I spent the last few days of term avoiding Tom Riddle. It wasn't difficult to do, as he seemed to be avoiding me as well. Tom nearly always took his meals near the front of the Great Hall, next to the teachers' table; I began to haunt the far ends of the Slytherin benches, back amongst the shy first-years, so as to be out of his sight. Only once did Tom come down to my end of the Hall, to break up an incipient fight between a couple of third-year boys. I watched him giving them a good telling-off (–Jinx each other silly all summer long for all I care, but don't do it at Hogwarts where I can see you, or I'll have to take points from our own House for itâ€) and felt trapped by the fresh memory of the haughty young man who'd threatened Bahman Zinn with a borrowed wand, and tried to forcibly extract his secrets. After peace had been restored, Tom's eyes met mine briefly, and then we both looked away.
It was a relief to board the Hogwarts Express at last, at the opposite end of the train from Tom's gang. Lavinia and I had a compartment to ourselves, and she chattered all the way to London about the relations in America she'd be spending the summer with, and Quidditch, and even that Transfiguration exam she'd been so upset about at the time. (–If, by some miracle, Professor Dumbledore lets me carry on to N.E.W.T. level Transfiguration,†she declared firmly, –I'm going to.â€) Plus, of course, the keenest topic of the moment: what it could possibly have been that Rubeus Hagrid had been secretly keeping in the dungeons, and how a mere third-year had ever managed to subdue it. She seemed genuinely torn over whether keeping a high-X monster as a pet should really be grounds for expulsion, and I was glad she didn't press me for an opinion. Tuck, the only one in whom I'd confided my recent experiences, perched quietly in his cage for the whole journey. I'd sworn him to secrecy, on pain of never being let out again, and he was suitably circumspect: not a word of what I'd vouchsafed to him passed his beak, then or ever. Tom wasn't the only one who could ensure another's silence.
–Had a good term?†my mother asked brightly, when I found her on the platform at King's Cross. I wanted to say that it had been good -- better than good, even -- until a fortnight or so ago. But that would have required more explanation than I could permit myself, and in any case would have taken too long, so I just said –Yes, fineâ€, and we left.
The evening was warm, but with dirty low cloud, and a soft drizzle. As my father hailed a taxi, I caught a glimpse of Tom slouching away down the street by himself, his hands in the pockets of his shabby Muggle trousers and his head down, looking only at his own shoes. There was no sign of his school trunk; I'm not sure whether he even had one, or whether he just kept his Muggle things at that orphanage where he spent his holidays.
It was a grim old place, London, in that wartime summer. Everywhere there were bombed-out buildings, big office blocks and houses lying in chunky ruins, bomb craters full of dirty water, and everything rank with tall weeds. There were plenty of people about, but few smiling faces. Nearly everyone was on foot; the cab driver grumbled all the way that petrol rationing was killing his business. A tired-looking horse pulled a rag-and-bone-man's cart down Charing Cross Road, looking like he belonged on the cart himself. In the rubble of one shop, a woman was scrabbling in the mud, looking for something she'd lost: a treasured heirloom perhaps, or money, or a child. Whatever it was, it looked like it had been lost for quite a while. Our world could be so much kinder and brighter than this, I remember thinking, and not for the last time. Magic makes us richer and stronger than the Muggles -- but it also makes people like Tom Riddle.
We ate an unsatisfying dinner in the Leaky Cauldron, while we waited for it to get dark outside. The room was crowded with other Hogwarts families doing the same thing, but thankfully I didn't see anyone I knew well. My parents kept trying to talk to me, asking what I'd been up to at school, and whether Hagrid's monster had really disrupted the exams all that much, but I was able to avoid answering by pretending I was too tired to converse in the noisy atmosphere, and kept to my own thoughts instead. At last the twilight was deemed to have faded enough for us to go out into the back courtyard, mount our brooms, and take off for the journey home. That was one good effect of the war, at least: Muggles didn't inquire too closely after half-glimpsed aerial shapes. The occasional lunatic would try to shoot you down, but the rest tended to presume that if you weren't raining death upon them, you were on their side.
I remember finally being alone in my own bedroom, making a half-hearted late-night attempt at unpacking my trunk. Inevitably, one of the first possessions to come out was the golden flute. I held it in my hands and looked at it, and tried to make my fatigued brain decide what to do with it. Take some opportunity -- there would be plenty of them during the summer -- to pass it on to Bernard as Tom had ordered? Or defy Tom, and keep it? Either way, I was petrified with fear of what Tom might do, once he returned to Hogwarts where he was powerful.
All summer long, that flute stayed hidden in my trunk. It was as though the blasted thing was cursed: there was no-one I could show it to, not without starting a conversation leading to advice that -- whichever way it leaned -- I didn't want to hear. Especially not from my mother, or my father, or anyone else whose suggestions I might feel obliged to follow.
I'd never felt so alone; did I have no friends? Well, of course I did, just none that I could share this with. I found myself wishing the Bells hadn't gone abroad; then I'd have been able to visit Lavinia and pour out my dilemma to her. (The Knight Bus is a wonderful invention; you young people don't know how lucky you are to have it.) But that was a useless thing to want: I already knew Lavinia well enough to guess what she would have done, if it had been her Tom was threatening. She'd have gone straight to Dumbledore, and together they'd have denounced Tom and dared him to do his worst. The problem was, I just couldn't envision my own Head of House in quite the same role. Tom was already one of Professor Slughorn's favourites; what if Slughorn chose to believe his story instead of mine? Besides, daring someone to do their worst isn't half so easy once you have a vivid notion of just what their worst might be.
I tried Tuck again, once. Early one morning when no-one else was about, I found him at the bottom of the garden, dancing in circles with a dead frog in his beak, as if to admire his breakfast before he consumed it. I seized the opportunity.
–Look here, Tuck. It's about time I decided what to do with this flute thing. Bernard and his parents'll be here on Saturday for dinner; that'll be the time to give it to him, if I'm ever going to. He'll pass it on to Riddle -- I know I can rely on Bernard for that part, he'd do anything Tom told him to -- and with any luck that'll be the end of it.â€
Tuck put his head on one side, waiting.
–But Tuck, what am I letting Tom get away with? He knows that pipe can be used to control all kinds of dangerous beasts. Tom's clever, and he reads a lot. He'll work out how to play the thing -- it can't be that hard, I almost did it myself -- and what will he do with it then?â€
Tuck pecked out a choice portion of the frog's anatomy, and swallowed it visibly.
–Exactly! I wouldn't mind if Tom just wanted it to play some prank on the Gryffindors or something -- but it's more than that he's after, it's murder! Remember how he talked after he -- after Zinn died?†Tuck didn't remember, of course, he hadn't been there, but I certainly did. –And whose death would serve him best of all just now?†Mine, I was going to add, but the word stuck in my throat.
–Death!†croaked Tuck solemnly. –He's coming, coming!†He picked up the remains of the frog in his beak, and took refuge on a high branch of an overhanging elm tree.
The meaning of Tuck's warning became clear a moment later. –Whose death is that, then?†murmured a cold sensation as it passed through me. –Not that it matters. We are all going to die, except for those of us who have died already, of course.†I recognised the melancholy voice of Claude Avery, an ancestor of mine who successfully placed himself on the winning side of the English Civil War, only to be eviscerated on a battlefield for his pains. The pale outline of his ghost rippled the cool morning air in front of me, as he gloomily continued: –Are we deciding who is to die now? I could help. I do have two hundred and ninety-nine years of experience in that line, after all.â€
–Happy deathday, Claude,†I said mechanically, taking the hint. –It's not a matter of who, so much as... Oh, I suppose it can't hurt to tell you.†Before I knew it, I was spilling the whole story to him. It wasn't a wholly bad move: if one must seek counsel from ghosts (which I don't advise, in general) Claude is about as suitable as any, considering the number of murderous villains he's dealt with in (and after) his time.
–Well,†he mused when he'd heard it all, –I see. It seems, young Beatrice, that your position is both perilous and propitious.†He hugged himself, holding his ectoplasmic form together as a gust of wind blew through it. –Your life is in jeopardy, no doubt, and that is no small thing.†He sighed abstractedly. –Howsoever, had the point been mooted around the Slytherin common room in my day, every young blade there would have concurred on the answer. This Mr. Riddle is the brightest wizard of his generation, and destined for great things, that is clear enough. You have his secrets -- some of them, at least, I don't doubt there are more -- and with them, a chance at gaining his trust. Here is your opportunity to get close to him, to become his friend and confidante, to share in his rise to power. In time, perhaps even -- how fortunate you are to be young and female -- to become his wife! Had you considered that?â€
I hadn't, but the considering didn't take long. –I despise Tom. I didn't like him much before; now that I've seen how horrible he really is, I wouldn't want to be his friend, let alone -- anything more. I'd rather be his mortal enemy.â€
–So you have your answer.†The breath that had once animated Claude seemed to come sighing out of him. –Alas, the living do not value their lives enough, on the whole. Whatever would your father say, if he heard you spurning such a chance?â€
–Probably that I'm not much of a witch, and that I listen too much to Winston Churchill.â€
–Who?â€
–The Muggle Prime Minister. Father detests him, but Mother thinks he's rather inspiring.â€
–Hmph. So was Oliver Cromwell, and look where backing him got me.†Claude relaxed his self-embrace, allowing some of his innards to leak out beneath the great-coat in which he'd been slain. –Keep your distance from bold and charismatic leaders, that's my advice. Nine times out of ten, the only ends they serve are their own.â€
–Even Tom Riddle?†I smiled at him, something he didn't like very much.
–Suit yourself. If you feel so strongly about your young rising star, what do you need me for?†He huffed off through the back fence, leaving me no wiser than before. Tuck decided to chase him, and launched himself into the air, croaking harshly. In the silence they left behind, I sat back and stared at the puffy white clouds decorating the blue sky, wondering what Tom Riddle was doing at that moment. It was quite hard to imagine him mooching about London, pretending to be a fatherless Muggle boy.
So I vacillated the summer away. Some mornings, I woke and swore to myself I'd stand up to Tom; others, I quietly accepted that he would just have to be given what he wanted. But mostly, I didn't know what to do. My aunt and uncle Avery, and Bernard, came to visit several times, and Bernard gave me quizzical looks across the dinner table. But I pretended not to notice them, and made good and sure that he and I were never alone together.
One cloudy morning, an owl dropped in with my exam results. That was something to be pleased about, at least: I'd done as well as expected in every subject, and better in some. My parents congratulated me on Excellents in Charms and History of Magic, but it was the passing grade in Professor Dumbledore's subject that most delighted (and astonished) me. An Average, or whatever it's called nowadays, might not seem remarkable to you, but Transfiguration was difficult in my day. I resolved on the spot that I would try harder at it.
Then, suddenly, it was the last afternoon of the holidays, and I was back in my bedroom clearing the rubbish out of my school trunk to make space for new books. For at least half an hour I sat on my bed, holding the golden flute in both hands, pondering. It occurred to me for the first time then that I could just not pack it. Leave it behind. Tom couldn't take it off me if I hadn't got it, and whatever evil he was planning would be thwarted without my actively having to do anything. But in the end, it went back in the trunk, hidden at the bottom. I told myself that if I left the flute at home, my parents would probably discover it, and it was easier to be afraid of that than of Tom Riddle.