in his wake | t.r [ongoing]

Chapter 6 - Madame Scribner

Chapter 6 - Madame Scribner

Madame Scribner rarely warmed to students. She had spent too many years tending Hogwarts' library, watching waves of students barrel through her space with grubby fingers and loud voices to tolerate them easily. But Tom Riddle was reasonably pleasant.

Madame Scribner watched him from her desk, gazing at him atop her spectacles. It was impossible not to notice him - he was here almost every day for hours on end at times. He worked quietly, rarely fidgeted, and had a way of handling books that endeared him to her more than she cared to admit.

Her grandson had been the same when he was younger. Always so careful, so precise. She smiled as she stacked a pile of overdue returns, catching a glimpse of Tom's dark hair as he bent over a particularly weighty textbook. 

Now that she thought about it, Madame Scribner found herself growing increasingly fond of Tom. Whether that was because she saw a glimpse of her grandson in him, or because he was a handsome, well-presented child with a politeness she hadn't expected, she wasn't sure. He rarely needed assistance but always thanked her when she provided it. He returned his books on time, their spines uncracked and pages pristine, and often asked questions that suggested he had actually read them—a rarity among students.

She had been shelving books one evening when, in passing, she'd mentioned how much he reminded her of her grandson—same quiet focus, same thoughtful manner. She hadn't expected him to remember it, but since then, there had been certain moments.

Tom had finished jotting something in his notebook, pausing to flex his fingers and adjust his quill with a light tap against the desk—a mannerism so familiar it sent a flicker of recognition through Scribner.

"That little quill tap," she said aloud, unable to keep the amusement from her voice. "My grandson always used to do that. Drove me mad during his N.E.W.T.S."

Tom looked up, his expression one of mild surprise. "Did he?" he asked, his tone thoughtful. "I suppose it's a habit I've picked up somewhere. Perhaps it's just the right rhythm to keep thoughts flowing."

Her smile deepened, the lines around her thin mouth softening. "He always said something like that. Claimed it helped him concentrate. I never quite believed him."

Tom chuckled. "It must be a shared affliction of overthinkers, then."

Scribner laughed lightly, shaking her head. "You really do remind me of him sometimes. You've got that same sharpness."

Tom's lips curved faintly, his eyes lowering to his parchment. "It's kind of you to say."

The sincerity in his tone—genuine or otherwise—landed precisely as intended. Scribner turned back to her desk, a faint glow of affection settling in her chest. He was such a thoughtful boy, so unlike many of the other students who cluttered her library with idle chatter and half-hearted attempts at study.

As she sorted through her papers, a small tug of curiosity pulled at the edges of her thoughts. How strange it was that such a boy should remind her of her grandson, so much so that she had begun to feel protective of him. Her grandson, after all, was miles away, deep in his Ministry apprenticeship. And yet, here was Riddle, a spectral echo of what she missed most.

***

Tom's smile lingered as Scribner turned away, but his eyes stayed fixed on the table. The quill tap had been calculated, like so many other things. He remembered precisely when she had mentioned her grandson and how her voice had softened at the memory.

It had taken little effort to piece together more about him. Madame Scribner had a framed photo of him behind her desk. A fleeting moment in passing was all Riddle needed to find out that he was on an apprenticeship at the Ministry and had a penchant for methodical habits. The photo and a few passing remarks from Scribner had been enough to piece the picture together. And what she didn't tell him outright, Tom observed in her own mannerisms: the pride that edged her tone when she spoke of him, the way her hands hovered over certain books as though deciding whether to send them to him in a carefully wrapped parcel.