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Chapter IX
You knew my mother?
Can it, Riddle. I'm in class.
Please, if you were really invested in the class, why would you have the diary open? Last night –
You're just a diary, she's dead, and your current incarnation doesn't care about that fact.
It's unfair; you know more about my mother than I do.
You hate her.
My future incarnation – speaking from my point of view – does, not me.
You're curious?
Ah, Sal, that is the curse of humanity.
Fine, so see: Merope Gaunt was abused by her remaining family to the point her magical ability was cumbered and she was little more than a Squib. Once she was free, she made Amortentia to charm your father and she, in a manner of speaking, forced herself upon him. You were conceived, the enchantment on Riddle Sr. broke because she couldn't bear to enslave him anymore, tricked herself into thinking that he might've loved her back after a few months. She was wrong; he freaked and he ran off; she died, you were born. End of story.
The diary was unresponsive for a long, long time. I paid half an ear to what Professor Quirrell was saying, distinctly aware that Rosier was the one sitting beside me. Usually, it was Adrian but ever since he caught Riddle in my bed, he had been very cold. Shoulders jerking in the other direction when I made an attempt to speak to him.
Rosier and Montague did not try to get us to speak. I similarly did not want to put pressure on them. They didn't have to choose between me and Adrian; and we were not ticking time bombs that would go off at the wrong prod.
It … The tentative scrawl of words had my gaze drawn onto it like magnet – to be fair, I consoled myself, a diary that responds is typically more interesting than what a teacher has to say. The diary scrawled: It was to my understanding the Muggle filth left my mother because she was magic.
On the account that your mother's skin was in the way, you didn't know.
Can you smell anything in Amortentia? You scented nothing, true?
I was unaware there now exists a magic power to look into the past. What are you, Rasalas Lestrange?
I ignored him. Leaving him dangling would keep him on his edge, always wanting to know more. If I gave him what he want, he might deem me of no more use to him and try to dispose me. I'd prefer to not be on the constant lookout. I prefer a relaxing life thanks.
Which was starting to seem like a faraway dream, a mirage in a desert.
The circumstances of your birth left you with several missing components. Namely, the inability to feel human, empathy, compassion, love.
Did Dumbledore that fool open up an optional class of love lessons fifty years down the future? I wouldn't put it past him.
Dumbledore was privy to that knowledge, yes.
I detest this.
What, that you're a diary? Regret, repent and this pain will ease. (And save me the trouble.)
No. That you, a stranger, know so much about me – it is disconcerting, humiliating and a complete invasion of my privacy. Do I not have my rights?
You're a book. What rights do you have? To not have your pages folded and front-and-back covers torn?
My rights as a person.
You're not human, I found the prudent need to remind him – and myself – of this. It was hard to associate this Horcrux as just a diary, an object unfeeling of its surroundings, because I could practically feel his frustration bleeding onto the page.
Yesterday, you told your elfin friend you do not pity me. I do not need pity – in fact, I implore you to not direct such abhorrent feelings towards me – but I find it urgent to inform you one thing, Lestrange: you are lying to yourself and it's – you are – pathetic. You dehumanize me on purpose, because you know your bleeding heart cannot stop feeling for me. My mother wasn't the only one you feel sorry for; I'm sure, from what I know of you, that in some part of your heart, you've scrapped enough rubbish to spare for Tom Riddle too.
You are too kind, too gentle, too weak – Dumbledore will wring you dry, Lestrange, mark my words.
I closed the diary without writing back, slumping on my front, burying my face in my arms.
Was it wrong that I wanted to have inherited Bellatrix's cruelty? For some shred of Rodolphus' offhanded indifference to human lives?
"Sal?" probed Rosier in a low whisper, poking at my side. "Hey, what's the matter?"
Never would I admit Riddle was damned right.
o0O0o
Two months passed without incident. I distinctly recalled Halloween would be the time where Ron and Harry would befriend Hermione due to the troll incident. But as far as I could see, Harry wasn't close to his Gryffindor Housemates, and Draco spent a lot of time with Harry. I still couldn't completely swallow my surprise when I saw them – just two boys – laughing together.
Draco seemed to believe Harry was a good person too. Draco was sympathetic to Harry's plight of being stuck with hateful, neglectful Muggles and actively expressed his disdain for the Dursleys; they took roundly verbal abuse of the Dursleys. I was also sure Lucius Malfoy was exceptionally delighted to have Harry Potter close to his son, more political power and influence. It'd be pandemonium once the Dark Lord was back.
Hermione kept to herself, never seen to be speaking to anyone; Ron wandered around the castle with his pack of Gryffindors.
I shouldn't be surprised that, eventually, Draco would use Harry's popularity as a means to an end – to get me to interact more with them, on the account that I would be interested in the Boy-Who-Lived too.
"Hello," I said politely, purposefully sliding the diary into my bag and mustering a polite smile for both of them.
Actually, I was freaking out: should I throw the diary out the window before –?
"Can you help us?" asked Harry interestedly, looking me in the eye. Green against blue; forest looking into electricity. "With our Potions homework…"
"I'm not, um, that good with Potions," I tried to hedge. Tried not to look nervous. Tried to look casual as my eyes drifted around the quiet library. Shoulders tautened in alert excitement when I saw bushy hair at the corner of my eye.
Hermione Granger was a frequent visitor of the library; she was as attached to the place as I was to the Room of Requirement where I spent an unhealthy amount of allotted time in. Thus far, she had always remained alone. And I had no reason to approach her. I liked her character and little Hermione was just adorable – the last thing I wanted was to draw Riddle's attention to her.
"Even a little help is better than none!" Draco chipped in. Blonde hair slicked back, cheeks rosy with his life blood, no indication he was a boy possessed. I resisted the urge to stab Riddle repeatedly with a quill.
"What about that girl over there?" I gestured to Hermione Granger, unaware. Thick brown hair brushed over the chair she was sitting on as she shifted.
Draco's face twitched. "But she's a Mud—" Caught my eye, remembered young, naïve yet chivalrous Harry. "Muggle-born. There's no way she knows more than us! And our ancestors will be spinning in our graves if they knew a girl not of wizarding family knows more – well, it's just disgraceful!" He added the last bit defensively at the increasingly blank stares coming from me and Harry.
"Draco, a word." I dragged him away, bag with me. Harry met my eyes curiously. I flitted my eyes deliberately to Hermione. And he walked towards her. I slung an arm around Draco, ducking low to whisper in his ear. "Listen, Draco – I know your general beliefs and if your father hears of you associating with a Muggle-born, no doubt I'll be blamed. But don't you see? She's smarter than the rest of you put together!"
Draco scowled, cheeks red in indignation and embarrassment. "Sal!"
"She's got no friends." I emphasized meaningfully. Draco fell silent, waiting. "It's this type of people who are the most trusting … most desperate for kindness and friendship … it's—"
"The perfect opportunity to gain her trust, milk her for all she's worth before she's dry and chuck her away to be trampled on!" finished Draco triumphantly, grinning.
"Uh…" What I meant to say was: it's the best opportunity for you to hone your compassion by interacting with them and to learn empathy and how to appreciate companionship. Before I could amend Draco for this gross misinterpretation, he'd already shrugged my arm off. Still smiling the warm smile he rarely showed outside of his manor, he said, "My apologies for doubting you, Sal. I should've seen what you meant from the beginning – no, I shouldn't have needed you to point this out to me—"
"Wait a min—"
"I've got a lot to learn about the Slytherin way, I know what you're going to say." Draco waved me away, lazy grin still curling his mouth. "I'll try harder, you just wait and see – soon, you won't need to look further than me to see a perfect representation of Slytherin!"
Then he'd zoomed off towards Hermione and Harry. Leaving me to gape in shock at where he'd been standing.
Sometimes, he made me feel as if I'd been talking in another language entirely.
o0O0o
The troll is going to break in today.
The clarity of this realization made me alert for the rest of the day. However, before my day had even begun, conflict and problems were already trolling me. Haha, see what I did there?
… Never mind.
"What's going on?" I asked, surprised by the big gathering in the Common Room. The dozens of Slytherins made an impenetrable ring – or so I thought. The moment I'd spoken, they scattered like dust, as if I'd brandished a whip and cracked it against stone for attention.
I pretended I did not hear the gawking and the muttering going on behind curtains of hair and covers of palms. Surprise doubled when I saw Draco and Marcus Flint in the middle of the commotion. The Beaters of the Slytherin team – Lucian Bole, a brunette with eyes as dark, and Peregrine Derrick, a redhead with hazel eyes – flanked Flint, but Draco was alone.
Graham Montague fought his way to me, Conrad Rosier materialized by my side so quickly he might as well have Apparated here. The only one missing from our gang of four – the last one who made up the dormitory – was Adrian Pucey; he watched sullenly from the sidelines, resentment etched into his frown.
Why is it that I always seem to arrive late, find out the latest news, the last?
Quelling my indignation with the consolation that Rosier and Montague always kept me well-informed in the end, I stepped forward.
"I'll appreciate it if you don't demonstrate how Muggles duel on my cousin," I hissed icily, protectiveness rearing like a snake ready to strike. My wand was rolled in my palm, a show of intimidation; that I was not afraid to duel to get my meaning across: leave him alone.
Draco flushed with pleasure at being defended. His parents had inculcated into him that he must stand on his own two feet, but being protected meant you were adored, cared for – there was always pleasure in being protected just as frustration would well at your own helplessness.
Marcus Flint glanced at me calculatingly. "We were merely, ah, inquiring Draco about his recent choice of companions."
"You mean the Granger girl he associates with." I frowned. True, I had not taken the reaction of the entire House into account when I tried to make them befriend one another.
Slytherin had a hierarchy within its walls. There were loners that sided with no faction, would not cause trouble for the King at the top, but would still obey when necessary. Then there were the followers, flanking the King. How you came to be in position was generally determined by blood: who you were, how pure your blood was, which family you came from, who your parents were.
Marcus Flint was King in the hierarchy simply due to the popularity of being the Captain of the Quidditch team. Bah. Ludicrous way of choosing your king.
I was candidate for King. Parents in Azkaban; son of famed supporters of Voldemort, among the Darkest witch and wizard in Magical Britain. My entitlement to be Lord Black and Lord Lestrange boosted me, too. It kept any vultures and bullies away.
However, looking into the predators that lurked here, I couldn't help but feel reluctant admiration for Tom Riddle who would be in secondhand robes – Hogwarts' orphan funds were pitifully cheap – and of Muggle background, with a Muggle name.
It must've been hell here. For him, before he gained the upper-hand with his Parseltongue, intelligence and sheer ambition to be more, to be better.
(Where I stood was where a monster had been born and molded by its inhabitants)
"How is that any of your business?" I snapped waspishly.
"A Malfoy consorting with the Boy-Who-Lived is already a stretch of disbelief, and a Mudblood to top it all off?" Flint made a big show of grimacing. "What a shame to the family name. And it's my business, Sal."
I twitched in annoyance at the use of my nickname. "You are not remotely familiar enough with me to address me as such—"
Flint rolled his eyes. "Ah, Sal." I stared at him in utter bewilderment as he strode towards me, arms outstretched as if to embrace me. We'd hardly exchanged a sentence to one another; why the sudden familiarity? Rosier hissed like a snake, a wordless warning to stay back. "Just because I gave you semi-authority over the House for warming my bed—"
A scandalized gasp rippled across the Common Room. My heart turned to ice, sinking straight to my gut to the floor.
"Shut your mouth!" snarled Montague, trying to salvage the situation.
There was a ringing in my ears. Electric in my eyes, my gaze sought Adrian out. Our gazes sizzled as they clashed; my shocked ones staring into his conflicted ones. It was the guilt in the furrow of his brows, the set of his pressed-together lips that nailed the coffin.
You … planned this … this commotion, the scene with Draco – all to gather spectators for the real show, my humiliation.
Bile clawed up my throat as memories rushed into sight, demanding attention, of the stares and whispers directed at me in the hallway by my fellow Slytherins.
I thought we were best friends. You were my first human friend.
A part of me wanted to cry. To run and shrivel up somewhere in embarrassment. But my wand took charge before I did: magic twinned in the wood and expelled a hail of snow and stones of ice. The Slytherins scattered with startled and frightened cries.
A mousy-haired first-year lurched towards the entrance.
The tip of my wand cut through the cold, a jet of blue arc sliced through the air currents: the air by the exit solidified into ice, forming jagged protrusions – icicles. They've got nowhere to run. They had to listen to me. I couldn't bear live the rest of my years here in shame, tainted by calumny.
But begging for reason, for them to see sense would do no good. Not in Slytherin House where only power mattered.
I stormed to the exit, whirled around, planted myself firmly there to deliver the clear message that no one was leaving until I dictated so; the first-year scrambled away from me. Everyone breathed in quick, frightened wisps of cold air, exhaling white mist. Watching me.
"So…" It took me a few seconds to work through the cold fury in my throat, blocking my words. "So this is the reason why everyone of you have been looking slantwise at me … and no one bothered saying anything … not one—"
I broke, and words tore themselves out of my throat in a piercing, ringing shriek as my self-restraint shattered:
"You dare cast such aspersions on my person? I'm better than all of you and nothing you jealous mongrels who susurrate behind my back say will make you, in any way, superior to me! I will not tolerate such disrespectful behavior in MY – yes, mine, all of this – House! Any vilification will be brought to my attention, not a moment delayed, and I will end any such libel before you foolish, moronic individuals could fall prey to such spurious claims!"
My mouth twisted in spite, in fury. My chest heaved; my whole body was sickly hot even as icicles descended from the ceiling, touched the ground – a jail of icy spikes. My Housemates had already shied so far away half of them were practically taking refuge in their dormitory. I looked away from Adrian, from Flint, before I lost it and froze them cell by cell.
Hot tears threatened to melt my eyeballs from inside. Strong emotions always elicited tears from me, needless to mention, betrayal.
"Draco – Rosier – Montague –" I turned, breaths shuddery. Eyelashes catching moisture that froze as it escaped the confines of my eyes. "We're leaving."
The ringing silence was broken by Draco's trotting footsteps, of Rosier picking up my fallen bag and the whisper of Montague's robes on ice.
The stone wall edged back, ice wedged in the small gaps between the brickwork, and I stormed through it, the ice crystallizing behind me once my entourage was through.
I'd been disgraced, the realization was a douse of hot water over my head, my reputation was in ruins and it fucking hurts.
"Sal—" began Draco tentatively, hand touching the hem of my sleeve once we'd rounded the hallway.
"Er, your bag—" Rosier started the same moment.
"We'll be late for class—Rasalas!" Montague yelped as I streaked past him in a flight of humiliated fury. His cry of my name masked the sob and I couldn't be gladder about it.
o0O0o
"Go – away – I mean it, Riddle – you're the absolute last person I want to see."
"How did you know it was me?"
"I know; I always know."
"Oh, throwing my own words into my face, I see." There was the click of a lock being turned to block unwanted intruders; the shifting of silky material and the dusty fabric I'd been taking refuge under was moved. Back against a cool, reflective surface, legs pulled to my chest, creating a gap where I could hide my face in – I had not moved from this position in a while.
My cheek tingled as his fingers brushed through flesh: he was not corporeal enough currently to be in physical contact.
"Draco's supposed to be in class," I sighed. "Can't you let people study in peace? Not everyone's smart as you, we need education."
"Classes were postponed; everyone's got a free period. Thanks to you." I tightened my grip round my shins, unwilling to move even though I was curious to find out why. "The professors could hardly miss how the Slytherins were absent from their designated classes; they went to look and found the Slytherins hypothermic and frostbitten – the other professors had to pitch in and move them to the Infirmary. Draco left to find you, with the diary in tow, and well – I stored him some other place before coming."
"How did you find me?"
"I know; I always know," he mocked. A pause. I still didn't get why he was here. Instead of seizing the opportunity to cause chaos. Just to be sure, I lifted my head to check if it was him.
Riddle's form flickered indecisively, unable to stay true. Okay, it was him in the flesh. Riddle's upper lip curled. "You look awful," he remarked and from anyone else, the statement would've been accompanied with a chortle of mocking amusement.
"Not as bad as your older incarnation," I bit back, irate.
"Why do you shed such mortal weakness?" I think he meant the tears I'd shed. Talk about fanciful words. Riddle arched a curious brow, inspecting me not unlike a scientist would a newly discovered specimen. Perhaps a surviving dinosaur from billions back.
"You're telling me there's no use crying over spilled potion?" I sounded awful. Did I cry that long? Bet my eyes were red and puffy.
"That was a dramatic display of power – not my style, but enough to reign in others. No potion was spilled, not as much as bridges were burnt, at any rate." I looked Riddle in the eye. It was Adrian's guilt that gave him away – that he had second-thoughts only when the act was carried out still embittered my feelings towards the good memories of him – and now, it was Riddle's amusement that gave him away.
"You—" I sprang to my feet so abruptly the fabric hiding me fluttered to the ground. "Bastard!" I shrieked, jabbing an accusatory finger in his face. "You did this – you planned it – possessed Draco and planted the idea in Adrian's mind no doubt – probably even Confunded – Imperiused—"
Riddle was unfazed; he crossed his arms, expression still saturated in amusement, down at the boy who barely came up to his shoulder. "Baseless accusations, Sal. But I am generous enough to understand: you're desperate to salvage a bridge from cinders, you'll make anything up to believe Adrian did not betray you so thoroughly. I assure you, however, I've not done anything of the sort."
"Liar!" I sounded like a kindergartener.
Perhaps he thought the same because his cold smirk told as much. "Assuming the worst of me, are you?"
"Assuming the best of you is no different than assuming the opposite! Case in point: you're the most brilliant, despicable, conniving arse to walk his earth – those are your best attributes!"
Riddle's jaw worked; teeth grinding in anger, it created a sound that foretold an impending suffering. His smoldering eyes shifted to rest on my neck, and a point beyond it. The falter in the burn of anger in his eyes made me turn around, puzzled by what had caught his attention so thoroughly.
A mirror that nearly touched the ceiling was what stood behind me. I edged away; finding the inscription on the golden frame, I realized I was looking at the Mirror of Erised.
"A mirror that reflects your desires," whispered Riddle in hushed tones, sharing a secret I already knew. He saw my expression from the corner of his eye and he sneered. "But I suppose Mr. Knows-It-All already knew what this is … what do you see? The restoration of your friendship with Pucey? Power and fame?"
Could a memory look into the mirror and see something?
I was curious about what Riddle saw and it distracted me from the wetness on my cheeks. I hastened to wipe them away, clear my vision, and took a step back to look better into the reflective surface.
The girl who materialized instead of my reflection was someone I had not seen in a long, long time: me, the me from my last life. She was holding my wand, even though in reality, she could not have had magic or wands in that world.
The moment I saw her, I knew what I had so desperately desired but had buried because it was unattainable.
I wished I had not been Rasalas Lestrange, in the body of a male I had taken years to adjusting to, with parents that were murderers and expected their son to be one too. I wished I was just me – Selena Idi – with magic as an integral part of my life.
The only thing I wished to keep of this world was magic – and Dobby.
A sigh of longing escaped me. "Does the desire of friendship bring such craving?" Riddle's scathing tone ripped me from my drowsy wistfulness.
I pinched my arm to shake myself awake. Looked around to see Riddle marginally unaffected by the Mirror of Erised. "I saw something else – a carefree life without worry and only the wonders of magic."
Riddle inclined his head, eyes glued to the reflection once more – was he or was he not seeing things in it? "How was it portrayed?" he asked me, sounding genuinely curious instead of one who was fishing subtly for information.
I darted another look at the mirror, saw no harm in answering his inquiry. "I see myself, performing magic – for Dobby's amusement. Mm, he's not the central focus – I see only the top of his batty ears and his fingers waving at the edges of the mirror – but I'm laughing and I'm happy – that's what it's supposed to mean, yeah?"
"Such potential, such a waste of magical power in you," sighed Riddle. "Not a bone of ambition. I might not be as severely disappointed by the Slytherins of this generation had you just said you're performing magical feats you've never dreamed of."
"Well, excuse me for not seeing myself as a megalomaniac Dark Lord," I said indignantly; indignation stirred awareness in me, warning me of the dangers the Mirror entailed. I focused my gaze solely on Riddle's cheek, a far safer sight than the Mirror was. Given a side view like this, I thought his cheekbones were in perfect symmetry – was that even possible? And his lashes brushed his high cheekbones too, they were that long – almost like a girl's.
Was this stir in my chest jealousy? I touched my eyelashes subconsciously, realizing they were not as long as Riddle's and grimaced. I tried to quell my jealousy by informing myself, mentally, that I could be considered handsome too. Rodolphus and Bellatrix had the classical pure-blood good looks; as their son, I couldn't have missed that gene.
Really.
"What did you see?" I asked to change the subject.
"Something not shown in your visions of the future and past I suppose?" Riddle sneered.
"… You're standing on a mound of bodies … the top of which lays Albus Dumbledore, broken and defeated … and you're swinging your wand atop your bald head like a lunatic with a lasso …"
The imagery made my lips twitch into a smile. I chuckled before I could stop it.
Riddle didn't mimic my amusement nor did he have my sense of humor. He scowled and tossed the Mirror a contemptuous look, as if it'd cussed violently at him. "While your reasoning is plausible, I cannot confirm nor deny it: this Mirror is not working for me, a Horcrux."
"A shadow of the past," I quipped.
His scowl darkened dangerously. But pissing him off had cheered me up: I preened under the knowledge that only I could anger a teenaged Voldemort and get away without being Crucio'ed or AK'ed. So far anyway.
"I see only you and I in this abandoned classroom … staring at a Mirror that only wastes people's time." Riddle's initial impression of the Mirror as a magnificent magical artifact was evidently going down the drain faster than a leopard could sprint.
"Ye who see only power is a greedy, selfish creature."
Riddle cast me an irritated look; he had no wand to hex me. "And I suppose you'd praise yourself a saint for seeing something as harmless as happiness?"
I'd never thought about it that way. The Mirror only showed myself happy – what about others? They might've been suffering for all I know. Did I care? Did the person portrayed in the Mirror cared that others were in agony while she was enraptured in joy and magic?
No. She probably wouldn't even give them a grain of thought.
My mouth turned downwards at each edge. "No," I said flatly. "Happiness always comes at the expense of others. It's priceless, even more so than the Philosopher Stone or Elder Wand, simply because it is not something that can be grasped easily. Even the Mirror cannot capture happiness fully because it does not grant happiness and it doesn't know what true joy is: what do I do to achieve happiness? I truly desire to know but the Mirror offers no solution, only a desirable outcome that is implausible."
"Apropos, it's a ludicrous piece of artifact that only weak-minded fools lose themselves in. Dreaming but not willing to try." Riddle glowered at the offensive Mirror for another minute before he turned and walked away, disappearing just before he reached the door.
The reason to his abrupt leave was answered almost immediately: footsteps thundered closer. Before I could attempt to hide, the door flew open and my cousin tumbled in gracelessly. Nymphadora, pink hair windswept, doubled over to catch her breath.
"Sal – thank Merlin – found you at … at last!" she wheezed. "Sent Mum a letter – searched the whole school – what were you thinking?!" She straightened, paused for another lungful of breath – giving me the edge of time to muster a smirk – and added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and Dumbledore's looking for you. He asked us to send you to his office as soon as we've found you."
Oh shit.
My stomach seemed to have left me with a whoosh.
~{IX}~
AN:
Somehow, when Tom and Sal get together, they always get talkative, right? Noticed that? Figured that's not the romance you people like, figured that I should explain it. Firstly, I get that physical attraction plays a key role in romance. But what about those couples where one or both of them have faces like dough or clays mashed haphazardly together? No offense, but apropos: something aside from first cursory glance to take in attractiveness must've connected them. (Unless some people actually go, 'I'm ugly, you're ugly, let's go out!' then consider what I'm saying sawdust)
For Tom and Sal, though neither is hideous, it's something like that – they need words and experience to connect, to build something from scattered pieces of their differences. For example, though we understand where Sal comes from and how he knows the future and past all the same, Tom doesn't – so, Sal's an enigma to him, a puzzle he wants to piece together, a kingdom he'd yet to conquer. For that reason, he pays attention and notices stuff he usually doesn't care to notice; and with Sal's wariness of Tom, it's vise versa. There'll be a lot of manipulation, arguments and vicious plotting to hurt one another before anything loving (or as close to this as TMR could get) comes in though. Plus, I don't think I can describe Sal going, 'Wow, he's hot! I think this is love at first sight!'
If you're interested, I've another HP SI/OC story Darker Than Black.
R&R