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Everything hurts.Everything.Tom tries experimentally to move his fingers, and finds that he can’t. Helpless, he lies on the warm grass and stares at the blue sky.Of all the miscalculations Tom has made in his short life thus far, putting on the sorting hat sitting in Dippet’s office was by far the stupidest one. Worse than the time he asked his fellow Slytherin what a mudblood was. Worse than the time he allowed himself to be found alone in the common room by the fifth-year bullies in his house. Worse than when he raised his hand one too many times in Defense and Abraxas Malfoy pinned a note reading bollocks on his back in retaliation for being “an insufferable know-it-all freak.”Tom tries again, craning all the muscles in his neck to allow him to look at something other than the white puffy clouds floating above him.Nothing.He’s still paralyzed when he hears rustling in the bushes and a female voice say, “What’s that over there? Ron! Look!”Eventually, a pair of heads loom over him. One boy with bright red hair and an offensive number of freckles, and one girl with a heart-shaped face and an offensive amount of hair.“Is he dead?” The Red-Haired One asks.Tom finds he is able to speak.“Do I look dead?”The boy and girl jump.
The Girl with The Big Hair speaks first.“Are you alright? What’s happened to you?”“I’m fine, if you ignore the fact that I can’t move my body.”“What happened?” she asks again.“None of your business!” Tom snaps. “Take me to the headmaster. He ought to fix this, the senile old fool!”The Red-Haired Boy jumps again, but this time he looks like he’s poised to punch Tom rather than try to get away from him. The Girl with The Big Hair pulls his arm and makes a face as if to say calm down.“We can get the headmaster,” she tells him carefully, “just… wait here.”“Wait?!” Tome panics, “You can’t leave me here! What if some half-breed shows up and tries to kill me?”This time, the Red-Haired Boy pulls back The Girl with The Big Hair.“Listen mate,” The Boy starts, “You’re too big for us to carry, so you’ll just have to wait while we get Dumbledore.”“Dumbledore? No, get the headmaster! Not Dumbledore!”The Boy and the Girl look at each other.“What’s your name?” The Girl finally asks, eyeing him suspiciously.Tom looks from The Boy to The Girl, as he can move his eyes just fine. From their expressions—The Boy, worried, and The Girl, guarded—he can tell something is not quite right.“What’s your names?”They seem to think for a moment, and then after exchanging yet another look, The Girl decides to answer him.“I’m Hermione, and this is Ron.”“Nice to meet you.”They seem surprised by his manners. The Girl—Hermione—finally answers him with a “Nice to meet you, too.”“What’s your name?” Ron asks again.Tom’s usual instincts kick in.“T—Tim.”“Tim what?”“Fiddle.”“What house are you in?”“Slytherin.” He sounds more bitter than he means to. “What houses are you in?”“We’re both in Gryffindor,” Ron continues to speak to him. Hermione simply looks at him, concerned.“And what year?” Tom asks. They are in no way familiar.“We’re fourth years.”“I’m a fourth year, and I’ve never seen either of you in my classes.”“Er… now that we’re all introduced,” Hermione interrupts, “I think we’d better get the headmaster now.”“No! Don’t leave me here.”Ron looks at Hermione again. They do that thing again where they seem to be communicating without words. Tom wonders with excitement if they are both legilimens.“We could use mobilicorpus,” Ron suggests.The Girl—Hermione—casts the spell. Tom has trouble adjusting to her name—must be pureblood, they always use the strangest names—but her charm work is quite good. Tom feels a light floaty feeling fill him until his body lifts off the grass. He can’t say it’s unpleasant, but he’d rather be able to walk on his own.On the way to the castle, Ron again asks him what happened.“I don’t know,” Tom answers. Ron seems to miss his bitter tone.“Likely a spell gone bad,” He surmises casually.Hermione questions this theory. “Bad enough to catapult him 100 metres from the castle?”“Er… one time Seamus got blown out of the potions classroom because he added flobberworm when he was supposed to add bubotuber pus.”“Yeah, but he only ended up in the hallway. Plus, there haven’t been any explosions today.”“’Spose you’re right about that.”“Who is Seamus? He must be stupid if he didn’t realize flobberworm is the worst substitute for bubotuber pus.”“He’s an alright bloke.” Ron defends.“He would have been better off using dragonweed sap,” Hermione suggests.“Or at the very least Murtlap oil.” Tom adds.Ron asks Tom if he plays quidditch. When Tom says no, Ron doesn’t seem to care, and changes the topic of conversation to quidditch anyway.“Shame quidditch will be canceled this year. Harry is devastated, you know.”“Who’s Harry?” Tom says right before Hermione accidentally bumps his floating body into a tree, “Watch it!”“Sorry!”“He’s our friend,” Ron explains, “You alright, Tim?”Tom almost asks him who the hell Tim is.“I’m fine. Just be careful,” He remembers to add, “please.”They enter the castle in an uneasy silence, Hermione being extra careful not to bump Tom against the stone walls as they climb the steps to the headmaster’s office. There are no students around, thankfully. The last thing Tom needs is for his housemates to witness the situation he’s in. They’ll never let him live it down. If possible, the bullying will get worse.“What do we do now?” Ron asks.They are standing in front of the headmaster’s office, but they obviously do not know the password. If Tom could have, he would have puffed up his chest and grinned.“I know the password. It’s gargoyle.”Nothing happens.“That’s strange, it worked just a bit ago.”“When were you here?” Hermione asks him.“What do you mean?”“Well, maybe the headmaster changed it?”“The term only just started!”She shrugs. “You did just wake up on the lawn with no memory of how you got there.”“I know how I got there!” Tom snaps. He does not like Hermione’s know-it-all attitude.“How?”“I was in the headmaster’s office when… anyway, I just woke up on the grass outside.”“So… you have no memory of how you got there.”Oh, she is insufferable.“Sherbet lemon.”“What?”“Might as well guess some passwords instead of arguing,” Ron shrugs.“Chocolate frog.”“Bertie Bott’s every flavour beans.”“Caput Draconis.”“Exploding Bon Bons.”“Fizzing Whizzbees.”“Bloody Baron.”“Peppermint Toads.”“Licorice wand.”“Ragnuk the First.”The door does not budge. Tom is still floating, and getting increasingly nervous that someone will run into them.“Why are you two only guessing candies?” he asks, but his question goes unanswered because at that moment, footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs behind the door.“Shh, it’s him!” Ron says just as the door opens.“Good morning, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.”Tom freezes. He knows that voice and it is not the headmaster. It is probably the last professor he’d want to catch him in such an act of wrongdoing.He curses his luck as Dumbledore says, “And who is this?”He watches as a silvery head of hair comes into the periphery of his vision. Hermione must be moving her wand to levitate him closer to the floor, because bit by bit, more of the silvery head becomes visible, until Tom sees a mass of wrinkled skin, penetrating blue eyes, and a very, very long white beard.It is his transfiguration professor, that is for certain, but he is old.Dumbledore stares at Tom with the same astonishment Tom feels.“Tim Fiddle, sir.” Ron answers.“We found him paralyzed in the quad, by the Black Lake. He said he was in your office before it happened, Professor.” Hermione adds.“He can’t move, but he can speak.” Ron tacks on needlessly. Tom tries not to roll his eyes, but really, he’s too horrified at the sight of an aged Dumbledore to say or do much.“Well,” Dumbledore finally speaks, “I suppose we’d better head inside.”He gives Tom a calculating look.“We have much to discuss.”
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“Please, take a seat, Miss Granger.”Ron is already be sitting down in one of the leather armchairs facing the headmaster’s desk. Strange, Tom doesn’t remember them being leather. He could have sworn they were chintz.“Thank you, sir.”Hermione sits down, and Tom can just make out one smooth pale calf from where he is lying down flat on the floor. Tom doesn’t have much time to consider this flagrant disregard for propriety, because Dumbledore speaks again.“Now, will one of you be kind enough to regale me with the story of how you found Mr. Fiddle?”If any of them are disturbed by the fact that they are talking about an injured boy as he lays at their feet; conscious by the way, very conscious, they don’t show it. Hermione calmly recollects the entire encounter, even going so far as to quote their speeches verbatim.What a swot. Tom is almost certain they cannot be in the same year.Tom is staring at the domed ceiling in the headmaster’s office when he sees the headmaster in a portrait. Armando Dippet smiles serenely at Tom and waves, as if he isn’t a two dimensional rendering hanging on the castle walls along with dozens of other dead headmasters.Tom shouts. He would have pointed too, but he still can't move from the neck down.The others take notice. Three heads pop into his field of vision, effectively blocking Dippet’s likeness.“What’s wrong?”“Are you hurt?”Only Dumbledore is shrewd enough to follow his line of vision to the portrait hanging innocently on the far corner of the room.“Are you alright, Mr. Fiddle?”Tom grits his teeth. “I would like to speak to Headmaster Dippet, Professor. Immediately.”“Dippet?” Ron asks, “Who’s that?”Before Tom has the chance to snap at Ron for being a clueless twit, Dumbledore answers.“He was the headmaster before me, Mr. Weasley.”This shocking statement is followed by the materialization of a lounge chair underneath Tom’s body until he is almost sitting up and able to face the others. Normally, his good breeding would dictate he thank the professor for the unnecessary trouble, but in this moment of crisis, all manners are forgotten.
(Good breeding: If you step out of line at Wool’s Orphanage, you receive lashings according to the severity of infraction committed. For example, three lashings for leaving food on your plate, ten lashings for tracking mud into the dining hall, seventeen lashings if you steal a portion of food that was not meant to be yours, and twenty lashings for talking back to the staff. In lieu of genetics, staff often refer to such punishments as "good breeding.”)
“What do you mean was?” Tom cannot control the tone of utter horror that creeps into his voice. “Did the headmaster step down since noon today?”“What is he talking about?”“Ron, just let him finish!”“What’s the point of letting him go on when we can’t understand a lick of what he’s saying?” Ron argues, “Must have hit his head or something in the explosion…”“Was there an explosion?” Dumbledore asks, but his eyes are fixed on Tom.“No!” Tom clenches his jaw. Hermione starts arguing with Ron again, who gives as good as he gets. “Quiet, you two!”It works. They both look at Tom stonily, but say nothing more.“Mr. Fiddle, please, tell us your version of events.” Dumbledore steeples his fingers, gazing upon Tom with undivided attention.Tom purses his lips. When he woke up paralyzed on the lawn, he knew he would be getting in trouble for what he did, but this is not the type of trouble he imagined. Perhaps a week of detentions, or an evening with Pringle.Not this.“I was in the headmaster’s office.”“Here, you mean?”“Yes, but with Headmaster Dippet, and then he stepped out because Mr. Lestrange had an accident that led him to the infirmary.”“An accident?”“Yes,” Tom confirms defensively, “An accident.”“Alright. Mr. Lestrange had an accident at approximately…?”“It was after breakfast, Sir.”“So after nine o’clock?”“No, sir. It’s Saturday, so it was after eleven.”“It’s not Saturday,” Hermione tells him.“It is so.”“No, it’s not.”“Then what day is it?” Tom snaps.“It’s Sunday.”Tom clenches his jaw. She is really annoying.“Well, it was Saturday when I was in here.”Dumbledore touches his pointer fingers to his lips, as if deep in thought. “Let us summarize, in order to make sure we are all of the same understanding. Mr. Fiddle was in the headmaster’s office—”“Headmaster Dippet.”“Yes, and while you are meeting with him, a missive arrives to inform him of Mr. Lestrange’s accident. He leaves, meaning you were in here alone.”“Yes, sir.”“Did anything particular happen after he left?”Instincts, and all that.“No.”“Are you sure, Mr. Fiddle?” Dumbledore puts special emphasis on his last name, and Tom flushes in embarrassment.“Yes, sir.”“I see.”They sit in silence for quite some time, long enough for Ron to open his mouth several times, seem to think the better of it, and then close it—several times. Hermione, on the other hand, bounces her leg. She bounces it harder and faster as the seconds drone on in quietude, until eventually, her skirt creeps further and further up her leg.Tom can see her thigh.The audacity.“Where is headmaster Dippet? Why has he retired since yesterday? Why…why do you look so old, sir? I mean, respectfully—older. How come I’ve never seen these two before if we’re in the same year?” Tom finally breaks the silence, tapping his fingers furiously on the arm of the lounge chair, finding he can straighten up too—but only slightly before falling weak again.It’s the longest speech he’s ever made in front of Dumbledore, and he’s slightly worried the older wizard will blow up another wardrobe behind him, or set his clothes on fire, or something else ridiculous in a show of dominance. However, Dumbledore continues to tap his lips, keeping a rather neutral expression until,“I think we should speak clearly; do you not agree, Mr. Fiddle?” Dumbledore fixes a penetrating eye on Tom, and this time, he very obviously places emphasis on his name.Tom blinks, but does not crack. Dumbledore will only get a confession out of him with veritaserum, or worse. When Tom says nothing, Dumbledore tries a different tactic.“Headmaster Dippet is dead.”“What?”“Yes, very unfortunate,” Dumbledore says genially, pulling out a crystal candy bowl from a drawer, and holding out sour orbs to his guests. Tom still cannot lift his hands enough to take one, so Ron helpfully takes one on his behalf. He’s making a bee-line for Tom’s mouth, but his expression must have been murderous indeed, because Ron eventually settles the sour orb on Tom’s lap.“When? How?” Tom splutters.“Oh, a couple years ago. From old age, naturally. But you needn’t worry, Mr. Fiddle, he was surrounded by loved ones to his last." Dumbledore gives him a broad, warm smile.“A couple ye—that’s not possible! I saw him yesterday!”“Miss Granger, you seem very aware of the date, would you care to inform Mr. Fiddle as well?”“Er—of course, Professor. It is Sunday, September 6th.”“The complete date, Miss Granger.”“Sunday, September 6th, 1994.”Tom releases a sound; it’s very different for any other sound he’s made before. The only way to describe it is that it is a mix between a hyaena’s wild laughter and the final cries of anguish that may be produced by a strangled baby bird.Ron pulls Tom forward and slams his open hand against his upper back repeatedly.
Slam. Slam. Slam.
“Ron, stop! You’re hurting him!”“But Hermione, he’s choking on the bloody sour orb!”“Unhand me, you oaf! I am not choking!”Ron gingerly places Tom back into his chair, and notices the sour orb on the floor. He picks it up and offers it back to Tom. Given the presence of bit of hair, dust, and general carpet scum on the piece of candy, Tom declines.Ron shrugs and pops it into his mouth.This time, Tom is the one sharing a look with Hermione.Dumbledore pushes his crystal bowl of candies across his desk so that it sits closer to Ron.“Yes, Mr. Fiddle, I regret to confirm that your memory of that fateful Saturday is indeed one from over fifty years ago.”“But that’s not possible. How—” Tom freezes mid-sentence. He knows how. That damned hat.“The ‘how’ of it would be interesting to know,” Dumbledore agrees, but Tom gets the sense that he would show the same amount of interest in the weather, “but regardless of ‘how,’ you have tumbled forward into the present, and I think it would be wisest to plan now for the future.”“The future, sir?” Hermione asks.“Why yes, Miss Granger. We must all plan for the future, regardless of whether or not we’re capable of traveling in time.”Here, Hermione shows her first sign of annoyance. “Yes, but sir, how can we plan a future for Tim?”“Why, he’ll need to be sorted, of course! And attend classes, and continue on with his education as usual.”“As usual? Continue my edu—sorted?” Tom throws his hands in the air. This is the most emotion he’s ever displayed in his life.“Oi, you can move your arms again!” Ron points out enthusiastically.Tom ignores him.“Am I just expected to forget that my entire life has been ruined? Everything I’ve worked for is gone and everyone I know is dead?”“Surely, we’re not all dead,” Dumbledore chuckles, pushing his spectacles along his nose.Tom glares at him.“There is a more important matter, however. You cannot attend this school.”“What?”This sentiment is echoed by Hermione and Ron, but to varying levels of astonishment.“You see, Mr. Fiddle, your name has never appeared in The Book of Admittance.”“The Book of Admittance, sir?”“Er, I’ll explain it to you later ‘Mione. There’s a tower with a quill and a book and basically your name has to be in it for you to come to Hogwarts—”“What?” This time, it’s Hermione’s turn to be aghast. “This isn’t in Hogwarts: A History!”Ron simply shrugs. Dumbledore smiles knowingly.“Yes indeed, Miss Granger. In this very castle is a tower never before entered by a Hogwarts student. Within this tower lies an ancient tome and quill, named The Book of Admittance and the Quill of Acceptance, respectively. Together they record each and every magical name to ever attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. This is our only process of selection for incoming students. Unfortunately, I cannot accept a student named Tim Fiddle, for this name has never been recorded in the history of the school.”Tom scoffs. “Surely, at least one Tim Fiddle has attended the school.”Dumbledore does not answer.“How was he at Hogwarts fifty years ago if Tim Fiddle has never been recorded in the book?” Ron asks.“Obviously it’s a made-up name.” Hermione shoots Tom a distrustful look.“Sir—I—” Tom struggles for words. It’s against his nature to own up to a mistake, or worse, a lie, but he’s not quite sure how to escape this situation without being thrown out into the streets to fend for himself. He wonders briefly if the muggles are still at war, if London is still dealing with bombs, Nazis, hunger—“Dear boy, you are not in trouble. I am merely inviting you to tell the truth in front of your new friends.” Dumbledore says kindly, motioning to Ron and Hermione with upturned palms.Tom has an out-of-body experience for the first time in his life. Dumbledore, who had done nothing but look upon him with suspicion, who was never impressed with his homework, or his grades, or his manners, Dumbledore who left him to buy his own school supplies in Diagon Alley at age eleven… is being kind?Tom swallows. He doesn’t trust Dumbledore enough to think he’s gone soft with age, but there is clearly some ulterior motive here, and Tom is intent on figuring it out.Plus, it’s preferable to living off rations.Tom inhales, and introduces himself properly.“My name is Tom Riddle.”Hermione, who is already pale, goes white. Ron, who is already quite pink, gets redder. Dumbledore smiles widely.Tom can finally feel his bum. His wand is digging into his left butt cheek.He really needs to stop putting it in his back pocket.
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“Very good,” Dumbledore stands, rubbing his hands together, “very good, Mr. Riddle. Now that that is out of the way, we may proceed with the sorting.”“Sorting?” Ron asks, “But—but he’s—”“Ron!” Hermione yells in a forced whisper. She leans forward in her chair, looking at Ron intently before shooting a trepidatious look at Tom.Ron immediately stops talking. His eyes glide from Tom, to Dumbledore, to Hermione with a beseeching look.“Yes, Mr. Weasley, of course! We mustn’t assume Mr. Riddle’s house, for a lot can change in fifty years—”“It wasn’t fifty years, it was yesterday!”“Technically, no,” Dumbledore disagrees with Tom. He bends his head to the left, and pulls out a short stool from underneath his desk.While Dumbledore is occupied, Ron and Hermione begin furiously communicating with each other through widened eyes, hand gestures, and angry whispers.“I’m right here,” Tom tells them crossly.Hermione blushes and sneaks another furtive glance at him.“Sorry, mate,” Ron says. Hermione seems to think this is a ridiculous thing to say, because she purses her lips and furrows her brows, chastising Ron without words again.Tom watches them, slightly amazed by their interactions. They act like they’re siblings, even though they are clearly not. Hermione doesn’t even remotely resemble Ron, with her great big brown bushel of hair, and her wide, doe-like brown eyes, and long rabbit teeth. She looks about half Ron’s size—who is admittedly, very tall for his age. However, Hermione is the opposite; her feet don’t even touch the floor while she sits on the leather armchair.Tom makes the mistake of looking at her legs again, and turns away from her with a scowl.“What house are you in?” Tom asks Ron.His eyes widen in surprise at the question. “Gryffindor. Whole family is,” Ron shrugs.“Gryffindor?” Tom scoffs, “that’s the worst house.”“Better than Hufflepuff, I reckon.” Ron jokes.“And what do you suppose is the best house?” Hermione asks angrily, all her previous caution forgotten.“Obviously Slytherin,” Tom rolls his eyes.“And for what reason?” she challenges.“It’s the purest,” Tom says automatically.Hermione throws up her hands, but says nothing. She crosses her arms and looks pointedly away.Ron scratches the back of his neck, and seems to be thinking before he says, “Listen, mate. No offense, but Slytherin is full of pricks, and they’re not a very clever lot. All that inbreeding can’t help—“ Ron holds up his right hand as if to stop Tom from interrupting, even though Tom was not going to disagree, “and I’m a pureblood myself, so I can say that.” He takes a deep breath. “Hermione is the smartest in our year. Well, in our generation, I reckon, and she’s a muggleborn and a Gryffindor.”“Is she?” Tom looks at Hermione, trying to size her up again.“She’s smarter than me and Harry, at any rate,” Ron grins, then seems to remember something. His smile drops and he scowls at the rug.Tom uses the momentary silence to think about how Ron says ”muggleborn” instead of “mudblood.”Tom’s housemates have been calling him mudblood for years now, ever since the sorting hat barely touched his head and shouted out ‘Slytherin!’ The whispers had started almost immediately at the Slytherin table. What sort of name was Riddle? Who were his parents? What did he mean he didn’t know?The cold stares and even colder shoulders started shortly after that.And perhaps, if the attitude towards Tom had stayed frigid, he may have survived just fine, and perhaps even grown to win a few students over. He might have eventually made allies, if not friends.Unfortunately, it didn’t quite happen like that.He thinks about the time he was shoved into the boys’ bathroom in first year, and hung up by his robes on the hooks meant for cloaks until a teacher came to rescue him. Or what about the times water “accidentally” spilled on his almost-completed homework? But nothing was more embarrassing than the prank to get him to believe Florence Rosier fancied him, pressuring him to ask to court her, only to have her shriek with laughter when the scrawny third year nobody named Riddle approached her in the Great Hall. He had been stupid to believe the beautiful fourth year would be interested in him, but part of his wishful thinking had stemmed from the friendliness of the other Slytherin boys, who had never before shown any positive interest in him.Despite the fact that they dormed together for years, Abraxas, Reginald, Otho, Willard, with all of their wealth and purity, had always ignored him, or worse, went out of their way to humiliate him. They had never treated him as a friend, much less a brother.“Are you two related?” Tom asks suddenly.“What--? No!” Ron responds, his ears turning pink.Tom sinks in his chair, thinking. Dumbledore interrupts his musings with an “Aha!” as he pulls out the old battered hat. It looks somehow worse than when Tom touched it yesterday, but also somehow the same.“Here we are, Mr. Riddle. May I?”Tom nods, and Dumbledore moves around his desk to gingerly place the hat on Tom’s head.Tom squeezes his eyes shut, mentally fortifying himself against another terrifying jolt that sends him traveling through time—but that doesn’t happen. Instead, nothing happens at all.Tom slowly opens his eyes when no immediate declaration of "Slytherin!" is made. Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore are all staring at him expectantly, on the literal edge of their seats. Tom is about to tell them the hat must be broken when he hears the voice inside his head.
Hmm…
Tom jumps in his seat, startled. Whatever he thought the sorting hat did when it sat on students’ heads, he didn’t think it was this.Here we are again, Tom Riddle. What did you so want to talk with me about?Tom scowls. Damned thing. He ought to rip it off—
And why would you do that? When I went through so much trouble to re-sort you as you wished…
I did not wish to be resorted! Tom thinks back angrily.
Then why did you place me on your head after Armando Dippet left us alone?
Mere curiosity!
Hmm… I don’t think so.
What do you know? You’re just a stupid ratty old hat.
That’s not very nice… but it is a very Slytherin thing to say.
No!
No? Ah, yes. You wish to avoid Slytherin.
I do not!
Cease, Tom Riddle. You needn’t pretend with me. I can see your innermost thoughts, your deepest desires…
Tom feels a chill move down his spine, and visibly shivers.
You wish to have friends.
I do not!
You do, but you mistakenly see this desire as a weakness you must quell. But you are lonely, oh so lonely…
Tom says nothing. In his chest is a heaviness that yearns to be soothed. He just barely avoids rubbing his heart.The hat coos, Yes, yes, you are very lonely, and Slytherin has not been kind to you, even though you have more of a right to that house than anyone else there.I am an outsider, Tom thinks reluctantly.Yes, the hat laughs, an outsider who belongs.Tom does not quite understand this, so he says nothing.So where shall I place you? I am at an impasse. You must be in Slytherin, you are a Slytherin—but you wish for anything but. What to do… what to do…I want to have friends, Tom thinks. It is the smallest, quietest thought he has ever had in his life. This forbidden idea blossoms not from his mind, but from the recesses of his heart, where images of youthful boys link arms while they run to the quidditch pitch; where children laugh in tightly huddled groups, their breaths escaping in cold mist; where heads bend over the same tome, trying to make meaning out of its’ ancient text; where the last bit of pudding is argued over, not for themselves, but for their friend to have it because it's their favorite.Things Tom has only ever observed, never experienced.
But your ambition? And your cunning? Indeed, your resourcefulness alone would land you in Slytherin. You have what it takes to be magnificent, Tom Riddle. In Slytherin you can hone your strengths into greatness.
I want to have friends, Tom thinks, a little louder this time.
Friends? What use are friends when you can have power beyond your wildest imaginings…
This stalls Tom for a moment, but his heart overcomes his mind.Very loudly.I want to have friends! Tom thinks as he clenches his fists almost angrily with his demand.
Very well.
“Gyffindor!” The hat announces loudly, its grand voice echoing off the walls of the smaller room—much smaller than the Great Hall at any rate.Tom waits for Dumbledore to pluck the hat off his head, the way he had done when Tom was a first year, but instead Dumbledore is staring at him with such an intense expression, he doesn’t seem to realize Tom is waiting for him.Tom slowly takes off the hat himself, holding the thousand-year-old artifact in his lap before glancing up shyly at Ron and Hermione.They wear matching dumbfounded expressions consisting of large eyes and even larger mouths.“What?” Tom asks them defensively, clutching the hat tightly in his hands, “It’s better than Hufflepuff, isn’t it?”
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“Wonderful, wonderful. Miss Granger, will you do me the favor of accompanying Mr. Riddle to Gryffindor Tower? Mr. Weasley, please remain behind so I may speak with you.” Dumbledore smiles benignly at Hermione, waiting for her and Tom to leave.Ron speaks first. “Me, sir? Are you sure you don’t want Hermione to stay behind?”Dumbledore levels a look at Ron. “Yes, Mr. Weasley,” he smiles knowingly, “I am quite sure. Miss Granger?”Hermione looks uncertainly at Ron, but stands up anyway.
Tom follows her silently out the door. Her hair flounces with each step, emphasizing her distaste with him. It annoys Tom. He fantasizes about hexing her so all of her offensively large hair falls off. Or maybe spelling her a pair of trousers, because she obviously can’t afford enough cloth to cover her legs. Her shapely calves flex as she climbs each stair in front of him.Tom thinks about impulsively grabbing her ankle.
“We’re here,” she announces, stopping in front of a painting of a very fat lady. She regards Tom as if he is unknowingly spreading some sort of infectious disease. “The password is Florean Fortescue.”“Thank you,” Tom tells her automatically, staring cautiously at the portrait. He wishes Dumbledore had held her back to speak with instead of Ron. She’s looking at him like she expects him to stroll inside and make himself at home.They’re staring at each other when they hear steps rapidly climbing the tower. They turn to see who it is, and a flaming head of hair comes into view.“Sorry—tried to catch up with you lot—” Ron bends over, clutching his middle, “out of breath.”“I can see that,” Tom notes dryly, eliciting a small smile from the unusually stern girl next to him.“Let’s go in, mate. There’s someone I want you to meet.”“Who?” Hermione and Tom ask together.“Harry Potter.”~>>><<<~Whoever this Harry Potter is, he is not in the common room. Instead, Ron takes Tom up to their dormitory, where a new bed has magically appeared for him.“This one’s where Seamus sleeps—Irish, nice bloke, if a bit… explosive. This is Dean’s. He’s alright as well. Neville here. Good sort, likes plants. That’s Harry’s and this one’s mine.” Ron points to the two beds closest to the large stained-glass window. Tom’s bed is the closest to the door, next to Neville’s. He sits down on his new bed, and looks around the room hesitantly.“So… what do you think?”“It’s… bright.”“Yeah, I ‘spose.” Ron shrugs and collapses on his bed. Tom notices he doesn’t bother to take his shoes off.“What are the Slytherin dormitories like?” he asks, propping his head up on his fist.“They’re larger and longer. The beds are all in a line, rather than in a circle facing each other.”Ron nods along in rapt attention, as if this is the most interesting observation in the world.The door opens behind Tom, and a lanky boy with crowded teeth and protruding ears walks in. He nervously pulls his shoulder bag over his front when he sees Tom.“Oh, hiya Neville. This here’s Tom. He’s a new transfer student.” Ron says, waving Neville over.After Ron caught up with Hermione and Tom in front of the common room entrance, he quickly filled them in on Dumbledore’s orders. They aren’t to tell anyone Tom is a time traveler, except their friend Harry.
He also handed Tom a schedule for classes, all of which he shares with Ron or Hermione. Tom wonders briefly what Ron did to be such a favorite of Dumbledore’s. Hermione appears perfectly jealous, but ultimately accepts the plan.They split ways in the common room, with Ron sending Hermione off to find Harry. They share another communicative look before she leaves. Tom is almost certain they’re both legilimens.“Hello,” Tom says politely, holding out his hand to shake the boy’s hand.“Hi,” Neville says shyly, “I’m Neville Longbottom.”“Tom Riddle.”They shake hands. Neville’s palm is very sweaty and his grip is very loose. It is an uncomfortable experience, but Tom keeps a smile plastered on his face in forced politeness.“Transferred? I didn’t think you could transfer into Hogwarts.”Ron shrugs, and Tom says, “I guess they made an exception.”This is enough of an explanation for Neville, who walks over to his desk to rummage through some parchments.“Sorry I can’t chat longer, I have an herbology assignment I wanted to add to…”Suddenly, there’s a bang at the door.“Oi! Thomas! Finnigan! Open the door!”“Get lost, they’re not here!” Ron yells back at the voices, but the door seems to explode open anyway with a loud bang and clatter. Two more red-haired freckled boys emerge, not so tall as Ron, and significantly stockier, but still strikingly similar.“Hiya little brother,” says one of the twin boys.“Can we interest you in a little proposition?” says the other.Ron immediately denies interest, which amuses Tom. The twin Weasleys notice Tom after a moment, and round on him.“Ooh, Gred, looks like fresh meat.”“Yes, Forge, indeed. He looks like the perfect specimen we need.”“Most definitely.”They seem to realize Tom is right in front of them.“Pardon us, I’m Gred,”“And I’m Forge.”“Fred and George,” Ron explains quickly, “my brothers. They’re sixth years.”“Very pleased to meet you!” They both extend their hands at the same time to shake Tom’s. Tom, not quite knowing what to do, but enormously amused, shakes one twin’s hand with his left hand, and the other with his right.They grin widely at him.“Ooh, I like him, Gred!”“Agreed, Forge. Handsome bloke, too.”Tom blushes, and pulls his hand back, much to the raucous amusement of the twins. They round on Ron.“Ronnikins, please,”“We’d be ever so grateful!”“No!” Ron protests, guarding his mouth with his left hand and pointing his wand at his brothers with his right. “Not after the last time. It took ages to get my nose to stop bleeding. I had to borrow blood replenishing potion from Hermione!”This idea horrifies Tom, who busies himself with staring at his shoe laces.Gred and Forge-no, Fred and George-look as if they’re about to restrain their little brother when two more boys enter the dormitory—a tall boy with dark skin, and a shorter boy with a ruddy complexion and short cropped sandy-brown hair.“Oi! Just who we were looking for!” One of the twins exclaims, and Tom has to assume these two boys are Thomas and Finnigan. Ron sees the brief distraction as an opportunity to escape, and he jumps from his bed and leads Tom back down to the common room.“Gotta be careful with those two. Brilliant, but truly demented at times. They’re bloody good at inventing things, though. Those skiving snackboxes come in handy sometimes,” Ron admits to Tom, before recognizing someone over his shoulder.“Oi, Harry is here! Come on, then.”They walk over to a pair of sofas by a fireplace where Hermione is sitting with a black-haired boy wearing glasses. Despite the warmth of the fire, Tom feels a chill run through him when he meets his eyes.Harry's eyes are a very vivid green, framed by thick long lashes and matching thick brows. His eyesight must be very poor, because they seem to enlarge his eyes even further. His hair is as black as Tom's, but unlike Tom's hair, it does not sit neatly on his head, instead looking like it is growing in an effort to escape his scalp. Even sitting down, Tom can tell he’s much shorter than Ron.Harry runs a hand through his hair, messing it even more. The air is tense, but Tom is not sure why. He stands ram-rod straight and stares, frozen.“This is Harry,” Hermione says quickly, “our friend.”“Hello,” Tom says lowly, before remembering to extend his hand again.“Hello,” Harry mirrors cautiously, slowly taking Tom's hand. His grip is firm. They shake twice and let go. Tom has the strange feeling that he just passed some sort of test.Ron clears his throat to dispel the awkwardness. “I’m hungry.”“What else is new?” Hermione retorts, drawing a small smile from Harry.Tom settles on the sofa opposite them, next to Ron who sits draped over the edge. His long legs threaten to bump into Tom's knees, but he doesn't seem to notice.“It’s not my fault; I’m a growing boy!” He protests jokingly.Hermione rolls her eyes exaggeratedly and Harry grins. Tom’s stomach grumbles loudly, startling the others and embarrassing Tom.“Er,” Hermione checks her wrist-watch, “Dinner is in a quarter of an hour. I suppose we can head down now.”“Wonderful,” Ron exclaims, jumping up with gusto. Hermione and Harry get up to follow, but Tom stays seated, watching them leave reluctantly. He knew it was only a matter of time before they’d try to ditch him. This Harry boy clearly didn't like him, and Hermione doesn't make it a secret that she finds Tom extremely annoying (the feeling is reciprocated, thank you very much). Still, it was quite nice to be talked to, and talked to as if he were an ordinary student. Weasley, Longbottom, Potter… these are pureblood names, yet they hadn’t even mentioned it. The only times people were this nice to Tom in Slytherin was when they needed his help with their homework.“Oi, Riddle!”Tom looks up from the spot on the rug he’d been staring at.“You coming, mate?”Ron and Harry look at him expectantly, while Hermione has her arms crossed again as she taps her foot impatiently. One of her frilly white socks has slid down her leg, bunching up at the strap of her shiny black shoes. She has a small pink-tan mark above the bony protrusion of her left ankle. It’s shaped almost like a heart.Tom stands up, trying not to look too surprised or pleased.“Yeah, I’m right behind you.”
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Tom is sitting in the Great Hall next to Ron and across from Harry when he sees them for the first time.Clad in their sky blue uniforms, pressed to perfection, they look startlingly different than the British students of Hogwarts.“Who are they?” he asks to no one in particular.“Who? Oh, them.” Ron follows his gaze wistfully. “They’re from Beauxbatons. The boys are a bit too stuck up their own arse but the girls… Ow!”Ron looks at Hermione angrily. She takes a bite of her mash indifferently.“Their clothes are quite different from ours,” Tom observes neutrally. He thought Hermione was scandalous with her sliding socks and above-the-knee skirts, but the Beauxbatons girls put Hermione to shame.Their skirts are the same length, but very form-fitting.
“Naturally,” Hermione responds, cutting up her steak into neat little squares, “They’re from a different school, and a different culture.”“Why are there students here from another school?” Tom asks, then leaning in, “Did something happen? Is the war still going on?”Hermione understands him first. “Er… no. That war is over. They’re here for the Triwizard Tournament.”“Really?” Tom raises both his brows in surprise. He’d read about the Triwizard Tournament. It had been prohibited for over five hundred years due to repeated fatalities. “Who would be stupid enough to enter that?”An uncomfortable silence befalls the table. Ron stops chewing and stares at Harry. Harry stares at his food. Hermione glares at Tom.“Oh…” Tom says, catching the hint, “Being selected by the Goblet is a huge honor, though. Some say that alone is enough for eternal glory.”“The goblet is bloody insane, if you ask me. Harry didn’t even put his name in!”“He didn’t?” Tom looks at Harry carefully, “Then how did your name get selected?”“I don’t know,” Harry pushes his peas from one side of his plate to the other.Ron indignantly slams down his fork. “It’s obviously a plot, isn’t it? You-know—”“Ron!”Ron sputters and immediately stops talking. Hermione glares daggers at him openly. Harry, who was already moping before, now cradles his head in his hands.“I know what?” Tom asks.“Nothing.” Hermione tells him primly, “Just forget it. What’s done is done. Harry is in the Tournament, and we have to make sure he gets through it.”Harry groans without lifting his head.“You’ll do more than survive, mate. You’re going to win,” Ron tries encouragingly, but his tone is a bit undercut by the uncertain way he looks at a burly older teen wearing a red military-style uniform at the Slytherin table. He’s one of many students wearing red uniforms there.“Who’s that?” Tom asks, following Ron’s line of vision. Tom is not sure if the hulking figure is a boy, or a man. His nose looks like it’s been broken at least a few times, and he has an impressive amount of stubble on his chin. He isn’t much taller than his peers, but his shoulders are wide enough to squeeze two boys his age into his shirt.“Viktor Krum,” Ron whispers reverently, “Youngest seeker in the league, plays for Bulgaria.”Harry pulls his hands through his hair, looking absolutely defeated.Tom notices a small lightning-shaped scar in the middle of his forehead when he pulls his hair away from his face.“Well, the Goblet thought Harry was just as good as Krum, didn’t it?” Hermione levels a warning look at Ron again, “It felt all of the Triwizard champions were on equal footing.”“Yeah! Absolutely,” Ron quickly agrees.Tom has to disagree. This Krum fellow looks like he’s strong enough to lift Harry over his head and throw him to the opposite end of the Great Hall.“And Harry is an amazing flyer as well,” Hermione continues, “He’s the youngest seeker at Hogwarts in a century.”Ron nods enthusiastically, “And he’s very good at ‘Dark Arts.”“You practice the dark arts?” Tom blurts unbelievingly.“Defense Against,” Hermione corrects him sharply, “Harry is not a dark wizard.”Ron grimaces and looks down at his plate. Harry looks sharply at Hermione and rubs his forehead. Hermione doesn’t take her eyes off Tom.Tom speaks calmly, although his heart is beating like a little bird against his ribcage. “I was merely confused by Ron’s wording.”Hermione turns her ire back on Ron.He raises his hands in surrender. “It’s a lot to say 'Defense Against the Dark Arts' every time!”Hermione rolls her eyes and gets up from the bench.“I have get started on our Transfiguration essay. I’ll see you all later.”“But it’s due two weeks from now!” Ron shouts after her, but she’s already flouncing away, her irritating hair swaying with her every step.Ron and Harry remain seated, much to Tom’s comfort. The atmosphere relaxes significantly after Hermione leaves. The boys begin telling him about the other students.“That there is Cho Chang—Harry fancies her.”“I do not!” Harry blushes a deep shade of puce.“’S alright, mate. She’s not bad to look at.”“You fancy Fleur Delacour!” Harry accuses.Ron’s ears go red, and he turns to explain to Tom, “I can’t help it. My brain goes all blank when she’s around. You’ll see what I mean.”“Is she here?” Tom asks curiously.“No,” Ron mutters with disappointment, “she only takes meals in the carriage.”“Doesn’t like British food, apparently,” Harry explains, taking a big bite of pudding.“Who’s that girl?” Tom asks, nodding towards a pretty redhead taking a seat at the end of the Gryffindor table.“Wotchit!” Ron warns, “That’s my sister.”Harry laughs, but Tom rallies. “I was only asking because she looks like you.”Ron seems to accept this explanation.“Oi!” Harry points their attention towards the Hall entrance. A very blond, pointy looking boy strides towards the Slytherin table.“Malfoy,” Tom says before Harry or Ron can even introduce him.Ron scowls, and Harry grins. “Looks just like his grandfather, then?”“Spitting image.”“I gather you didn’t like his grandfather either?”“Loathed him.”Ron wipes his mouth on his sleeve after taking a long swig of his pumpkin juice, “Not much has changed on that front, then”.This starts off a game of “can you guess who this is?” where Ron and Harry point out various students who would be most likely to have some kind of familial connection to Hogwarts, and Tom tries to guess their surname.“What about her?”Tom narrows his eyes. “Possibly Preston?”“Nah, her name’s Bones,” Ron says.“Maybe from her mother’s side?” Harry suggests.They spend the rest of dinner this way until the Great Hall is almost empty. Tom is actually having quite a bit of fun, and feels a bit disappointed when Ron announces he’s had enough pudding to last a lifetime.(At least until tomorrow evening, Harry amends).“Better go and revise,” Harry says reluctantly, “Hermione’ll kill us if we don’t do well in the Charms exam tomorrow.”“Does she always tell everyone what to do?” Tom asks sullenly, toeing the line of outright complaining about her.“Yeah, but she’s alright,” Ron says good-naturedly, “I would’ve been expelled ages ago if it weren’t for her. She’s brilliant, really.”“You said that already,” Tom can’t help the edge of bitterness in her voice.“Maybe you’ll give her a run for her money,” Harry says, not unkindly. “She’d probably appreciate having someone to compete with.”“Yeah…” Ron says, as if a realization is just dawning on him, “You’re pretty clever, Riddle! I bet class will be quite interesting now with you there!”Ron starts laughing, and Harry joins in. Tom doesn’t quite get the joke, so he says nothing. He’s already missed the first two days of classes, so he can only feel nervous about tomorrow.He suddenly has an urgent desire to check his desk for the texts Dumbledore promised Ron would be delivered to Tom’s dormitory later today.He stands abruptly.“I need to go,” he announces without preamble, quickly jumping up to leave.“Riddle, wait!”“Blimey, mate!”Harry and Ron rush to catch up to Tom, who’s already half-way out of the Great Hall.“We’ll come with!” Ron says urgently, as they pass through the Great Hall doors into the corridor, “Is everything alright?”“I need to study—I don’t know anything about this place and I can’t let a mudblood beat me in lessons!”Tom is putting his foot on the first step when someone grabs his arm.It’s Harry.Tom turns to look at him. Although Harry is quite shorter than him, his grip is frighteningly strong.“We don’t use that word, Riddle.” His eyes are deadly serious.Ron is standing behind Harry, his usually friendly expression ferocious. The two boys, who were joking and laughing mere minutes ago, look at Tom with extreme displeasure.Tom’s mask slides smoothly into place. He relaxes his arm under the pressure of Harry's grip, and smiles apologetically.“I’m sorry—force of habit.”The boys look at each other in open concern. Harry’s hold loosens, but he still doesn’t let go. It takes every bit of Tom not to shake him off.Tom forces a tone of casual self-pity. “My house used to call me mud—” Tom pauses, pretending to recollect himself, “that term—quite often.”“You?” Ron asks suspiciously, “But you’re in Slytherin.”“Not anymore,” Harry says softly. He is still holding onto Tom’s arm. Tom wants desperately to shove him away. Something about Harry's touch makes him extremely uncomfortable, like his body is itching to get out of his skin.“No, not anymore.” Tom agrees quietly, matching Harry.(Matching: A deescalation technique Tom developed in Wool's Orphanage. 'Matching' is the precise art of copying the body language and vocal tone of an authority figure or any other threatening person in a show of subservience. One can also incorporate "mirroring," which is the act of repeating the words used by said authority figure during their monologues, making them feel heard, but also superior. It’s all a careful production.)Tom raises his voice to answer Ron's question. “Being a nobody in Slytherin is akin to being a muggleborn. Presumably, I do have a parent who was at least a half-blood, but there’s no way to know.”Ron is silent while he digests this information.“I’m an orphan, you see.” Tom continues quietly, hoping to strike a chord of sympathy in the boys. The last thing he wants to do is lose the fragile alliance he’s managed to forge with them. At least, not until he can find a better group of friends.One that hopefully doesn’t include a mudblood.“I am, too.” Harry tells him, much to Tom’s surprise. Harry finally lets go of Tom’s arm, and shows him the lightning shaped scar on his forehead. “I got this when they were killed.”Tom stares at the interesting scar openly. He opens his mouth to ask Harry how it happened, but Ron speaks first.“We really need to go,” he looks over his shoulder at some first years loitering around the Great Hall doors, staring at them, “can we have this heart to heart another time?”Harry lets go of his hair, and it falls back in place to cover his scar.“You’ll be decent about blood, then?” he asks Tom.“I will,” Tom promises easily.Harry extends his hand for a second time, this time in an agreement to bury the issue if Tom truly never does it again. Tom takes his hand and shakes it with the same firm grip, the same confident two pumps of their arms. When Tom pulls back, he tries to hide the need to stretch his fingers.He hates touching Harry.They walk up to Gryffindor tower together, and like typical boys, immediately fall back into an easy banter. Tom relaxes somewhat, but years of neglect and abuse demand that he do at least some damage control.Busy trying to be agreeable towards Harry, Tom misses the doubtful look Ron gives him when he wipes his hand surreptitiously against his trousers.
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The Transfiguration professor is a woman. She looms over them, strict as a nun.Hermione is clearly her favorite. They’re learning about permanence this term, which surprises Tom. Fifty years and the curriculum has not changed. Progress is a disease Hogwarts has avoided; it seems.“And can anyone tell me the limitations of permanence?”Hermione’s hand shoots up. “There are several factors to consider. The compatibility of the original object to transfigured subject, the system optimality, and of course, the lifespan of the caster.”“Very good, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor.”Hermione smiles, pleased with herself. Tom shoots McGonagall an exasperated look. Five points for reciting the textbook? The standards have truly fallen.“Professor?” Tom raises his hand. The entire class turns to him in confusion.McGonagall seems surprised. “Yes, Mr. Riddle? How may I help you?”Tom does his best not to look offended at the offer for help. “I wanted to add an amendment to what Hermione said,” he says, carefully avoiding the impulse to check Hermione’s expression, “It ought to be noted that system optimality relies on several factors that are not necessarily intuitive. Firstly, the brightness of the environment. Darker environments tend to hold transfigurations for longer periods of time, while wet environments erode transfigurations faster than dry ones. The temperature of the environment should also be noted. While its influence is slight, it is not negligible.”“Yes, Mr. Riddle, very good.” McGonagall says slowly, then hesitantly, “Five points to Gryffindor.”Tom does not have time to gloat.“Professor?”
This time, Tom does look at her. Her hand is raised, which is pointless since half the time she speaks without waiting to be called on anyway.“Yes, Miss Granger?”“I wanted to thank Tom for his amendment," She says without sparing him a glance, "but I think it pertinent to expand on his answer. While the simple factors Tom listed are important, genetic predisposition is far more predictive for system optimality. Behçet and Hallbeck argue that beyond genetic predisposition, a multifactorial approach is required; environment toxicity, radiation, and natural stressors all provide a keyhole in which we can estimate the lifespan of our transfigurations,” She turns her head to smile sweetly at Tom, her wild hair partially obscuring her malevolent expression, “Their research on permanence was published in 1992.”Tom attempts to smile back, his lips peeling into a tightly controlled sneer.“Very good, Miss Granger!” McGonagall congratulates her star pupil. “Ten points to Gryffindor!”There is some disgruntled mumbling in the Ravenclaw side of the room.“Twenty points to Gryffindor in the span of five minutes!”“Utterly unfair!”He stews quietly for the rest of the lesson, imagining himself yanking out her curls, strand by strand, until she cries in pain.-He walks to Defense Against the Dark Arts with Ron. Hermione walks on ahead, and Harry runs after her. Tom watches them as they bend their heads together, speaking intently on their way to class.“Are they dating?” he asks Ron.“Who?”“Harry and Hermione.”Ron looks sharply at his friends’ backs as if he can sniff out romantic intent by staring hard enough at their skulls. “Harry and Hermione?” he repeats, “No way.”Ron is clearly put out by this idea, but Tom is in a foul mood so he decides to needle him.“Are you certain? They seem awfully friendly.”“Yeah,” Ron says tonelessly, “I’m sure. Hermione isn’t a girl, not like that anyway.”Tom thinks Ron isn’t very smart. Biologically speaking, Hermione is a girl, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask Ron what he really means because their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is filing them into class.“In, in, everyone in. Quickly! You there! What’s your name? Who are you?”The professor is an old man, and very ugly. He looks to Tom like he’s been on the wrong end of a stinging hex one too many times. Tom tries not to stare at his peg leg, or his roaming magical eye.“My name is Tom Riddle, sir.”“Ah, yes. Albus told me about you. Name's Professor Moody. Now get inside! I don’t tolerate dawdling.”Tom is the last student to enter the classroom, thanks to Professor Moody's introduction. There is only one seat in the front that remains empty. Tom slides in to the seat next to Hermione, who is rudely seated close to the middle of the bench. He is about to clear his throat to ask her to move over when the professor raps his wand roughly against his desk.“Shut up!”The class immediately falls silent. Every muscle in Tom's side is clenched in order to avoid t rubbing against the girl. She taps her foot nervously on the floor, completely unaware of his distress.
“Who can tell me the antidote to veritaserum?” The professor asks.Hermione’s hand shoots up.“Speak!”She pulls her hand down and answers, “There is no antidote, sir. However, a tolerance can be built up over time, allowing one to lie even under the influence of vast quantities.”“Correct!”Her face breaks out into another self-satisfied smile. Tom is still tensing his left side.“Sir?” Tom raises his hand.“Spit it out, Mr. Riddle, I haven’t got all day.”“There is one other way to evade the effects of veritaserum.”“Is that so?" Professor Moody's wandering eye pauses to focus on Tom's face, "Inform the class.”“Consuming enough potion in order to build up a tolerance would cost thousands of galleons. If cost is not an issue, time certainly is, for brewing veritaserum adequately takes months. An easier evasion technique is to think circularly, a method first noted by Sebastian Wingard.”“Ah…” The professor’s eye spins wildly in its socket, “Define circular thinking for the class, Mr. Riddle.”Tom opens his mouth to answer, but Hermione interrupts. “It is the act of evading outright falsehoods through technical truths, or partial truths. While Wingard was the first to publish his findings on this topic in 1952, the technique was perfected by Hanz Frigard in the late 70s, and has been a part of auror training curriculum since.”Tom refuses to be outsmarted again by recent research he can't possibly know. He grasps at the weakest point of her rebuttal.
“That is the textbook definition, yes. However, it misses a key aspect of the technique. The Truth that veritaserum seeks to uncover is not a universal one. In fact, falsehoods can be spoken under its influence as long as the imbiber believes they are true. Therefore, it can be argued that if one believes in a lie fervently enough, it could bypass detection.”“The potion does work that way,” Hermione agrees. She turns toward him in her seat, and her knee bumps into his thigh, short-circuiting Tom's brain. “if you were to read a description from a text written in 1969. It has been decades since the true mechanism of action was discovered. Veritaserum belies falsehood by taking limited control of the occipital cortex of the brain, the center for our basest instincts, thereby recording absolute events as they are, not as they are perceived—which was what was previously believed.”Tom fumes. Hermione purses her lips. Her knee is still pressing into his leg.
“Now, now, Miss Granger. Found yourself a rival, have you?” Professor Moody's tongue whips out of his mouth like a snake tasting the air, “Very good. Five points to Miss Granger’s house, for correctly explaining the most recent research on veritaserum.” He turns to Tom next, “And perhaps Mr. Riddle would like to tell us which curse most closely resembles the effects of veritaserum for another five points for his house?”“Verbum vomitum,” Tom answers instinctively, repressing the urge to slam Hermione’s head against their shared table.“Correct. Five points to…?” He glances down at Tom's open collar. He didn't have to heart to put on his red and gold tie this morning.“Gryffindor, sir.”“Five points to Gryffindor, then.” The professor slams his hand on the empty chalk board, and the words verbum vomitum appear on the board, “Now, wands out! Turn to your partner. The motion is slant and jab.”Hermione scoots back before she turns to Tom fully with her wand raised. She’s opening her mouth to say the spell, but Tom is faster. He doesn’t need to speak his spells to cast anyway.The beam of yellow light hits her right in the middle of her forehead.“What’s your name?” Tom asks.“Hermione Guinevere Granger.”“Your favorite color?”“Green, but I also love Red ever since I was sorted into Gryffindor. Although, honestly, blue and purple look best on me, but I can’t go around wearing blue when Ravenclaw house colors are blue, now can I? I like orange too, but not the bright ugly kind, the soft orange of the setting sun—”“What’s your biggest fear?” Tom interrupts her, because he honestly couldn’t care less about her soliloquy on the virtues of the rainbow.“Failure,” she answers automatically, “that’s why I study harder than any other student. It’s imperative to my sense of self-esteem that I have marks that prove that I’m better than everyone else. I have intense anxiety about falling short, however I’m anxious about a lot of things. I frequently lose sleep over my insecurities, such as my teeth, my hair, my face, my body, and my magical strength, to mention a few. Most people think I don't think about my appearance because I'm a bookworm, but I do. Last night I couldn't fall asleep because I was reading this muggle book about anatomy that my mother gave me, and it made me feel really stressed out about sex—” She claps her hands over her mouth in shock. Her eyes are murderous under her pinched brows.“Verbum vomitum!” She jabs her wand at Tom. He’s hit in the shoulder when the desk prevents him from fully scooting out of the way.“What’s your name?”“Tom Marvolo Riddle.”“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”“In third year, I was so angry with my dorm mates that I used their toothbrushes to scrub the shower drain for a week and they all got pharyngitis.”“That’s disgusting!”“When the sixth years wouldn’t leave me alone after I got sorted into Slytherin—”“Shh!” Hermione leans in, motioning for him to keep his voice down, but the general chatter of the classroom protects them from being overheard.Tom continues in a whisper. “I went to the restricted section of the library and learned a curse that would slowly drive a person to madness and cast it on their ring leader. I wasn’t powerful enough to do it correctly, but he did have to leave Hogwarts for a term for proper treatment of his depression at St. Mungo’s.”“That’s… highly immoral!” Hermione whispers back.“I would have kept hurting them, but I didn’t want to get caught. Plus, they stopped bullying me as much, so it wasn’t worth the hassle. My dorm mates usually ignored me, but out of spite I poured unadulterated bubotuber pus all over the contents of their trunks before we left Hogwarts last year. I know it won’t matter to them because they’ll make their house-elves clean it all anyway, and they can replace their trunks entirely if they have to, but I thought it would be worth it if they at least got yelled at by their parents. Pureblood parents have their wands so far up their arse that it pokes out of their noses—”“Tom!” Hermione hisses.“That I enjoy trying to get my dorm mates in trouble with them in embarrassing ways. This year I planned to write an anonymous letter to Abraxas Malfoy’s father informing him that his son has started a secret relationship with a local troll, and prefers snogging instead of attending lessons. I was hopeful that I could get him to lose Hogsmeade privileges, but instead I ended up here.”“You’re insane.”Tom opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it. The spell has worn off, thank God.A loud tapping grabs his attention. The professor is knocking his knuckles against the board.“Enough!”Several students still cannot stop talking, so the professor whips out his wand and casts what Tom assumes to be finite incantum.“Now! What has everyone learned? Someone other than Miss Granger, if you please.”Hermione reluctantly pulls her hand back on her lap. Tom speaks when no one else volunteers.“The spell is difficult to control, and does not last very long.”“Exactly, Mr. Riddle. Exactly. Useful in limited scenarios, but a bloody bother to recast every thirty seconds and extremely difficult to extract the precise information one is looking for.”The bell chimes.“Read pages 34 to 83 by Monday, and I expect everyone to be familiar with the bombarda curse at our next lesson!” The professor calls out as students shuffle to get out of the classroom, some already talking over him as they excitedly share the secrets they were able to extract during the period. Tom laments his inability to avoid the truth under the effects of the verbum vomitum spell. He's much better at it when he isn't under the compulsion of magic.Tom grabs Hermione’s arm before she can leave her seat.“I expect our conversation to remain private, Granger.”She rips her wrist out from under his grip, unfazed by his thinly veiled threat.“Likewise, Riddle.” She responds icily, stepping away without another word.Tom has a strong feeling she doesn’t intend to keep her promise.
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In potions they brew shrinking solution. The professor is a stoic man with stringy black hair. Ron and Harry warn Tom that Professor Snape is a “mean old bat who enjoys torturing gryffindors for sport,” but he doesn’t so much as look at Tom. The professor simply taps his wand on the blackboard and sits at his desk as they begin brewing.Tom works quietly, enjoying the brainless exercise of chopping. He charms his ladle to stir his bubbling cauldron while he works so that its contents don't burn.He’s startled when he feels a presence breathing quite literally down his neck. Professor Snape is standing directly behind him, looking murderous.“Why are you working alone, Mr. Riddle?” His overly large nostrils flare like a horse after a prolonged gallop.“I prefer it that way, sir.”Snape sneers. “Do I look like I care to hear your preferences, Mr. Riddle?”“You don’t, sir.”Snape eyes him suspiciously, sniffing out any hint of sass. Tom keeps his features completely neutral, and looks straight into Snape’s coal-black eyes.“Go sit next to Misters Potter and Weasley.” He commands, then shoots said students a malicious look, “Lord knows the pair of them are the equivalent of one student, so it wouldn’t be unfair to make you a technical third.”Tom does not respond, instead choosing to gather his things. He’s beginning to see what Harry and Ron were talking about. Snape evanescos the contents of Tom’s cauldron, much to his chagrin. What’s worse is Harry and Ron’s cauldron is an ugly shade of murky green, instead of a bright lime green with glassy sheen, as it should be.He spends about five minutes interrogating them on what they’ve done thus far to figure out where they went wrong. He makes the mistake of looking over Ron’s shoulder to see how Hermione is doing. She’s paired with Neville Longbottom, who doesn’t do much work but constantly looks at her adoringly. Their potion is the clearest shade of vibrant chartreuse, with an almost luminescent finish.Tom tries to keep himself from snarling at Harry, who suggests they throw in some beetle dung to try to fix the color.“That would be idiotic, but more importantly, explosive.” Tom snaps, and quickly begins peeling asphodel root. He hands Ron a stem and a knife without a word, and Ron begins doing the same—albeit very clumsily. Tom has done four by the time Ron finishes with the one, and it’s no good to use anyway.Tom slowly eases each root into the potion, carefully monitoring the color with each piece. At three and a quarter pieces, the color is almost perfect. He slices off the extra bit and instruct Harry to begin stirring in counter-clockwise motions for exactly seven minutes. Tom catches Snape watching them, looking extremely irritable. Tom suspects he regrets sending him to his least favorite students' aid. Snape snaps at the poor Slytherin closest to him and dumps his potion sample into the bin.Tom decides it’s best not to try to check in on the professor again.By the end of class, their potion isn’t half bad. Tom feels more proud of his work than he has in a long time, in fact. Snape collects their samples, snatching Hermione’s in silence. Tom makes the mistake of sending Harry to the front of the class. Snape holds their vial to the light, trying to find a flaw in it.He eventually sets it down next to Hermione and Neville’s without a word.-“Did you see that, mate? Bloody brilliant.”“Yeah, I don’t think Snape has ever been so courteous.”“Oh, nah. Never. Really.”“Seriously; we’re not joking.”“One time he vanished all of Harry’s potion just because he felt like it.”“Remember last year when he threw a live toad into my Doxycide? Poor thing.” Ron lowers his voice and leans in towards Tom, “Don’t mention it to Hermione though, she cries whenever she remembers it.”“Oh yeah, that was disgusting.” Harry agrees, “He’s meanest to Neville though, insults him more than even me.”“Who?” Hermione comes up behind them, lugging her large bag over her shoulder.“Snape.” Harry tells her.“Oh yeah, he’s terrible.” She agrees amiably, falling into step between Harry and Ron.“Never does it to his Slytherins though.” Ron adds, both hands in his pockets. He kicks a stray pebble down the stone steps leading further into the dark dungeons.“Malfoy was pretty quiet this lesson, wasn’t he?” Harry thinks aloud, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.“Probably saw how clever Tom was with our potion and didn’t have much to say, innit?” Ron grins at Tom.Hermione hesitates, “No, that’s not why.”“What do you mean, Hermione?” Harry asks.“I… well, he was throwing balled up parchment at Neville.”“Okay…”“Bastard.”“Ron!” Hermione chastises. “Anyway, he wouldn’t stop. And I did ask him to stop, very politely, before either of you say anything.”Tom bristles at the word 'either.' It’s like he’s not even there.“What did you do?” Ron asks, but he’s far from worried. He’s grinning widely, looking giddy with excitement.“I hexed him. Just so he couldn’t talk—but only because he was being so disruptive!”“Brilliant!” Ron roars with laughter.Harry claps Hermione on the back, and she stumbles forward, catching herself on Ron’s arm. Ron looks pleased she’s touching him, but she quickly takes her hands back, smiling sheepishly at their praise. Her eyes slide over to Tom for the first time, finally acknowledging his presence. She stops smiling and nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.“Anyway, I’m going to the library until dinner. See you lot later.”“Hold on,” Tom finally speaks, “I’ll come with.”Three pairs of eyes turn to stare at him, as if he just announced he’s in love with Walburga ‘Walrus’ Black and intends to marry her. He stares blankly back.“Okay…” Hermione says slowly, and Harry begins to nod, as if this makes sense. Ron just shrugs.“See you at dinner,” he says, and the matter is settled.-They walk to the library in silence until they’re far enough away that they won’t be overheard.Tom grabs her arm to stop her. “You can’t hold what I said against me, I was under a compulsion.”“Let go of me!” she snarls, yanking her arm back, but Tom’s grip is firm and she gives up, “It was still the truth!”“Who even asks a question like that? I should’ve asked you the worst thing you’ve ever done, I bet it’s much worse than what I've done!”“It is not!”“Says the girl who casually hexes anyone who annoys her!”“He was being a bully.”“Perhaps Neville deserves to be bullied?” Tom suggests, but Hermione only rolls her eyes.“Oh, please! It’s Neville.” She says, as if his name is explanation enough.“At least promise you won’t say anything about it,” Tom asks, but it comes out more like a demand. Her eyes flash.“Or what, you’ll wipe your bum with my toothbrush?”“What—no! First of all, that would hurt.”This is the wrong thing to say, because she releases a burst of static from where he grips her arm, shocking him into letting her go. Tom is torn between being extremely impressed, and extremely annoyed.“How would I access your toothbrush, anyway?”Hermione bites out a common and somewhat vulgar muggle saying, looking at him with a mixture of disgust and bewilderment. She walking quickly now to get away from him. Tom jogs next to her until he passes her, then walks backwards in order to force her to acknowledge him.“What I mean to say is,” Tom says, stopping in front of her and placing both hands on her shoulders. She begrudgingly stops. “What I really mean—other than the impossibility of the logistics of what you’re suggesting, before anything—I wouldn’t do that again. Those boys were bullies,” She bites her lip at this line of reasoning, clearly remembering that she hexed Malfoy’s mouth closed for a full hour, “Trust me when I say, those boys deserved every single ounce of revenge that I exercised over them.”“So says you.”“Well, you’ll have to accept my word, won’t you? It’s not as if you can ask them.”“Ugh!” She pushes his hands off her shoulders, and begins walking at a brisk pace again. Tom matches her strides easily. They enter the viaduct bridge, and a slight breeze blows against Hermione’s skirt, hinting at the shape of her upper legs. Tom feels his neck get unbearably hot.“Will you just listen!” He snaps.“No!” she snaps back.“At least—at least I don’t have some weird obsession with sex!”Hermione skids to a stop so suddenly that Tom’s side bumps into the back of her arm. She turns slowly, glaring daggers at him.“I do not,” she drops her voice into a whisper, “have a preoccupation with sex.”“Is that why you said you couldn’t sleep last night?”“That was one time. It’s anxiety, not—not a proclivity!”“You’re a nymphomaniac!”“You’re an animal!”“I’m a man.”“You’re fourteen.”“I’ll be fifteen in December.”“Ugh!” Hermione shouts again, whirling away from him and smacking him in the face with a wall of vanilla-scented hair. She marches towards the library, and again, Tom follows.“Let’s just say we both have reasons to be embarrassed.”“You much more so.”“Fine,” Tom grits out, “but I would still appreciate secrecy.”“I know you would,” Hermione taunts, not even bothering to look at him.Tom grabs her arm again, but this time she’s not in the mood for such cheap tricks. Her wand must be up her sleeve because she blasts him hard enough for him to stumble back into the ramparts.“Don’t touch me without my permission, Riddle.” She warns nastily, her eyes filled with malice, “I’m a feminist, you see.”Tom has no idea what a feminist is. He’s steaming in shame, laid flat on his ass by an angry teenage witch. He’s only glad there are no witnesses, but that seems by design.Hermione’s angry expression suddenly clears. She flips her hair over her other shoulder, preening.“See you in the library. I’ll be sure to save you a seat.”