Hi! Minerva/Tom has always been a pairing, that has fascinated and intrigued me. However, this is my first attempt at a multi-chaptered story about them, so I am quite nervous about it all. I do hope, some of you like it though...and please do tell me, what you think of it so far. More is to come soon. It's based on both the books and the films and the prologue takes place at the beginning of the sixth movie, when Dumbledore gives his speech. Have you noticed Minerva looking a little distracted in the background? I have, and this what came out of it. English is not my first language, so I am sorry for typos, grammatical mistakes and the like. If they are so bad that they make you scream in front of your computer, then please tell me (= Ok, but I'll stop rambling now. Hope you enjoy! -Greetings, Sachita

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended.

Hypocrisy

Prologue

Hogwarts, 1996

***

"His name was Tom Riddle."

Gasps and whispers could be heard- a silent look of shock was on most of the faces, as the young witches and wizards of Hogwarts digested that information.

Minerva McGonagall felt a flood of heat come to her face at the mention of that name, whether it was out of fear or something else entirely she couldn't have said. Oddly disconcerted she lowered her eyes and bit her upper lip in a feeling of sudden, burning shame. Fear, yes, it was only logical for it to be there. Fear was only to be expected at the mention of the name Riddle, for it was said in one breath with another name, one that few dared to say out loud- "Voldemort," she whispered, and even though it had been a quiet, nearly inaudible whisper, slight gasps came from her right and her left. She ignored them. Tom Riddle- Voldemort…the same, wasn't it?

The answer came from deep within, from the deepest recesses of her soul, where she herself rarely ventured, except in her dreams, that is. And it was that answer, which made the colour rise to her cheeks in a feeling of both fear and profound shame…No, it wasn't the same. Tom Riddle was an altogether different entity from Lord Voldemort. And she…Minerva McGonagall, stern Head of the House Gryffindor, strict Professor McGonagall…she longed for him. For the manifestation of evil itself. She did not have the heart to stay any longer, couldn't stand the gazes of the innocent children, when she herself was one of the guilty ones, for she had loved and that was her fault alone. Had loved… Only moments after the end of Albus's speech, she got up and strode away purposely, her dignity being the only thing to keep her from running. Yes, she had loved. Had loved him. Tom. Tom Riddle.

Yes, Tom Riddle, that was what his name had been. Only Tom to her, though. She heard only the echo of her own heartbeat in her ears and the sound of her quick steps, as she rounded a corner. Her robes swished on the ground after her and she kept on walking. Whereto? She couldn't have said, only knew that she had to look purposeful. Otherwise someone might ask her questions, stop her to talk to her and she knew that she couldn't bear to look anyone in the eye right now. Not now, when flashes of dark hair, pale skin and eyes the colour of the sea on a cloudy day assaulted her wherever she turned. There he leaned casually against a wall, hands in his pockets, regarding her with an inscrutable look. Here, he sat on a window sill, waiting for her and smiling that irresistible smile, when she finally arrived. Had finally arrived, for it had been long ago, and he was not here now. Minerva forced herself to calm down and to quieten the treacherous part of her, which cried out in joy at the prospect of him really sitting there, in flesh and blood. He was the enemy. Minerva paused for a moment.

What a two-faced, deceitful woman you are, a quiet inward voice whispered. Remember Ginevra Weasley? Of course she did remember the youngest Weasley's first year at Hogwarts, remembered not being able to protect one of her Gryffindor cubs from evil itself and remembered, with a feeling of nausea and shame, being envious of Ginny for having the chance to meet him. Of course she had banished the thought out of her head immediately, but when she had stood in the Headmaster's office that day, and when she had seen the diary lying there, she had itched to run her fingers alongside the damaged cover, feel the withered parchment that his finger had touched…A warning glance from Albus had made her come to her senses quickly. A sensible man, Albus.

The remote part of the castle where her feet carried her to was deserted. It always was, it always had been as long as she could remember. Her earliest memory of that deserted part included this very hallway, where she was standing now. However, that niche over there had been sprinkled with flowers that day and she had worn one in her hair, while waiting for him: a red rose intermingling with black tresses. Tom had plucked it from her hair, throwing it up playfully and daring her to watch, as he let it dance in circles in the sun-dusted air. A quick flick of his wand had ended the spectacle though, and Minerva had only been able to watch in shock, as the rose fell to the floor, withered and died. She had demanded angrily, why he had done that. Tom had smiled one of his charming smiles and he had conjured another rose out of thin air, this one much redder than the first one, much bigger and much more beautiful. Minerva had accepted it warily and he had put it back into her hair. It had been nothing disastrous or terrible, yet Minerva had only years later realised, that this had been his way of putting a mark on her. Marking her his-and yet, he hadn't even had to do that. She had been his all along.

Kisses had followed after that rose. Kisses, delivered so hot and burning, completely unlike the ice in his eyes. He had trailed kisses over her bared throat, caressed her pale cheeks…Minerva shuddered as she stood there, one hand on her cheek, the other extended as if to keep the memories at bay.

She gasped and quickly withdrew her hand, feeling the skin of her face. It was wrinkly, like old parchment preserved over too many years. It had been so long, so long. Fifty years, since she had last seen his face, heard his laugh, sat opposite of him in the library and watched him studying. What had happened to them? What had happened to what they used to have? The answer was there as clearly as if it had been shouted out into the air. Tom Riddle –Lord Voldemort. The very same. He had killed, murdered, tortured. He had let others bleed, let others suffer, let others kill for him. She longed for a murderer. She longed to hear a murderer's laughter. Who the hell was she? Surely not Minerva McGonagall, strong Head of the House Gryffindor, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, fighting against the manifestation of evil itself? No, she decided, she was just a gullible hypocrite.

"Merlin, Tom," she sighed and slowly sunk to her knees. "Why?"

tbc...

so, what do you think?