Extra Ordinary (Riddle Era)

Chapter 9

For the first time in what felt like ages and had really only been a week, Tom's morning felt normal. He woke with the sun and put on his uniform, forgoing only the robes. Though it was a weekend, Tom never wore anything other than the school uniform. It was a matter of practicality that was passed off as formality. People looked at him in uniform and thought he looked smart, polished, put together. Which was a more than welcome side effect, but the truth was that he wore the uniform because everything else was either too small, too childish or halfway to falling apart at the seams.

It was bad enough, really, that his school robes were second hand, but he was smart about money. He had to be. He bought second hand books and learned charms to make them look new. He bought second hand robes and uniforms and found spells to mend their holes and tuck in their stray threads. He spent only what he had to. And he saved the rest. Even if things went his way, he would need at least some money after Hogwarts. Because if things went his way, he would have a reputation to uphold.

So it was that Tom exited the Slytherin common room that Sunday morning as he always did, wearing his uniform and glancing at a watch that read half past seven, leaving his housemates to sleep in and go about their mornings as slowly as they pleased. He, however, had work to do.

And the work started, strangely enough, in the kitchens.

This, truth be told, was the only part of Tom's day that wasn't ordinary. Because ordinarily, he would never have set foot in here. But he'd known, from the moment Anna Petrov had told him that Steele was known by the house elves, that he would have to come here and ask questions. Now was simply the first opportunity he'd had to do so when it was unlikely anyone would catch him in the act.

He walked purposefully across the Entrance Hall and down the same route Steele had shown him earlier in the week until he was standing in front of the fruit bowl. Then, taking a breath, he reached out and tickled it. It giggled, just as it had for Steele, and the portrait swung open.

It was a blessing, albeit an expected and calculated one, that there wasn't anyone else in the kitchens. It was why he was here so early, and on a Sunday to boot. Though he'd had his lies prepared, it was better not to have to use them, even just to explain away his presence to whatever early bird Hufflepuff happened to be here. Tom had learned long ago that the secret to a successful lie was half in its contents and half in the frequency of its use.

But with no one there... Tom simply waited for a house elf to come up to him and ask what he wanted. It was ridiculously, gloriously easy, really. He ordered coffee and breakfast and ate and sipped and then, when he was done and the elves came to clear away his dishes, he told them he had a few questions and they practically tripped over themselves to provide answers.

"You know the girl I was in here with last time?" he asked the waiting little group of elves, surveying their faces for recognition. "Lucy Steele?"

The elves, every one of them, beamed. "Miss Lucy, yes," several chriped, her name spoken far more brightly than he'd anticipated. It was ridiculous, of course, and almost disgusting how much they seemed to love her. But then, he reminded himself, house elves were an easy audience and however much work Steele had put into them, it hardly mattered. She didn't have the same adoration from people. And people mattered far more than these elves ever would..

"I understand she's here often?" he prompted after a beat in which none of the elves volunteered any information.

Once again, several elves nodded and one pitched in, "Miss Lucy is here almost every evening, sir!" Well. That wasn't new. Petrov had told him as much several days ago.

"What does she do in here every evening?" Tom asked, not bothering to beat around the bush or make any attempt to approach his questions sideways. These were, afterall, merely elves. One command when he left and they'd never breathe a word.