The Diary (pottermort)

chapter thirty-eight

Ire; true and unadulterated ire. When, Harry thinks, has he last felt it? Months ago, simmering to himself about the luxury of life being gifted to Tom and not him? Was that ire?

Harry doesn't think so. He thinks that it was petty anger, frustration, jealousy. It was not rage.

In his fifth year-- the year that snapping at his friends was the norm, the year that fury bubbled beneath his skin like blood-- he thought that everything he felt was aggression, was ire.

Looking back on it now, it does not even come close to such.

The same can be said for many instances in his life. Facing Umbridge, Ron leaving. The Dursley's. He thinks at the time that he is so mad, he can never be more pissed than he is right then.

But he's grown up. He knows now that the anger of a child is anger that one is allowed to have-- entitled to feeling-- but it's often over exaggerated. The anger of a child is felt in more intense internments because everything feels bigger when you're young.

Harry knows this because everything he has felt before, every row he'd deemed rage, is nothing in comparison to what floods his body when Tom tells him about Slughorn's offer.

The arrogance-- the pure self assurance that there's no way in hell he can get in trouble for this. He hasn't this far, so why should he now or ever? Arrogance leaks off Slughorn in greater quantities than Tom could even fathom.

Tom writes to him about it almost flippantly. He talks about how this whole I have dirt on you so you must do what I say lest I release it to the press situation is overdone. Orion to him, him to Slughorn, the DA to Albus. The concept, says Tom, unaware to Harry's blistering turmoil, of chain blackmail produces situations that can be deemed interesting, it sure as hell succeeds in making things happen, but that's about it. I suppose I'm just glad the arch of such is just about over.

Harry doesn't care about that. He-- he is shaking. He cannot think straight; red swallows his vision. Slughorn, he thinks, is the worst type of person, the fucking worst and he doesn't deserve to get off scott free, he deserves--

At the front of the Great Hall, Tom watches Professor Slughorn scream. He thrashes about, sunken to his knees without even realizing it. The teachers around him work to undo whatever curse or spell has been administered. They are shocked to their core.

He bites his tongue at one point, splattering blood. Tom is dimly aware of a few students crying. Someone is screaming, and it's not Slughorn. His voice is so weak it barely carries.

Tom watches on with a sort of morbid fascination. How long has it been, Tom thinks, since he went under? Minutes, maybe. He looks like he's--

Tom turns back to his diary. Harry, someone's cursing Slughorn. Right now, in front of everyone. I wonder if he'll live. And then, abruptly, it stops. Slughorn is left gasping on the floor. Tom glances back at the diary. He does not read Harry's response.

He closes the diary almost emotionlessly. His head is swarming.

Harry... he thinks, Harry did you--

(He does not allow himself to finish the thought.)

Slughorn, as the rumor mill may later produce, was held under the Cruciatus for twelve a a half minutes. Someone has trifled through his mind, looked through his memories with a strong disregard toward what harm might be caused by doing so. Unprecedented damage has been administered to his psyche. He will never teach again. He is moved to St. Mungo's before the evening is over.

The Cruciatus is, of course, illegal and the staff were quick at work to figure out who cast it. Wands are checked over, lists of recently cast spells revealed. Albus checks the DA's wands himself with a suspicious eye.

They find nothing. The mysterious curser remains just that.

But Tom knows. He keeps a blank face, says nothing, but he knows. When Harry writes to him saying that he knows that Slughorn knew any information about the Chamber would be located in the Slytherin safe at Gringotts which might be manned by Morfin Gaunt currently, Tom does not ask how. When Tom thanks him, he and Harry both know it is for more than just the information.

They both know. They both say nothing.

It is done by silent agreement, a shared sense of vigilante righteousness. Tom knows that whatever happened-- not that anything did-- it happened because Harry loves him, Harry is his best friend, and Harry is angry (angry to the point of ire) for him. Whatever happened to Slughorn, they both thought but never said, was deserved.

The students of Hogwarts as a whole agree on this. The mummered tales of Slughorn's attempted-- or successful-- escapades travelled throughout the student body. It was not long before every Professor Slughorn is bedridden was followed up by a And he deserves it.

(A man's life is not worth more than the childs' he's traumatized.)

Albus Dumbledore might know, Tom thinks. He might know that Tom is involved, in one way or another. He might even believe that the DA is involved-- Septimus approaches Albus, demanding he help get Slughorn fired, and later on, when he refused, Slughorn is unable to teach? It's a wonder that Albus didn't accuse them outright, really.

In the last month of the school year, Tom receives a note. It is from the Transfiguration professor himself. "Meet me at my office at 9:00pm tonight," he wrote. "We have much to discuss."

And they do, yeah, because there are several events that happened between now and their last meeting that Albus must be itching for an explanation for. Tom thinks about what might happen, what is likely to-- Albus asking him if Gellert's death had something to with Tom's supposed contact with Death. Tom thinks about Albus's gaze resting on his scar, rather than his eyes. Tom thinks about Albus pestering him about his friends who want Albus fired. Tom thinks about the accusations that are soon to follow, the You made a deal with Death and you killed Gellert for his Hallow that's bound to be implied.

Tom thinks... and then he breaks his arm. He spends the evening couped up in the Hospital Wing instead of sitting in front of Dumbledore. Harry frets over his wounds, berating him over such a Slytherin retreat. Saying things like, I really wish you hadn't hurt yourself. You couldn't have just FAKED an injury?

Tom thinks he might be right. He thinks of Albus's twinkling eyes, and decides he doesn't care.