January 1939: A Tingle
Annabel Sybil Selwyn was walking decisively towards the lower storeys of the castle, repeating her arguments in her head. It had started to become personal and she had had enough of it… Four months now that she had to tolerate that absolute moron and she refused to suffer his scornful comments any longer. It was time for a change. She repressed a shiver once she reached her destination, adjusting the cape around her shoulders. By Merlin why did it have to be so cold down there? At least, when it came to the temperature inside the dungeons, she was glad she hadn't been sorted in Slytherin…
She bravely knocked on the door she was now facing and pushed it open at the invitation to come in. The Potion Master was bundled up in a tux, seemingly about to leave. A travel suitcase was opened on the console table in the back of the room and he was rummaging through the drawers of a big apothecary cabinet. He indicated the chair in front of his desk with a hand gesture to the girl who stood still for a second. She was comfortable standing, firmly rooted on her two feet. Yet, she sat on the edge of the chair, her back very straight.
"Miss Selwyn! To what do I owe such a pleasant surprise?"
He smiled at her kindly and his warmth almost made her want to give in and forget about her well concocted plan. She knew, though, that he would try to dismiss her. Asking him to change partners in the middle of the year meant novelty and extra work, two things most teachers did not like.
"I would like to change partner Professor"
"By Merlin, what is wrong with the First Years these days? You are probably the tenth person this term to come and ask me that…"
She bit her lip. She knew it would not be easy but she had not expected the others to share her thoughts regarding the heavy atmosphere of the Potion class.
"… and I've never granted any request so far. What happened with Leonus Nott?"
"We… do not get along"
He shot her a concerned look, wrinkles forming on his forehead.
"I am terribly sorry to hear that Miss Selwyn but I'm afraid not 'getting along' is not enough of an argument for me to assign you another teammate"
He had said that without looking at her, grabbing vials and books on a shelf and packing them neatly in his suitcase.
Annabel bit her lower lip.
She was unwilling to confess the that he was picking on her, that she felt miserable each time she saw him, sometimes even retreating to the bathroom after class to shed a few tears because of his stinging remarks.
"He keeps… teasing me, Professor"
"Teasing?"
Slughorn stood still, a frown showing on his face as if her words carried a deeper meaning. He walked towards his desk and sat down in front of the girl, meeting her sterling grey eyes. Of course she had inherited her father's uncompromising glance, that one that defendants feared the most from all members of the Wizengamot.
"Is everything all right?"
She exhaled through her mouth, trying to regain composure as she felt vulnerable.
"Things would have been easier if I would have been sorted in your house, Professor"
Slughorn's head moved ever so slightly for he knew what she was alluding to. For a couple of years now, children from pureblood lineage were sorted outside Slytherin, like a curse made to hinder the established notoriety of the house. Some rumours had it that the Sorting Hat had been jinxed, causing a good deal of commotion within the higher circles of the wizarding world. A few parents of green and silver kids had gone as far as to argue that the few children sent now to Slytherin were blessed, the last ones truly worthy of the teaching of the Great Founder. Annabel had hoped she would dodge the bullet… After all, didn't she gather all the necessary criteria to be sent there? Wasn't she ambitious and clever? Wasn't she belonging to the Twenty-Eight, the ones remaining, the last pure ones? Wasn't her mother Zeena Shafiq, the unique grand-daughter of Al Aqrab Shafiq, pure blood supremacist and previous Head of the International Confederation of Wizards? Wasn't her father Amsden Selwyn, descendent of the great enchantress Simone Salvin, son and grandson of former Slytherins?
"Ravenclaw is just as prestigious"
She swallowed, wishing she would have heard those words from her parents. Annabel felt a pang in her chest as she remembered Christmas, how her family had scrupulously avoided broaching the topic. She wished they would have granted her a comment, some proof of their acceptance. For two weeks she had been searching for any opportunity to snap, ready to burst like a shaken bottle of McSpratts. But the Selwyn family believed that some things were better left unspoken, and in their silence, the girl has felt all the weight of their disappointment.
"I will think about it"
A hopeful smile parted her lips and her eyes brightened. She thanked the Potion Master in a whisper.
"I cannot guarantee you that I will do it, but I will give it some thought. However, if I assign you a new potion partner but this one does not suit you either, I will not change it again. You will have to find a way to get along"
She quickly nodded and stood up, the lump in her throat suddenly gone.
"By the way, Miss Selwyn, are you by any chance meeting Mr. Riddle today?"
"We… don't share any classes this afternoon but I suppose I will see him at dinner"
"Great great"
Slughorn reached for a paper bag waiting on his desk and handed it to Annabel.
"Give this to him, will you? I have to catch a train to London and won't be dining in the Great Hall tonight"
—
Tom Riddle was heading to the castle alongside his fellow classmates, the moon shining over his head. Puffs of white smoke were coming out of his mouth as he sped up, and he tucked the ends of his scarf inside his robe. More than Herbology itself, what he despised was Herbology classes on a freezing Friday night. He could barely feel his fingers for the gloves he owned were too thin and he had had to keep his hands out of his pocket the entire duration of the course to search for wormwood and other plants inside the Botanical garden.
He climbed the flight of stairs that led to the castle's main door and headed straight to where the hubbub stemmed from. A pleasant warmth immediately enveloped him and he noticed his peers in the Great Hall. He walked towards the three boys that were deep in conversation about Quidditch. A blond one named Alastair Rosier slid to the side to accomodate him. On his right, a boy with jet black hair, Cillian Lestrange, was boasting about his family connections. Tom noticed how the two others grew increasingly quieter as the boy kept name-dropping, blabbering about how friends of his uncle's friends managed to buy him tickets for the next Quidditch World Cup, tickets that were sold out for months.
Suddenly, the conversation stopped due to the appearance of a girl across the table. Tom recognised Annabel Selwyn, a Ravenclaw who shared his potion class. He remembered having talked to her once, at the library, never spoke a word to her since. He had pointed to a mistake she had made in her assignment and he had the feeling that she kept avoiding him ever since.
"Look who's here? A lost sheep. Are you colour blind? Your table is over there" sneered the third one, Leonus Nott, indicating the blue and silver table with a shake of the head.
The girl ignored him elegantly and Tom wondered if she was used to Nott's pointed remarks by now. She was the boy's Potion partner and Tom – who was assigned the table next to them in Slughorn's class – could only confirm his first impression of the Slytherin: abusive, domineering, Leonus Nott seemed to only understand social relations under the lens of power. Tom recalled with an acute precision how the boy had tried to rule their dorm, assigning beds to the others only to claim the best one for himself. Such little games hadn't last long, for Tom was not the kind to be easily intimidated. Besides, growing up in an orphanage brought its lot of all kind of life lessons, including how to deal with bullies. Tom had quickly readjusted the power dynamic between them both and he now had Nott wrapped around his little finger.
"Hi Anna"
Rosier grinned at the girl, his blond hair shining under the candlelight as he leaned over the table to meet her gaze. Tom knew they were friends since childhood, something Alastair had confided once as they went to bed, the intimacy of the darkness helping to loosen the tongues. Cillian Lestrange had asked why Rosier always chatted with her before the Potion class would start, or why he had helped her to clean the spilled dragoon blood that she had accidentally knocked over the floor that day. Rosier had simply said that their parents were friends, that he had spent almost all his summers in her holiday home. Nott had sneered, as always, and Tom had told him to shut up for once because he was getting tired of his endless jeering.
Tom turned his gaze to her but she was looking away, observing a group of blue and silver first years as if to make sure they would not leave without her. She mouthed "I am coming" or something of the sort and extended her arm over the table, a paper bag in hand.
"It's for you Riddle. Professor Slughorn asked me to give you this"
Tom lazily stretched his arm to reach for the package, shooting the girl a jaded glance. As he grabbed the handle, his digits brushed hers.
Something ran from the tip of his fingers all the way down to his spine. He immediately moved his hand away from hers and did his best to conceal his bewilderment. What was… that? He looked up, to thank her, but she already showed a clean pair of heels. He opened the bag only to find a book. Cautiously, he looked at her again. His eyes wandered from her shoulder to her wrist. He saw her fingers trembling and she opened and closed her palm, as if she had burned herself and did find in movement a way to relieve the pain. Then he knew she had felt it too.
A tingle.