Fic: "Scathe" for xellas
Gift for: xellas
Author: vermultitude
Title: Scathe
Pairing: Tom/Minerva
Rating: PG
There is a child-king on the throne. He is fourteen, fresh in her memory, and she thinks that she should be a sixth year again, looking over her shoulder to see a sly smile and quick hands disappear around the corner of a hallway. She thinks it looks wrong for him to lounge, shoulders against stone she hopes is only colored red by the lighting with a snake twined around his right ankle. A dream, she commands it to bend, to cover the boy; the throne; the snake… the blood. Her dream slowly changes at her demands, melting red light into sunlight, and the boy into a student of hers. Seventeen; with an untamable mop of hair; a quick smile; and two friends.
Minerva McGonagall has a hard time looking at Harry Potter and not seeing a sliver of a shadow at his right ear. Parseltongue is not the only trait he shares with a boy who could have ruled the world. There is the way that Harry draws people to him; how he can straighten his shoulders to the world and give people a taste of something. A something they can't name, so they want more. In Harry she sees a determination that Tom didn't just have, but carried with him and used as a tool and a weapon.
They are both so angry; Harry, even now, boils and rages inside. And Tom… she bets a part of him shrieks.
Minerva had always been good at reading people. She could tell at a glance if someone had a backbone, if they had courage, if they were clever and who was likely to break the rules. As a teacher it was a skill she used to surprise students, to gauge them and see who to put her energy towards. Some, she knew (and it broke her heart) were hopeless. They would never be 'great'. Tom Riddle, she had known, from first glance, was going to do something wonderful. Or she had thought, back then, that he would do something wonderful. There was the way that he moved, confident, that she enjoyed. She liked how he had walked right up to her, stopping only a step away.
"Hello," He would say.
It always began with hello, a polite tilt of the lips and something she would later call 'sadism' would sit in his eyes; she mistook it then for 'mischief'. Then they would talk, Tom would tell her something he found amusing. Maybe it was a fact from class, or a barely disguised question about her. He would never talk about himself, but occasionally would imply things, hint at things he could do. Tom rarely boasted, because confidence and false pride were so easily distinguished back then. So was good and evil.
Their conversations always ended in a promise. He would coax it out of her with careful words and smiles. Maybe a step towards her, one that made her want to close the gap between them or step away quickly. He could look so innocent when he tilted his head back, as if to ponder something she had said. When they had been schoolchildren he could look eager; handsome features rearranging themselves into anticipation. He used to pretend to have patience.
He always kept his promises. Whether they were wicked or dangerous, he would keep to them. If he promised her the moon he could get it, if he just had enough time. For Tom, time was important, as if he was counting every second of his life. She had found it endearing - verging on amusing - because he had found the perfect balance between hurrying and taking his time. But it was also one of his biggest flaws.
She would watch him pace sometimes, eyes briefly dark with fury. He tried not to let anger rob him of time. Tom Riddle always needed more time, not because he was slow, but because he was going to be Great.
"I'm going to hold the world in my hand," He told her as he leaned over her, letting his words run into her ear and curl around her brain. He was intoxicating: all tongue and mind. Minerva could wait for him, she could sit, poised with her back to the wall and stare at him evenly. She would make him come to her. Tom Riddle was impatient.
"Just like how I hold you," He could make her gasp with a single touch. He knew all the places in her body which were meant to cave and melt to touch. Tom Riddle knew the art of making love and the science of pleasure. He could not make her bend, but he could make her fold onto herself, elbows to her sides, because Minerva had always been a disciplined girl.
"This," Tom Riddle used to say, forehead to her shoulder, fingers to her skin, "… is the beginning."
He had been too right.
She was old, now. Minerva didn't have time for dreams because that was what they were now. They could have been memories, had she cared to preserve them. But every day when she awoke, ran her fingers through her hair… she couldn't help but to trace the path his palm had taken. Minerva had lay in bed with the beast and had come out unscathed, and maybe for her faults, the world would burn.
There wasn't any time for that, now she was pressed for time. She knew her life was running out, and she wondered if this was how Tom had felt everyday. Muggles die faster than wizards, she had no idea if muggle born or those with only one wizarding parent died faster, but she bet he had thought about it. Sitting there in the darkness with only his snake and a thread of life, she bet he had thought about it.
Minerva bet that Harry thought about it, as he looked at his two friends. They were the spectrum, from full blooded to back a generation to muggle born. They were possibly her hope too, and maybe Harry was her penance. To see the 'Might Have' of Tom Riddle.
She bets he knows that too, because the next time she sees him and looks into his red eyes and feels his fingers he asks:
"So, how is Harry…?"
Author: vermultitude
Title: Scathe
Pairing: Tom/Minerva
Rating: PG
There is a child-king on the throne. He is fourteen, fresh in her memory, and she thinks that she should be a sixth year again, looking over her shoulder to see a sly smile and quick hands disappear around the corner of a hallway. She thinks it looks wrong for him to lounge, shoulders against stone she hopes is only colored red by the lighting with a snake twined around his right ankle. A dream, she commands it to bend, to cover the boy; the throne; the snake… the blood. Her dream slowly changes at her demands, melting red light into sunlight, and the boy into a student of hers. Seventeen; with an untamable mop of hair; a quick smile; and two friends.
Minerva McGonagall has a hard time looking at Harry Potter and not seeing a sliver of a shadow at his right ear. Parseltongue is not the only trait he shares with a boy who could have ruled the world. There is the way that Harry draws people to him; how he can straighten his shoulders to the world and give people a taste of something. A something they can't name, so they want more. In Harry she sees a determination that Tom didn't just have, but carried with him and used as a tool and a weapon.
They are both so angry; Harry, even now, boils and rages inside. And Tom… she bets a part of him shrieks.
Minerva had always been good at reading people. She could tell at a glance if someone had a backbone, if they had courage, if they were clever and who was likely to break the rules. As a teacher it was a skill she used to surprise students, to gauge them and see who to put her energy towards. Some, she knew (and it broke her heart) were hopeless. They would never be 'great'. Tom Riddle, she had known, from first glance, was going to do something wonderful. Or she had thought, back then, that he would do something wonderful. There was the way that he moved, confident, that she enjoyed. She liked how he had walked right up to her, stopping only a step away.
"Hello," He would say.
It always began with hello, a polite tilt of the lips and something she would later call 'sadism' would sit in his eyes; she mistook it then for 'mischief'. Then they would talk, Tom would tell her something he found amusing. Maybe it was a fact from class, or a barely disguised question about her. He would never talk about himself, but occasionally would imply things, hint at things he could do. Tom rarely boasted, because confidence and false pride were so easily distinguished back then. So was good and evil.
Their conversations always ended in a promise. He would coax it out of her with careful words and smiles. Maybe a step towards her, one that made her want to close the gap between them or step away quickly. He could look so innocent when he tilted his head back, as if to ponder something she had said. When they had been schoolchildren he could look eager; handsome features rearranging themselves into anticipation. He used to pretend to have patience.
He always kept his promises. Whether they were wicked or dangerous, he would keep to them. If he promised her the moon he could get it, if he just had enough time. For Tom, time was important, as if he was counting every second of his life. She had found it endearing - verging on amusing - because he had found the perfect balance between hurrying and taking his time. But it was also one of his biggest flaws.
She would watch him pace sometimes, eyes briefly dark with fury. He tried not to let anger rob him of time. Tom Riddle always needed more time, not because he was slow, but because he was going to be Great.
"I'm going to hold the world in my hand," He told her as he leaned over her, letting his words run into her ear and curl around her brain. He was intoxicating: all tongue and mind. Minerva could wait for him, she could sit, poised with her back to the wall and stare at him evenly. She would make him come to her. Tom Riddle was impatient.
"Just like how I hold you," He could make her gasp with a single touch. He knew all the places in her body which were meant to cave and melt to touch. Tom Riddle knew the art of making love and the science of pleasure. He could not make her bend, but he could make her fold onto herself, elbows to her sides, because Minerva had always been a disciplined girl.
"This," Tom Riddle used to say, forehead to her shoulder, fingers to her skin, "… is the beginning."
He had been too right.
She was old, now. Minerva didn't have time for dreams because that was what they were now. They could have been memories, had she cared to preserve them. But every day when she awoke, ran her fingers through her hair… she couldn't help but to trace the path his palm had taken. Minerva had lay in bed with the beast and had come out unscathed, and maybe for her faults, the world would burn.
There wasn't any time for that, now she was pressed for time. She knew her life was running out, and she wondered if this was how Tom had felt everyday. Muggles die faster than wizards, she had no idea if muggle born or those with only one wizarding parent died faster, but she bet he had thought about it. Sitting there in the darkness with only his snake and a thread of life, she bet he had thought about it.
Minerva bet that Harry thought about it, as he looked at his two friends. They were the spectrum, from full blooded to back a generation to muggle born. They were possibly her hope too, and maybe Harry was her penance. To see the 'Might Have' of Tom Riddle.
She bets he knows that too, because the next time she sees him and looks into his red eyes and feels his fingers he asks:
"So, how is Harry…?"