A/N: Not sure what the specific TW would be for it, but this chapter contains one of the reasons this fic is rated M (there is a scene of fairly graphic physical assault from the POV of the victim). I know some scenes so far have been mildly disturbing so there's probably some level of expectation, but I just wanted to warn so there are no surprises.
"ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʙᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ᴀᴛ ʜᴏɢᴡᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀꜱᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ɪᴛ."
Chapter Nine: Words Shall Never Hurt Me
The idea of winning glory by merit, Tom had discovered in the past few weeks, was almost a complete sham.
Did his housemates thank him for the tens of points he won for Slytherin in class each day? No, of course not. They were more concerned about his 'dirty Muggle blood.'
He sat in the far corner of the common room, attending to his copious homework alone (No one had offered to work with him, and quite frankly, Tom didn't want their help; they'd just pull him down. But it was the oversight that irritated him.) and stewing in his misery.
As it were, there was some kind of Halloween (Samhain, according to the pureblood students) ball going on, and as a result, all of the students in the fourth year and up were hastily getting dressed for it, fussing over their hair and clothes endlessly. Tom had tried to make himself as scarce as possible, but the other boys in his dormitory chattered incessantly, and the need to have relative quiet so that he could concentrate on his work had driven him out into the common room, where he'd hidden himself in the darkest corner, hoping that no one would notice him amongst the far more interesting things going on.
It had been going remarkably well until Araminta Carrow appeared, wearing a set of pale-pink dress robes that must have cost at least ten times the value of all Tom's earthly goods. At the very least, she seemed reluctant to call the older boys' attention to Tom.
"What are those?" asked Tom, pointing to the small, strange, wrinkled creatures bustling to-and-fro around Abraxas and Cygnus.
"House-elves," said Araminta in a matter-of-fact tone. "Lesser magical creatures. They're bound to witches and wizards in service."
"Oh, like slavery?" asked Tom, trying to sound intelligent.
Araminta made an annoyed-sounding noise. Obviously, she was not impressed.
He watched one of the house-elves levitate a very large hatbox without a wand. Interesting. I wonder if I can learn to do that, too.
"Are they very powerful?" he asked. He had only ever seen Dumbledore do complicated magic without a wand before. Of course, Tom himself had been able to move things without a wand, too, before he learned about magic — but only very small things and short distances.
Araminta shrugged. "Does it matter?"
It did, to Tom. It mattered immensely. His curiosity was seemingly boundless, and now that the answers were within reach, he spent every spare minute searching for them in the Hogwarts Library. It was a better use of his time than whiling the evenings away with pointless games of 'Gobstones,' whatever those were.
"Can you do me a favor, Araminta?" he asked as sweetly as possible. Pretending to be nice often reaps promising results, if my experiment with the professors is anything to go by. Though, Dumbledore has clearly decided not to like me, regardless of what I do.
"What is it?" she asked, slightly taken aback.
Imitating Algie, Tom attempted to adopt an innocent, scared look. He could feel his eyes widening — yes, just so. Cute. Frightened.
"I'm scared," said Tom, forcing his voice to waver slightly. He curled in on himself. "Please don't tell them I'm here. I've got so much to do, and I'm behind."
He gestured at the stack of parchment, and though Araminta's expression showed signs of struggle, she finally gave in.
"Just this once, Riddle," she said, tsking as she picked up her skirts and made her way over to Yaxley, who had just emerged into the common room.
Excellent. So, it works on students, too.
Tom sat up straighter, filing this knowledge away for later use. It was cold in his corner, but soon, the older students would be gone, and he watched and waited patiently as they filed out in groups of two or three.
Eventually, the common room became still and quiet once more — just how Tom liked it. He sat right in front of the fire, close enough to feel the blistering heat on his face, and stared into the emerald flames for what felt like hours.
He had lied to Araminta. Yes, he was studying, but it wasn't for classes.
To be honest, Tom was bored with classes. Everything seemed to come too easily for him, and perhaps he should have been grateful for that, but Tom just found it frustrating.
What was the use of spending hours on the Unlocking Charm? Writing essays on the treatment of werewolf bites?
He lingered around outside Professor Merrythought's classroom during the seventh-years' lessons, enthralled by what he saw. Casting spells without speaking, curses that turned their targets into mere dust — that was what Tom wanted to learn.
But unsurprisingly, Professor Merrythought had laughed, somewhat indulgently, and refused his request to move up even one year in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"I can do all the remaining work in the year," he'd offered after all of the other students had left the classroom. "I'll take the end-of-year exam as soon as I can, Professor, and if I do well—"
"I have no doubt that you would do well, Mr. Riddle," Professor Merrythought had said, with an infuriating amount of amusement. "However, certain... parents... may not take lightly to what they see as special treatment of someone from your... background."
Catching the disappointment that Tom had made no attempt to hide, she added, smiling: "Do not let that discourage you, Riddle. I will speak to Professor Dippet, and see what I can do."
As it turned out, Tom's efforts had not been completely fruitless. Although Dippet, too, had declined his request to move up a year in Defense Against the Dark Arts, he had allowed Tom to sit in on the third-years' Arithmancy lessons.
He'd patted Tom on the head (Tom had only barely managed not to flinch), smiled down at him, and said, somewhat condescendingly:
"No pressure what-so-ever, Tom. A completely academic arrangement; I will ask Professor Laplace not to be too hard on you."
But Tom did want Professor Laplace to be hard on him. He wanted to be the best in the class, all on his own merit.
The grandfather clock chiming out the end of an hour jolted him back into reality.
It had to be getting late; and Tom didn't want the others to come back and find him by himself, so he gathered his things and crept downstairs to the dormitory.
Most of the time, Tom avoided the Slytherin common room entirely between and after classes, preferring to spend his free time in the Hogwarts Library. Thankfully, Abraxas, Cygnus, and Yaxley (despite his Prefect status) were not too keen on studying, so until eight o'clock in the evening, Tom could rely on the library as a place of respite from petty spats and name-calling.
Best of all, the library provided hope of finding his father's legacy — his legacy. After hearing Thaddeus Nott brag about something called the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight,' Tom went out in search of the Pure-Blood Directory, which he was half-way through, and so far, his efforts had been utterly fruitless.
All the families considered truly pure-blood by this decade, and there's not a Riddle to be found.
"How are you, Tom?"
He looked up. Dumbledore was standing above him and smiling.
Apprehensive, Tom shut his book and folded his arms.
"Fine, Professor Dumbledore. How are you?"
"As well as could be expected," he responded, and Tom did not miss Dumbledore's furtive glance at the cover of the book he had put down.
"A bit of light reading?" pressed Dumbledore. "I believe that there are several genealogical sources more reputable than the Pure-Blood Directory."
"Thaddeus recommended it to me, sir."
"Ah, Thaddeus Nott?" Dumbledore picked up the small book, peering at its contents. He smiled. "Have you made friends with Mr. Nott?"
"I don't need friends, sir. And what sources would you recommend?"
A flicker of confusion passed across Dumbledore's face, but it was gone in an instant.
"You might perhaps find your father in a list of prefects, or old Quidditch team records… Walk with me, Tom?"
It would not do to refuse. Tom got to his feet and followed Dumbledore out of the library.
"I must confess that I am worried about you," said Dumbledore, as soon as they had gone a few paces.
"Is my performance in your class unsatisfactory, sir?" asked Tom earnestly, wondering what he could have done to disappoint him.
Dumbledore laughed. "No, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. What worries me, Tom, is the social. The emotional. Things, perhaps, that are difficult to grasp in an orphanage."
"Sir?" asked Tom. What could he possibly be lacking?
"Love," said Dumbledore, as if he had read Tom's thoughts. "That elusive thing, which a child such as you must be sorely in need of. This desire to fend for yourself… You are not alone, Tom. I advise you to seek friends."
"They think I'm a Mudblood," Tom spat, glaring at his shoes as if they had personally offended him.
"Tom!" Dumbledore exclaimed, looking scandalized. "That word—"
"That's what they call me, sir."
"Ah." Dumbledore pushed his half-moon spectacles further up his nose, his expression pensive. "Hence, the frantic searching for evidence in the library. Have you perhaps thought of spending time with students outside your House? Those that might be more… open-minded?"
"Won't they think less of me? My housemates, I mean?"
"Why does it matter what they think? Life is not so cold and calculating." Dumbledore stopped short. "I believe our lunch break is over. I shall let you get to class, Tom. But please, ponder what we discussed…"
"I will, sir," said Tom. "Thank you."
He had absolutely no intention of doing so. If anything, Tom was even more determined to find evidence that his father was indeed a wizard.
Show no weakness.
"Where might I find the lists you mentioned, sir?"
Dumbledore smiled, and Tom felt sick to his stomach.
"Come see me tomorrow evening," said Dumbledore. "I will be marking the fifth-years' practice O.W.L.s, so you may come any time you like. Take care, Tom."
"Thank you, sir. I look forward to our meeting," Tom said stiffly, turning away and walking as quickly as possible towards Potions.
Potions. Professor Slughorn liked him, at least. It was too bad that the class nearly always involved the unpleasant business of working with Minerva McGonagall, but no one else seemed to take classes seriously. Mulciber and Nott, in particular, were always messing around.
"A Forgetfulness Potion — can't be that hard, can it?" asked Eustace Mulciber. It was the last ten minutes of class, and as always, the idiot was far behind everyone else. "I'm always forgetting things in this class."
Thaddeus Nott snorted.
"Can't you be quiet?" asked Minerva irritably. "I'm trying to concentrate."
Though Tom was loath to admit it, he had to agree with her. Mulciber and Nott erupted into a fit of laughter — Tom heard a whispered "What if we put this in?" — and then, the cauldron exploded with a deafening boom, sending sharp bits of pewter flying in every direction. Tom ducked quickly under the table, but Minerva hadn't been so lucky, and one of the shards had hit her cheek.
There was a lot of blood — Tom hated the look of so much blood, it made his head spin — and all of a sudden, Slughorn was rushing over.
"What happened here?" he asked, looking between the four of them.
Minerva began to cry, and Tom winced. Must she be so shrill?
"They were mucking around with the potion, Professor!" Minerva shrieked, cupping her cheek with the handkerchief Slughorn had given her. "You're wicked, Mulciber! You evil, slimy little—"
"We didn't!" said Nott. "Honest, Professor Slughorn!"
Mulciber attempted to sweep the evidence under the table while Slughorn's attention was on Minerva and Nott. But Tom noticed.
He's not so clever, is he now?
Tom stood very still, looking between the four of them. All of the other students had left their potions unattended to stare.
He had an audience.
How can I possibly benefit from this?
How can I show Slughorn that I'm better than Mulciber and Nott?
"Mulciber and Nott deliberately wrecked their potion, sir," Tom explained, pointing to the pewter shards and black puddles of ruined potion still strewn on the floor. "It made the cauldron explode and Minerva got hit with one of the shards."
"I'll take Minerva to the Hospital Wing, sir," he offered gallantly in response to Slughorn's concerned expression. "My potion's finished."
Slughorn seemed pleasantly surprised. "And so it is, m'boy. Good of you to offer — come now, Minerva, Tom will take you to see Madam Gale."
He then, to Tom's immense glee, turned to the other two as Tom and Minerva made their way to the door.
"I believe several detentions are in order..."
That night, Tom finished his homework in the library, got back to the common room right before curfew, and went straight to bed. Though he rarely slept through the night, he was particularly tired and still basking in the glow of getting Mulciber and Nott in trouble.
Just as he was beginning to drift off, a sweaty, clammy hand came over Tom's face, and he gasped desperately for breath, panicking as he squirmed under his attacker's grip.
"Help!" he tried to scream, but it was pointless. "Get off of me!"
"Lumos!"
In the white-blue wandlight, Tom saw Abraxas's pale face. In his right hand, he held a dagger made of a strange-looking metal that seemed to glint scarlet.
It frightened him.
Tom could feel his own panic, sense his own fear as fresh sweat crept down his neck. The cold metal of a ring scraped against his nose. Sweaty fingers clamped down on his face.
Tom screamed against the hand, trying to wrench it away, but someone grabbed his arm so hard that it threatened to pop out of the socket. He thrashed and bit to no avail; Abraxas was staring down at him, gloating.
"This is going to hurt, Riddle. But it will be good for you."
Another one — Tom saw a flash of dark hair and a port-wine stain — laughed as he pushed Tom down into the bed.
"Try not to piss yourself, Mudblood."
The knife bit down into his forearm, and Tom screamed, trying to get free, but strong arms were holding him down — the curtains, the dark curtains were flapping closer — shameful, burning-hot tears escaped his eyes, and Tom tasted salt, panic, and skin. He could barely breathe — the hand was stifling him — he just wanted to be free!
Tom reached for the magic that had never failed him before, but every time he thought he had a hold of it, the focus slipped through his fingers.
Wand, I need my wand!
His left hand itched, empty, helpless, pinned to the bed. It was dark, but there was wandlight in his face, and it was blinding, searing.
And now, the knife was twisting — blood must be spurting — Tom must be dying. The pain was everything; every breath, every whimpered protest was Abraxas's knife composing a symphony of misery with his flesh. The knife stole everything from Tom but his mere existence; no thoughts, no memories, he could remember nothing but this awful moment.
"That's the first letter, Riddle. This is for avoiding me."
"Second letter. Does it hurt, Riddle? This is for grassing on Mulciber and Nott. I'm going to do the 'd,' now."
"Two 'o's. Are you ready, Riddle? Look at you whimpering. Do you know your place, now?"
Tom prayed he would pass out from the pain, so that he wouldn't have to endure this humiliation and suffering, but try as he might to evade consciousness, he remained miserably awake.
"Help," he whined, but the large hand stifling him muffled it. "Stop, please. Please, it hurts."
"The Mudblood says it hurts," said the large one, his voice deep and magnified with Tom's fear; he might as well have been a giant. Abraxas laughed, cold and high.
"I wonder how long it will take for the message to... sink in."
The knife dug into his arm again, and Tom cried out, sobbing as he imagined the wicked point scraping against bone.
"Please," he begged. "Please, I've had enough."
"One more word, Riddle. Just so you know what you are."
More tears, more pain, more shame. Crippling helplessness, as hands (so many hands) held him still. Through the haze of pain and tears, Tom saw the one holding him down: a collar, embroidered with a golden unicorn. He gasped, trying to focus on that instead of the pain.
"You are beneath us," said Abraxas languidly, twisting the knife into his arm. "You don't belong here, and you never will."
Tom gave in; gave himself over to the pain. It was the only way he could bear it.
"All done."
"I hate you," he whispered, seething as shame fell upon him with the weight of a castle wall collapsing, but they were already gone.
Tom did not sleep.
In the morning, there were two words engraved in Tom's arm. There was less blood on the sheets than he had expected — just a few dark spots. Abraxas had been efficient.
Mudblood scum.
It was still early in the morning. Tom wondered if the rest of the dormitory had heard everything.
The pain was gone, but the humiliation lingered. He reached out with a trembling finger to trace the newly-healed scars.
Maybe they'll fade, Tom thought. But quietly, he doubted it. No one would see it, at least, under the sleeves of his blazer.
No one will know.
Except them. Except Abraxas.
Who were his other attackers? How many?
The large one could have been Yaxley, but Tom couldn't tell. The thought of that palm forced against his face made him shudder. He could imagine the weight of pain and shame pressing down on his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs...
No more... he would think on it no longer.
He would stay silent, he would keep his head down, obey... then serve each one of them a banquet of consequences.
Tom could remember things; small details. The one who had muffled his screams wore a strange ring — a snake eating its own tail. Another had a golden unicorn embroidered on his collar, with the initials 'P.P.P.' beside it.
The last — yes, there had been four — had dark hair and a port-wine stain on his right cheek.
Tom carefully extracted his diary from its hiding-place, jotting these details down before he forgot. He would keep an eye for all of them. And perhaps, the symbols — like the strange ring and the unicorn — might be family sigils, and if so, he might find something in the library.
"I'm frightened," he whispered forlornly to its pages, as if the diary would have a response. Gently, he shut the book, shoving it into the very bottom of his bag.
Sticks and stones may break my bones...
Tom stared at the red lines and curves stark against his pale arm.
...but words shall never hurt me.
He shoved his sleeve down without a second thought.
In class, he acted as if nothing had happened.
"Apologize to Mulciber and Nott, Mudblood," Yaxley ordered at dinner, and Tom dutifully delivered their apologies in the same humble tone that pacified Mrs. Cole.
"I've got to meet with Professor Dumbledore after dinner, sir," said Tom.
Yaxley glared down at him, and Tom wondered if he'd been one of the boys from last night. His gaze darted to Yaxley's hands — no ring — perhaps, he'd taken it off, but that was unlikely. Yaxley wouldn't fear retribution. He certainly didn't have the port-wine stain, and nor did he have the right initials to be the boy with the unicorn sigil.
No, Yaxley might hate Tom, but he had not been there.
"You're excused, Riddle," said Yaxley, sneering. "But if we find you're lying, there will be consequences."
Somehow, Tom couldn't imagine Dumbledore letting Yaxley question him about his whereabouts. Still, he might wait outside the office to check that Tom went straight there and back... At any rate, taking detours was risky.
Looking forward to seeing Dumbledore was an unusual feeling.
"Come in, Tom," said Dumbledore when he knocked. "The door is open."
Carefully, Tom eased it open, stepping into the office — a small room with a warm, welcoming fire sputtering in the large fireplace, windows overlooking the Quidditch pitch, and several comfortable-looking chairs.
"Please sit," said Dumbledore, and Tom drifted closer, his gaze drawn to the magnificent, swan-sized bird perched on Dumbledore's desk. It seemed to burn, its red-and-gold feathers brighter than the fire itself.
The bird stared intelligently back at Tom with an almost-human gaze, dipping its golden beak in greeting.
"Sir, is that—"
"A phoenix?" Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, indeed. This is Fawkes. I am so glad that you met him on one of his good days."
"Good days, sir?" Phoenix or not, Tom had never heard of a bird having good and bad days.
"Fawkes, like all phoenixes, is immortal," Dumbledore explained. "Every so often, he burns, and is reborn from the ashes."
Immortal? So there really is such a thing?
As if Dumbledore had sensed Tom's curiosity, he held a hand up to dissuade further questions.
"But that is not why I have asked you to come see me, Tom," he said. "You wish, I believe, to know about your father?"
"Yes," breathed Tom, leaning forward excitedly. Has he found something?
"I began teaching at Hogwarts in 1912," said Dumbledore, staring intently at Tom. "I cannot recall ever teaching another Tom Riddle, and I believe I would have had such a thing occurred."
"I take after my father, sir," said Tom, in a desperate attempt to jog his memory. "Mrs. Cole said so."
"Yes, I remember," said Dumbledore seriously. "I say this not to discourage you, Tom. It is quite possible that your father was older when he had you, or that he simply never attended Hogwarts. However, it is also possible that your father was not a wizard at all, and if so, I do not want you to feel disappointed. There is no shame in being Muggle-born — my mother was, in fact."
"I understand, sir," said Tom, though he thought privately that either Dumbledore didn't know what people really said about Muggle-borns, or he didn't care.
"I will ask you this once, Tom. Is there anything transpiring with your housemates that I should know about? Think carefully, before you answer."
Tom shifted under the intensity of Dumbledore's gaze, his hand going instinctively to cover his wrist, lest the scars peeked out from under his sleeve.
"No, nothing, sir," said Tom. The other boys wouldn't appreciate him being a grass, and if Dumbledore cared enough to do anything about it, they'd punish him again — perhaps carve 'Mudblood' on his forehead so that everyone could see.
Besides, he wasn't going to cower for much longer, once he found who they were. He'd push back. Fight.
In his mind's eye, Tom saw Billy's rabbit, dangling from a rope and slowly spinning in the morning light.
Yes, their time would come; slowly, but surely. He'd punish them all; one-by-one, they'd all get what they deserved (and more, a little voice whispered).
"I think it would be best if we continued these conversations, Tom," said Dumbledore. "If that is all, I will let you go now... Unless you have anything to tell me?"
"No, sir," said Tom, getting up from his chair. "Goodnight, Professor Dumbledore."
"Goodnight, Tom," he said softly.
When Tom left the office, as he expected, Yaxley was waiting for him in an alcove, nodding curtly as he ushered Tom down the stairs that led to the common room.
Araminta gave Tom an odd, almost apologetic look as he entered the common room after Yaxley.
Tom panicked internally as he hurried down the stairs. Does she know? How does she know? She can't, can she?
Saturday was the first Quidditch match of the season; Gryffindor was playing against Slytherin, and the whole school had been thrown into a frenzy of preparation, gossiping, and betting.
"Why's everyone crowding around Abraxas?" Tom asked Araminta at breakfast. Eight boys were wearing green-and-silver Quidditch uniforms, but it was Abraxas who drew the biggest crowd — blushing girls ran up every so often to wish him good luck, and the particularly brave ones would offer him a kiss.
Araminta shrugged, looking at the crowd disapprovingly. "He's Seeker. The most important, and in some senses, most dangerous, position in the game. Once he catches the Snitch, he wins one hundred and fifty points for Slytherin, ending the game."
Since the incident, she had been acting strangely apologetic, smiling at Tom in the corridors and constantly asking him if he needed help with his homework.
The scars were not healing. Tom could only assume that they would stay like this — freshly-healed and nearly raw-red — until the awful day he died. The knife Abraxas used must have been cursed.
Tom assumed that one of them — Abraxas, perhaps — had bragged to her about what had happened on that fateful night, and now, Araminta felt pity for him.
Tom's fingers curled into a fist under the table. He was not to be pitied — not to be underestimated.
How dare they.
The weight of his fury was immense. He trembled.
But as she continued to explain the rules of Quidditch, Tom stopped paying attention. This was the perfect time to sneak off to the library, while everyone was distracted. He'd managed to weasel a few morsels of information out of Araminta — apparently, the lists that Dumbledore had mentioned could be found in the library.
He'd start there, looking for his father. Then, he would move on to search for his attackers' families. The golden unicorn, the snake ring — both good places to start. Tom was sure he had seen plenty of snakes in the Pure-Blood Directory. By the end of the game, he would have at least accomplished something.
Could he pull this off?
He glanced over at the throng of boys gathered around Abraxas, talking loudly and cheering. No, today they wouldn't notice his absence.
Today, he could disappear.
When everyone began to head down to the Quidditch pitch, Tom did not follow them.
He went in a completely different direction; towards the truth, towards revenge.
As he got further down the hallway, he broke out into a run, laughing with the giddiness of getting away with something.
For the first time in a long while, Tom Riddle felt free.
I know this chapter seems a bit... out there... but you have to remember that these students either became the first Death Eaters or raised Death Eaters. Evil doesn't exist in a vacuum; they were willing to follow people like Riddle and Grindelwald because they believed strongly in blood purity and 'solving the problem' with violence.
Obviously, in case it's not abundantly clear, this is not justification for Riddle's actions. No one in this situation is in the right.
Also, I think this gives an interesting connection with the Dark Mark - Riddle wanting to literally brand his followers as an act of vengeance gone overboard. And of course, one of the easiest ways to radicalize someone is to antagonize them.
Today's british to american translation:
*grassing means 'snitching,' e.g., to inform authority of wrongdoings. similarly, a 'grass' means the same as a 'snitch.'
Can you guess the last names of Tom's other three attackers from my clues? Some of the references to canon are relatively obscure, but they all are members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and given a certain character's behavior, I think one of them is fairly obvious.
Chapter Eleven will reveal if you're right!