Riddled With Darkness
Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, and other names and characters are the sole property of J.K. Rowling, except of course for those that are mine…
What I am about to tell you is not meant to win me fame and fortune. After all, I am certain that many will read this account and think that I am just some crazy old woman out to scrounge up a little attention by saying that she knew the infamous Lord Voldemort way back when. Well, they will be wrong. Of course, I am an old lady, but I am no crazier than anyone else, and to tell you the truth, I am not exactly keen on the idea of sharing this information with you. But, I have decided that my good reputation is not as important as telling the truth. And the truth is, reader, that the wizard you call Voldemort was just a person. Just like the rest of us…
I remember the first time I saw Tom, in the fall of 1942. I remember feeling… an affinity with him. It was something about the way the sadness in his dark eyes contrasted with the playfulness of his smirk. Yes, his face always did seem a jumble of expressions, but they arranged themselves in a very flattering way, I thought. After all, not every boy of sixteen could successfully pull off such a mosaic of moods.
I was a transfer student in the sixth year, newly arrived from Beauxbatons. I arrived at Hogwarts several weeks into the semester, and was privately sorted in Headmaster Dippet's office. Gryffindor. I wasn't quite sure at the time whether being placed in Gryffindor was a good or a bad thing. After all, I had never heard of it. The only House from Hogwarts whose reputation had ever drifted as far as Beauxbatons was Slytherin. And it just so happened that, at the time of my arrival, the Gryffindors and Slytherins were gathered together in the dungeons for a Potions lesson.
Professor Dumbledore, the Transfiguration teacher, was kind enough to lead me down the dim, musty passageways to the dungeons. Upon entering the classroom, he cleared his throat and all heads turned in our direction. "Pardon the interruption, Professor Slughorn, but I would like to introduce your new student. This is Amelie Delacroix, and she has just arrived from Beauxbatons."
Professor Slughorn, who was an enormous, jovial fellow, nodded and beckoned me to find a seat. "Welcome, Ms. Delacroix," he said warmly. Professor Dumbledore bowed his exit, and I took a seat near the back of the class. "As I was saying, Veritaserum is a powerful potion, and one that is illegal in most countries. Therefore, we will be experimenting with its less-potent cousin, Candoriae." As Slughorn continued to diagram the properties of the simple Candoriae potion, I discreetly surveyed my classmates.
The only distinction between Houses among the sea of black robes was a small crest on the breast of each student. Most of the crimson crests were seated to my left, while the green crests of the Slytherins were to my right. There was a tangible tension in the air, and I knew immediately that these particular Houses were not the best of friends. Several curious glances were cast in my direction, as is to be expected when a new student is introduced to the class, especially a foreigner.
Finally, Slughorn finished his droning lecture and instructed the class to pair up in order to practice brewing the Candoriae potion. I looked around nervously as everyone began pairing up. The remainder of unpaired students was quickly dwindling, and as I didn't know a soul, I feared I would be without a partner for the exercise. Slughorn, however came to my rescue.
"Tom," he said over the bustling of the class, "please partner with Ms. Delacroix. I think you are able enough to get her caught up on the things she has missed."
I frowned at Professor Slughorn's assumption that I was sub par in my knowledge of Potions. A tall boy with a green crest on his robes made his way through the maze of tables and chairs to where I sat. I looked up at him and was taken slightly aback by the deep sadness that emanated from his eyes.
He sat next to me and nodded. "I'm Tom," he said, his voice soft and unassuming, "Tom Riddle." He flashed me a smile that bore none of the pain from his eyes. I smiled back and introduced myself in perfect English.
"Well, then," Tom said, "I suppose we should go over the basics, first, since you missed the first few weeks of class."
"It is not necessary," I told him. "I know the Candoriae potion very well. We covered it last year at Beauxbatons." At this news, Tom's left eyebrow rose slightly and he cleared his throat.
"Very well, then, let's get started, shall we?" he said. We went to work, measuring and mixing foul-smelling ingredients into our cauldron. The fumes from the potion curled their way into the air and hung over our heads like a yellow cloud. All around us, the rest of the class were fumbling with the recipe. A cauldron in a far corner of the room had begun to melt, while somewhere nearby a small explosion sounded as a chubby Gryffindor boy added too much powdered salamander tail.
It didn't take long for Tom and I to complete our potion. We sat back and watched amusedly as much of the class failed the assignment miserably. Professor Slughorn announced over the talking of the students that we were to each take a small drink of the potion and take turns asking each other the questions he had written on the chalkboard.
"And stick only to these questions," he threatened, "or you'll find yourselves in detention for a week. And that is the truth." Chuckling at his feeble joke, Slughhorn began pacing the classroom, stopping now and then to berate students for butchering the delicate recipe.
"Well, shall we give it a go, then?" Tom asked, gesturing toward our simmering cauldron. I nodded, and we each tasted a spoonful of the thickish yellow brew. It tasted terrible at first, but after a moment it began to have a sweetness to it. We must have done it correctly, for I felt utterly unaffected by it.
"Ladies, first," Tom said. "Ask away."
I looked at the board and read the first question: "Are you wearing dirty socks?"
"Absolutely," he blurted, before giving a short laugh. "Well, looks like it's working. Okay, now I'll ask you a question…" He looked up at the chalkboard and then back at me. "How often do you floss your teeth?"
"Almost never," I said. It was a strange sensation. Not that I was all that embarrassed by the fact that my flossing habits left much to be desired, but it was as though the words leapt from my throat without first obtaining permission from my brain. We both chuckled. I looked at the board, preparing to ask Tom the next question, when he beat me to it.
"What House are you in?" he asked. I did not yet have a set of red-crest-emblazoned school robes.
Before my mind even had time to fully register the question, my mouth blurted, "Gryffindor."
"Oh," Tom said. His face fell for an instant, but then a smirk crossed his thin lips. "I'm sorry. Terrible House, Gryffindor." Not a moment after he uttered those words, his eyes widened slightly. It was obvious that, under normal circumstances, he would have kept his thoughts about Gryffindor to himself, but the Candoriae potion would allow no secrecy.
"And why is that?" I asked, completely disregarding the fact that our truthful conversation had digressed from the set of questions on the chalkboard. Tom seemed to struggle against the effects of the potion for a moment, before he blurted his answer.
"Because Gryffindors are a bunch of meddling know-it-alls," he said.
"Are you calling me a 'meddling know-it-all'?" I demanded, my short fuse rapidly burning.
"Yes."
"Well! I think you're extremely rude! And your feet are ridiculously large!" This time it was my eyes that widened. I was appalled at myself for having said such a thing.
"Ah, now who's being rude?" Tom taunted, subconsciously pulling his feet underneath the hem of his long robes. "I thought the French were all about manners!"
"Excusez-moi?" I could feel my face turning red. A little voice somewhere in the back of my head was trying desperately to remind me that it was just the potion causing all this trouble, but the fact that the Candoriae potion was forcing the truth out of Tom's mouth seemed to silence the little voice altogether.
"You heard me," Tom said, his voice even and calm, without a hint of anger. "The French are smelly, pompous morons, everyone knows that."
My jaw dropped and I could feel the stinging of tears at the corners of my eyes. I stood up, my hands balled into fists. "Putain d'gros boudin!" I shouted at him, before hurrying out of the classroom. Out in the dank dungeon corridor, I leaned against the wall and allowed myself to cry, my hands over my face. A powerful wave of homesickness washed over me, and I wanted more than anything to be back in France, at school with my friends at Beauxbatons.
A few minutes later, I heard tentative footsteps emerge from the Potions classroom and head my way. I didn't look up, but I could feel someone standing rather close to me. "Amelie?" came Tom's voice. I didn't look at him. "Amelie, here, drink this."
Wiping the stray tears off of my cheeks, I reluctantly looked up at him. He was holding a small vial of swirling red liquid. "What is it?" I asked, looking him sharply in the eye.
"The antidote to the Candoriae potion," he said seriously. "I already took some." He nodded his head reassuringly and handed me the vial. Putting the glass to my lips, I allowed the acidic antidote to slide down my throat, rather like taking a shot of a nasty liquor. I coughed and sputtered a little, and wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve.
Tom smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry about what happened in there," he said. "I never would have said those things if it weren't for the potion, even if you are a Gryffindor." His smile broadened, as though he thought his comment about my being in Gryffindor would lighten the mood.
I folded my arms. "That potion did nothing but force you to speak your mind. So now I know exactly what you think of me."
Tom frowned and heaved a great sigh. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot," he said. "And speaking of feet, you said some pretty nasty things yourself in there. Pity I don't speak French. What exactly did you say to me before you stormed out?" Now his boyish smirk returned and I allowed myself to grin a little.
"Nothing," I said. "You don't want to know."
He shrugged. "Shall we call it a truce, then?" he asked. I nodded and took his outstretched hand. He chuckled a little as we shook on our truce. "You know," he said, "I never thought I'd see the day when I'd shake hands with a Gryffindor."