When waves collide [t.m.r]

[11]

Hogwarts, October, fourth year

"Malfoy, bring everyone else to me, it's time we all have a little chat," Riddle drawled from the sofa he lounged in, hard eyes scrutinising the platinum blond boy who cowered with his every word. "Well? Be quick about it."

"Y-yes my lord." He muttered, scrambling to get away and out of the room, as far away as he could get from the others presence.

Tom laughed darkly as he watched the boy leave. Abarax Malfoy had always been one to show off and boast in public, but behind closed doors he was as worthless as everyone else. He found himself agreeing with Annette Baileys comment about Malfoy being a rat. Perhaps she hadn't realised it at the time but her joking observation had been more accurate than anticipated; he was feared by the weak minded but someone intelligent enough would be able to see that beneath the surface, Malfoy was just a boy looking to impress everyone who was anyone and had an ego that he had to try to live up to.

If he'd been able to, Tom would have pitied him. But of course, he didn't- couldn't feel such things.

His thoughts fell silent as a group of boys swept into the room of requirement - a room he'd found whilst scouting the castles halls during holidays that would turn into anything you required. Hence the given name. None of the boys met his gaze, Slytherin robes moving together before coming to a stop in front of him, like subjects hailing their King.

Tom gave a small nod towards the blond boy who lingered near the back of the group, as though trying to convince himself to approach the dark haired boy sat on the sofa before them all. It wasn't a nod of gratitude, it was simply to acknowledge that Malfoy had followed his orders accordingly and wouldn't need to fear for his sanity for the time being.

Riddle sat up in his seat, posture straightening in a show of authority. His features remained impassive, "You're all here, good. Now, there is something I want; something I am desperate to get my hands on."

The room seemed to go somehow quieter, the lights dimming at Riddles will. He found that the thought brought a bite of irritation along with it - if only the room could conjure up the object he so dearly required.

"What is it?" One of the boys voices broke the silence, laced with innocent curiosity.

Tom scowled at him, a muscle in his jaw feathering while his eyes clouded with rage. "Your name, boy."

While Tom himself was still a boy, he found that it was an insult to call someone else it especially if the word had come from his lips.

Despite the low lighting provided in the room, it was visible to everyone that the boy in question had grown pale, his throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously. "Andy."

The name had not rung any bells but Riddle didn't care, nor did he care that the boy was now trembling.

Pathetic.

"Well, Andy," he spoke the word with such venom that even the candles lining the walls flickered in response. "You do not speak unless spoken to. But since you appear as though your bladder is about to explode, I shall be lenient and answer your question"

Riddle turned his head so that he was now addressing the entire room, his voice echoing and bouncing from wall to wall, filled with power.

"The item I seek, is a diary. The owner of which is Miss Bailey."

Riddle was not stupid, of course he had seen the numerous times the girl had rushed to hide something from him whenever they spoke. He'd noticed the way her knuckles whitened around a leather bound object as if she were holding the thread that tethered her soul to her body and could not bear to let it slip through her fingers. A closer inspection had revealed that it was a diary.

Why did he want it, you may ask? Well it was simple. Annette Bailey was an enigma that Tom Riddle wanted to solve and he suspected that the key to doing so would be in that book. What better way to a persons soul than through their words?

Besides, a small part of him was rather inclined to consider that perhaps her interest in dark magic and how she knew occlumency would be hidden somewhere between the leather cover, in between the pages like a child safely tucked up in bed - unprepared for anything to reach in and grab it.

He had refused to show interest in her diary though, not letting her know he was even aware of its existence - interest was a weapon forged to be yielded against you. It was a weakness; if you showed interest in something then it gave time for defences to be put up and things hidden away. It gave time for failure.

"Bring it to me." Riddle finished and a low murmur of acceptance rumbled like thunder throughout the room, a storm brewing that no one would be prepared for. Not even Tom Riddle.

✩ ✩

The discovery of the invisibility cloak and the drawings in her diary had led Annette to the library on more than twelve occasions, which is where she happened to be now, rubbing her temples in frustration while she glared down at an open book she'd spread out on the table hours before.

Every visit here drew her closer and closer to insanity - sometimes she could be sat here for the entire day and her research would still find a way to come up short.

She was beginning to wonder whether she should just give up, just accept that she owned an invisibility cloak and embrace it, when the librarian cleared her throat from the other side of the room.

Thankful for the distraction, Annette whipped her head in the direction of the older woman, expecting to be scolded for spending so much time in the library when she should have been eating in the Great Hall. Instead, she found something much worse.

The older woman's face was the perfect portrait of melancholy and she opened her mouth several times, hesitating, before she finally spoke; "Headmaster Dippet would like to speak to you."

A hundred thoughts swimming in her head, all of which had somehow found a way to increase in negativity as they arrived,  Annette carefully shut the book on the table and pushed her seat out, standing up and making her way to the exit. Just before she left though, she slipped the book she had been using for research back into its original place on one of the shelves.

Annette felt dread coil in her stomach like a snake wrapping around itself as the librarian placed her hand over her heart and whispered a small, barely audible, "I'm sorry, dear."

A/N: I had such a bad writers block for this story but I've finally found a path that I want it to take, however vague that may be.

I've also decided on the ending and I can't wait to write it :)