When I left Professor Dumbledore's office - well, I suppose I should call him "Albus" now! - the day I was hired, I felt as though I had never been happier. My entire body felt full of wind. I could have been knocked right off my feet with joy! To be teaching at Hogwarts was an honor enough, but to take over for my favorite professor, teaching my favorite subject...well, it was almost too much. That Dumbledore had enough faith in me to choose me as his replacement! I could not keep the smile off my face. I was happier than I had been when I'd successfully Transformed for the first time. This was so much better than even that!

This feeling of euphoria made the short journey to the bottom of the staircase outside the Headmaster's office pass by in an instant. I was too ecstatic to notice such trivial things as time passing or stairs rotating. I was happy.

When I reached the corridor and stepped off the staircase, I felt as though I could kiss the first person I saw!

But I saw him.

As sudden as a flash of lightning, my blood turned cold. The warm, summer breeze in my heart transfigured to a whipping, torrential storm. He met my eyes and smiled.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move; it was as though his very look had turned me to stone.

Hours later, in my new teacher's quarters, I would reflect on the fittingness of that feeling - more snake imagery, of course. He was a Medusa, with a head full of snakes, ready to kill with his lethal gaze.

"You can't hire him, Albus." I crossed my arms in a posture that I hoped was authoritative, but held tight to my elbows to keep my hands from shaking. "I know I have no place to say this, of course, as a new teacher and many years your junior - pardon me, but it's true - but I feel it's my duty to the school, as a Hogwarts professor, to warn you against offering Tom Riddle the position! You may not know this about him," I steadied my breath, about to tell Tom's secret for the first time since I'd sworn not to tell a soul, " but Tom Riddle dabbles in the Dark Arts. You simply cannot hire him without endangering everyone."

I let out a huff of breath, then noticed that the expression on Albus Dumbledore's face was one of patient bemusement.

"Is that all, Minerva?" he asked, kindly. I nodded, a little irritated that his reaction had not been one of outrage. Is he not taking this seriously? Is he not taking me seriously? Either was mortifying.

"If that is your concern, then I will inform you that I am fully aware of Tom's interests and have no intention of hiring him. In fact, I told him so just moments before he departed. Professor Dippet had his reasons for refusing him the job ten years ago, and I have my reasons now." A knowing look crossed his face, one that I had seen many times as a student, awaiting exam results or graded essays - a look that said "I-know-exactly-what-you're-feeling-and-don't-worry-it-will-be-alright." I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Now, Minerva, would you like a biscuit?"

So that's it then, I thought, rather naively. I took a bite of the proffered biscuit and felt instantly soothed. I'll never have to see Tom Riddle ever again. It was foolish of me, but that is what I thought. I was wrong, of course. Very wrong. I would see Tom Riddle many times after that, though never in person - never face-to-face. Which was just as well, because I had never forgiven him for the past and could never, ever forgive him for the actions of his future.

Tom grabbed my attention the first time I ever saw him. I remember his Sorting, though I wouldn't realize the wan, morose boy, newly added to Slytherin House was the same person as the tall, confident, intoxicating man he became until years later, after he had become Lord Voldemort.

When he was Sorted, I was starting my second year. I was a Gryffindor, and "Raj, Shashida" had just been placed in Ravenclaw. We all clapped politely as"Riddle, Tom" sat on the Sorting Hat's stool. He struck me as peculiar for precisely the same reason that no one else seemed to notice him. He was small, very quiet, and seemed totally unimpressed with the entire ceremony. His robes were too large for him. The Hat took a few moments to decide the boy's fate, but most people were bored with him and paid no attention. It is always delightful to see first years' excitement, and Tom Riddle betrayed none. He simply sat, muttering angrily to the Hat, before he was finally pronounced "Slytherin!"

Everyone clapped, Slytherin House cheered, and we moved on.

"Minerva McGonagall, isn't it?"

I cursed under my breath and turned around. Irma giggled; she met my eye and clapped her hand over her mouth to little avail. Maybelle snorted, trying to hold in a laugh, and I couldn't help but grin a little, though I was trying my hardest to keep a straight face. The warmth of the evening's Firewhiskey shot through my veins, and I felt hot all over. Sweat plastered my collar to the back of my neck. This made me laugh quite suddenly, and Irma fell to the floor, incapacitated with mirth.

With some difficulty, I focused on the matter at hand and straightened my back to look the Prefect straight in the eye. "Yes, tha's me. And who are you, if you don't mind?" My voice was trying too hard to be demanding, and Maybelle snickered.

The Prefect smirked, enjoying this scene as much as I was. He bowed grandly and said, "Well, m'lady, they call me Riddle." I thought about this for a second, and then burst into a fit of giggles.

"Is something funny?" He was still smiling, but something hard had crept into his eyes. I noticed how black they were and how beautiful. "Does my name amuse you?"

"Your name's Riddle?" I was incredulous. "Wha's your firs' name - Question?"

Admittedly, not my cleverest.

"Tom," he said, dropping his voice to a low, sharp tone that told us he was no longer playing along. "Tom Riddle. And you three are not only out of bed past curfew, but also very clearly intoxicated. Minerva, I thought you were the top of your class. How disappointing."

Even considering the impairment of the Firewhiskey I was cognizant enough to be offended. How dare he condescend to me. He's only bitter because we beat Slytherin today. I attempted my most authoritative tone, the one I used on my team when they started mucking about during practice, and hardened my gaze to match his.

"Look, snakey." I hiccupped, but continued on quite valiantly, considering. "I don't care if you're a Prefect. I am a seventh-year. Tha's a whole year older than you by the looks of tha' hairless chin of yours. Tha's a whole year with more experience. And we are celebrating. So you better shove off, or I'll MAKE you shove off!" My voice had grown steadily louder, and Irma shot me an equally loud "SHHH!" before collapsing into another fit of giggles.

Tom considered this for a minute, then said softly, his voice full of a tone I couldn't place, "I doubt very seriously that you could, Minerva." Irma laughed, but I simply stared back at him. My blood was chilled ice cold, and goose-pimples broke out on my arms. Something about him unsettled me.

A moment passed, then he turned to Maybelle. "I suggest you three return to your common room. I won't say a word to Professor Dippet - this time." His voice was lighter; maybe I had imagined the calculating glare he'd given me seconds before. He glanced at me again. "Consider this my congratulations on your win this afternoon."

He stood rooted to the spot and watched us retreat down the corridor toward Gryffindor tower. When I turned to look back at him, he had gone.

Oof. My shoulder blades throbbed as they connected with the stone wall. I bore my eyes into his, trying hard not to beg. He considered my face for a moment, then smirked and pulled my skirt up above my hips.

"Tom -" I groaned, struggling to breathe as he pressed his chest into mine. He'd pinned my hands above my head, and I could hardly move.

I liked it better that way.

"Hush, Minerva," he growled, biting at my neck, ear lobe, collar bone. It felt as though every hair on my body was alive; my nerves hummed with excitement. I could feel the coldness of the rough wall through my robe. He let go of my hands to pull me into him, and before I noticed his hands were no longer around my waist, he'd pulled my robe off my shoulders.

As his warm breath tickled the soft spot behind my ear, I giggled. I couldn't help it. I clamped my hand over my mouth, now more sensitive to his touch than I'd been before. He met my eye, smiled coyly for a moment, then chided me in a harsh whisper.

"You can't make a sound, Minerva. This room is off-limits. If one of the professors hears us, I could lose my badge." He glanced quickly at the Prefect badge pinned to his sweater, in a heap on the ground, as though checking to make sure it was still there. His bare chest was not muscular, exactly, but it tried to be. Years of malnourishment would prevent it from being the solid thing he wished, but he wasn't scrawny. He straddled somewhere in between. The moonlight from the window blanketed his chest and arms.

Oh, it was too much.

I leaned into him again, returning his teasing nips on the ear. My hands trailed desperately to his belt buckle, and I pulled my face away to make eye contact as I unfastened it. He never liked timid girls, I found out quickly, and timid I was not.

I'd only met him a few months ago, but we had been almost inseparable for weeks. It was the subject of much gossip - the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, Minerva McGonagall, top of her class mixing with the charismatic, charming Tom Riddle, whose voice was rumored to melt butter. We made quite a pair.

No one but us knew that we were so much more.

We were fire and ice, and I loved nothing more than to melt him. I bit my lip as his trousers came undone. He swatted my hands away, and began tugging off my underwear. His touch became demanding, feverish. My breaths grew shallower. He grabbed behind my knees and hoisted my legs up around his hips. My voice caught, "Tom-" He pressed his mouth fiercely against mine as...

Well, you know.

This behavior went on for weeks. We spent the daylight hours discussing current political affairs, particularly the blunders of the Ministry of Magic - disagreeing, often, about how matters should be fixed. Very frequently, these discussions turned into arguments, and in the nighttime hours, we made amends.

November 8th, 1944

Dear Tom,

I have no idea what I'm doing here.

I was sure I wanted to work with children, but Merlin. These are the most insipid creatures I've ever come across. Okay, perhaps that is too harsh. But they are, Tom! I know, I know - you warned me against coming here. But I thought I was so right...

Well, I was right about one thing. I do love to teach. I love to explain how things work, to light a fire in their minds. I love that part of this job. I am not, however, very fond of slimy hands and vacant expressions. Five-year-olds, Tom. I'm working with five-year-olds.

I can feel your condescension from here.

But I wish you to know that I do miss you, despite the fact that you won't tell me what you were up to over the summer. I know I promised I'd stop bringing it up, but this is a letter, so you can't shoot me one of those looks of yours. HA.

I would give anything to be back at Hogwarts while you finish out your final year. Congratulations, again, on becoming Head Boy, you clever man. I'm so proud of you!

Please write to me, when you have a spare moment. Your letters have become the small silver lining to which I look forward each week. It's sad - I know. You would give me endless grief about the pitiful desperation on my face when the post arrives, waiting to see if Matilda has brought me anything from you. Don't laugh at me, Tom. I can just hear that silly cackle of yours.

I miss you. I really, really do.

But I'll see you again, so there is no point in whining about it.

Yours, as ever,

Minerva

"I can't believe you didn't tell me." My voice was dull, hollow. I was shocked.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," Tom glowered, throwing one of the many heavy tomes from his nightstand against the wall in an almost flippant gesture of outrage. "Dippet thought it impertinent for me to apply for the job just after graduation."

I'd never seen him this livid. Tom was never one for shouting or grandiose displays of emotion. When he was angry on a typical day, his voice became as quiet as a whisper with the fortitude of a roar. His words became fresh razor blades, slowly slicing you open. Today was different. He had applied for the newly vacated Defense Against the Dark Arts position, and Dippet had turned him down. Tom had hated the man before, but now he seemed intent on murder.

Many years later, the mystery surrounding Armando Dippet's death still had not been solved. I had my suspicions, of course, but no proof.

I was shocked that Tom had taken this step without telling me. This was the sort of thing we always told each other, or so I thought. I pulled the sheets up to my neck and rested my head back against the headboard. It made me question several things, most importantly the degree of trust which I had always thought implicit to our relationship. Now, as I had few times in the past, I felt like there was so much more - a whole other life, even - that Tom was not telling me about.

At first, I was shocked. Then, angry. But finally, indignant. I got out of bed, flinching at the cold air on my naked skin, and began to peel items of clothing off the floor.

"I just can't believe -"

"Minerva, not now."

"-that you didn't bother-"

"Minerva, I won't say it again."

"-to tell-"

I gasped as his fingers tightened around my arm. He twisted my shoulder so it hurt to move, and pressed his face close to mine, our eyelashes almost touching. I recoiled from the spittle coating my face as he hissed, "I said not another word!"

I looked into his eyes and saw the truths I hadn't wanted to see for the past two years. He'd never loved me. He had never felt anything for me. He glared at me then with such - annoyance. Not hurt, pain, frustration. Annoyance. I was an inconvenience.

And I saw other things. The hardness on his face that I hadn't seen properly since the first night we met. And the hatred in his eyes; so much hatred, directed at me. He had never loved me.

He shoved me away and began to pace about the room again.

"You killed those Muggles, didn't you?" I wasn't even sure if he'd heard me - my voice was so soft. I wasn't afraid of him, but I was terrified that speaking this truth would mean that I'd have to hear the answer that I already knew. And knowing it would shatter everything we'd built. I'd been wondering for weeks if the deaths of that Muggle family, the timing of which coincided perfectly with Tom's disappearance last summer, had been his doing. Their names had not been announced to the public. I repeated what I'd said, preparing myself for the greatest despair of my life. That Tom could be capable of killing...

"You killed those Muggles, di-"

"SO WHAT!" He shouted, the first time I'd ever heard him do so. He turned around and stormed toward me, pressing his wand into my throat. His voice became quiet, cold as ice again as he continued, "So. What. Minerva. Does it matter? A little bit of Muggle FILTH. Who are you going to tell, anyway? The Headmaster? The Ministry? Your precious Dumbledore?"

I stared into his eyes, willing my heart to stop beating so quickly. Usually, when he was pressed this close to me, it yielded quite different results than his wand poised to murder me.

"No, Tom. I won't tell anyone."

He bored his gaze into mine. I refused to fall into his eyes again. His voice was hardly louder than a whisper. "Do not lie to me, Minerva. If you tell a soul - "

"What would it change, Tom?" I stepped to the side, away from his threatening, dangerous glare. He didn't move to follow me. I dressed quickly. All I needed was to grab my purse...I took a few steps back, keeping my eyes glued to his. "You're already corrupted. You know that. That's what murder does to you, Tom, it blackens your soul. Weakens it." He smirked, though I couldn't guess why. I continued, backing up slowly all the while, "You're an Ouroboros, Tom, you know that? A snake with its own tail in its mouth, and sooner or later, your hatred is going to eat you up." I fought very hard to keep my repulsion and, yes, surprise from my voice, but he knew.

He lowered his wand hand and let out a cold, high-pitched laugh. "That's the most -"

But I never heard what it was. I'd grabbed my bag and apparated away before he finished the word.

I apparated to the outskirts of Hogsmeade and made my way quickly to my flat above Scrivenshaft's. My boots crunched snow underfoot, and I hardly noticed the ice melting around the collar of my robe, my neck exposed to the biting wind. I hurried back to the town, keeping my thoughts and fears at bay until I was settled in my room, door closed, fire lit.

He wouldn't follow me, that I knew. Why reason did he have? He knew where I was, and I was the only person who knew his secret. If I told anyone, he would know it was me. He would find me. It was simple.

Oh, Tom.

The wind made the tears hovering in my eyes sting even more bitterly.

When I reached my room, I had a great show of undressing slowly. I lit the fire slowly. I took long, lazy steps, putting more time between my actions and the eventuality of having to sit down and think about the revelations of the evening. When I finally did - relaxing in my worn, old armchair by the fire, a cup of tea in hand - I found myself unable to do anything but shake slightly and grow angrier and more forlorn by the second.

Tom killed people. Innocent people. He lied. He kept secrets. He never loved me. These thoughts crowded the surface of my brain and led to other thoughts, buried a little deeper.

To be filled with that much hate - to be capable of something like that...to be confronted with one's actions and feel no remorse...

The Tom I had known - thought I'd known - for years was gone. Utterly gone. The cold, loathsome pillar of darkness in his place haunted me and would continue to haunt me for the rest of my life.

I understood that I would never see him again. But some part of me - my pride, my foolishness...perhaps both - fought against the sadness I felt at this thought. I was just as accomplished a witch as he was a wizard. I was a match for him, easily. I was a match for most people - the Darkest wizards aside. I could surely take on Tom.

I gripped my tea cup - the contents cold and forgotten - and determined to dedicate myself to countermining any trouble Tom might cause. I did not know then that Tom was no longer - that Lord Voldemort had wholly taken his place. I would never see Tom again, but I would see Lord Voldemort die many decades later and feel nothing but utter, incomparable relief.