Extra Ordinary (Riddle Era)

Chapter 38

The end of exams arrived that year with all the usual disappointments coming, as always, in a string of silent and increasingly vicious blows to Tom's ego.

First, there was the beginnings of plans from his housemates as the stress of exams was replaced by the anticipation of summer. The exchanging of plans. The whispers of excitement for the summer. Quidditch matches they would see, concerts to be attended, parties to plan. And Tom would go to none of them. This alone would have been grating enough, but what was perhaps worst about it was that no one ever failed to invite him. He was, after all, Tom Riddle. They liked him. Loved him. Respected him. So they invited him.

But he always said no. He had to say no. He had no way to get to any of the places they suggested going. Nothing to wear. And he had no wish to stand in his worn through muggle clothes, the hand-me-down hand-me-downs of some previous unfortunate resident of the orphanage. And even if wizarding attire would have been acceptable, his only robes were his uniform and there was no money to buy anything else. And he would not stoop so low as to ask.

So he said no. Always no. But he said it politely. He said thank you for inviting him but he had other plans. He said he was flattered but the timing wouldn't work out. He said they must know he would love to but he would have to see. In short: he made excuses. And he shoved aside the little voice in the back of his head that wondered if everyone else already knew the truth he tried so hard to hide and only asked him out of pity. Or perhaps even to taunt him with all the reasons he would always be forced to refuse.

But shoved aside was not silenced and like every other year before this, Tom felt his smile growing thinner with every invitation, silently reminding himself again and again that it was good that they invited him. That it meant they respected him, feared him, so much that even knowing his answer, they dared not fail to ask. It was good.

But grinding out the same answer to the same question through clenched teeth over and over got old fast and he found himself spending more and more time sitting in the library or in empty classrooms or even out on the grounds with Steele. Because Steele never tried to make plans. With anyone. Even on those few occasions when someone had suggested a plan to her, she simply smiled and said of course and to send an owl to remind her and that was that. There were never discussions. Never attempts to rope him in. And never any suggestion that they, the two of them, should make plans.

This last would have been utterly normal, Tom supposed, were it not for the reality of that night just before the beginning of exams. They hadn't discussed it and Tom supposed he ought to be grateful for that alone. Really, as he kept reminding himself, it had been nothing. A momentary weakness. That was all. His concern over Steele's failure to address it was a practical concern only. He wanted to know what she had thought. Wanted to know how she had read into it and how to use that knowledge to his advantage. Nothing more.

Practical or not, however, it kept gnawing into his thoughts late at night, the question biting into his attempts at last minute studying, distracting him until he gave up and simply went to bed, where he stared at the ceiling, thinking. Seething..

Even once all of his exams were over and his late nights in the library were spent pouring over more interesting subjects - namely the history of his ancestors - she kept intruding on his thoughts, kept creeping in at odd moments with wonders about how she would spend the summer or wishes that she was there to help parse out a book he was getting tired of trying to translate from whatever ancient dialect it had been written in. And it was madness, he knew that. Idiocy. Weakness. And he knew also that he could not afford it. Especially not now.

Because with the last day of exams in the castle came the leaving feast. The bittersweet departure into summer. And Tom had never understood any of the sweetness of it. Because where the plans for the summer had been the first blow, spread out over the final weeks of term, this was concentrated, one after the other with little time in between to breathe. To compose himself. Because that night of the feast was the beginning of the end. And in the morning, they left the castle, departing on the train, pulling out of view of the only place Tom thought he had been anything even close to happy. And then they were at the station and people were stepping onto the platform, being welcomed by parents with open arms and he... he was headed for the bus stop.