September 1938 to January 1939, 1st year
"Mudblood," they hissed behind the walls of the common room.
"Filthy orphan," they said.
Slytherin always presented a united front to the outside, but behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of the other houses, it was an entirely different matter.
They hated the poor boy. (And he was poor – in both senses of the word, though Naenia was referring to the material one.) They shunned him. They threw slurs at him. They destroyed his property and they tried to make his life as miserable as they could.
They shunned Naenia, too. But no one would dare call her anything even remotely rude to her face. Nor behind her back. No, Naenia Lémure might be an outcast, but she was still respected. For her social status and her power they respected her. For her family name and the implications behind it they feared her. For the dead mice Marin had put in her dormmates' beds they knew to leave her well alone.
She had never understood the fear of death. For all that they had made a point to stay neutral, the general wizarding population viewed the Lémures as dangerous and evil. And they feared them. Because they were afraid of death and for the Lémures Death was sacred. It was even their family motto – mors sacra. Death was a natural part of life, there was no need to be afraid.
People didn't even need to know Naenia personally to recognize her for who she was. The white eyes she might have gotten away with. But the white strand growing out of her temple, when her hair was otherwise of a rather dark brown, was a dead giveaway. She did not hide it. Why should she? But when the other students looked at her, saw her hair and recoiled, it did something to her. She couldn't quite place it. It was unpleasant, to say the least.
Tom Riddle was a pretty boy with pale skin – though not as pale as Naenia herself – dark hair and dark eyes. Very cold dark eyes. The boy had a remarkable talent in every single subject they taught at Hogwarts. Tom Riddle also had a Muggle name and was a poor orphan.
Naenia didn't really care about all that. What she cared about was not being disturbed in class or having to deal with frightened classmates butchering their potions right next to her. Or sabotaging Riddle's potion and blowing up nearly half of the classroom. What Naenia cared about was having uninterrupted lessons.
So, naturally, after the first week she sat next to him. He didn't pay her anymore heed than she did him and it worked out rather well for the both of them.
They were the ones no one wanted to associate with.
It also gave her the additional benefit of escaping Blythe during the classes they shared with the Hufflepuffs. Naenia had nothing against the girl. She simply didn't want to be friends with her. Naenia didn't want to be friends with anyone.
The first term went by smoothly enough. Classes were simple, boring even. Aside from Blythe no one bothered Naenia, didn't even annoy her after she had solved the problem with their seating arrangements during class.
Her birthday came and went. Her parents sent her a heavy tome on Runes on Samhain (the day they wished she had been born, not her actual birthday three days prior).
Naenia stayed at Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays. There was no reason for her to return home. Most students did. It left the castle blissfully empty. Apart from herself only a handful of Slytherins remained. There were more students from the other houses and judging from their hushed discussions during mealtimes, they were muggleborn. Or people living close enough to the Muggle world that they had to fear being actually affected by it and safer at Hogwarts.
The wizards didn't care all that much about the Muggle world facing conflicts and a future war. The Second World War, they would be calling it. And it would be devastating. It hadn't started yet, not really, but there was enough evidence supporting the predictions so many Seers had already made. The magical world still didn't care.
Naenia only cared because of the casualties. There was a lot of death to be found in a war and Necromancers thrived with death. Muggles were no different from witches and wizards in that regard. Everyone died, in the end. Even Necromancers. Although they usually didn't stay dead.
On Christmas Naenia got up early, like she always did, styled her hair with a simple spell to tumble down her back in soft curls and tied up one half of it – the one with the white strand, to make sure everyone could see it perfectly well. She applied some light makeup, dressed in elegant robes (not that she had anything that wasn't elegant) and went to a nearly empty Great Hall with an absolute immaculate appearance. Naenia was a pureblood, she was rich and she would never appear anything but immaculate. They would never catch her being imperfect. Being imperfect meant showing weakness and one of her social standing (and reputation) could not afford to show weakness.
She also liked dressing up every day and admiring her work in the mirror. It made her feel special.
The only other people present this early during the holidays were a few of the professors, two older students from Ravenclaw and Tom Riddle. Naenia sat down on the smaller table they had set up after the majority of the student body had left and selected her breakfast. She didn't quite enjoy eating all that much, disliked breakfast because it often made her nauseous, but had to acknowledge that her body needed food. Tea and some porridge it was.
"Are you eating well, Miss Lémure?"
Naenia raised her eyes to Professor Dumbledore's inquiring ones. She had noticed him approaching, of course, but not expected him to stop right next to her. He had asked her that question before.
"I don't do well with breakfast," she said.
"Yes, you have told me that, once. I was asking more in the general direction, as I have noticed you scarcely eat anything during the other meals either."
Naenia regarded the Professor carefully. Truth be told, she did not like him. He was a competent teacher, there was no doubt about that. But outside the classroom…
"I am merely concerned for your well-being, Miss Lémure. It is sad to think that not many others are."
Sometimes she wondered whether he could read people's minds. She didn't know of any people that could. There was the art of Legilimency, but that wasn't mind reading, not really. One's mind was so much more complex than that. And Naenia made a point to have at least three different trains of thoughts at once, sometimes up to nine, often crisscrossing and entangling themselves in each other. Even a very skilled Legilimens would have problems with that. She didn't even have to bring up the Occlumency shields her brother had insisted on teaching her.
Besides, she would know when someone tried to invade her mind. Then again, his eyes gave off this feeling, as if he could see right through her.
"I am fine, Professor. Thank you for your concern."
He gave her a sad smile. "If you're sure of it."
She didn't buy it. He knew who she was, what she was. And much like everyone else, the other professors not exempted, he treaded carefully around her. Professor Dumbledore might want her to believe that he only wanted the best for her and actually cared about her well-being, but they both knew better. What Professor Dumbledore truly wanted was to keep a close eye on her. Because she was a Necromancer and Necromancers were inherently evil. The goody two-shoes Professor couldn't very well leave a potentially evil student unsupervised, could he?
"Then I shall not disturb you any further and leave you to your meal, however small it may be."
Her eyes followed him on his way out. She did not narrow her eyes at his back – that wouldn't do her any good, except potentially attracting attention from anyone still present – but she wanted to.
"I keep wondering whether there's more to it, other than him being an overbearing old man."
She had noticed Dumbledore approaching but not Tom Riddle. He now sat on the other side of the table looking at her with an open expression.
This time she did narrow her eyes.
"Of course there's more to it and you are more than aware of that fact."
Riddle huffed, "Our 'dear Professor'." Then he smiled at her.
It looked nearly genuine, but it didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were cold and calculating. Assessing her every move.
They had never exchanged more than a few words and those had been during potions when one needed the other to hand an ingredient over.
Naenia took a careful sip of her still-too-hot tea. She would need to choose another type of mug, if she wanted her tea to be drinkable right away. Or use a spell when no one was looking.
Not that the pain bothered her, she could just supress it. Oh, the benefits of Necromancy.
Riddle narrowed his eyes slightly at her cup. So he had noticed something. Interesting.
His smile, however, didn't falter in the least. "I do wonder, though, why you seem to barely eat anything. The old man does have a point, after all."
Naenia inclined her head. "What does it matter to you?"
"You wound me. I am merely concerned for your well-being."
Now he was quoting Professor Dumbledore.
Naenia said nothing.
"You do not believe me," Riddle observed.
"Obviously," Naenia said.
"Why?"
"You did not give me any reason to."
His fake smile widened at that. "But I didn't give you any reason not to trust me either, did I?"
"No," she relented. "I suppose not."
Her tea was gone now, her porridge empty. Naenia rose from the table, politely nodded to Riddle and left the Great Hall without looking back.
Later that day he joined her in the library. He did not say anything, but he sat with her at the table she had chosen and left when she did.
Naenia did not know what to make of it.
Unlike Blythe, the Hufflepuff girl, Naenia could not exactly avoid Tom Riddle. They shared a common room, after all. And, ultimately, she had been the one to sit next to him in class, not the other way around. She didn't have to worry about that though, she thought. Riddle valued their lessons, even if he didn't exactly seem to need them either. But classes hadn't even started again, yet.
She wondered about it – what he could possibly want from her. He didn't want to be her friend, even if he liked to pretend he did. She didn't think he wanted to share the fear people had for her. Or maybe he did, because then they would stop bullying him for his blood status. What else did she have to offer? Knowledge. Experience. If that was what he wanted, then Naenia supposed she didn't really mind. But nothing was for free. If he wanted her knowledge, he would have to offer something in return. And he would have to ask first. After all, she couldn't be absolutely sure that those actually were his motives.
So she waited.
And, surely enough, one evening after the second term had started, Riddle approached her in the common room.
She was sitting on one of the couches, reading an article her parents had sent her, cut out from a German newspaper, printing a speech Grindelwald had made. They had sent the corresponding English article as well and a letter about the current situation in the Muggle world.
When Riddle came down the stairs that led to the boys' dormitories, she didn't pay him any heed. In fact, she kept on reading until he was standing right in front of her and cleared his throat.
"Lémure," he said and Naenia raised her eyes to his. "I was wondering, if you could, perhaps, help me with a little problem of mine."
Naenia inclined her head in acknowledgement of his request and waited for him to elaborate.
He cleared his throat again. "There have been… incidents, more so lately than at the beginning of the year. Since you are in a similar position to mine, I presume you are proficient in warding your property against unwanted acts."
"Indeed," Naenia said. "Although I was under the impression that you were gifted enough to just use the spells found in the library."
"I am," he said. "But they're hardly enough."
Naenia hummed. "I could show you, maybe even teach you. But what are you offering me in return?"
Riddle smiled. "My friendship? My undivided attention?"
Naenia raised an eyebrow.
"I would not presume to have any knowledge that would be of significance to you," Riddle said rocking back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind his back.
He appeared to be nonchalant. Unbothered and carefree.
Naenia still didn't buy his façade. She had seen, first hand, how the boy charmed their teachers, wrapped them around his little finger with ease. She had also seen the look in his eyes, when their backs were turned. Hard and cold. It was very similar to the one he regarded the other students with.
"I could owe you a favour. How's that? Then you could take some time to consider or just put it off for later use. You never know when you might be in need of… a favour."
In need of help, he had wanted to say. And then deliberately paused and seemingly changed his mind. Eleven years old and he already was a master manipulator gifted with a silver tongue, she had to give him that. It reminded her of one Gellert Grindelwald.
Naenia looked down on the papers in her lap. Considered. Then handed them to him.
Riddle obligingly accepted them. He frowned at the German article, but skimmed over the contents of the other two.
"So," he said when handing her the documents back. "Grindelwald."
„Grindelwald", she corrected, using the proper German pronunciation.
Riddle looked at her in that way he had when she had called him a Wunderkind a few weeks prior – under her breath during one of their Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. It was a mix of curiosity, admiration and envy.
"Is that how you pronounce it, then?"
"It is." She looked down at the articles again. "You know, his speeches are way more impressive in German. The stylistic devices he uses don't translate all that well. Now, that I think about it, 'Stilmittel' – or 'stilistische Mittel', if you want – sounds a lot better in German, too. I think it's the 'device' that bothers me.
"Although they did a rather good job on this one," she added and then tilted her head. "Hm… Figure of speech doesn't quite encompass it all. Figurative language. What's the difference between stylistic and rhetorical devices anyway? Rhetorische Stilmittel. Huh."
"So," Riddle began slowly. "What you're trying to tell me, in a weird metaphorical way, is what exactly?"
"You need help," Naenia said amused, watching how his smile thinned. "And you're offering help in return. In the form of 'a favour', as you worded it. There's no need for all that, I've already found something I want in return. You see, you do have valuable knowledge that I do not."
"Oh?" He lifted one eyebrow. "And what might that be?"
Naenia's smile widened. He would not like her next words. "You live in a Muggle orphanage."
He dropped his smile.
"As you know," she indicated to her parents' letter. "Our family is quite interested in the current events of the Muggle world. Articles and interviews are quite limited and – how to put it – prejudiced, to an extent. What we're missing is the perspective of someone actually living in that world. The war will spread. And you'll be right in the middle of it."
"You want the recount of a first-hand experience of a poor orphan being subjected to warfare."
"Exactly."
"Why?"
Naenia tilted her head, considered what to tell him. How to word it.
"We're Necromancers," she said eventually, watching his reaction. "Our very essence is death. And war – magical or non-magical – always brings a lot of death. I expect you'll be there when the bombings start."
He took a sharp breath. "When the –"
"Yes. Consider this free information – Germany will start a second world war in about half a year or so. Many Seers – the legitimate kind, mind you – and even Grindelwald himself have predicted it. All evidence points to it. And there will be devastation all around. It'll be only a matter of time until Britain joins in and then it'll be only a matter of time until the bombings start."
She had shocked him. She could see it in his eyes, the way he held himself. He might have even been afraid.
Then he schooled his expression back into something neutral. "All that in exchange for some warding spells?"
Naenia shrugged. "It's only information, isn't it? You'll be there regardless."
She had hit a raw nerve. It hadn't been her intention, not originally, but now she was curious to see what he would do. Rattling him had been worth it so far. Satisfying, if not exactly useful.
It took him longer to regain his composure this time.
When he had, Riddle sat down next to her.
"Alright," he said. "Show me the spells."
AN
Yes, I went on a Wikipedia tangent while looking for translations of "Stilmittel"/"stilistische Mittel"… The correct term for specific words outside my expertise (which is mostly chemistry) can sometimes be quite tricky. It's worse for words and phrases that only work in one language, but not the other (which obviously goes both ways).
Anyway.
The important points (for this specific chapter) are: Tom Riddle bears a muggle name, comes from the muggle world and has no knowledge or proof of any magical ancestors whatsoever when he first enters Hogwarts. Not that being a halfblood would have been that much better. So, for now, the Slytherins certainly won't treat him as anything other than a mudblood.
Until he has proven himself, that is.
We are going to see the well-respected Tom leading a group of fellow Slytherins eventually, I promise. We're just not there yet.
Right now, he is looked down upon and treated terribly. And he sees how people treat Naenia, who is just as much of an outsider as he is, but people respect her and they fear her for her power. And he wants that. Which is the premise I based this fic on, after all.