It seems odd now, after so many years of trying not to be noticed by Lord Voldemort, but I was never more frightened of him than during the first few days of my sixth year at Hogwarts. He brushed past me on Platform Nine and three-quarters. His eyes glanced at me over the heads of the newly Sorted Slytherins, whose hands he was earnestly shaking. He sat right behind me -- on purpose, I'm sure -- in Professor Dumbledore's class. When I walked across the common room, he was there with Barabbas and Bernard and the rest, and they broke off whatever they were discussing to watch me go through the door leading down to the girls' dormitories. I knew it was only a matter of time before he came after me, and still I had no idea what to say to him.
At least school work started well that year. I'd convinced Lavinia that we should sit in the front row in Transfiguration instead of the back, just in case there was anything to be gained by hearing Professor Dumbledore more clearly. Perhaps there was: he did seem more intelligible than he'd been the year before, and I even managed to raise my hand in response to one or two of his simpler questions without making a complete fool of myself. One day, I was astounded to find Slytherin House five points to the good because of an especially perspicacious question I'd plucked up the courage to ask. I've no recollection now of what the question was or why it was such a good one, let alone what the answer turned out to be. But the twinkling of Dumbledore's delighted eyes over those half-moon spectacles he wore: that's one of the best memories I have from all my school days.
Then, in the second week of term, one of the tiny local-delivery Scops owls brought me a note at breakfast. Even before reading it, I recognised the thin, slanting handwriting, and the vermillion ink Dumbledore used for marking homework.
Dear Beatrice,
Please see me at a quarter past ten this morning. I will be in the old Magical Art classroom on the fifth floor.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore.
It was another bolster to my confidence: against all expectations, I was beginning to think I had a real chance at a Transfiguration N.E.W.T., perhaps even with something more than a minimum passing grade.
–What do you think he wants me for?†I asked Tuck, who had picked up the note in his beak and looked like he might make off with it. He didn't reply, but regarded me dubiously out of one bright eye. Dismissing his lack of enthusiasm, I retrieved the little square of parchment and put it in my pocket. I would find out soon enough. I could even be early, as I had a free period starting at ten.
I'd never been in the Magical Art room, and from the look of it, neither had anyone else for the last decade or two. It was huge, and empty. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, and cobwebs were strung across the aisles between desks. At the front of the room were several bare easels lying on their sides among the dead flies, as if they'd been upset long ago and never righted. There was a large magical painting on the wall: it showed what appeared to be the bar of the Three Broomsticks, but deserted, as if the regulars had all found more interesting pictures to inhabit.
–Professor Dumbledore?†I called. The response was silence, broken only by the scrabbling of Tuck landing on a mantelpiece, and a jarring crash as he knocked a heavy candlestick to the floor with his wing.
–He won't be coming,†remarked Tom Riddle pleasantly, stepping out of a store cupboard. –But I'm so glad that you're here.†Behind me, the classroom door slammed shut in response to a twitch of Tom's wand. –You have something of mine, and I want it back.â€
He seemed taller and more handsome than ever. It looked like he'd come into some money over the summer, too: his school robes were new, and a large gold ring adorned one of his fingers. It was an ugly thing, set with a square black stone that reminded me of nothing so much as a lump of gravel, but it still looked good on him.
–Oh. You mean the†-- I looked around nervously, but the room was still empty except for us two -- –magic flute, I suppose.â€
–Yes, my pipe. I needed it over the holidays, but Bernard says you never gave it to him. What on earth were you playing at?â€
–I -- I'm sorry, Tom--â€
–You should be. But as it happens, I came across something better to use instead.â€
–Really? What did you find?†Cowed to curious in an eyeblink: that was me, in those days.
He regarded me with a half-amused, yet calculating sort of look.
–Wouldn't you like to know? Knowledge like that isn't for casual sharing, Beatrice. It's for holding close, very close indeed. The circle of people who will ever hear what I discovered last summer is quite small; if you want to be among them, then you've made a rather poor start.†Tom was so good at this that for a moment I found myself wishing I'd behaved better towards him, thinking -- almost aloud -- that I'd dearly love to be one of his favoured few, enjoying confidences never to be divulged to others. It was only a second thought that reminded me that Bernard didn't appear to be in on Tom's deepest, darkest secrets, and I'd bet none of his other cronies were either. As far as I could ever tell, the privileged circle Tom referred to had a membership of one: Tom Riddle. Besides which, I'd glimpsed enough in that diary to guess that I might sleep better at night if I didn't know exactly what Tom got up to in his spare time.
As I hesitated, there came a flapping sound behind Tom, and he turned to see Tuck come in for a noisy one-footed landing behind him. They matched gazes for a couple of seconds, Tom's dark brown eyes against the bird's beady black ones.
–Whose raven is this?†Tom demanded to know.
–Mine. Come on, Tuck, I need to get to Charms.†I let him perch on my forearm, and turned to go, hoping against hope that I had sufficient skill to get the door open and escape before Tom could grill me any further.
–Before you go.†Tom put his hand on my shoulder; he made it look casual, but I could feel the band of his ring digging into the flesh beneath my collarbone. –I want my pipe back.â€
Decision time. –I -- I haven't got it any more,†I improvised.
–Where is it, then?†His tone was still calm and patient, but full of controlled menace.
–I gave it away.â€
–To whom?â€
–To a centaur,†I invented, remembering Firenze. –He said it was centaurs' magic, really, well, almost like it anyway...â€
–Do not lie to Lord Voldemort.†He paused, then snapped, –Legilimens!â€
I wasn't caught completely by surprise. I knew what Legilimency was, though this was the first time I'd had it used on me. Still, I doubt I'd have stood a chance if I hadn't already had Firenze's bright remembered image in the front of my head, blowing that golden pipe in the sunshine for all he was worth. I held tight to that memory, even as I felt Tom interrogate it, probing for any cracks in its surface, buffeting it to tell whether it rang hollow. –This is like one of my mother's old tales come true,†Firenze had said, holding up the pipe in delight, and I'd replied –Keep it, then. You play it better than I do, so it might as well be yours.†Or at least, those words had been in my mind at the time, and I'd reflected often enough afterwards that they were what I should have said, so there they were. A more accomplished Legilimens might have been able to distinguish between idle regret and faithful memory, but Tom didn't dwell on the thought long enough to try. He was already forcing my attention to a brutal, blunt focus on the centaur (–Who is this? Who?â€), and Firenze's name stumbled over my tongue, frantic to babble itself out.
–How disappointing.†I was on my hands and knees on the cold and dusty floor, my face was wet with tears I couldn't recall shedding, and I was gasping for air, as though I'd been holding my breath for the last minute or so. Tom was still behind me; I couldn't see him, or anything much besides a blurry crack in a flagstone. But I could hear his sneering voice: –You chose the gratitude of a miserable juvenile half-breed, when you could have had mine? I could have done a lot for you, Beatrice. Your future career might have been advanced immeasurably through a connection with me; I can't imagine what you threw it all away for. Your deformed little horse certainly won't profit you anything after I catch up with him -- he'll be lucky if he can still feed himself.â€
–Feed himself! Feed himself!†Tuck was flapping his wings somewhere, and I wished acutely that he hadn't chosen that particular phrase to repeat. He got through it four or five times before being silenced by a dull thud, as though Tom had taken a swipe at him with his fist.
–Don't hurt Firenze, Tom!†I managed to wheeze out. –It's not his fault!†He doesn't really have the flute, I nearly said -- but I didn't. When Lord Voldemort's wrath turned away to another, only a stronger person than I was would want to draw it back.
–It's not his fault!†mimicked Tom, in a high, singsong voice. –No, it isn't, it's yours, but I shall hurt him anyway, and that'll be your fault too. I don't tolerate disloyalty, or weakness, or stupidity†-- with every word he advanced closer, until he was leaning over me -- –or failure. Crucio!â€
Resisting the Cruciatus Curse was a N.E.W.T. level topic then, covered in seventh year. That lesson, at least, was one where Professor Merrythought had my full and undivided attention. But there on the floor of the Magical Art room, when I heard Tom snap out that incantation -- crisply, as though he practiced it every day -- the best I could do was to screw my eyes shut and panic. It took me a long, long moment, full of sheer terror, to realise that my eyes were not on fire, my lungs were not full of steel knives -- I was, in fact, not in any pain at all. I risked a peek to find out why.
Tuck was writhing in agony on the floor of the classroom, his wings flopping about awkwardly as if they were broken. His beak was opening and closing, but it emitted no cries; he seemed barely able to breathe. Tom stood over him with a delighted smile on his face, holding his wand delicately between two fingers, relishing his painstaking execution of each sharp little flourish.
–Tom!†I screamed. –Stop it, stop it, oh -- that's Unforgiveable!â€
The spell continued for a few more moments, long enough to make clear that its ending was Tom's will, not mine. He turned to me.
–Only if used on another wizard,†he remarked coldly. –Beasts don't count.†He was still watching Tuck's motionless body out of the corner of one eye. Probably making a mental note of the time it took the victim to recover, for future reference.
–That was awful, Tom.†The word didn't do justice to the experience, but I was in no state to choose a better one. –How can you do that to anyone? Have you no soul?â€
–No soul, Tom?†Tuck cawed, lifting his head feebly; my heart leapt to see him conscious. –Three of 'em! Three of 'em!â€
I had no idea what Tuck was on about at the time, although I have a shrewd guess now. If I'm right, he was a more perceptive old bird than I ever knew; ravens have a strange insight sometimes, on certain subjects. At any rate, it struck something in Tom: his head snapped around fiercely to confront his accuser. The wand in his hand shook visibly; for the first time, his self-confidence seemed to waver. Then he turned white with anger.
–I should wring that bird's neck,†he snarled. –Teaching your pets to talk...â€
–I didn't teach him to say that,†I protested. –I don't know what he means, he just talks nonsense sometimes, please don't hurt him!†Tom ignored me, slowly raising his wand and taking aim at Tuck, who was struggling back to his feet, oblivious to the danger he was in. –Tom, you can't kill him, that's vile, you'll never be Head Boy if you murder another student's pet!â€
That stopped him for a moment. I'm sure Tom cared less than nothing for any other witch or wizard at Hogwarts, but he did want to be Head Boy. Power over others still meant something to him, and he wouldn't jeopardise it lightly. Then he shrugged.
–I doubt that,†he said simply. –It was self-defence.†He raised his forearms to show me the bleeding scratches on them: Tuck had marked him in more than one way. Then he walked deliberately around the raven's limp body, being careful never to turn his back on me, and raised his right foot. There was a crunch of breaking bones. Once, twice, three times he stomped on my poor bird, breathing heavily each time. Expelliarmus! I thought feebly; he wasn't using his wand, though. Petrificus Totalus! I actually did throw that one at him; he dodged it one-footed, hardly appearing to notice I'd done it.
When it was over, he stared at me for a few seconds, clenching and unclenching his fists, controlling his anger. –That shuts the bird's mouth; you do the same for your own. Remember I can have you kicked out of this place any time I want to -- and the groundskeeper doesn't need any more assistants. Once you're out of school, no-one's going to shed any tears over the mysterious disappearance of a disgraced witch who had no prospects anyway. Or her precious pets.†He turned on the ball of his foot and marched out of the room, the door blasting itself open before his muttered –Alohomora!â€
After a few minutes, I managed to crawl over to where Tuck was. He seemed smaller than he had in life; several of his long feathers had come out, and I had the oddest urge to try to put them back on him. Instead, I picked him up and sat there on the filthy classroom floor, holding him, for most of the rest of that day, missing two classes without a good excuse. I wondered, in a befuddled sort of way, whether I owed my life to Tuck and whatever it was that he'd seen in Tom. Or, more likely, to Firenze: it dawned on me eventually that my lie to Tom might have bought a temporary escape for myself, but at a terrible cost to an innocent foal. Beasts don't count, Tom had said; I closed my eyes and broke out in a sweat as I imagined him hunting down Firenze -- who would not realise, at first, that he was taking the blame for me. It was just as Tom had said: everything was my fault. But the worst of it, the most abhorrent thing of all, was a terrible self-knowledge: if leaving Tom Riddle to pursue another victim would keep him away from me for even half a day, I would do it. I was that afraid of him.
In the days that followed, I resolved to hand over the thrice-damned flute to Tom as soon as he came back asking for it, and to hell with whatever he meant to use it for. I took to carrying the thing around all day in my school bag, so that if he cornered me again, I'd be able to give it to him promptly, without giving him another opportunity to test his cruelty. I even slept with it under my pillow, just in case he had some way of invading my dormitory.
Tuck's grave was unmarked, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. I buried him at dusk, arranged some brambles to conceal the fresh earth, then turned to go and return the Herbology trowel I'd borrowed, half-expecting Tom to accost me on the way. But it didn't happen, then or ever: the encounter I was dreading never came. Instead, and inexplicably, Riddle began to act as if I didn't exist. He didn't sit near me in classes; he didn't look at me when we passed each other in corridors; he never even seemed to reprimand first-years when I was around.
For a few weeks, this made me more anxious than ever. First he abused me, then he ignored me: what was he up to now? Surely he hadn't lost all interest in the magical artefact he'd once coveted so furiously? But I must say, the new, distant Riddle suited me far better than the old one. As the year went on and my fear grew stale, I gradually got used to the idea that I wouldn't have to deal with him in the immediate future. I was able to concentrate again on school work, and my friends, and the other mundanities of a young witch's existence. Life returned almost to the way it had been before -- although all my homework that year was handed in on time, and none of it was done late at night in the common room, you may be quite sure of that.