Little Old Crone
Disclaimer: I do not own Hogwarts, Harry Potter, or any other places or characters, etc. in J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter Series.
[This can also be found on Fanfiction.com, same story name and profile name Purpleinkling.
I like to keep things as factual as possible, so if you notice anything let me know. Especially with all the new info Pottermore has come out with. If there are any diversions from the original, I will make a note of it.
This is my first FanFiction so reviews would be wonderful!]
"Did I know back in 2nd year that I was falling for darkest wizard of all time? No. Did I think he was the prince charming he appeared like? Luckily, no, I knew he had a dark side, just did not know how dark it was."
What if Nagini was an animagus? What if her story can be found between the lines of the story you thought you knew? Here is the tale of Tom's secret servant - Nagini.
Chapter 1: Little Old Crone
Seeing my dark attire the pensioner immediately went to grab her wand from beneath her pillow but I was too swift for her, "Expelliramus."
I used the spell the boy was becoming infamous for. It certainly was useful when wanted to keep the victim alive. Twiddling her wand and mine, I considered the half-blood before me. Which spell should I utilize first to loosen her tongue?
"Who are you?"
Indeed who was I? I hardly remember the last time I told someone or knew someone that spoke it. Yet I did have one, a name, that is, it was Naglia Darcini. Italian you think, indeed, though only half, the other being British, as my mother proudly claimed such emerald eyes could only belong to a child of the Shafiq family. But who was I? How could one describe an enigma like me? A love besotted fool perhaps? I shivered, hardly wanting to consider Bellatrix my kin in that respect.
"Did Rita Skeeter send you? Is she with the Dark Lord? That woman-" the old woman raged, seemingly forgetting that I was in the room, but interestingly she raged in utter silence. Rita Skeeter was turning out to be quite an intelligent gossiper. She had tongue tied the old crone. You had to give credit to the genius of Rita Skeeter. The witch had cleverly found an excellent source from whence to extract the most tantalizing gossip to publish a biography so swiftly after its subject's death. Bathilda Bagshot, probably with the assistance of some Veritaserum, had made Rita Skeeter a fortune. And by the confused look upon the face of my victim replacing her rage midway, it was no wonder there was barely a peep of protest from the jinxed Bathilda since the publishing of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. I imagine my sister Aurora Skeeter was very happy her daughter took after her instead of her truth-seeking politics obsessed husband.
After her moment of puzzlement, Bathilda considered her surroundings again, finding herself in her bedroom still in her and aged white night gown. She glanced back at me, startled, as if I had not been there the entire time. In a fright once more, Bathilda attempted to find her wand under her pillow before noticing I had it in my hand, still. Clearly, I could not try some of the more extreme measures least the old bat die before I get what I wanted, as such was her age and the condition Rita Skeeter left her. A bit of Legilimency should do the trick; I highly doubted Bathilda had the mental capacities to pull off a sound defensive Occlumency.
The staleness of the entire place was worse than stuffy libraries, so as soon as I finished I went and opened a window for fresh air. It was a bright moon that night, it cast its glow almost pityingly upon the form gasping upon the bed. You would think I had done Crucio, though I suppose filtering through a lifetime of memories is indeed as exhausting both to peruse and witness.
By the same iridescent light I pressed my finger upon my forearm, the inked design coming to life upon my touch. The inked skull opened its mouth and the green serpent emerged. I took great satisfaction that my serpent had vibrant colour, a difference from the rest. Obviously none of the others knew, it would have defeated the purpose of my role and its maintenance as a separate secret connection to the Lord than the others. It was not like I needed it though, for I was linked to Lord Voldemort by three threads if I were to include the tattoo, though minor in comparison to the other two. In fact, the only reason I had the tattoo was because it was the first of the three connections and one of my own design. A doodle from my Hogwarts days with the pale and mysterious glory known as Tom Marvolo Riddle.
A king of our house in those days, despite his lack of lineage. His air of grandness obscured over that, in addition to the fact that inconspicuously unfortunate events tended to happen to those who gossiped about his possible mudblood status. He was one of the brightest of all the Hogwarts houses, let alone Slytherin's, which in itself was a strange occurrence. So what teenage girl of the early 1940s would not fancy the pale brown haired model known as Tom Marvolo Riddle?
I certainly did harbour a crush of my own on him when I was at Hogwarts. Heck, I was still in enamoured with him. But he was unlike most of the other Hogwarts boys, who were envious of his numerous of admirers; he never had any romantic interest in girls. I think I noticed it more than the other girls, or the rest of the school did. Tom was always alone. He was admired and quite popular but it was not the same.
He never got owls. He never discussed his past. He most definitely never was excited whenever the holidays came; rather he seemed to be depressed, almost angry, that he had to put a hold on his studies. He never shared any of his possessions. He never started up conversations that were not about studies. He never murmured or shared secrets with anyone. All in all, Tom Riddle did not have any friends, family or any sort of personal relations with anyone, nor did it seem like he wanted any.
Instead, he preferred to bask in the admiration of others. Tom manipulated others so that they were convinced that they were his soul confidents. When you got down to the facts, none of his so called friends knew a thing about him. I, for some reason, saw through his façade, perhaps because to me he shows me his truest nature. No one else seemed to notice the ambiguity of the whole thing, just me, and it puzzled me deeply. And since I have known him, I felt as if Tom Riddle really was just that, a riddle.
Except in recent times, perhaps he was no longer such a fascinating puzzle. I loved him yes, but I was tiring of it.
Quickly I swept away my wayward thoughts, as I felt him through our Legilimency bond. One that we could perform without being in each other's vicinities long before Harry Potter even came into existence. However, I noticed that it was no longer one-way, it had changed since that summer three years ago, when I too had changed.
As Voldemort pilfered through my mind like I had done to my victim still catching her breath on the bed, I considered my reflection. The woman before me was much too young. A shift on the bed caught my attention. Her bed sheets dragged with her, Bathilda tremblingly backed away from me to the far end of the room. Not knowing where she thought she could go, I glanced back at the dresser mirror, keeping an eye on her reflection. That's when I realized, that my own reflection should have looked much like Bathilda's.
Instead of silver so old that it was tinged gold, the only silver in my raven hair was currently painted by the moonlight. Part of my youth could be explained by my unusual condition since birth, the other could only be attributed to him, and what he had done following the death of Bertha Jorkins. It both annoyed and pleased Voldemort to see me obtain youth so easily, which I surprisingly discovered upon finding I could read from his mind for once. And yes you heard me correctly, I have found myself on occasion to be able to hear Voldemort's thoughts since the forging of the third and final thread between us.
He perused my thoughts so often, I hardly think he noticed that some of his own were slipping into my mind. Legilimency was a complex art, it was not book from whence to read the victims thoughts but a complex layering of fragments of which you could not zoom out from to get the whole picture. You could only select a few pieces and make your own conclusions. The more skilled you were, the more pieces you could collect and the more accurately you interpret. So if a thought or two of his slipped in to my mind, I highly doubt he was notice while he perused through my mind thinking it was just his own memories interfering. On the contrary, it was something I, who have never known what goes on in my beloved's mind unless explicitly said to me, immediately noticed.
And perhaps it is this very new connection between us that began to sow the seed of doubt. Would I betray my Lord? Hardly, especially with a piece of his soul latched to mine. Have I discovered that he never loved me? In this I have always been wiser than Bellatrix, I have always known since we graduated Hogwarts that he would never return my affection. Perhaps though I am the most foolish for letting him have me wholly regardless. What is it that has changed? I hardly know it myself, and I think it is my own mystification and obliviousness to what has changed that protects me. Else if I had known, so would he, and wandering freely in Godric's Hollow would hardly have been allowed.
Why does any of this matter? My unknown reader, it is but why you read this. This is the testament to my life as Naglia Darcini. I began it this Christmas season of 1997, when I was ordered my Lord to kill the old author and presume her form with Polyjuice as I awaited the off chance that the Boy Who Lived would visit. It was good thing she had a lot of paper, probably from her days writing A History of Magic.
Where should I begin the recollection of my own history? A drop blood fell onto my page. I glanced up at the ceiling slowly soaking with the blood of the victim above. Blood, what an excellent place to begin! I shifted to another writing desk deeper in the house, being sure to firmly close the door of the room of the first, lest someone wander in. Then, with a dip of my quill I began my tale in fifth year at Hogwarts. I was but an ordinarily pretty girl still harbouring feelings from second year about an unapproachable boy that nobody knows anything about. Ah well, what can you do, the heart is not a particularly practical one…