Thank you very much for your reviews, tartan-angel and Luanna255! I hope you like this chapter as well. The next one will be longer.

-Sachita


Chapter One

Hogwarts, 1937

"Ex-extremist movements increase all over Europe. It's now September 1937, four years after the rise of the right-wing extremists in Germany and twelve years after Mussolini's rise in Italy, so our Central Europe corres-correspondent Thomas Wilkins believes, that it is safe to say that neither dictatorship will waver. The situation in Russia is…"

"Min! Minerva! Stop that!" The tall Second Year let her paper sink and glared at the girl, who had spoken, a freckled red-head with glasses. "What is it, Elma?" she asked in irritation.

"No-one wants to hear it." Elma nodded to the paper. "Who cares what is going on in Muggle Europe anyway?"

"You should care!" Minerva's incredulous voice rose in pitch.

"Why?" Justin Miller, a pustular boy of thirteen, raised an eyebrow. "We do not live among them. We do not care about them. Why should we concern ourselves with the Muggles?"

Minerva was red-faced and threw her long braid impatiently over her shoulder. "You will come off of your high horse, Justin Miller, just wait," she said angrily. "You should concern yourselves with this because bombs don't tend to differentiate between wizard and muggle."

She received only silence and white-faced stares as an answer, but before she could continue, the gravelly voice of Headmaster Dippet echoed through the Great Hall. "Everyone fall silent, while our newcomers are sorted."

Minerva turned away from the accusing stares of her classmates and looked to the front. The first years looked all the same to her, small and nervous. She sometimes tended to forget that she had been in the same position only a year before. "Old Minnie Mouse," the boys whispered about her behind their hands. She always pretended to be indifferent, but inside, eleven-year-old Minerva was hurt.

The first years didn't look at the faces of the older students, all but one. He was a small boy with neatly-parted black hair, somewhat ill-fitting robes and an intense blue stare, that was intently fixed on Minerva, who tried her best to hold it. She had never been one to back down, but the strange force of the boy's stare both confused and frightened her-

"Riddle, Tom!"

-until he broke the stare and walked to the front. Minerva hated the immense feeling of relief that flooded up in her. The Sorting Hat had barely touched the boy's dark head, when it already shouted:

"SLYTHERIN!"

Minerva involuntarily flinched as her eyes wandered over to the green-and-silver-decorated table. The Serpents. The Snakes. There was an unspoken rule for Gryffindors not to like Slytherins, and vice-versa. Minerva hated how these snakes valued people only for their blood status, not for their achievements or their character.

But wasn't she forgetting something? A cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she recalled the words of the Sorting Hat a year prior. "Slytherin…," it had hissed. "Oh yes, it would be an option. Ambition…it is there aplenty, Minerva McGonagall. You want to succeed, you want to be the best….But no," the hat had continued, "there is also courage and the fierce determination to help your friends. Then, I daresay, it shall be: GRYFFINDOR!" The last part it had roared out into the Great Hall and Minerva had slipped off the chair with shaking knees, barely making it to the Gryffindor table before collapsing at one of the empty places. And, like today, her eyes had wandered over to the Slytherin table…

Minerva pushed her food around on her plate and finally got up. "I am not hungry," she told Elma, who only shrugged, "if you'd excuse me."

Later that day she was crossing a corridor on her way to Gryffindor Tower, when a voice called out: "Excuse me."

She turned around slowly and was suddenly face-to-face with the First Year from the Great Hall, and wincing, she stepped back in surprise and shock. The boy slowly smiled at her.

"I am sorry," he said politely, "I did not wish to startle you." There was a sense of wrongness, which Minerva couldn't exactly place. Maybe it had something to do with the cultivated smoothness of the boy's voice, although he was even a year younger than her or with the uncannily attentive look in his blue eyes. After all, he was only a child, wasn't he?

"Yes?" She was annoyed that her voice came out as a croak and cleared her throat, throwing her braid over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"I got lost," the boy said with that silky voice. "I was wondering whether you could help me."

"Slytherin, right?" Minerva asked briskly. "Follow me." She didn't expect an answer, hadn't really wanted an answer, but nevertheless she got an answer. "That's right," he said and turning around, she had the disconcerting feeling that he was mocking her, though he was carefully maintaining a blank façade.

"Come along then," she mumbled and hurried down the steps, the desire to get rid of him making her go faster. Nevertheless she dreaded going down to the Slytherin Dungeon. Gryffindor Tower was a lofty place by comparison. When they had arrived outside the Dungeon, or at least where Minerva saw Slytherin Students enter seemingly into the Wall, she stopped.

"Here you are," she said.

"Thank you," he replied, and again she was helplessly drawn to his eyes. She was confused, quite irritated and still there was a multitude of feelings swirling around in her head that she couldn't have explained even if asked.

"I am Tom Riddle," the boy said suddenly. "I'll be eleven soon."

"Minerva McGonagall," she managed. "Eleven."

"I guess I'll see you around," he commented finally, giving her another one of his smiles. The ease with which he made his way to the Slytherin Dungeon however, told her that he probably hadn't needed her help at all. He had just sought her out and asked for her help because- yes, why because? She decided that he had wanted to annoy her. Well, he had definitely succeeded.

"Bloody stupid Slytherins," she muttered, Scottish accent coming to the fore. Minerva hastily made her way up to Gryffindor Tower, breathing a sigh of relief, when she saw the daylight again. Slytherins were Idiots, that little episode just proved it again. And yet she could not help but think of a raven-haired boy with earnest blue eyes. Tom Riddle. Tom.

The next time Minerva met Tom Riddle, it was close to the end of the school year . Her birthday had been in October and so she was now a respectable Twelve-Year-old and looking forward to being a Third Year and she was studying hard in preparation for it already. The train back to London was leaving soon, and full of regret, Minerva walked once again out to the grounds to catch a last look at the magnificent countryside that she wouldn't see for a whole summer.

Gravel crunched under her dirty shoes and she frowned at them. It was a rainy summer, full of mud and wetness, yet Minerva liked this weather. She had always loved this weather above all others; for her it was neither sunshine, nor snow, nor rain, but rather this impenetrable mist hanging over the lake and the surrounding dark forests. A contradiction that she could not help but chuckle at, for she liked this weather but hated dirt with a passion, even though both came hand in hand. The air was clean, but cold, and the sky was grey. She breathed in deeply and smiled fleetingly. What a wonderful day.

She walked on to the edge of the lake and then she saw that she was not alone. A small, dark-haired boy was sitting in the mud with no care for cleanliness and he was throwing pebbles into the lake. Minerva watched for a moment, how they sailed out over the water and finally dropped, , splashing clear water all about. It was Tom. Tom Riddle.

This time, however, he seemed to be less in control of his surroundings and the impression he gave off seemed to be lacking his usual grace that he had emanated in the hallways whenever she had seen him. Maybe that was why she chose to sit down next to him.

"Minerva," he acknowledged her flatly.

"Tom," she retorted in a similar tone.

"Shouldn't you be on your way to the train by now?" he sneered.

"Shouldn't you?" she shot back acidly.

To her surprise, he smiled in wry amusement. It was an odd expression on the face of an eleven-year-old, but Minerva had long since stopped wondering about it. He didn't say anything, though, and for a while they sat in silence, looking out to the grey water that seemed to be clinging to the colourless horizon. The landscape suddenly ceased to be beautiful and transformed into something grim and bleak. Minerva shuddered and drew her knees to her body.

"I don't want to go back," Tom said suddenly through clenched teeth. "I hate it there."

Minerva was taken aback by the venom in his voice and she asked tentatively: "Where?"

Instead of answering, Tom spun around and Minerva winced, when she saw the hatred in his eyes. For a second she could have sworn that there was something else in those blue orbs, like snakes uncoiling to strike, and she shuddered once again. Tom advanced suddenly and Minerva found herself backing away further and further.

"You don't know what I am talking about?" Tom laughed mirthlessly, as Minerva finally stopped, her skirt muddy and wet, her fingers dirty, but defiance shining in her eyes. "Remember the Gryffindor in you, do you?" he asked mockingly, but she did not answer. "Do you want to know all the reasons why I hate this dingy orphanage where I am forced to live? Do you want to know how the muggles treat one whom they perceive as different? Have you heard muggle childrens' cruel taunts before? Heard their curses and spiteful words, aimed at you? Do you know what it's like to be a freak? Always, constantly alone-"Tom gasped for breath and Minerva looked at him with wide eyes.

"Tom-"she tried.

"Go away," he shouted suddenly, spinning around with blazing eyes.

And then, all Gryffindor courage abandoning her, Minerva scrambled to her feet and ran away.

Later, when he approached her in the train and asked very courteously for her forgiveness and offered contrite words with a downcast expression, Minerva believed him. A part of her hated herself for it, but she was like a moth, drawn to the deadly beautiful shine of a candle and she could not withstand it. "You're losing yourself , Minerva," the cautious part inside of her cried. "Better be careful."

And deep down, she knew that the voice was right, but she couldn't and wouldn't try to resist the pull that Tom exerted on her. Minerva McGonagall was lost.


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