Deal with the Devil

Chapter 10

Tom sat back in his usual spot, applauding where appropriate as the first years were sorted, smiling and nodding as his housemates congratulated him on the shining Head Boy badge pinned to his chest. He scanned the tables around him, content to be back at Hogwarts, pausing as he came to a familiar head of hair at the Ravenclaw table. As though sensing his gaze, the little prophetess looked up, her dark blue eyes meeting his own. He lifted a brow at her, having not heard from her throughout the summer.

The girl lifted a finger, sliding her hand into her robes and producing a folded slip of parchment. She tapped it once, then it laid it on the table.

Tom bristled, sure the girl could sense his anger. She shrugged apologetically, her brows twitching together. The prefects were taking the students down to the dungeons, but he had a meeting soon thereafter with the Head Girl to establish patrols. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, stroked the length of his wand through his pocket, and sighed. He'd have to find time somewhere.

A rush of applause broke out around him and he realized the youngest Black had been sorted into Slytherin.

"Is that your little brother, Walburga?" asked a girl a bit further down— a Bullstrode, he believed.

"Unfortunately," was the droned response.

He didn't care for Walburga himself, but she held certain beliefs that would make her sympathetic to his cause. He eyed the boy, an undersized, dark haired youth who looked almost embarrassed as he found a seat at the Slytherin table.

I wonder how many ways she's related to himself, he thought with a laugh. Surely at least two.

--

It was late. Were he anyone other than Tom Riddle, he wouldn't be risking a trip to Ravenclaw Tower. His meeting with MacMillan had ended, and he'd practically flown toward the stairs to climb up and up and up. The stairs seemed even more burdensome and he found he was able to skip more than before, having grown more over the summer (in so many ways).

Upon catching sight of the door, he slowed to a more composed pace and ran a hand through his hair, neatening his tamed curls. There was the knocker, bronze eagle awaiting someone to answer its query. There was no handle, no keyhole; only the bird. Tom wrapped his fingers around it and wrapped smartly, the sound echoing through the empty corridor.

The beak opened wide and the metal bird said musical voice, "What is yours, but others use more?"

He frowned at it, wondering if that was all, then said, "My name."

Another had used his name before, almost the entirety of it. In fact, all his name, each part of it, was taken from other people. It was his no more than the room in which he'd slept at the orphanage, less than the trinkets he'd once stolen from his fellow orphans. That was why he'd made his own name, one never heard before. Perhaps someday only he and those he deemed worthy would use it.

"Well?" he asked after a moment.

The eagle responded, "Quite," and the door opened wide to him.

The Ravenclaw common room was mostly empty, save a few older students who had stayed to read in the chairs interspersed across its breadth. High windows revealed a sky matching both the deepest blue of the carpet and the darkest velvet night of the ceiling. He surveyed the graceful arches, silken drapery, the marble statue of Rowena herself, and finally happened upon the reason he was here at all.

She'd stood upon his entrance, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed that a Slytherin had come into their domain. It wasn't forbidden, necessarily; that was part and parcel to having a riddle rather than a password. However, it was unusual. A pair of sixth years had darted glances toward him, but seemed unconcerned.

"Elena, good evening," he said once he'd crossed to her. "How was your summer?"

Her jaw rolled as she studied his face. "It happened yesterday," she muttered. "I thought it would be better not to send—"

At a lift of his brow, she fell quiet, fidgeting in place. Tom had rather thought the summer would have dulled the looming threat of his wrath, but Elena was as timid as ever. Perhaps more, since she was often more certain when there were witnesses present. Tom hadn't even expressed dissatisfaction with her. "Sit," he said after a beat, gesturing her toward where she'd sat when he came in. He sat at the seat adjacent to her and watched her for a second longer. She brought out the parchment, running her fingers along the edges and avoiding his gaze.

"My summer was perfect," he said. "Thank you for asking." Her cheeks lit up too easily. "I managed to accomplish something many have tried and failed at. I hardly thought of you, you'll understand. And while I usually prize obedience in my... retainers, I also prize the ability to reason, especially when it benefits me. Relax, Elena. I am not displeased with you."

Her posture loosened just a touch, but she still fiddled with the paper. Tom pushed the parchment to the table, and her hands fell away as he slid it toward him. "You wrote this yesterday, you said?" She nodded, eyes on the grain of the wooden table. "Look at me. Tell me."

Elena dragged her eyes to his face. She looked tired, dark circles around her eyes. She licked her lips and began to speak in a strained voice. "I fell asleep while reading in my bedroom. At my table. I'd just finished what packing I could. That's all there is to tell."

"How did you wake?"

Her hands tightened into fists atop the table. "Aurek woke me."

Ah, she had a particular dislike of her stepfather, Tom remembered. He tapped the parchment on the table before unfolding it and scanning its contents. Word for word, letter for letter, it was the same as the last she'd written. He could even see where she'd inked her quill at the same points, skipped the same distance between repetitions.

He sighed. "I was hoping for something a little more illuminating."

"Sorry."

He leaned forward, eyes darting from her hands to her face, her eyes faraway. "You seem more," he wafted his hand, searching for the word, "broken than you were last year. What happened during the summer?"

Elena blinked and refocused her vision on him. "Nothing. I suppose I'm always a bit melancholy when I've been, ahm, home." She frowned. "You're not worried, are you?"

Tom barked a laugh. "No. I'm protecting my interests. Your prophecies are potentially useful, or dangerous. Until I've decided their utility, I will make sure you're capable of providing them. You're of no use broken."

"Of course." She scrubbed her hands over her face. "I'm tired. If you're not dissatisfied with me, may I be excused?"

He waved his hand to signal his assent. "Goodnight, Elena."

"Goodnight," she said, rising from her seat and heading toward the statue.