Shadow of Sunlight

“Don't want to watch Linda, Mum.”

Tom didn't move from his position cross-legged on his four-poster bed, nor did he turn to glance at his roommate. “Shut up, Marvin. You're dreaming again.” Like I've been, he added mentally to himself, but didn't say aloud.

“Don't wanna,” said Marvin Nott again, clearly still asleep. He turned in his bed, a vast lump of blonde hair and overpriced silk pyjamas enveloped in a tangle of sheets. An indecipherable grunt emanated from the boy. Then, “Eh? Whussmwhi?”

“Very coherent,” muttered Tom, annoyance flickering inside him, begging to rise to the surface. Impatiently he drew his wand and pointed it at his fellow Slytherin sixth-year. “Slumbires,” he said tightly, and a ray of bright light shot from his wand to Marvin, briefly suffusing the boy in a muted silver glow. Marvin opened his eyes groggily, closed them, and fell once more into a deep sleep.

Tom allowed himself a quick, self-satisfied smile, and then returned to his previous activity -- reading. The library's (rather tattered) copy of Dreams: Meaningful or Mud was ridiculously long. Being on the forty-eighth page and not even halfway through the book, he was quickly tiring of filling his mind with useless information such as that griffins, manticores and most notably Dark Lords weren't known to wear tutus and the dreamer of such things had, as a suggestion, possibly had a lesson on boggarts recently. The idiotic sort of dreams that this textbook described had nothing in common with the ones he was having lately.

Staring down at the yellowed pages, he felt the inane urge to whack the tome. “Gah,” he said aloud, irritably. But he refused to let himself get mad. He reserved that emotion for less infuriating situations, such as roommates talking in their sleep and swotty Ravenclaw girls named Autumn Crane. If he let his temper flare in a much more important situation such as this, he'd be liable to blow up the entire school...

...not that that would be completely bad. In fact, thinking about it, Tom decided that it would be quite an interesting, and rather charitable, turn of events. But that would have to wait. As far as he knew, other Slytherins in his year, Rhianna C'urupt and Mei Young, were already planning an explosion of the Astronomy Tower, as they claimed waking up at midnight for Astronomy was hell for the proper beauty sleep they needed. He wasn't inclined to ruin their fun. Especially as he'd let Rhianna borrow his pet snake a week ago, and it currently happened to be in her perfectly manicured, long-nailed clutches. He was rather fond of his snake, and didn't fancy the idea of having it senselessly torn about by Rhianna in a fit of jealous anger.

With a roll of the eyes and clenching of the fist, Tom slammed the book shut. He cursed darkly under his breath, glaring at the dilapidated tome. He glanced at the old-fashioned pocket watch sitting on his bedside table. 3:46. It was getting late (or rather, early), and he felt sleep creeping up on him. His eyelids closed, opened, and fell shut again. Tom fumbled for his wand and his lips moved to say a Refreshing Charm, when he realized that the words for it had most inconveniently slipped to the back of his mind. He let out a hot, rather loud, string of curses. He didn't want to sleep, he needed to research. Damn, damn, damn. Now this was a time when he actually wanted to listen to Charms Professor Whendle.

An unwilling but inevitable yawn passed his lips. Tom sighed and switched off the bedside lamp. He slid under the covers and let his head fall against the fluffy white pillow. Just for this one night, to see the dreams again for reference, he thought rationally, and then I can drink an Awakening Potion tomorrow night and research it.

He yawned, closed his eyes, and dreamed.

*****

A dainty hand, with a quill poised between its tapered fingers, raced across the yellowed page, scarlet ink leaving a trail of words as it moved. The words were clearly visible: Tom! I'm so sorry that I threw you away. What happened? Did anyone pick you up?

And in turn emerald-green ink flowed across the page, without even the aid of a quill, and a small girl with a shock of bright red hair could be seen leaning anxiously over the page (it was clear now that the pages belonged to that of a black diary); obviously it had been her hand writing in scarlet.

The trail of green writing abruptly stopped, and the girl read the words with worried dark eyes. Ginny, dear, it's you. Now, that wasn't nice in the least. Why did you do that?

Ginny bit her lip, her quill unmoving in her trembling fingers. Finally she dipped the quill in a small pot of ink and began writing in round, childish script. I'm very sorry, Tom. Very! I didn't mean to. But, were you picked up? By who? Did you tell them anything?

Flowing emerald handwriting began to race across the diary page again. Well. What a welcome after not being written in by you for quite some time.

A look of impatience flitted across the girl's delicate features, and she frowned in a displeased manner at the diary, as though it was a living thing (and perhaps it was). She scribbled a hasty response, clearly oblivious to the diary's requests. I told you, Tom. I'm really, really, sorry.

Are you indeed, was the cryptic reply.

At this Ginny didn't look annoyed, but rather, worried, as though fearing the diary, despite it being just that -- a diary. Wetting her lips, she twisted her face into an expression of resolve. Of course I am, she wrote.

Well. Maybe you are. And maybe you aren't. But I'll have to take your word for it, for now at least, came the unfeeling answer.

A quick, relieved sort of sigh escaped Ginny's lips and she flopped against the back of chair she was sitting in, seemingly pleased with these evasive words. Of course, Tom. You can trust me, Ginny scribbled.

Words in green moved along the page yet again: Really, now. Well. Maybe I will. If I think you're trustworthy.

Ginny didn't seem to be fazed by Diary-Tom's words; obviously she was quite used to this sort of attitude taken towards her. I am, Tom. I am. But, you didn't answer at first, and now a look of unease was prominent on her face. Were you, she paused and bit her lip, picked up by anyone? By any chance?

There was no emerald-green writing for quite some time, during which Ginny chewed anxiously on her lower lip, dropped her quill and toyed apprehensively with a loose strand of scarlet hair. Finally, Diary-Tom answered. No. I wasn't.

Ginny, who had just picked up her quill again at the sight of the green handwriting, immediately let it fall through her fingers again. She stared with disbelief at the diary, blinking with what appeared to be confusion. Her eyes, clouded in puzzlement, narrowed with something that could possibly be suspicion, and she seemed to be thinking something over very hard. Finally, she retrieved her quill, and replied with a short, simple word. Oh.

Yes, was the evasive answer from Diary-Tom, and the scene dissolved into blackness.

****

“Tom, dear,” yawned Rhianna as she poked listlessly at the blank bit of parchment that her History of Magic essay should have been written on, “breakfast at this time is absolutely absurd. Honestly, I just woke up. You're a prefect, forward that to Headmaster Dippet, won't you?”

“Rhianna,” said Tom, in tones of measured patience, “please. First. Don't call me dear. You are fickle, aren't you, seeing as I thought you were snogging James Sheraton. Mistaken I was, it seems. And secondly, eight o' clock is a perfectly respectable time. If you'd just go to bed at a respectable time, rather than sneak out of the dungeons to do indecent things wit—”

“Oh, shut it, would you,” Rhianna cut him off. Her magically reddened lips curved upwards into a smug, self-satisfied smile. “Well, the Astronomy Tower has to be good for something, and it isn't for spotting constellations,” she smirked. “It certainly should be taken advantage of for...certain...situations, seeing as we've to suffer getting up at midnight every week for that wretched class.”

“Oh, I wouldn't cancel out spotting constellations on the Astronomy Tower,” drawled Leala Toussaint at Rhianna's left. “You know. Certain, choice constellations.” Arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow, she assumed an evocative, suggestive tone. “Just slide your finger up and trace those stars with it in the air, and then you'll have this certain area of Astronomy ...covered. And if we want to be a perfect Astronomy student—”

“And of course we all very well do,” said Rhianna with a smirk, cottoning on.

“—then you can't possibly forget the Big Dipper.”

Tom patently ignored the pair as they and the rest of their Slytherin girls' posse fell into waves of giggles in appreciation of Leala's whole new take on Astronomy. At his right, Marvin yawned. “What've we got first?” he mumbled sleepily, having apparently not enough sleep to his satisfaction.

“Care of Magical Creatures,” supplied Maxwell Avery, and his face twisted in displeasure as he elaborated, “With the Gryffindors.”

Marvin swore, at length. “Language, Marvin,” Tom said languidly as he went about buttering a piece of toast. His silver prefect's badge glinted brightly in the reflected sunlight of the ceiling of the Great Hall, and not even someone as dense as Marvin Nott could miss it.

“As though language matters when those idiot lions are concerned,” snorted Maxwell, with evident distaste. His hazel eyes narrowed as they settled upon the Gryffindor table across the Great Hall; even with the distance between the two house tables the waves of laughter from the Gryffindors rang out clearly. “Haven't they any dignity?”

“Like a beggar has dignity, Maxwell,” sniffed a new voice. Fellow Slytherin sixth-year Mei slid into the unoccupied seat in between Maxwell and Rhianna, flipping her long hair over her shoulder disdainfully. “Honestly. What do you expect? They're Gryffindors.” Her accentuated, upper-class voice drew the last word out with a heavy amount of condescension, making it clear she had no taste for the said house.

“Shut up, you lot,” Tom said distractedly as he turned a page of Oneiromancy: The Interpretation of Dreams. “I'm trying to think, thanks.”

Rhianna twisted around and rolled her heavily shadowed green eyes at him. “Terribly sorry, Mr. Prefect,” she said, her voice layered with sarcasm. “What are you doing, plotting to hit the British record of how high your exam marks can go?”

“Oh, don't worry,” Tom replied, with equal derision. “I've already done so, Rhianna. Second year,” he paused for effect, “oh, and third year. Not to mention fourth and fifth.”

“Hmmph,” responded the haughty Slytherin girl, and returned to her previous conversation involving the careful inspection of Clavel Malfoy's posterior.

Tom turned another page listlessly, not expecting anything useful but reflexively paging through the book nonetheless. Rhianna's cynical, drawling voice suddenly seemed rather loud and brassy to his ears as he attempted (in vain) to think clearly. He scowled as her voice cut over everyone else's at the Slytherin table with a vivid description of her thoughts on certain parts of James Sheraton in comparison to Clavel Malfoy. Does she ever shut up? he wondered, frowning at the dark-haired Slytherin, who was at the moment waving her hands to emphasize her point. Which was assuming that she had one.

In a fit of frustration over his fruitless research, the irritation of Rhianna only layered on top of that, Tom slammed his glass of orange juice onto the table with far more force than necessary. “Would you bloody well shut up?” he demanded loudly, in a very uncharacteristic manner.

Rhianna, Mei and the rest of their girls-only group turned in surprise. Mei looked confused, knowing the strangeness of Tom losing his temper, no matter how long or how much. “What's with you?” Mei said, frowning.

His momentary anger immediately disintegrated, leaving him standing over his confused housemates with nothing to say. “Nothing,” Tom answered shortly, taking his seat again. “Keep it down, would you? I'm trying to bloody concentrate. You try doing that with a bunch of brainless sods hanging about blathering.”

Mei scowled. Her eyes lost their confusion: she was used to this kind of attitude. “Honestly,” she said waspishly as she and the girls returned to their previous lighthearted natter. With a cross mutter of “Boring swot,” she dropped the little outburst, dismissing it as an uncharacteristic breakout.

Ignoring the little remains of his breakfast plate, Tom swept Oneiromancy into his book bag and slung it over his shoulder as he pushed his chair out from the table and stood up. “I'm going to Care of Magical Creatures early,” he said tightly, addressing Maxwell. At his classmate's nod, Tom left the table without a goodbye and stormed from the Great Hall.

He started down the long corridor, memories of last night's dream dancing in his head. The girl was the overall same as she had been in previous dreams: small, redheaded and fragile-looking. What was her name? Ginny? What relevance did that hold? From what he could think of, nothing. It was only a name. Just a name, and a vague notion of her appearance.

For all Tom knew, Ginny wasn't even a real person; simply a product of his often overworked and occasionally exhausted brain.

Yet the dreams were so clear, so vivid. As though they were actual memories, events had actually occurred. But what did the part he played in the dreams mean? Unless he was absolutely barking mad, he'd never come into contact with anyone named Ginny, nor had he ever been in a place such as the one Dream-Him had been in when Ginny had been nearly unconscious...

Wait.

A small, tiny voice spoke up against all the other irritated, confused ones in his head. What had the place looked like? Dark, damp, cold, rock-strewn...the description sparked some sort of memory buried in the crevices of his mind. Tom tried to call upon it, bring it to the surface, but his brain refused to divulge the memory.

“Damn it,” he cursed softly under his breath, barely noticing that he had stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, holding up a few stray hall-walkers. His green eyes grew even more intense as he thought.

Memories swirled crazily about through Tom's mind -- he tried to call upon the one he wanted to recall, but it was useless. He couldn't think properly.

And yet...a sudden image came to mind, a memory of at least a year past -- glinting, cold stone statues melded into the pebbly, dirt-encrusted ground. A hissing sound—

“What are you doing, Riddle? We're going to be late.”

Rhianna's long, tapered fingers grabbed his arm and swept him down to the Entrance Hall to exit onto the Hogwarts grounds, where the Care of Magical Creatures lessons were held. The exotic scent of her tacky-but-no-doubt-expensive perfume drifted down the corridor after them, and with it Tom's train of thought.

******

“Oh, it's so cute!”

Tom grimaced in distaste as the giggling knot of Gryffindor girls standing around Professor Riverburn gushed excitedly. He, for one, did not see what was so wonderful about the scrawny young phoenix making small humming noises in its nest. Actually, he thought contemptuously, it's the most ugly thing I've seen since Eva Bulstrode came into the common room without her Beautifying Charms.

“Phoenixes are magnificent creatures,” began Professor Riverburn, leaning casually against the fence surrounding the baby phoenix's nest. She knotted up her long curling red hair up quickly with a pencil as she spoke, her swirling silver robes also mussed and in disarray.

Tom snorted and pointedly ignored the young professor. Riverburn, he thought, wasn't a bad professor, not really. She was just so...disorganized. And careless. This, of course, was a quality that endeared her to many students but a quality that demeaned her in Tom's eyes. He was too focused, too intense to possess those sort of traits himself.

And of course, any trait that he didn't share automatically degraded the possessor of the said trait to Tom.

“Mr. Riddle!” Professor Riverburn's blue eyes narrowed as they regarded him suspiciously. “Since you seem to think you've no need to pay attention, perhaps you'd like to list the phoenix's eating habits?” She raised an eyebrow, her pale face set.

Tom allowed himself a wry smirk to himself. But then again, Riverburn was the Slytherin Head of House. She wasn't half as foolish as she might liked have them to believe.

“Phoenixes generally tend to eat foods of the earth, and prefer sweet sorts of fruits,” droned Tom, unnecessarily. He knew this information, as well as Riverburn knew he did. That was the way Riverburn liked to play her games, subtly: she admonished him for not paying attention, and at the same time got the chance to award points to her house. For, like a true Slytherin Head, Riverburn generally favored her own house.

“Correct. Ten points to Slytherin,” Riverburn said casually, as predicted. Cross murmurs of distaste sounded from amongst the Gryffindors, also predictably. The big, brave idiots were so easy to provoke, even indirectly. Autumn Castale, twit that she was, even twisted around and pulled a face at Tom, her golden eyes dark with indignation.

Maxwell Avery jostled against Tom, regarding the muttering Gryffindors with something like disgust. “What's gotten up their arses?” Maxwell sneered, with a condescending roll of his brown eyes.

“They're poor, sad, ignorant sods who've nothing better to do than cross their fingers and bravely hope they won't be beaten to a pulp next Quidditch game,” Tom's expression didn't change in the least from cold contempt as he spoke.

Marvin Nott snorted, “Are they really? Do you think?” he said, very sarcastically.

“Unlike you? Yes,” replied Tom complacently. The insult, however, was lost on the strong-but-slow boy.

Professor Riverburn's blue eyes flickered over the talking trio disapprovingly, but she chose to ignore them and simply carried on with her lecture; something about appropriate phoenix habitats. Tom sighed, and crossed his arms; Riverburn's words were mute and meaningless to his ears.

What Tom really should have done was skip Care of Magical Creatures, and gone to the library for a spot of research. It would have been far more productive than this lesson was turning out to be.

But then, thought Tom, sneaking a furtive glance at the still-talking Professor Riverburn, why not still go? It would be easy to sneak from the lesson, and easier still to dissuade Madam Pince from dismissing him from the library and telling him to go back to class -- he had all the professors twisted around his little finger.

With that thought in mind, Tom pulled his wand from his pocket and with a wave of the hand and a few muttered words -- “Invisio aspirete effenso!” -- cast an Invisibility Shield around him. He shot a careless glance about : the Slytherins and Gryffindors were pointedly separated into two knots, one of emerald and one of scarlet, with Professor Riverburn swathed in silver standing in the front center. But no one seemed to have noticed his little stunt.

Tom turned around, and moved swiftly up the grounds to the Entrance Hall -- he reentered the Hogwarts Castle and started down the long corridors as silently as he could manage. He had just nearly reached the library when—

“Good morning, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom froze dead in his tracks, and turned slowly. Standing in the middle of the hall, right behind him, was the Transfiguration instructor and Head of Gryffindor, Professor Dumbledore.

“Very nice Invisibility Shield -- well done,” Dumbledore continued mildly, as though merely commenting on the state of the weather. “Quite advanced magic, surely -- indeed, well past N.E.W.T. level, I believe. But I don't suppose that would serve in stopping you.”

Tom didn't move, nor respond. I've got all the teachers under my thumb, he thought dryly, except for the one I had to run into. But he did retrieve his wand from his pocket, and murmur, “Finite Incantatem,” the Invisibility Shield -- which had looked to him, from the inside, like a ring of muted gold light -- disintegrated. He didn't see the point in staying concealed within it; apparently it failed to work on Dumbledore anyway.

“Yes, that's better,” said Dumbledore, very neutrally. “I find that I'm not quite as adept in detecting concealment as I perhaps was in earlier days.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said colorlessly. He was at a loss for some suave remark to throw Dumbledore back onto lower ground and pull the situation neatly into his own hands -- something which rarely happened. But Dumbledore had always been the one person Tom had never been able to penetrate, never been able to charm.

Dumbledore regarded Tom calmly with his piercing blue eyes, which suddenly seemed to be concealing something beneath their ever-twinkle. “I believe that Professor Riverburn will have missed you by now,” he remarked. “I advise you to return quite soon, as,” his eyes twinkled, “Lisbeth Riverburn can be something of a demon when her class is ignored or interrupted.”

“Of course, Professor,” agreed Tom, very politely. “Have a good day,” he turned and moved quickly off, not wanting to spend a minute more in the presence of the single professor he did not feel perfectly in control with.

When he had returned to the class, he found a narrow-eyed and scarlet-cheeked Lisbeth Riverburn, just as Dumbledore had predicted.

“Ah, Mr. Riddle,” she said, in falsely sweet tones. “Lovely for you to rejoin us!”

Tom hid a sigh -- he had not the time nor patience to deal with nagging professors. But he opened his mouth anyway, and said, “I'm sorry, Professor. I got caught up in another little matter -- bit complicated. Professor Whendle,” he stressed the Charms professor's name, knowing that Riverburn had quite a soft spot for him, “had a little affair, I just got tugged into it a little.” Riverburn's face was already lightening up. Tom was frankly rather amazed; he'd not even gotten to a proper excuse instead of mindless banter.

“Well,” she said briskly, brushing off her silver robes, “never mind that. So, Mr. Riddle, to compensate, can you tell us how a phoenix may heal an injured being?”

Tom rolled his eyes as he replied tiredly, “A phoenix's tears have healing properties, Professor,” wondering how on earth she expected sixth-years not to know that.

“Correct!” Riverburn smiled generously, “Take five points to Slytherin.”

He heard Autumn Castale behind him mutter something the professors certainly wouldn't expect from their little Gryffindor darling, and was about to shoot back a scathing response when Marvin took the little matter into his own hands. He quickly stepped backwards, accidentally crushing Autumn's small foot beneath Marvin's own huge one.

“Ow!” she squealed, jumping back immediately.

Tom allowed himself a little smile. Yes, he could still always be cheered up by the little things in life.

*****

Tom slipped quietly into the school library, making as little noise as possible. Though of course not even a mouse could sneak past Madam Pince -- her overly sharp ears heard Tom immediately, and her head shot up in suspicion, her hazel eyes scanning the library dubiously. When she saw that it was Tom, however, she smiled and waved him on. Tom returned the smile with a polite one of his own, and continued on.

He was currently skipping his Potions class. He knew it didn't matter in the least, though -- Professor Thyme taught that lesson, and Tom was a definite favorite of Thyme's. As he was of nearly every professor.

Tom reached the shelf of Book Finders, which were, really, rather interesting and useful magical objects. The actual Finders were quite small -- just little sparkling spheres, with no particular markings of any sort. Tom tapped one of them lightly with his wand, and said clearly, “Tom Marvolo Riddle. Slytherin. Sixth-year.”

The sphere immediately bounced off the shelf and expanded into a large bubble, large enough to accommodate even Rubeus Hagrid, the biggest student in Hogwarts. Tom stepped through the thin layer into the actual bubble, and waving his wand, announced, “Subject: Oneiromancy.”

The bubble, and he inside it, promptly disappeared, only to quickly reappear, but now in front of a large shelf of books. Tom peered at the first title that he saw: Dream Interpretation: Exploring Oneiromancy. He smiled in satisfaction. “Deletrius,” he said calmly, and the bubble immediately popped and returned to its former sphere state. It zoomed on its own back to the Book Finders shelf.

Tom sorted gingerly through the shelves of books on dream interpretation, and finally chose six that looked to be the most promising. He carried them carefully to one of the library's oak tables, and took a seat. He opened the first thick tome -- titled simply Oneiromancy -- and with a resigned sigh, began reading.

Half an hour later found Tom still paging through the fourth volume yet, having not read anything in the least useful. He swallowed a vulgar word and a defeated sigh -- he would not reduce himself to kicking at the table with all the maturity of an eight year old. He just needed...he just needed a spot of rest, perhaps...

“Ginny, you've not been looking well lately.”

The girl in question, Ginny, turned quickly, biting her lip. “Erm, hello, Percy. Of course I've been well...I've been giving myself a rest like you said...”

Percy appeared to be a tall, redheaded boy with a shiny badge pinned on the breast pocket of his black robes. Frowning, he replied, “I don't know, Ginny. Maybe we should go to Madam Pomfrey and get you some Pepperup Potion. You look like you could deal with some.”

“No!” The panicked word escaped Ginny's mouth, and she fumbled quickly to cover it up, “No, I'm fine, Percy, don't worry.”

Then suddenly, she thought at some unseen source in her own mind, What do I do?

A strange, deeper voice replied in her head, Tell him you're fine. No, wait, Stun him.

What? Ginny's thought had a tinge of horror about it; her eyes widened of their own accord. I can't do that, Tom -- Percy's my brother!

So you dismiss my orders just like that? the reply was cold, with no attempt to layer over the ice coating the words.

“Ginny?” Percy's voice interrupted the train of thought. He looked impatient, as though he wished for his little sister to simply agree and get it over with, allowing him to go about other duties.

No, of course not, Ginny looked horribly panicked. She glanced furtively about the classroom they were in, and then suddenly withdrew her wand from her pocket. Trembling, she raised it -- choking at Percy's impatient, “What are you doing, Gin?” -- and whispered, “Stupefy!”

Percy immediately dropped to the floor, his body prostrate. Ginny stared down at him, looking frankly astonished at what she had just done.

Suddenly the previous voice spoke in her head, sounding terribly smug and self-satisfied. That's better.