#valedictorian ego te provoco | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

emblematicae · 2 months ago

Text

VALEDICTORIAN, EGO TE PROVOCO: PART ONE, DUO

Tom Marvolo Riddle x Female Reader

Content Warnings: 1940’s Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, predominantly written in the third-person limited perspective of Tom Riddle, intentional minimal use of Reader’s perspective, canon-divergence, canon-typical violence; possessive, obsessive, and emotionally manipulative behavior, emotional abuse, first-degree murder, voluntary manslaughter, abuse of power and authority, complicity, coercion, petty thievery, reoccurring themes of death and acceptance, childhood friends, unhealthy relationship dynamics, one-sided rivalry, jealousy, limerence, chronic illness, hallucinations, ghosts, mental instability, morally grey reader, Tom Riddle is his own warning.

CONTENTS PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER

For the first time in the history of ever, Tom forcibly removes himself from the sanctuary that is his secluded room to head downstairs and join you in the quaint, tiny dinette for afternoon tea. At this hour, you typically busy yourself with hosting afternoon tea for the enjoyment of the other children. To acquaint them with the mock experience that imitated a daily event for many households in London, hopefully, one they would have the luxury of sharing with their future families. It was nowhere near as ritzy as the standard low tea was, lacking the fastidiously prepared pastries and a wide array of finger sandwiches, but you made do with what you had. Not that Tom was keeping tabs, there was hardly any entertainment around the orphanage as is, and he only knew just enough to avoid spending time around all the other children—and, to stay out of your way.

He quietly made his way down the staircase, stopping momentarily when he got a cursory look into Mrs. Cole’s office. Expectedly, she was inside, lousily writing away with pen and paper while her other hand was used to prop her head up. The housemother must have subconsciously felt the scrutinizing stare with natural intuition as she looked up, but only with her eyes. She’d be disappointed, or perhaps more accurately she was surprised to be met with the same empty view. True observers do not get caught in the act, and Tom was one of them. He’d only wanted to ensure she would be occupied for the following hours to come, and it was made clear she had dedicated her precious time to what appeared to be menial paperwork that wasn’t worth sticking around for and inquiring about.

Tom found it a taxing endeavor to catch you, neither of your schedules aligned in the slightest. Being orphaned did not mean being entirely exempt from education. Tom, along with the other permanent residents—and those older than five—were enrolled in primary school not far from the facility. By strict definition, you were as well, though you never attended in person and private tutors are what satisfied the requirements for classroom lectures. Despite your absence on the school grounds, you seemed to be getting on just fine seeing how Amy would always politely plead with you to help her with her mathematics homework afterschool, and how Dennis would constantly need you to re-explain for the nth time proper grammar until it finally clicked.

Tom could have easily aided them in your stead, he was more than capable because contrary to popular belief (if only due to his public image within the orphanage) Tom was as brilliant as you disingenuously claimed him to be out in the courtyard. He was simply overshadowed by you, much to his chagrin. To his credit, you are older, if only by a year, and you have the advantageous gift of time—in which you spend it all presumably studying. But if Tom were to guess, truthfully, he believed any advanced academic knowledge you possessed was thanks to whatever life you lived before coming to the orphanage. It would also remain a mystery what exactly such a life entailed seeing as you refused to disclose anything to anyone.

If he were lucky enough, Tom would win the dormant war today, but even he found that quite the tall order. He’d rather not acknowledge the inane conundrum if he could help it, such speculation would insinuate loss, and Tom does not lose. Furthermore, he was one for dramatics, to put it in plain English—and his soon-to-be prized war trophy: the diary. As per his personal preparation for any and all outcomes, he lowered his expectations, and not because he believed himself to be lacking the ability to interrogate, nor persuade with assistance or not from his ability in unraveling minds. Tom would be relying on an entirely inconsistent variable, that being you, though he has exhausted all other options and has been left with no choice. It is mildly concerning how erratic his already turbulent emotions have become, no, in reality, it is quite. Though Tom would prefer not to dwell on the matter to any degree. Sentiments do not suit him, and for the seldom few he retained to be flaring so capriciously at the mere prospect of your being was… unpleasant. It posed your existence as a threat, the concept of you even being a threat in the first place was insulting to him for your brittleness alone made you inferior. And yet his mind plays tricks on him, Tom deceives himself because of you and the unknown that willingly wields itself in your favor, and that just won’t do.

How inconvenient, that is what he makes of it.

Tom quietly made his way to the first floor, seamlessly passing through the foyer without drawing the attention of the other orphans who occupied the area, and he was led right to the opening where the dinette was. He caught a glimpse of you making arrangements inside, accompanied by two children whom he hadn’t the slightest in regards to their names. Before announcing his presence he decided to idle about by the doorless entrance, but unlike his typical demeanor of loitering to intimidate, it was out of genuine curiosity if anything. Forever yearning for knowledge, Tom Riddle was. It was tiresome to observe from afar, you were not as simple as you feigned to be, so naturally gathering any information on or from you could not be accomplished through behavioral stalking (unlike the rest of the orphans who Tom had no issues with observing and understanding from a mere glance). He’d like to think he was the only one who could see through your shoddy ploy, though your charisma reigned supreme and actually authentic, it appeared everyone around was none the wiser to the other traits you enjoyed hiding from them. And as Tom grew disinterested seeing you converse with the two children at your side, restless feet urging him inside, he made an abrupt halt after witnessing an unexpected scene unfold before him.

You’d maneuvered around the long table, now pristine and ready for set-up with the assistance of your clumsy helpers who still cast their dirty washcloths to the side, and moved all the way to the back wall. You stood in front of a wooden cabinet, parallel to the entryway despite being the furthest from it, and gradually pulled the glass doors wide open. You were cautious to not fling them in such a way that would surely hit the two younger children latched onto you, Tom found it a pity but unsurprising. The precious items inside the encased cabinet consisted of various porcelain and glassware, holding about four shelves worth of humble goods, most of which you could not entirely reach. For the fleeting moment you were not indulging them, the children quickly turned to arguing amongst themselves (likely over who would be in charge of what), which eventually turned into them pushing one another aside as they eagerly waited for you to face them. You’d ignored them up until this point, focused on elevating yourself onto the tips of your toes and maintaining a balance as you blindly reached around in the cupboard before getting your hands on whatever it was you had been looking for. Tom could tell as much when he watched you straighten your posture and become practically engulfed by the open cabinet.

“Name! Can I be the one to help you set up the table?”

“No way! You did that last time, it should be my turn!”

With terribly shaking arms, you carefully managed to retrieve a silver serving tray from the shelf about a head above yours, its contents certainly a tea set of some kind. But before you could give your full attention to the incessant orphans, let alone turn around, one of them recklessly grabbed you at your elbow to stop the other child from getting at it first. Tom heard you let out an audible gasp even from where he was. He watched with great anticipation upon seeing your shoulders rise up to your neck, with an unusual fraughtness in your movements as one of the saucers and cups had slipped from the platter with your now lopsided hold on it. It was your left hand that was tasked with stabilizing the tray, and you were somehow capable of steadying it despite how obviously it pained you to do so. Your wrist twisted in a strained manner that must have been particularly awful for you, though it’d bring immense amounts of discomfort to any regular, healthy child as well. With your back turned to the rest of the room, save for the cabinet, Tom was unable to see your face. Perhaps cruelly, he hoped the fine ceramics would come crashing to the floor and make a horrid clamor as they did so, he wanted to see you make a mistake and lose your composure.

The kids had been too distracted with one another to notice the descending dishware, they likely hadn’t even known it was falling to begin with. Unexpectedly, Tom saw you forcefully place your free hand atop one of the children’s heads, gently shoving them backward before the cup and saucer could collide with their crown. But it hadn’t seemed like enough, the porcelain still swiftly made the distance despite your valiant efforts. The reaction of the child whose head you were holding was delayed, but it was clear how much they trusted you as they did not bother to even question your odd behavior, or rather, they had not retaliated by fighting your grip. Instead, they were obedient and allowed you to do so and their only form of protest was calling out your name again. Only you had this effect on people, even if Tom’s opinion was imminently biased given his notoriety with the other orphans. He was not jealous, or so he’d like to believe. And let the object of his envy not be confused with the close bonds you were able to have with the others that he was simply helpless to even create, but rather how they listened without you having to lift so much as a finger. Tom was not fond of having to reinforce himself to the insolent brats around him, it was tedious, it was untimely, and frankly, an all-around hindrance as he saw it. But of course, only you could get this lucky.

And when Tom expected the scream of two pretty, porcelain dishes, a bruise or possibly even a split head of one of Wool’s Orphanage’s residents, and an unpredictable response from you that would only be revealed in due time; nothing came. It did not happen because the cup and saucer disappeared. His eyes frantically darted around the room, desperately searching for the two pieces but nothing was out of place. Tom’s face contorted into a scowl of sorts, his nose scrunched up and his lips pulled into a taut frown, it was clear how displeased he was. And he subconsciously accepted this was your doing, accrediting you without there being any inherent evidence at the scene without even a second thought, which only proved to bother him more. He preoccupied his thoughts with the present to distract from the terror that was his own mind.

“Be careful now,” you warned quietly, in a breathy manner as if to express your subdued exasperation. “It would be a tragedy if any of the teacups had fallen.”

“Yes, sorry!”

You smoothed the hair atop the child’s head, and due to the lack of support in holding the tray, your wrist began to tremble—which did not go unnoticed by Tom. Methodically, you slowly withdrew your arm and pulled your other hand back to grab the platter’s handle, letting enough time pass to not seem suspicious. If you had panicked, then the other orphans would have certainly followed suit, and it would do no good for anyone. But you took deliberate and measured steps to conceal any disturbance at all, Tom believed this was something you were unsettlingly skilled at. You turned around, and he finally got a good look at your face. Tom studied you with care, even with the frame of the wall partially obstructing his view, he was watching with such determination that it had done nothing to hinder him. He was sorely disappointed to see that familiar smile, not a crease to your forehead or flick of sweat to be spotted. If he were to nitpick, it only seemed that you were growing tired of holding the tray—which was mitigated with ease as you had immediately passed it down to the table once you turned around.

The children dispersed, one on either side of you, impatiently awaiting further instructions from you while you took out saucers with cups atop them, one for each of them. Before you handed them out, you spoke to them with a rather serious expression, and while they nodded at what you were saying, Tom doubted they digested any of it because they continued fidgeting around, taking every strength they had to hold back from reaching out and outright grabbing the dishware. One of them did but you jerked back, holding the porcelain just out of reach, only lowering them again when you forced them to repeat what you said. As they set up the table, frequently returning to you so you could hand them another saucer and cup, you laid out the empty cream pitcher and sugar bowl. The table was set up within a matter of minutes, eventually running out of cups to give them, and the only item that remained on the tray was the teapot.

“You two did a good job, thank you,” you said, reaching for the tray.

“Uhm, what’s next?” the child to your right looked up to you. Before you could say, the other one, who was focused on the table, interjected, “There’s one missing.”

They pointed at the head of the table, where there was indeed no saucer or cup to be seen. To be certain, they recounted with their index finger and affirmed their suspicion since there were supposed to be six, but only five were present.

“Where is it?”

“Right here.”

Tom got déjà vu from seeing you whip back around to face the cabinet, standing on your tippy toes again, and aimlessly reaching to the shelf that was just a bit too tall for you. It did not take you long to find what you had been looking for though, as you swiveled your heel and revealed the last saucer and cup. Tom’s eye twitched.

You took the teapot by the handle and left for the kitchenette, telling them to grab one of the other two other pieces and follow. The child who grabbed the sugar bowl did as told, but the other one—who had mentioned the missing cup—grabbed the pitcher and stayed. By now, Tom had already begun to step inside and hadn’t expected the child to dawdle around. He reckoned they must have felt something amiss, even if they couldn’t place a finger on it. He approached the table, and the child finally took notice of him, freezing in place. They made haste to accompany you after he shot them a dirty look, though were clever enough not to make a single peep that would alert his presence.

Tom walked around the edge of the dining table, placing a hand that absentmindedly traced along the wooden surface as he made circling steps. Tom finally stopped when he was in the exact spot you were standing in less than a minute ago. He turned to inspect the cabinet, its doors still open and flattened against the wall. Tom stood only a bit taller on his toes and reached inside on the high shelf, grabbing at nothing. He supposed he wasn’t looking to find anything in particular, but rather, he wanted to see if there was anything at all. He flattened his feet, retracting his hand and rubbing his pointer finger against his thumb upon seeing a thin veil of dust, which he grimaced at. Then, he spun around and zoned in on the teacup and saucer that should have fallen. They sat perfectly and pretty in their respective spot, with no chipping of any kind, and wholly complete. Tom placed a hand on the crest rail of the chair in front of him, moving it aside and leaning over the table. He extended an arm out toward the teacup, his fingers twitching and barely within reach of the handle. Tom knew it was real, that much was conclusive when you had set it down and it did not shatter, but he wanted to be sure of something—

You came back, the teapot in your hand that was surely filled with hot water and loose tea leaves, although there was no telling with how it looked from the outside. You paused for a brief second at the open entrance of the kitchenette before continuing your venture back into the dinette. It was clear you had been surpised to see Tom hovering around by the table, within a convenient window of time when you had left no less. So were the two children, at least the one he didn’t glare at. Tom lazily stood up, withdrawing his arms to the sides of his body as his eyes followed you around the room.

“Good afternoon, Tom. Have you come for tea?” You’re quite fond of saying his name, unfortunately, it doesn’t have the desired effect on him as it has on the other children.

“I think I have.”

You moved behind the chair at the head of the table, where he had just been leaning toward, instructing the children to set down the pitcher and bowl. You chose to hold onto the teapot. Tom locked eyes with you, and even as you turned your head to the side, your eyes lingered on his figure before you looked away from him. This newfound predicament caused the two kids to become reluctant to do or say anything because of the newfound unwelcome presence. They were also apprehensive about sharing your time with the troubled orphan who they had come to know as tyrant Tom, and they glanced back and forth between you and him—as if pleading for you to make some type of excuse as to why he could not be allowed to attend afternoon tea, to tell him off, to do something.

Instead, you grinned. “Why don’t the both of you head into the lounge? I’ll call for you when the tea is done steeping.”

They were satisfied with your delegation, compliantly abiding by your request as they trailed out of the dinette one after the other. You watched them, head tilted in the direction of the entryway until they were not only out of sight but their footsteps could no longer be heard even far down the hall. It was only you and him in the room now.

“Do you like Earl Grey, by chance?” you asked, lips now pressed into a thin line as you set the teapot down.

Tom pulled out the chair in front of him and sat down, still somewhat facing you. “Yes,” he said, completely deadpan.

“That’s a relief.” The smile came back.

You backed away from the head of the table, moving along the elongated table side, standing in front of Tom only a few paces away. And for a while, Tom did not speak, and neither did you. From where he sat he continued to stare at you, Tom liked to do that. He watched as you pulled your arms back and folded them up behind you as you always did when you were relaxed. The pose appears to be universally interpreted as one of formality and professionalism, even authority, but to Tom, it always made you look like you were hiding something. Perhaps that is why you do it in the first place, the shoe certainly fits, he thought. Tom’s gaze finds its way back to your face, and the mischievous gleam in your eyes would have made him spiral into his thoughts if he hadn’t already been consumed by them. Tom wasn’t thinking of anything, and yet at the same time he was, but only about the teacup and saucer—or so he had convinced himself.

You’d done it right in front of those two children, you couldn’t have been any closer or obvious, but neither of them ever noticed. And Tom wonders to himself, how could he have never noticed? It was not a mere one-off as he first suspected, Tom considered you conniving and sneaky for having hidden your abilities from prying eyes, and most of all, he saw it as cowardice. After the revelation with the dishware, Tom dismisses his incorrect hypothesis as a rare occurrence of negligence on his part, but deep down, he knew that was not the correct answer. The truth was clear, he had thought nothing special of you, or anyone else for that matter, there was little purpose in giving any attention of any kind to anyone that was so simple—not only simple, but happy to be it because those were the type who weren’t even worth mentioning. But you are worth every second glance he gives you, every double-take he dares to look, you proved to him you were. Your display involving the diary, whether intended to be done with self-fulfilling pride to make a show of your superior talent or true generosity in which you wanted to relay your knowledge with him, Tom was finally beginning to see it was the more altruistic of the two. Regardless of your intentions, it served as an invitation, one you didn’t seem to fully grasp the sheer weight of until now.

“Tom,” you called out to him, to which he blinked owlishly in response. “You aren’t as sly as you clearly think you are.”

“You think I only do things when no one is looking, but you’re mistaken.” You’re still smiling, but the slow drawl of your voice is flat in tone, apathetic.

“And what do I care?” he sneered, though Tom was not being mean, at least not this time. Not in the same mean way he treated the other children. “But you do.”

You cocked your head to the side and leaned forward, as if to get eye-level with him from where you were standing from across the table, almost mockingly, condescending him as a parent would a child. “You care because I know more than you—because I can do more than you.”

It sure did strike a nerve, but the crimes of your words were worse than just simply angering him, they happened to be the truth as well. Tom had not made time out of his day (which would have been much better off spent on his schoolwork and studies in the little library) to come to pay a visit to this terribly claustrophobic room where he had planned to put aside his dignity and solicit your help. But Tom was prepared to settle things if need be, and he would do it in the only way he knew how; he’d hurt you. The only difference is that Tom would not need any assistance [from his powers], you were known to bruise easily.

The sound of chair legs scraping the floor created a deafening silence over the already soundless room, the rate at which Tom moved was alarming, and before you knew it he was right in front of you. You may have been older than him, but Tom was freakishly tall for his age, and you were plagued with sickness. His movements hadn’t startled you out of your trance, like an effigy you remained still, but you must have felt some way (whatever that may have been) because your soulless-looking eyes that Tom loathed himself for falling victim to were now wide open. As if your beating heart could be seen reflecting in the pupils themselves. He did not run, but perhaps his sharp, steady paces were much worse. Tom closed the gap the moment he figured you were within arms reach, literally, and roughly seized you with his left hand by the collar of your old uniform’s button-up. The unrelenting grip he had on the now popped collar yanked you to the side, but you were quickly readjusted into place when Tom reached for your bicep on the opposite side of your body where he already had a grasp on you, and he committed to breaking your arms away from their hiding place behind your back. Tom heard you wince when he dug his nails into your skin, evidently felt through the cloth of your dress shirt, and he finally laid his eyes upon you. Tom’s leer was only pensive when he looked at your face, as if it were an afterthought. He contemplated if it would be worth it, and every repercussion and ramification, no matter how impactful or insignificant, absorbed him completely. But when you made the quietest of noises, Tom’s focus snapped toward your eyes. And then, he saw something else entirely.

The courtyard and Dennis Bishop. Children in the playroom. A toy train being carelessly tossed. It narrowly missed his head. Swerving in an odd manner, unnatural. Some luck.

Billy Stubbs overcome with panic. The latch won’t unlock. The rabbit stuck in a cage. He runs, crying for Mrs. Cole. But in his absence the barred door moves itself wide open.

Flower seeds and muffled laughter. An empty flower pot. Amy Benson watching over it expectantly. The new dawn, new day. The flower already bloomed from the soil.

Whatever it was that he had seen was nothing he could ever recall. Not from his past, he never experienced those situations, not even in his dreams (or lack thereof). It felt as if he were unwillingly trapped in another body, reliving—or rather, remembering memories that were not his, that did not belong to him. Tom let go of you. In one swift motion, his hands retracted from your figure, fingers still suspended in the place above the areas near your neck and arm. But he didn’t step away, he didn’t move at all. His eyes refused to leave you, he drank in every movement you made. You had certainly been unsettled when he abruptly grabbed you, as any sane person would be. Tom was quite jarring at times. But unlike Tom, you were looking at his hands. When you decided he was not going to do anything with them, you let out a quivering breath, one that sounded like you had been holding it until you became lightheaded. But his attempted assault against you was not what stirred the hopeful glimmer that shone in your eyes when you finally acknowledged him. You also hadn’t planned on divulging such information [as to why] anytime soon, at least nothing of use.

Your only answer: “The tea’s ready.”

Since that day, Tom has been unable to share a single thought with you. But he does not need to, you willingly speak to him about them now. The mental connection is undeniable, it transcends the absolute minimal understanding that humans seem capable of at best, it is more than that; he’d almost call it metaphysical. If you reciprocated he would be able to access that mind of yours, Tom had even offered an equal exchange for his own thoughts, the potential was there but you never did permit it to happen again. What you say to him now isn’t what you are truly thinking, or so he assumes, but he will make do with what he has. The one thing he can be assured of is that you are not lying about your tea preferences.

“Tom, what have you done?” you sigh. It has become a familiar habit to him now. “You’ve let this one seep for far too long,”

“It’s only tea. What does it matter?” Tom replies, rather apparent about the fact his attention is elsewhere.

“Perhaps you'd enjoy a nice, bitter cup to compliment your book then?”

“Maybe I would.”

Disapprovingly, you lightly shake your head at his purposely doltish responses because heaven knows good and well you will only manage to inflict a self-induced headache otherwise. Reaching with dejected hands for the saucer and teacup, you stir the dark liquid with a silver spoon, but it is clear you have no intention of drinking it. The repetitive gesture just barely unhidden by his book captures his attention, and Tom stops reading—not even ending the full sentence he was on—to look at you. He can’t help but stare at you stir in this harmonious clockwise manner, again and again, until you raise an eyebrow at him.

“How come you’ve stopped?” You were referring to him reading. He had been reading to you as well, aloud, not just himself. At least that was before you were temporarily called away by Mrs. Cole, having returned only seconds ago. For what? He hasn’t a clue.

“You’re distracting me.”

That smile of yours strains in this enervated way as you lean your head to the side, warily asking, “Are you tired?”

You set the silverware down on the saucer before tentatively placing them both on the table, stilling all motion. Tom sets the thick novel flat on the wooden surface as well but keeps it open. There isn’t anyone else in the lesser dining room, it’s nearing curfew, and he reckons Mrs. Cole is sure to come in any minute now (though Tom wondered why she hadn’t done so when you were in her office) and usher you two upstairs.

“Are you sure you’re not imposing your feelings upon me?” he easily deflected.

“Quite.”

Truthfully, Tom was a bit tired. He was unsure what had given it away, dark circles did not hang from beneath his eyes, nor was he slumped over in any way that would indicate his exhaustion. You were able to read him so easily, and he did not want to give you the satisfaction of knowing so out of sheer pettiness. But even so, Tom slipped the discarded bookmark atop the open pages of the book before shutting the hardcover. Sliding it off to the side, he propped his elbows up on the table, intertwining his fingers as he looked to you for further amusement. You hadn’t sat down since you went out of the dinette, though you moved your chair aside to do so, and refrained from drinking when your eyes landed on the tea that you deemed unusual in color. He watched, curious like a cat, while you gathered the ceramic tea set, snatching up the empty cup and saucer that was meant for Tom as well. You briefly made eye contact with him before heading into the side room, and from his seat in the dinette, he heard the low ‘clink’ of dishes being placed in the sink. The lightbulb went out and you came back shortly after, wiping the nonexistent dust from your skirt. He got up but didn’t miss the remark about how you would teach him how to brew a proper cup in due time.

“Goodnight, Tom.” You had walked him to room 27.

You also did not leave until he went inside.

“Goodnight.”

If Tom cared more about the chivalrous way of life upheld by the gentry, he would have insisted on walking you and waiting until you went to bed before retiring to his own chambers. But Tom was not a member of the aristocracy and saw life a bit too black and white than that of a normal child. So he shut his door, careful not to close it all the way, and peeked through the sliver of the opening to ensure you had made it your room as well—and without collapsing in the hall along the way. Perhaps one would believe he was exaggerating, but it didn’t feel like it, not to Tom. He takes your condition rather seriously, ever since you two have been chatting more that is.

Tom dressed himself in his nightclothes and went to lay in his bed, but remained upright. His mind was busy, no room to even entertain the thought of rest. You happened to know much more than Tom did, and he was under the impression this only extended to whatever unique talents you happened to share, but as he had more conversations with you over afternoon tea, sometimes even ‘late night’ tea, he began to realize your intelligence covered all fields of interest. And Tom could not tell if he hated or respected you for it, but he was inclined to believe it was the latter. Tom was wise beyond his years even if he preferred to remain under the guise of an innocent child who knew no better at times, when it mattered. But you were smarter, your independent nature (worthy of rivaling his own) established this to be the reality. Such was the reason why all the orphans relied so heavily on your guidance, depending on you for everything, especially in the absence of Mrs. Cole. And perhaps that is why she wordlessly appointed you as the leading girl of the orphanage.

But it was like you had already lived a whole life, you were still quite obviously a child much like himself, but even gifted children cannot compare. Otherwise, he would have caught up to you. Tom could only concur you were this way from what you had experienced prior to coming here, your words ringing in his mind: “For a while now. Before the orphanage.” He’d already thought so, but his new… ‘bond’ with you only affirmed it.

Tom does not know much about you. No one does, not even Mrs. Cole; one evening, Wool’s Orphanage had eleven children fall asleep under its roof, and in the morning, twelve had awoken. You did not know much about his origins in the orphanage either, sometimes it doesn’t seem like you even want to know. If you do, you hide it well. But it’d be for the best if you didn’t.

Tom did not forget about the diary. It took undeniable precedence completely driven by his own self-interest and thirst to know more. But for now, he could handle taking on a different approach to learning, even if that meant it was through you.

𐙚 @himikoquack

#𐙚 emblems écrit #valedictorian ego te provoco #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fanfiction #slytherin boys #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x reader #t.m.r. 𝜗𝜚

49 notes · View notes

emblematicae · 2 months ago

Text

VALEDICTORIAN, EGO TE PROVOCO: PART ONE, ŪNUS

Tom Marvolo Riddle x Female Reader

CONTENTS PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER

Tom had gotten to know you more within the past week than he did for all the prior years you have been a resident at the Wool’s Orphanage, which was saying quite a lot considering all he did was idly linger around in your presence. He put a prompt halt to his hermit activities, no longer did he hole himself up in room 27 or the book room. Instead, he came out when the other children were around—if only to come and observe you. And so you consciously held onto the fact that the boy was being abnormally social as of late (per applicable standards to what the term ‘social’ would be defined as for Tom Riddle) and locked it away in a fractured pendant of your mind for safekeeping. You were unmistakably aware of his newfound company from the shaded sidelines, even if you did not outwardly acknowledge it through verbal communication. You could have left it alone and ignored it entirely, but you would much rather have demonstrated your order over him, which is exactly what you did.

You kept your sharp eyes on him at all times, standing a little too close for comfort when you finally found him lost in the crowd of children, moving from the unspoken assigned seating arrangement during mealtime in favor of sitting right beside him. They were empty threats, you did not wish to intimidate Tom (not that you believed he could be) but it had to be known that you were talented. Not only were you talented in ways that the other children could not comprehend, much like himself, you knew how to use your talents, and you daresay better than he ever could; for you never had the others suspecting the worst of you.

The other children paid no mind to this out of sheer, ignorant bliss. Especially now that Tom’s attention was no longer on them, but rather, on you. In a way, he was beside himself. There was plenty to reflect upon after what he saw that day, but before making any hasty and unnecessary conjectures, Tom would have to accept that at the foundation of his copious, theoretical presumptions which now plagued his every thought: you were different. Different in the way that he was, and how could it possibly be that there were two completely ’different’ children in England (or perhaps all of Europe for whatever he knew or cared to know) that both resided under the Wool’s Orphanage’s roof, by chance.

And yet through it all—his unanswered questions, his endless pondering, his speculations that were sure to drive him mad—the situation regarding the diary was never addressed. It didn’t need to be, not when Tom planned to force a reaction out of you today.

Tom would have already been outdoors in the desolate courtyard amongst the other orphans, where he should have been, if he hadn’t had a run-in with little Amy Benson. Yet he can’t help but think this turned out in his favor as he watched Amy shriek, escaping through the backdoor leading outside and desperately running toward you. Your back was turned to the orphanage as you surveyed the other children who were playing, but you briskly swiveled around upon hearing her shrill cries. You didn’t even have the opportunity to turn around fully before Amy collided with you, nearly knocking you off your feet in the process. She grabbed a fistful of your long skirt and sobbed into the fabric of your blouse, soaking it with her salty tears as she hid her face, pointing an accusing finger in the direction of the door. Outside it was nice, the weather was a tad warmer than usual, and the sun tried its hardest to shine through the thick clouds. But inside, past the doorway that was blocked by Tom, it was dark, vacant, and bitterly cold, frightening even.

He scrutinized you with a sneer as you comforted Amy. But the feeling of eyes did not go unnoticed, and instead of glaring at him as he learned to expect from the other kids and caretakers, your lips curved into a faint smile. If Tom was surprised by this, he did not show it, standing perfectly still. The reaction wasn’t out of malice, nor was it because you took kindly to his tormenting behavior toward Amy. Tom could not concur whether it was your way of greeting him or understanding the new predicament you’ve placed yourself in, a consequence of your boldness.

You threaded your fingers through Amy’s hair and tried to soothe her by running your hands through her tangled locks. You continued to gently pet her, letting her weep for a few more minutes in your arms, all the while returning the staring contest that Tom was adamant about maintaining with you. In all honesty, Tom could get lost in your eyes. They looked detached as if you were somewhere far away but still here. Trying to decipher what was behind them, what thoughts of yours had confounded him. Tom was quite wise to the fact that he possessed a limited capacity for being able to unfold the minds of other living beings. It was a suppressed talent he practiced on small animals on plenty of occasions with repeated succession, and enough on the other children to establish he was capable of something they knew of but could not entirely understand (though further improvement was not yielded, for he could not control them in the way he could with little creatures). He had never attempted it on you, not that he had reason to do so before the diary incident, but now…

You were the first to look away, tearing your eyes from Tom to look at Amy. You withdrew your arms from her trembling frame only to place your hands on either side of her face, cupping it and absentmindedly tilting her head to the side as if to inspect her for any visible injuries. Your mouth moved, and though Tom could not read your lips, it was likely you inquired about the aforementioned concern because after you let go of her, Amy hesitantly shook her head. She did not get hurt, and he would know, he only gave her a small fright. You knelt to her level, now craning your neck to look up to Amy while you fixed her uniform. When you felt you had done a good enough job at making her look more presentable, you beamed at her with a charming smile. You spoke once more, and whatever you said must have uplifted her spirits as she hugged you tightly before skipping away to join the other children. You stood up and dusted off your clothing, eyes following her as she went to prattle on to one of the other girls, ensuring she had made it far enough away before you turned your full attention toward Tom. You had intended to wave him over, but he was already approaching before you could even gesture to him.

You’d heard of his quarrels with the other children, it was impossible to overlook after having lived at the orphanage for so long. Never did you see them for yourself, oftentimes, Tom was smart enough—conniving enough—to carry out his misdeeds in secrecy. The head woman, and even the part-timer Martha, could never catch him in the act either. Even though with common sense they could infer that Tom was responsible for wreaking havoc and causing disturbances, they could never claim eye-witness reports. And if Tom was sly enough to evade Mrs. Cole’s vigilance, then there was no hope you would ever see it either.

“It’s a nice surprise to see you enjoying this wonderful weather today, Tom.”

You always had the best manners out of any of the other children at the orphanage, possibly even better than some of the adults. Tom remembers you would always offer your salutations to him whenever they were due, but he never reciprocated them. Not even bothering to reply with a nod or glance your way, but you never seemed too hurt or affected by this.

Purposefully, Tom brushed your shoulder as he passed you, with no sign of acknowledging you aside from the brief contact despite how you anticipated a peeved reply. And although he gave the impression that he was currently paying no attention to you, it was quite the opposite. Tom watched through the corner of his eye as you stood in place for a moment before deciding to follow him, just as he hoped you would. Truthfully he did not have a contingency plan if you hadn’t acted accordingly, at least not one he could execute within a day, and frankly, Tom was growing tired of playing charades with you. He chalked it up to luck this time, awfully humble of him as he relished in the thought of Mrs. Cole scolding you for abandoning your chaperone duties, something that would indubitably come to fruition later in the day.

Eventually, his and your footsteps fell into an equal rhythm, your paces aligning with one another even if you were still a few lagging behind—something Tom could not fault you for considering you were faring quite well today. Whatever comments you had, you kept them to yourself. Now Tom had turned into the watched prey, and you, becoming the alert hunter. He led you as far as he possibly could, a great distance from the main area in which the other kids preferred to spend their time. But he remained within the cusp of the perimeter enforced by Mrs. Cole so he would not be reprimanded. This particular sector within the courtyard was deserted, with no traces of any children having once stepped foot there since no forgotten toys or muddy tracks were trudging along the grimy concrete. The dark, metal gates still enclosed the small section that was tucked away from the rest of the orphanage; it resembled the dim side streets in the city. The kind that always has dirty puddles flooding the ground and newspapers detailing the chilling things that happened in them.

“No further, please. You know we aren’t allowed past this area.” You trailed him all this way. Tom finally stopped to properly acknowledge your presence, examining you who stood with an exhausted grin on your face, and your hands folded up behind your back.

Tom knows good and well that being out of the sights of the matron during recess would only cause trouble, and he wants to know how far you are willing to go. “Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on the other children? Like you always do?” Tom hoped his taunting would invigorate your curiosity, which he already knows you are [curious] for having followed him all this way. Despite the insincerity of his mocking, he still bites back more snark than he lets on.

“Perhaps I should,” you said, letting your eyes wander with fake contemplation before adding, “But I can’t just ignore the only one who’s strayed from the rest of the group, now can I?” you respond with a hum, in that sing-song tone you’re quite fond of using.

Tom carefully chooses his next words, but is ultimately disappointed when he finds that nothing in his meticulously composed brain comes into existence. His breath hitches and he’s blessed with a brief moment of lucidity where he hasn’t overthought, nor turned childishly daft with the assistance of a false-reality, imagination. Tom doesn’t know why you’ve been following him, but then again, he doesn’t know why he’s been following you either. He knows you’ve escorted him all the way here to this barren little spot, it’s the obvious as you mentioned beforehand. But he doesn’t really know. It was more befitting for it to be the other way around. Why is it that you have been following him? He knows not.

Tom reckoned the only purpose could be that after your shared moment—if one could even call it that—you have both been drawn to one another for answers. But what is so perplexing to him is how unconcerned you come across about the whole ordeal. You are not worried in the slightest whether or not he will keep what he saw to himself, a few convincing pleas to Mrs. Cole would have her view of the two of you completely swapped. He could if he wanted. Tom could fabricate as many melodramatic and vulgar lies as he wanted to defame your untouchable image. He could have you become an outcast just like himself because misery loves company. But he doesn’t because Tom doesn’t have the capacity to love anyone or anything, and you don’t seem to have a care in the world about what he does with this information. If anything, Tom suspects that you revel in the fact he knows and has no one to speak to about it.

Understanding your intentions and impossible motives gives him a headache of his own, so he stops thinking altogether. Instead, Tom took a seat—albeit, apprehensively as the ground was filthy and finding a dry, unsoiled place to sit was proving surprisingly difficult—and he waited. You stood beside him, a little ways off to his left but within arms reach. You peered down at him from above, not willing to surrender to your clear fatigue quite yet as you leaned back onto the gated walls for support. Even from below Tom could easily pick up that your breathing had gotten a bit louder, though you weren’t exactly heaving, it was something that was not ignored by him. Spent from a measly walk, are you? He thought to himself arrogantly.

A visitor had welcomed itself, drawing near to you two with its scaly, mute-toned body that was covered in flashy black dots which Tom caught in his peripheral. This was not an unusual experience for him. For whatever reason they always managed to find him, and he admitted (only to himself) that he had pleasant, tolerable, conversations with them. It bravely slithered right up to him without a second thought, emerging from the pitch-black crevice in which it came from. Tom couldn’t help himself, daring to take a quick look at you before making any moves of his own. What would you make of this?

From what he figured after seeing your expression, you didn’t seem to like the small snake. He saw your eyes narrow for only a split second with a grimace that didn’t fully form on your lips to preserve your signature smile. Your brows furrowed when Tom nudged his forefinger in its direction. It climbed and wasted no time wrapping around his wrist, then his hand, until its head was level with his finger; sticking its tongue out every now and again, whispering to him. Not that you could understand what it was saying. And just as Tom noticed that you were about to turn your head with disinterest, he spoke to it as well. Instantaneously you whipped your head back around, focusing on where you were previously looking, down at Tom. He pretended as if you weren’t there, innocently carrying on his speech with the reptile. The whole exchange was going smoothly, your involvement included, and he was pleased to see your face that read of nothing but astonishment.

When you made the most minute movement to crouch down next to him, the snake quickly uncoiled its nimble body from his hand and slithered off elsewhere. But for once, Tom was not disappointed by this. Unlike when the other orphans scared off the snakes he’d previously encountered with their annoying screeches and brutish attempts to chase them away. You were lucky this one was merely a young grass snake, you may not have been as receptive to the ones he typically communicated with. And then the image of you being frightened possesses his mind. Tom has never seen you scared, and it is a very intriguing thought he’ll have to contemplate now.

You gather yourself and seem to be treading your words with much care. “Brilliant. You’re rather special, aren’t you?”

If it were another child, or anyone else for that matter, these words would sound extremely condescending despite it being the grand truth. But you’re good at speaking with people, at working them into your favor, and getting them to like you. The compliment seals the deal for him. It affects him, and Tom realizes he values your opinion, even if he finds the merit so minor that he could almost ignore it entirely.

“You think so?” Tom stupidly plays along, and he tries—tries his damndest to figure out what it is you keep so safely guarded in your mind. Anything will do, he is longing to know.

But before he even has the chance, and before you can even elaborate, your eyes drift past him.

It is subtle, a microscopic movement that would go completely unseen by anyone else if they weren’t watching you as intensely as Tom was. And he is forced to stop trying because whatever you’re doing now is becoming increasingly distracting. You may have been directly facing him, at eye level after being squatted down by his side, chatting away like you were earnestly engaged in the one-sided discussion about something entirely different than what he’d initially asked. But it is your eyes that betray you, so colorful yet absent. As if you were already entirely absorbed by something else. If Tom were to move even a fraction to his right, you would be making proper eye contact with him. He fights the urge to turn around, knowing you have not picked up on the fact he’s dissected you, and doing so would certainly break the illusion that he remains none the wiser. It’s just the two of you. There is only a brick wall behind him. What could you possibly be looking at? What could have possibly captured your undivided attention more than him? After he made a display of showing his talents no less.

Tom spends the better half of his night wondering this, and also wondering why it bothers him so. Only time would tell, he supposed. A late-night distraction would do him no good, not after he’s re-read the same passage a plethora of times without even digesting any of it. His thoughts are engrossed by your actions that continue to elude him. Tom sets the book down, he has to figure out what he ought to do with you now. Another much-needed talk is due, and talk is precisely what Tom plans to do.

Bright and early the following morning, Tom took it upon himself to wake you as early as humanly possible. This was not a hard feat for him, considering he was a late sleeper and early riser, a bad habit he had no intention of breaking anytime soon (or ever, in honesty). He’d overheard whispers that evening before he could finally fall asleep, long after he put his book down. It was something along the lines of you giving Mrs. Cole quite the scare after returning with him in tow, and it wasn’t at all because of his off-putting personality for once. Yesterday, his time with you in the corner of the courtyard had been cut short as the drizzling rain crept in, which hadn’t deterred either of you at the start, but that would soon change as it had quickly turned into a heavy downpour.

Honestly, Tom did not have faith you would make it back in one whole piece. For being as self-restrained and graceful as you were known to be, you had nearly fallen about several times on the trek back. It was common knowledge that physical exertion and anything labor-intensive was not your strong suit, but he hadn’t known it to be this bad. When you had both made it to the backdoor, Mrs. Cole was already waiting with her arms crossed over her chest and an impatient foot tapping against the damp doormat. Her stern expression had dropped and guilt immediately took her when she saw two orphans hurriedly racing one another to get inside, soaking wet and looking like poor, little puppy-dogs. Tom tries not to think of how pathetic the both of you must have looked. The housemother had fretted you’d come down with a fever, but it appears her worries were for naught because the door to your room remained open.

Now, it was Tom’s shadow that cast over the opening to your tiny abode. He peered inside before standing at the entrance and he could already make out your figure. You were still lying down in your bed, though you must have been awake as you’d already been dressed in uniform, and your face read of nothing but a peaceful rest. It was a bit of a surprise, seeing that the rest of the orphanage was yet to wake. In your hands was your diary, opened at the base by your thumbs, and nothing else as your eyes skimmed the pages (and though he’d loathe to say it, he was very curious to know what was inside). Tom is reminded of the encounter a week prior where he stood in the same exact spot witnessing an almost identical scene, but this time was different. Hearing the debilitated floorboards creak beneath every step he took, you lifted your head.

Surely you weren’t expecting any visitors, much less said visitor being Tom. Courteously, you beckon him over by extending one of your hands and patting the edge of your bed, encouraging him to sit down. Tom enters the claustrophobic room and makes his way over, but not without closing your door first. He does not slam it, nor does he lock it, but the quick and deliberate movement brings a frown to your face. As Tom nears, he deduces that frowns are rather unbecoming of you.

He stops at your bedside, looking down at you. You reply with a hello, “Good morning, Tom. What can I do for you?”

“You remember what you saw yesterday?” His response came rapidly, it almost seemed as he were rudely interrupting you, not that he particularly cared about that kind of thing now that the two of you are alone. And it isn’t a question either, it is a matter of fact. “Yes, of course.”

“Special, correct? That’s what you called it?” Tom didn’t mince his words in the slightest, and thankfully you didn’t need any further explanation to understand his implications.

His eyes take careful notes of your reactions before finally asking, “Then tell me. Tell me about it, because it is clear you are ‘special’ too.”

For a short, innocuous period of time, neither of you move. You hold his gaze, something that comes easy to you, like second nature despite the daunting connotations that come with attempting to provoke Riddle—who seemed to be entirely unbothered. Tom has the patience of a saint when it is required of him, and although he is not fond of impractically waiting around for time to pass, he is willing to wait if the desired outcome will inevitably transpire. Tom is stationary at the side of your bed with no resolve to move, and with that you sigh, shutting your eyes as if to clear your mind; you give into his demands. Calmly shutting your diary, you run your hands over the leather notebook cover before folding them atop the thin journal, and Tom finally takes a seat.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” you articulate carelessly as if you find it uninteresting, boring. “To be able to do things the other children can’t.”

Tom scowls, only to realize he’s unintentionally doing so too little too late as your eyes fall on him. He’s vexed at how vague you are, and how it is that he’s kept in the dark meanwhile you exude the air of someone who knows everything. He hastily fixes his face.

“And what do they make of it?”

You pause, thoughtfully mulling over your response and offering a new one in its place, “I don’t believe they make anything of it. Just that you are different.”

Tom doesn’t miss how you haven’t included yourself in that sentence, that he’s the different one. The truth of the matter is that you are the same as him, sharing more commonality with Tom—the special—than the other orphans, the ordinary.

“How long?” he inquired, “for a while now. Before the orphanage.”

His eyes widened at your response, “Then how?” Tom internally curses himself for being so invested in what you have to say, hanging onto every word with undeniable fascination, though it is arguably the most important thing he’ll hear for his entire stay at Wool’s Orphanage. There is much for young Riddle to think about now.

“It comes naturally, no? As easy as breathing.”

He was correct about it being an innate skill of sorts. Something that others could see but not do. Only he can attest, what you say is the truth and he knows it well, he could do it all with his eyes closed without having to lift a finger. But it had taken more time than he’d like to admit to hone in such otherworldly artistry, even if Tom was capable, governing this ability was its own endeavor. But you make it sound effortless—and it is for him, but somehow it’s simultaneously not the same. You two are not equals. He begins to wonder whether it is you or him who possesses the finer, sophisticated qualities of such power. The thought of it being you does not sit right with him, but it is aggravatingly the most sensical.

“Then is that all? Surely not…” Tom mumbles. He, more to himself than you, though it’s unlike him to voice such things aloud like this.

Tom loses himself to his thoughts, burning a hole into the floor. But it is insanity, the same queries over and over again, and no answer to help solve. Two irregularly erratic heartbeats later he snaps his head up, looking at you first. You’ve picked up your diary again, now far more intrigued with the leatherback that you held so possessively in your hands. But you’ve no fountain pen to inscribe with. It doesn’t seem to bother you though—Tom is starting to think that nothing does—you’re perfectly happy to just admire whatever has been written in its pages. It irked him to no end that you weren’t as inquisitive as he was, that you seemed indifferent with the otherwise riveting conversation. You were disengaged from the interaction but not inherently disrespectful seeing he was the one who stopped speaking. Tom could not find any reason to berate you for it, and that only bothered him more.

“Do you mind?” he snapped, eyes glaring at your diary when you refocused on him. “Are you going to sit there all lofty or are you going say something?”

You let out a breathy laugh, asking him, “Have you come here to waste my time, Tom?” Your voice was not malicious in the slightest, if anything, you seemed thoroughly amused. Your lips tugged at the sides, forming a faint but benevolent smile, a genuine one.

“No,” Tom quickly retorts through gritted teeth. To all hell with it—let his ego be damaged beyond repair; he begs the question, “what do you know? What do you know that I don’t?”

“I think the answer speaks for itself.”

Your eyes drop down to the diary in your lap, and Tom follows your gaze. Then suddenly, he feels like he has finally reached a rational conclusion. Whatever it is you’re keeping from him, whatever it is he does not know, and whatever it is he is looking for must be in there. You’d been telling him all along.

38 notes · View notes

emblematicae · 3 months ago

Text

VALEDICTORIAN, EGO TE PROVOCO: PROLOGUE

Tom Marvolo Riddle x Female Reader

CONTENTS NEXT CHAPTER

Acceptance was an absurd notion that held little to no weight in the mind of Tom Riddle. Its insignificance was only exemplified by his cross disposition with the other children at the orphanage, whom he direly wished to be acknowledged as completely and wholly different from (even if this was an unspoken desire) and something he knew well of ever since he could even form his first thought. Furthermore, his clear stance on the subject did not need to be spoken about with words as he took long, languid paces throughout the never-ending corridors of the otherwise empty and grim facility. No doubt having been told off by Mrs. Cole after another unsightly, though easily plausible, incident involving another child.

The tell-tale signs lay on his wrist, which burned with an ugly, inflamed red where the matron had held onto it with vice-like talons, all as a means of having to forcefully separate him from another boy of an unforgettable name that Tom frankly did not care about. Hardly did it matter considering the other orphan was worse for wear than Tom was, though it did not particularly help his case or plead any sort of innocence for him. Not that he would ever be perceived as innocent to begin with.

The unpleasant truth still stood, and the housemother was painfully aware that disciplining Tom was a futile effort. He would be forgiven—not that he ever apologized in the first place—his relationship with the other orphans would continue to strain, and he would let a few calming days pass to alleviate the tension, only to predictably repeat the vicious cycle after he believed too many of his buttons were being pushed (or as he deemed fit). But Mrs. Cole had no other choice, and she was far overdue with exhausting the civil alternatives. There were no recourses, except for one that even she did not have the heart for: exile, or more fittingly, banishment for young Riddle. To avoid such a dilemma, she had reluctantly started accepting this would simply be how it was from now on.

The ordeal led him from the bustling outdoors where the rest of the children were enjoying themselves, through the empty foyer, and up to the second story where he was now loitering about in the dreary hallways of Wool’s Orphanage’s unwelcoming walls. If he behaved, Tom could have busied himself underneath the shallow rays of the sun, tossing a worn-out toy ball back and forth with the other boys. If he had played nicely, Tom could have made good company with the other girls, chatting about anything nonsensical to keep busy while sitting on the swing set with them. But he didn’t because Tom did not care. He was not privy to wasting his free time to partake in such menial and frivolous activities, let alone share his precious time with anyone else. A true recluse who much preferred to devote himself to reading in the dingy, sad excuse of a library the institute had to offer. Tom had surely burned through all the books there, though there were necessary re-reads as even he could not fully understand certain words quite yet, no matter how determined he was.

As he silently mused to himself, Tom found it was only a few more paces before he was to reach his destination. His room was at the end of the upper floor’s hall, forlorn and forgotten about. It was easy for him to slip away into the darkest shadows of room 27 unnoticed, like some disgusting pest that was uncared for and unloved, which wasn’t necessarily far from the truth. But to get there he would have to pass another room. This one he was rather familiar with, though he himself had never entered nor dared to step an intruding foot inside of. But Tom did not need to waste his breath trespassing into a chamber that was not his as he had already known the little area quite intimately.

It was the same as every other bedroom inside the orphanage, dull and lifeless with a sheer absence of any unique or noteworthy furnishings, save for the essential metal-framed cot, wooden desk with its matching chair, and slim cupboard that could narrowly house a pair of shoes. Simple deductive reasoning could tell him this much, as this was a commonality amongst the other children—even Tom’s drab, little room resembled this one almost identically. But unlike the other rooms on the second floor that had the doors to their sacred privacy closed (undeniably because of their distrust for him specifically) this one was always left open, and welcome to visitors of any kind due to the loneliness that seeped from inside.

It belonged to you, another orphan amongst the older children, as it happens you were the eldest one. Only a measly one year Tom’s senior if he recalled correctly, though it felt like two given his late birthdate. And as a result of being more mature than the rest of the lot, all the children have grown to adore you. They depend on you to a certain extent, and in turn, you are eager to help guide them. You play and entertain them, reading aloud snippets of picture books to keep them occupied. You dress the young ones who are too uncoordinated to do so themselves and clean after the messes they leave in their destructive wake. You ensure the happiness of the other orphans, and for that they love you.

It is difficult not to pay any heed to this, even if your new appearance meant nothing would change for Tom. The boys continued to avoid him at all costs, and the girls fled in fear when he came around. Well, perhaps there was one change because instead of tucking their tails between their legs and running away after being caught red-handed engaging in fights with him, if only to defend themselves from his instigations, the boys would stutter out disingenuous apologies and play dumb. They scurried to you to prove their innocence, as if the thought of disappointing you was too much for them to bear; as if your opinion was the absolute truth and law, and failure to impress would lead to severe punishment. And the girls were no better, they flocked to you like you were their saving grace in pure-white robes when they would mysteriously come back with little cuts and bruises after spending too much time in his vicinity. You always patched them up, each as good as new. Tom could see that untouchable halo of yours and it sickened him.

That is why he didn’t find it a shame that you frequented the dismal flat due to your inexplicably ill nature and poor health. Although your condition was not akin to chicken pox or a common cold, it was persistent, something chronic—a concept many of the other kids could not grasp whenever Mrs. Could had to solemnly explain your absence from the usual playtime, or throughout the entire day altogether. When you were not appointed to supervise the younger children, you were held as a captive here like it was a prison of solitary confinement. Bedridden, and in low spirits. On the occasion you felt exceptionally unwell, you would spend the night in the underdeveloped infirmary on the first floor. And by the early morning you would have miraculously been brought back up to the second story, tucked back into your bed as if nothing had changed. Not that Tom was keeping track of all of this. He only knew as much because even the slightest disturbance caused him to wake, and hearing either Mrs. Cole or another faculty member carry your peacefully unconscious body to your bedroom was enough to interrupt his rest.

As Tom neared, he purposefully sidestepped to evade the warm light that was seeping in from your window and leaking onto the floor of the hallway. It was a useless maneuver to put such thought behind, but Tom did not fancy being caught today. Not that you ever did notice him when he did pass by as he was far too masterful in the fine art of walking around silently. It was an eerie behavior of his that was surprisingly unintentional, though fitting and something he saw as useful. Tom had a reputation for startling and sneaking up on the other unsuspecting children by merely moving around from one place to another. Even the staff were unguarded when it came to his sauntering about.

And as Tom was close to passing your room entirely, a flickering silhouette pervaded the illuminated floor beneath his feet. Tom halted momentarily, carefully observing the shadow cast by who he assumed was none other than yourself. His gaze slowly trailed upward, but by now from where he stood he was too far away to see anything meaningful inside, just the wooden doorframe. And so, Tom decided to step back and take a peek inside. It was purely by chance, an itching curiosity that needed to be quenched (or so he reasoned), and he witnessed something the normal children would call spectacular.

You were sitting upright on your bed, leaning against a threadbare pillow to support your back, and tucked beneath the covers of the thin, fabric blankets with only your upper body and forearms resting above it. Your hands were clasped together and fingers nicely intertwined, appearing modest and polite even when no eyes were there to watch you. A calm expression graced your features, nothing out of the ordinary as Tom could not recount a time where you had a single misplaced element to your guise. But you were concentrated, eyebrows only slightly furrowed though not with frustration but something else, determination perhaps. After exactly sixty seconds passed, you weakly lifted your dominant hand into the air and reached out with anticipation for something. Listlessly you kept your arm suspended, even though it was obvious you felt strained to do so.

Tom blinked once, then twice, and before he could turn away and feel the regret grow for frittering away at his time by doltishly observing you, your fingertips were met with a thin, flimsy diary. It floated toward you, or rather, you commanded it to float toward you until just within your grasp. The edge of the leatherback notebook grazed your fingers, and you lifted your other hand to delicately hold it from the underside as it was being hovered in midair. Once both of your hands had found purchase on it, the diary abruptly fell with the pull of gravity that it had been defying only seconds ago, and you lowered it into your lap.

Tom’s dark, cynical eyes widened if only a fraction at the scene that unfolded before him. And then, you turned your head to the only entry your tiny bedroom offered, making direct eye contact with him. There was no definitive way you could have possibly known he was there, and Tom was no believer in sixth senses belonging to those who were ordinary... lest you felt his presence through unimaginable and unfathomable means.

Arguably the worst of it all—you smiled. It never did meet your tired eyes. But it was an equally knowing smile as much as it was something else entirely, something Tom could not read. As if you were aware from the start that he would have been there, coincidentally at the right place and right time. As if you wanted him to witness what you had done. A performance any of the other children would be absolutely bewildered to see firsthand, one that would invoke a deep feeling of both terror and astonishment, one he had become accustomed to being on the receiving end by now. But your grin did not seem to be one of overinflated self-satisfaction, a pleased maybe, but conceited? Tom thought not. It was the everyday smile you had pinned to your lips, it was good enough to fool the naïve orphans and the mundane adults, but Tom knew better than that.

He swiftly turned his heel and continued past your bedroom to get to his own, not sparing you another glance.

28 notes · View notes

emblematicae · 1 month ago

Text

VALEDICTORIAN, EGO TE PROVOCO: PART ONE, TRĒS

Tom Marvolo Riddle x Female Reader

CONTENTS PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER

These days, the more Tom willingly basks in your presence, the more he becomes cognizant of just how utterly unbearable it is to live in the hopeless orphanage. Not that he hadn’t previously been aware, if anyone held unrivaled disdain for Wool’s it was Tom. He was the natural exception, having been the only child to be born there and predestined never to leave—at least with a voluntary family who wished to adopt him, that is. A ridiculous fairytale ending such as that would be absurd, he’d surely be living at Wool’s Orphanage until the birthday that would finally mark his adulthood. Tom has been exceptionally patient, officially ten long years of patience this coming December to be exact, and where has it gotten him? Nowhere, absolutely nowhere. He sleeps in the same room he once did when he was rocked to bed in a cradle, and lives monotonously under the same roof his mother died in. Tom was not oblivious in any sense of the word, needless to say, he detested his home that never quite felt like one long before you came into the picture. But after finding solace in someone so similar to himself, and so irrefutably interesting, his festering feelings of resentment had only worsened.

Tom considered it to be some time ago now, a good couple of years since he became acquainted with you and your diary, and yet he could remember it like it was yesterday. Even now, your first ‘graduation’ was upcoming and you would move on to secondary school in September; meanwhile, Tom was not far behind, and given another year he would soon join you as an underclassman. And he still remembers it all so vividly, how could he not? It was the start of something for the both of you, whatever that may be. But he knows of its importance, he knows it is completely different to that of what normal children and even fully grown adults could ever dream of. He has no word for it, not even after he has turned all the pages in the encyclopedic dictionary just about a thousand times and counting. No balance scale reaches equilibrium without two equal weights: you and him are one in the same, inseparable on occasion, especially when there are no other children to pester you and tip the scale off balance.

That being said, Tom was on his way to the attic with the rest of the orphanage. There was a delay in his arrival as he spent time dawdling about in the library before finding his way to the otherwise empty room above the third story. But he knew of the situation and was purposeful in wasting as much time as he possibly could before dragging himself away. He found what it was that he was looking for, now in his right hand, less than a minute of entering the book room, but was sure to inspect the surrounding area for anything else of interest (which he knew full well the orphanage did not have). Tom slipped the book beneath his blazer and forced it against his side. The lack of pockets made it difficult for him to stow it away for when he ascended the attic’s ladder, not that there were any sizable to fit the novel anyhow. He managed, albeit not as smoothly as he would have liked, and Tom ensured to enter the stuffy loft without a sound. He squinted in an attempt to make out each of the individuals who gathered around at the center of the spacious room, but the only light being offered was from a dirty window with a stocky, thick-set frame that stole most of its luminescence.

As he neared the crowd, the revelation of commotion became clear, and he saw everyone huddled around a boy who just could not stop the overflowing tears coming from his puffy, red eyes. Billy Stubbs, the child who had somehow managed to make a miracle happen; getting the entire residency of Wool’s Orphanage to assemble in the living room on such an ordinary day to help in the search for his lost pet. Even you, who Tom unwittingly sought out amongst the rest of the astounded audience. You’d taken your place and fulfilled the burdensome role as the oldest orphan, standing behind Billy with a sympathetic hand rubbing his shoulder in an attempt to soothe him. If you hadn’t been obligated to comfort poor, pitiful Billy, you’d be standing at his side. And the presumption was not out of childlike possessiveness, unlike that of a boy who refused to share his favorite toy, but of absolute fact. It was unfortunate to none but Tom that playing pretend was your specialty.

Billy shook violently but his feet remained planted atop the creaky and unreliable floorboards that were covered in a thick layer of dust. In the cup of his trembling hands was his pet rabbit that he cherished so dearly. No longer was it pure white, the untouched pelt now tainted by an ugly, dark red that did not suit its bright fur—and deceased. It was a grisly sight. A thin ribbon made of crude metal wire, expertly crafted by lithe fingers whose specialty was carrying out ministrations of the macabre, could barely be seen around the rabbit’s neck, and camouflaged by flesh and fur. Billy, who was regarded as a skittish boy, did not shy away from the blood oozing from the nape of his once pet friend. The open laceration slowly seeped in all directions, infecting every possible surface it could and made sure to stain the sticky skin of Billy’s hands an ugly color and make a terrible mess of the rug beneath. The other children were rightly mortified, but they held no urgency to flee. Upon further inspection, Tom reckons it is because of you—you, whose eyes and expression reveal nothing about what you are thinking.

Like a shadow entrenching on the holy light of the sun’s horizon, Tom made his way to the brink of the gathering, standing just close enough to seem as innocuous as the rest of the orphans. They hadn’t noticed him quite yet, much too focused on the sight of Billy Stubb’s dead rabbit that would surely be the cause of nightmares for many evenings to come. Tom knew he should wear the look of dread that he has become so familiar with being greeted by, to copy the faces of those around him that reflected nothing but the deep disturbance as a result of his own doing. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Tom found it annoying, what came naturally to him was the blank slate that was neither intrigued nor disinterested, but an absence of thought altogether. The initial high of breaking the rules, doing what he was not supposed to be doing, was always so quick to leave when there was no one to witness his performances. So he stayed put, impassive, and on the verge of retreating back down the attic. Tom’s eyes flickered restlessly, the scene was beginning to bore him, one he had observed many times. It was like a photograph of grainy film that faded into the obscurity of his memories. When his eyes inevitably returned to you, found you, Tom swore he could see the intricate gears and cogs turning inside your head. It almost brought a smile to his face, his lips twitched as if they wanted to, but two blinks hastily dashed any hopes of a grin forming. He was aware he’d been staring at you with such intensity you were certain to sense it, but you did not once look up to meet Tom’s gaze.

Loud footsteps broke all the children from their trance, and they whipped their heads around, hopeful for answers. Tom did not flinch, lost in thought as he concentrated on your reactions, it was a harrowing call to reality when a hand found purchase on his shoulder. He grimaced, and before he could even protest or take a gander at who the hand belonged to, Tom was lightly shoved aside. Hurriedly, Mrs. Cole had finally made an appearance. She was out of breath from climbing the ladder-stairs, but her lack of oxygen did not halt her in the slightest. The other orphans parted to make way for her, and he realized the child who was standing closest to him had gotten the same treatment—no matter how certain he was that the matron targeted him in particular. Tom’s eyes followed Mrs. Cole as she promptly marched toward Billy, who you had not let go of, not even when she stood right in front of him as if to subtly tell you off (more so out of concern for your mental well-being given he was holding the unmoving body of his precious dead pet). If Tom didn’t know any better, he would have thought you had pulled the boy closer. The hand that was once rubbing his left shoulder had ceased its actions, instead perched with a vice-like grip while your other arm was skin to skin beneath his, hand around his forearm. You, who often appears so feeble, could not look further from it now.

Mrs. Cole had only caught a glimpse at the thing cradled in Billy Stubbs’s hands, both due to low visibility and how it had been concealed behind his fingers, but she saw enough to start pondering on how to diffuse the situation. She placed her hands around his, though not quite touching them, as a way to shield the view of the deceased creature from the other orphans. It was hardly of any help as the damage had already been done.

“Oh, Name, what happened here?” Mrs. Cole addressed you rather than Billy, even though her voice was barely a hushed whisper.

You maintained eye contact with her as you withdrew the hand that was holding onto Billy’s shoulder. But you hadn’t entirely let go of his arm, you only unclasped the hand holding his forearm, running your palm along the underside of his arm before grabbing his elbow and lifting it ever so slightly. Just enough to cause him to push the rabbit in his hands forward by a few centimeters.

A true puppeteer you were. “Billy found his rabbit in this sad state.”

Only a few words were exchanged between you and Mrs. Cole, but absolutely none to the perturbed Billy Stubbs who didn’t seem to be entirely there. Tom glared hard at you and the matron, it was as if two adults were speaking. You may as well have covered Billy’s ears like the caretakers would often do to the other orphans when discussing business with one another. How preposterous, you are only but eleven years of age, and yet your reverence rivals that of someone much older and important.

“The lot of you, out! Out!” Mrs. Cole barked, a stern order that startled the other children around him. She motioned toward the entrance which was the small opening where the fold-down ladder was, leading to the empty storage room on the upper floor. They were hesitant as the sound of the flimsy wooden ladder steps groaned under an unknown weight, their imaginations getting the better of them. The trepidation was short-lived as Martha had emerged from the vacant space, pulling herself up inside, her face twisting into one of sheer horror as she got a closer look.

Even as they frantically tailed the heels of one another, Tom’s fellow peers still made an effort to avoid him. His mere presence repelled them. Tom was completely still in his place, not daring to take his eyes off of that old crow, the crying boy with his pathetic pet, and you. But he was no fool, from his periphery, Tom could see the dull figures that appeared in full clarity as the other orphans faded into a colorless blur. They left his line of vision in record time, the sound of some of them even tripping over the miscellaneous crates rang like music to his ears. Tom was satisfied that despite being in your company, it did not deter them from listening to the authority of the matron. The woman had turned her back to the room, and subsequently to him, after she commanded all the other children to clear out of the attic. Mrs. Cole placed her hands together with her palms facing upward and they hovered below Billy’s. The longer she waited for him to become responsive, the more blood dripped onto her wrinkled fingers. Mrs. Cole nodded her head once, then twice, likely encouraging him to release the dead rabbit, but Billy was utterly shell-shocked. Tom was lucky to see his face from where he was, and the other boy’s plight caused a proud smirk to take shape in place of his frown.

Tom found your eyes from across the room—or rather, he captured them. But much to his dismay, it was not he whom you were looking to, but what was behind him. And for once, when Tom turned around it wasn’t a nothingness he found, but the part-timer who had approached him. She seemed displeased though he hadn’t even uttered a word, the mere fact she had to retrieve him when the proper course of conduct was quite clear. When she was only barely within arms reach, Martha extended her hand and aimed to grab his with the intent to forcefully pull him away, but Tom retracted his hand without hesitation. She let her arm rest at her sides, lips pressed into a thin line as she inhaled a sharp breath through her nose before exhaling it all at once. Martha made it no secret how nettled she was by his behavior, waiting in place with her watchful eye on him. The caretaker’s hands that had balled into fists did not go unnoticed by him, and Tom narrowed his eyes as he began to saunter off. As he passed Martha, he felt her lightly push him by his upper back which caused him to instinctively take hold of the book still under his uniform. Although she was undeniably irked by him, any unnecessary force had been lacking in her movement and was only an incentive to get him out of the room quicker. If Tom was not lost in the dangerous whirl of his own thoughts, he’d be seething at her for touching him so carelessly.

It was no secret Tom Riddle had gotten into a trifling little quarrel with Billy Stubbs before he coincidentally lost his pet rabbit. Yet the only thing weighing on Tom’s consciousness was how? It is always “by what means” with you. Tom knew good and well that he had strung that rabbit up on the rafters to loom eerily in the lonesome attic. He was painstakingly thorough in devising such a gratuitous plan; Tom wanted to see Billy suffer for even thinking of crossing him. That is why he had scrupulously chosen the rafters as the desired location for the innocent pet to spend its last living moments—a hapless fatality, that, if Tom were normal, he may have felt a tad bit remorseful about. But alas, Tom fit no such description; he watched the life fade from the rabbit’s eyes with an unfeeling certainty, and casualties were a small price to pay for sweet revenge. He simply could not allow himself to act on impulse, as much as he desperately wished to torment Billy and impetuously reveal the dead animal to him without a second thought. Tom needed to give him a little scare, and scare him he did. The spot was obscure though not outlandish, but an attic was no place for a house-rabbit and Billy would not even consider the area for surveillance on his missing pet. There was no plausible way for a creature of any kind to find its way into the attic, behind the retractable ladders up on the ceiling, in the forgotten storage room, at the end of the final floor’s corridor. And no one would dare to investigate it so long as the lost animal case was fresh in their minds. Not until the foul smell of a rotting carcass would eventually set in—which was certainly not going to be immediate. Perhaps the stench of dried blood, but hunting down the source was unlikely. What was more unlikely was getting it down. Quite the task it would prove to be, it would be near impossible with how Tom had arranged it, even for the likes of the housemother.

On the contrary, Tom had overheard Billy dejectedly utter that he found his beloved pet on the floor, which was not at all where Tom had put it. Not that he doubted himself, not for a moment's time. As Tom turned away from the opening of the attic hatch to climb down, he took one last look at the wooden planks that became the location of the crime scene where the rabbit was allegedly discovered. Tom then tilted his head back until his focus was on the rafters above, more specifically where he had left the rabbit. Sure enough, the once completely untouched beams were stained with blood, and even some of the ceiling joists did not make it out unscathed, not that anyone had noticed any of this. It could have only been you. One final glance in your way confirmed his suspicions.

“Tom, that wasn’t very nice.”

It is a voice of empty consternation that carries your faux empathy.

And Tom has had plenty of time to ruminate on it, everything really. He is beginning to believe that the two of you need to just run away. Clearly relying on the false hope of being adopted has led neither of you anywhere, and Tom is starting to grow frighteningly impatient. He has waited a long time for the flowery fairytale ending he never fully put his faith in, but sometimes a long time is simply too long.

“Tom, are you even listening to me?” you repeat, more grave than the last you spoke.

“No.”

Tom joined you outside long after everyone had dispersed due to the catastrophe from earlier. By now it was late afternoon, and Miss Martha ushered all the children outdoors to ease their minds from the incident while she and the matron prepared for dinner. Tom was the last out. He found you shortly after he stepped foot into the courtyard, but not without an unvoiced, wary warning from the part-timer that he paid no heed to. His eyes effortlessly tracked you down, not that it was demanding to do so with how limited the courtyard was in the near vicinity. You’d been walking with Billy who was practically glued to your hip as you continued to give your all at cheering him up. The both of you ambled around closer to the orphanage than the perimeter, and you more so than him as you slightly leaned on him for stability. Tom was disgruntled to know that Billy was already making a steady emotional recovery as he politely expressed how he wanted you to join him and Eric Whalley—one of the older children closer in yours and Tom’s age—in a quick game of something he did not care to learn the name of. Involving you in physical recreation was off limits, no matter if you agreed or not, it was an unwritten expectation upheld by none other than Mrs. Cole herself. Even if Billy’s pet had just died, there were no exceptions.

Billy had scurried away when Tom silently approached, giving him a deathly glare that needed no more explanation.

“You’re the one who brought it down.” He hears you let out a miffed sigh, but you do not offer any real response or protest to his accusation, and he is inclined to take your silence as confirmation. As to how you even found it in the first place, he knew not.

Tom is not fond of sitting down in the sparse patch of grass within the gated sector, he finds it gross, but he does so anyhow if only to appease you. It was clear you had no qualms with it however, you were ever so peaceful laying down on your back with your arms spread out as if you were caught in time making snow angels. Tom was off to the right side a little ways, sitting with his legs propped up to his chest and arms crossed over his knees. And the book, closing the distance equally between the both of you. As luck would have it, the summer solstice had recently passed roughly two weeks prior, and the sod was not damp, though not exactly dry either. Tom blinked twice in rapid succession, eyes trained on you. He reckoned you must still be experiencing bouts of irregularly high pains these days considering the way you were sprawled out on the ground. Tom thinks he pities you for it, a temporary name to a foreign feeling he could not articulate quite yet. You are a sorry sight.

“Aren’t you happy?” he asks, tone revealing more curiosity than he would have liked to let on.

Your reply was instantaneous, “Killing a harmless animal and nearly mangling it beyond recognition does not make me happy, Tom.” Death was not a concept that could be easily grasped by any means for most kids. The nuance of loss eternal was precarious in choosing which ill-starred children it chose to grant the poisonous seed of knowledge to.

“You should be thanking me really.” A smug grin took his features while a disappointed frown etched yours. “And why would I do that?”

“Because—” Tom almost allows himself to lash out at you, the twisted curl of his lips faded as soon as you questioned him.

He felt egregiously entitled, you should have been praising him for that stunt, worshiping the ground he walked on for his sins that were truthfully your saving grace; what kept you from falling off that pedestal was the polarity between you and him. Tom knows how you are because deep down, in that internal glass holder of yours [the heart] that has been emptied of wine and sand… you like it. You like that Tom is the condemned one with nothing to lose, it makes you seem better than you already are.

Tom is good to you, you are as close as comrades in arms, and though he willingly strikes terror in the other children in hopes of seeing tears, you do not care. It is you who lets him do so, and perhaps secretly, you hope he does. On rare occasions you scold him, more teasingly if anything, chiding Tom as if he were a bad-tempered nursery boy (something he absolutely and utterly abhors with his entire being). But it is perfect for you. The kids already adore you as is, you are their glorious idol in shiny, white angel wings, and the eldest sister from a motley family of no names and no identities. Whose welcoming arms better to embrace and kind shoulders to cry on than yours? No one child at Wool’s Orphanage gets along with everyone like you do, but it is the sole anomaly, Tom, the common enemy to the other orphans who keeps them on good terms with one another. They scamper off and wail to you about just how *mean* Tom can be, and you whisper empty promises that they will be perfectly fine in the shells of their ears while they bury their heads in the crook of your neck. Tom is not stupid, he has studied you for a long time now. You placate the unnerved with as little as a mere smile, and you’ve no intent to reprimand him for his wrongs that have never been observed by the naked eye, nor do you fancy rebuilding the broken bridges with the others that burned down long ago. Your lack of action alienates him further, and further. But Tom has found it in him that he cannot blame you. Perhaps if he were more distinguished, more suited, Tom would do the exact same if he was blessed enough to be in your position.

While you seldom address him in the company of others—Tom falls dead last when it comes to being worthy enough of your attention once the entire populace of the orphanage has engaged you—in private, whether behind closed doors or secluded in the barren boundaries of the property, it is different. All your thoughts are his when it is just you and him, and you and him alone. He has determined your honesty because he himself so strongly believes that you are, and it has taken him since the very beginning to reach such a conclusion. Tom may have doubted you in the past, but he could not be faulted for being chary about the truths you purposely kept all to yourself. Tom trusts in the sincerity of each and every word because when you want to leave him in the dark, you outright do it; there is no hiding behind grandiloquent lies, and he respects that. Even as you use his frequent misdeeds to bathe in the affections of all the children and adults around you, to polish the pristine and untouchable image that only you possess, there is a place somewhere for Tom in your mind. Not that he is for certain. The complex, stratified divisions of your consciousnesses are impenetrable, now more than ever after you became resolute to lock him out since the first time. Tom can only presume that he is right, which he typically is.

“Because?” you echo long after the words had already died in his throat. Tom turns his head, scoffing, “because nothing.”

On the contrary, Tom Riddle found himself concerned with the way you saw him. He, who cared not for the opinions of others in regard to his ill repute, especially from the fellow tenants of the orphanage of all places. It created a conflict inside him, for acknowledging that he did indeed get into a state at the thought of you viewing his performances as nothing less than superb meant that Tom believed there was a weight to your approval that could not be sought out from anyone or anything else. He was disquieted by the fact he believed you continued to perceive him as an orphan and nothing else, a self-projected postulation that festered from a brew of deep insecurity and uncertainty, with nothing to prove his guesswork. Or rather, Tom was bothered that there was a slight chance you saw him as how you saw the other children: helpless, weak, incapable… that is why he had done what he had to to the rabbit. A display of control that demonstrated his indelible prowess, what came off as a menacing warning to the other orphans, and a unique message that could only be understood by you. Tom expects stupidity from individuals who have never met him, as in due time, he never failed to show them beyond doubt to think twice about underestimating him. However, you? You should know better.

Tom grants mercy that is otherwise unheard of coming from him, he holds back. He does not say what he wants to.

“What is troubling you now?” you suddenly inquire, voice steady with the playful ring it always has. But there is something else, something unknown that should not be there. Concern, was it? Tom deserves your concern, perhaps he is the only one fitting.

“I hate this god-awful place,” he declares tersely.

That much is quite obvious, but it was a futile grievance. The continuation of his complaint lingered on the tip of his tongue, it was one you certainly would not like. You would fret over it all, from start to end, but so long as he was with someone like you, who was so similar to someone like him. it mattered not if either of you were away from the orphanage. You could go anywhere, or could you? Within the limitations of your condition—? Then the notion was gone; Tom could tell from the subtle movement he saw in the corners of his eyes that you had turned your head, cheek pressed against the ground. He felt your gaze on him, but he did not look at you. At least, not until Tom feels your hand nudging his elbow, even with his folded arms. He stills, and feels your hand settle on the inner side of his elbow joint and forearm before you gently pry his left arm away from its guarded position. Tom neither spurs nor dissuades you as your hand finds his, the unfamiliar feeling of your cold fingers interlocking with his own as you bring the two hands—-that have now become one—to settle on the grass. Tom’s palm stays open, his fingers do not vie for the attention of yours, and not because he does not want it, but because the feeling invokes nothing. Tom does not crave for things he has never been given. He patiently waits for you to say something, but you don’t. And after a pleasant silence passes over, he takes a glance at you.

Your head is not resting on the ground anymore, now facing the sky. But your eyes are closed. Ever since you and Tom have spent more time with one another, he has taken notice that your eyes happen to drift away often. He suspects it is because you do not want him to see whatever has been so carefully hidden behind them. Tom figured his hypothesis was true (even with sufficient evidence greatly lacking), and that eye contact was a factor in this unexplainable ability. He would have to test it further, which he already had with Billy Stubbs, though it hadn’t gone accordingly, a rather obvious statement now.

Tom could see from the rise and fall of your chest that your breathing was labored, uneven. He calls your name, to which you do not answer him. He entwines his fingers over your hand, reciprocating the closed grip that forms a fist. Tom then shook his hand, rattling yours with it, but was cautious as to not unravel your entangled fingers. He watched as your eyes opened, not jolting awake, but doing so in a lethargic manner.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize out of habit first. “I’m just… I’m quite tired today.”

“I can see that.”

The previous conversation is lost, and he decides he will bring it up another time.

“Read to me, will you?”

Tom gives in to your whims, finally picking up the neglected book he had exerted so much effort into retrieving from the library. In the process, you had let go of his hand. Tom adjusted his hands to accommodate the thin novel, though managed with only one hand. He returned the other one to the ground, holding back a grimace when he felt the blades of grass tickle his fingers. Tom waits, but you do not reach out to him again. He sees you’ve taken to folding your hands over your stomach. And yet, he does not feel compelled to retract his hand. He leaves it there, as if it will change your mind. Tom quickly becomes preoccupied with the play, making a fuss and inserting his own commentary as he goes down the lines—an unusual doing for him.

“And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: were he here—no; would he were here. No one speaks, but the ghost rises again. And he goes on: To all, and him, we thirst, and all to all.”¹

He pauses to gather his composure, especially after fumbling a few of the words due to the odd flow. “Reading it aloud is obnoxious, and frankly, the most horrific thing ever,” Tom gripes, but his lamenting went ignored by you. “Do you even understand what is happening? This Old English.”

You correct him, “Early Modern English.”

Tom sends you a death stare, all quiet until he retorts, “And pray tell, when did you learn that? Yesterday?”

“No, my English tutor happens to be fond of Shakespeare, is all.” Tom is unsatisfied with your answer, so you offer further explanation, “he made sure I knew of the difference when I made that mistake as well.”

Tom contemplates the difference between being taught one-on-one than in a full classroom setting which is the only experience he knows. Though the fact you were already being taught to read Shakespearean plays spoke for itself, as while there was hardly any curriculum followed by any one school, it was generally accepted that the playwright was to be introduced later on in the children’s educational career. And surely the quality of your learning would be better in terms of direct instruction, Tom hadn’t even considered the lack of peers to be negative in any sense of the word. He would have preferred it that way himself. All this to say, it did not make Tom feel much better about his acquired knowledge, not when compared to yours like this.

“Well, he has bad taste,” he clicked his tongue, flipping to the next page. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t dislike it either. I don’t care.”

You seemed disheartened at that, but it was easily masked by your unassuming smile. Hopeful, you add, “We have yet to even finish it!”

“Was that your best attempt at changing my mind? Because you have failed miserably. The only interesting part is the ghost that has been mentioned only once, twice, now?” Tom left out that he was lost by the actual story within the play, it escaped him entirely.

“Oh, do you believe in ghosts, Tom?” you jest, and Tom rolls his eyes. “Not a chance.”

“You sound awfully serious.”

Tom made haste to discard the play as soon as you were pulled away by the seemingly endless responsibilities that you happened to feel so obligated to fulfill. As the last meal had come to a close, you honorably took it upon yourself to entertain the younger children who still appeared to be quite restless, even after supper. In the foyer, you read to them picture books hand-picked by each of them since you had taken them on a short trip to the orphanage’s library. If he were being honest, Tom was under the impression that you had grown tired of this, not because you lost the joy of enriching them, but due to the time constraints that burdened you as you got older. But it was not out of the realm of possibility that he thought so simply because you were consistently orbiting his world, thus making Tom’s conjectures a reality. Furthermore, he strongly believed a handful of them (though not all as he was still reasonable) were far too old for fictitious storytelling. Perhaps the ritualistic routine is a necessary evil—to keep you sharp on your EQ and to ensure the kids are not causing a ruckus before bed. There was an irony to his beliefs, as he too, was a participant of reading with you, even if there was certainly a stark contrast to the children’s books you read aloud and the academic literature he was reciting. And when it came to the both of you, Tom was the one reading, never you.

To pass the time, he has hidden upstairs in your room. Away from the prying eyes of the other children his age who had taken to holing themselves in their own bedrooms. You know that he goes into your coveted room when you are not with him, and Tom knows that you know. And although you never showed any visible signs that you felt he was invading your privacy (which regardless, would not have stopped him) he is aware you certainly do not think it very healthy that he spends more time in your room than his room 27 these days. His ascetic tendencies have returned, though this time you play a significant role as the silent camaraderie, a solitudinarian’s only friend.

Today he was here by unusual means. If he was in your room without you for hours upon end, Tom was unquestionably searching for that pesky diary of yours. He trusts you, for what it is worth, but not enough. Your place remains beholden somewhere deep within the heart of his mind, make no mistake, but until you were completely and wholly truthful, Tom would not reveal himself to you. Not that he had been planning on the matter anyway, but at times, he had to admit only to himself that he felt he was close to doing so. When he is… sentimental, for lack of any better terms. Caught up in the intricate web of whimsy and fickle emotions that kept him childlike, human.

Frustratingly, you become previcated the moment the diary comes up in conversation. It is not that you shoot his claims down, but you simply do not answer them to begin with, an outcome Tom dared to say was worse. You hid it and made sure it stayed hidden. After many days and nights of coming up empty-handed, Tom surmised you may as well keep it locked in a secret trunk to be buried and dug up—as it still makes an appearance from time to time, in your own two hands nonetheless (thus his persistent belief that it was in your room). For a while he was under the impression you had temporarily lent it to Mrs. Cole for protection, but for what purpose did that serve to benefit you? He was initially leery of you for it, dating back to when you first arrived at the orphanage. It was clear that your relationship with Mrs. Cole was one that could not be broken, even as he made multiple attempts to intervene during your budding friendship (but Tom was thoughtful enough not to sour your reputation with her). You never outright showed her yourself, if you were to reveal to anyone what you could do, it would definitely be her as she held your utmost trust. But you snuck around, not so different from himself. That alone was an odd and peculiar thing for Tom to ponder, it was cunning in a way that was not inherently ill-intended, but not authentic of your person either.

Tom huffs after examining every nook and cranny of your room. He has turned out empty-handed once more, a shame really.

Tom could retire to his own room, to rest after a long day of tending to annoying rabbits and butchering Shakespeare, but he decides to wait. Tom fetches a book from the neat and tidy desk before sitting down on the edge of your bed. Your room has become a strange storage-like space for his belongings. It was empty and barren with no help from the institutionalized brick walls beforehand, if anything Tom was doing you a favor. Besides, his room is for the trinkets he has stolen from the other children, trophies that were hard-earned from his fights and disagreements with them, not nicely kept books.

He hears the faint sound of light footsteps coupled with the laughter of other children, and he can only presume it is finally curfew. The muffled footsteps suddenly turned into a symphony of loud stomping, and his ears perked when he heard the nasal voice of the matron reprimanding them for being so inconsiderate. Tom figured this meant you would not be busy with more unnecessary tasks such as tucking them into bed, and you were destined to show up soon. Not that Tom was eager to see you, he only happened to be waiting for the inevitable.

Tom decided to scoot fafther from the edge of the bed so his back was against the wall and made enough room for you to supposedly sit beside him. He fixed his posture, not that there was much to straighten out to begin with. Tom was still heavily immersed in the book, it was one he chose himself; and most importantly it was written by a solemn American author whose novels he knew you would never read.

Even when he heard the door creak open, Tom’s eyes continued skimming over the text. He did find the timing bizarre, you returned earlier than usual even though he was actively anticipating your arrival. You must not have bid the other children goodnight as you so often did. Tom awaited your acknowledgement, a simple greeting that over time shortened into just his name, but it never came. The shallow light from the hallway leaked into the room only for a brief moment before disintegrating altogether with the sound of the door shutting. Tom risked peeking over the top of his book to see you and to sate his curiosity, but he hadn’t expected what he saw.

As if you were dead from the neck up, with no care for anything at all, you mindlessly meandered toward the bed, dragging your feet all the while. You were unreadable with a soulless stare that only saw straight ahead and nothing more. Once at the bedside, you did not spare him a single glance, getting onto the bed and laying down. Tom’s legs took a good portion of the bed space near the center, but it did not deter you whatsoever. You gently rested your head on the pillow, but from where he sat, he could see your eyes stayed open. Something was wrong. It was so unlike you to not enact your nightly regime. You even went to bed in your day clothes, nothing disgusted you more than that.

Tom tentatively placed his thumb in the pages to mark his place, holding the book by its tail-bind and lowering it on his lap. He leaned over, closer without needing to haul his entire body as he examined your features. Tom was well aware you experienced impromptu headaches from time to time (which he knew you had in higher frequency than you let on) but you never behaved in such a way because of them, not like this. You always had the verve to at least feign a nice smile.

“What has gotten into you?”

Your lack of response made Tom come to an alarming conclusion. No more were the days where he was concerned with only himself.

1. And to our dear friend Banquo… and all to all: the words of Shakespeare’s play spoken by Macbeth during the banquet in which Banquo’s ghost reappears (Macbeth 3.4.89-91).

𐙚 @himikoquack

18 notes · View notes