His Glowing Reputation

Our Little Secret

The very next morning, Tom Riddle was resiliently returned to his normal self, or as normal as a disturbed young wizard could ever be. He was eating a breakfast of corn flakes and bacon with milk, while filling in answers to an arithmancy dilemma. The work was way above the fifth year standards, actually at N.E.W.T, and wasn’t required of him. Yet Riddle savored the challenge, satisfying his voracious intellect. He maintained a stoic appearance, although he did lurch when he first sat down this morning, when he was reminded once again how Dumbledore dared to cane him yesterday evening. The hard, wooden bench was certainly proving to exacerbate the pain.


His agenda for the day, surfaced in his mind including a thought concerning his latest fling, Celeste Lovegood. Last time he had seen her, she had slapped him for his insensitivity with not understanding that she wanted to hear him say he loved her. Riddle thought little of the reason. All Tom wanted was to get her in his company this evening for his own entertainment.

He pushed aside the arithmancy problem, and on a blank piece of parchment in penmanship nearly as fancy as calligraphy, wrote:

Dearest Celeste:

Obviously you’re upset over what commenced at our last rendezvous. I want to make it up to you. Meet me in the trophy room at half past six and we’ll go someplace special. I’ll give you all you’ve ever dreamed of getting from a wizard such as myself (and then some). Don’t say a word about this excursion. It’s to be our little secret!
Until then:
TM RIDDLE

He simply folded the parchment in thirds as if it was a regular letter, but lacking an envelope, which wasn’t necessary anyway. All Tom needed to do was send it across the Great Hall to the Ravenclaw table and he knew just the one to do it for him.

“Avery…A little errand for you: Send this to the seventh year Ravenclaw, Celeste Lovegood. And make sure to be discrete!”

In a rush, Avery knocked the fork and knife he was eating from onto his plate. He took the note, and stood up, complacently affirming, “Yes, Riddle.”

Riddle’s follower obediently proceeded, going to the back of the Great Hall, across to where the Ravenclaw seventh years were, situated practically in their own, private corner.

“See that pureblood…er-Lovegood gets this,” he mumbled, trying to make it sound dull.

About to place it, on the table up for grabs, as he didn’t know which witch was Celeste Lovegood, a hand eagerly snatched it from Avery without so much as glancing at him.

“Thanks…” Celeste said, smiling. She knew it was probably from Tom.

Her opalescent blue eyes read the note, scanning it three times. As it sunk in, her eyes shimmered with tears. She felt happy that Riddle sounded willing to own up to his mistake and apologize. Almost in a daze of quiet joy, Celeste wandered to where she could be clearly visible from Riddle’s location. She just stood from a distance, staring at Riddle, who was now smiling mildly at some joke Lestrange was telling.

Seconds later, Tom Riddle detected somebody’s eyes on him, staring. He had this strange, unexplained ability that probably came from his legilimency powers. He caught Celeste’s eyes, and made an insidious wink. She squeezed her hands in anticipation and excitement over thoughts of the romance she believed Riddle had planned for tonight, and went back to her place at the Ravenclaw table. She was awed by that mysterious, fifth year, Tom Riddle. Celeste had no idea her hopes for tonight were chimerical at best, and at worst, his attending to her was an ominous indication that Tom Riddle was anything but repentant.

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After the first class of his day, history of magic, Riddle had Dumbledore to face in the transfiguration lesson.

Preparing for what would surely be an odious time, he entered the classroom at the last minute, taking a place in the very last row. This was not unusual for Tom Riddle to do in transfiguration. This was the only class, where he silently refused to answer questions despite knowing them, and this had always been the one class where he sat in the back, resentful of Dumbledore’s authority over him.

As Dumbledore was lecturing on transfiguring portkeys, Riddle who usually paid the utmost attention even to Dumbledore, slipped into a daydream. He had a shifty look in his dark eyes as he fantasized about what he was planning to do with Celeste later. Licking his lips, a hungry desire to use the cruciatus curse consumed him. He continued his image of her writhing, in a cold, empty cavernous place.

“Riddle!,” was echoed through the classroom, demandingly.

Tom snapped his head up and saw Dumbledore had been recapitulating the demonstration on how to make a port-key.

“Pay attention, Riddle,” Professor Dumbledore said in a casual tone.

“Yes, sir. Of course,” Tom assented, sounding innocent.

And then a second later, Riddle’s face darkened to his true thoughts, no longer showing an innocent exterior as a persona, no longer being singled out. He frowned, and gulped as his eyes grew steely. He finally would focus his attention completely as he didn’t want to give Dumbledore any reason to assign another “detention,” which in actuality most likely would result in an eventual second dose of that terrible humiliation.

“Come up here and create a portkey for us,” Dumbledore smoothly addressed.

Not used to taking part in the lesson, Riddle strode over to Dumbledore, looking the old man straight through his half-moon spectacles. He wasn’t going to show any sign of intimidation, but nor was he going to be insubordinate.

Without looking from the assortment in the box of everyday objects, he took out a rusty tin can and said confidently, “portus.”

The object glowed blue, activated.

Dumbledore nodded, not surprised his pupil had succeeded, despite Riddle not paying attention before. He knew the boy’s knowledge of magic was extensive, and that his abilities would in good time, rival that of his own, as Tom Riddle was undoubtedly a prodigy.

Shrugging, Riddle went back to his seat in the center of the last row. The rest of the hour went by uneventfully. Nothing noteworthy occurring until it was over, with everyone rushing off to the last class before the lunch break.

“Riddle, I must speak with you. Stay behind,” Dumbledore called after the boy gently, before he could disappear in the jostling crowd right outside the door.

Riddle turned around, and was going to approach the transfiguration teacher’s desk when he already stepped right over to him. It was just Riddle and Dumbledore left in the room, standing face to face, man to boy.

“I’ve never told you, Riddle. How you are a… privilege to teach. Being, perhaps the greatest genius ever to pass through Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, with a hint of affection and even pride.

“Thank-you,” said Riddle most unnaturally. He did not sound like he cherished this compliment from Dumbledore.

Professor Dumbledore went on, looking down wearily, chin in his hand, “And…I suppose I do regret caning y-“

Expelled from Riddle was a hiss of an irriated sneer. He glowered at Dumbledore, with absolute incredulity. Finally, suspecting that for all his goody-two-shoes philosophy Dumbledore believed in, Riddle still thought he contradicted his beliefs by sinking to the depths of trying to kiss up to him. He did not wager for a second that it was possible the man was truly sorry.

“I don’t accept pity from anyone, professor,” Riddle hollowly answered with finality, looking somehow inhuman.

He continued to brush his teacher off, turning to leave, and in seconds he was gone.

Professor Dumbledore just stood rooted to the spot, stunned into silence.


Well...this story is turning out to be a little longer than I expected it..that's okay of course.