AN: All thanks to clifjumpr13 for this one. My own quest for the "noble villain" of the Harry Potter books. Perhaps trying to find the hero or at least normal boy in Tom Marvolo Riddle. The character is entirely made up by me. The world is not, of course, and I make no money from this so don't sue me. Please excuse this, my first foray into the vast world of Harry Potter fanfic, if it is in any way not up to par, and also excuse any lapses in the accuracy of information because I have not read the books in too long.
I am the cruel, the evil, the Death Eater. I chose to be so. Do not start, and flinch back, and expect your end. I will not kill you, because Master has not ordered it. Master, yes, we call him simply Master. But he was once different, was once simply Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom, my one good friend. It was for Tom that I joined the Death Eaters, not for Lord Voldemort and certainly not for my own ambition. Salazar of the Sorting Hat obviously believed I had some, but I have no ambition at all.
It was a foregone conclusion, always, that I would attend Hogwarts. My parents were a great witch and a great wizard; all my family has been wizarding and squibs are treated with utmost contempt. And in my 11th year I received the letter, packed up my new robes and family-heirloom cauldron, boarded the famed Hogwarts Express and was away.
It was, as I say, a foregone conclusion that I would go, and that I would be a great wizard, and that I would be a Slytherin. It turned out so, at least for two of the three. Tom claims that I am great, but I could not say. It was never assumed that I would be well liked by my classmates, and I was not. I was rather suspected from the first, and I suppose Tom's protection of me marked me somehow. I had a natural aptitude for the darker arts, and an avid curiosity for all things. Mostly, I let others ask my questions in classes, for I was self-conscious and shy of my voice. But no one asked about the Dark Arts, so what I wanted to know I had to ask for myself. Rumors of this got around, of course, and even the teachers began to keep an eye on me. I, and they too, I suppose, know now that they should've been watching Tom instead of me.
From my first day, Tom was my only friend. He and I were both reclusive and thus were stuck together on the Express; I held my peace and I think he admired me for it on the busily chattering train. He told me during our first year that he admired my bravery – I was the first to be Sorted, and he, not having known about Hogwarts from birth as I had, was afraid. We both were sorted Slytherin and we sat together among the loudly arrogant first years that were sorted with us, staring up at the older children who sneered at us. He began to snigger after a bit, and told me what was funny, and I laughed. He was laughing at nearly everyone in the hall, reading their characters from their mere expressions and telling me their hypocrisies and lies. I began to contribute, and found that we had a natural rapport: the ability to see the truth about people and their lies, and the blunt desire for truth that led us to mock them.
In those days, Hogwarts was a very happy place, and very full of lies. I suppose it is even now, especially with the terror of Master withdrawn. It was a place of celebration and blindness and undying arrogance that masqueraded as pity for the dumb Muggles. Tom and I both contemned the Muggles, but we were honest about it, did not pretend to want to make their lives easier and did not study them like animals. The administration of the school believed themselves so powerful, too, so untouchable and perfect. It was our solemn belief that they needed to be taken down several pegs, and I still believe that they needed the shock.
The exception was a relatively young teacher, an adamant Gryffindor who taught us Transfiguration. He believed that there was more to each of us than anyone thought, and I think only he didn't believe the rumors about me. All of us looked up to him, respected him, even hero-worshipped him in some contemptible cases. Even Tom respected him, but this provoked Tom somehow. Tom was of the mindset that if an institution is contemptible, then all the people of it must be, and so it was as though this well-meaning, perceptive teacher was a threat to what Tom thought and thus to Tom himself. It is for that as much as anything that Tom hates him still, and fears him, and cannot bring himself to attack. I think I am the only one who understands all this about him; the rest of the world leaves it at the fear, and is too glad of that respite to question it.
No one even saw the hatred at the time. That was the great skill of Tom that I did not have: the skill of not only reading people but of foiling other people's attempts to read him. He was a liar of great skill, and he could put on an act of exceeding gentlemanliness so that no one questioned him at all. He got up to all sorts of things, dangerous things, and even I never knew unless he wanted me to. Mostly he did tell me, though I cannot even be sure of that. Master keeps his secrets well in these days, and it makes me doubt how much I knew then. Today, I know that I know nothing of what he secretly intends, or what he does that does not take my help. This frightens me, terrifies me, appalls me, but I have put my trust in the boy who befriended me. Tom Marvolo Riddle is still there under the Voldemort mask, and I believe that if there is naught but evil in the world, then it is the evil of Tom, who has been so true to me though he is a liar to the world, that I will follow.