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tension

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November 1939

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Tom learns that the note has been successfully stolen when he and Harry are accosted in the corridor. It's a regular Tuesday, unnotable in all aspects, and Tom had planned for the two of them to escape their friends in favour of some time alone together.

Given all the events of the past two months, he and Harry have had no time to revisit the odd connection between their wands. Tom had drawn up a list of things to try and is in the middle of outlining them with Harry when he hears footsteps.

When a wand appears around the corner, Harry reacts first, wrist snapping upwards, incantation on his lips.

The two spells collide with a fizzing sound, cancelling each other out. Tom draws his own wand and fires off a hex when Lestrange comes into view.

Lestrange twists out of the way, revealing the two others behind him. "We know it was you," hisses Lestrange. "You stole it, didn't you, Riddle? But now you're going to give it back, or else you're going to pay."

Tom isn't worried. Three against two again, only this time Tom has the advantage of Harry by his side. Harry performs admirably, jaw clenched in concentration, movements fluid and natural as he spins away from Avery's attempt to hex him.

Sparks fly back and forth as they attempt to hit each other, neither side yet daring to attempt any complex spells. As second years, their magical cores are not yet strong enough to cast more than two or three higher-powered spells at a time, and thus they are limited to the number of hexes and curses they can cast.

But Tom has been practicing, pushing his limits, and he is no average second year.

"Locomotor Mortis!"

The spell lands, this time. Mulciber's legs stiffen underneath him. Both Slytherins look over in time to see their friend tip forward, face first, nose smashing onto the stone floor with a pained cry.

Without hesitating, Tom casts again: "Locomotor Mortis!"

Lestrange doesn't expect the second curse right away. He jerks to the left, but the spell catches him in the ankle. He, too, falls, but the angle is off—he twists and lands on his side, arm pinned awkwardly underneath his torso.

Avery has his wand raised, but he wavers before casting, visibly hesitating. The Leg-Locker Curse is from a Dark Arts book: Curses and Counter-Curses. It will be a spell that all three Slytherins recognize, Tom is sure. And if Tom can cast this spell, if he's read that book, then he's shown he's willing to shirk the image of the consummate, straight-laced Gryffindor.

"You'll leave us all alone if you know what's good for you," Tom says, repressing the fatigue in his voice. "I could curse all of you, if I wanted to."

To his right, Harry says nothing, but his shoulders are stiff and alert. Tom reaches for Harry's elbow, then begins to guide them away. Harry tenses even more as they turn their backs, but the two of them walk away unscathed.

"Where are we going?" Harry asks, a few corridors later. He stares at their surroundings, at the portraits on the walls. They reach the top of a staircase and start to descend. "To the library?"

"Yes. I want to check in with the others."

Tom wants to see if the note has reached Adelaide's hands. The mystery of their wands will have to wait for another day.

Harry nods, almost to himself. "And do you think the Slytherins will? Leave us alone, I mean."

"Today will have put them off for a while," Tom says, smug. "But I don't doubt they'll try again eventually. We'll just have to keep practicing." He stretches his arms a bit, then allows some of the strain to seep into his posture.

Harry frowns, grim. "Are you alright? You cast a lot of spells. Maybe we should take a break before we walk to the library. It's all the way on the other side of the school."

"I am completely fine, Harry. You might remember that Lestrange and Mulciber were the ones who ended up on the floor."

Harry shrugs, deliberately looking away. "Alright, if you say so."

Tom wants to wipe at his brow with the hem of his robe, but he doesn't want Harry to catch him at it. Scowling, Tom turns his face towards the rows of portraits. It's still so strange to him that the portraits can move and talk.

But portraits are not the same as ghosts, according to Professor Dumbledore. They are even more distant from their original counterparts than ghosts are.

Portraits are a brief glimpse at the people who used to roam these halls. Ghosts are more substantial, but lacking in appropriate depth and emotion. Tom had never known such ways of immortalizing oneself could exist, but he finds the idea interesting. What would a portrait of Tom Riddle look like? Act like? What would he say?

They walk down two more flights of stairs before they reach the ground level. Tom's legs are used to this path, the path that leads to the library. Soon enough, he and Harry are headed directly for the table tucked away by one of the tall back shelves.

"Tom! Harry!" Annalise waves them over, her voice a rushed, excited whisper. "We got it!" she declares, once they are within earshot.

"Let's see," Tom says, holding out a hand. "And where's your sister?"

"She didn't want to linger." Septimus pushes a neatly-folded square of parchment across the table.

Tom narrows his eyes at the slight, but he picks it up off the table and unfolds it, verifying that it's the real note and not a fake.

"What a relief," says Harry, slumping down into a chair. The chair, position-wise, is not his usual seat, but it's not a big deal. Tom sits in Harry's usual chair and runs a finger down the edge of the parchment before he folds it back up.

"Should we destroy it?" Annalise asks. "Set it on fire?"

"Not here," Tom says, tucking the note into the inner pocket of his robes. "Later. Now, what are we working on?"

November closes without further incident. Tom burns the note in a solemn ceremony outside on the grounds while the others watch, and afterwards they move onto more productive activities.

Their winter exams are looming. With everyone busy, their study group narrows back down to its usual smaller cluster, which Tom is glad for. All he can think about is how sweet his victory will taste when he ranks first place for the third time since the start of his Hogwarts career. However, Tom isn't the only one dedicating large amounts of time to pondering the upcoming deadlines.

"Hello, all," says MacMillan.

Most of the table greets him. Tom doesn't, and he doesn't glance up right away, either. He finishes his sentence, then sets his quill down carefully before he turns his attention to his roommate.

Tom smiles, not speaking, because he has an idea of why MacMillan is here, and he wants the question to be as difficult and uncomfortable to ask as possible.

"So," says MacMilllan, when it becomes clear they are all waiting for him to speak, "myself and some others were wondering if you all had been working on another study guide?"

"Oh, we have," Tom says, polite, hands folded neatly on the desk.

"Ah." MacMillan's mouth curls into an expression of confusion, pale eyes wandering up and down the faces at the table. "Is… is it done?"

Tom follows the path of MacMillan's gaze, satisfaction rising in him at how the group looks to him, waiting for a decision. "It will be, shortly," Tom allows.

Relief spreads along the line of MacMillan's shoulders. "That's fantastic," he says, now cheerful. "And same price as last time, yeah? Or less, since it's only part way through the year?"

"Oh, we're not charging for it this time." Tom shakes his head, then spreads his hands, palms open. "Free to anyone who wants to come directly to us and ask, with a limit of one copy per person."

MacMillan stares, disbelieving, and then his eyes narrow. "And what about the year-end ones?"

Tom shrugs, artfully so. "I haven't quite decided. Is there anything else you need?"

"I—"

Tom enjoys the visible fluster on MacMillan's face. "Wonderful," he says, cutting the other boy off. "So I'll see you back here in a few days, likely. Or not, depending on whether we're finished."

Tom turns back to his parchment, pauses, then glances back up. The action is deliberate, but Tom is sure that Harry will be the only one to notice. "If you did want to help, Eldon, I'd appreciate it if you could spread the word."

"I can do that," says MacMillan, after a pause. "I'll leave you all to it, then."

"See you at lunch," says Annalise, waving. The pleasant warmth to her voice is unmistakable—for the second time, MacMillan seems disoriented by the twists of the conversation.

"See you," he says, then departs.

"That was good fun," Annalise says. "When did you decide to not charge for the guides, Tom?"

"I had been thinking about it for a while. I only decided to just now."

"Any particular reason?" asks Septimus, raising his brows. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, because you do a lot of the work, Tom, and you as well, Harry, so it's really not my place to say—"

"It isn't," Tom interjects, voice level. "But I had rather thought it would help us connect with the rest of the students in our year. Last year, students would come to buy multiple copies for themselves and their friends. This way, they'll have to seek us out on their own if they want a copy."

If Tom helps them without charge, they'll feel indebted, much the way MacMillan is already beginning to feel.

"That sounds fine to me," says Septimus, flipping the cover of his textbook shut with a thump. "Next time maybe run it by all of us, then. So we're not all sitting here like lumps while you talk to someone."

To Tom's right, Harry is sitting, quite motionless, his green eyes flickering between Tom and Septimus.

Tom's temper begins to fray at the edges, unravelling like thick rope. Harry's watchful gaze is all that is holding him still, all that is keeping his jaw locked shut.

"I see," Tom says. Then he lets the quiet stretch out, tension pulled tight, before he adds, mimicking the tone he'd used with Eldon MacMillan, "Is there anything else you need?"

It's just as satisfying to see the tips of Septimus' ears go red as he flushes with anger. He looks to Harry, then to Annalise, neither of whom say a thing. Then Septimus is rising from his chair with a sudden motion and shoving his book into his bag.

"I'll see you all at lunch," he mutters, then departs.

"What was that all about?" Annalise asks faintly.

"I don't know what his problem is," Tom replies, sneering in the general direction of the library exit. "But seeing as he's gone now, there isn't any point dwelling on it."

Harry sets his quill down. He's chewing on the inside of his cheek, Tom can see it.

"It would have been nice if you could have said something in advance," Harry says at last. "But what's done is done."

What's done is done? What is that even supposed to mean? Tom can't help but think Harry is judging him, that Harry is agreeing with Septimus because he's mad and unwilling to say it aloud.

"I'm going for a walk," Tom says, shoving back in his chair. "Harry?"

Harry hesitates a beat too long, then puts his things away. "Sure."

"Oh, you're both leaving?" Annalise asks, crestfallen at being left alone at the table. "Well, alright. That's alright. You two had plans before, I suppose."

"We'll see you at lunch," Harry says to her, sounding apologetic.

Tom isn't apologetic. "Let's go."

Tom fixes his eyes straight ahead while they walk. It is with some irritation that he notes they'd had a similar day like this during November of last year. That time, however, Tom had failed to hold his temper, and Annalise had suffered as a result.

"You're supposed to side with me," Tom says flatly, once they're far enough away from where others might hear them.

"I side when you with it counts," Harry says in return, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his school robes. "When it's against the Slytherins, or when we have to talk to our professors, or with older students. But when it comes to our friends—"

"I'm supposed to be the most important one! Not any of them."

Harry's eyes widen at the vehemence, and Tom can't comprehend why Harry can't see the situation clearly. The obliviousness is astounding.

"It's not about sides," Harry says. "You are the most important person to me, Tom."

Tom grabs onto Harry's sleeve, stopping him in the middle of the corridor. Harry pauses with reluctance and folds his arms across his chest.

"Then explain to me," Tom says, "why you keep defending Septimus when he's disparaging everything I try to do."

Harry splutters at this. "I'm not defending him! I don't know why you need to see everything as people picking sides. We're a group altogether, and we do things together. And we should be making decisions together, too. Just because I happen to agree with him sometimes—that doesn't mean I'm choosing a side."

"It does!" Tom shakes his head. "You know I don't mind when we talk about things in private, Harry. I always listen to you when you disagree with what I say or do. But you can't do that in front of other people. I need everyone to see we're in agreement."

"They're our friends," Harry protests. "That's not the same. If Septimus or Annalise or Adelaide suggests something, it's only because they want to help."

"I don't trust them like I trust you." And Harry should do the same because it's only sensible.

"You can't only trust me."

"I do," Tom says, stubborn. "You're the only one."

Harry stares, unblinking. His cheeks are faintly flush. Tom feels a rush knowing that what he says to Harry has such an impact, that the power of trust he places in those hands is meaningful.

Tom cares about Harry, and only Harry, because Harry is the one person aside from himself he can trust. Even if Harry is being difficult right now, Harry would never choose Septimus over him. Not if it came down to a real choice.

"I think you need to be more understanding," Harry says. "Septimus means well, and he keeps secrets for us. You can't expect everyone to agree with you all the time, Tom. It isn't realistic."

Tom opens his mouth to bite back, acerbic response on the tip of his tongue, but then he snaps his jaw shut, thinking better of it. People should agree with him because he's right, he is always right—

Only... experience has proven that isn't always the case.

At least, not at Hogwarts.

But nevertheless, Tom had acted correctly in all of those situations. External circumstances were to blame for his failures. Unforeseen twists and turns of events that had altered the course of his plans. He has learned from them, and he will do better in the future.

"Tom?"

Tom counts the breaths expanding in his chest. In and out, a tempered pattern. "I see what you mean."

Harry blinks slowly, surprising flickering across his face. "Yeah?"

"And I don't agree with it," Tom says, irritated. "You're the one who wants us to argue about these things. You're letting other people cause problems between us," Tom accuses.

"And I don't know why you have all these problems with Septimus all of a sudden," Harry snaps back.

"Because he's disrespecting me," Tom says. "And even if you can't see it, you should believe it because I'm the one telling you. We're supposed to see things the same," Tom insists. "You know I'm only trying to do what's best for everyone."

Harry clenches his jaw, unclenches it. "You promised me you would try to care more. I'm telling you that I don't think there is anything wrong, and you should believe me because I'm the one telling you this."

The blunt response rubs Tom the wrong way. Harry's never thrown his own words back in his face like that before. Tom reaches for his anger, for his frustration, but suddenly it is harder to grasp. The space inside of him that he'd wanted to fill remains uncomfortably empty.

"We're spending the winter holidays with the Weasleys," Harry continues, "so unless you want us to stay at Hogwarts, you best figure it out for yourself."

Tom doesn't answer. There must be something in his expression that gives away what he's feeling, or at least the lack of what he's feeling, because Harry grimaces, shoulders slumping.

"Let's talk about something else," Harry says, sounding weary. "This isn't going anywhere, and I don't want us to argue anymore."

"Okay," Tom says. He's not sure what else there is to say.

Harry attempts a smile. It's lopsided and not quite like usual, but seeing it helps sooth the hollow ache in Tom's chest. "We are in this together," Harry says, "even if we have our disagreements."

Tom turns away. "It should be time for lunch soon. Let's go."

They start to walk. Tom tries to lose himself in the paths of corridors that lead to the Great Hall, in the graceful swing of arms and legs that projects confidence.

"What's the real reason for giving out the guides?" Harry asks casually, an attempt at bridge mending.

Tom doesn't feel like talking anymore, but this is Harry asking, and so he'll provide his reasoning.

"Everyone who takes one will feel like they owe us," Tom explains. "And I would like to get to know everyone else better. That part wasn't a lie. They may know who I am, but I don't know them. It'll be useful to have the information for the future."

"Makes sense. Are we going to expand our group with more people?"

Tom thinks that over, then decides that the answer is no, not while Septimus is proving to be a problem. But he can't say that now, not when they'd just put the matter to rest.

"Not yet," Tom says. "We'll see who might work well with us and keep them in mind."

"And what about Leo?"

"I apologized to him already. He accepted it, but I don't know if he wants to stay with us or not."

Harry nods. "I guess we'll see later on."

With everyone busy studying for exams, their study group had narrowed back down to its smaller cluster, which Tom is glad for. Perhaps the winter holidays will help Hogwarts settle back to its usual routine, and come January, Tom will be able to return his attention to more important tasks.

A/N:

this took a loooong time to write, unfortunately. i didn't want to keep you all waiting too long, either! but i hope this chapter is satisfactory, and i hope to get the ball rolling again if my brain will cooperate.

also, reminder to check out my discord server with this invite code: 6jcu8qM