miikka-xx: i have had this idea for three years now, and am only now putting it down. geez.

title: fabricated tendencies
rating: T
summary: In which Minerva McGonagall witnesses Tom Riddle's first defeat, his first victim and his first taste of madness and obsession. Glimpses in their years at Hogwarts. twisted!TomMinerva. complete.
disclaimer: JK Rowling, as well as owning Harry Potter, owns my childhood, heart and soul.
warning(s): slight OOCness; it's fairly tame, really, with some dark themes thrown in.

fabricated tendencies

Tom Riddle is eleven years old. He has dark, messy hair and sharp, quick eyes. There is something refined about him as he does not trembling like the other 11 year olds around him. He is not tall, nor is he short, but he stands out from the crowd with his sheer intensity.

Minerva watches from the Gryffindor table (she always loved Sorting, she liked to guess who would go where and was rarely wrong) and picks him to be a Ravenclaw sort - all clever and sharp but polite and reserved.

She is right for each guess except one. He walks carefully to the Slytherin table as she claps politely. Tom glances over in her direction, momentarily catching her eye, and she shivers.

Tom Riddle is eleven years old and a Slytherin.

Minerva McGonagall is twelve years old and a Gryffindor. She is afraid.

Tom Riddle is twelve years and she thirteen.

Minerva braids her hair down her back and carries around a schoolbag filled with books. She sits in a corner chair, high-backed and plush (her only real indulgence) and reads books about magic spells.

Tom is a bit taller now, and his trousers swish shyly around his ankles, not long enough for a growing boy. He walks up to her one lazy, Sunday afternoon - all business; back straight, gaze sharp and demanding - and says politely, "Miss, may I please borrow that book from you?"

Minerva watches him warily, trying to understand how someone so intense could be younger than her, and tries to reply without snapping.

"My name is Minerva McGonagall, yours?" She knows, but she tries anyways. Slytherins are nasty people, they tell her, but she wants to know for sure.

"Tom Riddle," he says tonelessly, "Miss McGonagall, may I have that book after you're done?"

"Of course you may, Mister Riddle," she says with a polite smile, handing it over to him.

"Thank you," he replies, tucking it under his arm, and with a curt nod, he turns around and leaves.

Minerva struggles to breathe again.

Tom Riddle is thirteen and she fourteen.

Minerva still braids her hair down her back and claims the seat in the corner of the library as her own. She watches him at a distance, the chair tucked behind two bookshelves away from the bustling students at the tables out in the front of the library. She is afraid of him but too curious to resist. He is dangerous, she knows, but she is a Gryffindor.

Tom Riddle now has trousers that fit, the hem spilling elegantly over shined shoes as he talks to his fellow Slytherin. He's becoming handsomer and girls give him one-overs more often. There are whispers in the air as he wins them over with his smile and words. He is smart, he is fun, he is cunning, he is pureblood. Tom Riddle is the King of Slytherin.

Minerva herself is a strong Gryffindor, never bowing out of a challenge. A Chaser on the Quidditch team, she flies proud and does not look at boys at all. She is smart, polite and clever, with piercing wit and sharp aim. She is uniquely beautiful with intelligent green eyes and dark hair. She is the Queen of Gryffindor.

They are the prizes of their respective houses, and are pressured to be rivals.

The first battle takes place in the library, as Minerva lounges on her chair, a Genealogy book propped up with a Daily Prophet folded on her lap.

"I hope you remember me," says Tom, standing before her, with his hands hanging limply beside him. Long, white fingers; like spiders. Minerva tries not to scream.

"Mister Riddle," she acknowledges with a brief nod, before returning to her reading.

"Would you do me the honour of lending me that book?" He gestures to the cover and her fingers curl over it protectively.

"Not today, unfortunately. I still have uses for it," she answers. Her mind, though momentarily hindered by his presence, continues to whir in motion, absorbing the words as she reads.

"Is that so?" He pauses, before stepping back. "Perhaps later then?"

"Of course," she flashes him a polite smile and watches him leave the library stiffly.

This is their first battle. It ends in a draw, though Minerva knows he considers it a humiliating loss. For whom else, other than the reigning queen of Gryffindor, would dare challenge his request - nay, order?

She tries not to smile at her supposed win, but it is hard to subdue.

Tom is fourteen and she fifteen.

Minerva sees him romance a girl out of the corner of her eyes.

The girl is a Slytherin, with dark skin and even darker hair. Her smile is all white teeth and her mouth sharp and venomous. She loves and hates with a fiery passion and undying loyalty. Like Minerva, her thick black hair is in a braid that swings down her back.

She smiles, a bit condescendingly, and says her name is Nagini.

Minerva is scared for her.

Tom smile's a bit coldly around her, his fingers darting over the sleeve of her sweater as she watches him with dark eyes. He makes her laugh and watch him with an intensity reserved for zealots - and Minerva wishes, just for a moment, she wasn't a Gryffindor just so she could save this poor girl.

The Yule Ball bulldozes around the corner and takes the students with hurried surprise. Minerva graciously turns down the few requests she gets and lets her hair down in waves, sporting deep blue dress robes when she enters the Great Hall.

Tom looks elegant and mature in black, his pale skin a stark contrast to his robes, and waits with Nagini on his arm, her eastern sari wrapped around her waist and draped over her shoulder, showing planes of smooth milk-chocolate skin, as the green silk glitters under the lights.

They are so darkly beautiful that Minerva has to quell the urge to flee. She nods to Tom and smiles at Nagini, pressed against him like a snake. Tom's eyes trace the long strands of her hair as she is whisked into the crowd, an unreadable expression upon his face.

Minerva can feel his gaze and hides behind one of the many pillars, cheeks flushed and body trembling like a schoolgirl in love. How ironic - that abject fear caused the same reaction.

Tom is fifteen and she sixteen.

To Minerva, Nagini is deceptively beautiful - she is each bit Slytherin as Salazar was rumoured himself - cunning, clever, sharp and unafraid to betray and play politics to achieve her aims. It is a relief for the school that her quick mind now aimed for Tom Riddle, something that was achievable only by her. Minerva supposes being two years older than her intended victim also adds to the scandal – though she can't, for the life of her, think of another woman so absolutely perfect for him.

To Minerva, Tom is also unabashedly beautiful. She notices that looks linger on him longer than they should - watching the temptation walk into their line of sight and out again. He is off-limits, out of bounds – whispers curl over themselves saying he is claimed by the Queen of Slytherin, Nagini, though he fancies someone else entirely.

Minerva ignores rumours and watches Nagini being silently seduced by her own victim and his cold smile as he leads her on. She does not know where the Slytherin girl will go but she is terrified - unable to imagine the possibilities of flirting with something so dangerous.

Sometimes, she watches Tom watch her.

It makes her breath hitch in her throat when she catches his gaze on her form, silent and calculating. Minerva wonders where all her Gryffindor courage flees to when his eyes are upon her. Perhaps to her books, as the library is the only place she feels comfortable enough to exchange any semblance of conversation with him.

So she leads him there, getting up from the Great Hall halfway through dinner and hiding behind a pillar. Ten minutes later, she sees him exit and pause, looking down both ways.

Minerva bravely steps out, turning on her heel as her modest heels clap against the floor to the library. The staccato rhythm behind her assures her he is following.

Once they arrive, Minerva begins to breathe normally again, in the room, away from the prying eyes of the librarian who's gone to eat dinner.

"And why did you lead me here, Miss McGonagall?" he asks smoothly, walking through the shelves with measured steps.

"It seemed... appropriate," she replies primly, peeking at the titles she's long memorized and pulling out a book about Charms.

"Why do you watch me, Miss McGonagall?" His question is abrupt but expected.

"I am just curious about you, Mister Riddle," she says.

"As am I," he announces, stepping out from a bookshelf and seeing her standing there, flipping through pages of her book.

"I am not particularly interesting."

"So you claim," and he smiles that cold smile, approaching her like she was a street cat, tail standing on end and wide, sharp eyes.

"What would you like, Mister Riddle?" she snaps, panic flopping in her stomach.

"Do you fancy me?"

Minerva stares in shock before regaining her mental faculties. "No. Of course not. You're a handsome boy, but nothing more."

Tom nods slowly. "A handsome boy and nothing more...? What if I fancy you, Miss McGonagall?"

"That would be entirely inappropriate. I am older than you."

"True, but age is just a number, don't you agree?" He was close enough to reach out and touch her, she noticed vaguely. Could someone do an Avada Kadevra without a wand...?

"Even if I did, Mister Riddle, you have romantic relations with Miss Jaan."

"Ah, Miss Nagini is just a close friend that will graduate this year, my dear Queen of Gryffindor," he dismisses, staring at her as he uses her unofficial nickname.

"Do not lie to me, Prince of Slytherin," she retorts.

"Not Prince, but King."

"To take such a small detail so seriously," she says in wonder, as he leans in, an inch or two taller than her.

"Princes belong to the King. But the King belongs to the Queen, no?" Tom whispers, his nose bumping lightly against her own as he gently kisses her. Minerva is frozen - absolutely petrified - as he moves his mouth against her still lips, as if trying to coax a reaction.

It does; the opposite.

Minerva slams her palms against his shoulders, pushing him away as her face goes absolutely white with fury.

"Leave," she hisses, teeth bared, and his initial surprise is replaced with something like glee and immense satisfaction. He gets up and brushes the back of his robes before bowing low:

"As you wish, my Queen."

His mocking laughter echoes in her ears for the rest of the night.

Tom is sixteen and she seventeen.

Minerva has seen Nagini graduate. Before, she had become a permanent fixture on Tom's arm but now the spot is free and girls clamber over each other to claim it. She retreats into herself and tries to continue with life without the impending threat of Tom's fancy hanging over her like a guillotine.

She sits in her chair and reads a book she's heard about in Muggle Studies. It is about European history and the words coil down into the nation of France, which she's heard many stories of and rarely any of them flattering in nature.

To her utter misfortune, it is Tom that finds her like this, approaching from behind and peeking around the high back of the chair to look down at the pages. She stiffens at his presence and curls up into herself, the book ending up crushed between her breasts and knees.

"Yes, Mr. Riddle?" she says sharply.

"French history, dear Queen?" he teases lightly, though his eyes were as cold and calculating as ever.

"Does it matter?" she huffs. "What do you want?"

"Is it a crime to speak to an old friend?"

"I have never been your friend, Prince," she says. He stiffens, before relaxing.

"I prefer Lord now," he says delicately, "it seems they answer to no one, and belong to no one either."

"So I can expect no future harassment for being your Queen?" she retorts.

"Oh, if I can't have you as my Queen, there is no point in having one at all," he declares flippantly, "now tell me, how is French history?"

"...it is interesting," Minerva relents warily, uncurling, "though I cannot, for the life of me, pronounce their language."

"Ah, us English stopped at 'you bloody frogs', didn't we?" Tom replies, leaning down so his dark locks brushed against her ear. "Mort. Death, the 't' is silent. Here, vol. Steal, or fly, depends on the context. Pronounced just how you see it. Ah, another one..."

Minerva's body is hypersensitive right now. She can smell him - like sulfur and something entirely unique to him. His skin is just as white as it looks, unmarred by any freckle or remnants of pimply adolescence.

She feels his spider-fingers curl around her grip, pushing her thumb off the page so he can flip to the next one. Instinctively, she tries to jerk away, but his grip is tight and the cover jabs against her palm.

"Marvol... mort, vol... de mort. Steal from death..."

His voice is soft and almost inaudible if it hadn't been for their close proximity and Minerva bites the inside of her cheek to restrain her cry of terror. His aura of intensity envelops her and her chest feels tight. He is frozen, lost in his own thoughts.

"M-Mister Riddle," she breathes, trying to pry her hand away, "Riddle... Tom."

His eyes widen momentarily and he looks at her, complete shock written over his face - as plain as day. Minerva realizes she is seeing him at his most vulnerable - caught in his own musings, deliberating over his own plans, walls down, nothing to cover his nature.

She is frozen to her seat and Tom stares at her before whispering, "please. Let me kiss you. Please." He is begging - Tom Riddle, the King of Slytherin - was begging for her. Minerva swallows and stays silent. He takes it as a yes.

It is awkward at first, with his neck craned down and his mouth touching the corner of her lips. It isn't until he gets on his knees beside the chair, a hand gripping her cheek gently, as if guiding her face down towards his. He kisses her slowly, gently, and Minerva squeezes her eyes shut, pressing against him lightly.

The reaction is instantaneous - Tom grips her shoulder as he crushes his mouth against hers, prying her lips open through sheer force of will as he swipes taste after taste from her. Minerva is scared but she is also curious, and she lets him in, wondering what he will do. This is no power struggle between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin; this is desperation of a boy gone too long unnoticed by the one he wants most.

She is his oasis, and she is absolutely terrified of him. There must be dramatic irony somewhere, but it is lost when Tom pulls away, lips parted and slick, and lowers his head, still kneeling -

"Thank you."

There is no mocking laughter this time, but there is a desperate loyalty and it haunts her into the night.

Tom is seventeen and she eighteen.

People are dying.

They are not dead yet, but they lie on their cots, unmoving, petrified like stone structures from the myths of Medusa. She knows she shouldn't be thinking about these things at this moment, where the King of Slytherin has her against him, a rumoured Legilimens.

Her brain tries to process the moment. Clear, concise, where is she now? She, Minerva, is inside the Room of Requirement, her back pressed against the door as Tom pins her there, smirking.

Tom is dangerously beautiful and frighteningly obsessive. Minerva knows, trembles in fear, and follows with dogged curiosity like he's the newest curriculum of Transfigurations or, perhaps, Dumbledore.

Tom is a Legilimens and he scowls at the old man's name appearing in her thoughts.

"Think of me, dear Queen," he whispers, his hands unmoving against her forearms as he has her pressed against the wood paneling of the door.

Minerva breathes heavily through her nose as her brain struggles to keep up. How did she get here? Ah, yes, he had caught her after her prefect night touring and led her to this room. He had said it was magical, she didn't believe him, and here she was now, in the most elegant library she had ever laid eyes on.

Slytherin and Gryffindor colours mingled on the walls, and the lighting was moderate, with tall bookshelves, arranged in subjects, with signs on the sides: Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, Transfiguration...

She could stay here forever.

"You like it," Tom smiles, his teeth glinting.

"I do," she replies evenly, her eyes roving over the many plush chairs and tables scattered around.

"I knew you would," says Tom triumphantly, letting go of her and backing off. "Explore, dear Queen."

Minerva flees into the bookshelves, her fingers tracing the different covers - fur, leather, wood, oak, felt - and reading all the titles eagerly. She picks out five different novels, piles them into her arms and places them on a table. Spreading them out, she wonders which one to read first.

Suddenly, her head jerks up, and she stares at him, escaping her desire to curl up in her chair and devour the words.

"I can't be doing this," she says, "I need to keep a watch out for the monster petrifying the students. I don't have time to... indulge."

Tom loses his amused expression and approaches her.

"You shouldn't worry about things that don't affect you," he says gently.

"What do you mean? About my lineage?"

"You're a Pureblood. I know," he says, "I've checked."

"That doesn't mean I shouldn't protect everyone else," she snaps, feeling anxiety fill her stomach. "I... I don't want anyone to die, Riddle -"

"Tom," he corrects her, but gestures for her to go on.

"...Tom," she says, letting her mouth envelop the syllable of his name. He takes a breath, smiles.

"Minerva," he replies, "goddess of wisdom."

"Don't change the subject, Tom," she tells him.

"I'm not," he replies, "you're a Pureblood. They're not. Grindelwald wrote a whole speech about it, and now he's out doing just what he started."

"I know what he's doing," Minerva says, "but that doesn't mean I agree. If they can do magic, they should learn it."

"An interesting take," he relents, before wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing her against him. "Though, I'd rather change the subject. 'Tis too serious a subject to discuss in a midnight rendez-vous."

Minerva swallows, more in control of her fear now than before, and sighs.

"More French?"

"I must say, I love their language," Tom tells her, "but I love how they kiss even more."

The next few minutes becomes a practical demonstration as Tom nips her bottom lip, making her open up and him have a taste. He growls, holding her even more tightly as he slips his tongue in, swiping her own.

They part, slowly, and Tom looks especially vulnerable, but Minerva shows no mercy. She licks her lips, feeling the swelling already and moves away, towards the exit.

"Goodbye, Tom," she says, before looking back at him.

As expected, he bows low, "my Queen," and watches her go.

Tom is eighteen and she eighteen as well.

Summer is in the air, Myrtle is dead, Hagrid is expelled and Minerva watches Tom warily.

His birthday comes early and any semblance of control she felt around him due to their age gap is suddenly gone, leaving her naked and on equal ground with him. It's here, in the library, that she can feel a nostalgic superiority to him – something now long gone.

"I graduate in two weeks," she tells him but he knows already, as they find themselves in the library again - though this time it is he who sits in her special chair and her that stands in front, looking down. Vaguely, Minerva thanks the heaven for having this chair placed so secluded from everyone else.

"Would you like to continue this arrangement?" he asks pleasantly, a smile on his lips, peeking out from under his lashes.

"I cannot," she replies, and his eyes darken when flashes of Dumbledore curl up into her mind.

"I am more powerful than he will ever be," Tom hisses suddenly, anger flaring as Minerva forgets how to breathe, "so stay. Stay with me."

"We have no relationship, Tom," Minerva chokes out, "this has nothing to do with Professor Dum -"

"Don't say his name to me," snaps Tom, getting up and staring down at her, "You're mine, Minerva. You're my Queen. Understand?"

She tries to say something witty and clever, but all she can feel is panic flooding her body and her earlier suspicions of him being responsible for the death of Myrtle and the comatose students...

"Why? Why me?" she asks.

"Oh, oh," and Tom's face becomes lit with joy, "if I had to list my reasons, I could go on for days."

Now Minerva knows for sure he's utterly mad. But she can't help it, can't help but be curious.

"But why, Tom?"

"Why," he smiles, his eyes lit up with the gleaming of a mad man, "because I love you, of course."

Minerva's throat loosens all of a sudden, and she sees everything - the heir to Slytherin, the beast of the Chamber of Secrets, the comatose students, all of his decisions...

She supposes she should be afraid, but she has been scared of him for years now that instead it is a peaceful acceptance of knowing he was as dangerous as she had thought of him before.

"Goodbye, Tom," she says, "or, perhaps, Lord... vol de mort?"

Tom smiles. "One last kiss, perhaps?"

Minerva smiles back, empty. She lets him cup her cheek, tilt her chin forward and kiss her gently, lovingly, obsessively. It is chaste - merely an elongated press of lips on lips and nothing else.

When they part, he tells her, "because you are the Queen of Gryffindor, you are willing to defy me, you are similar in passion - but perhaps not ideals - and you are so utterly beautiful."

"Do you love me, Tom?"

"Undoubtedly." He tugs at her braid and traces her jawline with his lips. "Stay with me. I would make you my Queen, and I would serve no one but you, dear Goddess Minerva."

"I need to leave now," she says, pulling away, watching him bow low, so subservient it almost hurt to look.

"Long live my Queen," Tom says, but Minerva's too far away to hear him, striding quickly and desperately out the library.

He was mad. Absolutely mad. And he loved her.

Years later, when Minerva has forgotten her own age due to the war and Tom Riddle's name has been twisted into Lord Voldemort, she hears of a snake that is always with him.

The storyteller says Lord Voldemort calls it Nagini, and drapes her over his shoulders like an eastern shawl, with her head peeking out behind his ear, her eyes too intelligent to be merely a snake's. He continues on with fables of a less-famous variety and her ears perk up at a particular line.

"There was once a man who loved his Animagi form so much, he changed into it permanently," he says, "and no one knew where he went, for he had become his own animal, his human mind still intact but stuck in the form of a different creature altogether."

"That was not a man," Minerva says patiently, "it was a woman, in love more with power than the form it took."

The storyteller shakes his head at her protest and Minerva leaves the bar, out into the cold night where the snowflakes fell more peacefully than they had any right to, in her opinion. History shifts in each moment; Grindelwald falls, but Lord Voldemort rises.

Somewhere, she knows, out in the distance, is a man she helped create. A madman, killer, destroyer of people.

She also knows Tom Riddle regrets many things and she is one of them.

Minerva McGonagall survives two wars. She reigns as Queen of Hogwarts and the rest of the Wizarding World.

There is dramatic irony somewhere in this, but it is long dead like Tom Riddle.

an: that was my disgustingly long oneshot about the best crack pairing on the planet. i love the concept of these two together. also, thank you HP Lexicon for being so damn amazing. none of this would have been remotely accurate without you.

also, just putting this out there, this relationship isn't even remotely healthy. it started with sexual harassment and is almost purely one-sided. it is based on fear and invasion of privacy and even a bit of threatening. don't think that i support this, but there is really no other way for tomminerva to work, is there?

Please, I'd love to hear what you guys thought - concrit, flames, reviews, doesn't matter! I just want to know how you saw it. :)