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Seven
'Of course, he was perhaps the most brilliant student that Hogwarts has ever seen.'
- Albus Dumbledore; Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
1938 – 1939
The hall was filled with unfamiliar faces and golden plates and candles that floated and ghosts that spoke and a ceiling that made Tom think of eternity. He was sure that the other children felt the same as he did, their eyes were round as saucers as they drank in the surreal sight.
Yet more unbelievable were the Hat that sung and the resounding applause that reminded Tom of rapid-gunfire, or perhaps his own heartbeat racing in his ears. The applause continued at sporadic intervals and the line Tom stood in dwindled to the tune of the alphabet.
His name was called and he bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He purposefully ignored Dumbledore's encouraging face, tasting the salty tang of blood on his tongue, and pulled the Hat onto his head.
The Hat recognised the blood in his mouth and gave him a home, and Tom revelled in the name as it was shouted out, all mesmerising and arcane; twisting power on a bed of green and silver stars.
1939 – 1940
He heard of the Chamber for the first time in the Slytherin common room, the legend recounted in impressive, suspense-laden tones. Of course, the narrators treated it as a myth and embellished it like one, but Tom knew his way around the library well enough to distil the tale and boil it down to the essence.
Slytherin, Chamber, Monster, Heir. Tom decided that anything could be real in a realm of magic and treated the legend as fact. And occasionally, he recited it to himself in his head, when classes were boring or insomnia washed over him.
Something about the name stirred Tom's blood, made his palms itch and tingle with barely-contained power. The Chamber of Secrets: it sounded so right, so familiar, as though it were his own name.
Tom liked the feeling.
1940 – 1941
He dreamed of a dark man standing in a chamber, face etched with an emotion Tom could not place. Hisses slithered from his mouth in a never-ceasing chorus and Tom understood that this was ancient magic and that it was pure.
The dream shifted and he could see a woman stumble through the streets of London, a heavy gold locket clasped around her throat. The magic in it called like a song and Tom reached out a hand, but it passed through the woman as though she were a ghost.
And then there were fragments of words he'd never heard, an ethereal tone whispering 'mark him as…' and a woman pleading for someone to 'kill me instead!' Tom blanched at the tone, desperate and pleading, but was pulled away by green light shining sickly through his eyelids.
He woke in the dormitory, the green lamps glowing like coals and tried to remember, but the vision had slipped through his fingers like running water and it was no use.
1941 – 1942
The wafer thin pages were like skin and, by logical extension, the black ink was like blood, flowing in ancient, predetermined lines to a truth Tom could barely believe.
He sat back and stared at the family tree, imprinting its patterns and endless wave of names and dates into his mind, knowing that this, at last, was his family.
Tom's name was not on the page, there was no line adjoining 'Merope Gaunt, 1909 –' to a father and nothing indicating that she'd ever had a son. Carefully, the son of Merope Gaunt, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, lowered his quill to the ancient parchment and wrote the words 'Tom Marvolo Riddle, 1927 –' at the very bottom of the tree.
If all went to plan, a date of death would never be added.
1942 – 1943
Five years of searching, of painstaking research and barely daring to dream that maybe, just maybe, he might be the one prophesised and now Tom was standing in a completely non-dramatic bathroom gazing at a tiny scratching on a tap. The moment was so anti-climactic that he wanted to laugh, but of course it was late at night and to be caught now, so close to the ultimate goal, would be unthinkable.
Instead, he stepped closer to the tap and hissed, feeling the weight of the universe press against his teeth as he commanded the snake to spill its secrets.
Ancient stone grated harshly as the sinks twisted and dropped, and the magic melted to let him pass.
With every breath he took, every heartbeat that pumped the magic through his veins, Tom was shedding his outer skin like a snake.
1943 – 1944
It was irony, pure and simple; that he went searching for his mother's family and found his father's too. He'd never expected to discover his father's identity, though he'd hoped for it a few times, at the orphanage, at Hogwarts, in his dreams. And now his uncle was before him, unknowingly giving him the most precious gift Tom could ever want.
It didn't stop him from dooming the other man, of course, but Tom still hissed a thank you into the unconscious man's ear before walking out the door. Niceties must be observed, after all.
The niceties extended to telling his father and grandparents the identity of their killer, though that might also have been interpreted as cruelty on Tom's part. Certainly, he enjoyed it, watching his father's face pale with the realisation that he'd brought this on himself.
He left Little Hangleton feeling supremely satisfied and was in such a good mood when he got back to the orphanage that he managed to smile at Amy Benson, now fourteen and desperate to please.
1944 – 1945
He was Head Boy that year, the shining silver badge pinned neatly to his robes in an undeniable sign of the authority he wielded at Hogwarts.
But by then, he had gained much more power than that of just the Head Boy and smiled with something resembling humour when he glanced down and saw the badge. The professors could never know exactly how much he'd achieved here at Hogwarts, how a mere glance from him could quieten a room or alter the mood.
Dumbledore had an inkling, probably because Dumbledore was the only one who could feel power, real power, and know that he was feeling it. His eyes met Tom's, sizing him up, on more than one occasion, but it was too little too late.
Tom left the badge at Hogwarts on the last day, dropping it onto the floor of the bathroom. It skittered underneath the sinks and rested there, glinting silver in the gloom.
He turned away. His future was waiting for him.
End.
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