Beatific Machiavellian
Tom riddle x reader
Summary: Growing up in an all girls Orphanage during the 1940's was hard. I grew up faster than I needed to, becoming a protector to my younger sisters from the quiet cruelty than ran the home. Magic came a lot easier to me. By the time of my final year at hogwarts, I carry the weight of abandonment and guilt. For constantly leaving my sisters with that awful women. But what happens when my sevenths year at hogwarts brings me a terrible realisation. One that will change who I am forever.
Word count : 4.6k
Part 1
Warnings: mentions of abuse, abandonment, angst, slight fluff, eventual smut, possible character death, violence, bullying, self doubt, self pity.
The unforgiving roar of London was what woke me up. The hundreds of cars crawling on the roads below softly pulled me from my dreamless sleep. The soft glow of light peeking through the curtains fell over my face, reminding me to begin my day. The first thing I felt was the ache, pulsing throughout my arms and legs. It felt like a hydraulic press was pushing down on my body. The second thing I felt was a small 80‑pound body falling on top of me. I begrudgingly opened up my eyes to find a very energetic child staring down at me. My eyes drifted over to the clock on the wall; it read 5:27 a.m.
She squealed and rolled over me, lifting up my duvet to find the warmth underneath. I heard her release a soft sigh and soon felt her small hands grab my arm. I smiled and turned over to swaddle her into my chest. Most of the time, my days begin like this. I don’t know how this girl has so much energy in the mornings. She looks up at me, and that small evil smirk creeps up onto her face. I laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes, though. We sat there for a while, just basking in each other’s presence. The only distraction from the peace was the Londoners of 1940. Very busy people they were. However, our time together was bound to get ruined by someone soon, so for now I’m going to savor it. I almost drifted back into my deep sleep when I felt her shoulders begin to shake lightly. My heart dropped, and I closed my eyes, pulling her even closer.
“Please don’t go.”
I sighed and felt my lip begin to shake. It took me back to when she was younger, when I was younger. I know that I have to stay strong because if I break down, then I won’t be able to leave her.
“Baby…”
I began to console her when the door swung open, almost flying off its hinges. Light poured into the room, soon followed by the harsh smell of smoke. You would think that I would be used to it after enduring the thick smog for seventeen years, but sadly not. I always say that you should pray to have eyes that see the best in people, but with this woman, it’s very difficult. Jean Munsch was the lady of the house at Earl Grey Orphanage for Young Women. And she was a monster. Upon first glance she seemed like a modest woman.
Metallic grey hair, always politely pinned back into a small bun. The same old‑fashioned dress that covered almost her whole body. And black plimsoll shoes. She smelled like a strange mix of linen and smoke; it was the kind of smell that made you wrinkle your nose in disgust. She also always had the same exact look on her face. It was almost ineffable, just a pure look of hatred, like she was constantly looking down at you, embarrassed. Marie, the fragile little girl in my arms, burrowed closer to me. I instinctively wrapped my arms tighter around her, giving her a big squeeze before I sat up and turned to face the lady of the house.
“Good morning, Mistress,” I softly spoke the words, fearful of aggravating her.
She stood there, analyzing Marie and me. Her facial expression was so difficult to read. I desperately wanted to look into her mind; then again, I wasn’t quite sure if what I’d find would be good. I still had hope that this woman had some good left inside her; she just made it very hard to hope. Her eyes trailed up and down my body, and I could see that her eyebrows began to furrow. I prepared myself for a verbal beating, wondering if it was my unbrushed hair or ripped clothing that was causing the distressed look, but again, with Munsch, it was very hard to tell. She huffed and spoke with a disapproving tone.
“You leave at six.”
Her words didn’t mask the condescending manner in which they were intended to be said. She knew that after I left, I wasn’t allowed to come back. You see, once a girl turns eighteen here, she no longer has to house them; they are kicked out to fend for themselves. I turn legal age come winter. After that, I will not be able to protect my sisters from the wrath of Mistress Jean Munsch.
Hogwarts allows students to stay during term breaks, and I would have loved to. Hogwarts, when there are no other students, must be magical. The grounds alone are breathtaking, the thought of basking in the lonesome solitude, not having to worry about protecting the ones I love… but I don’t like to allow myself to think of that. I have to come back, or Mistress Munsch would unleash her violent anger on my baby sisters, and I won’t allow it. Unfortunately, after my eighteenth, I won’t be able to stop it anymore.
See, Jean portrays herself as a poised and polished woman. But what a lot of people don’t see is the bottled rage that builds inside her every day. I take pity on her; even after everything, I don’t believe that people are born wicked, rather, they have wickedness thrust upon them. Whatever happened to Jean Munsch must have changed her forever. I’m snapped out of my thoughts as she turns on her heel, slamming the door closed as she makes her exit. I finally release the sigh I have been holding in, and it seems so does Marie. I know that if we begin to have a normal conversation and act like everything is okay, then we will both break down. So I look at the clock again: 5:41 a.m. She, too, looks, and no words need to be said.
After Marie leaves, I pull the trunk onto my bed. With most of the packing already done last night, I just have to check that I have everything. Glancing outside, it seems that the weather reflects my very mood: grey and cold. Clouds form a roof of darkness over the city. As it is the first of September, the mornings are still light, so in the distance, just out of the city, bright beams of sun shine through breaks in the clouds, reminding me that although life right now is rotten and miserable, I will soon be at my real home.
With a sorrowful sigh and a long look at what once was my home, I give myself a small moment to reflect. Walking up to the window, I peer out at the city, letting myself imagine how every person out there has their own life, family and problems. I sometimes feel selfish for feeling the way I do. I was given food, a home, sisters whom I love deeply, and a bed to sleep in. Some people don’t have any of that. It breaks my heart imagining what other people may have been through. I was given the gift of magic, being able to lift objects into the air without touching them, and being able to transform and create things from my very imagination. And yet I was not given the gift of knowing my parents, or knowing why they did not want me.
My focus soon shifts and I stare at the girl I see every day, a reflection of who I am. My plaid dress, brushed hair, clean face, and dark, dull eyes stare back at me. That’s when the guilt hits that I am leaving these girls forever. The babies who I took care of when no one else would. Who would take care of them now? I clench my fists and allow a tear to slip slowly down my cheek. The clock now reads 5:57 a.m. I pull my coat on and pick up the heavy trunk.
As I am walking down the hall to make my way out, I am met with soft snores from the girls’ rooms. My hand wraps around the handle to Marie’s room. She shares with five of the other girls; they will take care of her. Marie has fallen asleep again, her chest softly rising and falling. I pull out a letter from my pocket, placing it on the side table next to her. My last goodbye. With one final kiss to her head, I take my leave, down the stairs and out of the door.
The orphanage was about a thirty‑minute walk to King’s Cross, so I kept my head up and began the trek. 1940s London was sad. Smoke from the factories filled the sky, giving London a constant grey cast. Everyone was either on their way to work and too bothered about their own lives to care about being kind to others, or the very few who let themselves be too kind and were suffering the consequences. Being kind was something I tried to implement into everything, not for beneficial reasons, but for someone.
I, too, had someone I looked up to the way Marie looked up to me. Margaret; she never got adopted either. So when the time came that she turned eighteen, I never saw her again. She had gotten an amazing job in the United States, one she couldn’t possibly turn down. But before she left, she gave me something very dear to me: a small necklace, with a gold locket that, when opened, reads, “Have courage and be kind.” I haven’t taken it off since the day she left, five years ago. She does not write to me; she promised she would. I don’t tend to think or dwell on it, as it tends to make me conjure thoughts of terrible things happening to her.
What if she had been killed? Or taken? The sound of a train leaving its tracks pulls me from the thoughts. The big and beautiful building of King’s Cross stands before me. The corners of my lips can’t help but perk up. After navigating my way to Platform Nine and Three‑Quarters, which wasn’t hard as it’s almost second nature now, I find myself on a crowded platform of children ranging from eleven to eighteen, most surrounded by their families hugging them goodbye. One girl, maybe eleven years old, is crying and clinging onto her mother. Another family is laughing and joking. It all begins to feel like too much. My head hangs low as I try my hardest to blend into the crowd.
Making friends has always been a bit of a struggle for me, so eventually I just gave up. Growing up with the absence of boys made it very frightening when I moved from my all‑girls grammar school to Hogwarts. They were like a whole new breed to me: immature and obnoxious. Which, granted, was mean but true. So I was embarrassingly friendless until I got paired with a strange blonde girl, who would soon be my best friend.
Her name was Luna Lovegood. She didn’t have many friends either, but she was a talker, and I was a listener. We just sort of clicked. I lift my head up to try and search for her but to no avail; I cannot find her. With the train soon departing, I step on in the hopes that she has already made her way on.
The train was just as crowded as the platform, if not more, due to the confined space. I began to slowly make my way to the last carriage. It’s usually empty, a small space with single seats and pull‑out trays attached to the seat in front. As I walk down to the end of the train, I try to keep to myself as best as possible, to not disturb other people and to attempt to stay in the shadows. Most students of Hogwarts did not know me, let alone know I existed. Yes, it was a pretty big school.
My theory was correct this time; however, Luna was nowhere to be seen. I sighed and hoped that she might have found solace in another compartment. Luna could almost fit in anywhere. Not that people would necessarily accept her, but the aspect I envied most about the sweet girl was that she did not care what people thought of her. Luna could find the best parts of anyone, no matter how deeply buried they might be. I try to be like her as much as I can. She is the brightest light in my life. And when you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light. Tired from the walk to the station, I made peace with her absence and found a spot towards the rear of the carriage. Placing my trunk in the compartment above my head, I stand there for a moment, I breathe, then I slide down onto the seat and pull out my copy of Murder on the Orient Express. The train began to vibrate as it set off. I didn’t let myself look up at the platform, knowing that it would only bring me sadness. Instead, I allowed myself to dive into the world of Poirot.
As we got closer and closer to the Scottish Highlands, my presumption was correct. Beams of vitamin D radiated onto my skin, warming me and bringing me comfort I had been missing for a while. It’s moments like this that I can breathe; all of my troubles are temporarily forgotten, and I can just let go. I don’t have to think or feel anything. It’s pure bliss. Trains give me such comfort, the views of Scotland especially. That slow gradient of gloomy London to this beauty is almost a sign of peace. I have a couple more hours of the journey left, and I’ve almost finished the book.
The passing of greenery completely entrances me, pulling my attention to it like a siren. It’s a shame I don’t have a radio; the sound of music would make this moment oh so much more amazing. I had believed that I figured out the murderer very early on in the novel, but to my dismay I was proven wrong. It took me a lot longer to finish than I had initially expected. I think that may be due to my constant pausing in disbelief as the mystery unfolded. Having understood the motive to kill, I still found it hard to comprehend how anyone can inflict so much violence on another. I certainly never hope to feel such rage. Life is a beautiful gift given to us; it’s not only our job to protect ourselves and others, but also the great green earth that homes us.
My way of thinking is probably why, at eleven years old, I was placed in Hufflepuff House. I couldn’t imagine it any other way. Awaking to the quiet yet calmly warm common room, and being able to roam and interact with the various plants scattered across the large room was something so blissfully ineffable. The room is warm in a way that seeps into your bones and wraps around your body in a hug. Everything feels lived-in, armchairs sag slightly in the middle, and the rugs are worn from years of people padding across them barefoot. The massive windows circling the room allowed for views of the Highlands, and when caught at just the right time, formed a breathtaking floral colour in the sky.
The way of the sky changes the whole ambience of the room, pathetic fallacy at its finest. Marie had told me about that English writing technique when she had learned it. I cannot teach her anything I learn, as it’s against the Ministry of Magic’s conduct, so instead, she teaches me. It makes her feel older, more mature. Half of the time I never really know what she is talking about. She may know what she is trying to portray; however, she’s not the best at getting it out.
The room itself feels more like a burrow, or a cabin in the middle of a vast enchanted wood, than a hall. With round doorways and soft, golden light spilling from lamps tucked into the walls, it’s a completely different place from the rest of the school. Although having never been to the other common rooms besides Ravenclaw’s, I’ve heard descriptions of others, and quite frankly, I believe that they just don’t beat mine.
I reopen my eyes, smiling to myself as I remember that the train will soon arrive. September 1st has chosen to fall on a Saturday this year, meaning that school will not start immediately. It gives the lovely Miss Luna and I a chance to catch up after the summer; we have been so nervous about starting our seventh year. The thought of having to leave this beautiful castle for good just brings copious amounts of sorrow to my tainted heart. The people, I’m not so sad to leave. Yes, granted, I have not made the biggest effort to expand my range of friends, but why should I when I love the people I surround myself with now? Besides, I do often like to be alone, just to sit and organise my thoughts, let my imagination run wild.
That brings me to the friends—well, not really friends. More like a temporary acquaintance that I sometimes sit with and grow too shy to converse. Poppy Sweeting. She, like Luna and I, has a very small number of friends. So when my thoughts begin to consume me, I make my way through the castle and into the grounds. It is there that I find Poppy, either taking care of a wild hippogriff or another magical creature. We work in tandem, in silence, just grateful to have someone who shares the same love for these wild creatures as the other. Poppy does not get heckled as much as Luna does, mainly because, like me, she moves in the shadows. It’s comforting, not being the only one hiding in the darkness.
I hope that for my final year, I get a place in the same dormitory as her. It would be pleasant to finally converse with the girl who doesn’t realise how much she helps me. Not that the majority of the girls in my house aren’t sweet. Most of them don’t know who I am, again, probably because I don’t really announce myself too much. Deep down I think it’s because I’m scared that whoever I present myself to, they won’t like what they see. The more people that you let into your life, the more can just walk right out of it. I feel the same way about relationships.
The thought of letting someone look that deeply into your soul, letting them know everything about you petrifies me in a way that it really shouldn’t. Having a long list of lovers on my résumé was not something that I was particularly worried about. Only in some rare and vulnerable moments do I dream of a lover. A soulmate. Someone who loves me for the way I am, fully and completely. Those types of thoughts are the ones I put on hold and store in the deepest parts of my mind. I do believe that there is someone out there for everyone; I have yet to meet my person.
There are about forty minutes left of the journey, and the sun grows weaker, slowly making its retreat towards the night. The sky is flooded with a warm hue, glistening off the numerous lakes and rivers we pass. I decide that it’s time I change into my school robes. Thankfully there is a restroom located at the far end of the locomotive. Reaching for the trunk above my head, I lower it down and search for my robes. After successfully finding the flood of fabric, I begin my short walk to the single cubicle. It’s cramped yet not incredibly stuffy, as the only person to have used it today was me. The task of changing is challenging, but without the pressure of time I remain calm.
After my robes are on, I exit the small room, entering the same empty carriage. Yet something pricks my attention. The trunk that I had left closed on my seat was now open, lying on the floor. It looked like someone had rifled through it, desperately and frantically searching to find something. I stand still, a confused yet cautious look forming on my face. Moving my feet, I take a few steps forward. From a quick glance, nothing seems to be missing. Maybe the train had shaken and therefore caused it to fall from its resting place. But I remember buckling it up before leaving; it had been unbuckled.
Not wanting to scare myself too much, I put it down to tainted memory and closed the trunk back up. However, I cannot seem to shake this weary feeling. Digging the ends of my fingernails into my palms, I slowly sit down. It was a bad habit that I have never been able to defeat. I stay still for a while, only snapping out of it when I feel the train begin to slow. With a big swallow and a long intake of breath through my nose, my legs stretch, and I stand. Grabbing my trunk and taking one last scan of the carriage to make sure I had not left any of my belongings behind, I made my way to the exit door.
Stepping out onto the platform calmed my restless emotions. Seeing the swarm of students, varying in ages and gender, I allow myself to relax slightly. My shoulders fall, and the vice grip I had on the handle of my trunk loosens. The sigh I didn’t know I was still holding slips from my lips. Finally, I allow myself to walk to the carriages ahead.
Part 2
