School: Beauxbatons
Prompts:(main)Vertigo ,Firebolt
Theme:Blocking
*As Firebolts were not invented in this story's time era, I had to change it a bit.
Year: 5
Wordcount:2321
On the last day of December, the day that would be known as the day before New Year to Muggles and the fifth Demon Day to Egyptians, a young woman staggered into a large, cinder-block building that proclaimed itself "Wool's Orphanage". The day was one of the coldest Britain had experienced in years, and the staff at the orphanage wondered how this woman had survived in the cold- pregnant, no less.
Merely two hours later, this woman gave birth to a healthy, jet-black-haired baby boy. She perished only moments later, weak from hunger, childbirth and exposure to the weather outside. Yet her child grew up healthy, and it was this single action that would set off the events which could have ruined the Wizarding World.
On the thirty-first of December in the year 1926, Tom Marvolo Riddle was born.
~ooOOOoo~
Over the years, Tom came to hate the orphanage. He felt that he was special: he could often do things others could not. To counter the feelings of rage and frustration towards being trapped and unrecognized, he used his ability to do things. He started small: teasing the younger children, and if they didn't do exactly as he told them to, they would regret it. Many learnt that if they didn't want their favourite soft toy or trinket mysteriously disappearing in the middle of the night, they just had to do what Tom Riddle said.
This was easier said than done. Tom would tell them to give him their breakfast or dinner when the staff wasn't looking, and telling on him wouldn't work either. One brave orphan named Billy Stubbs dared to tell the orphanage staff that Tom Riddle was bullying him. The two boys had a fight over it, but Billy would not relent. The following morning he found his pet rabbit, the one thing he had left from his dead parents, hanging from the rafters of the orphanage's front building. The staff had no proof that it was him who had done it, but they were still suspicious.
This led to Tom being isolated and friendless for most of his earlier life. He didn't mind, and soon, he grew to love it.
At the tender age of eight, he was taken on his first vacation to the countryside. He was bored stiff: the other orphans had gone on a nature walk, but he had been left behind with Mrs. Cole as punishment for "provoking" another child. What were they to him? He was powerful, unique and different, while they were just normal children.
While he sat brooding about this on a stump, a grass snake slithered next to him. Mrs. Cole, who was having a late lunch, did not notice.
"What are you doing here?" he heard someone say. He turned around, but there was no one in sight except the stolid matron. "Mrs. Cole," he called in the politest tones he could muster, "did you speak to me?"
"No, of course not," came the reply. "You're supposed to be punished, and anyway, I wouldn't talk with my mouth full. It's bad manners, you know."
So if it wasn't her, who could it have been?
"You're probably imagining things, Tom. If you had gone on the walk with the others, you would have had much more fun, but that's what happens to boys who don't behave themselves…"
Tuning out her well-meant lecture, Tom looked down at his feet, where the sound seemed to have come from.
"Hey, you," the voice said again. Unless Tom was very much mistaken, it seemed to be coming from the snake. But snakes couldn't speak human languages….could they?
"Yes?" he said, in the same way the snake spoke to him. If there was no answer, he could be sure that he was imagining things.
If a snake could look surprised, this one did. "You know my way of speech?" the snake hissed, regarding him with suspicion in its yellow-green eyes.
"I thought you knew English," Tom said.
The snake reared, as if offended. "We snakes are of a separate kind. We have our own ways of communication, and do not speak your barbarous human tongues."
"I am not as uncivilized as you think."
"Not you, maybe. But take it from me, boy-most of the others are. If you want to go far-and I have a feeling you will-learn some things from us snakes. Cunning, careful planning and the value of a cleanly done job have always been underestimated by you humans." Glancing over Tom's shoulder, the snake said, "I must take my leave. But I am glad we had this conversation."
As it slithered away, Tom felt a tap on his shoulder. "What," asked Mrs. Cole, "do you think you are doing?"
Tom was punished for the rest of the trip, but it was nothing compared to his newfound knowledge.
He could talk to snakes.
~ooOOOoo~
When he was visited by the "professor", it came as a shock to Mrs. Cole that he was important enough to be visited, but for him, it was the best moment of his life. To him, it meant freedom, liberation from the stifling routine of orphanage life where he could not make his own choices and was as non-independent as it was possible to be.
He'd had enough of being micromanaged. It was time for him to take control.
~ooOOOoo~
As he tapped the bricks in the sequence that Tom, the old barman, had instructed him to, they drew back, leaving a hole wide enough for him to pass through. He took a breath and stepped in.
The inside was nothing like as well as everything he'd imagined it to be. The place was bustling with robed witches and wizards going about their business. The shops flashed with old-fashioned, yet eye-catching displays. He walked through the crowd, thankful that no one noticed that he was alone.
He grasped the pocket of coins he had been given from the Fund. He knew he would have to get his things secondhand, which irked him, but was also the reason why his first destination was Ollivander's. He needed the most important thing first. The others could come later.
The moment he opened the door, he saw movement at the back of a shop. The place smelt faintly musty, as if it had not been cleaned or changed for a long time, oddly disconcerting yet comforting at the same time. The shop was lined with hundreds of shelves, on which millions of dusty boxes sat, some in precarious positions. A soft voice said, "Welcome." It momentarily surprised him till he caught sight of the speaker: an old, withered, lined man who looked almost as ancient as his shop. The man's grey-eyed face was uncomfortably close to his. He backed away. "I need a wand."
'And you will have one." The man, to his relief, moved away and started pulling boxes off the shelves, releasing dust clouds all over the shop. He handed Tom one. "Ebony and unicorn hair, nice and supple. Wave it." He did so, but nothing happened. A few twenty wands later, he was getting bored; however, the owner only looked more enthusiastic. He extricated a wand from the oldest-looking pile in the room and handed it to him. "Yew and phoenix feather, an unusual combination….but very powerful, if you would try it."
The moment he touched it, he felt power flow into his body, and the wand erupted green sparks. He felt weightless, suddenly, and freer than he'd ever been. "I'll take it."
~ooOOOoo~
Hogwarts was amazing. What most surprised him, though, was that before he'd spent an hour in there, it started to feel like home. So many great wizards and witches who had gone down in history had studied at Hogwarts. It gave him a queer feeling of vertigo: for all he knew, Salazar Slytherin had sat at this very table, discussing the future of his school.
The Hat's decision had not surprised it. Moments after it had touched his head, it had muttered, "Oh, there's no question about it. You definitely belong in SLYTHERIN!"
He was glad to hear it. He knew he was cunning, and was not afraid to hide it.
Was he finally free?
The years went on, continuing his Hogwarts life. The teachers came to love him-well, all except Dumbledore. Tom suspected he'd told him a little too much about himself during that first conversation, but it couldn't be helped now. Besides, one teacher could not make such a big difference.
Somewhere in his third year, his research on his family started turning up better results. By the time he was in fifth year, he was out exploring. No one suspected, which was how he wanted it to be.
His sixth year, however, took a turn for the more dangerous. Having uncovered his birthplace in one of the orphanage's old "confidential" records, he set off to Little Hangleton, aiming to reclaim what was rightfully his and-more importantly-get to the root of the matter.
When he returned to Hogwarts after the summer holidays, people said he had changed. Many of his fellow Slytherins admired him for it, which did him no harm. They were too stupid to grasp the truth and too cowardly to ask. In truth-and the thought came to him only after he met his end-if he had one close friend, someone he trusted enough to talk normally with, he might have never gone down the path he chose.
For he had changed; he felt it after that fateful visit. The knowledge that his mother was a Squib and his father, who he had hoped was a powerful wizard, was, of all things, a Muggle. He would take his own path. If it had no benefit, at least it would see that he did not fade into nothingness like so many of his predecessors.
~ooOOOoo~
He walked towards Slughorn's office that Saturday night, reluctant to go. At the same time, he knew that this was important. A party in Slughorn's office just three months before he left Hogwarts could and very probably would decide his future. He walked there alone, his group of admirers trailing along behind him, but a comfortable distance away. He was late when he reached the office, for which he was thankful: at least Slughorn wouldn't be able to display him to everyone like a trophy. His relief was unfounded, however, for as soon as Slughorn caught sight of him, he beckoned, grinning at the person he was talking to. "Perry, this is Tom Riddle, my star pupil. Tom, this is Perry Bode, who captains the Wimbourne Wasps. He was once an old student of mine, and a Slytherin prefect, too. You two should get along wonderfully." Leaving them to chat, Slughorn waddled to the door to greet the newest swarm of party guests.
"Hi," Tom said, rather awkwardly. His mask was necessary here: he wanted to be seen as a shy yet promising student.
Perry smiled by way of greeting. "So, you're a Slytherin prefect."
Tom nodded.
"Professor Slughorn's your Head of House then, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"How's the prefect life?"
"It's very busy."
"Busy, but fun: the power it gives you, the ability to terrorise the younger students…. Please don't tell me you haven't tried it!"
"Oh, I have," Tom smiled. "It is good fun, but it will be over all too soon."
"Never mind, the best you can do is enjoy what you've got left," Perry said lightly. "Do you play Quidditch, by the way?"
"No, it isn't something I've ever been very interested in."
"Merlin's beard, why?" Perry said, his face falling ever so slightly before taking on a rather mischievous expression. "Something happened at your first class, didn't it?"
Tom was caught by surprise. "How did you know?"
"Hey, I've been a captain for long enough to know when someone's had bad experiences with a broom," the other replied. "Come on, what happened?"
Rather dazedly, Tom recalled the incident. "Well, I was having my first flying lesson, and I told the broom to come to my hand. It worked, but then it quivered slightly, as if it was scared. That wasn't the worst part, though. As soon as I managed to get the broom up into the air, I felt really dizzy, and the vertigo made me fall off my broom. I had to stay in the Hospital Wing for two days. It was embarrassing." He didn't think it was important to mention that it was the only time in his entire Hogwarts history that he'd been to the hospital wing.
Perry nodded sympathetically. "It must have been. We can go outside, if you'd like, and I can show you a few pointers."
"Do you mean it?"
"Of course." He signaled to Professor Slughorn to let him know they'd be back soon, grabbed his broom from where it lay near the door and led him to an empty classroom. He tossed his broom to Tom. "Try this." Surprisingly, when he caught it, it seemed much firmer than the school broom he'd ridden. "Is this its name?" he said, brushing his fingers over the word "Firebolt" emblazoned on the handle.
"Yes, you won't find a broom like that anywhere else. It's got a few modifications. Try mounting it."
Tom managed to mount it reassuringly well.
"Okay, now pull up with your legs. Not too much, we don't have the space-just enough to hover."
As he did, the old, familiar sense of vertigo came to him. He shook his head, determined. He'd been controlled by so many. Not any more.
To the end of his days, he never knew what made him do it. In the end, though, it had been useful. It had helped him get over a fear of flying-and that was one of the only two fears he had.
If not completely free, he was more in control than he'd been before.