Gen Ficathon entry
Title: If They're Scared Enough
Author: Malecrit
For: zeelee_penguin
Challenge: Tom Riddle's first day at Hogwarts School. Conditions: He must meet Minerva McGonagall.
Notes: I'm sorry that Minerva didn't play a very big role in this. And good God, I want to punch this OC, even if he is only an eleven year-old boy. Also, this is so short/constrained because it wants to be huge and not something that just fits into a day. Lame excuse, I know, but still. And I obviously could not think of a title. [/obnoxious apologies]
------
There were thirty-two rounds of applause on that first night, and one long silence.
Tom Riddle pulled the ancient, rumpled hat from his head and stepped down from the stool, the boards of the wooden dais creaking under his feet. He went down the steps--one, two--and the sound issued through the Great Hall. The students at their House tables began to shift uncomfortably on the long benches and a Hufflepuff coughed, but all of them watched Tom.
"Did he say 'Riddle'? Have you heard of any Riddles before?" a Ravenclaw girl finally whispered to her friend, and by the time Tom reached his seat, the question was being repeated all throughout the room.
Only not at the Slytherin table, because they already knew the answer.
In the morning, a sneering boy stood over Tom as he knelt to tie his shoes, the laces slipping through his fingers like liquid.
"So, Riddle, is it?" the boy asked in a tone so casual it was clearly calculated. "What sort of name is that? Never heard of any Riddles before. Oi, Travers, you know any Riddles?"
"Riddle? No. Don't know any Riddles," the boy named Travers replied as he flattened his wayward fringe before a mirror.
"Y'see, Riddle, Travers--that's a wizarding name. I'm Parkinson. That's another," the first boy explained. Tom could hear his teeth scrape together as he clenched his jaw, trying to get a hold of his shoelaces. "Riddle, that's not a wizarding name. So's your father a Muggle, then? Where'd you grow up? A barnyard, rolling about in the mud with all the other animals? Why don't you go to Gryffindor with all the Muggle-lovers who like that sort of filth?"
Tom breathed in sharply through his nose and closed his eyes as he felt his shoelaces wriggle away from his grasp once more.
"Wh--wh--what the...!" Parkinson exclaimed, stumbling backwards into Travers and dropping his wand.
When Tom opened his eyes, he saw a pair of snakes advancing resolutely toward the other boys. The eyelets of his shoes were empty.
On his way to his final class of the day, Tom wandered the castle in search of the Transfiguration room. Going up a flight of stairs, he found himself in a quiet part of the school. His footsteps sounded hollow against the flagstones, but soon others joined them.
"Here's a riddle," a voice called after Tom. "What dies but doesn't decay?"
Tom looked over his shoulder and there was Parkinson, with Travers sniggering beside him.
The two boys drew up alongside Tom, and Parkinson supplied the answer himself, chortling, "A Mudblood, because he's already dirt!"
Tom swallowed thickly and made for the flight of stairs that seemed to spring up out of nowhere. On his heels, Parkinson laughed, poking at Tom's thin shoulder.
"Isn't that a laugh, Riddle? What do you think of that? What do you think, Riddle? Can't even use a wand, can you? Even babies could turn shoelaces into snakes if they're scared enough."
Tom's feet hit the landing and two cries rang out behind him, and there was a girl before him suddenly, Transfiguration book tucked beneath her arm. She looked past Tom, her eyes went round behind her square spectacles, and he finally thought to turn around. The staircase was moving downward behind him like an escalator and Parkinson and Travers landed in two great heaps at its foot. Tom wasn't even touching his wand.
The girl drew herself up straight. "What happened?"
Tom glimpsed the scarlet edging her robes; heard the moving staircase grind to a halt behind him. The girl gave him a look like the headmaster at the orphanage always had, her lips pressed tightly together, thinking about rules Tom hadn't meant to break, only now it was "no magic in the corridors" instead of "no getting into the buttery, which locks from the outside and the keys weren't even filched."
Her expression softened slightly, and she changed her question to "What's your name?"
"Tom."
"I'm Minerva McGonagall," the girl replied.
"Oi, Riddle, have you got a girlfriend?"
Tom twisted around to see Parkinson and Travers dusting themselves off at the foot of the staircase.
"Were they bothering you? You shouldn't mind them," Minerva said, as if any other response would be utter nonsense.
"Ooh, a Gryffindor girlfriend! That suits you, Riddle."
Minerva's cheeks went faintly pink, and Tom had his wand pulled from his pocket in a flash, brandishing it hopelessly at Parkinson and Travers. They'd had Herbology and History of Magic and Potions that day; while Parkinson could already hex Tom's shoelaces to butter, Tom himself had only his wand, a twig with a feather inside, and no language to engage it.
"She's not my girlfriend!" he insisted. He couldn't help it if they hated him for his blood, but he could help this. "I hate her!"
In Minerva's silence was the hush from the Great Hall, and for the first time since the previous night, Tom was jarred back to the feast, and to the smelly, old hat that had looked in his head--where no one had ever cared to look before--and said, The spirit of Slytherin is in you, Tom Riddle. Slytherin will make you great. What the hat knew, Tom couldn't say, but he was at the top of the staircase, and Parkinson at the bottom and, he realized, they would need to remain that way.
Author: Malecrit
For: zeelee_penguin
Challenge: Tom Riddle's first day at Hogwarts School. Conditions: He must meet Minerva McGonagall.
Notes: I'm sorry that Minerva didn't play a very big role in this. And good God, I want to punch this OC, even if he is only an eleven year-old boy. Also, this is so short/constrained because it wants to be huge and not something that just fits into a day. Lame excuse, I know, but still. And I obviously could not think of a title. [/obnoxious apologies]
------
There were thirty-two rounds of applause on that first night, and one long silence.
Tom Riddle pulled the ancient, rumpled hat from his head and stepped down from the stool, the boards of the wooden dais creaking under his feet. He went down the steps--one, two--and the sound issued through the Great Hall. The students at their House tables began to shift uncomfortably on the long benches and a Hufflepuff coughed, but all of them watched Tom.
"Did he say 'Riddle'? Have you heard of any Riddles before?" a Ravenclaw girl finally whispered to her friend, and by the time Tom reached his seat, the question was being repeated all throughout the room.
Only not at the Slytherin table, because they already knew the answer.
In the morning, a sneering boy stood over Tom as he knelt to tie his shoes, the laces slipping through his fingers like liquid.
"So, Riddle, is it?" the boy asked in a tone so casual it was clearly calculated. "What sort of name is that? Never heard of any Riddles before. Oi, Travers, you know any Riddles?"
"Riddle? No. Don't know any Riddles," the boy named Travers replied as he flattened his wayward fringe before a mirror.
"Y'see, Riddle, Travers--that's a wizarding name. I'm Parkinson. That's another," the first boy explained. Tom could hear his teeth scrape together as he clenched his jaw, trying to get a hold of his shoelaces. "Riddle, that's not a wizarding name. So's your father a Muggle, then? Where'd you grow up? A barnyard, rolling about in the mud with all the other animals? Why don't you go to Gryffindor with all the Muggle-lovers who like that sort of filth?"
Tom breathed in sharply through his nose and closed his eyes as he felt his shoelaces wriggle away from his grasp once more.
"Wh--wh--what the...!" Parkinson exclaimed, stumbling backwards into Travers and dropping his wand.
When Tom opened his eyes, he saw a pair of snakes advancing resolutely toward the other boys. The eyelets of his shoes were empty.
On his way to his final class of the day, Tom wandered the castle in search of the Transfiguration room. Going up a flight of stairs, he found himself in a quiet part of the school. His footsteps sounded hollow against the flagstones, but soon others joined them.
"Here's a riddle," a voice called after Tom. "What dies but doesn't decay?"
Tom looked over his shoulder and there was Parkinson, with Travers sniggering beside him.
The two boys drew up alongside Tom, and Parkinson supplied the answer himself, chortling, "A Mudblood, because he's already dirt!"
Tom swallowed thickly and made for the flight of stairs that seemed to spring up out of nowhere. On his heels, Parkinson laughed, poking at Tom's thin shoulder.
"Isn't that a laugh, Riddle? What do you think of that? What do you think, Riddle? Can't even use a wand, can you? Even babies could turn shoelaces into snakes if they're scared enough."
Tom's feet hit the landing and two cries rang out behind him, and there was a girl before him suddenly, Transfiguration book tucked beneath her arm. She looked past Tom, her eyes went round behind her square spectacles, and he finally thought to turn around. The staircase was moving downward behind him like an escalator and Parkinson and Travers landed in two great heaps at its foot. Tom wasn't even touching his wand.
The girl drew herself up straight. "What happened?"
Tom glimpsed the scarlet edging her robes; heard the moving staircase grind to a halt behind him. The girl gave him a look like the headmaster at the orphanage always had, her lips pressed tightly together, thinking about rules Tom hadn't meant to break, only now it was "no magic in the corridors" instead of "no getting into the buttery, which locks from the outside and the keys weren't even filched."
Her expression softened slightly, and she changed her question to "What's your name?"
"Tom."
"I'm Minerva McGonagall," the girl replied.
"Oi, Riddle, have you got a girlfriend?"
Tom twisted around to see Parkinson and Travers dusting themselves off at the foot of the staircase.
"Were they bothering you? You shouldn't mind them," Minerva said, as if any other response would be utter nonsense.
"Ooh, a Gryffindor girlfriend! That suits you, Riddle."
Minerva's cheeks went faintly pink, and Tom had his wand pulled from his pocket in a flash, brandishing it hopelessly at Parkinson and Travers. They'd had Herbology and History of Magic and Potions that day; while Parkinson could already hex Tom's shoelaces to butter, Tom himself had only his wand, a twig with a feather inside, and no language to engage it.
"She's not my girlfriend!" he insisted. He couldn't help it if they hated him for his blood, but he could help this. "I hate her!"
In Minerva's silence was the hush from the Great Hall, and for the first time since the previous night, Tom was jarred back to the feast, and to the smelly, old hat that had looked in his head--where no one had ever cared to look before--and said, The spirit of Slytherin is in you, Tom Riddle. Slytherin will make you great. What the hat knew, Tom couldn't say, but he was at the top of the staircase, and Parkinson at the bottom and, he realized, they would need to remain that way.