— — — — — —
People trickled away after the funeral. Once Nicolas and Dumbledore finished talking, Tom brought everyone home.
He sent Astoria to her room to sleep and soothed her troublesome sister for a moment. Then he went to the basement and released the beetle from its glass bottle.
The beetle immediately tried to find a way out of the sealed chamber, circling the room only to discover there wasn't even a crack between the walls and the door. Tom watched silently.
At last the beetle twisted and warped, shifting from an unremarkable little insect into a woman.
She had a head of blonde hair styled into exaggerated, unnatural curls, a sharp chin, and facial features buried under layers of heavy makeup. A pair of jewel-encrusted, frog-eyed glasses perched on her nose.
Flashy. Gaudy. That was the first impression she gave anyone, with almost no exceptions.
She was, of course, the infamously famous—or famously infamous—British magical journalist: Rita Skeeter.
In the generally plain and old-fashioned wizarding world, Skeeter was an anomaly. A bit like Lockhart, she thrived on exaggerated, distorted reporting that grabbed attention. Her dreaded Quick-Quotes Quill had made many an interviewee long to hex her teeth out.
"Mr. Riddle, you're even more impressive than before," Rita said with a strained smile, her tone full of flattery. The two had crossed paths a few times; most of the outrageously titled articles about Tom had been written by her.
But under Lady Greengrass's direction and warnings, Rita's pieces had been flattering—sometimes shamelessly so, sneaking in praise between the lines.
If she'd managed to survive making enemies everywhere and become the Daily Prophet's star columnist, being the Queen of the Quills, she clearly wasn't talentless.
A Ravenclaw by education, she had almost no real wisdom but plenty of cunning. She knew exactly who she could afford to antagonize, and who she absolutely couldn't.
Ministry officials, even the Minister himself—she could slander them at will. They cared too much about their image to retaliate openly, because one wrong move and their political careers would be finished.
But one type of person was untouchable: the dark, ruthless, ancient pure-blood families, especially the Slytherin-leaning ones.
Those people didn't care about reputation. They had money, connections, and zero patience.
Offend one and you offended a dozen. Though the Greengrasses had a decent public image, Rita knew enough of their secrets to understand that they possessed more than enough leverage to make her disappear into a ditch if they wanted.
So when Lady Greengrass had slipped her a pouch of galleons and asked her to speak kindly of Tom, Rita didn't even take the money. She just used the opportunity to secure herself another layer of protection.
But before that protection ever became useful, she'd been caught by Tom Riddle himself.
"Let me think..." Tom sat behind the worktable, tapping a finger against the surface. Each tap hit Rita straight in the nerves. "As I recall, there are seven registered Animagi this century. I don't believe your name is on that list, Miss Skeeter."
"No wonder you always manage to acquire information no one else could possibly access. Not only an Animagus, but such a tiny form... a beetle no one ever notices."
Cold sweat slid down Rita's back. For an instant she considered attacking Tom, stunning him and wiping his memory, but the thought died as quickly as it appeared.
This was a man who confronted people on their own doorsteps. A family like Graves couldn't bend him. Who was she to think she could?
"Mr. Riddle, please... I'm begging you. Let me off this once."
Rita finally chose to surrender.
"Don't make me sound so heartless," Tom said with a laugh, shaking his head. "We've worked together a few times, and it wasn't half bad. From now on, you work for me, and we'll call it even. How's that sound?"
Heartless?
You're not even human! Fuck you, Riddle.
Rita screamed internally. She tried to think of some excuse, anything to stall, when a wave of pure cold slammed into her. Goosebumps erupted across her arms.
"Miss Skeeter, lots of people can't stand you, but to me you're something of a talent," Tom said as he stood and strolled to her side.
Her body locked up completely. She couldn't move a muscle.
"Facts aren't important to most people," he went on. "Plenty of truths aren't suitable for the general public, anyway. Your articles are good—interesting, vivid, believable enough to grab attention."
"As for the others, write whatever you want. I won't restrict you. I can even fund you. But… when I need something, you'll help. A little favor, that's all. Clear?"
His tone was mild, almost gentle. Rita had absolutely no room to refuse. All she wanted was to get out of this place alive. She blinked wildly, signaling that she understood.
Tom pulled back his magic and tapped her right hand with his wand. A tingling rush shot through her body as she regained control of her limbs.
She didn't even get a single second of relief.
Her right hand jerked up on its own and clamped around her throat. Rita choked, struggling desperately, but even her free hand refused to obey her.
"Still having little thoughts?" the boy asked, shaking his head as if disappointed. He made no move to intervene, just watched coldly—as if curious whether she'd actually strangle herself.
Right before she blacked out, Rita's will finally collapsed. Control rushed back into her fingers. She crumpled to the floor and sucked in air in frantic gasps.
Now she understood. Any thought—any impulse—that ran against Riddle would make her kill herself.
"Go. I'll contact you when I need you. And don't report a word of what happened tonight."
He waved her off. The sealed door swung open on its own.
Rita stumbled out of the chamber and fled the villa district. Only when her panic settled enough to think straight did she dare Apparate.
If there were a potion for regret, she would've drunk a whole cauldron. No matter how big the scoop was, no story was worth losing her freedom… or her life.
She stared at her right hand in terror. She didn't dare feel the slightest resentment toward Riddle. All she could do was blame herself, over and over, drowning in her own anxious spiral.
...
"Astoria? What are you doing here?"
Taming a little paparazzi wasn't a big deal for Tom. Rita didn't have the guts to betray him anyway. Add a layer of mental safeguards and she'd stay obedient.
After playing with the pets for a while, he headed upstairs to wash up and sleep. The moment he opened the door, he stopped—there was a small lump under the blankets, and a tiny head poked out.
Astoria saw him and broke into a smile, then sighed in frustration. "My sister's way too loud. She threw a tantrum over a movie, so I lost patience and used a Stunning Spell. She shut up after that, but I couldn't sleep. So… I came here."
Tom's eyelid twitched.
Using a Stunning Spell on your own sister… He had originally thought Astoria's temperament didn't suit Slytherin at all and leaned more toward Hufflepuff.
But now? Maybe he'd been too quick to judge. The girl was a Slytherin.
"So you want me to keep you company?" Tom asked, ruffling her hair.
"No, no, you can sleep normally. I'll doze off once I'm tired."
Tom nodded, washed up quickly, and got into bed.
They chatted about the coming school year and about the underage wizard tournament that was giving Tom a headache. Astoria agreed—only a little reluctantly—that once Fleur arrived she'd help keep Daphne in check so the two wouldn't constantly be at each other's throats.
As they talked, the girl tugged her blanket tighter. Tom's eyes flickered. He casually asked, "By the way, Astoria—when was the last time you took your strengthening potion?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "End of November, I think. Why?"
"No reason. Just didn't want you to forget. The weather's been unstable—you could catch a cold. Take another dose in a couple days."
"Okay. Got it."
A few minutes later, her voice grew softer and softer until, finally, she wrapped herself around one of his arms and drifted off.
Tom stared at the ceiling for a long time, unmoving. After about half an hour, he gently slid his arm free and began checking her condition carefully.
Slowly, Tom's expression darkened. His brows drew together.
It was worse than he'd expected.
Much worse.
How did it come to this?
.
.
.