Riddle Era - Tumblr Posts
hi, i’d like to introduce my fic
The anatomy of a young Dark Lord is complicated. That of a mysteriously-alive Obscurial, doubly so. In which Tom Riddle manages to trap himself in his own Horcrux, Harry Potter has a (mostly) cooperative sister and a parasitic magical force that’s trying to kill him, the diary falls into the wrong hands, and Lord Voldemort has a plan.
My current WIP (well, one of my current ones) is Running From My Destiny.
Genre: Drama, with some hints of Suspense and Mystery
Rating: M, for the later books and portraying Death Eaters up close
Where: FFN or AO3!
Update schedule: Saturdays, ~1-2 PM EST
It’s a (hopefully) new spin on a few popular fanfic tropes, the combination of which I’m pretty sure I haven’t stumbled across yet: Harry Potter has a twin sister, and he’s an Obscurial, and Tom Riddle screws up the Diary Horcrux, and gets stuck, awake for fifty years, because a student experimenting with Dark magic can’t possibly go wrong... can it?
Oh, and the sister has nothing to do with the prophecy, so there’s no double Chosen One or WBWL subplot, for better or for worse.
It’s intended to be a plot-driven, full canon divergence/rewrite, exploring magical lore, morality and the path to evil, taking canon too literally and featuring a scarier-than-canon Voldemort, with influences from child psych and attachment theory, and free will. A lot of the first arc will be devoted to the missing scenes in the Riddle-era leading up to Myrtle’s murder, also.
Everyone is sympathetic if you get to know them well enough, but not everyone is good, and that’s okay.
P.S. I also did this mostly-canon character analysis of Tom/Voldemort a few weeks ago. And here’s another one where I mostly complain that he’s a badly written villain and pull character motivations out of nowhere.
First Year related posts and excerpts here.
Second Year related posts and excerpts here.
Third Year related posts and excerpts here.
Fourth Year related posts and excerpts here.
Chapter Three: Red Death, White Torture
Perhaps, Tom should have felt comforted, as the nurse patted his arm and smiled sympathetically; but all that he could focus on was the fluttering curtain. Now he could see Death, as the sounds of crying and sniffling dulled around him, as the room seemed to darken with the Reaper's presence (if he hadn't been so scared, Tom would have noticed that the sun had only gone behind the clouds).
Comfort wasn't something Tom needed. He'd never been afraid of monsters before; never shirked from dark corners or shadows dancing across the walls or shapes cowering under the bed. He liked spiders. Sometimes, he would let them crawl on him, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could make the spiders play dead or roll over on their backs.
Billy Stubbs had called him a monster once, when they'd argued. The next morning, Tom had gotten up before anyone else, while it was still dark outside, taken the rabbit that Billy was so fond of, a silly, white fluffy thing, up to the attic, and hung it.
He hadn't been intending to. Tom hadn't sat there and planned it. He just had to do it. In fact, he hardly knew what he was doing as he climbed up the rafters, the warm, fuzzy rabbit struggling in his hand, its heartbeat quick and frenzied against his palm. Nor did he know how to make a noose. No one taught him.
All he could think was punish Billy, he was mean to me, how dare he, I'm special. Tug. Loop. Knot. He had gripped the rafter between his knees, hard enough to leave welts, but it was worth it as he felt the rabbit stop struggling in the noose. Billy deserved it.
But as the fury burned out, he was sitting cross-legged and looking up at Billy Stubb's rabbit, its stupid ears drooping as it spun slowly, the grey twine knotted around its neck, as the room filled with morning light.
There was a black curtain in the attic too, fluttering against the window. The dead rabbit had been fascinating, and Tom had wanted to keep it in the box in his wardrobe, where he kept all of his secret toys. But it wouldn't fit, and it would stink. Dead things smelled. So, he left the rabbit, shutting the door and creeping back into bed, unable to sleep as he waited with glee for Billy's reaction.
"Well, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"
Tom remembered staring unrepentantly back up at Mrs. Cole, his face a mask of feigned confusion, but internally singing, he got what he deserved, stupid Billy, stupid rabbit. And Billy's crying; that had been music to his ears.
"No, ma'am. I don't see how I could have gotten up there, ma'am."
Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!
Chapter Seven: Alice in Wonderland
"Are you coming, Riddle?" asked Icarus, turning imperiously as he put one foot on the stairs.
Suddenly, someone came rushing down in a flurry of dark robes, shoving Icarus away. He stumbled back, looking crestfallen, and the others drew away, too.
"Has no-one told you not to stand in front of the stairs, Lestrange?" snapped the newcomer; a boy of about fourteen or fifteen, with a narrow, aristocratic face, white-blond hair and grey eyes that glinted like steel in the dim, wavy light.
"Who are you?" asked Tom, before he could hold himself back. But he couldn't help but be curious, especially when the other four boys were staring at the newcomer with such adoration and reverence.
"Abraxas Malfoy," he said, drawing himself up to his full height — which Tom noted with a faint hint of pleasure was not much taller than him.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Tom Riddle." Tom did not take his eyes off of Malfoy's, instead lifting his chin and glaring.
"Tom Riddle," repeated Malfoy. A mocking grin spread across his face. "And what might you be? Another half-blood? Mother ran off with a Mudblood, or worse, a Muggle, is that it?"
"No!" snapped Tom, acutely aware of the others gazing at him and Malfoy fixedly, awaiting an answer with bated breath. He could see his perfect façade unravelling already, all the work that he had done to earn his classmates' respect wasted. "My father was a wizard! His name was Tom Riddle, too!"
Malfoy threw his head back, laughing, the sound echoing ominously against the stone walls of the corridor.
"Oh, you filthy little Mudblood. Bold as brass."
Tom finds that Slytherin House isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. If he wants respect, he’s going to have to earn it.
Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!
Chapter Nine: Words Shall Never Hurt Me
“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?”
Tom searches for his father’s legacy as he attempts to prove himself worthy in Slytherin House. Blood is spilt. Dumbledore is watching him.
Warning: This contains the (I think?) most disturbing scene I’ve posted yet. Like, I know the first two chapters are murder scenes and TMR’s head is generally not a nice place, but prepare thyself, this is (slightly?) more disturbing.
Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!
Chapter Fifteen: London Bridge is Falling Down
"Get out the way," he snapped at the kids playing in the soot. "And don't fall. I'm not in the mood to bandage anyone's scraped knees later."
(Though he knew with full certainty that within an hour's time, he would be kneeling in front of some bawling seven-year old and trying to swab their scabby knee with surgical spirit while they kicked and thrashed.)
He, Tom Marvolo Riddle, top of his class, so powerful that the older students and the professors whispered about him, sweeping soot and debris in front of an orphanage.
Abraxas would laugh. He would enjoy it, that arrogant twat.
In which Tom Riddle experiences the timeless throes of teenage angst, is tired of the Blitz, invents a shitty supervillain name, and learns how to smoke and cheat at cards.
Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!
~note historical inaccuracy on the timing of the London Blitz, which actually ended in May, not September 1941.
~disturbing note on the famous nursery rhyme: it has been suggested in the late 1800s that a child sacrifice was buried in the foundations, possibly alive, so that the ghost would watch over the bridge and prevent it from falling. theory hasn't been confirmed.
we were young once / crabbe and goyle needed for a riddle era site
we were young once / crabbe and goyle needed for a riddle era site