Chapter 4.
Theft of Loneliness

"It's just morbid." Tom's introduction to the children he's supposed to befriend is a grumble on the other side of the door, presumably referring to him — or, at the very least, the godson he apparently murdered.

"Stop it, Ron. Dumbledore wouldn't ask us to do it if it wasn't important." A second voice — a female, firm, commanding — confirms what Tom was all but certain on: this attempt at a daycare is just another ploy by Dumbledore to get information out of him. The old man really has no shame. Using the children of his allies as pawns in a game of his own making. Tom wonders what Dumbledore told their parents.

"I'll go let them in." Remus says as he rises to his feet, likely wanting to ensure the others don't reveal too much more while unaware they're being listened in on. While Tom would trust Remus the most over his other four guards, that doesn't mean he trusts him completely. The fact he's sitting here means the man is still in Dumbledore's pocket. In fact, this could all just be another tactic. Lure him in with the false ally, lap up all the information he betrays.

"Master Black, Kreacher is glad to see you are well. Mistress will be pleased as well — oh yes she will." The small house elf proclaims as Remus opens the door to reveal a small group of teenagers around Tom's age.

"It's Lestrange, Kreacher." One boy to the side corrects, though it's easy to see why the house elf might be mistaken. The boy has all the features of a Black, from the mess of dark hair to the way he holds himself — as if he's better than everyone else. In fact, if Tom hadn't just heard him identify his name, he might have mistaken him for a relative of Sirius's. The only thing that betrays him is his clothes. Where every Black Tom has ever met has been well put together in fitted suits and dresses, this boy's t-shirt, flannel shirt and jeans all hang loosely from his body as if they're a size too big. There isn't enough severity in his eye, too kind as he looks upon the elf.

"Poor thing's confused." The girl, of whom Tom recognises the voice, says sympathetically.

"The mudblood dares to take pity on Kreacher–"

"Do not call her that." Lestrange snaps and the softness disappears from him in an instant. The elf bows his head in reverence, obeying with both reluctance and an overbearing desire to please the boy.

"Of course, whatever Master Black says, Kreacher will obey." The surname is clearly a losing battle, one Lestrange surrenders to with a roll of the eye and a huff. He's the first to make a move into the library, crossing the threshold with his hands shoved into his pockets. The others follow, greeted by Remus.

Alongside Lestrange and the muggleborn is a redhead Tom knows must be Ron because he's heard Mrs Weasley mention a son around his age in one of their many efforts to get him to warm up to them, a brunet who can't decide whether he wants to stare at Tom in near horror or look anywhere Tom isn't, and a girl with a shock of white hair and dazed look on her face. Aside from the two already identified, none of their heritage is easily identifiable, though Tom doubts Dumbledore would have left him in a room with anyone who had any chance of being his ally.

He wonders briefly, then, what has happened to the Lestranges in the last sixty years for them to stray so far from their past alliances. The Lestranges he knew wouldn't have been amongst Dumbledore's trusted.

"I'll be just outside if you need anything." Remus informs the group and Tom knows he'll be standing there with one ear glued to the door. Despite this, the unknown brunet looks as though he's going to be sick, trying to silently beg Remus to stay. As the older man leaves, a heavy silence falls over the room.

Tom rises slowly from his seat and moves around the back so he can face them all properly. As he moves closer, the brunet and Ron take slight steps backwards; the muggleborn almost does, but stops herself. Lestrange holds his ground and Tom isn't quite sure what the other girl is doing. It looks like she's staring at something above his head.

"I'm Hermione Granger." The first girl introduces herself, quivering lips pulling up into what may have been meant as a polite smile. Her position as the assertive one — perhaps even the leader — is solidified as she continues to introduces the others when no one else makes a move to speak.

"This is Ron Weasley," She gestures at the redhead, confirming Tom's suspicions. Ron mutters a greeting and barely even looks Tom in the eye. It's not out of fear, though some clearly rests within it, but disrespect. He doesn't even attempt to hide his hatred for the boy, or his reluctance to be here. He must have been Harry's friend, then. A lost cause to Tom.

"Neville Longbottom," Hermione continues, pointing toward the brunet. Neville doesn't know what to do with his hands. For a brief second, it seems as if he's going to shake Tom's hand, before he changes his mind. These are nerves. The boy fears him, so much so that it overpowers all other emotions. Tom can't tell what he thinks of him, but he must be another who thinks he's a murderer. Or, he knows whatever it is the adults are keeping from Tom. They likely all do.

"Luna Lovegood," If Luna dislikes Tom, she doesn't show it. In fact, it's rather hard to read her expression.

"You look sick." It's the first full sentence Tom has received from one of them and it isn't what he expected at all. Luna says it in such a way that it doesn't feel as though it was meant to be an insult, but it doesn't sound particularly concerned, either. A statement of fact, perhaps, said in such an airy voice it makes it sounds as though she's just claimed her garden is full of fairies. It isn't the worst thing someone could have said to him, so Tom decides she must not be a lost cause. A strange cause, but not a lost one.

"Uh, yes... And this is Amadeus Lestrange." Hermione gestures toward the final boy, frowning slightly at Luna. Amadeus dips his head in a polite bow, the tips of his fingers reaching for an invisible hat. Pureblood. Tom returns the gesture, with only a little more deference. Of the group, he seems like he might be the easiest to win over, or the most useful. Tom wouldn't want to lose him because he failed to follow some etiquette when all the Purebloods he's known have followed that like gospel.

"Pleasure. I assume you know who I am." The bushy-haired girl nods, forcing a smile onto her lips. With the introductions over, Tom returns to his seat on the couch. The rest follow, filling in the empty seats around him. Hermione and Ron sit on the other couch, Neville takes the chair Remus had previously occupied, and Luna takes one of the chairs by the shelves. Only Amadeus risks sitting beside Tom, and not before he's scanned one of the nearby shelves. The boy doesn't sit like a Pureblood, either; his arms dangle across the back of the seat, one ankle crossed over his knee, looking like the world rests in the palm of his hand and he couldn't care less. There are two rings on his hands, both emblazoned with family crests. From where he's sitting, Tom can't make them out, but he assumes one is the Lestrange ring and the other is whatever family his mother came from.

"Dumbledore told us you might be starting Hogwarts this year." Hermione says, filling in the silence. While her nerves might be obvious, she's making more of an effort than anyone else. It's hard to fully judge her when that alone deserves just a little respect.

"Returning would be more accurate. For me, it's only been a few months since I was there."

"Oh. Right. Well, I imagine quite a bit has changed since you were last there, so I brought you my copy of Hogwarts: A History. It's the most recent edition, so it should have all the things you missed." The girl retrieves a bag from the satchel hanging at her side and rises to her feet. The large book is placed in Tom's hands. Without bothering to answer, the boy flicks through the pages, finding the years immediately following his departure. Within a year of his time jump, there's an entry.

"The Chamber of Secrets was opened?" Tom reads aloud, unable to keep the incredulous tone from his voice. The only thing that might have kept him in his own time period was the Chamber. Once he'd discovered it existed, it had taunted him, calling to him and yet remaining ever elusive. It was something only his family had access to, so his information was limited. His discovery of it was limited entirely to his own exploration of the grounds, a game of trial and error. So far, it had only been error, which makes the opening all the more confusing. There was only one person — his uncle — who might have been able to gain access and he was a blithering idiot.

"Twice." Amadeus raises two lazy fingers, with a nonchalant air that such information doesn't deserve. The two fingers turn into one, pointed at Tom. "You opened it. Both times, technically."

"Lestrange." Ron utters a clear warning in a few short syllables, frowning at the other boy. The fact Ron doesn't want Amadeus talking about the Chamber makes it even more intriguing than it had been to begin with — which is impressive. There's something Tom isn't supposed to know hidden away in that information. As he looks back at the entry on the first opening, nothing in particular stands out as important. Rubeus Hagrid took the fall, Myrtle was killed. All interesting, but nothing important.

"I can't have opened it in 1946 if I'm here now." Tom points out as he gestures at the book.

"Maybe you go back. Or maybe you just possess someone again — it's what you did last time." The information is delivered so casually, it almost seems unimportant to Amadeus. But far too many questions he knows won't get answered flare up inside Tom, burning. He can only assume his lost diary plays a part, as he'd used that to keep all his notes on his research and assumptions. It would only take that falling into the right — or wrong — hands for someone to finish his work and find, then get the chamber open. They likely wouldn't even need to be blood.

"Lestrange!" Ron repeats, this time with more aggression. Everyone else is watching Amadeus with wide, nervous eyes. Except Luna. Luna is looking at Tom.

"Weasley!" Amadeus mimics the boy, before he sighs. "Fine, I'll stop talking."

"So, do you know what subjects you'll be taking?" Hermione asks in an effort to change the subject.

"I imagine it will be whatever Dumbledore enrols me in. It's not as though he's given me much freedom anywhere else — why would my schooling be any different?" He's made them all uncomfortable. Good. The only one who doesn't seem particularly bothered is Amadeus who, since giving in to Ron, has risen to his feet and started wandering the bookshelves. He seems to be in search of something, scanning every shelf intently. "What are you studying?"

"The basics — Defence Against The Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and Herbology — as well as Arithmancy and Ancient Runes."

"How do you find your classes?" Tom asks, curious as to how much has changed since he was last at Hogwarts.

"I find them all quite fascinating, except Divination, of course." She says this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, though Tom would argue the opposite. There isn't anything he wouldn't give to know what the future held. The uncertainty, the unknowing, is a daunting, terrifying thing. Anything could be waiting around the corner. As if sensing Tom's doubt, Hermione adds, "It's taught by a woman who has completely lost her marbles and it's so wishy-washy. Arithmancy is far better. Unlike Divination, it actually provides a challenge."

Before the conversation can continue, Amadeus returns to the group with a book in his hands and a pleased look on his face. Without a word, he places the book in Tom's lap. He looms over Tom expectantly, as if waiting for something.

"What's he done now?" Ron mutters as he looks at Tom, a scowl permanently etched across his features. Tom looks down at the book in question, recognising the title from his own time: The Pureblood Directory, by Cantankerous Nott.

"I just gave him the Pureblood Directory." Amadeus answers casually, with the same tone someone claiming their innocence while knowing full well everyone thinks they're guilty would hold. "During... Well, when tensions were high and more families were betraying their blood, Nott realised his directory was outdated and decided to update his book. He'd release new editions to make some money but special families, the ones he wanted to impress, just got a charmed one that would update themselves, like this one. It's just more history for Riddle to read, tells him what his classmates got up to. You didn't yell at Granger for giving him a book on Hogwarts."

Ron glowers at Amadeus, but makes no more comments. He lowers into his chair, arms folded over his chest, sullen expression darkening his face.

"How have you found the Black estate?" Amadeus asks as he looks over at Tom, returning to his spot on the couch. This time he leans against the armrest, one knee folded across the cushion, and he faces Tom entirely.

"Up until recently, I had only seen one room of it. But the four I have seen are what I'd expect of the Blacks." Tom answers honestly, because there is little point lying. Hiding Dumbledore's treatment would only serve the headmaster, not himself. "I have visited once before, however."

"They didn't let you wander?" Hermione pipes up, a strange sort of concern glimmering in her eyes.

"Naturally." Tom doesn't make any effort to hide his bitterness. "They only recently started allowing me to use the library."

"How did you pass the time before that?"

"I sat in my room." The frown that passes over Hermione's face is one befitting of a Hufflepuff — of someone about to cry that that isn't fair. Tom can see the words resting on her lips, torn between the resentment they all hold for him and her moral compass.

"Have you been outside?" Hermione's questions come in rapid fire, barely missing a beat.

"Once. When I fell out the window." The frown grows deeper.

"Trying to escape, were you?" Ron comments. His lips are pulled into a mean smirk, not amused or happy. It's as if he's caught Tom out and is relishing in the victory of exposing him.

Before Tom can respond, Hermione reacts for him. Surprisingly, she frowns at Ron as she snaps, "Wouldn't you, if you were trapped in a room?"

"You can't seriously be defending him, Hermione."

"I'm not defending him. I just don't think he should be locked away like that."

"Hermione, he's– you know." There it is again. That same topic they're all desperately trying to avoid while being unable to escape it. Soon, they'll slip up. Soon, Tom will have his answer.

"Being trapped alone in a room with no sort of way to pass the time is inhumane. I hate to think how it's affected your health." Hermione addresses that last point to Tom, returning her gaze to him. She's not unlike Molly with her borderline motherly concern. It's sickening, to seem cared for by one of his captors. Why can't they act like a good old-fashioned prison warden? These psychological games are so tiring. Tom doesn't want to get a glimpse of what might have been afforded to him, had he been born someone else — someone with greater status, a mother or father, friends. He hates seeing the warmth and compassion, being teased with the bait while he can see the cage surrounding it.

"I'm no worse than I was in the past." Tom brushes away her concern. It's easier than indulging in it, though his words do nothing to quell her.

"What– What was it like?" Neville's voice is so soft, so tentative, Tom almost misses the question. The second the words have left the boy's lips, regret passes over his face and he can't meet Tom's eye as he looks to him.

"Horrible." Tom could lie. He could paint some idyllic picture of the past, of his time at Hogwarts and the orphanage. But why sugar coat it? He's trying to convince them he was trying to escape something. Why ease their conscience by telling them he'd loved the childhood he'd been given so far? "The muggles hated me because I was magic and the magic hated me because they considered me mudblood. I went to Hogwarts and we were all just waiting until we were old enough to help fight against Grindelwald and his war, then I went back to the orphanage and wondered if I'd survive until next term because of their war. I didn't come here because life was wonderful."

"Oh," is all Neville mumbles. As far as reactions go, Tom doesn't mind it. He prefers it to the sympathy still shimmering in Hermione's eyes and the eyeroll he receives from Ron. At least it seems honest. In the corner of his eye, Tom can see Amadeus staring at him.

"I thought you were popular." The other boy comments. It sounds as if he's judging Tom.

"Maybe I was, in this strange, alternative version of myself." Tom answers as he pats Hermione's history book. "But I never was."

"Strange." It doesn't sound as though Amadeus believes him.

When everyone else leaves, Amadeus stays behind. At first he claims it's because he's waiting for his sister and he wants to see Sirius, when the others ask why he isn't following them. But then, once he's alone, he makes no effort to go find the owner of the house. Instead, he turns on his heels and looks directly at Tom, who had watched the others leave in an effort to be polite.

His expression is unreadable as his gaze travels around Tom's form. He almost looks bored — unimpressed. Then, without a single word, a worrisome smile curls across his lips.

"Come along, then." He says, with a nod of his head towards the stairs. Without waiting for a response, Amadeus wanders off. Tom hesitates, concerned. The only thing he knows about the other boy is that he pushes the boundaries. The grin that had been etched across his face fills Tom with the feeling that this is about to be another case of him breaking whatever rules they have. It wouldn't take much for Dumbledore to decide Tom is an accomplice. But then Amadeus stops at the top of the stairs and drums his fingers against the bannister. He peers down at Tom like a king surveying his serfs. "Are you coming or not?"

The impatient edge in Amadeus' tone compels Tom to follow.

"Just so you know," Amadeus says casually — too casually, "Not only am I very good at hexes, I'm also the Lord of this Estate. The house can become pretty dangerous when you're not a welcome guest... In case you were planning on ambushing me."

"I promise you, I hadn't been. But I'll bear it in mind." Tom tries to assure the other boy. "Are you a Black as well as a Lestrange, then?"

"Obviously. Lord Lestrange and Black, at your service." As they walk, Amadeus makes an exaggerated flourish of a bow, hand twirling in circles. They've long since passed Tom's room, headed through a hallway he's never been in before. Again, Tom wonders briefly what happened to the Blacks and Lestrange from his time. None of them would have ever aligned themselves with Dumbledore, who seemed to disapprove of their lifestyles with every fibre of his being. He certainly wouldn't have trusted Lyulph Lestrange the way he must trust Amadeus. "Why did you never announce your heritage, before you left?"

"Pardon?"

Amadeus stops at the end of the hallway, in front of an isolated door. Leaning against it, arms crossed casually over his chest, the boy looks over at Tom with a strangely unbothered expression.

"You said you had no friends, but it would've taken one hiss in Parseltongue to get most of the Purebloods kissing your arse." The crude choice in words feel wrong coming from the Lord's mouth. Like hearing the most prudish nun discuss her depraved bedroom habits. "So, why didn't you tell them?"

"Anyone can string a few nonsensical hisses together and call it Parseltongue. I would have needed solid proof to convince them." It had been that, partially. The weight of his heritage had also simply been a recent discovery for Tom. By the time he'd realised something might redeem himself in his house's eyes, he had reached the point of no return. Even that would only bring a minute improvement to his life. Better to start over, he'd thought.

Amadeus doesn't say anything, but Tom can tell he doesn't trust him. The stubborn frown has returned to his face, harsh and disbelieving. But, he just grunts and shrugs his shoulders. One hand reaches for the doorknob, a large, clear crystal. Upon contact, it pricks his hand and the knob swirls, growing darker and darker, until it's completely the colour of blood. Then, the door clicks open and Amadeus slides inside.

Inside is a spacious room that manages to be both dark and gloomy and full of light. The deep purple — almost black — wallpaper is decorated with a damask pattern, the same colour repeated around the room. A giant bed looks as though it's never been slept in, black as well. Only the windows that stretch across the entirety of the opposite wall bring in light, keeping the room from being completely dark. While the room is opulently furnished, it doesn't look lived in. Cold. There's no hint of personality to it.

"Kreacher," At the call of his name, a crack heralds the entrance of the house elf, who bows so low his nose practically touches the floor, "Close the door and keep watch on the stairs. If anyone looks like they're making their way here, I want the door open before they can notice it was ever shut. Can you do that for me, please?"

"Kreacher understands. Master Black wants peace and quiet in his room, privately." Amadeus nods his head approvingly and the elf disappears again, the door closing without so much as a click.

"Make yourself comfortable anywhere. It's all clean — I don't use this room." The brunet tells Tom as he waves his head toward the bed and chairs sitting in the corner. Amadeus himself moves to the windows so, with little interest of sitting when the other hasn't settled, Tom follows him. Outside, the windows overlook a garden full of flowers, a maze of stone paths and tall bushes. It's the first hint of outside Tom has seen since his attempted escape. Like a mirage in a desert, he soaks in the sight with little nourishment. He wants more. "Do you think they'll let you go in the courtyard?"

"I can't imagine they would."

"You look like a vampire. And not the attractive Interview With A Vampire kind." Tom doesn't know what Amadeus is referring to, but it doesn't feel important enough to ask. He can infer his meaning. The other boy's eyes rake across him as if taking in every imperfection, as though he can see straight into the depravities of Tom's soul. It's enough to make Tom want to look away, hide his own eyes from the prying. He gazes out at the flowers, but he can still feel Amadeus's attention burning on his face. "I suppose you'll get to see the sun soon, when you go to Hogwarts."

"If they let me leave the castle."

"I bet you didn't come all this way just to go back to school." There is no attempt to be subtle, no skirting around the real question like Tom has come to expect. Amadeus's true interest is as clear as day. But his motive is murky, hidden. He doesn't feel like another one of Dumbledore's spies, but that could be exactly what they want Tom to think. That could be why he was sent in. Even if he isn't one of Dumbledore's, Tom feels no great desire to trust him. Amadeus wants something. That radiates from him.

"I suppose not." Tom answers as neutrally as he can muster, wanting to keep the boy talking while giving as little away as possible. The longer Amadeus talks, the more he can determine. But, the same goes for the opposite. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I thought you'd like some time away from the others. Only I can get in and out of here." Amadeus explains, gesturing with his head back at the door. "Spying charms don't work, either. All the estate's magic is centred around here, so it's the master bedroom. No one gets in, no one gets out — not without my permission."

There's a threat there. No one can hear you scream.

"And giving me the book?"

"Genuinely what I said. I thought you were friends with Purebloods and that directory has all you need to know." In the corner of his eye, Tom can see Amadeus's head turn to face the window again. His attention lingers there for a few seconds before he turns away, walking over to a tall cupboard. Tom spins around to watch him move, feeling uncertain once again. The boy is nothing like the Purebloods Tom is used to; they were all grace and manners and wouldn't dare to waste their time on someone like Tom, a mudblood in their eyes.

The door clicks, opening silently, and the pair have just enough time to realise what has happened before Sirius Black is at the door. The man slows as he approaches the room, looking as though his expectations were let down — presumably, having expected to see a closed door or the pair caught in some nefarious bid to betray them all.

"What are you doing up here?" He asks.

"I wanted to grab one of the old coats from my room and Riddle came with." Amadeus explains as he opens the cupboard, retrieving a coat as if to demonstrate his point.

"Just leave the door open." Sirius mutters before he stomps away. Once his footsteps have faded into silence, the door swings shut again.

"I think this coat belonged to my great uncle." The boy comments as he examines the coat he'd grabbed. It's a long, grey coat that hangs heavily against his hand. It looks expensive. Still, Amadeus stares at it in distaste. "Do you want it?"

"No." Tom answers simply. He smells a trap. But, in case he's wrong, he adds, "But thank you for offering."

"Do you plan on returning to the past?" Amadeus asks as he returns the coat to the cupboard.

"I don't." Tom says, truthfully. In return, he receives a raised eyebrow full of disbelief.

"Something must change your mind, then."

"Why?" Tom doubts he'll get an honest answer. For all his rebellious nature, it's likely just a ploy to soften Tom up.

"Because there's two of you right now, in this time." Surprisingly, Tom is wrong. "I don't know much about time travel but I don't think you and an older you could exist at the same time if you don't go back."

Amadeus stares at Tom and he seems to be searching for something. Another test. Tom barely steels his reaction, letting the confusion ring clear across his face. The disappointment that he might return, he hides.

"Does the name 'Voldemort' mean anything to you?" It clearly should mean something to Tom, but the name echoes around his head without any recognition. When he shakes his head, the same intent stare returns, looking for any tells. "After your time, then. Kreacher."

"Yes, Master Black?" The house elf asks, the second he arrives.

"Hide the Pureblood Directory in Riddle's room. Don't let anyone but Riddle find it." Amadeus orders him, never once breaking eye contact with Tom. Deep within those eyes, Tom can see Orion Black — dangerously cunning, a ruthless ally and wicked foe — and he hopes the other boy isn't so deep in Dumbledore's pocket. The hope is laced with realistic pessimism, but it blossoms nonetheless. When Kreacher leaves, Amadeus nods his head to the door. "Let's go before they get too suspicious. I don't want anyone reporting back to Mum and Dad and having them pull me from this."

"Why does the elf call you 'Master Black' if your surname is Lestrange?" Tom asks as they leave, no longer protected by whatever privacy the room afforded them.

Amadeus shrugs, "Not sure. He's always insisted I'm 'Master Black' and not 'Master Lestrange'. Done it for as long as I can remember."

"Daisy!" Someone calls out and, for a moment, Tom wonders what stranger is lurking within Grimmauld Place. He doesn't recognise the voice, nor does he recognise the name.

One part of his question is answered when, without any warning, Amadeus bellows out a, "What!"

A few seconds later, a strange-looking girl appears at the foot of the stairs. Short, brown hair is streaked with purple, in the sort of fashion that would have given the matron of Wools Orphanage a heart attack. She dresses more like a pureblood than Amadeus does, but even her clothes are layered and almost intentionally tattered. Her skirt alone looks as though it's three different lengths.

"There you are." She doesn't sound like a pureblood, either. There's a smile on her face when she's talking to Amadeus but, when she notices Tom, it tightens just a little. "I'm Tonks."

"Are you ready to go?" Amadeus asks, before Tom can introduce himself — though he doubts there'd be a single person in this building that wouldn't know him.

"Yeah, I've said hi to everyone. Dad wants me to go to the shops on the way home, so you're coming with."

"Couldn't you have gone there before you came here?" Amadeus groans, already walking down the stairs. Tom feels forgotten as the pair discuss their plans. There's something to mundane and simple about it that, for one brief second, Tom feels normal. He doesn't feel like a prisoner. But it doesn't take long for reality to right itself.

"If I have to suffer, so do you." The other girl retorts. The mischievous smile that seems to be genetic fades as she looks up behind Amadeus, to where Tom is standing. She raises one hand, waving it. "See you, Tom."

Amadeus pauses at the door, turning back to look at where Tom is standing. The other boy is like a spectre, pale and solemn, looming silently. Amadeus doesn't know what to make of him. He's disarming. Even knowing who he becomes, it's so easy to forget he's a potential murderer. He doesn't even seem like much of a threat. Tom looks as though one good punch would break him. If Amadeus wanted to please his other parents, he's not sure it would be a particularly difficult task. Deciding whether he wants to is where the difficulty lies.

He raises his fingers to his forehead in an informal salute, tipping an imaginary hat. Tom mimics the gesture and bobs his head.

"That's the first time I've seen him." Tonks comments once they're outside. She links her arm with Amadeus's, walking close — almost conspiratorially. To anyone else, they'd look like two siblings up to no good, plotting and scheming. To them, it's just how they walk. Maybe that says something about them — Amadeus doesn't know. "What's he like?"

"Depressing, honestly." Amadeus answers after a few seconds of thought. "He sounds like he's gone from one hell to another."

"I s'pose, to end up like that, you'd have to have been messed up pretty bad."

Later that evening, once he's alone, Amadeus will call Kreacher to his room and order him to monitor Tom closely. He'll tell the elf to help Tom sneak around wherever possible, but only so he can tell Amadeus exactly what he helped with. And not once will Tom know the only reason he is being helped is so Amadeus knows when he slips up. When he reveals the Dark Lord everyone is afraid of, then Amadeus might listen to his parents.

After all, if he can stop the war before it happens — why wouldn't he?

*

"Tell me about Harry Potter." Tom says after his third get-together with the other students, sitting with Amadeus in the private bedroom. Their secondary meetings have become a routine, though Amadeus's laidback and surprisingly warm manner makes them feel more like a tradition, something with more meaning and history to them.

Tom doesn't bother to hide his demand behind more subtle wording. Amadeus has never tried to hide his intent, always asking as he means it, never feeling like he's trying to lure information out of Tom. And so, where he can afford to, Tom will try to show him the same courtesy. He's found the other boy seems to respond better when he does, anyway.

Still, his words hang in the air for a beat, as a careful expression passes over Amadeus's face. He's relaxed on the bed, stretched out on his side, with a book in front of him. A ringed thumb — he changes which fingers his rings are, Tom has noticed — taps the hardcover in a slow, repeated beat.

"You've run from one war straight into another." Amadeus eventually answers, his words careful and deliberate. It's one of the few times he's looked as though he might be considering what he keeps from Tom. "There's a man, not a lot is known about him and I think he keeps it that way. He calls himself Voldemort, but most people are too scared to say his name. Some people call him the Dark Lord, others You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Anyway, he's intent on — I don't know — wiping out muggles or something, committing mass acts of violence, spiting everyone who has wronged him. I think he just wants power and to hurt people, but he doesn't get talked about a lot so I don't know."

Amadeus pauses to take a breath. The tap of his thumb against the book fills in the space, having grown more rapid as he talks.

"That, at least, was his goal during the first war. He was defeated about a year after I was born, temporarily, by Harry Potter." Amadeus drops his book to make a flourish of his hand, as if revealing this story's relevance. "He was just a baby, there was a prophecy, mother's sacrificed protected him but sent Voldemort into hiding. Until a year ago, he hijacks the Triwizard Tournament and uses it to return. Now he's back and Harry Potter, the only person to survive the killing curse and defeat Voldemort as a baby, is dead. Potter has essentially been fighting of variations of Voldemort since first year, too, so he's proved himself."

"He survived the killing curse?"

"Had a pretty cool scar from it, too. I don't know much about the how, I just know his mother died to save him." Tom can't stop the thought of his own mother from rising into the forefront of his mind. She too had died because of him, though there was no loving sacrifice there. Just weakness and heartbreak. It seems Harry Potter's mother had, ultimately, died of a similar cause — love. The human heart can be so feeble.

"Why did you ask if Voldemort meant anything to me, when we first met?"

"I'd thought he'd risen around your time, but I was wrong." The tapping grows faster again. He hasn't picked up the book, but he'd pulled it closer after his gesture.

"How much do you know about me?"

"More than you probably know about yourself." Amadeus answers, but he ends it too firmly for Tom to ask what he means. He stops tapping the book and rolls into his back. Staring at the other boy's side profile, Tom knows that topic is over.

"Why are you the Lord and not your sister? She seems older." Tom asks instead, reaching for the first question that comes to him. It's something he's wondered since he met Tonks that one time, though it hasn't been important enough to waste time on. At his question, the older boy chuckles softly.

"I'm adopted." He explains, glancing over at Tom. "My biological parents are some of You-Know-Who's most devoted followers, so they went to Azkaban as soon as he fell. My aunt and uncle adopted me, so Dora is technically my cousin."

"I see."

"What does Dumbledore tell you about your future?"

"Dumbledore doesn't talk to me." Tom has made sure of it — though, naturally, he doesn't verbalise that. The old man has stopped trying to get information out of him, hopefully realising it was a losing battle.

"I see." Amadeus echoes Tom's own words. "I imagine it'd be frustrating, knowing the secrets of your future are so close."

"It can be."

"Well, I can't help you there." Amadeus chuckles lightly. "I'm sworn to secrecy."

Though Tom says nothing, he can't help but think the older boy has done an awful job at keeping to that oath. Amadeus is the only person giving him glimpses at whatever is being hidden from him. Even Remus has been more careful with his answers.

"I'd appreciate it if you keep acting oblivious to who Potter was, too. I'm not actually sure I was supposed to tell you that." Tom suspects Amadeus is lying; he's sure the older boy knows exactly what is off limits. "I don't want to get in trouble."

"My lips are sealed." Tom assures him. And he means it.

At least, until the information serves him otherwise.