When I Rule the World, I'll Plant Flowers
Chapter One: When I Rule the World, I'll Have Snakes
Hogwarts was dark and quiet except for the faint creak of moving staircases. It had only been a month since summer had ended and Quirrell's room was a comfortable temperature: brisk with the first breath of autumn yet with the lingering warmth of summer that kept the room from getting too cold. His entire sleeping arrangement was perfect, in fact, except that he had to sleep on his stomach, which hurt his neck.
Quirrell had explained to Voldemort before that if they slept on their side, both of them could avoid having a face-full of pillow, but Voldemort wasn't having any of it. He insisted on sleeping on his back as he had always done. Which meant Quirrell had to sleep face down and if he shifted too much, there would be hell to pay.
Voldemort wouldn't even let Quirrell wear the cotton sleeping cap he always wore to bed because it got in his eyes, he said. Meaning Quirrell's shaved head was much too cold.
It would be worth it, though, as Quirrell kept reminding himself. If he could put up with this for a year and if Voldemort succeeded, Quirrell would be rewarded with power and glory. Voldemort would always know him as the one who had done this favor, and the Dark Lord did not forget favors lightly.
The Dark Lord had chosen Quirrell. Not Lucius, not Bellatrix, not Snape. Voldemort hadn't chosen one of his Death Eaters. No, he had chosen to trust Quirrell of all people, with this shattered piece of his soul. Quirrell wasn't even, strictly speaking, a Death Eater. On the surface, it seemed like a foolish move. But then again, Quirrell was Voldemort's—Tom's—oldest friend.
HOGWARTS, 1971
It had seemed fun at the time, but now that he was actually standing in front of the giant double doors of—what had Mr. Dumbledore called it? Hogwarts, that's right. Tom wrung the strap of the bag over his shoulder.
Tom was a wizard. There was no doubt. He had just spent the day bustling down Diagon Alley, buying wizard tools for doing wizard things and wizard books for learning wizard spells. He wasn't like those horrid children at the orphanage and he'd never have to see their ugly faces again. He was special. This was where he belonged.
And yet he didn't belong. All the other magic kids, they had grown up knowing they were special. They had grown up with loving parents, doing magic.
Tom was the muggle here. He knew it and he hated it. He saw it in the eyes of the other eleven-year-olds. They were better than him and they knew it.
Suddenly Tom felt a presence behind him. He turned around and saw Mr. Dumbledore smiling over him. "Shall we go into the Great Hall? There is a magnificent feast with all kinds of goodies."
Tom gripped the strap of his bag harder, fingers shaking. He wanted to say something, but it was as if his lips had been sewn shut.
Dumbledore had been the one to accompany him to Diagon Alley. He had put his hand on his shoulder five times since they had met. Five times. Tom had counted. That was more physical contact than Tom ever remembered having. It was so warm, so gentle, and it made him want to cry.
Dumbledore did it again, put his hand on Tom's shoulder like a protective cloak. Tom felt that strange warmth again, the kind that made him want to cry. But he couldn't cry in front of all these wizards and witches.
Getting no response, Dumbledore patted his shoulder. "Let's go inside, Tom, alright?"
Tom managed to nod his head.
Dumbledore led him into a room full of floating candles, benches, tables piled with food, and people in robes, more people than Tom had ever seen in his life. After telling Tom to find a seat, Dumbledore left for the teachers' table at the front.
Tom almost grabbed for the bearded wizard, but he didn't. After a moment of staring glassy-eyed at the scene around him, Tom looked for an empty table in the corner, somewhere quiet and safe.
Someone bumped into his arm. Tom jerked and tried to step out of the way. He bumped into someone else, nearly pushing her into her plate. "I-I-I'm sorry—"
Bump. Someone else brushed against him. As he stepped out of their way, his feet tangled in his robes. Panic seized him as he lurched towards the floor.
Seemingly out of thin air, a small hand grabbed the back of his robe and pulled him back. Tom's backside impacted with an empty spot on a bench at one of the tables.
Sitting next to Tom was the kid who had saved him, a first-year with short light-brown hair and a freckled face. "That was close," said the boy with an awkward little laugh, his ears going red.
Tom smiled a smile of equal awkwardness. "Yeah, i-it was. Too many people."
"You're telling me," replied the boy. "I can hardly breathe in here."
"Or think," Tom added.
"It's like there are so many, they're even crowding into my head."
"Exactly!" Tom's smile was more genuine this time. "The-the dorm better not be like this."
"If it is, I might sleep in the bathroom."
"Ha ha!"
The boy extended his hand, his arm tilted awkwardly to keep his elbow out of the plate next to him. "I'm Quirrell. My first name is actually Quirinus, but only my mother calls me that."
"M'Tom."
"That's an interesting name. 'Tom,'" said Quirrell. "Is it muggle?"
"No," said Tom, his heart leaping. "I mean, I'm not a muggle. I'm a wizard. I can do magic."
Quirrell picked up on Tom's panic. "Oh I know," Quirrell amended quickly. "I just mean, is it from—is it…" Quirrell had talked himself into a hole and he knew it. "I mean, are you muggle-born?"
"No, of course not," Tom answered too loudly. "My parents are great wizards. Both my mom and my dad."
"You mean 'wizard and witch'?"
"Huh?"
"Your mom can't be a wizard. She would be a witch."
Tom's face went red. "Y-yeah. That's what I meant."
If it hadn't been obvious already, Quirrell now knew Tom had grown up as a muggle. "Quirrell" was the most wizardly name Tom had ever heard. He would know Tom was faking it. If Quirrell knew, he didn't say anything about it.
Dumbledore walked up to the podium at the front of the hall and when he did, the golden owl on the front opened its wings. Tom shouldn't have been surprised by that sort of thing anymore. He had spent the day having a wand choose him, going to a bank run by goblins, and being carted to a magical school in a horse and cart with no horse. Yet Tom rubbed his eyes and stared at the owl, in case he had only imagined it moving. Quirrell didn't seem bothered by the moving owl podium. Of course he wouldn't be, since he had grown up around such things.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," announced Dumbledore and the room went silent. "September first and a new year begins. I want to extend a very special welcome to you first-years. I know many of you have had brothers and sisters and parents who have attended Hogwarts before you, and you already know much of what I am going to say, but many of you do not, so I will say it anyway." He cleared his throat. "In just a few minutes, each of you will be sorted into one of the four houses: Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and Slytherin."
"I hope I get into Gryffindor," whispered Quirrell.
"Why?" Tom whispered back.
Quirrell gave him a bewildered look. "Everyone does," he explained. "It's the house of the brave."
"Oh," Tom said quickly. "Then I want to be Gryffindor, too."
"Ooh, look! It's the sorting hat!" said Quirrell, grabbing Tom's arm and pointing. "It's the actual sorting hat!"
Tom jerked but didn't pull away. Here was another person touching him, someone else who wasn't afraid of him.
The sorting ceremony began. Tom kept track of who was sorted into which house, but there were so many kids he lost track. And the names those kids had! They hardly seemed real. Sirius and Bellatrix Black, Lucius Malfoy; at least there were a few ordinary names like Evans and Potter.
"Quirinus Quirrell," called Dumbledore.
"That's me," said Quirrell as he stood. Quirrell sat in the chair on the platform and Dumbledore placed the sorting hat on his head. The room watched in anticipation.
"Slytherin!" The hat announced.
The room erupted in applause and Quirrell smiled, his ears going red again as he walked between the benches, people patting him on the back as he passed. He sat down, a big grin on his face.
"You didn't get into Gryffindor," said Tom.
"That's okay," replied Quirrell. "Snakes are nice, too." Tom had no idea what he meant.
"Thomas Riddle!"
Shaking, Tom got to his feet and hurried to the stage. What would he do if he and Quirrell weren't in the same house? With an encouraging smile, Dumbledore guided Tom to the chair and set the sorting hat onto his head.
"Interesting," said a voice Tom could only guess came from the hat. "You have a thirst for knowledge indicative of a Ravenclaw, but your drive—my goodness that drive. You're determined to be great, aren't you? To be the best. You are brave, true, and I see you want to be a Gryffindor. But you want it because you believe it to be superior. Hm…this is a tough one…but I do believe you're in Slytherin, the house of the ambitious."
"Slytherin!" the hat announced out loud.
The crowd clapped Tom looked at Dumbledore, who nodded approvingly. Tom quickly left the stage and back towards his seat. Just as they had done for Quirrell, students who had been sorted into Slytherin before him grabbed at his arms and patted his back as he walked, shouting welcomes and introductions.
Tom dared a smile. The house of the ambitious. Slytherin was for ambitious wizards—powerful wizards! He had always known he was special, deep down, but he hadn't known just how special. True, Quirrell had gotten into Slytherin, as well as quite a few other students, but they were probably just ambitious. Anyone could be ambitious. The sorting hat had specifically called Tom powerful. Tom, an orphan from the muggle world, powerful!
