ooc :: concrit ][ plot suggestions
Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!
Um, if you ever see something about my portrayal of a one Tom Marvolo Riddle & Serpentine Co. that gives you pause, please mention it! I'd be very grateful for suggestions and hints to improve, and, well, it'd also help you get it off your chest.
If you'd like to plot / want to discuss plot details / don't like how a plot is going, and can't reach me otherwise... comment ahead!
Thank you!
Anon commenting: on.
IP logging: off.
[character abilities]: given the timeline, a majority of the spells listed here, as well as some of his making. He's a gifted potions master, a Legilimes and Occlumens, a strong duelist, and a practitioner of wandless and silent magic. As Salazar's heir, he can, er, chat with snakes on a plane. Presumably, he can also make a decent cup of tea. These abilities will be limited or come at a significantly higher price to him in the City environment.
[character personality]: the Tom Riddle of the Hogwarts era has a background of endless frustrations and absolutely no regard for anything outside of his two compulsions: first off, he wants to convince everyone (including himself) that he is the rightful heir of Slytherin in spite of his mixed heritage. Whatever else his nature, Tom is both insecure and cravenly - he cannot suffer to be looked down upon, as it's a constant reminder of the "handicap" of his birth. He's so adamant in believing in the authority of descent, that he eliminates his father and recreates himself as Lord Voldemort once he can no longer accept that his muggle paternity is, by his own logic, a premise for failure.
Secondly, he's... very, very afraid of death and dying, which he’ll try to obliterate through every foolish mean at his disposal (and then some, usually nicked from some Hufflepuff).
Tom's selfish, brilliant and driven - an utter egomaniac, but not one without charm, whim, or principles. The consistent problem is that his ideals are simply very, very skewed. He has no qualms about sweet talking, appealing to everyone's kinder side, or misconstruing their meaning when he thinks it's to his advantage. He certainly pulls the "concerned prefect" act pretty damn well, and even later in life, he uses the people around him, while trying to generate a feeling of, "You ceded in my favour because it’s the ultimately sensible thing to do." Once again, with feeling: he's a liar, a cheater, and a murderer, but he needs to constantly feel that what he's doing is, in the end, right. If he has to use the Imperius on someone til they agree, well, that's that - what's important to him is the possibility to look back afterward and be in such a position of authority that he can not only excuse or justify himself, but also overlook his own errors in the name of a greater cause, "the ultimate welfare of everyone else." An "everyone else" which probably includes only 5% of the (pureblooded) population, but, um. Humiliated and discarded on account of his paternity, he thrives off confirmation. This may well be why he takes his time before rallying followers until he has proven his worth beyond the possibility of anyone's doubt. He'd hardly wish to chance rejection a again.
That said, it's premature to conclude that a little love and care earlier in Tom's life could have redeemed him entirely. DumbleCare Beardore may have failed his most brilliant pupil in matters of trust and merit, cementing young Riddle's inferiority complex and his belief that he must prove his superiority at every opportunity; but he in no way created the boy's predatory obsession with overcoming his rivals by ruining their pedestals (or lives) one by one. Tom's extremism was always his own.
Adding to the psycho picture, Rowling also took five to show him as a (very) young derelict from the get go: he stole and kept the tokens of his victims; he terrorized the other children in the orphanage, sometimes because of what they said, at other times because of what they were (experiment subjects - and interesting); he also shamelessly lied and manipulated the people around him to get their attention. Par on course for House Slytherin, maybe, but also possibly the signs of a precocious child who couldn't find his footing in his environment.
In hindsight, Tom's reaction to his own unfailingly impressive skills is an oddity: his magic showed its strength early on, with signs of Legilimency, Occlumency, and Parseltongue. Most eleven-year-olds would have presumably at least questioned their sanity a tad bit more, if they had access to a subtle, but present degree of mind reading, shielding, and snake talk, but Tom accepted his abilities without much loss of composure. If anything, he was closer to relishing in them. The same apathy - later morphed into entitlement, because of course these skills were all due to an heir of Salazar - seemed to have followed him in his early Hogwarts years, when he duels magnificently, creates potions, unleashes a gd basilisk - and he's never shown as stopping to fear himself. It’s not that he skips the lesson about great powers and great responsibilities - Tom simply overlooks the issue of "with great powers come great consequences of your own magic potentially coming to bite you right back, are you bloody bonkers, get away from the giant BEEP BEEP BEEP snake!" This impulsiveness and his stubbornness that everything can only go one way (hint: his) only strengthened with time, leading to the ultimate recklessness that would lead to his regularly scheduled defeats before Lilly and Harry Potter.
[point in timeline you're picking your character from]: after unleashing the Basilisk / Myrtle's very unfortunate death.
[journal post]:
Ah, fancy. Well, good day to you.
Look here, won't you? No, no, here, thank you - carries through screen, doesn't it? Should only hope so.
Repello Muggletum.
somewhat private / hackable for lack of skill
Muggle-work...? If Grindelwald could enlist Muggles to - what Grindelwald does, I can do thrice fold. Dumbledore, watch me closely. You are not enough.
intentionally hackable
Well, someone messed a portkey.
Got to wonder who - ...oh, do hold on. Professor Dumbledore’s Transfiguration exams just keep getting worse and worse, don’t they? First Alchemy traps, now relocation, then what's next? Dark Arts? Well, I never...
I'll have to have a word with the other prefects and Headmaster Dippet. Much as I esteem Professor Dumbledore's work, we ought to be speaking up.
Honestly, you'd think we were preparing for warfare.
[third person / log sample]:
Mornings are for ritual.
He loathes his quarters, but he must still make his bed, lest house elves should report it went touched. Better that they think him considerate than an insomniac, drawing Slughorn’s eye to his pupil's eccentricities.
This is like a coma, he supposes, slighting his pillow, neglecting his sheets, a half-whispered "Scourgify," and "Tergeo" by way of greeting. He's courting his death each and every night, but he'll be damned if he should do it for more than three hours. Four, if he's long gone without, but no more. None needed. He's not a Wizard so he can lack in trickery.
Transfigured coffee, minor restorative draughts, and the occasional charm to waken skin, eyes, his tongue gone wary. Cosmetic changes, where his mind stays alert. It's enough. It'll hold him. And it'll hold off questions.
As things go, he sleeps little, first out of necessity - there is much of the Wizardry World to see, far, far too much, and him with his handicap of years - then habit, then both. Sleep is for lesser creatures, the ones that kill, but also die. And there's no one to ensure that he'll wake after closing his eyes - no, sssssssshhhhh, not even that, much as it soothes him in his head, stringing lullabies and promises and --- ...Merlin, but it’s almost enough. Almost enough to forget himself and lie in his bed, to laugh and laugh and laugh and ask if anyone’s seen Myrtle, and maybe to tell them that Hagrid, well, he's an all right chap, and by the by, they sent him off for nothing. Tom's their man, their killer, their golden boy, they ought well to take his complaints with him - but they can't, can they? Of course not. Of course. Tom’s untouchable. The Basilisk's sworn to him, his blood's immortal, and his body will follow, and can any of them hear it?
Fools. Thrice fools. And bloody deaf.
But today routine is broken, and the news catches him as he skims more censored books a prefect should be seen reading. In the library, a part of him wants to scream at the Ravenclaw girl, Mudbloods should sever their own legs off, sooner than let them barge in like this.
"They’d like to see you in the Infirmary," she manages breathlessly, and supposedly, by the look of her blush, all this haste was born of admiration for him. How... pedestrian. Yes, that's a good word, he'll remember it. She's pedestrian. He thanks her, then bids his farewells, promising to return at the earliest and explain to the seventh year the paper he'd published through proxy. They'd pass their N.E.W.T.s splendidly without a smart thought in their heads, and Tom doubted any of them will want for a living; a family would take care of them, every single one to the last. They’d have home and comfort, and none of it earned.
No, this wasn’t Tom's lot. Tom had to work, and sweat, and learn, and prove himself. Even his first attempt at publication only went passably well once he was served written reminder that Slughorn need sign off on the full extent of his papers, lest otherwise a man should think a schoolboy had earned himself a gift of study. Dumbledore, of course, had published volumes by Tom’s age, had his own special editions, but now the fashion calls for mentorship, and guidance, and all the blessed pretty things that spell, "An elderly gentleman oversaw that the research undertaken by the undersigned took absolutely no risks that might be deemed remotely unpleasant in the sensitive eyes of the Ethics Committee. Merlin bless and hex them."
As if a boy with enough ambition can't elude an Ethics Committee.
As if it's that difficult to cast a Cruciatus in this damned country and get away with it.
As if Tom still needs a caretaker to tell him these things and to -
...to call him to the Infirmary, as if he were a well kept pet.
The Nurse wastes no time, has him lie down in one of the spare beds, wand at the ready. Quickly, his charms come undone, and he knows instantly that she's been told what to look for. He doesn't fight the intrusion, stays silent and nurses some tea, and agrees to everything - yes, he's tired. Yes, he realizes how dreadful it is to go very long without sleep. Yes, he should've seen the Infirmary and told them at once. Yes, he avoided to because he didn't mean to be a bother. Yes, she's right. Absolutely right.
Right enough that she passes him a draught of something thick, yellow, and unpleasant. Potions speak gibberish to him, lack the strength of real magic, have limits and rules and inhibitions - but he's made himself aware of pots and plants and pharmacy all the same. He knows what smells so sweet in his chalice, can well guess what lurks under.
It's - ah. Of course. Unimpressive: minced valerian root and rose water, the nurse’s hand sinking still on his shoulder.
"Mr. Riddle, please," and, he's distantly aware, Dippet's had words with the staff on how they'd best treat him, and if he recoils now, it won’t go unreported in their defence of their failure. Well, Professor, we did ever try, but the boy wouldn't have it. It’s the boy's fault he's tired and useless and he can't win a second or fifth award now. It’s always the boy.
She walks off by his second sip, "We’re all very concerned for you."
Of course you are, and it takes him a moment to realize fatigue, lethargy and valerian have loosened his tongue in rather the wrong language; he's hissing a little, but luckily she's out of reach. He wouldn't want to explain his gift to her. He doubts she’d understand.
After all - after all, they’ve seen nothing like him.
He's split his very soul in parts, and he's willing to throw away the sum. He's bled, he's killed, he's forged an alliance - he's become the Serpent, he's every bit the heir and not one trace in him of a spare, he's meant for power. He's above them. He's so very much above them, because where they’d set an end to things, he'd merely see a new beginning. He's burnt himself down - once, twice, endlessly - and made himself from ashes, he's not afraid of change. Not afraid of killing death.
Induced sleep nearly there, he remembers to call out in strong English, "Forgive me. Was it the... the elves that perhaps let on...?"
The Nurse hears him, but he’s not won her yet -
He smiles in a design of kindness, "I must have worried them. I always worry everyone. It’s such a foolish thing, but I forget sometimes that now I've people who will worry. Who'll care."
- and she simply to put him well at ease, "Oh, no, no, but Professor Dumbledore insisted you’ve been..."
He needs to hear no more. Groans, really.
Dumbledore.
Dumbledore and spoiling things for Tom.
One habit swapped for another.
Mornings, after all, are for routine.