July of 1943…
(Malfoy Manor)
The arches of the room were splendid – a veritable dedication to all architecture, magical and otherwise. The walls – they were beautiful too. With a smooth coat of shining silver, and grand mouldings that had the shapes of serpents and grapevines carved into them. The Manor seemed to shimmer with a magical intensity…
He could feel it. Him, with his almost unruly magical energy could feel the wards and the ancient magic as it pulsed all around him in this castle of a place.
It reminded him of Hogwarts… except not quite as potent. Not as intense and raw. It was more controlled here. Not quite as special and timeless.
Tom Riddle liked it all the same.
He was standing away from the thrumming heart of the ballroom, dressed deep rich blue robes that were in fact a lot less richer than they appeared to be. To anyone who was attending the dinner party at Malfoy Manor, Mr. Riddle had a very fine pair of robes. They suited his pale skin, and his dark thick hair and most importantly the midnight blue of his eyes. They were thick and embroidered at the seams. Something, much more suited to the tastes of those he had to meet.
They appeared as though they might have cost a hefty sum of Galleons. Truth was, they were a pair of ratty school robes, who Tom, in a quick flick of his wand had transfigured into a more beautiful costume. He had touched them with a smirk on his face alone in his rooms at the Manor – they were beautiful, perfect even. And he had done it quite easily hadn't he?
It was so easy to fool people.
His regular appearances at these frivolous affairs were a testament to that.
The boy wasn't used to these sorts of 'get-togethers'. But he remained composed, and the plains of his face were pleasantly sculpted so those who looked upon him did not see someone who didn't belong – but rather a handsome young man, who spoke quietly to his friends.
There were a lot of people in this room he hoped to someday know - and know well.
They were powerful, obviously.
They were influential and not a spot of filth upon them.
Yet they still regarded him, as a boy.
Imagine if they knew the Heir of Slytherin, that boy,was in their midst?
He'd be worshipped…
Tom allowed himself a soft sigh at the idea that no one could know just yet, and peered about him. Laughter, and the general hum of conversation were all around him. The clinking of glasses, the sweep of tailored gowns and the perfectly pitched peal of well-bred girls and women. It was always like this in Abraxas' family home on nights like these, and after a very honorary invitation here to this party, he had come.
It had not been his first courteous invitation here though. No, he had spent a considerable amount of time within these ancient walls the past few years
It had all fallen into place two years ago, the summer before his second year – when he had been allowed to come here to spend a week with Abraxas before they went to the station, then off to Hogwarts together.
The Malfoys, to put it quite bluntly, had adored him.
Tom couldn't blame them… he had been at his best after all. Using the same shy grin that he used on teachers with Mrs. Malfoy, and his calm intellect with Mr. Malfoy.
On top of that, he was a dear sweet orphan.
Easy.
And they had invited him back, obviously. Each summer he came to their home, and Abraxas couldn't be more thrilled.
His 'friend', his powerful up-and-coming Lord, to live with him? Tom snorted internally. Well that was an incredible chance wasn't it? He could gain his favour.
And he had, Tom admitted to himself. In the ways Abraxas had been loyal, he had gained Tom's scarcely-earned, unwavering attention. Abraxas had become his ear. His right hand man, if you will. He had allowed Tom to weasel his way into the very strict circle of pureblood families that controlled the very wizarding world.
Beside him now, were two sons of two prominent wizarding families he had met on his very first night at Hogwarts… Antares Macnair and Reginald Goyle. They were an imposing pair – all muscle and cracking knuckles.
At times, Tom wanted to kill them for just being so stupid and brawny – but then again their physical strength had its uses.
People were terrified of them.
And they were terrified of him.
Macnair and Goyle were like bulls in a china shop here, Tom thought with a smirk. Their fancy robes of deep grey and green could not conceal them for what they really were – mindless. They shifted uneasily next to him, great fists holding delicate glasses of elf-made wine.
It looked idiotic really – two great big brutes among fine-boned women and haughty-looking men.
But they, of course, had been immersed in this world longer than he had, and he was content to watch from the shadowy corner of the room – away from the inane conversations and dancing, until he could pull himself into a very profitable conversation with some wizard or another.
It was what he usually did – and it worked.
He was receiving offers to work at the ministry at every one of these events… and this was the summer before his sixth year no less.
Oh, but a lot of knowledge had come to him in those six years.
He had a vision, backed by the very blood in his veins.
He had followers, who embraced his vision, and were in awe of his heritage.
Tom Riddle, descendant of the great Salazar Slytherin.
His dark, lovely eyes flitted across the room once more, and he leaned casually against the wall, as he let the chances, the calculations accumulate in his head.
He heard a rather heavy accent – coming from a moustached man across the room.
Ah, a foreign wizard.
He frowned, watching as the wizard tilted his ugly head back and laughed, and then Tom's eyes strayed to the foreigner's clothing.
Cheap robes – no use going to chat.
What use is a person if they are foreign and poor hmm?
A voice rose above the loud chatter, from somewhere to his right.
The man who was speaking had jowls that jiggled with his speech – which was accompanied by a snobbish tone.
"I highly doubt that it would be necessary to soak the knotgrass – with the potency of having both dragon heart and dragon eggs mixed into the potion at the same time. I mean, that is an incredible force there, which, obviouslypowers the drinker…"
Potions…
Now this might be interesting.
Tom turned to the arrogant voice, and on the far side of the room, a group of young men dressed in spotless cloaks, accompanied by a few older men that had their drab, little wives hanging off their arms stood in a loose circle of conversation.
But…
They were ridiculously dull, in comparison with the creature that stood with them, her shoulders held back in a most defiant posture, and her eyebrow cocked at the man who spoke with evident distaste.
Tom felt his mouth quirk at her expression.
She looked, as though she were dealing with a very small stupid child – and that she hated to be doing it.
Though, she seemed to be the only person listening to the man – he noticed that the rest of the group, especially the young men, darted glances at this unknown young woman. Sneakily letting their eyes wander over the soft flow of her shoulders, her pale milky skin and the way her dress hugged her willowy frame in a snug, yet unfathomably casual way. But there was nothing casual about it when she had that look on her face – it made her seem… Well there wasn't a proper word for it, but Tom was determined to find it.
The dress was tight around her waist, and Tom let his eyes travel over the natural cinch in her body with a lazy sort of interest, and his eyes flickered up to the square cut of the neckline and how it held her body so expertly. None of her, presumably milky coloured legs were shown, not even the peep-toe of her shoes, because of the dress' impossible length. Even her hands and forearms were concealed in satin gloves that reached her elbows, with a set of buttons along the sides – a reflective mossy hue.
But did it ever set her off.
Her hair matched its deep forest green – it being a startling red. It was swept up to the nape of her neck – pinning down shining waves.
Her face was as haughty and well carved as many other women here but there was something distinctly different – something flashing in very dark eyes.
Tom didn't even know the colour of those eyes – they were so dark.
They flashed at the man who drawled on about this potion, and her full lips parted as if she'd like to join in, but alas, Tom smirked deeply inside his mind, she was a woman, and these were not the affairs of a woman. Oh no.
No wonder they stared at her, this woman was like a bitch in heat compared to the tame women that flittered all around them.
He leaned towards his follower.
"Goyle," his voice came like a whiplash - an order, "who is that?"
The beefy boy moved his head to check in which direction his Master's eyes were focused. "The girl by Parkinson over there?"
Ah, so the boy who had so covertly looked over her breasts was the older Parkinson brother.
Tom nodded, still watching the girl as she took a sip from the crystal glass in her glove-sheathed hands, the liquid barely touching her lips, and her gaze never wavering from the man who so obnoxiously discussed potions.
"That is Nagini Lajoie, my Lord."
Goyle's last words were whispered, for no one knew yet of Tom's power. Of his greatness.
Tom's face remained impassive. He had never heard of her, or seen her.
But she was certainly a pretty thing wasn't she?
Much more… appealing that the girls who wheedled after him in school.
Her head was probably empty. A pity.
"I see," Tom said tonelessly. "To whom is she related to then, Goyle?"
Tom had his eyes still trained on her, when a laugh bubbled up from his right, tearing his attention away from the Lajoie girl.
He turned with a smirk to see Abraxas Malfoy, strolling over with a tumbler of some sort of Firewhiskey in his hand. His long, pale hair was pulled back and his robes were a scintillating silver.
"Myself," his favoured follower answered his question in his most respectful, yet friendly manner. "She is my relation, on the French side of my family. A cousin of sorts. Though she was born here, along with her parents and brother…" Tom saw his gaze wander over to the girl in question, and a soft smile took over Abraxas' features, then a sudden disappointment. "Too bad we are share blood… She is a fine specimen of a witch…I do enjoy arguing with the chit. What is it that has caught your interest, if I may ask, my Lord?"
Tom glanced at this Lajoie woman, and agreed silently. She was… interesting to look at.
"Nothing," the Slytherin heir answered simply, instead. "I have simply never seen her at Hogwarts, yet she seems to be close to us in age. Tell me, Abraxas, how old is she? Is she unlearned or simply being made to bear fine pureblooded children?"
A collection of laughs from his followers.
Malfoy grinned at him, but bowed his head in respect. "She's a year our senior, and she has never attended Hogwarts. She is home-schooled. Her parents believe it fitting to have her taught by tutors. That being said, I know she is very much a learned young lady and I am sure…" – a twisted smile - "she would bear fine children indeed."
A hollow laugh came from the solemn boy as he met his confidante's grey gaze. "I cannot blame her parents. Having Dumbledore as a teacher is most… unsatisfying."
Goyle snickered. "I agree, my Lord."
Tom took a deep gulp from his wine glass, turning to see the girl looking even more annoyed than she did before. Her dark eyes were glittering with mockery and her fingers squeezing around the glass in her hands. He wanted to smile at her – because in some way, this reminded him of himself. He probably did look that way very often – amused at other people's stupidity, fighting against the urge to teach them exactly how much they needed to learn.
Curious.
"Introduce us, if you please, Abraxas. She seems fitting for a conversation…" Tom drawled, innuendo firmly in place.
Macnair tittered. "Among other things, my Lord."
Abraxas simply nodded to his Lord, ignoring the crude boy. "Certainly. Knowing my parents they will be delighted to have her introduced to, as they say it, 'promising young man'."
Tom laughed darkly. "They do not know just how promising I am, now do they?"
Abraxas shook his head, and his voice became reverent. "Oh no, my Lord. Nobody but your faithful followers that is."
The foursome made their way across the room, and received nods and glances of respect as they made their way over to the girl who had, surprisingly, caught the attention of the very caustic young Riddle. Abraxas, being son to the host – smiled at each of them, and he smiled even wider, Tom noticed, when they came to stand before that splendid creature.
She was even more interesting close up.
Her irises, Tom realized as he stood before her, were almost pure black – giving her a rousing wide-eyed look. Long light lashes framed them – magnifying the darkness. Despite the fieriness of her hair, her complexion was free of freckles – no doubt owing to life under a parasol or wide-brimmed hats, so popular with the pureblooded witches. She had an upturned little nose, and wide lips that turned up into a lazy smile upon seeing Abraxas and his friends.
Tom felt her dark, shining eyes turn on to him, and he could practically feel her curiosity.
She didn't release his gaze until she curtsied, low and graceful, deep green gloves gripping the folds of her dress as she rewarded Tom and his followers with a view of her curls settling against the nape of her neck.
And her head, suddenly snapped back up – eyes as wide and disconcerting as ever, and definitely not focused on Tom, but on the pale, regal blonde beside him.
She held out a hand to Abraxas, the shiny glove almost exotic in the light.
Her mouth parted, and out came a drawling, muted soprano, which arrested Tom with its confidence and briskness.
"Hello my dear Abraxas… I have to say… It is most interesting and becoming to be greeted be a host and his entourage."
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