Chapter Text
The year was getting off to a flying start.
The train platform was packed as parents and students milled about in a deafening cacophony. The younger students, with tears in their eyes, clung to their kin, while the older ones barely paused to say goodbye to their families before rushing off to meet up with their classmates and friends.
The hell of Willingale was now far behind Tom, and although he sometimes thought about it without really wanting to, he pushed his thoughts as far back in his head as possible, into a small dark corner, between his most secret dreams and his unspoken fears.
This year, the Slytherin had been privileged to be entrusted with the role of prefect, and as a result, he found himself responsible for ensuring the smooth running of all the students' boarding. Yes, he liked the idea of having more power than the others, of having a shiny badge on his chest telling everyone that he was better, that despite being an orphan, most likely of mixed blood, he was ultimately positively different from them. He hoped that thanks to this, the clouds above his head would clear, allowing him to finally get everything he was owed. Overcome by a rare wave of hope, he plastered on his face his best smile, half forced, half honest, and went around to meet the families and introduce himself. The task wasn't always pleasant, and many parents brushed his remarks off as if he were nothing more than a nuisance. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to it. He had seemed to be a nuisance to society his whole life, but like a parasite, he had held firm, and that wasn't going to change today. Without losing his smile, he apologised before resuming his presentation a little further on.
It was only when he was comforting his tenth child wearing an oversized uniform that the grey thoughts gradually returned. It was always like this; he could never keep them away for long. The words swirled faster and faster in his head, cruel, vile, and oh-so-scathing. His own mind betrayed him, as if it had been given its own conscience. It made him dizzy. Barely a few hours after his grand return, he was already struggling to keep his cool.
His smile was completely fake now, and he hated himself again. Why couldn't he control himself ? He could cast monstrously complex spells, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling sad ? Really, he didn't understand. He, who was so happy to be home again after so long, shouldn't have felt this way.
Finally, when the locomotive started moving, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to supervise the other students during the journey but simply attend the meeting organised by the seventh-year prefects. In a last-ditch effort, he listened carefully to the instructions and diligently wrote down the regulations and his schedule. He couldn't let his doubts ruin everything for good.
“To conclude this meeting, I'm going to tell you about the private rooms reserved for you. I'm sure you're all very happy with this arrangement, but don't get carried away; there are still rules, whether you live alone or with other people.”
The prefect of Ravenclaw House, with the most ridiculous name, Cassiopina Birndombuckle-Flicklean, fixed her muddy green gaze on her four interlocutors. Tom had already crossed paths with her several times in previous years while he was going to the library. Always surrounded by many people, the young girl constantly had a haughty look on her face that pinched her features in the strangest way.
“No parties in bedrooms. No noise, no illicit activities, no fires—we've already had accidents with that. As prefects, you must set an example, and that starts with your bedroom. A messy or dirty personal space reflects on its occupant, and we don't want that. I'd like to take this opportunity to remind you to always pay attention to your appearance. No wrinkled clothes or unkempt hair. Wash yourselves; be clean. In addition to our restrooms, a very relaxing bathroom is at our disposal; use it. You represent the values of the school. We are a harmonious and united whole, not mismatched and in disarray. Molkey, I'm making this little diatribe for you, so listen carefully. We are the poster boys and girls of the school, but also of England; we must be irreproachable both physically and intellectually. No mediocrity, no differences; the same discipline block. Have common sense. You are fifth years; you no longer have the luxury of making mistakes. Stand out for your excellence, not for your differences. Do you understand ?”
The fifth-years simply nodded. Tom was careful not to show how much that little screed had troubled him. No difference accepted. He already knew that, but hearing those words spoken so clearly out loud had made his stomach churn again. He was already ostracised because of his birth and his name; he didn't need to be mocked for anything else. A shiver ran through his body. If they really knew who he was and who he wanted to be, what would they do ? He allowed himself for a moment to accept the fact that he was afraid of this. Afraid of their reactions, afraid of losing what little he had, and afraid because he knew that this part of him was the most sensitive there was, and if it were to be hurt, he would never recover. His secret was as much hidden as it was protected. The only person who could make it disappear forever was Tom, and no one else.
He shook his head before frowning imperceptibly. Did this girl, who put on such high-flown airs, with her too-tight ponytail and her surly gaze, really think her nonexistent charisma gave her the right to behave like that and utter such words ? In any case, she had only earned Tom even more disdain. Nonetheless satisfied with herself, she had called the meeting to a close before disappearing, the other three prefects silently following her.
"Well, Fickle's not easy.”
“Shh! If she hears you call her that, she'll kill you.”
“You bet !” Molkey replied, running a hand through her short black hair. “This whole business about representing the school is all nonsense, blah, blah, blah... She didn't convince me.”
“I still wonder how you managed to get your badge. You're so... casual."
The young Hufflepuff eyed her interlocutor with a disapproving pout before quickly snatching his badge. Still as phlegmatic as ever, the brunette made no move to retrieve his possession, merely laughing and shaking his head.
"Is it real ? I can't believe it.”
“And yet I'm right here, in the flesh, sitting next to you, my dear..."
“Bergannis Brock,” declared the round-faced blonde.
“My dear Brock,” he finished before standing up. “I'm Valin Molkey.”
“I know. Everyone knows. You're quite famous.”
“Hmm,” he agreed somberly. “I suppose so.”
Silence returned to the carriage, the atmosphere suddenly cooler. Tom, who had never actually heard of the boy, gazed at the still-green landscape of the surrounding countryside. The trees were different from those he had seen in Willingale. Here, they seemed more beautiful, freer, stretching long from the sky to the grass dotted with meadow flowers. The few houses in the distance seemed welcoming, full of a picturesque charm, witnesses to peaceful and tranquil lives. Tom then tried to imagine what it was like to live in such a place, to watch nature evolve at its own pace, to be isolated from the rest of the world in a timeless bubble dictated only by the passing of the seasons, to have a real home. Of course, he was aware that living like this must greatly limit opportunities but was also rather disconcertingly attractive.
For a moment, his worries faded into the background, hidden behind a wooden fence roughly demarcating a plot of land in the center of which stood a pretty little stone house covered by creeping ivy.
"Anyway, I hope everything goes well for us," the Hufflepuff continued after a good fifteen minutes. "I also hope we'll have enough time to work on our own."
Tom reluctantly tore himself away from his contemplation, turning his tired gaze on Brock.
“I'm sure everything will be fine. We were chosen because we're up to the task.”
“Riddle's right, it will be fine,” Molkey said, fiddling with his red and gold tie. “Everyone else has succeeded before us, there's no reason we can't.”
“Well, that's easy for you to say. I need a lot of time to learn my lessons.”
“Because we don't ?”
“You're smarter than me; with you, it's natural, simpler.”
Tom rolled his eyes inwardly. This girl was clearly implying that she was the only one who needed to work to succeed in her studies. Still, the brunette was flattered to be seen as an incredibly gifted, sagacious, and competent boy, because after all, that was what he was, a natural talent nurtured by hours of additional research, a brilliant student who didn't mind spending time with his nose buried in dusty old books.
“We could always help each other, don't you think ?” she asked. “Riddle, Dincklay, everyone knows you're among the best.”
“Me too, just so you know.”
She paid no attention to the other boy, her black eyes fixed first on Tom, then on their fourth classmate, Fresia Dincklay, a Ravenclaw student and one of Tom's fiercest academic rivals. The latter gave Brock a disdainful look, pursing her lips that were painted with a shade of red that didn't suit her at all.
“Let's not build castles in the air; you might do very well. “No point planning ahead,” Dincklay said in her deep voice.
“I'd rather put all my chances on the right side. There's no way I'm failing my OWLs; my parents would kill me.”
“You'll just have to go see the sixth-year tutors; that's what they're there for.”
“I don't want to disturb them.”
“That's what they're there for,” she repeated slowly. “Have you looked at this year's curriculum ? Take a look at the content of future lessons ?”
Tom hid his smile behind his hand. He hated Fresia Dincklay with all his heart, but he had to admit that the young girl's barbs were always perfectly placed, punctuated by her Oxford accent and far-too-rapid diction. Opposite her, the blonde was gradually decomposing, her cheeks reddening as her stutters echoed through the carriage. If she'd been at all clever, she would have replied that she hadn't had time and would have invented things to do, but she wasn't like that.
"I didn't really think about it. That said, I've reviewed our fourth-year courses several times. My foundations are solid.”
“I see. So everything's fine."
Brock looked at Tom piteously, silently pleading for sympathy. He found himself caught between maintaining his facade of being at least somewhat kind and refusing any unnecessary interaction with the prefect. He sighed quietly before smiling warmly at her.
“If you start now, you'll have no trouble catching up.”
“But I'm not… Do you think I'm behind too ? Am I the only one here who hasn't started studying my fifth-year lessons ?
“I think so,” Tom announced, before looking questioningly at Molkey.
“I just skimmed through a few books. There's nothing to worry about, Brock, and above all, there's no point thinking about all this today. Let's just be happy to be going back to Hogwarts, okay ?”
“I can't do this ! I'm stressed out ! I'm starting work tomorrow ! Who's coming with me?”
Another heavy silence fell. Molkey was stamping his foot in embarrassment while Dincklay looked from one to the other, a slight smile on his lips. Tom already knew that she and her clique would never allow a girl like Brock to join their group. The blonde was too vapid, too loud, and obviously too stupid. No, the Ravenclaw could never bear to have such a mediocre spectacle before his muddy green eyes. While there had been a time when he would have taken advantage of this opportunity to hatch various plans to bring down his rival, now he preferred to stay away from her. A certain weariness mixed with a touch of annoyance had taken hold of him. While he could sometimes appreciate being stimulated by competition, facing someone like her, who only had to snap her fingers to have professors, specialists, rare books, and any resource in the world at her fingertips, he found himself completely demotivated. Was he jealous ? Certainly. He deserved access to so many more resources than she did. So many spells, potions, and objects he would never see… No, poor Tom had to make do with the lousy books in the library.
How easy it was to be the best when you had access to everything.
He was never enough.
The dark thoughts had now returned.
For the rest of the journey, he pretended to be asleep, steadfastly refusing to see the untouchable green nature and the surreal little houses outside.
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦
As all the students finally took their seats in the Great Hall, the infernal hubbub that had been growing steadily throughout the entire journey subsided, giving way to a very special anticipatory atmosphere. The teachers entered the stage one by one while timid applause echoed in the room. Tom was pleased to see the presence of Professor Slughorn, an opportunistic potionist who greatly appreciated the brunette and who was reliable most of the time. Unfortunately, following him was the young prefect's nemesis, the one who constantly put obstacles in his way, Albus Dumbledore. His blue eyes had no trouble finding Tom in the crowd, and for a brief moment, as they did every time this eye contact occurred, the Slytherin felt the man scratching at the door of his mind, in vain. He had blocked access to it a long time ago, ever since he realised that his teacher allowed himself to read his most secret thoughts and view his most shameful memories.
One day, he would make him pay for having looked down his nose at him, the poor orphaned thief and liar. Perhaps he would kill him, or perhaps he would lock him away somewhere and leave him to rot with only his deranged mind and his gouged eyes for company, never to violate the privacy of innocents again. As he contemplated all these possibilities, Tom vaguely heard Headmaster Dippet in the background warning the students about Grindelwald and his allies.
The brunette didn't care, or rather, he'd heard the same speech so often in recent years that he no longer felt the need to pretend to listen. He knew the consequences of the war, thank you very much. Sure, he was at Hogwarts most of the time, but when he came home during the holidays, he couldn't escape the horrific stories or nightmarish visions. He'd seen death, suffering, fear, and sadness. The warnings came far too late for him.
He looked at the candles floating gently in the air above the mass of students in black uniforms. A harmonious and united whole of which he was a part. Here and there, a few misfits, resisters who played the roles of cautionary tales. Enough to be noticed, not enough for anyone to envy them; their differences had never brought them together, and even in the least select houses, they found themselves lonely. In the end, Tom wasn't so different from them. He was alone, always had been, as much by obligation as by choice. Little by little, he had managed to carve out a decent place for himself among the snakes, but he had never gone so far as to make friends. The relationships were cordial, often self-interested, and sometimes motivated by something deeper, by fear or hatred. Often love or envy, but never on Tom’s side. He had cast his web, purely and simply, without any ties, motivated only by his survival and by his future, which he tried to build as much as possible.
Another look around the room. Tired eyes, mouths articulating discreet words, bodies again and again, and just as many minds. Tom didn't see comrades there; he didn't feel close to them; he was not like them. He began to try to understand how they managed to live like this. None of them seemed to question it; they just lived. The prefect still didn't get it. He'd never been spontaneous, preferring to calmly consider every plan, every action. It wasn't hard to know what to expect from others, and he knew his role by heart, having recited his lines many times until they were seared into his mind. When he didn't know how to respond, he opted for an ambiguous answer or a mysterious silence. So, when he saw his classmates hugging each other, putting a hand on each other's shoulder, surreptitiously leaning toward each other to utter a few mocking words against the headmaster, he wondered how they managed to act like that, without prior thought. No, spontaneity really wasn't his thing.
True to form, he applauded the arrival of the first years, as was the custom. He watched the little heads with their anxious faces, as he did every year, wondering, of course, as he always did, if he himself had been so small and so impressed upon his arrival. The ceremony went off without a hitch, as always, and a handful of little snakes joined their ranks. Tom greeted them, like the good prefect he now was, making sure to offer them some encouraging words to earn their admiration in return. It wasn't difficult. Everything was planned.
When a new, much taller student stepped up to the stage, everything suddenly collapsed. Headmaster Dippet's voice rang out again, and Tom cursed himself for letting his thoughts wander earlier in the evening.
“This is our long-awaited new student. I repeat: please give him a warm welcome. We are all lucky to have such a brave young man among us.”
It wasn't uncommon for new but older students to start Hogwarts later than expected. Everyone still remembered the tumultuous arrival of the Malfoy brothers two years ago. Yet, this student seemed different. As he sat on the stool in the centre of the dais, his green eyes swept across the snake table until they fell on Tom, and as the Sorting Hat was placed on his head, he whispered a few words quietly. The prefect then waited patiently for the inevitable to happen, unsure of what was truly going on but certain of the finality of things.
“Slytherin!”
It couldn't be otherwise, and as the boy approached the table, Tom straightened, ready to recite his usual greeting. When the other reached him, their hands clasped, and their eyes met, the dark-haired boy's world turned upside down again. He had been hated many times in his life, had been the victim of comments more odious than the last, and had seen hatred in the eyes of many of his interlocutors, but never had the loathing been as strong as it was in that moment. The boy's eyes were clear, perfectly reflecting a terrible mixture of disgust and hostility. The crass cruelty to which Tom had grown accustomed was nothing compared to this.
Suddenly, he felt as if he had been thrust into one of those terrible nightmares in which he suddenly found himself naked in the Great Hall, his ugly body scrutinised and mocked by everyone. Although he was still wearing his clothes, in the eyes of this stranger, he was horribly and irrevocably stripped bare.
"Harry Potter," the bespectacled boy declared, without letting go of Tom's hand.
"I am…" He cleared his throat. "I am the fifth-year prefect, Tom Riddle.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise."
He snatched his hand back as quickly as he could, his stomach in knots, his heart in his throat. He didn't care if people hated him, if he was detested, but this, what he had seen in the new boy's eyes, he couldn't get over that. He tried to compose himself by sitting up. He had to pull himself together and keep his marble mask firmly in place, not wanting to risk being devoured by the members of his house. No weakness was allowed, no misstep.
The banquet then raged on, without Tom managing to swallow anything, without him managing to forget the presence of the boy with the too-green eyes sitting not far from him.
The united block, the newcomer, and him.