A/N: So…REDUX! I started this story like a year ago…abandoned it…and am now taking it back under my wing. Again, I'm still kind of clueless when it comes to the enigma of Tom Riddle, so prepare for some OOCness (hopefully limited). However, I'm putting a lot into my OC, Charlotte, this time around, and am trying to make her a well-developed, rounded character. Hopefully she'll break the Harry Potter OC mold (fingers crossed). Um…notes. The first five chapters will be short; they're a brief overview of Tom's years at school, years two through six. Once the story reaches Year Seven, it will begin to progress at a normal pace, with longer chapters but definitely more time between updates. SUGGESTIONS WELCOME, as are corrections/criticism/praises (O_O)/etc. Flames…eh. I'll take 'em. Any errors are my OWN, though I may steer from the plot a little bit for creative purposes, and I don't really have time to double-check all my references, so I apologize for that.

Thanks!

-Lily

OH. During some minor revisions, I changed Charlotte's name to Charlotte from Rylie, which is what it was previously…To those of you who read this story before it was revised, that's what it was. And if you see any Rylie's still floating around in the story, please let me know. Thanks!

Tom Riddle rather liked being a wizard, he decided.

It came in handy. Tom watched as the boy on the floor squirmed, uncomfortable but enough to cry, his arms folded tightly over his stomach. The other orphans were in bed, so it was just Tom in the corner and this boy on the floor at a quarter past midnight. Tom concentrated harder, sent a fiercer wave of hurt in the boy's direction. The boy curled up in a ball, suddenly pale, and began to weep quietly. A single bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.

Tom observed the boy for a little bit, watching his pain with carefully concealed satisfaction. It served him right, anyways. The boy, Walter, was always trying to use his size to intimidate Tom, an annoying but unimportant aspect of Tom's life at the orphanage. Walter had taken things too far, though, when he had broken into Tom's room to snoop. There was so much in there that Walter shouldn't have seen. Of course, he wouldn't remember anything anymore, but the boy needed to learn some boundaries, which was why he was currently writhing on the floor in pain.

Walter let out a strangled scream and began to throw up; Tom relented. He left the pathetic boy lying on the floor by the living fire, still gasping and shaking and out of breath, and retired to his room for the night. He had more important things to worry about than making a stupid fifteen-year-old boy pay for his ignorance.

Tom's room at the orphanage was mostly empty. It was quite dreary, too, but that didn't bother Tom. A single window looked out into the gray streets, a bed was tucked away neatly in a corner (sheets made, creased perfectly), and a small bureau stood in the corner opposite, where Tom kept his spare linens.

All in all, a perfectly ordinary, boring room.

But Tom's closet held treasures. Inside it was a beautiful chest of cherry wood, covered slightly by a hamper that held Tom's laundry—a framed mess to make the chest look more innocuous, to turn away any possible prying eyes. Inside the trunk were the things that Tom loved the most, the only things Tom loved: a wand, some spellbooks, and a green and black cloak.

He had been reading diligently all summer, storing away every ounce of information he came upon, whether it seemed relevant or not, and by this August, one piece of information stood out from all the rest: Tom Riddle was an extraordinary wizard by any standard, and his next six years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were going to prove it.

The other second-year boys were quite obnoxious. They chattered inanely, talking about Quidditch (which Tom was rather adept at) and broomsticks and what could possibly be pulling the horseless carriages. They were definitely an improvement to the bloody muggle orphans, but oh how they simpered. They flattered Tom and followed him, which they should, but by God they were annoying. And so blatant—the older students had started giving Tom weird looks, definitely not the effect he was after.

"What do you think Tom?"

Tom turned his attention to the two other boys and one girl riding in his carriage. Even though they were third years and Tom was only a second, they'd looked up to him since his first day of the last term—they'd seen his potential for handing out pain and punishments, and honed in it; they practically worshipped him now. Abraxas Malfoy, Alfard Black, and Natalia Black: a mostly talentless group, though Talia—with her blind devotion and foolish loyalty and ideals of love—might be a handy person to have around, one day.

"What do I think about what?" Tom asked, exhorting little effort to put warmth into his voice.

"About what's pulling the carriage," Black said, in his characteristically low, monotone voice.

Tom sighed. "Threstrals," he said, "invisible but to those who've witnessed death. Don't feel bad." He smiled, somewhat patronizingly. "They're not normally taught until fifth year."

"You're so smart," Talia said, sounding strangely breathless.

Tom grimaced, and just then the carriage pulled up to the front of the castle. The four students disembarked, and Tom made sure to smile politely at the teachers herding them into the Great Hall. He took his seat at the Slytherin table, watching as the other second-years gave him admiring stares and shuffled to sit by him (close, but not too close) and the older students looked at him skeptically.

He looked up towards the staff table. Professor Slughorn beamed down at him and gave a little wave when Tom made contact. The Potions master—and the head of Slytherin house—was a bumbling, easy-to-trick man, and he rather annoyed Tom (there were few who didn't), but he had connections. Tom let his eyes drive a little farther down the line of teachers until he was met with a pair of light blue ones, framed by half-moon glasses. The Transfiguration teacher, Professor Dumbledore, looked at Tom evenly, warily, with no trace of the awe that was present, however hidden, in most other teachers' eyes.

Dumbledore was the only teacher that had not fallen head over heels for Tom, and Tom had the suspicion that he never would be swayed. But the older wizard was the one who had given Tom confirmation of his magical abilities, the one who had told him where to buy his things, given him some money and his invitation to the school; he was the one who had taken him away from the blasted orphanage. Dumbledore had instructed Tom on magical ethics, too, but Tom had the strange feeling that he was somehow aware of Tom's summertime magical experiments, and was not at all pleased by them.

He hadn't realized that Professor Dippet's speech was over until a line of first years, sopping wet, wound their way through the Great Hall, shivering and looking nervous. Tom himself hadn't been nervous when he was sorted, but there was no feeling comparable to the one of immense joy he'd experienced when he heard that tattered old hat mutter, "Such talent lies locked away, Tom Riddle. I expect great things from you, though I don't wish to ever see them…and the House that will help you on your way is…SLYTHERIN."

With mild interest, Tom observed the sorting. He clapped politely for the children sorted into his own House, stored away the names and faces of those in Ravenclaw as potentially useful acquaintances, catalogued the faces and surnames of the Gryffindors, and memorized the mostly beet-red faces of the Hufflepuffs (the entire House, in his opinion, was just a plethora of easy targets). He would learn their names later, if he had the time.

The sorting was over, or so he thought, and Tom was getting ready to enjoy the feast, when Professor Flitwick hurried into the hall, leading a small, thin girl to the front. She was so pale Tom though she might faint, but she instantly turned bright red when the eyes of all the students and teachers in the Great Hall turned on her. The girl trembled like a leaf as the miniature Charms professor guided her to sit on the stool, and the Sorting Hat, which Professor Slughorn had been walking out of the hall, was immediately returned and placed upon her head.

The Hat certainly took its time, which piqued Tom's curiosity. While he waited, he scanned the girl from head to toe. She wore muggle clothing, he noted with displeasure—a pair of jeans, an emerald sweater, and ratty trainers. Short and slight in build, the Sorting Hat's brim fell to right under the girl's nose. She was more drenched than the other first years had been. Perhaps Peeves…? Her hair fell past her shoulders in tangled curls, and sopping wet as it was, Tom could tell it was a vibrant red. Her skin visible below the brim of the Sorting Hat was pale, and her lips looked slightly blue.

For some peculiar reason, Tom was feeling the urge to discover what color her eyes were, when the Sorting Hat made its announcements. "RAVENCLAW!" it shouted. The girl, looking slightly bewildered, stumbled over to the table that was clapping the loudest and sat down, her back towards him. Tom scowled.

The Sorting Hat was taken away for good, food was put on the table, and the students were immersed in their talk. "Wonder what happened to that Ravenclaw girl?" Alfard Black mused during dessert, munching in a tart. "Why was she late, do you think?"

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Tom said gruffly.

Charlotte Ophelia O'Brien, it so happened, was the girl's name, and from what Tom could gather from the giggles and snippets of conversations that floated up to him from the first-year Slytherins, she had fallen into the lake during the trip across it.

"I heard the merfolk tried to drown her," one of the first-year girls said with great interest, vapid brown eyes wide.

"Don't be silly," a boy with sloppy blond hair scoffed. "They wouldn't do that."

"Well, how'd she fall?" the girl asked. "One of them was probably just under the surface, trying to lure her in."

"Ew, have you seen the merfolk, Michelle?" another girl questioned. "My father's shown me pictures. They're hideous—I doubt she'd fall in to get a piece of that fin."

The two girls fell into a fit of laughter.

"However she fell in, I heard the giant squid was the one who pushed her back out," the boy said.

"No way!"

And the rumors went on.

Tom never saw Charlotte; he had no classes with her and only ever saw the back of her head when he glimpsed in the hallways. He didn't notice or think about her much after that first night, but he still stared at her whenever that halo of red curls came into view. He couldn't help it. She probably had the reddest red hair ever to be found in nature.

It was December before Tom finally ran into Charlotte, and she had banished herself from his thoughts long before then. Still, it fazed Tom a little when, on a free period, she ran straight into him from around a corner. Tom, who had been heading toward the library, fell to the ground before he could stop himself. The impact on the flagstones smarted, but the redhead hadn't been heavy enough to push him down with any real force, and she quickly scrambled to her feet.

"Oh, my gosh, I am so, so sorry. I shouldn't have been watching where I was going—I am so stupid, and to think I'm in Ravenclaw—are you all right?" Charlotte babbled as she extended her hand to help Tom up.

He ignored her hand but forced himself to smile up at her as he got to his feet, dusting his palms off on his trousers. "I'm fine, no harm done," he assured her. She was just a little less pale than she had been on the night of the sorting (at least her lips were no longer blue). Her trademark curls framed a small face with elfin features: a delicate nose and chin, high cheekbones, slim jaw. She grinned at Tom as he shook her hand, and it was a big and beautiful thing, revealing white, perfect teeth. Tom noted that she had a small, crescent-shaped scar near her right eyebrow and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

He was getting ready to excuse himself and go on his way, when she turned her eyes on him. They were big and round, a dazzling light blue veined with rivers of water, and they would have stopped anyone else in their tracks. As it was, Tom's breath hitched for a mere fraction of a second, unnoticeably, and then he released her hand and smiled a bit more warmly at her. Tom was very good at smiling the appropriate smile. People expected it, and though he found very little funny or enjoyable, Tom Riddle's smile could stop a weak heart and start a dead one.

"Excuse me, but where are you heading off to?" he inquired, remembering that first years should have been in class.

Charlotte sighed and held up her hand. At first he thought she was giving him an obscene gesture, before he noticed a white handkerchief wrapped around her finger, stained through with red.

"I cut my finger in Potions," she said. "I doubt Professor Slughorn will be letting me cut anything up for a while now."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Tom said, "are you alright, Miss…?"

She didn't need to know that he already knew her name. "Oh my name's fine—wait, I mean, no it's not, that'd be silly. I'm fine, like, I mean my finger is, thanks for asking. And I'm, or, well—my name is Charlotte," she said, blushing. "Charlotte O'Brien."

"It's nice to meet, Charlotte," Tom said. "I'm—"

"Tom Riddle, I know," Charlotte finished. She blushed again. "I hear a lot of rumors," she admitted.

"Oh," Tom began. "Well, there—"

"Don't worry," she interrupted him. "I don't think most of them are true. I doubt you're as good at magic as they say you are."

Tom frowned. Did she just insult him?

"I mean, I'm sure you're great any everything, but you are only a second year," Charlotte said brightly. "They have some pretty stupid rumors going around. Anyway…" She glanced down at her fingers and frowned, as if suddenly remembering the pain. "I'd better go get this fixed up. It was nice to meet you, Tom!" And she hurried down off the hallway towards the infirmary.

Tom watched her go. She hadn't said anything particularly intelligent, but he felt it there, an intellect to match his own.

Tom Riddle did not talk to Charlotte O'Brien for the rest of his second year, and the last time she was mentioned to him was at that night during dinner, when Alfard said, "Did you hear about that first-year Ravenclaw, Charlotte? She almost cut her finger off in Potions. Using a dull knife. How does one even… I don't know, Tom, but bloody hell, I swear the first years get dumber every years. Is she really in Ravenclaw?"

Over at the Ravenclaw table, Charlotte chattered happily with her friends, brandishing her bandaged middle finger like a sword. She caught Tom staring at her, and winked. Startled, Tom turned his attention back to his follower. "Yes," he said. "She is."

I actually wrote this story backwards, and the difference between little first-year Charlotte and the sixth-year Charlotte of the majority of the story is immense, to say the least. She is definitely not on good terms with Tom, and becomes way less annoying as she grows into her Ravenclaw brain. Anyway…this chapter is definitely not up to my normal standards. Writing Tom as a second year is a bit different for me. Please review, and hopefully I'll be update again this time next Sunday!

-Lily