In this new life, absolutely everything struck Tom as strange. From the company gathered in the house that had taken him in—one could apparently expect anything at all. But that Walburga Black should display such breadth of view was beyond all reckoning. A half-giant, a werewolf, a halfblood… True, he was a halfblood himself, but still—this wasn't done! Tom was deeply uncomfortable. On top of everything, he was being… looked after. Fairly gently and unobtrusively, but looked after nonetheless. Probably for the first time in his life. And he could not bring himself to trust them—didn't want to, frankly. Was he an idiot? They were simply making the cheese in his mousetrap tastier. Well, except for little Harry, of course. He wasn't about to give himself away, but let them dream for now—it cost him nothing.
Mind you, he'd always been able to smile broadly and charmingly, so no one should suspect a thing! Only the boy… In the few days he'd been here, Tom had formed a fairly clear picture—including the reason for his predecessor's disembodiment: Harry Potter was most likely his closest blood relation, and evidently the last of the family. And the rebound that had disembodied him—it was strange he'd managed to recover at all. There simply couldn't be any other cause; Tom had checked this repeatedly, through books, naturally. The Potters were a branch of the Peverells, the Gaunts of Slytherin's line, and both families had crossed paths numerous times in antiquity.
And what if Evans—who was said to have been a strong and talented witch—was not Muggle-born, but a descendant, say, of Squibs? After Hagrid's lecture, Tom had rushed to the London Library in Regulus's company and under his supervision, and emerged very, very impressed. By Muggles and their technologies, which replaced magic for them rather handily. And no, the question from the charming girl at the front desk—could she make photocopies of anything?—he would never forget. Nor the result, for that matter. There it was on the shelf: a stack of ordinary paper sheets with printed text.
Walburga's tolerance of halfbloods and Hagrid was becoming increasingly understandable to him. One was a fool to ignore sources of such information. A fool and a liability. He still needed to get to the laboratory to prepare a Kinship Potion, but Snape guarded his domain rather thoroughly—against him and against everyone else—and so did Walburga. And Tom found it genuinely difficult to approach her. So he deeply regretted one thing above all: the inaccessibility of his adult self's memories.
In general, he was rather proud of his previous version, though he naturally had no intention of admitting this to anyone. To rise from an orphanage boy to the point where the sons of aristocratic families would serve you—that was worth something! Which meant he could repeat that journey, this time without the mistakes. He just needed to work out the most important thing first: what had driven him to lose his mind so completely that he had preferred petty terrorism to political struggle?
But what he'd actually been resurrected for now was entirely beyond the pale—they needed venom, if you please. Basilisk venom. As though it were his pet… Though that wouldn't be bad, actually. And Snape was watching him with a patient face but a suspiciously bright gleam in his eyes. Strangely enough, despite everything, Tom felt most at ease with him—Snape never tried to cheer him up, showed no interest whatsoever in his past, seemed to have every right to make demands about his future but fortunately saw no point in doing so… He hissed, he sniped, he kept his distance—and for Tom, unaccustomed to the attentive and above all warm treatment the others demonstrated (except for Sirius Black, who simply tried to avoid him), this was quite literally a relief. Well, and Harry, of course. The little one…
Tom did not believe in other people's kindness—everything seemed so performed, so deliberate… And he threw all his energy into finding an approach to Snape and unravelling Hagrid—that is, whoever was pretending to be him. This monstrous half-giant clearly had his own particular plans for Tom. Because things couldn't simply be what they appeared!
The Polyjuice Hagrid didn't drink—but that wasn't proof of anything. Snape would find some way to improve even that. To expose them both… no. Tom's weight class wasn't up to that yet, especially given that Hagrid apparently now used magic freely in all directions, had his own wand (possibly more than one!), but that wasn't even the main thing. Once mute for most questions—bellowing like a dumb animal—Hagrid could now skewer anyone with words, and in a way that genuinely made one think. About one's own behaviour, specifically.
Tom had overheard a couple of brief five-minute dressings-down that Hagrid had given Sirius Black, and understood why Black had since reconciled with his mother. Walburga still had a long way to go before matching him. And not a single offensive word—not one!
I suppose I should apologise for what happened with Myrtle, Tom decided.
But how to bring it up? Brr. He hadn't turned seventeen yet, after all.
* * *
The company of conspirators, meanwhile, was waiting for the esteemed Headmaster to be called away from the school—ideally for a couple of days, ideally out of England. Tom was actively "acclimatising," and Andrei was watching this process carefully—sensibly enough, not so much with his own eyes as through the eyes of all those now settled in the house at Grimmauld. Even little Harry had been pressed into service: Andrei didn't exactly rely on a child's instincts, but Harry's behaviour was also quite informative. And Harry already loved "Uncle Tom" with the full breadth of an uncorrupted small child's soul.
You really had to see how Tom softened with the little boy.
And I wanted to simply dispatch this person? Andrei marvelled to himself. A teenager—a youth, really—fairly complicated, proud, ambitious, but what on earth would have had to happen for what I read about to grow from this? Surely it was a side effect of the Horcruxes? But to fall for such a crude manipulation—how? He's not stupid.
Not stupid he was—he was diligently studying Haldane's The Causes of Evolution and some other dog-eared book, occasionally glancing at the portraits in the Black gallery.
* * *
"Well—shall we go to the basilisk? Up for a hiss?" Hagrid asked one morning, pleased to have learnt that the Headmaster would be absent from the school for at least three days, having gone off to another ICW meeting.
"Could I at least know where you got this information?" Tom asked carefully.
"About the Headmaster being away?" Hagrid replied with barely feigned surprise. "Well, I work for him, don't I—I listen carefully… where I should, and even more carefully where I shouldn't," he couldn't resist, having recently noticed Riddle eavesdropping on his conversation with Sirius Black.
"Where did you find out about the Chamber of Secrets?"
"Ah… you see, a couple of months ago I fell. On my head. Hard."
Tom looked at Hagrid, unable to understand why he was saying such a thing. Wanted to make a joke of it? But you didn't joke about things like that! Banter? Mockery?
He was now perfectly certain that this really was the gamekeeper—the half-giant who had been his schoolmate—no potion or charm could sustain a disguise so long and so precisely. And poisoning oneself daily, without pause, simply to seem to everyone like a dim-witted oversized forester was already too much. Did half-giants mature like this?
Tom had recalled in his first days at Black House that he'd once come across a study about them somewhere; he'd looked in the Blacks' library as the most accessible place, then asked Snape, who by now seemed to have become thoroughly Prince, but Snape had unexpectedly brought him what he needed from the Malfoys—here, read this, educate yourself. Tom hadn't missed the opportunity, naturally, but had only managed to confirm his own hypothesis: that half-giants mature very slowly. Which meant that while he, Tom, was rather incompetently squandering his organisation and considerable authority (the reason for which remained unclear and needed urgent attention), the mad half-giant had simply been quietly growing up and getting smarter. And had grown up sufficiently to be accepted by Walburga Black herself—which meant by the other aristocrats as well. That is to say… he'd replicated Tom's own path. And in considerably grander style. So what was he planning to do next? Milk the basilisk? He was being deliberately provoking, no question.
Or perhaps… perhaps he'd resurrected Tom specifically to make him Minister, and then pull all the strings from behind his back? The thought made Tom's stomach go slightly cold. To become a puppet in the hands of this… No—actually, wait—what was better? Run? With his talents he'd carve out a place for himself anywhere. Not without difficulty, but he'd manage. Only the problem was that "just a place" didn't suit him.
But on the other hand… perhaps it would be right—to let Hagrid make him effectively the head of English wizardry, and then Tom would deal with him himself. He just needed to recruit his own people first. And probably ought to start soon. Worth trying with—
Before his mind's eye filed Snape (displeased), Sirius Black (clowning about), Regulus (restrained, slightly odd), Walburga… The most suitable qualities, as far as he could tell, belonged—damn the Cornish Pixies—to Hagrid himself. And here the man was, looking him straight in the eye. And if he was also a Legilimens, then it seemed best to simply Avada himself this instant.
"No, I'm not mocking you at all. I can tell you the details—even show you. Few people appreciate what a serious head injury can sometimes do to a human brain. And to a half-giant's brain even less—no one's ever studied it. But then we'd have to postpone our visit, which will hardly please our colleagues…"
"The main thing is, we'd have to wait an unknown amount of time for the Headmaster to be summoned somewhere abroad again," Snape put in, appearing silently as a bat.
Not a Legilimens, Tom thought with relief—but he really is quite the performer. And tensed again, until Snape gave him a light pat on the shoulder, and, seeing that Tom was willing to listen, delivered a brief and clearly pre-planned speech:
"In case of the contingency of the Headmaster's unexpected return, I've prepared Polyjuice. Two varieties. Those wishing to be Hagrid—yellow vials; Filch—green."
"Can't we do without it?" Sirius was his predictable self.
"Happily, without you. Who do you propose instead? Was Mother thinking of taking a stroll?" Snape didn't let the old adversary off the hook—whether out of personal spite or simply force of habit.
Andrei didn't bother over-thinking it—just waved his wand: all the vials acquired the same colouring, or rather the absence of it, and it remained for him to shuffle them with one motion, which he did.
"I don't care what form I'm in when standing guard in Myrtle's bathroom," Remus Lupin, who had drawn the sentry duty, took a vial first.
"But what if I get Hagrid and get stuck in the pipe?"
"Black," Snape rolled his eyes. "Name one reason you'd urgently need to drink Polyjuice in a pipe? Or do you seriously think the Headmaster Apparates home from abroad exclusively into the school's plumbing?"
Hagrid laughed and pressed the first vial to hand into Sirius's grip. Regulus and Tom took the remaining ones. The conspiratorial party was fully armed when Walburga Black walked into the room.
"All ready, Madam!" Hagrid reported, receiving a piercing look in return.
After which they were informed that Disillusionment Charms in the castle lasted no more than a few minutes, and simply fell away in the Headmaster's presence.
"And in your position I wouldn't rely too heavily on the potions."
"We'll be as quick as possible!" Andrei promised.
"That is exactly what I wanted to say. Now—off with you!"