her notes.

At least she's not focussing on the Come-and-Go Room, Rosier mused, relieved. The magical room was also known as the Room of Requirement... and it was definitely not a secret Riddle would be willing to share. This was a dangerous game he was involved in.

She shot him a friendly smile as she slung her bag over her shoulder. "It's time for dinner. Let's go?"

As Amalia's second week at Hogwarts slowly unfolded, things started to take on a kind of predictability that she'd never experienced before. It was reassuring to have classes every day, in the same time slots, to do mundane things like homework and have regular meals.

It made even Riddle's bullying bearable.

And he was bullying her, there was no other way of describing his pattern of behaviour. Of course, she never remained the victim for long.

To the external observer, Riddle's attitude towards her was, as usual, exemplary; he maintained their "friendly" image outside of class. He was being almost gentlemanly in fact, if Amalia hadn't known that the description was completely laughable. He showed his true self to her in other, nastier ways, when he was sure others weren't looking.

It started with a rough push in a crowded hallway, a stuck out foot to trip her up, an icy stare between her shoulder blades. She ignored him; such pettiness was beneath her.

When this failed to illicit a reaction, other things started happening, things she could never prove was him. The seam of her bag would come mysteriously undone, or her laces would be tied together just as she was about to step down the top of a staircase. On Tuesday, in Defence Against the Dark Arts, she somehow got a small burn on her leg, like a cigarette burn, that made her jump and yelp just as Professor Fairchilde was in full stream about the importance of proper classroom conduct. It earned her a glare and ten points from Slytherin, and she only had to glance at Riddle to note his satisfied smirk. This was amusing him.

With him starting to target her with magic, she could no longer ignore it. After the seam of her bag split for the third time in two hours, she made an excuse to her friends and ran off to the library, where she researched and cast a variety of spells to protect her belongings and clothes from external manipulation. Although a simple "impervious" would have sufficed, she didn't trust that he'd give up that easily, so she layered the spells into an intricate protective web. An unforeseen side-effect was that her ink became reluctant to sink into parchment, and she soon got distracted looking up charms and countercharms for hours. By supper that night she was a veritable encyclopedia of protective charms, and had great fun taking revenge in the Great Hall by making Riddle's utensils impervious to food. Unfortunately he caught on half-way through and managed to undo most of them, but she was mollified by his distinctinctly disgruntled expression when dessert replaced his full bowl of stew.

After that their silent war continued, each attempting to out-do the other without attracting attention. She came to dread Defence Against the Dark Arts, since he seemed hell-bent on getting her into detention by making her unintentionally disruptive. Dropped quills, slamming books and scraping chairs was the least of her worries, and she developed an irritated eye-twitch mirrored almost perfectly by Professor Fairchilde.

In Transfiguration the opposite was true; Amalia outshone all the other students in terms of knowledge and ability, and Riddle wasn't foolish enough to mess around with her under Dumbledore's sharp gaze. Able to relax and actually enjoy learning without looking over her shoulder meant that it was soon her favourite class. And Dumbledore took note of her ability and often recommended books for extra reading or higher-level variations of the spells they learnt. The only thing wrong about the situation was the niggling feeling of unfairness in Dumbledore's favouritism; Riddle, even if he didn't always show it, was just as capable as she was, if not more so, and yet he was always pointedly ignored.

In their other classes, Riddle and Amalia were often openly competitive, and it became a habit of Professor Merrythought to get them to demonstrate new spells and charms. They made each class more intense by attempting even new spells non-verbally, which Callidora informed her made them both look constipated.

Herbology was one class that Amalia was quite happy with flunking, though Professor Beery mostly pretended not to notice her low-key rebellion. She'd promised to show up for auditions for his play and he kept whipping out the script in class and getting her and the other students to act out scenes, sometimes using the greenhouse plants as props. Amalia found that acting was harder than she'd expected; especially when Riddle was enchanting Slimerot Moss to climb into her socks while she was supposed to recite a dramatic declaration of love.

In Ancient Runes she proved more knowledgeable than Riddle, to his displeasure. But at least it was difficult enough to give Amalia a break from his attention.

History was the class that most students slept through, and Professor Binns droned on without ever glancing up. This automatically became the most dangerous battleground of all. As a result, they both became the epitome of studiousness, taking notes very seriously while the rest of the class tried to stop nodding off, and keeping an eye on each other as well. They were very aware that the first one to lose focus would be on the receiving end of something nasty.

Potions was the only class where things were different. Whatever petty pranks they were pulling (or, in Amalia's case, attempting to avoid), it was left at the door. Inside the Potions classroom, Riddle was trying to keep up his current "outstanding" Potions grade, while Amalia tried to catch up on five years' worth of potion-making theory from working alongside him. She had plenty of opportunities to make things purposefully hard for Riddle, but for some reason she held herself back.

Although Amalia remained utterly clueless and generally a hindrance in Potions, Riddle found he still considered it his favourite class. If anything, he looked forward to it even more than before, wondering in what absurd way Amalia would unintentionally mess up next.

She had this habit of looking at him with big eyes, comically bewildered, and saying in an amusingly panicked tone, "Riddle? What's happening now? What did I do wrong?" And he'd give a long-suffering sigh - disguising his amusement with irritation - before swooping in to save the day with some clever alchemy.

Once Potions was over, of course he'd return back to plotting his next move against her, but in class, they abided by the unspoken truce.

Their antics didn't go unnoticed by the general population. Riddle had always been a source of fascination at Hogwarts; the girls were all in love with him and the other boys admired and envied him, so his new obsession with his classmate caused quite a stir. As for Amalia, some over-inflated rumours perpetuated by Olive Hornby and company were more than enough to convince half the school they were secretly dating, and their competitiveness and the oddly intense "friendliness" Riddle treated her with in public was some kind of elaborate foreplay.

Callidora remained convinced something romantic was going on, although Amalia's friends now saw the ugly side of Riddle he tried to hide. She still insisted it was because he liked her, and the newest theory was because he "didn't know how to show human feelings".

Amalia disagreed. She thought it was much simpler than that; he wanted to prove himself better than her, stronger... He wanted to break her. And she suspected he wouldn't be satisfied until he knew every scrap of her history, and she was kneeling before him in tears. Just like his first attack had tried to accomplish.

She had to remind herself that as fun as their little game was, it could turn cruel and deadly in an instant. The moment she let down her guard, it would be over.

On Friday they had Transfiguration before dinner, and Amalia enjoyed the (albeit brief) respite from Riddle's attention. So much so that she was whistling a cheerful tune at the end of class as she packed her bag.

"Amalia and Tom," came Dumbledore's quiet voice over the class's rummaging, "Would you stay behind for a moment?"

Amalia paused briefly before she slung her bag over her shoulder, her cheerful smile not faltering even as her mind raced through potential scenarios.

Sneaking a peek at Riddle, she noticed he'd frozen up completely, his expression mask-like.

She walked up to the front of the class and dawdled there, perched on the edge of a desk - Riddle seemed to take forever, packing his books away with more aggression than his stationery surely warranted. She watched him curiously - something about Dumbledore unnerved him, and it showed. Coming from such a perfect actor, the cracks in his mask were a rare sight.

Even if the bespectacled older wizard noticed his childish attitude, he didn't say anything, but simply waited patiently until both of them were before him in the empty classroom. Riddle stood stiffly beside her, like a soldier standing at attention, though he kept his gaze firmly fixed on a spot on the wall somewhere to the left of Dumbledore's shoulder. If he was trying to look bored and nonchalant, he was failing dismally.

"What did you want to speak to us about, Professor?" Amalia asked innocently, sensing that she'd better take the lead.

Funnily enough, Dumbledore ignored her in favour of gazing at Riddle with quiet intensity over his half-moon spectacles, his fingers steepled under his chin.

Riddle remained unable to meet his eyes, and shifted uncomfortably as the seconds trickled by.

Amalia felt a spike of annoyance. "Professor?" she prompted.

Dumbledore dragged his attention back to her. "... I'm sure you've heard," he started casually, glancing between them, "There seems to have been some sort of disturbance in the school grounds last Friday, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest."

Shit shit shit! Amalia kept her expression neutral, but she could hardly disavow all knowledge of it - the whole school had been talking about the craters and burnt grass that had appeared overnight. But perhaps it was best to plead ignorance for now. "A disturbance, sir?" she asked calmly.

Dumbledore's eyes slid back to Riddle and narrowed slightly. "Indeed. It seems some students were out of bounds and practicing magic - dangerous magic, if fact - the Headmaster has asked me to look into it. Would you two... happen to know anything about this incident?"

Amalia bit the inside of her lip. He must have picked up on the residual magic left behind by her use of the Level 6 Dark spell. It was a powerful working, and Dark magic in particular left traces. It was a curse that wouldn't even be mentioned anywhere in Hogwarts, even in the Restricted Section. But then why was he still looking at Riddle?

Riddle found his voice for the first time since the start of Transfiguration class. "Of course not, Professor." his tone was calm and smooth, but then he ruined the effect by shooting a suspicious glance at Amalia. If she'd ever wanted him to get expelled, all she'd need to do was speak now...

"I'm afraid I can't help you either, Professor." Amalia said blithely.

Dumbledore seemed somewhat disappointed by her denial, judging by the small crease which appeared on his forehead. "I see." he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Then, would you mind telling me where you both were on that night? I saw that you, Miss Gray, missed dinner."

"I went back to the Common Room with Charlotte," Amalia said truthfully. Little bitch then cursed me. "She'd forgotten to hand in an essay."

He seemed momentarily stumped by this very normal excuse.

"And you, Tom, what were you up to after dinner?"

He suddenly seemed to have lost the ability to speak - but Amalia could hardly blame him. Dumbledore had fixed him with a stare so piercing, it could strip paint. And there was a coldness to it, that Amalia had never seen in the old man's (usually) kind demeanor. And she was equally unprepared for the rush of protectiveness she suddenly felt for her arch-foe.

"He was with me." she said abruptly, causing both of them to turn and look at her.

"Oh?" prompted Dumbledore, raising one eyebrow.

"Yes." she said stubbornly, "We met after dinner to... study together." She saw duelling as practice, anyway, so it wasn't such a stretch from the truth, (in her opinion).

"In the library," added Riddle, after a short silence.

Dumbledore wasn't convinced. "I'm not sure I believe you." he said drily.

"It's the truth," Amalia argued adamantly. She took advantage of the situation to casually link arms with Riddle, leaning her head on his shoulder with a relaxed smile. "We're friends, after all."

She was certain she'd regret her impulsive arm-linking soon; Riddle hated being touched. He didn't shove her off or show any outward sign of his discomfort in front of Dumbledore, but he was so tense it was like linking arms with a Riddle-shaped plank.

He also seemed to have lost the ability to speak again, so she discreetly trod on his toes.

"Ah- Er - That's right, sir." he hastily confirmed, pasting a vague smile on his face, too. He shot her a look of pure malevolence that lasted microseconds - he was probably already plotting revenge for her audacity.

But at least the ploy seemed to convince Dumbledore that he wasn't going to get anywhere with the interrogation. He looked between them, seemingly bemused by this united front, and sighed heavily in defeat.

"You may go." he said with a thin smile.

Amalia immediately marched out, towing Riddle with her. For some reason she felt the need to put some distance between them and those piercing blue eyes.

Outside in the corridor, Riddle shook her off with irritation, glaring.

"Don't look at me like that!" she snapped, folding her arms. "What was I supposed to do?"

"The next time you touch me without permission, I will curse you." he said coldly.

She glanced at him up-and-down, "Oh, so I can if I have permission, then?" She smirked. She couldn't deny the thought was appealing.

His lips curved up in answering smirk, but his eyes remained cold. "I assure you, that will never happen."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Let's go - I'm starving."

The rest of the school was already in the Great Hall, leaving the halls deserted.

He walked in silence next to her down two flights of stairs. They had just entered the First Floor Corridor when he looked sidelong at her, thoughtful.

"What?" she prompted, the sly glance making her uneasy.

She suddenly noticed he was fingering his wand, though she hadn't noticed him take it out. "We're already late for dinner..."

She stiffened, but kept walking. "No. Absolutely not!"

His grin was vicious as he kept pace. "You said anytime-"

"We were just interrogated, Riddle!" she exclaimed. "Do you want to get expelled?"

"Stop being so dramatic. We don't have to be loud. And we can clean up any mess easily enough."

"I don't know about you," she said tartly, "But I'm not good at holding back."

"Correction. You don't want to hold back. Like that one move - where did you even learn that?"

She assume he was talking about the Dark magic, doubtless the reason behind Dumbledore's failed intervention. She grinned. "I have my sources."

Riddle remembered the horrible feeling of the golden substance flowing like oil over his skin towards his mouth and repressed a shudder. "I'd never heard even a description of it before."

She laughed. "Oh, you tried to do some research? Well, it's definitely not something they teach students - or decent people in general. It's a pity I stopped before the end - you didn't get to experience the full effect."

His eyes darkened at her mocking tone, turning to bottomless wells of icy obsidian.

"If we start now, I'll be finished with you before dessert arrives." he hissed.

"Wow, you're really that impatien-"

They rounded a corner and came face to face with a skinny-looking Ravenclaw second year, who squeaked and scrambled back from where she'd been pressed to the wall. She was blushing so hard Amalia half expected her enormous, round glasses to mist up.

Riddle and Amalia paused, exchanging a glance. Their voices must have echoed in the (supposedly) empty corridor.

"What are you doing here?" asked Amalia, frowning.

The girl squeaked again, and pointed down the corridor with a shaky hand.

Amalia realised they had just passed the girls' bathroom. "Oh, I see."

Riddle took a threatening step forward with a poisonous smile. "And what do you think you heard, Ms Warren?"

"N-Nothing!" stuttered the girl instantly, but she blushed even harder. "I mean, it's really no concern of mine if you two want to - if you're going to -"

Amalia noted her whiny voice was singularly annoying.

"She didn't hear anything important, Riddle," Amalia sighed.

Riddle frowned at her. "But-"

"Think about it."

His expression cleared as he recalled they hadn't actually mentioned duelling or Dark curses directly. Instead, what they'd been talking about could be misconstrued as something else entirely... Which explained the girl's half-scandalised, half-excited blush.

Instantly his demeanor changed. "It's Myrtle, isn't it?" he said in a voice of honeyed sweetness.

She was instantly doe-eyed. "Y-yes?"

"It's against the rules to miss the start of the Feast." he indicated his Prefect badge, and she flinched. "So what are you really doing here?"

"Olive Hornby was being mean to me..." the girl whined, pouting.

Amalia felt a muscle twitch in her face. No wonder this girl got bullied. She hadn't been in her presence for even a minute and she felt like bullying her.

But Riddle's tone remained polite. "I'll overlook it this time, Myrtle," he purred generously.

"Gee, thanks, Riddle!" she gave an annoying, high-pitched giggle, batting her eyelashes.

A hint of sternness entered his voice, "But I expect to see you back in the hall before the end of dinner. It's not a good idea to wander the corridors alone after dark. Even the girl's bathrooms. People might think you're... up to something."

"Of course! Um... I'll just be going now."

They watched her scurry off.

"Whoa," said Amalia suddenly, "I just got the weirdest sense of de ja vu."

"Fascinating." commented Riddle drily. He sighed. "Fine, no duelling tonight."

They continued walking down the steps to the Great Hall. The double doors were half ajar, and laughter, talking and the clink of utensils could be heard, along with an assault of delicious smells.

"To be honest," Amalia said with a grin in a low voice just before they entered, "I want a re-match too."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Then, why-?"

She patted him on the shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffened and glared.

"Well, next time... just don't ask me to miss dinner for the 'honour' of beating you. Again."

He briefly fantasised about all the ways he could dismember her without leaving traces.

"Noted."

Chapter Text

One week later...

It was Friday morning again, and Amalia was enjoying a large mug of hot chocolate over her toast as she perused a newspaper. Next to her, Callidora was moodily poking at some porridge, barely awake, while Anne was (with a long-suffering look) trying to help Charlotte finish some last minute homework for Charms.

Since surviving the third week of attending Hogwarts, Amalia had developed almost a sixth sense due to his pranks and bullying. So she was well aware of Riddle's approach ahead of time, though she didn't bother raising her head.

"Good morning," he said, his words a sibilant, poisonous hiss.

She looked up cautiously. He seemed in a worse mood than usual this morning. Although the words were polite, the tone was bordering on a sneer, and attracted some attention from other students, who looked around in surprise. Muttering broke out after they spotted Riddle looming threateningly over Amalia with a tight-lipped expression.

Suddenly aware of their regard, he hastily forced a friendly smile.

"Good morning, Riddle." she replied quietly, still scrutinizing him. He had bags under his eyes, and seemed paler than usual. "Did you sleep well? You look tired." She was genuinely curious. As a prefect he was expected to patrol the halls for an hour or so after dinner. She recalled her first night in the castle, when she'd dozed in the Common Room and he'd come in way past curfew... Was he still going on illicit midnight patrols?

But he ignored her question, his eyes shifting past to rest on the papers in front of her.

"You're reading a muggle newspaper?" Tom couldn't help the disbelief and scorn from showing in his voice.

She turned back to them, disinterested in picking a fight, as he was so clearly trying to do. "There's no excuse for ignorance." She said mildly, turning a page.

He made a scornful noise, but couldn't think of an immediate reply. He hovered, unwilling to leave while she had the last word.

She looked up as he lingered. "Do you want to read one?" she asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow at him. There was a pile of different newspapers on the table before her.

"What? - No!"

She rolled her eyes. "It's 1941 - There's a really big war going on, you know," she said irritably, "Aren't you even curious who's winning?"

"It's a Muggle war." He sneered.

She slammed the paper down on the table, abandoning all pretense of politeness and scowling at him.

Callidora choked and looked up from her porridge at the abrupt sound.

"Don't be naïve! Of course it matters to the wizarding world!" She tutted. "Isn't it obvious?"

He just gave her a frozen stare, feeling resentful of her tone. But the teachers were too close for him to curse her…

And more and more students sitting nearby were becoming aware of their altercation.

"Muggleborns." She hissed impatiently, ignoring the onlookers. "Do you think they'll just let their relatives die in the war? And then the friends and family of muggleborns get involved… Of course there are wizards fighting in secret, across Europe and Asia. And what of those with their own agendas? Grindelwald's not the only one to take advantage of the chaos."

At the mention of the infamous wizard's name, whispers broke out among the students. They'd all heard stories of his murderous rampage across Europe, purifying the wizarding world "for the greater good".

"Don't exaggerate, 'Malia," Callidora broke in with a nervous laugh. "The ministry's kept him at bay this long. Who else do you think we have to fear?"

Amalia sighed, as if disappointed in her naivety. "The ministry is busy trying to keep the balance and prevent a full-on wizarding war. Of course others are taking advantage in the shadows."

At her serious words there was some anxious looks traded by the eavesdroppers, which now was about half of the Slytherin table and a good portion of neighbouring Ravenclaw.

Into the uncomfortable pause, Riddle let out a derisive laugh, folding his arms. "What nonsense." he said confidently, loudly enough for everyone to hear. "You certainly have an avid imagination for conspiracies, Ms Gray."

A couple of the other students parroted his laugh and went back to their conversations, reassured by his dismissiveness.

Amalia ground her teeth in annoyance.

Riddle edged closer and his smirk grew.

"You still believe people are... after you?" he taunted in a low voice, "Don't be ridiculous."

She sniffed. "Believe what you want."

She glanced at Callidora, who was still watching them. "My point is," she addressed her friend, "Whether the danger is real or not, it's important to be informed." She picked up the newspaper again and shook it out briskly.

"Even if all you're reading about is filthy muggles?" laughed Riddle scornfully, irritated that he'd lost her attention again.

Amalia shot him a nasty look. "I suppose you won't even care, then," she snapped, but kept her voice low so others didn't hear, "Until you go home to the orphanage and its run by Germans, not the English."

Tom felt heat rise in his face in anger at her mentioning the orphanage so casually in public, but then he realized that he hadn't even considered the implications of what she was talking about. He'd been at Hogwarts from the orphanage during the bombing of London early that year (the miserable building had escaped unscathed... unfortunately), and when he was there he tried his best to ignore his surroundings and pretend he was somewhere else. He remained stonily quiet until he had a firm grasp of his emotions.

He picked up a grape from a nearby fruit bowl and fidgeted for a short while. "So, who's winning, then?" he asked at last, grudgingly curious.

She looked up, surprised he was still there. "It's too soon to say." She said waspishly. "Hitler's army has just surrounded Kiev, in Ukraine. But hopefully the Americans will join the war, and we - sorry, I meant the muggles of Great Britain - will prevail."

At that point, Avery arrived at the table, and plonked himself down across from her. "Good morning, Amalia," he yawned. Riddle noted he hadn't greeted him. Usually, he didn't care, but for some reason it annoyed him this morning. "Gee, that's a lot of papers!" Avery peered at the one on the top of the pile. "Is this… french? You read french?"

"No," she said, her tone not quite patient still from addressing Riddle, "But I do know a translator's spell."

"Wow!" gushed Avery, gazing at her in adoration.

Tom really couldn't think of anything else to say, so he left before he incendio'd every damn paper on the table, and stalked away to sit a short way down the table between Rosier and Lestrange.

"Amalia, isn't that your owl?" Charlotte's quiet voice interrupted her reading, and she looked up.

She frowned, recognizing the aristocratic-looking owl that had just landed nearby. She didn't have any mail expected until Monday; she'd already received the week's newspapers…

The owl hooted officiously, and hopped closer, his impressive feathered eyebrows raised in impatience, and he stuck out his leg.

Amalia dropped the piece of toast she'd been eating from nerveless fingers.

"…Amalia? Are you alright?" Charlotte asked uncertainly, taking in her sudden pale expression.

From further along the table, Tom looked up, having heard Charlotte's high-pitched question.

Amalia didn't reply, but untied the blank cream envelope from her bird's leg with quick fingers.

She ignored her worried friends, and opened the envelope. There was a paper inside, and something hard and metal. She took out the paper and read the neat script - the words were written in a confident, broad-stroked hand. It was short and cryptic.

Dearest Amalia,

I do hope you enjoy your studies.

Enclosed is a present - I apologize for missing your birthday (it was last Sunday).

I'll be in touch again around Christmas!

That was all. To the casual observer it seemed an innocent message, perhaps from a relative. Except for the context, which made it just... wrong, on so many levels.

Firstly, she didn't have any relatives. The writer of this note was a stranger to her: if she'd ever met him or her, she couldn't remember it. And secondly, each line was carefully chosed to provide her with psychological trauma. She'd never known her birthday, and yet casually it was mentioned, mocking her about her damaged memories. "Enjoy your studies" - that was a jibe at her for trying to escape to Hogwarts. And the specific mention of Christmas, though it was months away? A threat, to let her know that they were still coming.

With a snap of her fingers, she burnt the paper to ash, compressing her lips into a thin line. Who? WHO is taunting me like this? She'd never been directly contacted by them before, whoever they were. She'd only had a nameless dread, a shadow stalking her through Knockturn Alley. They'd hunted her, small groups of witches and wizards dressed like civilians, and on a few occasions they'd come close enough to attack with Stunning Spells.

Then, just once, a hooded man (wearing a metal clasp with an emblem on it, which she later found out was the emblem of the Department of Mysteries) tracked her down and shot a Killing Curse in her direction, and it was mainly through luck that she'd escaped. It was what convinced her the Ministry couldn't be trusted. Shortly after that incident, she'd gotten hold of the Time-Turner, another stroke of amazing luck that had allowed her to always be one step ahead of them... And given her the time to learn how to fight. But she was still no closer to understanding why.

Hogwarts is safe, she reminded herself, trying to keep calm, They sent a letter because they can't get to me. Not yet. But... The school empties over Christmas, she thought numbly, her mind racing in a hundred directions, Where will I go? Will Dippet let me stay at the school? Will I be put into temporary care? I'll have the Trace on me, so I'll be helpless, and-

Moving robotically, she tipped the envelope and out fell the object onto her palm. It was a small, silver engraved locket on a thin chain, with the Gray family crest emblazoned on the front. She hated that crest so much.

For a moment she just stared at it.

It was familiar to her... but how? When had she seen it before...?

The light catching the locket as it dangled before her eyes, accompanied by the sharp acrid smell of burning and the sting of a needle, a child's cry of fear-

She gave a shuddering gasp at the unexpected memory, and thrust herself away from the table, her world tipping. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"Amalia?"

"- Amalia!"

She ignored the frightened exclamations from her friends and raced out of the hall, barely noticing that she'd knocked students aside as she passed. She staggered, holding the locket in one white-knuckled hand, and the other tightly clamped over her mouth as her stomach rebelled.

There was fire… it seeped under the door, crackling like a dangerous beast that hungered for her flesh… she couldn't breathe…

She kept moving until she'd left the noise of the students far behind, and then collapsed against a wall, panting for air. The corridor she was in was deserted, thankfully, and at least she no longer felt like she was about to throw up, though her stomach still churned mutinously.

The door splintered open - she threw her hands up to shield her face, her eyes streaming from the unfamiliar flickering orange light, after the complete darkness she'd been in for days. The heat assaulted her, dragging the moisture from her eyes and lungs…

Her gasps turned into dry sobs, and she slid with her back down the wall, her limbs trembling from her abrupt flight, and she tried to focus her mind.

"What have you done?" the man's voice was accusing. The edge of his cloak smoldered as he raised his wand, eyes wild. "You ruined-…!"

The memory slipped away as abruptly as it had come. She looked at the hateful locket, but no more tantalizing memories were called forth. The past remained as it always had been - a hazy place filled with just a few new snippets of horror. Until two years ago, when she'd stumbled blindly into Knockturn, with nothing from her past but her name.

The horrible despair from that time dragged at her in the aftermath of the memory. She buried her face in her arms, drawing her knees close, and took some calming breaths. But I got this far, she reminded herself shakily, I made my own way here, building up from nothing. I will not give in to fear.

She only got up when the clock-tower bell rang for the start of the classes.

The most awkward part of that day was fielding the concerned questions from her friends, and Riddle's less-than-subtle attempts to provoke her into speaking about what had happened. But after her little break-down, she'd regained her iron self-control, and calmly excused her actions away as best she could.

None of them believed her, and she was unable to give a reason for burning the letter in anger like she did, or dashing out of the hall. Her friends eventually gave up, leaving the subject alone. She was grateful, even though she knew they must have felt varying degrees of frustration at her secretiveness. She wondered how long they would put up with her secrets before they decided she was too much trouble.

Riddle did not give up, however.

With the tenacity of a bull-dog, he'd latched onto this mystery and refused to let go. What could possibly have happened to break Amalia's cool, charming exterior, and turn her into a quivering mess?

And so she found herself being stared at intensely in Potions.

"Will you stop that?" she snapped at last, temper fraying, as she felt a migraine starting up in her temples.

He was toying with her, violating the unofficial cease-fire which had reigned in Potions up until this point. This time his preferred method of attack was incomplete Legilimency. Since she was aware of it and he hadn't quite mastered the skill yet, she was able to block his attempts to see into her mind... But it was annoying as hell.

She irritably chopped up a Redfern root, not bothering to chop them evenly, and moved to dump them in the cauldron with a sour expression.

Tom gracefully leant over and intercepted her hands just in time, lingering for a moment with his long, pale fingers gripping her wrist almost gently. She shivered slightly; his hands were ice cold. Then he deftly confiscated the roots and expertly sliced them into even pieces. She sighed in relief at the brief reprieve as the roots occupied his attention for a moment.

"If you don't tell me, I'll just have to figure out another way of finding out." he said with a confident smirk.

Their moods had seen a complete reversal since this morning; now she was the one looking wan and exhausted, while he was relaxed and cheerful.

Bastard. "Why are you so interested?" she sighed, no real curiosity behind the question. One good thing about Potions was that the noise level inside made it easy to talk without being overheard, and since everyone was preoccupied with their own potions, their drama could go unnoticed.

"I told you before, didn't I?" he said lightly, adding the roots to their concoction, which through some miracle had once again reached the consistency it was supposed to according to the textbook. "I'm just bored."

"And I distract you?" she couldn't help feeling slightly flattered by that, despite herself. She'd recently acknowledged that she found him attractive. But it was only physical. Of course.

"For now." he hedged, with a shrug. He even managed to make such a non-committal movement look deliberate... deliberately sexy.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at him. Oh yes, Tom Riddle was very aware of of his own appeal. She'd seen him use his charm on others to get his way... Did he really think it would work on her?

"You consider yourself above them." she gestured vaguely at the rest of the class.

He didn't bother denying it. "Don't you?" he countered.

She enjoyed her friendship with Callidora and Anne. Even Charlotte, who was getting reluctantly better at blocking Stinging Hexes during their training sessions, was starting to grow on her. But she couldn't deny that they were different... there were certain things they couldn't understand about her. She didn't want to admit it, but he'd struck a nerve there.

"I suppose you've never considered anyone your friend, have you?" she drawled, defensiveness making her tone mocking.

But her taunt fell flat - his expression didn't falter at all.

Her breath was snatched away in sudden shock. Never... not even once? He'd never allowed anyone close? Never considered anyone his equal...? Rosier had told her he didn't have friends, and she'd believed him. But to never have any attachment at all... that went beyond a superiority complex. What about when he was kid? A toddler? Just what kind of upbringing did he have? Or was he born without the capacity-

Suddenly his blank mask changed, and he gave her a secretive, melt-your-insides kind of smile, sidling closer. "Why, aren't you my friend?" he murmured, making the idea sound simultaneously dangerous and attractive.

He waited for a scathing reply, but it never came.

Riddle doesn't have friends, Rosier had said. It took all the bite out of his question. ... Aren't you my friend?

"No," she muttered at last, looking at their textbook for the next line of instructions. "I'm guess I'm not."

And for some reason, she suddenly sounded a little melancholic.

Chapter Text

"Give it back." her tone brooked no nonsense.

Riddle looked up slowly from the book he was reading and glanced around in an exaggerated fashion, enjoying the frustration on her face. It'd been getting harder to elicit a reaction out of her recently... though not through lack of trying. This time, he'd really hit the jackpot. "Keep it down, Ms Gray," he smirked, "This is a library, you know."

"I know you have it."

"Have what?" He feigned innocence.

"The locket."

"I honestly have no idea what you-"

She reached over and slammed the book he'd been reading shut violently, causing the librarian hovering nearby to tut disapprovingly. Her face mere inches from his, eyes bright with ire, she hissed in a low, dangerous voice. "You and I. Right now. Seventh floor."

A delicious shiver of anticipation ran up his spine, and for just a moment his face split in a smile as terrifying as it was handsome. But Amalia didn't even flinch. After just a moment, the eagerness that showed in a brief flash in his eyes disappeared, as he adopted his blank mask and said aloofly, "Well, if you insist."

She waited with a stormy expression while he packed up his books and slung his bag over his shoulder.

Neither of them said anything as they walked out of the library together, though their departure raised a few eyebrows among the students they passed. It was shortly after supper on a Saturday, and the other students didn't have much to do besides gossip.

Amalia scowled as she noted the scrawny first year, Myrtle, gabbling away to a bunch of other scrawny first-years with bulging eyes as they passed. Judging from their scandalized expressions, the subject matter was juicy news.

"I think people are getting the wrong idea about us," Riddle remarked, eyes tracking the same knot of gossipers. "Does it bother you?"

Amalia casually slid her arm through his, noting with wicked glee the way he instantly tensed. She also kept a wary eye on the Slytherin fourth-year girls they'd just passed, who suddenly looked like they were strongly considering jinxing her.

She leant up to murmur in his ear, "Nope," she mocked, "Does it bother you?"

He bore with it until they were out of sight of the crowds, though she could almost hear his teeth grind, and then shook her off irately. "Don't touch me." he said coldly.

"Give my locket back and I'll consider it."

"You can take it back yourself... If you can."

"You sound confident," she said through gritted teeth, "Did you forget what happened last time?"

"A fluke." he scoffed.

"You know better than that." They waited at the top of a flight of stairs for the next section to move into place. The Moving Staircase seemed extra slow tonight.

"The locket has your family's crest on it... But you received it in the mail."

Amalia rolled her eyes at his change of subject. "No shit, Sherlock."

"So," he pressed on, "Does that mean your family's still out there?"

She gave him an unimpressed, blank stare. "Nope. Also, none of your business."

"What was in the letter?"

"A Merry Christmas greeting." she wasn't exactly lying.

"Why did you burn it?"

"I'm a pyromaniac. I like burning things... Or people." she gave him a pointed look.

The staircase crunched into position and they stepped onto it, unconsciously synchronized.

"It was unusual to see you so distressed. Shocked."

Amalia snorted. Anyone else would have been convinced he was actually concerned, from that smooth tone. But she knew better. She saw the malicious glee in his obsidian eyes.

"I had my reasons." she muttered darkly.

"I'd like to see you make that expression again." Riddle admitted, eyeing her like she was his next meal.

Amalia's left eyebrow rose incredulously (her favourite expression emerging again) "Oh, you would?" she sneered, "Nothing you do can shock me, Riddle."

"Is that so?" he seemed to take offense at that.

She smirked confidently. "You're a lot easier to read than you think. Your pranks haven't been working recently, have they?" She'd successfully fended off all his attempts to mess with her stationery the past three days. Not one pencil broken, not one ink pot spilled. She was unashamedly proud of that accomplishment.

Riddle was silent for a beat. Then he said, his voice deadpan, "Perhaps I should just write you an inflammatory letter."

She froze.

He walked two steps before he realized he'd left her behind, and turned back.

"What?"

"Did. You. Just. Make a joke."

"Shocked?" he leant casually on the banister and smirked.

Amalia stared at him, eyes wide, for a long moment, and then suddenly burst into laughter, doubling over and shaking with mirth.

Riddle's eyebrows rose as he took in the sight. He'd never seen her lose control quite like this, either.

"Bwahahaha!" she slapped her thighs as she laughed helplessly, "You - You made a pun...! In-inflammatory-!"

He suddenly realised that while she was in this state, it would be too easy... Her hands were scrubbing at her eyes, nowhere near her wand.

"Ah! I'm c-crying! It's too much...!"

But for some reason he made no move to attack. He merely acknowledged that he could... If he wanted to. A smile curled the sides of his mouth at the thought. "You're quite ridiculous, do you know that?" he remarked, as she finally seemed to calm down.

"Wow, Riddle, I really didn't see that one coming..." she chuckled, and fell into step with him again.

"I have my moments." he said dryly.

"I don't think I've laughed like that since-" she stopped. "I've... never laughed like that." she corrected, a little quieter.

They walked in silence for a short while.

"Has that got something to do with the locket? Your family?"

The mirth faded from her eyes. "And we're back to this again." she said dully.

"Do you think the Grays-"

"What is it with you and my ancestry?" she interrupted, scowling.

"Are you really a Pureblood?" this question came out with a strange intensity, like he'd been dying to ask for ages.

"What difference does that make?"

"I will find out." he warned.

"Don't bother. It's unimportant. I am Pureblood," she confirmed bitterly, "Unfortunately. The family vault in Gringotts only opens to those of the purest blood..."

"Unfortunately?" he questioned in disbelief, anger tightening his voice. Didn't she know how fortunate she was to have been born as one of the elite in their society?

She sighed. "I think Purebloods are inbred, fascist narcissists with too much money and self-importance." She said matter-of-factly.

He stared at her, "I bet Avery and the others would be most interested in that opinion."

She looked at him coolly. "They don't know I think that way. The whole of Slytherin would start a riot if they heard my true opinion... despite a good number of them being half-blood or muggleborn themselves. And anyway," continued Amalia, waving a dismissive hand, "I am including myself. It's a stated fact that my family is inbred. It's why they died out - too obsessed with blood status."

"You don't seriously consider muggles as equals."

"It's not that simple." she shrugged. "We have power, they do not. Perhaps we'll never be equals. But... take away a wand and there's not much difference between us, is there?"

He looked frankly disgusted, and somewhat... disappointed by her opinion. Like he'd expected more from her. "They're animals." he snarled.

She frowned. "Aren't you half-blood?" she asked, ignoring the way he twitched in anger. "Was it your mother or father who-"

"Shut up." his voice was deadly.

She rose a hand in surrender. "A touchy subject, I see."

"We're on the Seventh Floor." he gritted, stalking ahead into the corridor. He'd already drawn his wand.

"I see." she sighed and followed, glancing down the Moving Staircase one last time. But it was deserted. With only an hour until curfew, no one would bother them. And she'd picked this particular corridor because it was most likely to remain empty.

They turned a corner and then squared off, facing each other in silence.

Amalia drew her wand and rolled her shoulders. "Usually, I'd recommend we set some rules of engagement, but..."

"You don't like holding back." Riddle mocked, finishing her sentence.

Amalia nodded. "Exactly. So... this is your last chance. Give the locket back, or wake up in the Infirmary."

"This is happening, Gray," he said savagely, "Don't forget that you asked for it, this time."

"Then, on the count of three?"

They opened their mouths and counted in unison. "One... Two... Three!"

This was taking ages...

"Illucescente!"

"Intercepio!" Amalia wearily blocked the curse that would have snapped her legs with a flash of blue fire.

They paused for a moment, both out of breath and glaring. It had been fifteen minutes already - incredibly long for duelling standards. Most duels were over in seconds, or at most a few minutes. But fifteen!? They'd traded curses, jinxes, hexes, summoned smoke, fire, water, lightning, shaped air and stone, and gone through so many shielding spells and counter-curses their heads were spinning. The corridor, strangely, looked mostly uneffected, but Amalia supposed the Castle was enchanted to endure.

She was very nearly out of ideas, and Riddle seemed frustrated as she fended off another of his attacks. They were extremely well matched. Amalia had more experience, but Riddle's natural talent and reflexes ensured that neither could edge out the other. And it seemed he'd been practicing since their last duel. He'd improved... it was scary how talented he was.

Stumped, she decided to fall back on the same spell that had worked the last time... although the incantation was long, he looked as tired as she did.

"Omnia resistendium," she muttered, a glassy shield springing up around her. It wasn't the strongest shield, but it would at least slow down anything he could throw at her. She watched his expression blur as the shield took effect. With the temporary reprieve, she just had enough time... "Indu laqueum chysius obruo... Indu laqueum-" on the second time, the golden substance flowed, viscous and sinister, from her wand, bursting her barrier like a soap bubble before gathering speed to surround Riddle.

She felt a brief glow of triumph... which was snuffed out like the golden spell, as he waved his wand almost lazily and it dispersed.

He found the counter-curse...?!

And she caught sight of his vicious grin. She'd fallen right into his trap.

A sixth sense made her look behind just in time to see a silver spear fly towards her, it's razor-sharp point aimed directly for the center of her back-

"D-displodo!" she gasped, slashing her wand over her shoulder. Just in time, the spell caused the spear to fly apart into a hundred shining pieces, like floating drops of mercury.

But Riddle had exactly what he needed - an opening. As her attention was behind, he had ample time to make his move.

"Obretio."

A sticky, tar-like substance called out of thin air lashed around her legs, keeping her stuck in place.

She couldn't help a pained cry - it felt like hundreds of tiny hooks were dragging her down to her knees.

With no energy to fight it (and no clue about what the counter-curse was), she did the only thing she could think of before her arms were immobilized - attack.

The theory was simple. To maintain a spell that binds, one needs full concentration. So, if he had to defend himself, he'd have to release her.

"Diffindo!" she gasped the simple Severing Charm through gritted teeth, slashing her wand in his vague direction. He was so close, there was no way she could miss.

But he was unwilling to give up his advantage, and merely tried to dodge it.

With a flick of his wand, she was blasted backwards, her breath exploding from her lungs as she was pinned against the wall.

"Expelliarmus!" he said triumphantly, the spell that pinned her ending. She dropped to the ground and took in a few deep breaths, wincing as she rubbed the back of her head. That was going to bruise.

She was helpless to stop her wand from soared out of her hand. He caught it and grinned wolfishly, pointing both of their wands at her.

Then she just stared at him. "Uh... Riddle..."

"So what do you think about this, Gray?" he baited, "Now, at last I'll... be able to..." he broke off suddenly and blinked in surprise. Why was he suddenly on his knees...?

Amalia's face drained of colour. "Oh, shit..."

His pulse seemed deafening, and he felt strangely weak. Looking down, he saw in disbelief a pool of red, expanding rapidly, running along the cracks in the flagstone floor.

"Shit, shit, shit..." Amalia dashed forward and was suddenly supporting his upper body, looking anxious. "I must have hit an artery-"

"I won, Gray," he said groggily, "This time I won."

"Yes, yes, congratulations," she said impatiently, patting his head distractedly. "Just, try to stay awake-"

"Why am I bleeding?" he suddenly demanded, in a tone that was almost petulant.

"Because when someone attacks you with a Severing Charm, Riddle," she cried, exasperated, "You're supposed to block it! What's the point of winning if you bleed out seconds later?"

"I won, though..." he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

"Oh no you don't," Amalia vowed, "You're not dying on me... Shit-" she plucked her wand out of his loose fingers and swiftly chanted a complex spell. She had to try three times before it worked. As if frozen in ice, Riddle went stiff, unmoving. His eyes, half-open, were glassy, his chest no longer rising or falling. But the bleeding had also stopped... for now.

She jumped to her feet. Assuming she'd done it right, the spell should keep him in a state of suspended animation for a short while. Giving her time to figure her way out of this mess.

I am not getting expelled because of you! She thought, and, quieter... Please don't die...! She was surprised by the amount the thought scared her.

Not wasting any time, she hastily conjured up a shield to blanket the entire stretch of corridor. His frozen, horribly dead-looking body was concealed - as long as no one stepped on him.

Then, she raced down seven floors, panting hard... back to the dungeons and the Slytherin Common Room.

She burst in and strode quickly towards the girl's dormitory, trying to look normal and failing miserably. Her usual calmness eluded her in the face of the seriousness of the situation.

"Hey, Amalia," called Rosier from the couch. "Have you seen Riddle? You left the library with him..." Avery and Dolohov were also there, and looked up at her expectantly.

She felt a pang of guilt, but forced a relaxed expression. "Oh... uh... Are you... waiting for him?"

Rosier started looking suspicious, "Do you know where-"

"Consider your little gathering cancelled for today," she said bluntly. "He's not going to make it." she flinched, instantly regretting the ironic choice of words. "I d-don't mean he's not going to make it like he's dying, of course... ahaha... That would be..." she clarified with a shaky laugh, more for her own benefit than theirs, "I just... He's just going to be late. Really late. But he's fine. So, uhh... Don't wait up." she ducked into the dormitories, escaping before she could blurt out anything else.

She ignored their confused speculation as she raced by in the opposite direction seconds later, carry a bulging leather satchel and a heavy book.

Please, don't let me be too late...

Chapter Text

By the time Amalia got back to the seventh floor, the spell that froze Riddle had just started wearing off. Unexpectedly, he'd regained consciousness and seemed to be trying to reach down to his leg, which was still bleeding. Gushing, actually.

She knelt beside him, heedless of the blood that soaked into her stockings and robe, and feverishly paged through the book. "Lacerations... Arterial wounds... Stop moving," she advised in between gulps of air from her mad dash to return, "You'll just get blood everywhere."

He cast a weak look at the sticky redness artfully splashed about the corridor and mumbled, "Too late for that."

He promptly passed out.

Amalia pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to calm down.

She spent the next hour alternating between heartfelt swearing and difficult healing spells. There was a reason why they weren't taught healing at school; the spells were fiendishly difficult and potentially dangerous to get wrong. A couple of mispronounced syllables and she could be at best trimming his toenails, at worst growing him an extra leg.

Riddle's eyes opened slowly and he drew in a shaky breath, feeling like a horse had kicked him in the chest. He also noticed a dull throbbing around the inside of his left knee, which was neatly bandaged, and the fact that he was freezing cold.

And for some reason Amalia had his head cradled in her lap, and was peering down at him with... genuine concern?

"Um... How are you feeling?" she asked tentatively, smoothing his hair back from his forehead with hesitant fingers.

He blinked several times until her face swam into view. He'd never seen her from this angle before. He noticed she had a faint freckle just on her jawline, a small mark on otherwise flawlessly pale skin.

"... Riddle?"

Then the reality of his situation dawned on him and he shoved her off with a snarl, recoiling back against the corridor wall and bracing himself there. Though his limbs felt like jelly, he forced himself to sit straight. And tried to ignore the sick sensation that he was on a bucking deck in a stormy ocean, not dry land.

She didn't look shocked or dismayed his reaction, but took it with equanimity, getting to her feet and shoving spare bandages into a satchel. "Do you think you can stand?"

Glancing around, Riddle noticed she'd cleaned up the blood. She'd cleaned up her mess. He'd put two and two together seeing her healing book. She didn't want to be held accountable for his death. There could be no other reason for her actions. He tensed as he noticed she was holding her wand loosely in one hand... but she didn't seem about to attack.

"My wand." he said coldly.

"Oh, yes. Sorry." she instantly retrieved his wand from her pocket and passed it to him with no trace of hesitation.

As soon as his hand close on the wood he filled his lungs with the air that would deliver a curse so powerful it would obliterate her where she stood...

And suddenly broke off coughing, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him as the room span.

"Don't overdo it," Amalia advised anxiously, "Your femoral artery was almost completely severed. I managed to repair most of the damage, but you've lost too much blood." She indicated the book. "It warns that you could go into shock, if you-"

He suddenly began shivering uncontrollably, seeing black spots dance across his vision.

"...Which is happening right now." she said quietly, dismayed. "Damn."

"Doesn't your book have any other advice?" he gritted out as another wave of nausea swept over him.

"You need a blood replacement potion... and several regenerative draughts too, I'd imagine," she said glumly. "Only, I don't have the ingredients... You need the hospital wing. We're just going to have to figure out some way of explaining this." she looked miserable. "Perhaps if I told Dumbledore-"

"Stop panicking." he commanded, closing his eyes briefly so that the world stopped spinning. He felt pretty awful, but his thoughts were clearer now. And the thought of Dumbledore finding out... Without a doubt, the sly old man would figure out some way of pinning all the blame on him. It would finally give the old geezer the excuse he needed to expel him once and for all. "There's a place I can go that's better than the hospital wing, and it's on this floor."

She seemed doubtful. "That's awfully... convenient."

Despite his condition, Tom smirked at her disbelief. "It's a rather convenient room."

"If you say so. Here, I'll help you up-" she approached and reached out to him, ignoring his instant glare.

As soon as her hand closed on his arm, he spat, "Relashio." purple sparks lanced between them.

Amalia yelped and staggered back, rubbing her wrist and scowling. "Jeez, Riddle! What the hell?!"

"I told you not to touch me," he hissed. "Be thankful I used a jinx, not a curse. I shan't be so merciful next time." As he spoke he braced himself more firmly against the wall, dragging himself up inch by agonizing inch. He felt heavy and his heartbeat, frail and unsteady, hammered at his temples.

"Oh, I should be thankful?" her voice rose in anger at his biting tone. "It's past midnight and I'm stuck out here with you, all because you couldn't even block a simple Severing Charm-"

"Don't try blaming me for this, Gray," he shot back, voice venomous. "You challenged me, remember? And when you thought you were going to lose, you tried to take me down with you." he gave a scornful laugh devoid of any humor. "I must say I'm impressed. I didn't think you had it in you."

Amalia's eyes widened at his words. "No, I didn't- It was a tactical decision!" but even as she said it, she couldn't help questioning her own motives. She'd had milliseconds to respond, once she realized his binding spell was inescapable. Had she really been thinking about tactics... Or had she instinctively just lashed out and tried to kill him...?

"Well, I'm still alive, also thanks to your efforts," he acknowledged reluctantly (reminding himself that the sooner he found a route to immortality, the better), "So consider it a moot point. You can run off and go to bed," he made a patronizing "shooing" motion with one long-fingered hand, "I can handle myself from here."

His dismissal seemed to rouse Amalia from her thoughts. "Regardless of who's ultimately to blame," she said with renewed firmness, "I have a responsibility to make sure you don't, uh..." she looked him up and down as he sagged, shivering, against the wall, "Collapse somewhere."

Riddle seemed like he was going to refuse her help again, but then logic reasserted itself and he gave a reluctant nod.

This time, Amalia didn't try to touch him, but merely kept pace as he slowly limped along the wall, leading them further down the corridor and around a few corners.

Then she watched with wide eyes as he paced back and forth in front of a plain stretch of wall. On the third time he paced, his steps faltered and he almost fell, but Amalia steadied him with one hand, keeping an eye on his wand which twitched in her direction. But this time he didn't jinx her, and she backed off once he'd steadied again. By the time the small drama was over, a plain white door had materialized.

Riddle opened it and stumbled inside.

Eyes wide, Amalia followed, looking around with interest.

The room was large and welcoming, scrubbed stone with white-washed walls and a cheerful, crackling fire in a wide hearth on one end. Along one wall were two single beds with crisp white covers. Along the opposite wall was floor to ceiling cabinets filled with all manner of bottles, jars and boxes of ingredients, as well as row after row of medicinal books and a gleaming, state-of-the-art potion-making set. The light came from yellow oil lamps hung along the walls.

"This is amazing," Amalia exclaimed, craning her head to look at the ceiling, which was hung with cream-coloured sheets like the roof of a tent, dimming the light to a warm glow and channelling warmth from the fire into the center of the room.

Riddle ignored her and collapsed onto the nearest bed, lying back with his arms folded behind his head. It was a pity he had to share this, one of his greatest secrets, with her of all people, but he reassured himself that if it became a problem he would just wipe her memory. Or kill her. Whichever seemed easier. And it wasn't as if she knew exactly what the room was-

"I can't believe you found the Room of Requirement," she gushed, inspecting the set of cauldrons and test-tubes on the table.

Riddle groaned internally, cursing her sharp mind. Of course she figured it out in less than three seconds. "Well, since you're here, make yourself useful." he deadpanned. "I feel like shit."

She grinned at him. "You know, that commanding tone might make your followers jump to obey... But I just find it cute." she stuck her tongue out at him when he scowled.

He decided to ignore her teasing. He was in no state to be teaching her manners at the present time.

"Just get on with it." he sighed.

"Yes Mr Riddle sir, right away sir." she hummed a cheerful tune as she fired up the bunsen burner and started pulling books and ingredients out of the cabinets.

He belatedly realized this would be the perfect opportunity for her to poison him. And with her potion-making skills, it might not even be on purpose. With this worrying thought in mind, he pulled himself upright against the fluffy cushions so he could keep an eye on her.

"Where do the ingredients and books and stuff come from?" she asked as she consulted between different healing journals, trying to find the best potion. "According to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, it can't just appear out of thin air."

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling hot and cold at the same time. And he was still seeing black spots when he moved his head too fast. "The room's a part of the castle. I assume it uses whatever is in the castle to begin with, multiplies it and summons it here."

"Fascinating."

"Wait- did you peel that Pomporous Sprout before shredding it?"

"Umm..."

"Shit, Amalia, you can't even do that much-"

"Riddle." she said in shock, dropping the sprout and turning to him.

"What?" he snapped.

"You just used my name."

He fell silent.

"Like, my first name. That's the first time I've heard you say it."

"... So?" his headache was getting worse.

She grinned. "Does that mean I can call you Tom?"

"No."

"Thomas? Tommy? ... Tomcat?"

He rubbed his temples. "I am going to kill you... very soon..."

She just laughed.

He closed his eyes and lay back with a shiver.

She stopped laughing at once and approached, peering into his grey face with concern. "I'd better hurry." she murmured.

"Just focus on not poisoning me," he shot back, opening his eyes immediately. She backed off, holding her hands up to show that no, she hadn't been about to touch him again. "Take your time and concentrate."

She grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed and threw it over him, (but left the tucking-in to him; she didn't have a death wish) before trotting back to the cauldron. "I'll peel and re-shred the sprouts... Do you want to check my progress?"

"If you take it off the flame it'll be ruined. Just follow the instructions exactly as they're written," he ordered tiredly, "And describe it to me. Actually, you might as well give me the book, I'll tell you what to do."

She seemed almost relieved to hand the book over, though she pouted. "I'm offended you don't trust me, Riddle."

As they continued brewing the potion together, he mused that at least she wasn't stuck on calling him "Tomcat".

Thank Merlin for small miracles.

About an hour later, Amalia had finally brewed a passable Blood Replacement Draught under Riddle's strict tutelage, and he was finally feeling alive again. But both of them were completely exhausted. A bronze clock on the wall told them it was almost three in the morning.

"Riddle," Amalia yawned, crawling into the other single bed. "Please don't murder me in my sleep."

He placed the empty goblet of potion on the nightstand and felt his own eyes closing as if they were weighted. "Not tonight, Gray... Though I'm still pissed off at you."

Her eyes fluttered open at the admission. Riddle, for once, had stated his actual feelings. It must be all the blood loss talking.

"I'm sorry I almost killed you." she said sincerely, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for his response.

"I would have done the same." he said coldly, once again unusually honest.

She chuckled. "Mm. That silver spear thing almost got me." she closed her eyes. "It was a good duel, despite how it turned out..." Despite the fact that he had been using lethal spells against her, she didn't think he was using them with lethal intent. He didn't want to kill her, not really. She couldn't forget that his last spell had been Expelliarmus. When he actually had her at his mercy, he'd chosen a spell that was about as non-lethal as you could get, over every other nasty curse and jinx in his extensive repertoire. It wasn't very Riddle-ish at all. And he'd called her by her first name...

"Are you still going to try to get the locket back?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

She was silent so long Riddle began thinking she really was asleep.

But then at last she sighed, "No. You keep it. I guess you won this round."

He turned his head to look at her profile, disbelieving. "Really?"

"Really really. I don't care anymore." she said simply.

He considered her words for a while. "I tested it," he admitted.

And though she didn't respond, the way her breathing had gone quieter told him she was listening.

"There's no spell or enchantment." he continued, "And the inside frame is empty, except for a few grains of black ash."

"So it was in the fire, too." Amalia murmured, as if forgetting Riddle's presence. She hadn't bothered examining the horrid thing very closely.

When she said nothing more, lapsing into contemplative silence, he asked impatiently, "What fire?"

But it seemed she was no longer in a responsive frame of mind, and he just heard her roll over and mumble, "G'night, Riddle."

The next day was strangely normal after everything that had transpired the previous night.

Riddle woke up in the Room at about mid-morning, feeling pretty awful. But standing no longer caused spots in his vision, and after taking another dose of potion he felt much better. Amalia had disappeared, no doubt she'd woken up earlier. Unlike him, she was a morning person, it seemed. She'd left the bed she'd slept in completely messed up, and the aftermath of her potion-making was strewn haphazardly on just about every available surface.

The clutter made a muscle in his eye twitch.

Having missed breakfast, he went straight down to the kitchens and let the elves fuss over him. Seeing it was a Sunday, it wasn't as if he had anywhere pressing to be.

After eating, he returned to the Common Room and resolutely ignored the stares and whispers directed his way. He understood why: he and Amalia had left the library together very conspicuously (she'd even linked arms with him at one point), and then neither of them returned until the next morning. He hoped Amalia hadn't said anything to encourage them, not that it would have made much difference.

His followers were oddly subdued. Dolohov and Avery tried to hide it, but they kept shooting him jealous and half-betrayed-looking glances. He'd expressly denied liking her on several previous occasions, but now the 'evidence' made it seem like a lie. Nott was too cowardly to be outwardly jealous. Rosier and Lestrange, however... they seemed to guess there was more to the story than appearances would suggest.

He realized that sooner or later he'd have to address these rumours, and prove their validity or falseness... Before Amalia thought up some way to use it against him.

When Amalia snuck back into the girl's dormitory just before breakfast, she was immediately confronted by three demanding expressions.

Too tired to invent a convincing lie, Amalia shrugged as she changed her clothes. "We duelled. Again."

"What?!" yelped Anne. "You and Riddle? Are you insane?!"

"Cool!" Callidora exclaimed. "You're not bleeding this time."

"Who won?" Charlotte's narrowed eyes were caught between hostility and... concern?

I must be getting through to the little brat, Amalia mused.

"This time I guess it was his victory," she admitted, "But he was injured, so I had to come get this," she indicated the book and satchel she'd brought back with her.

"How did he win and get injured?" Callidora seemed sceptical.

"He used a spell I'd never seen before..." her tired eyes got a little brighter. "Which reminds me, I've got to look it up. What was the incantation? Obs- Ob-something... or was it-"

"Amalia, if he was hurt, why didn't you take him to the hospital wing?" Anne interrupted with a frown.

"Because we'd be expelled for duelling?"

"What were you doing the whole night, though?" asked Callidora, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. "You bandaged his bleeding torso, and then..." she trailed off hopefully.

Amalia chuckled. "Firstly, it wasn't his torso-"

Callidora squealed.

"-It wasn't that, either!" she facepalmed. "Merlin, Dora, get your mind out the gutter!"

She pouted.

"I just stayed to brew a potion so he wouldn't have to go to the hospital wing!"

"The whole night?" Callidora exclaimed.

Anne also seemed suspicious. "Riddle's more capable than you at potion-making."

"Not you, too!"

"Even I can see a pattern here," Anne admitted. "You two are weirdly obsessed with each other. I never thought I'd say it, but it's true."

Amalia opened her mouth to deny it, but then hesitated... He called me 'Amalia' last night...

"I knew it!" crowed Callidora. "There is something going on between you two!"

"There's nothing, really," Amalia protested, holding up her hands. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

She had their undivided attention.

"He's... interesting."

Callidora was waggling her eyebrows again. "Oho...'Interesting'..."

"Yes, he's attractive," Amalia rolled her eyes, "But I don't mean like that. He's the one obsessed with me, but not for the reason you think." She sighed. "He thinks I have secrets-"

"You do." they chorused in unison, trading meaningful looks.

"-And he wants to find out what they are. That's all." Suddenly she seemed somewhat wistful, and looked away from them. "We're... not even friends."

"Maybe it's for the best," Anne said sagely. Though she did think something more was going on between them

"I guess," sighed Callidora, then said matter-of-factly, "He is only half-blood."

Amalia looked up, only to watch in disbelief as they traded pitying nods.

What... the... hell...?

For some reason, the words they'd spoken stayed in her mind even through the next week of school, and it bothered her. She hated ignorance, and now that she was noticing it, she found it ridiculous just how obsessed Slytherins were with bloodlines. Even Callidora, who Amalia liked a great deal, was extremely prejudiced. She knew it wasn't with any particularly malicious intent; she'd just been brought up believing muggles and "impure" bloodlines were inferior. Not all Slytherins were purists at heart (or, for that matter, by blood), but the vast majority made it difficult for other opinions to be aired. When Amalia asked if there was anyone in Slytherin who felt differently, Callidora mentioned her young cousin, a first year by the name of Alphard Black, who she described as "a sweetie, but with some very strange ideas." Apparently, he was often bullied by his older sister, Walburga, for being friendly to muggleborn students in other houses.

As the week passed by, Amalia and Riddle settled back into their rhythm of competitive tension, though he'd toned down the pranks and stopped trying to provoke her into a duel. They both knew the next time they fought could go either way.

With open conflict off the table, it turned into a war of lies. The school seemed to assume they were "secretly" dating, and Riddle used this to his advantage, subtly turning the girls of his large fan-base against her. Amalia started having to look over her shoulder for jinxes even when Riddle was nowhere near. In response, she took simple revenge in taking ever opportunity to casually touch him, leaning on his arm, brushing her fingers down his arm. Subtle motions which pissed him off... and therefore amused her greatly.

On Thursday she went to audition for Professor Beery's school play, and won the role of the tragic heroine, which was heavily based off of Shakespeare's Desdemona, with minimal effort. The melodramatic Herbology professor faked a swoon at her first line, and then exclaimed she had the "perfect look" of a pure woman. She couldn't help an irritated twitch at the "pure" part, though he was probably referring to her innocent acting (which was far from reality, anyway).

Later that afternoon, Amalia was busy studying the script in the Common Room, seated in her favourite spot by the fire.

Callidora was holding court with Charlotte and Anne, bossily discussing relations and descendants (again). Tom, with Rosier, his ever-present shadow, was seated a distance away at a small table, completing essays for Professor Binns and studiously ignoring the girls. The only other person in the room was Walburga Black, stretched out lazily on the opposite couch to Amalia, using her wand to spin her beater's bat idly in the air above her. She listened with half an ear to their conversation, spending the other half of her time glaring at Amalia, who ignored her. For some reason the older girl had taken a strong disliking to her.

"So, Anne, how many Flints are left to carry on your family's name?" Callidora asked curiously.

Anne shrugged. "I have a couple of cousins to carry on the name. The family's actually quite big, but we keep marrying out, thank goodness. No offence, Callidora, but I get quite queasy when I consider marrying my cousins." She shuddered.

Callidora waved her words off and sniggered, "No problem, Anne, I understand. At least the Blacks are numerous, although I certainly don't intend marrying one of them, either."

Walburga Black's beater's bat stopped rotating, and the larger girl turned to scowl at Callidora. "Indeed? And what's wrong with Blacks furthering our line? It's marrying out that dilutes the bloodline even further, 'til you're almost extinct, like Flint."

Amalia had a strong urge to roll her eyes, but kept her attention on the script.

Anne bristled, " 'Dilutes the bloodline'? We're all purebloods here, Black!"

Charlotte, deciding to take on the role of peacemaker, jumped in before Walburga could reply, "You're engaged to Orion, aren't you? Your second cousin."

Amalia looked up at narrowed her eyes at Walburga. She suddenly felt extremely sorry for any offspring she might have.

Walburga's irritation gave way to suspicion. "How did you know that?"

Callidora shrugged. "Alphard told me."

Charlotte nodded. "I remember Orion. Didn't he graduate four years ago?"

Walburga gave a characteristically unladylike grunt of assent and her beater's bat resumed its rotation above her head. "That waste of space brother of mine should learn to keep his trap shut."

"Oookay…" Callidora turned back to the group. "So, Amalia, what about you? You're the last Gray, aren't you?"

Amalia glared. "So?" Good riddance.

"The Grays are one of the oldest pureblood families!" exclaimed Callidora dramatically, "Aren't you sad that it'll die out with you?"

"Maybe I'll kill my husband and give my last name to my five sons so that it survives." She said waspishly.

There was a beat of silence, broken only by Riddle giving an odd-sounding cough as he studiously bent over his essay.

Amalia looked down at her book again, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Then Callidora also laughed, and waved her hand as if to get rid of Amalia's odd comment. "Anyway, like I was saying, there's just so few purebloods left… it's hard to narrow your focus down, even just to Slytherins." She fidgeted with the hem of her robe.

Charlotte Yaxley, dim as ever, seemed confused. "What do you mean?"

Amalia glanced up from her book briefly. "Longbottom." She supplied, somewhat smugly.

Callidora went red, while Yaxley and Flint squealed in shock.

"Really, Dora?"

"A Gryffindor?"

"He is kinda cute…!"

Walburga gave a scornful snort. "Typical." She sneered, but everyone ignored her. Since he was a pureblood too, it seemed her crush was socially acceptable.

Callidora glanced at Amalia, annoyed that she'd stolen her thunder. "So what about you, Amalia?" she demanded, nettled.

Amalia looked up from her book. "What?"

"Is there anyone you like?" she was doing this on purpose because Riddle was sitting only meters away.

Amalia resisted the urge to glance over at his table. She wondered if he was still listening. As they were the only ones still up, it was likely.

She shrugged. "Not in particular."

Anne chuckled. "Avery would be crushed to here that."

"Have you dated before?" now it was Charlotte's quiet voice, her big blue eyes wide with inquisitiveness.

Amalia felt a prickle of irritation, as she always did when people asked her personal questions. But it was standard fare among girls - she could hardly refuse to reply. "No," she said curtly, returning her gaze to her book. Dating was so... ordinary, and her life up until this point had been anything but.

But Callidora grinned like a shark tasting blood in the water, and leaned over and snatched the book from her fingers.

"Hey!" huffed Amalia, scowling.

"You get it back when our curiosity is satisfied," Callidora said bossily, unperturbed.

Amalia folded her arms. "I'm not amused."

"So, you've never been kissed before?" she pressed.

"What's it to you?" snapped Amalia. Just when would she have an opportunity like that when she'd spent her life just surviving? Once again she was reminded painfully by how different she was to other people her age.

Callidora raised an eyebrow in shock. "Really? … Never? It's just… you seem so confident with the guys, I always assumed…"

"Well, you assumed wrong." She snapped. "Can I have my book back now?"

"Have you ever had a crush on a guy before?" demanded Callidora. She raised a hand to her mouth, "Or… a girl?"

Amalia gave her a withering glare. "Of course not." her evasions weren't getting her anywhere, so she tried to calm down. "I don't waste my time on foolishness."

"It's not foolish, 'Malia," said Anne earnestly, "It's normal. Even Walburga-"

"Leave me out of this!" cackled Walburga, prompting a sour glare from Amalia which she returned enthusiastically.

"Anne's right," Callidora said bracingly. She sat straighter and drew herself up. "Right, this group has a new mission. We're going to help Amalia have her first kiss!"

Anne laughed and nodded.

Amalia rolled her eyes, finally losing her patience, and flicked her wand, sending her book soaring from Callidora's fingers back to her hands. She opened and paged through it, trying to find her place. For some reason, this conversation was really pissing her off.

Callidora didn't seem to mind. She looked at Anne and Charlotte, who leaned in closer. "Right, where should we start?"

"Pureblood?" Supplied Anne immediately.

Callidora's eyes narrowed and she gave a conspiratorial smile. She glanced very deliberately over to where Riddle was sitting with Rosier, and the others nodded enthusiastically.

"So, just a Slytherin, then. We can't be… too picky." Surmised Callidora with a hefty wink at her co-conspirators.

Amalia's hands tightened on her book. She knew exactly who they meant. So you didn't really believe me when I said he was a ruthless git, she thought wryly. She snuck a peek over her book to his table, wondering if he was also following their conversation. He was looking down at his essay with a ferocious scowl. She fought back a wide grin. Either he was offended by seventh century goblin wars, or he found the topic of conversation equally unappealing.

"So, that leaves us with the guys in our year… Mulciber, Nott, Avery - I'm sure he'd be willing - Dolohov, Rosier-"

Rosier looked up at the sound of his name and Callidora winked at him. He flushed and looked down hurriedly.

"-Lestrange-"

"Not Lestrange." Charlotte put in quickly, a frown pinching her delicate features.

"Not Lestrange." Agreed Callidora magnanimously.

Anne bit her lip to hold back her laugh, "That just leaves…" she clamped a hand over her mouth to hold herself back.

Callidora affected an expression of mock confusion. "What? Who?"

Charlotte looked shocked at her audacity, and then in unison the three girls turned to look over at Riddle, who sat writing his essay calmly. Even Walburga looked up.

He stopped writing, and gave a small sigh. "Oh, dear. Could you possibly be talking about me?"

He smiled at them, his angelic mask in place. Callidora, Anne and Charlotte flushed slightly, while Walburga merely looked amused.

Amalia closed her book with a snap. Now that Riddle had joined the conversation, she could no longer afford to let it go. She stood up. "This is ridiculous." She said angrily, folding her arms. "I'll be in the dormitory until dinner, where I can hopefully get some peace."

Callidora seemed to realize she'd gone too far in her teasing, and had the grace to look ashamed.

Amalia had taken only two steps towards her dormitory, when Tom made his parting shot. "I didn't think you'd be so sensitive about this, Gray." In front of the others, his tone was lightly reproving. "A first kiss is nothing to be afraid of."

Amalia turned to look at him. He smiled at her innocently, but she could read the taunt in his gaze. Two can play at that game… "Oh, are you volunteering?" she said bluntly, matching his smirk. She may lack experience, but she never lacked in confidence. If it was something she wanted... she would get it.

Out the corner of her eye she saw Callidora, Anne, Charlotte and Walburga's mouths drop open.

His eyes flickered, but he recovered well, and smiled bashfully, "You're so popular, Amalia, you don't need anyone to volunteer. Certainly not me."

"That's right." She said, she smirk widening poisonously. She had to admit to feeling slightly disappointed. It wasn't as if she liked him, of course- quite the opposite, in fact - but he was very handsome, and she had no doubt he would be a good kisser. He was a good liar, after all.

Her eyes slid from Riddle to Rosier, who glanced nervously between them.

She suddenly had a really, really, amusing idea.

"Rosier." She said sweetly, making the slight boy jump.

The smile slid of Tom's face immediately and he looked suspicious.

"Y-yes?"

She stepped right up to him and gently brushed the side of his mouth with her thumb. "I've always liked you." Her brown eyes were large and warm, so different from Riddle's cold blackness. And yet... why did this subtly threatening atmosphere feel so familiar...? She motioned him to stand up, shooting him a reassuring smile that, instead, sent a shiver of trepidation down his spine.

He hesitated, glancing at Riddle, who ignored him in favor of glaring at Amalia. He didn't seem to notice that the quill in his right hand had snapped.

Amalia raised one eyebrow, expectant. Impatient. Rosier gulped and miserably stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the floor in the otherwise silent room.

"What is it?"

She smiled at him. "Kiss me."

"E-excuse me?"

She waited. She knew his secret, so he had no choice but to obey her. Of course, she would never tell Riddle his true feelings, (she wasn't a sadist), but he didn't know that.

He hesitated, then steeled himself and leant forward, placing a chaste kiss on her soft lips for a whole three seconds before pulling away. It was a perfectly satisfactory, polite, first kiss.

Amalia glanced back at her room-mates, savoring the look of shock on everyone's faces. She winked at Rosier, who scowled, annoyed at being manipulated.

"Thanks for helping me with this issue, Rosier. I knew I could count on you." With that last taunt she disappeared into the dormitories with a flounce of her robes.

Rosier winced and turned around to peek at Riddle's reaction.

His glare was blood-curdling in its intensity.

Chapter Text

September turned into October, and Amalia was kept busy as school work piled up, as well as rehearsals for the Yule play. Amalia enjoyed the drama on stage, and the chance to escape from Riddle for an hour or two every other evening. He was taking up a lot of her time, sitting next to her in classes (now almost all of them except Transfiguration) and even during meals. To the outside observer they seemed inseparable friends (or lovers, as most of the school believed) but to those who knew better could see the competitive tension that dominated all their interactions.

Even with all the Riddle-drama in her life, Amalia had still managed to make great strides in her research of mysteries at Hogwarts. She'd narrowed her focus down to one avenue of interest; the Moving Stones said to be located in the Forbidden Forest. Since they were outside the castle itself, and Riddle wasn't an outdoorsy type, she knew he hadn't investigated it.

Research in the library informed her that the Stones in the forest were trail markers on a map to somewhere. No one knew what lay at the end, since no one had ever reached it. There were thought to be seven markers (seven being the most powerful magical number) all linked by devilishly difficult magical riddles. And even the start of the trail was almost impossible to find, since it disappeared and reappeared in a different place every full moon in a seemingly random pattern. Amalia assumed that it meant you'd only have a month to solve all seven clues before the trail reset itself.

Undeterred by this, Amalia started walking the edge of the forest around the castle and along the lake, trying various tracking and locator spells, to no avail. Physically locating it herself seemed impossible - she simply didn't have the time. So she started thinking outside the box.

Several long brainstorming sessions during Defence Against the Dark Arts (since the lessons were worse than useless) resulted in Amalia finally coming up with a solid plan of action.

So one Saturday night, (in late October) she found herself pulling on her outdoor boots, and preparing to sneak out the castle, a pleasant bubble of excitement stirring within.

"I can't believe you're doing this." said Anne, for just about the fifth time.

Just as she had with the first four times, Amalia ignored her. "Do you think I should take my winter coat?"

Charlotte frowned, remembering the weather in the Great Hall over dinner. "It should be clear skies... but it's getting chilly these days."

"Just in case, then," Amalia said, wrapping herself up warmly over her emerald-edged robes.

Callidora was pouting because Amalia refused to take her with.

"I'll be back in a few hours," Amalia said bracingly, clapping her on the shoulder. "And I'll tell you all about it in the morning." she promised.

"Fine. Just... I know you're awesome and everything, but... be careful."

"It is called forbidden for a reason." added Anne anxiously.

Amalia just smiled and put up her hood, and then left before they could argue any more.

It was almost midnight, and the corridors were blessedly empty. The few ghosts patrolling the castle Amalia managed to avoid with relative ease, and she was halfway to the side-door by the greenhouses, when...

"Where are you going?"

Amalia flinched at the familiar clipped tones of the one person she didn't want catching her illicit venture out of the castle.

She fixed a stiff smile on her face and turned around slowly, one hand reaching into her pocket as she did.

He was miles ahead of her, and already twirled his pale wand between his fingers casually.

"Riddle. Why am I not surprised?" she narrowed her eyes at him. Had he put a tracking spell on her...?

"Just answer the question, Gray."

"I'm... going for a stroll." she said, not precisely lying.

His eyes narrowed. "At this time of night?"

"Goodbye, Riddle." She started sidling away, keeping an eye on him as she did.

He snorted in disbelief. "Do you really think I'll let you go?"

"As if you could stop me."

Tom counted to five in his head, trying not to give in to the temptation to hex her on the spot. "Our past... indiscretions... aside, you're out of bounds and past curfew. I'm a prefect."

"So?" she said in a bored tone, her left eyebrow raised.

He fought to keep his temper in check. He could deal with this without endangering his position at the school. For once. "I- You're… getting a detention, Gray."

She snorted with laughter. "Seriously? That's hilarious." She smirked. "Fine. You can give me detentions for the next month, if it pleases you. But I'm going." she gave a mocking bow of her head, sneered "Au revoir!" and strode right past him.

A muscle twitched above his eye. He turned, and slashed his wand through the air, conjuring up a shimmering barrier at the end of the corridor, making Amalia stop abruptly, mid-stride, before she ran nose-first into it.

She turned with a disgruntled expression. "Really? You want to do this again, after what happened last time?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said smoothly, "I'm just a prefect doing his duty to enforce the rules." he rolled up his sleeves briskly, adrenaline thrumming in anticipation. This would be the perfect opportunity to pay her back...

Amalia rolled her eyes and brandished her wand. "I don't have time to play around with you." She muttered a spell and then blew on her open palm. Instantly black smoke billowed outwards, flowing towards him. Tom threw up a shield hastily, unsure of whether she was attacking him or not. The thick black vapor wrapped around his body sinuously, obscuring his senses but leaving him unharmed. By the time he realized it was just a harmless distraction, it was too late.

Steaming with fury, he chanted several spells in the silent darkness until he found the correct one to dispel the smoke. As the corridor cleared seconds later, he noticed his larger barrier was down, and Amalia long gone.

And she'd erased the tracking spell he'd painstakingly (and discreetly) laid on her a week ago.

"Fuck!" he swore loudly.

Once outside the castle itself, Amalia could cast a Disillusionment Charm, which ensured she was undisturbed as she walked for more than half an hour into the Forest.

At last, she found what she'd been looking for, and revealed herself.

She raised her arms slowly and kept a nervous eye on the two deadly-looking arrows that were suddenly trained on her face. As a show of peace, her wand remained stowed away in her coat pocket.

"Ahem," she coughed, trying to force her voice not to squeak. "Um... Greetings."

When the two centaurs made no reply, she forged hastily on. "So... I'm investigating the Moving Stones," she explained calmly, trying to control her racing pulse as the larger, male centaur walked around her rather threateningly. He had a proud, hard expression. "My research will take me deep into the Forest… so I wanted to ask for the centaurs' permission… and also ask... if you know of anything that may help my quest."

"We do not wish the presence of humans here," the male centaur said immediately, his voice harsh and firm, "And we do not offer aid. Begone, whilst our hospitality lasts."

She swallowed hard, and tried to hide her disappointment. As he made a threatening movement towards her she lowered her gaze respectfully. "As- as you wish. I'll go. But… I would not ask for this without offering something in return."

"We want nothing from humans." he spat.

But Amalia noticed that the female centaur had lowered her bow slightly, as if the offer intrigued her. Amalia decided to focus her attention on her. "Is there... something I can help you with? Perhaps a creature of the forest you wish to slay. Or if a human is bothering you - besides me, of course -" her weak joke was met with blank stares, "I can ensure they leave you alone. I can be very persuasive. With my own kind, that is." She smiled weakly, "It seems centaurs are much harder to convince."

The male centaur opened his mouth to reject her offer, again, with an irritated expression, but then the female abruptly spoke. "Wait, Reman. Do not be so hasty to dismiss this one. She is well-mannered, for a two-legger. And brave."

"Or foolish." Snarled Reman. "We want nothing from her kind, Circey!"

The female centaur paced closer, holding Amalia's uncertain gaze with her own direct, pale grey stare. "No, but I know of the Stones she speaks of. Long we have searched for the answers to that mystery ourselves, have we not?"

"No good will come of this! Hold your tongue!"

Circey didn't remove her gaze from Amalia, and ignored her companion, who stamped and pawed the ground in agitation. "Yes, we know of the Stones. They emit a foul aura that pollutes the forest."

"My research told me they were created by a Dark wizard, long ago." Amalia said quietly.

"Then you know the risks. Those that tamper with the Stones and fail to uncover their secrets are cursed. But what is it you want? Do you seek the object they hide?"

"… Object? The books I consulted don't mention an object. They say the Stones lead somewhere."

The female nodded slowly. Amalia shifted uncomfortably under her strong gaze. She hadn't blinked yet. "To the hidden object, yes. But it was hidden by a wizard, many years ago, and only another two-legger can find it."

"Circey, stop this!" Reman was going pale with rage.

Amalia avoided his eyes, and took a step towards Circey, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. "Was it one of the Founders?" some of the books had hinted at the possibility, and she knew only one Founder had dabbled in Dark magic... "Was it Slytherin? Did he hide the object?"

To her immense disappointment, Circey's shaking of her head was firm. "No, it was not that long ago, it was some time after the snake-man's death. He was not Slytherin, but he wore robes of green and black, even as you do." She nodded at Amalia, who looked down. Her Slytherin robes peeped out of the top of her coat. "Perhaps you should ask someone at the castle for help in your search."

Amalia nodded. "I'll try."

"Why have you taken such an interest in this?"

Amalia hesitated. "I want to find this object… Because… well, I'm curious to find out what it is." She admitted, "But if it really is a Dark object, I won't use it." she added quickly.

Reman snorted disbelievingly.

Circey remained unperturbed. "Destroy it, or keep it, as you will, human. Just make sure it does not remain in the Forest."

Amalia bowed her head solemnly. "I promise. Is there anything else you can tell me? I tried to find the first Stone, but... it could be anywhere."

Reman shot her and Circey a disgusted look and turned and galloped from the clearing, his broad shoulders tense with anger.

Circey ignored him again and considered for a moment. "That is not true. It does not move randomly. It is possible to chart the first Stone according to the placement of the heavens."

"Of course," breathed Amalia, eyes shining. "Why didn't I realize that? The phases of the moon change each month- and..." she bit her lip, thinking.

Circey caught onto her train of thought. "Of course, finding the pattern would take years of observation."

"Then... Perhaps someone else has already gone that far." mused Amalia, perking up slightly. It was small... but a definite lead she could follow up on. "Thank you. Do you have any idea what the object is?"

The centaur shook her head. "No. It is well hidden. I will leave you now." She turned and stepped slowly away. "Oh, human…" she didn't look back as she spoke, as if it was just an afterthought. "You are brave... and clever enough, perhaps... to succeed where others have failed. However, do not be reckless. You have made an enemy tonight, and the Forest holds many dangers. Farewell…"

Amalia looked around at the quiet trees and a chill crept over her. She drew her cloak firmly about her shoulders, and recast her Disillusionment Charm over herself. Then she walked quickly back in the direction she'd come.

She'd almost reached the edge of the Forest when a snapping twig alerted her sharp sense of self-preservation. She didn't have time to use magic, but threw herself sideways off the path, slamming her shoulder hard on the gnarled roots of a large tree.

Right where she'd stood the large hooves of the centaur stamped the ground angrily, as Reman made to grab at her with his large, rough hands. She knew the only reason she was alive was because of the Charm still hiding her. But it was an imperfect disguise, and like moving glass, he could now see her shape quite clearly.

She cried out and rolled away, scrabbling with her hands to drag herself upright again against a tree. This was the danger Circey had warned her about!

She fumbled with her wand, her hands bloody from the rough bark of the tree, but wasn't quick enough.

Remano reared and struck out at her, catching her already-bruised shoulder with a glancing blow that sent her flying, her wand slipping from her nerveless hands. The charm ended completely and he roared with triumph, cantering towards her as she lay, defenceless.

She rolled on the ground, clutching her injured shoulder, but at least this time the floor was liberally carpeted with pine needles, which broke her fall. Her eyes found her wand a short distance away, and she gamely crawled towards it.

"We've had enough trouble from your kind," snarled Reman, rearing again, "I will not let you leave here alive!"

Her hand closed on the wood of her wand just in time, and she gasped, "Incarcerous!"

Ropes burst from the end of her wand, wrapping around his legs and torso instantly. She barely had time to roll out of the way again, as he came crashing down to the forest floor.

She straightened up, shakily, brushing the pine needles out of her hair. Her left shoulder was just one massive throbbing bruise, but she was reasonably certain nothing was broken.

"I don't wish to be your enemy," she snapped at the furious centaur, twitching helplessly on the ground. He was muffled by a gag (fortunately; his expression was livid). "So I'm leaving now. The spell will wear off in an hour."

With that, she spat on the ground contemptuously next to him, and then stomped away, limping slightly and grumbling to herself about racist centaurs.

Riddle sprang up as the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room opened, admitting Amalia.

"How dare you-" he started furiously, with his speech he had practised for the past four hours, but then the words died in his throat.

She limped into the light, her unimpressed left eyebrow raised as usual, but her eyes were glazed over in exhaustion and pain. She clutched her left shoulder gingerly with her right hand, and there was a shadow of a bruise on her left cheek.

"What happened?" he asked in a shocked voice.

She stepped around him and sank into one of the emerald-green couches stiffly, wincing. "It's none of your concern."

He stepped forward, examining her suspiciously, and picked a pine needle from her hair. "The Forbidden Forest?"

She drew her wand and he stepped back quickly. But she ignored him, yawned and then said, "Accio Healer's Compendium!" She didn't want to wake up her friends by doing this in the dormitory. The same well-thumbed volume she'd used to heal Riddle flew out of the stairwell from the dormitories, and she caught it gingerely.

She winced again and his eyes found her hands, which were encrusted with deep, bloody scratches.

She pointed her wand awkwardly at her left hand and mumbled the healing spell, which closed the scratches and stopped the bleeding, though she'd need murtlap essence to heal them properly. Then she hesitated and looked at her right hand - spell-casting with one's left hand was not impossible, but generally spells were clumsier. And her fingers were still somewhat numb from the chilly night air.

Riddle sat down across from her and glanced at the healing spell in the book. "I'll do it if you tell me what happened." He said, his voice gentle. Sincere.

He's up to something. Amalia eyed him suspiciously, and then shrugged and chuckled. "Well, that beats a death threat."

"I've used up my quota for today."

Amalia's eyes widened. Tom Riddle, making a joke?! And a civil bargain, to boot!

"Throw in an annulment of that detention, and I'll tell you." She said slyly.

"Fine."

She smiled, and handed him the book. Wonders never ceased…

"I was in the Forbidden Forest." She admitted, "I had to ask the centaurs something."

He waved his wand and focused on her hands, as the bloody scratches slowly closed. "The centaurs?" whatever he'd expected, it certainly wasn't that. He glanced up, looking amused, "Well, I assume they weren't very helpful."

Amalia spent a moment admiring his dark eyelashes. He was really blessed, to have such a face... "On the contrary," she said with a grin, "I learnt a lot. One centaur tried to kill me as I was leaving, but the other had already helped, so I wasn't too annoyed."

He took her hand, his grasp warm and surprisingly gentle, and murmured the spell to clean away the blood. Amalia felt a tingling warmth spreading from the hand he touched, and she didn't think it was from the spell. It was the first time he'd touched her of his own volition, and she had to admit it was doing crazy things to her heart.

He looked up from under his lashes at her, his dark gaze curiously alluring from this angle. He even smelt good, his fingers soft on her aching palms. She resisted the urge to throw herself away from him… or towards him. This felt too pleasant. Too dangerous. "So," he murmured quietly, his tone husky, "What did you learn?"

His question ironically drew her out of her daze and prompted her to think again. "Oh, that's right…" her gaze went unfocused as she thought about what Circey had said. "I need to find out about a Slytherin who was at Hogwarts a long time ago… three hundred years at least, but after the Founders' time…" she suddenly had a great idea. "Riddle, where does the Bloody Baron hang out?"

He released her hand, healed, and glared moodily at her, standing up.

She deflated slightly as she recognized the end of their brief, non-confrontational talk. A curious realization struck her. We would make a good team. She almost laughed out loud. The thought was preposterous, of course.

"He never leaves the dungeons, except for feasts," Riddle said with a shrug, "But you won't have any luck with him. He never speaks to students."

Amalia stood up. "Well, we'll see." She said, determination in her eyes. She turned to the dormitories. "Oh… and, thanks, Riddle."

He made no reply except a sour glare, and she shrugged and left.

He stared after her, and then looked down at his hands, which still had a smear of her blood on them. His lip curled in disgust.

I hate centaurs.

The strength of the sudden thought left him bemused. He shook his head and left the Common Room, suddenly keen on heading to bed before more troublesome thoughts wormed their way into his consciousness.

Chapter Text

The Bloody Baron was hard to find.

Firstly, out of all the ghosts at Hogwarts he was just about the most antisocial. Gryffindor had Nearly Headless Nick, who was always willing to blather on about just about anything. Hufflepuffs had the Fat Friar, a jolly ghost who always seemed to be laughing about something (which became annoying quickly, but at least he was friendly). The Grey Lady was almost as morose as the Baron, sure, but she would still respond if you addressed her politely. The Slytherin ghost, however, seemed permanently bad-tempered and actively avoided all contact. He only pitched up for official feasts, and Amalia wasn't patient enough to wait for the next one.

She bravely attempted to search the dungeons for him. The problem was that they were enormous and confusing. The Slytherin Common Room, various Potions classes and storerooms and a dusty trophy-hall were on the more well-known level of the dungeons, but there were other corridors that twisted and went further down, more often than not ending in locked doors which refused to yield to spells. The "dungeons" seemed to run as the basement layer of the whole castle, and the castle was massive.

Through sheer pig-headedness and several nights of missing out on sleep, Amalia combed the dungeons for him, and was finally rewarded on the third day.

She turned a corner and spotted him scratching his chin absently as he stared at a blank stretch of cobwebbed wall. His bloodshot eyes turned to her as she approached triumphantly, and eagerly gushed, "Baron! May I talk to-"

And he pulled a sour expression and drifted right through the wall, disappearing with a mournful clink of the heavy, ghostly chains that hung from his manacled wrists.

"Wait!" she called, frustrated. But he was already long gone.

If that was his attitude even before she spoke to him, asking the taciturn ghost for help was not going to be easy. She needed something to offer... but what could a ghost want from someone living?

Determined to find something, she made her way to the library and read up on everything she could find on ghosts, ghouls and all non- or semi-material beings.

Returning Newt Scamanders Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them to a shelf (it was useful as a guide, but lacked detail), she came face to face with Rosier for the first time since 'the kiss'. He'd been avoiding her.

"Oh, hi. How are-"

"Save it." he snapped, shooting her a stone-faced glare.

"... Rosier, I-"

He pushed past her without a word. His entire body-language was screaming "don't you dare talk to me".

She shoved her remaining library books into a random shelf (for a moment she thought she heard the shelves give a wheezy, resigned sigh...) and trotted to catch up to him as he left the library. "Come on, don't be like that..." she wheedled, tugging at his sleeve. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"No, you're not." he kept his expression hard, and his gaze forward.

"I really am." she did genuinely feel bad. The look on Riddle's face had been priceless, so she didn't regret it, exactly... But there was some guilt. "How can I make it up to you?"

"Can you promise you won't use me against him in the future?" he snarled, knowing the answer.

Amalia hesitated a moment, then rallied. "Well... no... but... Look, next time I'll discuss it with you before I do anything, okay? And, really, I do want us to be friends."

"We have nothing in common." he laughed hollowly.

She bit her lip, but not for long. Uncertainty wasn't in her nature.

"Hey, what-!"

She pulled him abruptly into a side-passage off the main corridor they were in, and into the first empty room. It was a dusty storeroom filled with buckets and mops. The single flame torch attached to the wall inside flickered to life by itself as they entered, casting a warm halo of light in the small space.

"Just hear me out." she said, raising her hands at his furious scowl. "I need to talk to you."

He narrowed his eyes at her, and folded his arms. "Make it quick."

"We do have something in common." she started. "We both... care... about Riddle."

His eyebrows flew up and he looked even more disgruntled, if that was possible. "Is that so?"

She shook her head hurriedly. "Don't get the wrong idea, I'm not in love with in or something-" at least, I don't think so... "But I can also say I don't hate him. And I'm sorry if the kiss-"

He flinched as she mentioned it.

"-caused any bad feeling between you two."

"That's putting it mildly." he glared. "Do you know he practiced dark magic on me for three hours that night?"

She winced in sympathy. "That bastard. Look, we'll figure something out to get you back in his good books-"

"Why?" Rosier interrupted. "Why do you care?"

"I told you I want to be your friend." Amalia repeated, then rolled her eyes, "I'm a friendly person. I'd be Riddle's friend too, if he stopped trying to curse me every time I turned my back."

"You shouldn't joke about things like that." Rosier said uncertainly.

"I'm not." she replied with a shrug, "I genuinely like him."

"No, you don't..." Rosier frowned. "You can't."

"Why not? In fact, I... enjoy his company quite a lot. Just... platonically."

"You can't be serious."

Rosier was honestly confused. Every time she was around him in class she was getting mercilessly bullied. Just the previous day he'd managed to break three of her fingers by slamming a heavy history textbook onto them, after it 'miraculously' fell off a high shelf in the back of the class (of course, the rest of their classmates had no clue it was him). She hadn't looked like she was enjoying it, sweating through the pain before Binns excused her to the Hospital Wing. A simple physical attraction wouldn't survive that. Then, her feelings ran deeper...?

Amalia followed his gaze to her fingers. "Actually, I might have deserved it," she admitted, wiggling her fingers to show that they were healed perfectly, "Because last Sunday I dyed his eyebrows purple. Permanently." she looked thoughtful, "I don't know how he got them black again, but underneath I guarantee they're purple." she smirked in satisfaction.

Putting aside the image of Riddle with purple eyebrows, he shook his head and tried not to get side-tracked. "I still don't understand."

Whenever Amalia wasn't around, Riddle was scheming about how to stalk, maim, kidnap, poison or even (when his mood was particularly bad) murder her without getting caught. The other Slytherin boys were quite sick of hearing about it, though of course no one was stupid enough to suggest a change of subject. Even Lestrange seemed reluctant to tangle with her, and Riddle's obsession had become so bad he hadn't even noticed the lack of enthusiasm among his followers.

She leant against the wall and smiled absently. "I don't know exactly... But sometimes I feel like he's the only one in the castle who sees me... like, really sees me."

Rosier pondered her words. Riddle did give the impression of being able to see right through you... But wouldn't most people consider that an intimidating, or rather creepy quality...?

"Whatever he sets his mind to," she continued admiringly, "He puts his all into it. That kind of determination is kind of... inspirational."

Rosier stared at her in disbelief. Even when his obsession is you... and not in a good way?

She chuckled. "And, he's actually got quite a dry sense of humour, have you noticed that? Sometimes..." she grinned at a memory, "Ah, he cracks me up!"

"Okay... What?" This was too much. "Riddle doesn't have a sense of humour."

"Of course he does," she laughed, flapping a hand at him, "You just have to think like him to get it."

"Name one time he actually made a joke." Rosier demanded.

Amalia scratched her chin. "What was it he said when...? Oh, right! About a week ago, he was actually not being a complete dick to me for once, so I said: 'this beats a death threat', and he replied - with, like, no expression, you know how he gets - he said," she imitated Riddle's slightly deeper, smooth voice, "...'I've used up my quota for the day'. Pfft!" she laughed.

"... Are you sure he was joking?" Rosier said weakly. He could totally imagine Riddle having an internal daily quota of death threats.

"Of course he was." she said breezily.

"I think you're in denial," he said flatly. "It's going to get you killed."

She grinned at him fondly. "Careful, Rosier. You almost sounded worried, there."

He huffed and looked away uncomfortably.

"So, if you think he's so dangerous, why do you put up with him?" she asked next, inclining her head.

Amalia would be the only one to have the confidence to say anyone "put up with" Riddle. As if he was badly behaved toddler. Rosier glanced nervously around. "I don't want to talk-"

Amalia rolled her eyes. "C'mon, spill." she ordered, closing the door to the room. "We're alone here."

When Rosier still hesitated, she cast a Silencing Charm on the walls. "There. Even if he had his ear pressed to the door, he wouldn't hear a thing," she reassured him.

Rosier bit his lip. He'd never spoken about it before... not to anyone. Because who could he tell? That he was a- He was...

"You like guys." Amalia stated abruptly. "But you're a guy. Is that what you're struggling with?"

Words burst out of him in a rush, "Does - Doesn't that bother you?!"

She shrugged. "Why should it?"

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes tortured, "Well... it's... it's unnatural! It's wrong!"

"I like guys too."

"But you're supposed to!"

She snorted. "Says who? Who the heck deserves an opinion on who I find attractive? It's got nothing to do with anyone else."

"Do you really believe that?" he stared at her, desperate to know. He'd never met anyone who seemed so casual about this. He knew for a fact his family would disown him without question if they knew. Better he'd been born a Squib. No, in fact... he'd be a pariah even in the Muggle world.

She sighed. "Look, I'm not like... an advocate of the rights of homosexuals, specifically."

He flinched as she said the h-word.

"I just think you have the right to choose, and if it makes you happy... screw what everyone else thinks."

"If people knew they'd hate me." he said bitterly. "You can't tell me that's not true."

She got a little more serious, thinking about it. He was right; if Riddle or someone like Lestrange ever found out, there was a real possibility they'd do something drastic. Like murder. It wasn't worth joking about.

She reached out and gripped his shoulder securely. "I know, and I don't hate you, Rosier." she said seriously. "I don't think it's wrong, or unnatural... Granted, Riddle is not the safest option for you to like, but... You can't help it. It's who you are. You're drawn to him..." she swallowed. "Just like I am, I guess."

He was staring into her face, looking for any trace of insincerity or deceit, but found none. He nodded slowly, feeling an almost-physical weight lifting off his shoulders. I can't help it. It's who I am. Despite everything she'd already done... she was the only one who knew, and she hadn't turned away.

Amalia could see the change in his eyes, and let go of his arm, giving him his space. "I won't use it against you like that again," she promised. "If we're friends, I'll protect you."

He thought about it for a long moment, and then gave a terse nod. Perhaps, in time... he might even begin to trust her.

"So?" she prompted, "What's so special about that asshole?" Only Amalia could make it sound like a term of endearment.

"I think..." he admitted slowly, "I admire him because he's so different. He doesn't ask for respect... he just takes it. He knows who he is. He's got all these big plans..." he swallowed. "It makes me feel like... like..."

"...You're a part of something bigger." finished Amalia softly. "I know."

"Really?"

"Mm. He has that quality about him. Like... He's going to be a force for change in this world, one way or another."

"Doesn't that frighten you?" It frightened him, sometimes.

"No." she said instantly. "Because I don't intend to be a bystander."

She caught his uncomfortable frown. "Don't worry so much," she said bracingly, correctly interpreting his thoughts, "I have no intention of letting him kill me, now or in the future. Whether we end up as enemies or..." she coughed, "Something else... I'm sticking around to find out."

Rosier hoped she wasn't just talking big.

Her eyes suddenly lit up with inspiration. "Which reminds me, we have to think of a way to get you back into his good books..."

"Wait!" Amalia skidded around a corner and then froze in position, one hand outstretched dramatically, her voice pleading. "Please!"

The Bloody Baron actually paused, halfway through a wall, and shot her a malevolent glare. "You're persistent, I'll give you that." he grunted. His voice was deep and somewhat harsh.

She exhaled heavily, and approached with a little more dignity. "You want to hear what I have to say," she started confidently.

"I highly doubt that." he replied dryly.

"I need your help," she said, "But I'm willing to offer you something in exchange."

"Oh?" he looked caught between irritation and boredom, "And that is...?"

"I did some research, and I know a spell," she said eagerly, "That can remove your chains."

He sneered. "And why would I want that?"

"I can- wait, what?" she deflated, confused. The chains looked really heavy. And with all the silvery blood on his chest, she had wondered if it was uncomfortable. Ghosts could feel and interact with other things on the spiritual plane.

"Listen, girl," he said contemptuously, "I put these chains on myself. I certainly don't need help from the likes of you." And with a scornful snort, he drifted through the wall.

Amalia wracked her brain frantically for another solution, and then had a terrific 'ahah' moment, smacking herself on the forehead, it was so obvious.

She raced down the corridor and circled around until she reached the empty Transfiguration classroom he'd floated into.

"I have another... offer," she panted, placing herself in front of him stubbornly.

She winced and closed her eyes tightly as he leered and just floated through her, sending an unpleasant shiver down her spine like she'd been doused in ice water.

"Not. Interested." he growled.

"I can give you anything," she announced. "Any item you desire. I found a spell that can transform things into a non-corporeal form. Maybe... a book? If you feel bored." she spoke quickly before he disappeared again. But he'd actually paused and seemed to be listening. "What about food? You'd be able to interact with it." The Fat Friar always had a ghostly glass of self-refilling wine in his chubby hand (which perhaps explained the perpetual jolliness). "... Hell, I can give you more chains, if that's your... thing," she said. Then, worried he might take offense at her flippant tone, she added, "Uh... I'd be honoured, of course."

He turned to her with a pensive expression.

She waited expectantly.

He just stared at her, his dark, blood-shot eyes seeming to look right through her.

He stared.

And stared.

And stared.

"Um..."

It had been three minutes now.

"So... Can I... be of assistance... In any way?" she asked again cautiously. She wasn't sure if he was even "with her" anymore. The dead-eyed staring had gone beyond awkward, past creepy and was currently nearing downright disturbing. "Um... Baron?"

Suddenly he blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and nodded, just once.

She sighed in relief, which quickly turned to dismay as he turned and drifted out of the classroom.

"Wait!" she called out, dithering, "...Wasn't that a yes?" she dashed into the corridor and spotted him floating away at quite a pace. "Am I supposed to follow you?"

He gave no reply, but going by the fact that he was down stairs and along corridors, not through walls, she guessed it meant yes.

The Baron led her on a winding route through the castle, taking so many twists and turns Amalia soon felt lost. So it was with great surprise that they eventually emerged out of a small side-door... and into the Clock Tower Courtyard.

He drifted to a halt and rotated slowly to look at her.

"Um... so... what is it you want?" Amalia asked tentatively. She was a little apprehensive after all his weird behaviour.

He pointed into the courtyard, and she peered around his ghostly form, to see...

"... Birds?" she looked at him incredulously. The courtyard was full of cawing, noisy black birds.

He nodded.

"But the spells I found were all for things..." she exclaimed, frustrated. "You really want one of these, uh... crows?" she eyed the black birds in distaste. They were probably full of parasites.

He glared. "They're ravens." he growled. "And if you can't do it, there's nothing more to discuss-" he started drifting away.

"I didn't say that!" Amalia hurriedly assured him. "I just might need some time, that's all." she wracked her brain, but came up empty. She'd never heard of spectral animals before... though surely there must be a precedent? It would take more research to come up with a solution.

His bloodshot eyes narrowed at her, and Amalia could tell he didn't believe she could do it. "Don't bother me again." he warned harshly, and floated through a wall with a nasty snort of contempt.

Amalia gestured rudely at the wall.

The cawing of the ravens suddenly sounded like spiteful laughter, mocking her as her quest seemed to have hit yet another major obstacle.

Chapter Text

Saturday, the last week of October...

Rosier entered the boy's dormitory cautiously, peeking around the door while inching his way through the doorway.

"I thought I told Nott I didn't want to be disturbed," Riddle drawled, not bothering to look up from his book as he lay casually on his bed, long legs folded in the picture of relaxed confidence.

"Well, I... er, Can I talk to you, Riddle?" he said tentatively. "If that's okay...?"

Riddle turned a page, his clever eyes still flying across the lines of text. But he raised a hand and provided Rosier permission with a lazy gesture.

The fair-haired boy came in and closed the door carefully behind him, before approaching. He waited respectfully, perched on the edge of his own bed, which was conveniently located next to Riddle's. For some reason the other boys had never begrudged him this 'privileged' position.

Riddle was silent for a few minutes longer, as he finished the chapter he'd been reading. Then, at last, he calmly closed the book and glanced over at Rosier, for the first time giving him attention. Though his expression was cool, indifferent really, Rosier knew better. The intensity of his dark gaze would allow no trace of deception to escape him.

Which made Rosier swallowed nervously, since he was just about to try and deceive Riddle. While he wasn't going to lie precisely (he would never agree to that), the conversation had been planned. With Amalia. Who was Riddle's sworn enemy. Which made this conversation just a few pegs short of suicidal.

"Well?" Riddle prompted smoothly. "I assume this is important."

"It is. Well," corrected Rosier hastily, "At least, I think it might be."

"Oh?"

"It's about Am- uh, the Gray girl," started Rosier, flushing as he realized he'd already made a mistake by using her first name. As if they were friends...

Riddle's expression didn't change, to his relief, but he knew it was impossible that he hadn't caught that little misstep. He noticed everything.

Dammit Amalia, I'm not cut out for this shit!

He forced his panic down and pushed on. "After... what happened with her in the Common Room that time," Rosier started, feeling awkward at the mere mention of the kiss - he thought Riddle's fingers tightened infinitesimally on the book too- "I thought it might be, um..." he swallowed, "Useful to get close to her." Riddle still made no reply, and his dark, intense gaze was making Rosier squirm. He continued, "You said you wanted to know her secrets... And, I think she trusts me now. She told me what she's been working on. I thought you'd want to know."

Riddle's eyebrows rose, his first expression since Rosier had started talking. But he still looked vaguely bored. "The mystery involving centaurs and ghosts? Do tell."

"She's after an ancient relic, presumably hidden in the Forbidden Forest," Rosier explained. "The centaurs told her it was a powerful Dark object, hidden some time after the Founders." As expected, a covetous gleam leapt up in Riddle's eyes at the mention of this tantalizing discovery.

"What does she want with a Dark object?" he demanded, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Rosier shrugged. "She says it's just out of curiosity... I don't think she knew it was a Dark object before meeting with the centaurs."

Riddle tapped his long fingers on the cover of his book pensively. "How did she start this little quest, then?"

"Actually," Rosier said hesitantly, shifting in place, "I... helped her with that. I met her in the Library one day and she was going through books about Hogwarts. She was about to start investigating the Hidden Corridor, and I... well... let slip that you'd already found it."

Now there was definite anger surfacing in the taller boy's eyes, "And what else did you let slip?" he hissed venomously.

Rosier blanched and back-tracked quickly, "N-nothing! I swear, Riddle! I didn't mention the Room or anyth-"

"She already knows about the Room," interrupted Riddle, with an irritated sigh.

"Wha-? How did she- Riddle, I swear I didn't-" Rosier spluttered.

"Stop panicking, fool," Riddle snapped, rolling his eyes. "I know you didn't tell her. It doesn't matter."

Rosier fell silent - if he knew, then that must mean... Riddle himself had told her, perhaps? But why?

Rosier froze, suddenly suspicious. Amalia hadn't said anything... What on earth did they do together in a Room that could cater to your every need...?

"Gray's no fool," Riddle said tersely, as if speaking to himself, "Even if you said nothing... She might already have-" he suddenly broke off and looked sharply at Rosier as if seeing him for the first time.

Rosier found himself quite unable to speak, his mind screaming, He knows, he knows he knows, oh shit he's going to kill me-

Then the tension broke, as Riddle looked away, and Rosier could breathe again.

What... just happened...?

"I'll take your word that you didn't betray me, Rosier," Riddle said smoothly. "Continue with what you were saying."

"R-right," Rosier stuttered. It seemed he wasn't about to be murdered... Yet. "S-so, to take her attention from your secrets, I recommended she investigate the Moving Stones, in the Forbidden Forest. I didn't think it would lead to anything. They're the stones that-"

"Move, I know of them," finished Riddle impatiently. "What, did you think I wouldn't care because they were not exactly in the castle grounds?"

Rosier blinked, surprised. "Oh, I just assumed-"

"There's nothing in Hogwarts that escapes my notice," he asserted arrogantly, folding his arms. Rosier stifled an admiring sigh - he loved it when Riddle got all high-handed.

"So, have you-"

"I haven't found the time to solve that particular mystery just yet." Riddle snapped irritably.

Rosier could have almost described his expression as a pout - before he shook himself out of such traitorous thoughts. Riddle never pouted. He'd clearly been spending too much time with Amalia.

"Well, Gray says the Stones are a map. But they're always moving, so she went to the centaurs for advice. They told her a student of Slytherin long ago made the trail, some wizard."

Riddle seemed interested by this - he was always on the lookout for artifacts with some connection to Slytherin. Amalia was right, Rosier thought shakily, He really is taking the bait!

"And she went to ask the Bloody Baron for help."

Riddle smirked. "I bet that went well."

"She actually found something he wants," Rosier said. "But she needed a specific book to help her. She confided in me about it..." He reached into his bag and withdrew a tattered olive-green journal. He'd bookmarked the section Amalia had been searching for. "I found it."

Riddle accepted the offered book and looked approvingly at Rosier. "Well, you may actually have done something right after all, Rosier..." His mind was already churning with all the schemes he could pull off.

The fair-haired boy went pink at this slight praise. It seemed Stage 1 of Amalia's plan had worked, despite a few hiccups...

The next day...

"So, this is where you've been hiding." Riddle's cool voice echoed up the tower as he emerged onto the top floor of the Owlery. It was early twilight, and owls of various breeds and colours fluttered in and out of the tower, through large gaps in the stonework which cast dappled shadows over the drama about to unfold.

Amalia looked up with a gasp, spinning to face him. "Riddle! What are you doing here?"

Tom narrowed his eyes at her. Her surprise seemed genuine, but then, she was a good actress. "I happened to hear you were involved in something interesting," he explained, approaching with his hands casually in his pockets. "I thought I'd see for myself."

Amalia's eyes swept him from head to toe. No doubt he's already holding his wand, she thought to herself. This was a dangerous situation. She'd let herself get distracted by her work, and her own wand lay on the table about a meter away. If he decided to curse her now she wouldn't have time to- Damn, but he does look... fine, she interrupted herself, impressed. Since it was the weekend, he'd forgone his usual school robes in favor of a plain white shirt with his black winter coat over it. Like a giant bat, she reminded herself, but she had to admit the 'mysterious stranger' look suited him. With his pale face, dark hair and enigmatic smile, plus the fact that he'd appeared silently out of the twilight... it was rather vampiric.

"Oh?" her sarcasm seemed just a little forced as she tore her eyes away from the casually unbuttoned top of his shirt, through which she could just discern the hint of a collarbone... "And just who was your miraculous source?" she demanded.

"You should know by now, Gray, the walls have ears," he replied smoothly. "Nothing happens at Hogwarts without me knowing about it."

His eyes traveled from her annoyed expression to the table behind her. On it were several large cages, containing a number of irate ravens. A couple were spread out on the table, clearly dead; the results of failed experiments, it seemed. From the large pile of scribbled notes and flasks of potions strewn about, he assumed she'd been working on it for quite some time.

"I had no idea you felt this strongly about bird extermination," he baited with a smirk, approaching to inspect her notes.

Amalia relaxed slightly - it seemed he hadn't come out here to duel, this time.

She'd had to come to the Owlery to concentrate - Callidora's shriek upon walking in on her performing an autopsy on a dead bird had left her ears ringing. Strangely, the other girls seemed to object to her experiments.

"The problem isn't killing them," she explained reluctantly, "It's bringing them back." she pointed at her notes. "The usual potion that a person takes in order to become a ghost upon death doesn't seem to work, and my... er... alterations aren't making any difference." Despite popular belief, ghosts did not spontaneously spring into being when someone was killed unexpectedly or held a grudge (the ghosts themselves would often perpetuate these false assumptions). In actuality, a rather tricky potion was the catalyst - and the effects stayed in the body for many years, possibly explaining why many ghosts were still 'surprised' upon reawakening after experiencing a sudden death.

"Hm," said Riddle, and snorted at her notes contemptuously. "No wonder, this is way beyond your potion-making level." With a sleight of hand, he was suddenly holding up a small vial of amber-coloured liquid. Amalia blinked at it in surprise. "If only," he said with fake wistfulness, spinning the vial deftly across his long fingers, "There was someone who just happened to have successfully brewed the exact potion you need..."

"How did you-!" Amalia cursed. "That damn Rosier! I should've known he couldn't keep his mouth shut. I wouldn't have thought you'd actually help me, though-"

Riddle smiled, then jerked the vial away as Amalia reached for it. "You don't get anything for free, of course," he sneered.

"Of course." she repeated grimly, sounding resigned. "What do you want? Should we duel for it?"

He gazed at her smugly, enjoying the feeling of being able to hold something over her. "What would be the point?" he said at last. "If I won, I'd get nothing as a reward - except perhaps satisfaction."

Amalia noticed he said "if". It seemed he was no longer certain of his own superiority in that area. She almost grinned outright - that knowledge must be killing him. But it was unexpected... she'd really thought he'd be keen for a rematch. What else could he want from her...? She kept her expression aloof. "So? What would be an 'equal exchange', in your opinion?"

"That spell you used in our duels - the Chrysalium Curse, I believe it's called - you found it in a book, I'd imagine?"

Amalia narrowed her eyes at him. He was talking about the golden curse she was so fond of - it was the strongest curse she knew besides Unforgivables. Unblockable, except by its counter-curse. "And if I did? You already know the counter-curse." In their last duel, he'd surprised her by cancelling it.

"I doubt it's the only interesting thing in the book. I assume you still have it." he remembered her extensive book collection, now secreted away in her enchanted trunk.

She scowled. That tome was classified as a Level 6 Dark Arts book, complete with a Burn-Upon-Reading warning. If you were found with it in your posession and you'd read it, you'd spend a hefty time in Azkaban. Although there was nothing more the book could teach her, she certainly didn't want it falling into Riddle's hands... But...

"That's your price?" she hesitated, glancing at the amber vial.

He felt smug, sensing her reluctance. "It is."

"Fine," she snapped, hoping she wouldn't regret it in the future. "I'll get the book, we'll kill the bird. Assuming the potion works..."

Riddle's answering smile was was both dazzling and chilling. "Of course it will."

"Then we have a deal." she stuck out her hand.

He hesitated briefly before shaking on it - he hated touching people.

Amalia stifled a shiver too - his hand was cold as ice.

Friggin' vampire.

Early the next morning, Monday...

"Finally!" Amalia exclaimed.

The Bloody Baron turned to face her. "Oh, back again, I see."

"I've been searching for you for hours," she cried. After Riddle gave her the potion and took her book, she'd worked on some extra charms to keep the raven tame and so on until past midnight, and then started her search for the Baron immediately. "It's almost dawn."

But the Baron only had eyes for her bargaining chip, which was perched miserably on Amalia's shoulder, semi-transparent and clearly a conscious, intact, ghostly raven.

"That's your new master," she told it, pointing to the ghost. "Go on, shoo."

The raven gave a mournful-sounding croak of understanding and flew to perch on the Baron's shoulder, causing the ghost to actually be at a loss for words for a few moments.

"Well," he said at last, gingerly petting the bird with one bloodstained finger. "I must say I'm impressed." The raven seemed to enjoy it - perhaps realizing that he was not alone in the non-corporeal world of spirits.

"You should be," Amalia grumbled. "It was damn difficult. I've increased his intelligence and he's quite tame - you should be able to train him up if you want."

"Mm." grunted the ghost, still preoccupied with examining his new pet. Delighted seemed a little strong to describe it, but he was definitely pleased.

Amalia sighed in relief. To be honest, the raven was a little on the moth-eaten side, and its personality seemed rather apathetic. But... perhaps that made it a good match for the morose Bloody Baron.

"So, we had a deal?" prompted Amalia.

"Ah, yes." said the Baron, turning back to her. "You wanted to pick my memory about something."

"Right, so..." started Amalia, and quickly launched into a brief summary of her quest so far.

He listened carefully, unblinking, while his raven gave the occasional quiet croak, preening it's ethereal feathers.

"...And so," she finished, "I need to know if you remember anything about a Slytherin involved in the Stones. Any detail would be appreciated."

"It so happens," answered the Baron, "I know quite a bit about it."

Amalia's heart leapt at this unexpected good news.

"The one who made the trail was a classmate of mine," he continued, "Here at Hogwarts. We were taught by Salazar Slytherin himself, you know..."

"Who was it, then?" she said eagerly.

"That, I won't tell you." the Baron deadpanned.

"What! But, you promised-"

"Silence!" barked the ghost. "I'll not betray the trust of a friend to aid some foolish treasure hunt. However," he stroked the raven pensively, "We did have a deal. So, I can tell you a little about the trail itself." he snorted. "Even if you managed to find it, you wouldn't survive past the first couple of Trials, anyway. You'd die, alone in the forest... Like all the rest."

This ominous statement, rumbled in his creepiest, deepest voice, didn't seem to effect her enthusiasm at all.

"So, many others have followed the Stones?" she demanded bossily.

"Of course. Were you not listening? It's been there since almost the beginning of Hogwarts. And, for your information, it's made with magic far beyond your capabilities, girl."

"I'll be the judge of that," Amalia said stubbornly. "So? You've given me nothing to go on so far. Where do I start?"

"Tch." he snorted at her insistence. "Very well. Obviously, I can't tell you where the first stone is, since it moves every month. Neither do I know the magical traps and puzzles at each stage - I've never seen them. All I know is the adventurers who attempt them don't return. I can tell you that there are seven - also obvious; seven is the most powerful magical number..."

"Well... what's the object?" Amalia was getting frustrated.

"Once again, I was sworn to secrecy-"

"Ugh!" Amalia facepalmed.

"Stop it with the hysterics," growled the ghost. "There's one more thing. Do you know the Come-and-Go Room?"

Amalia's eyebrow lifted. "Yes."

"Hidden in 'the place where everything's hid' is a large tapestry, I believe, which depicts a moving chart of the current location of the first stone. One of the more intelligent treasure-hunters created it about a century ago... before his sudden disappearance."

"Great!" Amalia exclaimed. "Let's go!"

The Baron sighed. "Now?"

"Yes, now!" she cried. "You're coming with, and you can point it out to me yourself. Then, consider the debt repaid in full." She glared, eyes slightly bloodshot from lack of sleep, daring him to refuse.

This girl is starting to grow on me, mused the Baron to himself, acquiescing.

Amalia stared at the spot the Baron was pointing at. It was dim in the cluttered vault of miscellaneous crap that people had dumped over the years, but she could still tell that there was nothing there.

Only a tapestry-shaped outline in the inch-thick dust which covered everything else.

"Explain." she veritably spat, temper frayed beyond belief.

"How strange," exclaimed the Baron wickedly, "It was here yesterday..."

"You were here yesterday." she pinched the bridge of her nose.

She'd been completely played.

"That classmate of yours was very... persuasive." The Baron explained. "Though, now that you actually did come through on your promise," he indicated the raven, "I do feel a little bad. Rest assured, I didn't tell him anything else about the Stones. You two are equally in the dark."

Amalia kicked out in a fit of temper, sending a miniature cauldron flying like a soccer ball. Riddle had been two steps ahead of her from the start... he'd already had the tapestry when he'd brought her the potion! Then, was the book on the Dark Arts his original goal? She'd underestimated him.

The Baron seemed amused. "But, my task is done. After all, at least you know where it is now."

"That I do," Amalia hissed menacingly, fiddling tensely with her wand. Her plans had backfired, but she'd be getting that tapestry... One way or another...

The Bloody Baron hid a smirk as he floated off - she looked ready to spit sparks after all that effort and nothing to show for it.

He did not envy the charismatic, dark-haired student...

He'd just really pissed her off.

Chapter Text

Riddle was idly nibbling a slice of toast at his usual spot in the Great Hall. In front of him was the latest issue of The Daily Prophet - he was currently reading their short piece on how England was faring in the Muggle war. It had become a habit of his to check the news, after Amalia's impassioned argument about him being 'ignorant' for not caring. He had pride, and it had been hurt... he couldn't stand being called ignorant. Especially not by her.

Finished the short article, and reassured that London was not yet in the grip of Germans, he folded the paper up neatly, placing it next to his plate.

"Pass the coffee, Lestrange," he said, quite amiably.

The bigger boy frowned at him from under his thick brows. "You seem... cheerful." he said cautiously, passing the coffee pot.

"Is that unusual?" Riddle asked lightly. He poured his coffee and added some milk. Usually, he took it black and strong (he needed the kick to thoroughly wake him up most mornings) but... Today was a good day.

Lestrange grimaced, unsure of how to respond. Riddle in a good mood was rare... especially in the mornings. And after five years in his company, he knew that it usually meant someone was about to experience a world of pain. "Did... something good happen?" he guessed. Perhaps he's just in a regular, good mood, like a normal person...

Riddle smiled, spine-chillingly. "Oh no, the fun is just beginning."

So, not just an ordinary good mood, then, he thought dryly. Why am I not surprised? He turned uneasily back to his bacon, glad that it didn't have anything to do with him... Hopefully.

Riddle caught sight of two figures entering the Great Hall, and smirked into his coffee, drinking it quickly. By the livid expression on Amalia's face and the anxiety on Rosier's, he was pretty sure she was just about to cause a scene.

He watched as Rosier said something nervously, and Amalia turned and snapped a reply, turning away from him to scan the Hall. As soon as her eyes found him - he gave a pleasant nod 'good morning' across the room - she drew herself up, mouth a thin line, glaring daggers.

Her usual pleasant demeanor nowhere to be found, she caused a bit of a stir as she uncaringly brushed past any other student unfortunate enough to get in her way, striding purposefully towards him.

She looks about ready to commit murder, he mused to himself gleefully. He kept his own expression calm, yet slightly bemused, as if he had no clue what she was upset about. He snuck a glance at the other students around them. A good amount of the casual morning chatter had fallen silent, as they watched this latest development in what was fast becoming the hottest topic at the school; the mysterious relationship between Amalia Gray and Tom Riddle. Even the professors seemed to be taking note.

"Good morning." he greeted politely, putting down his cup.

He was not quite prepared for her to seize his upper arm in a vice-like grip and veritably yank him out of his seat to his feet. "Ms Gray," he said, the picture of dismayed shock, "What on earth are you-!"

"Amalia!" exclaimed Rosier, lingering nervously in the background, and he wasn't the only one. Surprised and shocked muttering had broken out among the student body.

"Cut the bullshit, Riddle," she snarled, not bothering to keep her voice down. "We're leaving, now... Unless you want to do this here." She already had her wand drawn in her other hand. "Don't think I won't." she threatened.

He saw the truth in her eyes - she'd really do it. It was the first time he'd ever seen her so angry. Pleasant adrenaline surged through him in response.

"Well, if you insis- ah..."

She didn't wait for him to finish his sentence, before dragging him after her, her left hand leaving crescent-shaped nail marks in his flesh. He just had time to grab his bag before she towed him out of the Hall, leaving a storm of controversy and rumour to erupt behind them.

Less than an hour later...

Riddle paused outside the door to Transfiguration, the first class of the day. He straightened his tie and double-checked that his appearance was perfect, smoothing down a few strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He reminded himself that was only a minute or two late - even Dumbledore couldn't justify punishing him for that. And there was no way the old man would suspect that anything had happened just from looking at him...

"Sorry I'm late, sir," he said politely, entering and making his way to his usual seat at the back of the room. He sat down and got his books out, ready for the lesson to start.

Dumbledore stopped writing the heading of the day's lesson on the board, and turned. "Ah, Riddle! I was wondering when you and-" he broke off and frowned, gaze becoming stern over his half-moon spectacles. "... And where is Ms Gray, if I may ask?"

The whole class swiveled in their chairs to stare at him, waiting for his answer. He saw particular suspicion in Black, Yaxley and Flint's eyes.

He raised his eyebrows. "Gray? I'm not sure."

"The whole school witnessed you two leave the Great Hall this morning," Dumbledore reminded him, a note of warning entering his voice. "She seemed... upset."

His eyes widened, "It was all a misunderstanding," he protested earnestly. "Once we'd cleared things up, I recommended she take some time to calm down - You all saw it," he nodded to the rest of the class, "She was quite hysterical this morning."

"What did you do to her?" demanded Callidora Black, flinching as he turned a dangerous smile her way.

"Why, nothing, of course." he lied smoothly.

"And you have no idea where she could be?" prodded Dumbledore, raising a skeptical eyebrow. His stare was so intense Tom was certain he was attempting some pseudo-legilimency across the classroom, but of course his own studies in the field ensured his thoughts were well guarded.

Careful, old man, Tom thought with vicious satisfaction, You're almost exposing your hatred for me - one of your precious, innocent students.

"The Common Room, perhaps?" Tom guessed with a shrug.

Unable to find anything else out, Dumbledore continued the lesson, uneasiness weighing on his heart.

In the front of the class, next to Amalia's empty seat, Rosier anxiously shredded his half-hearted notes, biting his lip.

Lestrange leaned over to Riddle. "So, where is she... really?"

Riddle shot him a secretive smirk.

"Nowhere near the Common Room, of course," he drawled smugly.

Amalia struggled uselessly against the bonds that restrained her, thick magical bands constricting her arms, legs and binding her mouth. Which was probably good, as she didn't think she was capable of doing anything other than swearing.

She'd taken a while to regain consciousness - he'd stunned her before leaving - but it didn't take a genius to figure out her situation was bad.

She was trussed up like a turkey, and dumped in none other than the blasted Room of Requirement, ironically curled up in the same dusty space the tapestry used to be.

He'd tricked her. Again.

The knowledge that he'd bested her so thoroughly rankled, and yet she found she couldn't hate him for it. In fact, she found herself admiring his skill at deception - truly, he was a fearsome enemy. Everything about her current predicament was her own fault, she acknowledged it. This was the result of underestimating his cunning.

First, she'd assumed he was completely in the dark about her little quest. But he'd observed her coming back from the Forest, heard from her own mouth that she wanted to speak to the Bloody Baron. Perhaps he'd even spotted her in the library reading Maudlin's Mysteries. He might have known from the start what she was after.

Then, she'd hit the snag with the potion for ghost-ifying a raven, and come up with the "brilliant" idea of using Rosier to lay bait, to trick Riddle into helping her. Of course, she hadn't expected he'd give it for free, but she'd assumed he would want a duel or ask some inane question about her ancestry in exchange. Instead, he'd asked for one of the most valuable and potentially dangerous things she owned - the Dark Arts book. It was filled with terrible secrets, black magic that had been banned for centuries. The book didn't even have a name - and she was pretty sure it was bound in flayed, human skin...

And she'd given that to him... for a vial of potion she didn't even need, since the tapestry was already gone by that point.

Ugh, so frustrating! she steamed.

Then, in her arrogance, she'd decided to confront him in the morning, confident she could get the tapestry out of him, by force if necessary.

And at first, it seemed like things were going her way. They'd found an empty room and commenced their third duel. Much like the first two times, they were quite evenly matched, but slowly she sensed she was getting the upper hand (in hindsight, she conceded he might have been faking some battle-fatigue). At last she saw her chance and cast the first Unforgivable she'd ever used: the Imperius Curse. The shock on his face was sincere, at least, just before it smoothed out into an expression of zen-like peacefulness (which looked completely alien on him).

Smugly, she commanded him to take her to where he'd hidden the tapestry, and after a moment of hesitation, when she thought he might fight her control, he turned and walked zombie-like through the castle. Leading her, eventually, to the very same room she lay in now. At the time she'd just assumed he must have hidden it somewhere else in the piles of junk.

Until he'd snapped out of his zen-mode and promptly cursed her in the back.

"Really, Gray," he'd sneered over her prone body, "Did you think I haven't trained to resist the Imperius Curse? Would you like to find out how far I've come with the other Unforgivables?" he smirked. "Unfortunately, I'm late for class. We'll have to continue this chat... later."

Now, she was unable to move, in a place no one knew about except her and Riddle. No doubt he'd made up an excuse for her absence in class. No one was coming to find her, except Riddle.

And I'm not waiting around for that.

He'd taken her wand... but she still had one more trick up her sleeve.

She'd teach him not to underestimate her, too.

Riddle spent most of Transfiguration fantasizing about what he was going to do to Amalia later. Firstly, there was Legilimency; he still had so many questions about her identity, her past...

Then, he supposed he should punish her for her rudeness that morning - grabbing his arm and so on. Dragging him out of the Hall in front of everyone. Daring to use an Unforgiveable on him... But he found he couldn't actually muster any real anger towards her.

Why is that?

He was stumped for a while, then brushed it off. It was probably because things had worked out so well in his favour, in the end. So, perhaps he didn't have to torture her. Just the fact that she'd been beaten so thoroughly should be enough of a lesson to make her more respectful in future.

Yes, he decided. If she's finally learnt her place - then torture isn't necessary. It's satisfying enough to have her tied up and dumped like a sack of potatoes, he thought with a little smirk, picturing the scene again.

His eyes fell on her empty seat in the front of the class, and then wandered to the fair-haired boy sitting next to it.

There was a loose end he hadn't tied up just yet. How could Rosier, who he'd always considered his most loyal follower, have betrayed him so easily? Clearly, he was a pawn in Amalia's schemes. Why?

Ever since "the kiss", he'd assumed it was because the boy had fallen in love with her... like most other male in Slytherin. Actually most male in any House would be falling for her soon, once they saw the get-up she was wearing in Professor Beery's Yule play (he'd "passed by" the Hall during a dress-rehearsal and gotten an eyeful himself... for research purposes)...

I'm getting off topic, he chided himself hurriedly.

So, it was logical for Rosier to fall in love with Amalia. And he was just the type of sappy little idiot to do it, too. Riddle had once caught him crying over a tragic fluff-piece in a tattered copy of Witch Weekly.

But why did it feel so odd to imagine Rosier in love... with Amalia? True, he followed her around a lot, but he'd always seemed pretty miserable. In fact, he spent a lot of time looking annoyed at her for...

Wait.

"Witch Weekly"?

What self-respecting young wizard reads that rag?

Unless...

His eyes widened as he felt the pieces fall into place. He finally understood.

"Oh." he said softly. "Well, that makes sense..."

Study break, that evening...

He was found searching the shelves in the library for a book for their Transfiguration homework, his serious grey eyes distracted. His lips moved soundlessly as he read the titles, brushing the tips of his fingers over the faded bindings.

"Rosier."

The soft yet commanding voice that he knew so well made him jump. He turned around quickly.

"Yes, Riddle?" he bit his lip and tried to control his heart, which always misbehaved in Riddle's presence.

"Come with me." he beckoned, and abruptly strolled away, heading for the exit of the library.

Rosier hastily acquiesced, grabbing his bag from a table and hurrying to catch up. And all the while his heart sank - Riddle obviously had something in did he want?

He didn't seem angry - in fact, he seemed smug, the way the corners of his mouth were turned up. His walk was unhurried, almost a prowl. Like a predator. Did that make him the prey? Since Amalia's disappearance, his mood had been positively buoyant... which wasn't good. For anyone involved. And it was almost nine o' clock already, yet no one had seen her.

"Um, where are we going?" he inquired timidly, fiddling with a strap on his bag.

Riddle shot him a cool, sideways look that made his knees weak, and a slow, secretive smile stole across his face.

Rosier's brain flat-lined for a few seconds in response.

"Well, I don't want us to be bothered." Riddle veritably purred, not quite answering the question.

Torture. he immediately thought. Oh god, It's definitely torture... he clasped his hands behind him to stop them from shaking.

"Did you say something?" Riddle asked, his smile widening maliciously as if he could read his mind.

Perhaps he could read his mind.

"Um... Nope." Torture would explain his good mood. It was almost certainly torture.

They were on the third floor.

"This'll do." Riddle said, and pushed open a large door at the end of the corridor. It was large, heavy oak, with intimidating iron latches and locks all over it.

As if to keep people out... or something in.

He gestured as if to say, after you, holding the door open.

Feeling like he was on the way to the gallows, Rosier forced an obedient smile and entered first.

As Riddle followed and closed the door behind him, he broke out in a cold sweat, but somehow forced himself to remain outwardly calm. He waited, reminding himself that whatever Riddle had planned, he would go along with it. Because whatever Riddle wanted, he would get. He wasn't strong, like Amalia.

Riddle flicked his wand and torches flickered into life along the walls. Rosier watched him nervously, then exhaled a silent sigh of relief. Riddle had stowed his wand back in his pocket. For now.

Relaxing slightly with that knowledge, he looked cautiously around. He'd never been in this room before. It was large, with a high ceiling, and a thick layer of dust over everything. In the center of the room was a heavy-looking trapdoor in the floor, closed and bolted.

"It leads to a network of abandoned corridors and rooms beneath the castle," Riddle explained, following his gaze. He leant back against the door, casually folding his arms. The picture of confidence and poise. "There's nothing of interest down there, though."

Rosier shifted nervously on the spot, feeling awkward under his gaze. Riddle sounded almost genial. Conversational. It was creeping him the hell out.

"When did you find it?" he asked timidly, more to keep the conversation going than out of any real curiosity.

Riddle shrugged. "First year."

His dark gaze was amused, assessing, curious.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" Rosier asked, more bluntly than he intended. But the tension was killing him.

"Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you." Riddle replied smoothly, and smiled slowly, one dimple forming from his slightly lop-sided, utterly devastating smirk. His dark eyes smoldered with sincerity.

Rosier gaped like a fish, gulping air as words utterly failed him at first. He was not prepared for this! That treacherous smile, those cold eyes that sent shivers down his spine...! He'd seen this dazzling smile being directed at girls when they had something Riddle wanted, and at the time, he'd pitied their naivety. But to be on the receiving end...

He knew Riddle was toying with him, but his body betrayed him. He blushed and stammered like a eight-year old girl.

"Wh-what?"

Riddle suddenly took on a more businesslike tone. "You and Amalia have been spending a lot of time together, recently." he observed, pushing off the wall and stalking forward.

Rosier held his ground with difficulty as he approached. He didn't seem able to look away from Riddle's dark eyes.

"I admit I don't like it..." Riddle reached out with his right hand and brushed his fingertips oh-so-gently along Rosier's jaw, almost like... a caress.

"Mmh..." Rosier couldn't help a small, choked sound from escaping him, feeling terrified and turned on, all at the same time.

"Shh," hushed Riddle, his smirk widening. He tilting his face upwards, fingers cold on Rosier's flushed skin. His thumb moved to exert a light pressure on the rapidly fluttering pulse in his neck. Being half a head taller than Rosier, and physically bigger, it was tacitly threatening... (and, if Rosier was honest, really hot). He moved closer, until their faces were only inches apart. "Tell me, Rosier," he purred, his fingers tightening fractionally, "Are you still mine... or are you hers, now?"

Rosier's mouth was dry, and he swallowed with difficulty under Riddle's grip. "Y-yours," he stammered, "I've always been- Of course I wouldn't-"

Riddle's smile melted away as if it had never been there, revealing what had been underneath all along. Implacable coldness."Liar." he hissed.

Rosier instinctively stumbled back with a gasp, but Riddle's hand tightened around his neck and he choked.

With barely any effort at all, Riddle held him in place, gazing down at him with merciless obsidian eyes. He pushed him back, slamming him into the hard, stone wall.

Rosier winced as he hit the stone surface, seeing stars for a moment.

Riddle's pressure on his throat lessened slightly, and he dragged air into his lungs. "I'm not lying!" he pleaded, as Riddle glared menacingly. "P-please, Riddle-"

"Let's examine the evidence, shall we?" Riddle said coolly, raising his finger, "You claim you've been getting close to her for my benefit. But, it's taken you this long to approach me with any information about her identity, her habits, her movements... And when you do come to me, it's to try and manipulate me into helping her. And this is all part of some plan you cooked up during one of your cozy little study sessions. Tell me, Rosier, are these the actions of a loyal follower?"

"She hasn't told me anything about herself," Rosier said desperately, "I swear it, Riddle. And I just wanted... I thought that-"

"What interests me about this betrayal," interrupted Riddle coldly, "Is why. Why choose her over me?"

Rosier flinched, cowering against the wall. How could he explain this without inviting his own death...?

"You're not in love with her," Riddle continued dismissively.

Rosier's eyes widened. "... Why do you think that?" he blurted out, surprised himself.

Riddle just looked at him sardonically, almost pityingly. "I just know." the subtext was etched in every line of his arrogant smirk. Because you're in love with me.

"Amalia's not stupid enough to like you that way," his lip curled at the thought, and he gave a snort of humorless laughter. "So you must be friends." the sarcasm dripped from his words as if "friendship" was a concept far too quaint to be taken seriously.

Rosier remained quiet - he was frozen in a state of shock. The cat was out of the bag - his death was probably imminent - and he could hardly deny that he was friends with Amalia. Riddle had a way of knowing when he was lied to.

Impatient with his silence, Riddle slammed a hand to the wall next to Rosier's face (eliciting an undignified squeak from the suddenness of the movement). "Speak." he commanded coldly, "Or this conversation might become... unpleasant."

Less pleasant than it already is? Thought Rosier somewhat hysterically, squirming. He decided to keep that opinion to himself.

"It wasn't like that in the beginning," he blurted out. Riddle was doing that creepy thing with his eyes again, like they were dragging him into an abyss; he couldn't tear his gaze away.

"No?" questioned Riddle impatiently, "And why is that?"

"I didn't like her," Rosier admitted. "I hated her, I think..."

Riddle raised an eyebrow, "So why were you always doing her work in Herbology, carrying her bag between classes..." he smirked at the fleeting panic in Rosier's eyes. "Did you think I hadn't noticed?"

"I didn't want- She said she would-" Rosier stammered, his words failing.

"I'm losing my patience." warned Riddle.

"She... she threatened me." Rosier blurted.

Riddle seemed... almost impressed. "Oh? With what?"

Now he couldn't help the dull colour rising in his face, and squirmed, looking away at last from Riddle's piercing gaze. "She said she would tell... I thought, if you found out..."

"Ah, I see." Riddle was thoughtful for a moment. He drew back slightly as if only now realizing he'd basically trapped Rosier against the wall. He moved his hand from the wall to turn Rosier's face back to his, his fingers lingering under his chin. "You should have just told me from the beginning, and we could have avoided all of this." the way he spoke now seemed so reasonable.

Rosier gaped at him. "Aren't you angry that I - that I'm a... well, I'm a guy, and yet..." he trailed off, confused.

"No." Riddle rolled his eyes. He released Rosier's chin and folded his arms, scowling. "Is there a reason why you shouldn't find me attractive?"

Only Riddle could make an extremely arrogant sentence like that sound completely logical.

Rosier blinked. He'd sounded a little like Amalia just then. "But I'm a -"

Riddle cut him off impatiently, "We're going in circles." he began pacing. "What does make me angry is when my followers lie to me, hide things from me, go behind my back," his voice got colder with every word, "And most insulting of all, assume that I won't find out."

"I'm sorry." said Rosier miserably.

Riddle smiled at him. "You've known me for a long time, Rosier." he said genially, "Surely you know by now that apologies just don't cut it with me."

"P-please, Riddle..."

"Fortunately for us," interrupted Riddle wicked, "I've recently obtained a book of rare magic that I'd like to practice. Perhaps you could help me..."

Three hours later (11pm)...

The door to the Third Floor chamber sprang open with a dramatic crash.

"Let him go," Amalia's voice rang out sternly in the room.

Riddle was shocked for a moment, before his usual smirk reasserted itself, and he straightened up. He released Rosier's collar, letting the boy slump to the ground, "So, you managed to escape. How?"

Amalia ignored him, staring at Rosier who was lying on the floor with a weirdly glazed-over expression. A small amount of blood was trickling out one ear. "What on earth have you done to him?!"

Riddle scowled, feeling the good mood he'd had all day become consumed with irritation. How did she escape? Who helped her?

He stalked forward, stepping uncaringly over Rosier's limp form. "Are you the white knight, come to save the damsel in distress?" his laugh was scornful. "I think this fairy tale is a little messed up."

"You really don't get it, do you?" she threw back, trying to get a better look at Rosier's face. He was lying very still, and hadn't blinked yet... "I admit I didn't expect you to be fooled for long, but... Why are you doing this? He idolizes you. You didn't have to go to all this trouble bullying him!"

His malicious smirk widened. "Oh, Rosier had already told me all I wanted to know earlier, when I asked him nicely."

Amalia scowled. "Then why-"

"Don't you get it, Gray? It's precisely because he idolizes me that I can get away with treating him like this," he explained, "Hell, anyone else would have hated me by now, but dear Rosier just keeps coming back for more." he affected a thoughtful expression, "Isn't there a psychiatric term for that kind of behaviour...?"

Amalia chuckled darkly. He really is despicable... "Gee, Riddle, don't let anyone else see that expression-" she said dryly.

"What expression?"

She pointed at his face. "The one you're making right now. Your depravity is showing quite clearly all over your face. Little children would literally run screaming."

He seemed weirdly flattered by the comment. Then he cocked an eyebrow, "And what about your depravity?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He stepped forward, eyes alight with savage eagerness. "You planned for me to figure this all out," he stated with relish, "So you must have known I'd react this way. He was just a... sacrifice, wasn't he? To keep me preoccupied? And poor Rosier actually thought you were friends."

Amalia clenched her jaw, biting back a retort.

Her conscience twinged again as she glanced back down at Rosier. Though it was true she'd used him - again - she did feel some fondness for the gullible little fool. "Hey," she said, acting nonchalant despite feeling a spike of alarm, "Are you sure he's still alive? I can't tell if he's breathing from here."

Riddle glanced back at Rosier's prone body as if just remembering he was there. "Huh." he said after a moment, "That's worrying." He didn't sound the least bit worried. After a moment's thought, he shrugged and delivered a sharp kick to his stomach.

When Rosier exhaled explosively in response, his body instinctively curling away from the blow, Riddle turned back to Amalia with a fake, dazzling smile. "Where were we?"

"You were about to give me my wand back." she deadpanned. Rosier's fine. He'll be fine... Right?

"Ah, yes, this," Riddle smiled, holding up the wand in his hand. She felt sickened that he'd actually used it to torture Rosier.

From his left pocket he took out his own pale wand and compared them. "A powerful wand, Gray," he commented, "Obviously, I still prefer mine, but... yours is quite satisfactory, all the same."

Amalia gritted her teeth. In her hand was a stubby hawthorne wand she'd found in the Room after her escape. It was adequate for basic defense, but she'd be winning no duels with it. She tensed. Perhaps, if I cast the darkness spell behind a shield, it'll give me just enough time to grab my wand and Rosier, and-

They both froze as the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, drawing nearer with purposeful strides.

The heavy tread of a professor-

"Dumbledore," hissed Amalia.

"Did you-?" he started demanding, but was cut off by the violent shaking of her head.

"No! Of course not!"

"Shit..."

"Wand!" spat Amalia.

With a scowl of resentment, Riddle tossed over her wand. He had no other choice.

She caught it one-handed and put it in her pocket, and Riddle put his away, too. Amalia sidled closer, so that they weren't in such an obvious "we're about to duel to the death" position.

Riddle yanked Rosier into a more natural-looking, sitting pose against the wall, although his head still lolled to one side.

He remained kneeling next to him, appearing all the world like a concerned friend, as Dumbledore appeared in the doorway, with a face like a gathering storm.

No one said anything.

"Why hello, Ms Gray," he said at last, into the deafening silence. "And Tom, too. Well, well..."

He looked from Rosier's glazed-over expression to look between Amalia and Riddle, x-raying them over his half-moon spectacles.

"I'm very curious to hear how you two can explain this situation."

Those twinkling blue eyes suddenly seemed quite terrifying.

Chapter Text

Amalia seemed completely calm, even though internally she felt anything but. Fortunately, she'd always been good under pressure.

"Rosier was missing, Professor," she explained earnestly. "Riddle said he was going to look for him - I wanted to come with."

This was plausible. Riddle was a prefect, and even though it was almost midnight and therefore passed curfew (even for prefects), it was not such a travesty of broken rules. Any other teacher would accept this explanation.

But of course, Dumbledore was not so easily fooled. He looked immediately suspicious. "So you teamed up? But just this morning you two were fighting."

Amalia waved off his comment airily, "Fighting? Hardly. We argued, sure, but..." she gestured at Riddle and Rosier. "We're all friends; both of us were concerned about Rosier."

There was a strained silence as Dumbledore stared at them.

Rosier, catatonic on the ground, Amalia, obviously determined to take care of him, (without help, as usual), and Riddle, who seemed once again to be at the epicenter of trouble.

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. Oh, clearly, all of them were friends.

"We found him like this," added Riddle, speaking up for the first time. His concerned expression was very convincing. "It's a good thing you came along when you did, Professor, perhaps you could look at him?"

Dumbledore said nothing, but the coldness in his eyes spoke volumes as he swept forward.

"Enervate." he said simply, and Amalia was amazed to see the simple spell actually work. Of course, Dumbledore was a great wizard; even the simplest spells he cast were several times more potent than they would usually be.

Rosier blank eyes slowly cleared, and he blinked as if coming out of a deep sleep. He stared at Dumbledore looming over him in confusion, then at Amalia, who gave him a lightning-fast wink of encouragement. Lastly, he noticed Riddle crouching right beside him, and almost yelped aloud in fear, shrinking away.

Dumbledore nodded to himself; that reaction told him all he needed to know. "Riddle, step away from him right now. Rosier," he said in his kindliest voice, "Tell me what you remember of the last few hours. You're safe now. No one will hurt you."

But the terrified boy's gaze didn't shift from Riddle, still acting the part of a concerned friend.

The taller boy ignored Dumbledore's instruction as if he hadn't heard it. "Go on," he urged gently, laying a 'reassuring' hand on the trembling boy's shoulder. "You can tell us everything." Say anything and you're dead.

"Tom-!" Dumbledore said sternly, frustrated at being ignored.

Rosier blinked stupidly at his terrifying leader. Even in his befuddled state he got the message, loud and clear. He kept his mouth shut.

After a brief moment, Riddle turned to Dumbledore. "He seems confused... But I would guess that a spell back-fired," he said meaningfully, his fingers biting into Rosier's shoulder.

The fair-haired boy tried not to wince too obviously, "Y-yes, that's right..." he hastily babbled, voice cracking. His throat was sore from begging... "Sir... I was p-practicing magic on my own..."

"What spell did you use last?"

He threw an uncertain glance at Riddle, who smiled reassuringly (threateningly) and nodded for him to answer.

Rosier was on the brink of tears under all this pressure in his fragile state. "I... uh... Don't remember, sir..." he whimpered. It was half-true. His memory of the last few hours was hazy. He just remembered pain, and fear.

Amalia decided to step in, her protective instincts flaring. Rosier had been through enough. (Also, if Dumbledore asked any more questions, the truth would be exposed, and she didn't want Riddle expelled. It would spoil her chance at revenge.)

"Riddle, out the way," she ordered, forcefully pushing him aside. He backed off, scowling.

She gently laid a hand on Rosier's forehead - it was hot, as if he had a fever. His pupils were pinpricks, and the skin around his eyes had sunken in, forming grey circles. He gazed at her gratefully, as if she was his salvation. He'd woken up and seen her and Dumbledore, 'saving' him from Riddle's torture. Well, though Dumbledore was an unpleasant surprise, it had been her intention to save him.

Perhaps I can even spin it so that it seems I'm responsible for getting Dumbledore involved, too... Huh, as if. She felt bad about Rosier, sure... but she would never involve Dumbledore, or any teacher for that matter, in their little game. It was just one of the unspoken rules of engagement.

But Rosier didn't need to know that.

She smoothed his hair tenderly back from his forehead, thinking quickly. This isn't actually a bad turn of events. It all worked out in her favour, as long as Dumbledore didn't figure it out first.

"Sir, Rosier needs rest," Amalia said firmly, slinging a protective arm around her friend. "Surely this interrogation can wait until morning?" After Riddle and I discuss what to do about the... collateral damage. She watched Dumbledore make all the wrong assumptions as Rosier leaned naively into her embrace for comfort.

Victim and protector.

Even though it was Amalia's fault for bringing Rosier into their dangerous game in the first place.

Dumbledore's angry gaze turned back to Riddle, who looked on the verge of rolling his eyes.

"You had something to do with this." he accused.

Riddle looked shocked at the insinuation, but suddenly seemed unable to rip his eyes from Dumbledore's laser-like glare. Dumbledore took a small step towards him, and Amalia suddenly saw his fists clench, knuckles turning white as he fought to hold his ground.

Her eyes widened.

Riddle was... scared.

"Sir," she interrupted bluntly. "I need to take him to the Hospital Wing. Riddle can help me."

Somehow, it wasn't only Rosier who'd roused her protective instincts tonight.

Dumbledore was reminded of Rosier's unknown condition, and finally turned his scowl away from Riddle. "You may, and quickly..."

Amalia carefully helped Rosier to his feet. He was very weak.

"But first, answer me this... Where were you today, Amalia?"

Shit.

For the first time, Amalia hesitated before answering. She couldn't help glancing uncertainly at Riddle - he must have concocted some kind of lie to explain away the scene she'd caused in the Great Hall. But there was no way he could communicate it with her so that their stories matched. His face was back to an expressionless mask.

"Well, we... had an argument," she said slowly, deciding that a version of the truth was better than a baldfaced lie. "I needed some time to cool off."

From Dumbledore's disgruntled expression, it seemed she hadn't said anything contradictory to Riddle's excuse, at the very least.

"And what did you argue about?"

Amalia made a dismissive gesture. "It was just a misunderstanding." she shot a nasty look at Riddle. "And don't worry, he'll make it up to me."

Tom snorted at that, then remembered Dumbledore was watching them closely and schooled his face back to mask-like neutrality.

Dumbledore stared at her for a moment, then looked back at Riddle.

His gaze hardened. "Once again, I see you two are determined to conceal the truth."

He forestalled Amalia's protests with a raised hand. "Tom. Give me your wand."

Riddle froze, suspicion in every line of his body.

"Now, if you please."

He could not disobey a direct order, but didn't take his eyes off Dumbledore's face as he slowly drew his wand out of his pocket and resentfully offered the symbol of his power... to his worst enemy.

Dumbledore took the wand and pointed his own at it. "Prior Incantato." he intoned grimly.

Riddle hid a smirk, relaxing.

A ghost-like form of a pocket-watch enlarging and shrinking, the lesson they'd practiced in Charms class, emerged from the tip of the wand; a record of the last spell it cast.

Dumbledore seemed somewhat put out by this unexpected result.

"If you're finished, sir..." Riddle said expectantly, holding out his hand.

Dumbledore returned it reluctantly, with a frown.

Riddle stowed his wand away again, smug.

"So be it." the old man said, sounding frustrated. "It seems once again you've been meticulous about not leaving evidence..."

"I have no idea what you mean, sir," Riddle said smoothly. Using Amalia's wand for the Dark magic had just saved his future. And possibly prevented a one-way ticket to Azkaban, if the truth about the Dark Arts book was ever uncovered.

Dumbledore turned to Amalia, but there was no suspicion in his gaze. He didn't ask to check her wand. Instead, all she got was a lecture. "I admit I expected better from you, Ms Gray. You know the truth about what happened here, yet still you keep quiet. You didn't seem the type to be easily influenced by others-" his gaze flickered to Riddle, who stiffened, "But it seems I was wrong."

Amalia felt annoyed. If he wasn't so focused on finding a reason to get Riddle expelled, he would have checked her wand too, or Rosier's, since the story had been a "spell back-firing". But no, in his mind Riddle was the root of all evil and everyone else was a victim.

She instinctively glanced at Riddle, knowing he would agree with her annoyance. To her surprise, they had a brief moment of eye contact, and he... gave her a tiny smile.

What?

Not a dazzling, creepy smile, but a kind of like a reactionary half-smirk, as if Dumbledore's naivety was their own private joke. A secret only they shared. As if, in that moment, they completely understood each other.

It was gone a microsecond later, and thereafter he kept his gaze fixed on Dumbledore, deliberately ignoring her.

Did I just imagine that...?

But she was left with a strangely buoyant feeling of accomplishment, like she'd just won a big, fat trophy for something.

"Since you are so determined to stick together, you can both sit detention, every Friday evening until Christmas break. At the very least, I can keep an eye on you."

"But, sir-!" protested Amalia, jolted out of her thoughts by this announcement.

"On what grounds, Professor?" demanded Riddle, barely keeping his voice civil. How dare a teacher give him detention?! It would tarnish his perfect record.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Why, for Amalia missing class, for causing Amalia to miss class, for being under suspicion of dueling, for being out of bounds late at night... Or simply because I desire the aid of my two brightest students on Friday evenings. You may choose which you prefer."

Riddle pressed his lips together, fuming. But there was no way he was getting out of this. Not if it was going against Dumbledore...

Seeing he had no more arguments, Dumbledore turned to Amalia, whose expression was inscrutable again as she supported a semi-conscious Rosier. "So, I'll see you both on Friday evening, and consider yourselves on final warning."

She nodded grimly. "Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir," Riddle basically spat, an ugly look in his eyes.

Dumbledore smiled thinly, somewhat satisfied with this result. "Good. Now, you'd better get Rosier to the hospital wing, and then to bed."

Amalia was surprised that Dumbledore didn't comment as Riddle joined her, intending to accompany her to the Hospital Wing as she'd suggested. But she felt his shrewd eyes on her shoulder-blades as they walked away from him, in silence, out of the Third Floor Corridor.

How much does he know, or guess, about what happened? she wondered uncomfortably. It was hard to tell.

She didn't bother being cautious with Riddle; he wasn't stupid enough to start anything now. They were walking slowly, Rosier stumbling like he was drunk. He didn't seem very aware of his surroundings, his eyes beginning to wander as the effects of Dumbledore's Reviving Spell wore off.

Riddle cast a charm to prevent eavesdropping as soon as they were close to the Hospital Wing, and by unspoken agreement, they stopped.

"This is your fault, you know." Amalia snapped instantly, leaning Rosier carefully against the wall. He sagged there, barely upright, gaze unfocused.

"Oh, is it now?" the sarcasm dripped from his voice. "But you were the one to provide the spells, I only practiced them. And you're the reason he was involved, at all."

Amalia paused in her motions of flexing her arm (which had gone to sleep from bearing Rosier's weight. Riddle hadn't helped once, the uncaring bastard). She looked at him seriously. "Riddle, you went too far."

To her surprise, he actually nodded, reluctantly acknowledging her words. "I admit I may have gotten... carried away."

"Dumbledore's looking for any excuse to get rid of you- you have to be more careful."

"Why do you care?" he asked abruptly, no heat in the question. He seemed genuinely curious, "Wouldn't things be easier for you if I was expelled?"

She gave him a crooked smile. "Easier, yes. But much less exciting." she cocked her head at him, "Isn't that how you feel, too? I mean, if you wanted me expelled all you had to do was suggest he check my wand. But you didn't."

Riddle stared at her, expressionless, for a long moment. He hadn't even considered blaming her... even as a last resort to save his own skin. A hundred other plans and schemes had flown through his mind... but not that one.

For some reason, this uncharacteristic oversight made him very uncomfortable...

She sighed. "So? How are we going to deal with this mess?"

"Leave it to me." he said immediately, returning his focus to the matter at hand. "I'll have a word with Slughorn. If he gets involved first, Dumbledore will have to back off- he isn't our Head of House. We can come up with a suitable story- I already have a few ideas."

Amalia opened her mouth to reply, then paused. She looked at Rosier. "He seems pretty out of it..."

She gently smacked his cheek - he had no response, eyes vacant. She turned back to Riddle, confident they could speak privately. "Listen, you need to do damage control with him. As soon as he wakes up - before Slughorn or Dumbledore gets a chance to talk to him."

"Rosier wouldn't dare betray me." scoffed Riddle, but Amalia thought she detected a note of uncertainty in his voice.

"He's in a fragile state, physically and mentally," argued Amalia. "If you aren't there to scare him into silence, he'll talk." And not only about Riddle's secrets, she thought grimly. My involvement, too. "It was a mistake involving him in our game - we need to make sure he's on our side."

Riddle surprised her once again by agreeing without fuss. "Then, a Memory Charm-"

"No!" exclaimed Amalia, rolling her eyes. "Why is your first choice illegal torture, and then straight on to illegal memory alteration? What's next if that doesn't work? Murder?"

He blinked at her.

She smacked her own forehead. "It is, isn't it? Ugh, that's so... Excessive!" She tutted. "Listen, a Memory Charm in his condition may very well turn him into a gibbering idiot- THAT'S NOT A VALID SOLUTION-" she clarified, catching his "that works for me" expression.

He folded his arms, scowling. "You have a better idea?" he demanded sullenly. Unfortunately all his followers had been trained in resisting the Imperius Curse... With varying degrees of success, but it was too risky to be a foolproof solution.

She rolled her eyes again. "Of course I have a better idea. Ethical issues aside, Memory Charms can be broken. We need him on our side. The compulsion to protect us both from any consequences needs to be strong- enough to withstand an interrogation - now, or in the future."

Riddle grimaced. "Well, he clearly trusts you - he always was a gullible fool -" he sneered, "But I can't just take back what happened tonight. The whole point was to..." he exhaled moodily, "Leave a lasting impression. I'd be surprised if his affection for me is unchanged."

Amalia's eyebrows rose. "You knew how he felt about you?"

"Of course."

"Is that why-"

"No, I don't care either way."

"Why?"

"Why so many questions?"

She just raised an eyebrow at him.

He sighed, and said in a bored tone. "There's no logical reason why I should find it offensive. I'm not ignorant enough to hate something just because society does."

Amalia filed away this unexpectedly mature answer for future consideration.

"Then, what about muggleborns?" she probed inquisitively. "And your obsession with blood purity?"

"I'm not obsessed!" he snapped, irritated. "And muggles are weak and stupid, which is based off of my own experience, not... conjecture."

"But-"

"We're getting off topic!" he practically yelled. "Do you have a plan for Rosier or not?"

"Jeez, calm down," she answered coolly. "I was just curious." She hummed thoughtfully, glancing at Rosier drooling against the wall. "I still think if you used your mad seduction skills -"

Riddle's eyebrows flew up, "... Mad seduction-?" he spluttered.

"- you could probably get him back on base. But you'd have to do something to leave a lasting impression... like, make out a little-"

"I will not." refused Riddle firmly, "I don't like t-" he started impatiently.

"-Touching people." she cut him off dryly. "Yup, you've told me that before."

She liked the way he glared at her when she pissed him off - it made her heart all fluttery.

She ran a hand through her hair, "Well, there's one other option..."

"I'm all ears." he said acidly.

She shrugged. "He already thinks I'm the hero in this situation. So, let's pretend I have something to hold over you, I've ensured your compliance. We convince him that he's safe. He can remain at your side, you can stay your usual dangerous self, just... Not towards him. Of course, it will mean you actually can't hurt him again. Like, ever. If you regain his trust and break it again, I guarantee next time he'll run straight to Dumbledore," she warned. "Do you think you can hold back, at least until we graduate school?"

He snorted. "I don't need to use torture to get my way."

She grimaced. "Riiight... You just do it for fun. Not creepy at all. Don't they have a psychiatric term for that?" she mocked.

Riddle narrowed his eyes at her, but chose to ignore her teasing. "No more torturing Rosier. I can do that. But how do you plan to convince him it's the truth?"

She grinned, and explained her idea.

"Absolutely not!" he snarled instantly, furious. "I would never allow-"

She smiled, a slow, Cheshire-cat grin of utter smugness. "Do you have a better plan?" she inquired silkily.

He glared.

A full minute ticked by, as Riddle paced back and forth like a caged tiger, a vein throbbing in his forehead.

"Fine." he spat at last.

"Good." Amalia grabbed Rosier's arm again and tugged him away from the wall, cheerful. "Let's go wake up the nurse."

Rosier blinked heavily a few times, hazy colours and shapes coming into focus slowly as he came to.

Where am I?

High, arched beams in the ceiling, lit with a grey natural light... it was... morning?

The last events in his memory came flooding back.

Riddle, causing him so much pain he begged for it just to end...

Then, strange blanks where he started losing his grip on reality...

And Dumbledore, and Amalia, standing over him... protecting him... making the pain go away.

"Oh, good, you're awake." a matronly voice addressed him, as the somewhat dumpy school nurse, Madame Romalda, bustled into view. She had wild curly blonde hair and a reputation for sometimes nipping at the gin, but the Hospital Wing was her domain. For the moment, he was safe. Rosier felt the knot of tension he'd had in his stomach upon wakening loosen at last.

"It's Theodore, isn't it?" she said kindly, approaching and checking his pulse and shining a light into his eyes briskly.

"Um, yes." he croaked, and coughed.

"Your throat is bound to be dry," she said, pouring him a beaker of water from the pitcher on the side-table,"You've been asleep for two days."

He took a large gulp of water, and then spluttered, "T-two days?!"

She nodded. "Your friends were very worried - they visited several times - but I told them it was no wonder, after the stress your body has been experiencing."

He felt his heart jumping uncertainly in his chest as he wondered which "friends" had been around. Was it Riddle? Was he coming back...?

"Deep breaths, Theodore," she said kindly, taking his wrist to monitor his pulse. "You're safe here, remember?"

She waited patiently until he'd calmed down again, her kind eyes shrewd. "Do you remember what happened? Do you want to talk about it?"

He busied himself taking another sip of water, avoiding her eyes. He felt weak and light-headed, his hand trembling with the simple effort of holding the cup to his mouth. "Spell backfiring." he mumbled after a minute, remembering with a shudder the murderous look in Riddle's eyes.

"Right." hummed Madame Romalda skeptically. She had her own suspicions about what kinds of spells could cause his particular condition. "Well, whatever the case, you suffered some pretty nasty side-effects. Somehow, your brain was enchanted to convince your body you were in serious danger - it overloaded your nervous system, causing a dangerous fever, among other things. I don't mean to sound melodramatic, but you came very close to permanent brain injury..."

Rosier felt numb, just letting the words wash over him. Riddle. Riddle had done this to him. On purpose. He'd... laughed, while doing it. All these years, he'd obediently followed his every command... And now...

"Fortunately," she continued, "It seems that with some bed rest you'll make a full recovery."

He pulled himself out of his dark thoughts and nodded. He was fine. It was going to be alright-

She cautioned, "Just try to keep yourself calm and quiet - the next few days you're likely to feel anxious and any stress may very well trigger a panic attack. If you need anything, I'll be right at the end of the hall." she indicated the small office at one end of the ward.

"Thanks." he murmured, and she left him to get some more sleep.

There was a screen around his bed, for which Rosier was grateful, even though the ward was empty of other patients. He didn't suspect it would be the case for long; an empty ward was unusual for Hogwarts, since magical accidents (or non-accidental injuries... like his) were quite commonplace.

He only had a few hours sleep when he had his first visitor.

"Amalia!" he mumbled, blinking into wakefulness and struggling to sit up on weak arms.

She seemed like she'd sitting at his bedside for some time, working her way through a small stack of books from the library. She closed the book and smiled at him. "Hey, you. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," he admitted, but returned her smile. "I... thanks..." he stumbled over the awkward words, "If you hadn't arrived when you did-"

"You're my friend," she said simply, "I told you, didn't I? I protect my friends. I'm only sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"Dumbledore. Did you-?"

"I only wanted you to be safe."

"Is... is Riddle going to be expelled?"

"... No." she said at last.

He couldn't help his very mixed feelings showing on his face at the news. A part of him was happy - the part that had worshipped Riddle for five long years. But a much larger part was so very afraid - terrified - of being in the same room as him again.

His brow contracted, "Amalia - he - he used..." suddenly his breath seemed to come shorter, "He used some kind of dark spell, t-to- I couldn't breathe, and - the pain, it was -"

Suddenly she left her chair and unexpectedly swept him into a warm embrace, holding him close.

"It's okay," she said simply, rubbing his back.

To his shame, tears started streaming down his face and he sobbed, tension leaving his body in weak tremors.

"I know," she said fiercely, her voice muffled in his neck, "I know what he did. But he's never going to hurt you again, Theo, I swear it. I won't let him."

Despite his anxious state, he somehow managed a watery chuckle, wiping his eyes, as she let him go and sat on the edge of his bed. "Th-Theo?" he questioned.

She gave a self-conscious smile. "The nurse was calling you that all the time. I wanted to be here when you woke up - So I've been hearing your name a lot. Do you prefer Rosier? I can-"

"No, it's fine." he said, and sniffed. "We're friends, right?" He was really touched she'd been so worried about him.

She beamed. "Of course."

His smile faded. "But you can't always be here." he said quietly, a haunted look entering his eyes. "Next time, he might-"

"There won't be a next time." interrupted Amalia matter-of-factly. Resolutely.

"You don't know-"

"I've sorted it out." there was no uncertainty in her voice.

He frowned. "How?"

"You don't need to know the details," Amalia said firmly. "I've had a long talk with him about it, and he's agreed to certain... terms," (Rosier thought that sounded highly suspect. As if she'd sold an organ, or... signed a contract in blood...) "He's agreed not to hurt you again. Ever. Well," she remedied, "I would still advise you not to piss him off, but he won't ever use you as...ugh, target practice again." she sounded angry and protective. But that wasn't going to be enough!

"How- You can't expect me to just take your word that -" he started, but Amalia waved away his protests.

"I know it sounds hard to believe, but he agreed not to hurt you, ever again. Just... look at it logically," she said earnestly. He fell silent, taken in by her intense gaze. "Theo, what do you think your relationship with him has been, up until now?"

Rosier remained quiet - this was a painful topic for him. He was very aware that his relationship was bordering on slave-master, which was just so... pathetic. Demeaning. All because of his unnatural attraction... A dull flush of shame coloured his face, and he looked down, twisting the material of the bed sheets in his hands.

"You're more important to him than you think."

Her soft statement caused him to look up instantly, heart hammering. "... What?"

"It's true." she nodded sagely, completely serious. "Who do you think is his most trusted follower?"

Follower - not friend, Rosier thought bitterly. He sniffed. "He's got a funny way of showing it."

"He relied on you, all these years..." she continued, "For your intelligence, your discretion... your loyalty. You think your trust was one-sided? He needs you, Rosier."

He shook his head, disbelieving, but unable to say a word. She sounded so sure. So confident. What if... it's true? "It doesn't change what he did." he argued, shaking his head. He hated how weak he sounded.

Amalia took his hand tenderly.

"Do you know who carried you to the Hospital Wing?"

He frowned, trying to remember. Everything was hazy. "You... I think?"

She laughed lightly. "Even I'm not that strong - it's a far distance. Riddle helped get you here."

"He... he did?"

She nodded. "He even admitted that he'd gone too far. I think..." she chewed her lip and looked thoughtfully into the distance, "I think... deep down he was worried you weren't going to make it."

Rosier stared at her. Could it be true?

Amalia caught his skeptical frown and pulled a face. "Very deep down," she clarified.

"No," denied Rosier, sounding less certain than ever. "No- that's not true! He doesn't care about anyone - anyone but himself. He doesn't... need me."

Amalia gave him a sympathetic look, as if he'd just said something extremely naive. "Then, why do you suppose he went so far?" Her previously soft tone was suddenly confrontational. "He almost killed you, Theodore Rosier! Do you realize that?"

Rosier felt his breathing become shallower as she reminded him of the terrible ordeal- he was almost hyperventilating.

"I don't know!" he said, almost hysteric. "Because he's a sadistic psychopath?! Because he didn't care that I- that I might-" he choked, gasping for air. He wondered briefly why Madame Romalda hadn't come running already...

"No, Theo." she said in a low, persuasive tone. "If he truly didn't care about you, he wouldn't have lost control. He would never have come close to killing you... by mistake. You know him - everything he does is for a reason. He didn't want to kill you - but he lost control."

Rosier tried to slow his breathing - thinking - actually thinking - about what she was saying. It was starting to sound a little like the truth.

"This is my theory." she continued, seeing that he was now listening closely. "He found out about our little plan - he found out you had become my friend - you, his most trusted confidante-" she praised, "The one person he wanted most at his side-"

Rosier couldn't help the small glow of pride at this description...

"- he found out that this person had betrayed him. He was angry, and hurt... and that's why he reacted the way he did. Not because you mean nothing to him, Theo," she said meaningfully, "It's because you mean the most."

He took some time to process this, frowning. What she said made sense... in a weird, kind of fucked-up way.

"Whatever his reasons," he said at last, shaking his head, "It doesn't change what happened. And... there's no way you have the power to guarantee he won't do it again. Whatever deal you made, he'll break it," he warned, "Whatever threat you made, he'll find a way around it-"

"Like I said, I've ensured his cooperation. There's no way he'll be able to break the vow he made." she said meaningfully.

His mouth dropped open. ... no way... break... vow... Was it possible?

"As I said," Amalia continued calmly, "The details of the arrangement are unimportant. The point is, he doesn't want to lose you - as a loyal ally, as a confidante - and in exchange, he promised to never hurt you again."

He blinked at her, confused and disbelieving.

She smiled, utterly confident. "I thought you'd take some convincing." she patted his hand. "Well, what better way of proving it than to hear it from the man himself?"

Rosier stared at her as she got up. "Wait. You don't mean-"

"This'll just take a moment, I'll get him." she assured him, ignoring his blanched, panicked expression. "I'll be right back."

"No! W-wait, Amalia-!"

But she ignored him and strode cheerfully out of the Hospital Wing, closing the door on his protests.

Riddle smirked at her lazily as the door clicked shut. He was leaning lazily against the wall.

"Impressive, Gray." he drawled. "You almost had me convinced." He snorted. "As if I'd make the Unbreakable Vow for an idiot like him."

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" she sighed, shaking her head. "He really is too trusting..."

"It's time to do my part, I suppose." He didn't sound like he was looking forward to it.

"It's not too late to change your mind and go back to the seduction idea," she offered, with a grin. "One kiss and he'd be a goner?"

Riddle rolled his eyes. "How about no." He pushed himself off the wall and stretched.

"He's not a bad kisser," she teased, grin widening. "I know from experience, remember..."

Suddenly Riddle was right in front of her, right in her personal space. Something about her last comment must have seriously ticked him off. "And what would you know of experience?" he said dangerously. She gazed at his lips, curled into a licentious smile, then up to his smoldering eyes, burning with their ever-present, repressed rage.

Woah, sexy... thought Amalia, impressed. If he thought she would be intimidated by the raw sex-appeal suddenly oozing out of him, he was going to be disappointed. The first time he'd used his crazy, 'fuck-me' eyes on her, it had caught her off guard. But since then she'd come to terms with the physical attraction. Now... it just really turned her on.

"Why don't you... enlighten me?" she smirked right back, doing her own version of 'come hither', bedroom eyes. He seemed momentarily shocked by her flirtatious riposte. She leant a little closer, watching in satisfaction as suspicion and annoyance flicked behind his eyes in quick succession. And... frustration...?

After what seemed like an age, it was Riddle who broke their stale-mate first.

"Tch." he said dismissively, and stepped around her, towards the Hospital Wing.

Amalia pouted, "You're no fun." Her laughing, brown eyes hid the pang of very real disappointment she felt inside.

But there were more important things at stake.

"Stick to the plan," she reminded him - he gestured rudely at her in response, still annoyed. She ignored it. "And don't worry about the nurse - I cast a charm over the office door that muffles sound. But don't do anything that, you know... makes him scream."

"I know what I'm doing!"

"Don't scare him-"

"I know-"

"Don't screw up and make him run to Dumbledore and confess everyth-"

"I KNOW!"

Amalia paused, unruffled. "... Good luck."

"Fuck off."

He pushed open the door to the Hospital Wing and strode irately inside.

Chapter Text

Riddle wiped the scowl off his face as he entered the ward, replacing it with a neutral mask, and slowed his stride in an effort to seem less threatening.

It didn't seem to work; Rosier still looked like he was about to have an aneurysm at the mere sight of him. The blood had drained from his face and he was having trouble breathing, shrinking down into the bed sheets as if he wanted to disappear completely. He was on the verge of tears - no, that wasn't right. He was so petrified he couldn't even cry. He couldn't even make a sound.

As satisfying as this was to witness, right now Riddle needed to do some serious damage control. Yes, he'd gone too far - not on purpose, actually, though it wasn't because he "lost control" like Amalia's little sale's pitch, either... It was much simpler. He'd been practicing new Dark magic on Rosier, and had underestimated the strength of the spells. It was a mess, certainly, and the presence of Dumbledore had made the stakes even higher. Things had nearly gone very wrong - for him and Rosier. Well, more for him. Rosier might have spent the rest of his life drooling cheerfully in St Mungos - but Riddle had come close to expulsion, or even imprisonment. A much worse fate, to be sure.

And yet, all was not lost. Reluctantly, he'd had to accept that Gray's strategy was the only viable option at this point. Dumbledore would know if Rosier came to harm again - if he had a Memory Charm or Imperius Curse used on him - or if he disappeared under mysterious circumstances. And threatening him while he was in this condition just wasn't smart. He was emotionally vulnerable; a confession of what happened could easily be drawn out of him, if people started asking the right questions. Of course, this emotional vulnerability was precisely what he was about to take advantage of, too...

"Rosier, relax." Riddle ordered. "Breathe, in and out."

He looked no less terrified, but tried to do as he was told, years of conditioning to obey that cool, commanding tone taking over.

Riddle sighed and took the chair Amalia had left, crossing his legs elegantly.

She'd left a pile of books there, as if she'd been sitting at his bedside diligently for hours. He restrained himself from rolling his eyes - it seemed like her role in the Yule play had turned her into quite the little actress.

"Look," he said, holding up his wand (Rosier blanched and made a sound like a small mouse being trodden on), "I'm putting it down." he laid it carefully on the bedside table and shifted the chair slightly so it was just out of arm's reach. "I'm just here to talk."

Rosier still made no reply, though he was no longer turning blue from hyperventilation, which Riddle took as a good sign.

He didn't bother putting on an "nice-guy" act; Rosier had known him for five years, after all. He wasn't that stupid.

He folded his arms. "Gray said you'd woken up - what was that bitch telling you?" he demanded. "I wanted to talk to you first, before she... started turning you against me."

Rosier blinked, seeming confused.

Riddle rubbed his forehead, as if he had a headache. "I know you two are close, and after what I did... I guess you don't care anymore - shit..." he tried his best to look full of regret, and jealousy.

"She didn't... she said that-" mumbled Rosier faintly, staring at Riddle. He trailed off at the up-and-down look Riddle suddenly gave him.

"Well?" he demanded bluntly, "... How are you feeling?"

Rosier closed his gaping mouth and replied hurriedly, "N-nurse said I'll make a f-full recovery..."

Riddle let a fleeting expression of relief flicker across his face, then made it seem like he was covering it up, neutral mask back in place.

He could tell Rosier was picking up on all these "subtle" body language clues that Riddle was dropping; it was almost too easy.

"That's... good," he said, sounding stilted. He drew out the silence until it was awkward. "How much... do you remember? Of that night."

Rosier suddenly found his voice again. "I won't tell anyone - I s-swear it, Riddle... I won't-"

Riddle gave a crooked smile. "While it's a relief to hear that, Rosier, I don't believe you." he forestalled Rosier's anxious protests with a raised hand. "I'm not angry... Not anymore. After what I did, I'd be very surprised if you could simply move on as if it never happened. But answer my question first. What do you remember?" his tone was softer than usual, almost... resigned, yet there was still a note of authority there that ensured Rosier's cooperation.

Rosier twisted the sheets in his hands, knuckles turning white. "You were practicing the spells on me-"

"After that," Riddle urged.

"Dumbledore... and Amalia were there. They - how did they find-?"

"Amalia went looking for you... It seems she really does consider you a friend, after all." he said, sounding annoyed. "Of course, by that time, I'd realized I'd gone too far. The spell I used was stronger than I thought... I was trying to revive you when she arrived."

"You were?" His wide eyes showed no suspicion, after all the lies Amalia had already fed him.

He nodded. "Of course. I was angry, Rosier... But I never intended to lose you. Who else can I rely on?" he snorted. "Avery? Dolohov? Childish sycophants, like all the others. Lestrange is a thug - none of them have the wit or loyalty that you've always shown me. Did you think I haven't noticed?" Rosier was the only one he could rely on to do his essays for him, when he was busy. Actually, in other matters he was quite useless - too soft, not ambitious enough. He was more intelligent than the others, and that alone made his presence more tolerable than any of the other Slytherin boys. That's why he'd kept him around.

Rosier was suddenly quiet, serious. He didn't seem as scared all of a sudden, and Riddle thought he might have actually detected a flash of anger in his eyes.

He raised an eyebrow. After everything, was the fool choosing to show some backbone now...?

"You've never cared about me." his voice was low, intense, emotional. "Not once." he met Riddle's dark gaze and went a little pale, but didn't look away this time.

Riddle smirked at the challenge in his voice. This side of Rosier was not one he'd seen before, and weirdly he felt more comfortable with it than he had with his previous, grovelling attitude. It was like seeing the real Rosier, beneath the infatuation. "Perhaps not in the way you wanted." he admitted coolly, "But that doesn't mean I don't want you by my side. I don't imagine many others would feel the same... if they knew."

An uncomfortable look flickered over Rosier's face - his secret was out. A few words from Riddle and he'd be a social outcast...

"However," continued Riddle pleasantly, "I'm not here to threaten you. I want to make a deal."

Whatever Rosier had been expecting, this was not it. "A deal?" he repeated, surprised.

Riddle nodded. "I want things to go on as they did before. I want to be able to trust you - I want you to trust me, too, not to hurt you again. If I lose my temper, I promise I won't have more than a sharp word for you. No more..." he glanced lazily towards his wand, "Drama."

He watched Rosier's throat bob as he swallowed.

"Of course, this special privilege only extends to you - you alone." Riddle continued. "What's more, you'll have my protection. If the others were to... find out... about you... I will not abandon you." He didn't bother laying it on too thick; Rosier had known him for a long time, and would see through a downright lie. In fact, he meant every word. Nothing would change, except Riddle would have to find another... outlet for his temper. Avery would do; the cretin had been annoying him for some time now.

Rosier was silent for a long moment. "And in exchange," he said slowly, "You want me to go along with whatever bullshit story you told Dumbledore?" there was definitely steel in his gaze now.

I'm getting more and more impressed. Did he always have such a sharp tongue? Riddle smirked, "Quite frankly, yes." he admitted easily. "But I'm aware it's a lot to ask. So, what do you want?"

"... What?"

"I owe you." he shrugged, hiding how hard this was for him to say, "So... what do you want?" This was the part he'd been dreading. It was ridiculously simple, but it went against every fibre of his being to actually make this kind of deal. It felt like he was writing Rosier a blank cheque and telling him to cash it. But Amalia's logic was sound; this was the only way he would be able to trust him again. For once, Riddle had to make him feel like he was in control.

Well, if his demand's too insulting I'll just use plan B: Memory Charm. Or plan C: Mysterious Disappearance...

"Anything...?" Rosier asked in disbelief.

"If it's within my power to give." From the tinge of pink in his cheeks, Rosier hadn't missed the subtly seductive edge to Riddle's last sentence. Riddle tried to keep his irritation off his face as Rosier gave him a wide-eyed, unashamed once-over. If this was what it took to save him from expulsion... he'd bear with it.

"Um..."

Riddle sighed as the seconds stretched on. "I actually do have class in fifteen minutes, so if you could make a decis-"

"Okay, I've got it." said Rosier abruptly.

Riddle raised his eyebrows. "Let's hear it."

"When we're alone," Rosier said, a blush staining his cheeks. But he sounded quietly determined. "I want to be able to call you... T-Tom."

Riddle stared at him blankly.

There was a long silence, as Rosier waited expectantly.

Why?

WHY?

Why does it have to be the name?!

He'd almost have preferred something lewd, which he'd expected, given Rosier's crush on him. I mean, he'd given the boy a free pass! Couldn't he had just asked for a quick fuck or something, like a normal person!?

It's just a name, he reminded himself, face still expressionless as he argued with himself. It's just a name. The fact that it belonged to his filthy muggle father, though... it disgusted him. He knew nothing about his father or that side of his family, besides that filthy name, and now he'd have to be reminded of it every day-

"...Only when we're alone?" he clarified stiffly.

Rosier nodded, a slightly wicked glint in his eye. "Yes."

"Fine." he agreed tersely. Perhaps it wasn't so bad...

"Then, I'll forgive you... Tom."

Riddle's eye twitched, but he nodded stiffly. This little shit... He knew how much it annoyed him. It was rule number 1 in his little group: don't call Riddle by his first name, unless you were looking for a swift and painful death.

Ugh. "I'm glad we could come to an arrangement." he said with forced calmness. In a way, he had to admire Rosier's creativity; this was the perfect test. If Riddle could restrain himself, then his wish for reconciliation had to be pretty sincere.

"So, Tom, when Dumbledore comes by, what should I tell him?" Rosier sounded quite businesslike.

Riddle gritted his teeth. "Slughorn should visit later today," he said in a clipped tone, "Dumbledore... might come around, I'm not sure. I have everything under control," he said dismissively, "All you need to do is stick to what you said on that night."

"Tom, I can't remember exactly what I said. Could you refresh my memory, Tom?"

He's doing this on purpose. "Just say a spell back-fired, you don't remember what spell you were practicing. You were alone." he growled.

"Tom, is that all?"

"Yes!" he snapped, resisting the urge to throttle him. "Just look uncomfortable and keep your mouth shut. It'll fit with the story I'm going to spin!"

"Okay, Tom."

He glared for a long moment at Rosier, who gazed serenely back, showing no fear whatsoever. Perhaps their plan had worked a little too well... He stood up abruptly. "Get better soon!" he basically snarled, and strode out of the Hospital Wing before he messed everything up and gave in to the urge to curse him. Again.

"Goodbye, Tom!" Rosier called cheerfully.

He resisted the childish urge to slam the door behind him.

After that he conveniently had Potions - convenient because he needed to speak to Slughorn.

Inconvenient, because Amalia was dying to hear about how the talk with Rosier had gone. He refused to tell her the details of the deal he'd made, which gave him some satisfaction as she spent the whole lesson trying to guess. Each suggestion became gradually more and more outrageous.

"Did he ask for... money?"

He stoically shredded the pickled snakeskin they needed for their Solidifying Solution (which could turn most substances to stone) and ignored her. She wasn't helping at all with the potion-making, preferring to stare and analyse his expression as she made her guesses.

"Umm... Free essays for the rest of his school career? No, he actually likes doing schoolwork... hm..."

He added the shredded snakeskin and stirred it with a neutral expression.

She grinned and glanced around at the busy class conspiratorially. "A... blowjob?"

A withering glare was his reply.

She shrugged. "Okay. Was it... cursing you back? Like, using the same spell-"

He rolled his eyes. Even Rosier was not foolish enough to suggest that.

"You know I'm just going to ask him after this, right?" Amalia said, raising her eyebrows.

He shrugged again.

"So?" she sounded frustrated. "Why don't you just tell me?"

"Your guesses are so amusing, though." he replied smoothly.

Why did he say that? He didn't find her amusing. Annoying. He found her annoying... that's what he'd meant to say.

She clicked her tongue. "Fine. Let's see... all the rarest Frog Cards?"

He adjusted the heat on their bunsen burner with a frown of concentration.

"He asked you to kill a man."

That wouldn't have been so bad, he sighed internally.

"You have to wear pink underwear from now on."

His mouth did not just twitch...

"The next time you have to speak in public, you've got to end every sentence with 'in my pants'!"

How would that work - in my pants. Oh. That was quite amusing.

"I don't friggin' know anymore." she finally gave up, throwing her hands in the air.

He smiled quietly to himself. But his mind was drawn back to business by her next matter-of-fact question.

"So, you're speaking to Slughorn after class. What's the story? We should be on the same page, just in case."

He nodded, and glanced around. But Slughorn was on the other side of the class helping a Hufflepuff girl whose hair had dipped in her potion and turned to stone... And the rest of the class was loud and preoccupied, as usual. "I'm going to tell him that Rosier was scared of being bullied because of his sexual orientation, and was therefore trying to practice some defensive duelling spells by himself. Obviously, he came across a dangerous spell and messed up."

She nodded, her large, brown eyes shrewd as she considered this plan. "Good thinking. He'll assume Rosier would be unwilling to talk about it. He's unlikely to ask him much about that night."

"Exactly," Riddle confirmed, pleased she'd caught on so quickly. "I'll reassure him that we, as his friends, will ensure he doesn't put himself in danger again. Perhaps we can even suggest starting a student-run duelling club, to prevent this kind of unfortunate mistake happening again."

Amalia grinned. "If you can pull that off, that pug-faced Fairchilde will have a stroke." she smirked at Riddle flirtatiously, "I wouldn't mind partnering up with you to run a duelling club." she sidled closer, "Just imagine all the bad things we could get up to, right under Dumbledore's nose." she breathed.

He scowled and turned his attention back to their potion, busying himself with (unnecessarily) checking the consistency and temperature for the umpteenth time. For some reason, he suddenly needed to put some distance between them. "You're being awfully friendly," he remarked in an attempt to sound nonchalant, "For someone who got thoroughly beaten in our last little spat. What happened to all that talk about revenge?" he snorted. "You don't even have the tapestry."

To his surprise, all his taunts did was stretch her smile a little wider, until he mentioned the tapestry, and she was virtually beaming at him.

Well, that didn't bode well.

"Who says I haven't already had my revenge?" she replied sweetly.

He held his breath for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. "Rosier? Sure, I backed off, but that's hardly because you-"

"I'm not talking about Rosier."

What... what did I miss? He wracked his brain for the answer. Everything had gone his way... even the disaster with Dumbledore was on the verge of being dealt with. He'd beaten her, he'd gotten to the Baron first by using his knowledge of the relationship with The Grey Lady. He was the one with the tapestry... Or was he? He hadn't seen it since he'd hidden it away in his special hiding place. Perhaps, somehow, she'd found it...? Since he'd left her in the Room of Requirement, she'd been out of sight for almost an entire day... It was possible.

They finished up the rest of the Potions class in tense silence, Riddle glancing over suspiciously at the smug little quirk of her lips.

After dealing with Slughorn - who'd absolutely gushed about what a 'good friend' Riddle was to be so understanding of Rosier's 'situation' - Riddle headed back to the Common Room with quick strides. He should have been in a good mood; Slughorn had swallowed everything, hook, line, and sinker, but Amalia's little taunt in Potions kept coming back to him.

When he arrived in the Slytherin Common Room his eyes swept the room, coldly ignoring the greetings and chatter of his classmates. He didn't see Amalia; she was probably in the Library, as she usually was at this time. They had two hours to kill between their last class and dinner. He strode straight to the fifth year's dormitory and threw the door open.

"Out."

Nott and Mulciber, who'd been chatting among an unhealthy amount of discarded sweet wrappers on their beds, scrambled to obey, seeing the thunder on their leader's face. Trying hard to avoid his eyes, they left immediately, closing the door behind them.

He locked it with a murmured spell and went to stand in the middle of the room.

With a tense wave of his wand the plush emerald carpet rolled back, revealing the wide flagstones on the floor.

He crouched down and tapped one of the tiles with his wand, muttering the password, a quiet hiss in Parseltongue. The flagstone shimmered and became transparent, revealing the assortment of his precious treasures beneath. He reached through the insubstantial square and pulled out the tapestry, a frown forming on his face. It seemed the same, just as he'd hidden it. Had Amalia been trying to mess with him...?

There was a small desk next to his bed, and he straightened, intending to take the tapestry over to it and inspect it more closely; perhaps she'd replaced it with a fake.

He took one step towards the desk and froze, the tapestry falling to the ground.

There was a black cat sitting neatly on his desk, soft, luxurious fur illuminated by the lamp so that it seemed to be sitting in a halo of golden light. Its tail was sleek and fluffy, waving lazily as it regarded him with shrewd, amber eyes. The colour was wrong, but those glowing eyes seemed familiar all the same... Riddle thought it was possibly the sassiest black cat he'd ever seen.

Those familiar eyes narrowed and suddenly the tip of the tail twitched - like it had just seen a mouse. Its muscles tensed, crouching.

All of this had happened in a few seconds, but Riddle knew exactly who this was... And it explained how she'd managed to escape from the Room. It explained a lot, actually.

His wand-arm twitched, but he had no time to react as the cat launched itself directly at him. He briefly felt a hint of feline claws prick his shoulder before she transformed in mid-air and the feather-light cat became the full weight of a healthy-sized, teenage girl on a mission. And moving with a decent amount of momentum, too.

His world span as he was pushed violently, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of his bed and buckling. He instinctively tried to roll away, but was stopped by a businesslike knee to the stomach. For such an elegant and refined-looking girl, she certainly had a rough side... Before he knew what had happened, she'd wrestled his wand out of his hand and had him on his back.

He shifted, then froze, as she pressed him into the mattress, her legs firmly straddling his hips. His own wand was pointed directly between his eyes.

She panted, a little out of breath herself, and let a wide, Cheshire-cat grin spread across her face. She was enjoying this. And he could tell by the coldness deep within her chocolate-brown gaze... She was also pissed off as hell. To his disbelief and mortification, he felt a chill of trepidation creep up his spine. He swallowed thickly, but remained silent.

"Tom," she crooned pleasantly, sliding her free hand down to play with his tie, "Let's have some fun, shall we?"

Chapter Text

Riddle remained completely still as she slowly tugged his tie loose, a dangerous smirk curving her full lips. Her eyes were soft, friendly, amused... But he knew the truth. Despite her appearance, everything from her utterly confident smugness, to the magic weighting the air... screamed 'danger'. Every instinct was telling him to shove her off of him - he hated it when people touched him - but the very businesslike way in which her right hand pointed his wand directly between his eyebrows convinced him to bide his time.

"Really, I'm surprised at how easy this was." she remarked lazily, pulling his tie loose and dropping it to pool on the floor beside the bed. "You've proved you can beat me in a direct confrontation, but it seems like when things get physical," she grinned at the innuendo, "You just... fall apart." He felt her fingernails brushing his throat as she started on his top shirt button.

He found his voice again, and he was relieved to find it sounding as cold and indifferent as ever. Like they were discussing the weather.

"What are you doing?" he asked emotionlessly.

Her fingers paused, and she briefly sucked on her bottom lip. "Hm. Immobilus."

He seethed internally as his body froze up, stuck in position. He couldn't move a muscle. From the way she chuckled, it seemed his rage was clearly visible in his eyes, though.

"Consider it a compliment," she smirked, "I'm not underestimating you again." she paused, enjoying his obvious frustration. "By the way, was that Parseltongue I heard you speaking, earlier? Very impressive. To speak to snakes... it really suits your image. I'd imagine your spirit animal is a snake." she stifled a laugh at the thought.

He kept trying to convey his intentions to painfully crush the life out of her in the near future through his eyes alone.

"Don't look at me like that. If I'm going to explain my motivations, I need you quiet and... uh... pliable."

She stared down at him with something akin to fascination.

Fascination...? That's interesting. Potentially useful... he thought hopefully.

"I was unsure how exactly to get my revenge," she continued, "After you left me in the Room. I was tempted to do the same thing to you, but I prefer originality. I also considered torture - some revenge on behalf of poor, sweet Rosier..." her nimble fingers moved lazily onto the next shirt button, her gaze fixed on the dip in his throat and his collarbone, slowly being exposed, "But it's not really my style. So I thought to myself, what is the perfect revenge for dearest Tom?"

She paused again, smiling at the sudden change in his eyes. He couldn't move a muscle, but somehow his dark eyes conveyed his feelings perfectly.

"You look like you want to say something," she noted. "Very well." she murmured a short spell to allow speech, though the rest of his body remained unmoving.

"Don't call me that." he instantly commanded, sounding cold and as in control as ever, despite the circumstances.

She pouted prettily, malice shining out of her eyes, "But Rosier gets to call you Tom when you're alone. I'm a little jealous."

"He told you."

"Of course. Why do you hate the name so much?" she said conversationally.

His throat worked, but he was hardly in a position to fight back. He was very aware of the wand still pointing between his eyes. Also, the longer she talked, the more opportunities he'd have to mess up her plans...

"Tom Marvolo Riddle... Junior." he bit out, hating her more than he ever thought possible, "That's my full name."

Her eyes lit up as she absorbed this new information, surprised he'd actually volunteered it. "... Junior? So you know who your parents were?"

"...No." he said resentfully.

"Ah." she said, nodding as if it all made sense, "You just had the name when you were dropped off at the orphanage. How old were you?"

He was already fed up with her inane questions, although it had worked as a distraction; she'd ceased her assault on his shirt.

"Okay then," she didn't seem at all phased by his silent glare. "Well, if you don't know anything about your parents, then you must have been very young. Riddle is clearly not a name from any wizarding family..."

He strained against the spell holding him down as she tried to puzzle this out, but as usual her wandwork was exemplary; there was no weakness to exploit. If left alone, the spell would probably wear off in several hours. He brought his magic to bear against it, but without his wand even non-verbal spells were of no use...

"So, you hate your name because it belonged to a Muggle? I never knew, though I suppose it's obvious."

"Shut up." he snarled. Immobilising spell or not, he was pretty sure he was trembling with rage. Obvious? It was obvious he had Muggle ancestry...?

"Oh, shhh," she hushed, stroking his head like he was a badly behaved puppy.

Kill. I'm going to kill her. This time, I'm really going to commit murder-

"I didn't mean it like that," she said emphatically, "I just meant your name is not stuck up and flashy, like Amalia, for example." she rolled her eyes. "Not Am-ee-lia, no, that would be too mainstream, it had to be Am-ah-lia. Just the way you have to shape your mouth to say it is snobbish."

He remained silent, still contemplating the various ways he would soon dismember her. And anyway, he didn't think there was anything wrong with her name. He liked... No, well... there just wasn't anything wrong with it.

"But if you're so fond of the wizarding names, why not stick with your middle name? What did you say it was? Mar-something..."

"Marvolo." he gritted out.

"Mar-vo-lo," she tried it out on her tongue. "Hm. Nope, it doesn't suit you. Sounds Italian, actually, or most probably Latin. Marvolo... It doesn't fit with Tom Riddle... so that's the magical connection in your family?"

He felt begrudgingly respect that she had figured it all out so easily. She was looking at him expectantly.

Out of nowhere, he felt a twinge of amusement beneath the rage.

"If you're waiting for me to nod, it'll be a long time." he said drily.

She chuckled. "Oh, right." she went back to fiddling with his shirt buttons, a thoughtful expression on her face, and he went back to fantasizing about dismemberment. "So," she continued at last, "I understand why you don't like your name. Marvolo is just too... much, I guess, even for you. I mean, people might shorten it to Marv," she sniggered, "That would be hilarious-"

"I am going to kill you." he deadpanned. The quiet admission just slipped out. He was completely serious, but she just waved it off dismissively.

"Don't be so dramatic. Anyway, my point is, I like the name Tom. It's short, unpretentious. It may be a common name, but I don't personally know any other Toms." she shrugged. "In the wizarding world, it's practically rare! Have you ever thought of it that way? And Riddle - there's a great name. I can't picture you being anything else." there was definite hunger in her gaze now as she pulled open the third shirt button, a faint tint of colour on her cheeks. "Merlin, Riddle." she groaned softly, taking in the planes of his chest.

He blinked at her, surprised. He'd known for a while she was attracted to him - well, he hadn't met a female his age who wasn't, to be honest, but she was being remarkably candid about it. And he'd never heard his name said in quite that way, all velvet tones as if they were lovers...

What am I thinking? She was a brat. A soon-to-be-dead brat. Dismemberment, he thought hurriedly, Blood and pain and death. Yes.

Amalia shook her head as if to clear it. "Where were we? ...Ah, yes, before I got distracted by your..." she coughed, "Ahem, name, I was talking about my revenge." she gestured between them, "I know you hate people touching you. I thought this would be perfect... You've already threatened me with death once tonight, so I'd call it a success so far." Her smile reminded him of a Cheshire cat, which brought his mind back to an important point. Since she seemed in quite a verbose mood...

"How did you get in here?" he asked, trying to piece it all together. "Obviously, you're an animagus."

"That's right." she sighed. "You're the only person who knows about it now. I didn't want to use it - it's a useful secret to have, obviously. But you forced my hand." she smirked, "That said, it was worth it just to see the expression on your face."

He ignored her last comment. "No one notices a black cat..." Riddle said slowly. "You were waiting for me?"

"That's right," she admitted. "I knew you would check your hiding place after I mentioned the tapestry."

"How did you know it was in here?"

She shrugged, "It makes sense that you'd keep your treasures nearby. It was a guess, which turned out to be a good one. By the way, Nott and Mulciber have been eating an appalling amount of chocolate for hours. And boys are disgusting - the things you guys talk about..."

"Don't compare me with them." Riddle said instinctively. He snapped his mouth shut, not sure why that had just slipped out. As if he cared.

"No," said Amalia with one eyebrow raised as if she was also surprised, scrutinizing him, "I guess you are different, aren't you?" She went back to fiddling with his fourth button. After a moment of silence, she glanced up at him teasingly, "Hey, Riddle... you're running out of buttons... I might have to start on other items of clothing."

Ugh. I have to keep her talking.

"How long have you been an animagus?"

"I started learning when I got the time-turner.' she answered pleasantly. "It's gotten me out of trouble on more than one occasion." she smirked, her hand moving lower. "Fifth button."

There was only one left.

Riddle was starting to feel more than a little uncomfortable now... he was losing control of the situation and he didn't know what her end-game was. Magic seemed out of the question. However, as much as the thought disgusted him, he knew that magic was not his only weapon.

"Hm... this is fun. How far should I go, before I stop?" she taunted, fingers pulling his shirt open further.

Taking a deep breath, he let the tension in his jaw and body flow away, no longer fighting the spell that trapped him. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, he kept his eyes half-lidded and fixed on her face.

She definitely noticed the subtle change, her smirk fading as she was momentarily taken aback by his sultry stare. "Whoah." she breathed, her cool fingertips stilling on his abdomen. His chest rose and fell, steady and even. Showing no outward sign of discomfort.

"Perhaps I don't want you to stop." he murmured seductively.

She stared at him for a long moment, before a slow grin spread over her face again.

His heart sank.

"Oh yeah?" she said, amused, "Are you sure you want to throw down that challenge?"

Well, it was the only plan he had. He pasted a smirk that oozed self-confidence on his face and looked at her up and down from his awkward position. "Take the spell off me and find out."

"Hm," she hummed appreciatively, "Nice try, but I know you hate this kind of thing. A pity, because I find it quite pleasant."

She undid the last button and pulled his shirt open at last, pushing it with relish one-handed off his left shoulder, and then his right. His skin crawled at the unwelcome touch, but there was nothing he could do. In her other hand she still held his wand; the whole time she hadn't let her guard down, not even once.

She ran her eyes over his lean, muscled chest, now completely exposed. "Just like I imagined," she teased wickedly, glancing up at his face, which was now oddly blank. "Although, you really are quite thin-" she peeked lower down, "Your ribs are showing. You should eat more. Are you ticklish?"

Very deliberately, she reached out...

"Amalia." he warned quietly, unblinking. She ignored him, though she noted he was back to calling her by her first name. It only tended to slip out when he was distracted; or in this case, seriously pissed off.

Her fingers traced a line over his chest, heading down slowly, dancing over his smooth, pale skin. Fascinated by the pattern of muscles, she followed a line of the shallow v-shape as it curved from his narrow waist, downwards, and disappeared beneath the thin material of...

"Amalia, I mean it." there was a note of urgency she'd never heard before in his voice.

But she still ignored him. What would he do if I...?

She shifted her position to sit straddling his thighs, and her hand reached his belt, slender fingers playing teasingly with the buckle...

With a muffled explosion of shattered glass and smoke, the oil lamp sitting on the desk disintegrated violently, plunging the room into semi-darkness.

Amalia gave a sharp intake of breath at the abrupt sound, and froze. Her shocked eyes flew up to meet his.

She gulped, audibly.

She couldn't help a small shiver - suddenly the temperature in the room had definitely dropped below zero in seconds. His face was shadowed in the dim light, but she could still see him staring her down with a flat, reptilian gaze, promising violence. Daring her to continue. There was the real Tom Marvolo Riddle, right there. The one that was not to be screwed with.

She slowly raised her hand away from his belt, showing him her open hand in a reconciliatory gesture. "Did I... go too far? I was just teasing you. I wouldn't actually-"

"Amalia," he said dangerously, her name sounding soft on his tongue, "Take this spell off me. Right. Now." His voice was strained, quiet... but it wasn't a request.

The oxygen in the room seemed thin. She was the one with all the power... until... suddenly she wasn't.

If intimidation had been a sport, he'd be an Olympic medalist, for sure.

"Um..." she shook her head with a nervous chuckle, "How about nope. Nope nope nope... not while you're in this mood-"

The tension holding him quiet snapped.

"Take this fucking spell OFF ME!" he raged, the last scrap of his expressionless 'I'm a perfect-schoolboy' mask well and truly shattered, ground to dust and sprinkled away into the breeze. For a moment his eyes actually flashed crimson. How was that even possible? And was it her imagination, or did his leg just twitch, fighting the immobilizing spell through sheer determination...?

Merlin's beard, he's angry, she noted in awe, even as she slid off of him to the edge of the bed, suddenly keen for some distance... Playtime was over.

He was now muttering a stream of expletives, between which she vaguely made out "kill" and "you".

"Now look," she said weakly, tugging his shirt back together apologetically, "Deep breaths, Riddle. There's no need to do something you'll regret- Like murder-"

"Why would I regret it? I won't regret it," he raved furiously, "Trust me, I'd regret nothing!" he gave a slightly unhinged-sounding laugh, and she paled. He'd lost it big-time. He was so far gone.

"-I was just having a bit of fun." she protested, biting her lip, "I didn't know you'd hate it this much, jeez..." she frowned. "You know, most guys your age would kill for-"

"I will kill you." he agreed instantly. He looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel, he was glaring so murderously.

She grimaced. "Okay, I admit that was the wrong phrasing... Um, look, let's just put it behind us, shall we? Revenge finished. Clean slate."

With a wave of a wand his shirt was all done up again, no sign of the ordeal she'd just put him through, aside from the raw murder which remained burning in his eyes.

Compared to being tied up and dumped in the Room of Requirement, though, she didn't think that mere wandering hand would measure up. I mean, what is it, second base? I didn't even kiss him. Why did she feel disappointed at the missed opportunity? Tch - he should be so lucky.

But it seemed she'd chosen her revenge a little too well. Perhaps she should have seen it coming; this was the guy who looked physically pained whenever people used his first name without permission. Control was everything to him.

Well, there was no sign of that control now.

"Let's discuss this like rational-"

"You're dead," he hissed, and this time there was a definite twitch in his hand, as if his fingers were itching to flex around her throat. The spell was coming undone quicker than anticipated.

"Ah... well, that's a... problem." she mused, wincing. If he was serious, then her life was really in danger. As soon as she released him, he'd commit murder on the spot - she saw the truth of it in his eyes. "You can't really kill me, remember?" she spoke slowly, as if to someone hard of hearing, "Do you want to be expelled? No, you don't. Of course not. So you can't-"

She yelped and ducked as a heavy arithmancy book suddenly soared off a bookshelf and narrowly missed her head.

"Wow, wandless telekinesis," she said weakly, carding her free hand through her hair to smooth it down, "That's, um... pretty amazing..."

Riddle made an odd hissing sound. It sounded rude.

She gaped at him.

"Did you just..." she blinked disbelievingly, "...swear at me... in Parseltongue?"

Instead of replying, he tensed, and she saw cords in his throat stand out as he fought the spell. And it was working - he was beginning to get movement back in his upper body.

A creepy wind had also whipped up, making the velvet drapes hanging from the beds snap and the wooden furniture creak ominously like a sinking ship. Shadows elongated and writhed across the floor eerily.

"Um..." she gulped, looking around with academic curiosity. A Muggle would run screaming about "possession", but it was just directionless magic, generally not dangerous but very unpredictable.

"Oh, shit." she sighed, thinking quickly. She could just recast the spell- or better yet, knock him out entirely and make a run for it- but that wouldn't solve the problem. He'd still find a way to murder her eventually. And while many unknown assailants had tried to get to her in the past, he was different. If he put his mind to destroying her... he might actually succeed.

"Fine." she got off the bed and backed away several paces, so he was out of lunging distance. "Stop- I'll undo the spell before you injure yourself." she bit her lip. "... Finite."

He instantly lurched to his feet, breathing heavily and giving her the evil eye. He drew himself up to his full height, straightening his shirt unnecessarily. He wasn't much taller than her, but she felt intimidated all the same.

I'm the one with the wand, she reminded herself. I'm the one in control. Killing me would be detrimental to us both... he's just temporarily forgotten that. She was suddenly reminded of Riddle's three methods of dealing with problems: one, Memory Charm, two: torture, and three: mysterious disappearance. Clearly the third was on the agenda.

So, how did she deal with this? She was the one with a wand, and there were several spells that sprung to mind which would make this all go away (most of which were illegal). But using magic to force her will on someone was not really her style. She'd rather talk him down from this, before resorting to more... drastic measures.

"Give me my wand, Gray." he snapped, still looking livid. But he was back to calling her by her surname. Perhaps being vertical was helping him focus.

"Not happening." she refused. "Uh-uh," she said warningly, as he took a threatening step towards her. "Stay right there."

He paused, obsidian eyes watching her carefully. She kept his wand firmly pointed at his chest, ready at a moment's notice to defend herself.

There was a tense silence as they sized each other up.

Amalia waited. "Have you calmed down a bit?" she tentatively asked after about a minute of the stand-off.

"Why don't you give me back my wand and find out?" Riddle snarled.

"I'll take that as a 'no'." she sighed. "Look, I was trying to piss you off. I obviously succeeded. But this is what we do, isn't it? It's our thing. I know you usually resort to violence when you're angry, but perhaps this is a good opportunity to turn your life around," she said earnestly, "No killing has to take place; we can part as amicable-"

"I won't kill you, Gray." he said with a smile that showed entirely too many teeth, "I'm going to rip out your insides and feed them to you. And you'll be on fire. And there'll be sharp objects involved. You'll beg for death before the end, and I'll-"

"I get the message." she deadpanned, rolling her eyes. Now he was just being melodramatic. "And when Dumbledore finds my mangled corpse?" she prompted. "What then?"

His eyes sparkled with savagery, "There won't be enough of you left for identification."

"Seems like you have it all figured out." she said drily.

"I do." he was still completely serious.

"This is not like you, Riddle," she reasoned, "You're being all up-front and honest about your evil plans."

He suddenly fell silent, as if belatedly remembering that he usually kept these kinds of thoughts to himself.

"I don't mind," she continued, scratching the back of her neck with her free hand. "I like it when you're honest. But... Did I really do something so unforgivable? You've done worse. Hell, so have I." They both threw Dark magic around casually all the time, and some of the things she'd had to do while she was in Knockturn... Well, she was a selfish person. Her survival (or... entertainment, in this case) was always going to come first.

She continued, "Usually, I'd suggest we duel it out, but with Dumbledore sniffing about... We really shouldn't."

He merely stared at her, and a fierce headache started up in her temples all of a sudden.

"Ahh! Dammit, Riddle! Are you trying to use Legilimency on me again?!" she cursed, blinking spots from her vision. It was possible to ignore - he was doing it without a wand - but it was annoying as hell.

He smirked humourlessly, forehead scrunched in concentration. "My wand. Give it back."

"Ugh! Fine!" she held up a hand in defeat, and the headache slowly eased. "Just... wait. I'm getting mine first." She swore quietly, and then said, "Accio wand!" enunciating clearly. She edged her way to the dormitory door and muttered a counter-spell to Riddle's locking charm, keeping an eye on him the whole time. He watched her just as closely, like a shark scenting blood in the water.

She waited by the door, until her wand came soaring through the opening; she caught it deftly in one hand. She wondered if any other students in the Common Room had witnessed the wand floating by. It seemed quiet, though. It wasn't that late yet, there was still just under an hour until supper. She shut the door and sealed it again, adding a Silencing Charm just in case things went pear-shaped.

It felt better to have her own wand back; it was slightly warm to the touch, as if happy. Or perhaps just because her palms were sweating.

"I don't want to fight, okay? It would be a bad idea."

He licked his lips, gaze darting between his wand and her face. "Why? I think it's a good idea. Do it. Give it back. Now."

He sounded way too eager. Like the next thing out of his mouth was going to be the Killing Curse.

When she hesitated, he strode forward impatiently.

"Protego!" she immediately said, a transparent blue shield springing into existence between them. He was actually forced back a step or two. "Not so fast." she said, eyes narrowed. "I'm just about sick of your shit, Riddle."

He gaped at her. "What?"

"Who gives you the right to throw a tantrum at every little thing?" she exclaimed, stamping her foot. "Yeah, so what if I had a little fun. Pissed you off. Now you're going to murder me? A bit much, don't you think?"

"You don't know your place, Gray," he sneered icily, "I'm going to enjoy teaching it to you."

She held up her hands with an unimpressed scowl. "Okay, wow. My place? Stop right there, Junior."

"What did you just call me?!" he demanded furiously.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Shit. The name thing. Right, I'm just making this worse."

"Give me my wand, then we'll talk," he tried bargaining, but the angry tremor in his hands was a clear warning of imminent violence.

"Nope, we're talking first. Are you going to listen?"

He glared.

"We can stay here all night."

"..."

"Riddle!"

"... Fine. I'm listening." he said resentfully.

She took a deep breath. "Now, I know you're upset. I was too, after you tied me up in the Room. But I got my revenge, made you squirm a bit. So, we're even."

"We're nowhere near even." he vowed coldly.

"You started this... war of attrition," she pointed out.

"I did not!"

"Did too. Don't you remember? The first day of class, you grabbed my wrist and nearly broke it - it was really painful!"

He blinked, taking a moment to remember. "Then... you stepped on my foot." he said slowly. "That... was the start?"

She nodded. "Yup. It's been a vicious circle of revenge ever since."

"Huh." he looked confused, like he'd never thought of it that way. He shook his head. "Well... this is different. You overstepped the line, Gray-"

"You tortured Rosier for no reason!" she retorted angrily, "Are you really telling me that now there's a line?"

He didn't really have an answer for that. It... was actually a valid point.

"Do I have to list what happened each time we've dueled?" she continued, "It hasn't been good!" She started pacing, careful to keep a safe distance, with the barrier between them. "Riddle - the first time we dueled, we both turned the lawns into a moon landscape, and Dumbledore got suspicious. The second time, you almost died! Do I need to remind you what happened the last time?"

"You lost." he snapped bad-temperedly.

"Fine, I lost!" she admitted, "And then you tortured Rosier, and Dumbledore actually walked in on us just before we had a stab at Duel Number Four. I'm saying we should have a ceasefire... at least until after Christmas, when these detentions with Dumbledore are done. We can't afford another slip-up. You can't afford a slip-up."

For the first time, he actually seemed like he was thinking about what she was saying.

She decided to pull out her piece de resistance: "Can you... postpone... my murder?"

His eyebrows flew up. "... Postpone?"

She nodded, relieved to see him express an emotion other than anger at last. "Until after Christmas. After these detentions with Dumbledore - We can have a duel in January." she invented wildly, "What about the first weekend back at school? We can plan it - make alibis so the winner isn't a suspect, um... go into the Forbidden Forest." She swallowed, suddenly serious. "We can keep going until only the victor remains. Once and for all."

"...One winner?" he mused slowly.

She nodded cautiously. "If that's how you want it." She was very aware suddenly that she was actually serious about killing him. Because her survival always came first. And he was good at fighting, but... If she was fighting to kill, she would make sure she won. He would die, by her hand. Would anyone mourn his passing? Dumbledore would probably give me house-points if he suspected me, she thought bitterly. Just slaying the Hogwarts monster. For some reason, it sent a pang through her chest.

Riddle seemed to have no such thoughts. He nodded slowly, his expression brightening. "That sounds... agreeable."

At least she seemed out of danger for the moment. "Great. Then there's one more thing we need to sort out."

His eyes flew to hers again. "The tapestry."

"Yes." she waved her wand and caught it awkwardly, trying not to drop Riddle's wand in the process.

His brows knitted, "You're taking it?"

She hesitated. "I was going to, but perhaps that's not a good first step in the ceasefire... Any suggestions?"

"Give it back. I found it first."

"Ugh, you're such an asshole." she complained. "I'll tell you what. This is going in the Common Room, where both of us and everyone else can see the damn thing. How's that?"

"You actually going to put it in the Common Room?"

She nodded stubbornly. "Permanent Sticking Charm, on whichever wall is available."

He rolled his eyes and stuck out his hand. "Do what you like. Wand?"

Amalia hesitated, fiddling nervously with his wand. "Okay then. Um... here." she dissolved the barrier, steeled herself, stepped forward, and offered him his wand back.

He reached out and took it smoothly.

She stared at him apprehensively, holding her own wand ready, half-raised beside her.

He narrowed his eyes at her, and for a moment he seemed strongly tempted to start their fourth (probably ill-fated) duel. But the moment passed, and he let out a deep breath.

"I can have patience until January." he shrugged, putting his wand away in his pocket. He turned away from her as if he couldn't stand the sight of her a moment longer.

Her heart sank. She didn't want to duel him to the death...

"Let's go," she muttered, her voice subdued, "We're probably late for supper."

"Mm." he grunted and stalked out.

I have until Christmas to change his mind.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore glanced between his two best students curiously, his shrewd blue eyes taking in their tense expressions.

They were sitting across from each other at a small table on the other side of the room, a position which had become normal in the past few Friday detentions he'd sat with them. It seemed to suit Riddle, who was as far away from Dumbledore as was possible without being literally out of the door, and it suited Dumbledore, as he had ample chance to observe their interactions. Which interested him greatly.

The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece of his office was loud.

"Riddle, give me some essays from your pile." Ms Gray requested in a tone of forced politeness. She was speaking in a low voice, but the office was quiet and Dumbledore could hear her easily. He busied himself with his own work, shuffling papers and showing no outward sign of his interest in their conversation.

Riddle didn't look up from his work, his quill scratching away indifferently on the first-year essay he was critiquing.

"Riddle." she repeated tensely, eyes flashing.

"...No." he replied simply, still ignoring her.

Dumbledore noted with quiet amusement that she seemed on the verge of leaving nail-marks on the edge of the table.

"Why?" she demanded in a low hiss.

He purposefully made her wait before answering. Dumbledore fancied he could almost hear her teeth grinding.

"Well... We started with the same amount." he said languidly, after a long pause, "It's not my problem if you rushed through yours."

"I didn't rush anything," she hissed back. "It's not my problem if you write like an old man."

"As opposed to a drunk, with palsy," he returned, glancing disparagingly at the messy, spidery writing on her completed pile of marked essays.

"Oh, do me a favour and shove your wand up your-," she stopped herself before her voice rose too much, remembering they weren't alone.

"Mature." he commented. He signed his name with a neat flourish and turned over a page.

She huffed and lunged at his pile of unmarked essays, which he easily shifted out of her reach with one hand, making her scowl dangerously.

"Why do you always have to be such an arseho-!"

Dumbledore coughed quietly, cutting her off mid-sentence.

He looked up and gazed at her over his half-moon spectacles somewhat reprovingly. She caught his eye and had the grace to at least look contrite, though he doubted she actually was. Miss Gray was definitely a feisty one. And while Dumbledore didn't approve of her rivalry with Tom - he didn't want her to have anything to do with him - he had to admit he was also relieved at their mutual animosity.

He'd been worried for a while that they had become close, especially with Ms Gray backing up his lies and excuses so willingly. But it seemed that it wasn't the case; after observing them closely during the weeks since he'd issued the detentions, he had found them to be quite hostile towards each other. Indeed, the longer they spent together the worse it seemed to get. Tom's genius had provided him with the perfect way of getting under her skin; absolute indifference. Amalia Gray, Dumbledore surmised, was proud and definitely not used to being ignored; his casual dismissal of everything she said or did was clearly unbearable.

She shoved herself away from the table and turned to Dumbledore. "Sir, do you have more essays I can help with?" she asked, with a tense, forced smile.

He indicated his desk, where a sheaf of second year essays lay waiting. "Yes, here."

She got up and approached, taking a deep breath. "Actually, sir," she said, more calmly, picking up the pile of papers, "I was wondering if you couldn't let me leave early next Friday, or let me do the detention on another day."

He spied Riddle's industrious writing come to an abrupt halt behind her.

"May I hear the reason?" Dumbledore requested mildly, though he had a good idea why.

"It's the Yule play," Amalia explained with an endearing blush, "It'll be our last full rehearsal before the big night... And I..." she scuffed the ground with her shoe, "I just want it to go well. I'm afraid I'm going to forget my lines." she admitted shyly. "I've never been in front of such a large crowd before, so I'm still feeling unconfident-"

Tom gave an odd sound somewhere between a disbelieving snort and a cough behind her, but Dumbledore ignored him.

Ah, yes, the play, he mused. Tom may have been stoically ignoring her, but the rest of the school certainly was not. Excitement was growing about the play, and as the date for the Yule production drew nearer (it was just over a week away now, in the first week of December) students could often be found hanging around the doors to the hall during rehearsals in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her in costume, as well as the other members of the attractive cast. Professor Beery seemed to have chosen his ensemble based solely on aesthetics, and while Dumbledore didn't doubt Amalia would be a good actress, he wasn't sure about the skill of the others. To make matters worse, Professor Beery had produced some highly controversial material before, as if Hogwarts was a gypsy theatre troupe, not a school for impressionable young teenagers. The previous year, he distinctly remembered Professor Fairchilde storming out in indignant protest after leading villain Walburga Black violently stabbed the tragic Hufflepuff hero theatrically through the chest, causing the stage to actually flood with an over-production of fake blood and guts.

But whatever his thoughts about the quality of the production, he was still glad she was taking part in a school activity like an ordinary young girl - especially since it didn't involve Riddle. Amalia had come so far from the suspicious and secretive young lady, jumping at shadows in Knockturn, to the lead actress of a school production.

He beamed warmly at her, "I'm so proud of how well you've fit in here at Hogwarts," he told her sincerely. "Aside from a few... issues..." he shot a cool glance at Riddle impassively staring down at the quill in his hand, "You've come such a long way."

"That means a lot to me," Amalia returned sweetly, "Coming from you."

(At this point there may have been a faint sound of gagging from a certain individual in the room.)

"I have no problem with moving the detention to Saturday," he continued pleasantly. Amalia - and Tom, to be honest - had been on their best behaviour for weeks. Perhaps they had learnt their lesson. "Unless you intend to visit Hogsmeade with your friends?"

Amalia shook her head. "No, I'm quite alright," she replied. "I've decided to give it a miss this year."

He nodded shrewdly. So, she hadn't quite laid her demons to rest? "But you do feel safe here, do you not?" he enquired earnestly.

"Of course," she answered, smile somewhat forced. She refused to glance towards Riddle.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers under his chin. "Does Hogwarts feel like a home to you?"

"Yes," she said, sincerely this time. Her smile was brilliant, "Yes, I think this is my home now. I didn't think it was possible, but I feel like I belong."

"I'm glad to hear it." Dumbledore sat back in his chair. "It's settled then. You'll both come for detention next Saturday."

Riddle jerked at that, looking up at last and abandoning the attempt to act like he wasn't listening. "But sir, I-"

"I'd prefer to keep you two together," Dumbledore said with a frosty undertone that discouraged disagreement.

A muscle was twitching in Riddle's face from anger, though he kept his voice level, "Sir, I've already got permission from Professor Slughorn to go into Hogsmeade. Surely, Friday-"

"Quite out of the question, Tom," Dumbledore cut him off coolly. "It'll be Saturday. And since your Friday evening will be free, why don't you attend Ms Gray's rehearsal? She could surely use your support before the big night."

There was a pregnant silence, in which Amalia and Tom traded uncomfortable glances. He was the first to look away, his resentment disappearing again under an impassive mask.

"I was under the impression you two were friends, after all," Dumbledore said mildly, with just a hint of sarcasm.

"Of course." Amalia hastened to assure him. "Riddle is welcome to attend if he wishes." She shot him a glance, waiting for a response. "I'd like him to come."

"I expect I'll have work to do," he said vaguely, looking at the wall. He dropped his gaze and threw himself back into his essay-marking, writing furiously.

Feeling uneasy, Amalia returned to her seat and resumed her own writing. He was so intent on his work, he finished his entire stack and another in record time, beating Amalia by quite a margin. She could barely concentrate on her own work. She kept sneaking glances at Riddle, but he ignored her entirely, his mouth a thin line.

When at last Dumbledore gave them permission to leave, he strode out of the office without a backward glance, tension in every line of his posture. That in itself wasn't unusual; he normally moved at a speed only slightly slower than a flat-out sprint when Dumbledore dismissed him, but this time Amalia was troubled by it. He was not okay, and this time it wasn't her fault. Well, not entirely.

Dumbledore's blue eyes followed her shrewdly as she mumbled a quick farewell and hurried after him.

"Wait up!" she panted, struggling to catch up with his long-legged stride. "I want to speak to you!"

He didn't even deign to look at her.

"Rid-" her outstretched hand froze, two inches from touching his arm, as she stared at the business-end of his wand, currently threatening to graze her nose. They'd come to an abrupt stop.

"Just try me!" he snarled viciously, his wand trembling with the effort of holding back, "Just give me an excuse!"

She didn't back down, or step away. Showing weakness would be a bad idea right now.

"I just want to talk," she repeated cautiously.

This was the angriest he'd been since that night in his dormitory. He'd done nothing but ignore her for weeks, occasionally making a nasty comment, but otherwise treating her like she had an incurable disease. If she entered a room, he'd leave it. He'd swapped partners in Potions - she was now stuck with a dour-faced Hufflepuff girl - and otherwise pretended she didn't exist. She'd be lying if she said it hadn't hurt; they'd always been opposed, but sometimes their back-and-forth had seemed as natural as breathing. But now... things were different. Broken. He genuinely despised her now, and she'd been a fool to hope his anger would abate over time. He was a master at holding grudges.

Of course, she didn't give up easily, either.

She looked calmly into his murderous eyes with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Listen, Riddle..." she said slowly, "I didn't know he'd take away your Hogsmeade weekend, okay? When I asked that, I never wanted-"

He turned away from her in disgust, slipping his wand back into his robes. "I don't want to hear it." he started walking off again.

"I mean it!" she protested, trotting after him. She didn't attempt to reach out again. "It was really unfair of him to-"

"Save it, Gray."

"Okay." she took a breath, "I also want to talk to you about the tapestry."

He gave no indication he was listening, and she fancied his walking pace actually sped up, if that was possible.

"- I found the first Stone in the forest," she rushed on, desperate to get his attention for even just a moment, "I don't know if you have yet, but... Look, the runes on the Stone are complicated, perhaps we should look at them togeth-"

"I told you, I don't give a damn about anything you have to say!" he cut her off coldly. "I just don't care."

She stopped and glared at his back as he strode away from her, frustration welling up inside. Who the hell did he think he was?! "Screw you, Riddle!" she yelled after him, regretting her childish lack of composure instantly. He'd no doubt consider it a victory. But he didn't turn or break stride, even to gloat, and that made an almost physical pain pierce her chest. He walked swiftly around a corner.

It seemed he really had lost all interest in her.

At this rate, they really would be killing each other in January.

Tom woke up the next morning in an absolutely black mood, which continued right through the rest of the weekend.

His followers seemed to sense the threat of violence hanging around him, and gave him a wide berth. All except one, of course, the one boy who suddenly seemed immune to his glares and threats.

Rosier had changed quite drastically since the incident - gone was the submissive sycophant pandering to his every whim. He was still around almost constantly, but their relationship was different. Not so much master-slave as... something else. Strangely enough, Riddle didn't hate it as much as he thought he would.

"Tom," said Rosier bracingly, addressing him from his bedside with his hands on his hips. "It's almost ten o'clock. Don't you think you should get out of bed at some point?"

It was Sunday morning. He'd done an excellent job of avoiding that girl since Friday evening - he was afraid if he was in her presence too long he'd forget their pact and curse her into oblivion. Though they now had nothing to do with each other, it wasn't as if she was no longer on his mind. Indeed, some days he could barely concentrate in class for stewing over her victory (and he had to admit, it had been her victory) in his dorm room, and plotting her death over and over, each new method more... creative... than the last.

Recently, every tiny little annoyance in his life was making him inexplicably angry with her. He dropped his pencil in class and his mind would immediately accuse her of having something to do with it. And he would feel oddly disappointed that she hadn't. He knew deep down it wasn't her fault he'd be missing out on Hogsmeade - it was Dumbledore - but he couldn't help blaming her anyway. It was pleasant to have one more reason to hate her.

She'd refrained from all hostile action against him, exactly according to their cease-fire. School without the mind-games they'd grown accustomed to playing should have been more enjoyable, but instead it was just downright tedious. January couldn't come fast enough.

Her behaviour was not helping. A couple of times she'd actually approached him and tried to be friendly! He knew it was a ploy. A trick, an attempt to lure him into a sense of false security before their big duel. Well, he wasn't so easily fooled. Like Friday's little encounter- Them, work together? It was ridiculous. Not worth considering.

Which is why you're hiding in your room, a nasty voice from inside mocked him. No, he reminded himself hastily, I'm not hiding. It's just more comfortable here.

"Get lost." he growled at Rosier, and burrowed deeper into his blankets. It was warm and soft. He never wanted to leave.

"You missed breakfast." Rosier pointed out with a hint of impatience. "That's not exactly healthy."

From the depths of his cocoon, Riddle glared with slightly blood-shot eyes at the fair-haired boy. "S'none of your business." he grumbled. It was a pity death-threats no longer worked against him.

Rosier sighed. "Tom, please... You've got to eat. You barely had anything last night."

It still irked him that Rosier used his first name so casually when they were alone, but he was reluctantly getting used to it. He no longer had the urge to strangle him every time he opened his mouth, which was progress.

Rosier tapped his foot, and folded his arms stubbornly. "What about some bacon? Toast? Hot chocolate...?" he wheedled. His eyes brightened mischievously, "Hm... waffles dripping in maple syrup, nice, hot chicken soup with crusty bread, or maybe a steaming apple pie with cream, and-"

"Okay, you've made your point." Riddle snapped, his mouth watering despite his resolve to never leave his bed again.

Rosier grinned smugly, triumphant.

"Did you bring me anything?" he hated the way his voice had taken on a slight whining edge.

"Nope." Rosier said cheerfully, "I thought we might go down to the kitchens. The walk will do you good."

Riddle thrust down his irritation at Rosier's persistent fussing, and took a deep breath. He was hungry. He had to move at some point. He swung his legs out of bed.

And immediately drew his feet back under the covers, like a reluctant tortoise, his toes curled in the cold morning air.

Perhaps I'll stay in bed a little longer, after all.

From his textile fortress, he heard Rosier heave a long-suffering sigh.

Eventually, Riddle did make it out of bed, and accompanied by Rosier, and finally got a full stomach in the kitchens. Afterwards, fully awake and feeling somewhat chipper, they stopped by the Library, picking up some books that they'd need for homework, and returned at a leisurely pace to the Common Room to get started. It was early afternoon.

Entering through the porthole, Riddle frowned, seeing a small crowd of buzzing girls in the center of the Common Room. There was a lot of inane giggling and chatter.

He heard a distinctive, silvery laugh and gritted his teeth. Of course, it had something to do with her.

He shouldered his way through the crowd of chattering girls to see what the commotion was about.

"-I do hope you'll all make it to the play next Monday." Amalia was saying, a lazy smile directed at the excited throng of girls from her favoured position nearest the fire. Flint, Yaxley and Callidora Black were sitting opposite her. When they saw Riddle, they started elbowing each other. Black whispered something into Flint's ear, making her stifle a laugh.

He ignored them and glared at the rest of the chattering girls, who quietened somewhat at his forbidding expression.

"Oh, we wouldn't miss it for the world!" exclaimed Primrose Carrow, a vivacious Slytherin fourth-year, and her friends nodded eagerly at her side. The girls of Slytherin had become much friendlier towards Amalia since her and Riddle's "estrangement". The whole school thought they'd gone through an ugly break-up.

As if I'd ever waste my time with the likes of her.

But it wasn't Amalia that the girls were ogling.

Riddle found his voice again. "Davies." he said coldly, looking down his nose at the tall seventh-year stretched out on the Slytherin sofa. With his arm wrapped around Amalia. "You are surely aware it's against school policy for students from Ravenclaw to be in our Common Room?"

Benjamin Davies was a tall boy with a handsome, square jaw, well-built from zealous quidditch-playing. His longish, dark brown hair was slightly curly, roughly mussed to give that just-out-of-bed, casual look. He wasn't just a pretty-boy, however. Sharp hazel eyes surveyed the room with relaxed confidence. "Good day to you, too, Riddle." he said, slightly mocking.

Riddle narrowed his eyes, but there was a Prefect's badge shining on his broad chest. He couldn't exactly throw him out.

The onlookers tittered, and a few seconds later, as if as an afterthought, Amalia gave a small chuckle, too.

Riddle despised him from the bottom of his soul.

"Gray," he snapped, "You-"

"Oh, don't be a bore, Riddle," Amalia cut him off airily, "Ben's just visiting. At my invitation." She was tucked into his side quite suggestively, his arm draped around her shoulders. "He's my co-star, after all. You know, we're close."

So Davies was the lead actor of that accursed play. What genre was it again? Thriller? Action?...Comedy? Not that it mattered, of course...

He gave her a razor-thin smile. "I'd rather you un-invited him, then." he gritted out, "Lest you set a bad example." he indicated the group of onlookers, many of whom were younger students.

"Did you hear that, Amalia?" Callidora Black said meaningfully, "I don't think Riddle wants you to bring boys home." There was a new outbreak of inane giggling at this, and Riddle felt the beginning of a headache coming on. To his intense displeasure, even Rosier was staring at the intruder rather... appreciatively.

"I won't intrude long," Davies said with a roguish grin. "But I could hardly refuse a lady's request." he played with her hand, pulling it up to brush his lips briefly. The onlooking girls swooned. "A chance to play the hero off-stage is not something I could turn down."

Amalia gave an uncharacteristic giggle, tugging her hand away. "Oh, stop teasing!"

"Request?" Riddle repeated, eyes narrowing. He knew what she was up to. "So I'm to believe this visit is not, in fact, a social one?"

Amalia's eyes flashed up to meet his in a challenging stare. Her lip curled. "Well, it's not anti-social, that's for sure," she drawled, clearly referencing his recent behaviour.

He refused to blink first, staring pointedly at the way Davies was hanging around her.

A hint of colour appeared on her cheeks. She gave a small cough and looked away, shifting slightly. But the next moment she was batting her eyes at the buffoon next to her again. "For your information, Ben's agreed to tutor me." she explained. "He's been ever so kind."

"You?" Riddle said disbelievingly, "Needed a tutor?"

"Mm," Davies hummed smugly, "Ancient Runes, was it?"

Of course. Riddle glanced at the tapestry gracing the wall of a small alcove next to the fireplace. It was fixed there with a Permanent Sticking Charm. Not many students had noticed it going up... The design was a complex star-chart embroidered with green trees and serpents. It fitted in quite well with the Slytherin aesthetic. Was Davies now in on their secret quest?

"Yes, I fancy myself quite an expert in the area." Davies continued blithely, "My library at home is extensive - my father is a collector of ancient artefacts." he boasted, "The Wizarding History Museum often brings old texts to us for translation."

"How fascinating." Amalia smiled superficially.

How far has she gotten with the Stones? Riddle steamed, furious that she'd had a head-start on him. He hadn't even tried to venture out into the Forbidden Forrest yet - too distracted with ignoring Amalia and tip-toeing around Dumbledore. He was ninety-nine percent certain if he stepped foot outside the castle after curfew the old man would somehow know about it. Plus, the location changed every month. It had seemed logical to wait until after the Christmas break. But Amalia had taken the risk and found the first Stone already. Now, she'd enlisted the help of a seventh year to decode runes...

But none of this mattered. In January, he could take his time figuring out the Stones. Dumbledore would stop breathing down his neck. And Amalia would be dead... Perhaps he could kill Davies too. Why not? The more, the merrier.

The taller boy seemed to pick up on the ominous aura building up around Riddle, and raised an eyebrow at Amalia, "Should we take this somewhere more... private? I know a place where we won't be bothered."

"That sounds perfect." agreed Amalia easily, and he stood first, helping her up with a chivalrous hand. The other girls sighed in envy.

"See you 'round, ladies," the tall boy winked at the onlookers, and sent a cool nod in Tom's direction, "...Riddle."

He made no reply but continued watching as they left the Common Room, arms linked as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Deprived of the spectacle, the crowd of girls slowly dispersed, disappointed it was over.

Rosier carefully observed Riddle's impassive expression as the door to the Common Room swung closed after them. He turned his forbidding gaze upon his follower expectantly.

"Rosier?" he prompted.

"Don't ask me," Rosier shrugged. He was just as surprised. "If they're together, it's a recent development."

Suddenly, Riddle gave a snort of laughter. It sounded a little unnatural.

"Uh... Riddle, are you... okay?" Rosier asked cautiously.

His laughter stopped abruptly. "Okay? Why would I not be okay?" he snapped, instantly ill-tempered, "I just find it hilarious that Davies is oblivious to her plans." but he sounded disgusted, not amused.

"Her... plans?"

Riddle rolled his eyes as if it was obvious. "She's using him. Why else would she wasting her time on that idiot?"

Rosier hesitated. Amalia and Ben Davies been working on the play for almost nine weeks in close proximity. Was it really unbelievable that they had become more than friends? After all, Amalia wasn't the type to grin and bear it if she didn't get along with someone. Plus, Davies was quite attractive... And intelligent to boot; he was a Ravenclaw. An overachiever in every sense of the word, perhaps?

"You're probably right," he hastily agreed, but Riddle seemed to pick up on the note of uncertainty in his voice, and glared at him.

He tossed his satchel of heavy books from the library, hitting Rosier squarely in the chest with it, and knocking the slim boy back two paces with a surprised huff of lost air. "Take care of it." he ordered coldly. Riddle turned on his heel and stalked away in the direction of the dormitory.

Rosier heaved a sigh, but didn't complain. Extra homework was not the worst thing Riddle had ever thrown at him.

"Belby!" exclaimed Professor Beery with a dramatic hair-pulling gesture, "What on earth are you doing?! You're supposed to be shell-shocked, fresh off the battlefield! At the moment I'm just seeing indifference. Do you think our audience pays to watch indifference?!"

Belby rolled his eyes. "They don't pay at all, Professor. It's just a school play!"

Amalia's eyebrow twitched. Yes, their director was a little over the top, but Belby had a serious attitude problem. It all came down to arrogance; he's taken it personally when Beery had relegated him to a very minor role with appearances in only three scenes out of the twelve.

The Herbology professor spluttered in outrage. "Just a- Just a play?!... With that attitude, can you wonder why I only cast you for Knight Number Three? I truly don't appreciate your insufferable urge to play the diva!"

Amalia, waiting her cue just off-stage, gritted her teeth. It seemed the rehearsal was going to take longer than expected, and it was already almost ten o'clock at night. Across the stage, she made eye contact with Ben, waiting in the wings on the other side. He made a noose out of his silky cravat and pretended to hang himself, surprising a reluctant snort of laughter out of her.

Her eyes fell back onto the now-mutinous Belby, who was glaring resentfully at their apoplectic director. She fingered her wand pensively.

"Fine! Maybe I'll just quit!" Belby shouted petulantly, kicking at the fake rock prop on the stage in a fit of pique. "Since it's such an insignificant role!"

"What?!" screeched Professor Beery, pulling at his already-thinning hair, "Are you planning to abandon us in the eleventh hour?! This has to be perfect by Monday! If you can't get it right now, then what in Merlin's name are we going to-"

"Professor," cut in Amalia soothingly, sashaying out of the red velvet curtains, "Calm yourself."

The older man was almost hyperventilating. "Amalia!" he cried, "Tell me you can convince this fool to find some kind of acting professionalism before we all die of old age!"

Amalia was dressed in her full costume, a white, billowing robe of semi-sheer muslin, with a low-slung harem pants that exposed her midriff. A band of white under the robe preserved her modesty on her chest, but the thin material left very little to the imagination. Her willowy curves were accentuated by the outfit, and when she was on-stage she carried herself differently, prowling with almost feline grace.

"Roland," she addressed the staring boy with seductive gentleness, "I'm tired. We only have one last scene left after yours... So, do you think you could JUST FUCKING GET ON WITH IT?"

They all stared at her in the sudden, ringing silence, but she ignored them in favour of smiling at Belby, who'd gone the colour of off-milk.

"Well?" she prompted sweetly.

He nodded jerkily and said, cowed, "Y-yes. Okay. Uh, I mean... I'm sorry, I just..." he stuttered into silence.

She walked off stage without further comment, leaving him to complete the scene to Beery's exacting standards. For some reason there was a strangely subdued atmosphere among the watching cast. Amalia looked around and spied a few of the other students hastily avoiding her eyes. She hid a thin smile.

Dumbledore had stuck his head in the hall for a while earlier, before it had gotten so absurdly late, and he'd seemed mildly disapproving of Beery's plot of murder, adultery and general violence, if not also a little entertained. One thing the play did guarantee was boatloads of drama; it had been inspired by Shakespeare's Othello, after all.

Suddenly her eye caught the door to the great hall as it cracked open, firelight from the torches in the Entrance Hall beyond briefly framing a dark silhouette that slipped quietly inside. The hall was large and dark - all of the lights were concentrated on the stage - but she knew. She knew who it was, and she had an instinctive thrill of pleasure and excitement that started from the top of her head and ran all the way to her bare-footed toes.

He came to watch her. After weeks of ignoring her, she'd begun to think he really didn't care anymore. Then, his semi-jealous behaviour in the Common Room with Davies had given her a small sliver of hope that he wasn't as indifferent as he pretended. That maybe she still had a chance at convincing him their duel-to-the-death-pact was unnecessary... And now he'd come. To watch her.

Why? Was it merely curiosity? Did he have some kind of dastardly plan? She didn't think he would violate their cease-fire, but of course she couldn't be certain... Well, she'd give him a performance worth watching. It was fortunate he'd dropped by in time for the last scene; she thought it might... resonate with him...

She moved a little way out of the curtains, just so that the light caught her, and then looked directly into the spot she knew he was standing, with a faint smirk. She couldn't see anything now that the lights shone brightly into her eyes, but he would know that she knew that he was there.

Perhaps it was her unsettling presence lurking on the edge of the stage, but Belby's voice stuttered and he muffed his lines again, causing irritated groans from the bored students waiting in the wings.

This was no good. She needed to do her scene now, while he was watching. She slipped her wand out of the invisible interior pocket she'd attached into her harem pants (even on stage, she would never be caught unarmed) and muttered a spell, concentrating.

To everyone's relief, Belby's next attempt at his lines was perfect.

Now dramatic piano music swelled as the red velvet curtains closed and the scene was hurriedly changed, the lighting turning red and dappled, except for the large grey rock in the centre of the stage, upon which a bright shaft of pale light shone down from directly above.

The curtains opened again to display the "sleeping" form of Ben Davies leaning with his back against the rock. His wizard's robes were gold-threaded finery, but scorched and torn in places, as if he'd just come off a great battlefield.

This last scene was an important one. Davies' character, Iago, was not the traditional villain of Shakespeare's work, but rather the hero. He was the white knight, the good man, who was tricked and betrayed at every turn by Othello, his enemy. Desdemona, the character Amalia played, is married to Othello and at the start of the play was a sweet, innocent girl. But, as the play progresses, Othello's character is steeped in more and more darkness. He eventually accuses Desdemona of infidelity with the good and handsome Iago, a crime of which she is wholly innocent. Her innocent love for her husband turns to bitterness and hatred, and in vengeance she resolves to do the very thing he accused her of...

The music trailed off hauntingly, and an expectant silence fell on the stage.

Amalia entered from the right, pacing with catlike grace around the sleeping wizard, her eyes fixed on him. She drew nearer and nearer, until at last she knelt next to him, and reached out with a gentle hand, caressing his cheek.

He blinked awake, looking up in confusion. "... Lady Desdemona?" he murmured. Their voices were all magically enhanced to carry across the room, ensuring they had no need for "stage whispering".

"Yes, it is I, darling," she crooned, leaning in for a kiss.

He frowned and stumbled to his feet before she could close the distance, putting some more space between them, "What are you doing?" he demanded. "What of... your husband?"

She shook her head, not breaking eye contact, and stepped deliberately closer. "He is a fool, and I have no need of him. You are all I think about." Her finger traced a line along his lips, "You are all I want."

He seemed helpless in the face of his own desire, his eyes hungrily travelling over her body. But still he hesitated, his good character preventing him from acting on temptation.

The stage lighting changed subtly, becoming darker, redder, reflecting the sudden anger on Desdemona's beautiful face. Gone was the innocent girl, and in it's place there was a seductress and manipulator.

She threw out a hand imperiously, and Davies staggered, falling in theatrical slow motion backwards onto the rock (which was coincidentally, exactly the right height and size for a surface upon which to lie). She hadn't used a wand; in stage plays it was customary for the actors and actresses to simply allude to the act of using magic. In the very early days of magical theatre, it was discovered that real magic, overly excited actors and large audiences were an explosive mix.

In a flash she was straddling him, a dangerous smirk on her lips as her hand played with his cravat.

Davies was supposed to have a line to say, but he seemed to have forgotten it, staring up at her helplessly with glazed eyes, his pupils blown wide.

From the wings just off-stage, Professor Beery had a sudden inhalation of breath, entranced by her performance. He'd never seen her act with this much intensity before. Had she been practising?

"Iago," she crooned pleasantly, playing with the first clasp on his robe, "Let's have some fun, shall we?"

Chapter Text

Riddle felt cold fury thunder through him, his heart pounding loudly in his ears, as Amalia proceeded to half-undress Davies, while he stuttered through some half-hearted protests that were obviously scripted. But from the way he was looking up at her like he'd just had a religious experience, it was clear he didn't want it to end.

Incensed with her behaviour, he turned his back on the stage, unable to watch a moment longer. It was almost exactly what she'd done to him, and it made him feel odd... Like it cheapened his perspective on the whole ordeal. It was just a scene from the stupid play - she'd rehearsed it for weeks before her ambush. He felt weirdly betrayed.

He barely paid any attention as the scene continued when "Othello", another good-looking seventh-year, walking in on his "wife" and his enemy in such a compromising position, with half of Iago's shirt hanging open. Then, there was a brief duel in which Iago murdered Othello, while Desdemona looked on with a satisfied smirk. After Othello lay bleeding theatrically on the stage, Iago laughed over his corpse, proving that he had also become infected with the same darkness, a result of his adultery with Desdemona.

After a short monologue by a narrator tying off the other loose ends of the story, the sordid production finally came to an end.

He didn't bother to watch the cast bow or the curtains close, but slipped out of the Hall and waited around a corner, trembling with suppressed rage. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, but he couldn't just let this be.

After a short while, the cast and back-stage workers exited, back in their school robes now and chattering excitedly about the "extremely realistic" acting that Amalia had done. She strolled out in the back of the crowd, a satisfied smirk on her face as the Herbology professor gushed at her from one side, and Davies stared in slavish adoration from the other, a arm draped across her shoulders. Was it on purpose that she was walking so slowly, and was the last to exit the Hall?

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Riddle stepped out of his hiding place.

"Riddle." she greeted cheerfully, coming to a halt. She didn't seem surprised at all.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Davies, surprisingly hostile.

Riddle didn't deign to even look at him. His presence was insignificant. His eyes were fixed on her, expression utterly unreadable.

The taller boy scowled at him, and seemed to tighten his grip around Amalia's slim shoulders.

"It's fine." Amalia said, sounding amused. She extricated herself from Davies' arm. "You may go on ahead," she told him dismissively. Her intense brown eyes were fixed on Riddle.

"Come, Ben," said Professor Beery sympathetically, doubtless reading the atmosphere as a love triangle, "You should get some sleep. That goes for you, too, my dear," he called out to Amalia as he steered Davies towards the Grand Staircase, "Don't stay up too late, now!"

"Of course, Professor." she replied, without looking at him.

Davies sent one last resentful glance over his shoulder at Riddle and Amalia, but reluctantly let himself be led away, back stiff with tension.

There was silence after they'd gone, broken only by the flames of the enchanted torches guttering from their sconces, throwing dancing shadows across the stone walls.

"So, what did you think?" she asked him, clasping her hands behind her back and tilting her head coquettishly, "Hm?"

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "You're acting's terrible," he snapped. He was lying through his teeth. Her acting was brilliant.

She didn't seem bothered. "Oh? I think I can be quite... convincing."

He felt a muscle just above his eye twitch. "I hope his tutoring was worth acting like a whore." he spat out. He regretted his outburst. It sounded like he was jealous.

Am I? Am I jealous? he pondered, feeling uneasy. But perhaps it was simpler. Amalia was his enemy. His prey. Of course he'd feel angered by anyone who came between them.

He felt relieved to have that figured out.

Amalia's grin didn't diminish. "Thanks."

He frowned.

"You said I acted like a whore," she explained, "Not that I was one."

"Could've fooled me," he sneered, rallying, "You seemed quite comfortable being all over him."

Dammit, again?! I'm not jealous! I'm disgusted. I'm... frustrated. Frustrated...?

"It was awkward at first," she admitted easily, unaware of his inner turmoil, "When I first got the script." she snorted, "And the costume. But then..." she looked at him side-long, "Well, certain things happened, and now it's easier. I can imagine it's someone else, you see."

He didn't know quite how to turn that around, so he decided to hastily change the subject. "You didn't answer my question."

She sighed. "To tell you the truth," she admitted, a little more serious now, "He's not quite the expert he claimed to be. Barely any help at all. I'm beginning to think it's actually his parents who are the ones to ask... Though," she mused suddenly, "He did invite me over for winter break. To meet the folks, you know. I think he feels bad for being utterly useless." she gave a wry smile.

Riddle gritted his teeth, "Well, seems like you've got it all figured out." he snarled. "I'm sure you'll have a good Christmas."

There was an awkward pause, as she just looked at him with those big, intelligent brown eyes, and he had no clue what she was thinking.

"I didn't say I was going." Amalia said mildly, after a moment.

She looked as if she was waiting for a reaction from him, but he simply glared.

He was regretting once again that he'd allowed curiosity to get the better of him. Talking to this girl never made him feel any less confused. Now would be as good a time as ever to end it. He pushed past her roughly, heading to the Grand Staircase.

"Wait."

He froze.

Amalia's hand was on his arm, a light pressure stopping him from leaving.

He felt the familiar anger spike from within, felt the usual don't touch me teeter on the tip of his tongue...

But for some reason, he said nothing. Did nothing. Felt like he was holding his breath... But, for what?

Amalia was evidently surprised too, by the small pause in which she braced herself, expecting some kind of outburst. When it didn't come, some of the tenseness left her posture, and then very deliberately, she didn't remove her hand. In fact, she slid her fingers up, oh-so-slowly, to rest on his bicep. Her palm was warm, her grasp feather-light.

He was far too conscious of it.

Still, he remained silent.

"After Christmas..." she started hesitantly. She was standing closer now.

"What about it?" he prompted coldly. But he still didn't ask her to move away.

"We don't have to fight." He turned to look at her fully, in disbelief. She looked nervous, but determined. She shook her head, "No, rather, I mean... I don't want to fight you anymore." Her gaze was earnest, "Listen, Riddle-"

"Just because you're getting cold feet-" he started, sneering.

"It's not like that," she denied immediately, "I'm not afraid of you."

"Then, what?" It was frustrating; she seemed genuine, but that didn't make sense. It must be another trick, a lie. "What do you want?" he demanded coldly, frustrated by not knowing what her angle was.

"We should work together."

"This bullshit, again?" He gave a short, derisive laugh, which stopped abruptly as she scowled. "Wait. You're serious."

"Of course I'm serious." said Amalia, exasperated. "It's logical - c'mon, you must have thought about it, too!"

He swallowed, feeling cornered. Suddenly even more aware of her hand. Why, after everything, did she still dare to touch him?

"We could do great things together," she said persuasively, and her words felt like they had weight. Her eyes darkened with promise, her lips curling into a small smile, "Others might think badly of us. But we could do great things, you and I."

He stared into her eyes, which promised... what?

"... Riddle?" Amalia gazed into his face, searching for any sign that he was caving. "There's no one else who could understand what we-"

"Don't flatter yourself." he cut her off bluntly, finding his voice and his reason again.

She could already tell it had been a foolish hope. She'd come close to beating him too many times for his pride to allow it. She read only hatred in his glare as he said coldly, "You are nothing like me." with a jerk, he pulled his arm free and backed away from her, glaring.

The hurt she experienced was sharp and humiliating. He'd just rejected her... again. And this rejection felt important. It felt like he'd just chosen a path she couldn't follow him down. A fate she would have no part of. It felt wrong.

But there was nothing more to be done; he'd made up his mind, and she was out of time. "Fine." she snapped, pushing down her disappointment. "Don't regret it." she strode away angrily without another word.

He watched her leave with mixed feelings. For a moment there, he'd felt very uncomfortable with her suggestion.

Because he'd allowed himself to imagine it for a moment; them, working together instead of against each other. It was true, she was talented. He'd never met anyone else like her before, and he acknowledged that they were both equally good at getting what they wanted (albeit with different methods). Working together towards common goals was scarily logical... But 'teaming up' with someone else had never been a logical option before. He didn't need anyone. He didn't want anyone.

She was no exception...

Right?

Saturday afternoon...

The very next day was their last detention with Dumbledore, in the early afternoon, while everyone else was enjoying themselves in Hogsmeade. Riddle seemed to be in a worse mood than usual, but he was back to ignoring Amalia, and barely said a word as they settled down to mark the usual pile of essays from the lower years.

"So, Ms Gray, how are you feeling about the play on Monday?" Dumbledore asked pleasantly into the somewhat tense silence.

"More confident, I guess." she answered without looking up. She sounded oddly subdued. "What did you think of our rehearsal?"

"Well, the little I saw when I dropped by was certainly... interesting." he acknowledged. "Your acting was exemplary. But I do wonder what the less... ahem... progressive teachers will have to say about the plot."

That brought a small smirk to her face. Clearly, the prospect of scandalizing and potentially offending her teachers appealed greatly to her.

"Did you have time to drop by, Tom?" Dumbledore asked lightly, but there was nothing casual about his sudden x-ray vision.

Riddle looked up cautiously, sensing some deeper meaning to the question. But it was probably not wise to lie. "I did, Sir." he confirmed stiffly. "Very briefly."

Dumbledore nodded to himself, as if just confirming some suspicion. He looked back to Amalia.

"Ms Gray, there's no need to be alarmed, but I had some news from Madam Romalda today."

"The school nurse?" she looked confused.

"Yes. It's your co-star, Mr Davies. He was admitted to the Hospital Wing shortly before breakfast this morning."

Her eyes widened. "Merlin! Why? Is he alright? Do you know what happened?"

He waved a hand. "Calm yourself, Ms Gray. As I said, there's no need to be alarmed. It seems the extent of his injuries are only a few minor - if rather nasty - burns. He should make a full recovery well before the production on Monday."

She exhaled in relief. "Professor Beery must be freaking out." she mused. "Has he said anything? Who was responsible?"

"That's the interesting part." Dumbledore said, shooting a glance at Riddle, who was listening with an impassive expression. "He won't say anything about the incident. Nothing at all."

"Pity." Amalia sighed.

"... Indeed."

Riddle went back to marking his essays without comment, and the time crawled by, Dumbledore shooting suspicious glances his way every now and then.

When Dumbledore eventually told them they could leave, he held up a hand to stop Riddle's usual dash to freedom. "Tom. Remain behind a moment. I must talk with you."

Riddle froze, his face unreadable, then nodded, packing his bag slowly.

Amalia looked between them with a slight frown, feeling uneasy. But she had no excuse to stay. She packed up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and sauntered out with a polite "good afternoon". Once outside the door she immediately whispered an eavesdropping charm and shamelessly pressed her ear to the door.

"So, Tom?" asked Dumbledore, his usual serene voice cold and hard. "Do you want to confess?"

"I have nothing to confess, Sir." Riddle snapped coldly, clearly fighting to keep his tone civil.

"Really? The lack of evidence is starting to become a pattern with you."

"Are you saying the lack of evidence of my involvement... is now evidence of my involvement?" Riddle demanded incredulously.

"Watch your tongue, Tom."

After a stiff silence, Riddle gritted out a barely apologetic, "Sir."

"Don't think your actions won't have consequences." Dumbledore continued, "Did you think I wouldn't be able to do anything because you're heading back to the orphanage on Wednesday?"

"I haven't done anything wrong."

"No? Why do you persist with lies? It seems you can't control yourself. Magic is a gift, Tom, but with that gift comes responsibility. Maturity. Restraint. Qualities you are clearly deficient in."

"Is there a point to this conversation, Professor?" Riddle asked bluntly. Amalia thought he sounded very restrained, given the circumstances.

"Your wand, Tom." Dumbledore said grimly. "You'll be entrusting it to my care for the winter break. Since it's clear you can't control yourself, I'll be taking the instrument of your power. Perhaps when you get it back you'll appreciate the responsibility of having power over others."

"Sir, you can't-!" Riddle suddenly sounded anxious, and it made Amalia pause. She'd never heard him sound anxious before. "Please, Sir, I swear I didn't do anything. I won't- Just, not my wand-"

She could be knocked down with a feather. He was seriously upset. It didn't sound like an act.

But Dumbledore remained unmoved. "And just what do you want with a wand in Muggle London? You're not allowed to use magic outside of school. This should have no effect on your enjoyment of winter break, besides the removal of temptation."

"Fine." Riddle seemed to rally, his voice getting new hope, "Take my wand. But let me stay at Hogwarts - as you say, I won't be able to use magic, and-"

"Tom, we've been over this-" Dumbledore gave a displeased sigh.

"Yes, but I thought perhaps you'd reconsider, if-"

"If you are unhappy at the orphanage, put your complaint in writing and submit it to Headmaster Dippet." Dumbledore's voice was bordering on irritable. "I can have you moved if there's a legitimate reason for concern."

Amalia's eyes widened in surprise. He was unhappy at the orphanage...? Well, it was a muggle orphanage, of course he hated it. But this sounded like a conversation they'd had many times before.

"Every other student has the option to stay at Hogwarts during the holidays, sir," Riddle burst out. "I just want to know why-"

"You know very well why." came Dumbledore's low voice. "After what happened in your first year, with the other boys? I know it was you."

Riddle was silent for a long moment, and Amalia could easily picture his wooden expression. She wondered if they were talking about that incident Callidora and Anne had once mentioned. Riddle had been bullied by older students... and then suddenly they'd stopped. And there had been an investigation into the matter, because evidently they'd been found with some kind of magical injury...

After a long moment, Riddle made one last-ditch effort.

"What if I gave you my word, sir, that during the holidays I wouldn't-" he sounded quite desperate. This was the closest to begging Amalia had ever heard him.

"The answer's no." Dumbledore cut him off with a note of finality.

There was a long, angry silence, and Amalia suddenly realized they had finished the conversation. She just had time to duck behind a broad-shouldered suit of armour before Riddle stormed out, pure misery on his face as he stalked off down the corridor, unaware that the entire conversation had just been overheard.

"So," Rosier said in a no-nonsense tone as he slid onto the bench next to Amalia, making Charlotte squeak and move out of his way.

Amalia raised her eyebrow at him. "So?" she parroted back, sounding disinterested and moody as she poked at her pudding. It was Tuesday night. The night after the play - which had been a great success, except for Professor Fairchilde screeching in protest during the intervals. The next day the vast majority of the school were leaving for winter break. As a result, everyone seemed in high spirits... except her.

"Something's up with Riddle." Rosier stated bluntly, leaning closer. "This is the third meal he's missed in a row. It's got something to do with you, hasn't it?"

Everyone was in high spirits except her and Riddle, it seemed.

She stabbed at her treacle tart as if it had just given her a personal insult. "He's the one being an idiot." she snapped. "I was perfectly nice, and what do I get? He called me a whore and then rejected my very generous overtures of peace."

Rosier's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Yes, really. He needs to get over himself. I don't care anymore." she snapped, and abandoned her spoon, shoving her bowl away from her. "I've had enough." It was unclear whether she was talking about the tart or just life in general. She got up and stalked away, ignoring the stares of her friends.

Rosier was not so easily daunted, however, and she heard his determined feet trotting after her as she slipped out of the hall. He'd certainly found his confidence after the whole nearly-being-tortured-to-death incident. Which didn't make much sense, but there it was.

"Are you going to speak with him?" he pestered, following her onto the Grand Staircase. They paused as the heavy stone steps swung with a tired groan to the next landing.

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" snorted Amalia humourlessly. "I've given him every chance to see sense. I'm done with him. If you must know, I'm going to the Library. It'll be my last chance until after Christmas."

"You're leaving the castle?" Rosier exclaimed in surprise.

"Obviously."

"Oh. I thought... Where are you staying?"

She shot him a crooked smile. "Full of questions tonight, aren't you?"

"Is it a secret?" he asked, blinking at her. "I mean... You don't have to tell me if you don't want to..."

She almost laughed at his puppy-eyes. At least that asshole hadn't destroyed the trusting, eager-to-please side of him. Yet, anyway.

"If anyone asks, I'm staying with Dora's family for Christmas. That's what it says on my permission slip, anyway."

"But you'll actually be...?" he trailed off inquisitively.

"... Busy." she said cryptically.

"Oh. Um, okay."

Clearly, he wasn't going to get anything else out of her.

Wednesday afternoon, the Hogwarts Express...

Anne Flint watched with wide eyes as Amalia packed about half the food trolley into her small shoulder-bag, her whole arm up to her elbow disappearing each time she reached in.

"Is all of that really necessary?" Anne asked faintly.

Amalia shrugged, cheerfully stacking three pumpkin pasties and carefully placing them inside the enchanted bag. "I've got to eat."

"Where on earth are you planning to go?"

"Ah, well, you never know," she said breezily. "Best to be prepared."

Amalia was a little concerned about Christmas break. The message that had come with the locket had been a threat, the "Merry Christmas" a not-so-subtle hint. They were coming for her. And unlike Riddle, she had been given the opportunity to stay at Hogwarts in the holidays. It was logically the safest option. The castle was nigh impregnable. However, it was also true that it would be virtually empty in the holidays; the perfect opportunity for some kind of ambush. She would be alone except for a handful of students and a couple of professors. Dumbledore, Slughorn, the Headmaster... everyone was leaving. Anne, Callidora and Charlotte were also going home.

Ironically, it was them who gave her the answer to the dilemma, when Callidora cheerfully invited Amalia to stay with her. She'd just need Slughorn, as her Head of House, to sign the permission slip. But she had decided from the beginning not to risk putting her new friends in danger, however tempting a normal Christmas holiday in a family setting was.

Once she had signed permission to leave with Callidora, she had her ticket out into the world, where she was quite practiced at taking care of herself. She would hide no longer, but keep mobile and cautious. There was plenty she needed to do. First on the list was further research into the Moving Stones; she still needed to translate those runes. She was also determined to do some research into her own murky past. She needed to find out who sent the locket, and what they wanted. This meant she needed to lay a trap for her pursuers... which was dangerous.

"You can still change your mind," Callidora said hopefully, "Actually come over to my place for Christmas like everyone thinks you are? True, the Blacks are not the friendliest of people, but you'd be practically treated like royalty, since you're the last Gray and all." she frowned. "Come to think of it, my aunts and uncles may very well try to set you up with some of my cousins..."

"Is that your attempt to convince me to visit?" Amalia laughed, amused. "I have no interest in arranged marriages."

Anne and Callidora exchanged glances. "Well," said Anne with a small smile, "I suppose you'll always have Riddle, won't you?"

Instantly her mood soured. "Why would you say that?" she snapped. "I have nothing to do with that bastard!" finished with the pile of food, she closed the top of her bag and threw herself back against her seat, scowling at the snowflakes swirling outside the window.

Callidora raised her eyebrows. "Wow, bite our heads off, why don't you?"

Amalia sighed. "...Sorry. I just... I had a fight with him, again... and I've just had enough. Can we change the subject?" she pleaded.

"Nope." Callidora said firmly, a determined glint in her eye.

Anne shifted closer on the train seat. "Last week he was so openly jealous, though. So, was your fight over Davies?" she asked.

Amalia frowned. "Well - yes, but... I mean, no, actually-" she stopped. "I don't... think so?" They'd fought about Riddle refusing to accept her offer of peace, but it was true the only way she'd managed to get his attention at all was because of Davies. Did that make him the true reason for the fight? And, if so... What did that say about Riddle's true feelings? How indifferent was he, really?

Charlotte came into the conversation for the first time. "Was it because he put Davies in the Hospital Wing?"

Her round cheeks went pink under Amalia's contemptuous glare. "No, of course not."

"Then-" Anne started.

"... wasn't him anyway." Amalia muttered, barely audible.

There was a short silence.

"Then, who-?" Charlotte squeaked, confused, at the same time as Anne clapped a hand over her mouth and said, "Oh no... you didn't!"

Amalia straightened up in her seat. "I did." she confirmed, louder. "And so what?"

Predictably, Callidora seemed thrilled by the drama instead of scandalized. "Bwahahaha!" she cackled, "Seriously! He was so hot, too! Oh, did he come onto you? When was this?! Why on earth didn't you tell us?!"

To hell with discretion, Amalia thought tiredly. "Yes," she admitted stubbornly, sitting straighter, "That idiot came onto me. Friday night after rehearsals he was waiting for me outside of the Common Room. I told him to back off... and then I made him back off."

Charlotte nodded solemnly, knowing just what Amalia was capable of.

Anne frowned. "Are you sure it was necessary to send him to the Hospital Wing, though?"

Amalia rolled her eyes. "Well, no, but... I was in a bad mood, for... various reasons. I lost my temper."

"But everyone's saying Riddle did it!" Callidora exclaimed. "I really thought-"

"We all did." reassured Anne. "Because everyone thought you were dating, and that you broke up, and got publicly close with Davies, and then he ends up in the Hospital Wing... You can see why people make assumptions."

Amalia felt a hot surge of anger. "None of that actually happened!" she snarled.

"We know that now," Anne said in her infuriatingly calm and rational way, "But you didn't really deny any of those rumours at the time, did you?"

She was absolutely right. Now Amalia was feeling a real pang of guilt on top of everything else. It wasn't a feeling she was accustomed to. "I know." she said, oddly subdued. "Dumbledore confiscated his wand for the holidays because he thought Riddle was responsible for attacking Davies. Of course Ben was too embarrassed to admit he was assaulted by a girl."

"But Dumbledore had no proof against Riddle?" Anne seemed shocked.

Amalia grimaced. "Yeah well, Dumbledore's more than a little biased..."

Callidora looked unconcerned. "Serves the asshole right, doesn't it? Aren't you always going on about how he's such a horrible person?"

Amalia felt uneasy. She didn't mind being victorious in their little games, but now Dumbledore and the rest of the school were getting involved. She didn't feel comfortable with him taking the fall for her actions.

"Well..." she muttered uncomfortably, "What's done is done, I guess..."

Callidora yawned and stretched out, swinging her legs across Anne's lap, causing the other girl to roll her eyes, though she indulgently allowed her to stay like that. "What I don't get," Callidora drawled, "Is how Davies could pull off such a great performance on Monday, after spending the weekend with a broken heart and a melting face in the Hospital Wing?"

"His face wasn't melting," Amalia exclaimed, annoyed, "And we practiced that play for so many weeks, we could all do a perfect performance in our sleep." But that wasn't quite true.

She'd neglected to mention the fact that no, Benjamin Davies hadn't been okay at all... In fact, he'd downright refused to act opposite her after she'd rejected him so... violently. She'd had no choice but to put him under the Imperius Curse just to get through the play smoothly. Of course, she wasn't about to admit that to her friends. They were loyal and she trusted them... But Unforgivables were... Unforgivable. It was one of possibly the most illegal spells in the wizarding world, though she didn't really understand why. In her opinion, there were worse spells out there.

And it was tricky, even though it wasn't nearly her first time casting it (Belby had experienced it at the rehearsal too, so it wasn't even technically the first time she'd used it on stage). Even so, it had been incredibly stressful to be casting a spell that would get her thrown in prison for life... Right in front of basically the whole student body and staff. Dippet would have had an aneurysm had he known. Dumbledore... might actually have found a way to pin it on Riddle again. Since that seemed to be a habit of his.

Fortunately, the girls seemed to accept her reasoning without question.

"The play was awesome." Callidora said dreamily. It was about the fiftieth time she'd said so since Monday night. "The drama... the gore... the horror..."

"Isn't that just describing you getting up in the morning?" Amalia chuckled.

Callidora gestured rudely in her direction, but continued with a grin, "You know, they're calling you the Queen of Slytherin."

"What?" laughed Amalia, in disbelief. "No, they're not."

"They are!" piped up Charlotte shrilly, "You... you have a fan club!" she went pink again under Amalia's incredulous look.

"And just who is in this fan club?" she demanded, as Callidora sniggered at her expression.

Charlotte shrugged. "Um, I heard that a bunch of Ravenclaw girls started it."

She had a sudden suspicion who that was. Olive Hornby, and all her little idiot friends...

Anne smiled at the look of revulsion on Amalia's face. "You should feel flattered."

"I'm... disturbed, actually." she said drily. "And anyway, why is my fan club female?"

"Boys don't really form fan clubs," Charlotte said matter-of-factly. "That's not to say you aren't popular among them, of course." she added hastily, wilting under Amalia's narrowed eyes. "It's just... people have always considered Riddle the King of Slytherin, and now..."

"Oh? You seem to comprehend a great deal about this?" Amalia said menacingly. "You wouldn't happen to be in one of my fan clubs, would you?"

"Of course not!" Charlotte blustered immediately. She blanched, "That is to say, of c-course I'm your fan, I mean, I like you, I just never-"

This twit is so transparent. "Is it possible," drawled Amalia, fixing Charlotte with a bad-tempered stare, "That certain rumours may have been perpetuated among the student populace, by a certain individual who may have claimed to have an 'inside scoop', as it were...?"

Charlotte blinked dumbly.

Anne kindly decided to translate. "Did you tell people that Riddle and Amalia were a thing?"

"No!" she denied instantly, but her face turning the colour of a tomato told the opposite story.

Amalia grimaced. "Ugh. This is so dumb..." King and Queen of Slytherin, indeed... "I wonder what Riddle thinks of that." Probably just another reason to despise me.

"I still don't know why you care." Callidora shrugged.

"I just feel bad that Dumbledore's treating him so..." she struggled to find the words, "...Unfairly."

"He had to leave his wand at school. Big deal, right? What was he gonna use it for, anyway? We all have the Trace on us."

Amalia bit her lip. "It just... he seemed upset about it. Like, he really needed his wand for something..."

"Riddle, upset?" Callidora's face scrunched up like she was pain as she struggled to picture it. She stopped with a resigned exhale. "Nope, I can't imagine it. He has four modes," she counted them off on her fingers, "Polite, neutral, angry and evil. Of course, sexy goes without saying, it's added on with a hyphen to each mode, for example, polite-sexy. Evil-sexy. Neutral-sexy... and so on."

"What on earth are you saying?" Anne shook her head, looking amused.

Amalia seemed like she hadn't heard a word, staring out of the window and lost in her own thoughts. "He's going back to the orphanage, and it's only for two weeks. Why would he need his wand?" she muttered. Her breath misted on the cold glass.

Callidora and Anne exchanged a resigned look and changed the subject, chatting about their plans for Christmas.

Only Charlotte remained quiet, glancing curiously at Amalia, who was now frowning.

"No, I can't." Charlotte heard her mutter to herself. "Why should I?" she was chewing on her lip. "...Don't even know which orphanage he's in..."

"I do." Charlotte said suddenly, voice quiet. Callidora and Anne didn't hear her, continuing with their own conversation.

But Amalia turned in surprise; she hadn't even known the other girl was listening. "What?" she said sharply. Her eyes were suddenly very bright.

Charlotte shrugged, "Um. I know what the name is, anyway. Lestrange," she blushed and looked down. "Well, he... mentioned it by name once. He said, 'Riddle's always in a bad mood when he has to go back to Wool's Orphanage...' I think that's what he said." She was afraid Amalia was going to get revenge on her for spreading false rumours. "Is that, um..." she looked nervous, "Helpful?"

Amalia stared at her for a long moment, her mind ticking away at the speed of light.

Charlotte suppressed a shiver at her sudden smirk.

"No." Amalia said carelessly, turning back to the window, as if bored. "As if I care."

But the small smirk curving her lips didn't disappear.

Chapter Text

It was Billy Stubbs' fault.

The boy was roughly Tom's age, but about a head taller and built like an ox. His intelligence was inversely proportionate to his size. Plus, he seriously had it in for Tom, ever since Tom had killed Billy's rabbit at the age of seven.

So it wasn't wholly unexpected when he'd shouldered Tom roughly as he walked past on the stairs, hard enough to bruise, the very first day back for the Christmas break.

Of course, Tom was no stranger to violence; the orphanage wasn't exactly a peaceful environment in which to grow up. The children were from the areas of poorest London, and with barely a few years of proper education, most were destined to end up in factories and workhouses. Except for Tom, of course, who went to a fancy school for most of the year. His superior attitude also didn't encourage any bonding with the other children. He was universally despised by all the others, as well as feared to a certain extent. As a result, they took to travelling in packs, like animals out for blood, and he was careful to lock his door at night.

He had no magic or popularity here, no possible way to physically defend himself besides his wit and the will to survive. It was at the orphanage, long before Hogwarts, that he had learnt how to get revenge in ways that couldn't be traced back to him. Billy was his most outspoken enemy, and therefore often found himself the victim of strange 'accidents'. One time he lost the tip of his finger to a slamming door on a windless day. Another time, he was rushed to hospital after ingesting shards of glass lurking in his leek and potato soup. But despite everything Tom tried, Billy Stubbs was like a cockroach; always somehow avoiding serious or fatal injury. Tom attributed it to luck and an abnormally durable build. He also seemed too stupid to to be intimidated by supernatural means, like many of the others.

"You got somethin' to say, freak?" Billy challenged, lip curling, as Tom mutely rubbed his bruised shoulder.

He said nothing in the face of Billy's posturing. Physical confrontation was not his style, and he had made a decision to lay low. Consoling himself by picturing ways to eventually put the idiot in his place - or possibly kill him, once and for all - Tom merely clenched his teeth and kept walking, doing his best to ignore the cretin's scornful laugh.

"Yeah, I thought so!" the boy jeered, his voice ringing in the orphanage halls. "You're pathetic!"

Tom stopped. His eye twitched.

Screw laying low.

He couldn't just let that go unpunished.

And so, the next day, Billy found himself the victim of yet another inexplicable 'accident'. A large vase had been balanced precariously on the banister at the top of the stairs (no one saw who did it). Right at the exact moment the unfortunate boy was passing under the vase two storeys below, a door upstairs was slammed violently (no one knew by whom) causing a draft of air to make the vase wobble, then fall with perfectly timed accuracy, directly over Billy's head.

Knocked to the floor and motionless, the other children excitedly gathered around as blood soaked into the threadbare carpet.

A flurry of activity and an ambulance later, the hunt for the culprit began. "Tom Riddle!" shrieked Miranda, marching up the stairs in a black mood, "Get out here, you little shit!"

Tom had an alibi, of course. Three young, wide-eyed kids testified that he'd been reading a book in a quiet corner of the playroom at the time of the incident.

Miranda wasn't convinced.

"This kind of thing only happens when you're back here!" she accused furiously, pacing up and down his cramped room.

"You have no proof." Tom said calmly. Perhaps that should be my official catchphrase, he mused drily.

"How many times has Billy been put in hospital because of you? I don't know how you do it, but I know it's you!" she yelled, spittle flying. "Do you think this place can afford more medical bills?!"

"Oh, does that mean he's going to recover?" Tom said, displeased. He looked back at his book and idly turned a page. "Think of all the money you'd have saved if he died."

"I- you little-!" the woman spluttered, turning purple.

Tom ignored her. Miranda wouldn't do anything worse than yell. Over the years she'd come to realize, like many of the residents of the orphanage, that Tom was different. When Tom was twelve years old, Miranda took over the orphanage from the sickly Mrs Cole. She'd tried to get him to move out of his single room to share with another boy; naturally, he refused. He liked his space. That was something that the mouse-ish Mrs Cole had understood, but Miranda hadn't yet known. Things escalated, he'd pulled his wand, and minor items on tables and shelves had moved while the lamplight flickered creepily. Nothing overt enough to trigger the Trace, but it was enough. He'd been given his space and fear-induced respect ever since... most of the time, anyway.

Because of his wand.

Which he no longer had.

That fact secretly made him very uncomfortable, despite his calm exterior. The only way he coped with living nose-deep in muggle filth was the knowledge that if he truly wanted to (or needed to) he could blast them all to kingdom come with a flick of his wrist. But it wasn't only important as a weapon to him. It was a reminder that he was worthy. That he was powerful... He was special.

But how could he have explained all that to Dumbledore, a man who'd known his whole life who he was, where he belonged? He'd probably never had to go a day without magic. His wand was a part of his identity - without it, he felt like a part of his soul was missing. It was an anchor tying him to the magical world; without it, he felt horribly paranoid that somehow it all just wasn't real. It didn't matter that he was currently reading a book on Goblin Wars; the irrational fear remained. It was his one big secret, this irrational anxiety that oneday... he would open his eyes and realize it had all been a cruel dream, a fantasy to help him cope with a mundane life.

As if sensing his secret vulnerability, Miranda narrowed her eyes. "Billy's coming back tomorrow, Tom." she said nastily. "And you know what? I think he deserves to know just who was responsible for putting him in the hospital."

"I didn't do anything."

"You can tell that to Billy when he gets home."

Riddle unconsciously tightened his grip on the book, but kept his face neutral.

"If he thinks I'm responsible, he'll try to kill me."

"Think of all the money we'd save if you died, right?" she snapped, throwing his own words back in his face.

He stared at her. "I wasn't aware you were starting up a children's fight club." he spat venomously.

"Harold and I agree that you two have some differences to sort out." Harold was the resident cook and disciplinarian. He also happened to be the town drunk. Of course this twisted idea was his. "We're going to let you two clear the air, like men... And that'll be the end of it."

Are you serious?! This was a new low, even for her.

She went to the door, fishing out a jangling ring of iron keys from her apron.

He slowly put down his book, swallowing around a dry throat. "Wait. Are you-"

"Sleep tight, Tom." she slammed his door shut, and he heard the key scrape in the lock.

He had no intention to wait around to see if she was serious about letting Billy have his revenge.

Using a piece of wire he'd salvaged from one of his bedsprings, he got to work picking the lock with cold fingers. It took hours, but he felt uncharacteristically patient about it. The tedium of the task should have been frustrating, as the wire kept bending out of shape, but he felt numb to the situation. He knew running was only postponing the inevitable, but he wasn't apathetic enough to give up without trying. Eventually he was free, and wasted no time walking through the sleeping orphanage to exit through the back door, using the spare key he found on a windowsill.

Outside, he hunched his shoulders against the frigid, early morning air and walked quickly down the street as the grim dawn broke, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. The coat wasn't suitable for the depths of winter; hypothermia was a distinct possibility. He scowled at the purpling clouds overhead, as the snow fell thick and fast, as if mocking him.

There would be no sun today.

It seemed appropriate.

He walked quickly down the street, his feet crunching on the black ice, and to any casual observer (not that there was one; people with any sense wouldn't be out in this weather) it seemed like he had a purpose, maybe some destination he was anxious to get to. But that wasn't true. In fact, it was merely the instinct of self-preservation that drove him onwards, aimlessly walking around the grimy streets of poorest London.

About three hours later, he found himself in a miserable-looking park, complete with rusted swing-sets and trash poking through the carpet of slushy snow. It wasn't far from the orphanage; he'd gone in a meandering loop, knowing he'd have to return eventually. There was nowhere else to go. He made his way over to a low wall next to a skeletal tree, and without a better plan in mind, he threw himself down against it, sheltering from the wind in a vain attempt to conserve what little body-heat he had left.

He knew he couldn't stay in one place for long; he had no intention of freezing to death. His breath was cold, no longer misting in front of him. Ironically, his lungs felt like they were burning.

A moment of stillness was all it took for his bitterness and hate to surge within him again, sweeping away his apathy and replacing it with something hotter, and uglier. The ever-present rage simmering inside had always sustained him through tough times.

He thought back on the past three days of hell - it had only been three days into his Christmas holiday - and mused about how quickly everything had gone to shit. If he had his wand, at least he could defend himself. Self-defense was allowed for underage wizards, though there would have been a tedious hearing. He knew in his heart that even if he'd had his wand, he wouldn't use it for fear Dumbledore would expel him once and for all. He'd endure any amount of pain and humiliation to remain at Hogwarts.

Not long into his musing, however, he heard the sounds of approaching boots crunching through the snow. There were two, but he could guess from the sound of familiar, obnoxious mouth-breathing just who they were. He briefly considered trying to sneak away before he was seen - but immediately gave up on the idea. He was in no condition to fight or flee... He would just have to endure it, like he always did.

He stood up quietly, dusting the snow off his coat with numb hands.

Billy Stubbs was accompanied by his friend, Eric Whalley, smaller in stature but no less thick.

"Still alive, I see." he commented, sounding contemptuous.

Billy sported a large, white bandage wrapped around his head like a turban, but otherwise seemed annoyingly healthy. "No thanks to you." he growled.

"You're gonna pay!" piped up Eric. Everyone at the orphanage despised Riddle (some for arguably good reason) and it was clear they were looking forward to a little revenge. He mused that at least out here there were only two. If he'd stayed at the orphanage, who knew how many of the others might have joined in.

"I wasn't anywhere nearby, when it happened." His denial was half-hearted, at best. He was tired and cold. He wanted this to be over.

Billy shrugged, stomping closer threateningly. "That's not what I heard."

Tom held his ground and looked at him up-and-down, "Don't you have a concussion or something? At least?" he demanded, bitterly disappointed that he hadn't thought of weighting the vase with a couple of bricks.

Billy grinned, displaying a missing tooth, and shook his head. "Nah. The doctor said m'brain's absolutely fine."

"Well, aren't you lucky?" he drawled, holding back his shivering (from the cold, of course) with pure willpower. "I suppose you can't damage what you don't have."

It took Billy a few seconds to realize just how he'd been insulted.

He cracked his knuckles meaningfully. "No one's gonna miss a freak like you."

Later that day...

Amalia gazed up at the forbidding building with some trepidation. An iron gate stood half-open, slightly rusted, with big letters that spelled "WOOL'S ORPHANAGE". The place didn't look in very good condition, but there were lights on inside. She shivered slightly in the cold - it was already dark.

Did Tom really live here? She couldn't picture it. Her curiosity grew, and she strode purposefully towards the double front doors.

It was a full minute before anyone heard her polite pull on the bell.

"Yes?" a thin-lipped woman with frazzled hair opened the door and gave her a bad-tempered stare.

She hid her annoyance at the woman's rudeness, and smiled brightly. "Good evening! I was wondering if I might intrude for a short visit with one of your charges."

The woman gave her a suspicious up-and-down look, taking in her fine wool coat, calfskin boots, the silver pin holding her hair back.

"I think you got the wrong place, Missy." she told her, and made to shut the door.

Thwack.

Amalia's hand stung with the force needed to keep the heavy door ajar, but she didn't let her friendly smile slip. "Oh, I don't think so." she said pleasantly, inclining her head. "You see, I'm here to see Tom Riddle. I'm a friend of his, from school." Well, friend was stretching it a bit, but...

She was surprised by the fleeting panic on the woman's face, followed swiftly by anger. "I don't know what you've heard, girl, but I assure you you're in the wrong place! Good day!" at with that, she wrenched the door shut. Amalia heard a bolt slide home with a heavy thunk.

"Huh." she stepped back, biting her lip thoughtfully. That reaction had been... unexpected.

She paced slowly around the side of the building, gazing up at the bricks, stained grey with pollution. There was a small window open just a little near the back door.

She grinned. Perfect.

Shapeshifting into her cat form took only a moment, and she relished the feeling of confidence that always accompanied. Cats were so self-assured.

Before she could sink into the snow, she leapt up onto the windowsill agilely. She slipped through the opening and looked around, her luminous amber eyes taking in the scene effortlessly. She was in a kitchen - it was empty for the moment. She leapt down onto the tiled floor, her velvet-padded paws not making a sound.

Slinking through the halls, she realized the place was much bigger than she'd expected. Or did it just seem that way, while she was in such a small form? Not knowing where to start looking, she made her way back towards the front door, following the muffled sounds of the rude woman's voice. Her senses were sharp; it seemed that the orphans were all upstairs. Perhaps they'd just finished dinner?

The black cat crouched under a chair in the hall, blending effortlessly into the shadows, and listened.

"... asking questions." said the woman from the room directly off the hall. She sounded anxious.

"Stop your naggin', woman," ordered a man's voice. "It'll be fine. Boys get into scraps all o'the time. Doctor Jessum's comin' tomorrow morning to see him, he'll patch him up. None will be the wiser."

"But if that school has found out... I bet that's why that little shit tried to run this morning. He might have contacted that... Professor!"

"Then why'd some girl pitch up?" grunted the man obstinately, "You're over-thinkin' things. Anyway, I made sure he can't get out again. Okay? So quit your whining."

The woman subsided reluctantly, muttering.

"An' bring me that whiskey. We deserve a little pick-me-up, eh?"

The woman's steps drew nearer to the door, and she chuckled. "That's the first sensible thing you've said all night, Harold." she closed the door with a snap.

The black cat's tail started lashing as she emerged from her hiding place, sharp claws digging into the dirty carpet.

It sounded like Tom's situation was worse than she'd thought. Throwing caution to the winds, she transformed back into her normal form and strode up the stairs with a menacing scowl.

The first room she came to was open, and she didn't hesitate before marching right in.

"Who-who're you?" squeaked a brown-haired boy, maybe about ten years old. He stared up from his position on the ground, his peeling wooden toy train falling from his grubby hands.

She didn't have time to be polite, and grabbed his upper arm, yanking him to his feet. With her other hand she smothered his yelp, glaring him into wide-eyed silence.

"Where's Tom Riddle?"

The boy gulped audibly.

"I'm waiting." she gave him a little shake.

"Um... at the end of the hall... and third door on the right..."

"Will I need keys?"

He shook his head. "It's not locked."

That didn't sound right. Downstairs, the man called Harold had said he'd made sure Riddle couldn't escape. She felt a prickle of unease.

"Why?"

"...Wh-what?"

"Why isn't his door locked?"

The boy's face was confused for a moment, before he seemed to recall something. "Um... well... I don't think he can walk, so..."

She stared at him blankly for long moment.

"Stay in your room." she ordered mechanically, and let him go.

She strode down the hall purposefully, not caring that her presence was no longer going unnoticed. Some kids had seen her - she clearly didn't belong - and others were poking their heads out of their rooms, curious and excited. She ignored them and continued, shoving aside any runts stupid enough to get in her way.

At last she came to the plain door- exactly the same as all the others - that was supposed to be Tom's. As the boy had said, it wasn't locked. She considered knocking, but her hand was already pushing the door open. She just entered and closed it on the curious whispers from the other orphans. Hopefully they wouldn't be disturbed for a while.

Then, she turned to survey the room.

It was small, with spartan furnishings; just a bed, a desk, and a narrow cupboard. Riddle's bag lay on the desk ; he'd obviously only taken a few of his belongings with for the short, two-week holiday, next to a book on Goblin Wars. Other than that, the room was completely empty of personality.

She turned her attention to the bed, upon which the person she'd come to see was lying, motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

"Shit, Riddle." she breathed, stepping closer, eyes wide on his pale face. A shadow of a nasty, purpling bruise lay across one cheek, and his lips were cut and bleeding. He was lying in an unnaturally stiff position, as if he'd been placed there while unconscious. To her fury, she noticed that the man Harold had tied one of his wrists to the bed-post, twisted at an awkward angle behind him with a length of rope. What the hell kind of medieval orphanage was this?!

Clearly, he'd endured a severe beating. By whom? The skin of his knuckles was torn up, so at least he'd put up some kind of a fight. She couldn't see the extent of the damage on the rest of him, and gingerly peered at the skin around his neck. She thought she could spy further bruises on the exposed skin, but was reluctant to peek beneath his shirt. She'd learnt her lesson about how much he hated that. Also, the fact he had been left in only a thin shirt was appaling; it was freezing in the room, and they hadn't even bothered to cover him with a blanket.

She made a decision right there on the spot. Whether it was a foolish one, or not... she'd have to find out.

"Riddle," she said gently. "Can you hear me? Wake up. Riddle...?"

She was starting to think he really was still unconscious, after all, when suddenly his eyelids fluttered.

"That's it. Open your eyes." she encouraged, and took a few steps back. She didn't want to give him a heart-attack when he saw her.

He came back to the world with a pained groan, his expression tensing as he instinctively tried to curl onto his side. Clearly, the movement was a bad idea, as he fell back with a gasp, the fingers of his free hand dragging at the bedsheets as he dealt with the pain, panting raggedly.

Then, he saw her.

"N-no..." Riddle whispered, anguished, his dark eyes staring. "No!"

No, this can't be happening... not here... She's not here... She's not seeing me like this...!

"Well, that's not a very flattering reaction," the girl said, clearly striving to sound her usual sarcastic and calm self. But her half-hearted smirk slipped quickly off her face, her brown eyes serious, yet unreadable.

She was staring at him. He stared right back.

"What are you doing here?" he forced out eventually, between clenched teeth. Disgust, anger and shame twisted his insides into writhing coils of anxiety as he watched her look down at him with her steady brown eyes.

She looked serious, but there was no pity in her gaze. He was thankful for that - he wouldn't have been able to handle it. Better she laugh. Why wasn't she laughing?

He gritted his teeth and carefully dragged himself into an upright position, with his back supported by the cold metal bars at the end of the bed. He felt bones grate in his side, a stabbing pain making black spots explode in his vision with every breath. It was harder with only one arm; he'd lost feeling in the hand tied to the bedpost. At least that meant one part of him didn't hurt. When had that happened? He couldn't remember coming back to the orphanage. What time was it? How long had he been out? But mostly...

Why was she here?

Amalia made no effort to approach, merely watching him struggle upright with a blank expression. He glared daggers at her, daring her to feel pity for him - if she did, he felt like his magic would break free from him entirely and attack her, even without his wand. But she looked almost disinterested.

"Answer me!" he spat, barely able to stifle a wince as his loud words made his bruised ribs throb.

One elegant eyebrow raised, as if he'd affronted her with his tone. "I was curious." She said after a moment, finally looking away from him. Her gaze flickered around the room, and she straightened up. "I overheard your conversation with Dumbledore when he took your wand." A small smirk curled her mouth, but Tom saw little trace of amusement in her eyes, which remained curiously emotionless. Now she turned away from him, and seemed unwilling to look at him again. She stepped over to the window restlessly. "You seemed… afraid. I was curious to see what the great Tom Riddle could possibly be afraid of."

Fury replaced his confusion and pain. He wrenched his body around so that he could see her better. He ignored the blood which now dripped from his wrist where the ropes cut into him. "I'm not afraid of anything!" he snarled harshly, his pulse pounding in his ears. Unwillingly, his mind fled back to how he'd felt like he was drowning in dread at the thought of returning here.

"Everyone's afraid of something." she said quietly, still without looking at him.

To his great shock and profound disgust, he felt pressure building behind his eyes, which prickled suspiciously. If he had ever cried, he'd been so young as to not remember it. Now, even if they were tears of anger - not shame and helplessness, of course, he was above such emotions - he would not permit it. With great difficulty, he fought with himself to get his unruly emotions back under control. But his usual ice-cold focus was elusive.

Amalia fortunately seemed not to have noticed, and just looked out at the dirty street outside, seemingly lost in thought.

When Tom had himself under more control, he snarled in a low voice. "Well, you've satisfied your curiosity. So get out."

She turned her calm brown eyes back to him, and merely gazed at him.

He searched for pity or malice in her expression, but found something else instead. He was puzzled for a moment, before he realised with a shock what it was. Disappointment.

"Riddle, you've certainly messed up." she said at last, with a pretty sigh. "I assume you're not entirely the hapless victim here?"

"What?"

"Come on. There must be a reason you were beaten within an inch of your life. Though, for it to happen at an orphanage..." She shook her head and gave a humorless chuckle, "Anyway. You may not be responsible for every bad thing that happens... Like some people seem to think... But I don't think anyone could call you innocent." she mused.

He found he was unable to reply, but glared at her balefully. what was the point of this? Why wouldn't she just go? His stomach gave another twist as he saw her frown down at him, unhappy. For a moment he felt like he'd just gotten a "F" and dashed the hopes of teacher who expected more of him.

She sighed again, but this time it was more decisive. "Alright." She said, as if reluctantly agreeing with something he'd said. He eyed her suspiciously.

"I'll be going, then." She said abruptly, pushing herself off the windowsill. He blinked at her in confusion, his heart doing an uncertain double-beat. She's... leaving?

"Don't worry. I'll see you soon." She strode out of the room without another word, closing the door behind her.

He stared after her, blinking in the sudden silence.

He opened his mouth to call her back, but checked himself just in time. After all, he'd wanted her to go, hadn't he? But his uncertainty remained. What was she thinking? How had she found him? Why? Where was she going now? … Would she be back…? "I'll see you soon", she'd said. When? At the start of the school term? … Sooner?

He strained to hear a sound. He thought he could hear the sound of her light steps down the stairs, before the sounds disappeared into the background of the ambient noise of the orphanage. He cursed loudly, shifting uncomfortably against the bedpost.

Then, he heard the heavy front door open and close.

At that sound he felt a curious desolation sweep over him, almost immediately swept away by a blistering tidal wave of fury. What right did she have to come barging in here, anyway? And judging him, too, by the looks of it. Well, he didn't give a damn what she thought! He vindictively imagined how he might take revenge when the term started again. He would torture her until her screams made her melodious voice break and her liquid brown eyes… those brown eyes...

That disappointment glinting in her eyes…

At the memory of it, all his rage seemed to leave him, seeping away into the hard stones of the floor, leaving him bereft and empty. He thought he could handle the orphanage, but now he realized he'd only been able to endure it so far because no one from the school had known about this other life. There, he was invincible. Popular. Respected. Perfect. Now the illusion was shattered. She would use this against him, and none of them would ever see him in the same way again. He would be seen as this. Poor, stained with Muggle filth, alone… Weak.

"I'm not weak."

His defiant voice sounded small.

The answering silence only served to mock him.

Chapter Text

Amalia stepped out onto the street in front of the orphanage and breathed a welcome breath of fresh, cold London air. She hadn't liked it in there. It reminded her unpleasantly of somewhere she'd been before - an institution, stinking of harsh, cheap chemicals that didn't quite mask the smell of the poor souls held captive inside.

She strode briskly down the road in the dark, drawing the hood of her coat up to hide her face.

A thoughtful frown creased her forehead. Seeing Tom like that was quite a shock… and not in a good way. She hadn't derived any enjoyment from seeing him brought so low, even if he was an evil ass. Indeed, if their roles were reversed she doubted he would hesitate to laugh. Genuinely laugh. It was fortunate for him, therefore, that her sense of humour was somewhat more refined, and... despite everything... she couldn't hate him. She couldn't even bring herself to dislike him.

First things first, she said to herself. A short trip to Diagon Alley...

Tom was awoken from his fitful sleep by a loud sound coming from downstairs, followed by a shrill scream from what sounded like Miranda, Mrs Cole's mousy replacement.

He blinked, instantly wide awake, and then groaned softly as his legs cramped. He was still tied to the bed. No one had come into the room since Amalia had left. By the looks of the lamplight outside, it was still late night, which meant it had only been a few hours since her impromptu visit.

There was a couple of muffled thuds from below, then silence. He could hear whispered voices from the other children, but they knew better than to draw attention to themselves after curfew. Most of the kids on his level were young, and petrified of Harold to risk leaving their rooms in case he was in a drunken rage. It had happened before.

He swallowed, stifling a cough from his parched throat, and strained to hear anything more. His eyes widened as he heard light footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs, and then the creak of the brass handle as it turned and the door was pushed open.

"What the fu-" he started weakly, staring as the intruder slipped in quickly.

"Hush." Shushed Amalia crossly, cutting him off. She peered down the darkened stairwell and then closed the door with a snap.

"We should have a bit of time..." she muttered to herself.

Then, she turned to him with a businesslike expression.

He stared back coldly.

She was wearing a dark coat which looked expensive, but she paid it no heed as she quickly knelt on the dirty floor at his bedside, unslinging a small leather satchel from her shoulder and placing it beside her.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed at her, glaring suspiciously as she rummaged in the bag.

She ignored his question. A small frown between her eyebrows eased as she found what she was looking for, and drew out a glittering silver knife from the satchel in triumph.

Unable to help himself, he paled at the sight, his eyebrows knitting in an accusatory glare. Did she need his blood for some dark ritual, or perhaps she-

Amalia noticed his expression and rolled her eyes, exasperated. "I'm here to rescue you, you idiot." She informed him matter-of-factly, and then promptly clambered onto his bed to get closer to his bonds with the knife. This unfortunately meant that she had to basically lean on top of him.

Tom's eyes widened as she moved right into his personal space to get at the rope. It was an awkward position; she concentrated hard to cut the tightly knotted rope without also sawing off a thumb.

Tom froze as he felt her bodyheat, she was so close. Suddenly he was reminded of how cold he was sitting up in just a shirt against the bedpost, his clothes threadbare, and he very nearly leaned in to be closer.

She's not to be trusted! He reminded himself angrily, and twisted his head to try and get a look at what she was doing.

"Keep still." She ordered gruffly, and he froze as her breath tickled over his collarbone. She was panting slightly from her efforts to saw through the ropes, and heat rushed over him in a confusing wave as her pleasant scent assaulted him. She smelt expensive, and exotic, and clean, and he couldn't help inhaling deeply, her short hair tickling his face. He turned his head away quickly.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, and he was relieved to hear his voice was cold and controlled, despite his racing heart. This was all too weird.

She stopped instantly and drew back, glaring at him. "Nothing." She replied frostily, "I don't want anything from you." It was as if she was offended by his question.

"Then why-"

"Do you want me to go?" she interrupted him, arching an eyebrow challengingly, "Because I can just leave, if that's what you really want." Her eyes drifted meaningfully to the door, and then back to Tom, pinning him with her sharp gaze. "Well, do you want to stay here, or not?"

He stared at her, uncomprehending. She made a motion to get up, and he seemed to snap out of it. He swallowed. "Wait." He said uncertainly.

She scowled at him, and then nodded. "Then stop asking stupid questions." She snapped, and resumed hacking at the ropes. But despite her harsh tone, Tom felt how gently her slim fingers worked around his bruised and aching wrist, how this time she leant in close to him, her body warming his side. How could she be so comfortable around him…? What happened to the no-touching rule? It seemed she was in full mission-mode; nothing was going to get in her way. Whatever her goal actually was. He was still highly suspicious of all of it.

At last, the ropes gave way and his arm was freed.

Amalia withdrew and put the knife back into her bag, muttering something to herself about a knife vendor ripping her off with blunt tools.

Tom couldn't stop a painful moan from escaping him as he cradled his hand. Sharp pains shot through his arms as the muscles cramped and twinged, the blood-flow returning sluggishly to his frozen limbs. He tried to use his other hand to work some feeling into it, but his movements were clumsy and slow.

Her face guarded, Amalia grabbed his hand bossily and helped chafe some feeling into them, her movements sure and brisk. He said nothing, but shoved her hand away as soon as he felt able to move it again.

She accepted his rejection with equanimity, as if she'd expected nothing else, and merely watched as he swung his feet off the side of the bed, and struggled to his feet, using the bedpost and the edge of his desk to drag himself upright.

Amalia surveyed him and pursed her lips. He could barely stand with his injured ribs, and his legs looked shaky, too. Plus, he didn't have any shoes on. Even worse, she could hear some sounds coming from below. Someone was investigating the disturbance. Frankly, she was surprised it had taken them this long.

Tom also heard it, and tensed. He looked uncertain again, an unusual expression on someone who always seemed so unflappable at Hogwarts.

"We've wasted enough time." She told him quietly. His uncertain eyes met hers. "I have a plan." She assured him confidently. "So get your shoes and whatever else you want to take with you, and let's get out of here."

It was a measure of how off-balance he felt, because he immediately accepted her words, and looked around for his shoes. He spotted them at the end of his bed and stumbled towards it, wincing, then, as he made to reach down for them, he froze and gritted his teeth, turning pale. The movement evidently put too much pressure on his ribs.

Amalia frowned and before he could say anything, she was at his side and had hoisted up his crumpled shirt, peering at his ribs underneath. She ran light fingertips over the mottled red and purpling marks from his beating, exploring the curves of his ribs carefully.

"How dare-!"

"Shut up."

He winced as she prodded him, warning him against further argument, and resumed her exploration of his injuries. He remained still, mostly out of shock from her forwardness, and then drew in a sharp breath at her touch, from pain. Mostly.

At last, she carefully pulled his shirt back down, and gave him his space again. He exhaled a breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding in relief at the return to distance. Amalia seemed angry about something, from her clenched jaw. It confused him. He felt dazed, swaying slightly on the spot, and just stared at her somewhat hazily.

Amalia took in the glazed-over look in his eyes - for all his tough talk, he really did seem about ready to fall over - and pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to get her own emotions under control.

"Merlin's beard." she muttered at last, "It looks like someone jumped on you in steel-toed boots..."

He said nothing, just blinked at her expressionlessly.

"Well," she continued, pulling herself together, "I don't think anything's broken, at least," she said seriously, "But there's some swelling... You may have cracked a couple of ribs." She gripped his upper arm with surprising strength and helped him sit stiffly on his bed.

"Keep still." She ordered.

Then, to Tom's utter disbelief, she knelt on the dirty floor again and started pulling socks and shoes onto his feet, with no regard for her own clean hands. Once again her fingers were gentle, and her expression serene, as if she did this sort of thing every day.

Amalia Gray, kneeling before him? He had to admit it had figured in a couple of his... darker daydreams. But he'd never have foreseen something like this. He just couldn't understand it.

"Why?" he demanded again, "Why are you doing this?" the Amalia Gray he knew and detested never did anything without a good reason. How did helping him benefit her?

"I told you not to ask stupid questions." She replied, glancing up at him briefly from under her long lashes. Her scowl was spoiled by the fact that she was looking up at him from between his knees.

"It's not a stupid question." He argued harshly, speaking over the dark wave of desire which unexpectedly ripped through him as she looked up at him from that position. He decided not to think about it too much. Perhaps he'd been hit in the head earlier.

She finished lacing his shoes and rose fluidly. "Alright, then, maybe it's not a stupid question." She conceded unexpectedly, "But this is not the time to get into it."

He frowned. "What-"

"Shh!" she hushed him, and they both froze, listening. They could then distinctly hear a man's voice, cursing harshly.

Amalia's calm voice contrasted with her wide eyes. "Time's up."

She abandoned all attempts to remain quiet and opened Tom's narrow wardrobe, glancing inside. It was almost empty, and only a couple of items of clothing seemed to be left there. He didn't have a trunk, and seemed to have left most of his books and magical items at Hogwarts. She was grateful for that. She stripped the wardrobe of his remaining clothes, grabbed the book on Goblin Wars and threw it into her bag unceremoniously. It was enchanted with extra space and accommodated Tom's meagre belongings easily. At the last moment she wrinkled her nose and took out a ragged-looking woollen pullover. She dropping it carelessly onto the ground.

She wouldn't let even her worst enemy be seen in that ugly thing, let alone Tom...

Thankfully, she'd come prepared due to her earlier reconnaissance mission, and also fished out a dark green coat in Tom's size. She tossed it to him and slung the satchel over her shoulder, then walked to the door and pulled it open.

Tom caught it and blinked. The material was soft and warm, thick enough for winter and it seemed to be tailored to his specific measurements. He glanced over it surreptitiously, but she had removed any price tags. He decided now was not the time to ask, so he just put on the coat and followed her, feeling instantly warmer. Uneasiness ate at him, but it was mingled with something like excitement. He wouldn't celebrate yet, but the prospect of leaving this place, no matter the method… was what he wanted almost more than anything else right now. He just hoped her plan was a good one.

Amalia stepped out onto the dark hallway, and Tom followed, limping slowly. At the top of the stairs, she abruptly stopped.

Harold stood at the bottom of the stairs, gaping up at them in the dim light of the flickering gas lamps. "You!" he snarled, no doubt realizing she was the same girl who Miranda was worried about, earlier. His eyes travelled between Tom and Amalia, who simply gazed impassively back at him.

"Where th' hell do y'think you're goin', Tom?" the man roared. "Get back in your room!"

Amalia sneered as she heard the slur in his voice, but her tone was earnestly polite. She descended the steps calmly towards him. "I apologize for disturbing your evening, sir. But don't worry. I'm certain we shan't meet again."

"Back off, wench," snarled the man, his face red with anger. "I don' know who the hell you are, but don' think you can just waltz in here an' - an' -" His piggish eyes widened as she didn't stop, and he drew back a meaty arm in preparation for a vicious backhand as she reached the lower steps.

Amalia watched him carefully, noticing his unfocussed eyes. He must have really over-indulged in that whiskey. It was easy to anticipate his wild swing.

"You little-!"

She dodged it and waited until he staggered, off-balance.

Then, she hurled herself down the last two steps, using gravity to crash her shoulder squarely into the man's chest. He clearly hadn't expected a physical attack from such a slim, well-dressed young lady, and didn't stand a chance of reacting in time.

Tom's eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly, as he watched his rescuer tackling the bigger man. With a muffled "oomf" Harold stumbled back, slamming into the peeling wallpaper behind him.

Amalia's shoulder hurt- the man was built like a brick wall- but she shrugged off the pain and let a feral grin break out across her face. Then she kicked him in the fork between his legs, using all her strength.

His mouth clenched in a silent howl of pain, he dropped to his knees as if he was a marionette whose strings had been cut, and then keeled over onto his side, curling up instinctively. His mouth gaped like a fish. Amalia laughed and gave him another kick in the ribs for good measure. That's for mistreating Tom, she thought vindictively. Only I am allowed to do that.

He didn't have breath to give any response, his face changing from drunken red to sickly ashen.

She turned and looked up the stairwell. Tom was still lingering at the top.

"Come on, Riddle," she cried, exasperated, "What on earth are you waiting for?"

He closed his mouth and schooled his face as he walked down the stairs slowly, his expressionless mask back in place.

"Well," he said mildly, looking down at Harold, who was softly groaning, "That was unexpected."

"Was it?" Amalia asked, and chuckled. The violence seemed to have put her in a splendid mood. She surprised Tom again when she bent over the man and then wrenched him up with an effort, gripping him by twisting a fistful of his hair.

Harold seemed to be recovering, and growled, swiping at Amalia while still doubled over in pain. She caught his hand and swiftly bent his little finger back, causing him to howl in pain again, cringing away. "Well?" Amalia asked, looking expectantly at Riddle. She kept Harold's contorted face exposed, as if offering it to Riddle.

Riddle blinked at her, uncomprehending. Once again, he saw that expression flit across her face - disappointment.

"He's responsible for your... condition, isn't he?" she said, confused, "Well, this is your opportunity. Don't you want to… take a swing at him?"

Riddle turned his face to the muggle man and curled his lip in disgust. "Not particularly." He wasn't willing to touch him, but fervently wished he had his wand. He had fantasized for years about the day he would curse the man until he was nothing but a pile of ash. He wondered how Amalia could stand it. She had her hands carelessly wrapped in his greasy hair. The girl has no standards, he thought snidely.

"Suit yourself." Shrugged Amalia, but she was frowning. Without warning, she changed her grip on Harold's greasy head and then slammed it into the wall behind him. Riddle watched in glee as his head connected with the bricks with a sickening crack, and his eyes went unfocused - he was knocked out. She seemed way too cavalier about all this violence for it to be her first time. Just what kind of life had she led before Hogwarts?!

Next, Amalia rummaged in her satchel again, this time withdrawing a small purple pouch with a drawstring. She carefully took two pinches out and then blew a glittering powder into the man's slack face. Instantly it changed into a thick, purple smoke, which swirled around his head like a miniature cyclone, before vanishing without a trace.

"Is that Retinentia Dust?" enquired Tom with interest.

"An extra strong version." Confirmed Amalia proudly, before heading for the front entrance. "I got it from a guy for fifteen galleons - it was quite a bargain on such short notice. What do you think?"

Retinentia Dust was a substance that would wipe your memory for a number of hours before and after its use. It was also undetectable, extremely expensive… and illegal. "Good choice." He said, grudgingly impressed. He ignored the fact that he'd never seen, let alone touched fifteen galleons. He could have bought all his school supplies for all seven years at Hogwarts for ten.

"You should know by now, Riddle," Amalia said haughtily, "I'm good at making things happen." She stepped over the prostrate body of Miranda, Mrs Cole's replacement. It seemed as though she'd been hit over the head with a wine bottle. He assumed she'd also had a cloud of purple smoke around her head recently.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Your plan seems to have only consisted of some memory-altering powder… and your own brawn." He felt slightly indignant as he sneered, "It's amazing this worked at all."

"Yes, it has worked rather well, hasn't it?" Amalia said cheerfully, missing Tom's sneer entirely. "It will seem as if this man and woman got into a violent, drunken brawl. In the chaos, one of their poor orphans wandered off, clearly disturbed by the conflict." She sniggered, enjoying the scowl on Tom's face. With more seriousness, she assured him, "This way, I don't think it's likely they'll inform Dumbledore."

Riddle grunted, still mistrustful of her intentions. What if she intended telling Dumbledore about it herself, and had merely tricked him into leaving, so that he was expelled?!

But then she pushed open the front door and walked through out into the swirling snow of the cold, dark night. And as Riddle followed her out of the hated orphanage, he felt a strange lightness swooping through him. He realized something - she wasn't going to tell Dumbledore, and he hadn't actually believed she would. Did that mean… he… trusted her? Surely not. She was the reason he was in his mess, to begin with. He was too confused to puzzle it all out, so he pushed it out of his mind and tried to focus on the present. Amalia was striding down the road as usual, her long legs moving her swiftly across the road.

He rolled his eyes. She only has two speeds, he remembered, fast and faster. He was also fond of walking quickly, but in his current state it wasn't going to happen.

He tried to speed up a little, but his ribs were still aching and he couldn't move without feeling like he had a knife sticking in his side. She suddenly noticed he wasn't keeping up, and stopped, an unfamiliar, guilty look on her face. Tom stiffened and stared at her.

"I'm sorry," she said contritely.

Since when did Amalia Gray apologize...? She sounded sincere, too.

"Do you need some help walking?" she asked politely. And suddenly, she was asking before touching him... Wonders never ceased.

He opened his mouth to reject her with a sneer, but then his ribs throbbed abominably, and he closed his mouth with a grimace. Instead of rejecting her offer, he merely nodded stiffly.

She moved instantly to his side and pulled his arm around her shoulders, taking some of his weight and holding him carefully around his narrow waist, so that his chest remained as still as possible as they walked.

Tom had a bizarre urge to laugh after a while. They must look like a couple. He wondered what the other Slytherins would say about it. The "king" and "queen" of Slytherin, together at last, he thought drily. But he was still waiting for her to drop this veneer of friendliness and curse him as soon as his back was turned. She could do it; she was the one with a wand. And as the only registered wizard in the area, guess who would be blamed...?

Amalia, true to character, seemed to have taken it all in her stride. She walked in silence with a serene expression. She seemed oddly happy all of a sudden.

"Are we going to Diagon Alley?" asked Tom suspiciously, after a short while.

"No, I'm taking you to a secret location so I can harvest your organs and use them for dark potions and rituals." She said solemnly. She snuck a peek at his expression, which was still suspicious and frosty. "You know," she said drily, "I think I'll harvest the muscles of your face first. They must be in superb condition, since you never use them for smiling."

He still had no response.

"Perhaps there is something physical that prevents it." She mused with fake seriousness, She patted the arm that was draped around her shoulders. "Do not fear, I shall dissect you thoroughly to get to the bottom of the mystery."

Still he said nothing, but he turned his face to the side and Amalia could see the corners of his lips twitch reluctantly. Pleased with her progress, she continued in a more serious tone. "We're entering Diagon Alley through a hidden entrance - not the one on Charing Cross Street. It's not far - surprising how few people know about it, actually, but that's good for us. I have rooms rented at The Leaky Cauldron." she explained, then hesitated, "Although I used an alias, and it's very public… I don't think we should stay longer than a few days."

"Ah yes, the mysterious paranoia returns." He said smoothly.

Huh, Riddle finds his tongue and it's an insult first, grumbled Amalia, but she kept it to herself. "I won't wait around to be attacked," she said firmly, "You can do whatever you want when we get there, but if you intend to make use of my hospitality you'll just have to deal with it."

Instantly Tom's expression darkened. "I didn't ask you to help me." He snarled, shrinking away from her arm, "I don't need your charity!"

Amalia didn't let him pull away, and again with her surprising strength kept his arm around her shoulder and their sides touching. "Don't be so tetchy." She chided mildly, "I know you didn't ask me. If you think about it, I basically kidnapped you, didn't I?" amusement danced in her eyes, but he couldn't return her warmth. "I'm not about to set you adrift, Tom." She said impatiently. "Besides..." she hesitated, looking down, "It's kinda my fault you don't have a wand, so..."

"You think?" he said acidly.

She sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, hexing Davies was one of the highlights of my week. He really was an insufferable idiot. I didn't intend for you to take the fall for it."

He didn't reply, but neither did he try to pull away again, feeling very slightly mollified.

Amalia peeked at his impassive expression, hating the suddenly awkward silence. Merlin, you're insecure, she exclaimed to herself.

The lightness Tom had been feeling upon leaving the orphanage seemed to fade quickly, leaving a numbness in its wake. Why was he walking down a London street in the middle of the night with his arm wrapped around his worst enemy? No plan, no wand, no money... His throat burned from thirst and he was nauseous with hunger and pain. Every step was an effort, even with Amalia's help, and he started to shiver as small snowflakes began drifting out of the inky night sky. He doubted his sudden chill had much to do with the snow, though - the coat Amalia gave him was warm enough - but it was probably a result of his injuries and dehydration...

"Just two more blocks." She murmured to him, "It's not far now." He blinked dark spots out of his vision. He realized they had been walking while he was semi-conscious for some time already, and Amalia was looking at him with a concerned expression.

He blinked heavily a few more times and tried to pull his thoughts together.

"I could actually use your help over the holidays." Amalia suddenly said as they continued, Tom basically staggering as if drunk.

A wave of self-righteous anger crashed through him as he processed what she'd just said. So here it was. The reason. Why she'd come for him... What was she going to ask him to do? She might threaten him with telling Dumbledore if he didn't comply, and-

"I know you said you weren't interested," Amalia continued, looking a little embarrassed, "But I'd like to try and research more about the Moving Stones." She smiled at him. "It'll be a great help if you joined me."

He blinked at her. "That's... it?" he said, in disbelief.

She bit her lip, frowning slightly. "Well, like I said, you can do whatever, I'll lend you some cash to get through the next two weeks if you want." she looked away from him. "But your company would be-"

Was she blushing...?

"-Well, um... your help would be appreciated. That's all."

Was she really embarrassed, or was this just another attempt at manipulation? But what she was asking was nothing serious. He swallowed, feeling paranoid and worn out. But his anger was spent at last, so he just nodded noncommittally. The bright smile that lit up her face at his mute response didn't seem faked...

After that, there was a significant gap in his memory, during which time he assumed Amalia had guided him successfully into Diagon Alley and into The Leaky Cauldron, and then somehow hoisted him to an upstairs room.

"Riddle?" her voice sounded far away, his vision blurry. "Tom? Hey, stay with me."

As if from far away he heard a door closing and then felt someone tugging off his coat. The movement sent a stabbing pain through his side and he groaned. He let himself be led a little further, and then felt gentle hands pushing him onto a bed that was incredibly soft. But he was so cold he could barely feel it.

He dimly felt her pulling off his shoes and then cursing under her breath, trying to rub some warmth into his feet.

"Ugh, stupid Trace..." she didn't want to risk using magic unless it was absolutely necessary. They should be safe to use magic in Diagon Alley - the Trace wasn't person-specific - but she wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to have some kind of tracking spell on her of his own design. He'd seemed suspicious about her plans to stay at Callidora's house. She'd delay using magic as long as possible, especially now that she had an escaped orphan on her hands.

Tom blinked. The room faded out and in again. He let his eyes drift closed.

"Oi, Riddle! Stay awake, okay? I'll let you sleep in a moment."

He watched her walk over to a large and ornate chest with the Gray crest emblazoned proudly on the front of it and bent over, rummaging inside. "Are you still awake?" she snapped bossily, as she rummaged. "Talk to me."

He forced his eyes open and mumbled something which sounded suspiciously like "Nice ass."

She stalked over to him with a scowl and tried to drag his head up. As he took longer than she wanted she gave him a not-so-gentle slap on the uninjured side of his face to wake him up. 'Nice ass', indeed!

"Hey!" he scowled, rubbing his face.

"Here, drink this." She held out a glass of water for him. It was tainted a suspicious pink colour.

He peered at her with narrow eyes.

"I just added a healing potion to it," she sighed, "Really. I did not just carry you across London so that I could poison you."

That made sense. "Fair enough." He took a sip, and then a larger gulp as his thirst returned. A pleasant numbing feeling flowed over his ribs and bloody wrist. He even felt good enough to have a go at her. "It's not one of your potions, is it?" he said in horror. "You could be accidentally poisoning me…"

She scowled at his smirk, though internally she was cheering at his improved mood. "I'm perfectly capable of brewing a simple healing potion." She said snippily. Then she frowned, worried. "Though, I have nothing to warm you up with… do you feel like eating something?"

Tom put down the empty glass and lay back with a groan. He shook his head, his eyes fluttering shut again. "Just sleep."

She watched him, fascinated, as slowly his face relaxed as he sank into a deep sleep almost immediately. He looked much nicer when he slept. She hesitated, then reached out and stroked his hair. It was really soft. Curious now, she shuffled closer, listening to his breathing. It was already regular and steady. But she was worried about the pallor in his face and the dark circles under his eyes.

Of course, he usually looks about as pale as an albino, deep-dwelling newt, she thought rudely. But this was heading into shades of blue, which didn't seem healthy at all.

She got up and cursed the fact that the room didn't have a fireplace, or a heating system at all. Of course, why would you need anything practical when you had magic…?

She piled extra blankets over him, and then belatedly remembered his wrist and his hands needed tending. If she left the open wounds from the rope and his skinned knuckles, he might get an infection on top of everything else.

Gingerly she searched under the blankets for his arms, careful not to wake him, but she needn't have worried. He was out cold, and she doubted even a bludger to the face could wake him. In fact, she was a little worried when he didn't even stir when she disinfected his wounds with murtlap essence, which she knew from experience stung like a bitch.

After she'd neatly bandaged his wrist and the worst of his skinned knuckles, she hesitated, then rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. If she was going to save the guy, she had to at least do the job properly, right?

She took off her coat and shoes, took the clip out of her hair, and bravely pulled back the covers, slipping in beside him. Her body-heat instantly filled the space, which was good, because he felt like a block of ice. He didn't move, but she was reassured by his steady breathing. At least he wasn't dying from the cold. She slung an arm over his chest and pulled herself close to him. Then she waited, as slowly, he seemed to thaw out little by little.

She was almost asleep herself when, several hours later, he shifted in his sleep. She blinked at him in the dark as his face tensed in pain as he rolled over, but miraculously he still didn't awaken. She froze as he mumbled something unintelligible and then snuggled closer, pressing up against her body. His breath was soft in her hair as he slung an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. She went bright red, but also grinned wickedly.

She knew he'd be way more embarrassed about this in the morning than she was.

Chapter Text

The next morning…

Amalia's eyes fluttered open early as usual, just in time to see the first rays of dawn break on the thin curtains above the bed.

It took her a few moments to remember exactly why she was currently sleeping in The Leaky Cauldron, entangled in the arms of Tom Riddle, of all people. Heat rose in her face and she remained as still as possible. His sleeping face was right in front of hers, his warm breath tickling her eyelashes. He was incredibly handsome, she had to admit, even with the fading bruise on his left cheekbone. Instead of the awful pallor he'd had just hours before, his skin now had a healthier colour, and his breathing was deep and natural.

Some time in the night they had moved even closer, and now his arms encircled her entirely, trapping her against his chest. Their legs were also entangled - he had a possessive leg hooked over hers, his weight pressed up against her hips.

It was a novel experience for her, but certainly not... unpleasant.

She pondered her next move. It was still early, and who knew what time they'd arrived the previous night. He looked like he needed a few more hours of sleep before a late breakfast… she cautiously tried to shift away from him, then froze as he immediately pulled her back, snuggling even closer and emitting a soft snore which ruffled a few strands on her hairline at her temples.

She resisted rolling her eyes with difficulty. He was a control freak even in his sleep, it seemed.

Less carefully now, she ducked her head under his arm and pulled her legs free of his in one smooth movement, trying not to jostle him too much. To her great relief, he still didn't wake up, but rolled into the warm hollow where her body had been, one arm momentarily reaching out, as if searching for her. A frown flitted across his sleeping face, but then he seemed to settle.

She shook her head in disbelief and grinned to herself. She'd keep it a secret for now, but it was great material for the next time he annoyed her.

She collected her clothes from her trunk and then exited, heading next door to the other room she'd rented so she could have a warm shower, and then an early breakfast.

Tom groaned.

There was a shaft of pale winter sunlight shining between the gap in the curtains, directly into his eyes.

He scrunched up his face and curled away from the offending light, trying to open his eyes, which felt glued shut. As he moved a sharp pain stabbed through his side, and all the events of the previous day came flooding back in a dizzying rush.

Amalia had come to the orphanage, and…! He slowly sat up, surveying his surroundings blearily. He couldn't remember much about arriving the previous night (or had it been early morning?) but he was warm, safe, and no matter how confusing the circumstances, he couldn't help an enormous sense of relief at having escaped that place.

Where was Amalia? His room was empty, but her trunk was there, along with his shoes, some bandages and a few small potions bottles messily left on the side table, next to a pitcher of water. He assumed she was in another room, and he was very grateful for that, because... He was remembering a rather embarrassing dream. Usually, he was a lucid dreamer; the results of his legilimency training. But the fact that he'd had this dream... perhaps he'd been too tired to have any control over his mind. He raised a hand to his head, which felt thick and heavy from sleep and lack of food. It had been so realistic. He could even remember how soft her body had felt as she slept pressed up against his chest…

He shook his head, discarding the absurdity of the dream, and got up, changing into some marginally cleaner clothes that he dug out of the small bag she'd left next to her trunk. He really needed a shower, but food was a more pressing concern. He drank some more water from the pitcher, and then walked slowly to the door. He moved like an old man, but he had to admit he felt better already. Amalia's healing potion and a warm bed had done a lot of good. He exited his room, pausing on the landing. In the dining area below he spotted Amalia, reading a copy of The Daily Prophet at a table. He glanced around, but the other patrons of the inn seemed to be ignoring the presence of the two unaccompanied teenagers.

It seemed like she'd finished breakfast and was on her third coffee already.

"... Morning," he mumbled as he approached, still feeling half asleep.

"Good morning!" she chirruped, annoyingly cheerful. "Did you sleep well?"

He tried not to think of his foolish dream, and just settled for a brusque nod, as he dropped into the seat opposite her. A waitress appeared at his elbow and he ordered the biggest breakfast he could, hoping that Amalia had meant it when she'd said she would pay for him.

She looked back to her newspaper as he ordered, and they sat in silence while Tom tried to wake up completely. He was not a morning person…

Half-way through his breakfast, and the worst of his hunger pangs vanquished, he finally couldn't help asking again.

"You know, you never answered my question." He said in a low voice as he picked at his food. He'd ordered too much. "Why did you come for me?"

"I told you, didn't I?" she said lightly, glancing up from the paper. "I was curious." She shrugged.

He seemed annoyed. "Okay, but what about after that? Why did you come back?" he had such a ferocious scowl on his face Amalia wondered idly if he'd ever be able to unknot his eyebrows again.

"You're asking the wrong question." She said at last, putting aside the newspaper and forestalling his reply with a raised hand. "The right question, Riddle," she explained, "Is why wouldn't I come back, after seeing you like that? I know we've had our differences in the past -" she waved a hand as if trying to curse each other to pieces hadn't meant anything, "But I don't hate you."

"You don't?" he was honestly surprised by this.

"Of course not." She said, as if it was obvious. "I'm not petty, Riddle." She paused, and then a hint of coldness entered her gaze. "Even if you are."

"What do you mean by that?" he snapped, surprise turning instantly to annoyance again.

"Be honest," she said with a crooked smile, "You wouldn't have helped me, would you, in a similar situation?"

"You can't know that." He said smoothly, knowing instantly she was right.

She wasn't fooled by his words, and snorted, amused. "It's alright." She said, and looked away, "I wasn't expecting you to be grateful or anything." He felt like she was snubbing him in some way. "I just felt like it. So please don't read too much into it." She seemed keen to change the subject, and fiddled with the newspaper again, the papers rustling.

Tom felt a small stab of some feeling he didn't recognize as she brushed off his lies easily.

"I didn't ask for your help." He muttered, suddenly no longer hungry. He was not-

"I never thought I would see you being so weak." Amalia stated, with a note of anger that surprised her almost as much as it did Tom. "You shouldn't have needed my help. You could have escaped yourself. You're... you're better than that, Riddle."

His temper flared dangerously, and he stared at her. She had that terrible look in her eyes again. Disappointment. As if she had any right to judge him?!

"It's true." She insisted, not flinching at all at his glare which promised a swift death. "The fact that you needed me to help you at all is rather… pathetic."

"Shut up." His voice shook with fury. No one, NO ONE was allowed to call him pathetic…

"I thought you were a fighter." She said, her musical voice accusing, "At the castle you would never surrender. But as soon as you don't have your wand, you curl up and allow some muggles to beat you up?"

She didn't seem to notice the dangerous stillness coming over Tom as pure fury thundered through him. Her words were hitting him in all the lowest places.

"How could you let them do that to you?" she accused angrily, sounding quite upset. "How could you let them... hurt you like that?"

The tension holding him back snapped.

"SHUT UP!" he yelled, and slammed his fist down on the table, scaring the other people sitting nearby. They looked around at him, scandalized as he yelled at the girl opposite him. "You know NOTHING of what - I couldn't - I didn't have a choice!"

She didn't bat an eyelid at his tirade. "Your greasy little followers would have lent you money, if you weren't too proud to ask for it." She spat with just as much venom. "And if you'd fought back from the beginning... stuck up for yourself... That's what I would have done. But of course, you're too worried about damaging your delicate knuckles, aren't you?" she sneered, remembering his reluctance to touch the drunk man the previous night, "Because a wizard doesn't fight like a muggle."

"You think I haven't fought back before?" he raged, spitting his words at her, "It doesn't work! Yes, I let it happen!"

She stared at him. "Why?" she demanded, eyes oddly bright with some emotion, "Why would you let-"

"Because it's better than the alternative, alright?" he snarled, shoving himself away from the table. Amalia flinched as a cup fell off the table and shattered on the ground. "Though it's certainly none of your business."

She frowned, confused. "...Alternative? What... I don't-"

Riddle was actually too angry to speak at all. He knew with certainty that if he'd had his wand, they'd be duelling already. He would be throwing Unforgivables at her right here in this pub.

For a long moment he was silent, but his throat worked. "I don't give a fuck about what you think, Amalia Gray." He said in a deadly, soft voice, and then swept out of the bar.

"Oh dear." Amalia said to herself, massaging her temples as the waitress came to berate her over the broken mug and 'causing a scene'.

She mentally kicked herself. She'd had these thoughts milling around in her head ever since she'd seen him lying there, all broken and alone. He wasn't supposed to be like that. Riddle was strong, and unflappable, and always had a plan. He was dangerous and independent... ambitious and cunning. Seeing him lying there was a shock to the system, and she didn't like it. So she'd felt angry with him, for letting such insignificant muggles - children and drunks - get the better of him. That wasn't the Riddle she knew.

But why did she have to go out and say it? She glumly headed back to her room, then changed direction as she remembered her trunk was in his room. As she walked in she wondered what he was doing. Probably stealing a wand so he can come back and curse me into oblivion, she thought pessimistically, and scowled. "Well done, Amalia." She muttered sarcastically. Then he'll be expelled and sent to Azkaban and I will have ruined his whole life, with a couple of angry sentences… just because I can't keep my stupid mouth shut.

And just when they'd started getting along, too.

Her plan to make peace with him had backfired spectacularly. Again.

She threw herself down on his bed and buried her face in the pillow, groaning. It smelt like him, and she decided it really wasn't an unpleasant smell at all. She resigned herself to the inevitability of him kicking the door down and burning her to a crisp like an avenging angel.

She cracked a humourless smile at the thought, and sat up on the bed. She thought for a moment, and then peeked out of the window. There was no sign of Riddle in the busy street below. Perhaps she should get started with running her own errands in the meantime.

Tom walked in blind rage for a good long while, not even noticing where he was going.

For some reason he realized he had ended up in Knockturn Alley, and his mind went back to the first time he'd met her, on that strange night with Dumbledore.

Curiously, he wandered down an alleyway, trying to remember the route they'd taken… he was sure her apartment had been around here somewhere…

Suddenly he froze, and stared up in shock at the building. This was definitely the same structure. But on the second floor, where she had lived for two years in secret, was a gaping hole. The entire room had been obliterated by fire, gutted until it was barely recognizable except for a couple of charred wooden panels sticking up into the sky like blackened teeth.

He walked over to the entrance and pushed the splintered door gently - it swung open, askew on its hinges. He could feel the malicious residues of powerful, dark magic which had been used to blast through the five enchanted deadbolts. Inside, the staircase had caved in, and damp dust and ash coated every surface, which was now open to the grey sky visible overhead. A skinny orange cat was the only living thing inside, and it hissed at him and ran away.

The aftermath of the curses that had destroyed the building still vibrated on the air, no doubt the reason why no beggar had moved in yet.

Moving with purpose, he strode across the street and rapped on the door. A filthy old crone answered. She didn't know he couldn't use magic outside of school, and shrank back in fear from his forbidding stare. He'd perfected the art of intimidation from a young age. "Answer my questions, woman," he commanded harshly, "When did that - " he gestured over his shoulder, "-happen?"

Her eyes lit up at the question, and she cackled eagerly. "Ah, yes, young master, I remember the day well. The exact day! 'Twas the last day of August." his heart sped up. That would be the very day after she'd left with him and Dumbledore. He'd really thought she was just paranoid, yet another oddity of her character…

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Three… no, four blokes, I think it 'twas," she replied, with a hacking cough. She spat something unrecognizable to the side and he resisted the urge to gag, "They were lookin' for someone. An' awful angry they were, when they didn't find 'em. That's when they did that." She nodded at the burnt-out husk.

Tom turned away without saying thank you.

But as he stepped away, he heard her cackle again, "If you see her," she called out, "You tell that lass to keep runnin'. 'Cause they're around. They're always watchin'."

Her mad laughter followed him as he strode quickly away, and he tried to ignore the sudden feeling that, indeed, unfriendly eyes were following him, also.

His anger at her words that morning was suddenly overshadowed by larger concerns. Who was after her? Why? Had she endangered herself by coming for him at the orphanage, or did she do it on purpose because she was in trouble and didn't want to be alone? All these questions, and more, spun around his head, and he hurried back to the inn, which he suddenly agreed was woefully inadequate as a hiding place.

He burst into her room, which he realized wasn't locked, and then felt a cold pang as he saw it was empty. He went next door and glanced in, but his room was also empty. Her trunk stood at the end of his bed. That, at least, he knew was protected with powerful enchantments… he frowned, and walked closer. There was a note on his bed.

He picked it up. It looked blank, but as his fingers touched it, words surfaced instantly. She must have used Vanishing Ink.

Riddle,

I'm sorry about what I said. I don't want to fight, but I understand if you don't wish to stay with me for the rest of the holidays. So I've left you some money under the pillow, since it's my fault you left the orphanage.

I'm heading out to Flourish and Blotts, and will be back later if you still want to kill me.

(Tom pulled a face at her badly chosen, if not exactly inaccurate, words)

Amalia

P.S. I feel like our presence at The Leaky Cauldron hasn't gone unnoticed. I know you think I'm being stupid, but please be careful.

Tom blinked at the letter. Before, he would have just laughed at her cautiousness, but now it didn't seem so far-fetched. He looked around the room carefully, but nothing seemed out of place. There was no sign of anyone snooping around.

He took the small pouch that had lain underneath the pillow and glanced inside. She'd given him way too much money, an indication of how guilty she felt for fighting with him again. He pocketed it expressionlessly.

He went back to her room and scrutinized it carefully, too, but noticed nothing suspicious. Just because there are people after her doesn't mean they're definitely here, today, he reminded himself. She may have a good reason for being paranoid, but perhaps she was safe for the moment.

As he turned to go, he actually did realize something that knocked him a little off-kilter.

Amalia's bed hadn't been slept in. He paused and blinked at it, wondering for a moment why that simple fact seemed so important.

He knew it was a fact, because she was such an appalling slob. He doubted she'd ever made a bed in her life, and here her sheets were pristine and untouched. Didn't she sleep at all…?

His mouth opened slightly. She hadn't seemed tired, but annoyingly cheerful that morning.

Then, the dream-?

"Damn you, Amalia." He whispered, as colour rose in his face and he had to lean against the door. It hadn't been a dream at all, but a memory. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling oddly off-balance.

As he recalled her softness of her body against his, he had the strangest urge to sit down.

Or take a cold shower.

Or both.

Amalia browsed the shelves of Flourish and Blotts, searching for any books on Ancient Runes. The shop was a lot bigger inside than it looked from the street, and the far corners at the back of the shop often contained rarer tomes. Still, her research required a rather specific set of runes...

"Can I help you?" a mousy-haired male assistant materialised at her side as if hearing her thoughts. He was young, perhaps just out of school, and seemed rather eager.

"Mm," she hummed, turning from the shelves to look at him, "I'm looking for some information on Ancient Runes, specifically those in use in the late Medieval period."

He jumped to attention, gesturing at the tall shelves like an orchestra conductor, "We have a large section of texts on Runes over here... And over here..."

"Yes, I've had a look through them. Unfortunately, they don't seem to be quite comprehensive enough. Is this all you have?" she asked, gesturing at the wall of books.

He seemed crestfallen. "I'm afraid so... These are all the most popular and well-endorsed books currently on the market..."

She sighed, "I see... Pity." Perhaps she should look once more, just in case she'd missed something...? Somehow, she wasn't really surprised. If it was that easy, people would have solved the mystery of the Moving Stones a long time before now. Perhaps the runes were also encoded...?

A portly man bustled over and tried to attract the attention of the shop assistant.

"Sorry, sir, I'm busy with another customer," the young man snapped somewhat rudely, gesturing at Amalia.

She stifled a snort of laughter. He reminded her a little of Avery.

"There's somewhere else you can try, ma'am." he addressed her eagerly.

"Hm?"

He lowered his voice, "I'm not supposed to recommend other stores," he said conspiratorially, "But this place might have what you're looking for. They have more... um... exotic texts on a broad range of subjects."

She raised an eyebrow. "That sounds interesting. The address? Is it in Diagon Alley?"

"Oh, yes," he nodded. "But it's easy to miss. Here, I'll write it down." he took out a notepad from a pocket and scribbled down a few directions before tearing it off and offering it to her.

She flashed a smile at him, noting in amusement the faint tint of colour that rose on his cheeks in response. "Thanks for your help."

"Um... Is there anything else..." he stuttered.

She paused, suddenly getting an unexpected idea for her latest "pacify Riddle" mission.

"Do you happen to have any diaries on sale...?"

Emerging from Flourish and Blotts with her new purchase in a paper bag, she was extremely surprised to have her elbow grabbed, and be quite forcibly whisked away in the opposite direction to The Leaky Cauldron. By none other than the very person she'd just bought the "please-don't-kill-me" gift for.

He marched, dragging her through the bustling crowds of Christmas shoppers without making eye contact with her, his mouth a grim line, and his eyes sharp and unreadable.

She sped up to a trot to avoid being pulled so hard, blinking at him in surprise, "Um... Riddle. What... what are you doing?" she asked, completely bemused and a little anxious.

"Keep up. We're getting away from the crowds." His grip on her arm only tightened. He had no trouble touching people when it was on his terms, it seemed. He'd only ever initiated contact between them a handful of times in all the months she'd known him.

Alarm bells rang loudly in her head.

"Uh... why...?" she caught sight of his right hand. "Oh! You seem to have found a wand." she swallowed thickly, heart sinking. "That's... nice..."

"Turns out you can find just about anything in Knockturn, if you have the money to pay for it." he commented, glancing around swiftly. "Okay, here's good..."

Am I about to be cursed by a wand bought on the black market by my own money...?! she thought dizzily.

He yanked her down a side-street, a quiet, curving lane lined by boarded up stores that had evidently been out of business for a while. He kept striding on until they'd left the noise of the bustling alley behind them.

"Um... Riddle, let's talk about this-" she begged. "We don't have to-"

Air left her lungs with a huff as he suddenly shoved her into a sheltered doorway, her back slamming into the peeling wood. He kept her pinned there, his taller frame blocking her vision as he stepped right into her personal space. She could feel his regular breathing, warm on her cheek, the length of his body actually pressed up against hers... despite this, he didn't seem to be paying much attention to her.

She was feeling more than a little flustered now. "Um...?"

"Shut up." he hissed, busily looking over his shoulder back the way they'd come.

Her nose would have been brushing his collarbone, if he hadn't had his coat on.

"What are you - Mmf-!"

He quickly muffled her surprised squeak with a businesslike hand over her mouth, and went still, listening intently. The bandages around his knuckles were rough against her lips.

A moment later, she found out the reason for his odd behaviour. Amalia froze as heavy footsteps crunched on the icy, cobbled street, coming closer from the same direction they'd come.

Her eyes widened as a figure strode passed their hiding-place, hooded and cloaked. Whoever it was, they seemed too intent on catching up with their quarry to pay close attention to the dark store-fronts on either side.

It was one of Them... She stiffened, feeling the old anxiety rising within her again, feeling sick. She'd barely been in Diagon Alley for twelve hours, and they'd already found her...?

With zero hesitation, Riddle released her and emerged from their hiding place with all of the self-assured presence she'd grown used to seeing at Hogwarts. With a wand in his hand, he effortlessly took control of the situation.

"Expelliarmus." he said coldly, disarming the figure with an elegant flick of his wrist. The man - it was a man, by his build - spun around in surprise, not expecting to be cursed in the back.

Riddle narrowed his eyes, sizing up the man who been following Amalia. What were his intentions? How much danger was she in? He couldn't get a good look at the man's face - the hood was pulled low over his brow, and he was wearing a mask, just as Amalia had once said. But not a full-face, carnival-esque mask... a surgical mask, a white square of cloth covering his nose and mouth.

How curious.

"Who are you?" he demanded, as Amalia finally emerged and walked over to stand at his side. She drew her own wand slowly, and stared at the man with as much intensity as Riddle did. "Speak!"

The man cocked his head slightly at Riddle, as if he was an interesting bug under a microscope, and then turned his head slowly to the mute girl standing at his side.

"Amalia Gray." the man greeted, in a pleasant, yet utterly unremarkable voice. He took a small, deliberate step back, one hand reaching into his pocket.

Riddle tightened his grip on his temporary wand, preparing to curse him if he tried to fight or flee...

"You two have a nice day, now." with a polite dip of his masked and hooded head, the man suddenly disappeared in a flash of blue-grey light, seemingly sucked away into thin air.

Amalia sighed heavily.

She trudged forward to pick up the masked stranger's wand, left abandoned on the ground.

Riddle slowly lowered his wand, frowning. "How..." he thought for a moment, then mused, "It's obviously not Apparition. Perhaps... some kind of self-activating Portkey...? Do you think there'll be more?"

"Probably." she answered miserably, "But they won't approach recklessly for a while."

"Pity." commented Riddle, "I had so many..." he fingered his temporary wand absently with a dark gleam in his eyes, "...Questions."

The deliberate way he said that would've probably sent shivers down the spines of most people, but Amalia found her spirits brightened somewhat. This was the Riddle she remembered from school; the one who was afraid of nothing. He was a dangerous, ambitious megalomaniac... Who was on her side, it seemed. Sure, his intervention might have been mainly out of curiosity, but... Somehow, she didn't think that was the full explanation. Perhaps he didn't hate her that much, after all.

She inspected the wand she'd picked up; it looked pretty normal, no distinguishing features... She pocketed it, and turned back to her companion. "I guess I owe you some answers, then. I'll tell you everything I know, although, I'll warn you... it's not much."

Riddle stared at her unblinkingly; she seemed resigned, yet perfectly willing. Was he really going to find out the mystery of Amalia Gray's origins, at last?!

She started walking away, back towards Diagon Alley's main street.

He fell in step alongside her. "Why suddenly so forthcoming?"

She rolled her eyes, "Because they've seen us together. They might start coming after you next."

She snuck a peek at his reaction. It silenced him, but only for a moment. "Pfft." he snorted contemptuously, lip curling, "They can try."

Despite the seriousness of the strange encounter, Amalia suddenly felt a wave of... fondness?... for the cold-blooded boy walking beside her. How many people would have done what he did? In fact, why did he do it?

She was ironically reminded of his own confused questions about why she'd liberated him from the orphanage. Just a few hours ago, she'd assumed he was incapable of making the same choice - to come to her aid. He hadn't believed it either, she could tell.

Perhaps they were both wrong about what Riddle was and wasn't capable of.

"How did you know?" she asked next.

Riddle glanced at her, then away, impassive as usual, "Your old place in Knockturn was destroyed."

She blinked, surprised. "It is? ...Why did you go there?"

He shrugged, as if he wasn't sure, himself. "When I came back, I noticed your stalker lurking outside the bookstore, glancing in every time your back was turned."

Amalia shuddered delicately, "Ugh, creepy."

They paused on the side of the main street. Christmas was only three days away, so the bustling crowds cheerfully engaged in their shopping was to be expected. Families and couples thronged the streets, engaging in their own domestic dramas as they perused the brightly coloured items on display in the shop windows. Meanwhile, a man had just tried to... What? Follow her? ...Worse? If Riddle hadn't stepped in, who knows if she would have noticed him in time.

It was times like these that Amalia felt most alienated from other, 'normal' people, with their 'normal' problems. Like the rising price of racing broomsticks, or whether to buy a turkey or a roast for their family festivities.

She glanced at Riddle; he, too, was surveying the crowds, with an openly contemptuous look. She hid a grin. Perhaps the garish Christmas decorations were giving him a headache, too.

Suddenly feeling more cheerful, she said brightly, "Hey, I have an idea!"

Riddle narrowed his eyes at her. "What?" he said suspiciously.

"I'm hungry." she stated, grabbing his sleeve, "Do you want to get some ice cream? We can discuss everything over a sundae."

"...Desist." he glared at her, and she stopped tugging on the sleeve of his coat, raising her hands in a good-natured apology.

But she was no less enthusiastic about her idea.

"I know this awesome place, Florean Fortescue's, they serve the best ice cream you've ever-"

"Ridiculous."

"Oh, I think you mean delicious."

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, c'mon, Riddle," she wheedled, "It'll be great, I promise! Don't you like ice cream?"

"..."

"I've seen you eating your fudge sundae dessert in the Great Hall with great enjoyment, you can't lie to me."

Well, 'great enjoyment' might be stretching it too far; his politely blank expression was hardly ecstatic. But she'd noticed he always finished the bowl; unusual, since he was a terribly picky eater.

Riddle was silent a short while. She could smell victory.

"It's snowing." he stated, in a last-ditch effort to sound resolute, "What kind of idiot craves ice cream in this weather?"

Amalia shot him a hopeful smirk, "...I'll pay?"

A barely audible sigh escaped him.

"...Fine."

Chapter Text

Even though it was snowing, as Riddle had complained, Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was packed with noisy holidaymakers. Though Amalia could almost feel the annoyance rolling off Riddle at her side, she didn't regret her decision to bring him here. It was a testament to the quality of the product that it was so popular; he was about to get his mind blown.

She didn't let him lurk resentfully in the crowded entrance for long, but dragged him over to a cramped booth near the back with a firm grip on his wrist. For once he didn't shake her off immediately, perhaps distracted by the sensory overload of colorful, delicious-smelling ice creams arranged around the cafe. Once they were inside, he seemed to resign himself to the experience, and sat down in the leather-backed booth without complaining. The glass of the shop window next to them was misted, condensation running down in streams. Even though it was an ice cream shop, it was warm and toasty inside, a welcome respite from the chilled winter air. Whoever had sat at their table previously had left the shape of a heart on the misted glass, which lasted approximately two seconds before Riddle irritably swiped it away with his sleeve.

His mood seemed to improve slightly as he warmed up, peeling off his winter coat with only a slight wince at the movement. He still wasn't completely recovered from his injuries. It didn't have an effect on his appetite, though, as he imperiously waved over a harassed-looking waitress to order the biggest (and most expensive) single-serving sundae they had, with an impressively deadpan expression as he demanded extra fudge sauce. Amalia rolled her eyes and let him have his fun (literally at her expense). For herself, she felt daring and decided to try the lemon and pecan sorbet, as well as a pot of tea for them both.

A comfortable silence descended as they waited for their orders, Riddle's dark eyes watching the passers by through the smeared hole in the condensation, while Amalia idly watched him. He seemed deep in thought.

Something had happened, something had changed between them, and she knew he sensed it too. In the past twenty-four hours, they'd both made the choice to get involved in each others lives, when walking away had been the easiest option. Sure, at first the motivating factor may have been curiosity... but after curiosity had been satisfied, she had gone back for him, and more significantly, he had gone back for her.

And now, they both knew things about each other that no one else was privy to. It felt... weirdly intimate.

The waitress brought a pot of tea and two cups, and Amalia wordlessly took the initiative to pour for them both (they'd made great strides in their relationship over the last hour, but she didn't expect miracles). She sipped slowly at her own cup, thoughtful. Tom took his cup without even looking at her, arrogant enough to not have expected anything less than to be served.

Deciding to take advantage of the fragile bridge of trust that seemed to have sprung into existence between them, Amalia steeled herself for a difficult, yet necessary, conversation.

"Look, about earlier..." she began, with a sigh, her cup clinking back into its saucer.

Riddle instantly turned his dark gaze on her, looking momentarily confused before he remembered. Their latest fight had happened only hours ago, and it had been a bad one. Oh yeah, he reminded himself hurriedly, I'm completely pissed off at her. He tried to summon up the same blind rage he'd felt earlier, but it was strangely hard to do.

"I've been thinking about what you said," she began, delicately tracing the rim of her cup with a slim finger. She seemed completely serious, unflinching as she gazed at into his dark eyes. As usual, her lack of fear caused his pulse to speed up slightly, sharpening his senses. No one else dared to meet his eyes like her (except perhaps Dumbledore, but he didn't count). He tensed, steeling himself...

"I realized that I actually know very little about you." she said quietly. "About how you've lived up until now, outside of Hogwarts. I have no right to an opinion on your choices, so... For what it's worth... I'm sorry for what I said. I take it back."

He almost fell off his chair. He'd been bracing himself to commence shouting-match round two.

She took advantage of his surprise and pressed on before he could reply, "I didn't mean it when I called you weak." she added, wanting him to believe her. She cleared her throat, and seemed suddenly a little embarrassed, "You're... probably the strongest person I know." She took a hasty gulp of tea, wondering if she'd overdone it. But it was her sincere feelings.

Tom ripped his gaze away from her, face going blank as he tried to process this unexpected turn in the conversation. She was... complimenting him? His long fingers fiddled with his teaspoon, betraying his confusion more than his impassive expression. It took him a few moments to formulate an appropriately aloof response.

"Hmph," he scoffed at last, arching an eyebrow coldly, "It took you this long to figure that out?"

She grinned, relieved that at least he was talking to her again. But her grin faded soon after. "What did you mean, when you said what happened was 'better than the alternative'?" she asked quietly.

Riddle scowled, but for once it didn't seem directed at her. "Dumbledore's been waiting for a long time for any excuse to expel me, you know that."

"Is that all it is?" Amalia frowned.

He glared darkly at her. "Until I'm seventeen, that old fool has the power to take everything away from me," he said venomously, "I won't give him the satisfaction of an excuse."

"I still don't see why you can't talk to the Headmaster about the situation, or even better, Slughorn. They'd figure something out, if they knew that-"

"I don't want to discuss this. It has nothing to do with you."

So, pride is the problem, then, Amalia thought wryly. "So, if I hadn't come, you would have just... endured it?" she asked. The thought of him enduring such misery out of pride and spite was... oddly upsetting.

Riddle shifted in place uncomfortably, but his expression remained wooden.

"They left you there, tied up like an animal, with nothing... you could have died! You could have gotten pneumonia, or had an internal injury-"

"This conversation is over." he snapped, in a tone of finality.

She scowled right back. He'd risked his life so he could keep going to Hogwarts... This was Dumbledore's fault. It had become an issue of pride and fear - of course he'd never admit how bad things were to the wizard who was supposed to be in charge of his welfare and protection.

"This conversation is not over." she vowed stubbornly, folding her arms. "But... I'll let it go, for now."

They lapsed into silence again, but this time it was full of tension. Amalia almost sighed in relief when a few minutes later the waitress brought their ice creams. They ate quietly, the tenseness seeping slowly out of the air as the desserts proved a welcome distraction. Riddle dug into his with all the meticulous seriousness of an archaeologist unearthing Tutankhamen's crypt. It was kind of... cute. Amalia wondered if he'd ever treated himself like this, or if Hogwarts was the only place he ever ate well.

As she ate her own ice cream, her eyes flicked away from him occasionally to keep an eye on the busy doorway, over his shoulder. Already she felt the first stirrings of anxiety clawing at her insides after her near escape with the stalker... Months of safety at Hogwarts had made her complacent. She needed to be more observant. But she fought off the urge to hide, the extreme paranoia that had become her way of life before Hogwarts. Nothing and no one would prevent her from returning to the castle - she understood Riddle's desperation only too well. It was their home.

Interrupting her thoughts, Riddle looked up at last from his excavation, and put down his spoon. "So," he said stiffly, "I thought we were here to discuss you. Don't think I'll let you change your mind about telling me." he threatened darkly.

It took all of Amalia's prodigious acting skill to hold back her laughter; his sinister glare was ruined by the speck of ice cream lingering at the corner of his mouth.

"I haven't changed my mind," she said mildly, ignoring the adorable speck with difficulty. She coughed lightly, and composed herself. "What would you like to know?"

"Where is your family?" he demanded instantly, a stillness coming over him which told her he was listening intently.

She blinked in surprise. "That's your first question? Not 'why are strange men stalking you'?"

"I'll get around to that one, too." he said drily. "Talk."

He really is obsessed with bloodlines and ancestry, she mused internally. But she had promised to tell him everything... "Very well." she said, "My parents... I think I'm the only child of Medea and Alric Gray."

"You... think?"

Amalia shrugged carelessly. "The last record is dated twenty-five years ago, and it's a record of their marriage. There are no others."

"No record of your birth?"

"Nope." she said with a thin smile, "I don't exist, officially. I can't be one hundred percent certain that they were my parents, but makes sense, time-wise. I know I am a Gray; the vault in Gringotts opens for me, alone. That's my only solid proof, to be honest."

"Where are they?"

"I'm pretty sure my mother's dead," Amalia said calmly, sipping her tea, "And I certainly hope my father is."

"Why's that?" he asked, cocking his head. He was totally engrossed in what she was saying.

"Because I think I've met him," she said with a twisted grimace. "And, as far as my mother's concerned... Well..." she said hesitantly, and a brief expression of insecurity crossed her face, "What kind of mother would let her child go through what I did? It's unlikely she's just living somewhere, as if I never existed."

Riddle snorted bitterly and sneered, "You're naive. The woman who gave birth to you is not necessarily going to give a damn."

She scowled; she was many things, but naive wasn't one of them. "Are we talking about my mother now, or yours?" she threw back at him, eyes flashing in a challenge.

For an uncomfortably long moment, they had sustained eye contact, tense and it seemed like another argument was on the cards...

But then, Amalia's gaze flickered to his mouth, and her lips twitched, breaking the tension of the moment. "Uh... Here," she offered him a napkin from their table, holding back a laugh, "Just... use it..." she gestured at his mouth, smirking.

He snatched it out of her proffered hand and daintily wiped his mouth, daring her to comment with his resentful, obsidian eyes.

She decided to cut him some slack and bit back the teasing remark on the tip of her tongue. If she could hold back, they had a fighting chance at holding an honest conversation without it devolving into a bloody duel. If only for the sake of originality.

"So," he said stiffly, "What of your father?"

"I think he has something to do with what happened to me... the parts I don't remember. That time you used legilimency on me? You must have seen it."

Riddle thought back to the memories he'd tried to forcibly take from her months ago. He remembered the blank greyness in her mind - a glass-like surface upon which his own mind couldn't find any purchase. There had only been one memory, vague and fragile, that he'd had time to witness. A man, a room full of nurses, and then... pain.

"Then, that man in the memory..." Riddle asked, "Was he...?"

"I don't know." Amalia shrugged, following his train of thought easily, "Possibly. He had brown eyes, like mine... that's all I remember. I think I was five or six at the time, but... Everything is blurred, insubstantial as smoke. The rest of my memories are equally damaged." Bitterness seeped into her voice, "The result of too many Memory Charms to count."

"That's why you hate the spell so much."

"Wouldn't you?" she defended, "We are defined by our experiences, and yet, time and time again, my past was taken away from me, I was erased. No matter how horrible my life was, I have a right to know what was done to me."

He looked pensive. "Memory Charms are dangerous when layered... but you seem... lucid enough." Aside from the paranoia, he added privately. But perhaps she had a good reason for that, considering.

She snorted, "Most people would have become a vegetable by now." A hint of pride entered her voice, "I think I actually developed a resistance to the spells over time."

"Or, your skull is particularly thick." offered Riddle drily, but Amalia just laughed.

The waitress bustled over and took their empty bowls, the conversation lapsing briefly. Tom ordered more tea.

"Towards the end," continued Amalia after the woman had left, "I started remembering things. I could vaguely tell that time was passing... that something was wrong. It gave me the opportunity to escape."

"And the place? From your memory, it looked like a hospital."

"Perhaps. A facility housing muggle and magical children. They were conducting experiments... but I don't remember the details." her eyes darkened, "I don't know what they were doing to us, and I don't know why, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. One night about two years ago, it all got too much. I couldn't..." she abruptly bit her lip and looked out of the misted window, eyes scanning the street distractedly. Her jaw clenched, her eyes were suddenly haunted. But then, a moment later, she seemed to shake herself out of it, sitting up straighter as if to make up for her momentary lapse. "So, I escaped." she ended abruptly. "I burnt the whole place down and ran. I've been on my own ever since. That's the sad story of my mysterious life."

Riddle pondered everything she was saying... and not saying. He was under no illusion that there was more to this abbreviated version of events than she was letting on... But he would just keep her talking for now. The pieces of the puzzle would fall into place in time.

"What makes you suspect the Ministry has a hand in all of this?" he asked next.

Her expression instantly darkened. "That's because of an incident that happened just two weeks after I had myself set up in a nice apartment in Diagon Alley. Not too far from here, actually." she waved down the busy street, "It was ridiculously expensive, but I had cash to burn and no memories, so once I'd found my way to the magical world I was excited to be immersed in it all, you know? I only had a wand for two weeks, I couldn't do shit with it yet... and then some guy turns up on my doorstep and tries to kill me, without even a word of explanation. It was pure luck I escaped at all; I didn't know how to defend myself at the time. I ducked, he missed, and then I broke my leg jumping out of the window to get away. At least I'm alive."

"What spell did he use?"

She grimaced. "Juguolo."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's... extreme."

"I know, right?" she said, with a humourless snort. Juguolo was a nasty spell; it severed the spinal cord and throat in one slashing action to cause a painless, yet messy death. It wasn't considered illegal because of its common use in the slaughter of animals, despite being just as dangerous as any illegal, fatal curse.

"Anyway," she continued in a more relaxed way, "It was only later I realized he had been trying to kill me - when I looked up what the spell was. After that I moved to Knockturn, went into hiding properly."

"How did you come to the conclusion he was from the Ministry?"

She grinned mischievously. "I'll get to that part in a moment, it's quite a thrilling tale. So, I moved to Knockturn to hide from the Ministry guy, but I soon became aware that there was another group after me too."

"Wearing masks."

"Precisely. Generally they just followed me around - rather unsubtly too, as you saw today - but there was a couple of times when they tried to corner me. They're generally easy to evade; only using Stunning Spells and the like, but they are tenacious. I haven't figured out how they're finding me."

Curiouser and curiouser. "You haven't captured one of them yet?" his voice was an irritated drawl.

"Hey, look," she frowned defensively, "I haven't exactly been sticking around to ask questions. They often come in pairs and I didn't want to risk getting cursed in the back! They haven't attacked me for real yet, but who's to say their methods won't change?"

He tutted disapprovingly, and took the opportunity to pour himself tea. "Perhaps your methods should change."

She folded her arms. "Oh?"

To her surprise, he reached over and took her empty cup, pouring for her, too, with a faint smirk on his face. "Bait, and ambush." he said smoothly, adding milk and sugar in precisely the right quantities.

She watched his elegant movements appreciatively. She had to admit, when he put his mind to it, his manners were flawless. Like a demonic butler.

When did he take note how I drink my tea? And why? she suddenly wondered. It was either sweet that he'd been paying attention... Or very creepy. That sort of knowledge would make it easy for him to swap out her morning tea in the Great Hall for a poisoned cup.

She reminded herself to watch her drinks around him in future.

"All you need to do is play the bait," he continued, setting her cup back down in front of her, "I'll deal with the ambush side of things."

"Being bait sounds... safe." she said sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes. "I won't let them touch you." he told her matter-of-factly. "I have no interest in standing by while you get cursed, or worse."

She stared at him. "...Really?" That almost sounded like he cared...

"The right to curse you is exclusively mine." he declared possessively, utterly serious.

He stared right back at her, unblinking. A hint of warmth crept into her cheeks as she processed what he'd just said. Ugh - Am I blushing? Wh-why do I suddenly feel flustered?!

She took a sip of tea and ignored her heart, which was inexplicably fluttering like a stupid Ravenclaw fangirl. "I'm grateful you want to be involved," she said slowly, relieved he hadn't seemed to pick up on her mortifying reaction, "But I'd rather just do some research on the Moving Stones, and find somewhere safe to stay over Christmas. It's not long before we'll be back at school anyway, and-"

"Nonsense." he said firmly, sounding determined, "The best defence is offence."

She sipped her tea without responding, still taken aback by the direction the conversation had gone in.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "What? Do you think it wouldn't work?"

"It's not that..." she said hesitantly, then sighed. "I just don't think leaving a trail of bodies across London can really be called 'laying low'. Which is what you're supposed to be doing, remember?" she reminded him.

Some of the fire ebbed from his eyes at her words, and he sank back in his seat, frustrated. Annoyingly, she was right... But that didn't mean there wasn't something they could do... Already, several more discrete plans of action sprang to mind, but he decided to think a little more on the whole situation.

"So, you still haven't explained how you know your first stalker was from the Ministry." he pointed out, abruptly changing the subject.

She grinned, relieved at the change of pace. "Well, after the first time, I didn't see him again, not for a long time. But then, I spotted him completely by accident in London one day, and followed him to the Ministry. As you know I was in possession of a Time Turner." she started, "I used it... extensively, for about two months of real time, before I met you or Dumbledore. I stretched that time to about an extra year, mostly learning magic, becoming an animagus, keeping two steps ahead of Them..." she set her teacup down. "But I lied in the report I gave to Dumbledore. I omitted the fact that I actually used it to break into the Ministry, to follow my mysterious attacker... and find out exactly who he was."

Riddle snorted with genuine mirth, picturing Dumbledore's horror if he ever found out what his star student had done. "I'm impressed, Gray," he smirked, "Infiltrating the Ministry? Perhaps your methods are not so hopeless, after all."

"I didn't risk going into the depths of the Ministry exactly," she clarified, finding his approving smirk dangerously attractive, "I just followed the man who'd tried to kill me. I found out his name and the department he worked for. James Blishwick, pureblood... An Unspeakable from the Department of Mysteries." she shrugged, "With a few disguises and the Time Turner, the Ministry's security was ridiculously weak."

"An Unspeakable." Riddle's dark eyes gleamed in interest at this unexpected development.

"I broke into his office - even Unspeakables have paperwork to do. I didn't have time for a thorough search, but there was a file with my name on it, and inside was some redacted files on the facility, but everything relevant was blacked out. There was, however, a list of names in the file. The last name on the list was 'Alric Gray'. I just had time to copy the whole list before I snuck out... I'd just started investigating them when you and Dumbledore pitched up." she sighed. "I intend to continue tracking down the names on the list, but without the Time-Turner, things will definitely be harder..."

"But not impossible." Riddle said, a shrewd eagerness in his eyes. "I want to see this list."

Amalia was unsure why, but a pleasant warmth flooded her stomach at his instant reply. "You... you're sure you want to get involved, then...?" she asked.

He shot her an icy glare. "What? Do you think you can stop me?" he demanded aggressively.

It had been her burden, alone, for as long as she could recall. Despite her cavalier attitude, it hadn't been easy sharing all of this with him... this secret part of her life that no one else knew. Somehow, it was suddenly easier to breathe.

She smiled indulgently, eyes crinkling at him, "Aw. You're just the sweetest, Riddle."

He rolled his eyes and drained the rest of his tea.

Amalia braced her hands on the table and stood, stretching. They'd been talking for over an hour, probably the longest conversation they'd ever had. And for once, no one was bleeding.

"Come, let's get out of here. There's another shop I want to check out, and we still have to find a new place to stay for tonight."

He stood too, raising an eyebrow at her. "I assume you have an idea of where to go? Being an expert on hiding like a rat in the backstreets of Knockturn."

"I know a place," she nodded.

He froze, not trusting the amused, sidelong glance she threw at him. "What kind of place?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, a dingy little bar." she answered airly. "Run by a werewolf. He's very discreet."

"A werewolf?"

She sniggered. "Yup. Hairy little fellow, he called his pub 'The Humping Crupp'. It's a standing joke among the locals that the Ministry's so incompetent they still don't know his... uh, condition. Werewolves are required to register, you know."

"Fantastic." muttered Riddle sarcastically.

Their waitress hurried over with their bill, holding it out to Riddle expectantly.

He glanced down at the paper and smirked at the exorbitant price, shoving Amalia forward with a carelessly rude nudge of his shoulder. "I'll be outside, don't make me wait." he drawled, and sauntered out.

Their waitress gaped after him as he left. Amalia rolled her eyes and dug out some cash.

"Honey," the waitress advised, "He's nice to look at, but you could do better."

Amalia smiled fondly.

"Oh, no," she said cheerfully, "For better or worse, he's stuck with me."

Chapter Text

It wasn't difficult to follow the directions on the piece of paper Amalia had from the eager book shop assistant. In no time at all, Amalia and Riddle found themselves standing outside a narrow doorway on a quieter stretch of Diagon Alley, above which a peeling sign vaguely read 'Emporium Obscurum'. On either side of the door there was some sprigs of dried herbs entangled in what looked like beaded muggle dream-catchers. They exchanged a jaded look - from the outside, this didn't exactly scream 'legitimate establishment' - but nevertheless, they had come this far already. Riddle pushed open the door and led the way inside.

A faint tinkling bell sounded as the door swung wide, announcing their arrival.

It took a few moments for Amalia's eyes to adjust to the gloom in the store; there were no windows. The only light came from shaded lanterns attached to the walls, barely visible since it was also lined with shelves upon shelves of curious knickknacks and unidentifiable objects. Everything was covered in a layer of dust, and the air felt heavy and dry. The rest of the store receded into darkness, with many display cases and tables of varying size piled high with odd trinkets blocking the view to the back of the room. There was obviously no particular order or arrangement to the haphazardly placed items, so Amalia had no idea where to look. She wandered over to the nearest shelf curiously. It was stuffed with books of all shapes and sizes; some in languages she didn't recognise. They all looked like they were limited or one-edition books, some even handwritten. It was a treasure trove of rare knowledge, despite the dream catchers outside.

Amalia felt excitement flare within; surely, there must be something that could help them in amidst all the junk.

"I've never been here before," she mused, a little surprised. She'd really thought she'd been in every store in Diagon Alley, but clearly she'd missed this place. So did other people, it seemed, judging by the absolute stillness inside. They were the only customers despite it being the busiest time of the year for Diagon Alley.

She ran slim fingers over the cracked spines of the nearest volumes, ignoring the dust swirling in the air, which was already making her nose itch, and looked up to the next shelf, observing what looked like some creature preserved in a jar. It had five octopus-like legs and one roving eye, which moved jerkily, as if searching for something.

"We shouldn't waste time," reminded Riddle, sighing impatiently as he noticed her gravitating next towards another shelf of fat books decorated with esoteric symbols and pictures.

"Mm." She hummed distractedly, not hearing a word he said.

Riddle was reminded of her obsession with rare books; the extensive collection she'd proudly displayed in her Knockturn apartment (now secreted in her trunk), and the amount of time she spent cloistered in the Library. He remembered that the promise of books had been the thing that had eventually persuaded her to come to Hogwarts. Riddle understood the hunger; acquiring knowledge, potentially things no one else knew, was a compulsion they shared. But it was getting late, and they had unknown enemies stalking them. Lingering would be unwise.

"Gray."

"Mm."

She was leafing excitedly through a large, square-shaped book which was covered in what looked like the hide of a zebra. It was so bulky she struggled gamely to keep it steady with one arm as she paged.

He felt a spike of annoyance. "Amalia."

The unusual use of her name at last caused her to look up, and she caught his irritated expression. "Riddle! Check this out!" she said excitedly, "This is a book handwritten by Livingstone himself! I can't believe it isn't in a museum somewhere!"

"Sounds fake." he said immediately.

"...It smells old." she said stubbornly.

He rolled his eyes. "That means nothing conclusive."

"It's covered in the skin of a zebra," she said, as if that settled the matter, "Livingstone explored Africa."

"You're unbelievable."

She stuck out her tongue at him, and grinned. "You're the unbeliever."

"We shouldn't waste time." He reminded her, giving up.

She closed the book carefully and hoisted it under her arm. "I'm taking this." She said decisively, her eyes already darting back to the shelves.

"You're the one with stalkers. It's getting late." he reminded her, "I would have thought you'd have more of a sense of self-preservation by now."

"Oh, stop nagging, Riddle." She said airily. "And they're not my stalkers – they're our stalkers. Where's all that big talk about ambushing and confronting them? Don't tell me you're getting paranoid." She took great joy in throwing his caution back in his face; he'd done nothing but mock and belittle her 'paranoia' ever since they'd first met.

She half expected the usual death-threat to follow her teasing, but he merely gave her an unimpressed, flat stare, and then rolled his eyes. "Come. Let's get this over with. We should ask the proprietor of this dump if they have any information on those runes; searching manually would take ages."

Amalia shut her mouth in surprise, shocked that for once he didn't snap at her. He had completely overlooked her teasing. She fell in step with him as he walked past the bookshelves, musing that if this new… tolerance… continued, it marked a significant step forward in their alliance... Relationship? Partnership…?

They came to a dead end formed by three lop-sided, high cabinets. Backtracking, they took a different route and ended up at a crossroads formed out of piles of junk. They paused under the dim red glow of what looked like a salvaged Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling.

"Hello?" Riddle called out, his voice ringing with quiet authority and a hint of annoyance. "Is anyone here?"

After a few moments, they heard an answering, quavery woman's voice say, "Come further in, my dear." a breathy chuckle, "Further in... Into the bowels."

Amalia's nose wrinkled at this unpleasant image, made worse by the red light, "Um... Ew."

They headed down a narrow corridor of shelves, in the direction of the voice. Fortunately, they at last emerged and noticed a large, squat desk in the corner of the room, behind which a lumpy shape of a woman lurked, sitting in shadow. There was sickly sweet incense burning, the sticks glowing a faint orange as they slowly curled into ash on a plate in front of the woman. The air was hazy with smoke. It was very melodramatic.

A muscle ticked in Riddle's jaw, "I can just tell, this is going to be a weird one." he said grimly in an undertone to Amalia. "You can talk to her. This was your idea, anyway."

"Oh, thank you," Amalia drawled sarcastically, stepping around him and taking the lead.

She hitched a bright smile on her face, peering into the dark corner. The woman seemed rather bulky, sitting in shadow and smoke, and it was hard to get a good fix on her face. For some reason she was swamped in various shawls, one draped around her head, which seemed... misshapen, somehow. She had a fat double-chin, and also... what seemed to be some kind of growth, the size of a grapefruit, on the side of her face...?

"Good-day, ma'am," Amalia said politely, trying to discreetly squint at the woman, "I'm wondering if you'll be able to help us? I'm looking for information on some unusual runes... I haven't been able to find them in any of the usual runic lexicons. Since your... collection is rather extensive, I'm hoping you can point us in the right direction."

"Runes, you say?" repeated the woman in a surprisingly throaty, slow voice, completely different to the rather high-pitched, quavery voice they'd heard before. The woman's entire bulk shook with each ponderous word, the glittering shawls swishing softly.

Amalia blinked a few times, her eyes adjusting to the gloom at last. She promptly wished they hadn't. By her side, she sensed Riddle was staring, too.

"Um... yes, runes." she managed to confirm, swallowing hard.

Don't stare, don't stare, don't stare... she thought desperately, and elbowed Riddle discretely. He blinked as if coming out of a stupefied daze and cleared his throat unnecessarily, trying to shrug off his momentary lapse in decorum.

"S-so... can you help us?" Amalia asked weakly. Merlin's beard, I'm staring again.

"Perhaps we have something that can help you." the deep voice said.

"But perhaps not." piped up the higher voice.

"Perhaps not." agreed the deeper voice solemnly.

Riddle made an impatient noise from beside Amalia. She discreetly trod on his shoe; the sooner they got through this, the sooner they could leave. Which would be great, since Amalia was starting to feel nauseated just looking at this... person.

"Perhaps we don't want to help you." wheezed the higher voice, with a breathy chuckle that seemed more malicious than teasing.

"We may not like you." Added the deeper voice. Her jowls wobbled as she nodded ponderously.

There was an awkward silence.

"You're staring." tittered the small head bulging grotesquely on the side of the fat woman. Its pinched features contracted into a creepy grimace.

"Well, I'm sorry," Amalia apologized, diverting her gaze to the walls, ceiling, floor... "It's just that... Um..." Was there any way of saying it without offending her?

"You have two heads." Riddle stated bluntly. He seemed fixated in horrified fascination.

"Riddle!" hissed Amalia, face-palming. They needed information, which meant not deliberately antagonizing this person!

"What?" he shrugged dismissively. "She does."

"How rude!" screeched the smaller head, contorting its wizened features, "She doesn't have two heads! We have one body!"

"That's the same thing, isn't it?" Riddle threw back, utterly impassive.

"Oh, you little-!"

"Hush." Chided the other head. "It's not the first time, nor the last." Heavy-lidded eyes dragged up to stare at Riddle's unimpressed face, and she intoned solemnly, "A curse gone awry, a spell backfired. Now two are one, until we expire."

Riddle made a scornful sound, most likely about her terrible little rhyme, and the woman's eyes narrowed malevolently. "You have something to say, boy?"

"It was Side-long Apparition, wasn't it?" he said, sounding bored and more than a little scathing. "There was no curse, you just got Splinched."

The woman swelled with indignation, a dull flush creeping over her face in embarrassment, telling them that Riddle's guess was spot-on.

"Ahem." Coughed Amalia, her patience running thin and she sensed the situation was deteriorating, "Moving on… I have a few of the runes sketched out on some parchment. If you could take a look and recommend any books you may have, I'd be very grateful." She rummaged in her bag hurriedly.

The smaller head sneered, "I don't like you, boy. You have an ill look about you."

Amalia's eyebrow twitched. An 'ill look', really? That was coming from this hideous, two-headed hag?

The bigger head asked ponderously. "What's your blood status? Who is your family?"

Amalia finally found the paper with her notes on it, and placed it on the desk with a flourish. "There's no need for that, is there?" she said reasonably. "If you'd just have a look, we'll be on our way, and-"

"Not so fast, girl." The woman raised a pudgy hand covered in gaudy rings. Her eyes were fixed on Riddle. "Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

His jaw clenched, but he sounded utterly bored when he replied, "... Tom Riddle."

"Not a wizarding name, that one!" squawked smaller head, suddenly sounding triumphant.

"Indeed not." agreed the other. "I could tell. And I thought today would be interesting." Her wide mouth stretched into an unpleasant smile. "But it's just another thrill-seeking mudblood, fouling up the air with his muggle stench." she glared at Riddle up and down with a sneer, "Leave. We don't deal with your kind here."

Amalia's fists clenched.

Was this how he was always treated by wizarding society? If so, no wonder he was so sensitive about his heritage. They lived in an intolerant time, and this had obviously happened to him before. She felt him stiffen beside her, but he held himself back, face like stone. His restraint was admirable.

She had never enjoyed exercising restraint, herself.

WHAM. The misshapen form jumped slightly and both heads let out a shriek of surprise as she slammed both hands (and the heavy zebra-skin book) on the desk, leaning forward aggressively. Her magic crackled around her, raising the ends of her hair and forcing the air from the woman's unhealthy lungs in a strangled gasp which sounded more like a whimper. An unnatural wind whipped away the stink of incense, causing dust and loose pages to flutter in the air around them.

"Now, listen here, you two-headed bitch," Amalia snarled viciously, eyes flashing, "We didn't fucking come here to hear your bigoted, ignorant bullshit about blood purity. Riddle is the top student at Hogwarts," she spat, jerking her head at her (now-staring) companion, "It's not an exaggeration to say that he's the greatest prodigy since Dumbledore himself. One day, he'll be the wizard that surpasses him. Do you know who Dumbledore is? Or are your heads so far up your own ass you never get out of this dusty shithole?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Riddle was still staring at her incredulously, possibly at the sudden torrent of bad language. A faint tint of colour rose in her cheeks, though she tried her best to ignore him. She was only speaking her mind.

The woman's mouth opened to say something, and in the blink of an eye Amalia drew the wand that had belonged to her stalker and shoved it in the woman's face, the tip sparking threateningly. "Just give me an excuse," she said menacingly, "I beg you."

She would risk using magic if it meant she could curse this ignorant hag, particularly since she had the advantage of not using her own wand. Both heads looked cross-eyed as they tried to keep the wand in sight. The smaller head was whimpering. The muggle dream-catchers outside, the stinking incense, the fact that this woman had been splinched... all of this told Amalia that she was dealing with a charlatan, a witch who probably had very little skill in magic, choosing to hide behind books instead.

Her tirade seemed to have left the woman frozen in momentary shock. "Now that I have your attention," Amalia continued sweetly, "I'd really like it if you could look at the fucking paper and tell me what I want to know."

"…Th-there's no need for unpleasantness," the woman stuttered, finding her voice at last.

"No need," squeaked the smaller head in agreement, twisting her face uncomfortably as if wishing she could detach herself from the larger body and run away. Riddle was still staring at Amalia as if he'd never seen her before.

"Here." Amalia shoved the paper over and took a small step back, though she didn't put her wand away just yet. "I'm waiting."

The two-headed woman was silent for a long moment, looking down at the parchment miserably. She broke out in a cold sweat as the seconds trickled slowly by.

"It's an alchemical symbol, not a rune." the strange woman said resentfully at last, shifting uncomfortably and plucking at her shawl. "They aren't in any practical use anymore, though. Not since the early days of Babylon."

"Babylon? The first civilisation?" Amalia traded a glance with Riddle. "The timeline's a little wrong for where I found them."

The woman shrugged. "They've been studied and documented extensively since then. The Sumerians were believed to be the first to consciously use magic, and they recorded their spells and potions on stone slabs. You might be able to extract some kind of meaning from this with a Sumerian alchemical dictionary."

"I see." Amalia played idly with the wand in her hands. "And would you happen to know where we could find one?"

The woman glared weakly at her, then made a 'harrumph' sound and levered her bulk up, waddling away down an aisle of books and other knickknacks. She found the right text remarkably quickly, a rather unassuming, thin book, bound in black leather. Inside was a neatly printed, very technical-looking discussion of Sumerian symbols and runes.

'We'll take it." Amalia said decisively, flicking briefly through the pages. It was precisely what they needed; she even recognized one or two symbols from her cursory glance. She hoisted the zebra-skin book. "This, too. How much?"

The woman pursed her lips, her beady eyes darting down to Amalia's wand nervously, before she grunted mutinously, "Perhaps I don't want to sell."

Amalia narrowed her eyes, and tucked the two books very deliberately under her arm, "Well, then," she said coldly, glaring, "I appreciate the gift."

She reached into her bag, drawing out a single gleaming Galleon, and flicked it at the dumbstruck woman, who flinched as the heavy coin hit her shoulder and bounced off, rolling on the floor. "Consider that a donation for your good service." Amalia sneered, and turned on her heel, striding out of the store.

She was vaguely aware of Riddle trailing after her. He still hadn't said anything since her outburst.

Their boots crunched on the dirty ice as they made their way along the twisted streets of Knockturn.

Amalia had conjured some wheels for her trunk and was pulling it beside her as light snowflakes swirled down from the darkening sky. It irked her that she hadn't quite mastered Vanishing objects that large just yet. At least it was enchanted to weight very little, so it wasn't too much of an inconvenience.

By the time they had returned to The Leaky Cauldron and retrieved their possessions, the sun had already set. Now they were on their way to a new and hopefully more discreet place to spend the night, and both teenagers felt very aware of unfriendly eyes following them. It was unclear whether they were being followed or if it was simply the dodgy inhabitants of magical London's worst neighbourhood taking an interest in them as they passed.

"Okay, what is it?" Amalia snapped at last.

"What's what?" Riddle asked nonchalantly.

She snorted at his attempt to sound blasé. "You've been staring at me this whole time."

"I have not." he denied, and immediately started taking an interest in over-flowing trashcan they were walking past.

"Is it about what happened at that shop? You've not said a word since that ignorant hag called you a mudblood."

His shoulders stiffened at the memory, but then he just shrugged, "I think you said all that needed to be said." He glanced at her with a small smirk, "Even if I was surprised by your foul mouth."

Amalia grinned sheepishly, "Yeah, well... I tend to do that when I lose my temper."

"I've noticed." That sharp tongue was usually directed at him, after all.

"I meant every word," she said adamantly, looking fierce as she recalled the confrontation. She wondered if this was the first time anyone had ever spoke up in his defense. Was that why he was acting strangely? "Ugh, intolerant idiots like that bitch really piss me off. Blood purity... I just don't get the point." She threw a meaningful look at him - his own intolerant views were ironically just as bad - but he ignored the jibe. Silence fell as they continued walking.

"You're staring again." she said dryly, glancing at him, sidelong.

His expression was closed off, unreadable. "Did you mean everything you said?" he asked at last, dark eyes watching her intently for any trace of deceit.

She thought for a moment, wondering which part of what she'd said was causing him to obsess.

"You talking about..." she said slowly, pretty sure her hunch would be correct, "...What I said about you surpassing Dumbledore?"

His silence and continued staring was answer enough.

She nodded. "Yes. I have no idea what he was like in school, but I'm pretty sure you'd measure up. And Dumbledore only wants to maintain the status quo. Unlike him, you have ambitions, plans... Purpose. You have the power and the will to do whatever it takes to succeed."

He was silent, a small frown creasing his forehead.

Amalia hid a smile at his confusion. "We're almost there." she murmured, pausing at an ice-covered street name and trying to remember how many blocks further on their destination was.

"What about you?" Riddle said abruptly, facing her as they paused.

She met his obsidian eyes fearlessly, and her lips curled up in a smirk, "I'm the same." she said simply, "That goes without saying. Or do you disagree?"

After a beat of silence, he looked away, prompting a surprised smile from Amalia, who had expected some kind of scathing comment about how she could never measure up. Then, just as she'd accepted and made peace with the fact that he wasn't actually going to answer her, she heard a quiet... (not malicious, not cold, not angry)

"... No."

And then, stilted, awkward, so quiet she barely heard it...

"...I don't disagree."

Warmth suffused Amalia's face as she goggled at him in shock. He was glaring fixedly down the street, a dark scowl on his face.

Her grip tightened on the handle of her trunk as she considered the significance of what had just transpired. In one single phrase, Riddle had just done the impossible; he'd indirectly... hesitantly... somewhat resentfully... implied that they were equals. Of course, he hadn't said so exactly, but... taking his superiority complex into account, it was about as close to the admission as he was ever likely to get.

Amalia suddenly had a weird urge to squeal and throw her arms around him (her inner Ravenclaw fangirl rising again). She didn't, of course. She didn't actually have a deathwish.

So, before the moment was ruined, she just cleared her throat and weakly said, "Um... it's just three blocks this way."

They continued their journey in deafening silence, Amalia internally bemoaning the fact that she'd just shyly "Um'd" like an idiot, and Riddle...

Well, who could tell what Riddle was thinking about.

According to Amalia, The Humping Crupp was a pub/inn similar in function to The Leaky Cauldron, but with a much less savory clientele. Admittance was, however, quite exclusive (given the criminals and low-lives that frequented the establishment), so, ironically, it was the safer option. The entrance was just a rusted manhole in a dirty back alley. When tapped thrice with a wand, the grate slid open with a heavy grinding noise to reveal narrow, descending iron steps.

At the bottom of the steps was a grimy lantern with a single flickering candle inside, emitting a magical blue light, illuminating a plain wooden door. The manhole slid closed behind them.

Amalia led the way and placed a hand on the doorknob, but when Riddle stepped after her, the candle flickered and turned from blue to red, and they heard a heavy bolt slide home on the other side of the door.

Amalia sighed tiredly. "He's upgraded his security. I'm guessing the door only opens to people the owner recognizes. He doesn't know you."

"So, what now?" Riddle didn't bother hiding the irritation in his voice. He was exhausted and hungry, and cold, and his healing ribs throbbed abominably from being on his feet almost all day.

She rapped her knuckles smartly on the door. "I'll introduce you. Be nice." she warned.

He just huffed in response. He could be charming when he wanted to, but he was tired and Amalia seemed more than up to the task.

In no time at all a slot in the door slid open, and Riddle could see narrowed eyes under bushy brows, deep-set in a wrinkly face, looking suspiciously from left to right. They set on Amalia's face and widened in recognition.

"Little Miss Gray!" he exclaimed in a pleased, scratchy baritone, "Why, it's been ages since yer last visit! Thought ye'd fergotten about me!"

Amalia chuckled. "Ringori Two-foot, how could I ever forget you? Do you mind opening the door? I'm bringing a friend tonight- I hope that's okay."

Riddle found himself being appraised by sharp brown eyes, "Well... that would depend on the friend, innit?"

He gave a stiff nod of greeting, but decided not to say anything.

"I'm vouching for him. Isn't that good enough?" a hint of steel entered her voice.

"Alrigh', alrigh' little miss, no need t'get testy." said the old man, and the door rattled as he unbolted his side. It swung wide to admit them. "Any friend o' yours is a friend o' mine."

Riddle wondered what exactly Amalia had done to earn this man's friendship.

They walked into a wide, vaguely circular room, with chairs and tables arranged in separate booths around a wide central stone pit of fire. By the rusted attempts at decor on the walls and furniture Riddle surmised it had originally attempted to follow a Celtic theme.

It wasn't empty; in fact, the other shady-looking patrons numbered enough to almost fully populate the booths and chairs around the room. And all of them looked with varying degrees of interest at the new arrivals.

Seemingly unbothered by the stares they were attracting, Amalia gamely made her way straight to the bar, squeezing onto a stool next to a massive man with a red beard, who eyed her somewhat appreciatively. Riddle slid into the one open chair next to her and met the man's eyes with his best 'Back off' glare. It seemed to work, as the red-bearded man grunted and hurriedly turned his attention back to his tankard.

"We need rooms." Amalia said, businesslike, as 'Ringori Twofoot' took up his position behind the bar. "For tonight... perhaps tomorrow night as well."

Now that there was sufficient light, Riddle could easily believe that the proprietor was a werewolf, from his greying, shaggy hair and fiercely bushy eyebrows, to his generally lanky frame which moved with a noticeable muscular grace, despite his age. When he started swiping a dishcloth at a glass beer mug, Riddle noticed his abnormally long, bony fingers, ending in thick, yellowed nails. He was also missing a leg from the knee down, though with the help of a carved crutch, it didn't seem to impede his movement.

The werewolf caught his gaze and sniggered, signalling his stump, "The name's ironic."

"Ringo," Amalia pressed, "Rooms."

"I got no space, m'fraid," the old werewolf said cheerfully, turning to her and waving vaguely at the packed inn, "Even fer yer ladyship." he flashed crooked, slightly pointed teeth in a faux-apologetic grin and tipped an imaginary hat.

"I told you not to call me that." deadpanned Amalia, unamused. She meaningfully slid a closed hand across the scratched counter, "Well, perhaps I can change your mind."

He accepted what she offered with a casual swipe of his long-fingered hand and glanced down, the bribe hidden by the dirty dishcloth.

His craggy face split into a wide grin at the generous 'contribution'. "O' course, for a friend," he said smoothly, "I kin always make an ess-ception. For you and yer man, Missy, I got a spare bed in the basement. Very discreet."

"... Bed, singular?" clarified Riddle sharply, ignoring the sidelong glance Amalia immediately threw at him, wicked amusement lighting up her eyes.

"Aye." nodded the old man, looking between them knowledgeably, and winking, "It'll be righ' cosy, an' ye won't be disturbed." His leer widened, "I got some chains in there, too... to use on a monthly basis, if you catch my drift," the old werewolf winked, "But since the full-moon's still some time away, yer welcome to use them for... yer own needs." he sniggered at the innuendo.

"Sounds perfect." Amalia said nonchalantly.

The old werewolf shuffled off to serve another of his customers, and Amalia turned to Riddle with a mischievous smile. The chance to tease him was just too good to pass up. "Did you hear that, Riddle? This might be a good opportunity to try out bondage."

His flat stare didn't look amused in the least, but then she noticed his eyes flicker down her body, a glance so brief, most would have missed it.

She choked. "Oh my god." She leaned closer to him, eyes wide, "...You imagined it, didn't you?"

A hint of defiance entered his dark gaze as he cocked his head thoughtfully. "You know, Gray," he murmured back, a dangerous, husky undercurrent of malice making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle pleasantly, "Your tongue has been extremely sharp today. We're essentially on the same side for the moment, but even my patience has its limits."

On the surface, it was the usual threat, impossible to tell whether he was utterly serious or not... And yet, there seemed to be a subtly playful edge to his words that Amalia was picking up on. Was it her imagination, or...? She tilted her head in a parody of his posture, challenging, "...Are you saying you don't like my tongue?" she stuck it out cutely and then wet her lips with deliberately slow strokes, liking the way his eyes caught the movement.

Suddenly he was right in front of her, and then his head was bent towards hers, and before she could move she felt his warm breath caressing her neck.

"I'm saying, Amalia," she suppressed as shiver at the sound of her name murmured with such dark intensity into her ear. "...That if you annoy me any further this evening, I might just be using those chains in the basement... and I promise you won't enjoy it."

She might disagree with that last bit, especially if he kept using that tone with her. She was suddenly paralyzed, and very aware of her own erratic pulse. Damn teenage hormones! she groaned internally.

He withdrew, looking smug at her flustered appearance. As usual, he had not a hair out of place, while it took her a while to find her voice again. "A-asshole." she finally managed, knowing she had just utterly failed at hiding the fact that her brain had just flat-lined.

Fortunately for her, further conversation was interrupted by the return of the grizzled werewolf.

"Ringo," Amalia said with some relief, tearing her eyes away from Riddle's amused smirk. "Let's catch up."

"What's new? Besides the boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend." Amalia said hastily, "Just a... friend... from school."

"I'm not her friend." Riddle said immediately, folding his arms with a scowl.

"What- you-" Amalia spluttered.

"She actually kidnapped me." Riddle informed the werewolf, with an affected, long-suffering sigh.

Ringo cackled loudly at the dumbfounded expression on Amalia's face, "That sounds like 'er ladyship, alright!"

Amalia groaned and hid her face in her arms. Of all the times for Riddle to find a sense of humour!

"But I'm glad yer not still gallivantin' about on yer own, missy." Ringo said to Amalia, nodding at Tom. "Ess-specially with those masked bastards creepin' 'round."

"You've seen them?" asked Riddle, surprise evident in his tone. One slim eyebrow rose and he leant forward slightly, fixing the older man with a no-nonsense stare, "How do you know about that?" he demanded, all traces of levity gone.

Ringo gazed at Riddle steadily for a few long moments, before turning back to Amalia and jerking a thumb at him. "I like this one." he told her. "Protective, eh?"

Amalia snorted - Riddle and 'protective' was like an oxymoron - and laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Relax." she told him, "Nothing happens around Knockturn without Ringo hearing about it from his patrons, some time or other. He's known about my little problem for a while now." Riddle threw off her hand with an irritable twitch, as usual, but some of the tension in his posture eased.

She turned back to the werewolf, and asked quite seriously, "They haven't been here, have they? Recently?"

"In this pub?" Ringo shook his head slowly, "Nope, not a chance. Ye can ask around, though," he offered, "We get all types through 'ere. And I can put some feelers out for ye. See what the word on the street is."

"That would be helpful." Amalia said in relief. "We're going back to Hogwarts after Christmas, so we just need to lay low for another week."

"So, Hogwarts, eh? Always knew you was destined fer somethin' more'n this shithole. How's yer classes been goin'?"

As Ringo inquired about her new life, sounding weirdly paternal and a little wistful, Riddle glanced around the room, eyes flicking assessingly to each shady-looking patron. They were all men, except for one old crone he suspected was at least part hag. He tensed as he realized that many of them were looking their way, with an unhealthy amount of curiosity.

In fact, they were staring at Amalia; she stood out like a sore thumb in her expensive clothing. He stood out less, wearing dirty shoes and with a faded bruise on his face, but her neat, fashionably short haircut and clean face, not to mention her obvious youth and beauty, was drawing a lot of attention. Their eyes were hungry and sly; either they were thinking about robbing her, or they were interested in her for other reasons. He suspected the only reason they hadn't already been approached was because of her obvious close relationship with the innkeeper. He subtly angled his body between her and the onlookers, shooting the worst of them an icy, challenging glare. After a moment, it seemed to work and they averted their eyes; he looked older than he was, and they must have seen something dangerous in his gaze. He returned to the conversation Amalia was having with the bartender, paying attention to their surroundings more as he did so.

"Ye look like ye need a drink." Ringo pushed a cracked shot glass of something in front of her. It was a murky, greyish-brown colour, and disturbingly, it was smoking slightly. She sniffed it gingerly, and abruptly jerked back. "Oh, Merlin... What is that? It smells absolutely foul!"

The innkeeper cackled with glee at her reaction, causing the large, red-bearded man on her right to look up. Seeing her disgusted expression, his mouth stretched into a leer, displaying crooked teeth.

"That, m'dear," explained the man, "Is Ringo's house special. Fouler'n bubotuber pus and stronger'n firewhiskey, and he won't tell us what's in it. Drink a pint o' that an' you'll be seein' stars for days."

Amalia pushed the glass back towards Ringo. "I'll pass." she said hastily.

"Y'sure ye don't want to try summat a little stronger?" said the man, sidling closer, "We could get t'know each other better-"

"Like I said, I'll pass." Amalia deadpanned, edging away from the man.

"Aw, don' be like that, sweetheart-"

"Do you like your beard?" Amalia demanded suddenly, a dangerous gleam in her eye. "I know a magic trick with beards. It involves fire. Do you want to see?"

"Lay off this one, Felchly," Ringo advised with a snigger, "She's a spirited one."

"I kin handle meself!" protested 'Felchly'.

Ringo rolled his eyes. "Sure."

Amalia opened her mouth to argue further, but was stopped by a tight grip on her wrist.

"You should get some sleep." Riddle said firmly, giving her a meaningful look. Their interaction with the man was attracting even more unwelcome attention; he was pretty sure if they stayed, she'd be surrounded in minutes by curious drunkards, friends with the proprietor or not.

She evidently sensed the changing atmosphere and hesitantly nodded. "But... We should ask around for information, first."

"I got somethin' t'show ya!" leered the red-bearded man, gesturing crudely, "It's pretty excited t'meetcha, too!"

Riddle and Amalia ignored him, Ringo cuffed him over the head, and he pouted and went back to his tankard, muttering.

"We'll have time in the morning." Riddle said firmly, as if the interruption hadn't happened, "Go."

She nodded slowly. "I guess. I'll... go downstairs then." She got up from her stool, and frowned when he made no move to join her. "What about you?"

"I'll be along shortly." he said dismissively, turning back to the bar.

She shrugged - perhaps he had some kind of plan, or perhaps he just wasn't keen for sharing a bed. Either way, she was pretty tired.

"You shouldn't order any food here... for health reasons. I've got food in my bag." She opened her small shoulder bag and reached in, grateful for her decision to raid the Hogwarts Express food trolley. "Pumpkin pasty or... steak and kidney pie?"

He stared at her for a moment, blank-faced.

"... Both." he said at last.

She just grinned and passed the food over, then signalled Ringo, who came to help her drag her trunk down to the basement.

It was late when the trapdoor to the basement finally creaked open.

Amalia was lying awake, her eyes closed, the open zebra-skin book face-down on her stomach. She had a lot to think about, plans to make... and somehow she hadn't been able to get to sleep knowing that Riddle would be coming to share the (fortunately queen-sized) bed at some point in the night. Seeing as they were in the basement, it was impossible to know what time it was, but Amalia estimated it was around midnight at least. After their late night the previous night as well, she was quite exhausted. She knew Riddle must be feeling even more tired; he was still in the process of recovering from his injuries.

She heard him pause on the steps down into the basement, feeling his eyes locating her form in the dim light. Clearly, he was wondering if she was sleeping.

She considered pretending to be asleep, just to see what he'd do, but... she wanted to talk to him.

"Are you just going to stand there all night?" she drawled, yawning and stretching like a cat.

"Shut up." He snapped immediately, and she heard his footsteps shuffling nearer. His retort was rather... simplistic. Riddle was an eloquent guy, and his ability to tie you up in barbed invective was particularly impressive. "Shut up" was just not his usual go-to response.

She narrowed her eyes at him thoughtfully in the gloom, but she could barely make out his silhouette as he approached. Was he in a bad mood?

She rolled onto her side to face him with a smirk. "Come to bed, darling." she purred in a sultry voice, patting the space on the threadbare mattress right next to her.

She blinked in surprise as she saw him stumble slightly, possibly at her words, possibly because of the dim light.

"Touch me and you're spending the night on the floor. With the cockroaches." he warned coldly, with just a hint of a slur. A slur?

Amalia's mouth dropped open as she sat up. "Are you... drunk?"

"Of course not." Riddle retorted instantly, trying not to sway. How the hell had she noticed? He'd barely walked in and said one sentence, and the room was very dark. The pleasantly loose-limbed buzz he'd been feeling after indulging in Ringo's 'house special' evaporated. Now he just felt irritated and slightly dizzy.

He was suddenly very aware of Amalia, and very aware of the sleeping arrangements. He'd been planning to kick her out of the bed - doubtless a hoarder like Amalia had a sleeping bag or something similar in her bottomless trunk - but now that it came to the actual kicking-out, he was less sure of his success. His eyes wandered over to the wall, where heavy iron chains were attached to the wall; Ringo hadn't been joking. He told himself that it would suffice as Plan B, if she got too annoying.

With that reassuring image in mind, he made it to the end of the bed and sat down gingerly.

"You've been drinking." she shuffled closer on the bed and gave an inquisitive sniff, right next to his face - he jerked back, glaring.

She rocked back onto her knees. "You did," she said wonderingly, staring at him.

He rolled his eyes and yawned, "Jus' a taste." The stuff had been incredibly strong, and he'd only tried a couple of mouthfuls out of curiosity.

"Did it taste as god-awful as it smelled?"

His silence was answer enough as he unbuckled his belt and rolled it up neatly, placing it on a dusty side-table.

She laughed.

He gave a barely audible sigh and pulled off his shoes with a grunt of relief. It had been a long day. "We should take that wand to Ollivanders tomorrow." he said, changing the subject abruptly, and showing that, even intoxicated, he was still planning ahead.

Amalia became more serious, lying down on the other side of the bed with her hands behind her head. "I thought of that. But he might want to know where we got it."

"Leave it to me. I can handle him."

From his tone, Amalia assumed "handling" Ollivander would probably involve some form of unpleasantness.

"Okay." she agreed. "I've been thinking, too."

"And?"

"We'll need to drop by Gringotts. I'll explain more in the morning-"she yawned again, "For now, let's just sleep. I promise I won't touch you." Riddle could almost imagine the eye-rolling that accompanied that last sentence.

Riddle decided the best strategy was just to ignore her presence in the bed next to him - and, truth be told, his mind was foggy enough to care less about the sleeping arrangement. He lay down on his back and closed his eyes. The bed wasn't uncomfortable, and it even seemed relatively clean - besides for a faint whiff of wet dog.

Amalia made a thoughtful, humming sound, and shifted about a bit, getting comfortable a polite arms-length away. The minutes slipped by in silence, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing slowly evening out.

"...You know, you're really not bad company." she whispered some minutes later, so softly that Riddle, half-asleep, almost missed it.

His eyes fluttered open, but he remained silent.

Then, so quiet he barely heard it at all... "I wish we could always be like this."

Always... Like this... together? It was disturbing how little this thought disturbed him. He blamed Ringo's special brew for doing strange things to his mind.

He gave a contemptuous snort, "Stuck with you?"

Amalia made a small, surprised movement, like she'd thought he was asleep.

"I wouldn't have the patience. Go to sleep, Gray."

But even though his tone was as cold as ever, it wasn't impossible for Amalia to imagine some hint of fondness there, too.

Even if he didn't realize it himself, just yet.

Chapter Text

Amalia woke up without opening her eyes, and without moving at all; giving no outward sign that she was suddenly aware of her surroundings. As usual, the weight and confusion of sleep left her quickly, stripped like cobwebs from her mind, as she became alert to her current situation.

A: she was currently in bed, in the dark basement of a Knockturn pub owned by a werewolf,

B: she usually woke up naturally at about six or seven in the morning, so she didn't think it could be much later than that, despite the only light coming from a lantern near the stairs,

And C: a certain dark-haired someone was draped over her, making it pleasantly warm... Yet also hard to breathe.

This feels weirdly familiar…

Her eyes snapped open, and she hurriedly tried to blink the sleep from her eyes.

"Riddle," she mumbled, and, not knowing what else to do, prodded him gingerly in the ribs, "You're heavy."

He gave an unintelligible groan and burrowed his face further into her neck, unwilling to relinquish his hold on his source of warmth.

Amalia fought to keep her breathing steady at the unexpected ripple of desire that spiked through her. His hot mouth was pressed up against her bare skin, and it was conjuring inappropriate images into her head. This had to stop. Right this moment.

"Are you actually awake and you're just secretly a cuddler," she demanded shakily, "Or are you completely unaware of what's happening right now?" He made a - quite frankly adorable - snuffling sound, mumbling incoherent nonsense into her collarbone.

Evidently the latter, she concluded, flustered. She stared at him up-close for a moment, distracted by his long, almost girlish black eyelashes, trembling as his eyes shuttled beneath closed lids. What was he dreaming of?

A blush was creeping into her cheeks, and an odd, choked giggle erupted out of her before she clamped her mouth shut. This situation was ridiculous. The mere fact that this was the second time that she'd woken up with him clinging onto her like a limpet suggested it wasn't a coincidence, but rather an odd quirk of his. Evidently, the great and fearsome Tom Marvolo Riddle exhibited the characteristics of a boa constrictor when sharing a bed with someone. Well, he does like snakes, she mused, And it's also true that he has... issues... with control. Looking at it like that, she thought wryly, Well. It makes sense, doesn't it? Her immediate, next thought was: No one will ever believe me if I tell them about this.

She attempted to pull an arm free of his restrictive embrace, but he just made a displeased sound, a bit like a sleepy growl, and curled himself more securely around her, his breath warm on the sensitive skin of her neck.

"This seems to be a habit of yours." she remarked weakly. He gave absolutely no indication that he'd heard anything, dead to the world.

"... How much did you actually drink?" she grumbled, after a moment. No doubt that was a contributing factor to his heavy sleep. Taking a deep breath, she sniffed suspiciously, his dark hair tickling her nose, but she found she could just barely smell the alcohol on him. Underneath that, she could identify his own smell. It was subtle, no artificial scent or cologne, not even a residue of soap - just a faint hint of a masculine smell that was just unequivocally him.

It's definitely time to get up, she told herself sternly. Any longer staring at his sleeping face and sniffing him could lead to unwanted, dangerous feelings. She had to nip this in the bud, before she really did fall for the cold-blooded bastard.

"Tom..." she sighed, and then steeled herself. "Jeez. If- If you don't wake up on the count of three and get off," she warned, raising her voice slightly, "I am going to bite your ear." she waited hopefully, but there was no movement.

She gritted her teeth. "One... Two... – I'm really serious about this, you know! – Two and a half! Two and three-quarters! Th-three...! Okay! You asked for it! Don't go blaming me for how this turns out!"

She was just nerving herself up to make good on her threat, when, miracle of miracles, one slightly bloodshot eye cracked open, and Amalia was treated to just about the worst Riddle-ish, baleful glare she'd ever received.

"Gray." he rasped, sounding half asleep and completely pissed off, "...The fuck are you so loud?!"

She narrowed her eyes at his tone and uncharacteristic swearing, "Good morning to you, too." she said icily. Despite wanting him to wake up, she also felt a pang of disappointment; he was so much more likable when he was asleep.

For the first time he seemed to notice in his semi-conscious state that they were literally nose-to-nose, with his arms and legs wrapped tightly around her like she was stuffed animal. He rolled off her immediately and retreated to the other side of the bed, eyes narrowing suspiciously at her. "Taking advantage of me in my sleep, Gray?" he accused sleepily, "That's low, even for you."

She sat up, indignantly spluttering, with her hands waving in the air, "Th-that's not-! You were the one who was-!"

"Ugh, shut up…" He scrunched his eyes closed against her rising voice and groaned, and then disappeared under the comforter, clearly disregarding everything she was saying. "It's still dark..."

"We're underground! Of course it's dark!" she exclaimed, exasperated.

"Hng... Too early to deal with you," he grumbled bad-temperedly, voice muffled beneath the covers. "Wake me again and I swear you'll regret it."

Amalia facepalmed. "How did I end up sharing a room with this asshole?" she asked herself wonderingly, out loud. All thought of his adorable sleeping face had quickly been over-shadowed by his terrible waking personality. As if she could actually develop feelings for this jerk!

The Riddle-shaped lump twitched. "If you're going to talk to yourself, get out." He hissed. She could already hear his voice starting to slur as sleep claimed him quickly again.

"Fine," she snapped, getting out of bed and making sure to jostle him as she did, though he made no further comment, probably already dead asleep again.

She also made sure to slam the trapdoor hatch extra loudly as she departed in search of breakfast.

When Riddle eventually emerged from the basement, Amalia could tell he was still in a black mood. She was sitting down to a late breakfast, having chatted with Ringo at the bar for a good few hours already, while perusing her usual newspapers.

"Over here," she said coolly, still annoyed by his earlier behaviour.

Spotting her table in the far corner of the much emptier pub, Riddle narrowed his slightly bloodshot eyes and stalked over. He was dressed and his hair was neatly combed, but she could tell by the circles under his eyes that he was feeling far from fresh.

"So," she started, as he bad-temperedly threw himself into the booth opposite her, "It's the strangest thing. All morning, I've noticed everyone in this fine establishment," she vaguely gestured towards the few shady patrons at the bar, "Is avoiding my eyes. Now, isn't that odd?"

He gave a noncommittal grunt and reached over to claim a slice of half-burnt toast from her plate.

"Hey!" she protested, but he just bit down into the toast with a decisive crunch, his dark eyes challenging her to do something about it.

She merely huffed at his childishness and waved a hand, getting the attention of the werewolf behind the bar. "One more," she indicated her plate of toast, runny egg and oily bacon, "And a coffee. A strong coffee."

Riddle still didn't say a word as he morosely munched on her toast, but he seemed to grow marginally more alert over time, his dark eyes flickering over her and around the room assessingly.

"You did something, didn't you?" guessed Amalia, "Last night after I left. That's why no one is bothering us."

A baleful stare was all she got in response, and she growled, concluding that he obviously wasn't going to tell her.

Ringo brought over a second plate of breakfast and a cup of black coffee with a grin and a meaningful eye-waggle between them (no doubt remembering his joke about the chains in the basement from the previous night). Riddle immediately grabbed the cup and drained it, his throat bobbing with every gulp.

"Headache?" she commented, without a shred of sympathy.

He placed the cup down decisively. "Only from your inane nagging."

She threw up her hands as if in supplication to the heavens. "Thank Merlin, he actually speaks!"

He rolled his eyes and prodded his bacon suspiciously.

"I'm pretty sure it was part of a pig at some point," Amalia told him, "I don't have any more food left in my trunk anyway, so it's this or wait for lunchtime."

He wordlessly began to eat.

"So, once you're done," she continued, "Ollivanders first?"

His chewing slowed. "Last night you mentioned Gringotts." he commented, raising one eyebrow to demand an explanation.

"I'm surprised you remembered that," she said drily, "But yes, Gringotts. I had an idea about the whole ambush plan."

"Go on." with a distasteful grimace he gave up on the bacon and eyed his egg speculatively.

"In the Gringotts vault," she explained, lowering her voice, "Besides for all the gold, there's also the deed to a house on the Isle of Wight. I haven't been there – it felt like the deed was deliberately placed – like a trap. But now that I have someone to watch my back…" she trailed off expectantly.

He thought for approximately three seconds.

"Let's do it," he decided, "Even if it's a trap – even if they know you won't be alone by now – I guarantee we'll be underestimated." His smirk was chilling.

She nodded slowly. "Very well. There's also another problem – getting there. Can you Apparate?"

He merely glared, looking sour.

"Floo Powder it is, then." She said composedly, unsurprised. Apparition was only taught in their fifth year anyway, and only in the second half of the year. He wouldn't have had time to learn it himself at Hogwarts due to the wards.

"It doesn't really matter," she sighed, "I can't Apparate somewhere I haven't been – or don't remember that I've been. We could try and get a little closer using Side-Along Apparition," she mused, "But I'd rather not use my wand if possible. Dumbledore could check it when we get back to school, and Apparition without a licence leaves traces." She bit her lip. "We should ask Ollivander if I can use the wand we picked up off my – our – stalker. Well, even so, borrowed wands don't work as well… I don't want to risk Splinching myself with you." She grinned. "Just imagine, Riddle, I could be an extra head attached to your shoulder."

"A horrific fate, to be sure." He deadpanned, and stood up. "I'll wait for you outside." He left her without a backward glance, once again abandoning her to foot the bill.

She hastily stood up and got out a couple of Knuts to cover breakfast. "Ungrateful bastard." She muttered.

Climbing out of the manhole in the deserted, snowed-in alley, Amalia paused in surprise. "Who was that?" she asked Riddle, who was leaning against the brick wall and looking extra vampirish in his long dark green coat, his breath misting in the chilled air as he waited for her.

She'd caught a glimpse of a hooded figure striding away, the edge of his cloak disappearing around the far corner of the alley just as she'd arrived.

Riddle inclined his head at her and gave a small, mysterious smirk. "Just some extra insurance, in case we have any unwanted followers."

"Okay." She said dubiously, "Did you meet him last night?"

Riddle ignored her, striding out of the alleyway. Weak winter sunlight was above them; it was around midday.

She huffed, "You really are terrible in the mornings, aren't you? Well, whatever. As long as your drinking buddy is discrete, I guess an extra pair of eyes can't hurt."

They quickly made their way out of Knockturn and into Diagon Alley, where once again they were forced to rejoin the hordes of shoppers. Most people were with their families… Amalia had a brief longing to see what Anne and Callidora were up to, but she couldn't quite imagine herself feeling comfortable with them during such an intimate, family-oriented time of the year.

She was surprisingly contented with her current companion, bad mood and all.

Ollivanders was bustling with people – it was only two days away from Christmas, and it seemed a fair amount of them had mislaid or damaged their wands in the festivities, in addition to all the stressed-looking parents sheparding their younger offspring to choose their first wands.

Despite the fact that Ollivander was clearly swamped with customers, he did an exaggerated double-take at the sight of Riddle and Amalia sidling in the front door, and immediately darted out from behind the counter to greet them in person.

"Mr Riddle, and Ms Gray! This is a surprise." The old man said, sounding flustered. Amalia smiled pleasantly, familiar with his slightly melodramatic way of speaking from her first visit to the wand store over two years before. He was an old man – impossible to tell how old, but he already had greying hair and a lined face – with oddly luminous, pale eyes betraying an incredibly astute mind. She was interested to see his smile falter slightly, and his throat bob nervously, when Riddle turned a cool, yet still impeccably polite smile his way.

"Mr Ollivander," he greeted smoothly, "I wonder if we might have a moment of your time, somewhere more private, perhaps." His eyebrow arched expectantly.

Ollivander nodded, curiosity lighting up in his eyes at the odd request. "Certainly, certainly… Ahem," he cleared his throat as he turned back to the waiting crowd, "Uh, I do apologise, but I'll be closing briefly for, uh," he glanced at a crooked, carved clock hanging on the wall, "… Lunch."

Predictably, there was a chorus of grumblings and complaints from the waiting customers, who eventually departed, Ollivander fluttering around like a nervous bird, to usher them out.

Amalia cast her eye over the towering walls of wand-boxes, remembering her first trip here at the age of twelve. Having just found out that she was, indeed, Amalia Gray, with access to her massive, inherited fortune, and also utterly alone in a confusing world she didn't remember, she had been dazed and shell-shocked during her first visit. She'd changed a lot since then. Ollivander was a sharp man; she knew he would have picked up on a lot from her first visit. Now, she had returned, quite a different girl, and accompanied by Tom Riddle, who he obviously remembered, too. She could assume his excitement was driven by professional curiosity as to the reason for their visit.

"Phew!" he exclaimed, as the door tinkled shut behind the last stragglers. He slid a deadbolt home in the door, and turned a sign in the window which read "Back soon – out for a spell." Dust motes swirled in the sudden emptiness of the room. "This time of year is such chaos! I think even the wands sense it – they've been rather temperamental today."

"It's good to see you, Mr Ollivander." Amalia greeted politely, "Thank you for making time for us."

"Not a problem, my dear," he assured her, his pale eyes darting down to the wand holster at her waist, "Why don't you come into the back office?" he gestured to a narrow opening in the wall of wand-cases, "And we can talk."

They followed him into a cramped back room, which seemed to be more of a workshop than an office, with the parts and materials for wandmaking littering a wide table on one side. Stacks of jars and boxes and scales and other tools of wand-making that Amalia didn't recognise filled up the remaining space, except for a small patch of clear carpet near a fireplace. Ollivander pulled out his own moth-eaten chair from a corner, dusting off some woodchips, and then conjured two other plain wooden chairs from thin air, which arranged themselves near the crackling fire for his guests.

With murmured thanks, Amalia seated herself, shrugging off her coat in the warm air and laying in over the back of her chair. Riddle sat down beside her, and Ollivander perched on the edge of his chair, pale eyes darting between them. "So," he said, "How can I help you?"

Riddle first withdrew the plain wand he'd purchased on the black market, and offered it to the wandmaker. "Due to various… circumstances," he drawled, "I've come into possession of this wand. Is it safe to continue using? It doesn't feel very stable."

Ollivander took the wand, his lip curling in distaste, as though it was a slug, "No, it wouldn't feel stable, I should imagine." He tutted, "Inferior wand-work this is… No personality, no… Feeling to it at all. Definitely not one of mine; a cheap knock-off. More likely to blow up in your face than cast a simple illumination." He paused, as if listening to some far-off sound, "You've used it already, recently." He guessed astutely, glancing up at Riddle with a raised eyebrow.

Riddle's answering gaze was rock-steady. "Well, as you know, students aren't allowed to use magic outside of school. However, if I was to use, for example, a Disarming spell, and it worked… then would it be safe to keep using the wand?"

Ollivander gazed at him for a long moment, his oddly translucent eyes unblinking, as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Hm. Well… theoretically," he said at last, sounding reluctant, but unable to resist imparting his knowledge, "I would say that successfully casting the spell was a lucky coincidence. At best, if you use this wand, Mr Riddle, you can expect a fifty percent success rate when casting spells. An ordinary person might use it without too much fuss, but you have more power than most, so it wouldn't be advisable."

Tom accepted the wand back, looking displeased. "I see."

"If I may ask," Ollivander said cautiously, "Where is your wand? I do hope nothing happened to it. Yew, with that particular phoenix core…" he sounded hopeful, as if he was eager to hold it once more.

Riddle's mouth thinned, but he kept his temper in check. "I don't have it with me at the moment." He said in a clipped tone.

Ollivander seemed to sense that further enquiry in that line would not be welcomed, and turned to Amalia. "And Ms Gray. It is good to see you again – you seem more… collected, than when last we met. Is there something I may assist you with?"

Amalia smiled, "I'm a student now, at Hogwarts. A lot has changed since that time."

He nodded. "A fantastic school, just fantastic… Did you know," he said proudly, "Albus Dumbledore is a great friend of mine – one of your teachers, isn't he? Terrific man…"

Riddle gave a small, impatient cough.

"Ah, yes," Amalia said hastily, eager to move the conversation on before Riddle got into an even worse mood, "I too, have acquired a wand through various circumstances – I won't bore you with the details-" she said swiftly, "I'm wondering if you can tell who the previous owner is?" She offered the wand they had taken off their mysterious stalker. Next to her, Riddle shifted slightly in his chair, tensing.

Ollivander frowned as he accepted the wand, and inspected it closely, bringing out a crystal monocle from his breast-pocket to peer down the length and tip of the wand. "Hm," he hummed unhappily, "Once again, not one of mine," he sniffed, "Very crudely made. French, I think… The French are always far more concerned with outward appearance and fashion, you see, than actual, practical-"

"Can you tell us anything more?" interrupted Riddle, cutting off older man's monologue. "France doesn't give us a lot to go on."

Ollivander pursed his lips at Riddle's tone, but didn't mention it. "I'm afraid not. I'd hazard a guess that the original owner was male, and had a penchant for healing magic, but other than that-"

"Healing magic?" repeated Amalia, baffled. She exchanged an incredulous glance with Riddle – first the surgical masks, and now…

Merlin, she thought, I'm being stalked by French doctors.

"Yes." Confirmed Ollivander simply. "More than that is hard to tell, since the wand's allegiance has now changed…" he glanced sharply at Riddle, evidently putting two-and-two together with the previous mention of a Disarming spell.

"Would it be safe for me to use?" Amalia asked next, crestfallen that their only lead had fallen through, "Theoretically speaking, of course." She hastily added.

Ollivander frowned. "Well, if the wand was won by Mr Riddle here-?"

Riddle didn't blink. "I don't remember." He said blithely.

Ollivander hummed sceptically, and turned back to Amalia, "Usually, I would say that it's not safe to use a wand whose allegiance belongs to another. However, I'm not sensing that problem with you two…" he looked pensive, "Curious…"

"What's curious?" Amalia prompted, when he trailed off, gazing thoughtfully down at the wand.

He looked up, eyes bright, "… It is curious that this wand is as equally happy to serve you, Ms Gray, as it is to serve Mr Riddle, when you had no hand in winning it." His pale eyes flickered, "If I may see your wand for a moment, Ms Gray, perhaps more light can be shed on this matter…"

Amalia blinked, surprised, yet also curious. Wandlore was certainly complicated. "Okay, sure." She said, getting out her own light-brown wand from its holster and offering it to him handle-first.

He accepted it, excitement in his eyes as he lifted up his monocle again and tilted the wand this way and that. "Ah, yes, I remember making this," he said eagerly, "More as an experiment than out of any real hope it would one day find an owner." He briefly glanced up, "You know, some of the wands in my store are hundreds of years old – never found their witch or wizard. Very sad. That was the fate I envisioned for this wand. And then, of course, a mere twenty years after I made it, you walked into my store…"

He held up the wand and admired it; the wand was a light brown, with an ordinary, carved handle. "Elm, twelve and half inches, lightly flexible…" he announced, "And the core," he said with relish, "The tail feather of a Thunderbird."

Riddle looked speculatively at the ordinary-looking wand, hardly surprised that it had such an exotic component. Amalia was its owner, after all, and she was far from ordinary.

Ollivander nodded proudly, "The only one of this core type I ever made, using a technique favoured by the American wandmaker, Shikoba Wolfe. We had a correspondence in our youth, you see," he gushed enthusiastically, "She sent me a single feather and practically dared me to make a wand as good as hers with it. It was all very exciting, and the result, unique."

"It's served me well." Amalia said quietly, a faint smile curling her lips.

He nodded. "A powerful wand, requiring a sharp mind and a delicate touch. Particularly suited for Transfiguration, I've always thought…?" Amalia nodded, and he smiled, pleased.

Riddle folded his arms. "As interesting as this is," he drawled sarcastically, "We do have plans for the rest of the day-"

"Oh, shush, Riddle." Amalia said impatiently, flapping a hand at him, "This is important."

She felt his dark gaze settle coldly on her as a result of her rudeness, but she ignored him.

Ollivander cast a somewhat nervous glance at Riddle, coldly glowering at his female companion, and hastily tried to get back on track. "Ah, I digress. As I was saying, the answer to the mystery of the other wand's dual allegiance lies with this, your original wand." He summarised. "Now, Mr Riddle, would you please take Ms Gray's wand and hold on to it for a moment?"

Riddle's eyebrows rose, but he complied, taking the wand and twirling it idly in between his long fingers.

"Ahah!" said Ollivander excitedly, "Just as I suspected!"

"What is it?" questioned Amalia, looking in confusion at her wand in her enemy/companion's hands. It looked absolutely the same.

Ollivander nodded, satisfied. "You may return Ms Gray's wand now, Mr Riddle."

Riddle seemed almost reluctant to pass it over, but the hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second before he handed it back to her, without complaint.

"So, what did you confirm?" Amalia prompted inquisitively.

Ollivander steepled his fingers. "A most interesting phenomenon has occurred between the two of you." He gestured between his two guests. "A phenomenon I have witnessed only rarely in my experience as a wandmaker."

"And that is…?" drawled Riddle, sounding bored, though Amalia could sense he was interested in the conversation again, now that it involved him.

"Would I be right in saying," started Ollivander slowly, "That recently – perhaps in the last few months – you have, at various times, been in possession of each other's wands, used those wands, before returning them, swapping them again, and so on? Perhaps in some form of repeated conflict, which was then repeatedly resolved?"

Riddle and Amalia exchanged a bemused glance.

"I suppose… Yes." Amalia answered for them both, surprised that he could tell all of that from just holding her wand. She didn't know if it was wise to be so forthcoming with Ollivander– given his friendship with Dumbledore – but as long as they didn't directly admit to duelling or anything else, he couldn't prove they had broken any rules.

"So," Ollivander continued, "Sometimes when this happens, the ownership of the wand becomes… blurred, in a way." He raised both hands at their alarmed expressions, "Don't worry, that doesn't mean that your wand no longer knows its true master! When given the choice, a wand is always fundamentally more loyal to its original owner. But… there is certainly a bond of familiarity between them."

"I don't understand," frowned Amalia, "Riddle and I have only recently called a… a truce, of sorts. How can our wands be… bonded?" it seemed like such a foreign concept, and one look at Riddle's sceptical expression told her he didn't think much of Ollivander's explanation, either.

The wandmaker shrugged expressively, "I cannot speak for your actions towards each other, of course; I only know of what I have sensed from your wand. I sense a clear lack of animosity in your wand towards Mr Riddle, and the effect would be repeated if you were to hold his. In other words, you do not wish actual harm upon each other. If you did, your wands, being unusually powerful and temperamental to start with, would certainly be hostile towards each other. A wand cannot lie about the intentions of its wielder, Ms Gray."

There was a pregnant silence, in which Amalia and Riddle looked at each other blankly. Every single duel they'd had ended in blood and injury, and they had never consciously held back. But it was also true that they had treated it like a game… A deadly game that they both enjoyed.

Perhaps, they had never been enemies, after all? For Amalia, the revelation was less shocking; she hated her family for abandoning her, for causing her lost memories and trauma, and she'd always known that she didn't feel that same strong, negative emotion towards Riddle. Even in the worst moments of their tempestuous relationship, she had never hated him.

But Riddle wasn't saying anything, and his face wasn't giving anything away, either. Did he hate her? Had he ever truly hated her? She didn't think so, but she couldn't be certain. He had a lot of capacity for hate, and had certainly disliked her for a long time.

Ollivander noticed their discomfort, but simply continued, "At this point in time," he summarised, "You could freely use each other's wands, and it would feel almost as comfortable as your own." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I've only seen this level of familiarity in old married couples." He chuckled. "I had a couple once who got so used to picking up each other's wands by mistake around the house, they eventually didn't notice the difference. Had to come and ask me to settle the argument once and for all of whose wand was whose."

"That's… interesting…" Amalia shook her head slightly, trying to get rid of the weird image of her and Riddle as an old married couple, "So… Anyway… All this means is that I can use the other wand," she held up the wand Riddle had won from their stalker, "Safely, right?"

Ollivander nodded. "In essence, yes. It shouldn't give either of you significant problems," he sniffed and added snobbishly, "Besides being weaker and generally inferior in design, of course…"

Riddle's expression had become even more unreadable after the "old married couple" anecdote, but he caught Amalia's eye, and she could guess what he meant. She gave a short nod.

"That's all we needed." Amalia said to Ollivander. She rose and put on her coat, her mind still buzzing with everything they had learned.

"Thank you for your time." Riddle said coolly, standing too.

Ollivander stood with them, "My pleasure, of course…" he murmured, looking a little crestfallen that they were leaving without further discussion of wandlore.

Before he turned to leave, Riddle fixed the older man with an unwavering stare, "I hope we can count on your discretion about everything we discussed today, Mr Ollivander." His smooth voice had a threatening quality, "I would prefer it if you didn't mention anything at all, even to your friends."

"O-Of course," stuttered Ollivander, sounding half-nervous, half-offended, "I wouldn't dream of-"

"Don't worry, Riddle," Amalia interrupted, adding her own, confident smirk, "Mr Ollivander knows the value of keeping his customers happy. He doesn't want unhappy customers."

He seemed sufficiently intimidated by this united front, glancing between them with a wide-eyed look. "Yes," he muttered to himself, "Now I see it… yew and elm…"

"Farewell, Mr Ollivander." Amalia greeted cordially, and Riddle gave a dismissive nod.

They left him still muttering to himself with a slightly anxious look, about feather cores and fated wands.

Chapter Text

Gringotts was a tall and imposing marble building, which towered over all the other busy stores in Diagon Alley. Their sojourn in Ollivanders had taken longer than expected, and it was already getting late.

"Have you ever been inside?" Amalia asked curiously as they ascended the smooth marble steps towards the gold-embossed, double-door entrance.

"No." came Riddle's unsurprising, clipped response. As a poor orphan with only a tiny allowance from Hogwarts every year, he would have had no reason to get a vault.

Amalia nodded, and then pushed the revolving glass doors with her shoulder, brushing the light snowflakes from her hair as she entered the high-ceilinged hall. It was as big as the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but much less welcoming, and scarcely warmer than outside. She kept her coat buttoned and squared her jaw, nerving herself up for dealing with the stubborn goblins.

Gringotts was ringed with high desks at which sat rows and rows of the creatures responsible for banking. Amalia and Tom walked passed the two goblin guards at the doors, who glared at them with barely-disguised hatred from their deep-set, clever eyes. The two students glared back with just as much contempt; there was no love lost between the two races.

Amalia led the way over to a high counter, and folded her arms in irritation when she was promptly ignored. The goblin behind the desk had greased-back, stringy black hair and an especially hooked nose, which he kept buried in the ledger in front of him, quite obviously ignoring his new clients.

Amalia rolled her eyes. "Ugh. They always do this." She complained to Riddle, whose eyebrow twitched.

"How infantile." He drawled. "Perhaps height is not the only thing child-like about these creatures."

The goblin's black eyes slowly rose to glare balefully at them, causing Riddle's lip to curl into a satisfied sneer. "Now that we have your attention." He nodded at Amalia.

She shot him a grin and then turned back to the offended goblin, growing more businesslike. "Right. I'd like to enter my Vault-" She produced two items and placed it on the desk for the goblin's inspection.

The goblin's eyes narrowed slightly as he realised who she was.

"-here's my key and wand."

"I see… Miss Gray." His scratchy voice dripped with sarcastic deference, as he inspected her wand with a bored expression.

"And then," she continued firmly, "When I'm done, I want to move the contents."

This seemed to get the goblin's attention, and he looked up sharply, placing her wand down again. "…Move the contents?"

Amalia nodded briskly, standing on her tip-toes to take her wand back. "Yes, move everything."

She looked at her companion, "I've been meaning to do this for a while now." She explained. He was watching the proceedings with detached interest, lip curling as he observed the goblins around them.

"Move everything out of the Gray family vault," she ordered, "And into an ordinary numbered vault. Leave my name out of the paperwork – I'll register a false name to the key…"

The goblin shifted in his seat, his frown deepening as he steepled his long fingers. "I assure you, the security on your vault is of the highest quality – indeed, the ancient family vaults are among the most heavily guarded-"

Amalia faked a gasp, clutching her heart, "Are you saying that the ordinary vaults are not safe enough?"

He looked annoyed by her rudeness, "Of course not. All the vaults in Gringotts are impregnable-"

"Then it shouldn't matter." She said briskly.

The goblin cocked his head slightly, and licked his narrow lips. "Well…" he said, "Our ordinary vaults are not… equipped… to handle storing a fortune of that size."

Riddle folded his arms, sourly wondering just how rich Amalia was.

She wasn't deterred. "Nonsense," she scoffed breezily, "I'm sure you have one big enough. Just shove everything in there," she insisted, waving a careless hand, "I don't care about organisation."

The goblin pursed his lips. "This is most irregular…"

Amalia raised her eyebrows, "I'm sure there is paperwork I'll need to fill out?" she prompted.

Muttering to himself about the stupidity of witches and wizards, the goblin irritably got up and climbed down the small ladder on the side of his high table, before waddling slowly into a back room, no doubt to find the correct documents.

Amalia turned back to Riddle, satisfied.

"You're sure about this?" Riddle asked, raising an eyebrow.

She scoffed. "They just don't want me to move everything out of the vault because they'll lose money – you have to pay an astronomical monthly fee to use those 'family' inheritance vaults."

A sudden thought struck her. She turned to look at Riddle thoughtfully.

"What?" he demanded.

"Well," she started slowly, "Now that I'll have a new vault, I need to think about what happens to the money if I die or disappear. Before, it would stay in the family, meaning any Gray still out there could claim it. Obviously, that isn't what I want, which is the main reason for moving the money to an anonymous vault in the first place. But now, the money has nowhere to go if I disappear…"

"So?" Riddle said impatiently. She was still looking at him with a weirdly thoughtful expression.

"So… if I don't specify an heir," she continued slowly, "I'll end up making a generous contribution to Gringotts… which I also don't want, of course. That means…"

She trailed off again, biting her lip.

"What?" he demanded irritably.

"…Can I make you my heir?" she blurted.

He stared at her. "…What?" he deadpanned, in a completely different tone to before.

She laughed uncomfortably under his incredulous stare, "Well, according to Ollivander we're already married…"

His eyes narrowed dangerously, and she quickly backtracked, "Just joking! Sheesh. Look, Riddle," she sighed, getting more serious, "I know I made this decision about three seconds ago, but… I know that a short time ago, we were enemies, and now… now I don't think we're even friends. But you-"

His expression didn't change at all, his obsidian eyes holding hers, unreadable.

"I mean, I have friends now, at Hogwarts," she rambled, "– But they're not… they wouldn't…" Callidora and Anne wouldn't understand. And anyway, they're probably sitting on their own hefty inheritances. She sighed. "Even if we're enemies again after Christmas… I don't care. To be honest, it never really felt right, using the money, not knowing who left it for me, or why."

He ignored her emotional last statement completely. "Let me get this straight…" he said incredulously, "You're giving away your inheritance to someone who may or not be your enemy in less than a week's time?" He was staring at her as if he was seriously questioning her sanity.

She scowled, losing patience. "Well, if you put it that way, I guess it does seem stupid. Fine, never mind." She turned her back on him with a huff. "I'll leave it all to Ringo." She snapped over her shoulder, "He can open a chain of Humping Crupps across Europe. He'll be thrilled."

"Alright," Riddle said, suddenly sounding smooth and controlled. "You've made your point. Of course I won't refuse… I was just surprised. An understandable reaction, I think."

She turned back and eyed him, not trusting the instant switch from disbelief to smoothness, the way his eyes now suddenly shone with sincerity and warmth.

It was terrifying how believable his masks could be.

"Hm?" she hummed, amused, "And as soon as you sign the document as my heir, you're going to drag me out into a back-alley and murder me, aren't you?"

He blinked innocently, as if shocked she could think so lowly of him, "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

Her eyes roved slowly over his attractive face, "I'm rarely ridiculous, Tom." She said, smirking as his warmth vanished at the deliberate use of his first name, his jaw tightening. "You're… really an uncomplicated person, I think." She mused.

His eyes gleamed dangerously, evidently taking that as an insult. "Is that so?"

She grinned, and gestured at the documents the goblin had finally returned with. "Just sign it." She made eye-contact with the goblin and said sweetly, "He's my heir, but I'd also like a second key for him." She jerked a thumb at Riddle, whose friendly demeanor had completely disappeared by now, replaced with icy shrewdness, and a hint of greed.

"See, Riddle?" She drawled, "I'll giving a key to you, so you don't need to kill me over my inheritance, alright?" Amalia was aware that she was only half-joking about that reminder.

He must have heard the hint of caution in her tone, because he smirked at her, and this time she recognised his half-malicious smile as genuine. "And what if I decide to empty your vault and run off with everything?" he taunted.

She patted his shoulder, "I guess I'll just find more." She grinned as he shrugged her off, as usual. "I'm not obsessed with wealth." She added, and the subtle barb did not go unnoticed.

"Says the rich heiress to the poor student," he sneered.

The goblin uttered an obviously fake , dry cough. "Ahem. Ms Gray… You said you require a second key?" clarified the goblin, sounding bored and simultaneously annoyed by their back-and-forth. He was holding up a big red stamp in his long-fingered hand, hovering uncertainly over the forms.

"Two keys for the new vault." Amalia confirmed, "You can register one to Tom Marvolo Riddle, with full access and inheritance rights."

The goblin glared at her. "That's a different document entirely."

Her eyebrow quirked. "Well, I suppose you'd better go fetch it, then?" she smirked, completely unrepentant.

Thunk. The stamp was put down not-so-gently on the desk as the goblin bad-temperedly turned on his heel and waddled angrily into the back room again.

It took a full hour to get all the paperwork sorted out. Finally, Amalia was allowed in to see her Vault. Since Riddle wasn't registered with her old family vault, he had to stay behind and wait, to his extreme annoyance. Amalia couldn't help but chuckle as she left him fuming in the bank hall; he was evidently keen to inspect his new fortune.

She still didn't know if it had been the right decision, but somehow the choice to share this aspect of her life with him felt very satisfying. It felt freeing. In a way, she was saying that she didn't need inherited money, didn't rely on her inheritance. It had made things easier for her, sure, but she was resourceful enough to make do without it.

And if she was being completely honest, it was also a way to spit in the face of the centuries of her stuck-up Pureblood relatives, who would no doubt turn in their graves if they found out that all their carefully hoarded treasures were being casually shared with a Half-blood.

All in all, she couldn't really think of a better option. Even if they were enemies/ occasional collaborators, he still felt like the only person close enough to leave money to. (The fact that she felt weirdly close to Riddle, of all people, was something she didn't want to overanalyse too much. She told herself firmly it had nothing to do with his hauntingly dark eyes and enigmatic smile). No one else knew as much about her as Riddle, and he seemed like an interesting, ambitious person. She had no doubt he would use the money – just by looking at the slightly fanatical way his eyes had gleamed as he signed the document and made it all official. In the short space of time to her Vault and back, he'd probably already come up with enough horrific schemes to make Dumbledore burst a blood vessel.

She hummed a pleasant tune as she entered her Vault, pouring a significant amount of gold into her bottomless satchel from the ridiculously huge pile arranged neatly near the entrance. The Galleons were stacked in towering columns almost double her height. It really was a disgusting amount for one person to own.

She made her way quickly to the back of the Vault. It was piled high with valuable heirlooms, paintings, jewelry… even antique furniture. She ignored it all (having inspected everything carefully on previous occasions) except for a spindly oak writing desk, which she approached and opened. Inside a narrow drawer was a piece of aged parchment; the only document in the whole Vault, and the only significant clue to her past.

Her eyes scanned the Deed; an address and seal of ownership ensuring her bloodline could always find the house. As it was a magical house, it would be enchanted to be hidden; the deed would allow her and Tom to circumvent the protective charms. She hoped so, anyway.

She folded the parchment carefully and tucked it away with the money, and then left without a backward glance to the gleaming hoard of treasure, her mind already focussed on whatever could be waiting for them on the Isle of Wight.

Emerging from the chilly Gringotts tunnels, Amalia was surprised to find that Riddle was nowhere to be seen. She spoke one more time with the sullen goblin who had handled their paperwork, and finally received the keys for the new vault. She was reminded that next time Riddle wished to enter the vault he would have to have his personal wand with him for identification purposes.

Finally finished, she exited the bank, and promptly had a minor heart-attack when she caught sight of Riddle standing next to a hooded, ominous-looking figure. Just a moment later and common sense reasserted itself; the figure was talking to him, and she realised it was the same person she'd glimpsed earlier, as she'd exited the manhole to the Humping Crupp.

Riddle turned at her approach, a gleam of excitement in his dark eyes. "There was someone waiting for us to come out of Gringotts. He Disapparated once he-" he jerked his head at the slightly scruffy hooded figure, "-approached. But you got a description?"

"Aye, that's right, young master," came a familiar, slightly whingey voice. Amalia recognised the ginger-bearded man from the previous night.

"You." She said in surprise, seeing a hint of ginger peeping out from beneath his cowl. She wrinkled her nose and took a discrete step back; he smelled of sour ale.

"Beggin' yer pardon for my behaviour last night, Miss," the man said hastily, throwing a nervous look at Riddle. "I was three drinks in, y'know how it goes…"

"The description," Riddle prompted irritably, "We haven't got all evening."

He scratched his chin sheepishly, "Uh, o'course, my 'pologies… He was wearing a dark blue robe, pretty standard, with short brown 'air, slightly greyin'. Kinda tall, but… borin'-lookin', y'know?" he sucked on his lip ruminatively for a moment, "…Like he should be behind a desk, not skulkin' about in this weather." He scowled up at the swirling snowflakes as if they'd personally insulted him.

Amalia's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe it…" she hissed. "After all this time?"

"It's the Unspeakable, isn't it? From the Department of Mysteries." Riddle guessed astutely.

Amalia nodded, frowning. "The one who tried to kill me two years ago. James Blishwick… Perhaps he's the one who left the deed in the vault?"

"Gringotts' security is too strong," Riddle said thoughtfully, "It's more likely he had an informant telling him when you visited the bank."

"But I've been to the bank many times before…" She pointed out, and then closed her eyes in realisation, "But I've never been inside for such a long time... Previously, by the time anyone came to the bank I'd already be finished. Damn," she gave a short laugh, "We almost got ambushed because of paperwork."

"Need anythin' else?" offered the man, sniffing nasally, "Would like t'get outta this weather."

Amalia reached into her satchel and retrieved a few Sickles, "Here, for your trouble… Don't mention anything about us if you're approached," she warned, "I'll get you banned from the Humping Crupp if you do."

"O'course!" he nodded, counting the Sickles greedily, "I wouldn't do summat like that, on me life."

"Wait," Riddle abruptly stopped him. "One more thing." He glanced sidelong at Amalia, then said very deliberately, "What's the quickest way to get to the Isle of Wight? That's where the house is, right?" he asked Amalia.

She caught on, and nodded cautiously. "That's right. Near the town of Brading." She resisted the urge to look around, suddenly sure that they were being watched.

The man shrugged, "Most places have a workin' Floo Network. You could get to the town easy enough like that – an' the Isle o' Wight ain't too far from London. Never been there meself, though…"

"That's all. Thanks for your help."

They stood quietly in the snow as he waved a brief farewell, again preoccupied with counting his silver, and shuffled away.

Amalia moved closer to Riddle, shivering in the twilit street. It was almost Christmas Eve, and Diagon Alley was emptying as shops closed. "Do you think he's still watching us?" she murmured, her eyes darting around. The cheerful cobbled street was suddenly filled with unknown dangers.

"I certainly hope so." Riddle replied with a razor-sharp smile. "Let's go get our luggage. We can travel by Floo Network and get to that town – Brading, was it?- tonight."

"Last chance to turn back, have a normal holiday," Amalia said quietly, "We can still just lay low the next few days, get through Christmas… If we go now, and the Ministry's involved, they'll definitely be able to track us once we're in the Network," she warned.

He grinned, and she couldn't help an involuntary, pleasurable shiver at the sheer malice in the expression, the way his eyes promised such darkness. "I'm not interested in a normal holiday. And I don't think you are, either."

One hour later…

With the help of Ringo, and an old map of the Floo Network, they were able to plan their route to Brading, Isle of Wight, in short order. There was a grate connected to the network just on the outskirts of the town.

"Are you sure about this?" fretted Ringo, offering Amalia a handful of glittering green dust from a pot. In her other hand she gripped the handle of her truck tightly. It was enchanted to be almost weightless, so it would be easy to transport by Floo.

"I'm sure. Goodbye, Ringo, and thanks for your help." She said decisively, and nodded at Riddle, "Don't take too long following me." She warned, and cleared her throat.

"Brading, Isle of Wight!" she enunciated clearly, and threw the powder down. In a rush of leaping green flames just warm enough to tickle, she was instantly swept away, closing her eyes against the dizzying flashes of grates as she passed them.

In just a few seconds, though it seemed longer, she was spat out of a stone fireplace, almost losing her balance as she landed. She glanced around with cautious eyes, and was surprised to find herself in the ruins of an old stone house, with just the distant hooting of an owl breaking the silence. It was utterly still, and she stared up through where a roof used to be, at the inky black sky above her, the stars like pinpricks. The white snow lay like a blanket over everything, and through the space where a door used to be, she saw white, rolling fields downhill, to where a small town was nestled in the hills, the cheerfully warm lights from their windows glimmering like candles.

Riddle stepped out of the grate beside her, without stumbling at all, and surreptitiously brushed a bit of ash from his coat. He looked around.

"So, this is it." He remarked.

"Seems so." Amalia shrugged, and pointed. "There's Brading, obviously. Looks very quaint." She dug in her satchel for the deed. "The Gray estate should be close by…"

Riddle inspected the grate with narrowed eyes. "This hasn't been used in a while," he mused. "Either magical folk have another way of getting to the village, or they're not travelling here anymore."

Amalia looked up from the deed. "I would assume there's wards around this ruin; to Muggles it's probably blocked up or overgrown… But I agree, no one's been here in a long time."

"So?" he prompted, straightening. He arched an eyebrow, "What's next? We haven't been ambushed yet." He sounded a bit disappointed.

Amalia sighed. "That's another problem. The Trace will definitely be active, so close to Muggles and with no wizarding folk nearby. We'll have to be extra careful, before you go cursing anyone with an illegal wand." She nodded at the black-market wand he held loosely in one hand.

"Well," he said drily, "If Ollivander is right, it's worse than useless anyway."

Amalia hesitated. "Do you want the wand we won from yesterday's stalker?" she asked. "I really don't want to use my own wand unless absolutely necessary – Dumbledore might check it back at school – but we should both be reliably armed."

He wordlessly held out a hand, stowing the unreliable one in his coat.

She passed him the wand, and then they looked at the deed.

"Now," Amalia said, using the light of the moon to squint at the writing, "West of Brading, apparently. Um… which way is west?" They both looked at each other, nonplussed. An education at Hogwarts had not prepared them for muggle travel.

Amalia pursed her lips. "I know about seven different navigational spells which would be really useful right now…! If I could just-"

"What about there?" pointed Riddle abruptly, interrupting her. She followed the line of his arm and blinked. There was a small forest on a hill next to the town, with a winding path disappearing into it only a short distance away.

"Huh." She said, surprised, "That seems... likely. Worth a try, I guess."

They set off towards the forest, Amalia dragging her trunk and Riddle taking a slight lead, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. But the fields were silent and still.

"The Trace should be less of a problem once we find this house," Riddle remarked as they entered the trees. Everything was frozen, the leafless trees skeletal and grey, scraping the black sky. "That is, if the Grays are anything like other Pureblood estates… Saturated with concealment wards and charms."

Amalia snorted. "You're probably right. Well, being in possession of the deed should render the concealment charms void for us."

They came to a small stone bridge, and Amalia paused briefly. "I hope this doesn't take much longer," she muttered, her breath misting on the air in front of her. She rubbed her hands, trying to get some warmth back into her fingers. Then she picked up the handle of her trunk again and rejoined Riddle, who was waiting impatiently on the other side.

Together they ascended a small rise, and then rounded a corner. Instantly, they knew they had arrived.

Appearing out of the gloom like a stain spreading on cloth, the enchantment hiding the building lifted, peeling back to reveal a gothic-style mansion, complete with black slate facades and carved gargoyles on the eaves. It reached up three storeys, slightly crooked and very, very ominous-looking.

"Merlin's beard," Amalia gaped, actually taking a small step back. She looked revolted. "This is… Could it say 'evil pureblood' any clearer?"

Riddle frowned, turning his head slightly as he tried to see the twisted expressions of pain carved on the gargoyles. "It has a certain… appeal." He said unconvincingly.

"If you're a vampire!" Amalia exclaimed. She huffed. "Well, I wasn't exactly expecting picket fences and rose gardens, but this is so… Ugh!"

Riddle rolled his eyes. "You're comments on the décor are not why we came out here." He reminded her, "Let's get closer and see if anyone's home."

"Okay." She looked grimly prepared for a confrontation.

Tom raised the wand she'd given him; the one that worked for him without problems. It still felt wrong, though. Weak, and slow. He wasn't able to stop a covetous glance at Amalia's elm wand, which he knew felt almost as powerful as his own in his hands.

She didn't notice his greedy glance, preoccupied with grim anticipation.

They strode up to the front doors, an imposing double-door of solid wood painted black. There was a snarling wolf door-knocker, which Amalia promptly used, the ostentatious metallic object making a heavy clanging noise which they heard echo within. There were no lights in the windows or smoke from the chimney, but that didn't mean no one was home.

There was a profound silence.

And then…

The faint noise of approaching feet, pattering closer and closer on the other side of the door…

Amalia stepped back and hastily raised her wand, tensing.

Scritch scratch went the sound of a key in a rusty lock, and the heavy sound of a deadbolt sliding open. Then, with a theatrical creak, the heavy doors swung open… to reveal…

A skinny female house-elf standing in the door, hands on hips and pursed lips. She was warmly dressed from head to toe in diminutive clothes that looked like they had been sown from a patchwork quilt.

They stared at each other for a few, long seconds.

"Well," Riddle's smooth drawl was the first to break the silence, "Anyone you recognise, Gray? Or is this an elaborate part of an ambush that I'm not getting."

"Um…" Amalia said, unhelpfully.

But at Riddle's words, the elf's luminous yellow-green eyes boggled. "You're a Gray?!" exclaimed the diminutive house-elf, in a high-pitched voice with a slight lisp, so that it sounded more like 'Gway'.

Amalia nodded carefully. "Um, yes. Are you-"

The house-elf's eyes bulged even more, and then she suddenly turned her head and bellowed over her shoulder in a surprisingly strong voice, "OI! EVERYONE! There's a Gray here! The Grays have returned! THE GRAYS HAVE RETURNED!"

There was a sudden outbreak of loud and excited chatter, of countless voices in the house beyond, with high-pitched exclamations-

"-What?"

"-WHAT?!"

"Did you hear-"

"-Grays have returned!"

"Grays?! Did she say-"

The diminutive house-elf standing in the doorway abruptly flew down the front steps and grabbed Amalia by the sleeve, tugging her with –again surprising, considering her size- strength. Bemused, Amalia shot a slightly helpless look at Riddle and let herself get tugged in. Looking amused and equally taken aback, he followed her.

She was pulled rapidly down a narrow passageway covered in dust and cobwebs, with barely a moment to glance with wide eyes at family paintings of arrogant-looking men and women with fair skin and brown eyes, before she was yanked into a large sitting-room. She was finally released.

"Whoah." She said, staring in shock at the veritable sea of faces staring at her and Tom, blinking owlishly and chattering amongst themselves. There must have been about thirty house-elves, of varying ages, shapes and sizes, all perched on some item of furniture and dressed in rag-tag , home-made clothes. She noticed that over every couch and table – even the mantelpiece – a dusty, yellowing cloth had been draped. The house had been abandoned by her family for some time already. Above the mantelpiece was hung a white banner of some kind, with a horrendously drawn blob on it, which Amalia realised after a few seconds of confused squinting, was the profile of a house-elf's head drawn with charcoal. Underneath was written in a shaky hand "B.F.E."

The young house-elf who had opened the door leapt up onto a covered coffee-table, the movement raising a cloud of dust, and waved her arms wildly for silence. The other house-elves' chatter died down quickly, as they turned expectant eyes on her, settling in like church-goers at a sermon.

"Didn't I tell you," she started shrilly, "Didn't I foresee this day coming?!" she stamped her foot, "The day that the masters return and enslave us, the Born Free Elves, once again?!"

A dismayed murmur arose from the crowd.

Amalia coughed, "Ahem, actually, there's no need for-"

"Here it comes!" wailed the elf, dragging her fingers through her wispy hair, "The orders! The commands! The punishments!"

The other elves wailed enthusiastically.

Amalia pursed her lips. "Actually, if you could just answer a few questions-"

The house-elf gasped. "For example, why aren't the beds made? The floors not swept? The dishes not washed? The hedge not trimmed?!" with every utterance she grew more and more excited, skipping from foot to foot and wringing her hands.

"No, I-"

The house-elf swan-dived off the table, to prostrate herself dramatically at Amalia's feet. "Of course, Mistress, it will all be done as you say, immediately. Just spare the old ones from the brunt of your rage-"

"This is ridiculous." Amalia commented in exasperation to Riddle, who nodded his agreement.

"They're not listening." He commented.

The house-elf scrambled to her feet and rounded on the other, wide-eyed elves. "Did you hear that?! You aren't listening!" she hissed furiously, and snapped her fingers at them. The front row leapt nervously to their feet, shuffling uncertainly.

She filled her lungs and then bellowed, "Quick, up, go! Make the beds, sweep the halls, wash the windows! Tilly, start supper, Podkins, do the weeding! Kurmit, Mel and Troggo, get out all the best silver and get polishing!" Suddenly all the house-elves were darting in all directions busily, squeaking agreements and hurrying about with cheerfully harassed-looking expressions. The loud one strode out after them, still rapping out instructions like a drill sergeant.

"What an odd little creature." Remarked Riddle, watching the flurry of cleaning commence.

"Perhaps we should wait until they've calmed down a bit," suggested Amalia, stepping back as a diminutive elf bowed several times and then furiously scrubbed at the wooden planks under her feet.

Meanwhile, another elf cheerfully ripped their "Born Free Elf" banner down from the wall, and then tossed it into the flames of the fire that another had lit in the grate.

"I'm so confused." Admitted Amalia, sinking down onto a couch, releasing a cloud of dust. "Did we just enslave a house of elves?"

Riddle grabbed the arm of an elf passing by. "Bring us some tea and something to eat." He ordered. The elf squeaked a terrified reply in the affirmative and scurried off.

"Riddle." Amalia said, exasperated.

He turned to her with an arrogant grin, "What? Might as well get comfortable while we try to figure this out."

The loud female elf who'd answered the door returned less than a minute later, bearing a laden tray of steaming tea and crumpets. "Shall I pour for you, Mistress?" the elf simpered with an exaggerated bow.

"I'm not your Mistr-" Amalia eyed the tea, and sighed, giving up. "Oh, go on, then."

Chapter Text

Amalia silently observed the little elf busily pouring the tea with a considering gaze. Her patchwork clothes were obviously hand-sewn, the seams crooked and uneven, yet Amalia could tell the she wore it with great pride. It was thick and warm for winter, and the mismatched patches were colourful; red velvet, green wool, and purple cotton, among others. It was not the cleanest, but it seemed to suit her quick and dramatic personality rather well. The sleeves were a bit loose on her skinny frame. As she used both knobbly hands to heft the ornate tea pot, the sleeves kept slipping off her narrow shoulders, only to be briskly tweaked into place again with a practiced shrug.

Amalia smiled slightly, amused by the knitted beanie that was hooked over one ear, the other leaf-like appendage perking upwards as she fastidiously arranged the crumpets on a plate with a pair of silver tongs.

"Is the crumpets to Master's liking?" she asked, bowing her head deferentially to where Riddle was already munching away. "If it is not satisfactory, Pippy can iron her fingers until-"

"That won't be necessary!" Amalia immediately exclaimed, shooting Riddle a warning look, since his eyes had just lit up with cruel hilarity at the horrible suggestion.

He rolled his eyes and took another crumpet, placing it in his mouth as his eyes roamed around the room for other victims to torment. Amalia didn't miss his casual gesture of sweeping crumbs onto the floor, right in front of the nose of an elf who had just cleaned there. His lips twitched up into a faint smile as the creature began to dutifully scrub the floor all over again.

Amalia grimaced and turned back to the elf who was now straightening the milk jug, sugar cube bowl, and other miscellaneous items of the tea set into neat lines. She took a sip of her freshly poured tea, relishing the warmth after their long trek in the snow. It was slightly too sweet for her taste, but she knew better now than to comment on it; the elf might just commit ritual suicide out of shame.

"Will Mistress be requiring-"

"Your name is Pippy." Amalia interrupted, surveying the elf over the rim of her cup.

Pippy blinked her luminous green-yellow eyes, startled into meeting Amalia's curious gaze at last. "Yes, Mistress." She replied, and fidgeted nervously under the scrutiny.

Amalia had a sudden realisation. "… Is this the first time you've served a… a Mistress or Master?"

Pippy made an odd jerking movement, eyes growing impossibly wide, "Is- is Mistress angry with my incompetence…?" she gasped, "Is it so obvious that I'm n-not- n-not… good enough- hic-"

To Amalia's horror, great fat tears seemed to be gathering in the corners of Pippy's large eyes, threatening to spill over, as she made an oddly strangled noise like a cough, holding back sobs.

"No, no!" she hastily assured the elf, putting down her tea uncertainly, "Nothing of the sort! Um, please… Don't be upset-"

With a tremendous effort, Pippy seemed to regain her composure somewhat, straightening her hat and nervously picking at her clothes. "Th-then… How did Mistress know?" she asked nasally, sniffing.

Amalia sighed, inordinately relieved not to have a sobbing elf on her hands on top of everything else. "Just… a general feeling." She said evasively. "Well, it's my first time being served by an elf… elves… too." she admitted in an attempt to calm the poor creature down. It wasn't strictly accurate; she was aware Hogwarts was full of elves. But she'd never seen one or been served directly by one, so in essence it was true. This was a first for her.

Pippy seemed to relax marginally at this, and rallied herself rather quickly, suddenly wearing an enthusiastic grin, "Well then… leave it all to me, Mistress," she gushed, "I'll learn quickly, and take care of all your needs – get the house back in tip-top shape in no time-"

"I'm not too concerned with that." Amalia said bluntly. "Riddle and I are going back to Hogwarts after Christmas anyway, and-"

"Mistress is leaving?!" shrieked Pippy, leaping about a foot into the air. A few other nearby elves stopped to stare as panic entered her lamp-like eyes. "But Mistress just got here!" she said desperately, "Is Pippy not good enough for-"

Amalia felt the beginnings of a headache starting. "Right." She snapped, losing her patience. "Sit down and be quiet," she pointed at the couch sternly, "Enough with the hysterics!"

Pippy stared at her in shock, then hastily did as she was told, jumping up to perch, quivering, on the edge of the couch as instructed, her woollen sock-clad feet dangling off the edge.

"Now, let's get a few ground-rules established," Amalia growled, and drained her tea decisively, setting her cup down with a clink in the saucer. Pippy twitched, her mouth opening to no doubt offer to refill the cup, but Amalia just stopped and fixed her with a flat stare. "Not a word, Pippy." She growled, pouring herself more tea. "Don't even move." The elf's sallow skin flushed pink to the tip of the ear that was visible under her lop-sided hat, and she made an odd bow, and then froze guiltily.

Amalia watched her carefully as she stirred her tea. "You can breathe, for Merlin's sake." She muttered dryly, barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes as the house-elf gasped dramatically for air.

"Right. Ground-rules. First," Amalia said firmly, "No more of this 'Mistress' business. It's singularly annoying. You can call me Amalia-" she sighed as Pippy looked like she was about to have a seizure, "Or… if you'd prefer, Miss Gray."

Pippy hesitated, and then nodded slowly.

"Thank goodness," muttered Amalia. Item one was dealt with. She glanced at Riddle. "His name is-"

"You can continue calling me Master." Riddle cut her off with a smirk, lounging back on the couch. He swung his feet carelessly up onto the armrest, watching in amusement as another house-elf squeaked in dismay at the mud soiling the furniture, fluttering anxiously nearby with a cloth poised in his hand.

Amalia scowled. "Riddle, feet off my couch." She swallowed down the sudden, uncomfortable flip of her stomach at her own, automatic use of the word 'my'.

To her surprise, he indulgently obeyed, smirking all the while. Perhaps the crumpets and suddenly coming into possession of a small army of willing slaves had put him into a rare, good mood, for once.

Someone alert the media, Amalia thought wryly, shooting him one last warning glare before turning back to her (newly compliant) elf.

"Next," she said officiously, "I want you to stop speaking of punishments. I have no need of – no, scratch that, I have no desire to witness or hear of you and the rest of these elves self-harming in any way," she said firmly, "It's unnecessary and barbaric - I'm very serious about this." She read the dubious look in Pippy's eyes and realised that the elves would probably find a loophole to this order. They were biologically driven to it.

Before this, it was true that she'd never met an elf, but she'd certainly read about them. And been utterly appalled by the whole system. She was not exactly a champion of the weak, herself, but something seemed wrong about forcing a race of sentient creatures into servitude, when magic was more than capable of taking care of your every domestic need. However, this was the way they had been bred, for generations… and she realised now from Pippy's extreme behaviour that she would have to be clever here. She needed to make a logical argument… Somehow using their own warped inferiority-complexes.

"If you hurt yourselves," she said slowly, carefully thinking her words through, "Well, that impacts on your ability to work, doesn't it? Even a punishment that is merely painful or even uncomfortable still affects your focus and efficiency. So… an apology would suffice." Pippy was shaking her head wildly. Amalia chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Or," she invented, "If you feel your mistake was particularly bad… like, you accidently knocked over a priceless family heirloom and smashed it to bits-"

Pippy uttered a dismayed squeak and hugged her sides at the mere thought.

"-well, then perhaps you could think up a boring or mundane task to do… as a punishment, of course."

Pippy was frowning so hard her small face resembled a raisin. "…A mundane task?" she repeated in disbelief, forgetting in her confusion about the order to remain quiet.

Amalia nodded solemnly. "Like… writing out lines. Or… perhaps… re-alphabetising a bookshelf."

Pippy seemed bemused by this strangely non-violent form of penitence.

"Good. That's settled, then." Amalia said firmly, taking her confused silence as acceptance. "Next, I want you to listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you about myself and Riddle here, and our plans for the next few days, and then I want you to answer some of my questions. Can you do that for me, Pippy?"

The house-elf sat up a little straighter. "Y-yes, of course, Mistr- I mean, uhm… Miss… Gray?"

Amalia nodded sagely. "Very good, Pippy. That's an excellent start."

Pippy beamed at the praise, her hat almost falling off, and Amalia quickly went on, worried about her losing her focus.

"So, tell me. How did so many elves come to live in this house?"

Pippy blinked at the question. "…So many?" she repeated, sounding baffled.

Amalia nodded wryly, "Yes, it's unusual for a household to have more than one or two elves… And this place isn't even that big." It was three storeys, but the rooms weren't that spacious. She hadn't had a proper look around just yet, but it didn't feel like a massive house.

Pippy's eyes were wide. "Oh. I didn't know, Miss Gray. Well…" she pointed helpfully, "That's my uncle, Tribbin, and over there, my cousins, Mags, Troggo, and Hutchkins," she pointed to the opposite side, "My aunts Millie and Gilly, my uncle Ollie, next to them my Great-Aunt Gretchen… Um…" she craned her head, "There, polishing the silver is my cousin Midge, and-"

"I think I understand." Amalia interrupted. "They're all related to you, in some way?" she said, astounded.

Pippy nodded proudly. "My family has always served the Grays," she confirmed, then looked down with a sigh, "We lived in the garden shed… Before."

Amalia looked up sharply, and noted Riddle taking an interest in the conversation again. "…Before?" she prompted, balling her hands in her lap. Was she finally going to get some answers? "Before what?"

Pippy looked her dead in the eye and said sadly, "Before Master Gray killed everyone."

Amalia's tea cup shattered suddenly in its saucer, the pieces irreparably split into jagged shards.

Pippy flinched and avoided her eyes. "Th-that's why Pippy was so surprised at seeing Mistr- Miss Gray," the elf hastily explained, "Pippy did not know that Master took you – Pippy was too young to serve in the house when it happened-"

"When." Amalia said coldly, her face pale. Riddle was watching her carefully. "When did it happen?"

Pippy licked her lips nervously, shivering in the sudden chill which seemed to have permeated the room. "Pippy thinks it must be… nine years ago?" she said tentatively.

"Nine-!" Amalia cut herself off, breathing hard.

"You would have been five years old." Riddle said thoughtfully. He turned to the house-elf, since Amalia seemed to need some time to process this. "Elf, it was Alric Gray?" he clarified.

Pippy nodded rapidly. "Yes, Master."

"And who exactly did he kill?" Riddle demanded, sparing a glance at Amalia, whose face was like a cold mask.

Under their combined scrutiny, Pippy fidgeted uncomfortably. "Mistress Gray…" she whispered.

"My mother." Amalia said blankly.

"Y-yes, Miss Gray." Pippy confirmed, "We laid her to rest in the Gray cemetery, just down the hill."

Amalia swallowed. "Was there anyone else…? Siblings, or-"

Pippy shook her head, and then hesitated, "Well, also…"

"Spit it out." Riddle snapped impatiently, when it became clear Pippy had clammed up.

Amalia snapped out of her daze, taking in Pippy's sad expression, "… Your parents?" She realised.

Pippy nodded slowly, her eyes watering again. Riddle turned away with an impatient huff, losing interest again.

But Amalia nodded at her to continue, feeling a weird kinship with the strange little elf.

"They were the house-elves in service… But Pippy doesn't remember much from that time."

Amalia frowned. "Wait… so… how old are you?" she asked, baffled.

Pippy straightened her sleeves proudly, "Just turned eleven last month, Miss Gray." she replied.

Amalia stared. "What? You're still a child!"

Pippy shook her head emphatically, "House-elves are not considered children after the age of six, Miss Gray," she explained promptly, "Since we reach full physical size, we can work."

Amalia shook her head disbelievingly. "That's disgusting," she muttered. Slavery was one thing, but child slavery was even worse. Whatever the developmental speed of elves, it was obvious now that Pippy still had the mentality of a child. It left a bad taste in her mouth.

"How interesting." Riddle said sarcastically, "So? Where did Alric go? How did it all start?"

Pippy shrugged, eyes wide and innocent. "I don't know, Master. Pippy was too little and the others weren't allowed in the house."

"No witnesses…" Amalia muttered. "He just took me and left. Is that why the others listen to you?" she said, pushing aside her own questions for the moment, "Because your parents were the last to be in service?"

Pippy nodded, regaining some of her perkiness. "Yes! Pippy is now honoured to be in the service of a Gray once more-"

"And what about the Born Free Elves?" Amalia asked drily, glancing at the fireplace where the banner had almost completely burnt away.

Pippy flushed. "My apologies, Miss Gray, there'll be no more talk of such traitorous ideas-"

"I don't mind." Amalia interrupted. "How about this? You can be my-" she glanced at Riddle, who raised an eyebrow, "Our personal house-elf, and the others can live… I don't know. Wherever there's space, I suppose... Where are you all sleeping at the moment?"

"The cellar, Miss Gray," Pippy answered promptly.

Amalia nodded, "Well, if you're all happy there, then stay. In a few days we'll be going back to Hogwarts, but I suppose you can keep the place clean while we're away." She stifled a sigh at the obvious delight Pippy had at receiving all these orders.

"That's very generous of you, Miss Gray," She gushed. "I'll take care of it!"

"I'm sure you will." She deadpanned. "Now, is there another elf I can speak to about Alric?" she refused to say 'my father', feeling like she might be physically sick if she did. "Perhaps one who knew him… Before."

Pippy nodded vigorously. "Oh yes. For that, you'll want to speak with Granny."

Amalia glanced around the room at the busy elves. "Which one is she?" she asked.

Pippy grinned, "Granny is downstairs, Miss Gray." She leapt up eagerly, "I can take you to see her?"

Amalia nodded, and stood up. "Good. Let's go."

Riddle smiled thinly and stood. "Perhaps we can get some useful answers." He drawled nastily, looking down his nose at the oblivious Pippy. He neatly sidestepped Amalia's half-hearted kick at his shins.

Down in the cellar, they discovered that the space was covered with makeshift beds of various blankets and threadbare cushions and old drapes and diminutive mattresses, all arranged in no particular order at all. Some of them looked more like nests than beds.

Pippy led the way, taking Amalia's hand and leading her through the maze of clutter to the back, where a candle-lit space had been built with bits of wood panelling and planks, to make a sort of cubicle. A thread-bare couch stood on one side.

"Pippy, who's this?" came a crusty voice from behind the planks, the shadows flickering as a frail figure moved in front of the candle-light.

Pippy pulled a piece of plywood (which Amalia realised was supposed to be a door) open, and curtseyed deferentially. "Granny," she said cheerfully, "You'll never guess!" she promptly launched into a rather detailed re-telling of their arrival.

"We did not instantly 'demand your eternal servitude'," Amalia corrected drily, "Pippy, calm down."

"You might have to wait a while for that," Came a wheezy chuckle, cutting off Pippy's immediate plea for forgiveness, "But her heart's in the right place."

Amalia and Riddle turned to face the owner of the voice, as Pippy skipped back, out of the way.

Out of the makeshift wooden partition came a curious contraption; a kind of box with creaky wheels, like a child's wheelbarrow, upon which sat an ancient, wizened elf with wispy white hair and milky, huge eyes, nestled in a pile of blankets. She moved about slowly using her gnarled hands to turn the wheels.

"House-elves need a purpose, you see." The ancient elf continued, sounded much less subservient than the other elves upstairs. "We were made that way. Young Pippy tries to find purpose in her dreams of a 'House-elf rebellion'," she snorted, "But as you can see, it's doomed to fail from the start."

"Who are you?" asked Amalia curiously. Staring at the ancient house-elf's wrinkled face, she felt the strings of her damaged memories being tugged. "You seem… familiar."

The old house-elf blinked her large, milky eyes sadly. "You were only a child barely my height when I last saw you… and I wasn't blind then."

"Mina." Breathed Amalia, wincing as her temples throbbed, "Y-yes, I remember you." She sank down onto the threadbare couch, trying to make sense of the brief flashes of memory she had – not of this place, but of the house-elf's kindly face.

Mina nodded, her eyes slightly moist. She wheeled herself closer with a squeak of rusty hinges, "Welcome home, Mistress."

Riddle leant against the side of the couch with a huff. "How touching." He deadpanned. "Tell us what happened." He ordered.

Amalia sniffed – either from dust or emotion, she wasn't sure, and nodded, "Yes, they- They took all my memories, Mina," she explained thickly, "I don't know what happened to me."

"I didn't know where they took you, after you left…" Mina said sadly, "I would have come, if I knew where Master Alric had taken you-"

"Tell me." She asked. "Please. Anything. Everything."

Mina nodded. "Pippy, go upstairs." She ordered, and to Amalia's surprise she (reluctantly) obeyed without comment, leaving them to talk alone with the old elf.

"It was horrible, Mistress, just horrible." Mina started, her voice shaking slightly. "I didn't see it happen… No one left that house alive except Master Alric and you."

"Why would he do it?" Riddle demanded, clearly impatient with all the emotion. But Amalia could tell he was just as engrossed in the story as she was.

Mina took a moment to compose herself. "You have to understand, Mistress," she began hesitantly, "Your parents were not what people would consider… hm… friendly." She fidgeted. "There's a reason Pippy is so against house-elf enslavement… and a large part of that is from growing up hearing about how we – that is, the last working Gray house-elves – were treated."

"Go on." Prompted Amalia.

"You were different," Mina hastily assured her, "I could tell right away, you didn't have a mean bone in your body, even as a child… I remember you cried for about three hours once because you touched a butterfly's wings, and when you asked what was wrong, I had to explain that it wouldn't be able to fly again."

Riddle snorted scornfully. "Butterflies, Gray?"

She ignored him. "I don't remember." She said softly.

"It was a long time ago." Shrugged the elf. "Anyway, your parents… were hard people. They both worked at the Ministry most days, until quite late."

Amalia and Riddle exchanged meaningful glances.

"I'm not sure what department it was…" mused the old elf thoughtfully, as if, even blind, she could pick up on their interest, "But they were very secretive about it. They barely had any time for you, which was perhaps a good thing…" her nostalgic smile faded. "Then, a few days after your third birthday, everything changed."

"What happened?" Amalia asked, feeling incredibly tense.

"You got your magic… very early for a young witch, I believe. Your mother walked into the living room and almost had a heart attack; you had somehow formed the flames in the fireplace into a shape of the cat, and you were making it play with your blocks, leaving scorch-marks all over the carpet…"

Amalia absorbed this news, feeling odd. She had no memory of it, but it felt right… like looking at a photograph of someone you used to know, but can't quite place the name of.

"The cat was orange…" she said suddenly. "That's why I thought the fire looked like him."

Mina nodded. "That's right."

"So how did my mother… Medea? …react to that?"

"Well, she was thrilled, of course," Mina continued, "For all her flaws, your mother did love you, you know. Maternal love is a strong force," she nodded sagely. "Strong indeed."

Amalia had the fleeting thought that if all the house-elves in the house were her offspring and relations, she would certainly be an expert in maternal feelings.

"And… Alric?" she couldn't help her distaste at the mere name of the man.

Mina's expression darkened, "He was excited for a different reason. I don't know the details, but there was some project at the Ministry that he wanted you to be involved in – your mother understandably refused. They argued, for weeks, and then months. The rift between them grew, until they never spoke without fighting. Eventually, he left…"

She waved a hand vaguely, "That's when we packed everything up. Mistress Medea had decided to move; she was afraid he would come back for you… and she was right. We should have left sooner, but… On your fifth birthday…"

"He came back. He killed her."

Mina wiped tears from her eyes with shaking fingers. "He did, yes. I'm glad you don't remember it. No child should have to watch their parents get murdered."

"Then, he took me." Amalia finished quietly.

Mina nodded. "I couldn't get to the house in time." She said miserably, indicating her legs, "For the same reason I was no longer working. I had moved out to the shed to join the others, and raise young Pippy-"

"How did your legs get injured?" questioned Amalia, frowning.

Mina shrugged. "Disobeying the order of the master or mistress means punishment… the more severe the transgression, the harsher the punishment. It is the way of the world for us."

Amalia's eyes widened, horrified, "It was a punishment…?"

Mina nodded. "But, like I said, your parents were not the nicest people. To be honest," she said quietly, "You were the only Gray I ever shed a tear for, when he took you. I'm glad to know you haven't changed."

Amalia swallowed, feeling uncharacteristically emotional about this ancient creature. "How do you know I haven't changed?" she asked in a low voice, twisting her hands in her lap. "I... don't remember who I used to be."

"Because you came all the way down here to meet me." Mina answered simply, "Instead of sitting by the fire and ordering me to go upstairs. And above all else, Pippy trusts you. I noticed she is still wearing her clothes."

Amalia shrugged. "Well, I was wondering how long it would take for her to realize she's still technically free."

Mina smiled. "I'm blind, so I can't tell if there's a physical resemblance… but I can tell you that you're nothing like them."

Amalia was surprised by how relieved she felt to hear that.

Back upstairs, Riddle and Amalia had an impromptu strategy meeting.

"So," Riddle started, hungrily eyeing the dinner table that the elves were setting with cutlery, "Alric is the one who is responsible for everything, it seems."

Amalia nodded grimly, "And there's obviously some connection to the Ministry, although it's all very confusing…" she sighed. "I'm not sure what our next move is. I'll have to poke around the house to see if he left anything about his job here… But somehow I doubt it."

Riddle considered. "One thing is certain, though," he said, "The Ministry will know we're here. James Blishwicke followed us at the bank, and odds are that they've tracked us by the Floo Network to this town… But I'm assuming they don't know the exact location of the house. So him, or others, will be searching nearby… That's an opportunity we can't pass up on."

"Ambush, then?" Amalia frowned, "Are we ambushing, or playing the bait to be ambushed?"

Riddle grinned wolfishly. "You're bait," he said smugly, "And I'm the ambusher."

"Fantastic," muttered Amalia sarcastically, "Tomorrow-"

But Riddle was shaking his head. "No, this happens tonight."

"Tonight?!" she yelped.

Riddle glanced at the set table, finished except for an industrious elf polishing a silver fork, "…Well, after dinner." He allowed.

"What's the rush?" Amalia demanded, feeling prickly. It had been an emotional roller-coaster for her already, and she wanted nothing more than to eat, then sleep. Riddle was evidently a night-owl, though, as he seemed fully awake and uncharacteristically energetic.

"They might find the house and be waiting outside by morning," he reasoned persuasively, "Or they might give up and return to London. And if something does happen, we'll be able to stay hidden from muggles or escape more easily in the dark."

"I suppose that makes sense." Amalia said dubiously, still thrown by his enthusiasm. Was he planning something? "I certainly have a lot of questions that need answering." She sighed, fingering her wand speculatively. "I can take a walk back to the Floo Network grate, while you follow and watch my back? Then, we can spring a trap on anyone who approaches me."

"Sounds good." Riddle concluded, and then hastened to take a seat at the head of the table as a steaming tureen of leek and onion soup was placed down, along with a decoratively carved wooden board of sliced, crusty bread.

Amalia chuckled, amused despite her growing nerves, and sat down on his right.

Riddle smiled. She froze, and narrowed her eyes at him as he solicitously ladled some soup into her bowl. Return of the demonic butler, she thought to herself.

The hairs on the back of her neck started prickling.

"Riddle…" she said cautiously. "I can trust you, right?"

His smile didn't falter. "But of course." He made an encouraging motion. "Eat up, Amalia."

She blinked at the sound of her name, and discretely checked that her wand was within easy reaching distance. Eyeing him suspiciously, she tasted the soup. It was delicious.

And she had no choice but to trust him.

Chapter Text

"Arsonist's Lullaby", by Hozier

When I was a child, I heard voices...

Some would sing and some would scream

You soon find you have few choices...

I learned the voices died with me.

When I was a child, I'd sit for hours

Staring into open flames

Something in it had a power,

I could barely tear my eyes away.

All you have is your fire...

And the place you need to reach -

Don't you ever tame your demons

But always keep 'em on a leash.

Amalia's breath misted in the cold night air as she strode quickly down the path, over the bridge and through the woods. As she walked, her eyes darted from side to side, but she was alone. The snow crunched under her boots, the only sound to break the tense silence, apart from a lonely breeze.

In her pocket, she clutched her wand tightly with gloved fingers, ready at a moment's notice to defend herself. It was late, and she was exhausted… and although she wanted answers… A not insignificant part of her was honestly wishing that nothing was going to happen. Perhaps the Ministry hadn't tracked their use of the Floo Network. Perhaps after being caught out at the bank, James Blishwicke had given up. Perhaps she would walk to the ruined house and the magical grate without incident, and then she could return to the house, shrug and tell Riddle Oh, next time we'll get 'em… and then she could ask Pippy to fetch her some hot chocolate.

But although the path seemed deserted, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was in imminent danger. And her instincts rarely failed her. She took a deep breath, choosing to ignore the wrongness of walking blindly into danger (with her only advantage was Riddle, following discreetly to serve as her back-up… and she wasn't a hundred percent sure she could rely on him). She didn't pause at the treeline of the woods, but bravely stepped out of the trees and onto the narrow, open path, snow-covered fields on either side. Down the hill Brading was visible, less lights shining in the windows than there had been earlier. It was just past midnight, and any sensible person would be in bed by now.

Instead, she was out in the cold, possibly being stalked by a man who had tried to kill her once in the past already, and definitely being followed by a boy who'd threatened to kill her in the past, although now… well, his motives were murky at the best of times.

As Amalia drew nearer the ruined house, she slowed, her senses warning her that something was… off. Different.

She looked around carefully for anything out of place, her eyes narrowing.

The snow! It was too pristine – they'd walked out of the ruin only a few hours ago, and the snowfall wasn't heavy enough to completely erase the tracks they left. Which meant… an illusion?

She drew her wand in one fluid movement, raising it slightly at her side as she turned, trying to watch her back. With the fields open and empty all around her, she knew Riddle wasn't in her immediate vicinity. He was probably hanging back, watching from a distance, so they could spring their ambush… but that also meant he wasn't close enough to intervene immediately. She had to draw Blishwicke – or whoever was following – out into the open… and keep them talking long enough for Riddle spring the trap.

"I know you're here." She called out boldly, turning her head this way and that. "Well, here I am. Stop hiding and face me!" The fields glittered coldly with ice, and a slight wind lifted the ends of her hair. But no one responded.

She gritted her teeth.

Instinct was telling her to cast a mid-level shield, or any of the dozen charms she knew for revealing hidden magic and danger. But casting any kind of spell would activate the Trace – particularly since they were close to a muggle town. In Diagon Alley, or other, known magical dwellings, she knew the Ministry routinely turned a blind eye to under-age magic which caused the Trace to trigger – as it happened so commonly - but out here, the use of any magic would raise a red flag.

She'd spent a few years evading and outwitting the Ministry, and she'd had a couple of close calls as a result of casting magic in muggle areas before she figured the system out.

Ministry enforcers were incompetent. Inefficient. Slow. But she knew that those factors would still only give her about 15 minutes leeway after she'd casted the spell to vacate the area. Since she didn't know the extent of the Ministry's official involvement (was Blishwicke working alone, or did he have official sanction?) she had to assume that capture could very well mean death… or worse. She was resolved to use magic only as a last resort.

When no one replied to her challenge, she steeled herself, and took a cautious step forward, towards the ruined house. Then another.

On her third step, she felt a faint pressure pushing on her face, suddenly disappearing like the bursting of a bubble, followed by an abrupt, rather unpleasant feeling like getting punched in the gut. Air rushed out of her lungs in a whoosh, and she gasped soundlessly, doubling over and almost losing her footing.

As she gasped for air, she stared at the ground in front of her, suddenly noticing large boot prints revealed by the breaking of the concealment charm, criss-crossing everywhere over the snow, as though someone had been pacing up and down for a long time.

And then there was someone approaching, at a leisurely pace, with a heavy, adult, tread. She looked up slowly, raising her wand with fingers that only trembled slightly. Rage suddenly filled her.

"Amalia Gray." James Blishwicke said in an utterly dry voice. "We meet again."

She dragged air into her starved lungs, but wasn't fast enough.

One eyebrow quirked and he said, almost lazily, "Expelliarmus."

She stumbled back in shock as he effortlessly caught her wand and sighed with seeming weariness. "Now, let's not draw this out." He said flatly, "I've been looking for you for some time, now. Where's your friend? Has he abandoned you? That makes things easier."

Without her wand, Amalia felt horribly exposed. For all his nonchalance (and the fact that he looked like an accountant – his robes were plain and brown and his hair was neatly parted and trimmed) he was obviously an extremely skilled wizard. She remembered two years previous, during her first encounter, when he'd walked into her apartment as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and proceeded to attack her with the Juguolo curse – as if she was a pig brought to slaughter – in precisely that same indifferent, bored tone. And she'd only escaped through sheer, dumb luck. Now, however…

Would Riddle be able to stop him? Her skin crawled as she had an unpleasant suspicion that they might actually be out of their depth here.

"You work for the Department of Mysteries." She abruptly said, holding her ground with difficulty as he sized her up with clever brown eyes.

He nodded. "That's right. Well done on breaking into my office, by the way." His expression didn't change at all.

Her eyes flickered – how had he known that? She'd been very careful not to leave traces. But perhaps he'd had some kind of charm to detect intruders… She pushed on, desperate to keep him talking, to stall him, to find answers… "Why are you after me?" she demanded.

He cocked his head slightly at her, looking vaguely surprised. "I think that's rather obvious by now. It's been years." He blinked at her growing anger, "No?"

Her fists balled. "I've done nothing to deserve this." She spat.

For the first time, a sardonic smile appeared on the man's face, as if she'd said something very amusing. Or very naïve. "Really? I disagree. The Ministry disagrees…" He shrugged idly, "Or they will, once I have all the paperwork sorted out."

"What do you mean?" Where the hell is Riddle? Amalia thought with a hint of desperation. Blishwicke was indulging her for now, but she had no idea how long that would last.

"Well, the Ministry is not officially after you," he said, with an affected sigh, "Hence the lack of, hm… back-up." he waved vaguely at the empty fields around them. "But that will change soon. Let's see…"

She looked around quickly, but the fields were silent and empty around her. Had Riddle… abandoned her?

Blishwicke hummed thoughtfully, "According to my investigations, you're wanted for… the illegal possession of a Time Turner – that's already on your permanent record - suspected possession of Class Four prohibited publications-" he nodded as her eyes widened, "Yes, we know about those! – Also, bribery, smuggling, fraternising with an unregistered werewolf, performing underage magic, performing underage magic on muggles, unlicensed Apparition… Contravening the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy on multiple occasions… Thievery, breaking and entering Ministry property…" he paused, relishing the blank shock which had come over her face. "Oh, and of course," he added with relish, "There's that little incident that happened just over two years ago. You know…. The fire."

The blood drained from her face. "You know nothing-"

"No." he interrupted sharply, "I think we've just covered the fact that I know everything. And you're wanted in connection with those murders… and for burning down that building."

She felt ill. And angry. He had no right to bring up that day.

"So, what?" she snarled, "You're here to bring me in to face those charges? You have nothing that proves-"

He smiled condescendingly, and spoke over her. "No, little girl. I'm not here to arrest you. I think it's better for everyone involved if you simply… went away."

Amalia broke off, staring at him. She found her voice with difficulty. "Then, why-"

"I was just informing you what will be on the report I write up about your death," he said matter-of-factly, "Which was unfortunately unavoidable when you violently resisted arrest."

"Y-you monster!" she snarled, itching to sink her fist right in his smug face, "You fucking piece of-"

He tutted disapprovingly. "Language, my dear. And I think we both know who the real monster here is." He raised a hand to forestall further cursing. "Now, as lovely as this chat has been, I need to get back to the office. We can make this part unpleasant… or quick. I'm going to ask you a question, and while I don't need your answer, it would certainly make my job easier. So, here it is-"

His eyes bored into hers, pinning her to the spot. She saw no expression in those eyes – nothing at all, no emotion, no… Humanity. This kind of thing didn't thrill him, or upset him… It was just his job. She would have preferred an evil cackle of laughter than this… indifference.

"Where is Alric Gray?" he asked composedly.

"My father?" her surprise ripped through her dread. If he – and, by extension, the Ministry – was searching for Alric, that must mean they weren't working together anymore. Had he gone rogue? What-

"I see." He cocked a head at her, watching her expression change from shock to confusion, "You don't know." He surmised. "Well, it was worth a try." He seemed mildly disappointed. He raised his wand, and Amalia tensed, adrenaline flooding her system. Where's Riddle?!

"Wait!" she said quickly. "I don't know where he is… but-"

"Well?" the man prompted impatiently.

"The old house is near here, in this forest!" she said desperately, "If you come back with me, perhaps you can find some kind of clue-"

He considered, sucking on his lip. "That sounds like a decent lead," he acknowledged at last, "But I don't need you alive for that."

"... There's protective enchantments that-!"

"Enough."

He raised his wand again, and even while his expression didn't change, she could feel the murderous intent building in the air like the anticipation of a thunderstorm. "Unlike you," he said dismissively, "I have no desire to walk into a trap."

Amalia desperately backed up a step, preparing to dive out of the way if necessary, knowing that she wouldn't make it in time.

He slashed his wand in the air. "Ju-"

"Juguolo!"

Amalia watched, frozen, as Blishwicke was interrupted by a smooth voice, confidently ringing out across the snowy fields from behind him.

He made an awkward, stumbling movement forward, his eyes losing their indifferent, bored expression and growing impossibly wide. Unfortunately for him, he was far too late to save himself.

Blood splattered onto the snow, and he coughed, choking, and slowly sank to his knees.

Amalia's initial shock wore off, and she let out a shuddering breath, watching with savage satisfaction as the life rapidly left his eyes. She only regretted that she hadn't been the one to do it.

Blishwicke soundlessly toppled forward to sprawl face-down on the snow, revealing the mortal wound: a crude cut carved diagonally across his back, deep enough to sever bone. He twitched once, then was still.

They both stared at the corpse for a few moments as the blood soaked into the snow.

Amalia looked up, scowling. "Don't you think you cut it a little close?!" Pun not intended, she thought dryly. She was still feeling twitchy from the adrenaline. For a moment there, she'd really thought Riddle was going to let her die…

He dragged his smug gaze from the corpse, "You're welcome." He threw back sarcastically.

She struggled with herself for a moment. "Yes. I suppose I- That is to say… Hm." She sighed. He had saved her life, even if he was now probably going to be a dick about it forever. "… Thanks."

He predictably ignored her flustered dithering, and looked around quickly. "We should leave." He strode forward and bent down to pick something up from beside the body.

With a slight twinge of discomfort, Amalia realised it was her wand.

She reached out to take it from him, but he seemed not to notice, scanning the fields with a serious look in his intelligent dark eyes.

"Riddle." She said impatiently, still holding her hand out.

He walked right past her at a rapid pace, back along the path towards the wood. "C'mon." he said over his shoulder, "We need to get out of the area before the Ministry come and investigate…"

Amalia strode quickly after him, starting to feel a little anxious.

"Riddle," she said again, trying to catch up. He increased his pace, his longer legs covering more ground than she could without breaking into a jog. "Will you just-"

"No point hiding the body." He said absently, not even looking at her. "We don't have time to do it well, and the Ministry would just use forensic spells to find out what happened anyway-"

"Riddle," she repeated, with more force this time.

He stopped abruptly and turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised in question. She didn't like the way his eyes were suddenly glittering with malicious intent. "What?" he said innocently.

"You still have my wand," she reminded him slowly, "Give it back."

Her heart dropped as he merely smiled, and then turned on his heel and continued walking at the same fast pace.

"Tom-" she began, but he interrupted her, without turning.

"Relax, I'll return it momentarily." He said with deadly friendliness, "I just think we should get out of sight first."

It was really starting to bother her that he wasn't looking at her.

"I can take care of enemies just as well as you can," she argued, and trotted to keep up.

"I'm sure." He scoffed, "It's not like you just got disarmed in about three seconds, or anything."

Her temper flared, "The plan was for me to be ambushed!" she snapped defensively. Of course it stung that she'd been so helpless, had to rely on someone else to save her. Playing the damsel in distress did not suit her. "You know that."

He ignored her again. They reached the treeline, but he didn't slow. "Now," he said smoothly, striding briskly on, "I find what that man had to say… very interesting. You got upset when he mentioned-"

She slowed down immediately. "Leave it," she warned him, "It's in the past. I've told you everything."

"No." he snapped, and this time she heard anger in his voice. "I don't think you have. Didn't you say you would be honest with me? You're hiding something," he accused icily, glancing over his shoulder. He paused briefly when he saw she wasn't following. "And I want to know what it is, Gray. I want to know about the fire."

She remained silent, her expression closing off. Her instincts were telling her that she was in danger, but she fought desperately against them. This was Riddle, and they had made great strides in their relationship in the last week. He wouldn't…

He turned and kept walking. The forest was silent and still around them, aside from the eerie creak of leafless branches scraping against each other in the wind. She swallowed hard, but she could hardly stand around in the snow forever. She reluctantly followed, her adrenaline spiking for the second time in an hour.

His pace slowed, and he finally turned to face her properly. She suddenly became aware that they had stopped on the stone bridge, close enough to the house to benefit from the wide net of protective enchantments. Close enough for anything that happened to have no witnesses.

"You did something, Gray." Riddle continued. His voice was suddenly soft… almost pleasant. She had a sudden urge to sprint in the opposite direction. "I'm just curious, what happened, and why you haven't told me-"

"There's nothing to tell!" she snapped harshly, her voice loud in the silence. She shivered, pulling her coat tighter and wishing she had her wand back. I let my guard down, she thought in numb horror, staring at the small smile playing around Riddle's attractive mouth. He had all the power now, and he knew it.

She swallowed thickly. "Riddle, I… Tom-" she started, in an attempt to reason with him – though, she had no idea what to say - but he didn't let her finish.

He idly fingered her wand, and his eyes gleamed with an almost fanatical curiosity, "Why do you insist on lying to me?" he hissed. "I want to know, Gray, what you've done-"

"…Riddle," she said, taking a small step back. "Don't you dare… I mean it- I will never forgive you-"

He cocked his head at her very slightly and licked his cold lips, his eyes fixated on hers, like a snake eyeing its prey.

And she knew she'd been a fool to trust him.

"Legilimens!"

The last thing Tom saw was Amalia's expression, wide-eyed and betrayed, her mouth opening in a soft gasp as he leapt into her mind. Despite the cold, her lips were full and red, a vibrant stain of colour in the silver light of the moon, which swirled and changed as his vision wavered.

Then his surroundings reset, as he flicked through memories like a deck of cards, searching for the one he desired. He felt her fighting him, but she was wandless and he'd been practicing on Avery for weeks. His Legilimency skills had improved enough to let him break into her mind with relative ease, despite her strong will.

Her anger tore at him like shards of glass, but he was so intent on sating his curiosity, it was easy to ignore.

The world reformed around him, hazy and indistinct as memories were… but as he looked around with interest, gradually more detail emerged...

There had been a fire.

That much was obvious; the small room he stood in smelled of ash, and around the closed door was a ring of black soot-marks, as though a fire had raged just beyond, sending hungry tendrils of flame licking up the wood.

He heard the sound of movement, the rustling of material, and turned to see a small figure moving weakly, pulling back bedsheets as she looked around with a confused expression on her thin face.

Objectively, Tom knew this was Amalia; it was her memory, and there was some resemblance… But in any other situation, he could have easily mistaken her from just another waif at his orphanage. She was younger, obviously – she looked like she hadn't hit puberty yet, at about twelve years old… she was a lot smaller. Her face was thin, her arms almost emaciated. Her skin had an unhealthy pallor to it, the pallor of someone who was chronically ill. Her hair was long, almost to her elbows, and looked limp and unwashed.

But the biggest change was the expression in her eyes. They were… hollow. She seemed absent, somehow. Her eyes wandered aimlessly about the room with little to no comprehension.

Tom wondered if she wasn't on some kind of strong potion or drug. But that was odd, because the memory was clear and stable – the product of a completely lucid mind. Something else was going on here, and he started to feel a strange sensation, almost like discomfort, as he watched her blink dumbly at the walls. They were bare of decoration, just roughly painted, with a single, unforgiving light bulb hanging from the high ceiling. There was a bed and a toilet, but nothing else, not even a sink or mirror.

He took a step closer. Then his eyes widened as he realized the walls weren't painted "roughly" at all; the texture was caused by hundreds of scraped marks, uniform and regularly arranged in lines, arrayed across the entire wall, floor to ceiling. On one side was roughly scrawled in a child's shaky hand "days", and next to it, in slanted capital letters "DON'T FORGET".

He blinked in shock as the truth dawned on him…

She'd been in this room for years.

He turned his attention back to her. She was clothed in a thin hospital gown, light blue cotton, and seemed relatively unharmed... except for her hands. There were angry red burns on her palms and fingers, as if she'd pressed them against a hot plate. There were also faint purplish marks on the inside of her elbow, where it seemed she'd been injected with something, definitely more than once.

As if memory-Amalia could sense him there, she suddenly looked up – seemed to look right at him. He had a thrill of suspense as she frowned, before realising she was looking through him – through the place he occupied, towards the door.

A moment later, he found out why. She had heard the voices of two men outside her small room, arguing about something. She lurched unsteadily to her feet, and for the first time her eyes reflected some emotion: uncertainty.

Fear.

Riddle watched as she padded over to the door, pressing her ear to the wood, straining to hear the voices outside.

Since it was her memory, he heard the two men talking in the hallway outside as clearly as she could.

"... after what happened. Of course he wants us to-" she couldn't quite make out all he was saying, "... have to abandon... done until now! I don't see why w-... without warning-... to terminate... –m all?"

The girl blanched and bit her lip until the skin split as she heard their footsteps approaching the room, echoing on the linoleum floor.

The other man's voice broke in, louder and sounding somewhat annoyed. "Just do your job, alright? We're being compensated generously for this mess."

"What about you?" demanded the first man. He sounded resentful.

"I'm heading back to the lab." replied the other man primly. "Stop wasting time and wrap things up here."

"I know, I know." huffed the other man.

"Don't think you can return without her." the man warned.

"Tch. It's because of that brat that this has all gone to shit in the first place."

"The Professor won't like you talking like that."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Just get going, will you?"

With some minor grumbling one of the men's footsteps faded away, until the girl heard a door open and close. But then she was distracted by a key jangling in the lock of her door, and the quiet cursing of the man as he struggled to get the door open.

She backed away.

Finally the door opened, and the man froze in the doorway, shocked eyes flying up to meet hers.

Riddle watched in interest as he licked his lips somewhat nervously. "You're... not supposed to be awake."

Suddenly the girl stiffened, and her eyes narrowed, losing some of their uncertainty. Becoming more... Amalia-ish. "You're afraid of me." she said quietly. Her voice was younger, but roughened by either disuse, or perhaps sickness.

He stared back at her, and then a twisted smirk quirked his lips. "Yeah… That's to be expected."

She tilted her head. "Why?"

He shook his head slightly, as if disbelieving. "Huh, must be nice…"

"Why don't I remember?" it was a demand, not a question.

He stared at her for a long moment, as if internally debating something, and then stepped backwards, out into the hall, and jerked his head to the right. "Why don't you see for yourself?" he asked, watching her with a strange intensity.

Riddle's thoughts darkened as he observed the man. Had he been the one to give her the injections? He was wearing a white coat over wizard's robes, and held his wand loosely in one hand. Around his neck hung a white surgical mask, not in use at the moment.

Cautiously, Amalia walked forward, past Riddle, standing like a wraith observing the scene. She exited her prison and Riddle followed closely.

"Keep walking." the man urged her, nodding down the empty hallway. Black soot-streaks stained the tiled walls, as if a flash-fire had broken out, and just as quickly been extinguished. "There. That door on the right."

Amalia's face was completely blank as she approached the door. Riddle could tell she didn't remember anything about this place, as she looked around with intelligent, wide eyes.

"Open it." he ordered next.

The glass on the top half of the door was melted and blackened, making it impossible to see through to the interior. She didn't hesitate for long, but obediently pulled open the door with barely a wince, even though her burnt hands must have been in a lot of pain. Riddle followed her as she walked slowly into a long room, divided into cells made from transparent glass walls. The fire had burnt in here the hottest of all, the beams of the ceiling exposed and charred, but the glass cells were unmarked. It seemed like there was some kind of charm protecting them from harm.

And inside each glass cell...

Was a dead child.

Riddle coolly observed the bodies, noting with clinical detachment that each corpse was unmarked… unspoiled. Their expressions were glassy-eyed and frozen in death. They had been killed with magic, and from the heavy feeling in the air, it had been a powerful, dark curse. He could hazard a guess which one, too. There weren't many killing spells that accomplished the task so efficiently.

Amalia's reaction to the scene was quite different to his. Instantly, she'd gasped and stumbled back, pressing her hand over her mouth as if to hold back a wave of nausea. She looked horrified.

They were all around Amalia's age, some a few years younger. All in all, there seemed to be about ten glass cells, each with a dead occupant clothed in blue cotton like she was, lying there like broken ragdolls.

"It wasn't easy, you know," sighed the man lingering behind her, sounding irritated. "Terminating the subjects was not my decision. I mean, I understand why it was necessary, but it just seems like such a waste, you know?"

Amalia turned to stare at him, her nails biting into her burnt palms. She didn't seem to notice, but blood was dripping from one of her hands, onto the soot-blackened floor.

"It was your fault." he suddenly threw at her, eyes narrowing. "You ruined everything."

She stared at him. "What?"

"Two days ago," he explained with relish, eyes watching her expression almost hungrily, "We were conducting the usual trials, and you went off even crazier than you usually do." he waved a hand at their burnt surroundings, "The fire destroyed the whole west wing. You killed three of my colleagues. You don't remember any of that?"

She absorbed this information, and Riddle saw her bloodstained fingers flex slowly, as if recalling the lingering kiss of heat-

"Of course," he continued without waiting for a reply, "That attracted unwanted attention. The Muggles… Tch, there's only so much the Department can cover up. Which is why we got the order to shut down." his eyes flashed in anger, "Years of research, years of my life," he hissed, "All gone, tossed aside... Useless!"

"You killed them?" she said, in a strangely quiet voice. A flash of heat sparked at her fingertips. "To hide what you were doing to us?"

At that, he gave a twisted smile, evidently enjoying her reaction. "Oh no, you've got it all wrong."

She stared at him, and then suddenly blanched, her hands coming up to clutch at her head as if she was in extreme pain. And Riddle could tell she was experiencing a flash-back, her fragile mind put under enormous strain as it bore the brunt of some fragmented memory. From the way her face twisted, it was incredibly painful. And suddenly he could hear a ghostly voice, growing louder and then softer, as if from a bad radio signal -

- everything's going to be FINE, my dear, said a smooth, male voice, You're my special girl, let's see what you can do, okay?- Remember the incantation, just like we practiced: Avada-

And Amalia was on her knees, eyes blank as she panted raggedly, her fingernails digging into the soot-streaked floor. The flash-back faded, leaving yet more questions in its wake. Riddle stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.

The other man approached, standing over her, seeming to relish her pain. "You had to kill them, you see? We thought it was only right, for you to clean up your own mess. Since you were responsible."

"I d-didn't…" she gasped, "You're l-lying…"

"You can't remember?" he smiled. "How nice for you."

"I remember." She whispered, eyes hollow, tortured. "S-screams. But… Me? Or..."

"Amalia Gray," he said mockingly, "Our talented little monster. The Professor has such high hopes for you. Which reminds me, we need to get going. Don't worry, I'll knock you out again, and we can-"

Reality started to blur as Amalia lost control of her emotions, effecting the memory. And suddenly Riddle felt what she was feeling, her anger and pain flooding into him, overwhelming his focus-

Heat, searing heat, racing through her bloodstream, a roaring in her ears. She was losing control. He was smirking, she hated that, that patronising smirk, wanted him to stop stop STOP-

In two steps, she was right in front of the smirking man, with one hand suddenly pressed to his face.

He wasn't smirking anymore. His eyes were shocked, wide and horrified between her fingers.

She let the rage fill her, a howling gale of hurt and confusion sweeping through her, flowing through her body and into her arm, turning into a physical heat.

The tempest inside her burst forth.

His dying screams would haunt her nightmares for months.

Riddle stumbled, blinking as stars burst across his vision, dizzy from the strength of the memory. Towards the end, her emotions had overwhelmed his focus, driving him forcibly out of her mind.

He shook his head slightly, gripping the icy wall of the stone bridge as his vision cleared.

Amalia was standing about two metres away.

She looked as pale as a ghost, and she was staring at him. But it wasn't a lost stare, or a confused stare. It was a stare of such profound malice and all-consuming ferocity, that Tom quite literally lost the ability to speak. His mouth opened slightly, but he couldn't do anything but focus of his suddenly shallow breathing. Her intense hatred bore down on him like a physical weight.

Instinctively, he raised her wand, defensively, stumbling back to put distance between them, but he was still recovering from the intense onslaught of her memories, and his reaction was slow.

In a trice she'd dashed forward and snatched the wand right out of his hand.

An unnatural wind was stirring the dead leaves and swirling snow, whipping her hair back, but she didn't seem to notice.

He found himself catching his breath at the sight; this girl with the blood-red lips, standing on the grey stone bridge in a tempest of fury, in a skeletal forest, the bare branches scraping at the dark sky.

She was beautiful.

In a second she had taken a step forward, and her empty, left hand was pressed hard over his mouth and nose, her nails biting into his cheeks.

The colour drained from his face as he stared in shock into her merciless eyes, as her blood-red lips curved up into an absolutely humourless smile.

"I can burn you, too, Tom." She murmured, and he shivered at the velvet tone of her voice, deep and dark, and so far from her usual, light, playful tone. "I have the fire."

Tom's heart thundered in his chest – he truly didn't know what she was going to do. Before today, he would have bet that she didn't have it in her… But now he knew. He'd seen it for himself.

She would do it.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and grew thoughtful. Slowly, she let go, and withdrew her hand, trailing her fingers gently along the side of his face as she did, almost like a lover's caress. Her brown eyes were captivating.

He exhaled, "Amalia-" he managed to start, sounding slightly hoarse.

The little warmth that had softened her eyes was suddenly extinguished.

And then she raised her wand and used the very tip to delicately pull back the collar of his coat and shirt, exposing his chest, pausing directly over his heart.

"Avada Kedavra!"

And the jet of green light hit him squarely in the chest, lighting up his face, frozen in an expression of absolute shock.

Chapter Text

Riddle stumbled back, gasping as an excruciating pain much like the kick of a horse ripped through his torso. Head swimming, he almost collapsed, only managing to keep himself upright by grabbing onto the stone wall of the bridge.

He tasted metal, his pulse all but deafening as his ears popped, as if he'd surfaced too fast after diving. He looked down, groping clumsily at his shirt to have a look at his chest – but it was unmarked. Apart from a rapidly fading feeling that he'd just been hit by a train, he had just survived an Unforgivable.

Amalia seemed equally shocked, eyes wide as she realised the spell had failed. A complex expression – almost like fleeting regret – flickered over her face, but it was quickly replaced with mask-like neutrality. She lowered her wand.

"Well," she forced out into the yawning silence. "Shit." She gave an odd-sounding laugh.

He pushed himself back upright. "You dare-" he said, his voice hoarse, and broke off in an involuntary cough. The discomfort was fading quickly, but he'd still had the air knocked out of him.

He saw her throat work as she swallowed. She looked down at her wand with a bemused frown. "Perhaps Ollivander was onto something about our wands… A pity."

"You used an Unforgivable on me-!?"

"Unpleasant, isn't it?" she sneered, drawing herself up. Riddle thought she looked rather pale and shaken, though, despite her uncaring tone. She held his gaze a moment longer, and then abruptly turned on her heel and left him, marching back through the snow towards the house.

Riddle took a few stumbling steps after her, before pausing to catch his breath. He took a moment to try to focus – to think – but he was just in shock.

She had tried to kill him.

With an Unforgivable.

An unblockable killing curse which would have ended his life in an instant.

Why hadn't it worked? There were a number of explanations, among them Ollivander's twaddle about 'bonded wands'. But perhaps it was simpler.

The number one rule of Unforgivables was that the caster had to mean it – from the depths of their soul, they had to wish pain, or control, or death, on their foe. Perhaps, no matter how angry she was at him, she couldn't quite bring herself to mean it.

But that didn't change the fact that she'd tried.

He looked up, but she had already disappeared. He followed, barely aware of the following minutes as he strode up to the house, his eyes wide and furious, his lips set in a thin, pale line. His fingers trembled very slightly, still from the adrenaline of his near-death experience… and the overwhelming need to latch his fingers on her throat and squeeze, to choke the life right out of her for her impudence…

As he took the staircase three steps at a time, barely aware of the house-elves scrambling to get out of his way, he began to see red. Red like anger. Red like blood. Red like the fire.

Red like her lips as she callously formed the words to end his life.

"AMALIA-!" he roared, bursting into the main bedroom of the house. Some sixth sense had led him here, and there she was, waiting for him, with not a hint of remorse in her cold eyes as she fearlessly met his incensed gaze. Her wand was holstered and out of sight, and he didn't bother drawing the spare he had, either. This was no longer something a duel could fix.

Her lip curled. "What?" she spat, "What do you want, Tom? An apology?!" she laughed, loud and mocking and utterly humourless. "I regret nothing except that it didn't work."

Then why didn't you try again? The stray thought silenced him. He stopped, glaring, breathing hard, unable to break her gaze, with the rage still thundering through him like an electrical current, as he tried to collect his scattered thoughts. What did he want…?

That was a good question.

As his icy stare and furious silence continued, she ripped her eyes free from him and started pacing like a caged lion. "What the fuck did you think would happen, Tom?" she snarled furiously. "Did you think I'd let it go? Did you think I'd let you invade my mind and then just… walk away? Do you have ANY idea who you're dealing with?!" her voice rose to a shout at the end. Suddenly she stalked forward, her posture aggressive, challenging-

Tom felt his pulse pick up in response. His eyes flickered to her lips, baring her teeth ever so slightly…

-and she continued, in a low, furious tone. Her eyes were dark, liquid pools of anger. "I've been tolerating all of your SHIT for a long time now, you selfish prick," she hissed, "And you've obviously taken it as a weakness. Well, I will not stand for this. I'm not some stupid classmate you can manipulate and toy with! You cannot threaten me, you cannot attack me and expect me to just take it-"

When did she get so close? He could count the individual eyelashes around her blazing eyes.

"If you ever pull a stunt like that again," she vowed savagely, "I'll rip out your heart myself and make you eat it."

There was a ringing silence after her tirade came to an end.

"Are you finished?" he said quietly. His own anger simmered just below the surface, along with… something else. Something he didn't recognize.

She didn't step away. Her eyes narrowed, evidently taking his lack of expression as an insult. "No. But we are. You obviously don't see me as an equal and I will never submit, you arrogant arseho-"

SLAM.

Amalia's breath left her with a surprised huff as her back hit the wood-panelled wall, with enough force to shake a sprinkling of dust loose.

Riddle loomed over her, pinning her in place with unforgiving fingers that bit into her shoulders, hard enough to bruise.

"Shhh," he hushed her, dark eyes drinking in her expression which reflected not an ounce of fear, but only spirited heat. "You talk too much." He said in a low, dangerous tone, "And I'm getting a headache."

She glared balefully, and opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could stick his misplaced aggression-

He rolled his eyes, and leant in without warning.

"Mmf!" she was abruptly cut off as he roughly crushed his mouth against hers.

Instantly she jerked back, eyes widening in shock, but he simply tightened his grip on her shoulders and pushed her even more securely up against the wall. Her instinctive struggle ceased as her mind caught up to her body. His kiss was not sweet, nor forgiving, but a harsh and consuming need to control.

A heat of a different kind flooded through her unexpectedly in response.

Still incensed at everything that had happened, Amalia found herself reciprocating, fighting for dominance. Instead of pushing him away, suddenly her hands were fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, aggressively demanding more.

This feels good… Amalia thought, almost drunk on the awareness of his skilful mouth on hers. Just as she'd always suspected, he was a fantastic kisser. Just like he was a fantastic liar. All her emotions had mixed up, lust and anger and adrenaline all blending until she no longer knew which way was up.

He released her shoulder in favour of running a hand up the column of her throat, to tilt back her head and deepen the angle of the kiss, invading, exploring, nipping at her lips. She reached up and roughly raked her nails through the hair at the base of his skull, tangling her fingers through the neatly combed strands and tugging, mussing up his perfectly styled hair just like she'd always wanted. This elicited a murmured oath from him, and he irritably yanked her wrist away from his hair, slamming it beside her head before resuming his plunder of her mouth.

"Mh…" Amalia wasn't quite able to stifle an involuntary shudder as he ran his other hand down her throat, resting with a grip just shy of painful over her pulse, like a not-so-subtle warning for her to behave.

Or was he…

Through the haze of heated sensation, Amalia dimly realised he was monitoring her heartrate.

The realisation was like an ice-cold bucket of water dumped down her spine, stripping away her clouded thoughts like cobwebs in the wind. She stiffened. His movements were too sure. Too calculated.

She was the fool. Again.

Annoyance spiked through her, and she bit down. Hard.

Tom jerked back. "Ah – what the fuck?!" he swore, touching his lip. His fingers came away bloody.

She brushed the lingering taste of him off her mouth with the back of her hand, disgusted with herself. "You're just trying to manipulate me." she said coldly, "I'm not stupid, Tom."

"Well, it didn't work, then." He snapped, grimacing as his lip throbbed, "Because you're still talking."

She pushed herself off the wall and glared at him. "I hate you." She said venomously.

He sent her an icy stare right back.

"I hate you, too." He said stiffly.

There was an heavy silence, as they just looked at each other. Tension thickened between them, but after recent events, the exact nature of the tension building between them was uncertain.

Amalia was the first to break the silence.

"Get out."

One eyebrow rose, challenging and stubborn. He made absolutely no other movement.

After a moment of indecision, she huffed. "…Of this room. Get out of this room, Tom. I want to sleep."

"… Don't call me that."

"I'll call you whatever I want."

For an instant, he looked like he wanted to argue, but then something seemed to stop him. His eyes darkened a fraction, and for a second so brief, she might have imagined it, Amalia thought they darted to her mouth. But then he simply turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him with a little more force than was absolutely necessary.

Amalia let out a breath and sank down onto the side of the bed. She was angry at him, and she was emotionally raw from almost dying, and then being forced to relive her worst memory… And the time on the clock was past three in the morning - she was exhausted.

But after all that had happened, the one thing she absolutely could not stop thinking about...

...was the confusing feeling of mouth on hers.

The next day was Christmas Eve.

Riddle woke up alone in a guest bedroom at around midday. He used a washbasin thoughtfully placed there by some industrious elf, and then dressed himself in clean clothes. Yawning, he made his way downstairs, where he was surprised to realise that, for once, he was awake before Amalia.

As the elves rushed around preparing a late breakfast at his command, he wandered into the extensive library and chose a book at random to read.

He was idly perusing the book – a mildly interesting treatise on levitation as a means of transport – while sitting at the dining room table, a cup of coffee in front of him, when Amalia finally emerged, dressed but still looking somewhat tired.

He said nothing as she entered the room, but waited, watching with sharp eyes, for her reaction.

Her jaw seemed to tighten at the sight of him, her eyes growing a little colder… but she didn't seem nearly as hostile as the previous day. Riddle took it as a good sign, absently touching his damaged lip as he sipped his coffee. He placed the cup back down on the table and decided to break the silence.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding at the package wrapped in brown paper in her hand.

She snorted, and threw the parcel onto the table, almost hitting his coffee, which he just managed to move out of the way with excellent reflexes.

"Your Christmas present," she drawled, "Of course, I bought it when I wanted peace between us… you know, as an apology for calling you pathetic."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I guess I'm the pathetic one now," she sneered, "For failing so spectacularly to kill you." She threw herself down in the chair at the opposite end of the table. "I'll have to try harder next time…" she muttered.

Riddle decided to treat that last statement with the attention it deserved – none whatsoever – and slowly pulled the package closer, tearing the paper open to peer inside.

"A diary." He said automatically, flicking through the blank pages with one hand. He looked up at her. "This wasn't necessary."

"You're welcome." Amalia said acidly. She rolled her eyes and turned to Pippy, who was eagerly waiting at her elbow for orders. "Tea, please." She said, rubbing her temples.

"Of course, Miss Gray!" the elf chirped, and bounced away to the kitchen.

After a moment of hesitation, Riddle inspected his present more closely – there was an insert which explained the enchantment on the diary, and how it could be used to keep the thoughts he wrote in it secret. It was actually quite a useful object… His fingers traced the black leather cover, itching for a quill to test it out. Perhaps he could write down his theories on the Department of Mysteries, and the connection with Alric – it could help put his thoughts in order, if –

Amalia was watching him with an inscrutable expression, though the way she was gripping her butterknife, as though she was itching to drive it through his larynx, was certainly worrying.

He cleared his throat and wrapped up the diary again in its paper, placing it to one side. "I didn't get anything for you." He informed her, as she continued to watch him balefully.

At this, her lips raised in a thin, humourless smile. "I know." She simply said.

He struggled with himself for a moment. "It's a… good present." He acknowledged stiffly.

"I believe the usual phrase is 'thank you'."

He glared. "Amalia-"

She smirked. "Don't strain yourself, Tom."

His eyes flashed at the deliberate use of his name, but he gritted his teeth and held back with difficulty. She was taunting him on purpose. She was still angry with him, and she was trying to get him to give her a reason to vent her anger. Oh yes, he knew her quite well by now. She wanted a confrontation. But, strangely… He didn't feel like fighting anymore. He was tired of fighting… with her. It was unfamiliar feeling.

He decided to change the subject.

"We have other goals before we head back to Hogwarts, don't we?" At her blank expression, he raised an incredulous eyebrow, "The Stones, of course. We can try to translate them with that Sumerian Alchemical dictionary."

She blinked at him in disbelief. "…We?" she repeated slowly.

He shrugged easily. "There's today, tomorrow… and the next day. Then, we're on the train. We can save time by working together on it."

She frowned. "You're being... weird."

"Why?" he asked, sipping his coffee.

She stared at him. "I tried to kill you yesterday."

He nodded. "You did."

There was a hint of steel in his gaze which told her he hadn't forgotten about it. Knowing him, he was probably biding his time.

"You kissed me." she stated next.

"I did."

"…Why?" she demanded.

His expression was perfectly blank. "You were being incredibly annoying. I thought it would distract you." He indicated his swollen lip, "Evidently, I was unsuccessful."

She hummed, dissatisfied. Had his actions really been so calculated? In the cold light of day, it didn't seem that simple. Something was different. The way he looked at her was different.

Tom smirked, his dark eyes watching her expression shift from irritation to caution. "Well," he drawled smugly, "If we're re-capping recent events… Don't forget the part when I saved your life."

She was jolted from her thoughts, and frowned. "How could I?" she threw back, "You cut it so close, I really thought for a moment you were going to just watch me die."

He snorted. "If I wanted you dead, I'd do it myself." He smiled with chilling confidence. "Without failing, of course."

She bared her teeth very slightly, and hissed, "Next time I'll drop a rock on your head, see if that spell works."

He didn't blink. "You'd probably miss."

Amalia glared. "If I make it through this holiday without at least trying to seriously maim you, it'll be a miracle."

"It's Christmas Eve, Amalia," he deadpanned, waving off her comment like it was an annoying insect, "Stop being so dramatic."

Chapter Text

Amalia was giving him the silent treatment.

He didn't mind, exactly - he couldn't say he particularly wanted to talk to her...

Although he did want to start working on the rune translations for the Standing Stones. Which was difficult if she kept leaving the room every time he tried to approach, throwing him a dirty look as she did.

Alright, so maybe he did mind.

Most of all, though, he wanted to speak about the memory - it was driving him crazy. He had so many questions. Had she really killed all those children? Did she remember more, or was that everything? What happened after she killed the man and the memory ended - how did she get out of the building? What happened next? He knew better than to ask, though, in case he provoked her into another fight. Which, without his wand, he would most certainly lose.

So he held his tongue and decided to be patient; Amalia wasn't really the type to hold grudges. And after the kiss... well, he knew she wasn't unaffected by him, at least.

There would be plenty of opportunities to explore that interesting fact, in future.

After their awkward late breakfast, Amalia disappeared to poke around in the rest of the house for more clues to her past, and Riddle reluctantly wandered back to the library, sensing that he wouldn't be welcome to join her. He was surprised to feel irritated by the solitude. It was an unusual feeling: yes, he enjoyed having others around to order about, and to use, to inspire fear and awe... But he was experiencing a different kind of solitude this time, because Amalia wasn't a follower, or an enemy. He couldn't really explain it, but it was hard to concentrate on reading when he kept glancing at the staircase where she'd disappeared.

It took a few (seemingly endless) hours for Amalia to return from her explorations, looking even moodier and now quite dusty. "Run me a bath." she wearily told Pippy, who had taken to trailing after her with an eager expression.

Amalia slowed and came to a stop as she noticed Riddle standing there in the dining room, holding an open book in his hands, his dark gaze focused on her. There was a large pile of neatly sorted books arranged on the wide oak table in front of him, taken from the library.

"What?" she snapped half-heartedly. She was really making an effort to make it obvious that she still hadn't forgiven him for betraying her trust.

"You didn't find anything upstairs?" he asked calmly, seemingly indifferent to her sharp tone.

Amalia glared for a moment, before huffing, and folding her arms. "No... It looks like everything is gone. Not even a photo-album," she said, sounding frustrated, "Never mind clues to what kind of job my parents had, or... where Alric might have gone... I don't know what to do next..." she massaged her temples, feeling emotionally wrung-out. All I needed was a bath, she thought bracingly to herself, And then some food, and-

Her train of thought ground abruptly to a halt as she noticed that Riddle looked like he wanted to say something... but he was hesitating. Riddle never hesitated.

She watched him as he closed his book slowly, meticulously sliding in a tasselled bookmark to keep his place. He looked like he was mentally preparing himself for something.

She blinked as he turned to face her directly.

"Amalia." he said in a deadpan voice, "You should be more patient." his mouth twitched up into an unnaturally forced smile, as if his teeth hurt. It came out a bit like a grimace.

She frowned in confusion, feeling a little... disturbed. "Tom... What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously. He almost sounded like... She stared incredulously at him for a long moment. "Are you... trying to... comfort me?" she guessed at last, dumbfounded.

He made no reply, but just gave her a blank stare, while fidgeting a bit with the tassel on his bookmark.

"You are." she shook her head. "Tom," she said, very forcefully, "Please stop. It's just... It's unnatural."

He instantly scowled.

"I... um... appreciate the effort," she assured him drily, "But it's-... Just don't."

"As you wish." he replied acidly, sounding much more like himself. He deliberately turned his back on her, shoulders stiff with annoyance, and opened his book again.

Amalia heaved a sigh of relief, and quickly left the room, heading down the hallway. From the walls, stern-faced distant relatives glared down at her. The paintings weren't moving - not all paintings in the wizarding world did. The secrets witnessed by their almond-shaped eyes, so similar to her own, would never be told. Alone for the moment, she leaned against the wall for a brief moment to just think.

Once again Riddle had surprised her. She wasn't shocked that he'd tried to comfort her, not really - she knew he must be buzzing with more questions after seeing that memory, and impatient to start work on the Moving Stones - and so she'd expected that he'd try to reach out in some way. Get back on her good side. All selfishly motivated, of course, like The Kiss had been. She still felt a stab of anger just thinking about it.

But instead of smoothness and charm, flawless charisma and impeccable acting, like he always used when he was trying to manipulate someone, she'd gotten... whatever that was.

And it could only mean one thing. He was really making an effort to reach out to her... a genuine effort.

It was about as close to an apology as she was ever likely to get from him - and he might not even be consciously aware of it.

But how did she feel about that? About him? He was Tom Riddle, dangerous and quick to anger and impatient and bad with waking up in the mornings, he was moody, and childish, but also sometimes unexpectedly mature and intelligent and ambitious...

And even after everything, she couldn't hate him.

These thoughts milled around in her head for quite some time, even as she took a deliciously hot bath in a ostentatious, brass lion-clawed bath-tub until her fingers started wrinkling. After stewing slowly for far too long, she dressed in her night clothes and a newly laundered bathrobe (which had probably been her mother's at some point, though she didn't dwell on it too long) and then wandered down to the kitchens, as it was almost dinnertime.

To her surprise, the old elf was there supervising dinner preparations, seated in her little wheeled box, obviously having been carried upstairs by the other elves.

"Mina!" she said upon entering the room. Instantly the elves busily preparing dinner scattered to make way for her, all bowing furiously. She waved them off absently, before hurriedly offering, "Um, can I help you with anything?" She felt a twinge of guilt; she'd promised the old elf she would come and visit her again to talk more about her past, but the whole day she'd been preoccupied with what she had privately started to call "Riddle-drama".

"Mistress Gray," Mina greeted somewhat formally, before her wrinkled face cracked into a warm - and slightly toothless - smile. "Knowing you're the same little Ammy you used to be is more than enough! So polite, too. I think I can help you, though." she gestured at a small pile of brown-covered, square-shaped books. "I heard from the others that you were looking around upstairs - but I had these for safe-keeping all along."

Amalia stepped closer and opened the book on the top of the pile curiously. "Oh!" she exclaimed breathlessly, her fingers tracing a black-and-white photograph of a small baby, blinking blearily at the camera while waving its chubby little fists in the air. "This is me?"

Mina nodded fondly. "We can look through them together after dinner." she said happily. "Which reminds me, I do have a few things to discuss with you about the running of the household."

Amalia blinked. "Oh. Sure?"

"Firstly," Mina said, sounding very businesslike, "What are your plans for this house?"

Amalia considered carefully for a moment, frowning slightly. But she already knew her answer. "I don't have any emotional attachment to this place." she said simply. "I don't consider it my home, even if it was, a long time ago." she traced the cover of the album, wondering what other memories of a happier time lay inside. "It's not exactly safe, either... he could come back." She almost hoped he would. Amalia could show him just how good she was at burning things.

Mina nodded sadly. "I understand."

"That doesn't mean all the elves need to leave, though!" Amalia stressed, "Really... I know this is your home. I want all of the elves to live safely here, away from witches and wizards who might try to enslave you again." she was well aware that she was sitting on a gold mine here; house elves were a rare and coveted commodity in the wizarding world.

Mina sucked on her cheek thoughtfully. "But are you sure you want to give up on the house? Bad memories aside, it has stood on this land for generations - it's saturated in protective charms and wards. Adding a few more could prevent your father from turning up unexpectedly." she fidgeted, "You might be safe at Hogwarts, but... if something happened, you could always come back here, you know?" she looked up with her milky, sightless eyes hopefully, "You could make it your home. Make new memories...?"

Amalia hesitated. "I guess..." she said at last, "For now... I don't really have anywhere else besides Hogwarts, and a few places in Knockturn that, quite frankly, don't meet the same standards of hygiene..." she was struck by a sudden thought. "I could tear off those hideous gargoyles," she realised. "And... hm, what about painting it a different colour?"

Mina nodded eagerly, "I'd like that."

"Then it's settled." Amalia said, feeling satisfied with this new plan of action. Making new memories... Yes, she rather liked the sound of that. It wasn't running away from her past, or letting it control her. She could control her present, and decide her own future.

"Oh, that reminds me," she said, struck suddenly by a thought that had been niggling at her for quite some time, "I've been wondering for a while now..." she gestured at the busy elves running up and down the kitchen, looking like they were catering for a small army, not two skinny teenagers. "Where are you all getting the food?"

Mina smiled. "The village." she answered promptly, as if it was obvious.

Amalia frowned, somewhat bemused. "But... they're all muggles."

"Yes."

"How are you buying it?"

Mina chuckled. "Of course, we're not buying it. That would be - haha! - Quite a sight to see...!"

Amalia facepalmed. "You're stealing food from muggles!?"

Mina waved a careless hand, "They have enough of it anyway. I believe they are convinced they have a mysterious rat problem - always spending a ridiculous amount of elaborate traps..." she chuckled again, and then sobered. "Although, I remember some times when we had to go quite far to find rarer ingredients..."

Amalia sighed. "This was happening when my parents were around?"

Mina nodded.

"They didn't even question where their food was coming from?" Amalia was reaching new levels of disgust for her family. "Well, I'm certainly not going to force any elf in my household to behave like a common thief," she said decisively. "How much do you think you'll need each month to feed everyone?" she asked. "I'll have the money sent over, and you can-"

"House elves are not permitted to use wizarding money." Interrupted Mina gently.

Amalia scowled. "That's ridiculous!" she said hotly. "That's... actually a wizarding law?"

The old elf nodded, seeming a little bemused by her reaction. "It's just the way of the world."

"Not my world." declared Amalia, getting all fired up, "Right. That's it. I'll get some money transferred here by owl as soon as I have a chance, and you can order whatever you need, alright? Have a supplier drop off everything nearby, and then just fetch the delivery - you can do that, can't you?"

Mina reached out and clutched her hands tightly, tears gathering at the corners of her sightless eyes. "I'm so glad you're home, my dear." the old elf sniffled.

Amalia found herself getting a little weepy with all the emotion. "Me, too." she sniffed thickly back.

"Time for dinner!" Pippy trilled cheerfully, bouncing in and completely ruining the moment. Amalia could tell by the way she was practically vibrating with happiness that she'd been eavesdropping at the door, and had just heard their entire heart-felt conversation.

"Pippy," Amalia said suddenly, a small smile tugging at her mouth as she had a sudden flash of inspiration, "Go tell Riddle it's dinnertime, will you?" she requested innocently. "Make sure you're extra enthusiastic and loud, okay? He's always in such a bad mood. He could deal with some cheering up."

She couldn't help but feel smug as the house-elf dashed to obey her command with zeal.

It was good to take pleasure in the small things.

Shortly after dinner...

Riddle stifled a sneeze as he ran his fingertips over the dusty spines of the books in the library, his clever eyes searching for more interesting volumes. The library was quite big; since morning he'd barely explored a quarter of the space. After dinner (during which Amalia had been marginally more civil towards him, which was progress, at least) he'd followed her to the library, hopeful that they could start of their research of the Moving Stones at last. But Amalia seemed bent on stretching his patience to its limits: she had cloistered herself with the ancient blind elf on the couches at one end of the library, ignoring him to look at photos, of all things.

It was very boring, listening to Amalia and the crippled house-elf reminiscing together – he despised such sentimental rubbish. Who cared what flower-patterned booties she wore as an infant, anyway?

Women.

To be honest, the bookshelves weren't much more interesting than the conversation on the couches behind him; it seemed Amalia's parents had been great readers of history, particularly the obscure and long-winded. Endless numbered volumes of 'Magic: A Concise Record' filled up about five shelves alone. He skipped them and wandered over to one side, where a glass display case, newly buffed by some industrious elf, contained three large volumes.

Instantly, his interest was piqued. At a glance, he realised that the volumes were all to do with ancestry and blood purity. Two older books were obviously from the same series; 'Genus Argentum', and 'Genus Aurum'. One book was heavily embossed with silver leaves, the other with gold, and seemed to have been written roughly sixty years ago. The third book looked much newer, the 'Pure-Blood Directory', which was a volume Riddle was familiar with already. It detailed the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight', a record of all existing pureblood families. The Grays would have been included, but they had been widely believed to be extinct by 1930, when the book was published. The timeline didn't match up though, since, according to Mina, Amalia's parents would have been working at the Ministry at that time. So why was there no record of them, after their marriage? It was very mysterious.

He turned back to the other two books, picking up 'Genus Argentum' and opening it. The spine made a creaking sound, as if it hadn't often been used. Skimming over the foreword, he discovered that the book was a record of all known magical families with 'mixed heritage', dating back hundreds of years. Flicking through the pages briefly, he spotted many surnames he recognised from Hogwarts.

Putting it aside for the moment, he picked up 'Genus Aurum' and examined it with more interest. This was a record of the most ancient, 'pure', magical families, and was much more comprehensive than the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight'. He quickly found the page which detailed Amalia's family. There was a spidery sketch of an extensive family tree dating back to the early 1200s, and a cramped page detailing its origins.

He read that the first record of the name 'Gray' was during the Norman invasion of England in the 11th century when an ordinary and unremarkable young wizard married a rich French heiress, Amelie de Todeni, who was from an unverifiably pure magical line at the time. Later, the author went on with a touch of asperity, other de Todenis did intermarry with Muggles and Half-bloods, making them barely a footnote in the Genus Argentum. With the backing of de Todeni's great wealth, the new, 'pure' Gray family quickly rose to prominence within the magical world, and at one point in the 1500s, was almost as prolific as the Blacks. After that, years of inbreeding and gradual isolation had slowly reduced their number, though the author noted that their wealth flourished and their purity remained pristine.

Losing interest in reading about how rich and pure Amalia's ancestors were, Riddle sat down in a comfortable reading chair and continued browsing the Genus Aurum, searching for a very particular name.

Salazar Slytherin had an entire chapter dedicated to him and his possible descendants. Riddle wondered, as he often did in frustration, how many of them had inherited his most famous of talents, Parseltongue. He had made enquiries, trying to find out if any other Pureblood families had shown the ability, but his efforts bore no fruit. After Slytherin left Hogwarts in rebellion against the policy on muggleborns and half-bloods, little was known about his movements; he became reclusive and jealously guarded the identities of his wife and children. There was a tentative connection to a family with the name of 'Gaunt', but for some reason, Riddle had never been able to find out much about that line. Perhaps this book would be more forth-coming…?

He settled in to read, taking his time to examine the history of Slytherin as it was discussed in the book with conjecture and guesswork about possible origins and relations. It all seemed very vague – this family might be related to that distantly, on the basis that the children had similar names and things along that line. Obviously the author had been very interested in Slytherin, but there wasn't much he wrote that had a solid basis in fact. Finally, Riddle got to a page addressing the rumours of a connection with the Gaunt family.

Apparently, the Gaunts themselves had proclaimed their ancestor as Slytherin, but due to a lack of information available – a full two centuries of missing records that could definitively prove a relation – their claims had been largely ignored by historians. Nevertheless, the author included a small family tree of the known Gaunts.

Riddle skimmed over the family tree, frustrated by yet another dead end; it sounded like the Gaunts had simply claimed a relation in the hopes of gaining respect and prestige.

Then he froze.

Marvolo Gaunt.

His birth date was scrawled '1850?'. There was no other information.

Heart thundering in his chest, Riddle stared at the name as disbelief and a dawning excitement broke upon him. Marvolo – it couldn't be a coincidence!

A Gaunt. He was related to a Gaunt – somehow, this had to be his grandfather – it was the only way the dates worked out. And the Gaunts claimed a relation to Slytherin – and he was a Parselmouth. Of course, it all made sense! He'd always known he was Slytherin's heir, of course… He'd felt it… but this… this was proof. And if he could somehow find out where the last Gaunts were, he could finally know the truth about his own parents. How the Heir of Slytherin had ended up in a muggle orphanage – there must be some kind of explanation.

He froze, waiting for his heart to slow down - it was racing with excitement - and gathered his thoughts.

It wasn't so shocking.

He'd always known he was different. Special. Riddle cast a look over to Amalia, cheerfully chatting away to the house-elf, and his lip curled into a superior smirk. So what if she had money? She couldn't claim to be the heir to anything but gold.

Amalia stayed up with Mina until it was quite late, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

Feeling in a much better mood, particularly after her bath, food, and listening to Mina's reminisces about her forgotten childhood, Amalia rose and stretched, saying goodnight to the old elf. She cast a look over to the other side of the library, where Riddle seemed engrossed in a large book, comfortably nestled in a reading chair next to a lamp. He seemed very focussed.

Yawning, she turned her back on him and made her way upstairs.

Once back in the room, she cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair, and then slipped out of her robe and into bed, pulling the heavy quilted covers up to her chin. Smiling, she closed her eyes peacefully.

Suddenly the door was abruptly yanked opened.

"What the-" she struggled to sit upright, glaring. "Tom?!"

He had just walked in, without knocking or anything, and he looked annoyingly awake and unrepentant. "Amalia," he said, in a businesslike tone, "Where is the Alchemical Dictionary? And your notes? Are they in your trunk?" he didn't wait for her reply, but strode over to the trunk, trying to tug it open. Of course, it was enchanted, and wouldn't open for anyone except Amalia. Frustrated, he looked up expectantly at her.

She groaned and flopped down on her back. "Ugh! Do you have to do this now?" she complained, "What is wrong with you? Go to sleep!"

"I want to get started on the rune translations." he said unapologetically. "Since you seem completely uninterested."

"I'm not uninterested!" she protested, "We can do it tomorrow, alright? I don't want-"

He sat down resolutely on the bed and folded his arms, fixing her with a stubborn stare. "I'm not leaving without that book, Amalia."

She considered hexing him - her wand was easily within reach, as always - but that would just escalate things. Again. And it would probably delay her sleep even more, in the long run.

Muttering under her breath about inconsiderate idiots with an unusual tolerance for sleep deprivation, she fought her way out of bed and stomped over to her trunk, unlocking it and digging around inside. She retrieved a chaotic sheaf of parchments with her notes on it (she'd already made a start during their last night at The Humping Crupp), and the book, and thrust them at Riddle, hoping it would be enough to move him.

He didn't get up, but merely accepted the pile with a grimace, straightening the untidy sheets with precise movements - Like the obsessive neat-freak he is, Amalia thought nastily. He looked up after a brief moment to scowl at her. "I can't read your scrawl." he told her disparagingly.

"Make your own bloody notes, then."

"That would be counter-productive," he said absently, frowning at the letters, "Since you have a better understanding of Runes anyway. Tch," he huffed, annoyed, "You literally write like a three-year-old."

Amalia couldn't help a faint flush of colour rising in her cheeks at his unusual praise - even though it had immediately been followed by an insult. "Well, this three-year-old needs her sleep," she drawled, covering up her embarrassing reaction. I'm still supposed to be mad at him! she reminded herself sternly. Mental torture equalled... at least three days of anger. And it hadn't even been twenty-four hours since she'd attempted to kill him.

Their relationship was so weird.

She shook herself out of her thoughts just in time to see Riddle kick off his shoes and then scoot back on the bed, until his back was comfortably pressed up against the wide, velvet-lined headboard, his long legs stretched out and elegantly crossed at the ankles in front of him.

"What are you doing?" she spluttered, unable to deny that the picture of "Riddle - in Repose" could definitely become a famous piece of art.

He raised an unamused eyebrow, as if it was obvious. "Come here," he ordered, patting the empty side of the large bed next to him. "Translate your scrawl into English, and then I'll go."

She stared at him incredulously for a long moment, and then sighed, all the fight going out of her in a huff of exhaled breath. It was obvious he wasn't going to budge until he got what he wanted, the selfish brat.

Grumbling, she crawled over the bed and settled in next to him, pulling the blanket over her legs. He was lying on top of the covers, at least, so there wouldn't be any cuddling this time - not if she could help it. Or kissing. Or touching of any kind-

As if hearing her thoughts, Riddle shuffled closer on the bed, until their shoulders were brushing. Amalia instantly stiffened, intensely aware of the heat of his skin on hers, only separated by his thin white shirt. For the first time since he barged in, she regretted wearing a sleeveless night-dress. In a strange role-reversal, he didn't seem to notice their proximity. Or perhaps he was doing it on purpose.

It was probably on purpose.

"Start here." he pointed at the heading on the page, "What the hell is that?"

When he turned his head to look at her, she could feel his soft breath on her cheek.

"Ahem." she cleared her throat unnecessarily, and then focused on the page. "...Translation of Moving Stones runes - Attempt 1. Isn't that obvious?" she said indignantly.

"It really isn't," he muttered, shaking his head. "And this?"

"It's obviously-" she paused, and then leant in closer, squinting, "Wait... Actually... I have no idea what I wrote there." she admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

He rolled his eyes at her incompetence, but then his mouth curved up into this little amused smirk, and Amalia found herself getting distracted again. She hurriedly dragged her eyes away from him and climbed back out of bed again, her bare feet cold on the carpeted floor. "Um... here," she said distractedly, retrieving a quill and inkpot from her bag, "Underline the words you don't understand so long..."

"Good idea," he said, accepting the items and then confidently using them to draw long lines under what looked like most sentences, with a determined glint in his eye. She had no idea where this burst of productivity had come from, but it looked like it was going to be a long night.

To distract herself from her tiredness - and the attractive bastard lying spread out on her bed - Amalia meandered over to a small side-table standing in one corner of the room. On it was an ancient radio, which she'd discovered earlier in the day and pulled out of a cupboard with the intention to test it out. She figured now was as good a time as any.

She turned the knob back and forth for a while, listening for the crackling static to change.

"… some news abroad." Came a lively voice from the machine, and Amalia stopped. On the bed behind her, Tom looked up from his perusal of her notes. "As usual we have our news correspondent, Zebadiah Smith, to tell us the damage."

A serious-sounding monotone broke in, "Well, here it is, Jordan. New reports coming in from the Continent have placed Grindelwald's push west to be just inside the French border, raising concerns that the French Ministry, already overstretched with the Muggle war raging around them, might make some sort of deal, if-"

"Now, now, Smith!" Jordan broke in, "Let's not give the French so little credit! They've held out so far, haven't they? Surely a deal with a thug like Grindelwald is only going to make things worse-"

"Speculation and guesswork is useless," Smith cut him off, sounding slightly annoyed, "However my sources do say that public opinion in France is beginning to sway to his side – you've got to remember, his entire rhetoric revolves around ruling over the Muggles – and Muggle-borns - 'For the Greater Good' – "

"I'm so sick of hearing that…" sighed Jordan.

"- And that has been gaining a lot of traction with the public in light of the Muggle war. The Muggles are killing each other by the million… It's hardly surprising that people are starting to think we should step in."

"Hm," hummed Jordan sceptically, "To be honest, it's the stepping-out that worries me. It's one thing to restore peace and order by force, but after that? Grindelwald would be stuck with a population of billions of Muggles who need to accept him as some evil overlord 'for the greater good'. I just don't see that happening without even worse bloodshed."

"You could be right there," Smith said sombrely. "And in other news," he continued, "A rogue manticore has been causing terror in the sleepy town of Rozenburg, Switzerland-"

"What's your opinion on the war?" Amalia asked Tom curiously.

He looked up. "Grindelwald is a fool." He said with a sneer, "'For the Greater Good'? Ridiculous. The magical and muggle world needs to remain separate for a reason – they're too stupid and weak to even comprehend magic. They are not worthy." He scowled, "I say let them kill each other in their petty wars – it's no concern of ours. Grindelwald thinks he can make a difference by getting involved – huh," he snorted derisively, "Self-righteous old fool."

Amalia rolled her eyes. Only Riddle could make Grindelwald sound like an annoying do-gooder – like a church-going busybody who baked too many cakes – not the tyrannical leader of an abolitionist movement. "I agree that our worlds are better off separate," Amalia said fairly, "But I don't hate muggles as you do. I think they do the best with what they have – a world without magic is a rather dull one."

"You are naïve." he said shortly, "Because you have never lived among them."

"Perhaps," she allowed, "But there are muggleborns who-"

"Do not compare me with them," he snapped instantly, his dark eyes boring into hers. "Muggleborns are the worst stain on magic to exist."

Her eyebrows rose at the almost fanatical gleam in his eyes. "…Why?" she asked cautiously. She turned the radio off to hear his response.

"Isn't it obvious?" he snarled and put down the papers. This was just about the most emotional she'd ever seen him, "Muggle sympathisers, all of them, bringing weak blood into magical families, threatening our world from the inside-"

"We've lasted centuries, Tom," Amalia argued, with a frown, "If magic was going to die out from interbreeding with muggles and muggleborns, it would have happened already. In fact, the magical population is higher than it's ever-"

"And the muggle population is many times bigger than it ever was. Soon, if it hasn't happened already, muggleborns will outnumber the rest of us, and eventually drive us extinct. All that history, all the bloodline nobility, diluted by muggle filth." He spat venomously.

"Tch," Amalia clicked her tongue, "So dramatic. If you ask me, Pureblood intermarriage is a much bigger problem. Do you know the number of Squibs the pureblood families produce? They keep it quiet, of course. Not to mention their general… instability. Callidora's got a number of crazy cousins. If wizards and witches had cared less about preserving their name and started marrying out sooner, the magical population would have been much healthier by now."

"You're a fool if you think-"

"We can agree to disagree." Amalia interrupted, noting the stubborn line of his jaw- he wasn't about to change his mind. She wasn't, either.

"You are wrong," he said irritably, "But whatever."

She crawled back into bed beside him, noting that the way they argued had somehow become so... domestic... and sighed, slumping back on the cushions. "Okay, Tom, let's figure this out." she yawned. "If I can stay awake, that is."

"You'd better," he muttered, and dragged the book closer again. "Now, you translated this part already? Here?" he pointed.

She nodded, her academic side perking up despite her tiredness. "Mm... I think it's right, although the translation reads quite differently if you reference it to Chapter Three... Look, I'll show you..."

But despite her best efforts - and Riddle's annoyance - she kept nodding off as soon as there was a lull in the conversation, and eventually she fell completely asleep, even forgetting to remind Riddle to go back to his own room.

And she didn't find out until the next morning whether he had or not.