She wasn't afraid when she met him that first time. Twelve years old and she met him head-on - a winding staircase, she on her way down, and he ascending. Her fingers had been cold, she remembered that. The winter months had already begun to set, the threat of snow heavy on the air and heavy on the castle, a sheath of November gray absent any forthcoming holiday cheer.
"You're Tom," she had said, neither coldly or unkindly, but rather a statement of fact. He was Tom, and she knew this. She knew of him, not that he had attained any sort of celebrity or notoriety, but that he was Tom Riddle of Slytherin House; he earned his House fifteen points that morning in Potions, she had heard about it though she had not seen it.
He had not answered at first, but rather stepped beside her on the same stone stair, still a child but with a man's disdain and composure.
"Minerva," he said, and that was all. He walked past her and continued his climb and she continued down the stairwell.
(Later, she would come to remember the way he said her name differently, colored by the mood of the moment or the politics of the time. He sneered at her - she remembered him this way only a year later, when he blatantly ignored her in the Great Hall after she had nodded at him. He had sneered her name, she decided. Other times she remembers him as trying to intimidate her - that he was a monster even then and she had known, she had known before them all, seen the devil inside him when he opened his mouth with her name on that serpent tongue.
Most days, these older days, her graying hair - same as the gray sky she met him under, but she doesn't think this, Minerva has no place for poetics amidst her pragmatism - she remembers it as just a boy saying a girl's name, nothing more. Nothing less.
Nothing less. It's a sad memory).
She was not afraid the second time she met him. She had been older, but with the wisdom of a teenage girl. It was her seventh year, and she remembers it as his seventh year as well, and perhaps it was. Perhaps that is irrelevant - whether she left before him or if they left together. But she was seventeen and her foot was on the stair and she was rising and he was descending down to her.
They met on the landing, stone steps and stone walls, and she had been cold this time as well.
"Minerva," the boy said, but no, not a boy, not now - now he was as much a man as she was a woman - and no, he didn't say it, he hissed it, a sibilant quality no one had ever imbued her with before.
She met his eyes, because she was strong, but she was also supposed to be intelligent. His eyes were dark, sharp, as they watched her face, her own bright gray eyes, her thin lips, her thin, avian build - all bony limbs hidden under a cloak of black.
She meant to say his name, but the single syllable stuck in her mouth. It stuck in her mouth same as he would come to stick, the way he did not so much as lurch forward but was simply suddenly there: his pale hands tight and white-knuckled at her waist, the way he had to lean down to reach her, the way she tipped her head up, self-aware but still complicit.
Tom Riddle was her first kiss. She was seventeen years old and the stairwell was cold and gray, the sky was cold and gray, the palms of his hand cold, the stone wall at her back cold, her own eyes so cold and gray.
She had not been afraid until he pulled away, the slick slide of his mouth against and into her own a tangible muscle memory. His eyes had not changed.
There was nothing there. His eyes had not changed.
The third time, she met him on her way down. He laughed as he passed, his hand cold and she could feel it through her robes as it passed along her leg. Minerva did not stumble on the stair, and he brushed past her, headed up. Even after he was gone, even after she found the bottom of the staircase, a Divination scroll clutched to her chest, she found she was very afraid.
She found the bottom of the stairs and she found she was afraid - his cold laugh and his cold hand still very much a part of her.
minerva mcgonagall/tom riddle - the fall of the house of escher
"You're Tom," she had said, neither coldly or unkindly, but rather a statement of fact. He was Tom, and she knew this. She knew of him, not that he had attained any sort of celebrity or notoriety, but that he was Tom Riddle of Slytherin House; he earned his House fifteen points that morning in Potions, she had heard about it though she had not seen it.
He had not answered at first, but rather stepped beside her on the same stone stair, still a child but with a man's disdain and composure.
"Minerva," he said, and that was all. He walked past her and continued his climb and she continued down the stairwell.
(Later, she would come to remember the way he said her name differently, colored by the mood of the moment or the politics of the time. He sneered at her - she remembered him this way only a year later, when he blatantly ignored her in the Great Hall after she had nodded at him. He had sneered her name, she decided. Other times she remembers him as trying to intimidate her - that he was a monster even then and she had known, she had known before them all, seen the devil inside him when he opened his mouth with her name on that serpent tongue.
Most days, these older days, her graying hair - same as the gray sky she met him under, but she doesn't think this, Minerva has no place for poetics amidst her pragmatism - she remembers it as just a boy saying a girl's name, nothing more. Nothing less.
Nothing less. It's a sad memory).
She was not afraid the second time she met him. She had been older, but with the wisdom of a teenage girl. It was her seventh year, and she remembers it as his seventh year as well, and perhaps it was. Perhaps that is irrelevant - whether she left before him or if they left together. But she was seventeen and her foot was on the stair and she was rising and he was descending down to her.
They met on the landing, stone steps and stone walls, and she had been cold this time as well.
"Minerva," the boy said, but no, not a boy, not now - now he was as much a man as she was a woman - and no, he didn't say it, he hissed it, a sibilant quality no one had ever imbued her with before.
She met his eyes, because she was strong, but she was also supposed to be intelligent. His eyes were dark, sharp, as they watched her face, her own bright gray eyes, her thin lips, her thin, avian build - all bony limbs hidden under a cloak of black.
She meant to say his name, but the single syllable stuck in her mouth. It stuck in her mouth same as he would come to stick, the way he did not so much as lurch forward but was simply suddenly there: his pale hands tight and white-knuckled at her waist, the way he had to lean down to reach her, the way she tipped her head up, self-aware but still complicit.
Tom Riddle was her first kiss. She was seventeen years old and the stairwell was cold and gray, the sky was cold and gray, the palms of his hand cold, the stone wall at her back cold, her own eyes so cold and gray.
She had not been afraid until he pulled away, the slick slide of his mouth against and into her own a tangible muscle memory. His eyes had not changed.
There was nothing there. His eyes had not changed.
The third time, she met him on her way down. He laughed as he passed, his hand cold and she could feel it through her robes as it passed along her leg. Minerva did not stumble on the stair, and he brushed past her, headed up. Even after he was gone, even after she found the bottom of the staircase, a Divination scroll clutched to her chest, she found she was very afraid.
She found the bottom of the stairs and she found she was afraid - his cold laugh and his cold hand still very much a part of her.