Énigmes: Nox
Tom Riddle had never thought of
himself as "Voldemort." It
had always been intended as a sort of title, more than anything else, a way to
differentiate himself from his detested Muggle father, and later, when the
Death Eaters had begun to address him as 'master,' it was a way to
differentiate himself from them.
Mages the lot of them, with purebred pedigrees longer than their egos were
large, the sons and younger cousins of the boys Tom Riddle had attended
Hogwarts with, years before the fall of Grindelwald and of himself. He hated
them, hated their sniveling, their whines and protests, and how they prostrated
themselves before him, bending knee to their lord and ruler, whilst continually
plotting behind their masks about how to best rid themselves of him.
They'd never intended for him to return. Even Lucius, who above all the others,
he'd held close and informed of his secrets, Lucius to whom he'd entrusted the
diary that held his younger soul, even he had betrayed and abandoned his lord at
the first sign of peril.
Perhaps this was why he was so free with Cruciatus his first night back, and in
the weeks that followed. It might even have been the reason that he, half
desperate with hedonistic need, had selected of their sons and daughters those
to take and keep and form into an inner sanctum. Tom had thought the younger
set might have more strength than their parents, but this was not the case. If
anything, they were more cowed than their parents were, and they averted their
eyes when Tom entered the room, refused to meet his gaze when he spoke to them.
He hated them even more than he did their parents, and so, when he took them he
cared not for their cries of pain or pleasure, and sought only his own.
His latest was a pretty thing, the eldest Parkinson girl, Marie. She had a
younger sister; he'd vaguely remembered a mop of dark curls and screaming yelps
when the child had been presented to him back before his fall. Marie was
slight, and had her sister's dark hair and eyes, but she was cold and nervous
in bed. Maybe the sister would be warmer.
As if she could sense his thoughts, Marie shivered by his side. Tom ignored
her. She'd brought his attention back from his ruminations, and he cast his
eyes about the room, lazily taking in the twenty of so hooded figures that
lined the walls.
One of them stood slightly apart from the rest, the slow languid tones he
employed identifying him even more than the slight curls of silver hair that
had escaped cloak and mask. Lucius always was a bore. Tom sneered at him, and
Lucius quelled, falling silent in his report on the activities of the
Mugglelover that they called a headmaster at their old alma mater.
Tom glanced about, the room completely silent now save for the shifting of feet
and rustle of fabric over nervous frames. Everywhere he looked, faces turned
just slightly down or away, looking over his shoulder instead of his face,
refusing to meet him stare for stare as he desired. Not for the first time, he
regretted the decision to employ masks as a standard part of the uniform.
The new recruits stood behind their parents, and it was there that his gaze
fell next. Their faces were visible, having not earned the right to wear the
full mask or mark of the true devotee as of yet. Marie's sister was there,
somewhere, and he peered about for her. It didn't take long to find the girl;
the Parkinsons all shared the same unfortunate pug nose. Her hair was short,
but she was pretty enough as well.
He raised an eyebrow; the girl, Gloria or Petunia or some other ridiculous
flowery Victorian name, was clutching one hand on the robe of a boy. He didn't
seem in the least concerned that he'd just attracted the attention of his dread
lord and master. Instead he seemed to have fixed his entire concentration on attempting
to remove Petty's –Pansy's, that was it- hand. He was failing
miserably, and the look of sheer vexation on the boy's face was a delight to
behold.
It had been ages since he'd seen any emotion on a follower save for fear or
pain, and Tom found himself...interested...for lack of a better term.
Pansy had noticed the attention on them, and paled. Everyone seemed to have
noticed where Tom was staring, save for the boy himself, and it wasn't until
the girl, panic stricken, whispered fiercely "He's staring at you!"
that he deemed to look up.
The boy met Tom's eyes without hesitation. If anything, he seemed irritated
that he was being pulled from his activities. They were grey, and now that he
was facing towards the front of the room, Tom could see silvery hair floating
to the nape of his neck.
This was Lucius' boy, he realized, and found himself intrigued. He'd barely
been a year old the last time Tom had seen him, but he had to be seventeen at
least now. He remembered the boy being presented, a pale scrawny thing that no
one had expected to live past his first year, and he remained in many ways the
same. That same pale skin, that same small frame and pointed, Elvin chin, the
same cloud of moonlight hair. The only thing that seemed to have actually changed
were the eyes; the baby Tom remembered had the blue eyes of his mother, not a
set identical to his father's.
Those eyes were still watching him, that pointed face turned to one side, one
hand still idly trying to remove that of the Pansy girl. A smooth eyebrow rose,
a silent query regarding the nature of Tom's stare, then just as suddenly, he
dismissed Tom and returned to the task of getting rid of Parkinson.
Tom heard the shocked gasps of the Death Eaters surrounding them, astounded by
this lack of respect, but for the time being, ignored them.
That arrogant little bastard.
Tom felt himself laughing at this, thrilled at this smarmy brat who dared to
look him in the face. The boy didn't look up at this, but out of the corner of
his eye, Tom could see Lucius stirring uneasily. Afraid of what might befell
his spoiled son, is he? Tom thought, still rather amused. He should be.
Marie tensed under his hand when he stretched it forth to stroke at her curls.
Under his fingers, they felt rough and coarse, and he found himself wondering
what silken straight strands would feel like, and whether smooth, pale skin
would flinch away from his touch, as all the others did, and just what it would
take to cause those grey eyes to avert themselves out of fear and not
dismissal. He wasn't entirely certain.
He intended to find out.
***
Maybe to be continued. Currently a oneshot deal. Hopefully enjoyable, regardless.
October 5, 2002