A/N: Wow! We meet Tommy-boy! GAHH the excitement!
Disclaimer: Not mine. Though I wish I did.
The Letter P
Chapter Five: P is for Pathetic Fights
Chapter Six: P is for Prefects
Ginny wiped at the skin under her eyelashes, just checking for any stray eyeliner, and raked a hand backwards through her red hair, pulling it nervously over her left shoulder as she waited impatiently for the Head dormitories' door to open.
The painting swung forwards. And Ginny stepped inside.
…
Her brow furrowed as her eyes strained to adjust to the change of lighting. It was brighter in here than in the corridor.
Immediately, there, standing right in front of her, was a boy. With a Head Boy badge gleaming on his chest. That meant that he was Head Boy. And that meant that he was Tom Riddle. And that meant that he was Voldemort.
Her breath stopped in her chest, and her heart skipped several beats as she stared up at him in fear. He was the one who'd haunted her childhood nightmares, though he had always, in dreams, had crimson eyes and vampire-like teeth. Now he was before her, living and breathing and very real.
And he was very tall.
Ginny had always been short, and Tom Riddle was tall, even for tall people. He was quite literally towering over her – but he was not how she had expected him, or remembered him.
I'm sure that the Tom Riddle who possessed me was shorter. Maybe its because that was when he was fifteen. Did he grow a mile in two years?
He was tall, as said previously, and lean. His hair was not in the standard fifties' ducktail-cut that every other boy sported, but rather combed neatly in thick waves, and it was very dark – but Ginny knew that it wasn't black. A few strands fell into his eyes; sharp, dark, and calculating. Ginny couldn't tell the colour, but there was a sudden pang inside of her that told her something she did not need nor want to hear.
Tom Riddle was good-looking.
Not something I needed. Fancying the Dark Lord? Excuse me, but ew
"You're late," he said. It was impossible to describe the way he spoke; cold, rather formal, quiet, and as though he uttered every word carefully, getting each syllable out with perfect pronunciation. He had an accent, too, though it was not one that Ginny could place, and with every letter, silver flashed in his mouth, something strangely intimidating and distracting at the same time.
Breathe, Ginny, breathe. In – out – in - out. Now reply.
"I got lost," she said, "I'm new."
Riddle was watching her, his eyes scrutinizing her face. In an instant, Ginny knew – he was the watcher. He had been staring at her through the Sorting, and through dinner, and through breakfast. Why?
Finally, the Head Boy said, "I know."
"Um. My name's Ginny Peregrine," she offered, attempting to force her facial features into something resembling a smile.
Again the stare. "Riddle," he replied, silver glinting, and then turned away, walking back towards the squashy sofas around the fire, where others sat. There were the Prefects from every House, male and female, and the Head Girl.
"Hey, you must be Ginevra Peregrine," said the Head Girl, standing. She was average height – not a midget, like Ginny, but not a giant, like Riddle – and pretty. Her blonde hair was softly curled around in her ears in what Ginny recognized as the famous fashion of the fifties, with a gentle fringe curving into her twinkling eyes, rather like Dumbledore's own sparkling blue.
"Ginny," she corrected, with a smile.
"Oh, sorry. I'm Eleanor Fionn, Head Girl," the older girl replied, and gestured around. Everyone introduced themselves.
The Hufflepuff Prefects were a slim black girl with fabulous eye make-up called Antonia Durrell, and a friendly boy named Gareth Coville with shocking platinum hair in resemblance to the Malfoys' legendary tresses. Gryffindor had a brown-haired beauty named Mia Brown (Ginny knew without a doubt that this must be an ancestor of Lavender, and felt a paroxysm of loss inside her), and a quiet, chunky boy named Robert Harris.
The Ravenclaws bore Olive Hornby, a snide Welsh girl with a superior attitude, and a friendly boy with an Italian appearance to his handsome features named Scott Reeve. And, finally, to Ginny's displeasure, the male Slytherin Prefect was Jack Swithin, who smirked his greeting across the coffee table to her.
"So, where'd you transfer from?" asked Eleanor interestedly as Ginny sat down beside Antonia.
"Er," said Ginny. "London. But I'm actually Irish," she added for good measure, and grimaced as she pointed towards her flaming red hair.
Eleanor's eyes widened. "Really? Oh, me too! Did you learn Wizarding Gaelic? Ego can non put out illic est denique alius alio ex Irlanz! Nos ire habeo adeo funes, fides mihi!" she chattered delightedly, in what was obviously Wizarding Gaelic.
Come again?
"Sorry," said Ginny, trying to look sincere and disappointed, "I haven't lived in Ireland since I was a baby, so I don't actually know Wizarding whatever. Gaelic. That."
"Oh." The Head Girl looked put-out.
"Once you've quite finished," Riddle interrupted. Ginny stared pointedly at the ground to avoid having her eyes drawn to the annoying sparkling metal. "This was not called as a social session. We have matters to discuss."
He looked at Eleanor. It was not a frown nor a glare, but even a casual glance was aloof and frosty. The Head Girl on the receiving end of the look cleared her throat. "Of course," she said. "Hallowe'en is fast approaching, and, as we do every year, we need to think of an event to mark it. Last year's Hallowe'en bake sale raised the Galleons for our new Quidditch hoops, which we are very proud of. However, I'm thinking that we need something more fun, more exciting, for this Hallowe'en."
Robert Harris' mouth fell open. "What could be more exciting and fun than food?" he exclaimed.
Well, we have the Neville Longbottom of 1958.
"How about a dance?" suggested Antonia Durrell, tossing her silky black hair over her shoulder. "A big fancy ball like Durmstrang had at the last Triwizard Tournament. That'd be fun."
"Yes, it would be, but it has to be something for all years, and any ball has age restrictions," Eleanor mused.
"We could have a disco for the under-fourteens," Ginny suddenly said. All eyes turned to her. "A Hallowe'en disco, for anyone under fourth-years, while the seniors have their ball. It would keep the younger ones from trying to gatecrash, and it would keep them out of the way. We could have everyone in costume, and a competition for the best."
"I think that's great!" Eleanor said enthusiastically. "All in favour for the ball-and-disco idea?"
Ginny, all the girls, Scott Reeve and Gareth Coville raised their hands. Jack Swithin and Robert Harris did not – Ginny smirked to see that neither did Riddle.
"Majority rules," declared Eleanor. "Now, let's have two teams. One works on the ball, and the other works on the disco. Equal teams, please."
Riddle took a piece of parchment for his bag, wrote Hallowe'en Ball on it, and then his name underneath. His handwriting was very small, neat, and precise, with tidy flicks at the end of every letter. He sat back, as if to show that his decision was final. "I'm not working with glitter and fashion parades for the younger ones," he said.
"So you choose the Ball," teased Eleanor. "Glitzy dresses and fabulous dancing? Didn't see it as your kind of thing, Tom."
The seventeen-year-old did not reply, but it was obvious from the eye-narrowing and lip-curling that he did not appreciate the mockery, and even less did he like being called by his first name.
Scott Reeve, Gareth Coville, Antonia Durrell, and Mia Brown, signed their names; Eleanor wrote another paper for the disco, her writing as different from Riddle's as possible – big, bubbly, and bright – which was signed by Eleanor, Olive Hornby, Robert Harris and Jack Swithin.
Ginny allowed her eyes to flick over the alternating pieces of paper. She did not take in the decision, merely looked at the letters of Tom Riddle. Pursing her lips together in distaste, she picked up the quill and scrawled her name beneath Jack's, on the Hallowe'en disco form. Away from he who had made her life hell.
"Alright, then, Ginny, you're with us," said Eleanor cheerfully. These words caused a flicker of something unreadable in the dark, alert male eyes on the main sofa, which no-one but the redhead noticed. "Any ideas?"
"Just a few little sketched-out thoughts ," said Ginny, leaning forwards. She began to describe in detail her plans for the disco – the orange-and-black paper chains, the enchanted plastic-skeletons dancing around the room, the fabulous music playing, the dance routines taught to the students, and the food, at which Robert's eyes lit up.
It's my birthday, so I want it to be the best party ever.
And also, she contemplated, her eyes resting on the lean dark-haired boy across the room, the day that, forty-eight years from now, you will fall – the final fall before the climb that will destroy life as we know it.
Unless I get to you first. And believe me, I will.
…
A/N: Wow. Not very interesting. What did you think of Riddle? Sorry that it's so short. I hope that you liked it. REVIEW! Thank you to my beta SilvANXan (See? I can say it right if I want to), and enjoy the rest of the fic!