Tom Riddle + the moment he realized that people find him attractive

Tom Riddle never raised his hand in class. Raising a hand was symbolic, he thought, of some inner need for validation: to raise a hand was to plead a professor's attention.

And attention … well, Riddle wanted a lot of things, but attention could wait. He would command that, eventually. He would certainly never request it, waving his hand around like some fool advertising his presence.

Tom Riddle never spoke unless he was spoken to, either. Some boys in their grade — Arran Macmillan, for instance, a boy taller than Tom and about twice as wide — commanded attention by speaking loudly and at length. Macmillan seemed to consider it his god-given duty to spew his opinion at anybody within a ten-meter radius, whether it was about the style of a girl's haircut or the quality of a boy's robes.

Perhaps that made him feel powerful. Tom Riddle, though, considered such brash, boyish displays of supremacy practically laughable. He preferred to soak up information, drink it from every source; he preferred to listen, and learn, and wait.

He was good at waiting.

It wasn't as if he needed to make a statement. Everybody knew he was the best by the end of their first week of classes. His levitation charm made the fragment of parchment spiral up, up, up, and smack against the ceiling, pinned there mercilessly. He transfigured his strand of hair into a blade of grass on the first try, and when asked to try turning a cotton ball into an egg, and then a large stone into a duck, he did both immediately, without question and without exertion. He was, by all accounts, a prodigy.

Within the first several months, the first-years had divided themselves up, clinging together in fragile formations like clusters of snowflakes. Riddle wondered if these people actually liked each other, or if they were so terrified of being alone that they resorted to using their classmates as shields.

He was not afraid of being alone, and — as is typical — he was, therefore, alone.

Time wore on. First year turned into second year, and second into third. Although at first they had clamored for his attention, eager to orbit such a promising star, his classmates learned to give him distance. His politeness was suffocating. He allowed nobody past it, gave nobody anything more than pleasantries.

The other Slytherins in particular were growing frustrated; they regarded Riddle as something of a black hole, into which one could pour endless conversation and receive nothing in return. It irritated them, because it made them feel inconsequential, and if there is one thing a Slytherin thirsts for, it is the weighty, satisfying feeling of consequence.

One Slytherin in particular, a fifth-year named Reginald Bulstrode, had taken issue with Riddle's attitude. He made a sneering remark in a crowded common room one evening, as Riddle crossed toward the dormitories: "The only Riddle around here," Bulstrode said, "is who raised him with those manners. Where is he from, a pigsty? A pen full of Muggles, maybe? Classless little snot."

Riddle's walk slowed, then stopped. He turned, ever so slowly, to face Bulstrode, his face terrifyingly blank. The common room seemed to grow a degree colder, and conversations faltered. Some wondered if Riddle was going to curse Bulstrode, but no such excitement ensued. A hint of a bland smile pressed the corners of Riddle's mouth upward, and he made no reply, just left without a word for the dormitories.

The next day, Reginald Bulstrode's cat was found strewn across the Hogwarts lawn in twenty-three bloody shreds.

A wolf, they said, but there was uneasy talk.

Third year turned into fourth, and Riddle returned from summer half a head taller, his bony features no longer boyish, now elegant in a strange, skeletal sort of way. His hair gleamed like teak, every strand permanently in place, as if charmed that way.

It happened in fourth year, in Transfiguration class. They had been assigned a chair each, and had been instructed to turn their chairs into dogs. Riddle's dog, a sleek Doberman, came into the world perfectly trained, and sat at a snap of his fingers.

"That's a beautiful dog," said a voice behind him.

Riddle turned and regarded Abraxas Malfoy with the same cultured disinterest he afforded everybody. "Thank you," he said.

"I think mine likes yours." Abraxas' dog, a snow-white husky, padded toward the Doberman, lay down at his feet, and whined. Abraxas looked at Riddle, and Riddle studied the other boy's face for a long moment before giving one slow, deliberate nod.

"I think so," said Riddle, folding his hands behind his back. He turned back to his dog, and didn't say another word, but when he left the class, Abraxas Malfoy was close behind his shoulder, attracted like a magnet.

They sank toward him one by one, after that, as inexorably as the sun sinks toward the horizon. They fell like wheat before the sickle. Wealthy, old names. Black. Lestrange. Mulciber. His, his, his.

By halfway through fourth year, he had drawn a pack about himself. They were so rabidly devoted that it could have been cause for alarm, had Tom Riddle not been the quiet boy, ever charming, ever responsible, ever good.

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fin

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-Speech