Hello,
So, it has been a little bit more than a month. Eh. I have nothing to say.
WARNING : traces of abuse, Major AU (like expected, I think)
This is Parseltongue.
I hope you like it.
9:43 AM, July 21st, 1991, Hogwarts, Admittance Tower,
The Writing was a ritual at Hogwarts that happened every July 21st, no matter if the letters were ready to be sent out or not. It was Tom's job to watch as Ravenclaw's Quill wrote down the names of every students that would be attending Hogwarts at the beginning of the year, and never let it be said that he did not know how to do his duties. At nine and three quarters in the morning, he was sitting at the desk available in the Tower where both the Book and the Quill were locked in, reading a newly published book on wards while he waited for the Quill to come to life and start writing. A box of envelopes could be seen next to the Book of Admittance, and nobody knew how exactly the box had never ran out – no spell or enchantment known today could last a millennium, never mind make sure there would never be a need for a replenishment of the envelopes. Even the Geminio Curse had its limits of seven hundred and forty-one copies before the magic ran out (the record was held by one Leticia Blane in 1793).
And while a part of Tom wanted nothing more that to study it, another said that he had already tainted three of the Founders' relics and that it was enough of corruption of Hogwarts' heritage from a single individual. So he restrained his desire to know and simply watched the fascinating ritual whenever he could – which was every year since 1965, the year he became Deputy Headmaster. He could still remember the tightness on Dumbledore's face when he had been forced to ask, all others before him having refused the offer since not many wanted to deal with being the main contact of the parents in the school, or to deal with what the Headmaster considered below him (and Dumbledore spent more time scheming, tending to his political duties or playing the senile grandfather for his pawns, than being the school's Headmaster, so it was a lot of things).
From Dumbledore's allies in the school, only Minerva would have accepted the post, but again she would agree to anything that the old man asked of her, loyal Gryffindor that she was. Luckily for Tom, Dumbledore had had to ask him before he could ask Minerva, simply because Tom had started working while Dippet was still Headmaster, three years before Dumbledore had invited Minerva to take his place as the Transfiguration Professor. Tom being Tom, he had seen the additional work and duties as a small downside to the amount of power it gave him.
Well, that, and he would admit to being a bit spiteful, enjoying the fact that Dumbledore very much did not wanted him as his Deputy. There had even been a small incident shortly after the previous Deputy Headmaster, Gaetan Bloxam, had announced his retirement, one that could have cost Tom his career had he not had a solid explanation verifiable by Truth Potion. Tom had concluded that Dumbledore had tried to get rid of him so Tom wouldn't get more power in Hogwarts, and, in retribution, he had done his best to make things even more difficult for the old man – going as far as reviewing everything in Hogwarts' management and forcing Dumbledore to do the same by showing his report to the Board of Governors, who had not been happy to know that there had been a mild financial drain nobody had had answers for since 1947.
Tom was pulled from his thoughts when his skin tingled, the usual sign that the Quill had finally activated. He put down his book, distractedly noting the page, and extended his hand toward his briefcase – it sailed into his open hand, after which he laid it on the desk. He tapped the handle three times with his left index then opened the briefcase, exposing his personal stationery set, temporarily filled with Hogwarts' official parchment. He pulled out his inkwell before carefully seizing his quill (a 'modern' one made of metal and without any kind of feather, since he found traditional quills too bothersome) and laying it down at his right. It was his own routine after the Quill activated, to prepare himself while it wrote – otherwise he was doomed to wait a while, because there was from forty to sixty students per year and the Quill wrote the envelopes for all the students of all the years.
It meant about four hundred letters. The first years also had their acceptance letters on top of the supplies list, letters Tom also had to sign – of course, he simply copied the letter with his signature at the bottom and then wrote the students' names on the parchment, or it would have been truly tedious.
As they were charmed to do so, the envelopes started sorting themselves by years – then it was Tom's job to take the few envelopes written on with light blue ink, as these were addressed to children who had no knowledge of Hogwarts. Mostly they were muggleborns, but the occasional half-blood (like Tom himself) appeared in the pile. There usually was no more than three or four muggleborn each year – and Tom's eyes darkened when he noticed that there were a bit more than four envelopes with blue writings. Had some wizard gone and obliviated one-time lovers again?
No matter – this meant delaying the other letters for a few more days. Tom usually sent notice to the shops the moment after which he received the number of students that would attended Hogwarts starting September (the shopkeepers were usually happy about it, since they could prepare yearly 'kits' that parents could buy at the counter, keeping the shop from getting too full) and took three or four more days to introduce muggleborns to their culture – the following day he sent the other first years' letters, two days after that the second years', another two days after that the third years' and so on.
Ever since he'd establish this system, he'd gained the shopkeepers' admiration and respect (he even got discounts in the apothecary and the stationer shop). People who wanted to buy supplementary items were free to do so, without being pushed from all sides and changing their mind because of the long file at the counter, so shopkeepers made more money. Muggleborns' parents were also happier, since they were not hit in the face with the pureblood families' disdain if they met one another (purebloods usually made a point to walk wide around muggles, not that Tom did not understand or share their dislike, but they could at least try to be subtle).
With a small grimace, Tom chased the thoughts of what would be happening in a few days and started writing the first years' names on their letters. By the time he was putting Miss Perks' letter in her envelope, then put said envelope on the 'First years, blue ink' pile, the Quill had gone still. He took the next envelope and absently note the child's name.
He started writing, then paused. He put his quill down and looked back at the envelope, thinking that he had read wrong. That he must have read wrong.
He had not.
Mr H. Potter
The Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs,
4, Privet Drive,
Little Whinging,
Surrey
Potter... wasn't that the name of one of the Children of Misfortune? Harry Potter, was it? If it was, then why was his envelope written in blue ink? He was a wizarding child, he had no reason not to know about the wizarding world, least of all Hogwarts.
And... Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs ? Why in the world was a child associating a cupboard with his bedroom ? It couldn't even be an expanded cupboard, because the letter was written in blue. The child had no knowledge of magic or, at least, none of the likes that he would have had, had he been raised in the Magical World.
Tom took a deep breath, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. When he opened them again, he slid the letter, supplies list and train ticket inside the envelope and put said envelope in his breast pocket.
He would investigate this after he was done with the other letters. It would do no good to rush like a Gryffindor or act while still under the influence of this righteous fury. Tom would do something, but he needed to calm down first. He did not wanted to get rid of his anger, just allow it to cool a bit, until it was more useful than harmful.
A sword was a better weapon when the metal was cold, and Tom's anger certainly had the cutting edge of a blade.
It was one o'clock in the afternoon when Tom stepped down the Knight Bus (having never went anywhere close to Little Whinging, there was no other way for him to travel quickly, though he had made sure to put on a glamour so nobody would remember seeing him cringe at every turns and stops the damnable bus took) and onto Magnolia Road. He did not want anyone linking a wizard to this muggle place if he ever ended up doing something of dubious morality to Harry Potter's guardians, so he had bought a map in a muggle shop and found a relatively close road he could give as a destination to the Bus' driver. With most witches and wizards' stupidity, it would be enough to break the trail. Dumbledore would be another matter, but one he could deal with at an another date.
He sighed and started walking toward Privet Drive, only to slid into a small alley that had not been on the map to remove his glamours and apply a powerful Notice-Me-Not charm on himself (glamours were like an itch on his body, so he always took the first opportunity to ditch them). He then used his wand to direct him toward Harry Potter's residence. It took him five minutes to find the correct house, but barely one second to experience an uneasiness he had not felt in years.
Every houses around him were identical. The gardens were a bit different, the cars were of various shapes and colors, but the houses were all the same. The only way one could distinguish a house from another was the small number next to the door. Tom shivered as he gave his surroundings another look – everything was orderly and... utterly boring. But it was still eerie enough to make him want to get away from the strange neighbourhood as soon as possible.
He shook himself out of his morbid observation and decided to make his move. He walked straight ahead, though not toward the front door – his goal was the backyard, where he would be able to slip on the property in his snake body and observe if there really was a case of child abuse. The Notice-Me-Not would break upon the Animagus transformation (nobody knew why tracking charms or some magics did not stick to the wizard when the transformation activated, but Tom hypothesised that it had to do with modifying their magical signatures – owls and house-elves couldn't find an unfamiliar transformed Animagus either), but Tom did not find it too bothersome. Very few people would approach a snake, after all, and he would be gone long before an exterminator arrived should anyone spot him.
The fluidity of his transformation was something many people envied him for, since being an Animagi was somewhat painful for beginners and for those lazy magicals who did not try to perfect themselves, and it took only two seconds before he was slithering on the ground and advancing through the hedge. The air tasted of humidity, polen, bugs and cold earth, but there was also a faint taste of sweat and blood somewhere near him, a mix of acridity and iron that his mind usually linked to the torture chambers in some of his followers' homes (they were not often in use, but the smell seemed to have sunk into the stones after centuries of torture, much to the house-elves' frantic horror).
He paused when his head emerged from the hedge, his eyes scanning his surrounding for threats or pests (there was the possibility of a muggle sleeping outside – it was a rather unusual warm sunny day).
The backyard was nothing special, just like the rest of the neighbourhood. A tree stood in the left back corner, making shades for an atrocious pink armchair, and a shed took most of the right back corner. Flower bushes, that had obviously been taken care of religiously if one considered their health and neat beds, lined the wall of the house and only left a small opening for what Tom deduced was a small winter garden. Just like the front lawn, the grass was freshly cut, the lawn mower still standing near the shed.
He went unnaturally still when he spot a moving form near the far end of the line of flowers : a child clad in what Tom would have called rags but was obviously a dirty shirt (what it truly looked like was a small stained tent, especially on the small child's back) and trousers (was that rope he saw? Was it the child's belt?). He couldn't see any shoes or hat, despite the sun glaring down at the world, and there certainly wasn't any glove used if the taste of fresh blood in the air was anything to go by.
The child himself wasn't any better. The tanned skin Harry Potter seemed to have had inherited from his father was sickly-looking and stretched on the child's high cheekbones and bony hands. His inky black hair – that was certainly messier, and maybe even longer, than anything James Potter had ever sported – was greasy and dull. Dark circles under his wide green eyes could be seen despite his wide, cracked glasses, and his chapped lips were bleeding, just like the fingers that dug restlessly into the earth without caring about risks of infection.
Tom recalled the address on Harry Potter's letter. He then wondered if the child had ever been told about health care. He very much doubted it.
An angry hiss left his mouth as the boy wiped his brow with his dirty sleeve, causing the large shirt to slip and reveal a fading bruise around the boy's neck – a bruise shaped like a hand, as if someone had grabbed him like one would a naughty kitten.
The boy was no animal, however, and Tom could hardly find a good reason as to why someone would have applied enough strength on the boy's neck to leave a mark. While Tom had never been a saint and had caused a fair share of pain to others, he had not harmed a child ever since his own childhood. Children and young teenagers were too weak and dependent on others, in his opinion, to defend themselves, and deliberately going after weaklings to affirm one's strength was not impressive. Children were to be taught and expectations of excellence were to be made, but if they became useless adults then Tom had no problems with casting them aside.
Tom would admit (at least, to himself) that he was simply disagreeable with the idea of harming a child. It was an unease that had grown in his chest since he had started to work at Hogwarts, after he had forced himself to let go of his hatred toward anything that reminded him of his youth to stay under Dumbledore's radar. He could not have taught children for years while despising the very air they breathed, at least not without cursing those he deemed too stupid or too irritating.
Vibrations from the ground pulled him away from his thoughts and he looked up in surprised interest at the child who had approached him, not too close but still close enough that Tom, had he been a normal snake, could have attacked him easily – but Harry Potter did not seemed afraid. The green eyes were wide and curious and a tiny smile was on the boy's lips, and he crouched with his hands on the ground.
"Hello," the boy hissed, causing Tom to snap his head backward with a surprised hiss. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
"How do you speak?" Tom heard himself ask, his thoughts running madly in his head, some dismissed and others to ponder on later. He would indulge himself with a few questions, after doing what he came for. He would have preferred getting some time to think and look into things before making hypothesises, but he had very little doubts about what he would find.
It seemed that he had some family left, after all. It definitely was not from James Potter's side, so Lily Evans must've been his distant cousin. The descendant of a Squib, or a child abandoned by Light Purists at the emergence of the Slytherin Family dark talent. But those thoughts were for later.
"You mean how I speak to snakes?" The child seemed completely uncaring that he had startled a snake, a boomslang, and simply gave him a small smile. His lips were still bleeding and, now that he was closer, Tom could see the exact shape of the hand-shaped bruise. Purple fingers curled up near the junction of the neck and shoulder while a single digit, probably the thumb, pressed under the left side of the jaw – it was an unsteady grip, the act done in the aim to hurt the child more than to seize him. "I don't know, I've always been able to, I think. But I don't see many of you often, so I didn't know about it for a while. Are you hungry? Did I interrupted your hunt?"
Tom pondered on his situation – he had certainly not planned on something like this happening. Still, he had a job to do, and his job had to be prioritized over his personal curiosity. No matter how painful it was not to kidnap the boy this right moment to hear what the boy knew. Not much, obviously, considering how he didn't know about magic.
"You did not interrupted my hunt." He finally told the boy. "Are your guardians home, Mr Potter?"
"Aunt Petunia is here, but..." Then the child blinked and his eyes grew cold, suspicion written all over his face despite a clear attempt to hide his emotions. "How do you know my name? Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want?"
Nostalgia washed over Tom as his mind briefly flashed back to his own introduction to the Magical World, but the similarities ended quickly. The boy seemed to have been taken by surprise, not having expected a possible threat in the form of a snake (but Tom wouldn't have had either at that age, so his behaviour could be excused) if the slight tightening around his eyes and the bitten lips were anything to go by. The child also clearly regretted his outburst, discreetly shifting his body as if he was expecting to be punished for questioning him, angling himself to be able to move quickly in case of an incoming attack.
Tom was very unimpressed. With the boy's guardians, not the child himself. But it was something he could and would correct. No one would look at him twice for protecting a child who shared his family talent from his guardians, even if, in the end, they were only distantly related. Dumbledore would excuse his reaction by either greed or possessiveness, though he would also pounce on the opportunity to justify looking into his business for 'possible affair with a student that resulted in pregnancy after graduation'. The old man wouldn't shy away from tainting Lily Potter's reputation if it meant bringing Tom down a tad, even if she had been the wife of one of his most faithful. Both of them were dead anyway, their friends were unavailable or blackmailed into silence, and anyone of Tom's lineage (not mentioning a Parselmouth, the biggest sign of someone being beyond redemption) had to be evil, so making the boy's life more difficult wouldn't cause the great Albus Dumbledore to loose any sleep. It might even give him the satisfaction of a job well-done.
Though it might be better not to reveal their blood ties too early (he was a realist, he knew that, even if they tried to keep them secret, their familial ties would eventually be shoved on the first page of every gossip magazines). Tom had many enemies, Dumbledore not the least of them, and it would take worries off Tom's shoulders if the Potter child knew how to fight before being thrown to the front lines. He would be Tom's weakness, and even some of his followers would be tempted to take advantage of that.
"My name is Tom Riddle." Tom finally answered. "I am a teacher at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – it is a school for young witches and wizards, where they are taught how to wield their inner magic. The reason I am here is because your Family has a standing invitation to this school and it is my duty to make sure the school letter reaches the students. I was surprised when your name wasn't with the other wizarding-raised students, and so I decided to show up personally."
The boy's eyes had grown wide and his mouth was slightly ajar (they would have to correct this later, no pupil of his was to look so... Gryffindor). "Magic?"
Tom nodded, even if the movement wasn't exactly natural for a snake. They could learn, but bobbing one's head was for creatures whose neck was joined to shoulders.
"Yes. You should have been aware of it, but it seems that your guardians have failed to relay this knowledge to you." Tom let out an irritated hiss. "And I intend to know why."
The boy smiled at this last comment, though it was a purely mechanic reaction if the lost look in his eyes was anything to go by.
Still, Tom didn't commented on it. He knew better.
