I think I've loved him since we were eleven. Is it perverse to say that the longing was there even before we knew how to long completely for another being? We met for the first time during a cruel hazing ritual - the Slytherin first years had to name at least three generations of our family trees to prove our blood purity, or else jog around the common room in our underpants, with "Mudblood" charmed onto the seat of our pants. I escaped unscathed, because my elder sister Walburga was a feared and respected member of the house, and anyway I'd learnt the names of three generations of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black by heart before I could even count, but he wasn't so lucky. When his turn came I watched him stare coldly at his tormentors. He didn't seem afraid, but he didn't stand up to them either. He didn't struggle when they charmed his trousers off and emblazoned "Mudblood" in ironic fine gold thread across his threadbare boxers. Without a word he ran his two rounds around the common room, seemingly immune to the laughter and catcalls. If the older boys had had more of an imagination, they might have seen his unresponsiveness as a challenge, but they were as stupid as they were cruel, and quickly abandoned him for their next victim.
Later that night, when I went downstairs to prepare for bed, I saw him sitting up in bed, dressed again and waving his wand repeatedly at his boxers.
"You alright?" I asked, and he looked at me with the same cold expression he'd given the older boys.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked tersely.
I shrugged and gestured lamely at the boxers spread across his lap.
"It's almost all gone," he said, and true enough, a closer look revealed that only the "blood" in "Mudblood" was left, and even that was frayed. It was an impressive piece of magic for someone who must never have been taught a spell in his life. I couldn't have managed it; all I knew were the names of people who were long dead and rotting in their graves.
"I'm Alfie," I said.
"I'm Tom," he said. Unexpectedly he put his boxers aside and got out of bed to shake my hand, such a strange and solemn gesture for an eleven year old.
Yes, I think I must have loved him since then.
Beyond the walls of the castle that had become our home a war was going on, and people, especially muggles, were dying by the thousands. All of this existed only at the periphery of our lives, in conversations and heated debates among seventh years and the professors. War was an abstraction; I knew what it was, but not what it meant, except to people like me. Within the castle there was only bliss.
After school and on weekends he and I would explore Hogwarts. Methodical as he was, he made a map of the castle, and every time we discovered a new corridor, or a new room, he'd stop to mark it carefully on his map. We discovered what led where, which doors always opened to the same place, and which doors and stairways sometimes led elsewhere. We found shortcuts, and often were the last to leave the Great Hall after meals because we knew exactly where we were going. The knowledge we gathered we shared with no one.
Some of what we learned we learned through brute force, by wandering and probing walls and examining statues. I would have been content wandering for hours, but then I was there for the adventure. He was hungry for knowledge, and wandering was never quick enough for him. He read books, he coaxed and tricked portraits and ghosts into telling him what he wanted to know. For someone so unpopular among his fellow students, he was a sensation among the portraits and the ghosts. I think he could have gotten the Bloody Baron to tell him anything if he'd tried. He'd flatter them, but subtly, by listening rather than talking, letting them tell him their stories about their lives, their past triumphs and loves, laughing and sounding impressed where appropriate. No one else had thought to give them what he did - attention - and they gladly gave away the secrets of the castle, sometimes without him asking, in a story about their time at Hogwarts.
This was how we learned the secret of the one-eyed witch on the third floor.
With a whispered "Diffindo" early one Saturday morning, we swung her open and slid down a very long, very dark tunnel until we found ourselves in some sort of store room, surrounded by barrels and crates of…
"Sweets." I laughed, ecstatic, dipping my arms elbow-deep into chocolate wrapped in bright rainbow colours, like a barrel full of shimmering fish.
"Shh," Tom warned, heading to the door and opening it cautiously to check that the storefront still empty. "Have your breakfast later," he hissed, "let's get out of here before anyone sees us."
I stuffed my pocket with as much chocolate as I could and followed him out the door and into the promised land of Hogsmeade.
It was probably one of the loveliest days I'd had. Just the two of us running through a new town as it was waking up on a weekend morning, pressing our noses against store windows, me telling him the names of the things we saw - that's a Pensieve, you can use it to store memories you're afraid you'll forget, that's a Mokeskin pouch, you can put things in there and no one but you can take them out, trying at lunch to order fire whiskeys with our fish and chips and receiving stern looks instead, then sitting by the fountain with ice creams, licking them in amicable silence, just swinging and swinging and swinging our legs.
Quidditch was the first thing to come between us. Tryouts for the Slytherin junior team began the first Sunday of the first month, and I'd been anticipating them since early in the summer, when I got my Hogwarts letter. The night before tryouts I lay in bed carefully polishing my broom (a Comet 150, latest in the series!), when Tom came over.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, sitting down at the foot of my bed.
"What?" I laughed when I understood. "No, I'm trying out for quidditch tomorrow. I think I've got a good shot at making it, I practiced all summer."
"Oh." A shadow passed over his gaze. "Yes I heard the quidditch tryouts are tomorrow. I'm sure you'll make it, it's only the junior team." He got up, seemingly oblivious to my stare, and ascended the stairs back to the common room.
"Going somewhere?" I called after him.
"I have homework to do," he said without looking back.
"But we finished it an hour ago."
"Not the extra credit," he said, and disappeared.
We were still friends after I made the (junior) quidditch team (as Chaser, the position I'd been hoping for!), only we stopped spending as much time together, and there weren't any other forbidden weekends at Hogsmeade. Instead I saw more of the other first year Slytherins. My cousin Abraxas Malfoy had made seeker, Octavius Lestrange and a second year were the other two chasers, and the keeper and beaters were third years, probably because they possessed a bulk that all first and second years lacked. After practice we'd sprawl over the best armchairs in the common room and talk quidditch and fly paper dragons into the fire, and a sort of hierarchy established itself among the younger students, with the rest allowing us to take much more space than we needed.
Tom was never to be found in the common room on quidditch practice nights. I can see why, now; we were pretentious and unbearable, and our conversation, centering around the British Wizarding League and our wealthy pureblood families, had nothing to offer him. He'd stay out till late, probably in the library since he was always carrying thick musty volumes around and choking everyone in the vicinity with their dust, and often return after I'd fallen asleep.
I wanted to introduce him to my new friends, but he didn't seem interested and would somehow slip away whenever they appeared and engaged me in conversation. He also didn't care for quidditch - it was the one part of the magical world he had no interest in - and never attended any of the interhouse matches I asked him to.
One morning one of the sixth years woke up with a snout for a nose and a pig's tail protruding thickly through his pants, and when he tried to scream only snorts came out. Everyone laughed and snapped pictures and took their time to fix the sixth year, but no one stepped forward to take credit for the crime. It was finally decided that it could have been anyone, since the particular sixth year targeted had made a lot of enemies in his time at Hogwarts, but it was likely to be a fifth year since they had just learned partial human transfiguration.
A month later, in a seemingly unconnected incident, the Slytherins woke up to a foul stench, and it was quickly discovered that a seventh year had soiled himself while sleeping. Again there was derisive laughter, but this time the mess was fixed with considerably more speed.
It took a while for me to realize that the sixth year and the seventh year had been two of the three older students to haze the first years, and I predicted the next prank before it happened.
We were working in the library when I remembered Christmas was around the corner.
"Tom," I began, "What are you doing for Christmas?"
"I'm staying at Hogwarts," he said.
"You could come home with me," I said eagerly, and he cocked his head, considering the proposition.
"Shhhh!" hissed the librarian angrily in our direction.
Finally he nodded, smiling slightly. "I'd like that," he whispered.
My parents agreed to let Tom stay for Christmas, probably because I made up a story about how he was a distant cousin of the Dolohovs, and thus of respectable heritage. Thankfully Walburga didn't contradict my story, though it certainly wasn't out of sympathy for me. As a seventh year, she barely registered the presence of the first years, and hadn't ever deigned to find out anything about Tom. However, despite my best efforts, my family took an instant disliking to him. They disapproved of his clothes - the second hand robes, the unpolished shoes - and the way he made his bed in the morning instead of leaving it to the house elf. After the first dinner at home, my mother pulled me aside and hissed that I should be more judicious in my choice of company, and that I was failing the Noble and Most Ancient house of Black. I hissed back that it wasn't very noble to be rude to your company, and she twisted my ear, but I managed to wrench free.
Still, Tom didn't seem to mind at all that he was unwelcome. He was fascinated by the house, and we spent our holidays rummaging through family heirlooms in the attics (Mother had Kritter catalogue the attic every night to make sure nothing was missing) seeing what they did. It harkened back to our first month at Hogwarts. I told him everything I knew about the things we found, and when my knowledge was lacking (as it often was - I'd spent most of my childhood playing quidditch in the backyard rather than sifting through trinkets) I'd call Mother over and ask her to explain.
Somehow Tom's interest in our family history endeared him to Mother (although she would never have admitted it). She was softer with him when she told us about the cursed diamond ring her grandmother's ex-lover had posted to her after she married another man, or about her own childhood in the Malfoy Manor, and she even asked Kritter to dust out our magic carpet (acquired in Egypt half a century ago, apparently, before the ban) so we could take it for a quick ride around the house. Then we toppled over an urn and spilled my great grandfather's ashes all over the carpeting, and she went back to being disapproving.
Christmas morning came and at eleven, after Father had read the paper and seen to his affairs, we were all allowed to unwrap our presents.
A set of dress robes from Mother… "You'll wear them when we have New Year's dinner at the Malfoys," she said.
From Tom, a book on the history of accidents in quidditch, which made me laugh.
An enchanted Christmas card from Cygnus, who was only four, that sang when you prodded it, and a box of firewhisky chocolates from Walburga... Like I said, she hadn't deigned to get to know the first years very well, me included.
Then there were envelopes of money from various extended relatives, and I pocketed the money, promising Mother to send out thank you notes the next day. Finally, I unwrapped the largest present yet, which was from Father.
It was a cage. Inside there was a snake, feasting lazily on the remains of a rat.
"It's a Green Tree Python," Father said. "I thought you could do with a pet."
The python was beautiful, with scales of vivid emerald. Tom edged up beside me and pressed his nose against the wires of the cage.
"It's beautiful," he said.
"And dangerous," Father warned as the python approached Tom, but Tom didn't move. The snake began flicking its tongue against Tom's nose, licking him, I realized. Tom laughed, the happiest sound I'd ever heard him make. He poked a finger into the cage and stroked the snake's neck. The snake hissed. And then Tom hissed back.
I looked up at Mother and Father and saw that they'd gone white.
Tom was still hissing at the python.
"Tom, what are you doing?" I asked uncertainly.
"What?" He seemed not to know what he had just done. "I was just talking to Chandra. She says her name is Chandra and she would like another rat if you could spare one." He looked at Mother and Father, who seemed to still be recovering.
"Alfie," began Father weakly, "you never mentioned your friend was a Parselmouth."
Tom looked up. "Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth. I didn't know it was rare to be one."
"Salazar Slytherin was the first Parselmouth. Almost every other known Parselmouth since then is a descendent of his," said Father.
"Tom," said Mother, addressing Tom by his name for the first time, "Which family are you from? Alfie said you're a distant relative of the Dolohovs."
Tom looked at me, his lips quirking. "I suppose Alfie must have taken pity on me and given me a heritage when I have none. My parents died when I was very young. I don't know their names or who they were."
Mother and Father exchanged significant looks.
"Do we have any records on the Slytherin lineage?" asked Father.
Not liking how Christmas morning was turning into a history lesson, I turned to Tom and asked if he wanted to play chess, one of the few games he approved of.
"No," he said, "I'd like to look at the records."
Christmas changed Tom. When he returned to Hogwarts he was bolder, more confident, like he'd suddenly grown into himself. Word got around that he was a Parselmouth - it must have been Abraxas' doing, since I hadn't told anyone - and people would come up to him and ask to see for themselves.
"Is it true you're descended from Salazar Slytherin himself?"
"Hey Riddle, want to assist me in a little prank involving a snake and Parkinson's bed?"
"Why isn't my snake eating? Is she sick?"
The excitement died away eventually, but the respect didn't.
Tom began to spend almost all his time in the library, poring through ancient volumes and newspaper clippings, chasing the leads my parents had given him. I understood that he wanted to know who his parents were, but found this endless obsession with pureblood history extremely tiring. I'd grown up surrounded by it, and coming to Hogwarts and meeting Tom had been a breath of fresh air.
Still, Tom was my friend and I loved him, and I sat beside him as he read, Chandra twined around us. Eventually Tom would come back to the present and we would have a game of chess, or a snowball fight with the others. Though I did sense that his mind was always elsewhere, dreaming of things greater than our childish pastimes.
We said goodbye on the train, not knowing if we'd hear from each other over the summer. The orphanage where Tom lived didn't have an owlery, apparently, and 12 Grimmauld Place didn't have something called a mailbox. I wasn't sure if I even understood the concept of a mailbox.
"I'll send an owl at night so the Muggles don't see," I promised, "and you can send a letter back with it."
"Yeah," Tom said without much enthusiasm. He hadn't spoken much for days, and suddenly I wished I'd thought of asking Dippet to write to Tom's orphanage for permission to let him stay with me for the summer.
Then the doors of the carriage burst open and Abraxas and Antonin sauntered in, Abraxas waving a pack of cards.
"Exploding snap, anyone?"
We played till the train pulled in.