i am lord voldemort • Tom Riddle

III

"You're the one who is weak. You will never know love or friendship. And I feel sorry for you."
—Harry Potter

• — • — •

Tom prided himself on a great many things, among them his ability to read people. Even without Legilimency, he was remarkably adept at simply being able to look at someone and tell them exactly what they wanted to hear. It served him well in earning favour with both professors and admirers alike, but when he looked at Ophelia, he felt blind.

It wasn't like Tom to get so distracted. She was just one pathetic girl, after all. Unimpressive in her classes and virtually invisible outside them, Tom hadn't even realized she existed for years. Tom made a special effort to take note of the other students, looking for exploitable weaknesses to give him an edge, yet somehow she'd entirely circumvented his awareness.

It was puzzling, and Tom hated puzzles.

More curious still, and perhaps a bit sloppy on his part, was the fact that she didn't tell any of the professors about his gift for Legilimency, even when he continued his efforts to bypass her wards in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. Surely she knew going to a professor would immediately force him to cease? The worst part was, the danger ought to have been enough to convince himself to stop, yet he couldn't resist.

If he had to admit, he'd almost say he'd become obsessed with her mind, though he attributed it to the fact that he disliked being inferior to another in anything. The fact that her Occlumency was somehow better than his Legilimency was maddening. She didn't even flinch at his attempts anymore, not since the first time. Either her poker face had improved exponentially, or she hadn't really been trying to shield herself before at all, and Tom couldn't be sure which thought irritated him more.

"Tom, you keep staring at that girl. Do you fancy her or something?" Rabastan Lestrange drawled, looking at him from over a glass of something Tom was pretty sure was a lot stronger than pumpkin juice.

Fenella Fawley, on Lestrange's other side, cocked her head up in sudden alarm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rabastan," she sneered. "Tom would never like a plain looking girl like that, would you, Tom?"

"No, of course not."

It was troublesome that they noticed, however. He'd have to be more subtle.

"Did she wrong you, then? Why else would you stare at that mudblood?"

"Is she a mudblood?" Tom asked before he could stop himself. He'd managed to trace his own ancestry back to the great Salazar Slytherin armed only with a middle name, but he still couldn't find a crumb's worth of information on Ophelia Ashwood when she was sitting mere feet away. "How can you be so sure?"

Lestrange shrugged carelessly. "I don't recognize her, so obviously she isn't pure-blooded."

Tom thought it redundant, but still felt inclined to point out, "She could still be a half-blood."

"Mud blood, half blood, they're all the same to me. Although..." he grinned wolfishly, "she doesn't look half bad, for not being pure. I wouldn't mind giving her a tour of the dungeons, if you catch my meaning."

Fenella looked scandalized.  "You can't be serious! I should tell your mother and you'll never give anyone a tour of anything ever again.

Rebastann brought his goblet to his lips, unperturbed. "Please do. The crone won't be able to castrate me if she has a stroke."

Sensing a losing battle, Fenella turned grudgingly back to Tom, keeping her eyes glued to Ophelia across the room. "So why were you staring at her? Did she cross you? Do you want us to get even?"