To Revive a Soul || Tom Riddle

19. Legilimency, Occlumency

Eleanor stared at Tom, whose face was alarmingly close to hers, and contemplated his ultimatum. What in the world did he mean? Why wasn't he allowing her to turn her head away?

She reached up and grabbed his wrist, trying to give herself the freedom to move, and he reluctantly complied. "I'm not going to talk about it."

"Then let me in your head," he suggested.

"If I wanted you to know the story, you would've already been inside of it." She released his hand, standing and pacing around the room. The atmosphere was still less than comfortable, especially when she knew that the boy in the room with her could not be trusted. "Why do you even care?"

"Because you refuse to share it," he answered easily. "That's how I know that something complicated is going on in that pretty head of yours."

"Now isn't the time to be hypocritical, Tom. You know as well as I do that you've been secretive with me from day one. You don't get to pressure me into answers when you haven't given any yourself." He gave her a pointed stare, realizing that this wasn't going to be as easy as he had originally thought.

And then Eleanor felt a pinch at her temple, like a worm trying to burrow its way in. She glared at him, backing away and heading for the door.

Occlumens.

"You can't run," he told her.

"No, but I can countercharm," she replied, forcing the spell to the forefront of her mind and repeating it over and over. She could still feel his magic pricking at her head, but she refused to let it get any further than that.

In fact, she supposed that she could use this situation as a lesson in not using force to get what you want. She'd wait until he tired himself, and only then would she tell him anything. Perhaps patience was the key.

"I can do this all night," Eleanor told him, going over to the four-poster and leaning on one of the columns. "You're not getting in my head. That's final."

"Your spell can't hold out all night."

"On the contrary, Tom," she said, smiling. "I think you'll find that I have more stamina than Dumbledore himself when it comes to spells like this one."

"Care to share why?"

Having had enough of his insisting, Eleanor balled her hands into fists and sighed. "Okay, fine. A story for a story, then. I'll tell you why I was expelled from Ilvermorny, but you're going to drop the double standard."

Tom was silent for a few seconds, then huffed. "Fine. Don't tell me anything, then," he grumbled.

Eleanor's jaw dropped. "Are you seriously arrogant enough that you'll allow me to walk away so that you don't have to tell me anything?" He didn't reply, but she could tell that he was getting progressively more frustrated with her. "You're ridiculous."

"I hope you know that I don't tolerate being talked down to like this," he snapped, looking like he was ready to jump out of his seat and strangle her.

She grinned. "Then why do you let me?"

"I don't. I'm not."

She didn't say anything else, backing away and making her way back to the covers of Tom's bed. She sat, pulling her legs up to her knees and picking at the wood on the post beside her in silence. Something was clearly bothering Tom—that much was certain. He was too defensive, too brash to make sense of anything. Eleanor hated that the thought was even passing through her head, but she almost pitied him. If he wouldn't tell her anything about himself, it was up to her to assume, and unfortunately, she tended to assume the worst.