fic: overachievers
overachievers
hp, tom riddle/minerva mcgonagall, 1169 words, pg-13.
his lips are softer, warmer, than she expected, and when her hand stills against his neck she can feel a pulse.
Now listen, because this is important. There’s a limit, to how many wars you can fight, until everyone is your enemy and no-one is your friend. Remember that.
It’s a hot month, June 1943.
‘Minerva.’ Dumbledore says, after Transfiguration one day. His eyes search hers, a familiar feeling of being x-rayed. ‘Minerva, you need to call this off. Tom Riddle is a very dangerous young man.’ His fingers ghost across a picture on his desk as he speaks, but his eyes don’t leave hers.
She squares, ready for a fight. ‘What’s dangerous, Professor, is the fact that something is travelling around Hogwarts picking off Muggle-borns one by one and nobody, least of all our esteemed headmaster, seems to care. Riddle knows something, and if I can find out what- ’
‘Minerva. No.’ Dumbledore’s voice is final. But this is Minerva McGonagall and so, naturally, she pays no attention.
There are whispers in the corridor, a week later. Have you seen Myrtle? She was crying, last I saw. Well, there’s a surprise.
A Ravenclaw fourth yeah finds her, eventually, lying limp in the second stall. Students back to their common rooms, your heads of house will come and see you shortly. Muriel sits next to her, by the fire. ‘What happens now?’
‘I don’t know.’
Dumbledore doesn’t know, either, when he finally arrives. He catches her eye, and she raises an eyebrow. I told you so, she doesn’t say.
The entire school is waiting for Professor Dippet. We have caught the culprit. Hogwarts will remain open, and teaching will resume forthwith, he will say, and all will be well again. A chess set sits on the table, white marble stark against black granite. ‘King to -’ Tom pauses, considers the girl opposite him a moment. ‘B2.’ The King edges forward, a flash of fear in the white Queen’s eyes as he raises his fist. Tom smirks.
‘Checkmate.’ She says.
He starts, looks down at the remains of his players. But she has him caught, a steady smile playing across her lips.
(An elaborate trap, maybe. Or maybe not. It is an old story. King takes Queen. Checkmate.)
The next day she watches as Hagrid is lead from the common room, his wand, snapped clean in half, clenched in his fist. Augusta Longbottom raises an eyebrow. ‘I don’t know why they let him in the first place.’
She finds herself knocking on Professor Dippet’s door. He doesn’t seem surprised to see her. ‘Professor, Hagrid didn't kill Myrtle.’ An earnestness lingers underneath her voice that echoes of bitten nails and frayed cuffs.
He doesn’t look up from his writing. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I have it on good authority that it was.’
‘Whose authority?’
‘Thomas Riddle. Charming young man, he’ll go far.’
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. She reaches out, a steadying hand on his desk. It is only now that the headmaster glances up. ‘Yes. I suppose he will.’ There’s a reticence to her voice that Dippet does not notice. Or, if he does, he chooses to ignore it. He never wanted her for Head Girl, anyway. They both know that.
The door slams behind her. Careful there, the gargoyle says.
She finds him in the library, sitting by the window. His face is turned to the sun, eyes closed. ‘I know it was you.’ She says, abrupt. He looks at her. The sun casts her features in stark contrast.
‘So why did they expel Hagrid?’ His lip curls in realisation, ‘They didn’t believe you, did they?’
She pauses, lost. ‘I- ’
‘Oh, Minerva.’ His eyes flash with triumph and he knows, of course he knows, just how far he gets under her skin.
‘Get out.’ She says, through gritted teeth.
He corners her that evening, dusk falling over the courtyard. She squares her shoulders, sets her jaw. ‘You don’t frighten me, Tom.’
‘I should.’
There is silence. He steps towards her, until she has to look up to meet his eyes. She will never admit this, but he makes her feel very small, sometimes. ‘How much do you know, exactly?’
They’re close, too close. He has her trapped, caught between his body and the wall. Her hands ball into fists. ‘Enough.’ Her voice is nothing more than a hiss, clipped and low. But there’s a shudder to it, a nervousness she’ll later deny. ‘I know that you opened the Chamber, that you killed Myrtle. I know that- ’ He does not wait for her to finish. The back of her head hits the stone with a dull thud.
His lips are softer, warmer, than she expected, and when her hand stills against his neck she can feel a pulse.
She runs.
She goes to the Transfiguration classroom, turns the desks into sharks, swimming through the air. ‘Impressive, Minerva.’ Dumbledore’s smile is warm. ‘Could I ask you to turn them back, when you’re finished? I don’t know how my first years would react.’ She laughs, half a sob. ‘Minerva,’ he says, conjuring a handkerchief, ‘what have you done?’
(Know this: half a century later, Dumbledore and Riddle dead and buried, she still has the handkerchief folded neatly inside her robes, the tartan flush with her heart.)
She sits with her back to him at dinner. ‘He’s looking at you, again.’ Muriel says.
‘Are you sure he isn’t looking at you?’ She glances up at the ceiling, lit by a flash of lightening. She counts for the thunder -one elephant..two ele- the storm is close.
Muriel cranes her neck. ‘No, darling, it’s definitely you.’
The shepherd’s pie sours in her mouth.
The entrance hall is deserted save for him, leaning against the Slytherin hourglass. She can feel him watching her, her skin growing hot under his gaze. ‘I’ll catch up,’ she murmurs to Muriel, a weak smile.
Her heels click against the flagstones. It echoes painfully loud. ‘Can I help you?’ She says, and knows she can’t. Knows she won’t.
His mouth presses against her neck, hard enough to leave a mark. ‘Can I help you?’ She repeats, this time breathless.
There’s an inevitably, to what happens next. He’s possessive (of course) and she hates hates, hates, herself when she arches into him. Half a gasp falls from her lips. The mattress creaks. She hates herself some more.
‘Join me,’ he murmurs against her skin. ‘Join me.’
Her eyes meet his, defiant. ‘No.’
(She comes to realise that she is a trophy. He is the black king, and she the white queen, his for the taking, if only he can get close enough.)
He tries again, of course. She’s on her way out of the library, a cool hand around her wrist. She turns her head away. ‘Playing that game, are we?’ He says, voice low and dangerous.
‘This isn’t a game, Tom.’
‘Oh but it is.’ His mouth is warm against her ear, ‘And here’s a tip: you won’t win, Minerva, so stop trying.’
She shivers.
She hates him. There is no other explanation.
Weeks pass. The curtains around his bed are green. Closed around them, they seem foreign, miles from the familiar maroon hangings of her own bed. She hears a squeak from outside, a voice she recognises and a twinge of something in her belly. ‘Tom,’ she says. ‘Stop,’ she doesn’t. He swallows the sound whole, a clink of teeth and it is forgotten.
They shouldn’t, they musn’t. But they do.
She’s standing in front of Dumbledore’s desk. Her eyes wander over the office, the pensieve in the corner, the photos that line his desk. From one of them, she smiles up, brandishing the Quidditch cup. She can’t quite bring herself to catch his eye. ‘It has to stop, Minerva. This is not the behaviour of a head girl.’
‘Yes, Professor.’ She ducks her head.
‘You would be wise, Minerva, to distance from yourself from Mr Riddle. I have told you before, have I not, that he is dangerous?’ He sighs, ‘We will say no more about this. You may go.’
There’s a last time, naturally. July's beginning to beckon, the sun streaming through the open window. He takes the opportunity to bruise her. Join me, he says, one last time. No, she says. Never.
‘You’re a footnote,’ he tells her, when she shrugs her dress back on.
She scoffs, ‘We’ll see.’
He never does say goodbye.
You cannot fight every battle.
But you can try.
end.
hp, tom riddle/minerva mcgonagall, 1169 words, pg-13.
his lips are softer, warmer, than she expected, and when her hand stills against his neck she can feel a pulse.
Now listen, because this is important. There’s a limit, to how many wars you can fight, until everyone is your enemy and no-one is your friend. Remember that.
It’s a hot month, June 1943.
‘Minerva.’ Dumbledore says, after Transfiguration one day. His eyes search hers, a familiar feeling of being x-rayed. ‘Minerva, you need to call this off. Tom Riddle is a very dangerous young man.’ His fingers ghost across a picture on his desk as he speaks, but his eyes don’t leave hers.
She squares, ready for a fight. ‘What’s dangerous, Professor, is the fact that something is travelling around Hogwarts picking off Muggle-borns one by one and nobody, least of all our esteemed headmaster, seems to care. Riddle knows something, and if I can find out what- ’
‘Minerva. No.’ Dumbledore’s voice is final. But this is Minerva McGonagall and so, naturally, she pays no attention.
There are whispers in the corridor, a week later. Have you seen Myrtle? She was crying, last I saw. Well, there’s a surprise.
A Ravenclaw fourth yeah finds her, eventually, lying limp in the second stall. Students back to their common rooms, your heads of house will come and see you shortly. Muriel sits next to her, by the fire. ‘What happens now?’
‘I don’t know.’
Dumbledore doesn’t know, either, when he finally arrives. He catches her eye, and she raises an eyebrow. I told you so, she doesn’t say.
The entire school is waiting for Professor Dippet. We have caught the culprit. Hogwarts will remain open, and teaching will resume forthwith, he will say, and all will be well again. A chess set sits on the table, white marble stark against black granite. ‘King to -’ Tom pauses, considers the girl opposite him a moment. ‘B2.’ The King edges forward, a flash of fear in the white Queen’s eyes as he raises his fist. Tom smirks.
‘Checkmate.’ She says.
He starts, looks down at the remains of his players. But she has him caught, a steady smile playing across her lips.
(An elaborate trap, maybe. Or maybe not. It is an old story. King takes Queen. Checkmate.)
The next day she watches as Hagrid is lead from the common room, his wand, snapped clean in half, clenched in his fist. Augusta Longbottom raises an eyebrow. ‘I don’t know why they let him in the first place.’
She finds herself knocking on Professor Dippet’s door. He doesn’t seem surprised to see her. ‘Professor, Hagrid didn't kill Myrtle.’ An earnestness lingers underneath her voice that echoes of bitten nails and frayed cuffs.
He doesn’t look up from his writing. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I have it on good authority that it was.’
‘Whose authority?’
‘Thomas Riddle. Charming young man, he’ll go far.’
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. She reaches out, a steadying hand on his desk. It is only now that the headmaster glances up. ‘Yes. I suppose he will.’ There’s a reticence to her voice that Dippet does not notice. Or, if he does, he chooses to ignore it. He never wanted her for Head Girl, anyway. They both know that.
The door slams behind her. Careful there, the gargoyle says.
She finds him in the library, sitting by the window. His face is turned to the sun, eyes closed. ‘I know it was you.’ She says, abrupt. He looks at her. The sun casts her features in stark contrast.
‘So why did they expel Hagrid?’ His lip curls in realisation, ‘They didn’t believe you, did they?’
She pauses, lost. ‘I- ’
‘Oh, Minerva.’ His eyes flash with triumph and he knows, of course he knows, just how far he gets under her skin.
‘Get out.’ She says, through gritted teeth.
He corners her that evening, dusk falling over the courtyard. She squares her shoulders, sets her jaw. ‘You don’t frighten me, Tom.’
‘I should.’
There is silence. He steps towards her, until she has to look up to meet his eyes. She will never admit this, but he makes her feel very small, sometimes. ‘How much do you know, exactly?’
They’re close, too close. He has her trapped, caught between his body and the wall. Her hands ball into fists. ‘Enough.’ Her voice is nothing more than a hiss, clipped and low. But there’s a shudder to it, a nervousness she’ll later deny. ‘I know that you opened the Chamber, that you killed Myrtle. I know that- ’ He does not wait for her to finish. The back of her head hits the stone with a dull thud.
His lips are softer, warmer, than she expected, and when her hand stills against his neck she can feel a pulse.
She runs.
She goes to the Transfiguration classroom, turns the desks into sharks, swimming through the air. ‘Impressive, Minerva.’ Dumbledore’s smile is warm. ‘Could I ask you to turn them back, when you’re finished? I don’t know how my first years would react.’ She laughs, half a sob. ‘Minerva,’ he says, conjuring a handkerchief, ‘what have you done?’
(Know this: half a century later, Dumbledore and Riddle dead and buried, she still has the handkerchief folded neatly inside her robes, the tartan flush with her heart.)
She sits with her back to him at dinner. ‘He’s looking at you, again.’ Muriel says.
‘Are you sure he isn’t looking at you?’ She glances up at the ceiling, lit by a flash of lightening. She counts for the thunder -one elephant..two ele- the storm is close.
Muriel cranes her neck. ‘No, darling, it’s definitely you.’
The shepherd’s pie sours in her mouth.
The entrance hall is deserted save for him, leaning against the Slytherin hourglass. She can feel him watching her, her skin growing hot under his gaze. ‘I’ll catch up,’ she murmurs to Muriel, a weak smile.
Her heels click against the flagstones. It echoes painfully loud. ‘Can I help you?’ She says, and knows she can’t. Knows she won’t.
His mouth presses against her neck, hard enough to leave a mark. ‘Can I help you?’ She repeats, this time breathless.
There’s an inevitably, to what happens next. He’s possessive (of course) and she hates hates, hates, herself when she arches into him. Half a gasp falls from her lips. The mattress creaks. She hates herself some more.
‘Join me,’ he murmurs against her skin. ‘Join me.’
Her eyes meet his, defiant. ‘No.’
(She comes to realise that she is a trophy. He is the black king, and she the white queen, his for the taking, if only he can get close enough.)
He tries again, of course. She’s on her way out of the library, a cool hand around her wrist. She turns her head away. ‘Playing that game, are we?’ He says, voice low and dangerous.
‘This isn’t a game, Tom.’
‘Oh but it is.’ His mouth is warm against her ear, ‘And here’s a tip: you won’t win, Minerva, so stop trying.’
She shivers.
She hates him. There is no other explanation.
Weeks pass. The curtains around his bed are green. Closed around them, they seem foreign, miles from the familiar maroon hangings of her own bed. She hears a squeak from outside, a voice she recognises and a twinge of something in her belly. ‘Tom,’ she says. ‘Stop,’ she doesn’t. He swallows the sound whole, a clink of teeth and it is forgotten.
They shouldn’t, they musn’t. But they do.
She’s standing in front of Dumbledore’s desk. Her eyes wander over the office, the pensieve in the corner, the photos that line his desk. From one of them, she smiles up, brandishing the Quidditch cup. She can’t quite bring herself to catch his eye. ‘It has to stop, Minerva. This is not the behaviour of a head girl.’
‘Yes, Professor.’ She ducks her head.
‘You would be wise, Minerva, to distance from yourself from Mr Riddle. I have told you before, have I not, that he is dangerous?’ He sighs, ‘We will say no more about this. You may go.’
There’s a last time, naturally. July's beginning to beckon, the sun streaming through the open window. He takes the opportunity to bruise her. Join me, he says, one last time. No, she says. Never.
‘You’re a footnote,’ he tells her, when she shrugs her dress back on.
She scoffs, ‘We’ll see.’
He never does say goodbye.
You cannot fight every battle.
But you can try.
end.