Chapter 23 - Of Serpents and Spiders

Written by Nemesis

The seconds after Myrtle opened the door seemed to go in slow-motion. Tom swore softly and looked down at the third-year girl. The first thing that came to mind was a chubby, freckle-faced, bespectacled Ophelia, lying flat on her back in the middle of the flagged stone floor. "Oh God," he murmured. "Oh God, oh God, oh God…"

"Wrong Potter, you moron," the first voice said irritably.

Meanwhile, his other voice was in a frenzy. "Never thought you'd actually end up killing one of them, did you?" it was scolding. "Guess it doesn't feel quite like you thought it would, does it, Tom? Exit number four--what's to stop you from killing a fifth person? And a sixth, and a seventh? You don't like the way this feels, do you?"

Tom had to admit he did not. Lord, he did not. Somehow it had escaped him just how it felt to look down at a body, to taste death upon the air, and to know that he had put an end to a person's existence. How had he been remembering it? Euphoria? Pathetic--his nastier half had probably conjured the illusion. Tom had completely forgotten the shock, the horror, the unbearable guilt. All he had recalled was a ruthless sort of exhilaration, but now he remembered it was nothing like that at all.

"This was an accident," Tom murmured to himself in a panic. "You didn't mean to kill her… No, you meant to kill someone else, and that's just as bad, you idiot! Oh God…"

And then it suddenly hit him. Nathan Potter was not dead. And when he was revived, he would find out his cousin had died.

"Can't be caught in the area," Tom thought vaguely, though his mind's voice was drowned out and abstracted by the shards of incoherent emotion jamming themselves into his brain like scalpels. Something in him was shouting that he deserved to rot in Azkaban, while the other, panicking, was prompting him to get out of the area, and fast. Shivering slightly, Tom hoisted Myrtle into a sitting position and sat her on the toilet lid like some ghastly doll on a shelf.

"May I make a lunch of her?" the basilisk asked tentatively.

"No," Tom whispered numbly, only half-aware of what he was saying. "Go down to the Chamber, we are done for today." With a hiss of disappointment, the basilisk vanished into the pipe, and the sink slid back into place the instant its tail flicked out of sight. Eyes still wide with horror, Tom backed away a few paces, spun on his heel, and broke into a run.

Tom collided head-on with Mandy Birch as he burst through the portrait hole into the common room--she had been running in the opposite direction. Tom was thankful Francis was nowhere about, for he and Mandy had landed in a heap, and the position they were in could have looked quite wrong in Francis's eyes. "Damn it… sorry, Mandy," Tom muttered, though he hardly had to bother--Mandy did not seem to mind at all, to put it mildly.

"It's okay, Tom," Mandy replied pleasantly, not doing a thing to help Tom extricate himself from the rather awkward position. She seemed to be rather liking it, herself, which made Tom feel slightly ill.

Tom gave a nervous laugh. "Right, okay… can you, er, get off me?"

"You're in a big hurry to leave," Mandy commented in her most coquettish voice, not budging an inch. "What's the rush?"

"I left my book in the dormitory," Tom lied through clenched teeth. "And I need to go get it now. So can you get off?"

Mandy did not move. She only grinned at him.

"Mandy," he announced slowly, still grimacing with pain, "if you don't get up now, or at least move your knee some, in a few seconds I'll be useless as an organism." Mandy pouted slightly and scrambled to her feet. Tom got up as well, wincing. "Thank you," he said sardonically. "If you'll excuse me." He strode off in the direction of the boys' staircase, but slowed when he saw she was following him.

"I'll come with you if that's all right with you," Mandy said sweetly. "I'll… help you find that book."

Tom's mind went blank for a few seconds, and then, two words drifted to his consciousness. "Oh, yuck."

"No thanks, Mandy, I can take care of it myself," Tom retorted promptly. He started up the stairs, but was exasperated to hear her footsteps following him again. Tom wondered briefly where everyone was, but he remembered that it was a Hogsmeade weekend. "What are you doing here in the first place?" he demanded, whirling around. "Oh God," he thought, "please don't say you were waiting for me…"

"Just… ahh… well, waiting for you, actually," Mandy smiled. "I thought you might be able to… you know… help me with my homework." ("YUCK, YUCK, YUCK!" Tom thought, gagging.) "You sure you don't need any help finding that book? I'm really good at finding things."

Tom was feeling something very near nausea by now. "I'm fine," he insisted, and he stormed up the staircase, slamming the door behind him before Mandy could follow. "Slut," he muttered, somewhat comforted to know that both of his voices seemed to be in agreement on this issue.

With that distraction out of the way, Tom was able to fully concentrate on what had happened. Myrtle Potter was dead--the very creature he had been told to protect. And he had, however unwillingly, been the one to kill her. Tom swallowed hard. "It was an accident," he told his conscience desperately, "Oh God, I didn't mean to kill her, it was an accident…"

"Wrong God-damned Potter," one of the voices kept muttering.

Tom spent four agonizing hours locked away in the dormitory, either pacing restlessly or sitting at the foot of his bed and flipping unseeingly through books. The image kept replaying in his mind, and every time it did, Tom felt a lurch of panic. He knew that none of the evidence pointed to him, but the possibility of Nathan finding out seemed far from remote to him. He worried over the Ministry, the teachers, but all those thoughts shot from his mind whenever it occurred to him that Nathan might find out.

After four hours, Tom was a veritable wreck. He had failed to convince himself it was an accident--failed to assure his own innocence. He could not sit still by now, and was pacing like an animal in a cage. Dully, he noticed noises down in the common room--the other children were returning from Hogsmeade. The axe would fall any moment now--some girl would find Myrtle soon, and it all would come out.

"Never again," Tom murmured to himself. "Leave the bloody basilisk in the Chamber and wait for the next Heir to deal with it…" One side of his mind howled in protest, but for once Tom did not listen. He knew, now, that he had been an idiot even start with this Chamber of Secrets nonsense. He realized that he did not care about punishing Muggles enough to resort to murdering innocent people--if he wanted to punish Muggles, he'd do it directly. Tom was not even sure he could stand any sort of murder. Based on the way his heart was going, the way his breath seemed to catch in his chest, he would do well to abandon the habit completely. Part of him did not seem to mind murder at all, but the other half went into shock.

Tom stopped pacing as he heard footfalls on the staircase. Zuhayr Sahabjira (who, Tom remembered vaguely, he had once considered to be his best friend) burst through the door, smiling cheerfully. "Hey, Tom," he said warmly, plunking into a chair. "You really should have come to Hogsmeade," he commented. Tom's face drained of color, and Zuhayr, remembering, suddenly flinched. Tom had avoided Hogsmeade ever since his first and only visit--going there reminded him, and horribly, of Lili's death.

"It doesn't interest me," Tom said softly.

"Yeh… er… sorry…" Zuhayr grimaced. "What have you been up to? Reading?"

"Rather," Tom said evasively. He was itching to start pacing again--sitting still was driving him mad. "I hope you enjoyed yourself."

Zuhayr flinched. "I suppose I did--Tom, are you feeling all right?"

"Why do you ask?" Tom demanded ferociously.

"Well, you just… you look a little pale, is all," Zuhayr confessed, looking at Tom warily.

"Don't I always," Tom said flatly--it was more of a statement than a question. "Do you know what time it is?"

Zuhayr checked his watch. "Supper's in fifteen minutes."

Tom nodded, emotion barely registering in his pallid face. "I suppose I ought to head down to the Great Hall. You can come along if you like."

Zuhayr cringed a little. "I think I'll stay here," he said, and he sat down at a desk, pretending to do his homework. Tom spun around and quit the chamber, feeling rather numb. His old best friend was blatantly terrified of him--when had that come about? Of course, he reminded himself bitterly, Zuhayr's fears actually might have a base to them. Maybe he, Tom, deserved to be feared.

Tom wearily tramped down to the Great Hall and sat down at the Slytherin table. Dumbledore shot him a half-smile, and Tom forced himself to smile in response, though he was suddenly gripped by a lurch of panic. Oh God. Dumbledore would know… Dumbledore always knew. Tom spun hurriedly to stare at his plate, but the damage had been done--Dumbledore would already know he was guilty when Myrtle's body was eventually found. Tom wondered briefly if he ought to have allowed the basilisk to eat her, but realized that would have made matters infinitely worse.

The Great Hall gradually filled up with students and teachers. Tom glanced around at everyone--some students praying silently, others digging in. It suddenly struck him how very many lives there were in the world--the census people said it was somewhere around four or five billion. And yet, of all of them, he was one of the select few murderers. It was an odd sensation--he abruptly felt very greatly outnumbered. One of his voices--God knows which one--started taunting him, snapping about how he might one day drastically lower the population if he kept it up. Tom wished, irritably, that just for a moment those two stupid voices would shut up.

Tom picked at his food, spinning the gilded fork and occasionally plunging it into the pile of rice. He watched the professors warily--Dumbledore was talking animatedly to Chapman, Xavier was laughing at a joke told by Flitwick, Twiddy was chatting warmly with Sevigny. Tom frowned. Where was Dippet? He glanced around the Great Hall again. Dippet was conversing rather urgently with a group of Hufflepuffs. Tom saw a couple Hufflepuffs shaking their heads, and another one of them clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes widening. A third-year pointed at the Slytherin table rather accusingly, and Dippet bustled over importantly.

He halted in front of Olive Hornby, who happened to be sitting a few seats away from Tom. "Miss Hornby," he croaked, in the most authoritative tone he could muster.

Olive shook her ginger-colored bangs out of her eyes and glared up at Dippet irritably. "What?" she asked.

"Miss Hornby, some of the Hufflepuffs tell me that you were teasing Myrtle Potter earlier. Is that true?"

Olive pouted. "And if I was?" she demanded. Tom cringed--he knew what was going to happen, it was inevitable.

"Do you know where she might have run off to?" Dippet asked frantically. "The Hufflepuffs say she hasn't been seen for over four hours."

"Whiny little tosspot," Olive muttered, the words hinted with a cockney accent. "I think I know. What do you want me to do about it, eh?"

"I want you to go get her for me," Dippet instructed. "Please, it's important."

Olive scoffed. "Whatever," she sneered. Tom watched as she stood up sharply and made her exit.

A sinking feeling tore through Tom's chest. He was not sure what he had hoped to happen--for Myrtle never to be found, perhaps, or for something else to happen to draw the attention away from her death. So far, nothing--no atomic bomb or Dark wizard attack provided salvation. Shivering, Tom resumed his mutilation of his dinner.

There was, of course, the scream--the Slytherin girl came running into the Great Hall, literally crying bloody murder. Tom did his best to look earnestly shocked and horrified, and he pulled it off quite nicely. The whole school was on its feet at once--Dumbledore and Madam Viola, presuming it to be another, regular attack, got up as usual and strode out of the Hall. Dippet ordered everyone to their seats, his eyes lingering on the Slytherin table. "Calm down, everyone," he insisted, "no one's been murdered--Miss Hornby, do calm yourself--"

"Her eyes were shut!" Olive wailed. "She wasn't breathing at all and her face was blue and her head was all bloody and she's dead, she's dead, she's dead!" A Muggle-born Ravenclaw suggested having Olive breathe into a paper bag, but Dippet did not listen. He forced Olive to sit down and had Chapman run down to the Potions classroom to get a Soothing Draught for her. Tom watched it all, grimacing, and paled when Dumbledore suddenly burst through the door.

"Go back to your common rooms," he commanded. Dumbledore's blue eyes were flaming with anger, and Tom felt himself choke as the older wizard gave him a long, penetrating stare. "There has been another attack. Your Head of House will be in later to explain the circumstances. You will finish dinner in your common rooms. You are dismissed."

Tom stood up, glancing over at the circle of teachers, wondering if he dared pose the question. Deciding it was worth the risk, he pushed through the crowd and made his way over to them.

"…school might have to be shut down," Professor Twiddy was saying frantically. "Albus, what are we--"

Tom took a deep breath and plucked Dumbledore's sleeve. When he turned around to face him, Tom immediately wished he had not--he had thought those eyes looked furious from a distance; it was amazing how much angrier he looked close-up. "Professor?" he asked timidly. "Do you know if the Headmaster ever received the letter I sent--" Tom broke off promptly, as Dumbledore's eyes flared.

"Don't you understand?" he snapped. "A student has died, Mr. Riddle! Hogwarts is facing complete shutdown! This is no time to worry about the post! Is that understood?"

Tom felt the little color in his face fade out. The way Dumbledore was looking at him made him want to run away and not stop until he reached Edinburgh. He heard one of the Professors chastise Dumbledore for losing his temper, claiming that Tom could not possibly have known, but Tom completely ignored it. Eyes wide and terrified, feeling extraordinarily foolish for bringing it up, Tom backed away into the crowd and broke into a run once Dumbledore could not see him.

********************

If there was a word for the combination of agony and ennui, Tom would have used it to describe the first part of next day.

After a sleepless night, Tom rose at four in the morning and spent the next three hours pacing the common room. When Professors Chapman and Xavier turned up with breakfast, Tom took merely a slice of toast and headed back up to the deserted dormitory. Too tired to resume pacing, Tom sat on his bed and whipped the drapes shut, conjuring an orb of fire to hover at the foot of the bed and light the place up. After a few hours of staring at the pattern on his quilt, Tom made a valiant attempt at reading but could find nothing that interested him. Nepenthe was off exploring, as usual--Tom swore that cobra knew the place inside and out. But Tom really would have preferred it if Nepenthe were there--he had turned into one of the few creatures Tom could actually talk to comfortably. So Tom remained entombed in the canopy, doing absolutely nothing except alternating between emotional strife and utter boredom. Eventually, he fell into an uneasy slumber.

He woke up some hours later to someone shaking his shoulder. Tom blinked blearily up at the intruder, cringing against the bright orange sunset streaming in from the gap in the curtains. After a few moments, Tom realized it was Professor Twiddy shaking his shoulder. "Tom?" she said patiently. "Tom, wake up, dear."

"It's not morning," Tom said dully.

"I know--Tom, Professor Dippet wants to speak with you."

Tom felt a sudden lurch of panic. "He what?!" he demanded, rather too sharply.

Twiddy put a finger to her lips to silence him. "I'd suggest you smarten yourself up a bit--put on any prefect badges you have, straighten up your robes."

"What does he want?" Tom asked, slightly suspiciously.

Twiddy shrugged. "I don't know, he didn't tell me. Anyway, he's in his office, waiting for you--I presume you know your way? The password to his office is 'March Hare'."

Tom nodded, running a hand through his hair. He did his best to remove any sign of nervousness in his voice. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he informed her. Professor Twiddy nodded and exited the dormitory.

So they'd found him out. Tom immediately thought of Dumbledore--he would have accused him straight away, he was sure of it. Tom miserably brushed the wrinkles out of his robes and pinned his prefect badge to his chest. He thought desperately of some kind of alibi, but because he was not sure exactly what they were accusing him of, he could not think of one. He promised himself that he would do a good job of making it up on the spot, though he abhorred doing that.

"Relax," something in him invoked, as Tom began panicking again. "Dippet might not even want to talk about Myrtle--it could be something to do with your marks or something." However, Tom seriously doubted it--what else would the Headmaster want to talk to him for?

Tugging a pointed hat onto his head for good measure, Tom made his way down the staircase. The two seventh-year prefects at the portrait hole did not flinch as Tom passed them--apparently they had been instructed to let him by. Tom meandered toward Dippet's office, going over excuses in his head. "I was in the library!"…"Myrtle who?"…"Why would I be in a girls' lavatory?" All of them sounded horrible and unconvincing in his head.

Feeling distinctly worried by the time he reached the top of the spiral staircase, Tom hesitated before knocking on the door. He straightened his robes again, adjusted his badge, and rapped his knuckles on the maple.

"Enter," came Dippet's wispy voice.

Tom twisted the doorknob and stepped inside, taking off his hat nervously. Dippet looked up at him, setting down a vaguely familiar-looking sheet of parchment. He smiled congenially, which did nothing to ease Tom's nerves. "Ah, Riddle," Dippet sighed heavily.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?" Tom asked shakily, picking at a loose thread on the rim of his hat. He glanced all around the room, chewing heavily on his lower lip.

"Sit down," Dippet prompted, indicating a chair in front of his desk. "I've just been reading the letter you sent me."

Tom's first inclination was to say, "What letter?" But then he remembered--in the early morning yesterday he had sent a letter to Professor Dippet, asking to stay the summer. It seemed so far in the past. Reassurance hit him hard in the back of the head like a two-by-four. Numbed with relief, Tom only managed to squeak out the syllable, "Oh." He sat down in the chair, interlacing his tapered fingers very tightly. He looked up at Dippet, who glanced at the letter again.

"My dear boy," Dippet said slowly, "I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer." Tom's briefly elated heart plummeted like a stone. "Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"

Tom felt a wave of revulsion at the idea. "No," he said, promptly and firmly. "I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that--to that--" Tom choked on his words, unable even to say it.

Dippet frowned curiously. "You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?" he asked Tom, giving him a pensive look.

Tom reddened, half in embarrassment and half in anger at the memory. "Yes, sir," he said through gritted teeth.

Dippet took off his glasses and chewed on the right earpiece thoughtfully. "You are Muggle-born?"

Tom flinched almost undetectably. "Half-blood, sir," he corrected. "Muggle father,--" (here Tom shuddered slightly) "--witch mother."

Dippet cocked his head. "And are both your parents--?"

Tom was about to say yes, but he checked himself. "My mother died just after I was born, sir," he recited, in the voice of a tale oft-told. "They told me at the--at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me--Tom after my father,--" (another shudder) "--Marvolo after my grandfather." Tom strategically left his father out of it completely, hoping Dippet would not ask. He did not; he merely clicked his tongue in that annoyingly sympathetic way he was prone to doing.

"The thing is, Tom," he sighed wearily, "special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances…" Dippet trailed off and started shining his specs on his handkerchief.

"You mean all these attacks, sir?" Tom asked hopelessly. It looked like he had no hope of staying at Hogwarts now.

"Precisely," Dippet responded heavily. "My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy… the death of that poor little girl… You will be safer by far at your orphanage." ("I wouldn't bet on it," Tom thought darkly.) "As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school." Tom felt his stomach plunge. The feeling of hopelessness grew even more profound. If they closed the school--that meant he'd be stuck at the orphanage, surrounded by whiny younger children and brutal caretakers. He'd finish school in Muggle high school, of all places, and end up a complete social outcast, a nobody. His eyes widened, and he looked up at Dippet. Dippet went on. "We are no nearer locating the--er--source of all this unpleasantness…"

Tom was thinking fast. He had already resolved never to open the Chamber again, but they had no way of knowing this… but if he framed someone--if he placed the blame on another's shoulders--he would save Hogwarts. It was horrible, he knew, but how was he going to get out of the situation any other way? "Sir--" he said slowly, not sure whether to allow himself to say it. "If the person was caught--if it all stopped--"

Dippet sat up as though he had been electrocuted. "What do you mean?" he demanded, his voice cracking. "Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?"

"No, sir," Tom said hurriedly. Dippet fell back in his chair limply, looking even more like a rag doll than ever.

"You may go, Tom," he said vaguely. Tom stood up slowly and strode out of the room, ruining the exit by tripping on his shoelaces as he reached the door.

Tom rushed down the spiral staircase, not slowing up until he stepped out into the hallway. Staring avidly at the gargoyle, Tom bit his lip. How could he possibly frame someone? No one else was a Parselmouth--and how likely was it that there was some other kind of monster roaming the school? Some other disproportionately sized creature of the night?…

Eureka.

Rubeus--Rubeus had Aragog. Tom's conscience screamed in anger, but what other choice did he have? Tom weighed his options. He was fond of Rubeus--indeed, he was one of the only real friends he had. Rubeus was the only one in the whole school who knew about Tom's pseudonym--something only Lili Po had known about before. How could he just shunt the blame on his friend?

But then again, if Tom had learned anything from that orphanage it was that one always had to think of his own needs before those of other people. It was the only way to survive--and what was more important in the long run, Rubeus or Hogwarts? Tom sighed. Thinking hard, he remembered that Rubeus always checked on Aragog at about seven--that was in thirty minutes. He was not supposed to leave his common room, but Rubeus always managed to find a way out. Finally making a decision and ignoring the bickering voices in his brain, Tom set off down the corridors. The entrance to the dungeons was in the entrance hall, he remembered. Tom hied in that direction, dashing down the stone steps. He was just crossing over to the dungeon entrance when a voice rang out.

"What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?" Dumbledore demanded sternly. Tom halted abruptly and spun around, the usual fight-or-flight instinct tugging at him. Dumbledore looked much more subdued than he had the previous night--certainly not about to lose his temper.

"I had to see the Headmaster, sir," Tom said quietly, doing his best to sound passive.

Dumbledore nodded, fixing Tom in one of those slow, calculating stares. "Well, hurry off to bed," he said. "Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since…" He trailed off, and Tom shifted uncomfortably. Dumbledore recovered himself after a moment, sighing. "Good night, Mr. Riddle," he said.

"Good evening, Professor," Tom replied, and he released a breath with relief as Dumbledore disappeared up the stairs. Once Dumbledore's dark violet cloak whipped around the corner, Tom looked around to make sure no one was looking and dashed off toward the dungeons. He took the stairs three at a time, and once he had reached level flooring he ran nimbly down the dank corridor to the deserted Potions room. He left the door ever-so-slightly ajar, his eyes riveted to the passage outside, darkness sweeping around him like a vampire's cloak.

It must have been a good twenty minutes that he stood there, turquoise eyes widened and ears perked. Somehow, he got the distinct impression he was not alone in the dungeon, even though he knew for a fact that it was empty. He found himself constantly attempting not to shudder at the odd feeling that he was being watched.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he heard hurried, heavy footfalls. Someone in a dark brown cloak swept past the Potions dungeon. Tom waited ten seconds before following, noiselessly as a cat. For several minutes, he sneaked after Rubeus, meandering through the maze of dungeon passages. Tom noticed the floor was starting to slope downward--at some point or other, Rubeus must have moved Aragog to one of the deeper, more secluded cupboards.

Tom heard Rubeus halt and push a door open, cursing hoarsely as it squeaked on its hinges. Rubeus set something down heavily and started whispering to his pet. Tom edged forward until he was right at the corner, his head inclined so that he could hear better.

"What do you mean?" a click-laden voice demanded angrily. "I cannot leave this place--it is all I have!"

"I know, I know," Rubeus said soothingly. "But they might find yeh--'s not smart to jes' keep yeh here anymore. They might even think yeh're the monster what's been attackin' everyone…"

"I most certainly am not!" Aragog rustled, clucking his pincers.

Rubeus made a sound of exasperation. "C'mon," he rumbled. "Gotta get yeh outta here… come on now… in the box…"

Tom leapt lightly and soundlessly around the corner. It appeared that Rubeus had been carrying a gigantic box--probably not quite large enough for Aragog, but sufficient. Rubeus was sitting on his knees in front of the open cupboard, trying to coax Aragog to get into the crate. Aragog was being uncooperative, clinging to the sides of the cupboard obstinately. When Tom entered the corridor, he suddenly started clicking and squawking incoherently.

"Aragog? 'Smatter with yeh--?"

"Evening, Rubeus," Tom said loudly.

Rubeus, panicking, stuffed Aragog back into his cupboard and slammed the door, hard. He spun around, eyes wide, but a look of relief washed over his face when he saw it was his friend. "What yer doin' down here, Tom?" he asked quizzically, laying a hand on the cupboard door to keep Aragog from throwing it open.

Tom took a step forward, his left hand on his wand under his cloak. "It's all over," he said in his most earnest voice. Rubeus looked perplexed. "I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

"What d'yeh--" Rubeus started, but his eyes flitted over to the cupboard and the color drained from his usually ruddy face. "Oh no. Tom--"

"I don't think you meant to kill anyone," Tom continued. His voice was kindly and patient, though inside his conscience was screaming at him to stop. "But monsters don't make very good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and--"

"It never killed no one!" Rubeus insisted desperately. The look of betrayal on his face made Tom shudder.

Tom stood his ground--he had come this far, he could not back out now. "Come on, Rubeus," he said quietly, stepping forward. "The dead girl's parents will be here by tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered…" Tom winced vaguely as Rubeus's eyes widened.

"It wasn't him!" he gasped, straight-backing himself against the cupboard door defensively. "He wouldn'! He never!"

Tom felt an unfamiliar sensation behind his eyes--was he crying? "Stand aside," he said fiercely, injecting venom into his voice to mask the pain. Rubeus did not budge, even as Tom drew out his wand. "Portus Apertus," he whispered.

Tom's regret was instantaneous. He had not realized that his spell, in conjunction with Aragog's insistence on being released, would have such a drastic effect. Aragog burst forth from the cupboard, clicking angrily and barreling right in Tom's direction. Tom was aware of a massive arm hitting him hard in the chest. Winded, he stumbled backward and landed on the floor, clutching his chest and gasping. The world was black for a few terrifying moments, and when Tom finally managed to get to his feet, the spider was almost around the corner. Tom raised his wand again angrily, Unforgivable Curses itching to tumble from his mouth, but within a split second he was on the floor once more. Rubeus had pounced on him from behind, thrown his wand aside, and knocked him into the floor again. Tom's vision failed him again for a few moments, and he felt a sudden, searing pain across his forehead.

"Run, Aragog!" he called after the giant spider. Tom, his head spinning, tried vainly to sit up. Rubeus, in a fury, seized Tom roughly by the shoulder and slammed him against the wall. Once again, Tom's vision blacked--though, to his terror, it was not so quick to return. "What the hell were yeh doin'?!" Rubeus demanded, his palm grinding Tom's shoulder into the stone of the wall. "Tom, what the bloody hell's the matter with yeh?"

"Rubeus, I'm sorry!" Tom shouted. Blearily remembering his alias, he continued. "Rubeus, I know you didn't mean to hurt anyone, but--"

"It wasn' him!" Rubeus insisted. Tom still could not see what was going on, but he thought he felt something warm and sticky rolling down the back of his neck. "Yeh know it jes' as well as I do, Tom, Aragog wouldn' hurt no one! Yeh're jes' jumpin' ter conclusions 'cause Aragog never liked yeh!"

Tom was--infuriatingly--in tears by now, and only half because of the pain. "Rubeus, I had to do it! I don't want anyone to die! It's not my fault, please--"

Rubeus finally let go of him, and Tom, too weak to hold himself up, slumped against the wall. "Yeh can' turn me in!" he snapped. "Tom, yeh know I'd never--"

"I know," Tom sighed absently, alibi nearly forgotten in the throes of semi-delirium. "It was all an accident… didn't kill anyone on purpose… no one's fault but the monster's…" Even through the fog in his mind, Tom felt beastly. He heard Rubeus "tuh" loudly, and just as he was saying something about Aragog not being a monster, someone stepped around the corner.

"What's going on here?" the Professor asked. It was the very last voice Tom wanted to hear right then--kind of the gods to send him the one teacher he actually feared. "Mr. Riddle, are you all right?"

Tom blinked unseeingly a few times and slipped out of consciousness.

Chapter 24...

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