"I can make bad things happen to the people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."
—Tom Riddle
• — • — •
Ophelia hurtled into the third floor bathroom, hardly believing her own foolishness.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She'd slapped Tom Riddle!
Sure, he was a prat, a self centred prick, and an egocentric maniac, but that was all the more reason not to assault someone.
How could things go downhill so fast? There she was, trying to tell him thank you for helping her out when he didn't need to and she just had to attack him. Why couldn't she just control her temper where Grindelwald was involved?
Maybe he'd forget. All she had to do was avoid him. He hadn't noticed her all year in the prefect meetings, nor two years as a part of the Slug Club, or when attending their classes together. She just had to make sure she was as invisible as she'd ever been.
She looked up from splashing her face with water from the faucet and frowned at her reflection. Her hair was growing too fast. She'd need to dye the white roots that leached into her pale blonde strands with the usual beauty potion before they grew too noticeable. Too bad there was nothing she could do to hide her eyes...
Ophelia shook her head abruptly, banishing the thought. There was no point worrying about what she couldn't control.
"Transfiguration," she muttered to herself. "I need to go to Transfiguration."
Almost mechanically, she pushed away from the sink and strode off to her next class, trying not to think of the potential consequences her actions would rain down upon her.
• — • — •
"Friends will only disappoint you, Ophelia," her uncle often said. "Remember that. Eventually, they will fail you. That is why it is better to be feared than loved. Think not of them, but For the Greater Good."
Ophelia hated that his words still had so much control over her, even then.
Don't make friends. Don't draw attention to yourself in class. Don't raise your hand. Don't do too well. Don't do too poorly. Be invisible.
Her only real problems went by the names of Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. Professor Dumbledore, for one, knew exactly what he was doing. It was his fault she was a prefect and also he who refused to accept her adamant refusal of the post. How was she supposed to fly beneath the radar when she had to attend meetings with the same nine people, including the Head Boy and Girl, every other week and then have the responsibility of disciplining others? How could people not notice her when he specifically singled her out in class to answer questions?
Sometimes Ophelia wondered if Albus Dumbledore was actively trying to get her killed. He wanted her to make friends and be herself, so he placed her in situations that made it extremely difficult to about be as interesting and unassuming as a bookshelf full of History of Magic texts. It didn't bode well for her longevity.
Slughorn, on the other hand, was an unwitting thorn in her side. She found it exceedingly difficult to be average in potions, far more than one might think. To be average, one had to share equal parts success and failure, but to fail in Potions class often led to wild explosions or other embarrassing side effects. Such mistakes draw attention, so she refused to make them. The only problem with that, was that Slughorn soon became convinced she was some sort of Potions genius. He insisted she attend his "Slug Club," and made enough a fuss when she didn't that Ophelia was forced to accept that sometimes an empty seat was more conspicuous than a filled one. As with the Prefect meetings, such close knit gatherings made her edgy.
Ophelia arrived to the next meeting of the Slug Club when she was certain approximately half the people had already arrived. It did no good to be early and receive special attention from the Slug himself, nor was it beneficial to arrive late and have all the eyes drawn to her as she trudged awkwardly to her seat.
Slughorn was too busy flamboyantly conversing with Avery about Merlin only knew what to notice Ophelia slip into a seat a ways down the table, both seats on either side mercifully empty. It wouldn't last. His parties always found themselves bursting with promising or well connected witches and wizards, to the point that it was a rarity to have any empty places left at all.
Tom Riddle glided in nearly last, welcoming the hollered greetings by those already seated, and followed closely by a slew of several mean spirited Slytherins. They reminded Ophelia of the sort that were often besotted with her uncle both in the Americas and on the Comtinent. The resemblance sent chills down her spine, despite being seated with her back to a hearty fire.
Tom passed his gaze across the room, sputtering to a stop when it landed upon her. Recognition flickered in his flat, dark eyes, something that had certainly never happened before when he'd seen her. She looked away quickly.
"Tom!" Slughorn exclaimed jovially. "You're just in time! Find a seat, my boy. They're just about to start serving."
Ophelia felt, more than saw, Slughorn wave an expensively draped arm around the table at all the available seats, because she was too busy staring fixedly at a minute speck of dirt on the otherwise pristine silverware.
The chair beside her shuffled softly as it slid back and a lithe form fell into it.
Chatter broke out as goblets filled and platters were carried out swiftly, although Ophelia kept her lips firmly clamped shut and her sights set low. She could feel a familiar pressure building on the side of her head, like the beginnings of a migraine, although it took a moment to place it. Perhaps it was because no one had attempted to break into her mind in over three years, or maybe simply her surprise at someone daring to do so within Hogwarts, but Ophelia redoubled her efforts in maintaining her Occlumency shields, which had admittedly become quite lax in recent years. To think she had thought she was finally safe from that blasted branch of magic.
Was this a problem she could ignore until it went away of its own accord? Sadly, she highly doubted it. If the sharp, deliberate assaults on her psyche were anything to judge by, someone meant business, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she knew who that "someone" was.
"Is something the matter?" Tom inquired impassively, leaning forward. "You look pale."
Ophelia couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze, for fear that her composure would vanish. She wanted to scream at him, to shout and flail as the pain mounted.
She didn't say anything, however. She didn't so much as flinch. The vindictive side of her, the side her uncle had cultivated over many years, desperately wanted to strike back, either by wand or by her own admittedly untested legilimency. She wanted to make him hurt the way she hurt. She would make him scream and know fear the likes of which he'd never dreamed possible. For a mere moment, the bloodlust was palpable in the air, like a thick mist that had descended in front of Ophelia's oddly coloured eyes.
"Might I ask what is so enthralling about the silverware?" Tom said, breaking her reverie.
Ophelia blinked back the urge and immediately loosened her grip on her wand within her robes, though she didn't remember reaching for it in the first place.
With the adrenaline gone, she felt nauseous and exhausted and desperately in need of an escape. She pushed back from the table, ignoring Tom Riddle's continued intrusions into her head, and carefully forced her feet to keep moving one in front of the other until she was standing at Professor Slughorn's side.
He finished telling a jolly tale about, as far as Ophelia could tell, a mishap involving a claustrophobic vampire, a toothbrush, and an angry housewife he'd met in the Hog's Head Inn, before turning to face her, his large brows raised inquisitively.
"I'm sorry, Professor, but I feel unwell. I wish I could stay longer, but I'm going to take my leave." Ophelia forced a halfhearted smile. "Hopefully I'll be able to stay longer next time."
Slughorn looked only slightly disappointed. Ophelia got the impression he'd forgotten she was there.
"I'm sure I could find a potion-" he began, but Ophelia shook her head firmly.
"I'm sure all I need is some peace and quiet, but thank you, Professor."
She took a step back just as it felt like a dagger was driven straight into the middle of her forehead and stumbled.
"My dear girl, are you alright? Should I have someone escort you to the nurse instead?"
"N-no, I-"
"Don't worry, Professor. I can take her."
Ophelia hadn't noticed Tom's quiet gait creeping up behind her until he curled his long fingers around her arm. Dread immediately pooled in the pit of her stomach, only increasing her feeling of nausea.
Just as she was about to object, Slughorn charged ahead. "You're such a good lad, Tom. You take her straight to the nurse and make sure she gets something to bring a bit of colour back to her face."
"I really don't think that's necessary-" Ophelia began, not eager to spend any length of time alone with Tom Riddle.
"Nonsense!" Slughorn wagged his finger playfully at her, meanwhile giving Tom a fond look. "Tom, you make sure she gets to the infirmary, even if you have to drag her there by the scruff of her robes, and no complaining, young lady, or I'll be forced to deduct house points for disobeying a professor."
It was a hollow threat, but Ophelia knew a losing battle when she saw one, so she kept her mouth shut.
"Of course, sir," Tom agreed, inclining his head respectfully. "I'll make sure she's properly taken care of."
Ophelia wondered briefly if she was paranoid for reading too far into that last statement. At least when her uncle said to "take care of" something, he generally meant to destroy it. No, Tom wasn't her uncle. Everyone loved and respected him. He couldn't possibly...
Dazed and defeated, Ophelia allowed herself to be steered out into the corridor, before breaking free and purchasing several feet to distance herself from Tom. The way he stared felt unnerving.
"This is not the way to the infirmary," he observed, after a few minutes of walking in tense silence.
"I'm not heading to the infirmary," she replied shortly.
Though her pace was quick, Tom easily kept up, and left Ophelia no manner of quick escape outside of a full on sprint. If such behavior wouldn't have served to only heighten Tom's annoying interest in her, she might have actually considered it.
"Hmm," was Tom's only response, which was slightly worrying.
They fell back into a thick silence, their footfalls echoing down the long hall. Ophelia's damned conscience gnawed at her about slapping him unprovoked earlier that day. If she hadn't done that, he wouldn't be sparing her a cursory glance. On the other hand, maybe he had since earned the attack, for trying to break into her head. She knew precious few legilimens, and even fewer who hadn't strayed into the Dark Arts. All had been exceptionally gifted, but most allowed themselves to be consumed by the power. What good wizard breaches another's privacy by reading their mind anyway? Perhaps that's why Tom worried her. He reminded her too much of him.
Abruptly, Tom punctured the quiet. "You despise me."
He said it in a toneless, matter of fact way, not quite a question, but Ophelia treated it as if it were one.
"I don't hate anyone."
She could hear the amusement in his voice when he said, "You're actions say otherwise. You deliberately switched seats to be as far away from me as possible, you haven't looked me in the eyes once since we've met, you've barely spoken a word to me, and that's not even taking into account hitting me this morning."
Ophelia sighed. "I'm sorry about that. I should have controlled my emotions better."
"You're very protective of Professor Dumbledore," he mused thoughtfully. "Why."
It struck Ophelia as peculiar how even when he was asking a question, he never really asked.
"The professor is highly respected by many. He's powerful. Everyone knows that."
"Perhaps." Frustration crept into Tom's expression, and Ophelia felt another sharp prod at her mental wards. Conversationally, he said, "The only ones who know Occlumency are those with something to hide."
Ophelia kept her face carefully blank, although she didn't care for how direct this conversation was getting.
"I can't say I know what you mean. Occlumency?" She laughed hollowly. "Never heard of it."
His eyes narrowed. "You haven't, have you?"
"As far as having something to hide, however, I'll say only this: just because we care for our privacy doesn't mean we're hiding anything. We're all entitled to keeping our thought our own."
"I think you're lying," Tom said, stepping in front of Ophelia. "I think you know exactly what Occlumency is. And I think you are hiding something. The only question is what."
"What would I have to hide?" Ophelia asked, a twisted grin finding its way to her lips. "I'm nobody." She walked past, stepping around him without hesitation. "I really am sorry about your cheek, though. Perhaps you should be the one to go to the nurse in my place."
He didn't follow, or so much as look back to watch her go. Neither of them found their way to the infirmary that night.