Till Death Do Us Part

by Igothomework

Summary:

"Tom, this is your new roommate, Harry Potter."

Tom peered up coolly at Mrs Cole. Slowly, his eyes fitted around her plump form and towards the scrawny and thin boy peeking out shyly behind her.

"I don't share," he said coldly.

"Well, you do now," Mrs Cole replied and Tom scowled.

...

Tom Riddle didn't want anything to do with Harry Potter. Soon, however, he finds himself growing rapidly obsessed with his shy new dormmate. Chaos ensues.

Chapter 1: June, 1938

Notes:

I'm in the process of writing a Drarry fic but I just need to get this idea out of my head. I've been sleeping on it for way too long. Someone tell me why these two are so cute together?

Tom Riddle didn't like to share. 

As a child growing up in an orphanage, he was often forced to, much to his displeasure. Either there wasn't enough food to go around or one of the other kids didn't have enough warm clothes for the winter, but whatever the case it meant sharing.

Tom never had enough to eat because of it. Never had enough clothes on his back, or love from Mrs Cole because all the other children were greedy, helpless little things who all desired what they couldn't have. They all wanted love and there was never enough to go around.

Tom had long since accepted the fact that he would never be loved. Not by his mother, who died giving birth to him. Not by his father who never came looking for his child. Not by Mrs Cole who was too focused on the younger, smaller children to pay much attention to him. No one.

And Tom told himself that was alright. He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone. He had gifts. He had other ways of finding love. Like the snakes who came to him sometimes, when they were allowed a few minutes outside. All the other children would draw away from him then, whilst he sat huddled in a corner, playing with the tiny creatures and letting them nibble on his fingers with their small tongues. 

Tom relished in that time alone. A time spent away from others, a precious hour or two of peace. As the Depression spiralled on, life became harder and harder, and even a boy as young as him could feel the stress of the workers seep into his daily life. The Depression left many penniless, meaning more children were sent away from parents who couldn't afford to take care of them anymore. More children, coming in, needing food, warmth and medicine. And never enough for everyone.

Survival of the fittest.

That's what he believed. If it were up to him, the weak, snivelling, pathetic things left on their doorstep would be turned away. The ones unblessed, without gifts, were second to those with. If Tom was going to survive, if he was going to outlive the others, it meant no more sharing. It meant taking what he needed before anyone else had the chance to steal it from him.

The other children didn't like him. They were scared, he knew, of creepy Tom and his snakes. Even Mrs Cole was unsettled by him though he knew she would never admit it. 

Most of the other children had to share rooms, usually in pairs. No one wanted to pair up with Tom. Luckily, the orphanage had an odd number of children, so he was able to get away with his own room.

Tom treasured the space away from others. His own room. Something that was his and he didn't have to share with anyone else. A place to store his won treasures and be alone with his gifts, away from the other children who were ordinary where he was different.

Yes, it was fair to say Tom didn't like to share.

So when Mrs Cole entered his room and announced that a new boy around his age had joined them and he was going to have to share his room, Tom was furious.

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because we have a new guest with us and not enough space to go around," Mrs Cole said impatiently, clearly displeased with his attitude. 

Yes, Tom thought, that seemed fitting.

"Tom, this is your new roommate, Harry Potter."  

Tom peered up coolly at Mrs Cole. Slowly, his eyes fitted around her plump form and towards the scrawny and thin boy peeking out shyly behind her.  

"I don't share," he said coldly.  

"Well, you do now," Mrs Cole replied and Tom scowled.

He peered again at the boy, his eyes narrowed. "What was your name again?" he asked.

"Harry," the boy replied quietly. "Harry Potter."

Tom scoffed. Even his voice sounded weak. He had seen others like him- small pathetic things that were always picked on by the older and stronger kids- and knew he wouldn't last a week.

"Well, Harry," he said slowly, as if the boy was dim. "This here is my space," he indicated to the right side of the room. "You can stay there," he said, sneering at the other side which held nothing but a thin mattress and a small bedside table.

"Wait here Harry, I'll go get you your things" Mrs Cole said. She looked between him and Tom for a moment, clearly torn between leaving the boy with him or finding him another room, at the risk of leaving him in an overcrowded space. Tom knew she wouldn't.

As her footsteps bounded away, he turned back to the boy, his face cold. "So, what happened to yours then?" he asked.

Harry blinked. "My what?"

Tom scoffed. "Your parents," he said, as though it were obvious. "Who else?"

"Dead," Harry said shortly.

"Obviously, I meant how?"

"They got sick" Harry said simply. “I got it too but somehow I recovered. There was nothing anyone could do to save them.”

Tom scoffed, offering the boy no sympathy. Everyone who came had their own sad story. Pity was one of many things the children rarely got.

"How about you?" Harry asked.

Tom's face turned sour. "None of your business," he said and Harry turned away, looking slightly abashed.

The door opened and Mrs Cole walked in again, holding a thin blanket, a small pillow, and a set of uniform in her arms. She looked slightly relieved when she entered, as though she expected Tom to have already murdered Harry or something.

Tom sneered and looked away as she set the items down on Harry's mattress and began talking to him in a low voice. Warning the boy about him, probably. Telling him it was okay to snitch if he did something to upset him. Not that the boy would. No one snitched in the orphanage. Even the new kids came in knowing this.

When Mrs Cole stepped away, his gaze slowly trained back on the boy. He truly was skinny, with wild tangles of hair that didn't seem to sit straight, and large, round glasses that were slightly too big for his sallow face.

He was pathetic. In contrast to Tom, with his neat hair and perfect vision, he was definitely the kind of boy who would soon be picked on.

His only slightly flattering feature were his bright green eyes. Tom was drawn to them immediately. They were out of place in such a bleak, dull environment. Tom's own eyes were dark, almost black, and it fit right in with the rest of the dim-looking features of the children. But something about Harry, with his wild hair and brightly-coloured eyes, seemed to go against all of the others.

And that wasn't a good thing.

Tom leaned back in his bed as Harry began changing into the uniform, smirking as he thought of all the fun he was going to have with the boy over the next few days.

One thing was for certain; Harry would soon be begging Mrs Cole to change rooms. Tom could only count the days until he did.

 

---

 

The next day, Tom awoke earlier than usual. Despite it being the beginning of summer, it had grown cold during the night, his thin blanket doing nothing to stop the chill from seeping into his bones and leaving him shivering on the bed. Tom sighed and laid back on his rough pillow, staring at the ceiling as he felt icy teeth sink into his face. Peeling white paint, flecks of mould in the corner, and a single dim lightbulb that would only work if he were lucky enough to get a few hours of electricity. 

He usually never was.

Pale morning light drifted in through the window and his eyes shifted to it, squinted slightly as the sun gradually began to rise. It had been an unusually cold year, with very little sunshine appearing during the spring. Tom could only hope that as June progressed, it would get a little warmer.

Winter in the orphanage was always difficult. There was never enough coal for fire so most of the time they had to bundle themselves up in as many clothes and layers as they could- which were never a lot. Tom had three outfits to count. His set of uniform, his weekend clothes and his pyjamas.

The pyjamas were thin, worn-out garments that must have belonged to ten other kids before him. His weekend clothes were nothing special either. A pair of knee-length shorts (slightly too big for him but he had no belt so he had to make do), a thin white shirt and a dark green sweater vest to go over it. All second-hand and used, either donated to the orphanage or belonging to previous children who had since outgrown them and decided not to hold onto them.

He had one pair of shoes to date and a coat that had come from a winter donation scheme set up by the orphanage a few years ago. It had a small hole on the sleeve but otherwise, it was the nicest garment he owned. And by far the warmest.

The weather this year didn't seem to be getting any hotter and it looked like he was going to have to wear his coat over everything now. He may even need to wear it in his sleep.

Tom heard something shift beside him and started, before remembering about Harry. Scowling, he peered over at the boy, who was still asleep. His hair was even messier than the day before, sprawled over his eyes in thick clumps, whilst his hands were clenched and covered over his mouth. The blanket Mrs Cole had provided him with had two holes in it, and it covered the boy only to his chest. Tom could see goosebumps on his thin arms.

He looked away.

Hopefully, by the evening, Harry would want to spend as little time as possible in his company, leaving Tom well and truly alone for at least a few hours. If he were lucky, by the end of the week the boy would be packing up his things and moving out of his room.

Quietly slipping out of bed, Tom crept over to Harry's bedside, examining what belongings he had brought with him. His round glasses rested on the table and that was it. Tom frowned and opened the drawer. An empty bible book- standard for all the rooms- was placed inside. There was nothing else. Not even a teddy bear.

Tom picked up the glasses, opening the frames and peering inside, squinting as the room became lost in a blur. He pulled his eyes back and examined the lenses. They were useless, worth almost nothing he was sure. So thin he could probably snap them with his bare fists. They were sure to be broken by the evening.

"That's not yours."

Tom jumped and saw green eyes peering sleepily up at him.

He placed the glasses down. "You can actually see with those?" he asked.

Harry sat up and reached for the glasses, putting them on. They made his eyes look bigger, Tom thought. Uncomfortably bigger.

"They work well enough."

"Your parents never thought of getting you a better pair?" Tom asked, sneering. "Those look like they're about to break at any moment."

Harry shrugged. "They work," he repeated, as if that was all that mattered.

Tom scoffed and walked back to his bed. "Careful Potter," he called back. "You better keep those safe if you really need them."

Harry didn't bother asking why.

 

---

 

An hour later there was a knock at the door, one of the workers telling them to get dressed and go down for breakfast in half an hour. Tom had already dressed ten minutes beforehand, wearing the itchy standard uniform (nearly identical to his weekend clothes except all grey and it came with a blazer) so he sat on his bed instead and watched as Harry got dressed.

He was skinnier than average and Tom knew that wasn't likely to change. In fact, it may even get worse. He counted the boy's ribs until Harry put on his shirt and then looked away. Breakfast wouldn't start for at least another ten minutes but he didn't want to get stuck showing Harry where to go so he exited his room and walked down the stone stairs, ignoring everyone else.

A few of the younger kids darted out of his way anxiously as he walked down the corridor to the dining hall but he paid them no attention. He lingered outside the hall, not wanting to go in too early in case he was asked to help set up the tables.

"Tom."

Tom turned and saw Mrs Cole walk briskly towards him, her sharp eyes surveying him up and down.

"Sleep well?" she asked. The without, waiting for an answer, she asked, "Where's Harry?"

"Upstairs," Tom said boredly.

"You couldn't have shown him where to go?" Mrs Cole asked, the disapproval evident in her voice.

"It's not that difficult, he can just follow everyone else."

Mrs Cole made an impatient noise but didn't press on. "You best go inside, Tom," she said. "And let Harry sit with you. He'll need help adjusting."

Ignoring the last part of her sentence, Tom walked into the dining room, already finding a few kids sitting down and eating. He grabbed a bowl and walked over to the serving station which consisted of two tables set out in a row with a few workers in aprons serving the food.

His nose wrinkled as he came across his breakfast, being stirred in a large bowl.

"Mush, again?"

"Porridge, Tom," one of the workers corrected. "Good for your bones."

She splattered a spoonful of it into his bowl and he walked away, not expecting to receive a second helping. One spoonful of porridge. A thin slice of bread. A cup of water. No more, no less.

It was not too little that they were starving but it was never enough that they felt full. He supposed he should be grateful for what he had, knowing many in the country were going hungry from the Depression. It didn't make the food taste any better though.

The tables were arranged in two long rows, and he took a seat by the end of one, sitting alone. No one bothered him as he put a spoon into his porridge and extracted a tiny bit of it. As usual, it got stuck in his throat and had to be swallowed down with several sips of water but it was better than nothing.

He did this for a few minutes, watching disinterestedly as the room filled with more and more children, pushing and shoving each other in the line. He never understood why they did that. The food was nothing to fight over. They were like animals, he thought.

As he took a sip of water, he heard a loud commotion coming from his right and frowned, peering to the side. He quickly noticed Harry, standing before two older kids who were glaring at him. Tom raised an eyebrow. Even by his standards, this had happened quicker than usual. Normally, the new kid would be picked on after breakfast.

"Give me your bread, Potter," one of the older kids spat, whilst his friend smirked.

Harry frowned. "No, it's mine. You have your own."

Tom sighed. Out of all the answers he could have given he chose the worst one. 'No'. The boy truly did not understand how things worked in here.

The smirk was wiped from the older boy's face. "What was that?" he asked.

Without warning, he gave Harry a hard shove, causing him to topple backwards and land on his back. His bowl went flying out of his hands, bits of porridge splattering along the floor and onto his uniform.

By now, a small group had huddled around the trio, the kids all watching excitedly. Tom didn't blame them. Since the Depression started, life in the orphanage had somehow become even duller- a fight was the best entertainment they had.

"What a waste," one of the older boys complained, as if it was Harry's fault his bowl had gotten knocked from his hands. "Stupid thing."

"What kind of glasses are those anyway? Can you even see out of those things?"

One of the boys kicked Harry hard in the face. His shoe made contact with his nose and there was a loud crack as his glasses snapped in two, thudding uselessly on the floor in front of Harry.

Just as Tom expected.

"Not anymore," the other boy sniggered and they both burst out laughing.

"Hey! Hey what's going on over there!"

There was an angry voice and then Mrs Cole was rushing forwards, standing between Harry and the two boys. "Albert! Gerald! What is the meaning of this!"

"We didn't do nothing Mrs Cole!" one of the boys protested.

Tom rolled his eyes. Even he wouldn't have bothered coming up with such a lame excuse. Well, he wouldn't be dumb enough to get caught in the first place.

"Enough of that! I expect you both to behave better, especially to a younger boy! To your room, both of you! You can go without breakfast today!"

"But Mrs Cole-"

"Go!"

The boys scowled and trudged out of the hall, one of them shooting Harry a dirty look on the way out.

Tom's eyes found Harry and he noticed the boy had already gotten up, wiping away the blood from his nose and putting his glasses back on-

His glasses. 

His glasses weren't broken. How were they not broken? Tom had seen them clearly snap in two.

"Are you alright, Harry, dear?"

Harry just nodded and began walking towards the serving station again to get a new bowl of porridge, Mrs Cole watching him nervously as his back turned to her. Then she became distracted by two kids flicking food onto each other and darted away.

No one else seemed to notice that Harry's glasses had been fixed. Many of them just walked away, their faces once more delving back into boredom.

Tom stared, his gaze transfixed onto Harry, as the boy grabbed a cup of water. He sat on the second table, towards the other end, alone, like Tom.

His eyes never left Harry as he ate his breakfast, watching even when he had finished and was putting his empty bowl and cup back in the serving station. Maybe having him as a roommate wouldn't be so bad...

One thing was obvious. The boy was like him. He had magic.

And for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle thought that maybe, this wouldn't be the worst thing to share.

Notes:

I'm writing two gay idiot fanfics at the same time lol what is my life?

Chapter 2: June, 1938 (II)

Notes:

Thanks for all the support on the last chapter :D
Comments and kudos mean the world!

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. Tom attended lessons with all the other children his age, a close eye kept on Harry the entire time. The boy didn't perform any more magic though and by the evening, Tom was getting sick of watching him. Aside from that single bit of magic he had done, the boy gave him no further reason to think he was anything special. 

The only good thing that came out of watching Harry the whole day was having a reason not to pay attention during lessons. Schooling in the orphanage was nothing special. The younger kids all learnt to read, write and do basic arithmetic with a few of the workers until they turned eleven. The following year they would be sent to the local school until they were fourteen. 

A few of the smarter kids were able to stay in the school for an additional two years, but most left to find jobs by that point, hoping to earn a few extra pennies to spend on things the orphanage lacked—a bit of extra food, some warmer clothes, a deck of cards for entertainment—all things Tom envied.

He had stolen his fair share of trinkets- trophies he liked to think of them- from children who thought him an easy target. But there was nothing quite like the feeling of owning something new, something you had worked hard to earn. A feeling Tom had not yet had the pleasure of owning.

He wished he could hurry up and turn fourteen so that he could start earning his own money. He didn't care for the education being taught in the schools, not seeing how any of it would actually help him. Whilst Mrs Cole always badgered them about the importance of doing well in exams, hoping that with each year more kids could take the additional two years of teaching, Tom knew most were just counting down the days until they could leave. He was one of them.

It wasn't just about getting more money but about the school itself. From what Tom heard, the other kids sent there didn't exactly take to the orphans nicely. He often heard a few of the older kids muttering about it, complaining about getting picked on or made fun of for being left without parents. Tom wasn't worried about that. By the time he entered the local school, no one would dare pick on him. They'd soon learn not to, just as the other children in the orphanage learnt not to.

He didn't have long to go. By September it'll be his time to enter the school. He would be expected to rise early on his own, get breakfast at the orphanage and then walk half an hour to the school site. If he were lucky, he might be able to find some loose change on the journey and save enough to buy a bus fair back. 

Tom didn't like dwelling on it. Though he was eager to grow up, he had no interest in being surrounded by even more dull, useless things. It had taken some time to get everyone to steer clear off him. He wasn't looking forward to having to do it all over again.

For the time being, he was perfectly fine doing schoolwork at the Orphanage. It was boring but easy. And he was good at it too.

Tom supposed he'd always been a smart boy. Even from a young age, he got things quicker than most of the others. It was linked to his gift, he was sure of it. His magic. And whilst it always felt good to be ahead of everyone, Tom couldn't help but sometimes feel lonely because of it. He felt separated from the other children, not just because of his gifts but because he never seemed to relate to them properly. Never understood why they'd cry when they were upset or shove each other to get the first dinner plate or struggle to understand even the simplest things.

Everything seemed so obvious to Tom. So simple. No one else seemed to understand that.

His thoughts wandered back to Harry. Did he think like Tom did? Or was his gift the only thing they had in common? Tom recalled the skinny, wild-haired boy with striking green eyes too bright for his face, hidden behind ridiculous glasses. Shy yet outspoken Harry who seemed to stick out in all the places Tom was able to slither in. He couldn't be less like Tom and he knew it.

But he had magic.

Why? Why Harry? What made him so special that he deserved to have a gift? What aligned the two of them together when Tom was sure they couldn't be more different? 

The door to his bedroom opened, and Harry stepped in, pausing at the sight of Tom before slowly shuffling into the room. He was already dressed for the night, wearing a pair of light blue pyjamas with faded white stripes that were several sizes too big on him, practically hanging off his slight form. They must have belonged to at least five other kids before him.

Tom's eyes narrowed as Harry made his way over to his bed. When the boy turned and caught him staring, his brows furrowed.

"What?"

Tom looked at him coolly. "Nothing."

Harry fidged awkwardly, looking down.

"How are your glasses?"

Green eyes darted up. "Fine," Harry said shortly, after a few seconds.

"You know it's funny, I thought for sure I saw one of the older boys break them during breakfast," Tom drawled.

Harry shrugged. "Must not be paying proper attention then."

"I thought so. And yet, I could have sworn I saw them snap in half..."

Harry had gone very still. "You saw that?"

"I did," Tom replied. He leaned forward in his bed, watching Harry closely. "So how long have you had it then?"

Harry blinked. "Had what?"

"Magic," Tom said, rolling his eyes. "Obviously."

Harry frowned. "I don't have magic."

"Oh? Then what do you call that then?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his bed. "Magic's not real."

"You fixed a broken pair of glasses," Tom said. "That's magic."

"No, I... stuff like that just happens, okay? It doesn't mean anything..."

Tom folded his arms. "Really?"

Harry averted his gaze. "Yes. There's no such thing as magic."

There was silence in the room for a few minutes.

"I can talk to snakes," Tom said and Harry looked up. "They come to me sometimes, find me in places. We speak to each other. They understand me better than anyone. What do you call that?"

"That's not-"

"I can make bad things happen to people," Tom continued. "People I don't like. Billy Stubbs tried to pick on me and I hung him rabbit from the rafters. I didn't really mean to but it just happened. I have the collar to prove it. He hasn't been near me since."

"Why are you telling me this?" Harry asked.

"Because I'm like you," Tom said. "I have magic too."

"I told you it's not magic."

"It is," Tom argued. "It's a gift. I don't know where we got it from but it's ours. It chose us."

"Why?" Harry asked. "Why us?"

"Because we're not like the others," Tom replied. "We're special, we're different. We're better."

Harry shook his head. "I'm not better than anyone just because I can make strange things happen."

Tom frowned. "Of course you are. Why else do you think we're the only ones who can do it? If they were special too they would have what we have."

Harry went still, considering Tom's words.

"What else have you managed to do?" Tom asked, now eyeing the boy greedily as if he were a new trinket he wanted to collect.

"I-I fell over once, slashed my palm open... the next day..."

"It healed?" Tom guessed.

Harry nodded.

"What do you call that then if not for magic?"

Harry struggled. "It- it could have just healed naturally."

"Oh? Small wound was it? Just a scratch?"

Harry fell silent.

"You know as well as I do what it is, Potter."

The boy shook his head. "I don't know... I don't care."

"Potter!-"

"Look weird stuff just happens, alright? It doesn't mean anything."

"How can you say that?" Tom asked incredulously.

But Harry had already turned over on his bed and pulled the sheets as high as he could, shutting Tom away.

The boy glared at him before clambering into his own bed angrily, scowling at the boy and hoping he could sense his anger radiating at him from across the room.

He was wrong. He didn't want to share his gift with Harry. Not with someone as undeserving as him. This was just another reminder as to why he hated sharing. If Harry was going to appreciate his gift then fine. It wasn't like Tom cared.

The boy screwed his eyes shut and turned over in his bed, his fists clenched on his sheets.

The room had never felt colder and for once, Tom didn't blame it on the bad weather.

 

---

 

When Tom awoke the following morning, Harry had already gone down to breakfast, his bed smartly made, his oversized pyjamas folded neatly on top.

Tom sighed and rubbed his eyes, crawling out of his bed and fixing his sheets. It was Saturday, so they all got an extra hour's sleep before breakfast, a chance for the workers to have a lie-in and for the older kids to stay up a bit later the previous night. 

Tom got dressed in his weekend clothes and made his way downstairs, towards the breakfast hall. He spotted Harry immediately, sitting by himself and looking down at his food. Tom looked away. He wasn't the type to obsess over someone. If Harry wanted nothing to do with magic, then Tom wasn't going to force him.

He grabbed his plate (a small portion of scrambled eggs and a thin slice of toast) and made his way over to the other table, ignoring Harry.

As the last few children entered the hall and took their seats, Tom was able to drift off slightly, shutting everyone away. It was a habit of his, and he wasn't keen to stop anytime soon.

It was Saturday which meant they were free to do whatever they wanted. The older kids were allowed to leave and visit the nearby town, so long as they returned by five. The younger kids had the choice of staying in their rooms, going to the gardens for some fresh air, or going to the board room to play with the decades-old board games. Tom never bothered with the last option. Most of the games were boring and usually missing key pieces as well, having been in the orphanage for so long.

Just then, Mrs Cole walked in and raised her voice, effectively snapping Tom away from his thoughts.

"Good morning everyone," she said.

There was a chorus of "Good morning, Mrs Cole" and the woman smiled.

"I hope you're all excited about our annual holiday trip," she said and Tom groaned. 

Once a year, the orphanage saved up enough to take them all on a day trip somewhere. Everyone aged five and above had to go except for a few of the older kids who had the option of staying, provided they had a good excuse like schoolwork or a job. Whilst many of the kids craved the trip, Tom- once again- found himself different.

He never did see the appeal of being squeezed onto a bus with a bunch of noisy, annoying children to travel to some mediocre location for a few hours. Unfortunately, like most things in his life, he had very little say on the matter.

Last year they had been taken to the countryside up north. For some stupid reason, instead of taking the trip during June as usual, the Orphanage had thought it would be a "treat" to take them during Christmas instead. It had been freezing that day, and even with his coat, Tom had been left shivering from head to toe. It had snowed as well, so instead of luscious green fields greeting him there had been nothing but a blanket of white. The other children, of course, were overjoyed at this, throwing a huge snowball fight and doing other silly activities like building snowmen and snow angels.

Meanwhile, Tom had hung back, away from the others, a sour expression on his face whilst he tried to conserve his body heat as best he could.

Whatever 'holiday' Mrs Cole had planned for them, Tom could only hope it wouldn't involve him nearly freezing to death.

"Where are we going ma'am?" one of the kids called out.

"As fun as I'm sure you all found our previous trip," Mrs Cole said, smiling. "We've decided we could all do with a nice break from the countryside. We'll be going to the seaside this year."

Great. Freezing cold water, sand bound to get everywhere and hundreds of children running in and out of the waves, getting water everywhere. Somehow, she had managed to make the holiday seem even worse than the last one.

"We'll be getting there by train this time," Mrs Cole continued. "So we'll need to be up bright and early tomorrow, no later than seven o'clock, and ready to leave by eight. As usual, if any of you aged fourteen and above wish to miss this trip, I have a sign-up sheet outside my office. And I'll be going through each one of your reasons why so you'd best give me a good one. I won't accept wanting a lie-in as one of them," she said with a pointed glance at one of the older boys who laughed.

Tom sighed. A train didn't seem so bad. At least he wouldn't be squished against a window. Getting up so early on a Sunday morning, on the other hand, sounded terrible. It seemed he was the only one who thought so however as the other children exchanged smiles and grins.

"Make sure you make your sandwiches tomorrow after you finish eating! There'll be a table next to the serving station for you to make your lunch. You'll be responsible for this so I don't want to hear anyone say they haven't got anything to eat. You'll have two slices each..."

Tom zoned out the rest of what she was saying, his eyes scanning across the happy room until they came across Harry. Tom paused. The boy seemed to be the only other person who didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about the trip. Tom couldn't imagine why. The boy looked as though he had never gone on a holiday in his life.

Well, not like Tom cared. He finished his breakfast, put away his plate and then walked swiftly out the hall. He came to a stop outside Mrs Cole's office and paused, eyeing the sign-up sheet taped to her door. He heard her suddenly approach from behind him, talking quickly to one of the workers.

"-and don't forget about Tim's medicine, and Dorris too. I'll be entrusting the under five's to you, Martha, I expect everything to be run smoothly whilst I'm gone."

"I'll keep 'em all safe, Mrs Cole, don't you worry about a hair on their heads."

Mrs Cole caught sight of Tom and her eyes narrowed. "Yes, Tom?" 

Tom hesistated. "I was... I was wondering if maybe I could stay in the orphanage this year?" 

Mrs Cole sighed. "You know the rules, Tom, only those below the age of five and above the age of fourteen can stay behind."

"But I hate the beach, Mrs Cole, I'll be bored out of my mind."

"Come come you've never even been," Mrs Cole said, sounding a little exasperated. 

Tom didn't need to go to know he would hate it. A wide, seemingly endless expanse of ocean was enough to keep him away. Tom hated that there was so much of it, so much water, stretching out for miles and miles. Who knew what secrets were buried beneath those waves? Waves that could crash into Tom and pull him into the depths of the ocean in a matter of seconds. No, there was too much of it, too much power in the sea. Even for him.

"Please Mrs Cole, I can help with the younger kids instead."

"I know perfectly well you will not, Tom."

Tom scowled. "I can manage it... just for a day."

"I'm sorry Tom but rules are rules," Mrs Cole said. She was about to walk off when she seemed to notice Tom's dejected expression and her face softened slightly. "Cheer up Tom, you might enjoy it. You have to at least give it a go."

And she was gone, already distracted by another matter.

Tom sighed and trudged to his room. When he opened the door, he found Harry sitting on his bed, flicking through the standard Bible in his bedside drawer. He caught Tom's eyes and quickly lowered them, refusing to hold his gaze.

Tom glanced back at the book. The orphanage had a small selection of books in the board room but most of them were old and battered, worn out after being handled by so many children. The Bible, on the other hand, was less used and therefore it was in moderate condition compared to the other books.

"You religious?" Tom asked, trying to keep his voice even. He was still angry at Harry and he wasn't about to let go of it any time soon.

Harry shrugged without looking up. "Bit," he said.

Another thing that set them apart.

Tom had no interest in religion. He did not believe in God. Did not believe in a higher, greater, more powerful being than himself. An all-knowing matter whose power was as vast as an ocean. The things he disliked contained a pattern, he noticed but chose not to pay too much attention to it.

Aside from the weekly services he had to attend every Sunday in the Orphanage's small chapel, Tom made a vow never to associate himself with religion. It was too limiting, too controlling and most of all, too narrow-minded.

"You must be excited for the holiday," he drawled.

"Don't really like the sea," Harry mumbled.

Tom raised his eyebrows. "You ever even been?"

"Once, a few years ago."

"What are you, afraid of the ocean?" Tom sneered though secretly his heart was pounding.

"No, I don't mind the water. It's the sand I hate."

Tom frowned. "The sand?"

"Gets everywhere. Under my clothes, in my hair, even in my mouth somehow. I hate the feeling of it."

Tom snorted. "It's only sand, Potter."

Harry looked up, at last, his eyes cool. "Well I hated it," he said. "And I must have hated it a lot if I can still remember hating it."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

He opened his wardrobe and grabbed his coat, intent on going outside and getting a few hours away from everyone else. If he were lucky, maybe he'd find a stray snake to talk to.

"Do you think I can skip it?" Harry asked in a small voice as Tom opened the door.

The boy paused, his back turned to Harry.

"It's only sand, Potter," Tom said coldly. "Get over it."

And he marched out the room, closing the door harshly behind him.

 

---

 

Tom had never travelled by train before. It was rather nice being seated in a spacious compartment rather than a cramped bus. Something he could definitely get used to. The children had all bounded onto one carriage, supervised by Mrs Cole and a few other workers who had volunteered to join them. There was a slightly higher number of attendees this year. It seemed that most of the older children didn't want to miss out on a chance to visit the sea.

The carriage was arranged in seats of four, with a table in the middle. The staff had shared two tables at the front of the carriage whilst the children had all clambered into the remaining seats. Tom, as usual, sat alone.

He peered out the wide window as the steam train rattled on. It was slightly warmer that day, so he didn't need to bring his coat. Instead, he wore his weekend clothes and carried a bag with his uniform inside. None of the children owned any swimwear, so they were given permission to enter the sea with their clothes so long as they brought a spare change of clothes to get dressed into afterwards. Since most of the kids only owned one outfit, they had all been made to bring their uniform.

Tom, who had no intention of getting his clothes wet, only brought the uniform due to obligation.

Vibrant green cliffs greeted him from the window, an uncomfortable feeling of claustrophobia surrounding him as they towered around him, though thankfully, there was no sea in sight.

He heard a shuffling in front of him and turned his head. His eyes narrowed when he noticed Harry, standing beside his seat, looking at him shyly.

"I know you want to be alone," he said. "But can I sit with you just this once? They're not being very nice over there."

Tom glanced behind Harry, a few seats back, and noticed two children eyeing him and wearing cruel smirks. He recognised them as Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, two children his age who were known to pick on the new kids. So long as said new kid was not older than them, they usually enjoyed the sport of bullying.

They had joined a few months after him and quickly caught on that Tom was not someone to pick on. Everyone else, however, had the misfortune of having to deal with them.

Tom sighed and nodded.

Harry looked at him gratefully and took a seat opposite.

Tom continued staring out of the window, ignoring Harry. From the corner of his eye, he saw Harry open his bag and take a book out. For a second he thought it was the Bible again and was about to scoff, but upon further reflection, he noticed it was one of the battered books from the Board Room. He glanced at the title.

The Tragedy of Othello

Tom frowned. "Shakespeare?"

Harry glanced up at him. "Mrs Cole gave me permission to borrow it from the board room. I'm going to need something to occupy myself with all day."

The books in the Board Room were split into two categories. There were picture books for the younger kids, with easier stories like Goldilocks and Little Red Riding Hood. Meanwhile, the older kids had a selection of more complex stories, classics like Dickens and Austin, as well as a small selection of Shakespeare books that Mrs Cole seemed to adore.

"You can understand it?" Tom asked, curiosity getting the best of him. He had tried to pick up a Shakespeare book once but couldn't understand the old writing, full of complex metaphors and strange speeches. Tom, disliking the lack of clarity and the feeling of not knowing something, had not touched a Shakespeare book since.

"A bit. It's not as complicated as most people think. They just need to get used to the writing."

"What's it about?" Tom asked, unable to stop himself.

"Tragic love," Harry replied.

Tom scoffed. Of course, Harry would be one to believe in Love.

He left Harry to his reading, looking out the window again. More hills greeted him, green slopes that seemed to go on forever. It was very different from the city, which was so grey and bleak. Here, it was as if the Depression never existed. As the train turned a corner, that's when Tom spotted it. The glimmer of the sea, golden as the sun reflected off it, just about visible from his window,

He wasn't the only one to spot it. Several children let out excited noises and rushed to the window, pressing their faces against it to get a better look.

Tom looked away.

The train stopped a few minutes later, and the children all bounded off excitedly. Harry turned the page of his book and carefully marked it, setting it aside in his bag. He glanced at Tom but the boy ignored him. Sliding off his seat, he didn't bother waiting for Harry, following everyone else outside.

The air was cool as he stepped off the train, mixed with tinges of sun so that it was almost pleasant. A nice breeze swept towards him, different from the harsh winds of London.

"Seaside air!" One of the workers, an older woman with a Northern accent, called out. "Good for yer lungs!"

Tom rolled his eyes and began trudging down the station, keeping his gaze high. The sooner this was over with, the better.

It was a short walk from the station to the beach. Despite it being a quiet area, with just a few locals milling about, the noise coming from the children made it seem as if it were the busiest beach in the world. At one point, even Mrs Cole had to tell the children to settle down.

When they reached the beach, however, the noise eventually died down, replaced by quiet whispering. Tom frowned, not understanding the sudden change in atmosphere. He squeezed his way to the front and then paused.

There was none of the endless sand he was expecting. Instead, the beach seemed to be a rocky one, the ground littered with small pebbles. There was still water all right, crashing violently against rocky cliffs that surrounded the beach.

"Aw thought there was gonna be sand, Mrs Cole!" One of the older kids whined.

"It's a shingle beach, Alfred," Mrs Cole said. "That means it has pebbles instead of sand."

"I wanna go in the sea!" A younger orphan said happily.

"Me too!"

"Take off your shoes and socks children!" Mrs Cole called out, as the children began scampering to the sea. "And boys roll up your trousers!"

Tom rolled his eyes as the children began running to the water, their disappointment abandoned in seconds. As the crowd around him thinned, he, looked around, noticing Harry staring at the sea.

"You must be pleased then," he said, stepping over to him. "No sand."

Harry glanced at him. "Got lucky, I guess," he murmured. Drifting away from Tom, he took refuge under a shaded area, using the edge of a cliff for back support, and took out his book again.

Tom looked around, suddenly unsure. Most of the children were in the sea now, splashing around happily in the waves. He looked to the side and saw Mrs Cole sitting with some of the workers, chatting whilst watching the children carefully.

He decided to do some exploring. 

Having never been to a beach before, Tom felt unfamiliar with this new, foreign territory. Not liking the feeling, he decided to learn more about his surroundings. Making his way towards the rocky cliffs, he peered up, disliking the way they towered over him. He continued to walk further along them, climbing over steep rocks and trying to get as little amount of water on him as possible. The rocks were quite damp, and he found himself slipping a few times, even whilst using his hands to support him.

Trying to climb over a particularly steep rock, Tom suddenly slipped and landed on his hands and knees. A searing pain shot into his knee and Tom groaned, gritting his teeth as he shakily stood up. His hands stung slightly but otherwise were fine. His left knee was a bit bruised but his right seemed to have taken most of the impact. There was a deep cut on it, and Tom watched, fascinated, as blood began trickling down his leg.

He looked back, only then realising how far he had gone. The noise from the children was quieter, though he could still see them, swimming happily and looking like ants dotted in a field. Tom trudged on.

The further along he went, the stronger the smell of sea salt. Trying not to focus on it or the sound of rushing waves beside him, he walked on, until eventually, he came across the opening of a cave. Tom stood outside it, staring at the giant expanse of black that greeted him. Unsurely, he took a step forward, treading forward carefully as though he were a rabbit entering a fox's den. The mouth of the cave was wide, looking as though it could swallow him whole as he peered inside. 

He squinted, peering through the dense darkness. He could see nothing but more rocks, grouped in chunks along the inside of the cave. Tom paused and listened. There was the sound of something, rather like running water, trickling inside the cave.

He made to go in further and then stopped. He couldn't be reckless. For all he knew, the cave could be miles deep. He wasn't about to get lost in it. Slowly, he turned around and walked back the way he came from, taking extra care not to slip again.

Eventually, he came back to the opening of the beach, noticing a few children still in the water. More had come out now, lying on the smooth pebbles and letting the sun dry them slowly.

"Tom," Mrs Cole walked over to him, frowning. "Where have you been?"

"Just exploring a bit, Mrs Cole," he said. "I didn't go off too far."

She eyed him up and down. "What have you done there?" she asked, indicating to his knee.

"Tripped, it's fine, it doesn't hurt."

"Be careful Tom," Mrs Cole warned. "Take that to Miss Molly, she has some plasters. And don't go out of bounds again, the last thing I need is for you to go missing."

Tom obliged, walking over to one of the workers who smiled at him and took out a large plaster from a container in her bag. Gently, she cleaned the wound and pressed the plaster on it, telling him to avoid the sea so that it wouldn't come off. As if he needed the warning.

He walked off, taking a seat as far away from the water as he could, and sitting with his knees huddled to his chest. Two kids were standing not too far from him, muttering to themselves. One of them caught Tom's gaze and whispered something to her friend. They exchanged a look and walked towards him.

"Hi Tom," Dennis Bishop greeted.

Tom didn't bother responding.

"Um... what- what do you think of the beach?"

"What do you want?" Tom asked abruptly.

The two children exchanged a look.

"You share a room with that new boy, right?" Amy Benson asked, her voice dropped to a whisper.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "So what if I do?"

"What's he like?" Dennis asked excitedly. "Is he a little... you know?"

"What?"

"Wierd," Amy said, as if it were obvious. 

Tom shrugged. "He's quiet," he said. He wasn't going to start defending Harry but he didn't like the way Amy had called him 'weird.'

"He's so quiet," Dennis commented. "Unfriendly too. Doesn't like talking to anyone."

"What's wrong with that?" Tom asked.

The two glanced at each other. "Nothing," Amy said. "Just odd. Have you seen the book he's reading? Who'd want to read that?"

"There's something not right about him," Dennis said softly, glancing at Harry. Tom followed his gaze and noticed the boy still sitting against a cliff, reading his book.

"Like I said, he's quiet. We don't speak much."

"Well... tell us if he does anything weird, yeah?" Amy asked.

Tom didn't reply as the two walked away, shooting glances back at Harry.

He glanced again at the boy, an uneasy feeling nestling at the pit of his stomach. Then he shrugged it off. He didn't care what happened to Harry. The boy had made it clear that he wasn't interested in magic so why should Tom take any interest in him?

"Out of the water now!" Mrs Cole called out. "Out you get! Lunchtime!"

At the mention of lunch, the remaining children quickly hurried out of the water.

"We eating here, Mrs Cole?" one of the kids asked, looking at his bag of sandwiches longingly.

"No, Fred, not here. Put those away, it's not hygienic. We'll be eating in the local village."

So Tom stood up and followed her and the rest of the orphans away from the sea, grateful as the crash of waves and smell of salt began to fade. They walked up a steep hill, until they came across a small village built above the sea. Tom was panting slightly as he reached the top, suddenly hungry as they walked to a nearby park and took seats on the benches laid out.

"You have an hour to eat," Mrs Cole called out. "If you're fourteen or above and brought some money you have permission to look around the shops for a bit. But I expect you all to buy something appropriate if you're going to buy anything at all. I don't want to see any more packs of cigarettes Albert," she added with a warning glance at one of the boys.

The boy who had been bullying Harry a few days ago gave her a cheeky grin. His friend next to him smirked.

"Can we go back to the beach when we're done eating Mrs Cole?" A young girl asked.

"Once you've all digested your lunch we can go back for another few hours. We mustn't miss the train though so I expect you all to leave when I tell you to, is that understood?"

There was a chorus of "Yes Mrs Cole" as the orphans began digging into their lunch.

Tom opened his bag and took out his sandwich. That morning, after breakfast, he had obediently taken two slices of bread, spread some blueberry jam onto each piece, bunched them together and put them into a paper bag. The jam made a nice treat- most of the bread they had in the orphanage was plain. Even though the bread was a little stale, it was still one of the better meals Tom had received.

As he ate, he noticed Amy and Dennis cross the park and make their way towards Harry. Tom sighed. The boy was seated on the grass, balancing his sandwich with one hand and his book with the other. He looked up as the two kids approached and Tom noticed his face fall.

They began speaking to him, though Tom was too far away to hear what. Curiously, he edged closer towards the group, careful not to be spotted. Finally, he neared close enough to hear the ends of a sentence.

"...freak," Dennis was saying.

"Go away," Harry said.

"We saw what you did with that book," Amy said, folding her arms. "You did something weird!"

There was that word again. Tom heard loud chatter a few seats from him and strained to listen closer as another conversation overlapped with Harry's.

"... don't know what you're saying."

"Don't try that, we saw you levitate that book from the shelf and into your hands."

So he had used more magic. Despite his anger at Harry's attitude towards his gift, Tom found himself disappointed he had missed it.

"You're confused, I didn't do anything."

"Liar," Amy said. "We know what we saw Potter, we want to know how you did it."

"I really don't know what you're talking about," Harry said, folding his book. "Excuse me," he tried to stand up but Dennis pushed him down.

"Tell us the truth you little freak!" he demanded. "How did you do it?"

Tom glanced around for Mrs Cole and saw she was busy with some of the other children. Typical. He glanced back at Harry who now seemed rather nervous.

"I don't know how," he said.

"Stop lying," Amy said crossly.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. It's not natural what you did. It's not normal!"

"Just tell us the truth you freak," Dennis sneered. 

Harry glanced at them helplessly, his eyes darting between the pair. They caught Tom's eye and he could see Harry look at him imploringly for help. He remained seated.

"Children! Dessert!" one of the workers called out.

Amy and Dennis glanced over at the worker, who was holding a huge bag of ice lollies in her hand. A treat. As the other kids squealed excitedly and rushed over to her, Tom saw Harry slip away whilst Amy and Dennis were distracted.

Tom glared at them. He didn't particularly like Harry, but he hated the way they were speaking to him. Weird. Strange. Not normal. Freak. They were jealous because Harry was gifted and they weren't. He knew the feeling. Others had tried to bully him for it until they learnt not to.

It was obvious that Harry wasn't like him. He was an easy target. He'd teach them nothing. 

The orphans had been brought here for the air, or so they were told, but Tom Riddle knew better. The sea was not kind. It did not refresh or soothe—it swallowed. It destroyed. And today, it would teach a lesson.

He walked over to Dennis and Amy, who were muttering amongst themselves. 

"Let's go," he said.

They glanced at him. "Where?" Amy asked.

"I want to show you both something, away from everyone else."

"Is it to do with Potter?" Dennis asked.

"Yes," Tom lied. "But I can't say here."

The two exchanged a glance, looking excited. "Lead the way," Dennis said.

He remembered the way to the cave, hidden below the cliffs and surrounded by water. The same cliffs the village was built on. He led Amy and Dennis away from the others, keeping a close eye on Mrs Cole to make sure she didn't spot them.

They followed him unquestioningly, thrilled by the idea of learning Harry's secret and motivated by the excitement of slipping away from the others. But Tom could sense, that as the other orphans faded into the distance, and as the ground became rockier and harder to step on, their excitement turned to hesitation.

Tom did not slow.

The wind tore at their clothes as they moved beyond the last traces of the village, away from the safety of the well-trodden paths. The land fell away in sheer drops, the roar of the waves below swallowing every other sound. No boats would brave the waters below them. Tom could tell by the waves it was too dangerous for anyone to come close to the cave by ship. It belonged to him.

Dennis and Amy faltered as they reached the edge of the precipice. Tom turned, his eyes gleaming.

“This way,” he said simply, and began to climb down.

He did not look back. He did not need to. He could hear their sharp breaths, feel the hesitation in their movements. Felt that hesitation overcome by the longing to know more.

The rocks were slick with sea spray, sharp edges cutting into their small hands as they grabbed onto them. It was harder climbing down the rocks than across it, like he had before, but something- his magic, perhaps- guided Tom easily, leaving him knowing exactly where to place his feet, how to shift his weight and which rocks were too wet to grab onto. He could have used that magic to help the other two. It would have been effortless.

But he wanted them to struggle.

Halfway down, one of them let out a sob, a thin, reedy sound snatched away by the wind. Tom paused, glancing up at the trembling figures above him. He smiled.

“Keep going,” he said. A command, not encouragement.

And so they did.

The last drop brought them onto a stretch of wet, black stone, half-hidden beneath the overhanging cliffs. Before them, the rock yawned open, a narrow wound in the earth. The cave. His cave.

"Why are we here?" Amy asked. She looked nervous now.

The journey alone seemed to be enough punishment as it was but it wasn't enough for Tom. It never was. He needed more.

"I want to show you something," Tom said, stepping towards the cave.

"To do with Harry, right?" Dennis asked though he sounded very unsure now. 

Tom paused, his head turning slightly to the side. "Of course."

And he walked forward, smirking as he felt the sounds of footsteps following him.

Together, the three children stepped into the cave, the shadows swallowing them whole.

Notes:

Land>Ocean. I don't trust that shit. Aside from being a giant toilet for every sea creature on earth, who knows what abominations are lurking down there? Also it's fucking huge, like it does not need to take up all that room 🙄

On closer reflection, it appears I may have megalophobia.

Chapter 3: July, 1938

Notes:

Oof sorry for the slow update had a crazy month (don't worry the Russians failed)

Mrs Cole's office was a small room located near the entrance of the orphanage. The building wasn't large enough to have both a sitting room and an office so the room was an odd combination of the two, a place where visitors would be greeted and where Mrs Cole could get on with her work. 

Like most aspects of the orphanage, it was shabby, with a sofa and a small table bundled up in one corner, and a cluttered wooden desk in the other. A rusty cabinet was placed next to the door, and a small window was adjacent to it. All of the furniture was old and mismatched, a combination of different sizes and proportions like mismatched puzzle pieces jammed together, failing to form a cohesive picture. Thrown together, it formed an entirely unconvincing attempt at an office.

Tom had the strong urge to walk out, hating the unevenness of the room. Just by being in it, he could tell he wasn't cut out for a job in an office.

Small, claustrophobic, sitting on a rickety chair and facing a clustered desk, overfilling with papers and forms and pens and coffee smudges, it was honestly a wonder how Mrs Cole was able to function in such a place.

He tapped his fingers against his chair, staring at the clock on the wall. It made an ominous tick tick tick noise, one that was becoming increasingly annoying. Next to the clock were a few trinkets pinned onto the wall, things Mrs Cole seemed to be proud of.

An award for completing some kind of simple college degree in childcare; a black and white photograph of what appeared to be a nurse's ward, the women all staring at him gloomily in their uniform; and a few certificates that must have belonged to a couple of orphans that had long since left the orphanage, for some sort of academic achievement.

There was no denying Mrs Cole cared about her job. And she wasn't terrible at it either. But at that moment, it didn't stop Tom from hating her with every ounce of his being.

The door clicked open and footsteps walked his way. Tom didn't bother peering behind him.

"Well Tom," Mrs Cole said, rounding her desk and taking a seat behind it. "I trust you know why you're here."

Tom stared at her boredly. Then, just to mess with her, he said, "No."

"I'm sorry?"

"No, I don't."

Mrs Cole folded her arms and leaned back, throwing him a reproachful look. "There's no use in lying, Tom."

"I didn't do anything!"

A burst of anger escaped Tom, his eyes glowering dangerously. Mrs Cole looked unnerved though she regained herself, throwing him a stern look.

"Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, Tom, what happened?"

"Nothing we were just exploring."

"Exploring- have you seen the state of them?"

For once, Tom thought Mrs Cole looked angry.

"I told them they could leave if they wanted, they both insisted on coming."

"Coming where?"

"Just a cave I found, I thought it'd be cool to explore for a bit."

"I thought I made it clear you were not to go out of bounds," Mrs Cole said, annoyed.

Tom shrugged. "It was just for a bit."

She eyed him closely, her lips thinning. She had no proof. There was nothing to tie him to what happened to poor little Amy or Dennis and she knew it.

"Tom-" her voice became more even; a different approach. "-if you tell the truth, I won't be angry. You won't even get into much trouble. Just tell me what happened."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "It's like I said, I wanted to go exploring, they insisted on coming. We visited a cave. Nothing else happened. They're probably just spooked by it, that's all."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Stop! Stop! What are you doing?"

"You're scaring us! Stop it Tom- oh my God! Oh my God!"

"Yes."

Mrs Cole looked at him unbelievably. "You best get on to bed, Tom," she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

Silently, Tom stood up, stepping towards the door. He could feel Mrs Cole's gaze, heavy on his back as he exited the office.

It was dark outside. Already it had grown cold, his clothes slightly damp from the spitting seawater and sticking to him uncomfortably. He walked upstairs, past his room and towards the end of the corridor. He hated the public showers. He made a point only to go in them to stay hygienic and even then he ensured he spent as little as possible in them, trying to limit the time he spent stepping on the grimy tiles and rinsing in the usually ice-cold water.

"No water today, Tom," one of the kids called out from the door of his room. He leaned against it, eyeing the bathroom door gloomily.

"Again?" Tom complained.

"All used up for today. It was Bobby Richards again. That bastard keeps hogging all the water."

Tom sighed and turned around, walking back to his room. He would have to sleep smelling like sea salt and get up earlier than normal to use the showers before the water ran out. He clenched his fists. If Mrs Cole hadn't dragged him to her office, he may have made it in time to shower.

Harry was sitting on his bed when he entered, dressed in his baggy pyjamas and flicking through the dull bible book in his hands. Tom noticed the Shakespeare copy resting on his bedside table, carefully marked.

The boy watched him as he stripped and changed into his night clothes, setting aside his weekend clothes to be washed the following morning.

As Tom climbed into bed, Harry blurted out- "What did you do to them?"

Tom paused and looked over. "To who?"

"Amy and Dennis, I saw you return with them. They looked... bad."

Tom shrugged. "Went exploring, they got spooked."

"Spooked?" Harry repeated.

"We're not all cut out for the sea, Potter," Tom said.

"Well... you shut them up at least," Harry said, turning back to his bible.

Tom paused and peered back over at Harry. The boy's concern seemed to vanish in an instant, as if it had been a poorly disguised veil he had shed.

"More Bible?" Tom asked, indicating to the book.

"Evening prayers," Harry murmured.

Tom stared at him. If Harry suspected him of being behind what happened to Amy and Dennis, one thing was for certain, a good little Christian boy would not have dismissed him so quickly. Whatever persona Harry was trying to hide behind- an innocent, shy boy with a secret lust for violence, perhaps- Tom wasn't going to fall for it.

He climbed into bed and turned away from Harry, inhaling the scent of sea salt and hoping it wouldn't linger on his sheets as he slept. A candle beside him went out a few minutes later and Tom heard Harry sigh as he drifted off to sleep.

In his dreams, he replayed the events of the cave over and over again.

 

---

Word of Amy and Dennis’s condition spread rapidly throughout the orphanage. They were both absent from lessons for the remainder of the week, though somehow, everyone seemed to know they had gone exploring with him during the seaside trip and emerged in some kind of traumatic state.

Needless to say, it did very little to help his reputation. Whispers followed him as he walked down corridors, words snaking their way towards him, harsh and tense.

"See that boy over there-"

"-always talking to snakes-"

"-the one with dark hair, in the tatty green sweater vest-"

"-did something weird to Amy and Dennis, I heard about it from Dylan Collins-"

"-heard he tried to stab them-"

"-in a cave-"

"-set a snake on them-"

"-tried throwing them in the ocean."

And the rumours went on and on. Tom mostly ignored them, keeping his head high and his gaze straight ahead of him, ignoring the way the younger kids scrambled away from him and the older ones eyed him as he passed.

Since the trip, Mrs Cole had been on high alert, and he sensed she told her staff to be on the lookout since from that moment onwards, he noticed one or more of the workers watching him closely around the orphanage.

As he predicted, no one approached him directly.

Knowing there was nothing they could do about Amy or Dennis, no way to tie him to their state, no way to punish him for what he had done, was satisfying in some ways.

Annoyingly, Harry seemed to have taken quite a liking to him, doing stupid things like smiling at him as he entered his room. Maybe he thought Tom had told Amy and Dennis to back off for his sake. Well, he hadn't done what he did for him. He had done it to get them to stop acting so superior when they were giftless and magicless. To stop them from calling those different to them freaks. It was more for him, really.

It seemed, however, that no amount of scowling would discourage Harry, and soon, he gave up. He'd rather Harry bother him than anyone else—at least Harry had magic, even if he turned his back on it.

"What are you doing?"

Tom sighed and looked up from his book as Harry entered the room one morning.

"Reading."

"Why is there a pen in your hand then?"

Tom scowled. In truth, he had not been reading. He had been writing. Jotting down notes really. Around a year ago, unbeknownst to Mrs Cole, Tom had bribed some of the older years into taking him with them on a trip to London. Whilst they fooled around in a corner shop, he had wandered away until he came across a stationary shop.

Winstanley's Bookstore & Stationers

Curious, Tom had entered, looking around the selection of journals and diaries, admiring the smooth leather covers and thick, quality pages. One in particular caught his eye. A handsome leather diary, simple, but containing a neat sort of elegance to it that Tom had admired. Something strange happened as he watched the book enviously and before he knew it, the shopkeeper was offering it to him for free, his eyes strangely glazed as he printed Tom's initials onto the cover and handed it to him.

T.M Riddle was written in fine gold print, a sight that filled Tom with inexplicable pride. Perhaps it was finally having something new, something that he owned first hand and belonged to him and only to him.

Since then, Tom had kept the diary safely guarded, hidden in the back of his cupboard, so that no one could see what he had written.

His accomplishments.

Amy and Dennis had just made the list when Harry rudely interrupted him.

"Mind your business, Potter."

Harry didn't look abashed anymore. He gave Tom a mildly amused look before crossing the room and sliding into his own bed, taking his copy of Othello from his bedside and opening it to a marked page.

Tom eyed him for a moment before turning back to his journal, satisfied that the boy was busy and wasn't paying attention to him.

The room was filled with the sounds of Tom's pen scratching across paper and Harry turning the page. Just as Tom began to sink back into the blissful peace that he savoured during the weekends, there was a sharp knock on the door.

It was opened before he could scowl again.

"Tom? Harry? You both have a visitor."

It was Mrs Cole. Tom and Harry glanced at each other, frowning, before turning back to the door. In all his time in the orphanage, Tom had never encountered a visitor. The thought of someone wanting to visit him and Harry seemed too big a coincidence. It set him on edge.

Mrs Cole stepped through, accompanied by the strangest-looking man Tom had ever seen. So strange that his paranoia was temporarily forgotten.

He had a bushy beard, dark orange in colour, like the leaves in fall that had faded into a more brown-like tone, and wore a magnificently bright purple suit.

Tom glanced over and saw Harry staring at the man, his mouth slightly open. Tom turned back as the man smiled politely at them, his eyes narrowing as he eyed him up and down.

"Good morning boys, how do you do?"

His voice was rich and smooth, the kind of voice Tom had only ever heard a few times in his life. Not the strained, harassed voice of a nurse or impatient matron but one of someone who had plenty of time on his hands, someone who walked through life with an ease Tom never could. 

Harry didn't reply, too shocked by the man's appearance. Tom didn't bother responding. He knew what this was. He wasn't going to play along. He turned to glare at Mrs Cole but the woman had already left, closing the door behind her. Tom felt his fists clench.

"I assume you're Harry?" the man said, striding over to Harry and smiling at him. He held out his hand, and after a second hesitation, Harry grasped it. 

"Yes, sir."

"So you must be Tom."

The man turned to beam at Tom. He offered his hand but Tom- put off by Harry's naivety- didn't shake it.

"Who are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore-" the man began.

"Professor?" Tom's eyes flashed dangerously. "I knew it! That woman's sent you to take a look at us, hasn't she? There's nothing wrong with us!"

"I'm afraid you've misunderstood-"

"I didn't do anything to little Amy or Dennis!" Tom said furiously. "Ask them! They'll tell you the same thing!"

"Mr Riddle, I assure you, I am not who you think I am."

"Oh? Who are you then, Professor? Tell the truth!" Tom spat, his voice ringing with the authority of a command.

For a moment, Dumbledore seemed surprised. Then he regained himself and continued, "As I was saying, my name is Albus Dumbledore. I am a professor at Hogwarts-"

"What is that? A mental institution?" Tom sneered.

"Not at all," Dumbledore said, looking faintly surprised. "Hogwarts is a school. A school for children such as yourselves."

"Please sir," Harry said timidly. "W-We're not insane."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Hogwarts is not a hospital," he said. "It is a school for gifted children. Rather, children with magic."

Harry froze. “Magic?” he ghosted, giving Tom a nervous glance.

Dumbledore smiled. “Yes. You see, I am like you. I am what we who have magic would call a wizard.”

”Prove it,” Tom said cooly. He had given no reaction to Dumbledore's mention of magic. He didn't dare to believe it. This was a trick, a lure to trap him. And he wasn't going to take the bait.

Dumbledore withdrew a hand into his suit pocket and a second later, extracted a long wooden stick. Tom realised it was meant to be a wand.

Who did the man think he was fooling? Tom had never used a wand to cast magic. Wands were for silly fairytales, something younger children believed in. Did he think he was stupid?

Just as he was about to scoff, Dumbledore flicked his wand and without warning, his cupboard burst into flames.

Tom jumped to his feet, letting out an enraged shout as the fire consumed his wooden cupboard, staring at it in horror and anger. Harry had scrambled back in his bed, his eyes darting from the cupboard to Dumbledore to his wand, wild and scared.

His possessions. His few, worn-out garments, the only clothes he had. And his treasures.

Just as he was about to yell the flames consuming his cupboard vanished. Tom blinked and saw none of the damage he had been expecting. Instead, the cupboard remained the same, as if nothing had ever happened to it in the first place. 

"Woah," Harry breathed.

“I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe,” Dumbledore said.

 And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it, as if something had been chained and was trying to break loose. Tom paused, his eyes flickering slowly from Dumbledore and then to his wardrobe.

“Open the door,” Dumbledore instructed.

Tom scowled. "That sounded like a command," he retorted.

"At Hogwarts, your teachers will be referred to as 'professor' or 'sir' and you will do as you're told, no exceptions. If I take it you are to accept your place, then I suggest you start getting used to my- as you put it- commands."

Tom hesitated, inhaling a breath. The temptation, the longing, to see more magic had overcome his apprehension. Crossing the room, he reluctantly threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above his lonely rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it.

“Take it out,” said Dumbledore.

Another command. Tom kept his back to Dumbledore so he could not see the sour expression on his face. "It's nothing," he said.

"Take it out, Mr Riddle."

Tom glanced at Harry over his shoulder. The boy was watching him closely, his eyes wide with interest.

Sighing, he took down the quaking box and set it down on his bed. He had never shown anyone the contents of this box. Never revealed his treasures to anyone else.

“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked Dumbledore, though it was obvious that he knew the answer.

Tom threw Dumbledore a long, calculating look. “Yes, I suppose there is, sir,” he said finally, in an expressionless voice.

“Open it,” said Dumbledore.

Slowly, his fingers undid the fragile tape sealing the box together and took off the lid, tipping the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Behind him, he saw Harry lean closer on his bed, wanting to catch a glimpse.

A mess of small, everyday objects was sprawled onto his bed: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets.

"Thievery is not permitted at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, stowing his wand back into his bright purple jacket and turning his head so that he addressed both Harry and Tom. "At Hogwarts, we teach you not only how to cast magic but how to harness it for your own benefit. How to utilise it, control it," he turned back to Tom. “You will return these items to their owners with your apologies, “I shall know whether it has been done. I do not want to see this in Hogwarts, do you understand?"

Tom refused to be intimidated. "If I go," he said.

"Of course, you are under no obligation."

But from the look Dumbledore gave him it was obvious they both knew the answer: of course he would be going.

Harry gave a shy cough. "I think... I'd like to attend... if that was okay?"

"Of course it is. And you, Mr Riddle? You are, like I said, under no pressure, but I would like to see you at Hogwarts." He sounded so genuine for a second, Tom believed him.

"Yes... I'd like to attend," he said stiffly.

Dumbledore beamed. "Wonderful." He turned so he could gaze at both of them again. "Now you have both—inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws.”

Harry nodded. "I didn't really know I was doing magic," he said shyly. He threw a glance at Tom. "He told me but I... I didn't believe him."

"That is understandable, Mr Potter," Dumbledore said kindly. "You are not the only ones to be new to this. There will be some amongst your year who will be familiar with magic, having grown up alongside magical parents. But others, I am sure, will be born to muggle parents, and will be just as new to our world as you both are-"

"Muggle?" Tom interrupted. "What are those?"

"Forgive me, that is what we call those without magic."

"How can you have it if your parents don't?" Tom said, sneering slightly. "Surely it's hereditary?"

"Not quite Mr Riddle," Dumbledore said, his gaze steady. "Wizards and Witches come from all aspects of the world. Magic does not discriminate."

It was impossible to tell what Tom was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said reluctantly, “We haven’t got any money.”

“That is easily remedied,” said Dumbledore, drawing two leather pouches from his pocket. “There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but—”

"Is this real?" Harry said excitedly, opening his bag and examining a fat gold coin.

"It is," Dumbledore said, looking faintly amused. "I am more than happy to assist with your finances. We use a different currency to muggles-"

“Where do you buy spellbooks?” interrupted Tom, who was also now examining a gold coin, turning it over in his fingers.

"In Diagon Alley,” said Dumbledore. “I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you both find everything—”

“You’re coming with us?” asked Riddle, looking up.

“Certainly, if you—”

"We'll be fine," Tom said, dismissively. "Won't we, Harry?"

Harry hesitated for a split second, before nodding. "Yes, thank you sir."

"How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?” Tom added, catching Dumbledore’s eye.

"It's in London, though I am sure Mrs Cole will not want you both going to the inner city by yourselves-"

"She'll be fine with it," Tom lied. "We're allowed to leave by ourselves all the time."

Dumbledore glanced at Harry, seemingly for confirmation, and after a second's hesitation the boy gave a brief nod. Tom smiled. In truth, he planned on bribing an upper year to tell Mrs Cole he'll accompany them to somewhere local, like a park or a library. Tom had done such a thing a few times. So long as he met with the orphan in time to walk back to the orphanage together, they wouldn't get caught.

"Very well," Dumbledore said. He extracted two envelopes from his pocket and handed them to the two boys. "A list of your equipment and instructions of how to find Diagon Alley. There is a pub, called the Leaky Cauldron, which will act as a doorway between muggle and magical London. You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you will not," Dumbledore nodded at Tom. "Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name—”

Unable to help himself, Tom gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly.

 You dislike the name ‘Tom’?” Dumbledore asked, watching him closely.

“There are a lot of Toms,” muttered Riddle.

"Please sir, are we muggle-borns?" Harry asked in a small voice. 

Tom paused. He had always thought that his magic was something given to him by his parents, or at least one of them. He thought for sure that his mother never possessed it, for if she could then surely she would still be alive. Sometimes, he wondered whether his father had never bothered to look for him because of that reason. Because he had magic and she didn't. And sometimes Tom didn't blame him. After all, he would never fall for a 'muggle'. He had to be with someone like him, strong, powerful, gifted. Not ordinary and simple.

Now, hearing it confirmed that it could be passed on from parent to child made him desperately hope his parents had magic too. The thought that he could be associated with muggles- the talentless, pathetic orphans he lived amongst, made his skin crawl. No doubt those with wizarding ancestry were superior.

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.

"I can't remember if they had or not," Harry said gloomily. "I mean- I sort of remember them- bits of them, you know? I feel like if they had magic I would have noticed it..."

His voice trailed off and he bit his lip. Tom said nothing. 

"Perhaps your parents were waiting until you were older to tell you?" Dumbledore suggested kindly. "Or maybe you had not performed accidental magic in front of them and so they thought they had no reason to let you know. You can be born into a wizarding family and have no magic, you know, those are called squibs. Either way, I am sure there are ways for you both to find out whether or not your parents passed magic or not."

"They better have," Tom muttered.

"You should not be too focused on your ancestry," Dumbledore said, glancing at Tom. "You are both wizards, magical parents or not. That is what's important. Now, I'm afraid I must get going. All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope. You will leave from King’s Cross Station on the first of September, platform Nine and Three-Quarters. There is a train ticket in there too."

"Nine and Three-Quarters, sir?" Harry asked, looking confused.

"Indeed, simply walk directly into the barrier dividing Platforms Nine and Ten," Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eye.

He stepped towards them and held out his hand again. Harry shook it, smiling shyly at the man. When he extended it to Tom, he reluctantly extended his hand.

Dumbledore smiled politely at them both and then turned around, his hand meeting the door when Tom blurted out, unable to help himself, "I can speak to snakes too."

Dumbledore paused, his head turning slightly to the side.

"They find me sometimes, whisper things... is that... normal for someone like me?"

The man hesitated for a moment. “It is unusual,” he said. “But not unheard of.”

His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Tom's face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then Dumbledore's eyes flickered away from him.

 “Goodbye, Mr Riddle, Mr Potter. I look forward to seeing you both at Hogwarts.”

And with a turn, he was gone.

 

---

 

“ Are you sure about this?” Harry asked timidly.

Tom rolled his eyes. If he could have, he would have just left Harry to get his things by himself. Unfortunately, he had implied to Dumbledore that they would get their things together and he didn’t want to get the blame if Harry was unable to.

“Relax, will you?”

“I just don’t want to get lost.”

Tom sighed impatiently. “I told you I’ve done this before. You don’t trust me?”

At this, Harry fell silent.

The second Dumbledore left, Tom ripped open his letter and greedily scanned its contents. Harry, meanwhile, sat on his bed, still clutching his letter and staring at his name written in swirly purple ink on the cover, as though he couldn’t believe it was real.

Just then a boy walked out the front doors of the orphanage, his hands in his pockets, a calm expression on his face. He was several years older, his cool eyes flickering around until they came across Tom and Harry.

“Come on,” Tom muttered.

Together, the pair stepped over to the boy, who nodded at them.

“Alright, Tom?”

The boy nodded.

"Told Cole I was taking you both to the library, you better stick to that story, got it?" the boy said, his gaze centered on Harry.

"We will, Hal," Tom said, shooting a glance at Harry and noticed he seemed rather put-off.

"Come on then."

Together, they walked ten minutes to the nearest train station. Annoyingly, Tom noticed Harry kept glancing behind him every so often but he pursed his lips and ignored him, keeping his head straight on. When they reached the station, the boy nodded at them.

"Be here at four-thirty, no later or Cole will have my head, understand?"

"I've never been late before, have I?" Tom asked, a twinge of bitterness to his voice. He was certain that it was Harry's hesitance that was causing the older boy to start having doubts.

Hal eyed them both carefully for a few moments before seemingly deciding to push aside his doubts.

"Two packs of Woodbine and I need another box of matches."

Tom nodded. 

"Cherrio then, see you at four-thirty."

Hal put his hands back in his pockets and turned, walking away from the station.

"Come on," Tom muttered, leading the way inside.

Reluctantly, Harry followed him in. The station was an airy, circular room with a glass roof allowing morning sunlight to stream in and a checkered, black-and-white tiled floor, covered by a thin layer of grime. Together, the two boys stepped over to the ticket master, a blading man siting behind a glass window.

"Two tickets to Charing Cross, third class return."

"Two shillings," the man said.

"It used to be six pence a ticket," Tom said, outraged.

"Price has gone up boy, one shilling a ticket."

Tom scowled and grabbed a bundle of pennies from his coat pocket. His hands brushed over the small pouch of coins Dumbledore had given him and for a second he wished that wizards and muggles used the same currency so that perhaps then he would be able to travel first-class without breaking a sweat. Then he dropped the coins into the penny chute and pushed the thought away. The less he had to do with muggles, the better.

He glanced at Harry and noticed he had remained still. "Cough up, I have to save the rest to get Hal his cigarattes."

Harry looked at him blankly. "I haven't got any money."

Tom groaned. If only he could cut Harry loose, he would no longer be anchored down by his nuisance.

With a quick glance at the ticket master who was busy counting Tom's pennies, Tom turned, his eyes scanning the station until they came across an old women with a fur coat who had just stepped into the station and was taking out a purse bundled with coins. Tom concentrated and the thick hat she wore suddenly dropped and covered her eyes. Whilst the woman pulled it up, twelve pennies zoomed across the station and into Tom's hands.

"There," he said, putting them into the penny chute. "Two shillings."

The man eyed him suspiciously as he began counting the coins. Tom sighed and glanced at the clock held above the door of the station.

"Two tickets to Charing Cross," the ticket master said and Tom jumped slightly, glancing back at the man who had pushed two brown, small tickets down the penny chute. "Third class return."

Tom took them and, without thanking the man, hurried down the station. He heard the whistle of a train about to leave and sped faster, thinking of all the precious time he was wasting.

"Come on," he hissed to Harry. As the nearest train began slowly moving down the tracks, he and Harry jumped onto the guard's van just as the train pulled away from the station. Tom panted and pushed his hair away from his eyes. Glancing at Harry, he saw the boy did not seem as tired, instead glaring at Tom angrily.

"What?" he asked.

"That was stealing."

"So?"

"It's wrong!"

Tom rolled his eyes. "You're welcome, by the way."

Harry stood up. "We should have just gone with Dumbledore," he hissed. 

Tom frowned. "We don't need him," he said. "He'll just slow us down."

"The only thing we need to get is a- a wand and a few books and-"

"Exactly! Dumbledore will just stick to the rules! Imagine all the other stuff this Diagon Alley has."

"If it wasn't on the list then we don't need it."

Sensing he wasn't going to get anywhere with Harry, Tom stood up. "Fine, you stick to that boring list. It's too late for Dumbledore now anyway, you're already on the train."

He opened the door to the nearest carriage and stepped inside, feeling Harry's eyes on the back of his head.

A single carriage for first-class was reserved on the other end of the train, behind the driver's cab. Tom had glanced at it a few times when going on trains, eyeing it longingly the way a child may with a cake display in a shop. As they entered the carriage, Tom sighed at the filth that awaited them in third class.

The carriage was mostly empty, save for one old man lying down over two seats near the front. Together he and Harry sat near the end, sitting as far apart in their seats as possible. Harry looked away from him, glancing out the window. Tom ignored him and stored his ticket in his trouser pocket, taking out the letter he had received from Dumbledore and re-reading it for what felt like the millionth time.

 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Armando Dippet

(Order of Merlin, Second Class, Grand Sorc., Charms Master 1783, Chief Delegate, International Confed. of Wizards)

 

Dear Mr Riddle,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1st. We await your reply by no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Deputy Headmaster

 

Tom took out the enclosed list of books and equipment and read through it once more. When he was done, he stored it back in his pocket alongside his acceptance letter. He felt again for the bag of coins Dumbledore had given him, feeling the slight weight of it sagging down against his coat.

Tom had never owned so much money in his life. What few shillings he owned had either been stolen or scavenged from his trips to London, hence why he told Dumbledore he had none. Tom had frequented the city a few times and though he disliked the dirtiness and loudness of London, he clung onto the freedom it bought, a few precious hours away from the orphanage on weekends.

All he had to do was find older orphans like Hal who could be bought with a couple of cigarettes and he could escape for a few hours. What money he did have mostly went towards bribing the older orphans so he never really had enough for himself. Perhaps for an odd sweet or two. But that was all right. There was plenty to be stolen from the orphans to entertain him.

It still annoyed him to think about the way Dumbledore had spoken to him. No one, not even Mrs Cole, had the nerve to command him. It was more than a simple telling off like the ones he was used to receiving. Dumbledore had utilised his power and held it over Tom, power Tom craved to hold. He had forced Tom to exchange apologies for entry to a school designed to help him learn magic. It hardly seemed fair. 

But so were most things in his life.

Half-way through the journey, the conductor came around to examine their tickets.

"What if he asks why we're unaccompanied?" Harry whispered, his voice strained.

Tom just scoffed and shook his head. No one would care about a couple of young unaccompanied children in third class. They never did.

The conductor came and left. The train came to a stop around twenty minutes later. Together with a begrudging Harry, Tom exited the train, his eyes scanning the busy station for the route to The Leaky Cauldron.

"Come on," he said to Harry.

With their drab clothes and small size, the two boys blended perfectly into the busy London crowd. No one paid them much attention as they navigated themselves across packed streets, ignoring the shouts and hollers of the noisy Londoners. Tom walked with ease, having made the journey a few times before. Harry, on the other hand, walked with a nervous step, glancing around him with wide eyes as though wanting to take it every detail of the grimy city.

Eventually, they stumbled across a shabby-looking pub, located between a barber shop and a tailor. A battered sign of a black cauldron was hung outside, filled with purple liquid that leaked through cracks in the metal.

"This must be it," Tom murmured, eyeing the place up and down.

He noticed no one else seemed to be noticing the shop, the passersby simply walking past without a glance.

Harry was watching the pub nervously, fidgeting slightly with his fingers. Tom huffed and led the way, opening the door with a slight creak. The interior of the pub was, if anything, even shabbier than the front. It was dark and dimly lit by just a few candles, decorated with several wooden tables in the shadows of the corners. A staircase on one side led the way upstairs and another on the other side going downstairs. The signs next to them said Rooms and Cellar respectively. 

A few inhabitants loitered in the pub, either sitting on the tables or on stools near the bar. It stretched across the end of the pub, with many bottles of different-coloured liquids perched on shelves behind it. Tom tried to recognise some of the names but found he could not.

" 'ello? Everything all right?" A man standing behind the bar called out. He was tall and sturdy, with chestnut-brown hair and a bushy beard.

"Are you Tom?" Harry asked timidly.

"Ay that'll be me, how can I help yer?"

"Dumbledore told us to come here."

Tom gave them a toothy smile. "Ah, Hogwarts is it? Notta’ problem, boys, just head on right back until you reach the brick wall. All yer got ter do is tap the brick three up from the rubbish bin and two across ter get access."

Tom followed his gaze towards a door at the back of the pub. Without thanking the man, he walked across the pub towards it, Harry hurrying behind him and giving the barman a quick thanks.

They ended up in a desolate courtyard just outside the pub. A brick wall greeted them, accompanied by a few rubbish bins.

"Do you remember what he said about the bins?" Harry asked nervously. "I think I forgot-"

"Shh," Tom said, his eyes narrowed at the walls. Slowly, he stood up and tapped a brick on the right hand side. At first there was nothing. Then, the bricks began moving apart, one by one until a stone archway appeared, leading them to a busy and brightly-coloured street.

Harry gaped at the display of magic. Tom blinked once before striding into Diagon Alley.

"Where to first?" he called carelessly over his shoulder whilst his eyes roamed the alleyway greedily, taking in every shop name and sight as quickly as he could.

"Er-" Harry consulted his letter. "-there's a bookshop over there, we can go there first."

So they went to the bookshop where Tom spent his first few precious coins in exchange for a bundle of heavy second-hand books. He stored them in a bag the shopkeeper offered and then walked on. Potion flasks, cauldrons, ingredients, scales and a telescope set (mostly second or third hand) were all purchased until his money bag felt considerably lighter and his arms were full.

"Let's go over there," Tom said, indicating a small shop that read Silverman's storage and delivery. Together, they paid a few gold coins for a thin and eager-looking wizard to take hold of their newly bought possessions, with instructions to send it to them by muggle post a day before they were due to arrive at Hogwarts. Tom pocketed one book- Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling- to read before the term started and gave the rest in.

"We can collect it from the post-office," Tom said. "So no one will have to see."

"Good thinking," Harry said, looking relieved at not having to carry everything.

"Now all that's left is a wand," Tom said quietly. He had deliberately left this last, not wanting to keep it in storage with all the others. This would be something he kept with him at all times.

They asked for instructions to the wand shop from a nearby witch who pointed them further down the alley. On the way, they passed a huge and strange-looking building that seemed to be teetering slightly to its side. Gringotts Bank was visible from a golden sign on the front as Tom passed it. For a fleeting moment he wondered whether his parents had perhaps left him with anything, if he'd maybe have a chance to look. Then Harry said, "Look!" as the wand shop came into view.

Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C read the shop name in peeling gold letters. The window display consisted of just one lonely wand placed on a faded purple cushion. Tom frowned, thinking this was not a very impressive display and hesitantly pushed open the door, a tinkling bell ringing from the depths of the shop as they stepped inside.

The shop was tiny, empty except for a single, spindly chair in the corner. Thousands of narrow boxes containing wands were piled right up to the ceiling of the tiny shop, giving the impression the shop was even smaller than it was, and the whole place had a thin layer of dust on it, as though it had been years since anyone had wandered by. 

No one seemed to be there.

"H-Hello?" Harry called out.

His voice was met with silence.

"Someone there?" Tom called out impatiently. 

"Just a moment," called out a voice from somewhere further down the shop.

For some reason, the back of Tom's neck prickled. He glanced around him cautiously. The room tingled with something, a familiar feeling that even the dust seemed to emit. After a couple of minutes, Tom realised what it was. Magic. The room was full of it.

A few seconds later, a pale-skinned man stepped through behind a row of wands, his silvery eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop. He said no word as he stepped to the front of the counter, thoroughly observing the two of them as though they were the most interesting things he had seen in years.

Harry awkwardly tried to begin a conversation. "Um hi-"

"Hogwarts?" the man asked. Then without waiting for an answer he continued. "Yes, you both have that look in your eyes. Nothing quite like getting your first wand, I assure you. It is a moment that stays with you forever. Now, who would like to go first?"

Harry glanced at Tom and the boy cleared his throat. "I will."

The man's eyes settled on him, piercing him with such intensity Tom found it uncomfortable. He wished the man would blink a bit.

"Very well, your wand arm, if you will."

Tom stared at him blankly.

"Are you right or left handed?" the man corrected in a simple voice, as though speaking to someone a little slow.

"Left."

"If you will then."

Somewhat unsuringly, Tom held out his left arm, raising it fully at the man's encouragement. He threw Harry an uneasy glance as the man began measuring his arm from shoulder to finger.

"Um, I don't think we caught your name?" Harry asked politely.

"Ollivander," the man said without looking up as he measured Tom's wrist to elbow. "Forgive me, I assumed you read the shop name."

"Oh right, of course," Harry said, looking slightly embarrassed.

Ollivander continued to measure Tom's arm with immense detail, moving on to his shoulder and measuring it all the way to the floor, then his knee to his armpit and round about his head. Tom suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Meanwhile, Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes here and there and placing them aside.

"I'm Tom," he said loudly. "Tom Riddle. And this is Harry Potter."

Ollivander hummed without looking up. "Would that perhaps be short for Thomas?"

"No," Tom said cooly. 

"Quite unusual to have just the abbreviation of a name as one's own."

Tom stared, unsure how to respond.

"What's your first name, sir?" Harry asked, in a tone that indicated trying to start a friendly conversation.

"Garrick."

"Do people call you Gary?" 

Ollivander looked up at last. "Not at all," he said, frowning as though this was a strange thing to ask. "Ollivander will do just fine."

Harry seemingly gave up trying to make conversation for he slumped down in the chair and said no more. Tom didn't blame him. Ollivander seemed a difficult person to speak to- even he was getting irritated.

"Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Riddle. I prefer to use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons, though it is possible to use others. I assure you, no two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand. "

"Why's that?"

"Well, the wand chooses the wizard of course. One's wand is loyal to the very end even if it is a particularly yielding one."

"You make them sound as though they have feelings," Tom said, sniggering slightly.

Ollivander approached with a wand box and Tom frowned, having sworn the man had taken down many more. 

"You think they don't?" he asked.

"It's a wand isn't it? It's an object."

"A magical object," Ollivander corrected. "You will do well to remember that."

Without waiting for an answer, he opened the box.

"Yes, I think this will suit you well, Mr Riddle."

Tom peered down and saw a long, white wand, rather like a weathered bone, resting in a handsome box.

"Thirteen and a half inches, yew, with a phoenix feather core. A potent combination, if I say so myself."

Tom glanced up at Ollivander, suddenly unsure. He had gone his whole life thinking he was the only one with magic. This wand- an object owned by every other wizard possessing his gifts- suddenly made him aware of the reality. He was not alone.

"Give it a wave, Mr Riddle, if you will."

Slowly, Tom grasped the wand, holding onto it delicately as though it may break and noticing Harry leaning forwards on his chair from the corner of his eye.

It happened suddenly. A burst of warmth exploded at the touch of the wand, spreading in hot tendrils along his fingers and hands, up along his arm, towards his chest, running in shockwaves across his body. He gave the wand- his wand- a wave, and a shower of tiny diamonds erupted from it, glittering slowly before fading into nothing.

"Yes," Ollivander said, nodding with approval. "I believe this wand will suit you well."

Tom said nothing as he walked away from the counter, taking Harry's seat as he stepped forward to claim his own wand.

Unlike Tom, Harry took much longer to find a wand. He went through several, each one either not responding to him or responding too much. After ten minutes, all the windows in Ollivander's shop had been smashed, a dozen wand boxes had gone flying off their shelves, and a mini fire had erupted across Ollivander's robes. 

Ollivander had, quite calmly, repaired the windows, flown the boxes back into their shelves and put out the fire in an instant.

"You're tricky, you are. No matter, Mr Potter, sometimes the wand is just picky. Let's see..."

Hary turned and gave Tom a miserable look, looking as though he wished the ground could swallow him whole. Tom leaned back, becoming rather impatient, as Ollivander hesistated behind the counter, his hands reaching for a box before pausing inches away from it. After a moment, the man grasped it and brought it forwards.

"I wonder whether this one would be it..." he said quietly.

Harry sighed and reached for it, holding it reluctantly and giving it a small wave. At once a shower of golden sparks flew from it, bursting in the air like a mini firework.

Tom raised his eyebrows. Harry just stared, his mouth slightly open, as though he didn't dare believe he may have actually found a wand.

"Interesting," Ollivander said softly.

"Is that one it?" Tom asked loudly.

"Yes, I believe so, how does it feel Mr Potter?"

"F-Fine," Harry said. "Brilliant, actually."

Tom stepped forwards to pay, Harry gently setting down the wand and fiddling for his money pouch.

"Curious," Ollivander said, his eyes moving between Tom and Harry.

"What is?" Tom asked, distracted.

"Eleven inches and Holly, Mr Potter, with a phoenix feather core. An unusual combination."

"Why did you make it if they don't go together?"

"Oh I never said they don't go together, Mr Riddle, I said they were an odd combination," he eyed them again, scrutinising them uncomfortably. "No, what I find curious is that your wands share a core."

Tom looked up slowly. "What?"

"No two wands are the same, that is true. But in this case, the phoenix feather that provided the core for your wand, Mr Riddle, provided just another, one that rests inside Mr Potter's wand."

"We share a wand core?" Harry asked.

Ollivander nodded. "Indeed."

Tom felt a surge of bitterness. "Why?" he asked.

Ollivander chuckled. "I'm afraid I do not have all the answers, Mr Riddle. I expect it's fair to say that I expect to see many incredible things from the two of you, though. After all, those who share a core often find it has a way of tracing them together, even in ways they don't quite understand."

Harry glanced at Tom, confused but the boy kept his gaze centered on Ollivander, his eyes narrowing. They paid for their wands and made their way back to the station, passing through the Leaky Cauldron where the other Tom smiled at them and asked about their trip. Harry gave him a quick response as he hurried to keep up with Tom, who did not stop to talk.

There was a ringing in his ear as they made their way to the station. Tom made Harry wait inside as he went to get Hal's cigarettes, feeling the ringing grow louder.

Despite getting his wand, Tom had the sudden urge to fling it away from him. This one thing. The one thing that proved Tom was a wizard, that he was special, gifted, that he wasn't insane as so many of the others insisted. And he couldn't even keep it for himself. He had to share. With Harry.

Harry Potter.

Tom hated him. And as he walked back to the station, two packets of cigarettes and a pack of matches in his coat pocket, Harry smiling at him as he entered, Tom looked into his weak, trusting face and thought just one thing.

I am going to destroy you.

Notes:

Harry: This is the start of a beautiful relationship :)

Tom: Why is this bitch smiling at me?

*

Tom: Finally! Something I get to own for myself! After years of-

Ollivander: Yeah lol you share a part of your wand with Harry

Tom: Oh for FUCK'S sake-

*

Hogwarts next chapter yayyy

Chapter 4: September, 1938

Notes:

The amount of time I spent trying to make an accurate list of all the students during Tom's time in Hogwarts is actually disgusting

The end of July had seen Harry turn eleven. Birthdays in the orphanage were always simple- Harry had received a sprinkle of sugar on his breakfast porridge from one of the older matrons, a small gold chocolate coin at lunch from Mrs Cole and a set of ancient playing cards from one of the older orphans who was leaving the following month and claimed he had no further use for them.

The cards were a rare treat- usually, the children just received some chocolate and perhaps an odd slip of paper with a message from their friends if they were especially popular. It wasn't unheard of, however. Usually, those born in the summer months were given hand-me-downs from the leaving orphans; Tom himself had stolen his fair share of the trinkets.

"When were you born?" Harry asked him that evening whilst he flicked through his cards.

Tom glanced at him, disinterested. "End of December," he said.

"Funny, I'm end of July," Harry said, chuckling as though the fact connected them in some way.

"I'm older," Tom said, feeling the need to distance himself from Harry. "I was born 1926. You're '27."

Harry just nodded politely and Tom looked away, feeling his anger rise.

The following month passed in a blur. The only significant thing that happened was the weather finally perking up. The unusual coolness of June and July had melted by August, and for the first time in a while, the children were able to go outside more often to enjoy the sun.

Tom, however, couldn't care less about the weather. He spent all of August counting down the days until September, waking up each morning with the flickering promise that soon, he would be free of the orphanage.

And at long last, September came. Tom and Harry awoke early on the 1st of September, so that they could go into London and collect their stored-away school equipment. The orphanage loaned them two, small suitcases that were both in moderate condition for them to put their few possessions in.

Tom stored his pyjamas and coat inside, leaving his uniform behind and wearing his weekend clothes for the trip. Carefully, he placed his diary, his second-hand edition of Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling and his wand at the top of the suitcase, hoping the thin clothes would provide some cushion for these precious objects. Despite the suitcase being tiny, he still had plenty of room left over.

Surprisingly, Mrs Cole was waiting downstairs to see them off, offering to take them to the station if they would like.

Tom refused, insisting that they would be fine. 

"You've never been to London by yourself, Tom, you might get lost."

"It's fine Mrs Cole, Dumbledore said he would meet us at the bus stop and escort us to the station himself."

Harry glanced at him as he said the lie, and Tom felt his fingers curl though he kept his gaze locked onto Mrs Cole. But Harry said nothing and Mrs Cole eventually agreed, handing them both money for a train ticket and telling them to write if they needed anything.

"You're more than welcome to come back during the holidays, boys, I imagine you'll be given Christmas and Easter off."

"Thank you," Harry said, pocketing the money she had given him. 

"I'll keep your room for you if you do decide to come. Well, the man said you'd have to for the Summer Holidays anyway so there'd be no point giving it to someone else."

Tom felt his heart clench slightly at the mention of returning but he pushed away the feeling, telling himself that a few months in the orphanage was better than a few years.

"Enjoy yourself, both of you. I'm sure this is a wonderful opportunity. He said you would be enrolled for seven years. I hope you both realise how fortunate that is."

Oh Mrs Cole, forever obsessed with her children getting a decent education. As if the world cared about educated orphans.

"I expect to hear all the things you've both learnt when you return."

Inwardly, Tom snorted. That wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

"We will Mrs Cole, thank you."

Mrs Cole smiled at Harry and ruffled his hair affectionately. "I'll see you in a few months Harry, and you too Tom," she said with a pointed glance at the boy. "Enjoy yourself."

"Course," Tom said briefly. 

Mrs Cole stood by the door as they picked up their light cases and nodded at them as they left. The second Tom stepped out the door he breathed a sigh of relief. Freedom. Short freedom but freedom nonetheless. This was it. This was the moment he had been waiting too long for. For the first time in his life, Tom thought he felt excited.

Harry glanced back at the Orphanage but Tom kept his gaze straight, each step he took bringing him more and more elation.

They walked the short distance to their local post office where they collected a few parcels containing their new possessions. Then they hid behind an ally to transfer it to their suitcases in private. By the time Tom managed to squeeze the rest of his books in, his case had become considerably heavier. At the last minute, he picked up his wand and stored it in his shorts pocket, deciding that despite his annoyance with its core, it was too precious to leave in his case.

From there they went to the train station. Neither of them spoke as they used the money Mrs Cole had given them to buy two train tickets to Kings Cross, though Tom took care not to ask for a return ticket. Excitement bubbled in him as he realised he would not be returning to the Orphanage for quite some time.

"This is really happening," Harry said as they sat across from each other on the train.

"Of course it is," Tom said dismissively.

"Are you not the least bit surprised?" Harry asked. "We're going-" he looked around him and leaned in, lowering his voice. "We're going to learn magic. It's..." he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

"I never doubted I had magic," Tom replied. "So no, I'm not surprised."

Harry sighed and looked out of the window and Tom felt a spike of fresh anger reignite. The way Harry was acting, as if it were Tom who was impossible to speak to. As if it were he who was being narrow-minded.

He leaned back, trying to push his anger down. There was no winning with Harry. When he spoke he annoyed him and when he didn't speak he was equally annoying. The best thing he could do was just be rid of him entirely. Hopefully at Hogwarts, there would be a chance to do that.

Eventually, after what felt like too long for Tom, they arrived at Kings Cross station. Needless to say, it was packed. They were naturally lost in the bustling crowds, pushed and shoved easily by the large, ignorant commuters surrounding them.

"Out of the way boy," one man in a suit snapped, pushing past him. Tom scowled at the man's back, feeling his fists curl when Harry suddenly gripped his hand, his eyes nervously darting from him to the muggle.

"Come on," he muttered, dragging Tom away from the man. Tom glared at him and tried looking back for the man but he had vanished. Angrily, he shrugged Harry's hand off his. Harry looked surprised but said nothing.

Using his case as a shield, he pushed his way to platform nine, Harry struggling behind him.

"What's the station number again?" Harry asked as they squeezed past a gaggle of teenagers.

"Nine and three-quarters," Tom replied, still rather surly with the boy.

"Right," Harry muttered.

By the time they arrived at Platform 9, it was nearly time for the train to depart.

"Er, do you remember what Dumbledore said about getting to the platform?" Harry asked, peering between platforms nine and ten.

"We have to run across the boundary," Tom murmured.

Harry clutched his case worriedly. "You sure that'll work?" he asked as Tom neared the brick barrier between platforms nine and ten.

"It has to," Tom said though for the first time, he felt a sudden spike of anxiety spear his chest. It had to work. He had to leave the orphanage. The thought of returning seemed impossible.

Somewhat cautiously, Tom poked a hand through the platform. To his great relief (and slight shock) it passed straight through. He glanced at Harry and saw the boy had his mouth slightly open. 

Feeling more confident, Tom stepped through the barrier. 

The air shifted around him—cooler, electric, as though the very atmosphere pulsed with hidden power. When he emerged on the other side, his dark eyes swept over the scene before him. A gleaming scarlet steam train stood proudly on the tracks, its brass fittings glinting in the light. Smoke curled lazily toward the arched ceiling, where banners fluttered with some sort of strange crest. It took Tom a few seconds to realise it must be the Hogwarts logo.

The crowd here was different. Where before the atmosphere had been dull and grey, here, witches and wizards bustled about, wearing brightly-cloured robes that brushed against his threadbare clothes as they hurried to load possessions onto the train. There were trolleys filled with trunks and bags and cages, Tom hadn't even thought of buying a pet, he never had much tolerance for them in the Orphanage.

And the children. So many of them, younger ones hugging their parents goodbye, older ones walking together, children like him. Magical. Special. Except they had been reassured it all their lives. They had lived with it freely.

He heard a small gasp behind him and turned his gaze, noticing Harry staring at the platform with wide eyes, looking around him in amazement, as though he couldn't believe it was real.

Tom looked back, taking the scene in again, his eyes scanning every inch of the platform, wanting to commit it to memory. This was his world now. No more orphanages. No more helplessness. He would never be ordinary again.

Tom stepped closer to the train as crowds of people circled him, the air buzzing with noise. It was similarly built to the other ones in Kings Cross station except for its distinctive colour.

"We better board," Harry murmured. "It's going to depart soon."

They stored their luggage (taking out their new uniform beforehand) and, somewhat slowly, boarded the train, each step feeling as though Tom was leaving the world behind. The train was wide, with compartments on either side of them, filled with gaggles of children.

Tom glanced back at Harry and frowned, noticing a book in his hand. Then his frown turned to a grimace.

"You actually brought that?"

Harry smiled. "Mrs Cole said I could," he said happily. "Said she was pleased someone was reading it."

"You can't read Shakespeare here."

Harry frowned. "Why not?"

"Because we're wizards," Tom said, as if it were obvious. "And that was written by a muggle."

"So?"

Tom stared at Harry's innocent, puzzled face and almost wished he could punch it. 

"You're going to look like a fool."

"No, I won't. It's just a book, Tom. And anyway, there'll be m-muggleborns here too. No one's going to care."

Tom turned, sucking his teeth angrily, and strode on. He was meant to be free from muggles. He wasn't in the Orphanage anymore. Why did Harry insist on bringing a part of it with him?

The compartments were all full. They passed one filled with wizards roaring with laughter, another full of students chatting and reading magazines, and another stuffed with a group of witches enthusiastically practising charms, their wands emitting colourful sparks that bounced off the windows. All were older.

Eventually, they came across a compartment at the end filled with three boys. Though Tom would have liked to sit alone, there were no empty compartments, and he supposed it was better than nothing, seeing how the boys all seemed to be his age.

He opened the door and nodded at them. "Mind if we sit?"

One of the boys, pale with ash blonde hair, nodded.

Tom entered the compartment and Harry followed him, taking a seat opposite the boy. 

"First year as well?" one of the boys- a thin one with light brown hair- asked.

Tom nodded.

"So are we. I'm Avery," the boy said. "That's Rosier-" he nodded at the blonde boy "-and Mulciber-" and to a black-haired boy with dark eyes sitting by the window.

Tom nodded politely at them and they returned the gesture. He noticed that though each boy had different features, there was something distinctively similar to them all, as though they were perhaps very distant cousins.

"What about you?" Rosier asked. 

"What do you mean?"

"What family are you from?"

Tom stared at him blankly.

"What are your names?" Avery asked instead.

"Riddle," Tom said, feeling a twinge of bitterness that his name sounded much more common than the three boys. "Tom Riddle."

"Harry Potter."

"Never heard of you," Mulciber said bluntly. "You're not purebloods, are you?"

"What?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Purebloods? You know, wizards who have only married other wizards."

"Does it matter?" Harry asked before Tom could reply.

"Sounds like something a muggle-born would say," Avery said and the three boys burst into sniggers.

"We're not muggle-borns," Tom said, feeling his heart clench slightly. The train hadn't even departed and he felt he was already making a bad impression.

"Half-bloods then?"

The way he said it made it seem slightly better than muggle-borns but still rather dismissive.

"What's a half-blood?" Harry asked.

The three boys all stared at him as if he had grown an extra head. "You mean you don't know how blood works? Are you sure you're not a muggle-born?" Rosier asked, edging away from Harry as if he were infected with a contagious disease.

"Hang on Cyrille, his parents might just be one of those kinds who believe in blood equality and stuff," Mulcber said though he eyed Harry warily.

"You mean like the Weasleys? Father says they've stopped teaching their children about blood values. Said it wasn't 'important' to them," Avery said, scoffing.

"Blood traitors," Rosier said angrily. He turned back to Harry. "You're not connected to the Weasleys, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"I don't think so," Harry replied unsureingly.

"Well, we'll explain it once so listen carefully. We're purebloods," Rosier said, nodding at Avery and Mulciber. "That means our bloods not been polluted with muggle filth."

"Now if you're half-bloods," he continued. "Well, that's alright with us. It's not as good but it’s bearable. It's the muggleborns we can't stand. Ought to not even be allowed in, don't you think?" Rosier asked.

"Why do you think that?" Harry asked.

"Muggles are filthy, aren't they?" Rosier said. "That's what Father always says."

Harry glanced at Tom but the boy said nothing. "Right," he said, his voice turned cold. "Excuse me."

He stood up and Tom frowned. "Where are you going?"

"Do you even care?" Harry's voice sounded harsher than Tom expected.

Tom scoffed. "Go then," he said, feeling his anger rise. "Go on."

"Fine!" Harry snapped and he slammed the compartment door shut.

"Your mate's a bit funny there," Mulciber said, eyeing Tom.

"He's not my mate," Tom said. "I barely know him."

"What is he? Some sort of muggle lover?" Avery asked.

"Seems like it," Tom said.

Avery shook his head, muttering something under his breath.

"I don't think I got any of your first names," Tom said, trying to draw the conversation away from Harry.

Rosier looked surprised. "Did you not? Well, I'm Cyrille."

"Arcadius," the boy called Avery said.

"Wallace," said Mulciber.

Tom nodded, feeling his fingernails curl into his palm. How common he sounded, being named  'Tom', when these boys sounded as though the King of England himself had personally named them.

"So, are you a muggle-born then?" Arcadius asked.

"No," Tom said sharply. "I hate the muggles. I'm pureblood, obviously"

The boy gave him a nod of approval.

"What about your name?" Wallace asked suspiciously. "Never seen a 'Riddle' on the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"Now hang on Wallace, not all purebloods are on it," Cyrille said. "Some of the smaller families were excluded. And a few blood traitors were allowed in," he added bitterly.

"Where's your family from, Tom?" Cyrille asked.

Tom hesistated. He thought back to his classes at the Orphanage, learning about the first world war, caused due to the divisions between the royal European families.

"France," he decided. "My grandparents moved here a while back."

He seemed to have said the right thing. The boys all exchanged pleased glances, nodding with approval.

"Mine too," Cyrille said. "There's way more pureblood families in France. Makes sense why we never heard of the name 'Riddle'."

"What about your friend?" Wallace asked.

"He's not my friend," Tom said. "And I have no idea."

"Muggle-born it seems, with that attitude," Arcadius said. "Or blood traitor."

"So then, Tom," Cyrille said. "That short for Thomas by chance?"

Tom's eyes tightened. "No."

"Hm, well Tom's not very pureblood. You have a middle name?"

In all his life, Tom had never given much thought to his middle name. He never quite liked it. Unlike Tom, it was not a common name. The opposite, really. And whilst he had liked it as a child, having something different to everyone else, he had also been badly made fun of for it. Tom learnt to hide it away, like his gift, accepting it as just another part of himself no one would understand.

"Marvolo," he said, after some hesitation.

Once more, their reaction surprised him. 

"Now that's pureblood," Cyrille said, his eyes gleaming.

"Strange name, Tom Marvolo," Arcadius commented.

Tom felt his confidence grow. "I live near a load of muggles. My parents thought it be better than I didn't have a wizarding first name," he said.

To his delight, they seemed to sympathise with this.

"Filthy muggles," Wallace said bitterly. "Don't worry, my Father says it won't be long before we're in charge. So long as Grindelwald keeps up his work."

"He still working at the Ministry?" Cyrille asked, looking interested.

"Nah, he just knows a ton of wizards in the Department of Law Enforcement," Wallace replied, looking smug and Tom understood this to be something to brag about.

"He know what's happening with old Fawley then?" Arcadius asked. "Are they really kicking him out or is it all just talk?"

"They have to be," Wallace replied. "After the embarrassment he's faced with Grindelwald, it'll be a disgrace if they let him stay in office."

"Father always says Grindelwald should expand his influence," Cyrille said. "Maybe things would be better here if he did."

Tom didn't know who 'Fawley' or 'Grindelwald' were but he kept his ears peeled, trying to piece together the information he learnt. As the train rattled on, Tom made sure to remember everything he learnt from the three boys, however, insignificant it seemed. He wasn't about to start acting like Harry, asking questions that should be obvious and giving himself away.

After a few hours, they moved the conversation onto Hogwarts itself. Tom leaned forward, wanting to hear everything he could about the school.

"You nervous about the sorting?" Arcadius asked.

"A bit, how do you reckon they'll do it?" Wallace asked.

"We're purebloods, we'll be fine," Cyrille said dismissively. "What about the houses? Father says Slytherin's the best one to be in."

"Ravenclaw doesn't sound too bad either," Arcadius commented.

"Just not Hufflepuff, that's where all the mudbloods go," Wallace said and the three boys burst into laughter.

From the way he said it, mudblood seemed to be on par with muggle-born.

"What about you Tom? What house do you think you'll be in?"

"Whichever one's the best," Tom replied.

Cyrille smirked. "Slytherin then," he said.

Just then a girl who looked a few years older than them opened the compartment door, her dark grey eyes narrowing as she placed a hand on either side of the frame. Tom noticed that like the other three, she too seemed to reassemble them ever so slightly. She had sharp cheekbones, a sharp jawline and a sharp nose, with dark hair tied into an elegant plait and pale thin lips.

"You lot seen Prewett?" she asked, her voice cool.

"No, sorry Walburga," Cyrille said. Where before his voice had been easy, giving off an air of superiority, now it seemed toned back, as though 'Walburga' was someone he wanted to impress. Or perhaps just someone he couldn't order about.

Walburga's eyes flickered across the compartment before they landed on Tom and narrowed.

"Who's this?" she asked.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Arcadius said. 

"Pureblood?" she asked and the three boys nodded.

She gave a nod of approval. "Nice to meet you, Riddle," she said. "I'm Walburga. Walburga Black."

She said the name like it held a certain weight no one else could match.

"Nice to meet you too."

"You lot excited about the sorting then?"

"Wish we knew how we were getting sorted," Wallace grumbled.

Walburga gave a sly smile. "You'll find out soon enough," she said. “Listen, you see Prewett, tell him I'm looking for him, yeah?"

"We will," Cyrille said.

"What's he done?" Arcadius asked.

"Never you mind," Walburga said. 

"Always a Prewett stirring up trouble eh?" Cyrille said, smirking as though he wanted to see Walburga crack a smile.

"You'll have one too, don't worry. He's got a brother your year."

"He won't be in Slytherin," Wallace said dismissively. "Prewetts never are."

"Never say never," Walburga said. "People can surprise you."

Her eyes flickered across the compartment again before she nodded. "See you all at the sorting then."

And with that, she had closed the door and moved on.

"You know her?" Tom asked Cyrille, who seemed to be the most familiar with the girl.

"Our families are quite close," he said, shrugging. "Well, she's a Black, they seemed to know just about everyone, you know?"

Tom didn’t know but he nodded like he understood.

"Wish she told us how the sorting works," Wallace said longingly.

"Stop worrying about it Wallace," Arcadius said.

As they continued their discussion on 'the sorting', Tom suddenly remembered about Harry. Though he was curious as to where he had gone, he didn't want to leave to go find him. It seemed he had found himself in very useful company- the three boys had only confirmed what he thought about muggles- and seeing how they made it seem that not everyone agreed with his views, Tom didn't think it would be wise to leave them.

They received no other visitors after Walburga except for a middle-aged woman wheeling a cart bundled with sweets. The three boys let out appreciative noises and began emptying their pockets with more gold than Tom had ever seen in his life.

He stared at them enviously as they began to stock up on unfamiliar-looking sweets. He had never been allowed much sugar in the orphanage. The most he got was a few treats on his birthday and Christmas.

"You getting anything Tom?" Arcadius asked, noticing he hadn't bought anything.

"Not sure what to get," Tom replied truthfully.

"Here have one of these," Wallace said, handing him a small purple box that read chocolate frogs. "They come with cards, you can start collecting if you want."

"He's not going to do that, he's not five, Wallace," Cyrille said, sneering.

Slowly, Tom opened the box. Before he could react, a frog made entirely from chocolate jumped from the packet and hopped towards the window. Tom stared at it in amazement before his gaze flickered to the view outside.

The holidays in the Orphanage could never compare to the scenery outside the train. Great, vibrant cliffs seemed to roll out for miles, green and luscious, stretching across the landscape. Beside it, a shimmering river ran between the cliffs, sunlight sparkling against it. Tom stared at it, mesmerized, the chocolate frog slipped from his mind.

Cyrille caught him staring and followed his gaze. "You've never been to Scotland, Tom?" he asked and Tom shook his head.

"Apparently it gets bloody cold in the winter," Wallace said, glancing out the window briefly before looking away. "Go on then, what card did you get?"

Tom turned back to the packet and pulled out a card. A pale man with long white hair and a bushy beard looked up at him solemnly. Below it, read the inscription:

 

ARMANDO DIPPET

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Born 1637, Dippet is best known for his charm work, having held the post of Charms Master since 1783, writing nearly three hundred books that have been widely used throughout the wizarding world. He is also recognised for his work in the creation and restoration of time-turners and for holding the post of Chief Delegate to the International Confederation of Wizards. Professor Dippet currently resides in Hogwarts, where he enjoys classical music and Elderflower wine.

 

"Ah you got old Dippet," Wallace said, giving Tom a knowing smile.

"He was born in 1637?" Tom asked incredulously.

Arcadius shrugged. "Good genes I guess. I mean, it's unusual but not unheard of, right? I had a great aunt who lived to nearly two hundred."

"I reckon he's immortal or something," Arcadius said. "Probably invented a charm to make him live forever."

"That's not possible Arcadius," Cyrille said coolly. "No one lives forever."

Tom turned the card over again, noticing the image of Dippet had vanished.

"Where'd he go?" he asked.

"You can't expect him to hang around forever," Wallace said as if it were obvious. 

When the others weren't looking, Tom pocketed the card, intrigued by his headmaster.

A few hours later, Cyrille suggested that they change into their robes. Tom obliged, though he felt slightly silly wearing the black cloak the others called a 'robe.' Still, it was what wizards wore and he was willing to get used to it.

When the train finally grounded to a stop, it had gone dark. Tom followed the three boys outside the compartment, where he once more looked around for Harry. Unable to see him anywhere, he followed the others outside the train, where the cool air was filled with the loud sounds of chatting. Over it, a loud noise boomed.

"First years over here! Leave yer luggage, it'll be in yer dormitories when yer get there! All first-years over here!"

Tom looked around and saw a tall man with a thick Irish accent, presumably in his late sixties, holding a flaming torch and waving over bundles of first-years. Together with Cyrille, Arcadius and Wallace, Tom walked towards him, noticing Walburga getting on a carriage with two other girls a short distance away. He frowned, wondering where the horse was, but then, to his amazement, the carriage started moving slowly by itself, as though drawn by an invisible horse. Walburga caught his eye and winked before turning back to her friends.

"We all here?" boomed a voice and Tom turned back to the man, now noticing a small group of around forty-first years crowded around him. "Good, follow me!"

Together with the rest of the first years, Tom followed the man down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. The ground was damp, and, together with the darkness, many of the first years struggled not to stumble down it. Suddenly, there was a yell and one boy slipped and fell on his face with a loud groan. A few people- including the three boys Tom had befriended- laughed. 

One boy with bright red hair stepped in to help him. The man leading them had turned back, frowning.

"Clear a path!" he barked and the first years made way for him as he stepped over to the boy. "Yer alright there lad?" he asked.

The boy who slipped, now helped up by the other boy, nodded and hastily wiped the mud off his face, his cheeks flushed.

"Alright, we're nearly there. Tread carefully, lad. Walk slowly, everyone!"

They continued down the path, though Tom noticed everyone walked with more caution, scared to slip and embarrass themselves as the boy had done. The darkness seemed to grow thicker, curling around them like a black coat and leaving little room for light to poke through.

"Yer'll get yer first sight of Hogwarts soon!" The man called over his shoulder, "Just round this bend over here."

And just as they turned the corner, there was a loud "Oooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly, light flooding in from the uncovered moon. Tom peered over the first-year's heads and saw they now stood on the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, was a huge castle. It had an old, medieval-style look to it, with several stone turrets and towers, orange light twinkling from several windows. The giant lake faced it, and to the side, Tom could see slopping hills that seemed to endlessly stretch on, and a tall bridge leading off to the mountains on the other side.

It was incredible.

He imagined Kings once residing in it long before it became a school and was certain that even the most privileged children in London, the ones sent to fancy boarding schools all across the country, would never be able to compare to this. 

The fact that he of all people was about to step foot in it made him almost wish that he could tell all the others in the Orphanage the truth, longing to see their faces twist with jealousy.

"There we go, welcome ter Hogwarts!" the man said, beaming. "My name is Ogg, Gamekeeper of the grounds. Now it's Hogwarts tradition to travel to the school by boat, so can I ask yer all to split into groups of four and pick a boat each. No messing around, I don't want ter have to collect any of yer from the Giant Squid."

"He's joking, right?" Tom muttered but Cyrille just smirked.

Tom's heart sank as they all stepped towards a boat. He let the other three boys get on one before he followed, trying to ignore the way the boat wobbled under their weight. No sooner had he sat down did the boat start drifting away from the shore, as though being rowed by invisible oars. 

The water was as smooth as ice, and the journey across it was not rough or shaky. But the water was dark, like an endless abyss, and Tom tried to not stare at it, feeling a creeping unease in his gut. He had to do this. He had to cross the water to get to Hogwarts. It was a worthy price to pay.

Trying not to focus on the vast expanse of the lake, he looked around him instead, noticing all the other boats surrounding him, filled with children whose faces ranged from scared, to excited, to calm.

Then, Tom saw him. Sitting with three other boys with his knees to his chest sat Harry, chatting happily to the other inhabitants of the boat, though his eyes kept flickering around him, as though slightly nervous. Tom noticed the red-headed boy sitting with him and grinning.

"Heads down!" yelled Ogg as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbour, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles and up a passageway, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

From there, they walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

"Everyone here? No one left behind?"

There were a few murmurings of 'no' as Ogg looked around them all. Apparently satisfied, he turned and raised his fist, knocking three times on the castle doors.

The door opened and a figure stood by it, beaming at them all.

"The first years, Professor Dumbledore."

"Thank you, Ogg."

Tom peered and saw that Dumbledore had swapped out his ridiculous purple suit for a handsome, three-piece attire, not unlike a smart muggle suit but with a grey robe over it instead of a jacket.

"This way please, everyone."

The doors opened wider and Dumbledore walked back, gesturing for everyone to follow. They entered an entrance hall, lit up by flickering torches bolted onto the wall. The ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase rested to one side, inviting them upstairs.

Tom could hear hundreds of muffled voices coming from a doorway to the right and assumed that was where the rest of the school gathered. Rather than joining them, however, Dumbledore led to to a small chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer together than Tom would have liked and peered about nervously.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Dumbledore, smiling. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses."

Tom listened carefully, eager to find out more about what the three boys had been talking about.

"Now the Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, his eyes peering at each student. "That is why I advise each and every one of you to make an effort to be kind to those within your house, seeing how you will spend nearly all your time with them. You will have classes together, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, named after the school's founders. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards over the years. I am sure many of you will contribute to those lists. Whilst you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

He peered across them all, and he looked so genuine that Tom was nearly fooled for a moment.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. You may wish to- er- smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

He peered at the boy who had fallen and Tom noticed he still had some mud smeared across his face. Then his eyes found Tom. He held his gaze for a moment before it flickered back across the room.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Dumbledore. "Please wait quietly."

"You'd think he'd tell us what's actually going to happen," Wallace muttered when Dumbledore had left. "Why can no one give us an answer?"

"Relax Wallace," Cyrille said though Tom could see he looked slightly nervous now, fidgeting slightly with his fingers.

"Is it still there?" asked the muddied boy to the red-headed boy who had helped him up.

The boy gave him a reassuring smile. "It's all gone, don't worry."

"Should have left it on," Wallace called. "Seems fitting that a mudblood should be covered in filth."

The group burst into laughter though the other boy didn't seem to understand. He frowned, looking confused. The red-headed boy, however, flushed with anger.

"Don't use that word!" he warned.

"Why? It's what he is."

"No, it isn't. And besides, you don't know what his blood status is."

Arcadius rolled his eyes and turned to the boy. "You a muggle-born?" he asked.

"Yes," the boy responded nervously.

Arcadius gave the redheaded boy a smug smile. "See?"

"That's not funny. It's a disgusting thing to say," said another boy with brown hair. Tom squinted and noticed he had also been in the boat with Harry. "What, did your parents not teach you any manners?"

The chamber had gone very silent now, dozens of eyes flicking nervously between the two groups of boys.

"I'm guessing he's the Prewett," muttered Cyrille.

"No, I'm Prewett," said the red-headed boy, who seemed to have heard him.

"Makes sense," Wallace said and the group erupted into sniggers.

The boy called Prewett frowned and opened his mouth but a girl with dark brown hair got there first.

"Be quiet, both of you," she said, her voice stern. "This is hardly the place to argue."

Arcadius opened his mouth to respond but at that moment the doors opened once more and Dumbledore re-entered, peering at them all.

"Is everything okay here?" he asked though his voice had lost an edge of the friendliness he had greeted them with.

The chamber had gone very still. "Yes sir," called out Tom and Dumbledore's eyes found him. "Everything's fine."

Dumbledore stared at him for a few seconds. Then he said, "Very well, form a line please, and follow me."

Tom stood behind Cyrille- Arcadius and Wallace behind him- and walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

In all his life, Tom would never have been able to imagine such a magnificent place. It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. Each table was laid with glittering golden plates and goblets, and Tom wondered whether or not they were real gold.

At the top of the hall was another long table and Tom assumed that was where the teachers were sitting. They were a mix of ages, some older than others, but all sporting fine robes and pointy hats, and watching the first years eagerly. At the centre of the table was a grand, throne-like chair, where a familiar-looking man sat.

Then Tom recognised him as Armando Dippet, the man from his chocolate frog card, dressed in regal, dark red robes, enlined with gold trimmings. His hair was even whiter than the picture suggested, and he looked old and frail. His eyes, however, were wide and alert, gazing at the first years solemnly and with an intensity Tom couldn't ignore.

Dumbledore led the first years towards the front, so that they stopped just before the teacher's table, in front of the rest of the students. Tom peered behind him and saw hundreds of faces staring at them. He looked around for Walburga but she was lost amongst the dozens of students, and soon, he gave up.

Instead, his attention flickered back towards the candles, admiring the way they floated so elegantly, and he looked up, wondering how high they went. Then, he noticed the ceiling, or rather, the velvety black backdrop dotted with stars. It looked so much like the night sky outside the castle that it seemed impossible to believe that there even was a ceiling.

Tom stared at it for a few minutes before there was the sound of something being placed on the floor and he tore his gaze away from the ceiling, noticing that Dumbledore had placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool, he put a pointed wizard's hat.

Tom frowned. Unlike the rest of the majestic hall, the hat was not elegant or magnificent. Rather it was old and patched, frayed on the edges and extremely dirty. If it had something to do with the sorting, he couldn't imagine what.

The quiet murmurs and whispers had ceased and Tom noticed that everyone in the Grand Hall was staring at the hat. For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth- and the hat began to sing: 

 

A thousand years and more ago,
Four founders bold and bright,
Built Hogwarts strong, a magic school,
To teach and share their might.

Brave Gryffindor, with heart of fire,
Seeks those who dare and fight,
To stand for truth through trial and storm,
And guard the day from night.

Fair Ravenclaw, with wisdom keen,
Takes minds both sharp and bright,
Where wit and learning light the way,
Through day and deepest night.

Kind Hufflepuff, so just and true,
Welcomes the loyal and fair,
With patient hands and steadfast hearts,
They labour, love, and care.

But cunning Slytherin, shrewd and sly,
Seeks those with power's aim,
For those who strive and seize their fate,
May rise to lasting fame.

So don me now, upon your brow,
And I shall delve within,
To find the house where you belong—
Let Sorting soon begin!

 

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again. 

"So you just have to wear it then?" Wallace whispered. "Why couldn't they have told us that?"

Tom didn't answer. He was too busy thinking about what the hat had said. Four houses, each seemingly valuing different traits. One seemed to want brave and noble students, and Tom thought that the two boys who had confronted Wallace after calling the boy a mudblood would fit the annoying hero trope nicely.

One seemed to be steering more towards kind students which Tom immediately ruled out. Another valued knowledge and Tom thought that perhaps he could be sorted into that house. He had kept his ears peeled, however, for the house called 'Slytherin', having heard the three boys mention it plenty of times during the journey.

From what he heard, that house seemed to praise students who craved power. Tom could suddenly see why it was so appealing to the others.

As Dumbledore pulled out a roll of parchment and began calling out from a list of names, Tom began to dwell on which house he would be sorted into. 

"Abbott, Louis!"

The brown-haired boy who had defended the muggle-born with Prewett stepped forward. He sat down on the stool and Dumbledore placed the hat on his head but it was too big for him, falling down to his eyes. There was a short pause and then- 

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the hat.

Just as Tom predicted. There was an explosion of cheers from the table on the far right and several people stood up to shake hands with Louis as he went to sit down at the table.

"Strange," Cyrille muttered. "Abbotts are usually Hufflepuffs."

"Makes sense why he defended the mudblood," Arcadius said softly, watching Louis. "Blood-traitor family."

"Avery, Arcadius!"

Then the boy grinned, the disdain on his face vanishing, and he stepped forward confidently. The hat was placed on his head and the next moment it yelled:

"SLYTHERIN!"

Arcadius flashed the three boys a pleased grin as he went to sit at the table second from the right, where booming applause greeted him.

"Bones, Isadora!"

The girl who told them to be quiet stepped forward and a few seconds later the hat called out "RAVENCLAW!"

She joined the table second from the left.

Student after student went up and got sorted. Tom noticed that for some it took much longer than others. It took the hat almost a full minute to sort a light brown-haired student called Emily Macmillan into Hufflepuff but her twin brother Erwin, who went straight after her, was sorted into the same house in a matter of seconds.

"Lewis, Terrence!" 

The hat paused for nearly thirty seconds as a dark-skinned boy fidgeted nervously on the stool.

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Mulciber, Wallace!"

There was no hesitation from the hat.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Wallace smirked and joined Arcadius at the Slytherin table. Tom began to suspect that this was the house he wanted to be in.

"Potter, Harry!"

Nervously, Harry stumbled out of the line and sat on the stool. The hat slid past his eyes, hiding his expression though Tom could see his fingers turn white as he gripped the stool.

The hat went silent again. A minute passed. Then another. Tom began to grow impatient, wondering what was taking the hat so long. How fitting it was for Harry to make them all wait. Then, just as his patience thinned, the hat cried out-

"SLYTHERIN!"

Tom groaned slightly as the Slytherin table let out hoots of applause and whistles. Dumbledore lifted the hat and he saw Harry's face had fallen, his expression glum as he shuffled his way to the table. He wasn't the only one who didn't seem happy.

"Interesting," muttered Cyrille, who watched Harry with narrowed eyes. "Well, he can't be muggle-born."

Tom turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"Slytherin was famous for excluding mudbloods, he tried banning them from the school completely. He seems to be a muggle lover though..."

Tom's eyes found Harry again, sitting rigidly in his seat, so out of place amongst the table of rowdy Slytherins. Could it be possible that the hat had made a mistake? Tom thought he seemed much better suited to be a Hufflepuff.

"Prewett, Ignatius!"

The red-headed boy stepped forward and Cyrille's attention snapped towards him, his expression unreadable.

The hat was barely placed on his head for a second before it called out.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

There was a boom of applause from the Gryffindor table as Ignatius grinned and joined them. An older boy who resembled him stood up to pat him on the back.

By this point only a handful of students remained standing. By the time Tom was picked, only three were left.

"Riddle, Tom!"

Tom stepped forward, his eyes briefly glancing at Dumbledore before turning to the hat. For a fleeting moment, a bite of anxiety clenched his stomach. The house he was sorted into would be irreversible. It would define the next seven years of his life. Like Dumbledore had said, a 'family'. Surely he had to be placed in a good one.

Not Hufflepuff, he thought. Not a house despised for having muggle-borns. Not Gryffindor either. Cyrille, Arcadius and Wallace were sure not to speak to him again if he was sorted there. And he didn't want to be anywhere near people who defended muggles. Ravenclaw he thought he could manage. But it was Slytherin he truly wanted. A house that despised muggles, who believed in blood superiority- surely it was the most ideal.

Tom sat on the stool. What if the hat made him wait for minutes? What if it dragged out the house he would be inevitably sorted into? That would just be humiliating. And what if he was sorted into a house he would end up hating? Could he change it? Could he beg to move?

He needn't have worried, however, because the second the hat touched his head it yelled out:

"SLYTHERIN!"

A powerful wave of relief flooded Tom. He stood up and walked towards the Slytherin table, sitting at the end where just one more space remained, opposite him. A boy reached out and shook his hand, congratulating him. Wallace and Arcadius both grinned. 

"Knew you'd be here," Wallace said. 

Tom smiled and suddenly locked eyes with Harry, sitting a few seats away. He felt his smile vanish. Harry. The boy he shared a wand core with. Now he shared a house. Would they ever be separated? Not likely now that they were both sorted into Slytherin.

Harry offered him a small smile and Tom nodded in his direction. Then his gaze turned away from the boy as Walburga leaned over the table and gave him an approving nod.

"Good job, Riddle," she said.

Tom gave her a small smile. "Thanks."

The sorting had nearly finished. Tom turned back to watch Cyrille get sorted.

The hat paused on his head for a couple of seconds and then yelled out-

"SLYTHERIN!"

Tom clapped with the rest of the Slytherins as the boy walked over to the table, looking pleased.

"Glad we're all together," Cyrille said, sliding into the seat opposite Tom.

"Simmons, Michael!"

The boy who had tripped over walked towards the hat, looking rather nervous, and Dumbledore placed the hat on his head.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The boy gave a relieved smile as he stood up and walked towards the table on the far right who greeted him enthusiastically.

"Makes sense," Cyrille muttered.

When the last person was sorted, Dumbledore rolled up the parchment and took the sorting hat away.

Armando Dippet stood up, nodding at the first years now all seated at the end of each table. 

"To those who have just joined us, welcome to you all," he said, his voice soft but carrying a certain tone of authority that seemed unfitting for his old age. "And to those who return, welcome again. I am sure you are all hungry so I will not dwell any further. Enjoy."

Tom turned back to the table and felt his eyes widen. Where before it had been bare, now it was full of dishes. He had never seen so many things he'd liked to eat on one table: roast beef in a thick gravy, honey chicken on skewers, pork chops and lamb chops, barbecued sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes, roast potatoes, roast vegetables, Yorkshire pudding, and tons of others dishes Tom couldn't even name.

Subconsciously, he glanced at Harry and saw the boy was staring at the table in shock. He looked up, his eyes scanning the table until they found Tom. He seemed to be thinking the same thing.

This was nothing, nothing like the Orphanage.

Tom wanted to try everything. He took a helping of roast beef and a chicken skewer, piled potatoes onto his plate and ate every scrap until the plate was gleaming gold again. Then he took a couple of sausages and a spoon of roast vegetables, and a helping of both the pork and lamb chops.

By the time he was finished, Tom had never felt more full in his life.

"That was excellent," Cyrille said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "Though I think the roast beef was a little dry."

"Dunno about you lot but I could get used to this," Wallace said, grinning.

A moment later the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in hundreds of different flavours, pies of apple, blueberry, chocolate and banana, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs, doughnuts with cream and jam and chocolate and custard, trifle, rice pudding and hundreds of mini cakes and cookies. 

Though Tom was full, he wasn't about to stop eating now. As he helped himself to an eclair, some of the older Slytherins a few seats down started speaking to the first years.

"So, remind us, what are all your names?" the boy who shook Tom's hand asked. He had tousled black hair and dark eyes.

Across from his, a boy with curly dark hair leaned in.

"Mulciber-" Wallace swallowed a bite of cheesecake. "Wallace Mulciber."

"Mulciber hm? Not bad at all," said the curly-haired boy.

"Arcadius Avery."

"Cyrille Rosier."

The two boys exchanged approving glances. 

"Cyrille, eh? That's a very Lestrange name," said the boy who shook Tom's hand, smirking.

"Oh yeah?"

"I have several uncles named that," said the boy. He extended a hand to Cyrille who shook it. "I'm Rodolphe Lestrange, over there is Acacius Nott."

The boy with curly hair nodded.

"Rodolphe? Not Cyrille?" Cyrille joked.

"After my grandfather, Rodolphus."

"The Minister of Magic?" Arcadius asked.

"The very one," Rodolphe said, looking proud.

"What about you two?" Acacius asked.

"Tom," Tom said. "Tom Riddle."

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Arcadius added.

"Would that be short for Thomas?" Rodolphe asked.

Tom sighed. "No."

"And you?" Acacius asked, nodding at Harry.

"Harry Potter," Harry said, looking slightly bored.

"You boys pureblood?"

"Tom is, his grandparents were French."

Tom saw Harry frown slightly but he said nothing.

"Did they live in the more rural parts of France," Rodolphe said. "That's where the smaller pureblood families live."

"Yeah," Tom said. "You also have French grandparents?" he added.

Rodolphe smirked. "I was born there," he said. "Moved here when I was seven."

"What about you Potter?" Acacius asked. "Pureblood or half?"

"Half-blood," Harry said, looking at Tom.

"Thought so, with the name. Don't worry, half-blood's not terrible in Slytherin," said Acacius. "Contrary to popular belief, we can't all be purebloods. There's not enough of us."

"Yes," said Rodolphe but he seemed less interested in Harry, focusing more on the other four boys.

"What year are you two?" Arcadius asked.

"Second," said Acacius. "Not looking forward to third year I can tell you now, that's when things start getting harder."

"Don't sound so gloomy Nott, it's not all that bad."

Tom craned his neck and saw Walburga had joined in the conversation.

"What subjects did you pick this year?" Rodolphe asked her.

"Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Divination."

"Have fun with arithmacy," Acacius said, snorting. "Heard it's awful."

"Better than what Violetta chose," replied Walburga. "Care of Magical Creatures," she sneered. 

"I think it'll be interesting," said a girl sitting next to Walburga defensively. 

Walburga snorted. "Yeah, 'interesting' to work alongside beasts trying to bite your fingers off."

"Oi, cousin, I see Prewett," said a girl sitting opposite Walburga.

Walburga turned and followed the girl's gesture. The boy who resembled Ignatius was sitting two tables away, laughing at something a boy next to him had said. Tom saw that like his brother, he had flaming red hair.

Walburga's expression turned cold. "Excuse me," she said, standing up and striding over to him.

"Those two still arguing?" Rodolphe asked dryly.

Violetta grinned. "She's not going to let him go so easily."

"What happened?" Arcadius asked as Walburga stood in front of Prewett, her hands on her hips, arguing with him over something.

"He lost a bet to her," explained the girl who had called her 'cousin'. "Ten galleons that the Holyhead Harpies would lose the Quidditch season. They won and now he owes her."

"Didn't know she cared about Quidditch," Cyrille said.

"She doesn't, she just knows when to place a good bet," Violetta said, laughing.

"William's an idiot," added her friend. "Trying to worm his way out of it. And I thought Gryffindors were meant to be noble."

The boy who Tom now knew as William Prewett stood up, his hands raised in surrender, and dug around in his pockets for a handful of gold coins. Pleased, Walburga pocketed the gold and began walking back to the table.

"About time," said Violetta, shaking her head. "I don't think we introduced ourselves properly," she added, turning back to the first years. "Violetta Flint, third year."

"Lucretia Black," said the other girl just as Walburga took a seat once more.

"Happy?" Rodolphe asked her.

"Very," she said.

"Learn from this boys," Acacius said. "Never bet against a Black."

"I don't bet," Lucretia pointed out.

"I do," Walburga said. "Someone has to uphold our family name."

As the older years began speaking more about their subjects, Tom turned back to his desert. A few feet away, he felt eyes on him and then noticed one of the first-year girls staring at him. She looked slightly embarrassed to be caught but smiled at him and turned back to her dessert.

Feeling slightly strange, Tom turned back to his food.

Finally, dessert had been finished and Tom slumped down, feeling properly full for the first time in his life. The plates cleared and Dippet rose once more.

"Now that we are all fed I would like to make a few announcements," he said. "First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

His head turned in the direction of the Slytherin table and Walburga, Lucretia and Violetta all giggled.

"They got caught in the forest with a few Ravenclaw boys," Rodolphe whispered smirking. "Earned themselves a week detention for it."

"Worth it," Lucretia whispered.

"I would also like to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors," said Dippet. "That applies to duelling as well."

A few mutterings broke out at this.

"People have been duelling?" Wallace asked.

"Some of the older years," Acacius muttered. "A Gryffindor and two Slytherins. They said it was about Quidditch but I heard different."

He leaned in and they all tilted forward to hear. "The Gryffindor was a muggle-born, and a partially strong one of that," he said, his voice laced with disgust. "Our lot had to teach him a lesson."

"A lesson?" Harry said.

"Some say that muggle-borns steal magic from actual wizards," Acacius said. "That's why we end up with squibs, you know? Wizards born without magic. Anyway, the abilities that Gryffindor had... it wasn't right, not for someone from his background. Someone finally decided to confront him about it."

"They mess him up badly?" Wallace asked, his eyes glinting.

"Nah, just a few days in the hospital wing from what I hear," Rodolphe- who apparently had been listening- said. "Should have been more but then the other two might have been expelled."

"And finally," Dippet said and Tom's attention snapped away from the Slytherins. "Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Mister Feng."

"Now just before we send you all off to bed, I would like to turn your attention to a matter of the utmost importance," Dippet cleared his throat and for the first time, Tom thought he looked serious. "As I am sure most of you are aware, the dark wizard Grindelwald has been on the rise after a few years of silence," Dippet said and at once a flurry of murmurs erupted across the room.

"I am sure I don't need to remind you how serious this is," Dippet continued, his voice slightly raised and the murmurs vanished. "And to any of those fooled let me make this clear. Grindelwald is not your ally. He is not your friend, as he pretends to be. He is a danger to all of wizard-kind whose only concern is with himself. You may believe he is doing right in the world-" and here he glanced again at the Slytherin table- "But you are wrong. Grindelwald threatens the stability we have worked long and hard to build. Any show of support or behaviour that echoes his beliefs will be dealt with severely. I will not tolerate any of it and neither will the rest of the staff."

"Typical," Acacius muttered. "Old Dippet too narrow-minded to see greatness."

"Did you see Dumbledore's face?" Rodolphe whispered. "I'm starting to think all those rumours about him are true."

"What rumours?" Tom asked, unable to help himself.

Rodolphe looked around and then leaned closer to Tom. "Some say that Dumbledore and Grindelwald once used to be friends. That they were on the same side. It's never been confirmed though," he whispered.

"What happened? Why are they not still friends?"

Rodolphe shrugged. "Who knows? It's always been speculated that Grindelwald became too extreme for Dumbledore, took his ideas too far. I think they're brilliant," he added. "Wizarding superiority? Beats whatever rubbish Dippet believes in."

Tom glanced again at the staff table, noticing Dumbledore sitting in the seat next to Dippet's and watching him, his face emotionless. Tom was starting to doubt what Rodolphe had said but suddenly, he noticed it. His right hand, resting on the table, had curled into a fist. 

"Now, I'm sure I've gone on long enough. Off to bed, all of you. Prefects, I expect you to lead the first years to their common rooms."

There was a great deal of scraping as the benches all moved back and hundreds of students stood up at once. Tom followed his fellow first years to the front of the hall, where a few older students were calling out to them.

"First years, follow us! All first years this way!"

They were led out of the dining room, and down a series of long corridors until half of the students had vanished and they were left walking with the Hufflepuffs. All around him were magnificent paintings in glorious frames. Tom blinked and thought he saw a few inhabitants of the paintings moving. Then he realised they were as one Renaissance-looking witch winked at him when she caught him staring. They walked on, and Tom noticed suits of armour were placed around the school, and more flaming torches illuminated the corridors.

They diverged from the Hufflepuffs and were led further down the castle, down a long staircase until they were in a darker and rather colder part of the castle. 

"Listen up first years!" called the prefect. "Our common room is in the Slytherin Dungeon. It is protected by a password which changes once a fortnight so make sure you learn it. You won't be able to enter without it. The new one will be placed on the noticeboard a day in advance. Right now, the password is 'Basilik'.

"Basilisk?" Tom repeated as a door placed in the middle of a stretch of grey stone swung open. 

"It's a type of snake, I think," Cyrille said. "Slytherin was always associated with them."

The Slytherin common room was a long room with rough stone walls and a low ceiling, from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. Many of the walls were decorated with tapestries of medieval-looking wizards and witches, who- like the paintings- moved.

A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several carved chairs and leather sofas were dotted around the room. Tom saw that they were so far down that the wall at the end extended partway under the lake, giving the light in the room a greenish tinge.

"Now under no circumstances can someone from another house enter this common room," the prefect warned. "This is for Slytherins and Slytherins only, understood?"

The first years gave a few murmurs and nods.

"Girl dormitories are to the right," The prefect said, pointing to an opening in the wall on the far right of the room. "Boys to the left. Your names will be written outside each room. Your trunks should all be placed inside. If you need anything, come and find one of the prefects. Our head of house is Professor Slughorn, he'll also be able to help with anything you might need. Any questions?"

There were none so Tom followed the other four boys to his dormitory. They entered a door with their names written on it in elegant, cursive writing, finding a circular room greeting them. Five identical four-poster beds had been placed around it, decorated with emerald-green quilts and curtains, and two pillows each. 

A dark wardrobe was placed on the left-hand side of each bed, and a bedside table containing a basin of water on the other. 

Wallace whistled. "Not bad," he said, grinning.

Their trunks had been placed on their beds. Tom saw that he was in between Arcadius and Cyrille. Both of their trunks were considerably larger than his, and, embarrassed, he quickly emptied out his possessions, placing his weekend clothes in the cupboard (hating how bare it seemed, more so than the Orphanage because the cupboard was bigger) and keeping the rest of his equipment in the case. He kept the diary at the bottom, hidden.

Then he changed into his pyjamas, placed his wand delicately on his bedside table and- feeling embarrassed at how rubbish they seemed compared to the other three boys, quickly slid into his bed, bringing the sheets up high so the three boys wouldn't notice them.

They were all too tired to talk much so once everyone had changed and slid into bed, the lights dimmed, leaving the room in semi-darkness. Tom lay back, feeling like an imposter in this large, comfortable bed. The pillows were plump and soft, the sheets smooth and silky. It didn't seem real. None of it did. 

He had gone from living like a beggar to living like a King in a single day. 

There was a window near Tom, and in spite of himself, he felt relieved that it reminded him of his window in the Orphanage. It made him feel less of a fraud, and slightly more comfortable, as if not everything had been changed completely.

He turned to it, watching the stars light up the night sky. Even they seemed better than the ones in the Orphanage, brighter and unconcealed, no smoke or fog to hide them.

Tom wondered what Harry thought of the dormitory and looked up to get a glance of him but it seemed the boy was already asleep, a tuft of black hair visible from his pillow. He lay back down again.

As he drifted off to sleep, Tom sighed and shifted more comfortably in his bed, wishing that he could stay in Hogwarts forever.

He never felt like he had much of a home in the Orphanage and now he could see why. That place was never his home.

Hogwarts was.

Notes:

Harry: *Holds Tom's hand*

Reader: Awww

Tom: Bitch get the fuck away from me-

*

Tom: Huh oh yeah I'm totally pureblood, French actually!

Harry, standing there like: O.O

*

Tom: Okay, okay, deep breath, he may have your wand core but you won't be in the same h-

Sorting hat: SLYTHERIN!

Tom: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK-

*

Mulciber: Your friend's weird

Tom: He's not my friend!

Harry: I'm his boyfr-

Tom: NO!

Chapter 5: September, 1938 (II)

He awoke slowly, in a state of bliss.

The sound of muffled voices drifted towards him, but Tom buried his head in his pillow, wanting to drown them all out. He was so comfortable. More so than he had ever felt in his entire life. The sheets he was under were silky soft, wrapped around his small body and kissing his skin delicately. His pillow-

"Oi Riddle! Get up!"

Tom opened his eyes. For a moment, pure confusion washed over him. He was in an unfamiliar room, on an unfamiliar bed, with unfamiliar boys.

But then he remembered the previous night and realised that it had not been a dream. He sat up slowly, his fingers digging into his sheets as though scared they would slip away. It was real. Hogwarts was real.

He looked over to see Cyrille tying a green tie around his neck. The boy glanced at him. "Come on," he said. "You're going to miss breakfast."

Tom sat up, quickly making his bed, before opening his cupboard and taking out his uniform. 

"Where'd you get the tie?" he asked.

"Dresser drawer," Cyrille replied, now putting on his robes.

Tom frowned and opened a draw he had missed the previous night. Inside were two sleek green ties, the colours of his new house. Tom had never worn a tie before. He changed into his uniform, discarding his pyjamas on his bed (making a note to buy new ones as soon as possible) and then spent some time fiddling with his tie before Cyrille looked over and snorted.

"Here," he said, stepping over and fixing it up for him.

"Thanks," Tom mumbled.

He put on his robes, fastening the clasp before looking over. Wallace and Arcadius were both adjusting their robes, and Cyrille was putting on his shoes. Harry, however, was sat on his bed, fully dressed, reading his book.

Tom saw Wallace glance at him and then nudge Arcadius. Together, the two boys peered at Harry. Then they stepped over to him.

"What's that?" Arcadius asked.

"Shakespeare," Harry responded, not looking up from his book.

"Who?"

Harry glanced at him. "He's a writer."

"Is he a wizard?" Wallace asked.

Tom inwardly sighed.

"No," Harry responded.

"You're reading Muggle fiction?" Arcadius asked incredulously. 

"It's good," Harry responded.

"But it's muggle!"

"So?"

The two boys glared at him. "Put that away, Potter," Wallace warned. 

Harry frowned at him, not lowering the book.

"We should go to breakfast," Tom intervened. Harry glanced at him, and Tom raised his eyebrows, flashing the boy a look. Harry sighed and marked his page, placing the book in his bedside drawer.

Wallace and Arcadius still looked annoyed, but they left Harry alone, stepping out of the dormitory. Cyrille frowned at Harry and then glanced at Tom, sending him a look. Tom shrugged in response.

As Cyrille exited the dorm, Tom turned to Harry and scowled. "I told you not to read that thing," he said angrily.

"It's good," Harry repeated. "And I like reading it."

He exited the dorm, and Tom scowled at his back, clenching his fists to stop himself from lunging at Harry and throttling him.

He stepped out of the dormitory, hurrying to meet with the other three boys as they exited the common room. The Grand Hall was buzzing with noise when they entered and Tom looked hopefully at the tables, finding himself once more pleased as a selection of delicious food awaited him.

This time in the Orphanage, the children would be groggily awaking on their thin, lumpy mattresses and being helped to one small helping of porridge or dry toast. If only they could all see him now.

The four Slytherins found seats near the end of the table and sat down, helping themselves to a few of the dishes laid out.

"When are we getting our timetables?" Arcadius asked, swirling maple syrup onto a heaping stack of pancakes.

"Soon, I think," Cyrille replied.

Tom glanced at the staff table and saw a few empty seats, Dumbledore among the absent teachers. He looked around for him and then saw him by the Gryffindor table, handing out slips of paper to each of the students.

For a moment, Tom looked around the Grand Hall, eyes scanning the tables and watching every single student seated. A prick of envy swelled in him as he took them all in. It seemed highly unlikely that any of the children had been raised the way he was- living in near poverty, given hand-me-downs and tiny portions of food every day, the bare minimum needed to keep them alive. And he doubted anyone would be looking for part-time jobs or ways to earn some money. Not here, where there was always a high roof over their heads, and tables filled with food, and a warm bed.

Tom remembered one particularly bad winter in the Orphanage when he was only around seven or eight and there wasn't enough coal. He had sat in his room, pulling all three items of clothing he owned- his uniform, pyjamas and weekend outfit. He hadn't had a coat back then, so he had grabbed his thin blanket, wrapping it around his freezing form and tried not to freeze to death.

But here, everywhere he looked, there was a fire roaring. Every meal, the tables groaned with food. And now he had a fortress of thick quilts to shield him rather than just one ragged blanket.

It almost wasn't fair that he could only attend Hogwarts when was was eleven. That he had to suffer for eleven years whilst everyone else seemed to have been just fine. But then Tom remembered that he was not a muggle in an orphanage but a wizard. It no longer mattered how he had grown up because now he was here, learning magic, and therefore his past life was unimportant.

He almost felt disgusted with himself, because for a minute, it seemed as if he felt pity for the other Orphans still trapped in Wool's. 

It would be better if he could just forget the past entirely, pretend it had never existed. If he did not have to return to the wretched Orphanage every summer, maybe he'd be able to. Perhaps then he could pretend to have been raised in some rich villa by two aristocratic French parents with so much wealth they had nothing to do with it all but spend it on him. That sounded like something the other three boys would relate to. 

But Tom had to remind himself that he had not grown up like the others who sat beside him, and it didn't matter how hard he could try- he would never be able to relate to them the way he wanted to.

So he had to be better. Stronger. More powerful than the lot of them. He had to be the greatest because if he didn't, he would just be Tom Riddle, a poor, helpless Orphan who thought too much of himself in a world that had been established thousands of years ago, without him.

And they would all laugh and say, well, what did you expect from Tom Riddle, the boy raised by Muggles?

"Ah, the newest Slytherins! Welcome!"

Tom turned and saw a man, presumably in his early thirties, standing beside him, beaming at the four boys. He had thick, staw-coloured hair and thin wisps of pale hair on his upper lip. His robes looked expensive, a rich shade of brown adorned with gold trimmings and buttons, and Tom noticed several gold rings resting on his large fingers.

"Now, unless I am mistaken, I don't believe we've met. I am Professor Slughorn, potions master of Hogwarts and your Head of Year."

Tom nodded politely at the man with the rest of the boys, his fingers eyeing all the gold the man wore and wondering if it was real. He had never seen gold before. The prettiest thing he had seen was a simple pearl necklace Mrs Cole sometimes wore. 

"Now I have all your timetables, let's see here... Mulciber, Wallace?"

"That's me."

Slughorn beamed and handed Wallace his timetable.

"Avery, Arcadius?"

"Thanks, sir."

"Rosier, Cyrille?"

"Me, sir."

"Rosier, hm? Would you perhaps be related to Anne Rosier, the famous herbologist?"

"She was my great-aunt."

"I see, I was a big admirer of Anne when I was your age, bought her books and everything," Slughorn chuckled as though the memory offered him some amusement. "I'll be sure to keep an eye on you," he said, handing Cyrille his timetable.

"Now, who else? Riddle, Tom?"

"Me."

Slughorn handed Tom his timetable, and the boy took a second to eye the large ring resting on his index finger.

"And it says here there is one more boy, a Mr Harry Potter? Is he here?"

The boys all exchanged looks and shrugged.

"We don't know, sir," Cyrille said. "We haven't seen him."

"No? Well, he must be around here somewhere. Tell you what, could you give this to him when you next see him?" Slughorn asked, handing Harry's timetable to Tom.

"Of course, sir," Tom said, doing his best to refrain from sounding reluctant.

Slughorn beamed at him. "That's a good lad. I'll see you in an hour, boys, potions first thing today."

Arcadius glanced at his timetable as Slughorn stepped away. "Says here we're with the Gryffindors for potions," he said. "That should be fun."

"Potions, Herbology, Flying and Transfiguration, all today," Wallace groaned, checking the timetable.

"That's not too bad, we're with the Ravenclaws for Herbology," Arcadius pointed out.

"And back with the Gryffindors for Transfiguration," Cyrille said dryly.

After breakfast, the four of them tracked down the dungeons to the potions classroom. Tom hadn't seen Harry all breakfast so, reluctantly, he hung onto his timetable until he made an appearance in class. When they arrived outside the classroom, they found most of the class already there, including Harry, who was speaking to two of the Gryffindor boys.

"There you are," Tom said angrily, storming over to Harry. "Where were you?"

Harry turned around, looking slightly surprised. "At breakfast."

"Where? You weren't at the Slytherin table."

Harry blushed slightly. "I was with the Gryffindors."

"The Gryffindors?" Cyrille said loudly, having overheard. "Why were you sitting with them? You're a Slytherin."

"Does it matter?" one of the boys Harry had been speaking to asked. "Just because we're in different houses doesn't mean we can't speak to one another."

Tom peered at him and suddenly realised the boy was Ignatius Prewett, the kid they had nearly fought with yesterday. Out of all the boys Harry could have picked to speak to.

Cyrille sneered. "It's called house loyalty," he said. "I wouldn't expect a mudblood to understand, though," he said angrily at Harry.

Harry blinked in a rather hurt way just as Ignatius clenched his fists, opening his mouth to speak.

Just then, the door to the classroom opened and Slughorn peered his head around. "Everyone here? In we go then, come on."

"Here," Tom muttered, giving Harry his timetable.

Harry snatched it and stalked into the classroom, between the two Gryffindors.

"Come on," Wallace muttered.

Together, the four of them entered the classroom. Tom saw it was a large, surprisingly bright room, if a little chilly. There were five round tables spread across the class, in a sort of semi-circle overlooking the teacher's desk. Behind that were two large blackboards, both blank. Across the room were cupboards and shelves filled top-to-bottom with every single potion-related object Tom could think of.

There were different coloured vials and glass bottles and jars filled with animal eyes and tails and feet and other gruesome body parts, and dozens of books, ranging from Grades 1-7, and cauldrons, different shapes and sizes and a cupboard to the far end that read: For NEWT students only.

There were few walls in the classroom. Instead, large windows occupied most of the space, and light was streaming in, covering the room in a golden glow.

"I thought we were in the dungeons?" Tom asked.

Cyrille glanced at the windows and then shrugged. "Must be enchanted."

The four boys took a seat at one of the middle tables. Tom looked around for Harry and saw he had taken a seat with three other Gryffindors and was talking to Ignatius. Next to him, Harry recognised Louis Abbott, another boy they had nearly argued with, and a Gryffindor girl whose name he didn't remember.

"Now then," Slughorn said, once they had all taken a seat. "Welcome, all! If we haven't already met, I’m Professor Slughorn—Potions Master, head of Slytherin House, and an unashamed lover of crystallised pineapple."

A few students laughed uncertainly.

Slughorn winked. “You'll find potions are not nearly as dreary as some other subjects, contrary to popular belief. We mix, we stir, we brew—not much wand-waving is required, I'm afraid. But don’t let that fool you! Potions can be powerful… very powerful.”

Tom Riddle, leaned in closer, listening with stillness too deliberate to be casual.

"Pay attention and you'll learn tools far greater than any simple wand-waving will do you. Study hard and you'll see just how fundamental potions can be. From curing you of a common cold to saving your life from an attempted poisoning, you'll learn it all in this class- if you want to, that is."

Slughorn gave them a theatrical smile that seemed quite rehearsed to Tom. He knew the man must be exaggerating to appease them, but he had to admit, it was working. A spark of excitement bubbled up within him, and he noticed some of the other students also looking quite excited, sitting on the edge of their seats and staring at Slughorn intently.

“Today: Cure for Boils! Not glamorous, I know, but it’ll save your skin. Quite literally. Follow the recipe exactly, or someone nearby will leave with a face full of pustules.”

More laughter. A Gryffindor girl looked alarmed.

Slughorn waved his wand, and a set of writing appeared on the blackboard in fancy script. He showed them a quick demonstration, using a set of pre-prepared ingredients and adding them to a heated cauldron. 

"If done correctly, your potion should look like this," he said, showing them all his brick-red potion, pink steam rising from it slowly.

"Now, since you're first years, you'll work together. Teamwork is essential in potions, trying to do too much or too little won't result in anything other than a waste of ingredients. You should all have a copy of Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger, I recommend you follow each line carefully. There are instructions to heat your cauldrons on the blackboard, and you'll find all your ingredients around the room. If you need any help, you simply need to ask. You have an hour- begin!"

"Says here we need six snake fangs, four-horned slugs and two porcupine quills," Arcadus said, reading off his textbook.

"I'll get them, you set up the cauldron," Wallace replied.

"Looks like you're with me," Cyrille said, turning to Tom and grinning. "I'll get the ingredients, get started with the cauldron, yeah?"

Tom obliged, taking out his cauldron and placing it under a hob-like stand. Looking around, he saw Wallace turn a dial under the table and a burst of blue flames seared under.

"Remember- low heat only!" Slughorn called out, tapping the blackboard with his wand where he had underlined this particular instruction.

Wallace turned the dial slightly, so the flames went from blue to green to yellow to orange to red.

"My Mother is good at potions; she makes me help her all the time," he said to Tom, catching him staring. "Guess it pays off."

Tom copied Wallace's movements until a pale red fire was glowing from underneath his cauldron. Cyrille returned with the ingredients, and they set to work, crushing the snake fangs underneath a mortar until they resembled a fine powder, then added four measures to the cauldron. They waited, then added four horned slugs and took the cauldron off the fire before adding two porcupine quills.

"Now stir five times clockwise," Cyrille said, reading from the instructions, and Tom set to work, ensuring each stir was precise and neat, his eyes glued to the cauldron with concentration.

By the time they had finished, a gentle pink smoke, identical to Slughorn's potion, had risen from the cauldron. Tom looked around and saw that most of the students were nearly finished. Wallace and Arcadius's potion looked similar to theirs, though it seemed to be a slightly darker shade of red than theirs.

After conducting a quick survey around the room, however, Tom thought theirs was clearly one of the best ones. Some students had fared terribly, producing potions of murky grey or one that had swelled up and formed a giant, partially solid blob with a pinkish twinge.

Tom looked around for Harry and saw he had partnered with the Gryffindor girl whilst Ignatius and Louis worked together. The two Gryffindor boys had succeeded in creating a pale red potion, whilst Harry's potion inhabited a more vivid shade of red, not unlike Arcadius and Wallace.

"Times up!" Slughorn called.

He went around the room, inspecting the potions. Some he frowned at, others he tutted and shook his head. When he reached the murky grey one, he said, "I see you didn't add enough snake fangs," and when he reached the blob-transformed potion, he simply walked away without saying anything.

"Not bad, not bad at all," he said to Ignatius and Louis. "You may not have kept it under fire for long enough, hence the light shade, but a worthy effort."

He walked over to Harry's potion and gave an approving nod. Then he did a double-take and smiled. "Ah, Mr Potter, I take it?"

Harry nodded shyly. "Yes, sir."

"I missed you at breakfast m'boy, did you receive your timetable?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Good, good," he smiled and moved onto Tom's table.

"Very good boys," he said to Wallace and Arcadius, who grinned. "You overheated it slightly, but it should work well enough."

When he reached Tom and Cyrille, he paused. For a moment, Tom thought they had done something wrong. Then his face broke out into a grin.

“Oh-ho, I say, that’s a lovely consistency. Very neat work, Rosier, was it? And Mr Riddle?"

The two of them nodded, and Cyrille looked pleased.

"Excellent, boys, ten points to Slytherin. Yes, I think you made it perfectly."

He walked off, and Tom and Cyrille exchanged satisfied smiles. 

"Now bottle up your potions- or rather just throw it away-" he said to the pair who had made a blob. "And add your names on them for me to mark. For homework, write half a parchment's worth on the properties of cure for boils. Well done for today!"

Cyrille carefully poured their potion into a vial and elegantly scrawled their names on it. While he delivered it to Slughorn, Tom shot another look at Harry.

He was smiling at something the girl had said, and when she went to deliver the potion, Ignatius clapped him on the back.

Tom turned away just as Cyrille returned. "Herbology now," he said, grabbing his bag from underneath the desk.

"Since when were you both brilliant at potions?" Wallace asked as they walked to Herbology, looking half-annoyed, half-impressed.

Tom shrugged. "Just following instructions, isn't it?"

"We all obviously passed," Arcadius said dismissively. "Unlike some of the others. Did you see that one pair that had to throw theirs away? How pathetic!"

They laughed about the less fortunate members of their class until they reached Herbology, where, alongside the Ravenclaws, they were led into a hot and stuffy Greenhouse by a thin wizard in pale green robes who introduced himself as Professor Beery. By the end of the class, the Ravenclaws had won twenty house points, courtesy of Isadora Bones, who had answered every single question correctly.

"Swot," Cyrille muttered as they made their way to lunch. Tom looked around for Harry as the three of them sat down, and this time he saw him. He was talking to some of the first-year Slytherin girls, looking slightly shy as he sat down at the end of the table with them. It was a relief, at least, that he wasn't sitting with the Gryffindors.

"You lot smell like a greenhouse," someone said, laughing, and Tom turned back to the three boys, noticing Acacius Nott sitting beside Wallace and grinning.

"We just had Herbology," Wallace said.

Opposite Acacius, Rodolphe Lestrange leaned in. "How's your first day been then?" he asked.

"We got ten points in potions," Cyrille said. "Me and Tom, that is."

"Ah, old Slughorn, made a good first impression on him, have you? That's good, he'll pay more attention to you from now on. Has he tried to collect you yet?"

Tom frowned, about to ask what he meant, but Acacius spoke first. "Nah, they're too young, Rod. He'll try when they're older."

"What do you mean by collect?" Cyrille asked, beating Tom to it.

"Slughorn likes to be connected," Rodolphe said, smirking. "Makes him feel good when he singles out talent. Likes to take credit for future success. He's got a little club, I hear, some of the older years nickname it 'The Slugclub'."

"Not talking about that god-awful club, are you?" said a voice, and Tom saw Walburga Black slide into the seat next to Rodolphe.

Acacius smirked. "Thought you liked Slughorn?"

"Can't stand him," she said dismissively. "Keeps trying to keep an eye out for me, too, hinting that he'd like to see me join up someday. As if!"

"He's pureblood, Walburga," Acacius reminded as if that was reason enough to join.

"Barley," Walburga scoffed. "Likes comfort too much, he does. Not willing to get his hands dirty like the rest of us."

"We don't get our hands dirty," Rodolphe said, raising an eyebrow.

"You know what I mean," Walburga said impatiently. "The way he acts, as if blood superiority isn't the most important thing. I heard he'd be willing to let a mudblood join if he deems them talented enough and we all know they aren't."

"Ah well," Rodolphe said, turning back to the first years. "Still better to have him on your good side. He's got all sorts of connections that could be useful to you in the future."

Tom made a note of this as he tucked into a plate of sausages and baked potatoes. After lunch, he and the rest of his little group went outside for their first flying lesson, where the Slytherins were paired up with the Hufflepuffs. A wizard introduced himself as Mister Feng, and instructed them to all gather on the side of a broom, hold out an arm and call out 'Up.'

Tom felt very stupid as he followed the instructions, especially when the broom didn't budge an inch. Across from him, he saw a broom zoom into Harry's hand almost immediately. The boy looked surprised but pleased.

When they all eventually got their brooms to fly into their hands, Mister Feng showed them some basic take-offs and landings, instructing them to stay close to the ground and only move slowly and in a circle. 

Much to his embarrassment, Tom shook on his broom, gripping it tightly until his fingers were bone-white, terrified that he would fall off. He wasn't the only one. A few of the other students were wobbling anxiously on their brooms, their movements shaky and uneven, and the muggle-born boy the Slytherins had been picking on before the sorting, Michael Simmons, actually fell off.

Considering he was only a few centimetres above the ground, it was in no way an awful fall. The Slytherins, however, laughed cruelly as Mister Feng swept off his broom and helped him to his feet.

"Be confident!" he called out. "Brooms can sense when you are not! Remember, you are in control of them, not the other way round!"

Just then, a gust of wind blew past Tom's ear, so suddenly he nearly fell off himself. He turned and saw Harry gliding smoothly on his broom, looking excited for the first time that day, a grin etched across his face.

"Slow done, Mr Potter!" Mister Feng called, and Harry eased his broom slightly. 

"Sorry, sir."

"You're a natural!" said a Hufflepuff girl Tom recognised from the sorting as Emily Macmillan. "You must have been awfully young when you first learnt to ride."

Harry blushed. "Actually, this is my first time on a broom," he said.

"Are you serious?" Emily's brother, Erwin, exclaimed. "Skills like that, I reckon you could go professional."

"At what?"

"Quidditch, of course."

"What's Quidditch?"

The twins exchanged a look and stared at him. "Don't tell me you've never heard of Quidditch?" Emily asked.

Harry shrugged, and the two of them began rapidly explaining details of the sport to Harry. Tom listened in, curious to find out what it was that Walburga had been betting on.

When Mister Feng called them all down, a blush of colour had risen to Harry's cheeks. He looked exhilarated, his hair strewn over his face in messy bunches, though he just laughed and pushed it away from his eyes.

Harry, so stiff and serious, like a bird trapped in a cage, looked so free on his broom, as though it really had been something he had been doing as a child.

They separated from the Hufflepuffs and went to their next lesson- Transfiguration. Tom had been looking forward to this least- unlike Slughorn, Dumbledore didn't look as though he would be so easily won over.

None of the Slytherin boys congratulated Harry for his flying on their way. In fact, the group seemed to resent him for it, casting him snide looks and glances. The girls, however, didn't seem to care. Three of them swarmed around Harry, gushing him with praise and only adding to the boy's jealousy.

By the time they reached Transfiguration, the mood had considerably dropped. They were with the Gryffindors again, and Ignatius and Louis both greeted Harry warmly when they arrived, much to the displeasure of the Slytherins.

"Look at him, cosying up the Gryffindors," Wallace muttered.

The door to the classroom opened, and Dumbledore beamed at them all. He wore a light blue suit today, featuring an ensemble of pale trousers, a waistcoat and a crisp white shirt underneath. His outer robes matched the colour of his suit, but the interior of his cloak was a pale yellow that matched his tie. He beckoned them inside, and Tom caught a glimpse of Dumbledore's classroom.

It was an airy room, tucked away on the first floor of Hogwarts, and had an atmosphere both scholarly and enchanted. High-arched windows let in natural light that streamed over rows of polished wooden desks, set out in orderly rows with room for two students each. The stone walls were lined with tall, book-laden shelves—some books visibly breathing, fluttering their pages like wings, or softly humming. A few odd artefacts and peculiar magical objects sat under glass domes or floated gently in enchanted stasis, though Tom couldn't work out what they were meant to be.

At the front of the classroom stood an elevated dais, where Dumbledore’s desk rested. It reminded Tom a bit of Mrs Cole's, the way it cluttered and overfilled. The objects on it, however, couldn't be more different: A half-transfigured candlestick, a brass armillary sphere spinning slowly by itself, stacks of paper with quills scribbling messily on their own, as if invisible hands were doing the writing and fancy silver tea set, which Tom couldn't imagine what Dumbledore used for.

Behind his desk was a huge blackboard that seemed to be filled with complicated symbols and arrows pointed in different directions. Above the blackboard, various caged creatures blinked at the students, ranging from beetles to hedgehogs to birds that filled the classroom with the sound of light chirping.

He took a seat on the front row next to Cyrille, with Arcadius and Wallace on the next table beside them. The room slowly filled out, and Tom glanced at Harry, noticing him a few rows back, this time paired with Ignatius. A few students were looking at the blackboard, whispering and pointing at it with their partners.

"Forgive me, that was from my NEWT class," Dumbledore said, taking out his wand and waving it so that an eraser was lifted suddenly and began rubbing off the scribbles. "But alas, you have six more years to go before you can learn that."

He smiled, eyes twinkling as he surveyed each pupil. "Now we all met at the sorting but in case you forgot, I am Professor Dumbledore, head of Gryffindor house," he said, mainly addressing the Slytherins. "I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you."

Tom thought that seemed to be very unlikely given how there was one of him and around twenty of them, but he gave nothing away. It would have made more sense for Dumbledore to deploy a Slughorn-like approach and only get to know the talented members of the class, but then again, Dumbledore seemed very different from Slughorn, and Tom doubted that he would ever pick favourites. 

"Transfiguration is not the easiest branch of magic, but it is exceptionally important. Dangerous, when done improperly. Fascinating, when done well. It is also easy to learn if you start off small. So today, you will learn to transform a match into a needle. Like so."

He took out his wand and pointed it at a small matchstick on his desk. In a clear voice, he called out, "Parlus". A second later the matchstick had morphed, becoming thinner and smaller, the colour fading to silver and before Tom knew it a sharp sewing needle had appeared on the table. There were a few 'Ooos' in the class but not many- it seemed that most were not so impressed by the small display of magic.

Dumbledore smiled, faintly. “Now then. Your turn.”

He waved his wand and two baskets floated down the two rows of the classroom, where a matchstick automatically flew out and landed in front of each student.

Tom didn’t move at first. He was trying to remember Dumbledore's wandwork exactly, replaying his movement, the way he had uttered the incantation, the flick of his wrist, each exact, precise movement.

Feeling confident enough after a few minutes, he took out his wand from his robes and pointed it with a grace that seemed too practised for a first-year.

"Parlus," he said, quietly.

Nothing happened.

Tom didn’t frown. He simply tried again, this time adjusting the motion just slightly. Beside him, Cyrille had become slightly flustered, angrily pointing his wand at the matchstick and muttering, "Parlus!" The matchstick, however, didn't so much as budge.

The class's initial disappointment had vanished with the realisation that the transfiguration was much harder than originally anticipated. The sounds of people yelling the incantation distracted Tom, and he gripped his wand tighter in his hand, trying to drown them out.

On his third attempt, the matchstick gave a faint shimmer at one end, then—snap!—its tip glinted silver.

Dumbledore had been watching.

“Well done, Mr. Riddle,” he said, moving to stand in front of him. “Impressive focus. But I wonder… have you read ahead?”

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling swam in the back of Tom's mind.

He met Dumbledore's eyes. “I find preparation useful, sir.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said softly. “And control even more so.”

Their eyes held for a beat too long. Dumbledore’s tone hadn’t been disapproving—but it hadn't been praise, either.

He moved on to the next student without comment, and Tom lowered his wand, the transfigured needle still gleaming on the desk and the sense that he had accomplished nothing accompanying it.

 

---

 

"Not bad for our first day," Wallace said, flopping down on his bed.

"It was okay," Cyrille sniffed, patting down his pillows. He had become quite surly after Transfiguration since he hadn't managed to successfully cast the spell.

By the end of the lesson, only Tom had been able to, and whilst Cyrille had congratulated him, there was a tight look in his eyes as he did so. Arcadius and Wallace, however, didn't seem to mind as much.

"Well, I'm not looking forward to flying again," Tom said, earning a small smile from Cyrille.

"Flying was awful," he agreed. "Still, at least we only have to do it when we're first years."

"Speaking of flying, where did Potter end up? Curfew's in ten minutes," Arcadius asked.

"Probably sneaking out to visit Prewett," Wallace muttered, and the others sniggered.

Tom looked around. Where was Harry?

"He seemed to enjoy flying," Cyrille commented.

"Works for us, he can win the Quidditch cup for Slytherin in a few years," Arcadius said dismissively.

"I wouldn't be so sure, he's so small he'll probably get knocked off his broom by a gust of wind," Wallace said snidely, earning sniggers from the other boys.

"Where are you going, Tom?" Cyrille asked, eyeing Tom who had suddenly stood up and walked to the door.

"I'm going to find Potter," he said carelessly. "If he really has snuck ou,t he's not going to lose us any points."

He closed the door to the sound of laughter. Making his way to the common room, he wondered whether or not Harry really had snuck out and where he would be if he did. After all, the castle was huge. It could take hours to find him.

His worry was for nothing, however. When he arrived in the common room, he saw Harry sitting by the fire, laughing with three Slytherin first-years.

Harry's eyes snapped away from one of the girls as Tom approached him.

"We thought you had snuck out," Tom said, putting his hands in his trouser pockets.

Harry blinked. "No, sorry, must have lost track of time."

One of the girls giggled. "What are you, his chaperone?"

Tom ignored her "It's getting late," he said. 

Harry nodded and stood up, but one of the girls grabbed his hand and stopped him.

"Wait, don't just go. Sit down with us," she said, nodding at Tom, and looking slightly shy. Tom suddenly recognised her as the girl who had been watching him during the sorting.

Harry sat back down, and after a second's hesitation, Tom drew up an armchair next to him.

"We haven't really had a chance to meet yet," said the girl. "I'm Emmeline. Emmeline Parkinson."

"Tom Riddle," he said dully.

"Oh, we know, Harry's told us all about you," she said, giggling.

Tom flashed Harry an accusatory look. "Oh, what's he been saying?" he asked, and Harry shrank back slightly in his chair.

"Nothing bad, don't worry," Emmeline said, sniggering slightly. 

"We saw you in Transfiguration today, you know?" Another girl, with light blonde hair, said. "You were the only one who managed it, weren't you?"

Tom nodded. "Yeah."

"Ugh, Transfiguration's a bore," said a brown-haired girl next to Emmeline. "And that Dumbledore's even worse. My Father told me things about him."

"Mine too," said the blonde girl, leaning in slightly. "It's a joke they let him teach here, especially with all those rumours circulating about him."

"I know!" Emmeline said in a hushed tone. "Walburga was just telling me about him."

"You mean all the stuff with Grindelwald?" Tom asked carefully.

"Well, yes, amongst other things. Hang on, she's over there, she can tell you herself. Hey, Walburga!"

Walburga turned her head as Emmeline waved her over. The older girl smirked and sauntered over to them.

"Hello Emmeline," Walburga said. "Riddle, Potter, girls," she said with a nod to the others.

"I was just telling them what you told me about Dumbledore," Emmeline said.

"Oh, him," she said dismissively. "Don't go around telling people my word's the truth, Emmeline, I'm just repeating what I've heard."

"Oh, tell us, Walburga, please," the blonde girl begged.

"Oh, alright, alright," Walburga said, drawing up a chair next to Tom, so they formed a sort of circle around the fire.

"You all know about the rumours surrounding him and Grindelwald, right?" she asked.

They all replied 'yes' whilst Harry said 'no.'

Walburga quickly explained what she had told Tom about the supposed friendship between the two wizards. Harry nodded, his eyes refusing to betray neither belief nor scepticism.

"Well, anyway, a lot of people want to know why they stopped being friends, if they ever were," Walburga said. "Obviously, those two aren't spilling any secrets, but that doesn't mean they kept them well guarded. From what I hear, Grindelwald murdered his sister."

The blond girl gave a small gasp. The brown-haired one frowned and asked, "Dumbledore has a sister?"

"Used to, from the looks of it. Apparently, she was a squib," Walburga said dismissively, in a tone that indicated her death was neither a tragedy nor something to mourn because of it.

"Why didn't Dumbledore have Grindelwald arrested?" Harry asked. 

Walburga scoffed. "The most powerful dark wizard in the world? As if the Ministry could ever arrest him."

"Why hasn't he duelled him then?" The blonde girl asked. "Everyone keeps asking him to. If he killed his sister, wouldn't he want to take revenge?"

"Maybe he loves him," Walburga said dryly, and the three girls giggled. "Either way, Dumbledore won't confront him. Which is good for us considering how he'll only try and ruin whatever plans Grindelwald has made."

"You think he'll take over America?" Emmeline asked.

"We should hope so. First America and then here. Time we got our ideals right, in any case." Walburga said. 

Tom snorted. "Sounds like he made a perfect Slytherin," he said.

Walburga narrowed her eyes suddenly. "He didn't go to Hogwarts," she said. "He went to Durmstrang. Don't you know that?"

Tom didn't know what or where Durmstrang was, but he wasn't about to mess up his little pureblood act.

"Course," he said. "I meant hypothetically."

Walburga eyed him carefully but said nothing else.

One of Walburga's friends called her over impatiently, and she stood up. "Good chat," she said. "Let's do this again sometimes."

With a wink at the three girls and a quick glance at Tom, she walked back over to the third years.

The blonde girl gave a shudder. "Oh Merlin, if that's true, I don't blame Dumbledore for wanting to keep their friendship a secret."

"Well, on that lovely note," the brown-haired girl said dryly. "We should head to bed."

They all stood up. "Now you be nice to Harry here," Emmeline said to Tom. "Just because he's half-blood doesn't mean he's half-bad."

Harry blushed in an embarrassed sort of way as the other two girls sniggered.

Tom glanced at each of them. "Are you half-bloods?" he said.

Emmeline shuddered. "Of course not, I'm a Parkinson, remember? You must have heard of the name?"

Twice. That was twice he messed up now. Silently, Tom cursed himself for slipping up so badly. He had to find a way to learn more about the pureblood culture if he was going to carry on pretending to be one.

"Course, sorry, I forgot. My parents aren't so..." he spared a glance at Harry, but the boy was looking away, staring at the fireplace. "Well-knowledged when it comes to the English purebloods. They're from rural France, you see," he explained, sticking to the story he told the three boys since it seemed to work with them. 

“Oh, I see, not to worry then," Emmeline said, and Tom decided to keep this story since it seemed to be generally accepted.

"So, are you all purebloods then?" he asked.

"Forgot our names already, Riddle?" The blonde girl said slyly. When Tom opened his mouth to apologise, she laughed. "It's alright, it's only been a day. I'm Seraphine. Seraphine Selwyn," she said.

"Ada Rookwood," said the brown-haired girl with a nod. "And to answer your question, yes, we're both purebloods. Us three are the only pureblood girls sorted into Slytherin. The other two are half-bloods." Her tone indicated that though it wasn't terrible, it wasn't particularly favourable either.

"They're not too bad," Emmeline said, as though talking about a pair of affectionate pets.

Seraphine sniffed. "It's alright. We need half-bloods to fill our numbers anyway."

"At least we got a good one," Emmeline said, laughing and nudging Harry. He gave a weak smile but said nothing.

Tom glanced at him. How did he feel, being treated as some sort of lesser student, a sort of pet to be doted on but treated as inferior? Did he regret saying he was half-blood? Or did he simply not care? Perhaps being an orphan had given him a low self-esteem, so that he didn't even notice the condescending tone the girls used when speaking to him. Plenty of children at Wool's were affected that way, after all.

He remembered one time when he was seven, a few rich citizens had donated some money to the Orphanage. Though they were told it was done out of kindness, Tom overheard some laughing about how it would help boost their public image for one of their re-election campaigns. A few of the younger children had been selected to meet with the donors for a photo opp, and during that, one of the women, an old lady wearing a ridiculous fur ensemble that included a coat, gloves, scarves and a hat that made the orphans' rags looking somehow even worse, had reached forward to touch a girl's cheek with her ungloved hand. Her friend- also in ridiculous garments- said, "Oh, you touched one!" Then they both giggled and walked away.

Tom had grown up with that sort of thinking his whole life. He wasn't about to be treated like that for another seven years. But if Harry was going to let them, then fine. It wasn't like he cared.

They said goodbye to the girls and departed for their dormitories.

"I see you've made yourself some friends," Tom said as they walked down the corridor to their room.

"They're nice," Harry said, shrugging.

"Even though they treat you like that?" he asked, unable to help himself.

"Like what?"

"You know what I mean."

Harry stopped. Tom frowned and turned around. "It's not like you all treat me any better," Harry said coolly.

"Well, maybe if you'd played your cards better, you wouldn't have ended up like this."

"And you think they're any better? Do you not see how ridiculous they all are, Tom? Going on about blood purity, as if we're not all wizards at the end of the day."

"If they think some of us are better, who are we to argue?" Tom asked angrily. "This is clearly the way it's been for years."

"That doesn't make it right!"

"What, thinking muggles are inferior?"

"Yes! I mean... the way some of them talk about them, as if they need to be completely eliminated, it's... it's-" Harry shuddered. 

"I told you, Potter," Tom said coolly. "We're better than them. If they were on our level, we would all have magic."

"And I told you," Harry said. "Magic doesn't make us better."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, separated by more than just a few feet. Tom felt as though entire worlds stretched between them, as if Harry would never understand his logic.

"Fine," he said coldly. "You want to be treated like their dog, go for it. Don't come crying to me when you get sick of it."

"I might be treated like a dog," Harry said. "But at least I won't grow up and become like you."

"Oh? And what exactly am I going to become?"

Harry held his gaze for a moment. "A monster," he said finally. "That's what you all sound like anyway."

This threw Tom off slightly. Then, he narrowed his eyes and crossed the distance between them, trapping Harry against the wall.

"Alright," he hissed. "I'll be a monster. You know what I'll also be?"

Harry squirmed and turned his head to the side, suddenly not wanting to look at him. Tom was aware he was too close to Harry but he was also too caught up in his anger to care. He wanted- he needed- to make the boy afraid. They had known each other for too short a time for Harry to realise why all the other orphans avoided him.

"I'll be powerful," he said softly, breathing down Harry's neck. "And one day, I'll make them all those other 'Monsters' kneel."

He pulled back from Harry and saw that the boy had gone very still. Straightening his uniform, he smirked.

"And that's more than you'll ever be."

Without another word, he turned and walked back to his dormitory, not caring if Harry followed or not.

Notes:

Parlus

From Latin:

Match - Par
Stick - Baculum
Needle - acus

Creative I know.

*

I partially based the different colours for heating the cauldrons on the different colours of the sun, from hottest to coldest (minus white). Cool science lesson for you all.

*

Tom: Let me get right up into his personal space, that'll make him afraid

Harry: Fuck yeah, best day ever

*

Tom: I don't care about Harry and I never will.

Also Tom: *Looking around for Harry every minute of the day*

*

Drinking challenge:

Take a shot every time Tom looks around for Harry.
You'll be drunker than I was when I wrote this.

Chapter 6: September, 1938 (III)

Notes:

Guess who accidentally posted a bunch of spoilers for the fic - this dumbass bitch. I actually cannot even begin to tell you how embarrassed I am 😭 If you saw all that, please, please find a way to forget it all for the sake of my dignity.

Tom hated nightmares. 

Hated the way they would invade his mind as he slept, the way they made him feel helpless and completely powerless. Hated how they crawled under him when he awoke, entrenched in his mind and leaving him with a damp mood for hours. Hated how he could not forget them.

Tom knew he was having a nightmare. A nightmare where his wand wasn't working and he couldn't transfigure the matchstick into a needle. Everyone else in the class had managed and they all laughed at him, pointing and whispering. Tom looked up, feeling stupid tears well in his eyes, and saw Dumbledore looming over him.

"I'm sorry, my boy," he said. "I'm afraid there's just nothing special about you."

"Please," Tom rasped. "I'm a wizard, I swear I am."

"You'll never be one of us," Cyrille said coldly. "You don't belong here."

The laughter grew louder, reverberating across the classroom.

"Go back to the Orphanage, Tom," someone said. Tom peered and saw Harry standing at the back of the classroom, his arms crossed. "You're not a wizard. You're just a pathetic muggle."

"No! No! I'm not! I'm a wizard! I'm a wizard!"

But no one listened to him. The laughter and taunts and sniggers grew louder and louder, cruel faces swimming in and out of view until it was just Harry, his eyes narrowed in disgust as he stared down at Tom. Then he turned around and walked away from him, leaving Tom screaming on the ground.

"No! No! N-"

Tom awoke with a gasp. For a moment, he struggled and twisted in his sheets, entrapped under them as though a heavy weight had settled over him and left him pressed against the sheets. When he eventually untwisted himself from the covers, his heavy breathing had diminished.

It wasn't real, it wasn't real. He was safe. Tom let out a sigh of relief and slowly sank his head back down on the pillow. 

A quick glance around told him he was the only one awake. Another glance out the window and Tom realised how early it was. He closed his eyes, willing himself to go back to sleep but after much tossing and turning, he gave up and decided to get ready for the day.

Just as he finished pulling up his uniform, there was a yawn opposite him, and Tom glanced up, noticing Harry blinking his eyes open. For a moment, he froze, seeing the cruel boy in his dream staring coldly down at him. But then Harry sat up, his eyes meeting Tom's, and the image was gone.

Tom remembered the words they had exchanged the day before, how pale Harry looked as he entered the dormitory a few minutes after him. He half-expected Harry to flinch back in terror. The boy, however, merely squinted and reached for his glasses.

"What time is it?" he murmured.

Tom shrugged and bent down to tie his laces.

Harry got out of bed and yawned again. "You're up early," he commented, making his bed.

"Couldn't sleep," Tom muttered.

Harry glanced at him just as the others began to stir. 

"Morning," Wallace muttered sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

Tom nodded at him as he neatened the ends of his bed, an old habit he had picked up from the Orphanage. He watched as the boys dressed, observing them closely and trying to remember their movements.

Cyrille smoothed out his shirts before he wore them.

Arcadius ran a comb over his hair.

Wallace did a complicated knot with his tie, his hands moving too quickly for Tom to pick up.

"You ready?" Cyrille asked once they had all finished.

Tom nodded and stood up to leave before realising he had left his pyjamas sprawled out on his bed. He quickly rushed to tuck them underneath his sheets, embarrassed.

"Are those your night robes?" Cyrille asked, peering at him.

Tom felt himself freeze. Slowly, he nodded.

Cyrille laughed. "Well, you can't wear those. Here, take this."

Tom stared in astonishment as Cyrille casually tossed a set of silky pyjamas at him. He unfolded them carefully, revealing a matching dark grey set—long-sleeved shirt and trousers—made from a soft, smooth fabric.

"Are-are you sure?" he asked uncertainly.

Cyrille shrugged. "I have other pairs, honestly, those are my least favourite. The colour doesn't suit me at all."

Tom folded them up quickly and tucked them into his bed, as if trying to bury a piece of treasure. He glanced around at Harry and realised that Cyrille hadn't bothered to offer him any clothes, despite his pyjamas being equally terrible.

The boy, however, was already crossing the room to leave, and whether this was done out of anger, upset or that he simply did not care, Tom didn't know.

"What do we have today?" Wallace asked as the four boys arrived in the Grand Hall and sat down at the Slytherin table, helping themselves to breakfast.

"Charms, History of Magic, Herbology again, and Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Cyrille snorted. "Defence Against the Dark Arts is meant to be a load of rubbish," he said dismissively. "We should be learning the Dark Arts, not how to stop them."

Tom said nothing as the other three began discussing their timetable. He was still feeling annoyingly shaken after his nightmare, and he kept glancing around him, trying to commit the Grand Hall to memory as though afraid he was about to be told he could no longer stay at Hogwarts.

"Oi, Riddle, what's up with you?" Wallace asked, noticing his quietness.

"I'm tired," he replied. "Didn't sleep so well."

"The beds are a bit small, aren't they?" Cyrille said sympathetically.

"We'd better get to class," Arcadius said before Tom could reply. "Charms first, should be alright. Easier than transfiguration at any rate."

Charms were easier.

The class was set out in two long rows facing each other, and it took Tom half the lesson to realise that all the Slytherins had bounded off to one side whilst the Hufflepuffs sat on the other. 

They were all given a feather and made to levitate it. By the end of the class, Tom was the only one who had managed.

"How are you doing this?" Cyrille demanded as they walked to History of Magic. 

Tom shrugged. "No clue," he said honestly.

In truth, Tom cared very little for the lesson. The nightmare had spoiled his mood completely, and his mind kept wandering as he tried to perform the charm. When he finally did, he wasn't even paying much attention. He had just flicked his wand and murmured the incantation. It had taken Arcadius to nudge him for him to realise his feather was floating.

Wallace snorted. "You'll get humbled in History of Magic," he said. "There's no actual magic required there."

Tom entered the classroom, finding to his amazement a ghost floating by the blackboard, talking in a dull monotone voice with his back to them all.

Though his mind threatened to zone out as so many of the others had done, Tom forced himself to push the nightmare away and pay attention, telling himself it was important to learn as much as he could about the wizarding world.

He left the classroom with his mind buzzing with facts about Emeric the Evil, the nightmare temporarily forgotten.

"He was a bit of a nutter, wasn't he?" Wallace asked as they walked to the Grand Hall for lunch. "I mean- insanely clever and all, but still."

"The only nutter was that teacher," Arcadius said, yawning. "Seven years of that- Merlin help us."

"What do you think, Cyrille?" Wallace asked.

"I wasn't listening," the boy replied.

They sat down at the table and began piling food onto the gold plates.

"Good second day?" came a voice. Tom turned and saw Walburga standing behind him, her hands on her hips. Though she was addressing all of them, her eyes were only focused on Tom.

The other three boys let out murmurs of 'yes', but she didn't seem to hear them.

"Tom?"

He frowned lightly. "It's been good," he said.

"What have you learnt?" she asked.

"Windgaurdium Leviosa," Wallace said mockingly. "But only Tom could cast it."

"Could he now?" Walburga's eyes narrowed, her voice cool. 

"Um, yeah," Wallace said, looking slightly confused.

"Your parents teach you that?" she asked.

Tom frowned. "No."

"What were their names again?"

Tom stared at her. "Is that important?" he asked.

Walburga shrugged. "Just wondering. They must be French, right?"

Tom nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Hang on, I thought you said your grandparents were French?" Cyrille asked, frowning. "And then they moved here."

"No," said Emmeline Parkinson, who had evidently been listening. "Tom told us that his parents were French."

Cyrille, Arcadius and Wallace all stared at him. Tom swallowed. "My Father was from France," he said. "My Mother was born here, but her parents were not. That's what I meant."

"Oh, alright," Emmeline said, turning back to her food.

Wallace and Arcadius both nodded, but Cyrille looked slightly unconvinced, his lips pursed slightly.

"Right..." Walburga said. "Well, enjoy the rest of your day, boys," and with another glance at Tom, she walked away.

"Why do I feel like I just got interrogated?" Tom muttered.

Arcadius snorted. "That's a Black to you."

Tom turned back to his meal, a sinking feeling in his gut as he tried to take another bite of his food. That was more than an interrogation. That was disbelief. Perhaps he had not managed to fool everyone with his French pureblood story.

After lunch, they made their way over to Herbology with the Ravenclaws. Cyrille seemed to have lost his suspicions by that point, and the other two clearly hadn't thought much of the whole thing. Tom was still feeling distracted, however, and he was nearly strangled by a piece of Devil's snare before Wallace batted it away.

"Pay attention, Riddle," Professor Beery called out.

The others sent him inquisitive looks, but Tom shrugged and looked away. Across from him, he saw Harry peering a him, his eyebrow slightly raised. Tom ignored him, too.

By the time the class ended, Tom badly wanted the whole day to be over. He longed to retire to the library so he could do as much research as possible on the purebloods, and he could find a better cover to fit in. 

"Here we go," Cyrille muttered as they walked to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

A few Gryffindors were waiting outside the classroom when the four boys arrived, and Tom recognised the girl Harry had partnered with for potions, talking to two other girls. She peered behind Tom and then smiled, waving at someone.

Tom turned and realised it was Harry, who walked over to her, looking happy. They exchanged a few words just as Tom looked away.

A few minutes later, the door to the classroom opened and a woman walked out, smiling. Her wrinkled face suggested she was somewhere in her late sixties, though there was something about her that suggested she was younger. She stood tall and authoritative, dressed in a long, slightly old-fashioned grey dress that reminded Tom of the kind wealthy women used to wear when he was a child. Her light brown hair, streaked with white, was swept up into an elegant bun and held together by a red headband.

"Welcome," she said. "Come on in."

Tom followed the rest of the students into the classroom, which he saw was larger than most of the others he had been in. The first half of the room had desks set out in twos with three large blackboards facing them behind the teacher's desk. The second half, however, was a large space that was empty except for a few, dummy-like objects placed towards the end.

They all took their seats- Tom sitting next to Arcadius this time- and the woman smiled. 

"My name is Professor Merrythought," she said, flicking her wand so that her name appeared etched onto one of the blackboards. "Welcome to Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"The Dark Arts are considered to be some of the most powerful but dangerous magic ever created," she said. "Those of you who have perhaps had their first History of Magic class would have learnt all about the dark wizard known as Emeric the Evil, who dedicated his time to studying and manifesting the Dark Arts. Most of you would be familiar with Gellert Grindelwald, who, of course, has broadened our view on exactly how dangerous dark magic can be."

Her eyes met several of the Slytherins in the room. "There are several things you need to be aware of before you take this class," she continued. "For starters, any- and I mean any- attempt at using dark magic is forbidden and will earn you a one-way trip back home. You are not here to practice the Dark Arts, you are here to learn how to protect yourselves from them."

A few students in the room shifted slightly- Tom felt Arcadius let in an intake of breath.

"Secondly, age is not a factor when it comes to defensive magic. Many of you must be thinking by now why Professor Dippet would hire an old lady like me to teach such an important subject," her blue eyes twinkled mysteriously as a few students chuckled. "Well, I can assure you, it is not the quality of one's age but the depth of their knowledge that matters when it comes to defensive spells. Even the simplest spell can defeat the strongest opponent."

Tom looked around for Harry, noticing him sitting with the Gryffindor girl, and saw he had leaned in slightly, paying rapt attention to Professor Merrythought.

"And finally, as I am sure many of you will be pleased to hear, there is very little theory work involved in my class," she said, and a few students let out excited whispers. "Rather-" she continued, raising her voice so the whispers ended. "-the majority of your work will be practical-based, with theory set for homework. You will find that the best way to teach defensive magic is by practising it."

Her eyes roamed around the room again, and for a moment, the old woman before him was replaced by a young, fierce warrior. 

"Now, I should warn you not to get your hopes up right away. You are still first years, and I think it would be unwise to get you started on spells right away. It is worth noting that Defence Against the Dark Arts is split into two sections: dark creatures and spells. The more- shall we say, less technical aspect- will come from studying dark creatures, which is what you will be learning first."

She flicked her wand, and a cupboard at the back of the class burst open. A cage containing an ugly, short creature zoomed out, landing on the teacher's desk with a low thug. 

"Can anyone here tell me what this is?" she asked.

The girl next to Harry put her hand up. "It's an imp," she said.

"Very good, five points to Gryffindor. Can anyone tell me anything about imps?"

The girl raised her hand again. "They're only found in Great Britain and Ireland," she said. "And they're mostly harmless. More of a hindrance, really."

"Good, take another five points. Yes, imps are not particularly dangerous. They mostly delight in tripping or pushing anyone they can get their hands on, and of course, their rather crude humour. The easiest way to dispose of an imp is by using the Knockback Jinx to daze it, and then dropping it off in a cage, hole or bottomless pit."

At that moment, the imp rattled against the cage and blew out a raspberry. "Oi, Prof! Nice robes! Did the curtains at the Leaky Cauldron finally give up and surrender?"

Calmly, Professor Merrythought pointed her wand at the imp and at once, it fell silent. Tom watched, intrigued as the imp opened its mouth, as though yelling, though no sound came out.

"The silencing charm," she explained. "A rather useful one too. I believe it has been added to the second-year charm's curriculum."

The imp tried fruitlessly to push against the bars of his cage. Eventually, it gave up, showing the class a rude hand gesture before slumping down.

Professor Merrythought ignored it. "Next lesson, you will have a chance to practice the Knockback Jinx," she said. "But first, it is important to learn about the creature you are hoping to defeat. As they say, 'Know thy enemy.' So if you would all please take out your copies of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble and turn to page three. Make notes of the features of an imp, including an illustration as best you can, and when you are done, turn to page five and revise the Knockback Jinx. If you are all finished on time, I will demonstrate it on our charming friend over here."

Tom obliged, feeling slightly embarrassed as his third-hand edition of the textbook was placed next to Arcadius's shining new one. He had finished the work on imps quickly and read over the Knockback Jinx three times before the others had even started to go over it. Bored, he decided to flick through the book, hoping to find something a bit more interesting.

The first few pages seemed rather dull, and he supposed that it was the lower years' content. He flicked towards the end, skimming past chapters until he came across one that held his interest.

 

The Unforgivable Curses: Why they deserve their name

 

Curious, Tom flipped the page wide open and began to read.

 

The Dark Arts have perhaps produced the three most famous and strongest dark spells in all existence. So dangerous, in fact, that the International Confederation of Wizards labelled them 'unforgivable' in 1717, implementing the strictest penalties attached to their use.

In Britain, the then Minister of Magic, Ulik Gamp, assigned the punishment for the use of the unforgivable curses (also known as unforgivables) to be one of the unforgivables themselves. The Cruciatus Curse (see page 412 for more) was commonly used as punishment in what was considered some of the 'darkest years' of wizarding History, and this practice continued until 1766, when Minister of Magic Hesphaestus Gore changed the penalty to a life sentence in the wizarding prison Azkaban instead. To this day, this remains law.

 

Tom flicked to page 412 and read on.

 

The Cruciatus Curse

The Cruciatus Curse, also known as the torture curse, is a curse that enables the caster to perform excruciating torture on their victim. No mark is left on the victim, despite the immense pain caused, and long-term effects of the curse have been known to lead to cognitive dysfunction. 

The effects of the curse mostly depend upon the desires and emotions of the caster- to produce the excruciating pain implied by the name, the caster must feel a true desire to cause pain and take great pleasure in their victims' suffering. The curse produces a burst of red light, and must use the verbal incantation 'Crucio'.

It is thought that the Dark Witch Morgan le Fay, also known as Morgana, invented the early implications for the curse, which later became experimented and adjusted into the Cruciatus Curse more commonly seen today.

 

Tom's eyes moved down the page, towards the next curse.

 

The Imperius Curse

The Imperius Curse causes the victim to become unquestioningly obedient to the caster. When placed under it, the victim becomes submerged in a calm, dreamlike state, an experience described as a "wonderful release" from any sense of responsibility or anxiety, making the victim profoundly susceptible to the influence of the caster.

The caster's hold on their victim's free will is dependent on two factors. The first is the victim's unwillingness to impart with the comfortable sensation of the curse. The second is by their newfound lack of (and thus indifference to) the moral perspective of the caster's desires, making the victim inclined to carry out whatever task thrust upon them, for no other reason than that they fail to see why they should not do so. This leaves them largely under the complete control of the caster.

The curse uses the verbal incantation 'Imperio'. Resisting the Imperius Curse is possible, but extremely difficult. Only those of a particularly strong will can achieve it, though it also depends on the strength of the caster.

 

The final curse was written on the next page.

 

The Killing Curse

This curse aims to instantly kill the victim, painlessly and without leaving any sort of trace. There is no counter-curse against the Killing Curse, and it cannot be blocked by most magical means. However, it is possible to be dodged, blocked with solid objects or intercepted with a few other powerful, fast spells, such as the stunning spell.

The curse produces a distinctive green light and is uttered by an incantation of ''Avada Kedavra.' Though it is possible to cast the curse non-verbally, it is known to be one of the hardest curses to perform, as a great deal of emotion and strength is needed when taking away a life. Reports have shown that some who have failed to cast the Killing Curse have lacked the negative emotions, such as hate, needed to perform it. Rather, their would-be victims suffered minor injuries, such as nosebleeds, instead.

There is no known inventor of the Killing Curse, though it is rumoured to have been created in or before the early 10th century, as this was when reports of the curse being used first started-

 

"Mr Riddle, have you completed the work?"

Tom looked up sharply to find Professor Merrythought looming over him and frowning. Beside him, Arcadius had stopped writing and peered at him.

"Yes," Tom replied, showing her his work. "I was just... reading ahead."

Professor Merrythought glanced at his textbook and frowned. "Whilst I admire dedication to the subject," she said. "That content is strictly for my upper years. Please do not wander from the first year's syllabus."

Tom nodded and muttered an apology as Professor Merrythought moved on.

The rest of the class had finally caught up and five minutes before the lesson ended, they had all completed the work. True to her word, Professor Merrythought aimed her wand at the imp and said, "Flipendo!"

The imp was thrown back against its cage, letting out a squeal before it sank down, looking thoroughly dazed. The class let out cheers as Professor Merrythought lowered her wand and smiled faintly at them.

After what Tom had read, he wasn't all too impressed.

As he left the classroom with the other three boys, he caught a glimpse of two moving images on a tinted window next to the classroom. He squinted and saw it appeared to be a wizard and a witch, locked in a duel, their wands both raised and emitting colourful bursts of light. The inscription at the bottom read: The duel of Merlin and Morgana, 1022.

"Well, that wasn't terrible," Wallace said dissmivily, drawing Tom's attention away from the window as they walked to the Grand Hall for dinner. "Still rather boring though."

"It was alright," Cryille said, yawning. "What's for dinner? I'm starving."

Thankfully, after the long day, Tom's nightmare was quite forgotten. It was easy to laugh and converse with his fellow Slytherins, and when Emmeline, Seraphine and Ada joined them, Tom felt himself smile for the first time that day.

They walked to the common room together, intent on playing a few rounds of a game called 'Exploding Snap' when Tom suddenly noticed Harry walking up the stairs with the Gryffindor girl. Intrigue got the best of him, and with the excuse of needing to go to the loo, he followed Harry up the stairs, making sure he kept a short distance between himself and the boy.

He was too far away to hear what Harry was saying, but he heard the girl laugh and saw Harry smile until they reached the stairs leading to what Tom assumed (judging by the large number of Gryffindors around him) was the Gryffindor common room. 

He heard a shout, and then two other boys were walking towards Harry and the girl, grinning. Tom spied on them behind a wall, noticing it was Ignatius Prewett and Louis Abbott. The four stood huddled together until Ignatius clapped Harry on the back, and the girl hugged him. 

Harry turned and began walking straight towards where Tom was hiding. Taken off guard, the boy quickly ducked around the wall and pretended to be focused on something else just as Harry turned the corner. He stopped short suddenly, staring at Tom.

"Oh, hi..."

Tom nodded at him.

Harry put his hand in his trouser pockets. "What are you er doing here?"

"Just looking around," Tom said shortly.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, guess that's smart. I'm surprised I haven't gotten lost already."

He chuckled, but Tom did not laugh with him. "Who was that?" he asked, nodding at the girl who had now disappeared up the flight of stairs with Ignatius and Louis.

"Oh, that's Genevieve Marren."

"Muggle-born?"  Tom asked in disdain.

"Halfblood, actually. Not that it even matters."

Tom looked at him, unimpressed. 

"She's nice," Harry said defensively. "And clever. She was the only one in her class who could perform the levitating charm, and the Gryffindors are with the Ravenclaws for charms."

Tom raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"And anyway," Harry continued. "I don't think you can really judge other people for their blood status."

Tom's face hardened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not really pureblood, are you?" Harry asked shortly.

Tom flushed. "I could be," he said defensively. "It's not my fault I don't know my parents' blood status."

"But you could also be half-blood," Harry pointed out. 

"I doubt it," Tom sneered.

Harry shrugged. "Fine, say what you want. Good luck, though. Once you start a lie, it's hard to maintain it."

Tom paused, considering Harry's words as the boy walked away from him. Then he hurried to catch up. "I'm going to find out more about my parents," he said confidently. "At least one of them had to have gone to Hogwarts."

"How are you going to do that?" Harry asked.

Tom shrugged. "There's got to be student records or stuff," he said. "And once I find them, I can prove to everyone I'm pureblood."

Harry paused on the stairs. He turned to look at Tom, his expression careful. "And what if you're not?" he asked.

"I have to be," Tom said. "It doesn't make any sense for me to not be."

Harry nodded, biting his lip slightly and walked down the stairs. They reached the common room after a few minutes, where Harry departed for the dormitory and Tom walked over to the group of first years, who were all sitting around a round table near the window and playing with a pack of cards. He joined in on their game for an hour, until Emmeline yawned and decided to go off to bed.

Seraphine and Ada followed suit, and Tom decided now would be a good time to do his potions homework from Slughorn. Taking a seat by the fire, Cyrille and Arcadius joined him until Arcadius rolled up his parchment and bid them all good night.

A couple of minutes later, someone had slid into his seat. Tom looked up, his quill pausing above his stack of parchment as Walburga sat across from him, her arms folded and her eyes narrowed.

Cyrille looked up. "Oh, hey Walburga-"

"Give us a moment, will you, Cyrille?"

The boy looked surprised but obliged. "Oh, sure," packing up his things, he shuffled along to a table further away.

Tom was half-tempted to call out to him to come back, but held his ground. "Everything alright?" he asked her.

"I don't know," she said. "You tell me."

"Tell you what?"

Cool grey eyes met dark brown ones, locked in a stalemate.

"You're not really pureblood, are you?"

A second passed. Then another. Tom kept his face still, his emotions carefully balanced. "Why do you think that?" he asked lightly.

"Answer the question."

A dozen choices swam through his mind. Lying. Threatening. Pleading. He scratched out the last one. Tom Riddle was many things, but he was not a beggar.

"I don't know."

Walburga raised an eyebrow. "You don't know-"

"I don't know who my parents were, alright?" He sounded harsher than intended, but did not apologise.

Walburga narrowed her eyes, as though trying to asses whether Tom was lying or not.

He sighed. "I grew up in an Orphanage," he said. "I never met my parents-"

"So you have no French ancestry?"

"I don't know-"

"So you lied."

There was a moment of silence.

"Yes," Tom said finally.

He thought Walburga would be angry, but instead she leaned back. "You're strong, Riddle," she said.

Tom blinked. "What?"

"Wallace said you were the only one able to cast the Levitating Charm. And Emmeline told me only you were able to transfigure a matchstick into a needle. It took me two lessons before I could."

"I paid attention-"

"Old Sluggy-" Walburga continued, ignoring Tom. "Was also praising you. 'Excellent potion, truly remarkable for a first year,'" she said mockingly.

"Where are you going with this?"

Walburga leaned closer and lowered her voice. "I don't like being lied to, Riddle," she said. "But I'm no fool. You're clearly talented, and that leads me to believe you really are pureblood. But one thing I can't stand is people who lie about their blood purity."

Tom swallowed. "So are you going to tell everyone I lied?" he asked, trying not to let his voice wobble.

Walburga's eyes swept him up and down. "No," she said finally. "I'm going to help you. I'll teach you everything you need to know about being pureblood."

Tom looked up in surprise. "Why would you do that?" he asked.

"Because I think you might just be one of us," she said. "And it wouldn't be fair for you to not know everything about our world if you are."

It almost sounded too good to be true. "Thank you," he said. "I-"

"And-" she added. "If you do turn out to be one of us, I expect your loyalty. You’ll have my name behind you- and one day, I’ll expect you to work for my interests."

Ah, there it was. Tom knew that nothing that sounded so good came without a price. Walburga was clever, no doubt; Tom knew that if he accepted, he would be on route to becoming her future pawn. She obviously saw some sort of potential in him and now wanted him in her debt so she could eventually pull the strings.

Tom tried to compromise. "What if I help you with something now?" he offered. "I can-"

"I don’t want anything now," Walburga interrupted dismissively. "But one day, I may need your help. And when I ask, you’ll say yes."

Tom stared at her silently. It felt like making a deal with the devil- he knew she was the best person to help him blend in as a pureblood- infinitely better than anything a library could teach him- but he also didn't want to be in anyone's debt. And he definitely did not like the idea of being someone else's pawn.

"What if I say no?" he asked carefully.

Walburga shrugged. "I won't make you," she said. "Of course, you will most likely continue slipping up in the future, exposing yourself to everyone. It won't matter if you actually are pureblood if everyone thinks you're too muggle to be one of us."

Too muggle. No, Tom couldn't let that happen.

"What do you even see in me?" he blurted out. 

"Don't ask questions you won't understand the answers to," she said smoothly. "I understand the game Riddle better than you ever will. I just want to make you a worthy player."

She smiled at him, the kind of smile Mrs Cole would label as a 'snake's smile'.

Walburga held out her hand. "So, do we have a deal?"

Tom hesistated. Acacius Nott's words swam in the back of his mind. 

'Never bet against a Black.'

He held out his hand and shook it. 

"Deal."

Notes:

So yeah I wrote this in three days to get the message across that the last chapter posted was a MISTAKE. It was only meant to be seen by my eyes 😭 So if you saw it… maybe burn your eyes out?

Chapter 7: January, 1939

Hector Fawley was ousted from office at the end of the year.

Tom felt the table shake as Rodolphe slammed a newspaper down and grinned. 

"I knew it!" he said. "Didn't I say he would go?"

Acacius peered over his shoulder and scoffed. "About time," he said.

"Careful, boys," Walburga said darkly. "The new one's not much better."

Tom later heard that there had been a supposed 'plot' to try and get an old pureblood as the new Minister of Magic. Apparently, it would have caused quite the scandal, had there not been money to hush up all the bribes and threats. In the end, a wizard called Leonard Spencer-Moon had been appointed as Fawley's successor. Rumours in Slytherin were that he was ill-suited for the job.

Time would only tell.

Tom, meanwhile, continued to pour his focus on his lessons. So far, he had been passing with flying colours. Nearly all his teachers were impressed, and he soon earned a reputation as a 'promising student' amongst them.

The only teacher who didn't shower Tom with compliments, however, was Dumbledore. Any time Tom performed a transfiguration faster than the others, Dumbledore would give him an approving nod or sometimes a faint smile, but then he would quickly move on to the students who were struggling.

But it didn't matter. The first year's all thought he was brilliant- even the Gryffindors. On par with the smartest Ravenclaws, they said. Maybe even better.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Harry told him one evening, as they sat in the common room working on Transfiguration homework. Tom had been complaining that it was too simple, earning a raised eyebrow from Harry. "Arrogance isn't good for you, Riddle."

But Tom merely scoffed. "Whatever," he said, yawning. "I'm finished anyway."

He set his quill down and packed up his things. He caught Walburga's eye from across the room and stood up.

"Going off with her again?" Harry asked dryly.

Tom glanced at him. "Spying, are we?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "I dunno if it counts as spying- you two haven't exactly been discreet."

Tom rolled his eyes and stood up.

"What do you even do with her?" Harry called out.

Tom turned and grinned. "Mind your business, Potter," he said before walking over to Walburga.

The two went to the library, where she spent an hour quizzing him on the sacred twenty-five. When she was satisfied, she handed him a book to read.

"Nature's Nobility: A wizarding Genealogy," Tom read out.

"It's the '38 edition," she said. "Give it a read if you want."

Tom pocketed the book.

"You still doing alright in your classes, Riddle?" she asked as they exited the library.

Tom nodded, giving her a pleased grin. "Better than alright."

Walburga chuckled. "I'll take your word for it."

Just then, an older-looking boy with curly dark hair and thick, black eyebrows walked over to them.

"There you are, Walburga, been looking everywhere for you."

"Be polite, Tobias, say hi to Tom."

Tobias gave Tom a brief nod, uninterested, and then turned back to Walburga. 

"We're all waiting for you."

Walburga sighed. "I'm coming, alright?"

The boy gave her an unimpressed look and walked away. Walburga turned to Tom, giving him an apologetic look. "Tobias Burke," she said. "Fourth year."

"Burke. One of the sacred twenty-eight, distantly related to the Blacks but not particularly prominent," Tom finished.

Walburga gave him a nod of approval. "Very good, Riddle, you pick things up fast", she said. "Well, duty calls. I'll see you around."

And with that, she had departed after Tobias.

Tom watched her until she rounded the corner and then returned to the common room. Emmeline called out to him as he entered, smiling. She was sitting on a round table with Seraphine and Ada, the three of them playing a round of exploding snap.

"Want to join in a game?" she asked.

"Thanks, but maybe tomorrow, I'm tired."

"I see you working all the time. We're only in our first year, you know? You can have a break every now and again," Seraphine said.

"Go easy on him, Seraphine, he's probably making sure he tops every class for the rest of the year," Ada said, giggling.

"Well, someone has to beat the swots in Ravenclaw," Tom replied, and all three girls laughed.

Bidding them good night, Tom departed for the common room. When he reached the door, however, he paused. Pressing his ear against it, he could make out the sounds of someone yelling and someone else laughing.

Then Tom froze, recognising the voice yelling. He pushed open the door and stopped in his tracks.

Harry was glaring daggers at Wallace, his fists curled up and an unfamiliar look of rage twisted across his face. Wallace was standing a few steps away, sniggering, a book held in his hand. Behind him, Arcadius and Cyrille were both standing and watching the fight. They looked amused, though Arcadius's hand gripped his wand. 

"Give it back," Harry snarled.

"We warned you, Potter," Wallace taunted, holding the book carelessly in his hand. Tom squinted and saw it was Harry's copy of Othello. "This is what happens when you read Muggle filth."

"It's not filth! Just because you're too narrow-minded to understand what good literature is!"

Tom stared at the boy. Never had he seen him so angry before. 

"You filthy half-blood," Arcadius said, gripping his wand threateningly. "Maybe we should teach you some manners when talking to you're betters-"

"My betters," Harry scoffed. "As if! You're so thick you wouldn't be able to read two sentences in that book."

"Watch you're mouth, Potter," Cyrille said coldly.

"Don't be so surprised, Cyrille, this is just how all half-bloods speak when they're raised in the gutter," Wallace said nastily. 

"Shut your mouth," Harry warned.

Arcadius smirked. "Touched a nerve, have we? It's not like we're wrong; we've seen your clothes, the books you bring to class. We know you're dirt poor, Potter."

"You don't know anything about me," Harry said in a thin voice.

"Not much to know, is there?" Cyrille said. "Half-bloods are all the same. And Muggle-sympathisers are even worse. Which of your parents was the mudblood then?"

"Must be his Father, with a name like Potter," Arcadius said, sniggering. "Or was it your mother? I wouldn't be surprised if she were just like every other mudblood trying to worm her way into the pureblood ranks."

"Could be both," Wallace pointed out, a cruel glint in his eye. "I wouldn't be surprised if both your parents were made of filth Potter, you seem to come from it."

This seemed to be too much for Harry. He lunged at Wallace just as Arcadius raised his wand—a second too late. A jet of red light shot past Harry and slammed into the wall behind him as he crashed into Wallace, snarling, his hands clenched in the boy’s robes. The book flew from Wallace’s grip as both boys tumbled to the ground, shouting.

Tom’s eyes widened in shock as Harry began slamming his fist into Wallace’s face. Wallace struggled beneath him, trying and failing to push him off.

Arcadius was yelling, and Cyrille was just staring, shocked, but neither of them was moved to stop the fight. It was Tom who snapped to his senses, lunging at Harry and seizing the back of his robes, forcing him away from Wallace.

Harry turned and shoved Tom, causing him to stumble backwards. Enraged, Tom grabbed Harry's hands just as he raised them again and forced them down, resisting the urge to hit him himself, the two of them yelling and screaming at each other.

The door to the dormitory burst open, and suddenly there was another voice, over the yelling.

"What's going on here!"

Tom froze and turned around, noticing the Slytherin prefect standing by the door, glaring at the group of boys. The boy's eyes travelled from Tom and Harry, still locked in a fight, to Wallace, lying on the ground, his nose bleeding, to Arcadius and Cyrille standing guiltily at the back.

"Fighting like muggles are we?" he sneered. "I expected more from first years, especially you, Riddle."

Tom shoved Harry away from him. "I can explain-"

"Save it for Slughorn. The two of you to his office, now."

Tom scowled and sent a scathing look at Harry before storming out of the dormitory. He passed Emmeline on the way, who looked nervous.

"Tom, what's going on? I heard yelling-"

But Tom stalked past her without a word. Ignoring everyone else, he made his way to Slughorn's office, imagining all the things he was going to do to Harry on the way there. That stupid, stupid boy. Fighting over a book. Why did he even bother helping him? 

He arrived outside the office, but suddenly paused, not wanting to knock. If Harry ruined his reputation over this...

The prefect arrived with Harry a few minutes later. Tom sent Harry a glare, and the boy had the good grace to look away. The prefect knocked on the door to Slughorn's office, and it was opened a few seconds later.

"Ah, Grayson, what can I do for you m'boy?" he asked, beaming at the prefect.

"Found these two fighting, sir- muggle fighting." 

Slughorn's face fell. "Come now, boys, I expect more from Slytherins. That's very upsetting to hear."

"Please, sir, I wasn't fighting," Tom said. "I was trying to get Harry away from Wallace- that's who he was fighting."

"Wallace insulted me," Harry said crossly. "But... it's true, Tom didn't do anything wrong."

"The correct thing to do, Mr Riddle, would be to tell a prefect immediately," Slughorn said, frowning. "Not to get involved yourself."

"But I-"

"That's enough. Thank you, Grayson. I'll take it from here."

The prefect nodded and walked away. Slughorn sighed. "You both had best follow me to the Potions classroom, I'm afraid you have detention."

"This is ridiculous!" Tom fumed. "I haven't done anything! I was trying to help!"

"I don't want to hear it, Tom," Slughorn said sternly. "I expect more from you than excuses."

Tom scowled as Slughorn led the way to the potions classroom. He opened the door, beckoning them to get inside, and Tom curled his fists in a ball to stop himself from lunging at Harry and breaking his nose.

"I need to check on Mr Mulciber," Slughorn said. "Sit here in silence until I come back."

Slughorn crossed the room, and a second later, the door clicked shut. Tom turned and saw Harry sitting on a stool at one of the tables, his head slightly bent.

Taking a deep breath, Tom sat at one of the other tables, every instinct straining to keep still. The last thing he needed was for Slughorn to return to the two of them fighting.

Silence stretched awkwardly across the room like a thick cloak, the only sound an occasional sigh or twitch. Tom felt trapped beneath it, his anger pounding to be released, his fists white from being clenched for so long.

Eventually, unable to help himself, he burst out, "Why did you have to attack him like that?"

Harry turned to him, slightly surprised and then shrugged. "How else would I have done it?"

"With your wand?" Tom sneered.

"I don't know any attacking spells."

Tom took another deep breath. "Okay," he said, strained. "Why did you have to attack him like that in the first place?"

Harry blinked before his face hardened in anger. "You heard what he said about me!" he spat.

"So you resorted to using your fists?"

Harry looked away. "I wouldn't expect you to understand," he said.

Now, that was too much for him. 

Tom slid off his stool and stormed over to Harry, standing in front of him so that the boy was forced to look at him.

"You think I don't understand?" he hissed.

Harry flinched. "No one at the Orphanage ever bullies you," he said, struggling slightly.

Tom laughed, the sound cold and harsh. "You think they never tried? Everyone at the Orphanage gets bullied, Potter, they're like animals there, picking on the weakest," he said bitterly. "I didn't resort to their level, though, by using my fists," he said, sneering.

"So how'd you make them stop?" Harry asked, intrigue getting the best of him.

Tom straightened up and narrowed his eyes. "With my magic," he said. "I didn't behave like some muggle and they soon learnt to stay away."

"Well, I can't do that," Harry snapped, his face clouding with anger at the word 'muggle'. "I don't have your magic, Tom, or your tricks or your cruelness. I didn't come to this school with anything. And I didn't see you stepping in to help me, so I had to end it my way!”

“Your way has landed us in detention!"

"Well, I didn't ask you to get involved!" Harry hissed. "You were fine to let them treat me that way, I don't see why you had to step in!"

Tom's face screwed up in anger. "Don't blame me!" he said angrily. "You could have gotten into even more trouble if I didn't stop you when I did!"

Harry sighed and slumped into his seat. "I didn't mean for you to get into trouble," he muttered.

"Well, you did," Tom said coldly. "So thanks a lot, Potter."

He walked back to his seat, fuming. Harry said nothing, and silence enveloped them again.

"Where'd a scrawny thing like you learn to fight like that anyway?" Tom asked sullenly, but Harry didn't reply.

A few minutes later, Slughorn walked back into the room, sighing.

"Well, Mr Mulciber has had to go to the Hospital Wing," he said.

"Is... is he okay?" Harry asked reluctantly.

"He was patched up just fine," Slughorn said. "But I am very disappointed in you, Harry. I did not expect you to behave in such a way."

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry muttered.

"Whatever was your reason for attacking him?"

Harry struggled, and Tom knew that he didn't want to snitch. Snitching in the Orphanage never led to anything good, and even though he only stayed there for a few months, Tom knew this was something Harry was aware of.

"He... he just... insulted me, sir."

"What about?"

Harry bit his lip and glanced at Tom. The boy just glared at him, refusing to offer him help.

Harry sighed. "Being a halfblood, sir."

So he had not learnt to keep quiet. Tom wasn't all that surprised. Harry seemed to do everything wrong, even follow the most basic rule of all.

Slughorn sighed. "I was worried you would say that. It seems no matter how hard I try to suppress it, there is a strong intolerance in my house. Very well, Mr Potter, I will have a word with the boys in your dormitory. But I hope you know I am still very disappointed in you. Twenty points will be lost from Slytherin for your actions."

Harry nodded, biting his lip. Slughorn turned to Tom, his expression indifferent.

"I'm sorry too," Tom said dully, with little meaning in his voice.

"The boys told me you tried to stop the fight," Slughorn said. "Whilst I still wish you had gotten a prefect, I can appreciate the difficulty of the situation. Five points to Slytherin, Mr Riddle, for your initiative."

A wave of relief swept over Tom. So his reputation was not completely in shambles.

"You may leave," Slughorn said, gesturing to Tom. "Mr Potter will stay here and complete some lines for detention."

Tom stood up and walked over to the door. As he opened it, he glanced back at Harry, and for a split second, he felt a small twinge of pity for the boy. But then his face hardened, and he opened the door, telling himself Harry didn't matter.

 

---

 

The second Tom stepped through the common room doors, he heard several raised voices, and then people rushed straight at him.

"Tom!" It was Emmeline who spoke first, looking worried. "I just heard what happened. Are you alright?"

Tom nodded. "I'm fine, Slughorn, let me go."

He looked around him, noticing Seraphine and Ada both watching him apprehensively, Cyrille, Arcadius and Wallace beside them.

"You alright, Wallace?" he asked, nodding at the boy. "Heard you had to go to the Hospital Wing."

Wallace scowled. "Fine," he muttered.

"He's alright, fixed up in minutes," Cyrille added. "It's Potter who needs to watch his back now."

"Is he okay?" Emmeline asked. "I can't believe he would do something like this."

"It's his Muggle side, Em," Arcadius said, shaking his head. "They can't help but resort to being primal."

"Where is Harry now?" Seraphine asked.

"Detention, with Slughorn," Tom replied.

"He should get a week's detention," Wallace said angrily. "I'll get him back for this, I swear."

"We told Slughorn you had nothing to do with it," Cyrille said to Tom. "It was so unfair for you to get into trouble when it was all Potter's fault."

Tom nodded briefly. He knew the others were trying to make him feel better, but he just had no energy to interact with them. He hadn't relaxed once since his lessons, finishing off his homework and then working with Walburga. The fight had left him drained, and though he was still furious at Harry, he couldn't find the energy to stay angry.

"I'm going to bed," he muttered. "Good night."

The others watched him as he crossed the room towards the dormitory. Rodolphe and Acacius were standing by the entrance, and the two boys glanced at each other before nodding at him.

"Alright, Tom?" Rodolphe asked.

The boy merely nodded.

"Heard what happened with Potter," Acacius said in a low voice. "Want us to get him back for you?"

Tom eyed them warily. "I think you should leave all that to Wallace," he said. 

Rodolphe scoffed. "I don't know what Potter was thinking," he said, shaking his head. "Never go around beating up Mulcibers, that's the oldest rule in the book."

"He doesn't read our book, Rod," Acacius said dryly.

"Oh, right. Well, let us know if you change your mind, Riddle," Rodolphe said.

Tom nodded and walked past them to the dormitory.

He stepped into the empty room with a sigh, pulling off his uniform. Cyrille's pyjamas had rapidly become his favourite item of clothing. Soft and silky, they brushed against his skin as lightly as a feather, providing him with a comfort he hadn't known he needed.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Cyrille, Arcadius and Wallace all stepped through. They nodded at Tom before changing into their own set of pyjamas (or night robes, as they called them).

Wallace opened his bedside drawer to put away his wand and then snorted. "Nearly forgot I still had this rubbish."

He picked up Harry's copy of Othello, holding it with two fingers as though it were contagious.

"What do you reckon we should do with it?"

"Could rip out the pages," Arcadius suggested. "Leave it in the bin for him to find."

"But then he could put it back together," Cyrille said. "Better to just burn it."

Tom glanced at the book warily.  "Give it here," he said, reaching out for it. 

Mulciber looked surprised and hesitated.

"Unless you want to hang onto it," Tom added, and the boy obliged, handing him the book.

"What are you going to do?" Cyrille asked, eyeing him carefully.

"Don't worry about it," Tom muttered, putting the book in his own bedside drawer.

Tom climbed into bed, drawing the green curtains to give himself some privacy, and slumped onto his pillows. Despite feeling exasperated, he lay awake for another hour, staring at the canopy above his bed whilst the three other boys blissfully slept on.

Sometime later, the door gently opened, and soft footsteps padded into the room. Tom listened carefully as Harry shrugged off his robes and pulled on his pyjamas. He tried to picture him doing it- the pyjamas baggy and thin, hanging loosely on him as he folded his clothes and stored them in his cupboard. He imagined the boy taking off his glasses and putting them on his bedside and then opening the drawer, hopeful that perhaps his book had been returned.

There was a sigh, and then the drawer was closed, and Harry climbed onto the bed. The slight sound of sniffling met his ears, and Tom ignored Harry softly crying, ignored the thought of him staining his pillows with tears. He stayed up for another half an hour until the noises quietened and he was sure Harry was asleep.

Gritting his teeth, Tom tiptoed to his bed, opened the drawer and placed the book inside, sparing a quick glance at Harry, who was fast asleep, his mouth slightly open. Through the brief moonlight that lit the room, he could see that his cheeks were red.

Tom looked away and crawled back to bed, and only then was he able to sleep.

Notes:

Harry:

Tom:

Chapter 8: January, 1939 (II)

Tom groaned as he awoke the following day.

He was normally a morning person, but at that moment, the last thing he wanted to do was pull off his covers and climb out of bed. 

How much sleep had he gotten in the end? It hadn't felt like a lot. Tom buried his face in his pillow as the sounds of movement filled the room.

"Come on, Tom!" Cyrille called out. "Or you'll miss breakfast."

Scowling, Tom threw his sheets back and climbed out of bed. A quick glance in the mirror told him he had not slept well. His hair was uneven, sticking up in places it shouldn't have, and there were dark bangs under his eyes.

Hurrying to dress, Tom rubbed his eyes tiredly and quickly pulled off his pyjamas, sparing a quick glance at Harry. The boy didn't look as though he slept much better either, and there was a melancholic, almost-robotic way he was tying his tie around his neck.

But when he opened his bedside drawer to extract his glasses, Tom saw his face light up in shock. He glanced back at Tom, who gave him a stony look in return. Swallowing, Harry took out his glasses and closed the drawer, saying nothing.

Across from him, Tom noticed Wallace glaring daggers at the boy. 

Harry dressed quicker than any of them and exited the dormitory before another fight could break out. The second he had left, Wallace erupted into a furious protest.

"Why is he still here? Ought to be chucked out of Slytherin by this point."

Tom glanced at the boy warily as he fastened his cloak. 

"Relax, Wallace, we'll get him back," Arcadius reassured.

The four of them arrived at breakfast, where Harry was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is he?" Wallace muttered.

"Probably sitting at the Gryffindor table," Cyrille sniggered, but when Tom glanced over, he could not see Harry sitting amongst the sea of red and black.

They mostly ate in silence, too tense to start any small talk. Tom felt Wallace's anger radiate off him like heat waves, and he knew the others all felt it too. Now, he was beginning to understand why Rodolphe was so surprised that Harry attacked him.

"Good morning, boys."

Tom turned and saw Slughorn standing behind him, dressed in robes of velvet green today. 

Cyrille nodded at him. "Professor."

"Are you alright, Mr Muciber?" 

Wallace gave a curt nod.

"Good. Now, I don't make it my business to get involved in first-year affairs, but I'm sure you can understand the gravity of this situation. Just a few months into your first term, and you've already started a fight."

"It was Potter, sir," Wallace said angrily. 

"I am well aware of Mr Potter's actions, Mr Mulciber," Slughorn said. "Rest assured, I have dealt with the matter severely. I must, however, ask you not to repeat anti-Muggle language whilst in my house."

"Wallace was just having a bit of a laugh, Professor, Potter overreacted," Arcadius protested.

"Be that as it may, there is nothing wrong with Mr Potter's blood status, just as there is nothing wrong with yours. I hope we can put this whole matter behind us and move forward, yes?"

The three boys muttered 'yes' and Slughorn nodded. "You boys will be in a house together for seven years," he reminded. "I'm expecting you to treat each other like brothers. Or at the very least as friends. I don't want to hear any more news about fighting, is that clear?"

The three boys nodded reluctantly, but Tom said, "Yes, sir, of course."

Slughorn smiled at him. "Good lads," he said. "Enjoy your day," and with that, he had walked off.

"That filthy blood-traitor," Wallace muttered darkly, watching Slughorn retreat to the teacher's table. "'Treat him like a brother', fat chance of that. I'll treat my dog better than I will him."

The other two boys laughed, and Tom forced himself to laugh with them. Now more than ever, he was grateful that Walburga had offered him those lessons. He didn't even want to imagine what the three of them would do if they found out he might not be a pureblood.

The day passed by quickly enough, Charms, Herbology and History of Magic all flying past until the Slytherins reached their final lesson- flying. Harry had kept quiet for most of the lessons, sitting with the Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws and ignoring the Slytherins.

"Where were you at breakfast?" Tom muttered to him whilst Cyrille was distracted.

"Grabbed a piece of toast and went for a walk," Harry murmured back, keeping an eye on his partner, a Muggle-born boy called Terrence Lewis who was filling up a watering can. "Didn't really feel like sitting with you lot."

Then Terrence turned around, and Harry focused back on his plant, ignoring Tom.

He made an appearance at Lunch, where he sat with the Slytherin girls, who seemed to still be on friendly terms with him. He remembered that they had two halfbloods in their dorm and wondered if it had perhaps softened their view on them.

But by flying, Harry seemed to brighten up considerably. Whilst the others shook and wobbled on their brooms, Harry flew effortlessly, gliding with the practised ease of someone who had been flying their whole life.

For a few seconds, Tom just watched him as he soared in the air. His lips twitched as Harry gave a childish laugh and flew a loop around a Hufflepuff girl called Linda Brown, who squealed and wobbled on her broom as Harry circled her.

For a split second, Harry locked eyes with him, his grin meeting Tom's. Then something collided into him, and Harry fell from his broom, landing on the ground with a yell.

Tom's eyes widened as Mister Feng swooped down and knelt beside Harry, who was groaning and clutching his wrist painfully, his eyes swimming with tears.

Then he heard a snigger and looked up to see Wallace on his broom, his eyes glinting with malice, as he looked down at Harry. He caught Tom's eyes and smirked.

"Told you I'd get him back."

"Well done," Tom said dryly.

Mister Feng blew a whistle and called them all down from their brooms.

"We'll have to end the lesson here. Return your brooms to the shed on your way out."

Tom gratefully dismounted as Mister Feng helped Harry up. "Don't worry, just a broken wrist, it'll be fixed in no time. Can you tell me what happened?"

Tom saw Harry hesitate before glancing over at Wallace.

"I slipped," he mumbled.

Tom could only watch as Mister Feng helped Harry up and escorted him to the hospital wing.

"Nice one, Wallace," Arcadius said, grinning.

Wallace gave a pleased smirk.

"Maybe now he'll learn his place," Cyrille said softly, watching Harry disappear through the doors.

"I saw what you did." The four of them turned around to see Michael Simmons, the muggleborn boy they had teased, watching them nervously. "That was wrong."

"What about it?" Wallace asked, sneering.

"I-I'll tell Mister Feng."

The smile had vanished from Wallace's face. He stepped towards Michael, leering at him unpleasantly. "Go on then," he said in a low voice. "I've always wanted to curse a mudblood."

Michael's eyes flashed with fear, and he hurried away from them, glancing at Wallace over his shoulder as though afraid he was going to jink him with his back turned.

"Filthy mudblood," Cyrille muttered. "Who does he think he is, trying to threaten us?"

"I think it's time these Muggleborns learn their place," Arcadius said.

"It'll be soon," Tom said. "Grindelwald will restore order to Britain soon enough."

Wallace grinned at him. "Good point, Tom," he said. "Let's hope he hurries up, though. I don't know how much longer I can wait."

They walked to dinner, which was mostly empty, seeing how early they were, still snickering about Harry. It was no surprise that the boy didn't make an appearance for all of dinner.

"Not bad, Mulciber," Rodolphe said, grinning at the boy as he slid into a seat near him. "Heard you got Potter back, good for you."

Cyrille smirked. "News travellers fast, I see," he said whilst Wallace grinned.

"What's happened?" Walburga asked in a bored voice.

"Didn't you hear about the fight yesterday?" Rodolphe asked her, frowning.

Walburga briefly looked up from where she was examining her nails. "You think I get involved in first-year business?" she asked, sneering.

Rodolphe flushed slightly whilst Acacius (sitting next to him) snorted. "In our defence, it was pretty spectacular," Acacius said. "That half-blood Potter started Muggle fighting Wallace. Heard you knocked him off his broom in flying, that true?" he added to Wallace.

Wallace smirked. "Broke his wrist," he said, and the two second-year boys snorted.

"Oh, honestly, you boys can be so primal," Lucretia Black said, rolling her eyes. "Girls are easy. We use our words."

"Ah, come on, you can't say the half-blood didn't have it coming," Acacius said.

"Say what you want, but the best method of hurting someone involves less punching and more talking,” Walburga said. “Make them question everything they are until they tear themselves apart without you needing to lift so much as a finger."

Tom stared at her, considering her words.

"That's sinister," Rodolphe said, snorting.

Walburga shrugs. "It's what my Father always says. The worst enemy you can have is yourself."

By the end of dinner, Wallace seemed to have cheered up considerably. It was a relief in any case, not having his anger loom over them like a thick blanket. As the four of them walked back to the common room, Tom saw Michael Simmons walking their way with another Hufflepuff girl. He caught Tom's eye, and his eyes widened slightly. Muttering something to the girl next to him, they quickly darted out of their way, walking up a staircase instead.

Arcadius had noticed this and smirked. "I think you scared him off, Wallace," he said, and the others sniggered.

Tom went still, however, clenching his fist slightly. The appearance of Michael had set something off in his brain, and try as he might, Tom couldn't shake the feeling off.

When they arrived at the common room and Cyrille had said the password (Salazar), Tom paused as the others walked in.

"You coming, Tom?" Arcadius asked, glancing behind him.

"No... you all go on, I need to do something."

The others shrugged and stepped inside. Cursing under his breath, Tom turned and strode off, walking back up the stairs away from the dungeons.

By the time had made it to the hospital ward, doubt had settled and Tom hesistated, suddenly wishing he had never thought of the idea. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself inside, looking around for Harry.

The ward was mostly empty, except for an odd student or two lying on a bed. Then Tom spotted Harry sitting upright on the bed furthest away from him. He wasn't alone.

"Tom?"

Harry frowned as Tom approached him. Surrounding him were Ignatius, Louis and Genevieve, the former two rising from the seats they occupied to glare at Tom.

Tom nodded at Harry, resisting the urge to run out. "You alright?" he asked.

Ignatius scoffed. "What kind of question is that?"

"Don't remember asking you."

Ignatius opened his mouth angrily, but Harry stopped him. "It's okay, Ignatius," he said quietly. The boy closed his mouth, though he continued to glare at Tom.

"You missed dinner," Tom said, feeling the need to fill in the awkward gap of silence.

"It's okay," Harry said. "They brought me food." 

He gestured to his bedside table, where Tom saw an empty plate resting on it.

He nodded. "You coming back to the common room then?"

"Um... wrist still hurts so... the matron said I should stay overnight," Harry mumbled.

Tom frowned. He had broken Wallace's nose, and the boy had still managed to return to the dormitory that evening. Was Harry lying about his wrist so he could avoid them all?

"You can come back if you want. They won't do anything."

"You sure about that?" Louis asked apprehensively.

"You should have told the teacher, Harry," Genevieve said. "Wallace can't just get away with it."

"It's fine," Harry said weakly.

"So you told them all what happened then?" Tom asked coolly.

"No, Rose told me," Genevieve said. "I don't think Harry would have told anyone. He should have," she added.

Harry blushed and looked down. "Didn't want to cause any more trouble," he muttered.

"Rose, who?" Tom asked, frowning.

"You know, Rose Roberts, from Hufflepuff? She's friends with Michael Simmons, I think he told her."

Tom recalled the girl walking with Michael a few minutes ago. "Is she Muggleborn?"

"Why does it matter?" Ignatius asked hotly.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Just asking."

"She is," Genevieve said. "Not that it matters."

"I wish we were there, Harry," Louis said. "Sucks that we don’t have flying together. Maybe we could have done something."

"It's fine," Harry murmured.

For some reason, Tom felt a tiny prick of annoyance at the words. "You do know he's a Slytherin, right?"

"Yeah, and?" Igantius asked.

"It's just that he's not really any of your concern, is he?" Tom drawled.

"Because his own house seems to care so much about him," Ignatius shot back.

Tom felt his fists clench, and some newfound protectiveness for his house overcame him.

"What do you know about us?"

"Tom," Harry said quietly.

"Only that they seem to hate anyone who's not a pureblood snob."

"Tom-"

"And how's your 'defender of the innocent' act going? Is that what you Gryffindors call it to excuse poking your nose in other people's business and looking down at the rest of us?"

"Tom!"

Harry looked angry now, his fists clenched around his sheets.

Tom glanced at him. "You know what? It doesn't matter. Have fun, Potter," Tom said, sneering.

Before Harry could say another word, Tom had strode off, turning his back on the three Gryffindors and Harry.

Stupid. What a stupid thing to do. What even made him think of visiting Harry? Like the boy deserved his company. If he was going to refuse it in favour of Ignatius Prewett and his band of noble Gyrffindors, then he could go right ahead. Tom wasn't going to stop him anymore.

Tom paused in his tracks.

Why had he come?

He supposed he had been coming to tolerate Harry, in some ways. They had, after all, spent Halloween and Christmas together, when everyone else had gone home for the holidays...

But that clearly meant nothing. It was clear he had been a fool to allow Harry to get closer to him, just as it was clear he had to push him away again. He didn't need him. 

He had Cyrille and Arcadius, and Wallace. Rodolphe and Acacius didn't make bad company either. And Walburga, he supposed. So what was the point of Harry? There was nothing to gain by befriending him- her served no use or purpose to him. He wasn't in any way gifted, except for the small talent he showed flying. And what use was that to him? Tom valued power, not athletic ability.

No, Harry had to be put behind him. He was only going to hold him back.

Tom walked back to the Slytherin common room, trying to push Harry out of his thoughts. And when Arcadius asked if he wanted to join him, Cyrille and Wallace in a game called 'gobstones', Tom agreed. Soon, he had completely forgotten about Harry.

 

---

 

Three months ago

"You going home, Tom?" Cyrille asked as the three of them packed their trunks. He had looked over to see Tom sitting on his bed, watching the three of them enviously.

"No," Tom said reluctantly. "My... parents are away."

"That's too bad," Wallace said. "We'll write to you, though, don't worry."

Tom bit his lip as the three of them filed out of the dorm. He sighed and lay back on his bed, closing his eyes. A few minutes later, the door opened and Tom poked an eye open, foolishly hoping that perhaps one of them had decided to stay for the holiday instead.

Harry stepped in, and Tom resisted the urge to groan.

"Hi..." he said awkwardly.

Tom merely nodded.

"Um.. Walburga told me to tell you to read the book she gave you."

That's right. A day ago, she had given Tom her copy of the sacred twenty-eight to read during the holiday.

"Right," he said. "Thanks."

Harry nodded and shuffled to his bed. Tom looked up after a while, noticing him reading his copy of Shakespeare.

He sighed. "Is it just us?"

Harry blinked before understanding. "Two sixth years are staying, I think."

"Great," Tom muttered.

Somewhat shyly, Harry closed his book and walked back over to Tom. "We can go exploring, if you want."

Tom scoffed. "Like children?"

"The castle's huge," Harry said defensively. "Wouldn't you like to know more about it?"

Tom paused, considering Harry's words. 

"And we'll have the whole school to ourselves, what with so many people gone home for Halloween."

Well, he wasn't wrong there. As much as he longed for his friends to stay with him for the holidays, Tom couldn't deny there was a certain appeal to the castle being empty, almost as if he could pretend it belonged to him for a precious week.

"Just a suggestion," Harry murmured, walking back to his bed.

"Alright," Tom said, and Harry turned around, looking surprised. "Let's do it."

Harry grinned at him, turning to put his book away, and Tom felt a slight smile tug at his lips.

He wasn't going to start treating Harry like a friend. But he supposed there was worse company to be around.

"Where do you want to go?" Harry asked.

"Everywhere," Tom replied. "I want to learn everything there is to know about Hogwarts."

"Okay," Harry said. "Lead the way."

Chapter 9: June, 1939

Notes:

Sorry, this took so long to post :(

I have so many ideas for this fic, but unfortunately, most of them are for when Tom and Harry are older (like fifth year and above), so I've been really lazy trying to write the chapters where they're younger.

This fic will definitely be completed, it might just take a while for me to find the motivation 😔

Hogwarts was steadily beginning to feel like home.

A proper home, not like the dreadful Orphanage. Every day, Tom awoke eagerly, excited at the prospect of learning more magic. He soon became top of each class, excelling in all his studies and impressing many of his teachers. The only thing he was awful at was flying, but that barely mattered to him, seeing how it wasn't required past first year. And anyway, he just told himself that he would create new ways of travelling, ones that didn't require a broom. Soon, when he was a bit older.

For now, he was content with mastering his wandwork. He did well in lessons like Potions and Herbology, but what he really craved were the lessons that allowed him to use his wand. Casting spells, watching them stream from the end of his wand into an array of different colours, feeling that power course through his fingers was better than anything in the world.

Aside from his official classes, Tom's lessons with Walburga were going equally well. It wasn't long before he became the perfect pureblood, impressing the rest of the Slytherin first years so much that it barely mattered whether or not he actually was a pureblood.

But still, Tom felt the nagging urge to find out more about his lineage, his parents. He was sure that his Father had to have been a wizard. His mother couldn't have been one, or else she wouldn't have died.

After searching every inch of the school for any trace of his Father, however, he was beginning to doubt his theory. There was no mention of another 'Riddle' in any school records, no name in the trophy cabinet, nor had any of the other teachers heard of him when he dared to ask.

It unnerved him, but he shrugged the idea away. His father had to have magic. Maybe he just didn't go to Hogwarts.

For the time being, he was able to push those thoughts away. He was steadily becoming more and more popular amongst the first-year Slytherins, his teachers all loved him (except for Dumbledore, but he hardly cared about him), and his magic was only growing stronger. Nothing could go wrong.

Except for the prospect of returning to the Orphanage.

Tom knew it was going to happen. He knew he would have to return. It didn't stop him from waking up with dread throughout June, counting down the days until he would have to say goodbye to Hogwarts for two long, hard months.

"One hundred per cent! How'd you manage that?" Arcadius asked, shocked.

Tom glanced at him. "Wasn't that hard."

"It was impossible!" Wallace grumbled. "Transfiguration's a nightmare."

Tom shrugged.

Getting back his end-of-year exams didn't seem all that exciting when it just brought him closer to the term ending.

When the class ended and Cyrille, Arcadius and Wallace had all finished grumbling about the mistakes they had to correct for homework (Tom had none since he had achieved a perfect score), they left the Slytherin common room to walk to dinner.

"Tom? You alright? You're all quiet."

Tom blinked and saw Arcadius frowning at him. "Hm? Oh yeah, fine."

"Excited for the holidays? Mother said we're visiting my Aunt in France again," Cyrille said, pulling a face, as if the idea of taking a holiday to France bored him.

"Lucky you," Wallace said, chuckling. "What about you, Tom? Any plans?"

"Not much," he murmured.

Subconsciously, he glanced at Harry. Unlike him, the boy seemed fine, laughing with Ada about something. Sighing, he turned back to his plate.

When dinner was finished, Cyrille suggested a round of cards in the common room.

"One last game," he suggested. "Who's in?"

"I am."

"Sounds good."

The three boys turned to Tom. He hesitated. "Go on without me, I'll be right there," he said. 

When the three boys had left, Tom made his way out of the great hall by himself, walking down to the dungeons and past the common room. He hesitated before knocking on Slughorn's office.

It was opened after a few seconds, and Slughorn glanced around, his eyes meeting Tom before he beamed at him. "Tom m'boy, what can I do for you?"

"Not much, sir, I was just..." Tom hesitated. "I was wondering if I... if there was a way to stay home for the summer instead of going back?"

Slughorn frowned at him. "Aren't you excited to return home, Tom?"

"Well, it's just... Hogwarts is more of my home, sir."

Slughorn chucked. "I know the feeling, it's hard to give up all the comforts the castle provides. Curious you should say that though, I had noticed you didn't sign up to return during the previous holidays either."

"No, sir... I prefer it here."

"Well, regardless, Tom, you ought to return home; it wouldn't be responsible to stay in the castle without any supervision-"

"Oh, but I don't need supervision, sir, I can take care of myself."

Slughorn gave him a gentle smile he hated. "Be that as it may, it simply wouldn't be appropriate. I'm sorry, Tom, though I do admire your dedication. Suppose you want to get ahead of the game and get another one hundred on your next potions essay," Slughorn said, smiling.

Tom sighed. "Yes... well, thank you, sir."

"Any time, m'boy."

Dejected, he walked back to the common room, his spirits sunk low. There really was no escape. He would have to say goodbye to his precious home and return to the dreaded Orphanage until September.

As he rounded the corner to the common room, he suddenly caught sight of Harry speaking with Igantius, Louis and Genevieve. He hung back, eavesdropping.

"... miss you loads," Genevieve was saying.

Tom saw Harry smile faintly. "I'll miss you two."

"We'll write to you," Ignatius said. "You have an owl, right?"

Harry hesitated. "I'm sure I can get one."

"Maybe we can visit each other as well," Louis suggested. "Whereabouts do you live, Harry?"

Harry bit his lip. "Nowhere near you guys, I think," he said. "Sorry... I think we're better off writing to each other."

"Well, we'll send you a letter every week then," Genevieve said. 

Igantius snorted. "Don't bombard him, Gen."

Harry smiled as the three of them bid him goodnight and retreated up the stairs.

Tom stared at the boy, a strange feeling curling in his chest. Before he could stop himself, he had rounded the corner and approached Harry before he could enter the common room.

"You haven't told them where you really live, have you?" he said snidely.

Harry glanced at him, and his face fell. "I... I will," he said, though he sounded uncertain.

Tom snorted. "And you look down on me for not telling the others the truth, you hypocrite."

Harry's face scrunched up, and for a second, Tom thought he was going to cry. Then he muttered the password and hurried inside without another word, leaving Tom standing alone.

A pleased feeling swept through him, as though seeing Harry upset brought him great joy. Sniggering, he strolled into the common room, noticing the three first-year boys sitting around a table, playing cards.

He walked over to them and sat down, joining in on the game.

"Hey, Tom," Arcadius greeted. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," Tom murmured, his eyes scanning the common room for Harry. The boy must have already gone to the dormitory, however, because he was nowhere in sight.

"Who's winning?" he asked, his attention redirected to the game in front of him.

"I am," Cyrille said smugly. 

Wallace scoffed. "For now."

Cyrille ended up winning three rounds of cards, whilst Tom won only once. The boy seemed pleased, as though happy he was finally the best in something.

"You got lucky," Wallace grumbled.

Cyrille scoffed. "Sure," he said. "And you just can't play."

Tom glanced at the fireplace and saw Walburga waving him over.

"Give me a second," he muttered, standing up and walking over to her.

"Hi Tom," she said brightly, whilst he nodded at her. Opposite her, occupying the two armchairs next to the fire, were Lucretia Black and Violetta Flint.

"How have your exams gone?" he asked politely.

Lucretia rolled her eyes. "Bloody awful," she said. "We're only in third year and yet they acted as though we were sitting our actual OWLs."

"I heard you didn't do too badly, Riddle," Violetta said.

"I did alright."

Walburga snorted. "Don't be modest, Tom, you're practically glowing. We know you got nearly full marks in everything."

"It's only first-year," Tom said, shrugging.

The older girls exchanged a look and smirked.

"Sure," Lucretia said. 

"Well, anyway, I just wanted to wish you a good summer," Walburga said.

"Thank you, you too."

"Doing anything nice?"

"Not particularly."

"Shame. If you were older, I'd have offered to come with us."

"Where are you going?" Tom asked curiously.

"America," Violetta said, grinning. "Visiting my Uncle. These two are just tagging along."

"You invited us, Vi," Lucretia said, rolling her eyes. "You practically begged us- she can't stand her Uncle," she added to Tom.

"I never said that," Violetta said, affronted. "Don't tell him I said that."

"Sounds amazing," Tom said, trying not to sound too jealous.

"It'll be alright," Walburga said dismissively, oblivious to Tom's feelings.

“You never know, Walburga, we might get to see Grindelwald,” Lucretia joked, and Walburga snorted.

"We should be so lucky."

"Will it be safe in America, with him around?" Tom asked, unable to help himself.

"Oh, we'll be fine," Walburga said carelessly. "He won't start attacking areas with purebloods."

"We might get to attend a rally," Lucretia said excitedly. "I heard he sometimes hosts them."

"He doesn't host them, his followers do," Violetta corrected. "And I heard he barely shows up to them."

"But imagine if he did."

"Yes, and I'm sure he'll be oh so impressed by us three," Walburga said sarcastically, and Lucretia flushed. The girl turned back to Tom, shaking her head. "Anyway, you be a good boy and do all your homework. You're going into your second year, you know, no excuse to start slacking off."

The three girls laughed, and Tom forced a smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"I'll see you next year, Riddle."

Tom walked away, re-joining Cyrille, Arcadius and Wallace, and noticing that they were joined by a few of the second-year boys, including Rodolphe and Acacius.

"...been?" Acacius was saying.

"Fine," Cyrille said. "Easy."

"Yeah, well, you just wait," Rodolphe said. "Third year's when things start to pick up. Not looking forward to it," he grumbled.

"What subjects did you pick?" one of the second-year boys asked him.

"Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Divination."

Acacius wrinkled his nose. "Divination?"

"It was either that or Care of Magical Creatures," Rodolphe said, sighing.

"Could have picked Muggle Studies," one of the other boys said, sniggering.

Rodolphe snorted. "Very funny."

"What are Muggle Studies?" Tom asked, frowning.

"That," Rodolphe said. "Is an excellent question. Who in Merlin's name would want to study muggles?"

"They always get a few idiots who pick it," Acacius said. "That's why it's still a subject. It's a disgrace if you ask me."

"You can study muggles?" Tom asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You learn how they live," Acacius explained, sniggering. "How utterly backwards their lives are without magic, that kind of thing."

"Learning about animals, that's what it is," Rodolphe said. "They should just get rid of the subject and add it to Care of Magical Creatures. That'll make more sense."

The three first-year boys laughed, and Tom joined in. 

Acacius yawned and checked his watch. "Well, I'll see you all in two months," he said. "I'm off to bed."

"Need your beauty sleep, Nott?"

"Piss off, Rod."

The four of them bid the second-years goodbye as they trudged to their dorms, Rodolphe laughing behind Acacius.

"Should we go to bed too?" Arcadius asked.

"Nah, not tired. Let's play one more game of cards," Cyrille replied.

"Why so you can win again?"

"Scared, Wallace?"

"You wish."

"Sounds like you are."

"Fine, one more game, you all in? Arcadius? Tom?"

"Sure," Arcadius said. "Where are the girls? Maybe they can play with us?"

"They went up ten minutes ago," Wallace said gloomily. "What about you, Tom? You in?"

Tom hesitated. Though he wanted to join them, he also felt that he needed some time alone. The others didn't seem as upset as he was about leaving Hogwarts for the summer. He felt he needed a chance to say a proper goodbye to the castle, without any distraction.

"No," he said. "I'm tired. I'll see you all tomorrow."

"Come on, Tom, help us beat Cyrille," Wallace complained.

"I knew it, you are scared of losing."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are."

"You sure, Tom?" Arcadius asked, as the other two began bickering.

Tom nodded. "It's been a long day."

Arcadius nodded. "Alright, see you tomorrow then."

Tom turned and walked to the dormitory, sighing. If only he had savoured his first year more, pheraps it would have lasted longer.

He opened the door to his room, grateful to be alone. Then he paused. The curtains were pulled around Harry's bed, but his glasses were on his bedside table, and Tom sighed, realising he didn't have the privacy he craved.

He had completely forgotten about the boy. He waited to hear if Harry was asleep, but either the boy didn't snore or he was still awake. With the curtains done up, Tom had no way of knowing.

"Harry?" he whispered. "You awake?"

There were a few seconds of silence. Then a murmured, "Yeah."

Tom sighed. He walked over to Harry's bed and pulled the curtains back, finding the boy lying on his side, half his face pressed against the pillow. The parts of his face he could see were red, and his eyes looked blotchy. They flickered over to him, becoming annoyed.

"What?"

"Have you been crying?" Tom asked, incredulously.

Harry looked away. "Go away, Tom."

"You're so pathetic, Potter, do you know that-"

Suddenly, Harry sat up and shoved Tom away from his bed. Taken by surprise, the boy stumbled back, hitting his hip painfully against Harry's bedside table. He hissed and glared furiously at the boy, rubbing his hip.

"Just leave me alone!" 

Harry made to pull the curtains back around his bed, and Tom sprang forwards, grabbing them and forcing them apart. Harry struggled angrily, trying to force them out of Tom's hands and before Tom realised what had happened, he had fallen onto Harry's bed, the boy going down with a yell as he fell on top of him.  

For a second, Tom froze.

Harry groaned under him, weakly struggling as his arms remained trapped beneath him. Up close, Harry's eyes looked even brighter than normal, the green curtains looking pale in comparison. They had also never looked angrier. Harry's eyes found Tom's, and his struggling stopped.

Gritting his teeth, he spat, "Will you get off me?"

Tom swallowed and clambered off the boy. Harry quickly scrambled as far back in his bed as he could, sitting up and watching Tom cautiously.

"What's wrong with you?" he snarled angrily.

"Could ask you the same thing."

"Me? I'm not the one who came barging into someone else's bed!"

Tom flushed slightly. "Why were you crying?" he asked instead.

"Why should I tell you? You'll just make fun of me."

"I won't," Tom said, and Harry snorted.

"I won't," Tom repeated, sharper.

"Just go away, Tom."

Tom hesitated. "Is it about the Orphanage?"

Harry went still, the anger on his face fading.

"We're on the same boat here, you know?"

Harry glanced at him, his lip wobbling ever so slightly. "I don't want to go back," he said in a small voice.

For a few seconds, Tom didn't respond. Then, in a careful voice, he asked, "Why?"

Harry looked away. "I like it here."

"Do you?" Tom asked before he could stop himself.

Harry glanced at him. "What's that meant to mean?"

Tom said nothing, and Harry laughed, the sound unusually cold.

"You think I'm miserable because of your stupid friends?" he asked. 

"They're not-"

Tom cut himself off, and Harry cocked his to the side. "They're not what? Stupid or your friends?"

The boy scoffed and reached over to his bedside table, grabbing his glasses. "I have friends here," he said. "Proper friends. I don't want to leave them and be stuck with you for two months."

"You think I want to go back, either?" Tom asked, the anger rising in his voice. "I don't want to be stuck with you anymore than you do me. But we haven't got a choice!" he spat, glaring at Harry.

"Will you miss them?" Harry asked quietly. "Your... friends?"

Tom scoffed. "I'll miss the castle," he said. "Hogwarts is my home."

Harry frowned. "That's not really what I meant." 

"I'll miss the others," Tom said reluctantly. "But I'll miss Hogwarts more."

"If you like it here so much, why don't you just stay for the su-"

"Can't," Tom muttered. "Already tried. They won't let me."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Harry asked. "You'll be all by yourself until September."

"Exactly," Tom said. "I'll never have to go back to Wool's. And for two months, there won't be anyone to annoy me. I'll have the place to myself."

Tom glanced at Harry to see him shaking his head. "What?" he snapped. "You said you didn't want to go back either. Don't you love Hogwarts?"

"I love it because of the people, Tom," Harry said. "Because I get to see people I like every day. On my own... it wouldn't be the same."

Tom scoffed and shook his head. "I don't need anyone," he said. "I'll survive here just fine by myself if they'd let me."

For a moment, Tom tried to imagine it. Waking up in a silent dormitory, eating at a table fit to serve a hundred kings all by himself, walking around the grounds with no disruptions, no rules, no one to hold him back.

He looked up and saw Harry staring at him.

Sighing, he muttered, "Well, there's nothing either of us can do about it. We're stuck with each other until September, and that's final."

Harry bit his lip and looked down. Tom saw a bead of blood appear on the boy's lips before his tongue swiped at it, clearing the blood off his mouth.

"It's two months," Harry said, nodding as though trying to reassure himself it was fine. "We can survive two months."

He looked up at Tom, as if he were hoping the boy would agree. Tom just scoffed and crawled off his bed.

"We'll see," he said. "You've only spent a few months in Wool's. I've been there my whole life. The others barely know you. If you think the boys here are bad, just wait until you meet the animals there."

And he pulled the curtains back around Harry's bed, leaving the boy rooted on the spot, dread etched across his face.

Chapter 10: July, 1939

Mrs Cole had been a nurse before she became Head of Wool's.

When she finished school, she went to an all-girls college, studying one of the few subjects widely available for women: childcare. Harder degrees like law and medicine were extremely competitive, very expensive, and mostly reserved for men.

Mrs Cole always wanted to be a doctor, but she had grown up the daughter of a greengrocer, with a housewife for a mother, and five younger siblings to take care of. There had been a faint dream of saving up enough money and studying hard enough to attend a half-decent college willing to teach her, but when her Mother became ill, the idea of sending her eldest daughter away to study medicine was thrown out the window.

Instead, Mrs Cole studied part-time at the local college, spending every other second she had looking after her siblings.

When the first war came rolling around, her work had somewhat paid off. She enrolled to become a nurse, and though it was hardly as esteemed or recognised as a doctor, Mrs Cole had done marvelously, rising up the ranks to become assistant head nurse of a large hospital near Cardiff, responsible for two hundred other women and caring for the hundreds of wounded men brought in every day.

By the time the war ended, Mrs Cole had tried to cling to her job, hoping that one day she might get a promotion to head nurse.

Fate, it seemed, was against her.

Her Father had passed the following year, and she had to return to London to care for her family in his absence. Two of her siblings had grown up by this point, but there were still three to take care of, plus a Mother who had only gotten sicker.

So she got a job as a part-time nurse in Wool's and dedicated every penny she made to her family. As each sibling grew up, Mrs Cole was able to spend more and more time at the Orphanage, going from a part-time worker to a full-time one.

When she had just one sibling left to look after, Mrs Cole was made Head Nurse at the Orphanage. The previous Matron had taken a liking to her, and when it came for her to retire, she had tipped Mrs Cole as her successor.

That year was a turbulent one.

She was put in charge of the Orphanage just as her last sibling had finally grown up enough to leave home. Six months later, her Mother succumbed to her illness. 

Mrs Cole had once said she was glad her Mother died after her siblings had all grown up. She did not want to have them put in the Orphanage.

Not to Tom, of course, but he overheard things when she thought he wasn't listening. 

Everything he knew about Mrs Cole was fragmented, taken from whispers of conversation or wisps of faint knowledge, carefully pieced together to form a half-coherent puzzle.

A certificate for completing a college degree in childcare, stuck to her office wall. A framed photograph of a nurse's ward, resting delicately on a shelf. Murmers from the workers behind closed doors.

Tom knew more than people thought he did. He always had.

Though, of course, there were still gaps in his knowledge.

He did not know how many brothers and sisters Mrs Cole had, just that there were five. He did not know how she dealt with her parents' deaths. An orphan made head of an Orphanage.  Why was she pleased that none of her siblings had grown up amongst them?

After all, she had dedicated years to Wool's. She had organised winter schemes to fundraise for coats and hats and scarves, and gloves. She had gotten a small amount of money every year from the board of trustees to secure the children with a summer holiday. She encouraged so many of the older children to pursue further education, so that every year, more and more educated Orphans left Wool's.

Sure, the food was poor and the rooms were shabby, and there was never enough coal for the freezing winter or toys or clothes, and everyone had to share everything they owned, so the idea of having something to yourself was non-existent. Foreign. 

But maybe that was the reason.

The Orphanage helped them to survive, not live. They were being kept alive, moderately healthy, with just enough needed to keep them that way. No excess. No more than necessary.

At Hogwarts, Tom lived. He thrived, like a bee surrounded by a field of flowers. There was always an abundance of what he needed, whether that be food, respect, or warmth.

Wool's lacked that. And Tom thought that pheraps Mrs Cole was aware of this.

She was there at the local station, her hands folded in front of her, wearing a long skirt and neat blouse, waiting expectantly. She smiled when she caught sight of them exiting the train coming from King's Cross and raised a hand in a wave.

Tom had made Harry wait until nearly all the Hogwarts kids had left before they took the train from the station. Nearly everyone had been picked up by their parents. He didn't need anyone to know they were making their own way back. And that they were together. 

"Hello, boys," Mrs Cole said as they walked over to them, dragging their cases behind them. They were much fuller than when they had first left in September, and Tom prayed that Mrs Cole wouldn't go snooping in them.

"Hi, Mrs Cole," Harry said.

"How was school? We all missed you."

Tom gave a snort that did not go noticed by Mrs Cole. She sent him a look, and he straightened his face.

"It was good," Harry said, oblivious. "Really good."

"Have you made any friends?"

Harry nodded happily.

"What are their names?"

"There's Igantius, and Louis, and Genevieve-"

"There are girls in your school?"

"Yes, lots."

"And in the higher years, too?"

Harry nodded.

"Goodness, you lucky boys," Mrs Cole said.

Tom nodded impatiently. Why had she come? He was not some sort of baby that needed her to escort him everywhere.

"What about you, Tom? Any friends?"

Tom didn't miss the slightest hint of doubt in her voice. He gripped his suitcase harder and looked her in the eye.

"Yes."

"What are their names?"

Reluctantly, he told her the names of his three fellow first years.

Mrs Cole laughed. "Those are rather odd names."

"They're not common," Tom said bitterly.

Mrs Cole frowned, and Harry quickly intervened.

"What Tom means is that a lot of their families aren't from England," he said.

"Oh, I see," Mrs Cole said, nodding. "I hope you boys didn't feel out of place."

Harry didn't understand, but Tom did. Foreign students meant rich students.

"We were fine," Harry said, shrugging.

"Good," Mrs Cole said. "Well, come along then. You can tell me all about what you learnt on the way."

Harry glanced at Tom, his lips curling slightly. Tom just stared glumly back.

In the end, it was Harry who had done most of the talking. Aside from the stuff that was obviously magical, he twisted the truth quite well, explaining how the dormitories, meals, and classes worked without letting slip any important details.

If Tom weren't so annoyed, he'd be impressed.

"Well, I'm glad to hear you've enjoyed yourselves," Mrs Cole said when they arrived at the doors of the Orphanage.

Tom stared up at the gloomy building, half-tempted to flee.

Mrs Cole took out a key and opened the doors, beckoning them inside, and it took every ounce of Tom's being to follow her inside. Immediately, the damp, musty air engulfed him, shrouding him in Wool's heavy hopelessness he had forgotten about.

"I'll let you both settle down and put your things away. Dinner's in half an hour."

"Thank you, Mrs Cole," Harry said earnestly whilst Tom inwardly groaned at the thought of having the Orphanage dinner.

They both lugged their luggage up the rickety stairs, panting slightly from the weight. As they walked down the corridor to their room, a head poked out of one of the rooms.

"Oh, you're both back," a boy their age said.

Tom nodded at him, disinterested.

"Hi Tom, how have things been?"

"Alright," he murmured.

"Must be relieved, eh? Boarding school- sounds terrible, imagine living in your school."

The boy laughed whilst Tom just stared back at him, stony-faced.

"Well, see ya at dinner, Tom," the boy said, and with a blank glance at Harry, he closed the door.

Tom was already moving on, opening the door to his room. He wasn't sure why, but the sight of the bare-stricken room left him feeling even more hollow.

Harry poked his head around him. "Guess we have to get used to this again," he murmured, eyeing the wooden beds.

Tom just scoffed and walked into the room. He had been at Wool's a lot longer than Harry had. He knew more about discomfort than the boy ever would.

Silently, the pair began unpacking their suitcases, stuffing their clothes back in the wooden cupboard. 

"What should we do with all these?" Harry asked, holding up a spellbook and his wand.

"Hide them somewhere," Tom said bitterly.

He left his spellbook and equipment in his suitcase and then dug around in his cupboard for where he used to store his treasures, placing the case there.

Then he lifted up his thin mattress and carefully stored his wand underneath it.

Straightening up, he glanced at Harry and saw him hide his wand in his bedside table.

"Not there," he said sharply and Harry glanced up. "That's the first place they'll look."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Just hide it somewhere else," Tom said, exasperated.

So Harry stood up and began circling the room, staring at the floor. Tom watched him from where he sat in his bed, staring at the boy.

"What are you doing?" he asked irritably.

"Just looking..." Harry murmured. "Had wooden floorboards like this in my old room... there was always... I wonder if... aha."

He stopped pacing and got on his knees. Using his wand as a lever, he pried open a loose floorboard Tom had never spotted, twisting and churning the wood until it broke away. There, he stored his wand before carefully slotting the floorboard back into place.

Tom stared at him, half impressed, half jealous he hadn't thought of doing that before.

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and before Tom could answer, it had opened and three boys strolled through. They were older, maybe around fourteen, and Tom sighed, knowing what was about to happen.

"Alright, Tom?" the boy closest to him said, his hands causally in his trouser pockets. "Connor said you were back."

Tom just nodded. The older kids didn't bother him. They knew better than to. Harry, on the other hand...

The three boys turned to Harry, and their expressions narrowed into the calculating one Tom was so used to.

"We haven't really had a chance to get to know you yet," the boy said. "Harry was it?"

Harry nodded slowly, his eyes flickering over to Tom, who offered him no such look in return.

"I'm Jack, this here is Billy and Will," Jack said, and the two boys behind him nodded.

"Nice to meet you," Harry said.

"How old are you again?"

"Eleven... but I'll be twelve soon."

Right. Harry's birthday was at the end of July. It was a shame, really. Tom's birthday at Hogwarts had been amazing. With the castle empty for Christmas, he had awoken to a rare treat: presents.

Not the rubbish, second-hand ones given from the older kids at Wool's, but proper, real presents, wrapped in delicate patterned paper and tied with silk bows. Tom's hands had almost trembled as he unwrapped each one, revealing an expensive cashmere sweater from Cyrille, a glass chess set from Arcadius and a box of chocolates from Wallace.

The chocolates he had savoured, eating only one or two a week, for they were a delicacy he almost never got to have. Infinitely better than the tiny golden coin Mrs Cole gave the orphans, the flavour rich and sweet, melting the second he put one in his mouth.

The sweater and chess set were at the bottom of his suitcase, and he knew he would never take them out at Wool's, as they were sure to get damaged. And he also didn't like the idea of things so clean getting contaminated by the filthy Orphanage.

For breakfast, he had helped himself to a large platter of fried eggs with sausages and tomatoes and three slices of toast, with a cup of orange juice to go with it. No measly sprinkle of sugar on his watery porridge. Pheraps never again.

The rest of the day was spent exploring Hogwarts.

Harry, on the other hand, would never get to experience a birthday at Hogwarts. If Tom didn't find him so annoying, he would have pitied the boy.

"So, boarding school then?" Jack drawled. "Fancy school, is it?"

"Not really," Harry mumbled. "Its-"

"Whereabouts is this school then?"

"Scotland."

Jack whistled, and the other two boys laughed. 

"Dunno, Harry, seems pretty fancy to me."

"It's really not," Harry said helplessly, glancing at Tom again.

"Say, Potter, did you bring anything back from Scotland?"

"Not really, just my uniform and schoolbooks-"

"Schoolbooks? So you had your own then?"

"They're second-hand," Harry tried saying, but the three boys weren't listening anymore. One had turned away and opened Harry's cupboard, rifling through his things carelessly and ignoring Harry's angry shout. The other stood by the door, blocking anyone from entering- or leaving.

"Hey! Stop that!"

Harry bounded forward to stop him, but Jack just laughed and shoved him backwards, so Harry fell onto his bed.

"Kids got nothing," the boy- Billy or Will, Tom had already forgotten- grumbled.

"Let me see," Jack said impatiently, striding towards the cupboard. Tom peered and saw it was bare, except for the few, tatty clothes Harry owned. 

"I told you, I have nothing," Harry said angrily.

The boy by the door rolled his eyes and took out a cigarette, lighting it lazily. "Let's just go," he called out.

Jack was glaring at Harry. "If you're hiding something, you'd better come out with it now," he warned.

"What could I possibly be hiding?" Harry mocked. "You think they were just handing out gold to all the students?"

"Careful, Potter," Jack said. "Don't start getting cocky just because you somehow have a place at some fancy boarding school. You're nothing but a poor, lowly orphan, just like the rest of us."

The smoke from the cigarette began to drift lazily towards Tom, and finally, he spoke up.

"If you three are done," he drawled. "I'd rather not have my room stink of whatever rubbish is in that cigaratte."

The three boys glanced at him, and Tom could see the conflict on their faces- the yearning to beat Tom up, to put him in his place, crossed with the terror of the rumours surrounding the boy, the whisperings they had heard.

"Come on," Jack muttered, and the three boys exited the room.

"You're welcome," Tom said.

Harry shot him a look. "For what?" he said incredulously.

"You were this close to getting your face bashed in."

Harry scoffed. "You could have intervened sooner," he retorted.

"Yeah," Tom said. "I could have."

Harry sent him a filthy look and got up from his bed, tidying his cupboard.

"Where are all your things by the way?" Tom asked, eyeing the boy.

"My suitcase."

"And where's that?"

"Right here."

Harry moved aside, and Tom suddenly noticed his case propped on the floor of the cupboard, where he was certain it had not been moments before.

Tom sat up sharply. "How did you do that?" he demanded.

Harry shrugged. "It's just a simple vanishing spell," he said. 

"We're not allowed to do magic out of school," Tom said bitterly.

"I know," Harry said. "I did it on the train. You'll only be able to see it if I let you."

Tom narrowed his eyes at the boy. That was sure to be no simple spell. How exactly had he been able to accomplish it? Once more, he found himself torn between marvelling at Harry's cleverness and anger that he had not thought of it first.

"Who helped you with that?"

"No one, I did it myself." Harry closed the doors to his cupboard and turned around. "Dinner will be soon," he said. "We should get going."

And with no further word to Tom, the boy had exited the room.

Tom sighed. Clearly, he had to keep a closer eye on Harry. Tom didn't like not knowing. If Harry were more powerful than he was letting on, then Tom wanted to know.

He followed the boy outside their room, determined to pay more attention to him. And more importantly, his magic.

---

Sunday was, as always, the day for morning prayers. The Orphanage had one small, crumbling chapel, a five-minute walk away from the main building. A tiny cemetery was laid beside it, and Tom often heard stories of Orphans sneaking down there in the middle of the night to hear the whispers of the dead.

Once, he had dismissed it. But after seeing the ghosts at Hogwarts, Tom decided to try to be less judgmental. 

He had no idea who had been buried next to the chapel, but judging by the chipped gravestones and faded writing, it had to be long before his time.

The chapel itself was no better than the cemetery. Peeling paint, flayed curtains and wooden seats that creaked at even the slightest movements. Those were just some of the things wrong with the place.

Tom always wondered why they didn't just knock the place down and build a new one. Well, actually, he knew why.

Money, of course.

With all the things needed at the Orphanage, any little money they came by had to be spent on the Orphans, rather than on the aged building. Unless it was an absolute emergency. And whilst Tom always feared the roof would collapse and cave them all in at any moment, no one else seemed to share his fears.

Once the service- run by a man who looked as though he should have been buried at the cemetery himself a hundred years ago- finally ended, Tom was amongst the first to leave.

Warm summer air greeted him as he exited the chapel, which by comparison always seemed to be ice-cold. He lingered outside, wondering what he could do to make the day go by as quickly as possible.

Then, he heard a faint laugh not too far away, seemingly coming from behind him. Tom turned, frowning, and noticed a shadow lurking around the corner of the chapel.

Someone laughed again, and this time he recognised the sound.

Slowly, he walked over to the noise, finding- to his displeasure- Harry lingering behind the chapel, a tiny black cat held in his hands.

Had he been here this whole time? Come to think of it, Tom didn't even remember seeing him during the service once.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sceptical.

"Tom, look what I found," Harry said, grinning and holding out the cat.

Immediately, Tom backed away from the creature. "Well done," he said coolly. "You found a stray."

Harry pulled a face. "It's not a stray, it's cute. And friendly."

He pulled a sickening face at the cat, and the thing purred.

"Let that thing go, Potter."

"No, I like her," Harry said stubbornly.

"Her?"

Harry blushed. "I'm pretty sure it's a her." 

"What do you plan on doing with her, then?" Tom asked warily.

"Well, I was thinking... you are technically allowed a cat at Hogwarts..."

Tom blinked. Once. Twice. "You want to keep that thing?" he asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged. "Why not? I think she likes me."

The cat purred again, and Harry immediately became absorbed, glancing away from Tom to give an annoying coo.

Tom rubbed his eyes, trying to stay patient. "Pets aren't allowed in the Orphanage, Potter," he said through gritted teeth.

Harry glanced at him. "Yes, they are," he said. "Didn't some kid use to own a rabbit?"

"How do you know about that?"

Harry shrugged. "I overheard one of the girls say that someone was still upset about their rabbit dying. And that must mean we're allowed pets."

Unable to help himself, Tom gave a faint chuckle.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Sorry," Tom said, trying to hide his smile. "Let me correct myself. Pets aren't allowed... anymore."

"Why?" Harry asked. "What happened?"

Tom sniggered. "No clue," he said. "Guess they're too difficult to look after."

"Oh," Harry looked at the cat sadly. "I already named her."

Tom scoffed. "It's a stray, Potter," he said harshly. "It probably wants food. Just let it go."

Sadly, Harry lowered the cat gently onto the ground. It sat there, unmoving, staring at Harry.

Tom glanced at the boy and pulled a face. "Are you crying?" he asked incredulously.

"No," Harry said, his voice breaking. He rubbed his watery eyes, and Tom rolled his eyes.

"You're an idiot, do you know that?"

He walked off, not sparing the boy a second glance. A few hours later, he saw Harry sitting at dinner, looking positively glum.

Annoyed, he stepped over to the boy. "Would you get over it?" he asked impatiently. "It was a stupid stray."

Harry sniffed. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just... I used to have a cat... in my old house."

Tom blinked, not expecting this answer. 

Harry stood up. "I'm tired," he said. "I'm going to bed. Good night."

After he had left, Tom glanced down at his plate, noticing the boy hadn't eaten much.

"He coming back?" the boy nearest to him asked, eyeing Harry's plate longingly.

Tom sighed. "No," he said, walking off.

When he entered his room a few hours later, he saw Harry already in bed, with his back to the boy, the thin sheets pilled over his head.

He sighed, not understanding Harry's feelings towards the stupid cat. It was a stray. A stray. The only reason it tolerated Harry was probably because it wanted food. And knowing Harry, the stupid fool was probably willing to give what precious food he received to the animal instead.

Tom never understood why people got so attached to helpless animals. To him, they were just another thing to be looked after, another burden to be carried. More food that had to be shared and love that had to be spread, all on a creature that couldn't so much as speak back.

Turning over in his bed, Tom mirrored Harry's position, his back to the boy.

He closed his eyes, unable to comprehend Harry's true character. Was he clever or just idiotic? Tom thought it was the latter, and yet the boy seemed to have rare moments of brilliance that made Tom question the truth entirely.

Like the spell he placed on his suitcase.

Eventually, thinking of Harry tired Tom out, and it wasn't long before the boy was fast asleep.

...

Tom awoke to the sound of faint laughter. Groggily, he blinked his eyes open, trying to adjust to the pale morning light.

Slowly, he was able to make out a figure sitting upright in Harry's bed, giggling and holding onto something fluffy and black that gradually came into focus.

Tom's eyes widened.

"Did you bring that in here?" he asked loudly, sitting up so quickly that the room began spinning.

Harry beamed at him. "No, I just woke up and found her outside the door. She caught herself a mouse, I think. That must be why she was hanging near the Orphanage, this place is full of them."

Tom groaned. "You're not allowed pets, Potter," he said.

"I know that," Harry said excitedly. "But listen, this is perfect, don't you see? She's clearly independent. She can go outside and hunt for herself, and at night I'll sneak her here and let her sleep."

He grinned at Tom, as though this was a brilliant plan.

"Potter, I don't want to live with a cat," he grumbled.

Harry pouted. "Please? I love her so much."

"You just met the thing!"

"Even so, I think she likes me. Why else would she come back? Please, can we keep her?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "You keep her then," he muttered. "But when you get caught, don't come crying to me."

Harry beamed. "Thank you, Tom!" he said happily. "Do you want to know what I named her?"

"No," Tom muttered, lying back on his pillow and hoping he could regain some sleep.

"Marvel," Harry said. "Like your middle name."

Tom went still. Slowly, he turned his head back around to stare at Harry. "You named that thing after me?" he asked slowly in a low voice.

"No," Harry said innocently. "I named her inspired by you."

"You little-"

But Harry wasn't listening anymore. The cat mewed, and he lost interest in a blink, turning to the cat and making stupid faces at it.

Tom had the sudden urge to re-create Billy's rabbit all over again, but forced himself to stay calm. If Harry were so invested in the stupid cat, then maybe he would finally leave him alone. And if he got caught, then even better for Tom. Getting to see Harry cry was the best gift he could receive.

Lying back down on his pillow, he pulled the pillow over his head, trying to drown out the sickening noises Harry was making.

Come to think of it, Harry owning a pet would also make great blackmail.

Tom smirked into his pillow. It was no surprise, really, that someone as soft and pathetic as Harry could easily fall for something so similar.

The cat meowed again, and Tom felt the smirk slide off his face. If the creature was going to be making noises all night, then they were really going to have a problem. Why that damned thing was so attached to Harry, he had no idea.

Turning over in his bed, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to gain at least an hour more sleep before the sun properly came out.

Personally, he always thought snakes made better pets than cats, anyway.

At least snakes talked back.

Notes:

Tom: Why does Harry make smarter decisions than me?

Tom: I better keep an eye out on him, just to make sure he's not more clever than me.

Tom: That's definitely the reason why (sneaky glance at Harry) totallyyy...

*

Tom: This cat acts more attached to Harry than me... why???

Tom: Harry acts like he's more attached to the cat than me... why!!!

*

Harry naming his cat after Tom, guess you could say they started giving each other... pet names (whattttt)

Notes:

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