Lesser Virtues, Greater Goals | Tomarry

Chapter 5: No obligation as such

Tom doesn't really know what to do with the boy, now that he has him. He is not quite how he expected the savior of the Wizarding world to be.

'Ginevra Weasley had been pleasantly naive enough to talk about her housemate a lot, amongst her entries, upon sharing with him her quite boring life.

Honestly, an eleven year old girl's insecurities about her rather average grades and whether she would find friends or not... ugh, not his cup of tea.
Now her descriptions about the revelation to the whole school that a certain Gryffindor spoke parseltongue, that he could spent hours reading about.

Ginerva - he never called her 'Ginny', it did not do justice to her actual name, which was from ancient origins - was easily manipulated. It had started to become laughable, from the middle of the year and after. For him, it certainly was.

It also did not hurt that she was ready to confide everything to him and by that, he means everything.

Who were the boy's friends, his adventure with some professor that had been possessed by Voldemort in their previous year and 'How gallant Harry was back then, Tom! So brave! I think I'm going to make him a Valentine card, to ask him if he wants to go out with me! Ron says he's such a good boy! He won't say no!'

Tom grins sometimes, upon bringing up that memory.

Oh, he did help her make a card with a poem in it alright. He did. It just wasn't the most flattering thing he has ever come up with.

'Eyes green, like a freshly picked toad.'

He is truly evil sometimes.

Of course, Ginevra spent hours crying on her bed after the boy's rejection. She deserved it, for being so damn intolerant.

And he deserved a bloody award for having to put up with her for a year. Merlin. The sacrifices he had done to regain a body.

Not that it wasn't worth it, now that he had it.

Locked away with some old memories that were being repeated - like a loop - had made him so desperate to get out.
He had clawed his way to the real world the second he found a target.
And who makes the most ideal target than a teenager to be?

He wanted to feel things again.

The taste of food in his tongue, the feel of rain or water on his skin. He wanted to see clear skies and smell the grass and have a shower. He wanted to be able to touch a book or the soft mattress of a bed that was actually there.

Honestly, he had hated Voldemort. The man was an embarrassment. Killed by an infant? Please.
Wait, no. The boy had said it was the mother. Yes. The mother, the mudblood that did something. Created a Counter Curse, maybe? He would have to delve deeper into that at one point.

One thing is for certain. With Tom being a competitive person, even with his future self, he will not stand for two versions of him walking around. That means he must ensure that his position is not to be threatened. Voldemort will regret putting him in there...

Oh, look at that. He is talking to himself again. How senile.

He shakes his head. He tries to remember, what was the initial point of this particular train of thought...? Right. The boy.

The boy who has been staring at the main entrance, a thick brown painted door made of steel, for twenty minutes now. His gaze shows a desire for the outside world, for freedom. The longing of seeing his best friends is just too much to be contained into a neutral expression.

Three days have passed. Tom is surprised that no escape attempt has been made.

He walks beside him. He sees the younger shifting a bit to the right as a reflex, but does not move away.