Chapter 6 - Triumph and Tragedy

Written by Nemesis

On Thursday morning, the Slytherins trudged across the dewy grass, treading on the occasional slug and feeling thoroughly depressed. Tom kept glancing at the sky. It was clear, but cold as ice. It barely seemed like the twentieth of October, for the temperature indicated midwinter. Adrian offered a race, but Tom turned it down, feeling too stiff to do much of anything, let alone force his legs to move too quickly.

Tom was feeling particularly distracted this morning. He had had an owl from Hannah, telling him that his father had contacted her at the orphanage. He had left only one message, and that was that he was warning Tom never to come near him. Inwardly, Tom thanked his father for the idea. Somehow, he would find his father and… Tom's thoughts ended here, for he had no idea what he would do when he did find his father. Tom felt no affection toward the Muggle. He knew that his mother had become severely depressed when his father abandoned her, severely enough to affect her health. Ultimately, Tom held his father entirely responsible for his mother's death.

He would have to punish him, somehow, for hurting his mother so horribly, for ruining Tom's life. "A few good shots of the Cruciatus Curse would do it," Tom thought bitterly, kicking a rock out of his path. The Cruciatus Curse was extremely advanced, and it gave the performer the power to put the victim in excruciating pain for as long as was necessary. Tom knew it was dreadful, but he somehow did not think that his father would learn his lesson through a few carrots sprouting on his face.

The Quidditch teacher, Madam Milviron, appeared on the horizon, with twenty broomsticks lying in rows on the ground before her. Tom listened to Francis idly. Francis was boasting that he had flown trillions of times and that he did not need lessons. Tom sneered. He was sure that Francis was not half the flier he made himself out to be; his stories always seemed to have loopholes.

"Where are the Gryffindors?" Annie Lewis asked as they reached Madam Milviron. Annie had horn-rimmed glasses over blue eyes and multitudes of freckles, and her bushy blood-red hair was hacked off sharply at the nape of her neck. Tom liked her, probably because she also had a dissatisfactory Muggle parent, in this case her mother.

"They'll be here in a jiff," Madam Milviron responded. "All of you stand by your brooms."

Tom, thinking about completely different things, stood beside an old Comet Sixteen. Francis was looking at the brooms, a look of disdain on his face--disdain mixed with distinct anxiety. "I--erm, can't fly on these," he said haughtily. "I have a higher standard of broomstick quality than this."

Serena Birch tried to stifle a snort of laughter, but failed.

"Think it's funny, do you?" Francis snarled. "I happen to have a brand-new Shooting Star at home, and it's far easier to fly than one of these old wrecks." Madam Milviron looked as though Francis had just insulted one of her children. Rather curtly, she assigned Francis to a broomstick, ignoring his grumbling.

An instant later, the Gryffindors arrived, cocky smirks spread across their faces. Tom wished they could see themselves; he was sure they would laugh. Only Ambika Dawes and Lucy Chubb looked serious. Lucy was fussing over her patent-leather shoes, which were covered with slug entrails, and Ambika was shivering against the cold. She had not brought her cloak, though. Tom had a sneaking suspicion that she had left her cloak off so that her curvy figure would show through better. Tom and Adrian paid her no heed, but all the other boys riveted their attention on her, drooling like Saint Bernards. To Tom's fury, even Zuhayr was gawking like an idiot. Adrian shook his head, muttering, "Silly gits."

Philip Cedric (who had assumed the position of leader for the Gryffindors) stepped forward, throwing out his chest. He was busy instructing his fellow Gryffindors on flying. "It's all really simple. I've been doing it since I was two years old," he grinned pompously. Tom glared at him, already hating Philip with a passion. Philip caught Tom's eye and grinned still wider. "Of course, that one's going to need lessons," he informed his friends. "He's a Slytherin and a Mudblood. That means, respectively, zero talent and zero experience. Bad combo, my friends."

"I am a half-blood, for your information," Tom retorted coldly. "In addition, I would keep any insults to myself if I were in your position. If you are going to insult my house, you would do well to do it outside of my hearing." His face looked strangely shadowed, and his eyes shone brilliantly. Philip and the Gryffindors had a good laugh over this, but Madam Milviron shushed them, seeing that Tom had his hand on his wand.

"Knock it off, Mr. Cedric. Don't lose your temper now, Mr. Riddle." Tom reluctantly removed his hand from his wand, still seething at Philip. Madam Milviron headed to the front of the lawn. "Hold your wand hand over your broom," she instructed, "and say 'up.'"

Tom got to the side so that his left hand could go over the broom, and in the process, collided with Philip, who had taken the broom beside his. Philip sniggered. "Stupid oaf," he whispered, so that Madam Milviron would not hear. Tom had to try very hard not to blast Philip to bits, instead concentrating on his broom.

"Up," he muttered. The broom sprang up to his hand instantly. Madam Milviron instructed them on their grips, but she had nothing to complain about with Tom. Tom removed his cloak, thinking it might cause too much drag.

"On my whistle, fly up ten feet. Three--two--one--" The whistle chirped, and Tom kicked off the ground. Instantly, Tom decided he loved flying. It was easy, Tom knew exactly what to do. He zoomed around the field, watching his classmates. Lucy Chubb was looking miserable and holding on for dear life, and Francis had actually fallen off his broom. Tom spotted Philip, who was smugly flying around all the others, showing off.

"Have fun now," Madam Milviron cried. "Come down when you want, just get used to flying."

This was easier said than done, Tom thought. He was not sure he could ever get used to this sense of euphoria. Feeling a little daring, he pulled back and shot up until he was a good seventy feet up in the air. A few students gasped, and Lucy almost fell off her broom. Philip, however, was not about to be shown up. He landed briefly, then flew up to meet Tom.

"Not bad, Pun," he growled.

"Pun?"

"Well, a pun's a riddle, isn't it?" Philip chortled. "Anyway, Pun, you fly pretty good."

"Pretty well," Tom corrected automatically.

Philip looked both mutinous and amused, an interesting combination. "Let's see just how well you do fly, then, Pun." With that, he pulled his wand out of his belt and sent a curse at Tom. Tom dodged immediately, but Philip was sending curses at him faster than lightning. Tom jetted out of the way. Philip just laughed.

"Missing something, Pun?" he cackled. Tom looked down at Philip, circling five feet below. Philip had a bundle of papers in his hand, a bundle that looked horribly familiar.

"Give that back," Tom said softly, panic rising in his throat.

Philip snickered and zoomed off toward the lake. Tom was in hot pursuit, his heart pounding. He heard Madam Milviron shrieking up at them to come down, but Tom did not listen. All that mattered was that he got his mother's letter and photograph back. Philip stopped, hovering a hundred feet above the lake, waving the bundle tauntingly in his fist. Tom halted inches away from him. He could use a Summoning Charm--but his wand was on the ground with his cloak.

"Give it back," Tom croaked. "Please, Philip."

"Okay. You want it, get it!" Philip called, tossing the bundle up in the air. It was tumbling toward the lake at an alarming speed. Tom did not stop to think, he only acted. He took a dive, rocketing downward, his left hand on the broom handle and his right hand outstretched. A few feet above the water, Tom outraced the bundle, caught it, and pulled out of the dive, flying straight ahead, the toes of his boots skimming the water. When he got to the edge of the lake, Tom landed, threw the broom aside, and slumped against a bush. He hurriedly unwrapped the bundle, checked that everything was intact, and finally allowed himself to breathe.

Madam Milviron dashed over as Philip landed. "That was a horrible trick to play!" she scolded Philip. "And Riddle, honestly, what were you thinking, risking your neck for a packet of papers?" Tom held out his mother's photograph, and realization came over her face. She spun on Philip, who was trying to sneak off. She was so furious only a few words came out. "No idea--cruel--heartless--why you'd--Professor Dumbledore--DETENTION!" Philip looked abashed. He had clearly been expecting praise.

"Riddle…" Madam Milviron turned back to him, looking amazed. "Where in the name of God did you learn how to fly like that?" Tom shrugged, feeling bewildered. The instructor was looking him up and down, as though sizing him up. "About the build. You're thin and lightweight, faster than most, sharp eyes. Too bad you're so tall, but we could work around that. I'll be sure to tell the Slytherin Quidditch captain about you, Tom. He might want to recruit you as a Seeker or Chaser next year."

The bell rang, and the Slytherins gathered up their things for their next class. Tom felt rather odd. He had never been athletic, and had not expected things to go well in Flying. He was always an excellent runner, but never anything more. "Life's full of surprises," Larkin told him when he expressed concern. "Just go with it, and don't kvetch."

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On the morning of Halloween, Tom overslept. This was not surprising, considering that he had been up all night studying. Tom woke up with a start, saw that it was already eight-thirty, and panicked. He took twenty minutes getting ready before he hastened down the stairs, bookbag in hand, praying that he was not already late.

When Tom got to the Great Hall, he saw that it was decorated with giant jack-o'-lanterns, and that several hundred live bats were fluttering around the ceiling. He grabbed a seat at the Slytherin table across from Annie, Larkin, and Serena, all of whom were reading a letter from Larkin's mother and laughing hysterically. "Oh, hi, Tom," Serena chuckled.

"My little brother got in trouble at magical pre-school," Larkin giggled. "He swiped the teacher's wand and enchanted a couple of erasers so that they would zoom around the room and attack people. God, this is priceless…"

Tom was not really listening. He ate a piece of toast distractedly, rummaging through his bookbag for his Herbology notes. "Doing some last-minute cramming, Riddle?" Francis sneered. "I thought nerds didn't need to study like the common folk."

"Go to Hell," Tom snapped, skimming the parchment and trying to remember the four uses of Snickleberry roots. "I don't have time to deal with you, Francis. Keep your pointy little nose out of my business, unless you want a good kick in the--"

"Mr. Riddle?" Tom tensed and turned around to see that Professor Dumbledore was standing behind him. He looked deadly serious. Tom gulped and wondered how much of the argument the teacher had heard.

"Yes, sir?" Tom responded, his voice rather higher than usual.

"Professor Dippet wants to talk to you. He was sent an owl this morning, and it concerns you."

"I--"

"Follow me, Tom." The merry twinkle was gone from his eyes. "The Headmaster is in his office. You will most likely miss your first class."

Tom was hit by a dreadful feeling. Something was wrong, he could tell. Professor Dumbledore waited for him to rise, then led him from the Great Hall. "Professor, what is it?" Tom demanded. "I have to know. Please, tell me." Professor Dumbledore sighed and kept staring straight ahead. Tom was no mindreader, but he could tell that Dumbledore was sad, perhaps a little angry.

They reached a stone gargoyle at the end of a hallway. "Tweedle-dee," Dumbledore said. This was apparently a password, for the gargoyle moved aside, revealing a spiral staircase. Tom followed Professor Dumbledore up the steps, feeling increasingly uneasy. As they came to the double doors of Professor Dippet's office, Professor Dumbledore paused. "Tom, perhaps you should take the day off."

"Is the news that bad?" Tom asked, trying to laugh but feeling the toast churning in his stomach. Dumbledore did not answer, instead throwing the doors open.

Headmaster Dippet was seated behind his desk, reading a letter. He was ancient, with lines all over his face and only a tuft of white hair on his head. Dippet looked up when they walked in. "Is this Mr. Riddle?" he asked, his voice rickety with age. Dumbledore nodded, and Dippet beckoned Tom to sit down in the chair in front of him. He then uttered three words that changed Tom's life. "It's about Hannah," the Headmaster said softly. "I received a letter this morning. Miss Hiddy--"

"Her name is Hannah!" Tom cried, without really knowing why. Perhaps it was only to stall what he knew was coming.

"Hannah developed a Muggle ailment called--cancer, is it? Anyway, by the time she went to St. Mungo's to ask a mediwizard about it, it had spread too far to heal. She--"

"I knew it," Tom murmured, pressing his fingers to his temples. "I knew she was ill, and I told her to see a doctor, but…" His jaw was set, his face deadpan, though he looked extremely tense.

Headmaster Dippet let the letter fall from his hands. "I'm sorry," he finished. "I wish there were something I could do to make you feel better."

Tom's mind was a gallimaufry of half-shaped thoughts, and he could barely think straight. He wondered why the universe had not collapsed around him with Hannah gone. Or perhaps it had collapsed, and that was why he felt like screaming. "You don't have to go to any classes," Professor Dumbledore informed him. "Take the week off, I'll have the other teachers send you your homework with your friends."

"I have friends?" Tom thought dully. Everything seemed upside-down.

"Get on back to your common room, now, Tom. I need to talk to Professor Dippet." Dumbledore bade Tom goodbye, and Tom left the room. He hardly noticed where his feet were carrying him; his mind felt like a chalkboard after erasure. Tom climbed four flights of stairs until he reached the secret entrance to the Slytherin common room.

The guardian of the entrance was a painting of a wood nymph. "Password?" she chirruped.

"Quincunx," Tom replied, his voice hollow. The wood nymph giggled and her painting swung to the side. Tom entered the deserted common room, his footsteps reverberating strangely. Barely noticing what he was doing, Tom removed his Herbology book from his bookbag, collapsed into a winged armchair, and started reading. He saw the words, but they made no sense. Nothing made sense.

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At about dinnertime, Tom woke up in the armchair, the Herbology book still open in his lap. He stared around the common room, wondering where he was, why he was there. Then he remembered. The dazed feeling was replaced by an awful, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, which Tom found to be just as bad. Worse, though, was the thought that Hannah was gone forever, that he would never see her again. Shuddering, he told himself that this was a lie, that he would really wake up any instant.

There was a sudden burst of noise, and three people clambered through the doorway. Tom did not turn to look at them, staring into the fire avidly, as though looking for Hannah in there. The newcomers noticed him, and they hurried over, revealing themselves to be Adrian, Zuhayr, and Larkin. "Where've you been?" Larkin demanded. "You missed every lesson!"

"I'm getting the week off," Tom said vaguely, closing the book and setting it on a table. He explained what had happened, not really believing what he was saying, and his friends fell silent.

"I'm really sorry…" Zuhayr said slowly.

Tom did not answer. He got up and stormed out of the common room and up to the dormitory. He felt miserable beyond belief. Hannah had always been something of a mother to him, he realized. It was like losing his mother twice, except the first time it had not been bad because he was only a baby.

Tom stood before the mirror, his hands in his robe pockets. It was a lie, he thought, it had to be a lie. The Headmaster was mistaken, he had told Tom about some other death. Someone named Anna Hibby, probably, or something equally ludicrous. No, Hannah was not dead. People like Hannah did not suddenly die like that, the world did not work that way.

The mirror suddenly spoke to him, and for a moment, Tom was terrified to see the red-eyed face again. However, it turned out just to be the spirit of the mirror. "Why the long face, dear?" the mirror wheezed.

"I don't want to talk about it," Tom said shortly. With that, he whipped open the drapes of his bed and fell onto it, not bothering to change into his pajamas. A few seconds later, however, he heard something tapping on the lattice windows. Tom hurried over and opened them, and a small owl fluttered into the room.

Tom untied the note from its leg, fed it a bit of cracker, and sent it off. The note was in handwriting Tom had never seen before, tight and loopy. Reading it made a lump rise in his throat.

Tom-
I heard what happened. Annie Lewis just told me. I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry for everything my House has done to you, and I assure you I did not participate. I can sympathize, Tom, I really can. I lost my mum last year, and it was awful. You'll get through it. Don't worry.
PS: For what it's worth, I think you're a killer flier.

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