The Whispers Of Veiled hatred

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──

Chapter 8 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

From the very beginning, even back in the orphanage, Tom had a way of making me feel like I was an outsider. The times when we used to talk and laugh like friends are distant and cherished memories in the back of my mind, ones I never let myself forget. But those memories had become faded, almost like a dream that I could no longer fully grasp.

He was always distant, cold, his words sharp and calculated, as if he knew something the rest of us didn't. And maybe he did. Perhaps the day we discovered we were magical—when Professor Dumbledore came to take us away from that dreary place—was the day Tom changed for the worse.

Or maybe it was the day he became more of who he had always been deep inside.

Was I naive to think that everything would change after we got to Hogwarts and escaped that wretched place? Was I foolish to hope?

Maybe I was naive, but hoping was something I never stopped doing. It was a comfort to me in the times of many hardships I faced, a small warmth I could cling to in the darkness.

A part of me believed that everything would start anew at Hogwarts, that we could leave behind the cold, unyielding walls of the orphanage. If my wish to be free from that place had been granted, then surely my other wishes could be granted too.

But those wishes weren't. The first time had been just a one-time stroke of luck.

I knew that hoping would only lead to disappointment, shattering my heart even more before I had the chance to heal the previous cracks. Yet, I clung to it desperately, because it was the only thing that kept me going.

When we were on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, even then it seemed as if parts of the boy I once knew were still there. Our interactions were small, almost insignificant, but I saw them as a sign of progress.

I remember the Great Feast of our first year at Hogwarts as if it were yesterday. The enchanted ceiling, the floating candles, the long tables filled with food—it was like stepping into a dream. But that dream quickly turned sour.

I remember watching as Tom, who had been sorted into Slytherin with a kind of regal ease, sat among the purebloods, his expression one of cold detachment. His posture was immaculate, his chin held high as though he already knew he was destined for greatness.

The moment I was sorted into Gryffindor, I noticed the way his gaze darkened, as if a part of him was disappointed. At that time, I didn't know why, but I quickly learned about the long-standing hatred between Slytherins and Gryffindors.

The tiny hope of us being friends again vanished completely. It was then that I realized he belonged to a different world, a world where blood status meant everything.

Purebloods were revered, half-bloods tolerated, and Muggle-borns like me—Mudbloods, they called us—were something to be despised.

At first, I clung to the hope that Hogwarts might change Tom, that this new world, filled with magic and wonder, might soften the edges of his dark presence. But as the weeks turned into months, that hope began to fade.

Tom grew more distant, more ruthless. He surrounded himself with those who shared his beliefs—Avery, Lestrange, and Nott—purebloods who worshipped the ground he walked on, even after acknowledging him as a half-blood.

The pureblood Slytherins despised everything that was different from them, yet they worshipped a half-blood. It was laughable how controversial they were.

It always made me wonder about Tom's charisma and persona.

He had a way of bending others to his will, making them believe in him, even when everything about him should have repelled them. He could manipulate even those superior to him into worshipping him, and that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

Despite the growing darkness within him, there was a small, irrational part of me that couldn't let go of the boy I once knew. The boy who, even in his cruelty, had been my friend.

As the years passed, I came to understand that Tom's cruelty wasn't overt.

It was subtle, like a knife wrapped in velvet. He never openly insulted me, but his words were laced with disdain, his gaze filled with contempt.

He made it clear, without ever saying it, that I was beneath him. That I, a Mudblood, was nothing more than a speck of dirt on his otherwise pristine world.

And yet, there was something in his eyes, something that flickered whenever he looked at me—a challenge, a game that only he understood. A game he knew he could only play with me.

In those early days, I tried to convince myself that if I was patient enough, he would change. But as the months turned into years, I came to despise him. The anger and frustration boiling inside me were because of his arrogance, his superiority.

But deep down, in the corners of my heart that I refused to acknowledge, was the affection I still held for him. I knew I would always be unable to stop myself from caring about him, from lashing out whenever I heard news of him getting hurt.

Even when he made me despise him more than ever. I always, deep inside, clung to the hope of change, of him becoming the boy I once knew.

Our interactions were few and far between at Hogwarts. He made sure of that. He couldn't let anyone know that I, a Mudblood, came from the same place he did. Could he?

But when we did cross paths, there was always a tension in the air, a sense of something unspoken.

I would catch him watching me sometimes, his expression unreadable, and I would quickly look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected me.

Sometimes it felt like I was nothing, and yet, somehow, everything because of the way he looked at me.

I had friends, after all—Minerva, with her sharp wit and unwavering loyalty; Hagrid, whose warmth and kindness were a balm to my soul. I wasn't alone. Neither was I blind to the reality of Tom's influence.

He was a master of manipulation, of pretending to be the perfect student, the model wizard, all the while hiding his true nature from everyone but me. I saw the darkness in him, the hunger for power that seemed to grow stronger with each passing year.

As the years passed, that darkness only deepened. And by the time our fifth year began, I knew there was no going back. Tom had become someone I could barely recognize.

He had grown taller, his features sharper, more refined. His presence commanded attention, and he wielded it like a weapon, drawing people to him with an ease that was almost terrifying. But for all his charm, there was a coldness to him, a calculated cruelty that he reserved especially for me.

A voice snapped me back to reality, untangling me from my thoughts.

"Miss, if you would be so kind as to begin," Professor Merrythought's voice cut through the murmurs of the classroom.

I glanced up, startled to find the room eerily quiet. The usual sounds of spells being cast and the crackle of magic in the air had disappeared, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. All eyes were on us.

I was paired to duel with Tom Riddle.

He looked at me with that same unreadable expression, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—something that made my heart race.

The duel began, and I fought with everything I had.

"Expelliarmus!" I shouted, trying to disarm him. Tom's wand flicked, and he deflected the spell effortlessly. "Protego!" I countered his curses with a shield, my hands trembling slightly.

Tom's spells were precise and deadly. "Stupefy!" he cast, the red jet of light speeding towards me. I barely had time to dodge, my heart pounding as I scrambled to keep up.

Just when he had me cornered, when I was certain he would strike, his wand veered off course, and the spell missed me by inches. It wasn't a mistake. It was a calculated move, a message that only I could understand.

I retaliated, my spell crashing against his shield. "Reducto!" The force of the spell made him stagger slightly, but his expression remained calm, unbothered by my efforts.

For a brief moment, our eyes met.

There it was—the smirk, the slight curl of his lips that spoke volumes. It was a silent mockery, a reminder that no matter how hard I fought, I would never be his equal. I was just a Mudblood, after all, and he was Tom Riddle—the boy who would one day become something far more dangerous than any of us could imagine.

The room was silent except for the sporadic sounds of spells. Hagrid and Minerva watched with silent encouragement, their eyes reflecting their concern. Professor Merrythought observed us intently, her gaze a mixture of scrutiny and interest.

I realized then that the miss was just to let me think I had a chance. I had no hope of winning against someone like him. The smirk returned, his expression a perfect blend of superiority and mockery. It was clear that, despite my efforts, Tom was always in control.

As the duel ended and the room filled with the sounds of applause, I stood there, my heart pounding