The Story of Sheila Riddle (Harry Potter Fanfic)

Chapter 12

"Where'd you get that ring, Tom?" Sheila asked, "And will you please stop fiddling with it? It's driving me crazy."

Tom looked up from his book. He was sitting on the edge of Sheila's bed while Sheila herself stood leaning against the wall of her bedroom, gazing down at him. She had invited him to her home once again for the summer holidays. And she was already beginning to regret her decision.

As Tom had become increasingly withdrawn from her, she had grown more irritable around him. Their few conversations, in which Tom had been evasive, had often ended in a quarrel. Sheila knew he was hiding something from her, and it drove her half mad wondering what it was. She had sworn to keep his secrets, but he still didn't trust her!

Sheila had still not forgiven her brother for the murder of Myrtle Warren. She couldn't help holding it against him because of her innocent nature. It was creating a rift between them. Sheila was taking less interest in her brother. In their younger years, she would have pestered him relentlessly into giving up his secrets; now, she didn't bother.

But her basic instinct was to stick to him; he was too much a part of her life now, a part of herself that she could not let go of despite the imminent consequences.

"Does it really concern you how I got this ring?" Tom said, holding the ring up to the light.

Sheila narrowed her eyes.

"It's ugly," she snarled, "I hate it."

"Well then, I'm sure you'll be glad of my leaving, for then you won't have to look at it."

Tom returned to his book, and Sheila gave up and left the room. No doubt, if she had stayed, she would have hit him. She was secretly happy that he would be leaving within the hour.

It was that very evening when Sheila and her family sat around the dinner table, discussing their upcoming vacation. They would be renting a little cottage a good few hours trip from their own home, and there they would spend a glorious two weeks. Sheila's adoptive parents were positively beaming as they spoke of the arrangements. Meanwhile, Sheila was pushing around the food on her plate, staring absentmindedly at the white tablecloth. She felt she'd lost her appetite.

"I'm not going."

She hardly knew what made her say it, but a silence had quickly ensued.

"Sweetheart," her mother said, "Why ever not? We've had this planned for ages."

Sheila looked up and said unflinchingly, "I want to stay here with Tom."

Her parents looked at each other quickly.

"Actually," her mother said, "We kind of wanted to talk to you about him. We...don't think it would be wise to continue inviting him over. We're your family now, Sheila. We just think you spend too much time with him. We understand your attachment to him, really. He's your only blood relative, and that must make him pretty special to you. And you can still visit him at Wool's Orphanage occasionally. But we don't want him here again. He's awfully nice and all, but sometimes...sometimes I think I see things. He gets an odd look in his eye every now and again, and it scares me. I know I'm not imagining it. Sheila, please. I've heard you two arguing constantly when you're alone in your room. He's changing you for the worse; I can see it."

Sheila's fork fell and clattered on the floor. She was staring at her plate again, her expression unreadable.

"What will you do if I don't stop seeing him? What will you do if he...changes me?"

Her parents looked again at each other, clearly alarmed.

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't call me that!"

Sheila was on her feet, her eyes ablaze.

"You're right; he is my only blood relative. And that makes him family. Real family."

"Sheila, don't say that! We are your real family! Haven't we loved you as our own daughter?"

"You're not my real family! And I'll continue to cling to Tom as long as I live!"

She raced from the room, ignoring the pleas of her parents. She fled to her room and slammed the door shut, heaving a heavy dresser against it so that no one could follow her in.

She sat on the bed slowly, realizing as she did so that Tom had left his book there. She picked it up, then dropped it quickly. As soon as she had touched it, she had felt a flutter, almost like a heartbeat. Hesitantly, she laid her hand on it. It did feel like a heartbeat, and the book even felt unusually cool against her palm. She picked it up and opened it. It was not just any book; it was a diary. Tom's diary. But as she flipped through it, she saw that it was completely blank, with only dates written at the tops of the pages. And that odd little heartbeat kept on; strangely enough, she was beginning to enjoy the sensation. It was like a little live thing.

I wonder what kind of spell Tom's got on this, she thought, holding up the little book.

A soft knock on the door caught her attention, and her father's voice quietly begged for an audience. She ignored him, clutching the little book to her chest. She would return it Tom in due time, but until then...

And then, without really realizing it, she forgave Tom.