Hello hello (:
This is my Tom/Minerva ficlet, based on the one-shot called 'I don't smile, Mr. Riddle, not for you'. It's sort of the background story for all that... I appreciate reviews and constructive comments, but the story is already finished. I wrote it about a year and a bit ago, so I don't think I'll actually be changing a lot of stuff. But the sequel only has one chapter written. Maybe one day I'll finish it. :\
Anyway. ENJOY!
The crowd roared thunderously as Minerva raced ahead, urging her broom to catch up with the speeding Slytherin Chaser. With her hair pulled back in a restricted bun, she hurled through the air, successfully snatching away the Quaffle at last.
"Don't just sit there being smug!" Ruben Fletch, her captain, shouted, motioning toward the Slytherin rings, "Go! Go! Go! Go!"
She took off across the pitch, dodging a few opposing players and making some random passes to keep the other team confused. However, in the end, it was Minerva McGonagall, Gryffindor Chaser, that scored the point. A victory lap around the field, accompanied by her fellow Chasers, was necessary, and when they fell back into the game, Slytherin was once again in possession of the Quaffle. Letting out a frustrated groan, she held back this time, letting her other two teammates, Hector and Zachary, take the spotlight this time. They enjoyed it so much more then she did; Minerva played for the rush.
She weaved between two of the Slytherin Beaters, narrowing avoiding getting a Bludger to the head as she flew past the teachers' stand, then felt something by her ear. A humming noise echoed inside, and she swatted at what appeared to be a bothersome little fly. But, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a pair of golden wings fluttering delicately with lightning speed.
The Snitch!
She called for the team's Seeker, Elizabeth O'Harris, and pointed to the glittering ball that was flying around her head, obviously enjoying a world all to its own. The blonde nodded and flung herself into action, racing toward Minerva with frightening speed. Despite her best efforts, the Slytherin Seeker had beat her to it.
"Stand aside, McGonagall," Tom Riddle sneered, swooping around her and diving in for the Snitch whenever he got the chance, "Takes people with skill to handle the Snitch."
Her temper rising, Minerva swerved out and slammed herself into the fifth year boy, wincing at the harsh contact their shoulders made. While she could just barely tolerate the arrogant snot, he was a bloody good Quidditch player, and needed to be held off for as long as Elizabeth needed to capture the prize.
"Feisty today?" Tom laughed, his laughter coming out as more of a bark than anything, "Come now, no need for that."
"Piss off, Riddle!"
"Language, language..."
He ducked under her as she tried to hold him away from the Snitch, then zoomed off after Elizabeth, who was in hot pursuit of the little golden ball. It didn't matter that Gryffindor was finally leading seventy to ten; if Riddle caught the Snitch, the game was over.
Before she had even finished the thought, the game was over. Tom had shoved Elizabeth out of the way, and unfortunately she lost control of her broom, and ended up slamming into the side of one of the stands. The medical nurses were out in a mad rush to see if she was all right, and while Minerva thought it would have been kinder if she cared more about her fallen comrade, her only thoughts were on their defeat against Slytherin. This was the third time that season, after the winter holidays, that they had lost against Slytherin. It was now Slytherin and Hufflepuff in the lead, leaving Gryffindor and Ravenclaw to battle it out for one of lower places in the grand scheme of things.
Minerva McGonagall was not a delicate girl, which was her main reason for trying out for the house team. She enjoyed the roughness of playing sports almost as much as she enjoyed her lessons. She was a brilliant young woman, her grades some of the highest in her year, and her plethora of friends outstanding. It was a goal of hers to have a friend in almost every house, even Slytherin. That hadn't exactly been working out, but she would still try from time to time.
Standing about five feet seven inches off the ground, she was an average girl of sixteen, with lengthy raven black hair, small eyes and thin lips. Keeping fit during training sessions managed to work off the baby fat many girls in her year were still clinging to, though she wasn't particularly large in the chest reason. A modest B cup, if one could call it that, was all she really needed anyway. It was easier to get things done with the boys in her classes if they weren't staring down her shirt, desperate to get a glimpse of something. It's not as though they hadn't tried yet; it just didn't happen very often.
Her passion within Hogwarts was Transfigurations, so much so that she would stay with Professor Dumbledore for hours on end on a Saturday night, just to discuss the likelihood of new spells and movements of the past. Many of her friends called her insane to just sit around with a teacher when she could be out enjoying the teenage life, but to that she merely replied that life isn't always going to be this easy, and one needs to learn how to survive in it at an early age.
Her temper was shorter than she would have liked to admit, and when she was in a snit over something, usually something insignificant, her friends made note to steer clear of her until she had blown off some steam, which would take days. It's not like she minded, really; at least they understood her enough to know how to handle her violent temper.
With an English mother who was always working, and a Scottish father who liked to drink in their basement of their Yorkshire home, Minerva had a mix of both in her. While her accent was generally English, there were times that hints of a Scot would slip out, usually when she was speaking at rapid speeds, and her friends would poke fun at her whenever they could get the chance. Sometimes she would lay on a thick accent, just to entertain people; it was always nice to make people laugh, but only when appropriate.
"Captains... I want you to shake hands," Madame Flint, the flying instructor, ordered, standing firmly between the two house teams with her hands on her hips, "It was a good game... Only one injury."
"Two if you count the Gryffindor ego," Tom piped up, his teammates snorting as Madame Flint beamed at him. She had always favoured the Slytherins, being a former house member herself, and Minerva was sure the woman would say Slytherin won even if they lost miserably.
Ruben stepped up, grasping Albert Goyle's hand awkwardly, both looking as though they wanted to break each other's bone before letting go. Goyle was a big bloke; he probably could break something if he tried hard enough.
"Wonderful," Madame Flint boomed, clasping both boys on the shoulders, "Now hit the showers, all of you."
Minerva turned away, noticing immediately the absence of the only other girl on her team. Showering in a communal change room was irritating. It wasn't as though the boys on her team were pigs and wanted to have a look every two seconds, but there had been moments where Elizabeth and Minerva were forced to hex one of the nosy buggers into some form of strange frog just to teach them a lesson.
"Was a nice try, McGonagall, very valiant," Tom Riddle snorted as the two teams walked back towards the shower area, "I'm sure it'll just take some time for the Gryffindor team to build up the real skill to beat the Slytherins-"
"Piss off, Riddle," Minerva snarled, turning toward him so suddenly he almost walked into her, "Unless you want me to change you into a bloody newt, which I'll do in front of everyone, I'd suggest you bugger off and go have your nancy time with your boys in the showers."
Her teammates sniggered at the stunned Slytherin as Minerva stalked off toward the showers, deciding she may as well grab her clothes and just change up in the dormitory.
"Don't let him get to you, Minerva," Ruben muttered, nudging her shoulder when he caught up to her, "He's just being a pest because he knows you have the temper to keep him entertained."
"You saying I've got a bad temper, Fletch?" Minerva demanded, shooting him a look. He shrugged, "What, you think you're some calm angel or something?"
"No... I don't think that," she admitted, "But I don't think it's that-"
"How can you finish that sentencing without laughing?" Hector inquired, patting her on the back as the entered the Gryffindor change rooms, "Nice game, McGonagall... We'll beat Ravenclaw for sure... It'll only be a matter of time before we play Slytherin again."
"True," Minerva sighed, knowing they were the better of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff teams, "But we've got a lot of training to do..."
"I'm going to ask Dumbledore to pencil us in a few more nights a week for practices," Ruben informed the team as the boys began removing their shirts, tossing them all into a pile for the house elves to collect later, "We'll be staying up later, and working harder, so I want all of you to make sure you're on top of your schoolwork. I don't want anyone missing anything. Understood?"
There was a clamour of complaining and comprehending grunts as Minerva gathered up her belongings and headed out of the change room, ignoring the call someone made for her to ask if she'd like to stay for the show.
Grinning, she opened the door briefly, shouting, "What show?"
There were a few insults flung back at her, but they were muffled behind the wooden door as she made her way back toward the castle in the evening air, the coolness of the breeze drying her sweaty skin properly. It wasn't a long walk back to the castle if one was to not use the path. It wound itself around so much that it was just easier to tromp right across the grass and flowers. However, Minerva didn't quite see the need to rush back to the Common Room, since there was never really going to be a victory party for the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
One of her shin guards suddenly slipped loose from her bundle of protection pads, and she bent over to pick it up, noting how stiff she was. There was definitely going to be some serious stretching that evening.
"Nice arse, McGonagall."
She straightened up hastily, her baggy sport jersey covering her backside in the tight leggings once again. With her eyes wide, she turned back to see Tom Riddle strolling through the flower bed, kicking a few of the white lilies as he went. Her eyes narrowed, "How dare you-"
"Don't be so uptight..." he laughed, swinging his broom over his shoulder as he walked past her, "I paid you a compliment."
"I don't quite need them from you."
"I thought you accepted charity from anyone, actually."
Before she could stop herself, she flung her shin guard forward, jaw dropping when it slammed into the back of Tom's head. He cursed loudly, then spun back to see what had hit him. In the meantime, Minerva stalked along the pathway, stopping when she was directly beside him, "I don't accept charity from the likes of you, Tom Riddle."
She turned away, quite happy with herself, then continued along the path toward the castle, the night air suddenly seeming so much fresher. Tom let out another barking laugh behind her, "Oh, McGonagall?"
She stopped, closing her eyes with annoyance and then whipping back, glaring at him, "What?!"
He raised her shin guard, holding it up with a thin finger, "I don't know... Thought you'd be wanting this?"
Colour flamed across her cheeks, and she was thankful it was getting dark enough for him to barely notice her embarrassment. Letting out a growl, she hastily retreated back to his spot, ripping her white shin guard off his finger before shooting him another vile glare. His bloody arrogant face was just irritating, and it stayed in her mind as she walked back on the trail.
"You know what?" he shouted after some time, causing her to look back, "Next time you bloody well hit me... I'm keeping what you throw!"
His figure was an easy target at the bottom of the slight slope, and Minerva hurled the shin guard back at him. He managed to duck just in time, unfortunately, but it would have hit him in the face if he hadn't. She sneered at him, "Consider it a gift."
Honestly, no one was more irritating then Tom Riddle. Not that Minerva hated him, as he could be civil when they were in class, but sporting events was when he really got to her. An attractive boy of fifteen, he was in his fifth year at Hogwarts, a Slytherin Prefect, and quite advanced for his age. He was already in several of Minerva's classes, usually topping them with her, and knew more about Dark Magic then a lot of the most progressed boys in her year.
Not that that was a good thing; the Dark arts ought not to be meddled with by some teenage boy. His physical aspects, to a lot of the girls, made up for his rather rude, blunt attitude that he only displayed when none of the teachers were around. Dark, wavy locks atop his head, and a pair of pleasant green eyes, Tom made the perfect poster-boy for Hogwarts. He had a group of friends, mostly Slytherin, that he hung around with, but whenever he was working Minerva noted he would rather study alone than in a group.
All of the teachers, minus her mentor Albus Dumbledore, found him pleasing to have in class. There was nothing wrong with his behavior toward Dumbledore, but apparently they had some history together before Tom joined the school, and that had left an impression on Dumbledore that he would never share with Minerva, no matter how many times she asked.
She had known the boy since he was eleven, and it was from that moment she knew something was different about him. Boys wanted to be like him, girls wanted to date him; there was this strange magnetism that no one could really explain about Tom Riddle. Even some of the Gryffindors wished they could be considered a companion. However, many of the Quidditch members thought very little of him, as he could be quite the cheat during a game.
As she sorted out her equipment in the dormitory, she noted with frustration that she didn't have an extra shin guard, which was what she had thought as she hurled it at Riddle's head nearly ten minutes ago. There were two routes she could take; she could either go ask him to give it back, or ask someone else if they had any. Unfortunately, Hogwarts was not into supplying the sports teams with gear, which meant everyone had to buy their own, and while not everyone on the team were paupers, they weren't brimming with enough money to buy excess Quidditch gear.
With her head hanging in defeat, Minerva hit the showers, knowing that she would have to confront Riddle at one point or another, and she would need to do it with all the dignity she had left.