Chapter Text
First, the bouquet.
Entering the dormitory, Tom Riddle encounters a huge arrangement of purple orchids and bright yellow dandelions in a crystal vase on his bedside table.
The main problem here is not the improbable combination of colours, Tom decides; rather, he is deathly allergic to any kind of flower.
Who could be that obtuse to leave such a threat right next to where he sleeps?
Imbeciles.
The smell is revolting. He feels his chest tightening, his lungs constricting. Nausea hits him.
He stumbles backwards and casts a quick Evanesco, but the spell alone isn’t able to clear the polluted air, and he can’t even open a bloody window without flooding the entire castle.
Bloody Slytherin dormitory surrounded by the bloody Black Lake!
By curfew, Tom is told to leave the sixth-year dormitory for an entire week, just to be safe, and sleep in the fifth-years’.
He is already seething, and having words with Draco The Buffoon doesn’t help at all. He hasn’t seen anything, he is so sorry, he’s ready to curse whoever did it, blah blah. Inept.
Sleeping in another dormitory won’t help much either. The damage is done, the allergy has been triggered, and he still has to sit through dozens of classes with scarlet eyes and a runny nose. It hurts so badly it feels as though it might fall off. It would be oh so unbecoming to live without a nose.
Was it a blatant act of incompetence from his Knights or is somebody trying to hurt him?
Tom casts the ridiculous thought aside at once. As if.
Then, the cake.
Just seven days after the terrible alleged gift he received, a simple barn owl from the school’s owlery drops a package in front of him.
It is uncommon to receive mail at lunch.
With one raised eyebrow, he inspects the parcel, then he lowers his cutlery and carefully opens it while various Slytherins cast curious glances.
It is a strudel. Tom gapes, incredulous.
The pestilent dessert sits on a lilac rectangular plate. Bits of apples, raisins, and pine nuts spill from the crust. The moment he lifts the transparent lid covering it, he is struck by the persistent odor of cinnamon.
Every single ingredient is something he is allergic to.
Is some nobody mocking him? A strudel. How dare they. Because that is what is happening, right?
“Pansy.” He scans the table for the girl who usually knows all kinds of futile things, since her friends apparently have nothing better to do than gossip. “Do you have any idea who could have sent me this?” Most of the time gossip is a useless skill, but occasionally-
Pansy shakes her head, her expression blank.
No. Gossip remains a purposeless activity.
Why focus on Cedric Faggotry’s disgusting sentimental life instead of gathering blackmail material from the owl post? Buffoons, again. That is why Draco is so fond of her. They share the title. Mr. and Mrs. Buffoon.
Tom feels a shiver at the back of his neck as he looks at the dessert again. It is lethal. What if it is some kind of threat? No. That is insane. Why would somebody- No. This is mockery. A childish prank.
He scrunches his nose as the smell of cinnamon and raisins keeps invading his nostrils, reaching his lungs, suffocating him… then he notices a small piece of parchment attached to the side of the plate.
With stupor and interest, he opens it.
In horribly written block letters, it reads:
you look thin, I wouldn’t want to crush your bones that easily.
What?
I hope you will like me as much as you will like this strudel.
-Your ….
Tom cannot make out the final word. The author switches from the horrifying block letters to an equally atrocious cursive signature.
Hoe? Your Hoe? Seriously? How audacious… and belittling… no, wait.
Foe.
…
Your Foe.
He pockets the piece of parchment, his breath unsteady, and rises at once, leaving his half eaten lunch and the homicidal pastry beneath the bewildered stares of his dormmates.
This is a death threat.