The Serpentine Chain Part 1 - Year Of The Snake

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Nine -- Distracting Riddles

After a particularly harrowing Thursday afternoon with Gryffindor and Slytherin first years, Quintus Snape was in need of urgent respite from students and their squabbles. Gathering up his papers, he set off for the staffroom, in search of an hour's peace before going to the Great Hall for supper. There were a few other members of staff in the room, drinking tea and talking quietly. Quintus, taking in the rather intense looking conversation between Octavius Malfoy and the Divination teacher, sank down into a soft chair beside a rather wan looking Christopher instead, and conjured himself a cup of tea with a brief swish of his wand.

"Tired?" he asked his friend sympathetically.

Christopher Cale started, he hadn't noticed Quintus arrive. "Yes, a little," he replied. "It's been a long day."

"I know the feeling," the Potions master said. "I lost eight cauldrons today. In one lesson," he added wryly.

Christopher smiled faintly. Quintus, looking at him closely, was perturbed by the heaviness of his eyes. Has he been crying?

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked Cale, concerned.

The Chantwork teacher shrugged. "A slight headache, nothing important." He seemed to be about to say something more, but changed his mind.

Quintus was curious, but didn't press his friend. He turned his attention instead to the conversation between the Head of Slytherin and the Transfiguration professor, concerning a sixth year student's request for a Time Turner.

"The Ministry say that the decision has to be unanimous between Armando and yourself," de la Tour said quietly, "and the Head has already given me his consent."

The usual cheery twinkle in the Transfiguration professor's eyes faded. "I'm not entirely sure it would be wise," he said carefully.

"Which student is this?" asked Professor Seraphim, who'd been busy waxing the handle of his broomstick in the corner of the staffroom. An open copy of Which Broomstick? lay at his feet, slightly crumpled.

Professor de la Tour glared at him. "I don't believe it's any of your concern," she said frostily.

"Well, you are discussing it in a public place," the Head of Gryffindor pointed out. True enough, thought Quintus, amused at the irritated scowl on Nadine's face.

"Tom Riddle?" Octavius Malfoy guessed, suddenly breaking off his conversation with Elspeth Haven. "This is the student?"

De la Tour nodded. "He's asked for more time in order to be able to carry out extra curricular study."

"In which areas?" asked Quintus, shrewdly. "Extra curricular study is rather a vague term."

"Defence against the Dark Arts and Charms," the Head of Slytherin said. "Two of his best subjects."

"All subjects are his best subjects," the Potions master murmured. "Is he planning on specializing at long last?"

Christopher had glanced up at the mention of Tom Riddle. "He asked me yesterday if he could use the piano room for a few times a week," he said quietly. "He's self taught, I believe."

"And I'm giving him extra work in Divination during lunchtimes," Haven said thoughtfully. "When does he sleep?"

"He's a very dedicated student," Nadine de la Tour said proudly. "He's probably the most brilliant student Slytherin -- Hogwarts, even -- has ever known."

Dumbledore nodded. "I agree," he said gently. "But I don't think it wise for him to have the use of Time Turner. The dangers of stress and overwork are bad enough for NEWT students as it is -- I find it likely that his health would end up severely damaged."

Nadine de la Tour shrugged. "If he's any sort of Slytherin at all, he'd learn to cope."

"He would also be in danger of isolating himself from his peers -- he seems to have little or no interest in life outside academic pursuits as it is," the Transfiguration professor mused.

"That's not a crime, is it?" demanded Professor Malfoy, who had been following the conversation avidly.

"I also find it exceedingly difficult to trust Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore continued calmly, as if he hadn't spoken.

Professor de la Tour looked annoyed. "Tom Riddle has a perfect academic record," she said coldly. "Unlike several students from other Houses I could name, he has brought nothing but honour to the school."

Dumbledore was silent.

Octavius Malfoy leaned forwards. "If it wasn't for Mr. Riddle," he said sharply, "we'd all be sitting inside an Acromantula's belly by now feeling really stupid."

"I have said, and will continue to say, that I do not believe Rubeus Hagrid had anything to do with the events of last year," Dumbledore said. Although his tone was mild, there was a steely glint in his eyes.

Malfoy was incredulous. "You'd take the word of a half-giant over one of our best students?" he asked. "A half-giant, who, may I add, was guilty of numerous infractions of school rules even before that girl died -- a half-giant who should never have been allowed into Hogwarts in the first place --"

"Watch it, Malfoy," snapped Seraphim, without looking up from the Quidditch paraphernalia on the floor that had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

Octavius Malfoy sneered at him.

The Head of Slytherin was equally irate. "So you're going to refuse him the use of a Time Turner, then?" she snapped. "Because of your misguided belief in a giant's innocence?"

"Is it because he's Gryffindor?" asked Malfoy, softly, eyes on Dumbledore. "And Riddle's not?"

Albus Dumbledore was unperturbed. "House prejudices are entirely irrelevant in this case," he said. "I cannot and will not allow Tom Riddle the use of a Time Turner. He will simply have to learn his limitations."

Elspeth Haven smiled oddly. "I doubt he'll take kindly to that," she said.

The Transfiguration teacher produced a packet of crisps from a pocket in his voluminous robes, apparently oblivious to the waves of hostility emanating from Professors Malfoy and de la Tour. "Anyway," he said, "Mr. Riddle will have enough to concentrate on soon enough, without the distractions of extra curricular study."

"Oh?" asked the Head of Slytherin coldly.

"Professor Binns will be setting the NEWT students coursework in a week or so," Dumbledore said mildly. "The Headmaster and I have decided to carry out the plan we discussed last week."

There was a silence in the staffroom as the teachers paused to contemplate what the Deputy Head had just said. The large grandfather clock in the corner of the room broke the silence, whirring and grinding for a full moment before starting to strike the hour. Quintus Snape sipped his tea, watching the reactions of the other members of staff, and counted five chimes.

The Head of Slytherin was first. "Are you entirely sure that this is necessary?" asked Nadine de la Tour, her voice soft.

"The students have a right to know," replied Albus Dumbledore calmly. "The Headmaster and I are in agreement upon this matter."

"What matter?" asked Christopher, who had been staring out of the window, his mouth slack. Octavius Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"As quick on the uptake as ever," he murmured, but nobody rose to the bait.

It was the Divination teacher who replied, framed by the sunset from her vantage point by the staffroom window. "The Headmaster feels that Hogwarts students should be informed of the clear and present danger Grindelwald poses to the British wizarding community," she said, her tone cool. There was a barely discernible trace of irony in her voice.

"How?" asked the Flight instructor, raising his head from Which Broomstick? Dumbledore offered him a crisp.

"We thought we'd put Binns to good use," Octavius Malfoy said acidly. "Merlin knows it's about time his lessons developed a purpose."

The teachers young enough to have experienced the History of Magic professor for themselves, grimaced, whilst Dumbledore appeared to have gone temporarily deaf.

"The Headmaster wants Professor Binns to base the sixth and seventh year assignments around the rise of Grindelwald and his methods," Elspeth Haven said, smoothing a stray strand of red hair back into her bun. "In the hope of informing them of the dangers without causing panic."

Malfoy smirked. "Professor Binns couldn't cause a panic if his life depended upon it."

"Good idea," Seraphim said, deliberately ignoring the Defence against the Dark Arts professor. "What do you think, Christopher?"

The direct address startled his friend, Quintus noted, as Christopher's head jerked up from out of his hands. "What?" Cale said, his distraction evident.

"Has anyone here ever considered applying the concept of paying attention to themselves?" Octavius Malfoy wondered loudly, causing Seraphim to scowl in his direction. "Professor Binns. Is Going To Teach. The Children. Things They Need To Know. About Grindelwald," he said slowly and deliberately to Cale, who was now looking decidedly unwell, Quintus thought.

"I don't think it's wise," de la Tour said, determinedly. "The Minister of Magic hasn't made any official announcement yet -- what do you think his reaction will be when he hears we've started telling our students God knows what?"

Albus Dumbledore appeared unconcerned. "Copernicus will probably thank us for it," he said, auburn whiskers twitching. "And surely it's better for the students to hear proven, historical facts from us than the rumours they hear in the papers?"

"They'll get proven, historical facts with Binns all right," de la Tour said dryly.

"Has anyone told Binns about this?" asked Seraphim suddenly. "He won't take kindly to his lesson plans being disrupted."

"But a significant number of our students will," murmured Elspeth Haven, meeting Malfoy's eyes with a slight smile.

"No doubt we'll see a significant decrease in the number of potential Aurors when they realize exactly what's involved," said Cale, with a bitterness unusual to him.

Quintus chewed the inside of his lip, contemplating his friend. Something was bothering Christopher, and for once, it wasn't Octavius Malfoy.

*

Everything circles back to music, eventually

, Cale thought as he left the staffroom that Thursday evening. Like his magic, music was an essential part of him, running through his veins -- yet unlike magic he'd inherited his talent from his parents. His father, a violinist in the London Philharmonic Orchestra, and his mother, an accomplished soprano, had encouraged Christopher and his older brother John to pursue musical interests from an early age. From his first tentative notes on the piano at the age of two to his first visit to Covent Garden aged seven, during which he'd sat wide eyed and captivated through Handel's Messiah, he'd been spellbound. He liked to think that even then, he'd sensed even then the magical possibilities inherent in melody. Discovering Chantwork during his time at Hogwarts not only appeased his parents, who'd wanted him to attend music school, but also gave him a way to reconcile his love for music with his equally strong interest in magic. Music is the one form of magic that even Muggles can study, although they do not, perhaps, understand its full potential, he'd read in his copy of From Mozart To Malfoy: Music through the Ages during his very first lesson. He'd accepted it, then, making only a quick joke about it to Quintus.

"You'd think that Muggles could do Potions," he said incautiously, as Professor Minim, the grey haired Chantwork teacher of his schooldays scrawled runes over the blackboard.

"I hope you're joking?" Quintus replied, eyeing his friend in cold disbelief. "I'd like to see the Muggles who could stomach skinning and preparing a Hydra in order to extract its essence," he said, with a touch of affronted pride.

"Well, it's just like cookery, isn't it?" Christopher said, teasing.

"Cookery?!" repeated the scandalized Quintus, eyes flashing dangerously. "I'd like to see you try whisking dragon eggs into a smooth blend, really I would. There may be no foolish wand waving in Potions, but it's a very subtle art!"

"I know, I know," Christopher said, trying to sooth his outraged friend's ruffled feathers.

"I should have thought you'd have understood the complexities of Potions brewing," continued Quintus inexorably. "Bearing in mind the results of your last test."

Christopher winced, the scathing comments of Professor Curie still etched in his memory. He looked at the almost fanatical gleam in his friend's eye, and, deciding that insulting something that your best friend's family had been experts in for the past three centuries probably wasn't a wise course of action, went back to reading his book.

On Wednesday, though, he hadn't been so sure. Perhaps Muggles understand music better than we do, he'd thought, looking out of his window. Didn't the works of Beethoven, a man of no wizarding ability or family whatsoever, offer more passion, inspiration and consolation than those of any wizarding composer he'd ever studied during his post-Hogwarts study at the Conservatory of Music in London?

We may all need consolation soon enough

, he'd thought with a sudden pang, eyeing the black trimmed envelope that lay unopened on his desk hatefully. He'd received the owl late on Tuesday night, knowing by the official seal on the envelope that it was from the Ministry, guessing, without opening it, what it contained. We regret to inform you...

He hadn't slept that night, lying wide-awake into the dark of Wednesday morning, the letter that he didn't want to open burning in his mind alongside thoughts of his brother. John Cale hadn't been as taken with music as the rest of the family. The first to receive the Hogwarts letter, he'd given up his viola lessons a few weeks before his first term. Sorted into Gryffindor, he'd concentrated on Defence against the Dark Arts and Charms, the more obvious types of magic perhaps. He'd chosen to become an Auror, after graduating. He'd been working abroad. Killed? Missing in action?

"Sir?"

Cale hadn't noticed the door opening. He hadn't heard the light, hesitant footsteps approaching. But the voice that broke into his thoughts was insistent, for all that the black haired boy's hands were tightly clasped before him.

"Yes -- Riddle, is it?" Christopher asked, brushing the letter under a pile of essays. He would open it later. After the school day had finished. As Octavius Malfoy had been so kind as to remind him only the other day, he was being paid to do a job. Not to complain about his family problems, or send the whole school to sleep. Professionalism was paramount. John said that in a letter, once.

The tall slender boy nodded. "Tom Riddle, sir."

"Can I help you, Mr. Riddle?" Cale asked, indicating to him to sit down. Still, the distraction was welcome.

Riddle, a Slytherin judging by his robes, sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly. He looked nervous, something which did little to reassure Christopher. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," Riddle said, eyes glancing away then back to the Chantwork teacher. "I know I'm not one of your students -- I would have taken Chantwork but I didn't have enough room in my timetable -- but I was wondering if I could use the piano room for a few times a week?"

"You play?" Cale asked, surprised. Most Slytherin families tended to refuse their children contact with something that verged so closely to Muggle culture -- chanting was one thing, but gratuitous, "useless" music with non magical instruments was entirely another. Even Melisandre Malfoy had been disinherited at one point during the 19^th century. Then he remembered something he'd heard in the staffroom weeks ago -- Tom Marvolo Riddle, although a Slytherin, was from a Muggle background, like himself. Or not, exactly like him. Christopher wasn't an orphan.

Riddle flushed. "Not very well, sir," he said. "I taught myself, mostly."

Christopher tactfully chose not to ask why the boy hadn't been given lessons. "I think there's a slot free on Thursday evenings," he said, looking at the appointment sheet he'd extracted from his desk drawer, "but no, Susanna Lessops swapped for that because of Quidditch practice, oh, there's no-one booked for tonight, but lunchtime might be more convenient, if you're a quick eater and don't want to sacrifice your evening --"

"Not lunchtime," Riddle interjected quietly, adding "I have extra Divination lessons during lunchtime, sir -- can I come tonight?"

The boy should've been a Ravenclaw

. Christopher had nodded, scribbling the boy's name down in the empty half past seven slot. "You'll have to pick up the piano key from me tonight," he said, "it's in my office otherwise I'd give it to you now."

"A key?" Riddle asked curiously. "Can't you lock it magically?"

Professor Cale shook his head. "Sadly, our piano hasn't adapted very well to magic in the atmosphere, let alone direct spells," he said, slipping unintentionally into his lecturing tone. "The slightest spell can disrupt the tuning of the strings, which is why we can't use Locking Spells."

"I thought wizarding pianos had Shielding Charms built in?" the Slytherin asked, a curious look in his eyes.

"It isn't a wizarding piano," Cale said simply. "I bought it in Muggle London."

Tom Riddle didn't pursue the subject, but turned up outside Cale's office that evening at seven twenty five precisely.

"Remember to lock the lid when you've finished," Cale said unnecessarily, "and just drop the key off here first thing tomorrow morning."

Riddle nodded. The strap of his bag was wrapped so tightly round his hands that his fingertips were white. He looked oddly tense.

Christopher Cale felt his mouth run away with him. Ridiculous how every Slytherin had that effect on him. "If you need any tuition -- I learned the piano myself, originally, I'd be willing to help. I could manage an hour a week after Halloween, if you like?"

Tom Riddle relaxed slightly. "Thank you sir," he said, and set off in the direction of the Chantwork classroom.

Cale had watched him go. He'd have been a credit to our House, he thought ruefully, then turned back into his office, to where a black trimmed envelope still awaited him.

We regret to inform you

...

*

History of Magic was undoubtedly the most boring subject that Hogwarts students had ever been forced to endure -- with Herbology coming a close second, as Richard had once snapped after a painful encounter with a Bubotuber. By the time they'd reached their second year at Hogwarts, Aurelius and the others had resigned themselves to the fact that History of Magic was a complete waste of timetable space that could have been more appropriately -- and enjoyably -- filled with Curses, perhaps, or Voodoo. Camille and Remy, however, had only had a few weeks to adapt.

"It was never this dull at Beauxbatons," Camille had sniffed during her first lesson, covering a delicate yawn with her hand. "Perhaps our country's history is simply more interesting than yours," she suggested, smiling to take the sting from her words.

"Depends who's teaching it," Paul Tudor had said dismally, head buried in his arms.

"I thought there were laws against necromancy," Remy mused, looking at the completely oblivious History of Magic professor without any real interest. "Even Grindelwald wouldn't have stooped low enough to dig him up."

Paul raised his head and yawned hugely. "He's been here since the Founders," he said solemnly, watching a fly saunter casually along the sleeping Simon's cheek. "He will be forever."

"Dippet thinks we'll benefit from having a teacher who was present during the events of which we learn," Richard said sagely. "And I must say, for a walking corpse, he really brings the Yorkshire Goblin Revolts of 1489 to life. In my humble opinion, of course."

In fact, the walking corpse was merely a frail-looking old man who had apparently decided against applying the concept of retirement to himself. Professor Binns had started teaching at the age of forty-five -- but nobody was quite sure exactly how long ago that was. He'd been well past middle age when he'd taught Julius Malfoy in the 1910s, and had resembled a shrivelled walnut for as long as Aurelius, Constance and the others had known him. His voice, wheezy and painfully monotonous, was a more potent soporific than any mere Sleeping Draught -- Aurelius had briefly entertained the notion of bottling Binns' tongue and selling it on the black market, but had succumbed to sleep before perfecting the details of this nefarious plan. He did well enough out of his Pepperup Potion and Agitato Draughts instead, especially amongst the fifth and seventh years.

Certain depressed Ravenclaws had calculated that the chances of a lesson in which the pupils did not fall asleep in the first ten minutes were exactly a million to one.

However, Richard, the resident Slytherin Arithmancy expert and optimist extraordinaire, had calculated that million to one chances crop up nine times out of ten. This theory was based upon the premise that most people were intelligent enough to create their own amusement in Binns' lessons. The almost legendary lesson in which Esme Weatherwax had cast an Untraceable Tap Dancing Jinx upon Binns' walking stick was proof that even the Hufflepuffs could do it.

The Slytherins generally preferred to use History of Magic as a free period, regarding Binns solely as a minor distraction. But as nobody really enjoyed catching up on the work afterwards, there were a variety of different Recording Spells in use throughout the lesson. Constance's set of DictaQuills, sent to her by her unusually sympathetic father, proved incredibly popular. With the Quills set for exactly an hour's copying, and Muting Charms cast to disguise the sound of their conversations, the Slytherins could pass a fairly leisurely lesson without having to concentrate at all. Even Tom Riddle, who'd patiently ploughed his way through as many lessons as he could without the use of a Quill, had given up, and sat reading a copy of Transfiguration Today instead.

"Remind me to thank your father on bended knees next time I see him," Aurelius said, contentedly watching his Quill sweep across the scroll.

Paul, who was watching a spider crawl along his desk in mingled interest and disgust, nodded agreement. "If he ever needs me for anything, and I mean, anything," he said with emphasis, "I'm his man."

Constance smirked. "I'll remember that, Tudor."

Simon Harper briefly stirred from his afternoon siesta to mumble a quick "Yeah, cheers, thanks a lot," before falling back into a languid torpor.

"No problem," Constance said to them all. "My father understands our pain, for was it not once his own?"

"If he ever wants a papal blessing, indulgence, or pardon, consider it done," Richard said gallantly. "He's freed us from purgatory, it's only fair to return the favour."

Constance looked at him blankly. "A what?"

It was Tom Riddle who answered, looking up from his paper. "A papal blessing comes from the Pope, the head of the Roman Catholic Church. It's a Muggle religion," he added dismissively.

"I didn't know you did Muggle Studies, Marlowe," Paul exclaimed, eyes bright with malicious glee. "Didn't think you had it in you!"

"He doesn't," Constance said, noticing an almost imperceptible tremor in Riddle's hands as he turned the page of his paper. "He just likes to exhibit his vast, and may I say, entirely useless, knowledge of both magical and non-magical trivia."

Richard bowed his head. "I can't help myself," he admitted. "My mind, brilliant though it undoubtedly is, is indeed a receptacle for all sorts of useless knowledge. Sadly I have yet to attain the levels of triviality that our own Constance has achieved, but one step at a time, eh?"

"Excuse me?" said Constance, smiling. "I am proud to say I know nothing of Muggle religions. Obviously, Marlowe, our social circles have been vastly different."

"You got that from Salazar Slytherin's Compendium of Comebacks, didn't you?" Paul accused.

She ignored him, and continued in a tone of profound solemnity. "My mind contains no trivia. I am a vessel for wisdom and knowledge."

"Oh?" asked Richard, grinning wickedly. "When's Heathcliffe Lockhart's birthday, again? It seems to have slipped my mind, but I'm sure I can rely on you, my dear."

Aurelius joined in. "What did he foresee happening at the end of last year?"

"True love, wasn't it?" Paul asked, enjoying the scowl on Constance's face.

"Pity he didn't manage to foresee those sexual harassment charges," Richard sniggered.

"Nothing was ever proved," Aurelius said, smirking. "And you can't blame the poor girls for trying."

Tom Riddle had given up trying to read, and had begun to fold his paper into strange geometric shapes, listening expressionlessly to their conversation.

"Somebody here will not be here next year -- too right," continued Paul. "Thank Merlin it was him."

Constance glared. "Explain how your simple expressions of gratitude towards me and mine degenerated into cheap remarks about our failed Divination professor. Please."

"Can't," Richard said sweetly. "But we're just trying to help you out here, we don't mean anything by it."

"What do you mean, help me out?" she demanded.

"You should've gotten over him by now," Paul said paternally. "It's been a couple of months. It's for your own good, this is."

She stared at them. "You're all demented."

"You know, I don't understand why you get so worked up about it, Con dear," Richard puzzles. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"After all the stuff you've been spouting about female rights recently, I thought you'd have hit the roof with all Lockhart's Virgo comments," Aurelius said innocently.

"That's enough!" exclaimed Constance, loud enough to penetrate the Muting Charm. Professor Binns cast a stern glance in their direction, and continued to expound upon the early sixteenth century Wizarding Renaissance. Tom Riddle paused, and, chewing his lip, carefully readjusted a corner of his paper creation, then carried on folding.

"Touched a nerve?" asked Paul, sympathetically.

"Four against one is not fair," Constance said.

"Three," Tom pointed out, quietly.

"Three, but I'm still outnumbered," Constance amended.

"According to Salazar Slytherin's Code of Conduct," Aurelius said, in a passable imitation of Professor Binns, "three against one is only unfair when the majority of participants are Gryffindors. Of course, that's because one Slytherin could take out up to five Gryffindors, so it's actually unfair on them, but that's beside the point."

"And as none of us are Gryffindors," Paul added, smirking, "it's game on!"

"You invented Salazar Slytherin's Code of Conduct," Constance said irritably. "And the Compendium of Comebacks, for that matter."

"And the Regulations for Ripostes, if you want to be really picky," Paul said proudly. "Although Aurelius and Richard contributed to that one."

Constance scowled. "Salazar would be turning in his grave," she said. "Now shut up and just remember who's responsible for those lovely DictaQuills which are even now scribbling away before your very eyes."

This reminder of the supposed existence of a lesson proved timely. Professor Binns' voice, which had been relegated to the status of background noise, suddenly cut through the chatter. "Before you go," he wheezed, "I'd like to remind you that this assignment will be worth 15 percent of your final mark, so I'd appreciate it if you managed a little more than your usual half baked attempt. Eight feet minimum!"

"Assignment?" whispered Richard, horrified. "What assignment?"

"You have until New Year to complete it, and I will of course be available to help with any problems you may have," said Binns, levering himself out of the chair with the aid of his stick. His joints popped audibly. "Although you'll have to check the details of the minor subject with your other teachers."

"What minor subject?" Paul said, eyes wide.

"The Quills have copied everything down," Tom informed them, calmly scanning his scroll. His DictaQuill had imitated his neat, precise handwriting perfectly. "Professor Binns mentioned it last week, anyway."

"Not that anyone other than you was paying attention," Richard muttered. He rolled up his scroll without bothering to read it. "It can wait 'til the weekend, I'm sure."

"Even reading the transcript's bloody boring," Paul noted, picking up his work. "It's not fair."

As Professor Binns limped out of the classroom, there was a palpable change in the noise level due to various Muting Charms being removed.

"Ahh, my leg's gone dead," Richard announced, trying to stand up. He prodded the slumbering Simon sharply in the side with his quill. "I just thought you'd all like to know."

"Delighted, honestly," Constance murmured, watching Tom sweep all his belongings into his bag in a smooth, fluid gesture. On his desk, his Transfiguration Times was transformed into an angular swan, stark and austere in form. "What do we have next? My mind's gone blank."

"And that's different from its normal state in what way?" asked Aurelius, kicking his chair under the desk and scowling as it collided with the table leg. "Lunch. Food. Let us depart."

And with that, he headed out of the door, followed by Richard. Simon, disorientated by his rude awakening, was still sitting, rubbing sleep from his eyes, whilst Paul made his way over to where the French students, the Twins and Teresa were huddled over the desk at the back of the classroom, frowning at their scrolls. Constance began to bundle her things into her bag, absentmindedly.

"Planning on staying?" Tom's low, pleasant voice made her jump. He'd left his desk and was standing by her shoulder. His bag, somehow remaining intact despite being crammed with an obscene amount of books, was slung across one shoulder, and he was playing with the strap. His wand protruded from a pocket of his robes, which, she realized, were rather shabby. Second hand. She became conscious of her own, perfectly tailored robes at approximately the same time she realized that she was staring. He'd raised his chin slightly, aware of her scrutiny, but didn't say anything.

"Just putting my things away," she said, snapping out of her reverie. Then, on an impulse -- "Walk with me?"

The tall boy glanced over to where the other Slytherins still lingered, then nodded, fingers twined around the strap of his bag. His silver prefect's badge glinted as they walked out of the classroom. As he paused to allow her through the door, she noticed the little paper swan peeping out from beneath the flap of his bag.

"That'll get squashed," she said in dismay.

He turned to her, momentarily puzzled. "It's only paper, nothing valuable" he pointed out, but he carefully took the swan from his bag.

"Where did you learn how to do that?" Constance asked, taking the folded bird as he offered it to her. "I didn't know you were artistic as well. By all that's versatile, you scare me!" she said, laughing.

"I'm not artistic at all," he said dryly. "It's only folding, and I was only taught to do swans."

"At Hogwarts?" asked Constance, curious. To the best of her knowledge, Tom had never talked about his life away from the school before. Then again, Muggle orphanages weren't exactly hot topics amongst Slytherins.

He was no more forthcoming on the subject today. "Not at Hogwarts," he said, so blandly that she knew that that particular topic was closed.

Constance changed the subject. "I've never seen you pay so little attention in class before," she said smiling. "Are you planning a belated teenage rebellion?"

"It may look as though Binns has defeated me," the prefect said, "but you should never judge by appearances. I'm working as hard as ever."

"Going for Head Boy?" she asked.

He shrugged elegantly.

"You've probably got the best qualifications in the school," she said. "Never in trouble, top marks, oh, and the minor detail of having saved us all from a killer spider."

His turquoise eyes flickered downwards. "Not all," he said. "That girl --"

" -- was a complete pain in the neck, to be brutally honest," Constance said callously. "She's not exactly gone forever, either, seeing as she's now haunting the toilets, of all places. It's really off-putting."

Tom smiled, but his eyes did not. Then he said, "Do you know what Binns' assignment's about?"

"I've got it written down, but I haven't read it yet," she admitted, accepting the change in subject. "Tell me, then."

"Grindelwald," Tom said casually, causing her to stop dead in her tracks. "We have to research one of several aspects in his career -- his use of Prohibited Charms and Curses, his exploitation of magical creatures both Dark and otherwise, his search for visionweavers and use of Seers, or we can study the Defence aspect, and the early Albanian Crime Squad attempts to quell him."

Constance was taken aback. "But that's actually -- interesting," she said finally. "And important. And, unlike anything we've ever learned from Binns before -- relevant."

Tom nodded. "I doubt Professor Binns was the one responsible."

"Oh?"

"I think Dippet told him to assign us something like that. And I expect Dumbledore suggested it to him," Tom said thoughtfully. "Bearing in mind he likes us to be kept informed."

"He thinks we'll need to know this?" Constance mused. "Soon?"

Tom shrugged.

A third year Hufflepuff, not looking where she was going, bumped into Constance as she was about to say more, and almost knocked her against the wall. The younger girl's eyes went as round as saucers when she took in the Slytherin girl's irritated glare.

"S-sorry," mumbled the Hufflepuff, backing away. "Please, no, I don't want to be a newt --"

"A newt?!" Constance said incredulously as the Hufflepuff -- Louise Crabbe, she remembered -- ran off to the relative safety of a classroom. "I don't want to be a newt?" she repeated. "And people call me insane -- what a fruit loop!"

Tom glanced at her, smiling sideways. "You've only got yourself to blame for your reputation," he said. "Your bout with Coombes didn't go unnoticed."

"Tell me something I didn't know," Constance said, frowning at the partially battered swan she was still holding. "I'm still doing the detentions."

Tom took the swan off her, and began to refold it. "Serves you right for getting caught," he said, rounding a corner abruptly. "Exhibitionist."

She controlled the impulse to scowl at his back and smiled benignly as he turned to let her catch up. "I am what I am," she said. "I can't help my insane streak of violence. Or violent streak of insanity. Whatever. Why fight nature?"

"Why indeed," murmured Tom. He offered her the swan, half-smiling.

As she took it, a thought struck her. "You've never been caught dueling, or fighting with anyone, have you?" she asked, already knowing the answer. Her companion had a perfect academic record, top grades, and had never received so much as a detention. With teachers like Seraphim around, that was quite an achievement.

"You know I haven't," he replied, giving her a close look.

"Is that because you've never dueled, or is it because you're too clever to be caught?" she asked, suddenly very curious about her brother's quiet friend. "I know Marcus had that unfortunate little incident last year -- and most of us sixth years are at it constantly, it's why hardly any of us were made prefects --"

"Little incident?" Tom repeated, amused. "If I remember rightly, Verity Black was in the hospital wing for three weeks."

"Marcus' finest hour," Constance sighed proudly. "And you didn't answer my question."

Riddle was silent momentarily as the two students headed down a narrow flight of stone steps. He was chewing his lip again, as though thinking deeply. She turned the swan over in her hands, surprised by its lightness.

"I have never used my wand to hurt a student," he said, then added, smiling, "and I haven't poisoned any either, if that's what you were wondering."

Constance laughed, although she was fully aware of the evasion in his answer. It was, in truth, none of her business, and he did not owe her an answer, but she was very much intrigued by the possibilities. "Would you?" she asked, pausing at the foot of the stairs. "Not just students, anyway. Would you? If you had the chance?"

Tom wasn't looking at her, but at the picture above her. Salazar Slytherin stared back, a striking solitary figure amongst the other founders. Seated at a round table, he was not playing the card game that engrossed the others. His green eyes were inscrutable in their regard. Constance turned back to Tom.

His answer was very soft. Afterwards, she too turned to the painting.

*