AN: The source of my inspiration, a.k.a. the plotbunny, was out playing
with the easter bunny this weekend. Hence, the slow update.
Reviews!
Miss Piratess (or the artist formerly known as Nixiy): Randomly bestowing affection must be fun.
Nikki: Most of the Death Eaters that will follow him later will be people who never even knew Tom Riddle. His 'closest friends' who he confides in are going to be Artemus, a kid named Jeremy Cotter, and (of all people) Driedda Malfoy. Artemus won't be a death eater, but Driedda and Jeremy will just have to keep their secret for fear of murder. *Sigh* I better stop before I end up telling you the whole story.
Awkward: Yes. And is a best friend of mine, and I'm sure I use it excessively. And, yeah, I can never avoid the Seer thing, but I needed something to trigger Tom's obsession over power, control, etc. Yes, the year went by fast, but that's because it was pretty uneventful. The next year will be worse (one chapter, methinks), but the third will be huge, so... yeah. Can't rush, but I'm just so impatient.
Erin: llamas are fun. And give me back that plotbunny – I had to use my sarcasm again.
~~
Chapter Six: The Unexpected Fear
~~
History of Magic had never been a class anyone would consider to be exciting – ever. In fact, so little of any real significance happened during that hour of the day, that most students took the teacher's lack of attention for granted, and slept.
But sometime after the students had been assigned two rolls of parchment on the history of goblin rebellions and their influence on the dealings of wizards in the late eighteenth century, news caught fire that the staff room had burnt up over the weekend.
Logically, with a castle so large, not many had known until word had spread about it. All the teachers had gotten out safely – all except one.
Subsequently, it was the Headmaster's sad duty to announce at dinner that Professor Francis Binns had slept through the entire ordeal, and died while doing so.
The first reaction was joy, in which nobody really had to complete the villainous essay. But then, as things settled down, a few of them felt a bit sorry for the old man.
So, naturally, it came as a shock to every student the next time they showed to their class, expecting nothing more than a younger, stricter professor that had the mind to look up every so often to make sure the class was still existent. What they found, however, was Binns.
Judging by the way he continued the lesson, the students wondered if he realized he'd actually died – he certainly didn't address the matter, but merely asked them in that dreadfully monotonous voice to hand in their essays.
The class groaned, wondering if it would be wise to inform him of his own demise. Apparently, they'd decided against it, for they eventually fell back into their routine slumber.
Tom's birthday came by as well, though he told no one. For some reason he found it didn't matter. He didn't expect presents, anyway, and it'd be a bit vain to announce the day as a celebration for himself.
So, he kept quiet. He was twelve, after all, and that was an accomplishment enough to make him happy.
Despite that note, the following months rolled on without question, without mishap, without discrepancy, without variation, without a single blink of anything out of place. It was nearly terrifying.
But for Tom, it was vaguely beneficial – that way he knew what to expect for the murderously repetitive years ahead.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Testing," their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher muttered loudly with dull dislike. With the end of the year approaching, testing had fallen upon the students, and more especially, Professor Morgan. "Can't stand it."
She was easily one of their more peculiar teachers. Her hair was a vapid gray, with hints of a younger crimson reaching down nearly to her knees. Even with glasses that sat on a nose too small to hold them, she squinted at everything she saw. Some concluded the expression was permanent.
"Does that mean we're not testing?" asked a hopeful voice from the back.
"No," she answered dryly. "That means you're cleaning out my furniture."
An incredulous and vaguely amused murmur rippled throughout.
"Professor?"
"You heard me," she answered in offhand, dull tones. "There's a boggart that's made a snug home for itself, and I'd rather have you do away with it than waste my own energy."
"Isn't that something third years would have to learn about?" Driedda whimpered.
"Maybe by the book," the professor replied. "But I'm not holding a book, now am I?"
The class was torn between anticipation of something above their level, and dread of something that strayed from simplicity.
She sighed impatiently. "Oh, hush. It's nothing complicated. You see the blighter, it turns into what you fear most, you think of a way to humiliate the poor thing, and let the next student have a go."
The class blinked owlishly.
"Sounds easy enough," Artemus muttered in confidence to Tom, who in turn raised an eyebrow.
"And for education's sake, to destroy it, you say Riddikulus. Say it now."
The class murmured an echo.
Professor Morgan clapped her hands unenthusiastically. "Brilliant," she said dryly. "Any takers?"
Tom gave Artemus a nudge in the shoulder, who'd gone rigid. Rolling his eyes when nobody volunteered, Tom leaned his weight suddenly on Artemus, who in turn toppled over.
The professor smiled wryly. "Mr. Black, how lovely."
He took an uncertain step backward towards the cupboard in question, his eyes shooting daggers at Tom. He looked back to the teacher, worry etching slightly around the corners of his mouth. "What do I do again, Professor?"
"Oh, does anyone listen?"
The class said nothing.
She suddenly grew overwhelmingly patient. "All right, Mr. Black. Imagine what you fear the most – " She turned her head to address the rest of them. "And all of you as well – imagine a way to... how should I say this... make it funny... enough to dispel your fear, at least."
Artemus nodded his head quickly. "Er... but, Professor?"
The patience shattered. "Just open the cupboard," she snapped.
From Tom's point of view, which was obscured immensely by Driedda Malfoy's head, nothing really happened. No cataclysmic event, no blood curdling scream. Not from the class, at least. Artemus was horrified to see his father advancing on him, though.
Tom stifled a grin – he feared his dad. But his face fell when he took note of the man's wand and heartless expression.
The boy, suddenly aware of his lack of stature, shut his eyes tight, and attempted a feeble smile.
The man, Mr. Black as Tom remembered from King's Cross, suddenly popped into a outrageously feminine household apron, holding a giant pot full of cooked noodles. His son stepped back to admire his work, a sly grin creeping upon his features.
Professor Morgan motioned another student to step up, looking rather bored with the situation, and relieved that she needn't any further involvement.
As Jeremy Cotter approached his boggart, a thought occurred to Tom. Did he know what he feared? Did he fear anything? It was silly to think there was nothing in store for him, but his mind was drawing a blank.
He supposed the most negative influence in his life so far had been the orphanage, but even over time, Tom had found away to rise above the thought of that place. It held waiting a blanket of misery for him, but no real fear.
Only after half the alphabet had passed did Tom realize the professor was going in order by last name. He was surprised – she rarely did anything in a predictable manner.
An uplifting and intoxicating rush of curiosity swept over Tom Riddle as he heard his name called. This couldn't be natural, he thought, to anticipate his fear. But he really had no idea what it could be. It was a waiting surprise, a revelation from behind a closed door.
Yet, a shadow of uncertainty was creeping around the edges of his mind as he approached the boggart, with effort to speed up the prolonged moment, it seemed. Could curiosity really conquer fear?
He doubted it – and that doubt was what allowed him begin to dread what was coming when the boggart assumed its form.
Crack. The figure shifted, grasping and absorbing in fascination Tom's inner, subliminal thoughts – thoughts he'd never been aware of until now.
It was a shock, yes. But nothing to frighten anyone, especially himself. It was his own figure, sprawled and yet peaceful on the ground, a pale angelic white – a touch too pale, but Tom was too enthralled in the enigma to notice.
What was there to be afraid of? The class hushed involuntarily. Was he sleeping? How could that scare him? He'd slept plenty of times before...
Why was the class suddenly so worried? Whisperings, secrets, rumors behind him... Tom found the answer staring back at him as he, at long last, noticed his eyes. They were deathly blank, fixed upon him, possessing a younger body – his twelve year old body – but they were open, lidless, fathomless, crimson, bloody crimson... a drip of that crimson slipped from his mouth, lips slightly parted in death.
Amusement was far from his mind now, and his childish curiosity had all but fled.
It was like swallowing stones when he took another breath. He was dead. Twelve years of living and he feared the end of it.
~~~~~~~~~~
"It's not all that bad," Artemus told him on their way to Potions. He'd seemed a little unnerved by the sight as well, but he hadn't taken it as seriously as Tom was now.
Jeremy Cotter had joined them. "Everyone dies, you know."
"But..." Tom was tumbling over his words. "I – I'm just – I'm too young to die!"
Artemus laughed, which only exasperated Tom the further. "You're not gonna die, trust me. Not yet."
"I never want to die!"
The thought of something so final, inevitable, condemning, unbending... it was uncomfortable and incredibly disturbing. Once he crossed the line, slipped past the edge, fell below the surface... there was no coming back.
"We're all going to snuff it someday," Jeremy said bluntly – somewhat out of turn, Tom thought, as he barely knew the kid. He was a Slytherin, though, and a friend of Artemus's. Tom said nothing in return.
They'd arrived in front of the Potions classroom for the year's final test. Tom entered casually, showing no sign of distress in front of his fellow peers – many of whom had witnessed his boggart.
The test was simple, therefore hardly enough distraction for Tom at the time, but at least some things were certain to be for his benefit. He knew he was going to ace this.
Potions for color changing, potions for sleep, potions for curing small ailments, potions for growing hair faster, but surely nothing to conquer death.
Perhaps next year, fifth year, seventh year? Would there ever be an answer? Surely not, the issue of death was widespread in the Wizarding World – people mourned over it, magical and muggle alike. Surely, if there were some way to stop it, people wouldn't be dead... war wouldn't scare anybody one bit.
Was war really upon them? Tom was too young to really know, too young to really care.
Not to mention, too young to be worrying about the day he died. Yet he did, and at times he felt the child leave him as he contemplated times when childhood would be all but lost forever to him.
He was twelve – young, healthy, and preferably careless.
Averting Professor Malfoy's interested gaze, Tom handed in his completed test – flawless.
~~~~~~~~~~
AN: Finally, the drama makes its grand entrance!
Reviews!
Miss Piratess (or the artist formerly known as Nixiy): Randomly bestowing affection must be fun.
Nikki: Most of the Death Eaters that will follow him later will be people who never even knew Tom Riddle. His 'closest friends' who he confides in are going to be Artemus, a kid named Jeremy Cotter, and (of all people) Driedda Malfoy. Artemus won't be a death eater, but Driedda and Jeremy will just have to keep their secret for fear of murder. *Sigh* I better stop before I end up telling you the whole story.
Awkward: Yes. And is a best friend of mine, and I'm sure I use it excessively. And, yeah, I can never avoid the Seer thing, but I needed something to trigger Tom's obsession over power, control, etc. Yes, the year went by fast, but that's because it was pretty uneventful. The next year will be worse (one chapter, methinks), but the third will be huge, so... yeah. Can't rush, but I'm just so impatient.
Erin: llamas are fun. And give me back that plotbunny – I had to use my sarcasm again.
~~
Chapter Six: The Unexpected Fear
~~
History of Magic had never been a class anyone would consider to be exciting – ever. In fact, so little of any real significance happened during that hour of the day, that most students took the teacher's lack of attention for granted, and slept.
But sometime after the students had been assigned two rolls of parchment on the history of goblin rebellions and their influence on the dealings of wizards in the late eighteenth century, news caught fire that the staff room had burnt up over the weekend.
Logically, with a castle so large, not many had known until word had spread about it. All the teachers had gotten out safely – all except one.
Subsequently, it was the Headmaster's sad duty to announce at dinner that Professor Francis Binns had slept through the entire ordeal, and died while doing so.
The first reaction was joy, in which nobody really had to complete the villainous essay. But then, as things settled down, a few of them felt a bit sorry for the old man.
So, naturally, it came as a shock to every student the next time they showed to their class, expecting nothing more than a younger, stricter professor that had the mind to look up every so often to make sure the class was still existent. What they found, however, was Binns.
Judging by the way he continued the lesson, the students wondered if he realized he'd actually died – he certainly didn't address the matter, but merely asked them in that dreadfully monotonous voice to hand in their essays.
The class groaned, wondering if it would be wise to inform him of his own demise. Apparently, they'd decided against it, for they eventually fell back into their routine slumber.
Tom's birthday came by as well, though he told no one. For some reason he found it didn't matter. He didn't expect presents, anyway, and it'd be a bit vain to announce the day as a celebration for himself.
So, he kept quiet. He was twelve, after all, and that was an accomplishment enough to make him happy.
Despite that note, the following months rolled on without question, without mishap, without discrepancy, without variation, without a single blink of anything out of place. It was nearly terrifying.
But for Tom, it was vaguely beneficial – that way he knew what to expect for the murderously repetitive years ahead.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Testing," their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher muttered loudly with dull dislike. With the end of the year approaching, testing had fallen upon the students, and more especially, Professor Morgan. "Can't stand it."
She was easily one of their more peculiar teachers. Her hair was a vapid gray, with hints of a younger crimson reaching down nearly to her knees. Even with glasses that sat on a nose too small to hold them, she squinted at everything she saw. Some concluded the expression was permanent.
"Does that mean we're not testing?" asked a hopeful voice from the back.
"No," she answered dryly. "That means you're cleaning out my furniture."
An incredulous and vaguely amused murmur rippled throughout.
"Professor?"
"You heard me," she answered in offhand, dull tones. "There's a boggart that's made a snug home for itself, and I'd rather have you do away with it than waste my own energy."
"Isn't that something third years would have to learn about?" Driedda whimpered.
"Maybe by the book," the professor replied. "But I'm not holding a book, now am I?"
The class was torn between anticipation of something above their level, and dread of something that strayed from simplicity.
She sighed impatiently. "Oh, hush. It's nothing complicated. You see the blighter, it turns into what you fear most, you think of a way to humiliate the poor thing, and let the next student have a go."
The class blinked owlishly.
"Sounds easy enough," Artemus muttered in confidence to Tom, who in turn raised an eyebrow.
"And for education's sake, to destroy it, you say Riddikulus. Say it now."
The class murmured an echo.
Professor Morgan clapped her hands unenthusiastically. "Brilliant," she said dryly. "Any takers?"
Tom gave Artemus a nudge in the shoulder, who'd gone rigid. Rolling his eyes when nobody volunteered, Tom leaned his weight suddenly on Artemus, who in turn toppled over.
The professor smiled wryly. "Mr. Black, how lovely."
He took an uncertain step backward towards the cupboard in question, his eyes shooting daggers at Tom. He looked back to the teacher, worry etching slightly around the corners of his mouth. "What do I do again, Professor?"
"Oh, does anyone listen?"
The class said nothing.
She suddenly grew overwhelmingly patient. "All right, Mr. Black. Imagine what you fear the most – " She turned her head to address the rest of them. "And all of you as well – imagine a way to... how should I say this... make it funny... enough to dispel your fear, at least."
Artemus nodded his head quickly. "Er... but, Professor?"
The patience shattered. "Just open the cupboard," she snapped.
From Tom's point of view, which was obscured immensely by Driedda Malfoy's head, nothing really happened. No cataclysmic event, no blood curdling scream. Not from the class, at least. Artemus was horrified to see his father advancing on him, though.
Tom stifled a grin – he feared his dad. But his face fell when he took note of the man's wand and heartless expression.
The boy, suddenly aware of his lack of stature, shut his eyes tight, and attempted a feeble smile.
The man, Mr. Black as Tom remembered from King's Cross, suddenly popped into a outrageously feminine household apron, holding a giant pot full of cooked noodles. His son stepped back to admire his work, a sly grin creeping upon his features.
Professor Morgan motioned another student to step up, looking rather bored with the situation, and relieved that she needn't any further involvement.
As Jeremy Cotter approached his boggart, a thought occurred to Tom. Did he know what he feared? Did he fear anything? It was silly to think there was nothing in store for him, but his mind was drawing a blank.
He supposed the most negative influence in his life so far had been the orphanage, but even over time, Tom had found away to rise above the thought of that place. It held waiting a blanket of misery for him, but no real fear.
Only after half the alphabet had passed did Tom realize the professor was going in order by last name. He was surprised – she rarely did anything in a predictable manner.
An uplifting and intoxicating rush of curiosity swept over Tom Riddle as he heard his name called. This couldn't be natural, he thought, to anticipate his fear. But he really had no idea what it could be. It was a waiting surprise, a revelation from behind a closed door.
Yet, a shadow of uncertainty was creeping around the edges of his mind as he approached the boggart, with effort to speed up the prolonged moment, it seemed. Could curiosity really conquer fear?
He doubted it – and that doubt was what allowed him begin to dread what was coming when the boggart assumed its form.
Crack. The figure shifted, grasping and absorbing in fascination Tom's inner, subliminal thoughts – thoughts he'd never been aware of until now.
It was a shock, yes. But nothing to frighten anyone, especially himself. It was his own figure, sprawled and yet peaceful on the ground, a pale angelic white – a touch too pale, but Tom was too enthralled in the enigma to notice.
What was there to be afraid of? The class hushed involuntarily. Was he sleeping? How could that scare him? He'd slept plenty of times before...
Why was the class suddenly so worried? Whisperings, secrets, rumors behind him... Tom found the answer staring back at him as he, at long last, noticed his eyes. They were deathly blank, fixed upon him, possessing a younger body – his twelve year old body – but they were open, lidless, fathomless, crimson, bloody crimson... a drip of that crimson slipped from his mouth, lips slightly parted in death.
Amusement was far from his mind now, and his childish curiosity had all but fled.
It was like swallowing stones when he took another breath. He was dead. Twelve years of living and he feared the end of it.
~~~~~~~~~~
"It's not all that bad," Artemus told him on their way to Potions. He'd seemed a little unnerved by the sight as well, but he hadn't taken it as seriously as Tom was now.
Jeremy Cotter had joined them. "Everyone dies, you know."
"But..." Tom was tumbling over his words. "I – I'm just – I'm too young to die!"
Artemus laughed, which only exasperated Tom the further. "You're not gonna die, trust me. Not yet."
"I never want to die!"
The thought of something so final, inevitable, condemning, unbending... it was uncomfortable and incredibly disturbing. Once he crossed the line, slipped past the edge, fell below the surface... there was no coming back.
"We're all going to snuff it someday," Jeremy said bluntly – somewhat out of turn, Tom thought, as he barely knew the kid. He was a Slytherin, though, and a friend of Artemus's. Tom said nothing in return.
They'd arrived in front of the Potions classroom for the year's final test. Tom entered casually, showing no sign of distress in front of his fellow peers – many of whom had witnessed his boggart.
The test was simple, therefore hardly enough distraction for Tom at the time, but at least some things were certain to be for his benefit. He knew he was going to ace this.
Potions for color changing, potions for sleep, potions for curing small ailments, potions for growing hair faster, but surely nothing to conquer death.
Perhaps next year, fifth year, seventh year? Would there ever be an answer? Surely not, the issue of death was widespread in the Wizarding World – people mourned over it, magical and muggle alike. Surely, if there were some way to stop it, people wouldn't be dead... war wouldn't scare anybody one bit.
Was war really upon them? Tom was too young to really know, too young to really care.
Not to mention, too young to be worrying about the day he died. Yet he did, and at times he felt the child leave him as he contemplated times when childhood would be all but lost forever to him.
He was twelve – young, healthy, and preferably careless.
Averting Professor Malfoy's interested gaze, Tom handed in his completed test – flawless.
~~~~~~~~~~
AN: Finally, the drama makes its grand entrance!