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Kate Lynn
Behind Blue Eyes No one knows what it’s like No one knows what it’s like But my dreams They aren’t as empty That’s never free No one knows what it’s like No one bites back as hard On their anger They aren’t as empty When my fist clenches, crack it open No one knows what it’s like *** The Broken Victory It isn’t much. A little black leather, a
brass buckle, some worn pages smeared. My smears. My words, my thoughts, my
voice, my story. My life, before me. What does it hold? A version. An account,
faithfully kept all these years, yet it is hardly truer than the memories.
Truth can become more factual with age, when emotions ease and a distant
perspective takes hold. But that is not what this is. I close it softly, the wind gusting
through helping to flip the pages to its end. The windows are stuck askew,
leaving me to wonder if any windows besides the ones at Hogwarts work. Not that
it matters The decrepit steam-train rattles forward in worn yet determined
chugs through the surrounding Transylvanian forests, and the fresh air cuts the
stench of burnt chips and the conductor’s mint and whiskey-laced sweat. The
fact that the train moves at all is a miracle, but it has remained in business
long enough to be of use to me, and that is all that matters. I place the diary beside me on the seat,
feeling the wind whip through me. Alongside my past are my acquisitions for the future, boxes of odd shapes brimming with horrific
and hard-won wonders. The nervous energy those treasures exude is contagious
and I relish it, fingering the paper casing with anticipation. Next to the
great, throbbing power in the bags and air, the old book seems worn and
pitiful. Well, it is over, really. And none know
better than I the account of Tom Marvolo Riddle. I direct the diary outward, letting the
wind and my wand carry it out the window. When I need it, it will come back.
For now, it is… Chapter 1: Happy Christmas, and Other
Oxymorons “…Nothing, really.” I spoke softly, answering
the overheard question to myself. “That’s what it’s like to be an orphan on
Christmas.” Honestly, how dim-witted were the couples that came to, in effect,
purchase a family? A small, balding soprano and an aging smoker, the ones who
held my undetected focus now, were forcing their inane questions on little
Jiminy. Jiminy was too focused on the fact that someone was finally paying
attention to him to care that they behaved as if they were at a kennel, making
sure he could fetch and was paper-trained. I would have killed myself before I
ever acted that subservient. Jiminy, however, was positively preening in his
worn short-pants suit, proudly doing turns on request to show off the
hand-me-downs. The hopeful hunger in his eyes made me shift my gaze,
embarrassment welling higher inside me the longer I watched. Instead, I stared at the tree, half-decorated
garishly and situated in a prime location at the center of the room. In one
hand I still held an ornament which had to be placed on the sparse branches. It
was tradition at the orphanage Christmas party that all the children parade
about and hang up ornaments on Christmas Eve. All of it was done for bidders
who seemed to think that the most creative idea in the world was to go orphan
picking on this holiday. I had dubbed it orphan season, like rabbit season.
Yes, I know, I was bursting with creativity. “Marvolo, what are you doing?” It was, of
course, the headmistress of the orphanage twittering beside me. Turning, I
found Mrs. Blunt, dressed prudishly in a prim long dress and wide belt, with
wafts of hair uncharacteristically falling out of her strict bun. The overall
effect was still teeming with severity. While it probably lacked in current
fashion it more than fit her dismal personality. However, right then she was
far more festive than I’d ever seen her before. Her hollow cheeks were red and
she seemed pleased with yet harried by the event so far. Decidedly, she was
puffed up on self-congratulations and whiskey-laced eggnog. Automatically, I responded to her address.
She, her husband, and her son often called me Marvolo, never Thomas. There were
too many of us apparently, so it was easier for them to call us by our middle
names, our last names, or try to be creative and make up new ones. I was beyond
caring about it at that point. What was in a name, truly? Eyeing her with forced civility, I replied,
“bearing good tidings and cheer?” From the way her small eyes narrowed, I
guessed that I had gotten the line wrong. “You have been standing there for twenty
minutes not putting your decoration on the tree, and with that terrible smirk!”
Mrs. Blunt replied angrily, though on her face she kept a plastic smile to
display to her guests. Her voice merely dropped, turning more hissing in its
disdain. Glancing down, I examined the ornament in my
hand. It was a small golden ball, decidedly smaller than Madam Blunt’s mouth.
Once I hung it up there on a branch it would get lost in the cluttered crowd
anyway. Still, I didn’t see anything productive to be gained by arguing with
the woman, so I strolled over and carefully placed the ball on the tip of a
branch. Without smiling, I immediately backed up and felt her manicured hand
fall upon my frayed shirt. “Riddle, what are we going to do with you?
You absolutely refuse to make any effort to participate in the events we hold
here. Don’t you know you’re not getting any younger? This is the best season.
Members of the British Council have
even been invited!” Her voice rose to propagate that statement, dropping off
then to continue, “there are so many people here, good people,
charitable, who are willing to take children in, even ones like you, and still
you make no effort to socialize!” Mrs. Blunt seemed caught between anger and
frustration. Lovely woman, wasn’t she? I’d have gladly bet
a thousand pounds that she didn’t even know my age. All she knew was that I was
a half-life. Maybe she thought we aged differently than humans, like dogs. Most
likely, she just didn’t even think about it. I shouldn’t give her the credit of
thought. “I forgot that I was in season. Where is the
auction block again?” She might have been too tipsy to comprehend it, or
perhaps she never really listened when I spoke, but either way my comment went
ignored. Instead, she steered me toward a group of chattering adults. Two of
them stopped conversing and stared at me, and then began whispering
frantically. Looking at the man, I felt nervous for some reason, and began
subconsciously fingering the cross on a chain that hung around my neck. It was
real silver, probably worth more than my life at one point, though by now it
was so chipped and marred it was of no interest to any but me. In sneaking into
the office to see my files years ago, I had found out that my father had left
it to me before I was born. Still, it in and of itself wasn’t overtly special.
Almost all the children at the orphanage wore some kind of religious symbol,
but I hadn’t really the faith. To be honest, I didn’t know why I kept wearing
it, but I felt strange without it on. Plus, it was an excellent thing to play
with to calm my nerves. The woman, dressed in an oddly fashioned
purple dress and cloak, eyed me and made a wild move to her associate as Mrs.
Blunt was guiding me aside. Even without being in the vicinity of current
society, I found her appearance strange. She smiled, not unkindly, and motioned
for Mrs. Blunt to stop. Mrs. Blunt, her eyes wide with shock, stepped aside and
crossed her arms, clearly saying that I had better be on my best behavior, or
else. “Hello dear, what’s your name?” the woman
asked in a tone that didn’t fully belie her sharp eyes. Red lips stretched wide
across her face, far tighter than her flowing gown. One of her hands clutched
the arm of her associate. The man merely stood at her side, watching with keen
eyes and occasionally stroking his dark beard. He had the solid bearing of
famous military generals I’d seen pictures of in books, ones whose surety came
from strength of mind as well as muscle. After quickly looking them over I replied,
“Thomas Marvolo Riddle.” Always give your full name, I had been told. The more
names you had, the more impressive a prospect you sounded. “And how old are you?” “Almost eleven.” Stand taller, and look
proud. Children were supposed to try and impress the adults. She nodded quickly, accepting my responses
but eagerly chiming in with new replies such as, “my, Tom, you’re certainly
tall for your age.” “Really? That’s a relief. I always thought I
was just surrounded by leprechauns.” Recall that feeling of eyes burning
into you? Guess who was giving me that at this moment. Ignoring the glare, I
added, “II mean, thank you.” My ruse didn’t work. The couple looked perplexed
for a moment, and then the man pulled the woman aside. Both turned their backs
to me and resumed whispering. As if I had never existed. I turned now to Mrs. Blunt, who looked
furious and embarrassed. In her low hiss she spat, “Riddle, get out of my
sight. We’ll deal with you later.” “Lovely.” I was on the verge of returning to
being my usual festive self when she blocked my way again, saying, “No, Mr.
Blunt will see you in his office.” “Now?” I asked, trying to hide my surprise.
It was an unusual command; they never did business or dealt with the children
during a party. Every other year I was in trouble I had been sent to see them
the next morning. Mrs. Blunt swayed. She tried to fix a steady,
stern look at me, but ended up glaring at a plant. In a voice more croaky than
disdainful she said, “of course now, Marv – Marvlo – Marvavolo – oh,
just go!” Well, I’d rarely been called smart - and then, it was often
suspiciously too smart - but I didn’t need to be told twice to leave. I
all but ran to the other end of the manor, my footsteps creaking on the broken
floor, slipping where rain and snow had come through the cracked roof. The
orphanage had been converted from an abandoned farmhouse long ago, refurnished
with brick and decaying from neglect. Still, it had an interesting structure to
it with many nooks and crannies, and overall it was worn but functional. The
Blunts’ quarters were downstairs, as was the kitchen, hall, dining room and
study. Mr. Blunt’s office was hidden in a corner, away from the noise of
children who slept upstairs. I wondered why he was here, locked away in
his office on the night of the party. As I stood in front of the thick wooden
door as I had countless times before, I felt oddly nervous. Perhaps it was an
after-effect of seeing the man with the keen eyes a moment
ago, or the accumulated feeling caused by a wearing night. Either way, there
wasn’t a chance I’d show any Blunt such emotion. Steeling myself, I forced a
calm smile onto my face and knocked, listening to the echoing rattle. It took him
forever to answer, his slow steps trickling through audibly. I remained still,
listening to the heavy thuds crossing the floor inside, and the creaky chain
being lifted before the door swung open. Mr. Blunt…how to describe him? He didn’t
appear overtly mean, maybe a bit hardened around the eyes. Rather, he was a
tired looking man in his middle years, with thinning black hair and a beard.
His clothing hung oddly around his disproportionate form, which was thin in
some parts, portly in others. It seemed that his naturally skinny frame was in
constant combat with the unhealthy eating and drinking habits he never seemed
to have the will to curb. Whenever he stared at me I noticed that his face was
a mixture of white and red, and when he wasn’t giving in to bouts of hysteria,
he had a look of quiet pity and regret. His clothes were nice but old, in
blandly drab colors, nothing at all like Mrs. Blunt or their son Trevor. Only a
pair of snappy wing-tipped shoes separated him from the dull atmosphere of his
study. Tonight was no different as I stared at him.
Mr. Blunt smiled at me, once he made sure his wife was not around. Waving me
in, careful to avoid any actual physical contact with me, he said in a broken
voice, “Hello, Marvolo. Take a seat.” The room was somehow simultaneously cluttered
and yet felt empty, like all of the rooms at the orphanage. It was a mixture of
dull gray and dark brown wood, with faded furniture that at least matched. A
calendar hung on the wall, but other than that and a small window overlooking a
desolate landscape, the walls were bare. The fireplace was unlit, without even
any wood present to collect dust. A solemn candle sat dripping in the corner of
the desk next to a pile of papers, giving off a pathetic light. The contrast
between this room and the festive party down the hall was astounding. Call me
morbid, but I preferred this room. It was more real. I breathed a sigh of
relief once the door shut and most of the scratchy carols droning from the
victrola were muffled. I took a seat on a hard wooden chair,
fingering my chain. Mr. Blunt saw me and blanched, and quickly I dropped my
hand. I knew that this bothered him, and I had no desire to make him suffer.
Mr. Blunt didn’t seem to hate me, and I was quick to capitalize on that fact whenever
I could by seeming to act as he wished me to. No matter what, though, the
emotion radiating from his was still decidedly far from warm. I could see he
felt pity for me, accompanied by an obvious fear. He said over and over again
that I was cursed since birth, having demon blood in me. I didn’t really know
what that meant, though I wouldn’t ask even if I could. In any event, I was not
supposed to show any signs of abnormality, inhumanity, or unchristian behavior.
I didn’t know how playing with a cross was abnormal, but then, I hardly needed
another lecture about how I was going to burn in hell. Mr. Blunt sat at his desk, staring somewhere
above my head. “Marvolo, what did Mrs. Blunt and I say repeatedly to you this
afternoon?” Like I had listened. I had no reason to, for
it was the same thing they had been telling me repeatedly for years. By rote I
replied, “No funny business. Nothing out of the ordinary is to happen,
especially today.” Mr. Blunt nodded, re-emphasizing, “Especially
not today. Today is special for everyone, not just the children hoping to be
adopted.” I nodded. “Right. It’s also the birth of your
Lord.” “Of everyone’s Lord, Marvolo.” “Right. That’s what I meant.” Mr. Blunt sighed heavily. I did the same,
more in frustration over not understanding what I was doing wrong. I was
repeating everything I had been told, but he still looked disapproving. I hated
it when I tried my hardest and still didn’t get something right. Clamping my
jaw shut, I waited for him to take the lead in the conversation again. “Marvolo, you especially must try hard to
stay on the right path. I don’t know what else we can do for you. We promised
that, if you could go a whole year without unfit acts of …a particular
nature…you could get a gift this year. It works for all the other children. You
almost made it this year. Why do you refuse -” I cut him off. “I haven’t done anything like
that! Honestly, not since last October! Nothing has blown up, nobody levitated,
and Mrs. Blunt didn’t even grow anything abnormal. I never consciously try to
do those things, they just happen, but nothing has happened this year, I
swear!” Indeed, at times in my private thoughts I had wished ill fortune on
several, but nothing had ever come of it for months. In a way, I was almost
regretful that was so, since it barely seemed to cut down on Mrs. Blunt’s and
several of the children’s blatant and active dislike of me. I think that was louder and longer than I had
spoken at one time in a long while. Mr. Blunt looked at me curiously, and I chastised
myself. I normally had good self-control, but I had panicked, and now he would
question me again to no avail. Strange things simply tended to happen around
me, and I couldn’t explain them. It only reinforced everyone’s opinion that I
was a demon, and even I was starting to wonder. The bizarre things seemed to
have stopped, but now… The dull color of Blunt‘s eyes was fastened
to my face, his voice having that faint forcefulness it always did when he
sensed a crack in me to pry open. “Marvolo, then how can you explain the demon
kind that are inhabiting our common room right now?” Demon kind? “I - I don’t know what you mean,
sir. What demon kind?” I wasn’t even fully certain how to tell I was demonic
myself. I hadn’t green blood - though some had checked - or any such thing. I
also had no explanation for any of the weird occurrences that happened around
me, though I longed to understand and control them. My heart pounded in an odd
burst of desire, hoping something he said would help me comprehend how I was to
define ‘demonic.’ Mr. Blunt turned red. He had more patience
than his wife, but even he had his limits if he felt someone was lying. “Don’t
lie to me, you - you -” He fumed, and I was ready for an onslaught of
accusatory terms, but Blunt refrained himself. He merely said, “I try so hard.
Mrs. Blunt, she said you were a lost cause, but I couldn’t believe it. You were
a child, and showed such promise.” His eyes softened into a look of sad pity, a
harsher gaze to me than one filled with hate. “When I think about your father…”
His voice drifted off, the words carrying such weight they settled low in my
chest after entering my ears. I froze. In a whisper I said, “don’t talk
about my father.” I don’t think he heard me. “If he knew that
you were born - born as you are - well, it would have been his greatest
fear fulfilled, I’m sure. Lord knows the things that supposedly happened, for
you to have been brought here under…shall we say, less than desirable
circumstances? Yet despite any rumors, I took you in.” He leaned back in his
chair, eyes again leaving my face as he continued, “I supposed, putting you
away here, that you stood a chance to be normal. There was a possibility that
you might choose a different life. I have tried to give you a chance, away from
those who whispered you a demon at birth. Now, with these people out
there, I just don’t know. I don’t know how they found you, but I’m sure that if
you didn’t want to be found, you wouldn’t have been. It seems that you’ve made
your choice.” Needless to say, I felt very confused. And I
didn’t normally get confused. My stomach twisted, like I was going to cry from
frustration. I tried to calm myself, but I knew my voice shook. “Mr. Blunt, I
don’t understand. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I swear, I didn’t do
anything!” It was far easier to defend myself when I was covering something,
but right then I hadn’t that advantage. My words didn’t fall on deaf ears. Mr. Blunt
stood up slowly, and crossed over to me. I flinched as he stooped down to my
level, saying very seriously, “Marvolo, are you telling me the truth? Do you
really have no idea what is going on?” I saw no reason to lie, and anyway, Mr. Blunt
was not in a violent mood. The only time he used violence was when he became
hysterical and then lashed out, and those times were rare. At least I would not
have to hear the excuse that he was enforcing moral discipline, so the beating
would still coincide with his religious ideals. Such sanctimony was worse than
any physical pain. I had personally never bought his brand of morality as
anything more than an excuse, but then, I had never needed religion. “I am telling the truth.” Mr. Blunt nodded seriously, almost breaking
into a smile. He seemed very relieved, a feeling I shared with him right then.
Certainly, Blunt was flawed, but he was the best to me of the lot, and for some
reason his opinion mattered. That he had faith in me, however little, was the
only encouragement I’d ever received in my life. He motioned for the door. “Very well,
Marvolo, I believe you. I’ll take care of this. They won’t bother you again.” I slid off of my seat and followed him to the
party. It was dwindling down, and many of the younger children had gone to bed.
The adults, having made their purchases, had left with the intent to finalize
their deals the next day. Only a dozen or so were left, including Mrs. Blunt,
Trevor, and the two adults who had spoken with me. They had been ostracized to
the corner of the room, where Mrs. Blunt was glaring at them. Mr. Blunt, to his credit, walked right up to
them. He was a meek man to my knowledge, but when given the chance to preach he
seemed to expand, inflating for a short while with something he found full of
substance. Right now he ignored his wife’s simpering, crossing over to stand below
eye-level of the keen-eyed man. A silence fell over the room as the two squared
off. The man spoke. His voice was strong,
containing a bit of whimsy as well in his guttural accent, as if amused by
Blunt’s behavior. “Yes?” Mr. Blunt paused, and then said, “I’d rather
not do this in front of company.” His tone was stiff, seeming even more so when
juxtaposed with the other man’s lightness. “Do what?” was the flippant response. Blunt‘s mouth immediately opened, and then
closed, as if he were constantly reconsidering his immediate responses. He
finally settled on, “make a scene. However, I’m not willing to give you much
time, either, regardless of the surroundings. The choice has been made, and not
in your favor, I’m happy to say.” His voice gained a bit more confidence there,
to where he could finish quicker than before by saying coldly, “so if you’d
please just leave, and never return, I won’t have to resort to
anything.” The man’s eyes narrowed, in a manner not
threatening but irritated. “And what precisely could you resort to?” Scorn
dripped down from his eyes and out his mouth with those words. Before anything else could be said, the woman
stepped in. “Perhaps this isn’t the best of times for this. We’ll come back
later.” Blunt‘s form stiffened more than his voice at
that, and a touch of panic crept into his defiant words. “No, you will not.”
Under the other man’s gaze, Blunt wilted slightly, his tone turning more
wheedling as he gestured towards me. “It won’t be necessary. He can give you
nothing. He has no idea what he is doing!” Then, as if alighted by those words,
he added, “and if it’s not his fault, then it is your doing. And I will not
condone it. Leave now.” The woman was about to speak again when the
man interrupted. Smiling oddly, he seemed to speak in response to Blunt, but
his gaze was now entirely focused upon me. “Oh, he has nothing, you say? A
pity. Well, we’ll just be going then, except -” At that moment, a small snake
flew out of his robes and landed on the floor, where it scurried away. Mrs.
Blunt screamed and everyone began stampeding, more in reaction to her screech
than probably actually seeing the ridiculously small creature. His face a
blotched maroon, Mr. Blunt turned back to the man as he was jostled by his
wife. I heard him begin to speak. “What the hell do you think you are doing?
Get your unholy trinkets out…” And then I heard a voice over the din. It was low, with an odd speech impediment. I
glanced quickly about, but found no speaker anywhere. With the mayhem
surrounding me I tried to ignore it, and yet the sound continued, somehow
forcing my gaze to follow it to the floor. When I looked down I saw the little snake,
who was hiding behind an overturned chair. His tongue was flicking in and out,
and his little black orbs looked as surprised by my acknowledgment of him as I
was of his. Again he hissed, a hiss even I had never heard before. One that I
knew was filled with caution and curiosity, for it told me so with words I
could understand. I did not back away, though I certainly didn’t
approach it yet. I may have webbed a person’s hand or two, but animals did not
normally speak to me. Reason told me that it couldn’t be the snake. His mouth
forming words was a trick of the lights, and the words I heard were due to
damage done to my ears by the screeching of the guests. I may have been
abnormal, but I wasn’t psychotic… I didn’t think. Thoughts sprang up and
overlapped in my mind to try and analyze this event away. However, when his
glistening eyes focused on mine with a diligent stare, it seemed undeniable on
a level far deeper than human rationale. Again I heard… “Excsssiting party.” I tore my gaze away, my heart pounding in
protest and affirmation. No one seemed to be watching me. Perhaps it was a
trick of the devil people, as Blunt called them. Maybe they wished to ensnare
one of their own. Yet it didn’t feel like a ruse; in fact, it felt more natural
than any attempt at conversing I had ever done. My very soul, whatever that
was, seemed to urge me on. “You can’t understand me, can you?” The snake nodded. “Yesss, I can.” Unnoticed
by others behind the chair, his caution seemed to dissipate. He appeared far too calm, and outwardly I
adopted his countenance. “Wonderful. Of course you can.” Inside, I’d yet gained
enough control not to add in a burst, “Can you talk to anyone else?” The snake shook its head. I felt a rise of smugness came at that. It
was quickly depleted as reason unfortunately, but characteristically, seized my
consciousness again. “Of course you can’t. I’m the lucky one who’s going
crazy.” But it didn’t feel like I was going crazy, much as it should. As I
said, it seemed… natural. Right, almost. Like it was a part of me, an ability
that had always been there, lurking and looking for a way to manifest itself. I suddenly realized that a circle was
surrounding me. I looked up to see both the Blunts and the odd couple staring
at me pointedly, though with different intents. The Blunts looked horrified,
the couple merely intrigued. Mr. Blunt, pale and sweating, whispered, “Marvolo,
what are you doing?” He began to deflate before me, his assured stance wilting.
Whatever substance had filled him for this short time was gone, and he now
looked as if I had yanked painfully out of him. The faint residue that remained
seemed tinged with an anger or desperation. He let his wife push ahead of him
so her disgusted, frightened gaze was in the forefront. I didn’t know why the truth came out, but it
did, in a triumphantly defiant tone. “Speaking with the snake.” I said it loud
and strong, though the only things within my vision’s range right then to hear
it were the devil couple, the Blunts, and the snake. Trevor snorted, but Mrs. Blunt grabbed him
furiously, looking terrified. Mr. Blunt said in blatant refusal, “No, no, you
can’t be, that’s - that’s -” He looked helpless, as the other man said,
“Oh, he can, Blunt. There isn’t a way any one of us could make him do
that.” Mr. Blunt merely whispered, “it’s a trick, it
has to be.” I could see he was grasping for some reason to hide behind. “I’m afraid not.” The man’s words were
cutting in their indifference to Blunt, and then he turned to me. His smart
eyes gleamed in excitement mingled with some indefinable emotion. “Have you
done this sort of thing before?” he asked this calmly, his voice controlling
whatever excitement his eyes seemed to show. Still, he was decidedly warmer to
me now, perhaps to further nettle the Blunts. He even knelt before me, matching
my eye level. I shook my head fervently in response. “No,
not on purpose, and never talking with a - a snake!” It sounded ludicrous, and
at the same time, anything but that. The same confusing feelings applied to
what came out of me next as I stared at the tall man in dark robes. With a
suddenly quiet intensity I said, “But I want to.” The desire in my voice was
amazing to my ears. It was a hungry hope. Never had the thrilling prospect of
learning and developing intrigued me as much, for this touched an area inside
that had always been forbidden to me. I was half-frightened, knowing this was the
sort of demon actions the Blunts warned me of. Another part of me mirrored the
odd man’s face, a smile infused with a burning curiosity. A gargled sound escaped behind me, and I
turned to find Blunt looking pleadingly at me. He held his hands up, refusing
to meet the other man‘s eyes as he said, “Marvolo, you don’t know what you are
saying -“ The man stood and brushed himself off. “Oh,
I’d say he does, Blunt. It seems he’s had a change of heart, now that he’s been
given a proper choice.” The man then turned back to me and smiled a neutral
smile, his eyes flashing with something he obviously didn’t intend to share.
All he said was, “I’ll be seeing you again, Parselmouth.” With that, he and the
woman swept out of the room without a backward glance. My gaze followed them,
transfixed and tunneling my vision to their backs until the heavy door creaked
shut. Slowly, I became aware that I was now left
alone with the Blunts and the small snake on the floor. They seemed stupefied,
and now that we were alone I felt uncomfortable as well. Every sense of mine
felt heightened as I was suddenly, painfully, self-conscious before them. My
thin chest rose and fell, my breath sounding heavy to my ears. My mind was
reeling, the unfamiliar explosion of emotion inside making my dizzy confusion
worse. I forced myself to meet their gazes, but I didn’t know how to break the
silence. Apparently, though, they did. Mrs. Blunt, eyes blazing, pointed at me and
screeched, “I told you! I want him out of this place, immediately! He’ll infect
all the others! Demon! Check his blood now, it’s probably green!” She said this
hysterically while backing away, holding Trevor tightly in her arms. Mr. Blunt looked deadened, as if something
had been lost. “Go upstairs, Tom.” I stood, stunned. That was the first time he
had called me that. It sounded strange. I stared at him hard, trying to get him
to look at me, but he refused. I had no desire to see the disgust on the other
faces in that room, so I turned and left, carrying the small snake in my arms.
Alone I climbed up the creaking, splintered staircase in silence, straining to
but hearing nothing below. Chapter 2: "Special" Cases I stumbled up the stairs in the dark and made
my way down the hall. Over the banister I barely heard the muffled whispers and
hisses that faded behind a slammed door. The wheels in my mind were whirling
and spinning with such force that they seemed to strike electric sparks. At the
same time, I had no clue as to what the strange scene in the room below had
meant. Blunt’s confrontation with the oddly dressed man was perplexing to say
the least. The part of me that had first been thrilled to discover my
burgeoning power was being sucked away, and an intense fear flooded me in its
place. What was happening around me, to me? Mrs. Blunt's voice kept
ringing in my ear –‘Demon! Demon!’ There had been more than mere anger
in her eyes. She had been full of disgust, skirting away from me like I was a
plague upon her society. But wasn't I? My eyes focused on the reality in front of me
then, taking in the torn rags upon the floor. I walked dully over to the
smudged mirror that hung in the musty bath. I stared into it, examining every
inch of my face, looking for something--what, I didn't know. All I saw was a
tall, scrawny boy, pale by nature and b the confining walls which ensured he
saw little sunlight, his hair curly and dark while his blue eyes seemed to
change hue to suit his mood. Right then they were a dark, midnight color, mirroring the circles beneath. I gazed into
myself, staring back, becoming lost in the empty reflection of my eyes, until – "Looking for fleas?" I knew the voice
without even turning. It belonged to Sean Reilly, another lifer at the
orphanage. Sean was sixteen and heavyset, though nobody knew how. He was a
father figure to most of the younger boys, acting so nurturing it had made me
feel sick and envious at the same time. Jealous of what, I had no idea.
Emotions rarely made sense, no matter how hard I tried to understand them.
Often, I found it easier to ignore them if I could. In any event, Sean and I
had an uneasy relationship. For some reason he avoided me, as did all the
children, probably due to the Blunts’ warnings. When he did speak to me, it was
always with a rough edge, as if he had to prove he didn't fear me. And then, in
stark contradiction, he sometimes stared at me with a softer gaze, which we
both seemed to find equally discomforting. Most often, he stayed away in
seeming wariness. I laughed at the irony. Here I was, scared of
myself, yet still inspiring fear in others. Imagine if I actually tried to do
so? But I had no desire to make others
afraid. Well, maybe Mrs. Blunt… followed
by Trevor and all his friends who called me a half-life, spit on me,
tripped me, and beat me repeatedly. Oh, and let’s not forget the nurse, who
wouldn't touch me even when I was sick. I lI ooked at my reflection again,
catching sight of the little snake still wound around my hand. I suppose I had been quiet for a while, for
Sean actually asked, "you okay, Riddle?" I shook my head. Avoiding eye contact, I said
softly, "didn't get a present this year." I didn't know if Sean understood what that
meant or not. Either way, I half-grimaced as he then became maternal instinct
incarnate. "Riddle, I'm--" He suddenly paused, as if realizing who he
was talking to. He backed away quickly, saying, "too bad. Nothing good
anyway." "I wouldn't know." Instinct overtook
me, and I spontaneously decided to face him. I turned my tired gaze towards
him, for once not covering it with a smirk or a guarded expression. He was
taller than me, and I obliged, tilting my head upwards. I wouldn't cry, but
this was as unassuming as I could get. I told myself that I was just doing this
as an experiment, to see if he would comfort someone like me. Not that I would
allow it--or like it--or needed it– Sean stared back at me. A moment of silence followed. He seemed torn,
but maybe I was superimposing what I wished or expected to see. Finally, his
mouth opened, and he let out an indistinguishable noise, then turned and left.
I turned as well, back to the mirror. Experiment over, I said to myself,
fighting back the ur ge
to choke. Tears came, and I hastily wiped them away. At that moment, little
Jiminy chose to enter, and he let out a gasp at seeing me. I spun around, embarrassment and fury
overtaking me. "What the hell are you looking at? Get out, or I'll sic
this snake on you!" Jiminy squealed and fled, causing a commotion in the
next room. He was probably spilling his little heart out to Sean. I whirled,
fuming, letting myself relish the feeling. It helped me to forget the pain and
embarrassment. Still, my chest heaved beneath the threadbare shirt as I heard
Jiminy’s voice. I struggled to calm myself and think logically. There was no way
that I was upset over Sean not comforting me. It wasn't his place to, and more
importantly, I didn't need it. I was used to this treatment, for it had been
always been that way. Trevor and Mrs.
Blunt were always kind enough to inform me I was never worth being cared for.
The response I always gave myself was that I didn’t need their care, repeating
it to form a shield with which to deflect their words. Pathetically enough, it wasn’t sufficient at
that time. I could only hope that one day it would be hardened enough to keep
anything at all from piercing me. I saw my quivering lip, my blazing eyes, and I
heatedly smacked my face. It left streaks of prominent red across the whiteness
of my skin, but sunk no deeper than that. The action was calming, and I watched
its effects as I drew myself back under control. Through gritted teeth I
whispered, "Like I want them around me anyway. They're all weak and
pathetic - I'd rather have twenty demons in me than go crawling to someone like
Sean!" Immediately my expression changed to steel. An
implacable wall now replaced the sniveling, pitiful glaze over my eyes. The
small snake had slithered up my arm and was now residing on my shoulder, having
watched the transformation. In a low hiss it said, "Amazsssing -" As I looked at myself, I was the same on the
inside as I appeared outwardly. I felt nothing, I was hollow and empty, like
nothing could penetrate me. Still, I noted that my hard gaze seemed to be
protecting nothing but air, which was a disconcerting thought until I shoved it
away. I turned and walked out into the narrow dormitory which was lined with broken
beds. A few faces turned toward me, visions of silent disgust. I had spent
years trying to decipher exactly what the expressions people turned on me
encompassed. The distanced eyes, narrowed and drawn, the mouths curling with
repulsion, the nostrils flared, the unconscious movements away from me - many
words could be used to describe this phenomenon. By having devoted my time to
objectively analyzing them, I ensured that their gazes no longer fully achieved
their desired impact. I was prepared for such a greeting and ignored
them, calmly striding to the end where my bed was located. Sean was waiting
there with several others, including little Jiminy. They were standing with
arms crossed, lined behind the figure of Jiminy on the floor. I sighed outwardly,
my hand automatically going to my throat for the chain. Sean looked as puffed up as ever, a peacock
trying to preen in oiled and shorn feathers. "Riddle, what the hell is
wrong with you?" "I'm evil, remember?" Sean's eyes narrowed. "Not funny.” I
shrugged, tossing Snicks onto my bed. At that several of the children flinched,
which brought me mild satisfaction. Even Sean had jerked slightly, and in
response to the flush that he must have felt creep up into his face, he added
hotly, “Cute trick, but it didn’t work. Why should I be afraid of a skinny
little thing like you?" "Good question. Let's sleep on it." Sean stepped forward, placing his hands
protectively on Jiminy's shoulders. "Apologize to him, Riddle. Now." I glanced at Jiminy, whose eyes were red and
huge. I felt a pang of guilt, but then, it wasn't my fault! If Sean hadn't
acted like such a rat to me, I wouldn't have lashed out, I reasoned. Still,
Jiminy looked so sad that it was hard to look at him. Pitiful, but sad. Sean was waiting, looking ready for a fight. My
ego was ready, but reason clearly stated that a fight wasn’t the way for me to
go. As diplomatically as I could, I looked back down to Jiminy and said,
"I am sorry you got hurt, Jiminy. Truly." I turned then to my bed,
but felt Sean's hand grasp my shoulder painfully, digging into that bony
structure. "That was hardly an apology." I shrugged, uncomfortable with his touch, but
he merely leaned in closer to me. His face inches away, he lowered his voice so
that only I could make out his next comment. "Listen, you--you might have
been born with a lot of tricks, but none of it's real. You try to hurt one of
my boys and I'll kill you before they can throw your arse out, you soulless git." The look in his eyes was deadly serious, daring
me to strike. I shook loose from him, my temper flaring, feeling my lips
curling into a mirroring snarl. "That's sweet, Sean. Nobody wanted you, so
you actually feel the need to protect the one place that will have you - an
orphanage. I admire that, I really do. Simply inspirational. But tell me, what
are you going to do when the last of your litter has been auctioned off like
Jiminy here?" I turned to Jiminy, on a roll now. I tried to stop, but I
was too heated. "Congrats on that, Jiminy. I heard a really nice couple
bought you. Just make sure you don't sneeze or drop anything on the floor, and
they might keep you this time." The moment of silence that fell over the room
after the words left my mouth was deadening. I felt every vein in my body
pulsing. I didn't want to but I stayed focused on Jiminy, whose face absolutely
collapsed. He ran from the room sobbing. I wanted to run after him, to
apologize - there was no excuse I could think of for my behavior towards him.
More importantly, I realized I didn't want to come up with an excuse for my
actions. For a moment, it had been wonderfully cathartic. Yet, as I stared at
the door he ran through, shame, guilt and anger at myself washed over me in
frightening waves. Never in my ten and a half years could I remember being so
vicious to someone who so clearly didn't deserve it. My soul had vertigo. Sean had backed away, and I thought he was
preparing to strike me for sure. Instead, he merely looked sick with revulsion.
I couldn't blame him. The feeling behind that look was mirrored within me. In a
whispered voice filled with hatred he asked, "Does your heart beat?" I tried to focus on him. Dully, I responded,
"Sometimes. Not enough, I'm beginning to think." Sean made for the door, leaving me standing
there. I don't know how long he was gone, but when he returned I realized I
hadn't moved. It couldn't have been that long, for he threw me an angry look as
he said, "He won't come back in yet. He's hysterical. I'll give him a few
minutes. Hey -" He called this loudly out to me as I left the room, but
did not follow. I found Jiminy curled up against a wall next to
the staircase, sobbing into his knees. I felt horribly evil, and desperately
wanted to make it up to Jiminy, but I hadn’t a clue how to go about it. I was
never let in on how to be comforting, or comforted. In truth I didn’t want to
be witness to a crying child, but I couldn’t leave. Perhaps it was ego to prove
I could comfort, perhaps concern over what Sean would otherwise do, or just
plain guilt – whatever the reason or reasons, I didn’t leave. Awkwardly I knelt
down in front of him, waiting patiently for his sobbing to decrease. Finally he
peeked at me through his fingers. I took a deep breath, and said slowly,
"Jim, I’m - I'm really very sorry. I had no right to say what I did. I was
mad, but that's no excuse." Jiminy shook his head, whispering, "You're
right. You're right about it, but only you have the courage to say it." I stared back at him, dumbfounded. "Right
about what?" Jiminy sighed. "The way we get treated.
The fear that if we aren't the perfect sons and students for whoever takes us
in, that if we disappoint them, they'll send us back. They'll never be a real
family to us, whoever adopts us, will they? The uncond – uncondation…” his brow
furrowed a bit there. Automatically I offered, “Unconditional?” He nodded, wiping a sleeve across his stained
cheek and finishing, “Unconditional love, and all that. The fear will never go
away." No, I thought to myself.
"Perhaps," I said lamely. Jiminy was staring at the floor, and I
sighed, torn between comforting him and telling him the truth I had come to
believe in. "Look Jiminy, I don't know if you'll ever feel secure. I don't
know if any of us will.” I hated to include myself, but hoped it would reach
him better. Giving him a faint, forced smile, I finished, “But if anyone has a
chance, it's you. You're exactly what everyone is looking for - you're a really
good kid. And the people who come here, they can't all be bad...I don’t
think..." Jiminy turned to me, showing some spunk.
"But you don't know that, you don't know that they aren't
all bad." I had no answer to that. In my experiences,
well, I had yet to be impressed. If people could just dump children like Jiminy
in here, leave all the kids having to parade around for families and love, and
the children actually following this
wretched choreography - no, I was not impressed with people so far. The floor was getting cold as I knelt in my
thin pants. Somewhere a clock chimed, and I felt a smoothly scaled body slip
onto the floor between Jiminy and myself. The look the snake gave me was one of
clear disapproval. "Sssay sssomething to him," it hissed. "I'm trying!" I said out loud, not
realizing my mistake. Jiminy looked at me curiously as I fumbled to cover up.
"I mean - I'm trying to -" All of a sudden an idea came to me. I
looked at Jiminy, pulling him to his feet. "Come with me," I said. I hastened downstairs, shushing his questioning
protests, and sneaked us into Blunt's personal office. It was different than
the work office I had been in earlier. Surprisingly cozy. Dark redwood
furniture lay about with burgundy pillows, the walls were encased with bookshelves
and paintings and family portraits. Nothing in there was new, but it was used
and therefore had a welcoming atmosphere about it. I lit a candle and pointed
Jiminy over to one of the walls, where a small oil painting hung meekly among
its superiors. It was of a small dusty ranch house, with a garden and field
before it. On one side the father was raking the fields, while a primly dressed
woman was reading to two beautifully cherubic little girls under a hanging.
Before her, three boys were sprawled on the ground, tussling playfully.
Everyone's expression was serene and lighthearted, earthy and ideal. I turned to Jiminy who stood mesmerized before
it. "What's it of?" he asked. "It's a painting by Arnold Crevanti,
called The Family," I answered. "I read about it in one of
Blunt's books in here. I've sneaked in and read everything here at least
twice." I kept my gaze upon his face, watching his reaction. In truth, I
didn't enjoy staring at the picture. Sometimes my eyes were too drawn to
details to examine and pick apart whatever I was looking at. I noticed that the mother seemed poorly
dressed; yet, her black hair was appealing to me. On occasion I even imaged she
looked like my mother would have, before rebuking myself for such silly
notions. The image in the picture was a farce, and such thoughts were
pointless. Clearing my throat, I turned my gaze from Jiminy to examine the cuff
of my sleeve, saying, "It's supposed to capture a moment of reality." Jiminy didn't seem to acknowledge
me. His eyes were still focused on the painting. "Is it real, though? Is
it of real people?" I shrugged, managing to look sincere. "It
must be. I mean, even if these exact people don't exist, something like this
must exist for him to have captured it. Some people must have this, a real
family. Why not you?" Jiminy turned to me shyly. "You really
think so?" I smiled at him, feeling a bit of relief.
"Sure," I said. Jiminy looked back up at it wistfully. "I
hope so," he said quietly, then turned back to me. "Thanks, Riddle. I
don't think you're all evil. I'll do what Blunt tells us to, I'll pray that you
get a soul even with demon blood in you. It seems possible, no matter what Mrs.
Blunt says." The smile on my face froze. My heart, which I
think had been beating, felt as if it had been sucked out and dropped to the
floor. "Thanks, Jiminy. Have a good life." Jiminy turned to head back up the stairs.
"You, too," he said, as sincerely and earnestly as before. He smiled
sweetly at me, trying so hard to be good to me, while I numbly waved back. With a final wave, he exited the room. I sank
down into one of the chairs as the snake slithered onto my hand. It was the
only thing that had touched me in a non-threatening manner in as long as I could
remember. I looked at it, but I could think of nothing intelligible to say. "Interesting night," was what finally
came out of my mouth. The snake nodded; curling up on my knee with
his cold, dry skin glowing. "I'll sssay," it agreed. "One moment
I'm minding my own busssinesss in a nice de-gnomed orchard, and them sssome man
picksssme up, throwsss me under hissss cloak, and dragsss me here where I get
thrown on the floor and meet sssomeone who can talk to me." It sighed
morosely. "I hope I am not going crazsssy." I nodded, a small, empty smile forming on my
face. The candle was almost out, and shadows were playing on the wall, their
indefinite form as real to me as I felt myself to be. "I'll second
that," I agreed. The snake nodded once, then was silent, leaving us to our
own separate thoughts. Chapter 3: Racing Soldiers of Fortune The next few weeks carried a lost sort of feeling to me. I stared out the
window, wondering why all the snow here seemed determined to turn to slush, and
then the slush to mud. Even now, in the summer, the weather was still horrid. I
was surprised this wasn't blamed on me as well. Sighing, I turned away, feeling
depressed enough already. It was several months after the Christmas party, or
maybe mere days. It was hard to tell at times, though the calendar in the
dining hall supported the former time frame. Everything around me seemed
blurred, unreal, although not much had changed. Mrs. Blunt still made me eat at
a separate table in another room because I was not able to partake in the
worshipping part of the meal. She'd done this on occasion in the past, but now
it was routine. Often, she just neglected to give me food altogether. Trevor
still beat me up, though perhaps a bit more now, since Mr. Blunt did not seem
too keen on protecting me at all. In fact, whenever I breathed it seemed Mrs.
Blunt would sharply reprimand me, saying my behavior was unfit and I should be
turned out. Nothing new on her part, of course... only, now, Mr. Blunt was
looking thoughtful as she said it, instead of slightly upset or embarrassed. In truth, Trevor and Sean took turns with thrashings, and they were often
encouraged or helped by others. Sean at least had the minimal reasoning of
protecting his younger students, though I dismissed it as a thin excuse
concocted by a feeble mind. I did little to fight back, feeling I almost
deserved the pain. It at least gave me some feeling other than guilt at my
actions, or confusion. Evil should be punished, be beaten, shouldn't it? What I
had done to Jiminy was definitely not good. And if someone like Jiminy thought
that I was a demon, even if it was solely because that foolishness had been
pumped into him by a passel of ignorant others, it said something, didn't it?
If I really was good, it would show - or else everyone around me was just as
bad. Or blind. The uncertainty of which answer was the truth, if either,
plagued my thoughts constantly, and it frustrated me that no answer
materialized. I began to almost welcome the few moments of relief which came
with the blackouts Sean and Trevor ever so kindly gave to me. I grew quite fond of the snake, which I found out was a male (a strapping
male, he informed me proudly). To me, he just looked like a garter snake, but
since he was the only one who would talk to me, I didn't say so. He couldn't
tell me his name, because apparently snakes kept their true names concealed
with select family members, and we were not close enough yet, or something like
that. He offered me the nickname Snicks, which I accepted. I stayed inside
often. Locked away in the dorm room, safely out of reach of the others, I
curled up with Snicks or a book. It was warmer that way, especially since I was
underfed, nursing bruises and sprains, and had no warm clothing. And I wouldn't
have to interact with anyone, which I had no reason to. It was on one of these miserable afternoons that I was sitting cross-legged
on a chair, shivering slightly as the drapes shifted in the breeze, rereading The
Wasteland with Snicks hanging around my neck, that everything changed. The windows were open because the glass had been broken and left unfixed
years ago, and often odd things flew in; insects, some birds, once a bat.
Still, I was unprepared for the soft, cooing hoot behind my head. Snicks was
first to shift, as I was absorbed in the poem and had no desire to move. Then I
heard the fluttering of wings, and suddenly a small brown owl perched itself on
the arm of the chair. It eyed me curiously, extending a stumpy leg with an
envelope attached to it. It leaned forward, hooting and watching me
expectantly. My first reaction was to swivel my head to the door, searching for some sign
that this was a prank. Not seeing anyone, I hesitantly but curiously reached
out and took the letter. It was done on some thick type of parchment, and the
handwritten address had an odd, loopy slant to it. It was addressed to: Mr.
Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Orphanage Dormitory Without Windows. I had never received mail before in my life. Why would I? Why was I now, for
that matter? I carefully placed the book aside and hurriedly ripped open the
envelope and shook out a letter written on the same parchment, my hands
trembling from excitement and wonder. Inside the letter it stated: 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 1. We await your owl by no later than July
31. Yours sincerely, Albus Dumbledore, Psychosis seems a reasonable assumption, doesn't it? I thought to
myself as I turn to the next page, which read: HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY I realized that I hadn't been breathing in awhile and sucked in great gasps.
My mind was floundering as I read the pages over and over again, completely
lost. What were they talking about? What was Hogwarts - what was a magic
school at all, anyway? My mind raced, stimulated but wary. Did it have
something to do with those two people who had crashed the Christmas party? I was still stupefied when Snicks slithered up onto my arm and read over my
shoulder. "Ahh," he said knowingly. "You are accsssepted into
Hogwartsss. Congratulationsss, it isss a very well known sssschool." Immediately I turned and pounced on him (figuratively, of course.) "You
understand what this means?" Snicks looked at me as if my stupidity was beyond comprehension. "You
don't?" I shook my head. "I've never heard of any of this before-what is
it?" Snicks looked curious. "I just assssumed, "he began thoughtfully,
"that you would know. It ssseemed obviousss. Well, Hogwartsss isss a
ssschool for people, children really, who have great magical talent. It isss a
place where they are trained." It didn't seem real. It couldn't be real, my mind decided. But then, neither could my
speaking with snakes, or floating and hurting Mrs. Blunt be real. They
decidedly weren't normal events. I'd always been told, though, that those acts
were demonic behavior... "It's incredible," I said softly. "I don't
know anything about magic!" Snicks snorted. "What are you talking about? You possesss great
capabilitiesss, even I can senssse that. I cannot think of anyone else who can
ssspeak with ssssnakes." "But that's just an abnormality, a-a deformity." Snicks began to
look very indignant, so I quickly rephrased. "I mean, I always thought
that, - well, I'd always been told that such things were because I was part
demon. N-Not that I was-that I was-magical." I fingered my chain.
"That things like that were wrong." I'd never wanted to believe that
I was demonic, but a part of my stubborn refusal had belied a wondering of
whether that label wasn't true. Snicks looked very upset, his pale tongue flickering. "Who told you
thisss? The people who live here? Do not lisssten to them, they do not
understand. Ssssome people use sssuch powers for evil, but there are some
wizsssards who do nothing but good." A chill came over me at the sound of my new designation, and a smile spread.
Wizard, I thought. The word brought exciting images that I'd read about
to my mind; pictures of great, powerful figures who could control time and
matter, who were wise and gave guidance, people who were - respected. Not evil,
but valuable. People whose oddities had meaning and a purpose, not to be
shunned but cultivated. Of course, the Blunts' wouldn't agree with such things;
I'd had to sneak to the library to teach myself anything of use or find things
of interest. And now, fantastical whimsy was made real. "So you really think I belong here, Snicks?" "Of courssse. Yesssterday, when the mop attacked Mrs. Blunt, you
thought that was coincidencssse?" The memory made me laugh. "I really didn't mean it," I confessed.
"I thought everything I did was so wrong, even if I also thought it felt
right. I never did such things on purpose. It felt good, of course, but - now
-" I looked as Snicks, feeling my eyes flash. "You mean I can learn
to really do these things on purpose? I can control them, use them when I
want?" Snicks looked a bit uncomfortable. "When it isss right," he
counseled. "Not on a whim -magic is carefully regulated by the Ministry of
Magic, and there are laws -" "I didn't mean illegally!" I said hotly, feeling my face flame.
Why did everyone assume the worst about me? Certainly, the thought of leaving
Mrs. Blunt, Trevor, Sean and his goons somewhere in the Arctic Ocean to freeze,
or zapping them into baboons, had crossed my mind. But what was wrong with
dreaming? Snicks looked apologetic. "Of courssse not," he hissed, and then
slithered away. I didn't give him any attention, focusing my eyes on the
Hogwarts crest. A huge relief welled up inside me, a feeling of freedom and
lightness I had never experienced before. "I'm not evil," I whispered.
Tears came; it was as if all the tension and adrenaline in my body was giving
way, allowing emotions to come. For once I didn't force them away, and they
didn't hurt. I heard voices then, and quickly stuffed the papers under the cushion,
trying to look inconspicuous. My hands were still shaking, so I clenched them
in my lap. Sean and several others crowded into the room, including Trevor. I
groaned inwardly. Even though Trevor had always made it a point to not
associate with the orphan riffraff, he and Sean seemed to have bonded over
their intense dislike of me. Sweet, wasn't it? I hurriedly brushed away the few
trickles of tears, fighting back the humiliation of crying even though they
didn't seem to have noticed. Instead, they looked over my head and began talking loudly. Trevor said,
"What is that stink in the air? It smells like something rotting - like
some wimpy soulless skeleton has been sitting here rotting the air for real
people." "Shove it, Trevor." Subtlety, thy name was Tom. Sean and the others formed a circle around my body, with Trevor standing
right in front of me. His red face flared in haughty amazement. I hadn't fought
back in so long, and never this boldly. He wheezed out his next words, trying
futilely to sound enforcing. In fact, nothing about him seemed commanding,
especially now. And I never gave credit for simple effort. He roughly said, "What did you say, half-life?" I stood calmly and looked him in the eyes. Although he was much more filled
out than I, and my elder, we were the same height. I didn't raise my voice,
simply saying, "I-said-shove-off. While it is such a clever bit, to
pretend I am not here while insulting me, the subtlety wore off-oh--when I was
two. I would say try to think of a new act, but I hate to smell the frying
scent which taxing your brain tends to cause." Was I asking for it? Absolutely. Trevor's eyes narrowed and he pulled his
hand back, ready to strike. However, rather than taking the swing a dim light
went off in his eyes. He backed off, smirking, leaving the others and myself
gawking in anticipation. His entire face defined smugness. Folding his arms, he
said, "Oh, that's very clever, half-life. You are very
clever." That was unexpected. I knew I was walking into a trap, but I was more
curious than afraid. "Thank you." Trevor looked like the cat that ate the canary - except he resembled a
deformed hippo more than a feline, but I digress. He said loudly, "Of
course, we can't give you all the credit for your cleverness, can we?" I admit I was still intrigued, and I played along. "Well, I guess I owe
some of it to you all, for being such incredibly easy targets. I don't thank
you nearly enough." "No, that's not what I meant. What I meant is, you are possessed. A
sick little half-demon. You wouldn't be anywhere near as clever or smart if you
weren't controlled by that dark stuff." The direction this was heading was no longer entertaining for me. Trevor and
the others, on the other hand, appeared as if a second Christmas had come. I
stayed silent, though hearing the fears in me being voiced was making me
fidget. Trevor did not let up. "Yes, demons can be clever, can't they? At least
for tricky sayings and trying to hurt innocent, good humans. But you can't even
be good at being evil, can you?" "Stop it, Trevor, I mean it!" I threatened, feeling defensive rage
boil up inside me, taking the place of the fear that he was right. I fought to
maintain the commanding coolness I'd felt when first speaking to him after
discovering my magic powers. Trevor was remorseless and unrelenting. "Oh no, since you're only a
half-blood, I bet whatever created that side of you is just as disappointed.
Compared to others like you, you wouldn't measure up, even with your
cleverness!" "That's it." My voice was hardly quiet, sounding high but
chilled. Without thinking, I held out my hand, willing with all my might that
now one of those strange occurrences would happen. Turning Trevor into a toad,
floating him out the window, floating myself--anything. Anything to
prove that he was wrong. I shook my hand furiously, pleading for words to fly
from my lips as they had so flawlessly before without a thought. A moment went by, where nothing happened. Then, after everyone realized that
I had failed to materialize anything, they all broke into uproarious laughter.
It was mocking and harsh, and as the blood flowed to my face I stared at my
hand. Words like failure, half-life, worthless, hopeless, thing ran wild
inside my mind, turning my fear and humiliation into a frenzy. "Riddle." Trevor's voice was slow and taunting, silkily low. I had
to face him. As much as I wanted to bolt and never come back, I had to face
him. I turned my sweaty, broken countenance towards his. Trevor had never looked bigger as he clicked his tongue in triumph.
"See? You're a pathetic excuse for a human, and obviously not a very good
demon, either. You really don't serve any purpose for living, now do you? It
doesn't matter where you live, anywhere would have given you up, being the
plaguing burden to every society that you are." He approached slowly;
relishing the way this slow torture twisted my face. He had me broken and
defeated, and there was no way he would let this opportunity go by. "But
we can fix that, can't we, boys? Fix it so you'll never be a bother to life
again. No one would care, who even thinks you're alive now anyway? Do
you?" This last question he punctuated with an uppercut to my jaw. Still, I doubt
I would have answered anyway; words had failed me, everything about myself had
failed me. I lay there limply as they proceeded to kick in my ribs, grinning
with each crack, slapping each other's backs with glee as more blood came out
of me. The pain was overwhelming. Trevor lifted me so Sean could angle at my
stomach and face easier, while others had taken wooden planks to my shins and
knees. Instinctively I howled out, but it sounded base and unnatural even to
me. As if the sound was raw and empty, inhuman. After a while, I didn't feel
any of it anymore. I collapsed into the pulsing sensation I felt as my heart
tried to continue beating. I didn't remember willing it to do anything. Time
ceased to exist, and everywhere I was numb. Consciousness was fleeting, and I
found myself welcoming the blackness, wanting to escape into my own mind rather
than face the beating. After a while it all stopped. I didn't even realize right away that it had
ended, so hazy was my consciousness by that point. Eventually, though, I was
pulled back to reality to find Trevor leaning over me. His eyes were
passionately alive with the zeal that only seems to come from deep hatred. In a
voice breathing malice he said, "You'd better find someplace else to be,
half-life. Once I tell mum and dad what you tried to do, though you failed
miserably, they'll be throwing you out faster than you can get the shit kicked
out of you. You know it's true, you might as well leave before they call the
police." He stood up, sniggering at his and the others' handiwork. In a
voice dripping with sarcasm he said, "If you can, that is." With that, he and the others left me there on the floor. Snicks drew up
close to me, stained with my blood. He'd had to crawl through it to get to me
after the fight was done. During it, he must have been hiding. All I could say
was, "It's true." My voice was soft and cracked, and as I coughed, I
tasted metallic fluid. I could not move yet, but soon I would have no choice.
Where was I to go? I didn't seem to possess any magical talent after all. The
letter was a fraud, a joke - a mistake. And yet, I couldn't just lie there. I couldn't give up and do nothing but
wait to be carted off. The humiliation and self-loathing remained, but it was
partially tempered by the beating and an instinctive defensiveness that never
fully left me. Snicks waited with me, leaving only to fetch me the acceptance letter. I had
no doubt that they would retract their admission once I got there, but I had no
choice. Trying to see though the blood crusting near my eyes, I read the letter
again, trying to reclaim some semblance of the joy it gave me. I listened to
Snicks say that he couldn't guide me, that all he knew was that the train I
needed to catch was at a 'platform nine and three-quarters', which he had heard
from another snake. Talking was painful. "Well, we don't have a choice, now do we? Why
should anything be easy? We'll head for there." A coughing fit overtook me, sending waves of agony though my broken body. I
felt a chill sweep over me, and my voice shook as I whispered, "There's
nothing here." ... Chapter 04:
On My Own, With Some (Dumb) Luck I lay there, time of the essence and yet
simultaneously meaningless. It couldn’t have been that long, because whatever
light had been coming through the windows hadn’t dissipated. Reason told me to
move, and I did so slowly, wincing from the questions I shrieked internally at
myself. I couldn't understand what had gone wrong -other times I had sent
Trevor flying down stairs or he had begun to pummel himself. There had even been one time when had I muttered
some strange-sounding words, and he had collapsed on the floor in a fit of
agony before me. The details of that occurrence were blurry, and I didn't think
Trevor remembered it at all. It wasn’t a very settling memory for me. I certainly hadn't been in control then. It
had been as if something primal within me had burst forth with an inherent
energy Part of my demon half, I had supposed. It hadn’t been done consciously,
though perhaps I’d simply wanted something bad to happen to him. Then I hadn’t
known of any real power. But now, when I had wanted nothing more than to
actively punish Trevor, to punish them all, nothing had happened. I heard Snicks beside me, softly hissing, "We
have to leave here. They'll be back sssoon." I moved, but slowly. A part of me didn’t care, and
a frustration too deep to merely be petulance was escaping me. "I don't
want to go to this school anymore. They'll only toss me right out again, like
every place would. I can't do magic correctly, just look what happened!" Snicks seemed curious. "Yesss," he
agreed. "That wasss sssome powerful ssstuff that almossst happened." The snake was obviously blind. I glared at him,
annoyed by his innocent look, and snarled, “What fight were you watching?" "Yoursss. I am amazed that sssomething could
ssstop you from putting a curssse on him. You ssseemed ssso determined, and I
could almost sssense the energy leaving you." No, not blind. Snicks was obviously insane.
"What curse? I didn't do anything!" Snicks looked annoyed. "Why would I lie?
Sssnakes sssense thessse thingsss." A funny feeling came over me; I wanted to believe
Snicks with every thread of my heartstrings, and despite my natural skepticism,
I did. "I couldn't sense anything. Why would someone or thing stop
me?" Then, a bit wounded, I added “How would they?” Snicks shrugged, then said in a flippant tone, "Maybe it wasss a
guardian angel." At that, I snorted. "Right, a guardian angel.
I know about those things. Aren't they supposed to keep you from getting the
stuffing kicked out of you?" Snicks looked wary. "Tom," he said
slowly, "you looked ready to kill him, if you could. I don’t know what
curssse you were trying, but it might have been ssssomething seriousss.
Sssomething too advancsssed for now, but dangerousss." “Well, it didn’t work, and I haven’t a clue what I
said, so –“ “There are many reasonsss why it might not have
worked. But the energy you gave off…ssssuch magic mussst be a very deep part of
who you are." Snicks looked serious, and respectful. "You mussst
learn to control thessse powersss, ssso it does not happen again
unwillingly." I thought about it. I truly, desperately wanted to
believe Snicks. Perhaps he was merely fooling me, but some stubborn bit of my
ego latched onto what he was saying. I could recall feeling something odd when
the strange things about me occurred – even when I’d been called a demon, it
was for being able to do things others around me couldn’t. That must have meant
something, and maybe it truly was magic. Yet, the thought didn’t really lift my
spirits from dismay, horror, and confusion over what had gone wrong. Even if
I’d never been able to control these powers in the past, it haunted my
mind--the fear that something had prevented me, or that I was maybe unable to
act on command. In an effort to cover my
feelings I said, "I don't really see what would be so terrible not having
Trevor around." Snicks looked at me warily, as if he couldn't tell
if I were joking or not. "Think of what would have happened if you had
taken a life, even one like Trevor's." I thought about that, too, as I mincingly got to
my feet. "You're right," I finally conceded. "His parents love
him, poor things. There's no way I could have sneaked out of this house and
gotten away if I had killed him. And now, I have no choice but to go to
school." Snicks rolled his eyes and sighed. "Exactly.
That is precisely what I meant." He shook his head. "You children,
Tom, I don't know about you all." I froze, then said to him very slowly and
distinctly, "I am being serious. And I was never a child." Snicks seemed a little chastised. "I am
sssorry, Tom." I looked away, cautiously walking to my bed. In a
tone made caustic to belie my
unsteady nerves, I replied, "And don't call me Tom. You obviously don't
know me well enough to call me by my
real name." Snicks answered, "I’m not." I stared at him. My head was already whirling
enough, but I had to risk further confusion by asking, "All right, then
what is my real name?" Snicks got a faraway look in his eyes, and
answered seriously, " A sssussspicion…you’re not jussst the Tom Riddle of
here." "Right. Of course." Something in what he
was saying made me want to scream out in agreement. Inside I connected to what
he was telling me and needed to make it known. I staggered about the room,
trying to control the roiling emotions inside. Cautiously I tested my body - it
was painful, but everything seemed to work. It didn't seem possible for this to
be true, but after all that Snick had told me I wouldn't be surprised if I
flew. Snicks didn’t seem to share in my churning
emotions. He merely said, "We must get going." "Right," I answered. It was relieving to
have his solidness near me. As I grasped my pillowcase, I fought to adopt that
same characteristic. Quietly, I crept to the hallway and made sure that
everyone was downstairs eating. Then I raced to the back of the manor and made
my way down the old servants’ staircase that led to their quarters. This part
of the orphanage had been sealed off years ago to the children, being the
private living space of the Blunts. Snicks was curled on my shoulder, and made
no sound until I turned toward Mr. Blunt’s private study instead of the door to
the outside. "What are you doing?!" he hissed at me,
but I ignored him. I slowly turned the door and stepped inside, not bothering
to light a candle. I went straight for the phony looking books, pulled the
cover aside and revealed an ancient safe. I had been down here often enough to
know the exact combination. I was excellent at sneaking around. When one is
hardly noticed, it becomes a way of life. "We need money, don't we?"
was my only comment, and Snicks stopped at the steel in my voice. I reached out
to it, placing my hand against its worn knob. And I immediately screamed out it pain as the
flesh on my hand was seared. I tried to pull it away, but it seemed suctioned
to it, drawing some mystical pattern on my palm in a ferocious zeal. I felt as
though my entire essence was being dragged through my palm into the vault I had
been about to plunder. Coherent thought again left me as I bit my lip to
silence myself. Finally I was flung on my back. Wrenching my hand in close, I
dizzily examined it. A bleeding imprint of a serpent's head with crossbones
stood out in a burnt puff, oozing down my arm, leaving a dark mark on me. As I
stared in silence, the blood seemed to drain further and further out of my
body. Which side of me the blood carried away with it, I wasn’t sure. Slowly
the symbol disappeared, draining itself out along with the blood until no sign
of either was left. I once again became aware of my surroundings, and
of my racing heartbeat as it thudded painfully amongst my panted breaths.
Snicks was frantic, hurriedly urging me on, for he heard footsteps coming.
Apparently my screams had been real enough. Jumping up, I raced to the vault,
praying nothing would interfere. I cringed as I touched it, but this time the
metal only felt smooth and cool, with nothing to deter me. I spun the lock
around and hastily shoved the contents into my pillowcase then raced out. I ran like I never had before. The freedom I felt
was hounded by the distancing howls I heard at the orphanage. With every sound
pushing me further, echoing inside, I knew I could never go back; indeed, never
would they let me now. But if I was caught I would certainly be punished;
jailed, even. They would find it an appropriate sentence for something like me.
I stared at the bag in my hand, my breath pulsing through fired veins, my heart
beating violently against its cage. And I saw nothing but justice. ~*~ Several days went by as I trudged through England.
My eyes soaked in everything about me with a sense of wonder and uncertainty.
Buildings rose high, and streets were crowded. At Newcastle,
the most I'd seen had been the inside of the orphanage, the short walk to the
nearby church, or the library I occasionally sneaked into. The amount of all
the people I had seen in my lifetime so far was surpassed in two days on the
streets. Men in suits and women in dresses walked with purpose, and I blended
in as much as I could. Everyone diverted their eyes from the recent ruins
caused by the war waging in Europe, their faces
flinching at any whistling sound I came to understand as bombers. I fought my
instinct to stare at the destruction and follow along with the socially
acceptable attitude of indifference or ignorance. For the first few days I
failed and gaped at everything before jading myself enough. The wearing
prospect of not making it to London
on time was enough to make me forget everything external to my needs. Several days went by as I trudged through England. Snicks said he thought the station was in London…or Australia. I chose to believe London, to keep some measure of sanity and hope. I knew full well
where the orphanage was. It was in Newcastle
upon Tyne, far north of London. I was also good with directions, having years ago
memorized the entire map of England and many other places for the sole purpose of having the
knowledge. As I was also used to dealing with situations on my own, I was
confident enough never to hesitate or turn back. At first I was cautious of
trying to get rides, because I was afraid someone would suspect that I had
escaped from the orphanage and try to take me back. Finally, though, I was too
tired from walking for my wariness to rule. With nothing to eat and only muddy
water to drink, I could not manage as I had been. Sleeping outdoors even in the
summer was harsh, as it rained a great deal, and I only had the one pair of
clothes on my back to wear. I could have stopped somewhere to rest or shop, but
I was too afraid to miss the chance to go to Hogwarts. September first was fast
approaching. I had counted the money I had taken from the
Blunts. It was a relatively small amount; I would have to be sparse with it. I
worriedly asked Snicks if Hogwarts required a tuition fee, as there was no way
I could afford it. He didn't know. There was also a strange envelope in the
case, marked with ink which had the initials S.S. on it. I had torn it open,
only to find copies of the files the Blunts had on me, which I had read years
ago, and other letters. One was from a woman to someone she called Salazar. The
man seemed to be dead, but nonetheless she was pleading to him to watch over
her son, even though she made it apparent that he had turned her down for help
many times before. She was bitter in the note, a tad selfish at times it
seemed, but her entreaties were heartfelt. It took me a second to realize that
she must have been my mother, and I sucked my breath in. My mind was frantic
with questions. Why would the Blunts have this? Who was this Salazar? I had anxiously reached for the second letter,
which I could tell was from my father. It was addressed to Mrs. Blunt, asking
her to take me in, saying that he could not save me himself. My heart dropped.
Even though I had never seen him, new pain now scraped over still-raw wounds,
for my own father had thought I was evil. I had been told so. I had even told
myself I believed it, for why else would he have left me? And yet, to see it
finalized upon paper…my fingers curled, crushing the frail wood pulp. Anger
welled up in me--I had never truly known the reason why I had been abandoned.
The only thing I knew was that my mother was dead, so a part of me always
assumed that my dad had been dead as well, or merely sick, or even financially
unable to take me in. Regardless of what Mrs. Blunt said or what I
intellectually knew, I had to admit a small part of me had hoped it wasn’t so.
I should have known – but really, I had
known. Flights of fancy and longing were for children, and I chastised myself
for falling for such play even a little. But in the letter, I found that he sent a great
deal of money to the Blunts, whom he had to know wouldn't use it for the
orphanage. Even the blindest fool in the world would have an inkling about what
kind of people the Blunts were, simply from meeting them. And if he didn't know
them, then he had abandoned me to perfect strangers--all because he feared me.
He called my mother a demon, and said that he would pray that I’d be saved, but
he couldn't risk taking me in. Apparently, it would devastate the others in his
life. He seemed to try to rationalize his actions. It was better if I grew up with
people who would be neutral to the situation, not having been betrayed by a
demon woman who had borne me. A spiteful laugh came to my throat. Wrong there, father dear. I don't consider
the abuse and torture I was put through for eleven years because you abandoned
me to be a nice, neutral haven. No, not much of a good childhood for the demon
you spawned. A bitter hate flowed, filling the old hollow spaces that
before had held my impressions of the man. The coward. I folded the papers in satisfaction, more prepared
than ever to immerse myself in this new culture of magic so abhorred by those I
detested. I finally managed to get a few rides, but it
always cost me some of the precious money. Although I knew I looked pathetic, I
didn't count on anyone taking pity on me. I never expected that. One of the
drivers couldn't even understand me, although I didn’t find my accent to be so
different than his. He said mine was a bit Scottish, and it might have been
true, because the orphanage was so close to the border. My mouth twisted
downwards at any memory of that place, but I agreed on the accent just to be
civil. He said he liked the cadence, and that he would cut my charges if I sang
songs to pass the time. Well, I couldn't afford not to. Snicks snickered the
whole time, as I willed a death curse to come on either him or the driver. But
I must have done fairly well, for the man did not stop until he had dropped me
off at Kings Cross station. I paid him, and my voice was too hoarse to tell
Snicks off, so I merely glared at him as I searched for the ridiculous platform
number. Nine and three-quarters. Snicks told me it was somewhere between
platform nine and ten. I dryly remarked that he’d made a brilliant observation,
but trudged over there all the same. Standing before the platforms, I found
myself looking everywhere, but seeing no sign. I felt tears come, and I hastily
choked them back. I was so exhausted at this point, my body aching from walking
and little food or sleep. My feet hurt and I was chilled from my seemingly
endless journey, and I still hadn’t
arrived. Nor had I a clue what to do next. I bet none of the other kids had
to go through this, I thought bitterly. They all had someone to show them
the way, but all I had was myself. And once again, I wasn't good enough. Just as I was peaking in my bout of self-pity I
saw a truly amazing sight that made me stop sniffling. A tall man dressed in
outrageous clothing with piercing blue eyes and a calm expression actually
stepped out of the wall between platforms nine and ten, as if nothing unusual
were happening! I blinked, looking around to see if anyone else found this odd,
but it seemed no one else had noticed. Hoping I wasn't hallucinating, I ran
frantically over to the man, placing myself right in his path and exclaiming,
"How did you do that?" The man's brow furrowed slightly. "Do
what?" he said. "Walk through the wall like that?!" I
pointed behind him for emphasis. The man's eyes widened slightly before snapping
back to certainty, and he tried to walk past me. "You must be dreaming, my
lad," he said. I held my ground. "No," I said
stubbornly. "I saw you." The man paused at that, and realizing I only
had one chance I rambled on rapidly. "Please sir, could you tell me if you
are from Hogwarts? I am supposed to go there, but I have no clue how to get to
it--and I need all of these supplies, and I have no idea how to get them
either! And no one can help me, or will help me--” “No one was sent for you?” the man interrupted,
somehow not intrusively. His brow furrowed again ever so slightly as I rambled
on breathlessly. “No, sir,
and I just want to go there, I can't go back, please, if you can tell me
anything, I--" "Hold on," the man said, smiling a
little. His blue eyes, lighter than mine, twinkled a bit as he lowered himself
to my eye level and grasped me by the shoulders. I paused, panting heavily,
trying to fight back the well of tears that threatened to erupt again. I was
not usually that emotional, but then I was on the verge of hysterics. The man said, "You're to go to Hogwarts, you
say?" I nodded, forcing a calming note into my voice. I
handed him my letter as proof. "Yes, sir. Here." "Well, now, let me see." The man
examined it. He read my name out loud. "Thomas Marvolo Riddle." He then looked away, as if trying to remember
something. Suddenly his eyes brightened. "Ah, yes!" he said, turning
back to me. "I recognize your name." I was flabbergasted. "H - how could
you?" The man stood tall, a slight smile that held some
pride evident on his face. "It is by some very good luck you ran into me.
I am the deputy headmaster at Hogwarts, Mr. Riddle. I remember your name being
on the new roster." My eyes widened. "You remember all the
names?" A small snort escaped, sounding odd coming from
him. "Of course I do! I remember everything important to my position -
except which flavor bean the pale pink color is. I always assume it is cotton
candy, forgetting vomit is also that color." I stared at the man, questioning his sanity.
"Vomit beans?" The man looked startled, and then laughed.
"Oh, that's right, Mr. Riddle! You are from the Muggle world—non-magic
folk, that is. Well, never mind, you'll catch on quickly enough; you seem like
a bright lad." He punctuated that with a pat on my head. I jostled out of it quickly, infuriated by his
condescending tone. I was not like those other people - the Muggles. People
like my father or the Blunts. And I hated to be treated like a child. I told
him as much, my voice cold. "I prefer not to be talked down to or touched.
And I have no intention of trying your vomit beans." The man looked slightly startled and embarrassed,
and a moment of silence ensued while we just stared at each other. Then he
shrugged, his smile not as easy, and said, "Fair enough. You don't know
what you’re missing with Bertie's Beans, though. Anyway, I am Professor
Dumbledore. I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts, in addition to being the
deputy headmaster." While I was now questioning the intelligence of my
outburst, my worst fear was confirmed when he added casually, "And I will
most definitely be one of your teachers this semester." Of course,
I thought. "Great," I gritted out loud. I turned to Snicks, who was
beginning to slide down my back. "Get back up, your scales are cold,"
I commanded, and Snicks, grumbling from missing the little heat he could get
from being inside my shirt, slithered out. I turned back then to see Dumbledore
staring at me with a look of barely concealed amazement and caution. I stared
back, wondering what I had done now. "Did you just communicate with that
snake?" Dumbledore asked me a bit sharply. His long finger pointed at
Snicks, who stared back offended. I glanced at both of them, and then answered,
"Um, yes - he's not a pest though. Well, not most of the time. And he said
to tell you he prefers to be called Snicks." "You spoke to him?" Dumbledore seemed
stuck on that. I shrugged, not comprehending his fixation.
"Yes. Is there something wrong with that?" Dumbledore finally stopped staring. Straightening
up, he declared, “ No, Mr. Riddle, there is nothing wrong with it. It's just…”
he paused there a moment before saying, “an unusual ability, shall we say. Not
many people can do it." "Really?" I said, thinking back to the
man at the Christmas party. He had said something similar to that, like he
couldn't have caused me to talk to Snicks. Dumbledore didn't seem to share in my curiosity
and enthusiasm. He merely sighed, still eyeing me warily. "No one that I
know can. Follow me." His look was so grim that I did not push him
further, feeling I had ruined my reputation with one of my teachers well
enough. Good one, Tom; let’s see how many people of the magical world I can
alienate myself from! My stomach sank even while my mind was joking. The last
thing I needed was to be a weird outcast with unseen strange abilities in a
magic school. Dumbledore led me across town, his pace swift. I
tried my best to keep up, and I had long legs, but I was still practically
running. When we drew up to a bar called the Leaky Cauldron, I swore thanks,
leaning over to catch my breath before being escorted inside. The inside was
crammed with strange-looking people, all wearing clothing similar to the long,
loose swirls of bright color that Dumbledore was draped in. I felt very out of
place in my faded navy pants and filthy gray shirt. It was extremely loud, and
smoke from somewhere burned my eyes. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible,
but Dumbledore became sidetracked and stepped away from me for a moment to talk
to some redheaded man in a brown cloak and turban. I tried to focus, but the lighting made me
dizzier, and all colors seemed to spring forth. Suddenly, one of the men at the
bar turned, and I felt fright lock my body into place. I didn’t see a face, but
rather, a serpentine mask encasing his countenance. Through a parting in his
long black cloak I saw scars of the same symbol that had appeared on my palm
encase his body, oozing and bloody, but the blood on him was green and silver.
Suddenly all the men at the bar turned, bearing identical scars. Drones was
the only word for them, their faces shadowed by hoods. They were chanting
loudly in a screeching, rhythmic choral voice, and bowing down to the man in
the mask who was floating over to me. All he passed by screamed in pain, and
the walls were covered in blood. He reached me and took my hand, and freezing
waves of ice shot through my veins. All I saw was liquid everywhere; it covered
my body. He released me, and my hands clenched the chain I wore. The silver was
smooth and I thought I was caressing it, but it suddenly broke and began
squirting blood over my face. Dark shadows floated above, forcing feelings of
guilt, shame, remorse and fear inside me. I turned for help only to see a child
standing over me--a child smaller than me, with eyes that held nothing but pity
and fear. Pity and fear for me. Or was it anger? I tried to walk to him, but
the second I reached out to touch him – "Tom!”
Dumbledore was shaking me. I shook my head, trembling all over from the bizarre
vision. I felt completely disoriented. "What --" I started to say,
but then my voice failed. Dumbledore, when he finally came into focus,
looked concerned. "You screamed, and then seemed to freeze. I've been
trying to get through to you for almost a minute now." His voice, though
he tried to make it soothing, shook slightly and seemed loud to my still tender
ears. He gripped me, not tightly, but to hold me up. Still, I winced. His tone
faintly commanding, he asked, "What did you see?" I looked around. Everyone was staring at me,
whispering. Some were smirking, while others looked terrified. A nervous and
embarrassed feeling overtook me, as Dumbledore shook me again. "Forget
about them! Just talk to me, Tom. What did you see?" I turned back, feeling the disapproving gazes of
all who were gathered there. I had been part of the magic community for less
than an hour now, and I was already being seen as a freak. No way was I going
to make things worse for myself. I cleared my throat and said in my best lying
mode, "I didn't see anything. I just haven't eaten in a few days." Dumbledore looked suspicious. "Not eating
made you scream?" I nodded, trying to look innocent. "I've been
living outside for days now. I just had a pain in my stomach. Maybe I'm coming
down with something." Whether he bought it or not, he seemed to accept
it for the moment. Part of me, the still terrified part, wanted him to drag it
out of me, but I knew I wouldn't tell. Dumbledore must have known as well, for
he merely bought me something to eat, then took me out back. Without saying a
word, he tapped the bricks of the wall in a special sequence, and miraculously
they parted, leaving me gaping at the wonder that was my first encounter with
Diagon Alley. All the while I felt Dumbledore’s sharp eyes
watching me. Chapter 5: Riddle-rific Wands and Slytherin Sortings Diagon Alley was a festival for the senses. On the streets, vendors were
selling all sorts of decorative ornaments and exotic foods that caught all of
my senses by storm. Everywhere, there were people bustling about, excitedly
clenching boxes and bags of assorted shapes. I was so entranced that I was able
to set aside my earlier delusion as just that - a figment of my imagination - and
observe the swirling activity surrounding me. Dumbledore soon stopped, explaining that he had to go on some official
business alone, but he first gave me clear directions as to where to head. I
nodded impatiently, rolling my eyes as he offered to repeat himself. When I
proved able to quote him verbatim, he finally left. My eyes followed his
straight back as it disappeared into the crowds before I
on my heel in the opposite direction. I walked with Snicks down the winding
streets, pausing to glance at the Pet Emporium's window display, but I knew I
would never be able to afford anything in there. In truth, I never really cared
for animals anyway, but my newfound powers naturally drew my attention to the
dejected serpents laying in dirty straw before me now. After glancing at them I
left quickly, not desiring to listen to the snakes cry out to me any longer and
be utterly useless. Besides, I had Snicks to keep me company, and other things
to focus on. My first stop was Flourish and Blotts. I made this decision for a very good
and well thought-out intellectual reason. I came upon it first. Brushing any dust off my shirtfront, I then proceeded to enter and ask a
frizzy-haired woman if she might help me. She nodded hastily, but was clearly
frazzled by all the customers and barely acknowledged my existence. I looked
around, noticing that several people had lists appearing similar to mine. They
all seemed to know each other, and uncertainly I stood for a moment just
watching them before determinedly turning to a bookshelf. I scanned the titles,
picking out several history books, unable to push aside the nagging concern
over how far behind I must be. This would mean I'd have to go cheap on
everything else, but learning would be my most important tool for survival. It
was a simple, cold fact I had already cemented inside my mind; if I couldn't
make it at Hogwarts, I had nowhere else to go. A heavy weight settled itself inside my chest, and I sternly told myself to
stop thinking so dejectedly, for it did no good. Still, my thoughts rebelled,
the worries resurfacing all through the duration of my stay at Madame Malkin's
Robes for All Occasions. Prudently, I bought only the cheapest robes in basic
black, but made a single exception of one dark green set that was on sale. Snicks
told me that he had heard it was the color of the snake House at Hogwarts,
which he fervently hoped I would get into since other snakes might be there. I
didn't really know anything about the other Houses yet, but it was as cheap as
the black dress ones on sale, so I agreed. At the Apothecary I spent little
time, the man there being completely businesslike and efficient. He had all ten
costumers waiting done in roughly that same amount of time, which I found
vaguely impressive. On my way to Ollivander's, I passed what appeared to be a sporting goods
store, where a crowd of kids roughly my age was gathered excitedly around
something that appeared to be a broom. I frowned a bit in puzzlement at them,
my mind wandering back to the stares I'd received in the bar, slightly miffed
that they would find me an odd one here considering the sight before me. Finally I reached the sign that stated Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands
Since 382 B.C. Darkness was already beginning to fall as I stepped up to
the door. Fervently I hoped that it would still be open, as much to get out of
the rain that had stared as to get a wand. For some reason, the thought of
possessing a wand filled me with a giddy excitement I was wholly unfamiliar
with, as if then I would truly be a real wizard. I knew it sounded
ridiculous or childish, even in my head, but whatever actually managed to make
me happy I was wholeheartedly in favor of. Taking a deep breath, I stepped
inside to find the place open but dark, seemingly empty. Breaking and entering was not a new concept for me, and neither was
stealing. However, I hadn't even a clear idea of what I should be searching
for. As such, I dearly hoped I was not alone, even if it meant I would have to
end up paying. Crossing to the desk, I called out nervously, "Hello?"
No one answered, so I tried again, louder, "Hello? Mr. Ollivander? I
-" All of a sudden a wild man flew out from behind a back door, his hair a
crazy mess of gray, mirroring silvery eyes that glistened in the moonlight. I
let out a gasp and involuntarily stepped backwards, but the man strode forward
and said, "Yes, boy, may I help you?" I stared up at him, finding my voice. I tried to make it soft, so that he
wouldn't ask me about my accent. Lord I stood out enough in those wretchedly
dirty Muggle clothes. I didn't know how far the news of an escaped thief/orphan
would reach, but to protect myself I had taken to trying to hide any
connections. "My name is Thomas Riddle. I need to buy a wand, sir." Ollivander's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Riddle," he said,
musing. "I don't recall that name, and I always remember every wand I
sell. Who are your parents?" I forced my face to maintain its neutral position. "I don't know. I'm
an orphan." Ollivander stared back, just as uncomfortable. "Well, never mind. I
know I've never sold one to a Riddle before. You get to be my first! Where are
you going to school, Tom?" "Hogwarts." The man eyes brightened. "Going to Hogwarts, eh? Well, good for you!
Alby, I got another one of yours here!" He waved erratically at me, but
was staring over my shoulder. I spun to see Dumbledore sinking into one of the chairs lining the dark
walls. Apparently he was done with whatever errand he had been on, and the
worried look in his eyes had only increased from the last time I saw him. I
frowned. I was nervous enough, and the last thing I needed was Dumbledore
breathing disapproval down my neck. But for once, Dumbledore didn't focus on
me. Rather, he looked at Ollivander and said back mildly, "Don't call me
that, Ollie." Ollivander cackled, nudging me with one of his cold, bent hands. "It's
a treat to tease him, so easy," he told me loudly. I nodded, smiling
flatly as I turned with impatience to examine the wands. I felt Ollivander's
gaze continue to bear down on me, and then heard him call over to Dumbledore.
"Doesn't say much, does he?" At that Dumbledore cast an amused glance at me. "I do believe it
depends upon what mood you get him in. He can say quite a lot, even without
words. I think he's saying to you now what he told me earlier when I patted
him." My face flamed red with embarrassment as Ollivander looked at us peculiarly
before taking my measurements, asking me next which hand I used. When I
responded with, "left," he just nodded, but Dumbledore gave me
another strange look. I could only guess what it was about--I had been told
that the left hand was a sign of sinister and demonic behavior. Many children
were forced to write with their right hands, but I, being a demon, hadn't been
made to change. Ollivander soon went in the back and fetched a box. In a moment
he returned, presenting me with its contents. Overlapping his movement I heard
a rustling in the back, and curiously tried to steal a glimpse behind the case
to no avail. "This," he told me as he handed over the wand, "is one of my
newer finds. It's a young holly mixed with the hair of an elderly unicorn. Very
good for charms, I'd reckon." I held it in my hand dumbly until Ollivander
waved at me and exclaimed, "Well, give it a whirl. Don't look at Alby, he won't go marking you down for incorrect arm
movements." I tried to shake it, andof a sudden the wand burst into a thousand pieces,
sending them spewing all over the room and causing us to duck for shelter. When
I rose, I shakily asked, "Wrong combination?" But Dumbledore and Ollivander merely stared at me in a stupor.
"Incredible!" Ollivander marveled, stroking his cheek. "I've
never seen a reaction like that! Never!" Dumbledore agreed. "It was my understanding that a wand without
affinity for the holder would simply fail. I've never known it to detonate as
-" "Excuse me," I said, feeling uncomfortably overlooked. They both
turned, and I bit my lip before saying, "I'm sorry. I'll pay for the wand,
sir. I--I don't have much money, but I didn't mean to break it." But Ollivander merely waved a hand dismissively at me. "Not
at all, my boy. I am merely stunned, not angry." "Stunned at what?" I couldn't help asking. Ollivander looked at Dumbledore, and then responded, "You see, it is
very rare to find a wizard who is left-handed - it is usually a sign of great
power, and they often have some unusual reactions... or, so I am told; I myself
have rarely served a left-hander. I've heard on occasion of the wand
overpowering a wizard, physically attacking he who is testing it. Other times,
the wand is a perfect fit, but the connection between wizard and wand is so
strong that its first interaction causes some form of destruction--there have
only been two recorded cases in history of this, so we are not sure exactly
what caused the occurrences. There is merely speculation to go by. And
now," he said, smiling awkwardly, "We have a new story to put
down." Fabulous, I thought. More destructive powers.
Out loud I said, "So I caused this?" Ollivander looked torn. "Well, yes and no, I am guessing. The wand,
obviously, was not for you. It might have wanted to be, because it sensed your
great potential, but I believe your magic overpowered it. It couldn't handle
what you gave to it." "But I just waved it!" I protested. Ollivander smiled mysteriously. " The wand
knows to whom it belongs, and will not overextend itself to bond with another.
I have never heard of a wand desiring to be with someone if they were not its
perfect fit. You must have some magic to have drawn it to you, or fooled it in
that way." The room was then silent, as none of us could think of a thing to say. The
rustling I had heard before grew louder, and suddenly another pair of boxes was
hurtling straight at my face. The one on the left quickly and craftily dodged
under its competitor and slammed upward, sending it soaring to the ceiling.
Meanwhile, the left box sprang open as I stood rock still, unable to do more
than watch as it thrust itself into my hand with such force that I fell
backwards. Out of the wand, sparks of every color flooded the room, lighting
all the candles with a green flame. All the boxes seemed to shudder, and I
watched, mesmerized, until the muted havoc died down a moment later. I blinked,
dazed, unsure how much of that episode had actually been real. Sitting up, I curled the wand in my thin fingers. Beside me was the other
box that, having lost the fight, flew disgruntled back to its place. Turning my
head, I realized it hadn't actually flown back. Ollivander was sending it
there, holding his wand out, a bemused expression on his face. Standing over me
with Dumbledore at his side, he said, "Yew-wood and phoenix feather,
thirteen-and-a-half inches. I think it's a match." Stepping back, he let
me stand up, trying to ignore Dumbledore's watchful gaze. Even I could tell
what had happened had been unusual. Still, I forced a smile onto my face, said
my thanks to Ollivander, and left, ignoring his parting calls of, "Please
don't come back for awhile, I can't afford it!" The streets were completely dark when Dumbledore and I at last stepped
outside. He strode at the same brisk pace, and I struggled to keep up, rolling
the carrying cart I had purchased. Snicks had found his way into my pillowcase,
no doubt fast asleep. I felt ready to drop by the time we reached the station
again, and was glad that Dumbledore seemed too lost in thought to converse . We paused before the platform, where Dumbledore
finally turned to me. "Tom," he said. "I can't simply leave you here unattended.
It's far too dangerous, even for someone who managed to make his way here
alone." He said this without accusation, but I still burned, feeling him
turn my act of running away from a great show of independence to some foolish
child's act. "I'm not alone. I have Snicks." I raised the pillowcase to prove
the point. Dumbledore reassumed his neutral smile. I wondered where the sparkle in his
eyes had gone. "I doubt he is much protection." He then sighed; I
looked at him curiously, as this was the first time I had seen him unsure of
how to act. He stared at me thoughtfully for a long moment, and then said,
"but I don't know if I should bring you back with
me -" I felt my eyes roll, and did nothing to stop them. Impatiently I explained,
"Look, there is an inn right over there. I'll go to it and get a room.
It's only for one night." Dumbledore didn't seem convinced. "It's not that I don't trust you,
Tom," he began, and then abruptly changed gears. "I'll have Marie at
the Leaky Cauldron check in on you. I'll send an owl when I get back, it won't
be long." "Fine. I shall curl up in a fetal position and
cry until she comes. Or just go the bloody hell to sleep not caring less that
she didn't. You guess." The words slipped from my mouth before I could
remind it that this was my teacher. Surprisingly, the twinkle came back into Dumbledore's eyes at that.
"You are a feisty one, aren't you, Tom? Well, we need some of all kinds in
this world, I suppose." Then he turned stern again. "Promise me you
will march right to the inn after I leave." I crossed my heart, and with that Dumbledore bade me farewell and good luck,
and then crossed into the brick wall. Again I glanced around,
shocked that no one noticed this. I looked down the runway. The inn seemed
awfully far, and I barely had any money left. I sat down to think, and just
stayed there. It felt so good, to have a plan now, with a way to carry it out.
I smiled with pride. This morning I had been crying and sniveling without a
clue, and now I was on my way to become a real master of magic. I sighed. I should have gone to the inn now, but I was too tired, the relief
adding weariness to me. I decided that the odds of the woman Dumbledore would
send probably wouldn't even really go. Maybe he would even forget to ask her;
he didn't seem overly fond of me. Well, maybe he was concerned. But I would
have bet the woman would prefer it if I wasn't there, she wouldn't have to go
up the stairs looking for my room. My head drifted downwards, accepting this
weak reasoning. I barely remember asking Snicks to watch the bags before I drifted
off right there on the bench between platforms 9 and 10. The next morning I awoke with a start, dread filling me at the thought that
I must have overslept. I quickly sat up, looking all around me. I checked the
clock, which read only 7:53 am. I
breathed a sigh of relief, then gagged as a whiff of
myself came back. I looked down and almost laughed, for the dirt and grime from
living outdoors for days had taken its toll. I looked like the homeless person
I was. Pushing myself up, I made my way to the dank public washroom. Amazingly,
even having with my own unwashed body for days, the odors in the small,
stifling room were worse enough to make me take notice and gag. I dared not
even look in the toilet, just feeling relief that the faucet worked, if in sputtering
dribbles. I quickly did as good a job as possible on my face, neck, and hands.
There was nothing I could do about my clothes, but I figured I would be putting
robes on soon enough. Once I got to Hogwarts I would find some way of washing
these---and maybe replicating some. Hurrying back to my seat, I waited with my nerves growing steadily wracked
as the time went by. I read most of the extra titles I had purchased at the
bookstore, trying to learn as much about Hogwarts and magic as I could. Finally
I noticed some oddly dressed individuals coming my way. I stood up and lingered
behind them, so that I could watch precisely what they did. Well, there didn't
seem to be much to it; they all just ran head on. I waited till no one was
looking, just in case I ran into the wall, took a deep breath, and went for it. Before I knew it I was being sucked through, and came out to find a black
and gold sign loudly announcing Platform 9 ¾ Hogwarts Express. Turning, I gazed
at the hundreds of students and families milling about, crowding the small
space. Everyone was jostling and laughing, and I let myself be pulled along
with the crowd, feeling very out of place. I hurried onto the train, fumbling
with my bags. Snicks had woken up and was demanding
answers, but after the experience with Dumbledore I knew better than to answer
him in public. I shuffled along, looking in every compartment. They all seemed
crammed, and I desired nothing but solitude. Finally I came to one that appeared empty, and flung myself inside it, closing
the door behind. I leaned back, placing my cargo underneath, only to be
startled by a drawling voice. "What do you think you are doing?" I turned and answered immediately. "Sitting here trying to mind my own
business, but being forced to state the obvious. You?" The boy across from me drew up at that, and actually smiled. "Listening to the first person to come up with a good response
to that question all day. I guess that means you're staying here. I'm
Damien Malfoy. You?" I responded, glad that there was no handshaking. "Tom Riddle." We
both eyed each other, neither backing down. Damien was as tall as me, and also
had a pale face. His hair was light blond and perfectly cut, and he was already
dressed in expensive robes. His gray eyes were also sharp, and betrayed
nothing. He casually drawled, "I haven't heard of that family before. What do
your parents do?" I forced myself to smile. "I wouldn't know. I'm an orphan." At that, Damien seemed a little embarrassed. "Oh," he said. Then brightened, as if trying to make up for his mistake.
"I've read some excellent things about some of the magical orphanages in London.
They have good programs for the kids there---did you study any magic before
coming here?" "I'm a first year," I explained. "But I have tried some
magic." I had practiced some small spells at the bench earlier. Damien
seemed interested, so I willingly levitated several of my books, and even
managed to open our window with one flick. Damien seemed impressed. "That's pretty good, I must admit. I can do
that, of course, but I am in my second year." He looked at me curiously.
"My dad taught me magic years ago, but you--what magic orphanage did you
say you went to?" I paused, and then tried to joke. "I didn't say." Damien persisted. "No, really, you should try to get into Slytherin.
You can't have had much training, but we could use someone like you. Raw,
natural talent, your parents must have been very powerful indeed." I was getting sick of thinking about my parents. I tried to change the
conversation. "Yes, I'm really interested in Slytherin,
it seems to be the best. At least, that's what I've read." Apparently I said the wrong thing, for Damien pounced on me. "You
hadn't heard of Slytherin before? Didn't you talk about it at school? You'll
definitely get in, you remind me of myself." I was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable, and finally admitted. "I
didn't go to a magic school." Damien looked perplexed, so I continued. "I was in a Muggle orphanage.
I just found out about Hogwarts and everything this summer." Damien stuttered, turning red. "B-b-but, you couldn't! How could your
relatives allow you to be in the Muggle world! They're beasts!" My voiced hardened. "Yes, some of them might have been. But my father
was still alive, and he placed me there. He was a Muggle, so I'm told. I think
my Mum tried to keep me here, in this world, but he took me and put me in the
orphanage..." my voice trailed off and I didn't add that I had also been
informed that my father had done so after my mother had died in childbirth, not
really giving her any say in the matter. Still, I wished to believe that she
would have acted so, however unlikely it was. I was torn over it, part of me
intellectually reasoning that she should have done whatever was best for her,
and another part of me hoping that what was best for her was also in my
interests. And none of these parts inside wished to be shared, least of all
with the thing sitting opposite me. "So you're a Mudblood?" Damien's expression, which had been open,
closed in distaste. I stared at him, not fully understanding the term. He
kindly informed me. "I should have known after seeing how you were
dressed. I thought you had been making fun of Muggles by wearing such shoddy
clothes, or more likely trying to blend in at that station, but now I see they
really are you. I'm amazed a half-blood had enough gall to talk back to
me." "Everyone has their moments," was all I could think to say. I was
busy building up anger, storing it while waiting for an appropriate area to
strike. Damien, mindlessly, kept providing me with fuel. "I don't know how you
did those tricks, Mudblood, but don't think you'll ever amount to a real
wizard. And forget about Slytherin, we only accept real magic folk
there. Purebloods." The smile on his face was
that of a tiger having just cornered and quartered his prey. With a false shrug
of sympathy he said, "Sorry, Mudblood." I felt a cold smile form on my lips. "We'll see," I said quietly.
Meanwhile Damien, seeming disturbed by something, had fallen silent. I furrowed
my brow as I followed his gaze to see where it had fallen. It trailed down my
thin chest and arm, ending on my hand, which was still wrapped tightly around
my wand. The entire thing trembling, small sparks shaped like teardrops in
colors of ivy green and a sort of metallic-blue erupting out the end. I fought
back my own curiosity over that, not desiring to appear unknowledgeable of
whatever was occurring. Turning back, I gave a mock-innocent shrug to Damien,
saying, "It's protective of me." Then I turned my attention to my
books, looking up suddenly only to startle Damien, who finally fled the
compartment in anger. When he left, I resumed reading, trying to push down the angry lump in my
throat while struggling not to acknowledge that a lump of panic accompanied it.
If I couldn't become friends with Damien, who seemed to share - or at least
tolerate - my sense of humor, what chance did I stand with the rest of the
Hogwarts body? There wasn't a single fiber of my being that would think of
leaving to return to the orphanage. At least here I had impressed people with
my talent, which hadn't happened at all in my past. No, I would simply have to
find some way of surviving in this world. Surviving...and thriving. I would settle
for figuring out how to survive, first. I stared down at the pages in front of me, my mind ceaselessly wandering. I
wondered what caused Malfoy to hate the Muggle side of me, apparently as much
as those at the orphanage hated the magic side. I couldn't exactly fault him on
his opinion, even though it also burned that he directed that disgust at me. I
fervently hoped that not all of my peers would be like Malfoy, having been
avoided enough in my past life. Most of all, I hoped that neither side was right
in their reasoning...but surely they weren't, I thought with a stubborn jut of
my chin, forcing my chest to not constrict. No, I would, as always, prove
everyone else wrong, if necessary, until everything eventually fit as I
desired. I kept telling myself this over and over, trying to believe it. The train pulled to a stop without any further incidences, and we all filed
out. A loud voice projected over the incessant chattering, calling for the
first year students to head toward the nearby boats. The voice, which belonged
to a tall man with rangy hair who was the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at
Hogwarts, said his name was Mr. Wynn. He told us to head onto the boats, not
flinching as the rain pelted his head. I also had become used to the rain, and
walked over without much notice. Some of the others were already shivering and
complaining. I sat in a boat filled with two girls and one male. The girls'
names were Sandra and Bess, and both had sweet smiles and long brown hair. They
talked excitedly about how both of their families had been in Ravenclaw, and
how they simply had to be there. I nodded politely, not really sharing their
enthusiasm, but they didn't seem to notice the difference. The other male seated with us was named William Weasley - a family name, he
explained - and the most notable thing about him was that his hair still flamed
red in the night. He seemed nice enough, a bit of a goof-off who kept trying to
tip the boat and send the girls screaming. Their racket was giving me a
headache, but at least they didn't seem to care who my family was, which was a nice relief. Before I knew it, we had pulled up in front of a huge castle, still looking
magnificent in the rain. I had never seen anything so large, and the others and
I sat looking agape at its splendor right up through the front doors. The
entrance room was just as imposing, but thankfully warmer. We were told to wait
there quietly before an enormous red door that lead to the dining hall and the
Sorting. My hands wrenched a little as I thought about the ceremony. I had read
about all the Houses, and the one that stood out the most to me was Slytherin.
Perhaps it was because of Snicks, or that I could converse with snakes. More
importantly, of all the Houses' characteristics,
Slytherin's seemed to appeal to me the most. After all, real ambition and
cunning, which the House prized most, called for a keen intellect like that of
Ravenclaw, another House. And one had to be brave, as Gryffindor desired, to
succeed in realizing one's ambitions. As for the last House, Hufflepuff, the
only worthwhile characteristic I saw there was perhaps the virtue of patience. So Slytherin seemed the closest to encompassing my ideals... but it was also
something else, something deeper, which drove me to it. Though it seemed
foolish of me, I could not help but feel as if I were already a part of that
House, and what Malfoy said be damned. We waited forever, shivering and dripping until finally Dumbledore opened
the doors wide, telling us to follow him. As we hurried after him, we tried to
take in the long elegant wooden tables, the glorious ceiling that was a replica
of the sky, and the odd faces everywhere beaming at us. We all ended up crowded
around before the raised platform where the teachers sat. In the front center was
a stool with a weathered old magician's hat sitting on it. Dumbledore said that
as soon as the hat looked inside us and found out which house we belonged to,
we should go and join that table, becoming like family with them. He also said
these words--which I found chilling, for he seemed to be looking right at
me--"The hat does not lie; it merely sees what is inside you, good and
bad, and sorts you accordingly." With that, he turned it over to the hat, which startled all by springing to
life and opening a tear in its fabric to sing. I stared at it, awed as everyone
else. My mind turned to keenly wondering what enabled the hat to do this feat,
and whether I would soon be able to do something similar. That thread of
thought was immediately followed by the realization that making a hat sing was
hardly a worthwhile pursuit of magic. Sternly I made myself focus, picking out
the important bits of information on the Houses from the hat's rather annoying
ditties There was a round of nervous laughter and clapping, and I joined in to give
my hands something to do. But the second the names began being called I held my
breath, fingering my chain, waiting forever. I tried to pay attention. One of
the girls on the boat got into Ravenclaw, the other didn't, and she was close
to tears as she went to sit at the Gryffindor table. The Weasley guy got into
Gryffindor too, and he breathed a happy sigh. Malfoy, over in Slytherin, also
seemed happy that William had not been sorted into his House. Finally, when I felt like my heart was going to jump out of my stomach, I
heard my name called. It seemed to come from far away. Dumbledore was standing
there, looking at me expectantly. I climbed up and slid onto the stool, my
hands nervously clenched on my lap. I tried to ignore the hushed whispers
around me asking who I was and the like. All of a sudden a voice popped up in my head. "Well, this is certainly
exciting! Haven't had one of you for a long
time." "One what?" I asked, feeling a little
silly talking to a hat. The hat didn't seem to care in the least. It said elatedly, "A
challenge! How exciting - all right, lets see here - oh, what
great fun!" I gritted my teeth. People were already beginning to stir. "Just get on
with it." "Oh, you've got a bit of a temper, don't you? Well that counts
Hufflepuff out - like it was ever in for you, right? Ravenclaw is definitely in
the running, you're a clever little bugger, aren't you?" "Excuse me?" I protested loudly, but the hat ignored me. "But that's the problem, isn't it? You're a little too clever, a bit
too hard to deal with to truly get along with them. They would become jealous
of your intellect, and your superior attitude wouldn't help anything. Still,
you could have some wonderful intellectual discussions with them." "Wonderful, I'll take them out for dinner and dancing if I'm still
alive by the time you're through!" The hat laughed, taking no offense. "Oh, I enjoy you Mister Riddle, I
enjoy you immensely. You have some nerves, you know that? Gryffindor would
certainly appreciate that. And a strong will, too. You don't let anything stand
in your way, do you?" "I suppose," I said cautiously. "Oh, don't try to be modest. I can see you for what you are." "And what am I?" The words came out as a low, automatic response
that held only part of my real question I desired to ask. The hat didn't respond to that. "Oh, you're asking about Slytherin, are
you? Well, let's check this out. Ambitious, that was
clear from the start. And you've got a good handle of people as well, when you
want to. Not much for rules either, eh? No, don't worry,
Dumbledore can't hear. Well, yes, now that I think about it, perhaps you're a
bit too - unconventional - for Gryffindor. I don't think they'd understand you.
No, no... I can see it now, I don't know how I missed it - you belong in
SLYTHERIN!" I let out a breath of relief and slide off the stool, only to find the
entire congregation staring at me. I heard a voice behind me, and Dippet, the
old man who had been introduced briefly as the Headmaster, was clapping and
saying lightly, "Congratulations, Mr. Riddle, that has to be the longest
Sorting I've experienced!" I tried to smile, but it didn't really make it. Meanwhile I heard someone at
the Gryffindor table sneer loudly, "Yeah, no surprise a Slytherin would be
the one to ruin the Sorting!" A brief round of agreement went around,
loudly opposed by the Slytherins, which was only silenced by Dumbledore's
glare. He turned from staring at me to the Gryffindor, who tried to sink into
the floor. "That will be quite enough. The ceremony has hardly been
ruined." He then turned back to me, his gaze thoughtful as always, but
still putting me on edge. "Indeed, I have found that sometimes the
greatest things take the most time to sort out." There was a pause where our eyes locked, each questioning the other in our
gazes. Then Dumbledore broke it off, saying, "Well, Mr. Riddle, what are
you waiting for? Go join your House. Your time in the spotlight is over - for
now."
I strode down the shiny steps, making my way to the far left where the Slytherin table was situated. Sliding into the seat on the end I stared down, sucking in a deep breath of air before steadily raising my eyes to those seated around me. A few of the Slytherins gave me nods and guarded smiles, some a silently mouthed greeting. It was a far more reserved greeting than the rowdy one the Gryffindors were giving to their new members. A small girl whose name I didn’t catch was just named one, and an ear-piercing cheer was heard as welcomers encircled her. I felt a disapproving frown curl my lips downward, and I noticed a similar expression on the faces of the other Slytherins. I’d never been one for physical contact, most likely because I associated it by then with a fist connecting to my face. Other than that, I couldn’t recall being touched at all. In any event, my body was hypersensitive to any contact, and just witnessing such displays was making me feel like hyperventilating. I supposed the hat knew what it was doing. Clearly, Gryffindor wasn’t for me, I decided with a satisfied shiver. I had made the House of my choice.
The rest of the Sorting thankfully didn’t take long, although it was slightly interesting to try to analyze each person that approached the stool. Once completed, Ravenclaw got the most students that year, followed by Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and then Slytherin, and I had accurately identified 71% of those Sortings. Once finished, I resumed discreetly studying the members of my own House.
All of the Slytherins seated down the long table wore robes that appeared far more expensive than mine, each decorated with green or silver accessories as if they already knew where they would be placed. They all most likely came from a long line of Slytherins, my mind whispered. Probably, they were what I had learned were ‘purebloods.’ I tested the word out in my thoughts, not thoroughly pleased with how it sat inside me. Trying to push down feelings of inadequacy that had begun to bubble up inside proved futile as my certainty once again wavered. How could the hat have placed me here? Certainly Slytherin wizards would never accept me. I didn’t have any strong legacy to this House or the magical world that I knew of. A burning sensation rose from the tiny flint that always existed inside of me, sparking to a full blaze. Damien’s words that I wouldn’t fit in Slytherin came back yet again, but they were disheartening and didn’t bring the self-satisfaction I’d felt mere minutes ago.
But, my nagging mind reminded me, would I fit in at any of the other Houses? The question spun itself about in my mind, exposing all its corners. My final answer was that it would be doubtful. Slytherin’s traits were what I aspired to. I simply wasn’t interested in being in another House, my mind stubbornly and determinedly latched onto Slytherin. But it isn’t my desire that’s the problem, I thought miserably. If it wasn’t my personality that detained me from the other Houses, it was my half-life existence that barred me in isolation in the one I had deemed desirable.
Suddenly, I was shaken out of my brooding by the appearance of a supposedly sumptuous feast before me. Colorful china plates and dishes, decorated with unfamiliar artwork, sprang into existence. Goblets with the faces of magicians appeared as well, filled with a cool cider. Immediately everyone began reaching for the turkeys, rolls, and green vegetables, all shimmering in one sauce or another. I waited, inhaling the unfamiliar scents. At the orphanage, I mostly had bread and water, some porridge, and occasionally an apple or milk. The sudden shock actually made me feel a little queasy, but I placed some of the food onto my plate and toyed with it, using my fork. Unbidden memories tried to force themselves through—of the disgust of eating in the orphanage with its unpleasant smells, or how I’d often gone without meals as punishment, or had my food stolen. I’d taught myself not to want such things, to take away any pleasure such a punishment might give to Mrs. Blunt or the other children. The satisfaction that victory brought faded as another memory filled it, one that happened when I’d smelled food in the orphanage infirmary when I’d gotten locked in there. Being surrounded by plates of medicine and food beside sick, ravaged, pathetically wailing bodies that didn’t want my help, and whom I had no desire to help; no desire to even touch. It was a disgusting memory that was always accompanied by a shiver of revulsion.
I never really got hungry; over the years my stomach had shrunk into practically the size of a baby’s clenched fist. In truth, I really didn’t understand the apparent joy everyone around me seemed to get from eating. A part of me wished to just gorge myself from spite over how I’d been fed at the orphanage, but the thought of eating a great deal just wasn’t appealing to me. Food had become something necessary to survive, but I really didn’t see any need to take pleasure in it, especially if it made me as nauseous as I felt now. It was far better to not become attached to it, so I would never miss it. And it didn’t look like I was missing much, I thought sourly as I sniffed the cream sauce in distaste. Every once in awhile I did eat some, praying I could keep the rich cooking down.
Often during the meal I sneaked quick glances at the professors’ table, finding my eyes drawn to Dumbledore. He seemed deeply involved in a conversation with Headmaster Dippet and an elderly man to his right. My gaze then narrowed in on this third member with whom he was conversing. Startling black eyes were the first things I noticed, and they matched his moustache and longish hair. He was dressed in a green robe with a silver snake emblem on the left corner of his chest, so I surmised that he must have something to do with Slytherin. Thinking back, I remembered reading somewhere that each House had a faculty member placed in charge of it. I couldn’t recall any other details than that; I had been too preoccupied learning several spells to truly pay attention, but I was now determined to finish reading the book before classes began tomorrow. With that resolution in mind, I found my spirits rising slightly. I resumed my private battle with the food, engaging in slight bits of conversation around me. I remained mostly silent, gauging everyone carefully.
Immediately following the meal, the dishes magically disappeared, as did the leftover food. Scarcely a beat went by before we were told to follow our House prefects to our new living quarters. I heard a commanding voice at the far end of the table, and turned my attention to it. A tall boy who looked remarkably similar to Damien stood up and announced himself.
“Welcome, new Slytherins. My name is Dashell Malfoy, and I am one of the prefects here. Welcome to the finest, most honorable House at Hogwarts. Please follow me immediately.” We all stood on cue and rather sedately made our way after the elder Malfoy, who strode gracefully yet confidently out of the room with his robes swishing perfectly behind him. I noticed that he had not given so much as a glance at his younger brother, and Damien looked a little hurt through his façade. He caught me looking and tightened his face back into a sneer as we proceeded towards the exit. As we were passing through the doors, the rowdier Gryffindors tried to push many of us out of the way in their haste to follow their energetic prefect. I cringed as one young Slytherin girl got knocked down.
All commotion around us stopped, as the guilty Gryffindor scurried to help the girl up. She accepted his hand, muttering a low, “Watch where you’re going.” Craning my neck, I realized that the Gryffindor perpetrator was that Weasley boy, and he was now hiding next to his prefect as Dashell came over.
Each prefect stood facing the other, arms crossed. After a beat, Dashell spoke first. “Grover, can’t you keep your charges in order? Perhaps if you set a better example, they would know it isn’t appropriate to run throughout the school.”
The other prefect—Grover, I expected—immediately spoke up in hot defense. “They’re kids! I prefer to have some with a little life in them, as opposed to the upper crust stones you have.”
Dashell smiled, not pleasantly, but kept his voice even. “I know why you hate me, Grover. And never worry; I don’t much care for you, either. But let’s not let that get in the way of our duties, shall we?”
Grover’s face flamed, perhaps from the authoritative, almost patronizing tone in Dashell’s voice. Still, I didn’t think Dashell meant it as anything more than what was said. Grover countered snidely, “Oh, a change of heart, Dash? What, is a teacher nearby that you need to suck up to? Teaching them right from the start how to betray friends and manipulate people.”
At that, Dashell’s voice hardened. “Let’s leave the past out of this, shall we? Honestly.”
Grover said, “I’m not talking about the past. It isn’t always about you, you know.” He pointed at the girl who had fallen and said accusingly, “She fell down on purpose!”
Dashell raised his eyebrows and said in a drippy sarcastic voice, “Yes, because she would gain so much from doing that. The evil mastermind.” He seemed to struggle for a moment, then his voice lashed out to match Grover’s. “If anything, your little Gryffin-ape pushed her down on purpose! I should go and report both of you to Dippet.”
I looked at William, feeling slightly bad for him, but by far I was simply more annoyed with the entire ordeal. “I personally don’t think either of you are correct,” I said.
The moment the words came out, both of them turned around to face me, giving me a look that made me certain I should have phrased that differently. I added quickly, “I mean, I was walking right behind her, and saw everything. You both were leading, and couldn’t possibly have seen, so I thought I should tell you. He tripped and fell into her, and she wasn’t even looking. It was an accident.” I turned and tried to give William an encouraging smile, but was met with anger on his and several other Gryffindors’ faces.
William flushed and sputtered, “I did not trip! Everyone was pushing everyone else. I’ve heard about you Slytherins, so I’m not surprised you won’t take the blame for your doing!”
I stood stupefied for a moment, wondering if this was the same silly, warm kid I had met on the boat. Could he really be embarrassed enough to lash out like that? My mind was incredulous over his accusation, and found looking at him anymore distasteful to say the least. Glancing around, I noted that several of the Gryffindors were giving me sympathetic looks, but most of them appeared as uncertain as my fellow housemates. Equally unsure, I didn’t even react when Dashell put his arm around me and warned Grover, “Let’s just forget this. Grover, get your herd out of here, before I really get bothered.” Eyeing each other down, Grover and the Gryffindors finally exited, and Dashell turned to face me. His expression was guarded. “What did you suppose you were doing?”
“He’s a Mudblood!” Damien said loudly, waving for his brother’s attention.
Dashell briefly shot him an annoyed look, and then refocused on me. He stared at me intently, and then said, “I understand why you did that, then. You didn’t realize how futile it would be.” Straightening up, he continued, “The Gryffindors…well, most of them rather dislike us Slytherins. More so than the rest of the Houses. And I can’t say the feeling isn’t mutual.” His face dropped into a frown as he continued. “Grover certainly doesn’t help that. But you have to understand that this is your House. This is where your loyalties must lie.”
“I didn’t think I was being disloyal,” I responded evenly. “But seeing his reaction, I certainly won’t try to help him again.” My eyes remained on Dashell the entire time, struggling not to show that I was still slightly unsure of him.
Giving a slight smile, Dashell said, “I wasn’t going to get anyone in trouble that didn’t call for it. Grover was asking for it—I only threatened that other child to put Grover on edge and make him step forward, apologize, and leave. If he hadn’t and had let me turn the kid in, that would be his fault, wouldn’t it?”
At that, I paused to think. It had been a long time indeed since I’d dealt with an ethical question of any merit. Finding no fault in his argument, I said, “Next time I won’t be so quick to stop you. I haven’t had much experience with people who think and plan outside the level of a toddler.”
A genuine smile stretched Dashell’s lips, and it was fuller than his last. “I’ll take that as a compliment…Riddle?” I gave a quick nod, and he went on, nodding back. “Riddle. Well, I think you’ll be a fine addition to our House.” And with that he swept away, his long cloak swirling behind his tall frame, leaving Damien glaring icily at me. Right then I couldn’t have cared less, as I was watching the back of the first person I had ever felt any measure of real respect for in my life. Silently I fell into step behind him as he led us down the winding corridors of Hogwarts.
The Slytherin rooms were apparently located in the dungeon, which I personally found to be fitting. They were remote and secretive, and had the only staircases that didn’t move leading down to them. That was a relief to note after dismaying at the many levels of stairs changing before me as we made our way to our House. I wondered frantically if there was a pattern to the changes, even more determined to read everything I could before classes began.
I looked about everywhere, genuinely intrigued by sights I’d only reading fantasy before. On the walls were pictures that literally moved, and I stared in fascination at them, at every one of them that I could until we paused. A smile came to my face as I realized we had stopped in front of yet another one. In this picture was a young woman dressed ravishingly. She spoke in a low, seductive voice to Dashell. “Password please, my lovely young suitor, in order to enter my abode.”
Dashell rolled his eyes, and said, “Hello, Ms. Tress. Lavishious.”
Ms. Tress responded to the nonsensical word, swinging the barred jail doors open. In a sultry voice she crooned, “Right again, my dear Dash.”
As we entered I breathed in musty air, cold and with a hint of wax. The dark stonewalls dripped, leaving small puddles on the dark green carpet. A brilliant silver snake was curled on the center of the rug, and around it were pieces of black furniture. A comforting fire was blazing in the fireplace, rimmed with carvings of serpents and dragons. The furniture was trimmed with silver edgings of a similar nature, and there were paintings of famous magical history scenes covering the windowless hall. Two separate staircases led downward in the far corners.
Dashell turned and said, “Remember the password to get in here, and don’t give it out to anyone. Ms. Tress - well, just put up with her. Smile and be polite, or else she’ll think you’re coming on to her by playing hard to get. Anyway, the boys’ dorms are to the left down the stairs, girls to the right. You’ll find your belongings down there as well. Once you all are settled, come back out for a brief meeting, and then we’ll call it a night.”
Everyone scattered sedately to listen to his orders. As I walked down the stairs, I kept noticing the odd looks people gave me. They seemed torn between hating me because of what Damien had said, and approving me for Dashell, who was in charge and seemed to accept me. I found their uncertainty less than appealing, not desiring to be accepted simply because of someone else. I swallowed an angry pang, telling myself that I could care less of they all hated me, but they might at least have had the courtesy to speak with me and find out if I really was as dreadful as they thought. Chances were, they would be right anyway, at least in the mood I was falling in.
Deciding to indifferently ignore them, I silently found my bed, empty except for my pillowcase, books, and Snicks, who was now curled up on my pillow. He gave me a nodded greeting, flicking his tongue around excitedly. I smiled back, a rush of relief that he was here filling me. “We made Ssslytherin,” he remarked proudly, and I nodded, and then motioned for him to be quiet. He rolled his little black orbs at me and slid off the bed, muttering a quick, “I’m going exsssploring, sssee you later,” and then he slipped out through a crack in the wall. I stared after him, half-relieved one of us felt secure here, but a bit angry and anxious to be suddenly left alone again.
Everyone else was busy unpacking, and the noise made me begin to do the same. Malfoy was on one side of me, trying to pretend I didn’t exist. To my other side was the wall; at least I would have privacy. I tried to look inconspicuous as I alphabetized my books on the small shelf, and then hid the remaining money and letters I had gotten from the Blunts’ safe under my mattress. Having nothing left to do, I exited the dormitory and made my way back to the common rooms. Dashell was already there, seated in a large pillowed chair covered with a velvety green draping. He was looking intently into the fire, and only turned to look at me when I paused across from him, my motions uncertain.
“Well,” he said, smiling slightly. “That didn’t take long.”
I shrugged, and then replied tentatively, “I don’t have many things.”
“He doesn’t have any things, he means,” a familiar and unpleasant voice said behind us. I whirled around to glare at Damien, who had framed himself under the arching doorway. Clearly striving to appear superior, he strode over to face me, glaring. “Not surprising that the first one to sell out our House would be the poor Mudblood. They have no sense of loyalty, the lot of them.”
“Ah, leave off him, Minnie,” Dashell said, looking more amused than anything. “He didn’t know any better.”
Damien flushed angrily. “Don’t call me that!” he glared at his brother. “And of course he doesn’t know any better, he shouldn’t be here. There are plenty of other first years that need a prefect, but you’re going to waste all of your time on him, aren’t you? Father would be furious, if he knew.”
At that Dashell’s eyes flashed but he said indifferently, “I imagine he would. But unless you want me to report to Father with all of your stunts over the years, I think you’d best leave this alone, don’t you?”
Damien folded his arms, still glowering. “I have never done anything against Father’s wishes.”
Dashell let out a small laugh. “Even if that were so, you think that would stop me? Please, simply exploiting the truth would be beneath me. No, keep pushing me and I’ll come up with something more interesting to tell him.” They stared each other down as I stood in between them uncertainly. The family picture by Crevanti back at the Blunts was apparently as much a myth as it was here. Damien finally stomped off, and I turned back to Dashell. Surprised, I didn’t see triumph or anger on his face, only a trace of sadness. He caught me looking and quickly covered it up.
“Well,” he said, trying to give me a natural smile. “No one said this was an easy House. Only the best.” He must have seen the embarrassment on my face as I fingered my chain, tracing the torn strips of my shirt. His eyes looked me over, as I stared down, unable to meet his eye. Normally when people examined me in such a way I stared right back at them, but for some reason in front of Dashell I couldn’t call up any heated façade, only the shame I felt. I waited there, watching the worn tops of my shoes, until he finally spoke.
“Well, I’ll say one thing. You must really have wanted to come here.” Hearing his quiet words I looked up, praying he was not mocking me. All I saw was a glimmer I hoped was respect in his eyes as he continued. “Most who come here don’t have to work for it—especially in Slytherin. But to drop everything and just come here where you knew nothing, that decidedly takes something. Damien said, though not admiringly, that you never even heard of magic before, nor had anyone to guide you. But, you made it here.” His focus was centered on my eyes, and he did not appear to notice the ancient clothes or dirt caked skin that clothed me. Directly to me he said, “I respect that.”
My heart, which had been caught somewhere between my throat and stomach all this day, all my life actually, finally beat with enthusiasm. Warmth rushed to my face and limbs, not from humiliation or anger, but for once from happiness. I couldn’t tell him that I had had no choice in coming, that I could not go back—I needed that look in his eyes to stay, at least for the night. The gaze of respect not forced from fear, nor cased in disgust. Respect and approval from someone, the first one, whom I felt the same about.
I muttered a small, “thank you,” as the others filed in. Sitting awkwardly down on one of the sofas, I tensed as four other people crowded in next to me. I tried to focus ahead, ignoring the chattering around me. Finally when everyone was settled, Dashell stood up and began his speech.
“As I said before, my name is Dashell Malfoy, and I am the prefect for Slytherin House. I am a fifth year here, which means that come time to take the O.W.L.S., you will not want to annoy me. I am also the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, so if anyone has any questions about that, just see me later. No first years on the team, sorry, but you’ll have enough to deal with.” At that, his expression got serious.
“As most of you know, the magical community is in the midst of a very difficult time here. With the rise of the Dark Lord Grindelwald, London’s entire branch of the Ministry is on defense. Hogwarts is a place of constant concern, because we hold some of the finest upcoming magicians, as well as the likes of Dippet, Dumbledore, and the other teachers. I won’t go on with the details now, because I’m sure many of your families have talked about this to death with you. Just know that at certain times, places within Hogwarts and the surrounding areas will be prohibited, like the Forest. Please obey that rule, it is for your own protection. Also, in light of this difficult time, I will always make myself available to anyone who has any concerns. Unless, of course, its close to O.W.L.S. time.”
A brief titter rang out at that, to try to alleviate the tense conversation. Dashell smiled, but his eyes looked worried as he continued. “Also, I just want to say that being in Slytherin House is a very big honor.” He waited for the cheers to die down before continuing. “This House, and its founder, have proved to be outstanding wizards as well as valuable members of society. However, there are always the few who will proclaim that Slytherin produces nothing but Dark wizards, even here at school, I am afraid. Please ignore these insults, as they are unfounded. If anyone gives you a hard time, please remember that they are uneducated. If that doesn’t work, zap them.” He grinned, as the first years all laughed and clapped. “You know you can, you are the best of them all, because you were placed here. So welcome again, have a great first year at Hogwarts, and win us some points!”
With that rousing ending, we all cheered again, only to groan as he sent us to bed. I waited, letting the crowd head in before standing up to follow. Dashell stopped me. “Riddle?”
I turned around, hoping I hadn’t done something wrong already. But Dashell only said, “the best way to prove yourself to them is to be better than them. It never fails.”
I nodded. “That’s been my motto all of my life.” Then I turned back and headed for the dorms to finish reading.
I felt cold seeping though me, but it seemed to be starting from my insides… slowly spreading down my limbs, sliding through, pulling my attention to it. I turned, only to find my pillow dripping with an unidentifiable liquid. I tried to push myself up, but my limbs weren’t controlled by me anymore. Panicked, I looked around frantically for a face, anyone to call out to. Darkness surrounded me, and in the black I heard a hissing sound. I cried out, hoping it was Snicks, but then orbs of red began to glow, creeping closer, inching their way towards me. I struggled back, pinned against the wall, my arms flailing. I held my hand out to ward them off, and then in the red backlight I saw throbbing objects pumping up my arm. Terrified, I yanked off the blanket only to find the same long, sliding objects crawling throughout my body under my skin. The pain was incredible, filling agony with every inch the crept. I tried to pull my skin away, to expose the creatures welling up inside me, inching towards my head. The red eyes drew closer, reaching me as large snakes with dripping fangs plunged them into me. As the creatures in me reached my head I screamed for help that never came. I began retching, vomiting up snake after snake that then proceeded to bite me, injecting venom further into my veins. I was paralyzed, though a voice was constantly telling me to run, that I was letting it all happen to me—the voice was accusing me, refusing to help though I pleaded, as I never had before. The voice was familiar, and in my agony I called upon it to reveal itself, which it was about to, if I could hold on, but the pain was too great, and I disappeared into it, submerging under the violent attack, my shaking, sweaty hand still reaching upwards—
I gasped, jerking upright in my bed, my white hands shaking as they grasped the history book so hard my knuckles cracked. My breath heaving, I twisted around, searching for the red eyes, the menacing voice and cackling of my own shrieks. All I saw was the cold dorm room, filled with just-rousing students. I swung my legs around and sat up, placing my aching head in my hands. The book fell to the floor, to the page that I had gone over again and again the night before. A pale man towered in the picture, his dark eyes cold and commanding—the caption under it read ‘Salazar Slytherin’—the founder of my House. His face drew me in, and the name I recalled hearing somewhere important. I tried to think it though as I had pondered last night, to forget the dream still pulsing through me—then I quickly realized what I was wearing, and flung the covers back over me again. I had no change of clothing, and I had planned on waking up earlier than everyone else and quickly throwing a work robe over my old outfit. Unfortunately, I had fallen asleep sometime after five, and then I’d had the terrifying dream that I could not rouse from even though I remembered trying.
My mind circled frantically, wondering how I would now accomplish the clothing feat. More importantly, how was I going to do this every day? Surely I would need additional garments, more for hygiene’s sake than fashion. Growing up around dirt and filth, I had acquired an intense dislike for anything unclean. It had been torture to go through these past weeks, living on the streets and saving the money, but it had been necessary to get here. Still, the memory made me cringe. I couldn’t even rinse anything I’d worn, because I didn’t have anything else to wear while they dried. I wouldn’t live like that, I decided firmly, biting my lip. Perhaps there was a spell?
As I worried over this, the other boys had all finished getting dressed and passed by me without a word. A few gave me nods of greeting, but most appeared too wary or too sleepy for words. The exception of course was Malfoy, who sneered “lazy Mudblood,” to me as he passed. I watched, making sure all had left for the dining room, then stood up, slipped the thin work robe over me, and hurried to follow the group.
The dining hall was just starting to wake up. Most of the Ravenclaws were already seated, reading ahead in their textbooks and talking excitedly about classes. The Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables were still fairly empty as the Slytherins ambled in. I sat again at the end, so I wouldn’t have to be surrounded by others, and tried to avoid any unnecessary contact. Food magically appeared before me, and again, it was smothered in some gravy or butter. I toyed with it, absently fingering my chain, when a voice next to me spoke.
“You’re not from the magical community, are you?” The voice had a musical lilt to it that was faintly familiar, but the words still froze me. I turned my face to its owner, who saw my expression and quickly added. “Neither am I, actually. I’m a Muggle-born, as well.” It was a short, thin girl who wore the markings of a Ravenclaw. I stared at her, wondering what she was doing at my table.
“What makes you say that?” I responded as the girl—incredibly—took the seat beside me. She pointed at my chain, which I was wearing outside of my robe. I quickly stuffed it under, blushing, as she said in a normal voice, “Don’t see many of those markings around here. Don’t worry, most people here won’t even know what it is, unless they take Muggle Studies.” She tossed her hair back, revealing a Star of David on a chain around her throat. I recognized it from a book I’d perused at the library near the orphanage. Occasionally I’d sneaked away there at nights, the sole benefit for having windows with no glass and trees growing outside them to climb down.
My focus drifted from her necklace back to her face. I found her smiling at me, a toothy smile that grew as she spoke again. “It’s good to take something from home with you, don’t you think? Something to remind you where you came from.”
“No!” I found my voice rising as I quickly denied her statement. “This cross means nothing to me. It never meant home for me—and I—I don’t wish to be reminded where I came from!” I was almost trembling at this point, embarrassed by the crowd my outburst had drawn. The hysteria fading, nerves rattled from my nightmare and the current scene I’d caused, I hastily moved to take the cross off when the girl’s hand gently prevented me. She looked apologetic. “Please don’t take it off because of me. Symbols like that, and wearing them, mean something different for everyone. Home is just what mine reminds me of—you must have a good reason to keep yours on, too. Even if you don’t know it right now.”
I stared at her, as the voice of Dashell called across the room, “Baker!” The girl turned and gave Dashell a smile, then said to me as she rose, “That’s my name, Gail Baker. I have to go sit with Dash—he’s my boyfriend and we haven’t seen each other all summer! Take care, and again, I’m sorry.” She flashed a smile and was off to the other end. Dash greeted her warmly with a kiss, and I noticed the disgusted looks on many of the Slytherins‘ faces, as well as on those seated at the Ravenclaw table. All the while my hand never left my chain, fingering it uncertainly as owls began to swoop over my head.
Chapter 7: A is for Ambition, L is For -
The owls scattered across the room, dropping letters and parcels into all of the students’ hands. I perked up, not in expectation of receiving mail, but because this was also apparently the time of day when class schedules were delivered. Reaching up, I caught the letter a little black owl dropped over my head and hurriedly tore it open. On the inside, the following classes were scrawled out in the order I would be taking them: Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions and then Flying. The classes switched off daily, leaving Charms, Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures and History of Magic for the following day. They also offered specialty courses for upper level students taught by faculty or guest instructors, a new and experimental addition to the curriculum.
Enthralled, I studied the paper closely, not lifting my head until I heard a groan coming from next to me. Briefly glancing up, I noticed it was a large boy with a lisp whom I had met the night before. My memory took little time to recall his name. Randy O’Connell. He must have noticed my gaze, for he turned to me and said, glowering, “Why did we get stuck with the Gryffindors for so many classes?”
I paused at his question and looked back over my schedule. Each of my classes had another House paired with it -Transfiguration, Potions, Flying, and History of Magic were all with the Gryffindors. Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms were with Ravenclaw; Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures were with Hufflepuff. I shrugged, not overly concerned. From what I gathered through studying the interactions around me, none of the Houses liked Slytherin much, so what would it matter which House was glaring at us?
I said as much to Randy, who replied, “Gryffindors don’t just hate us, they go out of their way to make our lives miserable. It’s an old feud - they can’t just leave it that we think differently.” He sniffed in condescension, adding, “Sure, some of the Slytherins start stuff with them, but generally we’d prefer to have nothing to do with them.” How true that was, I didn’t yet know, but I kept silent. He then lowered his voice a bit, adding into my ear, “And awhile ago, some graduate of Slytherin killed a Gryffindor grad who had children going here. House rivalry got worse after that.”
I soaked up the information, again not replying, letting Randy go on. “But they all act so high and mighty, especially now that they’ve won the House cup the last ten years or so.” The jealousy in his voice was apparent as he grumbled, “Miserable unforgiving gits.” He looked at me for confirmation.
It was time to head for class then, so Randy and I parted before I had a chance to respond. He leaped from the table to hurry to Transfiguration, saying quickly, “That was my Mum’s best class - she went here, you know!” I headed out of the Great Hall more sedately, having seen that the teacher was Dumbledore.
The corridors were confusing, seeming to have changed shape from last night. I had read that this was part of the charm of Hogwarts, but I personally found it annoying to memorize. I followed a group of peers down the winding halls for what seemed like an eternity before reaching the Transfiguration classroom. A bit out of breath, I paused in the doorway and scanned the ornately decorated setting before me. It might have been vast, but was so stuffed with shelves around the edges that it felt crowded and small. The furniture itself was simple, with wooden desks and chairs all facing one large oak desk. I slid into the front and center seat and looked around. On the teacher’s desk were a heap of matches and various books. There were also maps hanging haphazardly on the walls where small boats continuously made routes to places like Dragon Flight Peak and Bludgeoned Phoenix Island. What looked like a fish with fur was spouting pink bubbles in the corner of the ceiling, letting out a sweet smelling aroma. It was odd and intriguing, yet somehow still reminiscent of classrooms I’d read about. The only difference was that here, in person, it seemed much more fantastical. Having never been to a real school, I couldn’t deny a small rush of excitement and nerves. All that was missing from this setting was the teacher, an addition I had yet to decide would be an improvement or not.
On edge, I kept glancing discreetly about me, noting that nobody sat still. Everyone was twisting slightly, nervously clenching quills or whispering quietly. Their apprehension let me breathe a bit easier, and I neatly set up my own quill, ink, paper and book before folding my hands in front, fighting to appear calm. At exactly nine Dumbledore strode in, clutching many parcels of paper and a triangular shaped book that kept changing colors. He thumped the handful onto the desk, a grin raising the corners of his mouth upwards as he paced the length of the desks in front. His eyes met with ours as he said the next instructions, landing last upon me.
“Transfiguration is perhaps the most difficult subject you will learn here at Hogwarts, and no, I am not just saying that because I teach it. Many magicians spend their entire lives studying it and still cannot master the full scope of the subject. Those who claim they have are likely misinformed as to what could truly be achieved.” His gaze coming to rest on me, he finished, “but I am not here to discourage you, merely to assist you all in escaping the frustration which can result from expecting the wrong thing. Remember, effort counts more than anything.” His eyes then settled on the girl next to me, who was trying not to fidget nervously. Giving her a small nod, his eyes sparkling a bit, he added gently, “and a measure of good cheer won’t hurt.” She stilled at that, managing a weak smile back. Giving her a final nod, he then addressed the rest of us again. “Any questions?”
I don’t know why I put my hand up. Dumbledore didn’t look surprised though, and said patiently, “Yes, Mr. Riddle?”
I looked around tentatively, and then said, “Well, you have to make some progress, right? I mean, if someone tried their hardest, and still couldn’t do magic, then they’d be a Squib.” I recalled that word from my reading the night before. Swallowing, I finished, “and they’d get thrown out. Right?” And get sent back to the orphanage, I didn’t add.
I heard snorts from behind me, and some Gryffindor girl said, “just like a Slytherin, already trying to flush Hogwarts out. Effort doesn’t count for anything to you pampered, silver-spooned slaughterers!” The Gryffindor at her side tried to quiet her, but she adamantly added, “You’re lower than Squibs!” An outcry of support sounded for the girl, while several of the Slytherins indignantly shouted back. I simply slunk down into my seat.
Dumbledore called for silence in a stern voice, and the ruckus quieted, with the two Houses still throwing glares at each other. Looking around me, he said, “I’m sure that wasn’t what Mr. Riddle meant. Was it?” At that, he glanced at me, giving me the opportunity for further humiliation.
I gazed about, trying to be diplomatic. “Well, not precisely in the words she used.” The laughs I drew from the Slytherins meant nothing compared to the disappointment that flickered in Dumbledore’s eyes. He was, after all, the one who would give me my grades.
He kept watching me, and slowly under his gaze I felt a small amount of guilt rise. However, it was quick to be accompanied by a defensive indignation. What was I supposed to have done? He had placed me in a no-win situation, expecting me to either voice my fears that I might be a Squib and have to go back to the orphanage, or look like a prejudiced Slytherin. A steeled glare rose up inside me. If he expected me to burst open with my feelings in a room full of people who probably hated me, he was gravely mistaken. Fortunately, he made no further comment about it, turning to his lesson. Both sides quieted down as we paid attention to his teaching.
The rest of the session was devoted to notes and instruction until the very end. With only a few minutes remaining, Dumbledore passed out the matches that had been lying on his desk. As he gave one to each student, he again carefully went over how we were supposed to turn the match into a pin. He walked up and down, cautioning us not to expect too much, to have patience, and such. I tuned his slow voice out, focusing with interest on the project at hand. I hadn’t tried to transfigure anything yet, but then, I had only gotten the books three days before. Still, a nervous clench in my stomach made me wish I’d already somehow mastered the entire art, as if I was chastising myself. Uncertainly, I took out my wand, flicking it over the match and murmured the three-word spell. Immediately a warm glow filled me, and from the tip of my wand the same teardrop-shaped sparks flew, hitting the match and immediately changing it into a perfect pin.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief, a bit sweaty and shaky from the adrenaline that had built up. Terrifying, mortifying images of the match blowing up, or burning the classroom down--or not doing anything– filled my head. The last possibility had been the most haunting, having grown from my uncertainty over how much talent I truly possessed. My eyes trailed down to the silver pin before me, the shiniest object I could ever recall seeing in my life, and enormous relief inflated me. With a smile upon my face, I looked then at my wand in wonder. Every time I held it I felt a sense of control; a sense of belonging and ability that flowed through me, giving me confidence. It was a feeling that was utterly unknown to me before. It felt…right. I relished it.
I then felt something else. Glancing up, I found Dumbledore’s eyes on me, staring down with that same weight they always had. I slowly lifted my head and saw that the whole class was whispering behind him. Suddenly nettled, I shifted my gaze back to him. His eyes large, he looked from the pin to me, and then said, “Is everything all right here, Mr. Riddle?”
A smile huge on my face, I responded, “never better. I think I may have a knack for this.” As I held up the pin, the Gryffindor girl who had yelled at me before reared up again.
In an accusatory tone she said, “it’s probably a trick, Professor! No one can turn it on the first day. No one saw him do it; we were all looking at you! Make him do it again, and I’ll bet he can’t!” A round of agreement followed her, not stifled by my fellow Slytherins. I rolled my eyes and turned to Dumbledore. He merely gave the girl a mild look that silenced her, and then turned a thoughtful expression to me.
“Mr. Riddle,” he said slowly, “would you mind showing us your skill one more time?”
I was speechless. For a moment. The heatedly I replied, “do you think I’m lying?”
“No, no,” Dumbledore said quickly. “I am merely amazed, that is all. I have never seen anything like it. I would like to watch it happen, if I may.”
I gritted my teeth, frustration replacing my moment of happiness. Of course the moment I actually achieved something, it would be called into question, for no other apparent reason than that I was a Slytherin – a half-blooded and orphaned one at that, who could never amount to anything. I saw a subtle demand that I prove myself in his words, it was hard not to believe that he didn’t trust me. Anger, pride, and defensiveness swelled inside me.
Standing up, I made a show of straightening my robes before I walked over to the annoying girl’s desk and proceeded to change her match into a pin on the first try. Smiling as spitefully as I could at her, I turned back to Dumbledore and said, “did you have a good enough angle on that one? Or should I do it for all the other students?”
At that moment the class bell rang, ending the period. Everyone scurried to be let out, and I let my gaze hang on Dumbledore’s an extra minute as he said, “no need.”
I cursed my outburst internally, and under his gaze I muttered, “I’m sorry, sir.”
Then I began to stomp out of the class, when Dumbledore said to me, “excellent work, Mr. Riddle. Outstanding, really.”
For some reason, I could not hold the temper I had been coaxing down. Saying a bit coldly, “Thank you. I thought so,” I swept out of the room without looking backwards. My mind mentally added, glad you finally realized it.
My next class was Defense Against the Dark Arts, with Professor Miranda Thistle. She spent most of the class lecturing us that this was a class which would teach us to ward off the Dark Arts, not explore them. As she rattled on, I began to feel a bit annoyed with her. Was she afraid someone was going to accuse her of teaching the supposed ‘Dark’ Arts to us? And what could possibly be so ’dark‘about them? I tried to sort it out in my mind, coming up only with the same thought. Magic was magic, it just depended on how one used it; at least, that was how I saw it so far. I had heard brief mutters in the past few days that they tortured and killed wizards at a prison called Azkaban—was that any different, simply because it was performed under Ministry authority and called righteous? I certainly didn’t think so, but after Dumbledore’s class I knew better than to speak my mind.
“Mr. Riddle?” Professor Thistle’s voice cut through my thoughts.
Again I had chosen to sit front and center, as much to avoid having direct contact with my peers as to show my studious interests. I blinked and looked at her, frantically trying to figure out if a question had been posed to me. In order to stall, I offered, “yes?”
“Good!” Pr. Thistle’s eyes beamed, and I nervously smiled back, having not a clue as to what I had done right. Then Thistle said, “I was never that good at Divination, but I could tell you had a question! I love class participation, so out with it!”
Of course. I heard the groans from the Ravenclaws, as well as a few hisses of, “suck-up!” directed my way. I gulped, trying to think of an appropriate question, only to come out with, “what’s so terrible about learning the Dark Arts?”
The moment the words left my lips, I knew I should not have gotten up today. Thistle’s eyes became fishbowls, and the collective gasps from the Ravenclaws were mirrored by the Slytherins, some of whom broke into snickers.
I attempted to rectify the situation, quickly saying, “I mean, not to use as such. But, isn’t magic amoral? Magic by itself isn’t evil, it takes the wizard to choose to use it for whatever means. And who decides what is ’dark’? I heard some say Azkaban is evil, but it’s accepted by law. Wouldn’t it be more beneficial for us to learn about the Dark Arts, to really understand them, in order to best be able to ward them off?” It seemed logical to me, though I’d rattled it off fairly fast, not having given it too much thought as of yet. I’d only heard of magic weeks ago. Still, some of the theories behind what I’d said had always made sense to me, however underdeveloped they still were in my mind.
Finally, I paused. Nobody had moved an inch, except perhaps to drop his or her jaw an inch lower to the ground in horror. Fingering my chain, I added, “just a thought.”
Again, the silence prevailed for a minute. Thistle eventually recovered, saying in a flustered voice, “erm, no, Tom, that is a - a very good point. As a matter of fact, it is almost a constant source of debate within the Ministry and community. Especially nowadays, with the war going on. In fact, there is an Ethics in Magic course being offered. Perhaps you might convince Dumbledore to let you into it if you are really interested. However, for our purposes, we need only learn about the defense part. I am sure as we go along, you will learn why the Dark Arts are considered dark and taboo.”
I nodded politely, not agreeing with her. How foolish was it to not associate oneself with weapons the enemy would undoubtedly use against them? I’d read everything at the orphanage, seeing the hypocrisy of Mrs. Blunt’s actions juxtaposed with what her prayer books said. It seemed far better to me to know everything, especially what was forbidden to me. Being denied teaching had only made me more determined to sneak out of the orphanage and to learn reading and writing at a local library, which I had done. I saw no difference here in learning how to control these powers, not aberrations, that I possessed.
It would take a weak wizard to be unable to control how he used his magic. My heart beat faster at that, but I firmly told myself that I would not be weak. So far, I had found magic to only be beneficial, giving me power and knowledge. Such things weren’t sources of good and evil, and neither was magic. Those attributes were for feeble people like those at the orphanage, or the Gryffindor girl who shouted at me. I couldn’t see it any other way. Power, knowledge and magic were merely tools for someone to use and love.
Not that I was planning to use anything to hurt people. But I didn’t see the problem with having the capability to, because who knew when it could be used for something positive? And who got to decide when I was ready to learn? The hypocritical people who allowed Azkaban? The prejudiced community which spat on Mudbloods and Slytherins? Teachers who went out of their way to humiliate me?
I finally snapped back to reality, finding Thistle managing a small smile at me. I bit my lip, forcing back a frown. She so far hadn’t meant to embarrass me, and part of me did wish without much hope to have faith in her. The rest stubbornly held on to my old reasoning, finding hers unsatisfactory. In the end, for all the intellectual words and turns my mind made, I was still left slightly unsure.
This philosophical debate continued in my head until Potions began. The teacher was Professor Thaddeus Zwipp, our Head of House. He smiled at us, and then began to bark out questions rapidly. He began by focusing in on the Gryffindors, but once he realized that I knew all of the answers he let them be and instead merely asked me. I had read over the book during the brief lunch period between classes, and most of the information took. I once heard someone say to me I had a photographic memory. Whether this was true or not, memorization came easily for me, as did analytical reasoning, so Potions and I were a ready match. Zwipp basked in my glory, beaming and giving Slytherin twenty points after saying how proud he was to be associated with our House. Some of the Slytherins gave me grins as we exited, and I smiled back, relieved that there was one class I hadn’t screwed up in yet. A smug sense of superiority filled me as well over my performance, one that I childishly didn’t try to hide from certain Gryffindors.
After Potions, I headed with the Gryffindors and Slytherins outside onto the bright grassy field for our first flying lesson. The air outside was cool, and the sun was going down, letting off beautiful bands of red and orange to cover the school. I stared up in awe at the Quidditch scoring hoops, seeming to stand hundreds of feet in the air. A few also gazed dreamily upward, imagining the feeling of flying. The image truthfully made my palms slightly damp, though I scolded myself for it. I didn’t exactly want to trust my personage on a cleaning utensil seventy feet in the air. Nor did I wish to become one with the broom, as some of my classmates were saying in a pathetic effort to sound poetic. I just wanted to control it enough so I didn’t break anything or humiliate myself. Flying seemed a useful enough tool, though, so I gritted my teeth in determination to just learn how. I couldn’t imagine we’d fly that high on the first day, but I resolved to regardless of my apprehension if it was required.
Our professor was Josephine Wingram, an old professional Quidditch player she kept saying over and over again. She seemed pleasant enough, if a little too enthusiastic. She also kept reminding the girls to not be intimidated by us “males” since it was almost proven that women were naturally better flyers than men. The girls giggled at this, while the masculine portion of us looked either confused or disgruntled. We were finally told to step to the left of our brooms and extend our right hands over, saying firmly the word “up.”
I did so, the broom coming into my hand on the second try. It also did so on the first or second take for five of the girls, and three other of the boys. Randy’s came into his hand first, a surprised but extremely pleased look on his face. Weasley, however, made a rude comment only to me, before his broom spun round and tripped him. I decided to believe that I had some small part in doing that.
Finally everyone had gotten their brooms and mounted. We were then told to hover in the air, which I managed fairly easily. Gripping the broom tight, I forced my concentration to focus on controlling the broom to stillness. It shook slightly, but didn’t jerk or toss me off. Several of the kids began drifting or were dumped to the ground. My smile widened, the day having done an almost complete turnaround from its disastrous morning. Flying - well, hovering – wasn’t an exhilarating feeling of freedom for me, but neither was it disastrous. I looked up, glad I didn’t have to go higher, when I noticed that the sky was abruptly changing. Wingram was busy with someone who had fallen and was making a scene, and the rest were trying to hang on. No one was paying attention to the blue-black thickness that was clouding up the sky. It tumbled across, brushing through the peaceful rays of remaining sunlight, crushing them with sounds of laughter and lightening. My eyes widened as a small bird became lost in the mists, tossed around, out of control, and crying out for help. I turned my head wildly, amazed that no one else was hearing these calls.
The blackness was choking it—I sucked air in, feeling as dizzy and faint as the suffering bird must have. A fiber seemed knotted around its fate and my own. Without looking back, I sped upwards, swerving to avoid the bolts of bright silver that crackled and burned around me, singeing my face and hands. My eyes watered, blurring out of focus - but I could hear the bird, it was crying, crying out for anyone to answer its pleas, begging for assistance. I tried to comfort it, to let it know I was coming, was near—but it was so far away, and the smoke was dragging me down. I could make out the bird now—it was a phoenix, its beautiful feathers now dissolving, its beak falling off. It wailed at me to save it from this fate as its eyes filled with red and began to glow, a maniacal hand gripping its soul. It gave one last shriek to heaven, trying to extend the tip of its wing to my saving hand—I reached with all my might, not caring if I fell, taking whatever risks were necessary to reach through the darkness before it overtook us completely –
But I was too late, and the phoenix, once pure, became one with the darkness engulfing me—with cheerless eyes, glaring at me for not trying harder, it screeched at my head, using a will beyond mine to force me downward, plummeting me to the ground in a field of flames and anguish.
I landed soundly, my head dizzy. Images whirled in and out in front of me, before Wingram’s face snapped into focus. Her voice a mixture of horror and anger, she sputtered, “what - what were you doing, Riddle?!”
I climbed up weakly, only then noticing I held something in my arms. Looking down in horror, I quickly dropped the charred remains I was holding and backed away on all fours. The smoke was rising from the dead corpse of the phoenix, singing a song as it was lifted through the wind. In a voice too weak for me to hear, I said, “Trying to save it.”
Wingram’s voice cut through, no longer upset but gentle. “Save what?” she asked, creeping up next to my shivering form. “All we saw was you swoop up into the sky on a broom too old to normally move, screaming something unintelligible, then crash right here.” She forced my eyes to hers, where I saw concern reside. “Care to tell us what happened?”
I stared at the ground. Nothing was left of the bird’s remains. My calm voice, the only part of me not quivering uncontrollably, said, “I thought I saw something.”
*
“A bird, Riddle?! That was your excuse? A bird?” Randy’s voice was choked with food and amusement. Apparently my good work in Potions and my entertaining bout of insanity in Flying had gained me some admirers. A few others chuckled as I divulged the private conversation I had held with Wingram. I had been let off with a warning and a patronizing compliment on my flying. Randy shook his head, grinning in amazement. “Wow, I have new admiration for you, Riddle. An injured bird. You must be good if you could actually talk Wingram into believing that. I heard that normally she’d assume you were trying to show off and kick you out.”
I smiled back pathetically. In all honesty, it probably was how shaken I was that made Wingram go easy on me, as opposed to the ‘hurt bird and too much first day excitement’ story. I didn’t say as much, letting my classmates have a fair regard of me rather than divulge more information. I still could not get rid of the image of the darkness engulfing me, and the poor phoenix’s tumultuous end alongside me. My stomach was too jittery to have eaten much again, causing Dumbledore to find something new to question me on. He had actually come up to the table to ask if I was all right, because I didn’t seem to be eating properly. I had almost groaned right there. The last thing I needed was to be told something else about me was strange and abnormal.
Now we were all back in the common rooms, drinking tea around the fire. Even Snicks had come out to join us, and was lying on my shoulder, lapping from my cup. I felt slightly more at ease, having the small measure of acceptance that I now did. I was also glad that Dash wasn’t around to hear this, because I was afraid he might take it more seriously than my peers. He might have noticed how my cup still trembled in my shaking hands, or how I jumped when a light flickered. The last thing I wanted now was to plunge back into that hallucination, especially since its echoes were still replaying inside my mind. I kept my replies polite but short, hoping they would take the hint.
Eventually the conversation turned to other things, and I leaned back, slowly drifting out of its circulation. The day confused me, wringing my insides out. I desperately wanted to figure it out, or at least focus on something I could understand. I was just about to make my excuses to do some homework when the passage door opened to reveal a small owl carrying a message. It flew over to me, and then waited for me to untie the paper and give it some tea before it flew out again hooting. I opened the paper curiously as the other members of my house crowded around. In the familiar loopy writing was scrawled a request that I visit Headmaster Dippet in his office immediately.
I looked up and shrugged my innocence to my housemates, who returned to conversing about the night’s Potions homework. Standing, I threw my cloak over my clothes and left the common rooms. It still felt indescribably good to have two feet on the ground.
I ignored the tantalizing calls from Ms. Tress and headed down one of the long, windy hallways. Ten minutes later I was still walking that way, passing rooms I had never seen before. Frustrated, I stopped and tried to reorient myself when I felt a chill pass through me. Looking up, I saw the Slytherin’s House ghost wavering above me. The Bloody Baron was decked out in his bloodstained uniform, his grin displaying a grey-stained row of rotten teeth.
“Not good to be roaming the halls at night, lad,” he rumbled. I smiled at him, feeling relieved at his presence. The ghosts, especially the Baron and Peeves, scared most of the first-years, but I found them more amusing than anything.
“But it’s the perfect time for ghost hunting,” I said mischievously.
The Baron responded by passing through me again, his glide eliciting an icy coldness throughout my being. He hovered in front of me, glaring. “Don’t even jest about taking up such a monstrous pastime.”
“I’m sorry,” I said contritely, and then asked, “do you know where Headmaster Dippet’s office is?”
The Baron huffed. “Of course I do, but I am certainly not in the mood to tell you now.” He crossed his arms, sending me a challenging look.
I sighed, and then said by way of apology, “how about if I put in a good word for you with Ms. Tress?” I’d heard someone say that the Baron had a liking for her, and I leaped upon that angle.
At that, the Baron’s eyes brightened, and he said hungrily, “oh, I have been after her for ages. She just doesn’t understand the opportunities a ghost could offer her.” He smoothed his shirtfront at that, a preening pride exuding from his being.
“Erm - right, I’m sure.” I tried hard not to form any mental images at that. “I’ll inform her of that.”
The Baron puffed up, and then said, “you wouldn’t mind?” His eyebrow quirked up menacingly, clearly saying he would hold me to my word.
I smiled. “Not at all. If you would be so kind as to inform me where Dippet’s office is?”
Floating higher, the Baron said slyly, “always a catch with Slytherins, eh? Well, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He pointed to one of the staircases about a hundred feet behind me and said, “take that staircase to the bottom, then turn right. He should be there, his office was an hour ago when I - well, never mind about that, let’s just say, I heard he was there an hour ago.” At that, the Baron gave me a wink, and then straightened back into a menacing shape before gliding out, warning me that he would haunt me to death if I didn’t speak with Ms. Tress.
I walked down the winding staircase, coming to the dark wood door and the shiny plaque, which proclaimed that this was Dippet’s office. I paused outside, composing a plausible story that was in line with what I had told Wingram, and then knocked gently. A low voice bid me enter, and I pushed the door open to reveal a circular office with sleeping portraits covering the walls, their faces mashed against the frames. Faint snores and wheezes reached my ears. The furniture was decorated in warm colors, and a large tapestry emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest hung behind the cherry wood desk. Headmaster Dippet was seated, but he slowly came to his feet as he saw me, his wizened face adopting a faint smile. To his right sat Dumbledore, whose long auburn hair was pushed back from his face, revealing an intent gaze. My heart dropped at seeing him there, and my mind frantically raced trying to think of what to say. It didn’t make sense; I had been completely calm and prepared to face the Headmaster of the school who, essentially, held my fate in his hands at the moment. But upon seeing the younger Deputy Headmaster, I was quaking. It must have something to do with the look in his eyes, which roused a kind of subconscious guilt in me. The way he regarded me, it made me feel as if I had no right to exist, as if I were guilty of things I didn’t remember doing.
“Ah, Mr. Riddle of the never-ending Sorting,” Dippet said kindly, motioning me to a chair facing him. I swallowed hard, trying to force a natural smile on my face. My eyes were continually drawn to Dumbledore, who remained motionless. I sat, nervously wringing my hands before gripping my chain. Dumbledore sat forward as he observed this, and I immediately dropped my hands, placing them both stiffly on my lap. I waited for one of them to speak.
Dippet sat back at his desk, folding his hands in front of him. He looked serious. “Mr. Riddle, today something was brought to my attention by one of your teachers—it doesn’t have anything to do with your classes exactly, but –“
“I didn’t do it!” I burst out with automatically before clamping my mouth shut. Dippet and Dumbledore looked at me curiously, and I cursed myself. Twisting my hands together I hastily added, “I mean, I thought I saw a bird, and—“ Dippet was looking at me as if I had grown another head, and worse, Dumbledore merely looked more interested, if that was possible. I shifted my gaze between them. “And - and it was in trouble, and—this is not what you were talking about, is it?” I finished lamely. They both shook their heads, and I tried to smile and shrug. I couldn’t understand what came over me—I always had good self-control, but the nerves I felt around Dumbledore drew any resolve out of me.
I forced myself to focus on Dippet, and said smoothly, “I thought you were talking about my flying lesson today. I thought I saw a phoenix being hurt -“
“A what?” Dumbledore interrupted me, looking a bit anxious now. I gave him a strange look, and then said coldly, “a bird - some kind of bird. I don’t know birds,” I lied, and Dippet waved his hand impatiently at Dumbledore to be quiet so that I could continue. Dumbledore seemed about to object, but he finally settled back, asawatskl;a watching me as if he could penetrate my mind.
I continued, rolling now, trying to keep the real images away. “And so I flew up to save it—I couldn’t let it get hurt. But it was just the sun playing with my eyes, since it was going down and shadows were out. I shouldn’t have been so abrupt, and I already apologized to Professor Wingram.” I looked innocently back at Dippet, and said in a small voice, “I am very sorry sir, I should not have acted so hastily.”
Dippet waved me off, saying, “oh, not at all, boy. I think it shows great strength of character to try something so brave, to save a life. And it seems you have learned a good lesson.”
I made my eyes light up, and then said, “oh, I have, sir. I don’t normally act so rashly.”
Dippet smiled. “Of course. Now that that is out of the way, let’s get to the real reason we called you down here, shall we?” At that he turned to Dumbledore, and I felt the smile freeze on my face. If it wasn’t Wingram who had talked to Dippet, it must have been Dumbledore. Were they going to discuss my question in class?
I waited in agony for a few moments as Dippet sighed, then said carefully, “Mr. Riddle, Tom, it came to my attention that you live at an orphanage.”
My voice caught in my throat. “Not anymore, sir. Now I’m at your school. And I am really enjoying it, and I think I’m doing well -“
Dippet said, “well, yes, Tom. But still, - oh, this is difficult.” He leaned forward. “The students who come here, they receive support from others back home. I am not simply talking about emotional support—but rather, in the - financial sense.”
I felt a slow burn rise up in me, my pale face turning red. I wondered if he had noticed my poor demeanor, or if Dumbledore had said something from our encounter at Diagon Alley. Probably Dumbledore, since Dippet said that it had just come to his attention. Part of me felt relief, actually - I knew this issue would have had to be addressed sometime. I looked at Dumbledore, and he looked genuinely sympathetic. I felt embarrassed for that, but at least he didn’t look disapproving, which might have sent me into a fit.
Dippet was still talking, and I tried to focus on him. “You see, Hogwarts does have a tuition fee. It is not large, and some of our students receive scholarships or sponsorship. But, you see, since you are new to our community, and a first year, that is not really an option for you.”
I nodded, beginning to rise slowly. Feeling what was left of my heart breaking I said quickly, “I understand. I’ll pack up now. I really loved attending your school, while I could.”
“Sit back down!” The commanding tone in Dumbledore’s voice shocked me into place, half-risen from the seat. He must have just noticed how he startled me, for he added hastily, “you are not being kicked out. No, I told Dippet you showed--remarkable--promise.” He gave me a strange smile, but a smile nonetheless. “We wanted to figure out a plausible way to keep you here.”
“Oh,” I said. I sat back down, thinking hard. Maybe Dumbledore was feeling bad for having doubted me earlier, and he was trying to make up for it? Maybe he just didn’t trust me elsewhere. Well, whatever reason, I felt a desperate need to stay here, and I was grateful that I would be allowed to do so.
Dippet continued, smiling. “You were indeed the topic of conversation at dinner, Mr. Riddle. Your ears must have been burning. All the teachers commented that you were a wonderful addition to their class. So, since we are not going to give you up without a fight, we tried to come up with a plan for you to stay.”
I nodded, my heart beating. “And?” I asked shakily.
Dippet smiled. “Professor Dumbledore came up with a wonderful solution. He suggested that you become an aide to the teachers here—he suggested a personal aide, but I thought it better if you helped out the entire faculty. So, if you agree, for a few hours every day, you will be an assistant to one of the teachers, or the groundskeeper, the nurse, or myself. It shouldn’t take too much time from your studies, and besides, it’ll be a great learning experience. Especially for someone just getting used to the magical community. What do you say?”
I looked at them. Dippet was smiling widely and satisfied. Dumbledore—well, he was smiling as well. I tried to do as he had done to me, to cut him open with my eyes and study his innards with a look. Why would he want me as his personal assistant? Because I could do the Transfiguration lesson so easily? Or because he didn’t trust me? His eyes still showed the added keenness that had sprung up when I had withdrawn the phoenix statement. I was afraid that he would call me on it, on my hallucinations or visions, branding me a demon and try to banish me. I turned to Dippet, thanking every last hair on his head that he had not made me Dumbledore’s personal aide.
“It sounds perfect, sir. Sirs. Thank you,” I said this meekly, smiling with the genuine gratitude and relief I felt.
Dippet smiled and stood, his hand outstretched. “Well, that settles that. I knew a solution would be found. Things work out the way they should, Mr. Riddle.”
“If you try hard enough they do, sir,” I said back, carefully taking his hand. He gave a slightly confused glance, but still escorted me out, his hand wrapped around my flinching shoulder. He bade me goodnight, saying that in the morning he would have an owl send me word of where and when I would be working. I smiled back, said goodnight, and then hurried off.
Once alone, I breathed a shaky sigh of relief, leaning against the railing which led down to the Slytherin rooms. I fingered my cross, smiling slightly. Somehow, no matter how little I believed it would, life seemed to be working out here.
My smile widening, I turned, ready to enter my rooms and get ahead for the next day’s lessons, when a voice stopped me cold. I didn’t have to turn to recognize the speaker - I knew only one person who could put me at so ill at ease here. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I shifted to face him and stood my ground. I had to wonder what today’s fourth encounter with Dumbledore would bring, and whether I would survive this one unscathed
... Chapter 8: Futility in Reality
Dumbledore was hurrying after me, his expression fixed in what I felt sure was forced pleasantry. He stopped about three feet in front of me, eyeing me up and down. I consciously folded my arms across my chest--my work robe was on and fastened, but I still felt as though my shabby clothes beneath showed through. I stood still, saying slowly, "yes, Professor?" Dumbledore shifted and tried smiling at me; I tried to do the same back, but an awkwardness still resulted. I racked my brain, trying to guess why he would be here, when he made as if to speak. Predictably, he then did so. Feeling a slight advantage, I straightened up to my full height and waited patiently. I did not budge nor make a sound, merely staring into his eyes as he played his move out. "Tom," he said, still trying to smile, "I am very glad about the way things turned out today. Aren't you?" His voice was a little loud--it had been that way earlier, when in class he'd denied that he didn't trust me. I had heard people do that before when they felt uncomfortable; raise their voices to hide the uncertainty of a hastily assembled lie. I wasn't sure if this was a small crack in the impenetrable Deputy Headmaster, but I decided it was worth pursuing. After all, it was only fair, since he seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in putting me on unsure footing. "Yes." "And I do want you to know that I am most impressed by your performance in class. It was remarkable, and I hardly think it was due solely to my teaching. Not that I am fishing for compliments." His smile appeared uncertain to my gaze, but he didn't break out in a sweat. I gave him credit for that. He continued lightly, "I couldn't. I can't fish." "Really? Thank you." Dumbledore paused at that, and we resumed our staring match until he finally sighed. In an emotionless tone, he said quietly, "And you truly despise me, don't you, Mr. Riddle?" I was stupefied; I think my jaw actually dropped. I said quickly, “No--no, sir, of course not." What did he expect me to say? That I thought he hated me? That for some reason I felt he didn't trust me, and that he made me question myself and feel inferior and impure as opposed to talented? That I felt a strong desire to impress him in spite of all this? Was that even hate? "Indeed?" His voice yanked my consciousness back to him. Dumbledore gave me a look of wry amusement that I'd seen often enough in my own expressions. That thought was quickly suppressed--I didn't want to start trying to find common bases with this man in my mind. I kept my expression neutral as he added, "I thought after the blunder I made today, you would have every reason to despise me." His eyes danced in merriment as he saw my confused expression. "Oh, not used to a Professor admitting he's wrong, eh? Well, I think it does everyone good, including instructors, to know when they make mistakes and to try and correct them. Do you agree?" "Erm--sure." "Well, Mr. Riddle, I was wrong to question you in front of the class today. I was in disbelief about your feat, and I acted unwisely." The skin around the corners of his mouth tightened briefly as he continued, "You see, I have not been teaching here long--teaching anywhere long, as a matter of fact. I hope that one day, I shall be an instructor who does not make these kinds of mistakes, though I'm sure I'll make others. But I apologize for questioning you in front of the class." He stood proud, his words calm, an odd demeanor in my mind for one whose words were so humble. It made me suspicious. I noticed that he did not apologize for the actual doubting, merely for giving it voice, and let my own doubt of him nag at my insides. Still, I could hardly refuse. Dumbledore was someone that might take awhile to figure out, and the last thing I wanted was him breathing down my neck. Perhaps accepting his apology and never speaking in class again would keep him away. I forced a smile, my stock smile, and said, "Of course I accept, sir. I wasn't even really upset about what you apologized for." Dumbledore's lips turned up at that, carving themselves back into a small smile--a scrutinizing one that said he had caught the snide edge present in my acceptance. I was between astonishment and annoyance, and then fell to self-cursing. He let it pass, though, perhaps noticing I had danced away from bringing up his lack of apology for doubting me. "Well, that settles that," he said. I was about to bid him goodnight when he unclasped his hands from behind him and brought them around for me to see. My eyes widened at what was before me, as Dumbledore said quickly, "I wasn't sure if I should give you this. You see, I had these from a long time ago. They aren't in the best shape, but they might work for you. I hope that you don't take this the wrong way--" "They're Muggle clothes," I said hoarsely. I stared blankly at his hand, filled with frayed and faded clothing similar to what I had seen and worn at the orphanage. Dumbledore caught my eye. He cleared his throat, and then said uncertainly, "For a long time, I was interested in Muggle studies. I wore these out there for field work when I was at school. I was older, but you'll grow into them. I thought they might be nice for you--what you're used to." "Yes," I said monotonously. "They certainly remind me of what I'm used to; of what I am." And will never get away from. I felt hollow; it was the only way to drench out the anguish building up. I couldn't look at him directly anymore. Instead I stared at the worn clothes, knowing he thought of me when he looked at them. Thought of poverty-stricken, Muggle-raised, Mudblood Tom Marvolo Riddle. He wasn't the first. Yet, I wasn't angry; I was ashamed. That was why he didn't trust me, why he was amazed that I could do simple tricks and didn't fit in and was in need of charity. He saw the Muggle in me and pitied it as the Blunts and other Muggles had pitied the wizard in me. But at least my wizard half seemed capable of accomplishing something. I had proven that today. And now this condescending sympathy was overshadowing the only worth I ever showed, demeaning so that it was nothing. I hated the pity and what it meant. Hated that I deserved it because of my upbringing and my need of things like the clothes lying in front of me. And in that growing hatred I made a vow right then and there to never allow pity from anyone again. I didn't care what it took; I would prove to Dumbledore, to the Blunts, to everyone and everything--including myself--that I was more than the half-Muggle in me. "Tom?" Dumbledore's faraway voice dragged me back to reality. I blinked and then managed to face him. I thought I saw concern in his eyes, and if I had not been focused on searching for the pity there, I might have been sure. He still looked uncertain; it was a look that didn't suit him well, as if he weren't used to it. I tried to build myself back up, at least externally, as he said "would you like the clothes, at least until you find others?" My voice was cold. I had to make it that way; make everything about me at that moment cold and impenetrable, or else I would break. "Thank you." We stood staring at each other again, and I felt the walls creep back between us. He made a move as if to speak, to do or say something differently, but nothing came out. Finally, I could not stand there anymore. Replete with stock smile, I bade him goodnight and quickly turned. Heading to the Slytherin stairs, I strained my ears to pick up any words, but all that rang were the heels of his shoes retreating in the other direction, and the sweep of the clothes which I dragged on the floor. Not looking back, I sucked any emotion down through me into the cold stone steps that led me into darkness. * My eyes felt dry. No matter how much I blinked I could not give them relief. I stared at the clock next to me--it read Not Time For Breakfast, Go To Bed. A smile came to me; this was one of the few times I appreciated the whimsy of Hogwarts. The rooms and objects were familiar to me, yet different enough so that it didn't always draw up needless remembrance of my former life. The clock began buzzing --hissing, really --in my defiance of its command. Right then I was sitting in the Slytherin common rooms, and I figured it must be around four in the morning. I had drawn a blanket around me, for even with a fire the dungeon where my dorm was still remained chilled. Snicks was lying on the floor, belly up, contentedly hissing snores. No other sound trickled to my ears, except the few snorts or stirs from the sleeping bodies in the dorms. I cherished this time to myself. Most of it was spent studying, which had paid off greatly in the two weeks I had been here. It all seemed to come easily for me--Transfiguration was a brilliant breeze, while Herbology, History of Magic, and Potions were mostly memorization. Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms were an even combination of memorization and practice, but none of them so far had really taxed me. Flying could hardly be considered a subject, but since I was determined to thrive here I studied that as well, reading everything in the library on its history. I found out that flying on brooms had once been banished by the Ministry because they saw using magic outside of its primal elements, namely nature and the bearer's body, could bring chaos into society. Since man was not wholly good, whatever he created could not be so either. The broom being made by man had no will of its own, but was the instrument of power for the creator, good or evil, and did its bidding. People in the magic community were afraid that using such objects could lead to a slippery slope where man tried to control more and more of magic and enforce it on everything, not always for good. I found such history fascinating and wished flying was more theoretical. It did burn me that I wasn't the best at flying, until I decided that flying was really pointless when I'd soon enough learn how to Apparate. Flying was good to have knowledge about, but hardly worth my true efforts, I thought decisively and condescendingly. Still, I was surprised they allowed such a book as the one on flying in the library, since it questioned the inherent nature of man. Everyone here seemed to shy away from such questions, near as I could tell, as they had in the Muggle world. I guessed they didn't think a book on flying would hold something like that, or else I was reading more into it than was there. Either way, the fact that the Ministry had once banned flying because it doubted humanity's ability to control it, yet now regarded it as common practice, was a good point to bring up in my Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Not that I wanted to learn the Dark Arts so badly, but Professor Thistle said she liked to be challenged. She believed me when I said I was merely curious in learning both sides of the argument. She said such an attitude was of extreme importance in this time of coming war. She babbled on excitedly, constantly warning me of merely taking the theories of the arguments. I had patiently nodded, extracting the valuable information from what she said. It led me to writings on the foundational thinking of the great minds of magic, both past and present, who almost all dealt in some way with the issue of "dark magic." She gave me all the books she had on the Ethics of Magic and Defense, and had coaxed Dumbledore into letting me take his experimental new Ethics class as only a first year. So far, every class was working out, except Care of Magical Creatures. For some reason, probably because I could speak with snakes, I assumed that would be the easiest class for me. It wasn't as if I didn't do the work; in fact, I had already read almost all of our assignments and was now going through everything the library had. But the second I got close to some of the animals, they balked. Or worse, I thought with a grimace, rubbing my forehead where a Clabbert had head-butted me. Professor Odios didn't seem to think much of it, simply shrugging while saying, "it isn't all about reading. Some have the touch, lad--" clearly implying I didn't. I stared into the fireplace now, still infuriated at his insinuation, my mind refusing to stop picking at that scab. I had wanted to tell him heatedly then that I was a Parselmouth, but thankfully I remembered the reaction it had caused from Dumbledore and had stuffed that impulse down. Most of the Slytherins had laughed me off when I complained about this, causing me to distance myself from them. They couldn't understand the need I had to succeed, even if it was only in a Creatures class. Professor Odios said that effort counted the most, that I was doing very well in his class, and that some of the animals took extremely well to me. I tried to tell myself this as I lay sleepless, but I just couldn't let it rest. I was compelled by my nature not to take Odios' answer. I was meant to excel in that subject, as I was in everything else. I had to. It was a truth I couldn't explain to anyone, even Snicks. Desperately I needed to find some way to show it. I had to prove that I belonged here more than anyone else. The clock spat, "daft child," then, stirring me from my troubling thoughts. I glared at it, but let the comment slide as I released a sigh. At least I had not drifted into the phoenix dream again. It came to me every night now, although each time a stronger sense overcame me that someone--or something--else was watching this. A faint, malicious laugh taunted me on, and when I tried to turn to see who it was, the bird soared higher in desperation, forcing my focus back onto it as if it were a beacon of light drawing me in. Each time I felt more futility over fighting for the bird, along with my desperation and anguish at my failure. And each time I was unsuccessful, the laughter heightened, and the bird's red eyes burned guilt into mine as it wailed at me for not trying harder. But I did try-- I was trying my hardest-- "Tom?" Snicks' soft hiss snapped my consciousness back to reality. I noticed that I hadn't been breathing, holding air in as if smoke really were surrounding me. I was drenched with sweat, sucking in deep gasps of air. My left hand was paralyzed; when I looked down I noticed it was clasping my cross so tight the blood drained out of my fingers and they went numb. I always ended up like this when I allowed myself to slip back into the dream. Or whatever it was. It was always terrifying, and was getting worse. I could not sleep at nights, not wanting to experience it again. Thankfully I had taken some Pepper-Up potion from the Nurse when I worked with her, for it enabled me to only have to sleep about two hours every night. Well, for a while, and then I'd weakly crash. I looked at Snicks, who was examining me. He seemed mixed between curiosity and concern. I tried to smile at him, and said quietly, "Just worried about my test." Snicks looked insulted at that. "Right," he said. Then he slithered off, apparently hurt that I hadn't confided in him. I watched after him, not knowing what to say. The grip of the taunting laughter had reached my heart this time, squeezing everything out of it. It was still ringing in my ears, and I dared not vocalize it for fear it would become real. "How can I explain something that isn't even sensible to me?" I asked the wind softly. No response came. The clock chimed again---it was five o'clock now. That was real. So was my test today. I picked up the book I was studying, going at it with renewed ferocity. Dreams were fantasy--if anything, it was just restating my fears of not doing well in class because of not trying my hardest. My mind is just over-dramatizing, I tried to convince my nerves. Deciding I would apologize to Snicks later, I spent the rest of the morning reading about unicorns. The air outside later that day was surprisingly hot as we gathered around the groundskeeper's hut for our Care of Magical Creatures class. Mr. Wynn was helping Odios in our first field work test. Before us stood two unicorns, only slightly taller than myself. They were a beautiful silvery white, with long, elegant horns that seemed of pearl. Purity was the only word that sprang to my mind when I looked at them, followed by a recognition of the subtle yet impressive power they radiated. They stood patiently, their wizened eyes glancing over all. Someone next to me shifted. I saw Randy pull at his collar, his face twisted in discomfort. Everyone was sweating and looking disheveled. I felt my nose curl up in distaste, though I doubted I was any different. Perhaps it was my anxiety over the upcoming test that made my senses so acute. At the moment, I could barely stand the putrid stench coming off my companions, or the sight of their glistening sweat slowly falling to the ground. I shuddered and fixated on the unicorns, focusing my attention on the job at hand. We were to approach one of the unicorns and make contact with them. What kind of contact was up to the unicorn, but it was supposedly symbolic of something inside us that only something pure could detect. We then had to attempt to explain the symbolism and its meaning. I was nervous--my first contact with a unicorn two lessons ago had been less than pleasant. The unicorn had refused to look at me, averting all contact. It had been worse than the tree sprite biting me when I tried to fix its enclosed habitat. I had read that sometimes beings of great indefinable power could bring out fright in the creatures of purity, which the unicorn and sprite were. It said that in these cases the one of power must make it known that their motives were wholesome and good to the pure creature. While I wasn't sure I could describe myself as one of great indefinable power, it was the only explanation I had been able to find. And I found it better than the one Odios offered, which was that I had been too nervous and simply had to relax. The Hufflepuffs went first. Most of them received touches from the unicorn's horn on their right hands. It was a common sign, symbolizing their value of friendship and helpfulness. "They got an easy one," grumbled Cathleen Roslyn, one of my fellow Slytherins. She came from a long line of wizards and witches, most if not in Azkaban were in the Ministry. Being the lone Mudblood in Slytherin, I wasn't a favorite of hers. She continued, "Anyone could guess what that gesture meant." I rolled my eyes at her stupidity. "They didn't 'get' it, it's a part of them. The unicorn can see that that is their truest essence, or the one they most readily recognize. It's like the Sorting Hat. I wonder if there is a connection?" I suddenly realized that I my explanation had rambled into my personal musings, and I received only puzzled looks from those surrounding me. I shrugged, quickly covering, "It might be on a test." At that, everyone sighed in exasperation, well aware already of my obsessive study habits. I think if my studying didn't give my fellow Slytherins the opportunity to show up the Ravenclaws, some of them might start plotting to throw books at me. Finally came the Slytherins' turns. I watched some with interest. Dash had told me he had gotten touched by the horn over his heart, a gesture commonly found when the Gryffindors' took this test, except it had then grazed up and down his left shoulder. Cathleen received a unicorn's tail brushing her face. I couldn't help but laugh as she tried to come up with an explanation. Haughtily, she said, "obviously, the unicorn is trying to protect my head with its strong tail, because in my head lays my most valuable feature, my mind." I had to admit, that was an excellent cover-up. But I still added quietly in jest, "I think I read something a little different." Simon, another Slytherin who was tall with curly brown hair and shared my dislike of Cathleen, grinned at me and shouted, "Cathleen! Riddle's got a better explanation for you!" Cathleen spun, her face red and glaring daggers at me. Professor Odios and Wynn merely looked amused. I turned to her incredibly large head and innocently said, "Well, I read that unicorns use their tails as a repellent. Now, it is interesting that they picked your head to repel against. Hm...unicorns do have an incredibly keen sense of smell---could it be something you put on your head? No? Well, I'd hate to think it was something inside." I kept my tone light, as if merely offering a friendly jest. All of the Slytherins laughed, which pleased me. At this point Odios stepped in, but he still wore a smile on his face, saying, "Well, Mr. Riddle has done the readings, though that last part is hardly proven. Let's not add on any unscientific facts the next time you offer help, all right?" I smiled back at him as most of the others snorted in containing their laughter. I turned back to Cathleen, my smile still calm and easy. She had turned an interesting shade of reddish purple, but her expression was calm. She was a true Slytherin, a person who, when backed into a corner, struck cruelly and with confidence. She strode up close to me, and although much smaller, did not lose any more dignity looking up. Of course, at that point she didn't have much to begin with. Her voice just loud enough for everyone to hear, she said, "That's right, Mudblood. Readings are all you have, because a real creature of magic won't even come near you.” She made a show of holding her nose as she chided, “You give off a far worse odor than anything with pure blood could. And you can never change that, not with a million readings." She leaned in closer, her words running rancid as she whispered, "As my father likes to tell others, ‘I can't wait to see you fall.’ You won’t be in normal society long." My eyes turned cold, and I wanted nothing more than to twist her smile off of her face. Something inside me compelled me to attack, drawing me closer to my wand. I felt the power of it trembling, begging for my fingers. My breath heaving, I began to reach for it, only to hear the demonic wheezing laughter heat up above me. That stopped me short, making me aware of the submissive dreamlike state I had been slipping into by some controlling force. It frightened me, while at the same time offering incredible temptation. Its controlling power was suffocating me, as in my dreams. I barely fought it down, wondering why I was begging myself to withhold. The force backed off, though whether that was entirely my own doing I questioned. My fists were clenched, my chain weighing down my neck. I desperately wanted to punish her, but on my own terms. I bided my time, forcing myself to calm. Finally I offered her a similar frozen smile, saying coldly, "Then I'll say hello to your mother while I'm at Azkaban, if she's still alive." I didn't even see the slap coming; I was too focused on the sudden flow of tears streaming down her face. Shock overcame me, for I didn't think she had the capability to cry. I thought less of her, if that was even possible. But it still cut me deeper than the mark she left on my upper cheek as she flung her hand across my face. She backed away then, sobbing, her eyes unable to regain control. She dashed off towards the school, leaving everyone else to turn and stare at me. Nobody had heard our last exchange, but I still felt the accusation in some of their eyes. Even Simon looked a little wary. Guilt swept over me as I realized how vicious the statement I had made was. But her comments had left me bare, where the only thing that surfaced was my desire to give it back to her. I tried to tell myself she deserved the pain she was now feeling. It would give her some needed humility. Suddenly an image of Mrs. Blunt standing over me, belt in hand, starving me, taunting me about my family, saying it was for my own good, came rushing back to me. I staggered forward, clenching my head. It was different, what I had done, wasn't it? I had acted as I should. She had been trying to hurt me, and I was only protecting myself at any cost. Like a real Slytherin. I stumbled forward to the unicorn. No one objected as I pushed ahead and eyed the first one in front. The unicorn huffed, flaring its nostrils. I told it softly that I meant no danger to it, and that I just had to know the truth. It quieted down, letting me approach. I was too charged with energy to be nervous. We stood forever like that, staring at one another. Its brown eyes absorbed me, and I actually felt its spirit passing throughout me. I trembled, figuring a monster inside me would scare it off, but it just stood steadily. Finally, after an eternity, the unicorn stepped forward. Dipping its head, it grazed my left hand with its horn. Everything shone when it connected with my palm, while tiny droplets of blood sprang out from my pierced skin. I stared at the mark and then back at the brown eyes. After a moment, the unicorn shifted away, and the warm, protecting connection between us was lost. I turned to Odios, and said weakly, "My left hand, blood drawn. It means that I am a real Slytherin." What would have been satisfaction earlier wasn't inside me. All I felt was confusion. I turned toward the school, walking without seeing. I had fought off whatever had been compelling me to take my wand out and physically hurt her before. Yet at the same time, the course of action I had chosen hardly left me feeling any sense of victory or accomplishment. When it came down to it, was I myself any better than Cathleen? Even though I had acted on my own accord, I had still given in to my personal temptation. What if someone else had heard me? Panic over that fought with the guilt for dominance. Even though I had convinced myself I had reason to do it, that didn't negate the fact that it had been a stupid fit of temper. Not very Slytherin... I looked at my hand feeling disgust, and the glowing returned. Only this time, it was accompanied by searing pain. I stopped, terrified, as words spread over my left hand in a silvery white that matched the unicorn's color. It read: No One Is Just One Real Thing, Least Of All YOU. Curled around the last O was the outline of a white snake, rattling its tail at me, and hissing a malicious laughter that had petrified me when I’d heard it in my dreams. Anger built, and I looked up at the dark clouds gathering, saying through clenched teeth, "I am whatever I decide to make of myself!" The laughing stopped, and my hand returned to normal. The clouds parted, but not without a last warning thunder. I looked ahead, seeing clearly now though my heart still pounded. I struggled to calm myself, to steel. If whatever the thing haunting me was thought me just some sniveling weak Mudblood, it was as gravely mistaken as everyone else. I was in control of myself. My personal motivations were the only things I would ever respond to. I had overcome everything put in my way before, and whatever was disturbing me now would be no different. Cruel or kind, good or evil, everything I did was under my control. I believed this with every breath of my being. Whatever was causing the dreams, visions, and apparitions would not succeed. I didn't know what it was about yet, but I fought my own battles, and I always won.
Chapter 9:
Sacrificial Pagan Holidays, or Halloween "You’re not evil," I said impatiently for the thousandth time. I was sitting on the floor in Dash’s room watching him pace. He didn’t seem to be listening to me, so I turned my attention to the history book lying next to me. The annual Halloween party was only a week or so away, and the commotion in the dorms and common rooms had been to distracting. I was going to the library when I had been way sided by the curious sight of Dash pacing.
“Troubles?” Randy’s voice pierced my thoughts, his lisp aggravating to me at the moment. He and Simon were seated on the floor with the other first years. Second years sat nearer the fire, and upperclassmen had taken over the sofas and tables. It was an unspoken rule during study times where people positioned themselves. Simon was actually nearer the fire then normal, as he was assisting a third year on some history. His knowledge of the history of magic made me desire to get closer to him, while at the same time I jealously wanted to think nothing of him. Outwardly I remained civil, though. Simon was the closest to having a trace of Ravenclaw in him besides myself among the first years. I tolerated – possibly even liked – him best after Dash.
Everyone paused in their work, the word trouble automatically bringing everyone’s heads up. Upon seeing it was in relation to me, most of the elder students put their heads back down. Randy finished writing his name on a piece of homework suspiciously not in his handwriting, adding, “Did someone not receive an O?”
“Nothing wrong with crying over that,” Simon commented absently, giving me a faint smile that I weakly returned.
“I heard Mudblood tears stink,” Cathleen called out loudly. She was seated at one of the tables. As Damien’s girlfriend, she could take such a spot.
Randy turned around, made sure Damien wasn’t about, and then said, “Not nearly as much as that retort, luv. Go see the unicorns again, and maybe they’ll swipe some wit into your head this time.” The room fell into snickers, and Randy beamed with pride. It was clear that showing his wit was probably more meaningful than defending me. Turning back to me, he said innocently, “It’s probably best to take your mind off whatever it is bothering you.”
My smile did become a bit wry though my insides were still jittery. I replied back, “by tutoring you, right?”
Randy’s grin became sheepish, but he nodded. “You’re annoyingly good at just about everything. I’d hate to see it should you develop a complex.” He turned to Simon as if to concur with him. Simon’s smile seemed a bit tight at Randy’s words, but he gave a shrug in the affirmative.
“Little chance of a complex,” I commented, more grumbling to myself. I hadn’t accomplished anything of late, merely botching things up. But my ego was still strong enough to enjoy his words and find truth in them. I sat down on the floor and began to help him. It only took moments, and with my insincere compliments of ‘well done’ and such, he walked away pleased with himself and thanking me. Slowly, a few other students came over with requests. I was immensely tired, but I wouldn’t turn anyone down. I’d be insane to reject the chance to assist an upperclassman. Shifting closer to the fire, nearer than Simon, I prepared myself for a long night. My concerns of earlier didn’t fade, however.
They only grew as the days went by.
Chapter 10: Promises Are Made To Be Broken
Voices swam somewhere next to me. In and out they faded, sometimes so loud they made me cringe, other times so faint they seemed little more than a breeze. Heaviness followed, a sensation weighing me down and pulling me back into the safety of sleep. I almost let it. But then a bright light was thrust into my face. The voices became more persistent, bearing down straight at me. I struggled awake, my head aching terribly. I forced my eyes open only to feel them tear at the abrupt shock of the brightness. A rush of heat ran throughout my body, followed by a sudden chill. It was the feeling that one experiences right before throwing up. I swallowed repeatedly, desperately trying to prevent that humiliation. I looked around, moving only my eyes, trying to find something to divert my attention from my stomach and head. Simple facts seemed the easiest to try and focus on. I was in the infirmary. That I could tell by the starkness of my surroundings. The nurse, Madame Drawt, was hovering stiflingly close on one side of me. On the other side were Dippet, Dumbledore, and Thistle. They were all talking extremely heatedly and loudly, ignoring me completely. I shut my eyes, sweating yet trembling at the same time. Images kept flashing back at me. Bright eyes staring, harsher than the lamp shining scorchingly above me. I tried to kick the scratching covers off me, but the motion only made me feel queasier. My movement went noticed, and suddenly the chattering around me ceased. "Tom?" Nurse Drawt said tentatively, putting her frigid hand against my flushed cheek. The contact sent chills through me. She continued speaking, eying me worriedly, "Do you feel all right?" I didn't have the energy to be smart or lie. Gulping, I rasped, "No! I'm going to be sick!" Everyone just stared at me for a moment, taking in visually what I felt, and then sprang into motion. Dippet moved back, protecting his suit, while Nurse Drawt went looking for some magic purge bucket. I sat upright, shaking, trying to compel my rebelling stomach into submission. I had never been willing to show myself as sick in public before. With the Headmaster and professors there, I fought valiantly. Unfortunately, just as Nurse Drawt was returning, I lost the battle. A sudden convulsion racked me, and I threw up all over the bed and myself. For a moment after that, I heard nothing. I refused to look up, my eyes welling in humiliation. I sat with my knees drawn up and wrapped my arms around them. Then I rested my head on my hands, as much for comfort as to bring myself under control. I vaguely heard the Nurse shooing everyone out, then placing the bucket gingerly at the foot of my bed. Dippet and Thistle voiced their concerns for me as they exited, neither coming within three feet of my actual personage. Dumbledore put up a protest, and I could hear him and the Nurse arguing outside. She was insisting it was the flu, as Dippet had said. I didn't hear the rest of the conversation. My stomach was acting up again. In privacy now, I retched until I had nothing left inside me. Finally, I sat back. Winded and drenched, I watched in mild fascination as the bucket I had used magically became spotless. Eventually the Nurse came back in, carrying a change of clothing for me. Dully, I pulled them on. "Tom?" That voice made me look up. Dumbledore had reentered. He stood in the doorway, the worn white ridging framing his tall physic. He tossed me a new blanket. As I spread it around me, he approached. Towering over me, I had to crane my neck to look up at him as he spoke. "Can I speak with you for a moment?" "Of course, sir," I responded. I fought to make my voice and posture as proper as I could, to belie how I felt. I laid the pillow against the cold headboard and sat upright, staring at him. His clothing had changed as well. No longer dressed in the dark red dress robe with black velvet trimmings, he was now clad in his old blue work robes. He took off his old dropping hat and carefully placed it on the small table beside my bed. He didn't look at a loss for words; rather, he seemed about to overflow with them and had to sort out how to begin. I sympathized with that feeling. Right now everything was colliding inside my head so fast I couldn't sort out a coherent thought if my life depended upon it. Finally, Dumbledore said, "Interesting night." I nodded my agreement, still at a loss for words. He continued, "There has been a great deal on my mind about you these past two months, Mr. Riddle. I don't have so many answers as I do…uncertainties." My throat tightened, but I croaked out, "I'm not doing it on purpose, these things. I swear to God." The swear slipped out. It was something I’d heard at the orphanage often enough that it was engrained in my subconscious. I grimaced internally at that, chastising myself and fervently promising never to use it again under any circumstances. Dumbledore gave me an odd look in response to my words. "Well, good for that," he muttered. Then, clasping his hands behind his back, he added lowly, "How to go about this? It should be Dippet, really, but he told me to handle it. Well, Mr. Riddle, we'll start at the beginning, shall we? Always a good place. Now, what did you see tonight?" "A man…I think… I saw a tall man, more of a skeleton, really. He had markings on his body. They seemed to have something, maybe blood, oozing out of him." I tried to push my thoughts into order, rubbing my aching forehead. Dumbledore was persistent, though he thankfully kept his voice soft. "What else did the man look like? And what symbols were they? Have you seen this before?" "I-I'm not sure," My brain was foggy and any memories I had of the figure were fading fast. I looked at Dumbledore helplessly. "I can't remember." Dumbledore leaned over me, urging me on with his voice. "Try, Tom. I know it is hard, but it is very important." I closed my eyes, willing for once the visions to return. My voice trembling, I whispered, "The mark was - a serpent's head, with crossbones - it was covering the man - the thing – sometimes it’s a skull with a white snake wiggling, and there’s a thick dark beard…" Dumbledore sucked in a deep breath, and then said encouragingly, "Good, Tom. Keep going, what else did you see?" I squeezed my eyes tight, grasping. "And there was an image on the floor. It was of a snake man. I mean, first it was me, I think, but then it became this half snake-half man creature. And it was laughing." Sweat broke out all over me. "I heard the laughing before, when I had the image of the phoenix dying - it did die in my other vision, at my first flying lesson - the laughter was malicious and smug, as if it knew something I didn’t-" I broke out of the memories, panting. I looked at Dumbledore with pleading eyes. "Please don't make me try anymore." He seemed lost in his own thoughts, saying to himself, "I suspected." Silence ensued for a couple of seconds, then he responded, "I won't press you further, though if you remember anything else, come to me immediately." He toyed with his beard, staring into space before continuing. "I don't know if I should be telling you this, but perhaps you should know. The man that you saw, the one with the symbols, I suspect is Grindelwald. Are you familiar with him?" I’d heard little rumblings about that name. Slowly I nodded, and Dumbledore continued. "I don't know how he found you. Although, he is a great Seer and Legilimens. And, with your ability, I shouldn't be so surprised. With his following and talents, I am sure he has the same ability to detect potential students as we do." "So he is trying to get to me, with these visions?" I asked slowly, fear rising. Dumbledore gave me a soothing smile that didn't quite work. "To be honest, I am not sure. He has never attracted students quite this way before. In the past, he usually comes right up to them, offers them the chance to join him, and then either takes them or kills them if they refuse. Subtlety is not his suit." "So why is he behaving differently with me?" I inquired, nervously twisting my chain. Its edges were worn smooth by now. Dumbledore sighed, and then told me, "Tom, your potential was apparent from the beginning. From the time we first noticed you, your magic ability radiated. Never have we seen someone with so clear a capability. Later, when you came here, it became apparent how gifted you were in other things, and intellectually speaking, you have astounded us as well. We were hoping the fact that you were raised Muggle would deter Grindelwald from noticing you. But perhaps your ability isn't such a handicap." "I'm not following you," I said irritably. "And I don't think it's me." At that he gave a sad laugh. "No, I don't doubt I'm not making much sense. Even I am not completely sure what I am saying, or thinking. But ponder this - why would Grindelwald be sidestepping you in this manner? If he is trying to enter your mind, which I do not put past his ability to do on most, then why? Does he feel you are to be too valuable an asset to do away with, but he doesn’t think a straight offer to join him will work? Or is it to test you, or control you? To compare you with him, in a way?" He gave a slight pause, then said, “Is there some reason he feels drawn to you, to taunt you with visions of snake-men and such? Or it is purely to rattle you, to make you submit to him?” At those questions all my terror returned. My mouth dry I said, "I was – I was wondering about that. Is that possible, for him to control me?" I don't know if Dumbledore caught the fright in my voice. His face tightened, as if he were berating himself for saying so much. In response to my questions he merely shrugged and said, "I don't know for certain. If he is trying, he's having quite the hard time of it, isn't he?" I tried to laugh, remembering the unicorn incident. I had won that one, hadn't I? Dumbledore continued. "However, Tom, magic works in many ways. Especially for those as gifted as you." He didn't sound all that admiring as he said that, and continued, "I have little doubt that if he knows of you, Grindelwald would have something in mind. Young recruits are impressionable and excellent targets. But just as strong as dark magic is, there are ways of defending it that are just as primal and powerful. Do not believe in him, should he say otherwise." I jerked my head up at that, and saw Dumbledore smiling at me. He nodded at the cross I was fingering, and I irritably shoved my hand down. "I only believe in myself," I said. A moment of silence ensued after that. Eyes quietly watching me, he took his time before responding. "If there's one person everyone should believe in, it's themselves," Dumbledore finally said, rising. Did he always talk in riddles? I watched him pace, a question suddenly springing to my mind. "Why do you know so much about Grindelwald?" At my comment he stopped, spinning slowly to face me. A twisted, uncomfortable look came over his face, deepening the walls over his eyes. "That is a long story. One I'm as keen to go into it as you are about your past." He paused at that and watched at me. I remained motionless, telling him without words that his comment hadn't affected me at all. If anything, I understood where he was coming from more than ever. My hand subconsciously reached for my chain, diverting only when I caught myself at the last minute. Instead I pushed back my matted hair, as Dumbledore bade me goodnight. He seemed ready to leave when I suddenly recalled what I desired to tell him. "Professor? I remember something---it was the same man I saw at the Leaky Cauldron, when I first met you. He was surrounded by a group of people in robes, with symbols like his---they were chanting something. And his laugh--I've heard it several times, when I feel angry…and maybe at the orphanage…" I hated mentioning that. It made it seem like I’d been close to this darkness for so long and kept it to myself. My head dropped, and I was afraid to look at him. Afraid he was going to look right back at me in horror and disgust, say I was a demon and risk to the other children and should be cast out. Hearing no loathing snort from him, I raised my head. And he looked back at me not with contempt. But I didn’t find kindness there, either. His eyes held the same cautionary interest, guarded but at least not accusing. He merely said, "Thank you, Tom. That is helpful. Anything else?" No longer as terrified, I shut my eyes again and tried to recall. "And there was a boy, too. He was at the Leaky Cauldron, and here tonight. Grindelwald was trying to kill him, and I - I think I was trying to help him." Dumbledore looked slightly more interested at that. "Did you recognize him? Did he have any special markings?" I tried hard, but came up with nothing. "No, I don't think I know him. He was just a just a child. I don't think there was anything remarkable looking about him that I can remember. He was just a child. Maybe his eyes were green? He seemed to be normal. Maybe he represents all the children that Grindelwald is after? I can't think of anything else." Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "That seems a reasonable interpretation." With that, he smiled at me. "Don't worry about it, Tom. As hard as it is for you, you must trust us. We don't turn our backs on our students. We shall deal with this, I promise you." He moved to turn out the light, and in the darkness I heard him softly add, "And I never break a promise." For a long time after I lay in the darkness. I was exhausted and aching, but my mind wouldn't let my rest. I worried that I had left something out, for my thoughts had all been so jumbled and incoherent I couldn't remember even what order anything had occurred. Was this an aftereffect of the visions, or something else? Either way, the episodes were getting worse, and I despised just lying there waiting for the next one to happen. Making up my mind, I swung my legs over the side, grabbing the railings desperately as dizziness swept over me. Thankfully I didn't become nauseous, and after a minute I could rise. In the dark I fumbled to the nearest chair where I had thrown my ruined robed. Finding my wand, I whispered, "Lumos!" immediately a bright band of light hovered before me. Shielding its brightness with my hands, I found my scuffed shoes, slipped into them, and checked the door. I heard snoring, and I hoped that this meant Nurse Drawt was asleep. I edged my way carefully around her semicircular desk that decorated with bright flowers. She snorted once, but otherwise remained unconscious. Once outside, I had no clue where to head. It was long after everyone else had gone to bed. I was afraid that Tibald, the caretaker, would catch me. He was a small, wiry man with eyes like a hawk. He distrusted most everyone and everything, and took immense pride in his job. I suppose he found catching people breaking the rules worthwhile. I found it a sad way to fill a life with meaning, but outwardly I remained pleasant to him. He seemed to like me, all though he had little interest in magic. I wondered why on earth he was then working at a magic school, but there he was, always underfoot. Warily, I remained on the lookout for him. I stayed close to the walls where the shadows hid me, feeling my way along with one hand on the stone corridor to guide me. I extinguished my light, and my eyes soon adjusted to the darkness around. I crept along, not really knowing where I was going, until I felt a familiar brush of chills rush through me. A cackling sound rang from above, and I grimaced internally. Raising my head, I was the recipient of Peeves the poltergeist's snarling smile. "A student out of bed? Tisk tisk. What shall I do with this?" Peeves spun around, putting his bluish finger to his chin in mock contemplation. His mouth was disgusting to look at, and he let it hang open in front of me. I gritted my teeth, and then said in a forceful whisper, "Peeves, I'm just leaving the Nurse's. I was just going to my room, so leave me alone." Peeves laughed louder. "Oh, you can't really expect me to believe that, can you, my hallucinating Parseltongue?" At that my eyes widened, and his grin became meaner. "Didn't think I knew about that, did you? Well, you really should be more careful in those Slytherin dormitories. You can't be sure who is lurking behind those walls - or in them." "Peeves, I haven't a clue what you are talking about. I'm going to bed," I said calmly, wishing furiously that he were alive right now so I could kill him. I started to go, but he blocked my way again. Not wanting to feel the chill from walking through him, I sighed and consented to having to listen. He floated upside down, lolling his tongue at me. "I wonder what your friends in Slytherin would say if they knew about all this. Quite the risk." At my loathing stare, he sighed and said, "Oh yes, you haven't gotten any real friends, now have you? I doubt this news would make them any keener on you." Fed up, I finally pushed through him, my fists clenched. Yet his next comment made me pause. He called out, "It certainly didn't make Dippet or Dumbledore think any better of you. They are all afraid that you'll go bad. So sad. There must be something about you that makes them so concerned. Only they are more afraid about you than for you…boo-hoo." I finally turned, and seeing my expression Peeves added innocently, "What, you can't really have believed that they were afraid for you, could you? Poor child. No, afraid of you, of what you might become, but not for you. The last Parseltongue was the insane Salazar Slytherin. And now you’re called by the Dark Lord Grindelwald---doesn't instill much confidence in those who know about you,” I couldn't take it anymore. I spun and ran away, trying to block out Peeves' laughing final words, "Don't take my word for it, go and see for yourself, you little g -!" I shut out his voice, not hearing the end of his last remark. I turned the corner, not really knowing where I was heading. It certainly wasn't in the direction of the Slytherin rooms, nor the library. I just ran, no longer afraid of Tibald, but of myself. Part of me wanted to shove off Peeves' comments. I knew he said them just to be spiteful, but I couldn't shake the truth I’d heard. My mind was throbbing in time to my heartbeat, and I kept wandering lost in thought. Finally I heard voices. Quickly I slunk into the shadows, hiding myself behind a statue of a dragon. Holding my breath, I waiting before realizing the voices were coming from behind a closed door. Cursing my foolishness, I was about to leave again when I noticed that the door belonged to Dippet. I stood uncertain for a moment, and then pressed my ear against the door. I crushed it hard against the wood. A voice clarifying or amplifying charm could be of use, but I didn't want to take the risk. So I just stood there pressed, breathing shallowly, and waited. The voices sounded far away and muffled. It took me a moment to figure out that they belonged to Dippet, Dumbledore, Thistle, and Zwipp. My heart beat faster. The Headmaster, Deputy Headmaster, Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and the head of Slytherin all meeting. It had to be about me. I listened closely. Dippet was speaking mid sentence. "---is his fault?" Dumbledore's voice came next. "The symbol he described is the mark of Grindelwald. And the meaning of the phoenix dying, that must symbolize the end of his resurrection. The final, definitive change in this part of history, for all of us. I believe that the final battle of Grindelwald is approaching---though how it will end I have no clue." Zwipp's annoyed voice came next. "Damn it, Albus, enough of your inane dream analysis! I swear you grow battier than Grindelwald everyday. Anyone could tell you that a final break in the war must be close. The amount of hate he has instilled in his followers means they must act soon. And after us, the Muggles will be easy enough to destroy should he decide to. They're but a second away from war themselves. It doesn't take a boy's fantasies to tell us this." Dumbledore's voice turned cold. I could picture his eyes clouding. "Riddle is not just any boy, Zwipp." My eyes widened, and I crushed against the door closer if possible. Dumbledore continued. "You'd do good to get over your advanced potions and realize that there is so much more to magic that even we do not understand. I have no doubt that Grindelwald is close to us. If he isn't aware of Tom yet, he will be soon. The boy has incredible ability; you see the power in him. How could Grindelwald not want him? Even I wonder at certain thing’s I’ve seen…" his voice trailed off and my chest clenched, think of the paper he had seen. Was he thinking of the similarities between myself and Salazar? Thistle finally spoke up. "But then is this the safest place for him to be, Armando? For any of the children? I can't see Tom as a dark wizard, but if there is the slightest possibility--" "Then Grindelwald will have an undefeatable advantage." Dippet finished for her. Then he sighed heavily, saying in frustration, "How could this be, Albus? Tom is only eleven!" Dumbledore's answer silenced my heart. In a level tone he said, "How could it not be him? Think about it, sir! A magician of Tom's capabilities comes around once in an eternity. The only one in history that had his intellectual and magical abilities that I can think of is Merlin, our great protector and modern magic father. Do you actually think that it is a coincidence that Tom is here with us now?" "There he goes again with his mystical nonsense," Zwipp muttered. Dippet cut him off. "So what are you trying to tell us, Albus? That Tom is some---some instrument?" I heard Dippet and Zwipp chuckle at this. Dumbledore's next comment was cold. "No, I don’t believe he is merely an instrument for some great plan or prophecy hidden in some walls. His being is like everyone else's, part fate and part luck, and ultimately his. But I do think that Tom is a rare opportunity. We should be grateful that we got to him first--I don't know how we managed to. If it is part of Grindelwald's plan, we have to act now, and hope that Tom is up to it. I don't believe that anyone is immune to Grindelwald's offer, least of all someone who grew up as Tom did." I almost choked. What did Dumbledore mean by that? That because I was half-Muggle and grew up a poor orphan, that I was more likely to turn out a dark wizard? Just because I didn't have the all-knowing morality of Dumbledore growing up didn't mean I was a slave to whatever anyone threw at me. If he thought this about me, I would show him how wrong he was. My anger made me miss Dumbledore's next comment. I cursed myself, and then resumed struggling to hear. It was now Dippet. "That is true, Albus. But I have faith in Tom. He is our most promising student. Yes, I know that does not account for everything, but it does say a great deal about him. And he did decide to come here. I think we should be grateful he is under our guidance, and take this one step at a time. Keeping everything orderly and providing a secure learning environment will be our best way of protecting and guiding Tom, and keeping him and the others away from Grindelwald." After he said that, everyone began to say their farewells. I hurriedly rushed out to avoid being caught, though I wanted to hear what else they were saying. I didn't stop until I reached the Slytherin rooms. I stopped outside the entrance, panting, and sat down. I curled up in the dark, and ran over what I had heard, trying to have it make sense to me. So they were afraid of me---well, at least Dumbledore was. And they did see me as some kind of freak. A powerful one that could be used. They would like me and keep me, as long as I did what they wanted. Breathing hard, my anger grew. Did they think if, left to myself, that I would jump at the first dark lord who offered me candy to join him? I stood, the anger giving me energy. So Dumbledore would keep his promise to protect me, but only because he didn't trust me. At least, that was what it seemed like. It was the opposite of what life had been like at the Blunts. There I had been hurt and abandoned because of my unusual abilities. Here, I was protected and nurtured for them. But in both cases, I felt used, hurt and empty. I still didn't fit in anywhere. If I didn't have the abilities I would still be with the Blunts, who hated my personality as much as they did my demon side. And because of my abilities I was accepted here, but none who knew me seemed to really care or like me. No, I amended that. It was possible my mother had cared, but she had been abandoned by my father for being who she was. My fists clenched. Maybe if she had been a stronger witch, she would have gotten more help from others in her community. Or she would have been used, and then discarded. Would I be tossed aside after Grindelwald was finished? Salazar Slytherin's words in a caption about him rang through my head. True blood will show. I gripped this. If there were witches and wizards like my mother, I would accept them. But everyone else who used others and abused their power, I would stop. Dumbledore was right after all. I created a purpose, and I had the ability to bring it into being. Grindelwald was going to be crushed. And by me if I could. But I wasn't doing it for my unfeeling, frightened professors. My heart bled at the thought of how many times I had been the tool for someone else's pleasure at my own expense. No, no one used or controlled me and got away with it. And the only way to ensure this, I decided, was to be able to use them first. Finally I reached the common rooms. All the Slytherins were still awake, and crowded in there. That mystified me, until I recalled what day it still was. I stood there a moment in the entrance, waiting for the others to recognize me. Everyone had been laughing and celebrating Halloween and Salazar's birthday, but one by one they silenced as they saw me. It was so quiet that I could hear a cup being dropped. Damien broke the silence. Swaggering over, he said, "Well, if it isn't our mad Mudblood? They let you out of Mungo’s already?" I smiled back. "Yes, once they realized that I actually was helping them against Grindelwald at my own expense, they let me out. I expect a reward will be awaiting me tomorrow." I started to walk through, but Damien stopped me. I noticed that Dash was not present. Damien looked me in the eye, and spit out, "Liar. We don't take kindly to those who act against their houses again." I stared right back at him, seeing for the first time the uncertainty behind his façade. "Well, ask Zwipp, Dippet, Thistle, or even Dumbledore tomorrow. But I am hurt that you don't believe me. Excuse me, I have to go cry about this." I turned then, grinning at the laughter I caused. The only other one glowering was Cathleen. Randy and Simon followed me into the dorms. They were both staring at me wide eyed. Randy asked me in a nervous tone, "Everyone thought that you were dead." "Really? And you still had a party. I feel loved." I went to remove my clothing, remembering that I had left the other ones in the hospital. I decided to shower later, too tired to do much more than pull on my gray flannel pants and the loose shirt I slept in. I sat down on my bed, pushing Snicks over. He grumpily complied, and I removed my socks as Randy and Simon kept chattering. Simon said, "It was the weirdest thing. Everyone is convinced that you were possessed. Half of the school is in awe of you, and the other half is terrified." He grinned nervously. "It's going around that you are some dark arts ploy, being used by Grindelwald to bring Hogwarts down." I had been settling back, but because of his words I froze. I turned toward him slowly, and said darkly, "Nobody uses me." At that Simon and Randy gulped and hastily retreated. I turned the lights out and lay down, repeating those words to myself until sleep blissfully overtook me, "Nobody uses me."
Chapter 11: The True Meaning of Christmas is?
I couldn’t stand doing nothing. I’d heard that
there had been another time Grindelwald had pursued
someone as he was doing me…and it had ended in the witch’s death. The thought
terrified me, even as I tried to say that I was certain I had to be stronger
than the girl who had fallen. It did little good, and I was desperate for a
diversion. So I immersed myself in my studies, though to be ready for what I
wasn’t sure. I realized in my Care for Magical Creatures class that if I simply
kept well-meaning intentions in my thoughts, I didn’t have as many problems
with the pure animals again. But, that was probably useless except to earn me
good marks, and I was still infuriated that I was far less than the best
student in that class despite my constant efforts. Dumbledore tutored me
privately in Transfiguration, probably in pity as much as because I’d already
surpassed my class. It left the time periods where my classmates were having
that class free for me to be working off my
tuition. During that time I did odd chores for the professors, Dippet, or Drawt. My nights were
packed with reading on defense, Grindelwald, my
mother, Salazar, and other untaught magic. It was better to prepare myself for
anything, I reasoned. Well, I had two choices. I could go the easy way, agree with the Ministry, recite the hypocrites who took that position, and walk away with a perfect score. Or I could be myself, and hope to weasel a perfect anyway. “I feel that neither solution is correct. I have an alternate one I’d like to argue for.” Dumbledore raised his eyes at that, silencing the stirs I created. He leaned back, his eyes wary. “Oh? Please do continue, Mr. Riddle.” “The first question is a universal one. Over sixty percent, as you cited from Ramble’s Essay “On Ethimagics” of untried and ungoverned magic is found harmful by a majority of the population polled by his newspaper. His definition of harmful is that found in the Wizard’s dictionary—to potentially cause physical, emotional, or psychological damage. However, it is assumed that a percentage of his polled audience never was, in fact, harmed by the cases that made up the sixty percent. Also, forty percent of those doing the supposed “harmful” cases did not feel they had been harmed, despite Ramble saying they were. These statistics can be found in “Witches and Wizard’s Figures on Events”. Ramble’s statements also ignore the other forty percent of unguarded experiments which led to incredible benefits to society, such as the invention of Floo powder or treatment for a Sidewinding Dragon’s burn.” Dumbledore interrupted me as I took a breath. “There were twelve deaths in the creation of the Sidewinding Dragon’s burn. Some might say that number would have decreased dramatically had it been developed under the Ministry’s direction.” “Yes, that is what some might say. Others would realize that the Ministry most likely would have not seen the project through because even one person might die, and the medicine never would have been created.” “Even the death of one person is significant, is it not, Mr. Riddle?” “Of course it is. And unfortunately, there are far too many incompetent magicians out there who make stupid mistakes in experimenting on their own, causing unnecessary deaths, and force the Ministry to promote this ban.” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Then it would seem the Ministry would be right in their ban, since it is their duty to ensure the well-being of the people.” “Yes, it would seem that way, as long as it were all or nothing. With the amount of incapable people using magic, the logistics of the supposed harmful cases will always outnumber the successful ones to a degree that the Ministry can’t ignore. If you wish for proof just read the book “Accidents of the Untrained”, by Wimersinkle. However, I propose a moderate control system. There should be a ban on some, like the cases seen in Wimersinkle. However, real magicians who have something to offer should be given the freedom to work and test.” “Not a very egalitarian system, Mr. Riddle. How do you suppose the Ministry should sort out the real magicians from the others?” I shrugged. “School grades, work performance, recommendations. Find talent early, and have it nurtured. Mostly performance records.” Dumbledore was no longer smiling. “Performance doesn’t show everything. Neither does talent. A great many talented magicians have done nothing but harm.” “I guess that would depend on your definition of harm. That leads me into the war part. As I said, there are always going to be cases where the outcome is harmful. The only way to try and stop that is to stop progress altogether. That wouldn’t work, since people will find ways around it, and it would be even harder for the Ministry to keep track. But if given the aptitude and proper training, and the freedom, there will be agents on both sides. No magic is dark, or evil---it is just used differently. Everyone of a good enough caliber should be able to learn it and wield it, if for nothing else than for defense against those who use it against society’s conventions.” The room was silent for a while. Dumbledore rocked back in his chair, his fingers tapping his pursed lips. Finally he spoke. “So you believe that there is no evil magic, just evil people?” I shook my head. “I don’t think there is either. There are some who just aren’t powerful enough to control it, or use it properly. Those are the people who the Ministry should restrict. And if the Ministry makes a mistake, which it undoubtedly will, there will be those of stronger ability who can step in and correct it, being able to control the magic they learned without the slowdown of the regulations of the Ministry.” Dumbledore’s eyes had an odd sheen to them as he said, “You still never answered my question, Mr. Riddle. There is little chance your solution will take hold, unless some dictator enforces it. I hope you do not wish for that? No? Well then, if you were stuck with the original two choices I gave you, which would you side with?” I paused, thinking. I had a feeling a great deal more than my grade rested on this, though I couldn’t be sure what. Licking my drying lips, I finally guessed, “The Ministry?” At that Dumbledore smiled, but it was still a guarded one, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to believe of me. I couldn’t blame him—I honestly didn’t know which one I really would side with. I slid shakily back into my seat. My mind wandered during the rest of the presentations. Thinking it over, I still preferred my idea. Yes, the notion of a dictator was worrisome. But was the Minister of Magic really that different, acting under a more discreet title? There were some similarities in the role that the Minister played and the position of Grindelwald, even. Someone had to ultimately decide on laws. To be the leader. And was my suggestion so terrible? They would trust a mature magician to go study Centaurs, especially if that were his specialty, but no one would send an underage student. How was that really different than entrusting the study of certain magic to capable wizards and witches and not to others? I didn’t voice my question, certain Dumbledore would have no satisfying answer. I simply sat still, lost in my thoughts and not listening to anyone else. After the ethics final was my private Transfiguration one. I had to transform a hat into a thimble and then make it shrink down to actual thimble size. Dumbledore said that this was fifth year work, and a bit of his real smile showed through as he enthusiastically told me about next semester. He said we might start working with organic materials, flowers and such, and combine this class work with charms. It sounded really interesting; almost covering the disappointment at finding out that at this rate I would reach being an Anigmus during my third year. Afterwards, Dumbledore told me that I got an O in Transfiguration, keeping quiet about the Ethics class. I wanted desperately to ask him about it, but I knew he didn’t like his students to be too preoccupied with grades. So I just smiled as he said goodbye. On my way out, he asked me if I were staying over the break. I turned and nodded. There was no way I was going back to the orphanage, but I just told him that I needed the time to study and work. He said that there was someone coming after Christmas that he was anxious for me to meet, and left me puzzling at that. By the time I got back to the common rooms it was after nine o’clock. The entire dungeon was bustling as everyone was preparing to go home for the Christmas break. Those who had already packed were lounging about in large groups, excitedly jabbering as they finished decorating cards and wrapping presents. I saw Dash putting some holly around the fireplace quietly, not participating in the others’ enjoyment. I walked over to him. He turned to me and smiled. “Finals go all right?” I picked up a leaf that had scattered to the floor and answered. “I suppose. One was hard.” At that he laughed. “For you?” I tried to smile back, quietly saying, “Yes, even for me.” Dash shrugged. “Well, welcome to everyone else’s hell. Wait till you get to fifth year. I desperately need a break.” At that he paused, then muttered, “not that I’ll bloody really get one.” My heart lifted. “Are you staying here then?” I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. Unfortunately Dash shook his head. “No, that would be a real break if I could.” His jaw tightened. “I’m working with my father over this break.” I knew better than to ask what was making him so upset. It was apparent that Dash and his father didn’t really get on well, but he never spoke of it. “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” I said encouragingly. “He heads the Education Committee for the Ministry, doesn’t he? Maybe you’ll get to travel to some other schools and learn some stuff.” For some reason Dash laughed bitterly at that. “For part of the time we will be going to observe at the Durmstrang school---I have a feeling that he plans for some extensive learning of mine to be had there.” “Really? That’s great.” I couldn’t understand the look of disbelief that he was giving me right now. “Tom,” he said slowly. “Do you know what Durmstrang is?” I bristled. “Of course I do. It’s a magic school. I think inter-learning among schools is a great plan.” “Do you know what they teach there?” Dash asked, folding his arms. “Well, that part I don’t mind. But, do you know what my father will make me do there?” “Well, I’d assume magic.” I thought that Dash was making the situation worse than it seemed. He had a tendency to do that, in my opinion. Staring at me, he finally sighed and turned to leave. “Forget it.” “Fine. Are you all right?” I asked him. He looked at me, and some of the tension that had been building dissipated. He smiled wearily. “Yes. I have to go finish packing now. Would you tell Damien we have to leave tomorrow morning at seven?” I gritted my teeth at that, but the burdened look on Dash’s face made me reply, “Of course.” I spun on my heel and went into the boy’s dorm. Inside there was Damien, Simon, and three of Damien’s friends. I walked over to Damien, who was sprawled on his bed trying to fit everything he owned into a suitcase, and said, “Dash wanted me to tell you that you are leaving tomorrow morning at seven.” I didn’t add the good riddance that was burning at the tip of my tongue. Damien turned to me at that and said stiffly, “Why didn’t he tell me himself?” I shrugged. “He had to pack. We were talking right before that, so he asked me to.” Damien eyed me carefully, and then retorted, “Whatever.” I smiled at his jealously. “Happy Christmas!” I said cheerfully. Crossing to my bed, I didn’t plan on getting up until they had left. I curled up with a spell book, not really paying attention to it. Snicks had found his way onto my shoulder and was distracting me with his humorous adventures of late with a large, rather frisky female boa constrictor. I was left alone the rest of the night, my breath echoing in the practically empty dungeons. After a few hours, my eyes were inconceivably heavy, and I let myself have the respite of sleep. Amazingly, it was undisturbed. The morning of Christmas I awoke sometime after seven, groggy from having slept for more than three hours at one time. I blearily pushed myself out of bed and got dressed. It was too cold to stay in my pajamas, and I didn’t have a robe. Hearing shouting from upstairs, I left Snicks on my pillow and went into the commons. Not many Slytherins had stayed over for the break. Only five by my count. Three of them were fifth-years, staying so they would have better resources to study for the upcoming O.W.L.s. One I didn’t recognize, and the last one was Simon. I walked over to him, and he eyed me a bit nervously. “Oh, hi Tom. Good morning. I mean, Happy Christmas.” He seemed to be trying to hide something. I smiled back slightly. “Happy Christmas. And you don’t have to hide your gifts.” At that he swung around and stared guiltily at what he was holding behind his back. It looked like a top of the line new broom-grooming kit. Embarrassed, he explained, “II didn’t see any for you.” I shrugged and said, “It’s fine. Really. Who would give me a present? I never expected one.” An awkwardness breached between us, until I finally said, “Want to go to breakfast?” I didn’t really, but I couldn’t stand the look of pity on his face. There was no reason for it. I really hadn’t expected anything. I barely knew these people, like Dash, Randy, and Gail---I hadn’t gotten them anything either. But then, I didn’t even have enough money to pay for my clothing, let alone gifts. I told myself I didn’t care again and again as we went to the dining hall. Simon’s mood visibly lifted just as my spirits were sinking. By the time Gail came up to me I was wholly out of the holiday spirit. Natural and common, for me. “Happy Christmas, men!” she said smiling at us. Simon gave her a barely civil smile back. While he was welcoming to a half-blood like myself, mostly because I had proven to be a valuable member of the house, he was still a bit unwelcoming to a Muggle-born like Gail. He was still looking suspiciously at her when she sat down next to me. I turned to him and asked something that had been bothering me. “Why do you celebrate Christmas?” By you I meant magic folk. At that, both he and Gail looked at me in surprise. Already committed and having shown my ignorance, I continued, “I mean, in the Muggle world it makes sense---it was drilled into me. The birth of Christ, the savior, celebrating that and bringing his message of good will to all and so on...but do magicians believe that?” Simon looked a little uncomfortable under the direct questioning. “Well, it’s a little different. We celebrate it because Jesus was an advocate against the persecution of all, including magicians. There was a great deal of backlash against our community at that time, and he preached tolerance of all, so we could grow as well. So we celebrate to thank him for that.” He looked at me and laughed a little anxiously. “That, and we get presents.” I nodded. “I think the celebration of tolerance has lost its novelty in a lot of places, don’t you?” Simon merely looked confused at that, but Gail gave me a small smile. “I didn’t expect you to think of the true meaning of Christmas.” She then excused herself and hurried off. I craned my neck, and saw her meet up with some Hufflepuff girls. They were dressed to go out, probably to Hogsmeade. I felt lower for some reason. What did she mean that it was surprising that I would think of Christmas in that way? Simon rolled his eyes and said to me, “Those Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are getting as high and mighty as the Gryffindors. She probably now thinks all of us are bad, because Dash dumped her.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what he was thinking seeing her anyway.” I stared at him. Was that the reason she had been so nice to me, because of Dash? Or out of sympathy, feeling sorry for a cursed, poor Slytherin? I didn’t really believe it. But then, I had yet to meet someone who didn’t disappoint me. When it came down to it, was anyone completely selfless? Doubtful. I pressed a hand over my head. The cheerful noise surrounding me suddenly felt stifling. I politely excused myself from Simon, promising to see him later, and fled to the library. On my way I overheard Gail speaking with the other Hufflepuffs. “I feel sorry for him. So does Dash, I think. No family, nothing. I would have gotten him something, but I thought it worse to do it out of pity. That’s how he’d see it. He’s too proud, like Dash, but he’s a good kid.” She sighed, heading out with her friends. “I just feel sorry for him.” I stood in silence, watching her retreating back. Later that evening I sat in front of the fire in the downstairs hall. It was empty except for the holiday furniture and a roasting fire. I picked a small plush couch right in front of the fire, hoping it would warm my insides. Silence ensued, except for the crackling flames. The room was dark and without windows, but I could still hear the merriment from the large Christmas feast dinner outside. Trying to ignore it, I pushed open a book. I had taken it out of the restricted section of the library. It was fairly easy to do that, since I worked there and Acadima trusted me. It was called, The Legacy of Salazar. However, I found it hard to read. I blinked, and while the words cleared I felt two tears slowly roll down my cheeks, finding my lips so I tasted their bitterness. “Mr. Riddle?” I jumped at the noise, quickly fumbling to hide the book. Dumbledore was standing next to me. I pulled the book in close to my chest to hide the cover, trying to just appear cold. “Tired, Mr. Riddle?” “What?” I asked nervously, twisting the book around so it was upside-down. Dumbledore settled into a chair next to me. “You looked like you had fallen asleep with your eyes open.” “Oh. No, sir.” He settled back, apparently in the mood for a conversation. “Zwipp hasn’t been working you too hard?” “No, sir.” “Would you like some hot chocolate?” “No, sir.” “Do you find me intelligent?” “N—what?” “Just checking.” Dumbledore smiled at that. I looked back at the fire, not in the mood for talking. I hoped he would take the hint, but he persisted. “You know, Mr. Riddle, I remember one time, when I was a boy, I got punished on Christmas. I decided to try to enchant the tree to sing by itself, so I wouldn’t have to bother with all those carols. It ended up that the tree ate the family dinner, and the couch as well.” His eyes seemed lost in memory. “I was sent to my room, and from there I had to listen to my family open gifts. My brother tried to sneak me one of hirs, but I resisted.” He smiled. “I thought that my family had taken away all of mine, and that they didn’t feel I was deserving of anything. It wasn’t until my mother came up some hours later that we made up and I was allowed to rejoin the party.” I finally turned from the fire to stare at him. “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked. He watched me quietly. “Nothing. Maybe something. Just that, for those few hours of neglect and feeling worthless was the worst time of my life. I didn’t want my brother’s pity. It wasn’t until I was accepted again, and told that I was loved unconditionally by my mother, that I felt right.” I said nothing, while he added softly, “I can’t imagine a lifetime of that.”
Chapter 12:
The New Year Needs Resolutions
I at least knew
what a real sky was.
Damien was
looking at me, curiosity building in his cold eyes. I hadn’t planned on
spilling all of this to him, but it did put us on more even ground. After all,
Dash had told me about his mother, and if I could bring peace to this situation
it would be easier on all of us. Besides, I really didn’t want Damien going
around telling everyone how I had cried out for my mum if it could be avoided. Chapter 13: The Clash of the Titans
If one good thing came out of my new resolution to adapt, it was that Damien no longer was breathing down my neck. Although, that might partly have been because people finally stopped consoling him about his mother, so he didn't need to shift any unwanted attention my way. He, Cathleen, and their following now resumed their normal amount of belittling. I tried to ignore it, and mostly we simply avoided each other. Dash looked sicker than ever, but he acted as if nothing were happening, busying himself with the upcoming parents’ day event and Quidditch. Basically, we seemed to be collectively avoiding any and all issues. One evening Simon and I were lying on the floor in the common room doing homework. He was the one of the few in our House who studied diligently, but still not as obsessively as me. I took comfort in knowledge and being the finest student. Simon, I think, became a bit jealous at times, as I did of him, though neither of us would admit to it. In truth, I believe he had more reason to be jealous of my work than I of his. Still, in spite of our competitiveness, it was nice at times to have someone else besides me who appreciated learning much as the Ravenclaws did. Although, I tried to put knowledge to use whenever I could, rather than just learning for its own sake. Any bit of learning could be worthy, even if it didn’t appear so right away. The simple belief that at least one other person wouldn’t know something that I knew was a soothing thought. However, at times like that night, it was hard not to see some homework as futile, especially when I had been writing for hours. Simon and I were revising our useless essays on the Ghoul Wars of 293 A.D. when Randy came in, sighing. We glanced at him and then at each other before shrugging it off. In response, Randy sighed again, louder this time. It was aggravating, but I was finally near the end of the essay and didn’t want to encourage interruptions. Simon apparently felt the same way. We continued to ignore him as he then moved on to groaning. Finally, when his pacing began to scatter our parchments, I spoke up. "Something the matter?" Randy turned to face me. "I am gravely hurt. My family has no faith in me, and it is all your fault." I blanched at that, flicking a confused glance at Simon, who shrugged. Puzzled, I said, "Me? What did I do? I don't even know your parents." I probably didn’t want to. Randy thrust me his recent letter in a mock display of woe. "Read it. My father's last line says, 'and son, thank the good hearted soul who has been saving your hide in all of your studies so that you can keep sending us home good marks.'" His eyes glared, not in complete playfulness. "My mum says that whoever it is, I have to share my candy with." I laughed, trying to keep things light. "Keep it. I'd rather have money." Randy shook his head. "Can't help you there. I don't keep much on me at school. There's nothing to buy here anyway, till we get to go to Hogsmeade." He flopped down next to us and began looking over our papers. While he did so, he asked, "How is the work-study thing going?" I gave a miniscule shrug. "Not bad. They don't really pay me. All the work I do substitutes for my tuition. But I get to learn a lot. And get in good with the professors. I even got to grade our last tests in Potions." I admit, I was dangling bait on purpose there. Simon almost jumped on me. "You did? What did we get?" I glared at him until he meekly withdrew his hand from my shoulder. "I didn't grade yours." He slunk from me, and I turned to Randy. "I did grade yours, though." He eyed me curiously. "Brilliant. How did I do?" I became suddenly interested in my quill. "Not bad." He grunted for me to continue. I sighed, and then said, "Zwipp was breathing down my neck. Anyone could tell it was too thick. You got a… well, you almost passed." I looked up to see him glowering. His father was a Potions Master at a very lucrative shop in town, and it was especially important that Randy succeed in that class. I tried to think of something to add that would ease the situation. "Your written section was nice, though. And nobody did terribly well. There was only one O." His eyes snapped to mine then, and I knew I had said the wrong thing. "Oh, and I can't image who that would be." I went back to my essay, refusing the taunt. That didn't stop Randy, who had as loud a mouth as I did when he fumed. Only, he never knew when to shut it. He ranted, "Well, if I had to spend every free hour I had doing filthy chores just to learn all that extra stuff so I could get in good with the professors and get an O, I wouldn't find it worthwhile." He stood and stomped off at that. I watched him go, debating what to do. Then, noticing that we had drawn a crowd, I immediately went back to work to make the situation seem inconsequential. Yet, I felt a bit bad. I hadn’t thought that Randy would get quite so upset, but in retrospect, I had brought it on myself. The nightmares of mine were getting worse again, and between putting up with them, classes, and Damien, I was already on edge. I had been sort of baiting Randy by telling him that I had graded his paper. I knew he would ask me how he and I had done. Unfortunately, my little act hadn’t made me feel any better, and now I had Randy mad at me. Simon tried to be consoling. "He won't stay mad for long. It's Randy. He'll be fine once he needs your help again." I shrugged, concentrating on my writing. Being left-handed, it was especially hard using a quill on this thick parchment. My hand kept dragging along the words, smudging them before the ink could dry. Professor Mothly, the History of Magic professor who was substituting for Binns, was particularly fussy about the penmanship of our essays. I had adopted a rather unusual hand position to survive. I curled my hand over with my wrist hanging in the air. It was effective but tiring---and rather painful. The second I stopped concentrating, my wrist would slap down, ruining the whole thing. And so, I tried to go back to my careful concentration, since I shuddered at the thought of rewriting this long essay. However, Simon kept waving his hand in my face, saying, "Forget about him. Aren't you excited about the Parents Weekend?" Now my hand was aching to do another movement. I refrained, saying, "Yes, I am beyond myself with giddiness. I am merely shielding it behind a strong veneer of indifference." Simon withdrew his hand, but that did not curb his enthusiasm. "Come on Tom! You can tag along with my family. They won't mind." I looked at him in disbelief, but he wore a genuine expression of happiness at his idea. I cleared my throat, and then said through gritted teeth, "Thanks for the offer, but I'll be otherwise engaged." Simon looked a little disappointed that his idea had been turned down. "Doing what?" he asked. "I haven't decided yet." "Oh," Simon said, looking disappointed. My jab had gone completely over his head, and he looked confused at my snort. It was mirrored by Randy, who had returned to the common rooms. He was sitting, reading for once, in a corner, but he had overheard us. I couldn't help smiling a little. Even if he was furious at me, Randy could never resist a witty comment. I excused myself, heading for the library. Even though I had all tomorrow night as well to do the essay, I never liked putting work off until the last minute. Tomorrow was the Slytherin's Parents Day, so I would easily not be noticed if I stayed in my room for the evening. During the day I would be with Wynn getting the grounds ready for exhibiting, so no schoolwork could be done then. At night, knowing I’d probably be in a foul mood after work, I imagined lying down reading or practicing charms by myself. I was walking in my usual quick pace when I saw a figure looking out a lone window on the first floor. The moonlight was bright enough to illuminate his face, and I saw that it was Dash. He was staring out, completely lost somewhere in his mind. I paused, hesitating. Dash seemed to desire nothing but privacy of late, and I wanted to honor his wishes. I felt bad for him, but there was nothing I could do. I had just made up my mind to continue past him when he spoke to me. His voice was rough from lack of usage. "Evening." I approached him cautiously. "Hello, Dash." I remained silent after that, letting him lead the discussion. After all, he had ignited it. He didn't face me, so all I saw was his profile, bathed in the soft natural glow. His eyes were the same dark charcoal...I had never known eye color to change like that. The purplish bags under his eyes might have accentuated the effect. He looked much worse than Damien, but then, Damien had taken his anger and sorrow out on others. Dash hadn't had that reprieve. He asked me about classes, and I responded civilly. It was apparent that this was not what he wanted to discuss. I thought he might ask me about Damien again. The only other time we had talked was when Dash had asked me if Damien seemed all right when out from under his older brother’s gaze. He of course knew that Damien and I were only roommates and nothing like close companions… I suppose he didn't feel comfortable asking any of Damien's friends. Inside, I chafed that all the attention I had received from Dash of late had related to Damien, but swallowed my complaint with no outward emotion. Standing still, I readied myself for another bout of his fraternal concern for the ungrateful Damien, but instead he said softly, "Tomorrow is going to be hard." I ran through the options my mind listed for responses. "I guess." Dash turned to me slightly on that cue. In a rather harsh tone he said, "Nothing gets to you, does it?" I looked back at him, biting my tongue hard. He finally sighed and turned, muttering, "Sorry." Then, just as quietly, he offered, "It must be hard for you as well." I shrugged, and he continued, "Damien told me what you said before. About your mum." My eyes flashed with humiliation and anger. I averted my gaze, but Dash cut in quickly, "It's fine, Tom. I told Damien not to say anything to anyone else. And even if he meant what he said to be demeaning, that's not how I looked at it." He had become paternal again. I supposed there was something in playing that role that eased his pain, as there had been for Sean at the orphanage. I really didn't like to think of Dash in Muggle terms, so I shoved such thoughts aside, turning to leave. On my way out, he called back to me, "You are coming to the event tomorrow, right? I'd like to introduce you to my father." Even I caught the strain in the last line. If Mr. Malfoy was anything like Damien, I doubted he would desire an introduction any more than I did. I curtly told Dash as much and left for the library. This time he made no move to stop me. The night was swallowed up with my nose in a book, studying things I half-heartedly told myself would be useful. I learned a probably more important thing the next afternoon. Doing groundskeeping work was worse than being set on fire and burning to death while somehow simultaneously drowning in a tightly enclosed claustrophobic space. I had come up with that description about three hours into working with Wynn outside. It had been boiling, and we had been given the task of weeding and de-pesting the yards. We had to work all the way around the castle, changing old flowers for new blossoms, moving the more dangerous plants out of the parents' way, chasing gnomes and other creatures into the forest. Wynn, for some reason, adored outdoor work, and forbade me from using magic to quicken the task. Thus, I greeted many of my housemates’ families dirty, sweaty, and smelly; lugging sacks or pushing barrels to and fro. Most of my House didn't point me out, probably in shame, for which I was grateful. It was humiliating when Simon yelled at me, waving frantically. He performed a quick introduction, and his parents greeted me the way one does a gimping hunchback. Or one of those Muggle beggars scouring the streets of London who had appeared deformed to me on my way here, though I could call to mind no specifics of why. Needless to say, they were relieved I hadn't taken Simon up on his offer to tag along with them. A few hours after Wynn’s torturous ‘fun,’ I trudged through the castle to the Slytherin rooms. I grimaced with every step, realizing that I did not have the physicality for hard labor. I had gunslinger's hands, not farmer's hands, Wynn had teased me. Looking at them, I thought they more closely resembled claws now. Any revealed skin was burned and hot, and my body ached in places I normally didn't even acknowledge that I possessed. Limping, I ignored the shrieks that came from Cathleen and her kennel of a family. Once I got to Miss Tress, she haughtily held her nose as I passed in. There thankfully wasn't anyone in the common room, since everyone was out with their families. I headed for the shower, not planning on ever leaving it. I detested being unkempt, feeling filthy even hours after the grime was gone. Unfortunately, the hot water gave out after a while. When I became aware that my thin layer of flesh felt like ice and my body was shivering, I couldn’t abide it any longer, and reluctantly got out. At least the inches of caked mud had left. I changed into some comfortable Muggle clothing. It was too hot for my robe to cover it, and I had nothing else. At the moment, I didn’t even much care. I flopped down on my bed, exhausted. I awoke some time later as a fiery pain shot throughout my upper torso. Someone was shaking my shoulder. I groaned and tried to push them away. Through my clouded gaze I saw Dash standing over me. I groaned again, trying to lie back down. "Please Dash, don't make me. I'm too tired. Do you know how hard it is to chase some of the plants that grow around here?" Dash apparently wasn't in the mood for consoling. "Get up! It's almost time for dinner. You need to eat." I resisted. "Snicks'll catch a rat for me. I can't even move, I'm so sore!" Dash's tone went from firm to commanding. "No. Stop whining and get up. You must come with us." At that I became much more alert. Staring at him, half-infuriated, half-curious, I repeated, "I must?" Dash amended his statement, but his eyes retained the same unmoved quality. "You should come. All right? Please?" I stared at him, not understanding the severity in his demeanor. Still, he had been through a lot, and if I didn't go, Damien might taunt me for not being a supportive Slytherin again. Groaning, I stood and reached for my shoes. As soon as they were on, Dash was pulling me out of the dorms. "Wait!" I protested, tugging back. "I'm not even wearing a robe!" Dash didn't let up, throwing over his shoulder, "Doesn't matter. We don't have time. At least you're wearing a green shirt. Come on." He dragged me far away from the Slytherin dungeons, up the stairs and into the Great Hall. It was decorated beautifully, with spring flowers and small pixies everywhere. Wreathes of blossoms were magicked to hang in the air, holding up various candles that gave off a lavender scent. All of the Slytherin families were present, along with the faculty. They were all milling about and chatting. From the snatches of conversation I caught, the subject matter was very different from that of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff parents. I had heard that the topics for those Houses mostly dealt with the war and the safety procedures Hogwarts was implementing for their children. The tone there had supposedly been tense and thick. The Slytherin gathering, however, was much the opposite. The atmosphere was formal but relaxed, the topics mostly about politics and the parents’ work. Most of the Slytherin students were participating in enthusiastic support of their parents to whomever would listen, like trained public relations experts. I had to smile at that, for in the other cases the students had separated from their parents and professors when the conversation shifted to more adult matters. But here, even the Slytherin first years were participating perfectly in their elders' politics discussions. Dash pulled me up in front of a tall, sturdy man. Upon appraising him, there was no mistaking who he was. I wondered if all the Malfoy men resembled each other. Mr. Malfoy had the same light blond hair and pale skin as his sons. His eyes were light gray, like Damien's, and his thin mouth bore the Malfoy smirk. The only difference was that his face was not rimmed with fatigue and sorrow like his sons' were. He had one hand placed on Damien's shoulder, like his son was a trophy, as he listened to Professor Wingram gush about the boy’s Quidditch talent. "Yes, yes, of course, if you'll recall, I myself played for Slytherin when we were at school, Josie. Of course, I wasn't the Seeker, I was a Keeper, which requires much more strategy. Not that I'm not extremely proud of Damien. He wears the Malfoy name well." Mr. Malfoy was saying this pompously to Professor Wingram, who was nodding somewhat less enthusiastically. Damien, who had been looking proud, suddenly seemed crushed at his father's remark. I was less intrigued by his response than the fact that Mr. Malfoy had apparently gone to school with Professor Wingram. Was everyone here interconnected? I didn't have long to ponder this. Dash was now beside his father, clearing his throat loudly. Mr. Malfoy, Damien, and Professor Wingram all turned to face us, with differing looks. Damien was sneering, Professor Wingram looked mildly surprised, and Mr. Malfoy was impenetrable as he slowly looked me over. I was wearing a shabby green shirt much too large even for me, baggy gray pants, and my ancient black shoes. Everyone else, if not in immaculate robes, wore expensive clothing in black, silver, or green. Even the professors, I noticed dismally. Making his cursory once over, Mr. Malfoy's eyes turned condescending. "And what is this, Dashell?" Professor Wingram moved away uncomfortably at that. Dash turned his equally cold eyes to his father and replied, "This is one of my first-years. The finest student we have, in fact. He shall definitely help bring the House Cup to Slytherin as you brought it to our House when you were in school, father." Dash’s voice seemed caught between wheedling and defiance, and I had a slowly growing suspicion of what else it was about me that he was about to say. In desperation over Gail, he was willing to throw anything Mudblooded at his father that might sway him, especially a promising student who might be a benefit to the Slytherin House. I could see Dash’s mind trying to work out tactfully how to proceed. Mr. Malfoy didn't bother to hide his surprise. At the sight of me he exclaimed, "You are in Slytherin?" His look certainly didn't decrease as Damien threw in, "He's a Mudblood orphan." Dash shot his brother a death glare, as Mr. Malfoy repeated incredulously, "You are in Slytherin?" I had a fairly large amount of responses aching to get out, but I just nodded stiffly as Dash hurried on, his tone placating and calculated. "Father, this is Tom Marvolo Riddle...I told you of him. He's the finest student in his year." He looked at his brother as he added, "He's already in some of Damien's classes. I've tried to get Damien to be tutored by him in Charms, but--" Damien shot a ferocious look back at Dash. Mr. Malfoy missed the interaction between his sons as he looked at me. Slowly he repeated, "Tom Marvolo Riddle? I don't recall that name." I nodded again, trying to smile. "You wouldn't yet." Mr. Malfoy exchanged a glance with Damien, sharing a nice bonding moment over their communal dislike of me. Meanwhile, Dash was still frantically adding information about me. "He is a half-blood, Father. His mother was a witch, but he grew up outside of the magic community, in a Muggle orphanage. But still, even being that far behind, he's the brightest one. Sort of like Gail was." At the mention of Dash's former girlfriend Mr. Malfoy stiffened in complete revulsion. Dash ignored it, plowing onward--"They aren't pure-blooded, but that really isn't telling anything at all. In fact--" "I have heard enough," Mr. Malfoy interrupted his son coolly. He was now regarding both of us with disgust. Damien had stormed off and was now sulking in a corner. To Dash, Malfoy said quietly, "I hope that you are pleased that you ruined this day for your family by trying to parade your...despicable beliefs. Get ready for Durmstrang next fall." Then he turned to me, looking as if I were a defective object. In an irritatingly superior tone like the one I’d imagined the Muggle Moses using to part the Red Sea, he sneered, "Goodbye, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Take a look at a real wizard while you can. I don't expect I'll see you again… unless, in the future, I am forced to travel through the streets of London and should happen upon you clearing garbage with all the rest of the Mudbloods. A drudge in Slytherin.” An amused expression came over his face as he added, “yes, I very much doubt you'll last long." I took a deep breath, and then said back with a scornful smile, "I won't forget you, Mr. Malfoy. And don't worry, I doubt that we'll have another meeting like this." He stopped, confusion flickering across his empty eyes. Then with a final sneer, he spun away and walked off. I added softly to myself, "I expect by the next time you see me, you'll be groveling for forgiveness at my feet, as I heard you did for Grindelwald." I don't know what compelled me to recall that rumor, but it certainly seemed appropriate to his insincere character. Imagining it didn't make me feel any better, though. I felt anger and shame, and I directed it inward. In this room were the people who ran the magical community, and they all detested or pitied me… or both. I wasn't any better off in this situation than I had been back in the Muggle world. All the Muggle world gave me was a selfish coward for a father and a living situation that plagued me to this day. And after everything I had overcome--having been abandoned and beaten, starved and ignored, mocked and humiliated all of my life--I would not let my life after all that amount to nothing. I needed something, anything, to alter my image, or I'd never amount to anything. Yes, I told myself, trying to calm down. Just getting furious never does anything. That might have been the Tom Marvolo Riddle way, but it's not my way anymore. I don't care if it takes all my time at Hogwarts, or even after;I will become something more. I won’t end up as a push toy for someone like Malfoy or the Blunts. In a sudden, guilty realization, I thought, I won't let myself become what Dash is for his father. "Tom?" Dash was looking at me. I snapped back into reality, unclenching my contracted fists. I looked at him. He was trembling, a sheen of sweat glistening across his bleached face. His eyes were black, and except for the bags of burden under them, he was startlingly white. He looked dead already. "I-I'm sorry, Tom. I'm so sorry. I thought that, if he met you, that he might rethink his position. And maybe Gail's. I should have known better by now. I should---" I interrupted him. "That man, change? Hardly. He hasn’t enough in him.” Dash’s face looked strained, and I stopped berating his father. A bit more kindly, and not quite sincerely, I added, “No, I don't mind having been used as a pitch for you and Gail.” I couldn’t resist also adding, “Don't worry, he'll get his comeuppance." Dash shook his head. "He's too powerful, too useful. My father is quite the politician. It wasn't that hard for him to become what he is. Apparently all he had to do was lose his heart." I nodded slowly. "That is a problem, isn't it? It's easy to be against everyone, but some prove more useful than others. Wizards, especially good ones, are harder to wish destruction on than, say, Muggles. Theoretically, for some. But everyone has their limits, Dash--he won't be useful forever." I suddenly became aware that I was again speaking of his father, and turned to Dash ready to apologize. But Dash, for once, wasn't looking at me in horror. More in sadness, regret... and, perhaps, agreement? All he said was, softly, "I'm afraid that you're right." Whether the fear was that his father wouldn't get his soon, or that it would eventually come, I couldn't tell. All I know is that Dash got that faraway look again, so I left him in troubled peace. Feeling the evening had been sufficiently ruined, I was preparing to exit for the dungeons when I caught sight of a pair of keen eyes. I stopped, startled, my eyes widening as I remembered where I had seen them before. The man that night at the Christmas Eve orphanage party--Grindelwald. He was wearing the same blue robes and matching hat. He was near the buffet table, sipping pumpkin cider, looking at me with a wicked grin. I looked around, trying to catch Dumbledore's eye, when I heard a voice inside my head whisper, "He won't be looking." I spun my face to the man, feeling my heart leap to my throat. He was beckoning me over. I gulped and tentatively walked up to him, looking frantically around me. No one seemed to notice me. I wanted to cry out, to scream for help, to pull out my wand, but some keen instinct prevented action. I had to know what he would do. Finally, I found myself standing right before him. The man looked middle-aged, with a creased, terminally sunburned face from one who had spent a great deal of time outside. His hair and beard where shoulder length and brown, with flecks of gray. But it was his eyes that absorbed most of his face. They were large and light, a mix of violet and blue. His pupils weren't more than specks, and I am certain I actually saw sparkles in them. He spoke in a voice filled with whimsy. "So we meet again, Parselmouth." My voice shook, though I tried to quell the tremors. "Grindelwald?" I hated that it came out sounding like a question. At that, the man laughed in soft mockery. "Oh, don't you recognize me?" I stared at him, trying to make my voice just as flippant. It only came out as high. "I know you were the man at the orphanage. And Dumbledore said you were Grindelwald." His eyes danced. "You don’t know me from anywhere else?" I stared at him, but found myself stubbornly refusing to mention the visions. I didn’t want to give him that pleasure, of thinking his acts were worthy of my remembrance. However, when I shook my head, he mimicked, clicking his tongue. "Well, we must see what we can do about that." Before I could move, he reached out and grasped my head with his hands, pressing them painfully against my temples. Images flashed before me, almost making my knees buckle. The phoenix, the smoke and blackness, the snakes ripping upward through my skin and out of my mouth, and the laughter, oh God that laughter that left me quaking every night in fright, it was there, it was---it was--- My eyes flew open, my body trembling from the shock. I inched my way apart from him. At that, the man grinned and flicked a calloused hand outward. "Bertold Grindelwald, And of course, I already know you." He gave a deep-sounding laugh, a noise that shook me. "I've known you for a very long time, Marvolo. Oh, no," he said, eyeing the surprise he saw on my face, "I won't call you by that horrid Muggle name; not as though you’re misunderstanding a professor. No, Marvolo is more fitting of a wizard like you... don’t you think?" He smiled smugly at that, as if he had made a personal joke and was pleased I didn’t get it. It aggravated me, but there was little I could do about it. I was too flustered to try to decipher what he meant. He went on. "It is so clear. I don't know how Dumbledore missed it. Of course, he never paid attention to the details that I did, nor does he have the power of Sight." The more confusion I showed, the more pleased he seemed to become. "Still, even I wasn't completely sure at the orphanage. And I couldn't exactly risk making that big a mistake, now could I? No, it was much better letting Dumbledore take you in. Of course, I did help you escape that Muggle hell-hole...and that little mark on your palm was just my way of taking credit. Since then, I have been testing you in my little ways. I suppose you found that out? My methods still worked, I'm pleased to say, though your mind is quite strong. It didn't allow for much outside control, that was evident. Some of the scenes in your visions were put there by you yourself; you possess a very good mind for defense. I surmise you’ve had the practice for that, though you probably don’t like to think of your childhood as practice…or, do you?” He seemed in an odd way complimentary, degrading, and questioning. I stared, unsure, as he prattled on casually, “Yes, quite the brilliant mind in oh…just about everything. Plenty of power there, regardless of magic. No potential for the Sight, though, and a definite disregard for authority. You aren’t minding your manners with that frown, young man. Oh, Dumbly, even if he doesn't suspect, it was very clever of him to keep you here. To limit you." He reached out to me, softly saying, "But I know that you feel differently, Marvolo. Like I do. They underestimate me. I could train you; yes, I could easily keep you." His voice was soft and soothing… I jerked myself out from his spell and reach, snarling, "What am I, a pet? Leave off." His eyes merry, he snorted, "Oh, tough,are we? Come off it, you know I can teach you things. Give you the power you desire, without regard to the pathetic notions of people like Dumbledore, who believe in what is good and evil." "Yes, you could teach me… as easily as you could lure me away from safety and kill me. Or drive me insane. Excuse me for doubting your concern for my well-being. I'll just stay here, nobody here has put me in the hospital." I was feeling firmer now, my natural attack instinct running high. Finally, the smirk left Grindelwald's face. Less pleasantly, he responded, "Pathetic. You're staying here because you think it's safer? They won't care about you. Foolish child. Perhaps I was mistaken about you." I stepped up and gave him a cold smile. "I think you underestimated me. That was a mistake. Why should I go with you, to learn to be your second fiddle? No, you tested me, and I did pretty well, didn't I? I didn't die, didn't go insane. So now you're left with begging me to join you. Not a very attractive invitation for someone who has higher ambitions than becoming apprentice to a common murderer who can't even do away with a -twelve-year-old. I find that rather pathetic. And know this--I don't forgive, or forget. Nobody who uses me like that will get away with it." If looks could kill, I would be lying flat on the floor. He turned purple, and all suppression faded. Unfortunately, since he couldn’t murder me by sheer facial expression, Grindelwald hissed, "Foolish, arrogant child! You have made the one mistake you'll live to regret. Actually, you won't... Crucio!" He had pulled out his wand and aimed it at me as a bright light shot from its tip. I fell to the floor, writhing in agony. Waves upon waves of every kind of pain imaginable seared throughout my body, aching and stabbing, burning and chilling, beating and crushing every part of me. My body went rigid, my back hyper-extending and extremities curling under the unrelenting light. It was beyond any kind of physical pain that I had known, careening through all the layers of my being. Its power was total and complete, and I felt my spirit slowly cracking beneath the physical torment. Desperation built, but it focused my attention, my energy. I was pulling inward, losing consciousness, but struggling not to give in with every ounce of control I still had. My efforts weren’t enough…I felt myself slipping, plunging downward, unable to battle back on my own… Suddenly, the light encasing me ceased. The pain didn't dissipate that quickly, though. I still couldn't move, my body was comatose and inflexible with spasms. My vision blurred around me, dark spots dancing in the grey. Weakly I lifted my eyes to see Dumbledore standing next to me. A little away from him was Grindelwald, scowling. He saw me watching and his glare increased. Sitting next to me was Dash, kneading my shoulders and arms. This was a quick way to cause the muscles to unclench. He was watching me fearfully, almost guiltily, as I whispered to him reassuringly, "He--couldn't--kill me. Why didn't--he try--the Killing Curse..." "Shh. I think he was about to, when you blasted him clear across the room! Thank goodness you’re still young enough that your inner magic could burst free like that; it broke his concentration and you two were visible again. Thankfully, Dumbledore then saw you two quickly enough that--" He began trying to pull me up, but the pain was too great. I whimpered as my muscles bunched again, "Dash, don't! I can't, it hurts!" My voice must have been frantic enough, for he stopped pulling at me. Dash was too weak nowadays to pick me up anyway, so he just stayed by my side. Everyone around us was frozen as Dumbledore and Grindelwald squared off. Grindelwald now really looked less than pleasant. Seething, he spat, "Oh, come now, Albus. Must we go through this again?" Dumbledore wasn't smiling either, but he said, "This will be the last time, if you don't run away again." He raised his wand, and in his eyes I saw a look of such bleeding determination, and a loathing contempt I hadn’t thought he had in him. In a tone that shook me more than the hissing of his foe, he commanded, "Stay away from my students." Grindelwald was likewise posed, retorting murderously, "Oh, I noticed you listening in to our conversation long before that part, Dumbledore." He turned to me, his eyes taking in my crippled form,and Dash beside me. "Don't let him lie to you, Marvolo. He was waiting to hear how you responded to my offer before he helped you. He doesn't really care much for you then, does he? Only if you do as he says, are his idea of a Hogwarts student, will he step in and--" "That is a lie!" Dumbledore shouted furiously, and he was about to shout something else when Grindelwald shot a firebolt out of his wand at another student. Dumbledore quickly turned to dispel it, as Grindelwald pointed his wand at Dash and said, "It's also about time we dealt with the turncoat Malfoys.... I think they have this one coming." My eyes widened, but before I could scream out in warning Grindelwald carelessly said, "Avada Kedavra." Dash's eyes widened... but only for a second. My soul froze as I struggled to move, to get up, to just roll over and help him. He was different; he was the only person I had to turn to. Even if I was jealous of his relationship to Damien, even if he had used me in the hopes of winning his father’s favor with Gail, he still was the only person who I knew had some sincere appreciation for me. I didn’t want that to end, but I was too weak to move. The last look he gave me was haunting...all I could think of was the phoenix, and of its pleading, desperate spirit crying out. I struggled, crying out for him to hang on, never leaving his eyes though the smoke rising from his burning skin curled around me, the heated ashes obscuring my vision. I watched as those pale eyes slowly changed, turning red with accusation and pain as Grindelwald poured his hate into Dash. I heard the fiend’s hissing laughter, and in agony I pushed past the limits of human effort to move. The laughter was mocking me, guilt swam in my pounding heart...I had to help him, I could move, if I was as strong for him as I had been for myself… but I had used up all my strength. I tried to tap into more. Finally, I reached out, to touch him, to grasp-- His dead corpse. It had collapsed onto my chest. There had been no burns, no glares…that had been Grindelwald again inside me, manipulating my emotions for his amusement. Dash himself seemed to have just died…a second after mere words were cast, his life had been taken by their power. As the head lolled to the side, I caught its old likeness…except that it now was petrified into a look of twisted agony and fear. I swear I saw his spirit rising away from him in smoke.... I tried to crawl out from under him, coughing and gasping as horror overcame me. I could only move my head now; I turned to Dumbledore in help....only to see him just being released by Mr. Malfoy. At that, I convulsed. Mr. Malfoy had been holding Dumbledore under the Cruciatus Curse. He had condemned his son to death. Bile over the atrocity rose within me, and I looked past the confliction and pain in his face to find fear. Fear of Grindelwald. For that, he’d sacrificed his son. A woman screamed...and all of a sudden a stampede began. Mr. Malfoy was shoved, and in that the final vestige of his spell over Dumbledore broke. Dumbledore, to his credit, got up quickly and spun. But in the clatter from all the rushing parents, he couldn't get a clear shot of either Malfoy or Grindelwald. My eyes narrowed....hatred rose up with the immense power of a smoldering, murderous volcano. "Otherss might be in on it!” Some shouted. “Just hit them! Use some spell, get them on the ground and sort them out later!" Useless prattle, from worthless people. I ignored their cries, trying to reason my way to some end to the pain inside. But there was nothing that could be done. Dumbledore and the other professors followed the hysterical group outside, but I knew they wouldn't be caught. I was left in the room, trying to scrape myself out. Suddenly the weight of Dash's body was lifted from me. I looked through a mask of tears to see Damien crouching above me. He cradled Dash's body for a minute. Then, he released it, letting the shell of his brother slump lifelesslyto the ground. Even the eyes of the living boy were empty, soulless. Broken. As he backed away from me, he never shed a single tear. I think he lost the capability…I wished I had. By the time that the professors and other students were back, I was hollow as well; wrung out, until I felt there was nothing left inside of me. I needed to sleep, to fall into unconsciousness. But then Dumbledore was next to me....along with Mr. Malfoy. They were staring at each other with utter hatred, but that was all that they were doing. I managed a strangled croak, and both looked down. Dumbledore leaned over, and I whispered to him, "Kill him!" Dumbledore shook his head. In fact, his whole body was shaking in different directions. "He says that he was under the Imperius Curse." He saw my look of utter disbelief and snapped, "I can't kill him, Tom!” Then, more calmly, he said, “I won’t. If there is even the slightest chance that he is telling the truth, I cannot just kill him. But if he is proven guilty, I feel confident he won’t go unpunished." The steel in his eyes made me pause, but only for a moment.I laughed, coughing up blood. I had bit off part of my cheek while under the Cruciatus Curse. "Of course he will. It doesn't matter if he's evil incarnate. The issue of evil won't even be present. It's all about power. He won't get punished for killing his son because he has enough clout and money to support any lies he tells." Glaring up through glazed eyes, I added vehemently, “he should be killed.” Dumbledore suddenly leaned forward and grasped me hard, not to hurt me, but in absolute frenzy to get his point across. "Do not wish for vengeance without verification, Tom. Listen to me, I can help you, but you have to believe me, killing isn't the way. Dash wouldn't want it, he didn't believe in it." "Didn't he?" I asked softly. I twisted painfully to see his corpse. Standing beside it was Mr. Malfoy. His hand was on Damien, his only possession now. The elder Malfoy was weeping, well enough that it almost seemed sincere. "No, I guess in the end, he didn't. And look where he is." Dumbledore took my face in his hands, the emotions of fear and concern overwhelming in his eyes. "No, Tom. Think of what he was, who he was. You have a choice. Please believe me, I can guide you in the right way. You've come so far--" Yes, I thought, tuning him out. I have. Dash meant a lot to me. Perhaps both of us cared too much. And yet, I couldn’t agree with Dash’s philosophies, not while I was staring at his body. His beliefs resembled Dumbledore's too much. He had let his love for his family blind him to them, and they had turned and killed him. I could say that he had been wrong. In some ways, it was easier to try to see faults in Dash now, knowing he wouldn’t be part of my life anymore. Even before that, I knew he hadn’t been perfect…or exactly family to me…that probably never would have happened, even had he lived. I reasoned this to myself, with even my inner voice straining. But regardless of how I tried to deaden myself, I couldn’t fully. The image of him pierced me, the empty eyes burning into me, and the feeling this brought was worse than anything I’d ever experienced. The only thing I was certain of was that caring for another brought nothing but pain. All others brought me pain..this was a new kind, though. I was almost angry at Dash, for bringing me to this state, more unbearable than any other form my suffering had taken. I almost wished I hadn’t cared. But I couldn’t, not quite yet…not with him lying so close and still. "Tom?" Dumbledore's voice was soft again, prompting me to drift back. I forced my gaze to him, as he continued, "It's going to take a lot to heal from this. I can help you, though. You must keep your heart open, no matter how much it hurts. This isn’t the easy way, but it is the best. Believe me--" I forced a chilled smile, replying, "I'm fine. Really. And I do believe you, sir. I'll listen to you.”
Chapter 14: The Summer from Hades
Was worthless. Despite all my efforts, I had found nothing. After the realization that he
truly was gone had sunk in, I had just wandered around Hogwarts in a fog,
working nonstop at schoolwork to avoid thinking. Now I didn't even have that
reprieve. I had to find something to do, somewhere to go, or I'd be living on
the streets for the next few months. Somehow I shivered even in the May
mugginess, physically shaking my head as if to cast the demons out, not caring
about the odd looks I received. I forced my mind elsewhere. I had to find
something to do, somewhere to go, or I'd be living on the streets for the next
few months. Took shook his head, and said to
Little Tom in a scolding voice, "Apologize to the other Tom." Little
Tom did so, and Took raised his head with a smile on his face, as if I really
had been desiring an apology. I gave a tight smile and nod back. A moment of
silence occurred, and then Took replied, "Weren't you the boy that Albus
took in here awhile back?" When I nodded yes, he smacked his grimy
forehead. "Worst memory, I have. Well, the least Little Tom and I can do
is get a free meal for you. No, I won't take no for an answer. Sit right
there." I wandered in curiously,
scuffing up dust on the worn street. In practically every store window was a
Closed sign, with no light lit inside. The few bodies that were out were
apparently in a great hurry not to be. They all kept their faces down with
hoods pulled tightly over their faces to obscure their features, ignoring me as
they pushed past. The few gazes I actually managed to catch were frozen in
either fright, shock, or dismay. I wandered down slowly, wondering at the
oddness that surrounded me in an almost palpable energy. I just didn't know what to do
about it yet. It was too easy. I felt a
horrible guilt at using my mum like that, but I really did need money.
Rationalizing it through, I stood still and tried to look tall as the woman
contemplated me deeply. I offered, "I really do know what I am doing. Test
me. Charms are one of my best subjects. Just show me the spell that you used,
and I'm sure I can figure something out." Chapter 15: Breaking Down and Out
I found Snicks on my bed waiting for me the first night back at Hogwarts. He was excitedly hissing about some aunt nicknamed Edna he had vacationed with. It was an amusing enough tale that I didn’t question its credibility, simply glad to be back in his company again. He seemed wary of me at first, but when I didn’t break down or run headfirst into any walls he relaxed and our friendly rapport returned. I didn’t see Damien, since as a second year I was now rooming with the new first years. The only dormitory that had been renovated to solely hold individual grades was Gryffindor, a fact that all the other houses were sore about. I didn’t really mind, since I was used to living with many people. At least here we had privacy curtains to draw around the beds. And the first years apparently weren’t warned about me, because they treated me with the same deference as they did the other second years. Most of them were wary of approaching an upperclassman, but the one called Snape strode right up to me. He said that he was finished with his potions book and had found it too easy. He had seen my assortment of books and asked to borrow a higher level one. I was not too keen on lending things out, since I had so few possessions and had worked so hard to get them. And I didn’t welcome the possibility of competition in any area. But I pasted a fake smile on my face and lent him a very advanced one, figuring he’d run scared from it in a second. Unfortunately, he did nothing of the sort, figuring out what I had done and rising to the challenge. He flipped the pages dauntlessly. I narrowed my eyes, figuring I’d have to keep a watch on him. He reminded me too much of myself. Soon after that I learned that his first name was Levitus.
I again immersed myself in school, though I couldn’t eliminate the paranoia that still slid beneath my skin over Mara. With every odd glance any authority figure gave me, especially Dumbledore’s keen one, I felt unsettled. But, no punishment or rebuke came, though that didn’t make me calmer. I had learned never to lower my defenses. For awhile I also kept my head lowered as I walked across the Slytherin commons to avoid seeing the corner where Dash and I had normally spoken. But time had its effects, as it does, and slowly I did begin to enjoy being back at Hogwarts. I managed this relief when I focused on the sole parts of Hogwarts I found worthwhile – the learning. Classes for the term were much more interesting than last term. I was now taking Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts with the third years. Transfiguration I was still taking as a private class. To fill that spot during the day, I was placed in Divination. Of course. Just the thing I needed, to try to cause visions. In addition, I was taking Arithmancy, Potions, Herbology, and Care of Magical Creatures with my fellow second years. As for the elective classes being offered, I decided on two advanced Charms classes, partly because I loved Charms, and party because my other favorite area, Transfiguration, was solely taught by Dumbledore. One of the Charms classes was Defense and Dueling, and it worked with the Dueling club. Figuring I needed extra curricular activities that were actually beneficial, unlike Quidditch, I joined the Dueling club. It was at least somewhat intellectually stimulating. The other Charms class was titled Instrumental Charms. It dealt with using the body, like a singing voice, to cast charms instead of a wand. It was supposedly not regarded very highly in academic areas, but it sounded exciting.
A bright side was that I didn’t have too many classes with the Gryffindors this term. Only Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, and one Charms class. Herbology really was a waste of time for the most part. It was interesting when it related to medicine or poison, but for the most part we simply learned how to trim leaves as they tried to disembowel us. The History of Magic Professor, Binns, was every bit as boring in class this year as he had been the last. Oh, he certainly was knowledgeable, but his monotonous tone left even myself and the Ravenclaws struggling to remain conscious. After one particularly long week where I had run out of the supply of pepper-up potion that I had filched from the hospital, I had actually been forced to pinch myself throughout the period to stay awake. It had worked, but I was left limping the rest of the day.
There were other, more creative measures taken in Binns’ class, especially around midterms when he rattled off information at an incredibly fast but interminably dull rate. Some of the Ravenclaws charmed their eyelids to be pasted open. It was uncomfortable and quite agonizing, but rather effectual in forcing the student to remain awake. Others drank caffeinated liquids to the point of bursting, leaving them jumpy but alert for the period. I only tried that once, but while I was awake I was considerably and painfully distracted. And the race to the bathroom afterwards had been a frantic nightmare. Neither method lasted long, but I was determined enough to try anything to stay at the head of my class. For my ceaseless efforts I was lauded with praise from my professors and requests for tutoring from all houses. My ego refused to let me refuse any praise or request. I was left with frayed nerves but little time to worry with these activities, and I could feel my power growing. It also provided a satisfactory excuse for why I was always at the library. I read everything they had for my classes, sneaking in time for my own personal studies away from the guarded looks of Dumbledore and his minions.
After the first day of classes I was trying to get signed into the last Advanced Charms class being offered, one that was called Self-Awareness Spelling. Professor Vallandora was looking at me with something akin to disbelief intermingled with amusement. Eyes twinkling, she laughed. “What are you trying to do, Mr. Riddle, take over my job by the new year?”
I shrugged humbly. “I’m really interested in Charms work, Professor. It seems to be the most widespread of all the disciplines. Charms can work on pretty much anything. If done properly.”
Vallandora’s expression grew fond and misty. “That is precisely why I got into this field, Tom, all those years ago. A powerful charm can influence the whole world, or one soul. It’s a fascinating, though sometimes terrifying, area of study. Of course, it’s not as intrinsic as Transfiguration, or as academic as Potions, but it’s closely related to a great deal of defense, herbology, and creature work.”
“Unless you get into theory and experimental charms, then it’s quite academic. And some charms are intrinsic.” I saw Vallandora looking a bit cautious, so I added quickly, “So I’ve heard. I’ve read a great deal on these subjects. Besides, other than charms—“
“All that’s left is another class with Dumbledore?” She said this teasingly, but I still tightened until she added, “He’s a bit daft, isn’t he? What’s he teaching this time, Muggle Visionaries and Prophets?” she waved her hand, as if to dismiss Dumbledore as little more than an amusing quack. “Honestly, you’d think he’d just go to work for the Ministry or as a field scholar, with what he’s trying to do here.”
I lifted my head, curious at that odd statement, but didn’t speak. Clearly, Vallandora wasn’t going to elaborate. She merely signed my form and sent it flying to Dippet’s office. Her last comment was said in a more serious tone. Frowning, she asked me, “Are you sure you can handle all of these, Tom? You are taking a large workload this semester.”
I smiled confidently at her. “None of the classes look to challenging, Professor. But thanks for your concern.” I spun around and left, not adding, and if I’m busy enough I won’t have time to be pestered by Dumbledore, Damien, or those visions.
~*~
“Do you know what day today is, my Riddle-licious friend?” Randy had grabbed my arm in the hall a few weeks later. Swinging his around my shoulder, he steered me away from the library to a small bench carved into the wall under a large window. I had been buried under my thick texts and hadn’t noticed him until he’d practically threw me down with his jovial weight. Even though I was an inch or two taller than him, he still outweighed me by a good ton. Rubbing my arm where he had bruised me, I scowled at him playfully.
“I’ll tutor you in Potions, Randy. But you’ll have to learn the days of the week on your own.” I made a show of pulling up my sleeve and examining my arm. “I think I need to see Drawt now.”
Randy smacked my shoulder again. “Oh, come off it. You should be used to it by now. You with your bloody white corpse skin. Someone breathes on you and you bruise.”
I couldn’t deny this. So instead I asked, “Oh, very well, I’m guessing the answer you’re looking for isn’t Wednesday. So what is today?”
Randy was grinning as if Potions were no longer part of our curriculum. “The day before Quidditch tryouts!”
“And?” I knew I’d get a rise out of him with my dry inquiry. In truth though, I really didn’t care.
He did indeed puff up indignantly. “What do you mean ‘and’? It’s only the biggest day of my life so far!”
I refrained from saying, how sad. Instead I stood up and replied, “Well, good luck.”
Randy pulled me down again. In a voice less certain, he asked, “Do you think I have a shot?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. How should I know? I haven’t been watching any of the practices. I don’t even know who’s trying out!” I didn’t even know the names of the positions, to be honest.
Randy looked around me conspiratorially. He waited as two young girls scurried by, nodding congenially at them as they tossed is half-interested glances. Waving me in closer, he asked in a tense whisper. “I thought that, you might have--you know--seen something.” I pulled back in incredulity, as he hurriedly continued to hiss. “I know that you sometimes have those kinds of experiences. I thought that you might have--“
I burst in loudly. “Of Grindelwald, Randy. I had visions of Grindelwald. Not your bloody Quidditch tryouts! And I don’t control them—yet. But they aren’t ever about--,” I paused, about to say ‘about insignificant things.’ I decided to be tactful and finished, “About sporting activities.” I hadn’t managed to keep the annoyed frost from my voice, but Randy didn’t seem to notice.
Still looking a bit panicked, he said sadly, “Oh, I thought you might have about this. It being such an important event and all.” He glanced down, missing my disgusted eye roll. When he finally did look up at me, he wore a rueful grin. He appeared much closer to the cheeky Slytherin I had come to know. In a voice completely devoid of jealousy but brimming with patent flattery, he replied, “At least you’re not trying out. Mack’d make you a Chaser for sure. Maybe a Seeker, if Damien wasn’t already playing that.” He suddenly looked worried and suspicious. “You aren’t planning a surprise try-out, are you?” He looked like he’d try to murder me if I had said yes. It was indeed a stellar performance, had I cared. But I was trying to remember who Mack was. It suddenly came to me. Mack Fielding was a Slytherin seventh year, also a Chaser and now the Captain of the team.
I didn’t want to think about Damien or the new Captain. Or whom he had replaced. A clock rang out then, shouting the advancing hour in Troll, a glitch it seemed fond of and refused to let be fixed by any who approached the old time teller. Randy was still sitting beside me, waiting to see if his efforts had worked. Instead I groaned, “Please, with a million classes, work, tutoring and dueling, I barely have enough time to breath! I can promise you, I won’t be playing, or be anywhere near the field.” I stood and began to gather my mountain of work when Randy stopped me again. He wore the same guilty look, and pulled me back.
“Does that mean you aren’t coming to the try-outs?” I shook my head in false apology. “I have to go to the library, then work with Wynn and Zwipp. Why?”
Randy spoke so low I had to strain to hear. “I thought that maybe you could--help me.” I sat back, my expression blank, and he pushed onward. “You’re good at charms and that sort of thing. Maybe a sticking spell, to my broom? Please?”
He looked so hopeful it was pathetic. I sighed, and then shook my head. “It’s too risky. If they found out, they could do a revealing spell and find out who cast it. I can’t afford to get into trouble--“
At that Randy stood up, angry. His face reddened as his great flaw, his temper, shone through. “Oh no, you can’t afford to get into trouble unless it’s for your own good, right? I’ve never said anything about those books you’ve taken out of the restricted section, or the stuff from Zwipp and Madame Drawt’s workrooms.” At that he sneered at me. I tensed as he continued, “Didn’t think I knew about that? Well, maybe if you gave others some credit, you would have put a stronger restricting spell on your drawer.”
I considered my options, trying to figure out how to play the situation. Thank God – thank Merlin - the halls were empty, afternoon classes being over and all else gathered on the Quidditch pitch. I stood slowly, keeping my expression and voice calm. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m taking additional classes, and that requires special equipment. So they administration kindly lent their stuff to me. However, I still do not appreciate—“
“Bullocks!” Randy shouted, turning a dangerous red. He was lost in his rage, not thinking clearly. “I don’t trust one word that you say. I’ll go to Dumbledore right now.”
I placed a hand firmly on his chest, my pale hand stark against his black robes. In a cold voice I said, “don’t be thick, Randy. How are you going to explain to Dumbledore that you found any of this out? He knows I’m not brainless, that I wouldn’t bring anything out in public if, as you say, I stole it. You’ll get in just as much trouble for snooping. And probably wouldn’t be able to try-out for the team. Are my borrowed books and ingredients really worth that?”
Randy paused at that, heaving. He was torn between his fury and the sense in my argument. Finally, I felt his muscles loosen. I tentatively loosened my grip, eyeing him. He stared back, his normally laid-back charm replaced by a sickly snarling look. Every Slytherin seemed to have one in their repertoire for defense. His lip curled, he spat, “Maybe your right about that. Your pathetic little scam isn’t worth my future. But you can’t honestly think, with all of your damned superior knowledge, that I’ll let you best me, you weak, insufferable, condescending, little…!” Words failed him then.
I must say, even with all of my damned superior knowledge, I wasn’t prepared for his roundhouse to my face that punctuated his unfinished insult. I never thought of Randy as the bullying, fighting type. He was certainly built for it, but he was always such a witty, calculating person, even with his temper. It seemed beneath him. However, at the moment it was he who was standing over me, leering at my black eye, and sneering, “There’s more to winning than a smart mouth.” I stared up. Half of me was impressed at his lengths he was willing to go to for his desires. The other part of me was thoroughly angry and unimpressed at his execution.
He turned on his heel and began to stomp off, throwing nastily over his left shoulder, “And I’ll just leave Dumbledore a note after try-outs. So you’d better scurry back like a good little loser and clean up your junk. Everyone was so impressed with you, what til they hear about this. Pathetic, just like your father.” He hesitated on that word, but pushed on, “And if I ever see any of that stuff again--“
“Randy?”
What?”
“Imperio!” My wand was quicker than his fist this time. It was the least severe of the Unforgivable curses I had been learning. It was also the most vital to me now. Randy fell to his knees, his mouth hanging open. I approached him slowly, my vision dimming around the edges to where only he was in my sight. My heart was freezing over what he had said, blood pumping coldly throughout my veins. “I want you to tell me the truth, you blackmailing troll.” Randy nodded, his eyes glazed under my control and a bit of his own fear. I saw blood trickling out of the side of his mouth. It was a common side effect of those who tried to avoid the controller of this spell. He was probably trying to chew off his tongue in tension and strain. No real Slytherin would go under without a fight or a reason. So he fought. I gave him minute, disinterested credit for that.
“What and how do you know about my father?”
Randy spoke monotonously, but the strain on his face was clear. Blood spewed as he chocked out, “Damien’s father…he looked it up, because you shouldn’t have been placed in Slytherin. I found a letter in your drawer…I couldn’t read it, but I saw the name Salazar in it, so I told Damien and he told his father…there was something that was covered up, that only a few people know about. All Damien and I know is that someone named Riddle did a great damage to the magic community, and was never punished.” He didn’t need to add what I knew he and Damien thought. That I was just like that.
I glared at Randy, burning with hate at him, myself, and my father. No, I didn’t hate Randy, not really, even if I was furious at him now. He was just susceptible to the same rumors that had trailed me my whole life. He was jealous and weak, and wanted leverage over me, like a truly ambitious, cunning person would. But he wasn’t a match for me, not with his temper. Still, he might be useful…and in some ways he was a lot like me.
Glaring at him, I ordered, “Hit yourself in both eyes.” Randy complied, his meaty fists almost knocking himself out. Part of me wanted it to continue, but I felt my control weaken and my knees knocking together, near buckling from the strain. I released the spell, following it immediately with a gasped, “Obliviate!” Randy fell forward at that, choking and grasping his head with his hands. I had erased our entire conversation, and his memory of my drawer contents. Hopefully, of nothing else. I stood there, watching him slowly reorient. He looked up at me blearily through swollen sockets and shakily asked, “Riddle? What happened?”
“Gregor, that third year Gryffindor, tried to keep you from trying out for Quidditch. I tried to step in, but it didn’t do either of us any good.” I indicated my eye, and he winced and gasped, “I can’t believe it…. you should have charmed or cursed him, Riddle, stick with your strengths.”
I nodded, a cold laugh welling within me. “I’ll try to remember that. Here,” I helped him up, brushing him off. Then I offered, “I don’t think I can charm your broom, like you asked, but I can fix your eyes so you can see during tryouts.”
Randy looked confused. “I asked? I don’t remember… I guess that damned Gryffindor hit me harder than I thought. Well… I guess that’s okay… you did try to help me. I’ll owe you one. Especially if you help these bruises so I don’t have to see Drawt before tryouts.” I smiled while grimacing internally. Placing my hand on his head to feel how bad the wounds were, whispering a slight charm to ease the pain. He shuddered under my cold grasp, but held fairly still and patient. When I finally released him, he leaned back, eyes blinking, and then grinned broadly. “Thanks, Riddle-y, that’s much better. But put a cloak on or something, you’re freezing!” With that, he left whistling, an extra bounce of determination in his step, heading for the Quidditch fields. I could only imagine what he would do to the first Gryffindor that said anything to him. Forgetting about my own tender eye, I fled into the library, a new mission at hand.
~*~
The next evening, I was trudging wearily to the Slytherin common rooms. Today had been our first dueling match in class, and it took immense physical exertion to defend as someone constantly attacked. I had been working with a sixth year that was extremely talented, knowledgeable, and determined to keep the riff-raff youngster out of commission. That had been after a full day of classes and working, and I had spent the last night in the library. I had come up with nothing about what Randy had mentioned yesterday. Frustration matched my tiredness. The only one who might be able to help me was the Malfoys, which was unlikely to ever happen. It was an almost impossible task that I didn’t have much time to devote to, if I didn’t want to start passing out.
I just need the pepper-up potion I modified to be stronger and with less ear smoke, I thought as I blearily stumbled forward. Today was only the tip of the iceberg. Despite what I had said to Vallandora, the classes did require a great deal of work, as did all the extra tutoring, assisting, and dueling. The curse I had put on Randy had weighed me down, both the actual act and the slight pang of guilt and concern that now resided in me. I was drowning in my thoughts when Dumbledore pulled me out.
His voice was filled with concern and caution. “Mr. Riddle?” I stopped and turned slowly to face him. Concern actually took over when he saw me. “Good Merlin, Riddle! Are you feeling all right?”
I nodded, my speech thick. “I’m fine, Professor. I just need to get my ….um….books for…I have your class now, don’t I? Right, for transfigurations…I’ll go get that one…or two…how many do we have?”
Dumbledore took me by the shoulders, his face stern. “Mr. Riddle, you are completely exhausted. You cannot come to class tonight. You would be of no use, and worse, a danger to yourself.” He started to lead me away, but I resisted.
Irritably I said, “I’m fine, sir. I just studied a little late last night. But I need to work on that plant configuration you taught me, I think I can get it tonight!”
Dumbledore crossed his arms in front of his long robes and said firmly, “You are working too hard, Tom. It is not healthy, and it will weaken your progress. I understand that you want to do well, but this is wrong, and frankly, ridiculous…”
“What is ridiculous is how you constantly try to hold me back!” I said too loudly, stomping my foot. “You’re just upset that my methods are working, that I can take all of this work when you didn’t think I could! Well I can, I’m fine! I’m the best and I can prove it, and if you won’t teach me, then I’ll just do it myself!” I was shouting myself hoarse at this point. All the tension and emotions that I had been strangling inside me were flowing out. The work, my father, the Malfoys, my feeling of disgust and humility at myself…I had to work this hard, I had to do everything I could, or else everything I was trying for would be obsolete if I failed and came in second. All I had to prove myself was myself, and now that was beginning to break as my body was wearing down. I hadn’t even been able to knock that sixth year in dueling over. And I was just plain tired, and cranky, and since I hadn’t eaten in a few days my stomach had shriveled into a painful knot. And here Dumbledore was telling me that, despite all of my effort, I was still wrong!
And now he had the audacity to smile at me! “I have not seen that temper of yours in awhile, Mr. Riddle. It is good to know that you are still a human child after all. Anyone, youngster or not, would be this crabby if they were almost asleep on their feet, though I must admit you did express yourself more eloquently than most. Though I do not support your outburst, I understand. And I think you should go to bed now, and we can talk tomorrow, when you are less…grumpy, shall we say? It is much easier to speak with someone when they are pleasant--“
“I am not a little child! Don’t treat me like that! I’m better than most of your precious Gryffindor seventh years, so don’t talk down to me! I--“
“Good lord Albus, what is that ruckus?” At that exact moment Dippet came hurrying around a corner. At seeing me standing there red-faced before Dumbledore, his eyes widened in complete shock. “Mr. Riddle?!” He turned to Dumbledore, his confusion apparent. “What -“
Dumbledore held up his hand, and calmly said. “It is quite all right, Armando.” His look patronizingly amused, he continued, “Tom here is just overtly stressed. I think these classes are too much for someone of his age, or any age, as I said before…”
“No!” I cut in, and then quickly bit my lip. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the emotions fighting to get out. I turned to Dippet and said shakily, “I’m really very sorry sir. I don’t know what came over me. Of course I should be punished.”
Dippet waved his hand, pompously, “Don’t think it, dear boy! Punish our finest student?” He ignored Dumbledore’s glare, adding, “Everyone gets a little upset at times, nothing to worry about. I admire your work ethic, Mr. Riddle, but do try to keep a more moderate pace. I know how completely out of character such an outburst of temper is for such a mature, controlled young man as you. Right, Albus?”
Dumbledore was looking less amused. “I think he was more than a trifle upset, Armando. If you saw him….”
“Ah, yes,” Dippet gave me a cursory once-over. “You look worn-out, Mr. Riddle. That’s not the way we like our students. A good night’s sleep should do it.” He nodded at Dumbledore as if this were sufficient, then strolled off. I suspected that his act had just as much to do with the Grindelwald event of last term as my being such an ideal student. Everyone but Dumbledore had been thoroughly impressed at the way I had handled that horror, scoffing at his suggestion of therapy. It was much easier to think, and for the press to sell, that I was such a strong person that I had overcome that ordeal by myself unscathed. I had to believe that myself to go on, not planning on counting on anyone ever.
Dippet’s steps were heard fading down the hall, along with a cheerful greeting he gave to Sir. Nickolas. Slowly all sound of him and the ghost faded, and it was just Dumbledore and I again. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, trying to figure out the best way to rectify the damage my foolhardy outburst had done. Somehow, the Obliviate Spell I didn’t think would work, and I definitely wouldn’t risk it. So I resorted to good old-fashioned wheedling. “I really am sorry, sir.”
Dumbledore didn’t really look mad at me, though. His gaze was still following Dippet. In a bland voice he said, “Are you, Riddle?” He turned to me. “Why do you always feel that you need to work? I hear that more often than that you want to learn things. I am well aware of the pleasure you get out of learning, but it is becoming an unhealthy obsession.” His voice dropped, adding softness, but I wasn’t too gone to notice the keen curiosity that lurked in hungry desire behind his eyes. “I do not care what Dippet says, there is something. What is going on, Tom? If it is the workload, then we can change that. And if it is anything else, well, we can work that out too, before…” he didn’t finish that thought, just staring at me with eyes still bright though no fire was lit nearby.
I wasn’t up to sparring with him. I was too afraid of another outburst, or what he would do if he really did know the truth about Mara, or Randy, or the orphanage. Afraid of what good old Dumbledore would do if he heard about the exultation that came with the fear when I did both acts of healing and punishing. How I trembled from pride just as much as fear, how I was torn between the two. How I didn’t accept his theory of black and white for evil and good. The line was blurred for me into nonexistence at times. I couldn’t trust him with his symbol of brave-hearted honor blazing out of him. And he seemed to know. Maybe some of the Gryffindors could blindside him with their ends justifying their chivalrous means, but he didn’t trust me any more than I him. It was a common belief that no Slytherin could be chivalrous.
I merely stared back at him, my brain on defense but fuzzy. I heard myself saying slowly, “I’ll slow down, sir. But there really isn’t anything wrong that I need to talk about with you. Or anyone. I just really want to get my books to sleep.”
At that, a crack of a smile broke on Dumbledore’s lips. “I beg your pardon?”
I stared uncomprehendingly as Dumbledore laughed softly. He placed a hand on my shoulder, ignoring my tensing shrink. “We shall double up on the lesson later this week, when you are feeling less sleepy. Fair enough, Mr. Riddle?” I nodded as his image faded in and out. Relief flooded me that he was not grilling me anymore. I vaguely remember him guiding me with his hand on me through the last corridor to the Slytherin rooms. I don’t remember passing anyone, but I was annoyed that he must have been enjoying helping the poor little overworked Mudblood. Yes, he stopped me from pitching forward on my face a few times, but…well, I was too tired to think of an answer, but I was sure I could have managed without him.
When we got there, he gave me one last look, and said, “Sleep well, Tom. Skip morning classes if you need to. I will see you tomorrow.” With a final patronizing smile, he strode off. I glared at him, and then entered the rooms. They were empty; everyone must have been at the final day of Quidditch tryouts. I tried to make it to the dorms, but found it was easier to stumble to a desk in the corner of the common rooms. I sat down, holding my spinning head in my hands. That outburst had felt wonderful, and thankfully Dumbledore thought nothing more of it than that I was an impertinent child. I was still in my classes, and Dippet was still my biggest fan. But it was simply too risky. I would have to be more careful… somehow. I still hadn’t found a spell that would let me stay awake or quell my emotions without any side affects. Well, maybe I could find one that didn’t have too many side affects. My mind wandered to what had happened to Mara, but I pushed it away uneasily. I was more skilled than she already. And I wasn’t talking about fatal or permanently disfiguring effects, but having my eyes turn red for a few minutes or something wasn’t reason enough to dismiss a spell that could potentially improve my performance. But that would have to wait.
Sighing, I opened one of my thick brown leather books. It was called Perfecting Self-Transmutations by Artemis Gollywand. The words swam on the yellowed pages. I really am too tired to do this I decided. But a stubborn pride kept me pinned down in the chair. I’ll just do it once, just to prove to myself that Dumbledore didn’t know what the hell he was talking about again, I reasoned. I reached for my wand, ignoring my trembling fingers protesting my movement. I raised my wand, looking at myself in the mirror. I focused on what I saw…a porcelain white face so thin my cheekbones protruded sharply. My eyes were a midnight blue, with dark purple bags with blue veins running beneath them. My short, wavy hair was in disarray, which I never used to let it become…its shocking blackness made my gray face even sicklier. My fingers, thin and long, shaking in coldness, nerves, and exhaustion flung up to reveal my bony wrist beneath my shabby, thin black robe.
I ignored the protesting signs my body was obviously trying to visually knock into me. My voice almost steady, I began to chant…
Words swam from somewhere deep and far away. It was lighthearted, and loud. I couldn’t make out all the others, but two were definitely Randy’s and Simon’s. I realized that I was lying face down at the desk, my head resting on my arms. I must have fallen asleep, I mused tiredly. I didn’t feel any more rested; I felt the opposite, if possible. I also felt chilled beyond belief. My chain hung heavy around my neck, jabbing me. I wanted to know what time it was, but I couldn’t lift my head yet.
I heard a few people approach me. Simon’s voice said, “Aw, he’s asleep. I don’t know how he can sleep through this. But he really hasn’t looked too well.” His voice was the nicest it had sounded in awhile. I must really have looked pathetic to gain the sympathies of my Slytherin companions. I would have to be dead to get it from anyone in another house. Simon continued softly, “Leave him, Randy. You can tell him your good news later.”
Randy’s voice boomed then, as jovial and unsympathetic as he always was. “Ah, he needs some good news. He’s been a maniac with work, worse than ever. This’ll lighten him up.” He began shaking me hard, yelling in my ear, “Riddle-y! My Riddle-licious boring bookworm of a classmate! Come on, you git, wake up and come join the land of the living!”
I groaned and shifted, and Simon said in an annoyed tone, “He doesn’t even care about Quidditch, Randy! You just want to show off.”
“And you just want him to sleep through his studies so you can have a shot at getting a better mark than him,” Randy retorted easily. He resumed shaking me. I tried to withstand it until all the rocking was making me ache and become dizzy.
I slowly raised my heavy head, and in a dry cracking voice I said, “You’re both right. Now leave, I’m not in the mood to listen to either of you.” I turned my eyes toward them, and in a hazy fog I saw their faces blanche. I struggled to glare. “Come off it, that wasn’t that rude. I really want to get under some warm covers and sleep, and you’ve certainly told me to shove off before.”
But they kept just staring at me. I began to see fear in their eyes. As a larger crowd drew around, I heard muttered whispers of, “look at him!” Simon asked in a voice trembling with fright, “Tom, what--what happened to you?”
Chapter 16: Having An Heir-ful
My heart started thumping…everyone in the common rooms was now gathered around me. Nobody was making any intelligible noises anymore, just a few frightened squeaks and gasps. I pushed myself up and ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me, though no one seemed in a hurry to follow. I shakily raced to the mirror. What I saw made me grip the sink rim for support. Etched all over my face were strange markings burned black, which glowed deep and hot against the white background. They were similar to the oozing sores given to me by Grindelwald, but these were completely unrecognizable to me. Perhaps it was merely magic gone wrong. I reached up with trembling fingers, tracing the indenting crevices that the markings had left on my face. As I did so, I realized that the same markings lined my arms, and after a quick examination, saw that they covered every inch of myself. Pressing them tentatively, I waited for them to explode. They hissed when touched, but felt oddly cold. Fear gripped me; I had no idea what could have caused this…the spell I had been casting was supposed to do nothing more than make my image in the mirror turn green. Nothing in that spell could have caused this reaction… at least, nothing that I was aware of. I stared at my reflection harder, trying to see myself beneath the burns. My eyes also looked strange… they were still a cloudy blue, but had a red dot where the pupil should have been. Leaning in so close that the sink rim pressed painfully into my stomach, I made out the shape of the red dot. It was the same strange symbol that appeared most frequently on me. I stared harder at it… it seemed to be rotating slowly. Feeling a tickling sensation along with the cold, I saw all of the symbols on my flesh start moving slowly, gleaming like bright onyx and throwing a cool shadow around. I kept looking, becoming mesmerized with their lazy cycle… I was no longer afraid… Until a knock sounded at the door. I spun around in fear, my heart in my throat as I heard Simon’s voice shakily call, “Tom, are you all right? We can get Zwipp, or Madame Drawt…Tom, answer us…” I heard a slight scuffle, and then to my horror the knob started to turn. I’d left my wand at the table, so all I could do was try to fling myself against the door. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in time. Simon and some of the others crept into the room. I backed away, trying to cover myself, when I saw relief break out. “It’s going down… Merlin, Riddle, we thought you’d set yourself on fire!” A fourth year was remarking. I didn’t pay any more attention to their ramblings, choosing to hurry back to the mirror. Indeed, the markings were fading slowly. I tried to memorize all of the shapes as they dissipated. The last one to leave was the flaming one in my pupils. A gnawing worry filled me. I didn’t think I was possessed…the markings wouldn’t have faded if I were. But something had happened to me, inside of me… and not knowing the answer scared me more than anything. There was nothing more terrifying for me than not being in control of my own self. I vaguely heard voices still chattering behind me. Simon was inquiring if I wanted them go to with me to see Drawt. I shook my head, lying softly, “it was just a--a reaction to a Transfiguration spell. It’s nothing, really.” They seemed to accept that, and everyone slowly filed out of the bathroom with only a few hesitant glances in my direction. Once they were all gone, I checked myself over, making sure all of the markings were indeed gone. I stared at myself in the mirror for quite awhile afterwards. My face had resumed its normal sickly appearance. I leaned in close, examining my eyes. They were rimmed with red, but it was the normal kind. My pupils were black again, and my eyes were a murky liquid blue. As I reached up to wipe the residual tears, my hand caught on my chain. In my attempt to untangle it, the cross itself fell onto my palm. It was still heavy, bearing the figure of Christ on the cross. The Muggles’ God of peace and love. Black blood now ran from his lashes and the wounds on his hands, feet, and gashed sides. My mind flooded, then drained as the serenity in the dying man’s face turned to unyielding hatred. Blood red eyes and a cruelly twisted mouth suited him more than loving acceptance, and as the viscous fluid seeped down over me, every part it dampened turned to stone. ~*~ I awoke sometime later in the hospital wing. Madame Drawt was fussing around me. When she saw me awake, she put on a face of playful irritation. “Mr. Riddle, are you going to make these little visits of yours an annual occasion?” “It would appear so,” I said dryly, trying to inconspicuously find my chain. Drawt noticed my motion, though, and went quickly to a side table across the room. “Dear, are you looking for this?” She spun to me, dangling it from her fingertips. I broke out in a cold sweat as she approached… but she was examining it with no sign of fear. “It is rather pretty. Oh, excuse me, I mean, rather handsome. We took it off when we found you unconscious. We didn’t want it constricting your neck.” She then dropped it on my coverlets. I smiled weakly at her, forcing myself to look at it. Its worn edgings were once again silver, the figure normal. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. My mind was working quickly to find some plausible excuse. It had been a hallucination, a figment of my imagination. It had nothing to do with those markings… “Tom?” Drawt’s gentle voice drew my attention to her. She was smiling kindly. It was nice that she didn’t have any pity or fear to direct at me. She was always saying how good a healer I would make, trying to influence me to become one. Now she was handing me a small glass filled with thick purple liquid. I made a face as I recognized it. It was a sleeping potion. She thought that I scowling because of its taste, and said in a patient tone, “Come now, it isn’t that awful. You need to rest. Your body is too wound up, and it needs a break. This will calm you down.” I couldn’t agree more. But the potion could trap me in my dreams, and if they were anything like my visions, or what happened tonight… I hesitantly took it. Seeing no way out, I downed it, one hand still encircling the cross. Drawt patted me and said, “Good. Now lie back. You’ll be asleep in a few minutes.” Then she strode away, extinguishing the lights. That left me alone in the darkness, terrified and struggling in futility against the magic’s work. ~*~ I did dream, my subconscious weaving and unfolding paths before me. I was standing in a dark room, with wet dew dripping down the sides of the walls. It was some sort of prison. I shivered slightly in the musky room, breathing in the stale air. The walls seemed to reach for the heavens, disappearing into blackness so that it was impossible to see if there was an opening above. The ground was hard and cracked, and the smells of old sweat and dried blood floated into my nostrils. My face curled instinctively into repulsion, and my eyes darted around the room. This was too real to be a mere dream. I felt eyes watching me, but I couldn’t locate the source. I reached for my wand, but it wasn’t at my side. Panicked, I began to breathe heavily when I heard a dark chuckle. The laughter was cold and dry, not at all like the maniacal rasping of Grindelwald. I spun towards the sound, and slowly saw a dark silhouette fading in from the far left corner of the room. My heart almost stopped beating, and part of me wanted to run screaming into the wall. But I couldn’t move. I just stood, transfixed, studying as this figure slowly approached. As it did, I felt a frigid breeze sweep towards me from it, enveloping me and stinging my chest. There was hardly any light to illuminate what it was, so I squinted desperately. It blurred in and out of snapping focus, hideous once, then carved into a man’s form next. It moved closer and closer to me, and my eyes widened. In that strange moment, though the manner of it made no sense, recognition flooded me. A pale hand with colorless fingernails reached out, pointing at his black and soulless eyes. They were sly, cunning; as impenetrable as the cruel twist of his closed mouth. Dark brows hooded his shadowed eyes, and the long black hair hung in scraggles around his midnight robe, but in the very center I could see a small red sign. The sign spun, drawing me in. It was the same symbol I had seen on me before--a red ring of flames, almost a complete circle except for a small breakage in the band. That crack burned blue, flaming as bright and high as its counterpart, seeming angered by the circle’s disjointed state. The flames crackled and hissed as the markings appeared on the man. Incomplete circles and spirals, strange letterings, first red and blue and then burning black. I looked down at my own hands, only to find the arcane tattoos creeping in again. The symbols moved faster, blurring into one another. The spirals blended, forming unfamiliar words…heres edis… My eyes wide, I looked back. The man was now smiling at me as one does at a baby’s first steps. A large python encircled his legs. I watched in fascination as it wound itself around his slim frame. The man low voice seemed to slide from his throat-- “You’ve come a long way, Mr. Marvolo.” He reached out and touched my forehead, and the symbols vanished. But then his hand recoiled, as if burned. “What is it?” I asked anxiously. He looked at me in disgust for a minute. “Bad blood,” he hissed, as the snake also shuddered. “That will have to be rectified.” He looked at the snake, which simpered at him. “Yes, Nagini, we can overcome the foolish girl’s mistake. Ours is stronger.” He saw me standing still, unmoved. He seemed to smile unpleasantly. “Good, there is nothing for you to fear. Do you recognize me?” “Salazar Slytherin. You’re the head of my House at Hogwarts.” I replied. He snorted mockingly at me, so I added defensively, “And my mother wrote to you… or a follower of yours of the same name… but I think she might have prayed to you.” “Ah yes, Salome. You don’t know much about her, do you?” Salazar said flippantly, but I felt a rush of emotion spread through me. I almost felt tears come. I desperately wanted this to be true… that I could know my mother’s name. It saddened and angered me how desperately I wanted to be able to grasp anything about her. That word, just her name, meant as much to me as any curse I’d learned to date. “You knew my mother?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t too anxious-sounding. He could answer so many questions of mine, regarding her and myself…and my father. But Salazar answered dispassionately, “Not personally. But one can hardly forget the person that destroyed the future of magic.” He saw my face slowly burn in anger, and laughed at me. “Not on purpose, of course. She would have been a great aid to our kind, if she hadn’t made one dreadful mistake. No, she was a real Slytherin.” “My mother went to school here?” I asked. I found it somewhat hard to believe, but then, there weren’t any yearbooks lying around to have checked. Salazar’s eyes narrowed. “Dumbledore has done well, keeping you down. Making you feel inferior enough not to question what you might possibly be. But are you really that thick, boy?” “I sincerely doubt it,” I answered coldly. My reply was met with a hostile yet amused smile. “You began to think it through yourself, not long ago, before Grindelwald shook you up. Now revenge and pride are on your side, but they have narrowed your focus. Must be the bad blood in you.” I seethed at him. “I can’t really retort, since nothing is known of your bloodlines. You might be from a bunch of squibs.” He lifted an eyebrow and with one word sent me flying across the room. I landed painfully against the wall, and as I gasped for breath he commented, “ Temper, temper. I had hoped that wouldn’t be a problem, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was wrong about the whole thing.” I sat up and spat back at him, “Then why don’t you give me back my wand, if you think so little of me.” Salazar smiled, and suddenly my wand appeared in my hand. I raised it to him, only to find it pulling away from me. I was about to pocket it when it flew from my hand, and floated in midair halfway between both of us. I was confused, only managing to get out angrily, “I thought you were going to give it back to me!” Salazar laughed, but there was tenseness to it. “I wasn’t holding it. It has been there all along, I merely made it black, to hide it in the shadows. I have no more control over it than you do.” At that, he raised his thick eyebrow, saying, “It seems torn between us.” “That’s not possible!” I said loudly. “There is only one wand to each wizard! Mr. Ollivander said so--” Salazar interrupted me. “But there was more than one that wanted you, wasn’t there?” He grinned at my shocked expression. “Bertold told me all about it. He keeps a close watch on you…as much for himself as for me. We visionaries have a close connection, you see, one that can transcend death if one is clever enough. So how can you explain, little Marvolo, how you tricked that wand?” I stood up and squared off with him. “Power. So you are as powerful as I. I never really doubted that. But this wand was strong enough to pick me. The only way that it could be drawn to you was if it saw the same thing in you as it did in me.” Salazar touched his long white finger to his nose. He seemed a much more relaxed version of the whimsical, cold personality that Grindelwald had tried to achieve. “Exactly. Now, don’t get me wrong, it is not the wand for me. But it doesn’t want you to use it against me. Its magical essence knows what I can bring you.” He waved at me to come closer. I did hesitantly, and as my fear and anger subsided into curiosity, the wand flew back into my hand. Salazar looked thoughtfully at me, his mouth still twisted in chilling contortions. “So I was right…this time,” he said softly. His eyes shone black. “Right about what?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “What are you?” Salazar seemed anxious to answer that. “Not alive, if that is what you are asking. No, you called on me, finally. Brought me out in a manifestation on you. You looked in that mirror, saw the horror that was there, of what you might do to yourself, and yet you pushed on. For pride, for knowledge, and for ambition. Do not deny it. It’s been coming for a long time…what you did to Randy, your thirst for answers…so you reached into yourself, as you are doing now, to find answers no one would ever risk so much for. And you did it consciously, whether you know that now or not. You created a vision, Mr. Marvolo. Now all you must do is complete it.” My head was beginning to pain me, as much from his cryptic Dumbledore-esque speech as from the smoke. “I really don’t think you are making sense. So I ’envisioned‘you, to help me in some way? I really doubt that. You haven’t done anything yet besides give me a splitting headache.” “Well, I can’t expect too much from you yet. Merlin knows that you still have… things… to overcome.” He began circling me, speaking slowly. “Tell me, Marvolo, do you wish to know the truth about your family? Your mother’s disgrace is a large part of it. As is your father, the lecherous Muggle.” He saw my flinch at that, and rounded on me sharply. “Do you hold love for your Muggle part, Marvolo? Do you love the man that destroyed you and your mother without a second glance?” I lifted my eyes to him and replied in honest simplicity, “I have never felt love for anything, I think. I’ve never known it. I don’t know what it is.” As an afterthought, I added, “I almost wish I did. I think my mother did for me.” “Oh, I doubt it.” Salazar said airily. My heart broke at this, but he didn’t seem to have done it out |