The Broken Victory

Chapter 15: Breaking Down and Out

I found Snicks on my bed waiting for me the first night back at Hogwarts. He was excitedly hissing about some aunt nicknamed Edna with whom he had vacationed. It was an amusing enough tale that I didn't question its credibility, simply glad to be back in his company again. He seemed wary of me at first, but when I didn't break down or run headfirst into any walls, he relaxed, and our friendly rapport returned. I didn't see Damien, since as a second year I was now rooming with the new first years. The only dormitory that had been renovated to solely hold individual grades was Gryffindor, a fact that all the other houses were sore about. I didn't really mind, since I was used to living with many people. At least here we had privacy curtains to draw around the beds.

The first years apparently weren't warned about me, because they treated me with the same deference as they did the other second years. Most of them were wary of approaching an upperclassman, but the one called Snape strode right up to me. He said that he was finished with his potions book and had found it too easy. He had seen my assortment of books and asked to borrow a higher level one. I was not too keen on lending things out, since I had so few possessions and had worked so hard to get them. And I didn't welcome the possibility of competition in any area. But I pasted a fake smile on my face and lent him a very advanced one, figuring he'd run scared from it in a second. Unfortunately, he did nothing of the sort, figuring out what I had done and rising to the challenge. He flipped the pages dauntlessly. I narrowed my eyes; I'd have to keep a watch on him. He reminded me too much of myself. Soon after that, I learned his first name was Levitus.

I again immersed myself in school, though I couldn't eliminate the paranoia that still slid beneath my skin over Mara. With every odd glance any authority figure gave me, especially Dumbledore's keen one, I felt unsettled. But no punishment or rebuke came, though that didn't make me calmer. I had learned never to lower my defenses. For awhile, I also kept my head lowered as I walked across the Slytherin commons to avoid seeing the corner where Dash and I had normally spoken. But time had its effects, as it does, and slowly I did begin to enjoy being back at Hogwarts.

I managed this relief when I focused on the sole parts of Hogwarts I found worthwhile - the learning. Classes for the term were much more interesting than last term. I was now taking Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts with the third years. Transfiguration I was still taking as a private class. To fill that spot during the day, I was placed in Divination. Of course. Just the thing I needed, to try to cause visions. In addition, I was taking Arithmancy, Potions, Herbology, and Care of Magical Creatures with my fellow second years. As for the elective classes being offered, I decided on two advanced Charms classes, partly because I loved Charms, and party because my other favorite area, Transfiguration, was solely taught by Dumbledore. One of the Charms classes was Defense and Dueling, and it worked with the Dueling Club. Figuring I needed extracurricular activities that were actually beneficial, unlike Quidditch, I joined the Dueling Club. It was at least somewhat intellectually stimulating. The other Charms class was titled Instrumental Charms. It dealt with using the body, like a singing voice, to cast charms instead of a wand. It was supposedly not regarded very highly in academic areas, but it sounded exciting.

A bright side was that I didn't have too many classes with the Gryffindors this term. Only Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, and one Charms class. Herbology really was a waste of time for the most part. It was interesting when it related to medicine or poison, but for the most part we simply learned how to trim leaves as they tried to disembowel us. The History of Magic Professor, Binns, was every bit as boring in class this year as he had been the last. Oh, he certainly was knowledgeable, but his monotonous tone left even me and the Ravenclaws struggling to remain conscious. After one particularly long week where I had run out of the supply of Pepperup potion I had filched from the hospital, I had actually been forced to pinch myself throughout the period to stay awake. It had worked, but I was left limping the rest of the day.

There were other, more creative measures taken in Binns' class, especially around midterms when he rattled off information at an incredibly fast but interminably dull rate. Some of the Ravenclaws charmed their eyelids to be pasted open. It was uncomfortable and quite agonizing, but rather effectual in forcing the student to remain awake. Others drank caffeinated liquids to the point of bursting, leaving them jumpy but alert for the period. I only tried that once, but while I was awake, I was considerably and painfully distracted. And the race to the bathroom afterwards had been a frantic nightmare. Neither method lasted long, but I was determined enough to try anything to stay at the head of my class. For my ceaseless efforts, I was lauded with praise from my professors and requests for tutoring from all Houses. My ego refused to let me refuse any praise or request. I was left with frayed nerves but little time to worry with these activities, and I could feel my power growing. It also provided a satisfactory excuse for why I was always at the library. I read everything they had for my classes, sneaking in time for my own personal studies away from the guarded looks of Dumbledore and his minions.

After the first day of classes, I was trying to get signed into the last Advanced Charms class being offered, one called Self-Awareness Spelling. Professor Vallandora was looking at me with something akin to disbelief intermingled with amusement. Eyes twinkling, she laughed. "What are you trying to do, Mr. Riddle, take over my job by the new year?"

I shrugged humbly. "I'm really interested in Charms work, Professor. It seems to be the most widespread of all the disciplines. Charms can work on pretty much anything. If done properly."

Vallandora's expression grew fond and misty. "That is precisely why I got into this field, Tom, all those years ago. A powerful charm can influence the whole world or one soul. It's a fascinating, though sometimes terrifying, area of study. Of course, it's not as intrinsic as Transfiguration, or as academic as Potions, but it's closely related to a great deal of defense, Herbology, and creature work."

"Unless you get into theory and experimental charms, then it's quite academic. And some charms are intrinsic." I saw Vallandora looking a bit cautious, so I added quickly, "So I've heard. I've read a great deal on these subjects. Besides, other than charms--"

"All that's left is another class with Dumbledore?" She said this teasingly, but I still tightened until she added, "He's a bit daft, isn't he? What's he teaching this time, Muggle Visionaries and Prophets?" She waved her hand, as if to dismiss Dumbledore as little more than an amusing quack. "Honestly, you'd think he'd just go to work for the Ministry or as a field scholar, with what he's trying to do here."

I lifted my head, curious at that odd statement, but didn't speak. Clearly, Vallandora wasn't going to elaborate. She merely signed my form and sent it flying to Dippet's office. Her last comment was said in a more serious tone. Frowning, she asked me, "Are you sure you can handle all of these, Tom? You are taking a large workload this semester."

I smiled confidently at her. "None of the classes look too challenging, Professor. But thanks for your concern." I spun around and left, not adding, And if I'm busy enough I won't have time to be pestered by Dumbledore, Damien, or those visions.

~*~

"Do you know what day today is, my Riddle-licious friend?" Randy grabbed my arm in the hall a few weeks later. Swinging his arm around my shoulder, he steered me away from the library to a small bench carved into the wall under a large window. I had been buried under my thick texts and hadn't noticed him until he practically threw me down with his jovial weight. Even though I was an inch or two taller than he, he still outweighed me by a good ton. Rubbing my arm where he had bruised me, I scowled at him playfully.

"I'll tutor you in Potions, Randy. But you'll have to learn the days of the week on your own." I made a show of pulling up my sleeve and examining my arm. "I think I need to see Drawt now."

Randy smacked my shoulder again. "Oh, come off it. You should be used to it by now. You with your bloody white, corpse skin. Someone breathes on you, and you bruise."

I couldn't deny this. So instead I asked, "Oh, very well; I'm guessing the answer you're looking for isn't Wednesday. So what is today?"

Randy was grinning as if Potions were no longer part of our curriculum. "The day before Quidditch tryouts!"

"And?" I knew I'd get a rise out of him with my dry inquiry. In truth though, I really didn't care.

He did indeed puff up indignantly. "What do you mean 'and'? It's only the biggest day of my life so far!"

I refrained from saying, How sad. Instead I stood and replied, "Well, good luck."

Randy pulled me down again. In a voice less certain, he asked, "Do you think I have a shot?"

I shrugged. "I have no idea. How should I know? I haven't been watching any of the practices. I don't even know who's trying out!" I didn't even know the names of the positions, to be honest.

Randy looked around conspiratorially. He waited as two young girls scurried by, nodding congenially at them as they tossed us half-interested glances. Waving me in closer, he asked in a tense whisper. "I thought that, you might have--you know--seen something." I pulled back in incredulity, as he hurriedly continued to hiss. "I know that you sometimes have those kinds of experiences. I thought you might have--"

I burst in loudly, "Of Grindelwald, Randy. I had visions of Grindelwald. Not your bloody Quidditch tryouts! And I don't control them--yet. But they aren't ever about--" I paused, about to say, "about insignificant things." I decided to be tactful and finished, "About sporting activities." I hadn't managed to keep the annoyed frost from my voice, but Randy didn't seem to notice.

Still looking a bit panicked, he said sadly, "Oh, I thought you might have about this. It being such an important event and all." He glanced down, missing my disgusted eye roll. When he finally did look up at me, he wore a rueful grin. He appeared much closer to the cheeky Slytherin I had come to know. In a voice completely devoid of jealousy but brimming with patent flattery, he replied, "At least you're not trying out. Mack'd make you a Chaser for sure. Maybe a Seeker, if Damien wasn't already playing that." He suddenly looked worried and suspicious. "You aren't planning a surprise tryout, are you?" He looked like he'd try to murder me if I said yes. It was indeed a stellar performance, had I cared. But I was trying to remember who Mack was. It suddenly came to me. Mack Fielding was a Slytherin seventh year, also a Chaser and now the Captain of the team.

I didn't want to think about Damien or the new Captain. Or who he had replaced. A clock rang out then, shouting the advancing hour in Troll, a glitch it seemed fond of and refused to let be fixed by any who approached the old time teller. Randy was still sitting beside me, waiting to see if his efforts had worked. Instead I groaned, "Please, with a million classes, work, tutoring and dueling, I barely have enough time to breathe! I can promise you, I won't be playing or anywhere near the field." I stood and began to gather my mountain of work when Randy stopped me again. He wore the same guilty look and pulled me back.

"Does that mean you aren't coming to the tryouts?" I shook my head in false apology. "I have to go to the library, then work with Wynn and Zwipp. Why?"

Randy spoke so low I had to strain to hear. "I thought that maybe you could--help me." I sat back, my expression blank, and he pushed onward. "You're good at charms and that sort of thing. Maybe a sticking spell to my broom? Please?"

He looked so hopeful it was pathetic. I sighed and shook my head. "It's too risky. If they found out, they could do a revealing spell and find out who cast it. I can't afford to get into trouble--"

Randy stood up, angry. His face reddened as his great flaw, his temper, shone through. "Oh no, you can't afford to get into trouble unless it's for your own good, right? I've never said anything about those books you've taken out of the restricted section or the stuff from Zwipp and Madame Drawt's workrooms." He sneered at me. I tensed as he continued, "Didn't think I knew about that? Well, maybe if you gave others some credit, you would have put a stronger restricting spell on your drawer."

I considered my options, trying to figure out how to play the situation. Thank God - thank Merlin - the halls were empty, afternoon classes being over and all else gathered on the Quidditch pitch. I stood slowly, keeping my expression and voice calm. "You don't know what you're talking about. I'm taking additional classes, and that requires special equipment. So the administration kindly lent their stuff to me. However, I still do not appreciate--"

"Bollocks!" Randy shouted, turning a dangerous red. He was lost in his rage, not thinking clearly. "I don't trust one word you say. I'll go to Dumbledore right now."

I placed a hand firmly on his chest, my pale hand stark against his black robes. In a cold voice, I said, "Don't be thick, Randy. How are you going to explain to Dumbledore that you found any of this out? He knows I'm not brainless, that I wouldn't bring anything out in public if, as you say, I stole it. You'll get in just as much trouble for snooping. And probably wouldn't be able to tryout for the team. Are my borrowed books and ingredients really worth that?"

Randy paused at that, heaving. He was torn between his fury and the sense in my argument. Finally, I felt his muscles loosen. I tentatively loosened my grip, eyeing him. He stared back, his normally laid-back charm replaced by a sickly, snarling look. Every Slytherin had one in their repertoire for defense. His lip curled, he spat, "Maybe you're right about that. Your pathetic little scam isn't worth my future. But you can't honestly think, with all your damned superior knowledge, that I'll let you best me, you weak, insufferable, condescending, little...!" Words failed him then.

I must say, even with all my damned superior knowledge, I wasn't prepared for his roundhouse to my face that punctuated his unfinished insult. I never thought of Randy as the bullying, fighting type. He was certainly built for it, but he was always such a witty, calculating person, even with his temper. It seemed beneath him. However, at the moment, it was he who was standing over me, leering at my black eye, and sneering, "There's more to winning than a smart mouth." I stared up. Half of me was impressed at his lengths he was willing to go to for his desires. The other part of me was thoroughly angry and unimpressed at his execution.

He turned on his heel and began to stomp off, throwing nastily over his left shoulder, "And I'll just leave Dumbledore a note after tryouts. So you'd better scurry back like a good little loser and clean up your junk. Everyone was so impressed with you; wait till they hear about this. Pathetic, just like your father." He hesitated on that word, but pushed on, "And if I ever see any of that stuff again--"

"Randy?"

What?"

"Imperio!" My wand was quicker than his fist this time. It was the least severe of the Unforgivable Curses I had been learning. It was also the most vital to me now. Randy fell to his knees, his mouth hanging open. I approached him slowly, my vision dimming around the edges to where only he was in my sight. My heart was freezing over what he had said, blood pumping coldly throughout my veins. "I want you to tell me the truth, you blackmailing troll."

Randy nodded, his eyes glazed under my control and a bit of his own fear. I saw blood trickling out the side of his mouth. It was a common side effect of those who tried to avoid the controller of this spell. He was probably trying to chew off his tongue in tension and strain. No real Slytherin would go under without a fight or a reason. So he fought. I gave him minute, disinterested credit for that.

"What and how do you know about my father?"

Randy spoke monotonously, but the strain on his face was clear. Blood spewed as he choked out, "Damien's father...he looked it up, because you shouldn't have been placed in Slytherin. I found a letter in your drawer...I couldn't read it, but I saw the name Salazar in it, so I told Damien, and he told his father...there was something that was covered up, that only a few people know about. All Damien and I know is that someone named Riddle did a great damage to the magic community and was never punished." He didn't need to add what I knew he and Damien thought. That I was just like that.

I glared at Randy, burning with hatred at him, myself, and my father. No, I didn't hate Randy, not really, even if I was furious at him now. He was just susceptible to the same rumors that had trailed me my whole life. He was jealous and weak and wanted leverage over me, like a truly ambitious, cunning person would. But he wasn't a match for me, not with his temper. Still, he might be useful...and in some ways he was a lot like me.

Glaring at him, I ordered, "Hit yourself in both eyes." Randy complied, his meaty fists almost knocking himself out. Part of me wanted it to continue, but I felt my control weaken and my knees knocking together, near buckling from the strain. I released the spell, following it immediately with a gasped, "Obliviate!"

Randy fell forward, choking and grasping his head with his hands. I had erased our entire conversation, and his memory of my drawer contents. Hopefully of nothing else. I stood there, watching him slowly reorient. He looked up at me blearily through swollen sockets and shakily asked, "Riddle? What happened?"

"Gregor, that third year Gryffindor, tried to keep you from trying out for Quidditch. I tried to step in, but it didn't do either of us any good."

I indicated my eye, and he winced and gasped, "I can't believe it.... You should have charmed or cursed him, Riddle; stick with your strengths."

I nodded, a cold laugh welling within me. "I'll try to remember that. Here." I helped him up, brushing him off. Then I offered, "I don't think I can charm your broom, like you asked, but I can fix your eyes so you can see during tryouts."

Randy looked confused. "I asked? I don't remember... I guess that damned Gryffindor hit me harder than I thought. Well... I guess that's okay.... You did try to help me. I'll owe you one. Especially if you help these bruises, so I don't have to see Drawt before tryouts." I smiled while grimacing internally. Placing my hand on his head to feel how bad the wounds were, I whispered a slight charm to ease the pain. He shuddered under my cold grasp, but held fairly still and patient. When I finally released him, he leaned back, eyes blinking, and then grinned broadly. "Thanks, Riddle-y, that's much better. But put a cloak on or something; you're freezing!" With that, he left whistling, an extra bounce of determination in his step, heading for the Quidditch fields. I could only imagine what he would do to the first Gryffindor who said anything to him. Forgetting about my own tender eye, I fled into the library, a new mission at hand.

~*~

The next evening, I was trudging wearily to the Slytherin common room. Today had been our first dueling match in class, and it took immense physical exertion to defend as someone constantly attacked. I had been working with a sixth year who was extremely talented, knowledgeable, and determined to keep the riffraff youngster out of commission. That had been after a full day of classes and working, and I had spent the last night in the library. I had come up with nothing about what Randy had mentioned yesterday. Frustration matched my tiredness. The only ones who might be able to help me were the Malfoys, which was unlikely to ever happen. It was an almost impossible task that I didn't have much time to devote to, if I didn't want to start passing out.

I just need the Pepperup potion I modified to be stronger and with less ear smoke, I thought as I blearily stumbled forward. Today was only the tip of the iceberg. Despite what I had said to Vallandora, the classes did require a great deal of work, as did all the extra tutoring, assisting, and dueling. The curse I had put on Randy had weighed me down, both the actual act and the slight pang of guilt and concern that now resided in me. I was drowning in my thoughts when Dumbledore pulled me out.

His voice was filled with concern and caution. "Mr. Riddle?" I stopped and turned slowly to face him. Concern actually took over when he saw me. "Good Merlin, Riddle! Are you feeling all right?"

I nodded, my speech thick. "I'm fine, Professor. I just need to get my...um...books for...I have your class now, don't I? Right, for Transfiguration...I'll go get that one...or two...how many do we have?"

Dumbledore took me by the shoulders, his face stern. "Mr. Riddle, you are completely exhausted. You cannot come to class tonight. You would be of no use, and worse, a danger to yourself." He started to lead me away, but I resisted.

Irritably, I said, "I'm fine, sir. I just studied a little late last night. But I need to work on that plant configuration you taught me; I think I can get it tonight!"

Dumbledore crossed his arms in front of his long robes and said firmly, "You are working too hard, Tom. It is not healthy, and it will weaken your progress. I understand that you want to do well, but this is wrong, and frankly, ridiculous..."

"What is ridiculous is how you constantly try to hold me back!" I said too loudly, stomping my foot. "You're just upset that my methods are working, that I can take all of this work when you didn't think I could! Well, I can; I'm fine! I'm the best, and I can prove it, and if you won't teach me, then I'll just do it myself!" I was shouting myself hoarse at this point. All the tension and emotions I had been strangling inside me were flowing out. The work, my father, the Malfoys, my feeling of disgust and humiliation at myself...I had to work this hard, I had to do everything I could, or else everything I was trying for would be obsolete if I failed and came in second. All I had to prove myself was myself, and now that was beginning to break as my body was wearing down. I hadn't even been able to knock that sixth year over in dueling. I was just plain tired and cranky, and since I hadn't eaten in a few days, my stomach had shriveled into a painful knot. And here Dumbledore was telling me that, despite all my effort, I was still wrong!

And now he had the audacity to smile at me! "I have not seen that temper of yours in awhile, Mr. Riddle. It is good to know you are still a human child after all. Anyone, youngster or not, would be this crabby if they were almost asleep on their feet, though I must admit you did express yourself more eloquently than most. Though I do not support your outburst, I understand. And I think you should go to bed now, and we can talk tomorrow, when you are less...grumpy, shall we say? It is much easier to speak with someone when they are pleasant--"

"I am not a little child! Don't treat me like that! I'm better than most of your precious Gryffindor seventh years, so don't talk down to me! I--"

"Good Lord, Albus, what is that ruckus?" At that exact moment, Dippet came hurrying around a corner. Seeing me standing there red-faced before Dumbledore, his eyes widened in complete shock. "Mr. Riddle?!" He turned to Dumbledore, his confusion apparent. "What -"

Dumbledore held up his hand and calmly said. "It is quite all right, Armando." His look patronizingly amused, he continued, "Tom here is just overly stressed. I think these classes are too much for someone of his age, or any age, as I said before..."

"No!" I cut in and then quickly bit my lip. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the emotions fighting to get out. I turned to Dippet and said shakily, "I'm really, very sorry, sir. I don't know what came over me. Of course I should be punished."

Dippet waved his hand, pompously, "Don't think it, dear boy! Punish our finest student?" He ignored Dumbledore's glare, adding, "Everyone gets a little upset at times; nothing to worry about. I admire your work ethic, Mr. Riddle, but do try to keep a more moderate pace. I know how completely out of character such an outburst of temper is for such a mature, controlled young man as you. Right, Albus?"

Dumbledore was looking less amused. "I think he was more than a trifle upset, Armando. If you saw him..."

"Ah, yes." Dippet gave me a cursory once-over. "You look worn out, Mr. Riddle. That's not the way we like our students. A good night's sleep should do it." He nodded at Dumbledore as if this were sufficient, then strolled off. I suspected that his act had just as much to do with the Grindelwald event of last term as my being such an ideal student. Everyone but Dumbledore had been thoroughly impressed at the way I had handled that horror, scoffing at his suggestion of therapy. It was much easier to think, and for the press to sell, that I was such a strong person I had overcome that ordeal by myself unscathed. I had to believe that myself to go on, not planning on counting on anyone ever.

Dippet's steps were heard fading down the hall, along with a cheerful greeting he gave to Sir Nicholas. Slowly all sound of him and the ghost faded, and it was just Dumbledore and me again. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, trying to figure out the best way to rectify the damage my foolhardy outburst had done. Somehow, the Obliviate Spell I didn't think would work, and I definitely wouldn't risk it. So I resorted to good old-fashioned wheedling. "I really am sorry, sir."

Dumbledore didn't look mad at me, though. His gaze was still following Dippet. In a bland voice, he said, "Are you, Riddle?" He turned to me. "Why do you always feel you need to work? I hear that more often than that you want to learn things. I am well aware of the pleasure you get out of learning, but it is becoming an unhealthy obsession." His voice dropped, adding softness, but I wasn't too gone to notice the keen curiosity that lurked in hungry desire behind his eyes. "I do not care what Dippet says; there is something. What is going on, Tom? If it is the workload, we can change that. And if it is anything else, well, we can work that out too, before..." He didn't finish that thought, just stared at me with eyes still bright though no fire was lit nearby.

I wasn't up to sparring with him. I was too afraid of another outburst or what he would do if he really did know the truth about Mara, or Randy, or the orphanage. Afraid of what good old Dumbledore would do if he heard about the exultation that came with the fear when I did both acts of healing and punishing. How I trembled from pride as much as fear, how I was torn between the two. How I didn't accept his theory of black and white for evil and good. The line was blurred for me into nonexistence at times. I couldn't trust him with his symbol of brave-hearted honor blazing out of him. And he seemed to know. Maybe some of the Gryffindors could blindside him with their ends justifying their chivalrous means, but he didn't trust me any more than I him. It was a common belief that no Slytherin could be chivalrous.

I merely stared back at him, my brain on defense but fuzzy. I heard myself saying slowly, "I'll slow down, sir. But there really isn't anything wrong that I need to talk about with you. Or anyone. I just really want to get my books to sleep."

At that, a crack of a smile broke on Dumbledore's lips. "I beg your pardon?"

I stared uncomprehendingly as Dumbledore laughed softly. He placed a hand on my shoulder, ignoring my tensing shrink. "We shall double up on the lesson later this week, when you are feeling less sleepy. Fair enough, Mr. Riddle?" I nodded as his image faded in and out. Relief flooded that he was not grilling me anymore.

I vaguely remember him guiding me with his hand through the last corridor to the Slytherin rooms. I don't remember passing anyone, but I was annoyed that he must have been enjoying helping the poor, little, overworked Mudblood. Yes, he stopped me from pitching forward on my face a few times, but...well, I was too tired to think of an answer, but I was sure I could have managed without him. When we got there, he gave me one last look and said, "Sleep well, Tom. Skip morning classes if you need to. I will see you tomorrow." With a final patronizing smile, he strode off.

I glared at him and then entered the rooms. They were empty; everyone must have been at the final day of Quidditch tryouts. I tried to make it to the dorms, but found it was easier to stumble to a desk in the corner of the common room. I sat down, holding my spinning head in my hands. That outburst had felt wonderful, and thankfully Dumbledore thought nothing more of it than that I was an impertinent child. I was still in my classes, and Dippet was still my biggest fan. But it was simply too risky. I would have to be more careful... somehow. I still hadn't found a spell that would let me stay awake or quell my emotions without any side effects. Well, maybe I could find one that didn't have too many side effects. My mind wandered to what had happened to Mara, but I pushed it away uneasily. I was more skilled than she already. And I wasn't talking about fatal or permanently disfiguring effects, but having my eyes turn red for a few minutes or something wasn't reason enough to dismiss a spell that could potentially improve my performance. But that would have to wait.

Sighing, I opened one of my thick, brown, leather books. It was called Perfecting Self-Transmutations by Artemis Gollywand. The words swam on the yellowed pages. I really am too tired to do this, I decided. But a stubborn pride kept me pinned down in the chair. I'll just do it once, just to prove to myself that Dumbledore didn't know what the hell he was talking about again, I reasoned. I reached for my wand, ignoring my trembling fingers which protested my movement. I raised my wand, looking at myself in the mirror. I focused on what I saw...a porcelain white face so thin my cheekbones protruded sharply. My eyes were a midnight blue, with dark purple bags with blue veins running beneath them. My short, wavy hair was disarrayed, which I never used to let it become...its shocking blackness made my gray face even sicklier. My fingers, thin and long, shaking in coldness, nerves, and exhaustion flung up to reveal my bony wrist beneath my shabby, thin, black robe.

I ignored the protesting signs my body was obviously trying to visually knock into me. My voice almost steady, I began to chant...

Words swam from somewhere deep and far away. It was lighthearted and loud. I couldn't make out all the others, but two were definitely Randy's and Simon's. I realized I was lying face down at the desk, my head resting on my arms. I must have fallen asleep, I mused tiredly. I didn't feel any more rested; I felt the opposite, if possible. I also felt chilled beyond belief. My chain hung heavy around my neck, jabbing me. I wanted to know what time it was, but I couldn't lift my head yet.

I heard a few people approach me. Simon's voice said, "Aw, he's asleep. I don't know how he can sleep through this. But he really hasn't looked too well." His voice was the nicest it had sounded in awhile. I must really have looked pathetic to gain the sympathies of my Slytherin companions. I would have to be dead to get it from anyone in another house. Simon continued softly, "Leave him, Randy. You can tell him your good news later."

Randy's voice boomed then, as jovial and unsympathetic as he always was. "Ah, he needs some good news. He's been a maniac with work, worse than ever. This'll lighten him up." He began shaking me hard, yelling in my ear, "Riddle-y! My Riddle-licious boring bookworm of a classmate! Come on, you git, wake up and come join the land of the living!"

I groaned and shifted, and Simon said in an annoyed tone, "He doesn't even care about Quidditch, Randy! You just want to show off."

"And you just want him to sleep through his studies, so you can have a shot at getting a better mark than him," Randy retorted easily. He resumed shaking me. I tried to withstand it until all the rocking was making me ache and become dizzy.

I slowly raised my heavy head, and in a dry, cracking voice, I said, "You're both right. Now leave; I'm not in the mood to listen to either of you." I turned my eyes toward them, and in a hazy fog, I saw their faces blanch. I struggled to glare. "Come off it; that wasn't that rude. I really want to get under some warm covers and sleep, and you've certainly told me to shove off before."

But they kept just staring at me. I began to see fear in their eyes. As a larger crowd drew around, I heard muttered whispers of, "Look at him!"

Simon asked in a voice trembling with fright, "Tom, what--what happened to you?"