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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 yo |