He-who-must-not-be-named

he-who-must-not-be-named

Tom flung the door to the seventh-year boys’ dormitory aside, and it hit the wall with a loud clatter.

The others looked up, staring at Tom with what he thought were very stupid expressions.

“What are you staring at?” snapped Tom. What have they been saying behind my back now?

He swivelled to glare at all of them, his gaze finally falling on the boy sitting on his bed-

Wait. The boy sitting -- why was someone sitting on his bed?

“Who are you?” he demanded, striding over to the strange boy, who was wearing a uniform (not a Hogwarts one), fidgeting with a knife, and covered in blood. Tom shuddered in disgust at the thought of that all over his sheets. “Why are you sitting on my bed?”

“Your bed?” asked the boy, tilting his head to the side and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes! My bed, you daft prat. Can’t you read?”

Tom gestured at the name embossed on the brass plate at the foot of the bed.

Then he frowned.

“What?” he spluttered in disbelief, rubbing his eyes. 

I bet they think this is funny.

“For fuck’s sake,” Tom groused, pulling out his wand. “Reparifarge.”

The name did not change.

Fear trickled down his spine, as if someone had shoved a handful of ice chips down the back of his shirt.

“Who are you?” he asked, pointing his wand at the boy, who did not flinch. “There’s no such person as Matteo Riddle! Who put you up to this!”

He spun to face the other boys, next, glowering and pointing his wand threateningly.

“We wouldn’t, Tom,” said Mulciber. “I swear. He was here when we came in -- we’re just as surprised as you. We didn’t realize you had a brother.” 

“I’ll ask you one more time, then,” said Tom. “Who. Are. You.”

“Can’t you read?” asked the boy, with a shit-eating grin and a gratingly-American accent. “Matteo Riddle. I’m an assassin.”

He brandished the knife, as if that meant something. As if he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the heir of Salazar Slytherin, could not stop the idiot’s heartbeat with two whispered words.

But he decided to restrain himself. He would have mercy. 

Tom flicked his wand, and the bed slid to the side, causing the boy to tumble onto the floor in a heap.

Pathetic.

Tom rolled him over with his foot; the others said nothing. In his haste, the knife had gotten stuck somewhere in his torso. It didn’t look life-threatening; but it was humiliating to injure yourself with your own weapon.

The boy whimpered in pain. Tom could not drudge up a hint of empathy.

“No,” said Tom, “you’re a pubescent wanker, and worse yet, a Yank, and I’m Head Boy. So kindly get-the-fuck-out of my sight before I decide to take points from whatever House the misfortune has fallen to claim you as a member.”

@regulusslut your hate for matteo has inspired me to write this skit of tom riddle (as characterized in my longfic) meeting he-who-does-not-deserve-to-be-named.

yes.

do u ever feel like ur pulling an academic icarus flying too close to your deadlines on wings of deeply flawed time management

help i can’t write ships they keep turning into brOTPs

Chapter Twelve: Mirrors and Shadows (Are One and The Same)

“Is it normal what’s happening to me, sir? With the shadows?”

“N-Normal?” stuttered Quirrell. “Why, it’s e-extraordinary, Mr. Potter. I am so glad that you’ve c-confided in me. I always liked to go to P-Professor Slughorn myself, when I was your age.”

“Professor Slughorn, sir?”

Quirrell’s expression was strangely wistful.

“Y-Yes. Used to teach Potions, y-you know. Very admirable man. Extraordinarily helpful, to those who were a-academically or p-politically inclined. But you wouldn’t be much interested in that quiet sort of life, would you, P-Potter?”

After chaos, comes reflection... the shadows return.

On his friends’ request, Harry agrees to confide in a professor about the strange shadows lurking around him. Why not Professor Quirrell, around whom his scar hurts and magic stabilizes?

Of course, Harry doesn’t realize just who he’s talking to.

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

Chapter Fourteen: The Witches They Could Not Burn

"She tells us... she tells me I'm going to end up like my mother..."

She could see the salmon-colored nails, clear as day. The light tumbling neatly through the windows and making the well-varnished table shine.

"End up like your mother?" repeated Dumbledore, though he sounded a million miles away.

The clear liquid swirling in the glass. The smell of Aunt Petunia's breath... I never liked sneaky children.

"Aunt Petunia says she got pregnant..." If she'd had enough to drink. "...That she was a loose woman, and she got herself blown up. That she was a freak like me and she deserved what she got."

Dumbledore orders extra security overnight. Suddenly, there are scarlet-robed Aurors in every corridor, and prefects are taking headcounts at curfew.

But why? Nothing and no one can hurt you at Hogwarts... right?

And finally, a long-awaited conversation is had.

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JAMES POTTER! (March 27, 1960)

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”