1936
Tom Riddle didn't particularly like London.
It was perpetually crowded, for one. If it wasn't fellow commuters pressing on you from all sides in the Tube, then it was frazzled businessmen bumping and brushing past you without so much as a glance. Worse still were the gawking tourists, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the sights and giggling at the accents.
It couldn't be helped, of course. A city like this, beautiful and bustling with life, was always going to have people. Tom normally didn't mind, but hours spent stuck in meetings and listening to his colleagues drone on about numbers and stocks and whatnot, can drain the patience of even the most long-suffering of men. The sight of so many people only made him — irrationally, he knew — more irritable than he already was.
The weather certainly didn't help his mood. Cecilia used to joke that the London weather was as predictably unpredictable as his temper, mild and sunny one minute and gloomy and overcast the next.
Used to being the operative words. Tom quickly shook the thought away.
Just mere hours ago, it had seemed like a perfect summer day — clear skies, shining sun, the works. So perfect, in fact, that Tom had been gracious enough to send his chauffeur home. He had thought, incorrectly, that he would be able to enjoy the sunlight after work, that he would get a chance to relax outside his parents' watchful and paranoid eyes.
What a mistake that was.
But it was June, for pity's sake. There weren't supposed to be downpours like this in the middle of summer. Some drizzle, maybe, but this? This was the type of weather when drinking tea and reading by the fireplace were the only acceptable activities for the day. It wasn't for waiting under a bus stop, wearing drenched socks and trousers wet at the ankles.
The rain wasn't letting up, and it didn't look like it would anytime soon. It hammered noisily on the roof overhead, forming rapidly flowing streams once it reached the pavement. Almost everyone had been driven off the streets, though Tom could spot a few pedestrians braving the wind with their umbrellas and sodden newspapers.
He glanced at his watch again.
The bus was late. Because of course it would be, on the one day Tom needed to use it.
Sighing, he sat down on the damp seat and wished, not for the first time, that he hadn't gone to the city in the first place.
Not that anything could be done about that either. Father, according to him, was getting on in the years and wasn't fit to travel from Yorkshire so often. Such deprecating comments were just blatant attempts to get Tom out of the manor, but Mother had been so pleased when he had agreed to go in his father's place that Tom had been unable to say no ever since.
As inconvenient as it was, he felt it was the least he could do. Ever since the . . . the Incident — Christ, he could hear the capital letter in his head — his parents had watched him like a hawk, fretting over every little thing he did and said. They still walked on eggshells around him, never mind that a decade had already passed, and acted like his occasional sullenness was a precursor to another rebellious phase, as they called it. It eased their worries whenever he played at being a responsible adult, when he talked business and wore suits and pretended he knew what he was doing with their bloody company.
A car zoomed past, leaving a cloud of dust rising in its wake. Tom covered his nose with one hand, waved the smoke away from his face with the other.
It was only then that Tom noticed he wasn't alone. On the other end of the bench sat a young boy, wearing a coat that was frayed at the hems, faded in colour and far too big for his thin frame. The boy was coughing discreetly into his hand, and it looked to Tom that he had only just ducked in, his face wet and his dark hair still dripping.
Tom knew he ought to look away and ignore the boy until his bus arrived. If the boy caught him staring, he would undoubtedly pester Tom for spare change, as the homeless and vagrants were wont to do, and it would be yet another annoyance in an already annoying day. But something gave Tom pause.
The longer he looked at him, the more Tom became aware of a sudden, nagging feeling of déjà vu. There was something about this boy, something important, and it was strange and vaguely familiar all at once. Something that sparked a memory, hazy and half-forgotten. It felt like he was looking at an unfocused photograph, its details too blurry and indistinct to place.
It was a feeling that would not leave, even as Tom looked away.
A fleeting sideways glance told Tom that the boy was studying him too, careful and wary. Lessons on class and etiquette had been too ingrained for Tom to do something as common as fidget, but he felt that if there ever was a moment to do so, it would be now, under this boy's scrutiny.
Tom wasn't sure how long he sat there before he saw the bus round the corner. It would be here soon, any moment now. He gathered his things, pulled them close, prepared to get up —
The bus pulled up, its tyres screeching to a halt. Its doors opened. The driver looked at him expectantly.
Tom didn't move.
Confused desperation surged within him and glued him to his seat. He knew, somehow, that he simply couldn't leave, not without saying something, anything —
"Your bus is here, sir."
Tom turned and met a pair of dark eyes, piercing and familiar.
And suddenly, inexplicably, Tom knew.
— — —
"It is a phenomenon often seen. A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colours.
That which we lack attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind man."
― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
— — —
1 September 1942
Horace Slughorn was surprisingly obtuse for a Slytherin. Tom found that conversations with him involved little more than overt flattery, nods and hmm's at the appropriate pauses, and faked wide-eyed surprise at his oft-repeated tales.
This time, though, Tom's surprise was genuine.
"A transfer student, sir?" he said.
"Indeed!" boomed Slughorn. "To be frank, my boy, I didn't think it was possible myself. Why, in all my years in this school, I certainly have never heard of transfers before. But of course" — he lowered his voice and gave a sly, conspiratorial wink — "if the headmaster were to make exceptions for anyone, it would be for Albus, eh?"
Tom smiled politely. Slughorn was fishing for a reaction, and Tom's reputation demanded he oblige to Slughorn's whims.
"This student, sir," said Tom, "you said she's related to Professor Dumbledore?"
"His niece! Lovely girl, Ginevra. Very charming. You'll get along splendidly, I think. I've heard you're quite popular with the girls, Tom."
Slughorn chuckled loudly. If Tom could roll his eyes, he would have. Clearly the man had forgotten that he had meant for their conversation to be private. What was the point of pulling Tom aside, away from the other prefects, when his damned chortling could be heard all over the train?
Still, Tom ducked his head, the picture of bashfulness. "Only just, sir," he said. Slughorn chortled harder, and Tom had to wait for it to subside before he continued, "I don't mean to pry, Professor, but I didn't know Professor Dumbledore had relatives. That is to say, I've never heard of relatives my age. . . ."
"Ah, been listening to your house mates, have you? The Blacks, I'm guessing. I won't be surprised if they have all the family trees memorized. . . ." Slughorn frowned, his brows furrowed disapprovingly. It was a sentiment that Tom knew he would never reveal to his prized pureblood students. "Hmm. Yes, well. Ginevra Smith is from Albus's Muggle side of the family. Now, I'm sure you have questions, Tom, but I'm not privy to all of the details — Dumbledore is very private about his family, you understand — so you'll have to ask her yourself. I daresay you'll have plenty of opportunities to do so, once you meet her."
Tom pretended to look abashed. "Oh, of course, sir. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. . . ."
"No need to worry, Tom," Slughorn said at once. "It's only natural to be curious. After all, it's not everyday Hogwarts gets a transfer student — and a Slytherin one, at that."
Slughorn smiled in a self-satisfied way, as though this unprecedented news was something he had been responsible for. Pathetic man.
Tom, already bored with his company, was waiting to be dismissed, but Slughorn wasn't done.
"Which reminds me," said Slughorn, suddenly sober. His voice had lowered again. "I trust you'll show her around, Tom? Make her feel welcome? You, more than anyone, know what it's like, being Muggle-born in Slytherin —"
"I'm half-blood, sir," Tom said evenly, though inside he was seething. "Not Muggle-born."
He despised being mistaken for a Muggle-born, but he hated the word "half-blood" even more. Half-blood, as though he were only half pure, half magic, half worthy. Only half important, half wanted in both worlds, and belonging to neither.
"And neither is Ginevra," said Slughorn, unperturbed, "but they'll see her that way, won't they? Anyone with a common Muggle surname is as good as. . . . But you'll watch after her, yes? She'll need a friend, someone to make her feel at home. . . . She really is a bright witch, Tom. Very cheeky, too. You'll get along well . . . yes, quite well. . . ."
Tom wanted to say no, wanted to say that this new girl, whoever she was, was not worth his time, and was nothing more than just another face to smile at, to charm, to ignore. Tom wanted to say that if Slughorn was so keen on finding a Mudblood friend for this girl who so fascinated him, then he ought to have just talked to Droope, the female prefect in Tom's year. Tom wanted to say that it didn't matter who Ginevra Smith was related to, if she was a Mudblood or not — he wanted to say, Slytherin is the house of snakes, and no one here extends kindness. Here, you earn your place, you fight to gain respect, you remake yourself into what they want. Here, they take and take and take, and you push back before there's nothing left of you to burn.
But Tom only smiled and said, "Of course, sir."
By the time the first years trailed in, the entire Great Hall was abuzz with rumours and stories about Ginevra Smith. In spite of himself, Tom was impressed by how quickly the news had spread, and he didn't need Legilimency to know that the girl was at the foreground of everyone's mind.
"Another Mudblood in the ranks," Abraxas Malfoy had sneered when Smith had entered, but even he was looking her over with obvious interest.
For once, Lucretia Black was thinking of someone other than Ignatius Prewett, and Briseis Burke was telling anyone who would listen that Smith was actually Dumbledore's illegitimate daughter. Walburga Black was fuming with jealousy; her usual circle of admirers was too busy gossiping to clamour for her attention. Only her brother Alphard seemed indifferent, occupied as he was in what looked like a heated one-sided argument with Raoul Lestrange.
But despite the enthusiasm Smith's presence had generated, no one was inclined to approach her. For all their curiosity, everyone was content to talk about the new girl rather than to her.
The girl in question seemed unbothered by this. She sat alone at the far end of the Slytherin table, away from the other students, and did not appear to be fazed by the stares she was getting. Her eyes swept across the room, flat and inscrutable.
"Looks a bit like Weasley, doesn't she?" said Tyrell Nott, staring at her as the Sorting Ceremony began.
"The Weasleys haven't had a girl in generations," said Ronan Rosier, who was sitting next to Tom. "Not that we need anymore of their sort. There's enough of them as it is, breeding like rabbits —"
On Tom's other side, Marius Mulciber was speculating with Nott about the circumstances that brought Smith to Hogwarts. Tom was only half-listening, but it didn't escape his notice how Mulciber kept glancing at him for approval.
A few seats along from Tom, a blond seventh year was saying, "Pretty for a Mudblood, eh?"
"I suppose," sniffed Odette Travers, "if you're into freckles —"
Tom tuned out their inane chatter to glance at Smith again. Her red hair stood out, loud and garish in the sea of green. She was pretty enough, he supposed, though hardly worth the attention she was receiving, least of all Walburga Black's petty jealousy.
Tom had to admit he was slightly intrigued. It was obvious Smith was just another student, no more special than anyone else in their year, but something about her must have warranted Slughorn's request. From the way he had spoken of her, it was apparent they had already met, and Ginevra Smith must have made an impression.
Was it her relation to Dumbledore? Most likely. The man was brilliant, despite being a persistent nuisance, and Slughorn wouldn't pass up the opportunity to show off a Dumbledore relative, no matter how distant. But connections and influential relations weren't the only requirements to gain Slughorn's special attention. She must have been charming then, as Slughorn had said, and she would have to be reasonably talented.
Nothing about the way Smith held herself now made her seem amiable at all. Her posture was too stiff, too alert. Not necessarily hostile, but far from approachable. She looked like she was more likely to glare down anyone who dared come close than make meaningless small talk.
Well, Smith wouldn't have a choice but to deal with Tom's overtures. Slughorn made it clear he wanted Tom to make an effort with the girl. Simple enough. Smile, charm her, move on.
The Sorting was almost over when Tom looked over at Smith again. For one fleeting moment, brown eyes met his own. Something flickered on her face and suddenly, before Tom could react, her gaze swept past him, as though she hadn't seen him at all.
If he had been anyone else, perhaps he would have dismissed it as just that, but Tom wasn't fooled. Smith was aware she was being stared at, and had been inspecting everyone in turn. He was certain she had seen him.
Dippet rose to deliver his speech just as Smith stood and rushed towards the exit. Without thinking, Tom moved to follow her, unheeding of the questions his house mates's called after him.
Someone grabbed the sleeve of his robe, forcing Tom to pause.
"Where are you going?" Margot Droope said with some asperity. Smith had already disappeared through the double doors. "We're supposed to show the first years to their dormitories!"
As if Tom needed reminding of his responsibilities.
He locked eyes with her, and saw a scattered string of thoughts: oh no, he can't leave . . . I can't handle them on my own . . . they're never going to listen to me . . . can't do it by myself. . . .
Tom pulled away from her mind and smiled at her, careful not to let his annoyance show.
"Don't worry," he said in placating tones. "I'll be back before the feast ends."
Before Droope could say anything else, Tom moved away and walked as briskly and as nonchalantly as he could. It had only been a minute or two. Smith couldn't have gone far. . . .
A sweep of long red hair whipped around the corner on the opposite side of the entrance hall. Either she was a particularly slow walker or she had been loitering while Tom fended off their house mates.
Casting a nonverbal spell to muffle his steps, Tom followed her at a distance, careful not to make a sound. Smith moved purposefully, with the sure, deliberate pace of one who had walked these corridors before. When she had reached the bottom of the staircase that led to the dungeons, she looked over her shoulder, stopping Tom midstep.
Smith knew she was being followed, he realized. Why she hadn't deigned to acknowledge it until now, was a question for another time.
Tom continued down the steps, smiling pleasantly.
"You're missing the feast, you know," he said.
"So are you," said Smith. Her eyes were sharp as she watched him.
"Well, yes. But I saw you leave the feast so early, and I wondered if you needed help." When she said nothing to this, Tom went on, "It's Ginevra, isn't it? Ginevra Smith?"
"Ginny," she corrected.
"Ginny, then." Tom thought he saw her stiffen as he said it, but it could have just as easily been a trick of the light. He held out his hand. "I'm Tom Riddle. We're in the same year."
Smith glanced at his hand, gripped it, and let go. "You're the prefect. Slughorn told me."
"Oh, you've met him?"
Smith shrugged and began to walk. Tom fell into step beside her.
"Our Head of House can be rather talkative, but he's all right. He can be . . . excitable" — he put a great deal of emphasis on the word, to garner an amused smirk or at least a hesitant smile, but Smith didn't react — "but never hesitate to go to him if you need help. Professor Slughorn is very easy to talk to, and always eager to talk to his students. Us especially, of course."
Again, Smith said nothing. She had angled her face away from him, so Tom couldn't see her expression.
"But I'll be happy to help you as well, should you need it," he continued. "Should you ever need anything, anything at all, you can always come to me."
Smith glanced at him and looked away quickly. "I'll keep that in mind."
As they ambled through the long draughty stretch of the dungeons, Tom noticed how Smith kept her gaze fixed ahead, only occasionally peeking at him from the corner of her eyes. She wouldn't look at him directly, nor did she look at the walls around them.
"I could give you a tour of the castle, if you like," said Tom after a beat.
"Isn't that what you should be doing for the first years? Showing them around? Shepherding them?"
"Not until after the feast," he said, not missing the way she had spoken a little too pointedly. "I could show you around, walk you to your classes — it's very easy to get lost during the first few weeks, what with the moving stairs and all the passages —"
"I'll be fine."
She had cut him off. She had cut him off.
Tom struggled to keep the genial smile on his face. "Yes, you do seem to know your way around the castle fairly well, don't you?"
Smith had paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall. When she finally turned to him, something flashed on her face before she walled it away. Had Tom not recognized it, he might have been taken in by her wide, bold grin, but he knew that fleeting expression too well to be deceived.
Contempt. She had turned to him and looked at him with contempt.
Tom had seen that look all his life. He was not wounded by it, but he wondered what Dumbledore had been telling his niece to receive it from her, of all people. What did she think she knew about him? Who did she think she was? And why, if she had already formed her opinion of him, was she pretending to be cordial?
"I spent the summer here," said Smith. "I got to explore the castle a bit, and the portraits were really great."
"Oh?"
"Their directions were helpful." Smith was still grinning, friendly and affable. Tom could understand why Slughorn had called her charming, but all he saw was a bland, paper thin mask.
Tom peered into the edges of her mind, and was disappointed to find only a flickering film of dinners with Dumbledore, Quidditch games over rolling hills, and an overgrown garden.
But he, too, was good with facades.
"Would you like to return to the Great Hall?" said Tom lightly. "I'm sure if we go now, we could make it in time for dessert."
"I'm not hungry."
"Are you sure? I would have thought, being new, you would take the opportunity to get to know our house mates, make friends. . . ."
Her smile was now a touch sardonic. "I think they've got other things on their minds than making friends with the new girl."
Tom couldn't help but smirk slightly. Sometimes the finer points of subtlety were lost even on the purportedly cunning. Sheep, the lot of them.
"Well then, I should be heading back," he said. "As you said, I have first years to show around."
"See you in class," said Smith, waving him off. But she looked at the wall blankly, blinked, and turned to Tom again with an almost alarmed look. "Er — I don't know the password."
Tom felt the corners of his lips quirk upwards. "Professor Slughorn didn't tell you?"
If she was embarrassed — if she heard the unspoken So the portraits weren't so helpful after all, then? — she didn't show it. Smith only hummed noncommitally.
"The password is veritas," he said.
A stone door concealed in the wall slid open. Smith grinned at him again, spun on her heel, and entered without another word.
When Tom returned to the common room, Smith was sitting at the leather sofa closest to the window, a book open on her lap. The glow of the lake was bathing her in green light, making her look gaunt and dulling the brightness of her hair
The other Slytherins still kept their distance, and Tom made no move to approach her again. He was surrounded by his professed friends — followers, as Alphard Black once aptly called them — and was being showered by simpering congratulations over his prefect badge. Though Tom was smiling benignly at them, his thoughts were elsewhere: he was wondering what he was going to do about Ginevra Smith.
Slughorn would undoubtedly be let down if Tom didn't try to curry her favour. As secure as Tom was in his place as one of Slughorn's favourites, it wouldn't do to disappoint him; there were wealthier, more accepted members in his little club, and Tom refused to have his position challenged.
But was it worth increasing Dumbledore's suspicions? Smith had apparently inherited her uncle's distrust of him. Winning her over wouldn't be as easy as the others, and any attempt to ingratiate himself with her would no doubt attract Dumbledore's attention.
Then again, she was just another girl. Even with Dumbledore's influence, surely she couldn't be so different?
Tom didn't ponder over it for long. Nott was asking him a N.E.W.T. level question on Defense, and Tom was not one to turn down a chance to prove his mastery of the class.
A raucous peal of laughter interrupted him.
Across the common room, the so-called elite were silhouetted by the crackling fireplace. Malfoy, Lestrange, the Blacks, all the families with more money than the rest of Slytherin House combined. They had as much power as Tom, if not more.
Malfoy was regaling the group with a story of some Quidditch match or another. Zabini, Selwyn, and the Flints, among others, were listening with avid interest. The Blacks — the sacred quartet, Tom thought derisively — looked vaguely unimpressed.
Tom ignored them, and began explaining to Nott the differences between Dementors and Lethifolds again.
He wasn't entirely sure what happened next, or how it got there, but he was certain that what unfolded began with Malfoy's disdainful voice snarling, "Mudblood."
A lull fell over the room following this pronouncement. Tom, at first, thought it was directed at him, but those around him had not stood in outrage or made noises of protest, as they often did when he was being taunted.
Looking up, Tom saw that Malfoy was now standing in front of Smith, his mouth curled into a sneer. Smith closed her book with a resounding thud.
No one, not even the older prefects, moved.
"What did you just say?" said Smith in barely more than a whisper.
"I said," Malfoy spoke loudly, the words carrying across the room, "what are you doing here, filthy little Mudblood? Your kind doesn't belong here, especially not in —"
He stopped, seeing her hand fly to her wand, and moved to brandish his own.
Smith was quicker. She had flicked her wrist silently before Malfoy could even reach into his robes, and green, slimy-looking bats were crawling out of his nostrils and flapping away from his face. Amid his screams, the Blacks shrieked and ran, and the room was suddenly in an uproar.
"What the —"
"Are those bats?"
"Did she just —"
"She just hexed Malfoy!"
As chaos erupted around her, Smith smirked and gave a mocking curtsy. Her steps didn't falter as she sauntered to the dormitories, not even to spare a glance at the bedlam she created.
Tom watched her go, his slight intrigue turning into full-blown curiosity.