The Mask of Sanity
By Somigliana
If Tom Riddle had lingered in the Owlery, he might have seen a dark streak of leather and bones plummet from the clouds to snatch the unfortunate owl from the sky, sending a puff of feathers and his missive spiralling down towards the castle.
He might have heard the bellow of consternation from an overlarge young Gryffindor: "No, Fandango! Yeh're not supposed ter eat the school owls!"
As it was, all the supremely confident Tom Riddle heard was his own humming — an eerie tune drifting on sinister notes up the stairwell.
The letter rode on the winter wind amidst the soaring turrets of the castle before it banked sharply on an icy updraft and floated into a window.
Minerva sighed as she repaired another battered suit of armour with a weary wave of her wand. The air smelt of dust and blood and dark magic. It nauseated her, but she persevered, as did the house-elves, Ministry employees and volunteers who were repairing the damage to Hogwarts.
A house-elf appeared as she turned to the next task. "Headmistress? Manny is finding this in the stones. It is having the Headmistress' name on it."
Minerva frowned but accepted the dusty envelope with a curt, "Thank you, Manny."
The writing was faded by time but unmistakable. Minerva put a hand to her heart and turned deathly pale. The envelope shook in her age-spotted hand, and she pressed her lips into a tight, downturned line. Perhaps she should Incendio the note — and her long-buried memories — to grey-white ash. It would be appropriate, here where the author had withered and died.
But instead, she slid her finger under the flap, opening the past. There was a time she'd have cherished this moment — the breathless anticipation before tearing the envelope open and drinking in the beauty of each lovingly curved letter, each carefully crafted word.
But now her nostrils flared as she unfolded the parchment and began to read lines upon lines of lies.
To my darling Minerva,
I am so pleased that you liked your Christmas gift. Wear my heart upon your wrist, and it shall always be yours, my love. I see that you know my heart — wherever did you find the tome about the Founders? I had thought it to be long out of print and present only in the most exclusive and magnificent collections. I cannot read it fast enough! Enjoy Christmas with your family. I would that you were here with me, but I grudgingly accept that I have to share you once in a while. Hogwarts is peaceful and empty. I have the library and the halls to myself, and I'm not at all forlorn, except when I think of you, love. Did you ask your grandfather about whether he truly is a descendent of Godric Gryffindor? I think it is fascinating and utterly exciting! Imagine the relics he might have inherited. Do be a dear and ask him — you know how such history delights and enthrals me. I count the minutes until your return. Always yours,
Marvolo
Minerva crumpled the parchment into a tiny ball, and she dropped her head in shame. She had been young, yes, but a fool not to have seen through Tom Riddle's mask of sanity to where the monster lay behind — a psychopath who had shattered a young witch's dreams.
Minerva walked quickly across the courtyard, sable hair streaming behind her in a flurry of wind. Each breath hung on the frosty air momentarily, and her cheeks were apple-red like her lips.
"Tom!" she called. Excited. The tall, lean figure ahead did not pause, so she ran towards him, almost skidding on the slippery stone. "Tom. There you are," she called as she reached him. "Worst of luck, love," she said as she drew level with his shoulder. "Turns out I'm not related to Godric after all." He stopped and turned to face her, holding up the book she'd bought him for Christmas. "I read that this morning, yes." Her smile faltered. His face was emotionless, his dark eyes devoid of the deep love she'd seen there these past months. "I have to go," he said, and his voice was high and cold — all the warmth and charm stripped away. The golden heart upon her charm bracelet lay cold against her wrist.
In her hand, the ball of paper burst into cerulean flames and crumbled to dust between her fingers. She turned back to repairing the damage Tom Riddle had done to her home.
Author's Notes: According to the HP lexicon, Tom Riddle was one year younger than Minerva McGonagall. The letter was sent in December 1942. Tom was a fifth-year, Minerva was a sixth-year, and Hagrid was a third-year. Hagrid was expelled in May 1943. At the time Tom Riddle wrote the letter, he was researching the Chamber of Secrets and Horcruxes, and he had an unhealthy interest in artefacts belonging to the Founders.
The most influential modern clinical description of psychopathy was provided by psychiatrist Hervey Cleckley in a famous work, The Mask of Sanity.
Fandango and Manny are references to the cult adventure game, Grim Fandango.
This was written for a challenge at romancingwizard.