fic: drawing blood (1/2)
drawing blood (1/2)
hp, tom riddle/minerva mcgonagall (slight albus dumbledore/minerva mcgonagall), 1004 words, r.
the flagstones echo beneath her feet as she runs. her eyes are tight shut.
hey, open wide,
here comes original sin.
hero, regina spektor
June dawns hot, and the common room’s all but deserted. She glances out the window, sees him sitting by the lake. She studies her reflection in the window, for a moment. She does not look at him.
The gramophone in the corner skips once, twice. A second year’s playing Vera Lynn. ‘It’s my Dad, you see. Said he’d be home by Christmas.’ The girl gestures to the room, ‘No-one here understands, ‘bout Hitler and that.’
The girl’s attacked that afternoon, on her way to Charms. The sound of bluebirds echoes in her brain.
It still echoes, when he sits down next to her, in the library. She won’t tell him, but she rather welcomes the distraction. ‘What do you want, Tom?’ She says, voice even and deliberate.
‘You’ve been avoiding me.’
Her stomach knots when he looks her in the eye. It’s not an emotion she cares to explain, settling for a sigh. ‘I really haven’t.’
His voice is nothing more than a whisper, ‘You have.’ She gasps when his hand finds her thigh, squirms slightly in her seat. His fingers ghost higher and she swallows a whimper. ‘Shush, there, Minerva. Everyone’s looking.’
She glances around and, of course, he’s right. She feels her cheeks grow hot. ‘Tom- stop.’
His fingers still for a second, then he pulls back. She hears titters as he stalks out the library, makes a show of licking his fingers. Her hands ball into fists, her nails digging into her palm, and she takes a steadying breath. There’s a note on her book, ’til tonight, it reads.
The clock on the wall ticks loud. She finds herself humming a Vera Lynn tune. Her fingers twist in her lap, creasing the tartan of her dress.
‘You’re early.’ She starts, turns to see him, smirking in the doorway. How long he has been watching, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to.
‘So are you.’ It’s the best she can counter with. His smirk widens, and he steps into the room proper.
‘You know something, about The Chamber of Secrets. Is it you? Are you the heir of Slytherin?’ It’s a joke, and his voice is mocking, but he doesn’t smile.
She snorts, despite herself. She steps closer to him, a grin playing around her lips. ‘I’m not sharing the glory with you, Tom, if that’s what you think.’
His lips graze hers. ‘Come on, Minerva. What do you know?’
She considers being coy, for a moment, until he kisses her again. It’s deeper this time, rougher and she makes a small noise. He smiles now, triumphant.
‘What do you know?’ He repeats, breath hot against her flesh. His hand knots itself in her hair, tugs it gently out of its bun.
‘Why do you care?’ She retorts. He bites down on her collar bone and she gasps, her hands scrambling for purchase across his back. I hate you, she wants to say, but she can’t find the words.
There’s a groan from the wall, the sound of clanging pipes. ‘Later,’ he breathes in a language she doesn’t understand.
She stills, eyes wide. ‘Oh God.’
The flagstones echo beneath her feet as she runs. Her eyes are tight shut.
She does not go back to Gryffindor tower. She goes to a familiar first floor corridor, the territory she will one day claim as her own. But, of course, she has no idea of that, now, and it is Dumbledore's office door her knuckles bruise against. Her toes curl against the cold floor. ‘Professor,’ she shouts. Still she does not open her eyes. ‘Prof- ’
The door swings open. ‘Minerva,’ She does not notice, but he’s not surprised to see her. ‘Why on Earth aren’t you in bed?’
She’s breathless. ‘It’s Riddle, Professor. Tom Riddle is the heir of Slytherin.’
He steps aside to allow her entry, closing the door tight behind her with a fleeting backwards glance. ‘May I ask how your assertion is,’ he pauses, searching for the word, ‘substantiated.’
‘I- We were- ’ Dumbledore’s eyebrow quirks. She blushes, searches for a flash of jealousy that does not come. ‘He said something. In Parseltongue.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. I mean, I couldn’t tell exactly what he said- ’
‘Obviously.’
‘ -but Professor, he was speaking to the wall.’
She sits perched on his desk as he paces, her fingers curling around the edge of the mahogany. Through the window, the moon hangs high in the sky.
‘The question is, can you prove it.’ He stops, turns to look at her. Without his spectacles his eyes seem withdrawn and weary. ‘I believe you, certainly,’ he continues his pacing, ‘but I think we would be foolish to expect Professor Dippet to, especially given the nature of your investigative methods.’
She demures, flushes again. ‘So what do we do?’
‘We wait for him to make a mistake.’ She scoffs, and Dumbledore’s wry smile fades, ‘Oh he will, son enough. The trick is to let him get cocky.’
‘But he knows I’ll come straight to you.’
‘An assumption he would be correct in, if he were to make it. Mr Riddle, I am afraid to say, does not have a very, how to put it, sympathetic view as to your intelligence.’
She opens her mouth to object, but he raises a finger, ‘Riddle believes you are a woman, subject to all the supposed weaknesses of your sex. He refuses, for reasons best known to himself, to acknowledge you as an accomplished witch, much less an equal. Just because coming straight here is what he would do were he yourself, does not mean he thinks that is the course of action you will take. You must give him the impression that is indeed the case.’
His sits down beside her on his desk, his hand resting next to hers, ‘We will catch him, Minerva. Now,’ he says, ‘it is high time you went to bed,’ he reaches behind him, picks a mirror off his desk, ‘Use this to look around corners. Any sign of movement, shut your eyes.’
end.
hp, tom riddle/minerva mcgonagall (slight albus dumbledore/minerva mcgonagall), 1004 words, r.
the flagstones echo beneath her feet as she runs. her eyes are tight shut.
hey, open wide,
here comes original sin.
hero, regina spektor
June dawns hot, and the common room’s all but deserted. She glances out the window, sees him sitting by the lake. She studies her reflection in the window, for a moment. She does not look at him.
The gramophone in the corner skips once, twice. A second year’s playing Vera Lynn. ‘It’s my Dad, you see. Said he’d be home by Christmas.’ The girl gestures to the room, ‘No-one here understands, ‘bout Hitler and that.’
The girl’s attacked that afternoon, on her way to Charms. The sound of bluebirds echoes in her brain.
It still echoes, when he sits down next to her, in the library. She won’t tell him, but she rather welcomes the distraction. ‘What do you want, Tom?’ She says, voice even and deliberate.
‘You’ve been avoiding me.’
Her stomach knots when he looks her in the eye. It’s not an emotion she cares to explain, settling for a sigh. ‘I really haven’t.’
His voice is nothing more than a whisper, ‘You have.’ She gasps when his hand finds her thigh, squirms slightly in her seat. His fingers ghost higher and she swallows a whimper. ‘Shush, there, Minerva. Everyone’s looking.’
She glances around and, of course, he’s right. She feels her cheeks grow hot. ‘Tom- stop.’
His fingers still for a second, then he pulls back. She hears titters as he stalks out the library, makes a show of licking his fingers. Her hands ball into fists, her nails digging into her palm, and she takes a steadying breath. There’s a note on her book, ’til tonight, it reads.
The clock on the wall ticks loud. She finds herself humming a Vera Lynn tune. Her fingers twist in her lap, creasing the tartan of her dress.
‘You’re early.’ She starts, turns to see him, smirking in the doorway. How long he has been watching, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to.
‘So are you.’ It’s the best she can counter with. His smirk widens, and he steps into the room proper.
‘You know something, about The Chamber of Secrets. Is it you? Are you the heir of Slytherin?’ It’s a joke, and his voice is mocking, but he doesn’t smile.
She snorts, despite herself. She steps closer to him, a grin playing around her lips. ‘I’m not sharing the glory with you, Tom, if that’s what you think.’
His lips graze hers. ‘Come on, Minerva. What do you know?’
She considers being coy, for a moment, until he kisses her again. It’s deeper this time, rougher and she makes a small noise. He smiles now, triumphant.
‘What do you know?’ He repeats, breath hot against her flesh. His hand knots itself in her hair, tugs it gently out of its bun.
‘Why do you care?’ She retorts. He bites down on her collar bone and she gasps, her hands scrambling for purchase across his back. I hate you, she wants to say, but she can’t find the words.
There’s a groan from the wall, the sound of clanging pipes. ‘Later,’ he breathes in a language she doesn’t understand.
She stills, eyes wide. ‘Oh God.’
The flagstones echo beneath her feet as she runs. Her eyes are tight shut.
She does not go back to Gryffindor tower. She goes to a familiar first floor corridor, the territory she will one day claim as her own. But, of course, she has no idea of that, now, and it is Dumbledore's office door her knuckles bruise against. Her toes curl against the cold floor. ‘Professor,’ she shouts. Still she does not open her eyes. ‘Prof- ’
The door swings open. ‘Minerva,’ She does not notice, but he’s not surprised to see her. ‘Why on Earth aren’t you in bed?’
She’s breathless. ‘It’s Riddle, Professor. Tom Riddle is the heir of Slytherin.’
He steps aside to allow her entry, closing the door tight behind her with a fleeting backwards glance. ‘May I ask how your assertion is,’ he pauses, searching for the word, ‘substantiated.’
‘I- We were- ’ Dumbledore’s eyebrow quirks. She blushes, searches for a flash of jealousy that does not come. ‘He said something. In Parseltongue.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. I mean, I couldn’t tell exactly what he said- ’
‘Obviously.’
‘ -but Professor, he was speaking to the wall.’
She sits perched on his desk as he paces, her fingers curling around the edge of the mahogany. Through the window, the moon hangs high in the sky.
‘The question is, can you prove it.’ He stops, turns to look at her. Without his spectacles his eyes seem withdrawn and weary. ‘I believe you, certainly,’ he continues his pacing, ‘but I think we would be foolish to expect Professor Dippet to, especially given the nature of your investigative methods.’
She demures, flushes again. ‘So what do we do?’
‘We wait for him to make a mistake.’ She scoffs, and Dumbledore’s wry smile fades, ‘Oh he will, son enough. The trick is to let him get cocky.’
‘But he knows I’ll come straight to you.’
‘An assumption he would be correct in, if he were to make it. Mr Riddle, I am afraid to say, does not have a very, how to put it, sympathetic view as to your intelligence.’
She opens her mouth to object, but he raises a finger, ‘Riddle believes you are a woman, subject to all the supposed weaknesses of your sex. He refuses, for reasons best known to himself, to acknowledge you as an accomplished witch, much less an equal. Just because coming straight here is what he would do were he yourself, does not mean he thinks that is the course of action you will take. You must give him the impression that is indeed the case.’
His sits down beside her on his desk, his hand resting next to hers, ‘We will catch him, Minerva. Now,’ he says, ‘it is high time you went to bed,’ he reaches behind him, picks a mirror off his desk, ‘Use this to look around corners. Any sign of movement, shut your eyes.’
end.