Chapter 2
I woke to warmth. My fingers curled into the sheets, gripping the soft fabric beneath me as though testing its reality. It was comforting, yes, but strange, like the soft hum of a song you’ve never heard but somehow know all the words to. For a while, I let my eyes unfocus and just exist in the space above me, tracing veins of the fine cracks in the plaster above my head.
For a long time, I was motionless and it was only a matter of seconds before I would start to blame the ceiling for not doing something—anything, really. Wake, eat, sleep, repeat. I couldn’t remember when life had stopped surprising me, but it had. I had been running on autopilot for as long as I could recall, each day bleeding into the next with dull inevitability.
And then— knock knock .
The sound jerked me upright. Since when do they?-.I gawked at the door, as if it would somehow provide the answer. Almost on cue, it opened, and there they were, a plate of pancakes cradled in my mother’s hands like some offering. She smiled at me, warm, soft, like the sun filtering through clouds. I blinked at the breakfast in her grasp, frowning as my eyes drifted to the nightstand. “Did you move the clock?”
Mum tilted her head and her smile faded slightly in mild confusion. “What clock, Cecile? You’ve never had one.” She crossed the room, putting a plate of food on the nightstand. “Eat your pancakes sweetheart or you‘ll be late.“
I opened my mouth and closed it almost at the same time as I realized I was on the verge of asking yet again another stupid question. No, I knew I was meant to go somewhere today. What that somewhere was though, I could not recall. Fortunately, pancakes did not require much thought, so I reached for them.
“Are you alright, ma chérie ?” My father’s voice cut through the quiet for the first time, and when I looked at him, his face wore a smile. An actual smile—genuine and directed at me of all people. I blinked again, too long this time, trying to place the oddness of it. Why was it striking me now? I saw him smile yesterday.
“Yes,” I managed, though my voice felt foreign in my own throat.“I just had some trouble sleeping, that‘s all.”
“Well then, you are lucky your classes only start in a few days.“
Classes. Right.
My gaze lifted up, spotting a bunch of luggages scattered on the floor. I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to chase away whatever lingering exhaustion I was blaming for my disorientation, and then, I felt the bed shift under my mother‘s presence as she held my hand. “We understand that it is going to be a big change for you. But I know that you will enjoy the scenery Scotland has to offer.“ She moved her hand to my cheek as she added in a quiet tone laced with emotions I could not decipher, “My sweet girl.“
And I would have answered if my eyes were not fixed on her thumb running circles on my cheek. Everything was so odd.
My father promptly jumped to my rescue, addressing his wife, “ Laurie, tu ne fais que lui faire peur . Elle va nous envoyer des lettres .“
{ Laurie, you are only scaring her. She will send letters. }
He began lifting up each suitcase one by one, dragging them out of the room before turning to me. “Ready?“
No. “Yes.“ To make it convincing, I let the flicker of a smile cross my features as I gently squeezed my mother‘s hand, and got up from the bed, making my way over to the mirror. Standing before the reflection that blinked back at me, something flickered behind my eyes and it vanished as soon as I tried to pull it to the surface.
My mother stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. “We’ll be downstairs, darling. Take your time, and come down when you’re ready.” She kissed my forehead softly, and for a moment, I wondered if she noticed the way I flinched ever so slightly at the contact. She didn’t seem to, thankfully.
With a final smile, my parents left the room and I let my gaze drift to the suitcases piled by the door, half-open, spilling with clothes. My eyes caught on a small, gleaming letter atop the dresser with a crest stamped in wax.
Hogwarts.
I was most definitely not ready when time slipped through my fingers. The train, the ride and every indistinct face I came across blurred. It was not until my feet carried me in front of the castle whose spires rose into the dusky sky that everything finally came into focus.
The awe that had overtaken me in the brief moment the hurrying staff allowed me to admire the intimidating towers slowly subdued, giving way for another feeling I was more accustomed to: Embarrassment. Much to my utmost dissatisfaction, as a transfer, I was provided no choice but to be escorted along with the first years.
They resembled ants that I could easily step on when I stood a head taller than the closest eleven-year-old. My skin would have prickled under the shared confused whispers and sneaky judgmental looks thrown at me was it not for my focus on something else entirely. I told myself that was I to look up now, the ceiling would mirror the night sky and so I did. I was right. Then I told myself that there would be large windows lining the wall behind the teachers‘ table, my head looked down and locked on them. Each archway, each pillar, even the way the light cast shadows on the stone floors. I was also right.
And yet—I had never been here.
But no matter how many times I blinked or forced myself to focus on the ceremony unfolding before me, I could still assign names to the faces that should have been unfamiliar.
“Next!” Professor McGonagall’s voice boomed. That was her name, yes.
It only took an expectant look from her for the first years to part like a river as I passed, my legs carrying me to the front. I could feel every pair of eyes on me when I lowered myself onto the stool and the Sorting Hat found its place on my head. I must’ve looked ridiculous, a fully grown sixth year perched on the edge of a seat meant for children.
For a heartbeat, I was granted the gift of silence. And then, the voice came, winding through my thoughts like a serpent through tall grass. "Curious... very curious indeed," it murmured, "You know, don’t you? Or at least, you feel it... The familiarity of this place."
The question hung like a noose and before my heartrate could even spike, he spoke again in an amused tone, “No need to be alarmed. I see it all. Your confusion. Your unease. You don’t remember, do you? And yet, you know.”
My lack of surprise in the hat knowing the feeling I had been carrying ever since I woke up this morning did not make up for the fact that I hated disclosing any types of feelings, let alone having my mind invaded. And I did not care that it was his job. “Get this over with and sort me in Gryffindor.“
"Gryffindor, is it?" the hat mused. "Interesting choice. I see fire in you, yes. A spark of something untamed, a desire to prove yourself, perhaps?"
I knew where this was going. “I‘ll stop you right there-“
“Oh, I see ambition, ” the hat’s voice grew thoughtful. “More than you’d care to admit. You crave recognition, don’t you? Power. You want to matter. You want to make a difference—no, to change things. You have the will to do it, too. The only question that remains is whether you have the strength. But what is life without its challenges? You belong in-”
“Gryffindor!“ I emphasized in its stead as I could feel my palms growing damp and my nails dug into the edge of the stool.
"No matter," the hat cut me off once more, its voice certain now. He was clearly doing this on purpose. "You’ve come with purpose. And a purpose like yours can only lead you one way.“
“Don‘t you dare.“
“Slytherin!“ He finally declared as his voice echoed through the hall, followed by a round of applause from what seemed to be the new Slytherin first years. However, the applause became a dull roar in the background, and before I knew it, I was on my feet. I ripped it from my head and threw it to the ground. It landed with a thud, its ragged edges sagging in defeat. A collective gasp from the staff and students boomed through the room and I didn‘t look back as my feet dragged across the ground, stomping their way out of the hall.
When the doors slammed behind me, my back found solace on the wall. The voice of professor McGonagall calling students one by one resumed, as if I had already faded into a dream they could forget. But I knew they would not. In fact, I would most likely be called down to the office of the headmaster and I would have to speak to Dumbledore and-
No, that could not be right. We were in the year of 1943. He had yet to be promoted to that position and-
Sluggish footsteps interrupted my breath coming in shallow waves. They were the kind of footsteps that were not in any hurry as they did not have to be. Ones that could walk into a classroom halfway through the lesson and be exempted from a detention that anyone else would have received. The figure stopped just before the doors of the Great Hall, its head tilting ever so slightly when listening to the muffled echoes of the sorting Ceremony continuing inside. And then, its eyes flicked toward me.
Notice how I call him an “it“? I believe it would be an insult to men to refer to that monster as anything but “it“, but for the sake of your understanding, dear readers, I will indulge.
He didn’t say anything at first, merely watching me with that same unsettling stillness, waiting for me to initiate the conversation as though his attention was the one thing I should crave. However, in the least possible offensive way, if he continued on with this silence, I was sure that this would turn into a breathing competition.
When it stretched into too many seconds, I swore I heard a scoff before he broke the silence with one comment, “Quite an impression you left on those poor eleven year-olds.“ The voice slid over me like silk under a calmness that was almost soothing. I say almost were it not for the coldness in it that prickled at my skin. “You have not fancied making friends with them, I assume?“
Smart. That was a classic. Adding a jab to elicit any reaction. Little did he know, amongst all the flaws that I had, my ability to suppress emotions, as destructive as it was, finally came in handy. I kept my gaze down, doing nothing but fiddle with my fingers. My response was short and dull. “I have not.“
Much to my dissatisfaction, he did not move. “You are not the first recorded case of discontentment with the house that has been assorted to them.” He said and I could not tell whether those were supposed to be words of reassurement or simply a hidden message that I was not special.
“I didn’t ask for it,” I muttered. “The hat decided.”
“The hat does not make mistakes. It sees things in us that we sometimes refuse to acknowledge ourselves.“ He pointed out, “Did you know that it was designed by Salazar Slytherin himself?“
“And by the way you‘re glazing him, I‘d assume you‘re in Slytherin yourself?“
“Glazing?“
“Over praising.“
“That is not what you said.“
“It is a synonym.“
“I know English quite well.“
“Do you often find yourself critiquing other people’s vocabularies?”
“Only when they insist on using words that do not exist.”
“Then perhaps you should open a dictionary.“
Silence. Absolute silence. My gaze was still downward and he didn’t respond, didn’t move. The air between us was similar to a twig that could snap at any moment. But the quiet was so oppressive that I could hear his modulated breathing as though it was taking all of his strength to maintain a well-practiced composure.
“Yes, I am in Slytherin.“ He finally answered, breaking the silence once again and I almost thanked him for it. “In fact, if you could simply just summon the same boldness that overtook you just now, you would be capable of looking at the badge adorning my robes and gather that I am more than that.“
The more he spoke, the more pieces flew inside my head, assembling a puzzle of their own. There it was. the arrogance in his tone, disguised as nothing but a simple fact over the desire to prove that he was above me. It was maddening. Because in the back of my mind, I had already heard it in a distant dream. Slowly, I dragged my gaze upward to a grass-coloured badge. A prefect. It made sense. Who would spend their Sunday near the Great Hall for no apparent reason other than escorting a bunch of lost sheep to their common room?
It was the year of 1943.
1943. Slytherin. Prefect.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up—my head snapping up, my eyes locking onto coffee brown eyes that I thought could belong to a basilisk with the way it had stilled the world around me. Standing tall and composed, his posture perfect—carved from marble, one might think. His dark hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his sharp features were as finely chiseled as they were cold. He looked flawless, some masterpiece of unnatural precision, with no life beyond that. Flawless and lifeless.
But it was his eyes— There was nothing in them. No warmth, no flicker of humanity. So much so that It was almost insulting that he tugged the invisible strings attached to his lips upward into forming what mimicked the warmth of a smile. He extended a hand, pale, slender, carved from marble—so pristine, it seemed unreal. And yet, the image of him felt ghostly, like something from a half-forgotten nightmare. His smile twisted in the low light, a mockery of warmth, stitched onto his lips like a puppet.
“Tom Riddle.“ He said.
I know.
The moment our eyes met, time itself seemed to shudder and some primal instinct buried deep in my marrow clawed its way to the surface. The voice in my head was clear as a bell: Danger. Flee.
But I did not. My hand, traitorous in every way, lifted of its own accord, meeting his in a gesture that felt like a binding contract. The cold of his touch seeped into my skin, numbing the last flicker of reason in my mind. “Cécile, Moreau. The pleasure is mine.“ I responded.
I wish I could say I was lying back then. And in an odd way, I knew I was selfish for the fact that the weight on my shoulders had suddenly just vanished. Because when you think you’re twisted, all you need is to think of none other than Tom Riddle to feel sane.
So, my brain dusted off every single insignificant detail starting with how I even got here to how I could not remember anything from my past, nothing except every single inch of this castle anyway, revealing one purpose that shone amongst all else: Saving him from himself.
Not for his sake though, that I did not care for. But what better way to prove to yourself that you are powerful other than to fix what is believed to be a lost cause?
And so, with a nod of acknowledgement, I retracted my hand. “I reckon I must head to my common room now. It is getting quite late.“ Then I spun on my heel and went down the steps leading to the dungeons.
What I had forgotten though, in that moment of hurry where my body was simply functioning on autopilot, was that I was supposed to be a transfer student. I was supposed to be amongst the crowd of lost sheep as I called them in my entitlement.
Hence, it was no surprise that Tom Riddle‘s eyes drilled holes on my back as I roamed the castle as though it had been my home for as long as I have lived.