𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝 || Tom Riddle

one

September 1, 1943
Hogwarts

Hot weather always made Tom murderously irritable. Not that it required much to rouse that side of him.

Like the unlucky fowls that were probably being prepared at this moment for the Welcome Feast, his pale flesh broiled and felt as though at any moment it would melt off his bones. The birds at least had the fortune of being put out of their misery in advance.

Tom's tongue darted over his dry lips as he raked a few fingers through his thick dark hair. The heat was making sticky wet curls cling to his neck and cheeks, and sweat crawled downward in thin trails behind his starched white collar.

He gave his tie an angry jerk left and right, loosening it. He could not wait to slither away to the cool dampness of the dungeons and peel these clothes off. An ice bath plunge would be just the thing to set him right this evening.

He could not wait retreat somewhere cold - and alone.

As was perfectly predictable, his imbecilic peers had found a way to inflame his temper even more.

"Crabbe," he snapped, "if you absolutely must produce fire on the hottest bloody day of the year, could you do us all a favor and crisp yourself up with it?"

Fellow Slytherins walking nearby broke out in a chorus of laughter, only Tom hadn't said or meant it with an ounce of humor. The young wizard was relieved to be back at school, where he thrived, but his company left much to be desired.

Boris Crabbe was undeterred. Swishing his wand around, rather like a toddler, he was making flames appear on a twig he had picked up. Finally, with a fierce whoosh, the entire stick burnt up.

"I couldn't wait to do that now that we're back at school," he grunted. Then, turning to Walden MacNair, he said, "Gimme something else to burn!"

Macnair rolled his eyes and extended a hand with a newspaper he had been carrying.

Tom whipped his head back in their direction to tell them to cut it out (or he might cut something else out, from them), but part of a headline caught his eye.

"Give me that," he ordered, reaching out and snatching it.

Tom was keenly interested in the recent goings-on of the Wizarding World. Being relegated to a small gray room at a Muggle orphanage for roughly three months at a time will do that to a person.

"New Minister of Magic Elected," the headline announced in bold block lettering.

Abraxas Malfoy promptly interpreted the surprise on Tom's face.

"Didn't you hear?" Malfoy drawled importantly. "Well, my family was at the inauguration, of course,"

Tom, narrowing his eyes, sent him a sharp look.

It was clear that anytime the young wizard had the chance to rub it in Tom's face that Malfoy was of the Wizarding World and he was not, he seized it. Tom didn't like it, but he chose to look past it.  Any shots directed at him proved that Malfoy still viewed himself in a defensive, inferior position. And that pleased Tom.

"Is that right." Tom replied shortly. His eyes returned to the paper, skimming the page.

The photo that accompanied the article contained what must have been the new Minister, Victor Silverthorn, and his family. They were a tall, elegant group: a man, wife, two boys, and one girl. They were all lined up and pressed tightly against one another, smiling and waving out at the reader.

Raising the paper up for a closer inspection, squinting slightly, Tom asked himself, "Do I know her?"

MacNair peered over, saying, "I think I've seen her,"

Her lightly freckled face was framed with long, toffee-colored hair. Bangs swept the corners of her soft doe eyes. She was beaming, but Tom knew a fake smile when he saw one, and this one surely qualified. With a startling realization, he felt magnetized toward her innocence and beauty. He wanted to reach into the photo and touch her.

What a lovely little package, he thought to himself, deviously considering all that could be benefitted being with a young witch like that: high status, powerful connections, and certainly the envy and respect of every man.

She looked down in the photo for a moment and in an instant it clicked in Tom's mind. "Diana, I think her name is Diana." Tom had had a few classes with the Ravenclaw. She had never said much, and Tom could not think of anything particularly remarkable about her.

"Yes," Tom was saying, much more to himself than to anyone else, "I have definitely seen her,"

Crabbe looked over as well, and his pudgy eyebrows elevated slightly, as far as they could go. "I wouldn't mind seeing her a little more!"

Tom's face wrinkled a bit and the edge of his lips curled into a little smirk. "You and every other boy here, I imagine,"

"Such a rich and powerful family she's a part of now, who wouldn't want to take her out?" commented another Slytherin, Thane Nott, with a nod.

"I think she's terribly conceited. I don't think I've ever heard her say a word to anyone," put in a girl who had walked up and joined them.

"Speaking of stuck up," said Nott, "where did Malfoy go?"

Up ahead in the crowd of students, Tom spotted exactly what he had expected: the blonde-haired boy almost through the large castle doors, walking at well beyond a healthy pace. Just ahead of Malfoy, Tom could make out a feminine frame crowned with the same toffee hair as matched the picture.

Tom discarded the paper with an aggravated cast to the ground as he strode ahead.