Chapter Text
It wasn’t always this way. There was a time, when we were younger and colder; when, with our own actions, we strived to be something our parents could be proud of. I remember the first time I laid eyes on him, this heir of Slytherin himself who would one day be the undoing of us all. He was merely a boy. A half-blood, shabby thing that was anything but welcome in our beloved Slytherin house. It was easy to taunt him because he was a clear target and he never once resisted. Even when Lestrange held him down while Avery bloodied his nose and bruised his body that time in an abandoned section of dungeon corridor. I remember watching him intently as my housemates and comrades worked him over; how he still managed to hold his head so high. I knew it would only bring about more trouble for him, but still I watched, and I think that even back then, at a mere thirteen years old, I was fascinated.
He was not one of us, it was important that he learned this lesson. He would never be one of us.
Never.
The start
The house sorting at Hogwarts is a time-tested tradition. One that has been carried down from generation to generation; each new crop of magical children who were eager to learn, offered themselves up to the raggedy hat who’s origin would always remain a mystery. I partook in this tradition myself, just as my ancestors and most certainly the family that would come after me. It was no great surprise when the old hat, having only barely grazed the flaxen halo of hair I wore, shouted “Slytherin!” and sent me on my way to the folds of green and silver that I would both worship and abhor for the remainder of my life. I watched in earnest as my fellows were sorted amongst me; my circle of friends was already a fairly large one, thanks in part to my privileged upbringing. Titus Avery and Rigel Lestrange were the best of the lot in my eyes, and although we all came from long lines of Slytherins, it pleased me still when they joined me at our new house table. I watched the rest of the students sort and clapped politely for each new Slytherin. When Tom Riddle stepped up to the hat I narrowed my eyes and had my first proper look of him. He was a lithe and shabby creature whose pallor was accentuated by the dark fall of curls sat atop his head, but it was his eyes which struck me at first glance, and it would be those eyes that would strike me again and again over the span of my life. They were fathomless dark orbs that seemed to speak volumes about things you could not begin to imagine. All eyes were on him as he held his head high and I can tell you that I was as shocked as the rest of my housemates when the old hat shouted “Slytherin!” before it ever touched him, and I know that it will sound foolish to say, but I could have sworn that old hat moved away from him. Oh, nothing drastic or even particularly noticeable really, just a slight cringe as if to say oh, I’d like not to touch that or some other such thing. Of course I dismissed the hallucination and turned my attention to the end of the table, where Riddle had just joined us. I did not miss the way my housemates surreptitiously inched away from him or the way he seemed not to care. His demeanor struck me as the type that had little use of camaraderie, even though he had yet to utter a single word. When I inquired as to the meaning behind our fellows making space between the reedy boy and themselves, I was met with imperious and knowing smirks all around. Later, Titus would explain that Tom Riddle was a penniless, orphan half-blood and then I would understand. He was everything that we Slytherins were not, and I, like my comrades, believed him to be out of place in our coveted house.
Over the course of my first year at Hogwarts I learned a great many things. I learned that my natural ability with lessons afforded me quite a lot of grace in the eyes of my Professors. I excelled in practical subjects like Potions and History of Magic and my natural disdain for subjects like Herbology and Charms were more than likely inherited. Classes were always an interesting affair, some more interesting than others. I would like to boast that I was top of my house in academic accolades, but I would be wrong to say so, because how ever high my marks were, Tom Riddle’s were always higher. He was the outcast of the school, even his own house didn’t want him, and it never slowed him down. He was always there with a raised hand, ready to answer any question our Professors threw at us, and although it irked me, this unspoken competition, I couldn’t deny that he was well versed, especially for a half-blood. His eagerness to please earned Slytherin a great many house points over the course of that first year, not that any of us bothered to care. We treated him like the pariah that he was. During lessons he was always the last of us to be chosen when we were to be paired off, and he was always left to his lonesome at the very end of the Slytherin table when we dined. Tom was generally absent from the Slytherin common room; undoubtedly his time was better spent in the Library where he would devour any materials worth reading that he could get his hands on. I did not fail to notice how he charmed his way into a great number of things. Professors seemed to fawn over his eagerness to learn and he never once appeared the slightest bit phased by our poor treatment of him. When Rigel tripped him in the great hall one morning during lunch, Tom said not a word; he simply picked himself up, dusted off his knees and took his seat as if he was impervious to the laughter and taunts directed at him. When Lucretia incendio’d his Charms essay, he did not even bat an eyelash. He merely charmed the Professor into giving him an extra day to finish.
Transfiguration was always an outlandish affair. Professor Dumbledore was head of Gryffindor house and it was made painfully clear that they were his favored students. Slytherins did not bother trying to excel in Dumbledore’s class because it was fruitless. Of course he was fair with us in terms of our work, but it was not easy to miss the way his gaze would pass over the raised hand of a Slytherin in favor of a Gryffindor. This never seemed to matter to Tom though, because his hand was always raised high and Professor Dumbledore never once called upon him. As the year passed on, I began to wonder if there was some deeper meaning behind the subtle rivalry between Riddle and Dumbledore, and in time, I would come to understand it all.
By the time our first term had ended I was pleased to be returning to Malfoy Manor. I longed for the warm summer afternoons that I would spend lying in the lawns or swimming in the lake that sat on the far end of our estate. I would revel in my freedom between first and second year and never once think upon the peculiar half-blood boy that didn’t really belong anywhere.
My second year of schooling was not much different than the first. Sure, we were a bit older, a bit bolder; we were after all, no longer the bottom rank of underclassmen. An entirely new crop of Slytherins would join our folds and we would continue on as we always had. Much to the dismay of our house, Tom Riddle returned as well, looking just as shabby as he had the year before with his threadbare robes and severely groomed head of hair. It was this year that I truly strove to step out ahead of my pack of fellow classmates, and I chose Potions class to do it.
Potions were easily my best subject and Professor Slughorn was a perfect mentor to hone my craft under. Not only was Slughorn our head of house, but also he seemed to favor the right kind of student. I am a Malfoy, and as such, I am more than versed in the art of persuasion for the sake of getting what I want. I would like to tell you that it was easy to gain Slughorn’s favor, and it was for the most part. I was one of the first to receive an invitation for the newly formed Slug Club and I coveted the opportunity. You can imagine my surprise when, at the very first gathering, I came face to face with Tom Riddle. We were two Slytherins amongst a handful of other students and we couldn’t have been more estranged. Of course, this didn’t faze Tom. He had clearly worked his charms on Professor Slughorn to get into the club, and continued to do so in the most unabashed ways. For his part, Slughorn gobbled up all of the attention and heartily accepted offerings from his most prized students, Tom the most prized of us all. Over the course of that year I grew to loathe Tom Riddle. It was maddening to me that this simple upstart had managed to worm his way into the hearts and favor of so many. His actions and intentions were clearly Slytherin of nature, but the rest of us refused to see that. He was an unwanted trespasser and we knew that we were going to have to deal with him eventually.
That time came in the middle of my third year at Hogwarts, and I can say now that I garner little pleasure from my part in the events that transpired that night.
The plan had come about after a heated discussion around the fire in the Slytherin common room. Of course Tom was absent from the proceedings; he was always absent. He was rarely in our company and none of us had any true idea of where he went or what he did. Of course, there were rumors. Some say he was beheading woodland creatures deep in the forbidden forest under the cover of darkness. Others insisted he was brewing illegal potions in some hidden room within the castle, and others still, murmured quietly about a torrid love affair with the staunch librarian.
Of course, I was reluctant to believe any of these things. In all of my studies of Riddle he never once struck me as the type to have any use for mindless torture or sins of the flesh. If anything, I would say that Tom Riddle was a master of persuasion and could effectively charm just about anyone into giving him what he wanted; Professor Dumbledore, not withstanding. He was well versed in sympathy ploys and could be devastatingly humble when it suited him; I had seen it first hand in many a class. I had no real idea what Tom did in all of that time away from the rest of us, and I had no desire to find out.
It was Walburga who suggested we rough him up, to teach him a lesson and put him in his rightful place. I was not the only one who was offended by Riddle’s imperious demeanor. It was decided that we would corner him in the dungeons the following eve and give him our lesson. We lay in wait for him to return to the Slytherin common room and I have to point out how utterly agonizing it was to wait idle, hours into the night and long after curfew for him to finally make an appearance. It was Titus who stepped out of the shadows as he passed and grabbed him, with Rigel quickly taking up the other side. When I stepped out of the shadows I could feel Riddle’s gaze on me and if I had to guess, I’d say he was not the least bit surprised by our actions; in fact, he didn’t even put up a fight. Before my comrades drug him deeper into the musty dungeons I fished his wand out of his robes and I will not deny how pleased I was when he tensed under my scant touch. It empowered me to see Tom like this. Even when he was knocked down on all fours and his blood spilled onto the stones beneath his hands, he still managed to hold his head high and it infuriated all of us. Walburga shrieked with delight every time Titus’ fist sank into Riddle’s broken form. Lucretia stood over him taunting and insulting and still he said not a word. I watched as they worked him over good and proper, his wand caught between my fingertips. You see, I was not the type to dirty my own hands. The roughness they bestowed upon Riddle did not upset me; on the contrary, I believed he deserved it. Tom Riddle had no right to think he was better than any of us. He was a nothing—An insignificant half blood that needed to learn his place not only in this school, but also in our world. I believed we were doing him a great service, teaching him this important lesson so early on in his life.
He needed to know that he was not one of us. He would never be one of us.
By the time we were finished Tom was sprawled out on the ground; lying limp amongst the soiled debris of a long forgotten section of the dungeon. It seemed fitting somehow, and we had a hearty laugh as we took our leave of him and made our way back to our common room. I cannot say what possessed me to pocket his wand instead of simply tossing it at his feet as I stepped over him. Maybe a small part of me realized what he was truly capable of and feared for all of our safety. Or perhaps I simply wished to taunt him farther by brandishing his wand openly whenever I had the opportunity to do so.
Behind the backs of Professors and mouthy portraits, mostly.
It was well into dawn when Riddle entered the third year dorms and although he said nothing, I could hear him just beyond the drawn curtains of my four-poster and I wondered if we had managed to break him; if he would retaliate this time.
The silence was deafening and I had just begun to drift off to sleep when his quiet voice filtered through my curtains. “My wand, Malfoy.” His voice was as calm and as even as it ever was and as I blinked in the darkness I couldn’t help but wonder how a thirteen-year-old boy could harness so much self-control.
When I pulled back the curtain enough to peer out he was there, his blackened gaze like a pair of gleaming marbles in the fading darkness. He looked surprisingly cleaned and put together despite his earlier torment and I will admit I was slightly taken by surprise. “Give me one good reason why I should.” I said casually enough, although the drowsiness in my voice was somewhat comical still.
He stood silently for a long while and we regarded one another; both with our own unique agendas. When he finally did speak, it was not at all what I expected him to say. “Because if you don’t give it back to me, I will kill you.” His tone and expression gave away nothing; they were the same dulcet vibe as always. It was the brief glean of unspoken fury in his gaze that inclined me to believe him and in that moment I have to say that I almost could respect his undeterred actions.
“And how will you accomplish such a thing with no wand?” I was flippant because I felt that I could be, and I was indignant because it still infuriated me that our poor treatment of him still had not managed to crack his perfectly constructed shell. Before he spoke again he drew in a shallow breath and if I did not know any better I would say that he looked slightly bored; as if explaining these things to me was beneath him.
“If you think I need a wand to kill you, you are more idiotic than you look.” His insult struck me, but not in the way that you might imagine. I found it humorous that this shabby boy, who has made a habit out of appearing unaffected, could manage to sound so passionate about a subject while still remaining so outwardly unmoved. Against my better judgment it intrigued me, and that right there was the first time I had looked at Tom Riddle with anything other than complete disdain.