Being sorted into Slytherin was, at that tender young age, the proudest and happiest moment of my life. Innocent then, with no idea just how much torment it would lead to, how my life would be marred by such horrifying tragedy. Little Sammy Black, as I was known at the time, with a divided inheritance that I was aware of but understood little the implications. Sitting at the front of The Great Hall at Hogwarts on September the first 1938, with all those faces looking at me, the sorting hat down over my head, when the name 'Slytherin' erupted from it I felt nothing but unbridled joy. My only wish was that my Uncle Arcturus could have seen me at that moment, as I took a bow to the applause of my new housemates before leaving the stage and making my way to the Slytherin table. The first out of that year's crop of new students to be sorted into what I considered to be the greatest of the houses, I received pats on the back and welcoming smiles from my new friends. I caught the eye of my cousin Lucretia, in her 2nd-year at the school, and grinned at her. She seemed uncharacteristically cold towards me, not returning my smile with anything close to enthusiasm and then looking back towards the front of the hall. At the time, I did not know why, at least not on a conscious level, but I was feeling far too pleased with myself to ponder on it. Only later, when the excitement had worn off did I try to approach the subject, but that is a tale for later.
To begin with I should introduce myself; I am Samuel Phineas Black, an honorary member of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. My mother was a witch and served as my tenuous connection to the once great house, she disgraced herself and dishonoured her family by getting pregnant by a Muggle, that Muggle was my father although I don't think he ever even knew I had been conceived. Naturally her name was blasted from the tapestry which chronicles the family tree and I was robbed of any claim I might have had to my full place within the house. When my grandfather, Sirius Black II caught up with my mother I was only a few months old, he executed her and would have killed me had I not been saved by the timely arrival of the aurors. With him in Azkaban and his father Phineas recently deceased, my Uncle Arcturus became the head of the family. No words could express just how much I loved my Uncle Arcturus, how greatly I appreciated the kindness he had shown me and the warmth and affection I had received from him. Still a young man when my mother was killed, a father of a young child himself and grieving for the loss of his sister, he took pity on me and allowed me to come and live at his home. It would be a stretch to say that he raised me as one of his own but, in my mind at least, he treated me far better than I deserved.
My early childhood was filled with joy after this shaky start. I was instructed in the basics of education by my more-than-capable uncle; I was well-fed, well-clothed and had a constant playmate in my Lucretia, and later in her little brother Orion, my two wonderful cousins who I envied not for their place as the heirs to the house but because they were able to call such a wonderful man as Uncle Arcturus their father. Even as the Black family fortunes began to take a turn for the worse thanks to Arcturus' loss of face in the pure-blood community both my belly and my heart remained more than satisfied. My uncle's wife, who insisted I call her Mrs. Black and never Aunt Melania, was the only person in my life who ever showed more than a passing intolerance to me because of the terrible affliction that was my half-blood status.
Now at Hogwarts at last, and sorted into Slytherin, I felt as though this was the beginning of a chance to prove to my family that the faith they had placed in me had not been misspent. I could do that best by excelling in my studies and, perhaps more than that, by being a good Slytherin for I knew that this was the house of choice for all but the disgraced members of our family. The fact that I had been sorted into it despite my dishonour was, in my young mind, proof that I could still achieve greatness and restore myself in the eyes of our world. The only problem was that I had little idea about what it meant to be a Slytherin; I knew it was valued but not how or why.
I have a romanticised idea of my first meeting with Tom Riddle in my head, often I have claimed that we bonded over our shared status as half-bloods in a house that held pure-bloodedness in such high esteem and formed a strong friendship based on our common desire to prove our detractors wrong. This is not the case at all; in fact we simply happened to find ourselves sitting next to each other in most of our lessons. I was eager to learn and so was he so we both headed straight for the desk nearest to the teacher in each of our lessons. Tom was never the chattiest of companions, although I later saw he could be charming when he wanted, and so other than the most basic of pleasantries I had hardly spoken to him, I didn't even know that he, like me, was a half-blood. It was only after lunch on the third day when we entered the Transfiguration classroom for the first time that I felt him tugging on my sleeve.
"Don't sit there, come and sit at the back with me," he said.
Being too easily led has always been one of my greatest flaws and without even thinking about Tom's sudden desire to be so far away from the teacher I followed him to the back of the classroom. I regretted it instantly of course, not having the best view of Professor Dumbledore as he placed his hat on his desk and transfigured it into a chicken but had to stifle a laugh when Tom muttered something about Dumbledore being a bird-brain, a funny joke to an 11-year-old. I smiled at him and he smiled at me and from that moment on I wanted to be his friend.
We sat with each other at dinner that evening and this was the first time I ever had a real conversation with Tom Riddle. I told him about my parentage and he opened up to me, telling me that he too was an orphan and that he had spent his life at a Muggle orphanage. He theorized that he must be a half-blood too because his mother had died and his eyes lit up as he began to contemplate aloud that perhaps his father had been at Hogwarts. His excitement was contagious and I eagerly joined in with his musings.
"Maybe you should look in the trophy room," I suggested, "He might have been won something while he was here."
The moment these words were out of my mouth I observed a change in Tom, his shoulders fell and he looked up at me with a peculiar look in his eyes. It was almost as if he had forgotten I was even there and that I had interrupted a private dialogue between himself and his thoughts. For one brief terrifying second there was rage in his face; not like the anger of my uncle when I neglected my household chores, this anger of my new friend's was much colder and more sinister. And then it disappeared, suddenly replaced by a warm smile.
"That's a brilliant idea!" he said brightly, "You could be a detective."
Pleased at his apparent acceptance of my idea, I immediately forgot about the strangeness of his initial reaction to my offering and thought nothing more of it. As Tom and I spent more time together I noticed more and more of these strange looks he gave to people, although seldom to me after that day. Years later it is easy to see these for what they were, hints of the hidden fury and malevolence that lay at Tom's very heart, but at the time I was just pleased to have made a friend. Eventually he got better at hiding his emotions, at least until it was no longer necessary for him to keep up the facade of being anything less than the Lord Voldemort we all know and fear, but we will come to that in due course.
In those days students were discouraged from lingering in the trophy room for fear of vandalism or theft. Irrational as this was considering the magical protections on the accolades the room housed, as a couple of First-Years we were hardly in a position to try to mount a challenge to the rules. Tom only barely managed to hide how obsessed he had become with the idea, again something he would grow better at over time, and he spoke to me of nothing else. Pleased as I was at the idea of helping him find the answers he so desperately sought to questions about his family history I found his behaviour quite odd. Whenever we spoke in private if I tried to talk about anything else he would always steer the question back to how we were going to conduct a thorough inspection of the trophy room.
"It might take us a good few hours to look at every single trophy in there," he said to me one evening about a week later.
It took a few moments for it to register in my mind what he was talking about as I had asked him for help with my Potions homework. Disappointed that he had no interest in helping me with my essay I sighed and said, "You're right, it'd take ages. Maybe if we just asked Professor Slughorn..."
"No!" There was that flash of rage in his eyes again, "I don't want anyone to know. You can't tell anybody I won't let you."
Chilled by the menace in his voice I said, "Well what else can you do, Tom? The only way you'd have enough time to check properly would be if you snuck down at night but if you got caught..."
Raising a finger without saying a word was enough for Tom to interrupt me; he looked deep in thought for a moment and then smiled and said, "That's what we'll do. We'll sneak up to the trophy room when everyone's tucked up in bed."
"Tom, I can't..."
"You have to," Tom said this as though the matter was already decided upon. "It will be a lot easier if there are two of us."
I tried to talk him out of it but when that didn't work I muttered something about not wanting to get into trouble and that he could go on his own if he was so determined to be expelled.
"I will then," Tom replied coldly, "I thought we were friends but obviously I was wrong."
So easily manipulated, this was all it took for me to relent and agree to go along with the plan. This was to become a common theme in my life, all it took was for Tom to threaten to revoke his friendship and I could be persuaded to participate in just about any scheme he concocted.
"Excellent," Tom grinned, "We'll go tonight."