For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Seventeen: Revelations

She had always led a life of keeping secrets.

Her grandfather earnestly leaning forward, the Elder wand in his lap, as he handed her the Tales of Beedle the Bard. His eyes were ablaze as he stared at her, piercing her heart. "Gwendolyn," he whispered, handing her a note written on old, stiff paper, "you mustn't tell a soul."

There was a clang of metal as magic raced through the air. The niffler let out a desperate squeak and Gwen let out a grimacing gasp, dropping her wand. Immediately, she was reprimanded. "Don't speak," Valdrin hissed, summoning it to his hand. "Next time, bite your tongue if you have to and carry out the spell! And no word of this at school!"

At the dinner table, Lilith's scalding tone, "Hush, girl! Don't be loose lipped about your training!"

"Identities are a precious thing," her grandmother soothed, stroking her head. There was a sadness there that was layers deep.

Griffith haughtily sneered as they inspected the shards of the Grecian bust they accidently broke. "Snitches get stitches!"

A pair of dark eyes bore into hers. "It'll be our little secret," he smirked.

It was strange, to have someone she had just met peel back such a carefully crafted layer of herself so quickly. She was a fresh cut exposed to air, stinging in the aftermath, dribbling enough blood to cause surprise but not enough to summon worry.

Perhaps that was the Hufflepuff way—to air everything out in the open. She had grown so used to allowing secrets to fester, to remain hidden in the shadows, to be dipped in the dark, that she hadn't considered other people probably didn't live that way.

They looked picture perfect, standing in the grass, framed by trees sent asunder in the thralls of an early autumn, fog and overcast such a drab contrast against the colors. Her braid draped elegantly down her back, the tip golden and curly and soft, her neck coddled by the Slytherin scarf, her tweed-blend coat warming her skin as her arm was still looped through his.

Kenji's raven-black hair was windswept and messy, a signature look she ascertained, as if he had run his hand through it while solving some complicated Arthimancy problem. His jumper was a woolen cream, his Hufflepuff scarf sitting proudly across his wide shoulders.

They could pass as students, apart from the obvious body language that could only be earned through the trials and experiences of adulthood.

Gwen's mouth was still slightly agape with wonder, what else tipped him off? but Kenji's warm smile never melted from his face.

"If you'd prefer, we could discuss this over tea?"

She hadn't enough sense to make words, but somehow, she managed to nod her head.

Ten minutes later, she found herself sitting atop a pumpkin, sipping a carefully selected variety of green tea Kenji had hold her he thought would suit her palate. He was right.

She took another long sip.

"I'll go first," he said as he set the tetsubin on the table. Somehow, he had a chair.

Apparently, he doesn't get much company.

With a sigh and a brush of his hand through his hair, he launched into his story. He spoke for much longer than Gwen had anticipated him to speak, his voice a steady cadence without much range in emotion.

"I suppose it all started back at school. I was a scholarship student, the bastard of a prominent Japanese Ministry member, who was given away to be raised by my mother's squib sister after she became sick and had to live in the sanitorium. They said it was the squib genes, why she succumbed... but I have my own theories. I think my father poisoned her.