Chapter 2 "Shut the Door and Have a Seat"

Ever since that impotent old fool Armand Dippet had granted him special dispensation to study Alchemy, Riddle had engrossed himself in studying it—or at least, in making a valiant attempt. The trouble was, no two authorities seemed to agree on what the aim of the exercise was; unlike Transfiguration, the magical transformation of one object into another, or Defence Against the Dark Arts, whose aim was in the very title of the discipline, Alchemy was a complete and utter mystery. Was the master alchemist one who had succeeded in brewing the universal solvent? Turn lead into gold? The accident in Professor Merrythought's class—how embarrassing—seemed to imply the goal of alchemy was everlasting life.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Tom Riddle strode towards the Alchemy class, held in an airy classroom next to Slughorn's Potions lab, the confident expression on his face a mask for the turmoil within. Malfoy was already there, seated at a desk in the front of the room, nursing his bad leg; beside him, Rufus Belby and Alphard Black were chattering away about some stupidity or another, and in the rear, Margaret Bulstrode was silently reading a book and laughing at random moments. The classroom was girt with the sort of laboratory benches Tom knew from Potions, with familiar and unfamiliar instruments arranged thereon. At the head of the room was a fume hood and a glass box with two holes in it for the hands. There were only ten seats, and very soon, they began filling up. At precisely one in the afternoon, the professor entered through the supply cupboard, which Tom assumed was shared with the Potions lab next door.

Nicholas Flamel was a tall, corpulent wizard of indeterminate age with a slightly old-fashioned choice of wardrobe. His grey hair and beard were tied back, and pale blue eyes surveyed his students behind a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. Like Slughorn and the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Albus Dumbledore, Flamel wore teaching robes; unlike Slughorn's tweeds, Flamel wore turquoise silk spangled with white stars, and he had a sort of pointy felt bowler hat instead of the traditional mortarboard.

"Bonjour, class," he said, receiving nods and mumbled greetings in return. "My name is Nicolas Flamel. I will be teaching you Alchemy. If this is not what you came for, the door is that way. No? We're good? All right, then. I remember a few of you from last year, and I'm sure you remember me. For those I haven't met, this won't be like your usual classes, and I won't be your usual teacher."

"Damn right you won't," Riddle mumbled to himself.

The professor pronounced his name French-fashion, with a silent S, and he paced up and down as he took roll call, occasionally taking a bite out of a bright red apple.

"First of all, I don't hold with any sort of formality here. This is a small, practical class focused on the individual. With a view to that, you can call me Nick. Second of all, nothing is forbidden here except what the law has restricted, and even this is not beyond discussion. Finally, as this can be a lab-based course for some, I'll go over some safety precautions for the benefit of newcomers." Flamel was true to his word, prattling on about crucibles, cauldrons, and safety goggles for well over fifteen minutes. Although Tom was perfectly good at pretending he was listening, his mind was entirely elsewhere, as he'd heard this all from Slughorn before. "Now, have any of you heard of the dictum that perfection is unattainable?"

Heads were nodding all around the room. Riddle, being Muggle-raised, had heard it many times, but he scorned the idea. Perfection was not only attainable, in his view, but also realistic, and he would work to bring it about to the best of his ability.

"Well, I'm here to tell you that whatever fool first said it was wrong in every sense possible. We therefore arrive at the raison d'etre of the Great Art: it is the study of perfection about which it is concerned. Metals can be transmuted, exalting and ennobling them into silver and gold. Similarly, life itself can be perfected to yield enjoyment, knowledge, and—" "Immortality," Riddle mouthed in amazement. "Considering that description and what you know of magic otherwise, can you tell me whether or not this amounts to Alchemy?" The professor levelled his wand at his desk and gave a long, rather foreign-sounding incantation. Well, all spells were foreign, with those used at Hogwarts mostly being based in Latin, but this one was different. Tom wrote it down phonetically: tow grah-fee-oh se khree-so thar met-amorpho-thay. White light shot out of Flamel's wand, bathing the desk in a bright glow; when the light receded a second later, the desk had unmistakably turned into gold, keeping its previous form. The only Hufflepuff student in the class raised his hand with some trepidation.

"Never mind the hand, Monsieur Fawley - just go straight at it," Flamel encouraged. "I do prefer if one person talks at a time, though."

"I—I don't believe so," Henry Fawley quavered.

"Why not? Oh, I failed to mention this earlier, but I do like to hear reasons when possible."

"Finite," Fawley incanted in lieu of a verbal answer, aiming his wand at the now golden desk and changing it back to wood. "You see, Transfiguration does not change the intrinsic form of an object. It wants to be wood, and if the general counter-spell is given, or if you happen to pass away—which I concede is exceedingly unlikely—it'll go ahead and turn back."

"Well done! Five points to Ravenclaw. Now, what method, or methods, exist to extend this glorious thing called life?"

Tom raised his hand.

"Well, there's unicorn blood," Tom began. "The conventional wisdom is that drinking it results in some sort of curse on the drinker, but I don't believe in such nonsense."

Flamel gave Riddle a long, hard stare. Tom had the impression that his mind was being read at that very moment, but his forays into the field of Occlumency gave him confidence that such a thing was impossible. He wasn't yet capable of resisting even a casual probe, or showing the Legilimens a memory that was at once what he wanted to see and irreconciliable with the truth, but the lightest touch would set off the mental equivalent of a hundred-decibel alarm bell; needless to say, he would know.

"Actioni contrariam semper et aequalem esse reactionem," Flamel said. "It should be obvious that such beauty and innocence as occurs in Equus monoceratos can not be tarnished without incurring a penalty. 'It'll drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid. He shall live a man forbid. Weary sev'nnights nine times nine shall he dwindle, peak and pine.' When it comes to matters of life and death, it is highly inadvisable to be a sceptic, Monsieur Riddle."

"The Bard, Sir?" said Margaret Bulstrode. "I didn't think you'd plump for him, being…"

"Being what, Ma'mselle Bulstrode? There's no need to call me Sir. Oh, and I believe that merits fifteen points to Slytherin."

Tom was horrified. Bulstrode's views regarding Mudbloods were well-known, and although he didn't know whether Flamel was in agreement with them or not, he rather suspected that the professor vehemently disagreed, despite his old-fashioned wardrobe. The witches and wizards across the Channel were awful libertines, Abraxas had said, and his word was very much credible. Tom certainly didn't want Meg to offend the teacher, especially not when he was being so generous with the points.

"Erm, you know, French. I thought you'd go for Voltaire! Oh, and if I'm going to call you Nick, you might as well call me Meg."

"English literature has a charm all its own, Meg. Those of you taking a Hermetic approach will benefit from a knowledge of Newton and Fludd in particular. Does anyone know another method?"

At this point, Abraxas Malfoy said something in rapid-fire French. Professor and student continued speaking in that language for about ten minutes, with Malfoy occasionally having to repeat something or other slowly and carefully. Apparently, he had difficulty making himself understood by Flamel, although his accent clearly wasn't foreign as such. Riddle was briefly annoyed, though this subsided when he realised that Abraxas clearly had nobody else with whom to practice the Gallic tongue.

"Fifteen points to Slytherin, Monsieur Malfoy! Three artefacts, reputed to have been made by la Faucheuse herself, are believed to exist in this world; in French, they are for this reason known as les reliques de la mort. Unfortunately, we must now leave the kingdom of truth and enter into the realm of conjecture. When jointly in the possession of one person, that person is reputed to become Master of Death and thus gain dominion over her. What this means is unclear at the present time. One of my colleagues believes that the story is simply a story, and if not, that the Master of Death simply faces her with dignity at the usual end of his life. I am not so pessimistic as that. My own opinion is that collecting les reliques truly does grant immortality. It is a problematic and incomplete approach to Alchemy, because there are but three reliques scattered between the four winds, there can only be one Master, and the question of transmutation is of course unresolved."

"Wouldn't it be quite the irony if the Deathly Hallows were right under our noses, though?" Julius Prewett said. "More to the point, Nick, did it really take you ten minutes to discuss the Tale of the Three Brothers?"

"Non, non. We spoke also of hobbies and hometowns, personal lives and family lives. Monsieur Malfoy is perfectly welcome to visit my wife and me, should he wish, and vice versa. There is a third method, once again incomplete. It is furthermore highly illegal, for good reason. To be perfectly clear, it turns my blood to water. I do not expect any of you to know its name, but if one of you does, fifty points shall be the reward. On the other hand, if I hear that one of you has gone down this route, I will make it my personal crusade to hunt the miscreant down and visit the vengeance of Hell itself on him. Is that understood?"

There were general nods of understanding all around the room. Tom felt a light prodding at the base of his mind; he came down on it like a hammer on a particularly delicate set of fingers, causing Flamel to screw his eyes shut in visible pain. He knew perfectly well what the professor was implying. In fact, Riddle had entertained the thought of creating a Horcrux more than once, but he'd always discarded the idea as impractical. Who would he kill to power the ritual? It would have to be someone who wouldn't be missed—someone like a tramp or that wretched Myrtle Warren—but he was worried that such an insignificant victim would make an equally insignificant Horcrux. Even in intellectual society, though, he dared not admit knowing the name of the concept. Flamel's opinion of magic was much the same as Tom's own, but apparently some things were taboo even in such rarefied company.

"Phylacteries," Alph Black said, at a volume just barely above a whisper.

Riddle was surprised at the answer; he'd never heard of phylacteries. He was even more surprised at who was doing the answering. In Divination, there were cartomancers, hydromancers, and cleromancers; Alph Black was a pornomancer. He'd seemingly 'had' every witch in Hogsmeade, as well as a few witch-shaped… things… that weren't even human. Accordingly, Alph was better known as the living broomstick—everyone had had a ride. Riddle had no time in which to wonder at the incongruity of the situation, because at that very moment, the silvery, shimmering 'ghost' of a swan flew through the blackboard. Flamel stared at it intently for a second or two—and went white as a sheet thereafter.

"Mon Dieu…" he mumbled, rushing out the door. "Class dismissed, and fifty points to Slytherin."

"All students will assemble in the Great Hall," Armand Dippet's magically enhanced voice echoed through the school's corridors. "I repeat: all students will assemble in the Great Hall immediately."

Tom thought this a bit silly, given that it was lunchtime. With war rationing in full force and his abysmal 'living' situation—if it could even be called that—he had no idea when the next morsel of food would come, and he therefore ate whatever was offered when it was offered with an almost religious fervour. The idea of willingly skipping a meal was anathema to him—in fact, he was shocked that some students did so. He was already tucking in to his rare steak and chips when the announcement was made.

"What's this about?" he asked Gregory Ollivander, who was once again sitting next to him, evidently impressed. The seat across from Tom remained, for some reason, vacant.

"I haven't the faintest, but it's bound to be some sort of emergency. Last time something like this happened, there was an attack on the Minister for Magic's home."

"Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you with disturbing news," Albus Dumbledore began. "Less than half an hour ago, an attempt was made to abduct Seraphine Bonaparte, the only daughter of the Minister for French Magical Affairs, from her accommodations at the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Thankfully, she managed to evade her prospective captors in a manner that, although most ingenious, shall remain secret. She seeks sanctuary in these hallowed halls, and given that it is manifestly inappropriate for Miss Bonaparte to continue her studies at an institute from which she was nearly kidnapped, the decision has been taken that sanctuary and education will be granted. Please welcome Miss Bonaparte with the same respect—and most of all, love—that you grant those from Britain's shores. Miss Bonaparte, in accordance with the traditions and customs of this institution, please step forward to be Sorted into sixth year."

"Love is nothing but a nil score in tennis, Dumbles," Riddle half-joked sotto voce.

"Beg pardon?" asked Abraxas, who was seated on his right.

"Forget I said anything."

Riddle was no professional when it came to appraising feminine pulchritude; he merely knew what he liked, and he certainly liked Seraphine Bonaparte. The strangely compelling girl had white hair, ice-blue eyes, ivory skin, and an ample chest. Dumbles was six feet tall and somewhat thin for a man, but Seraphine was taller and thinner still, with a face Tom could only describe as… delectable. In fact, the school's entire male population, and some females, seemed to be in silent agreement; Abraxas Malfoy was visibly drooling. The only thing that marred her preternatural beauty was a short, but deep gash on her left cheek. Despite all attempts to staunch the wound, a rivulet of pink blood steadily dripped—

Hold on a second, Tom thought. Healthy wizards and Muggles were united, if by nothing else than by the crimson colour of the blood that flowed in their veins. What curse could possibly turn it pink, yet leave the victim standing? There was one that poisoned the blood with white damp, but its consequences were obvious and invariably lethal without treatment; besides, blood so perverted was cherry-red, not pink. She isn't exactly human, then. Vampire? Werewolf? Half-siren? One for Alphard, at any rate. It was also interesting to see that the 'girl' wore the same sort of turquoise silk robes as did Flamel, albeit far simpler in design, tailored to her form, and with shoulders covered. So that's where he gets it from.

In the meantime, Seraphine stood in trepidation before an audience of 1,200-odd students and teachers with Godric Gryffindor's ratty old hat perched precariously on her head. Three minutes turned into four, then five, at which point the students and faculty—or those not affected by her inborn area-compulsion charm, at any rate—began to whisper amongst themselves. Seraphine Bonaparte was officially a Hatstall.

"Well, if you're sure," the Sorting Hat said at long last, "better be SLYTHERIN!"

With supreme self-assurance and head held high, Seraphine strode down the length of the appropriate table, made eye contact with Riddle, sat across from him without so much as a hello, and began picking at her food without actually eating much. He was conflicted about this. On the one hand, he instinctively understood that someone at the centre of an abduction attempt would act in this fashion—or at least, that society would expect her to. He also liked the occasional moment of quiet reflection.

Unfortunately, quiet reflection would not be what he'd get if Seraphine kept her mouth shut, because Abraxas Malfoy and Elspeth 'Dutch' Verwoerd would undoubtedly indulge in their favourite hobby: arguing about politics like a married couple. In point of Tom's opinion, they would very likely be a married couple soon. Malfoy was a proponent of the eminently reasonable idea that magic was magic. In his books, the word wizard applied to any intelligent creature able and willing to pick up a wand and to internalise its proper use. Verwoerd agreed with the equally sensible, yet diametrically opposed, concept that traditions were to be respected. Civilised society would crumble if beings not brought up in its customs from birth were to join it.

Both sides had their excesses, of course. Were it up to him, Abraxas would cheerfully have given Manticores and Sphinxes wands and set them loose on the more ordinary sort of wizard, although it had to be said that Manticores were plenty dangerous without and that Sphinxes were to a… girl? satisfied with tooth, claw, and Daily Prophet cryptic. On the other hand, the 'traditions' that Verwoerd so rabidly defended largely amounted to such silly tat as wearing one's signet ring on the little finger of the left hand, keeping one's braces covered by waistcoat or robe, reserving gold jewellery for nine-to-five wear and silver otherwise, cutting the crusts off one's bread, and not falling flat on one's face when one used the Floo. Malfoy rightly gathered that it was an exercise in self-fulfilment: parents would inculcate the 'proper' habits in their children from childhood specifically because they were too numerous and complex to assimilate fully otherwise, and students would look for these same habits in prospective friends in order to recognise those who had been so tutored.

Most of Verwoerd's opinions were quite innocuous—but only most of them. When Barrington 'Horse' Shacklebolt had taken his place with the other first-years and was duly sorted into Gryffindor, Dutch had complained loudly and at length, but mercifully within the relative privacy of the common room, that Hogwarts had the temerity to admit 'kaffirs' and the gall to let them eat at table, rather than in the kitchen with the House Elves where they belonged. Riddle had really been hit for six then, because Shacklebolt was not a 'mere' pureblood but one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, with an illustrious military and law-enforcement pedigree, and to someone like Elspeth Verwoerd, his credentials should have been absolutely unassailable. He spent days trying to understand what her problem was, until a chance mention of that same word in a book finally cleared the air. Dutch looked down on Shacklebolt for a reason that was deceptively simple. According to her, it didn't matter in the slightest how many times a Shacklebolt had saved Britain from high treason, coups d'etat, assassinations, Dark Wizards, and the French. Mason Shacklebolt had arrived from the West Indies as a manumitted African slave with a 'special' talent and his wife had shared both traits; ergo, they and their offspring were worth less than the ship they sailed in on, end of story. Tom didn't like Horse—he'd have to talk to him to learn to like him, and both boys kept to themselves—but it seemed to him as if Dutch was wasting precious oxygen on this particular issue.

The worst thing about this all was that Verwoerd loved to get under the skins of beings she considered beneath educated, civilised humanity. Her method for doing so was invariant: she would break the silence with an opinion about said being as if it were absent, disguising the jab as a serious political question. Dutch and Malfoy both had good, even great, points on occasion—but Malfoy had tact. Consequently, if Dutch stayed true to form, the French Minister's daughter, whatever she was, would burn her to a crisp—or worse, provoke a Diplomatic Incident. Those two words had the potential to cause brown, smelly messes in even a seasoned politician's pants, for good reason. Riddle was determined to avoid such a thing. He was not going to be the boy who begged his friends—not that he would admit such a thing—to stop fighting.

"Hello, Seraphine," Tom began. "My name's Riddle. Just Riddle."

"Enchante."

"I'm Abbuhhhh…" Malfoy said, trailing off.

"Abbuh," the girl replied, with a little smile that reminded Tom of a kitten. "That's an interesting name."

"Yes—NO! I mean, m'appelle Abraxas Malefoy," he said with a blush, pronouncing his name Ab-hack-sah Mal-fwah.

The girl smiled again and continued to play with her food; wisely, Verwoerd kept silent. Eventually, conversation picked back up, although Seraphine didn't join in, and Riddle almost literally heaved a sigh of relief. Still, he knew it wasn't healthy for a girl to be so preternaturally quiet at a meal. He resolved to engage her in some way, and perhaps even mend the cut on her cheek, even though he didn't even know what species she was—only that she wasn't human.

"So what house were you in?" he asked. "At Beauxbatons, I mean."

She laughed—and a very odd laugh it was, too, like the tinkling of a glockenspiel, but it certainly was pleasant.

"There are no houses at Beauxbatons," Abraxas answered for her. "No common rooms, either. Students are divided by age and sex—from eight to eighteen—and their bedrooms are private."

"That must do wonders for school spirit," Tom said drily. "You're a Beauxbatons eighth-year, then?"

"C'est ca," replied Seraphine.

"What courses did you take?" asked Eleanor Prince. "If the school's so different, I imagine the courses would be, too."

It transpired that Ellie was quite correct in her assumption. Seraphine did not know the English for some of her courses—Malfoy had to translate—but the little group eventually learned that she took Care of Magical Creatures, Potions, Transfiguration, Spellcasting Languages, Astronomy, Arithmancy, Magical Theory, Ancient Studies, Alchemy, Mind Arts, and Charms, for which she proudly said she got a 'vingt-et-un'—a 21. Herbology and History were optional subjects in France, while Ancient Studies was required and Magical Theory was a separate class. On the other side of the Channel, theory was taught in the same classes as practice. Gregory Ollivander liked that Beauxbatons taught Greek and Latin; in England, students were left to absorb the latter as if by osmosis and the former was largely ignored. Seraphine was sad to discover the absence of Mind Arts, but Tom had fortunately taught himself and offered to teach her as well. She was elated, though, to find that the two countries shared an Alchemy course and its genial instructor; Flamel was her favourite professor.

"I still can't believe Beauxbatons doesn't teach the Dark Arts!" Riddle said, a bit put out.

"Defence, you mean," corrected Malfoy.

"No, I mean the so-called Dark Arts," Riddle persisted. "You and I both agree that magic is magic, and thank God and Merlin for that, but according to the terminology in use to-day, any spell that is purely damaging is Dark. No exceptions."

"Meaning anything from a simple Flipendo—" began Ellie, the idea dawning on her finally.

"—to an Avada Kedavra is Dark. Right you are. Dumbles irritates me because he's so damned illogical about it; he insists that self-defence is essential, yet rails against the Dark Arts as if that were his full-time job. Merrythought is only slightly better."

"You can defend yourself without curses or hexes, though," claimed Seraphine. "Not many Dark Wizards bring Gillyweed or skates to a fight…"

Tom pondered that for a minute, and a strategy soon began to form. Other differences between educational systems soon came to light, and it was here that Seraphine became a bit elegiac, with not a little sarcasm thrown in. Transport to Beauxbatons consisted of limousines and aeroplanes, so she naturally railed against the sooty Hogwarts Express, with its fixed route and lack of privacy. She mocked the black woollen uniform robes, the meat-and-potatoes diet, the Scottish weather, and the lack of an indoor heated pool, jokingly saying that the latter would correct the former. Riddle noted that one could say the same about the robes. Seraphine Transfigured hers to the Hogwarts standard in mock surrender, but pointedly—or rather, not—kept her felt 'flower' hat, saying that no sane witch or wizard would wear the conical British style. The irony of this statement was not lost on Muggle-raised Tom. She stuck her tongue out at him and performed a gesture Malfoy sardonically called 'the arm of honour'.

Finally, Riddle thought, the girl had crawled out of her shell. It had taken him a year to do likewise. Meanwhile, Ollivander was growing fascinated with Miss Bonaparte's wand. It was unusually long and had a partially unfinished, squared-off look, as if the core had been inserted, the handle made out of leather cord, but the wand as a whole unvarnished and roughly hewn from a tree branch. With Seraphine's permission, he took the wand in hand and turned it over and over, inspecting it.

"Interesting," he said after a minute or so. "Very interesting. Sixteen inches, silver lime, warm—almost hot—to the touch and quite whippy, with a core consisting of—dear me—"

"My own hair," Seraphine interrupted.

"Had this been made for anyone but yourself, I would call it a very temperamental piece, as it would refuse to perform any kind of magic of which you disapproved. That being said, this wand was and will be absolutely reliable in your hands for the very same reason. This is unquestionably not a Perreault wand, though. I must ask you, then, as a matter of curiosity—who made it?"

"It was me that made it," Seraphine said, with an edge of defiant pride in her voice, "when I was seven, purely as a means of amusing myself. There was an old, Bowtruckle-infested tree on the grounds of the family chateau which somehow called to me. I took a branch of the appropriate length and had Papa square it up and drill a hole down the middle. Then I inserted a lock of my hair and pretended I was Maman, waving her stick around and saying those funny Greek words—imagine my surprise when it actually worked."

"Indeed. Very interesting. This wand shall serve you well until the end of your days, unless you complete the Great Work of course, in which case your days will never end."

"Le Grand-OEuvre? I may be an alchemist, but I am not interested in the slightest. I'm working on a universal solvent, actually. Who wants to live forever?"

This last bit was delivered with biting sarcasm, as if implying that whoever tried to replicate Flamel's feat was an arrant moron. For an almost imperceptible moment, Tom's blood boiled with rage, but he let it go and did his best to calm down. He hoped Bonaparte didn't notice.

"I do," he said quietly.

The conversation was loud and enthusiastic enough that Tom thought he had a chance at healing the Dark cut on Seraphine's cheek. He retreated into his magic, looking at the French girl through an entirely different set of eyes.

He saw… no, sensed… something like a wedge of darkest black holding the wound open. Extending his magic, he tried to pull, but it was no use—threads of the same blackness extended from the wedge, anchored to her skin like stitches. Slowly, he worked each and every knot loose…

"My, my, someone's got high goals," Malfoy joked, looking—surprisingly—straight at Seraphine. "You do know that's one of the Unsolved Problems, don't you? I'm not that academic. All I want is a cure for Dragon-Pox, but I wouldn't mind if I happened upon the Panacea."

"Ah… got it…" Riddle murmured. "There."

"You're not that academic? Don't call the kettle black, Monsieur le Chaudron!"

Classes had been cancelled in the wake of the Beauxbatons attack. By and large, British wizarding society was unconcerned about the war taking place in Europe—some people went so far as to call Gellert Grindelwald a reasonable man or imply that he would sort everything out—but it was understood that the French school was protected in some form against evil intent, and the idea that a Dark Lord could simply walk in and try to snatch a student was unthinkable. Nobody could understand his motives, either; while Seraphine Bonaparte's father was highly-placed in the French Ministry, if he was the Dark Army's target, why not go after him personally?

Tom didn't bother to try analysing the situation in any depth. Instead, he was on his way to the library, in search of some good books on Alchemy. The intellectual stimulation was good for him, he'd decided; many of the other classes moved at such a pace that they'd be going backwards if they went any slower. He was at fifth-year level in Potions and Transfiguration—as far as the latter was concerned, he'd likely be more advanced if he'd had a teacher who didn't act as if Riddle simply weren't there—and, as regarded the Dark Arts, he was far afield from what was taught at Hogwarts. His skill at Charms was wildly variant—he was an expert at anything involving water or ice, but otherwise unremarkable—and being raised as a Muggle, his understanding of their technology was far better than a Half-blood or better in touch with his magical side.

In the library, the Alchemy texts were located between the Transfiguration and Potions shelves. Hogwarts was as famous for the calibre of its Potions research as Durmstrang was for its Dark Arts, and, as testament to this fact, three bookcases were dedicated to that excellent subject. Alchemy, on the other hand, was very obscure by comparison; it occupied about half of a shelf in a bookcase otherwise containing treatises on Animagi and Metamorphmagi.

"Mr Riddle! What can I do for you?" called Lancelot Weasley, the librarian. "Hexes for the Vexed, or some such?"

Weasley was a short, balding man with a wire-rimmed pince-nez, a handlebar moustache precisely the colour of a roaring fire and well-used robes that could only be described as patchy—in fact, the patches had been worn through and themselves patched. No surprise there, Riddle thought—they'd made the Who's Who, but less for their achievements and pedigree than for their impressive poverty.

"Not to-day, Sir. I'm actually looking for a good foundational text in Alchemy. There's not a lot of choice here, as far as I can tell."

"A bit too young to be studying that, aren't you? The Philosopher's Stone can wait a few more years."

Riddle fixed him with a withering look.

"Magical proficiency has little to do with age, and very much to do with inborn talent and the willingness to work hard in pursuit of one's goals. It's something that you'd do well to remember."

"Right. Well, Mr Riddle, you have to understand that you're seeking information on an esoteric art. This is a generalist library, and it doesn't have many alchemy texts in it because not many exist. If I were you, I'd have a butcher's through Professor Flamel's private collection, if he's here this year. I do have one book that might interest you, but I should warn you it's rather… stereotypical."

"In what sense?"

"I trust you're aware of so-called bangs-and-smells Charms, with results that are immediately perceptible and obvious. You've either done it or you haven't is what I'm trying to say. This book is essentially bangs-and-smells Alchemy; it focuses on the transmutation of one metal into another, because that's what a layman would understand the subject to be."

"That's precisely what I'm looking for, anyway, so I'm not bothered."

"I understand. Now, Mr Riddle, I'd like you to complete three copies of this slip in block capitals. Place one of them into the small tray on my desk, give another to me, and keep the third. The name of the book is Uncleftish Beholding by Alaric Fox."

Tom followed the instructions to the letter and walked away to give the librarian the second slip. Before he could do so, however, he heard a pop like a bottle of cava being opened. He made a hundred-and-eighty degree turn on his heel to try and find out what had made the noise. For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw an incredibly dirty something dressed in a grey pillowcase, like a Gringotts goblin with eyes the size of saucers, but he soon decided his mind had been playing tricks on him. The slip had vanished without a trace.

"Mr Weasley, when will my books be ready?"

Tom had also filled in a request for Who's Who in Wizarding England, a few genealogies, and a book of folktales. The teasing from the less intellectual members of his own House was endless, and it rankled even though he knew it was largely rooted in envy. Mudbloods didn't have the metal snake ornaments in the Slytherin Common Room bowing to them, and most of them were no great shakes at magic in any case. Who, then, was Riddle Senior, and why did the books make no mention of him?

"They already are, Mr Riddle. Try study room number thirteen."

"B-but how?"

"Ah, the wonders of magic," Weasley replied with a twinkle in his faded green eyes.

Tom loped off towards the individual study rooms. Each of the glass-walled cubicles was furnished with a desk, a lamp, a comfortable chair, curtains to keep away prying eyes, and an Imperturbable door with a lock on it. He settled into Number Thirteen, which did indeed have his chosen books in a neat stack on the large mahogany desk, and began to read Uncleftish Beholding.

Alchemy, he learned three hours later, was frustrating. The level of terminology necessary before anything even approaching magic could be done, was astounding. So-called bulkbits of waterstuff, sunstuff, chokestuff, and strangestuff were only the beginning; something called an uncleft was precariously defined, as were bulkbits themselves. They also had a property known as a bernstonish lading, which could be forward or backward. The art of Alchemy had rigid, unbending theories, laws, and axioms; in fact, Tom decided, it was much like Muggle science. He shut the book with a bang and leant back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

"Bonjour, Riddle! How have you been?"

The door had opened, revealing Seraphine Bonaparte's ethereal beauty. The cut on her cheek, Tom was thankful to note, had not re-opened, and she had a hint of a smile on her face, but he supposed she did not understand that she'd broken his welcome solitude.

"Oh, hello, Seraphine. I've just been working on my plans for world domination," he said in a jocular tone.

It was not, however, a joke. Tom knew that it was possible for him to conquer England, and, after that, the world. He'd even settled upon a workable plan the year before, although it lacked finesse and would take many years to implement. It was far better, he thought, to manipulate hearts and minds than it was to put dissenters to the sword and wand, but if the latter was the only option, he'd accept it despite its… inelegance.

"Really? I know you can do it—you can do great things, Riddle, if you set your mind to it. What do you plan to do afterward?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you have the whole world in your hands. What do you do with it?"

Hell and Tartarus would both freeze over before Tom would admit that he had not thought that far. He wanted the money, knowledge, and power that was his for the taking if he dared to take the necessary steps. He wanted immortality so he could enjoy the fruits of his labour. As for plans, though…

"Seraphine, can you read the words on the door?"

"Yes…"

"No, I mean please read the words on the door out loud for me."

"'Individual Study Room Thirteen."

"Well done," Tom said patronisingly. "In other words, this is a room for individual study. According to Johnson's Dictionary of the English Language, individual means 'separate from others of the same species; single; numerically one'. In case that's not simple enough for your admittedly large brain to comprehend, it means I want to study alone."

"Il n'est pas necessaire que tu te comportes comme un con," Seraphine said in rapid fire French.

"What?"

"I said you're acting like a… a… like a woman's organ of generation! Fine, I'll go away," Seraphine said, deflating, "but only when you tell me what you'll do once you've reached the top!"

"Well, for starters, I'd get rid of the idiots trying to legislate away Dark magic!"

"Good idea. Magic is magic. What about something boring, like, say, tax rates? Do we have one tax for everyone, or separate taxes for the rich and the poor?"

"The Ministry of Magic doesn't do taxes," Tom said dully, having read several books on magical civics.

"Quoi? The Ministry can't exist out of thin air. En France, on a l'impot general de quinze pour cent, fifteen per cent."

"Not in England. The British Ministry is funded by donations, you see. Good families like the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Abbotts, and the Notts trade their fortunes for a functional government. Abraxas says it's a just and sound system."

"He would, wouldn't he? The English system lets him influence the laws to his heart's desire—he funds the State and therefore, to an extent, he is the State. If everybody was taxed fairly, he'd lose access to the strings of power."

"Malfoy? The only law I see him influencing is the one on maximum prices of Firewhiskey. He loves to talk about politics, but who'd listen to him?"

"I'm not talking about Abraxas, Riddle. It's his father I'm worried about. Lucius Malfoy has a great deal of power."

"Fine. I think I'd introduce a low tax for Purebloods and Halfbloods, and a high tax for Mudbloods. Then again, an equal tax for everyone sounds appealing as well. Now shut the door and have a seat."

"That's funny. Five minutes ago, you were explaining the meaning of 'individual'."

"Five minutes ago, we weren't talking about what I'd do with a conquered world."

Seraphine did as she was asked, conjuring up an elegant powder-blue chair in Rococo style for herself, and they continued debating the minutiae of running a magical government, covering everything from love potions to magical-creature legislation. The Bonaparte girl had interesting views on both: love potions, she said, had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with compulsion, meaning they had to be controlled by law, while those magical creatures that were able to think for themselves at an approximately human level should be educated. No surprise there, Riddle thought, given that she was some form of creature herself—although no book had much to say on what she was.

"How does the legal system work here?" Seraphine asked.

"For a serious crime? The Minister asks the questions, then the lawyers for each side, and the Wizengamot—they're the ones who make the laws—vote on guilt or innocence. It's all very civilised and efficient. I imagine it's not much different across the Channel."

"Au contraire. The French judicial chamber is separate from the government; our trials have three judges, or seven, or nine, and they give their decision in writing, with reasons."

At this moment, the door slid open, and in walked Abraxas Malfoy, a lit pipe bobbing in his mouth. Tom fanned the air to no avail, stifling a cough. Malfoy pulled a paper bag out of his pocket, magically enlarged it, and plonked it noisily on the desk.

"Hiya, Bonaparte! Thought you'd be a mite peckish, so I brought you some sweets. What about you, Riddle? Plotting and scheming?"

Seraphine attacked the bag with a vengeance. Inside were Ice Mice, Liquorice Snaps, Sugar Quills, Every-Flavoured Beans, Acid Pops, even two or three of the nameless blood-flavoured lollies that Tom liked so much. They all helped themselves to a selection, licking, chewing, and munching away as they talked.

"Oh, both of us are," Seraphine said with an ear-to-ear grin. "We're discussing what to do once we've conquered the world. What would you do to the British legal system, given the chance?"

"Me? Oh, I'll be dead before I can make any changes, so why should I even bother? Who cares about the opinions of a sissified, ineffectual, dragon-poxed upper-class twit?"

"Out with it, Brax," Tom encouraged. "You keep saying that blood will out. Lucius Malfoy is the best advocate in all of Britain; some of his genius must have rubbed off on his son."

"That's the point. After Father, anything I'd contribute to the legal world would just be a massive letdown, and it won't be long before my body's as useless as this damned leg, and burning in pain to boot."

"Don't say that, Abraxas! You'll make a legendary lawyer," Seraphine said, giving him such a radiant smile that he went weak in the knees and started bleeding from the nose. "Come on, nitpick our courts to bits. Let's see if they can stand up to the Malfoy treatment."

"Merlin's saggy balls. Where do I start? Well, French judges have a well-deserved reputation for being human girouettes—weathercocks is the English word, I think. They never judge a case the same way twice. One man murders his father and gets the sword; another does the same and gets fifteen years on Tabor Island. Administrative judges are more consistent. They'll render the same verdict every time—but only after the pursuer has shuffled off his mortal coil and departed this vale of tears. If I were to reform the French system, I'd tell the normal judges to make up their minds, and I'd give the admin judges a good, solid kick in the pants."

"I wonder if you see anything good in the French system," Tom said jubilantly.

"It's a damn sight better than what's available here. I believe the people that are best placed to interpret the law are the ones that wrote it, so at least we're doing the right thing there, but aside from that, the French are miles—sorry, kilometres—ahead of us. Two words: judicial nullification. The Wizengamot votes for guilt or innocence in open court. Can't you see the problem in that arrangement?"

"Some of us don't get the chance to absorb law by osmosis," retorted Tom.

"Os—what? Never mind. The problem is that the Wizengamot doesn't explain their verdicts. They can find a person innocent because they like him, or he's holding the purse-strings, or they think the law is wrong and haven't the balls to make a new one—any reason at all except for 'he didn't do it'—and there's nothing you or I can do about it. I'd randomly pick three of the bastards and have them render written judgement. If the accused doesn't like it, I'd let him appeal to the full Wizengamot, but I wouldn't have it as a trial court. Then there's the admin law situation. If someone's suing a part of the Ministry, say the Auror office for making an improper arrest, you can't have the people that make up their pay packets judge them as well. Again, though, it won't happen, so what's the sense in talking about it?"

"You need to work on your self-confidence. Riddle already has a plan to become Minister for Magic, and I think it's even workable!"

"I didn't say that," Riddle corrected. "I had a plan to get control of England, but only from behind the scenes, being the man behind the Man as it were. It was one I came up with when I was matey with Mulciber and Jugson, so you might find it a bit… distasteful."

"You're not getting off that easily, Riddle," said Seraphine, punctuating the statement with that infectious, tinkling laugh of hers. "Come on, as you say… out with it."

"Here goes. I'd find a teaching post at Hogwarts or perhaps Beauxbatons—you did say they didn't learn the Dark Arts, and I'd dearly like to remedy that… deficiency. I'd make it known that I held a popular opinion on a polarising topic, one on which everyone has an opinion… say, blood purity. The less intellectual sort would eat it up like pudding. Through contact with children from the… better… families, I'd be assured of making it into Society's good books, at which time I could… convince… the Wizengamot or the foreign equivalent that co-operation with my goals would be a life-preserving action."

"How devious—how evil!"

"There's no such thing as good or evil except in children's fairy tales," Tom said with a smile. "There's only power and those too weak to seek it."

"Speaking of… what are you doing reading Beedle the Bard?" asked Malfoy.

"Personal project."

"Well, we won't press you," said Seraphine, with a tone of finality and a pointed look at Abraxas. "I heard of your teaching adventures in Potions, when Professor Slughorn wasn't feeling well… anyway, your plan is rather good, and I'd recommend sticking to it for the most part. Best of all, with Malfoy around, you won't need to threaten families, because the Blacks and Carrows will at least respect him."

"This is my plan," Tom retorted. "I don't need help. I can manage perfectly well on my own."

"Five minutes ago, though, you acknowledged that you did. No man can see further than his fellows, except by standing on the shoulders of giants. I'm offering Abraxas the chance to see further, and I'm offering you the power you crave. So, how's about it? Friends?"

"My friends are few and far between, mostly because anything I get close to withers and dies—call it the Dementor's touch if you must. That said, I'm prepared to consider a… civilised professional acquaintance, hopefully to persist outside of these four walls."

"Put it here, then," said Malfoy. "Now, this scheme of ours needs a name."

"Well, we came up with it over sweets, right? Which rot your teeth? How about the Rotfang Plan?"

"Oh, I'll do you one better. The Rotfang Conspiracy. Sounds more… dramatic. Now, dinner's about to be served, and I still haven't shown you the Slytherin common room. If you're like me, Bonaparte, I think you'll love it."

The Slytherin House Combination Room, to use its official name, could only be described as large and cavernous—perhaps the largest of the common rooms, if one did not count the Senior Combination Room, where the staff socialised. Unlike some parts of the dungeons at Hogwarts, there was no danger of hitting one's head on the ceiling, which was glass and provided a splendid view of the aquatic life resident in the Great Lake. In addition to the natural light let in by the ceiling and reinforced windows, there were three overhead lamps with green glass shades, as well as a few on the tables. The walls were of rough-hewn limestone panelled with snakewood. Although there were no statues or portraits except one of the Founder, every inch of the common room was decorated in wrought silver: snakes, symbolic of cunning and nobility, accompanied skulls, as a reminder of Atropos, the great leveller. Seating consisted of gleaming black leather chesterfields that were neither too soft nor too hard, and two giant fireplaces, furnished with impenetrable silver shutters, provided for heating and communication.

Besides Tom, Malfoy, and Seraphine, there were but two occupants: an unknown boy was kneeling on the rug in front of one of the fireplaces, probably a first-year Flooing home, while Eleanor Prince sat beside one of the tables watching the clock on the wall and rhythmically stirring a silver cauldron with a glass rod: seven times widdershins, once sunwise, seven times widdershins, once sunwise. Ingredients and equipment for the potion she was brewing were spread out in front of her: a graduated cylinder, a beaker, sloth brains, and a handful of Sopophorous Beans. Something to promote sleep, then, Tom thought, but what?

"I'm not like you in the slightest, Tom!" Seraphine said, almost shivering, even though the room was far too warm.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you said I'd love the Slytherin Common Room if I was anything like you. I'm not."

"Too awe-inspiring for you? Well, most students get used to it, at least."

"Malfoy—just the man I was waiting for," Ellie Prince interrupted in her thick Pitmatic, still stirring her potion. "Got your Draught almost ready."

"Much thanks. How did you know it was me?"

"I heard the door shut, but no footsteps. Easy."

"Right. Well, this is not a potion—this is a masterpiece. What a lovely shade of… transparent!"

"Two drops will knock you right out. Enjoy your oblivion."

"I will, believe you me. It's a great change from waking up screaming in the middle of the night."

Seraphine murmured something in French; Abraxas tore himself away from the potion that would give him welcome respite from the fire that forever burned in his left leg, at least for six hours in every twenty-four, and comforted the girl in her native tongue. She seemed to calm down slightly afterwards.

"What's she saying?"

"She was asking if the ceiling would quite hold. The poor girl's afraid of water…" Seraphine stared daggers at him. "Oh, Seraphine, darling, you wouldn't mind giving me a hand in the morning, would you, old girl?"

"No problem." Mona Lisa smile.

"I plan to sleep tonight, and I mean sleep until I'm given the antidote, which I hope will be in the morning. You wouldn't mind making sure that happens, would you?"

"Of course not." Big smile. "What's Hogwarts without the King of Slytherin—even if he can't keep a secret?"

"I'm in 7C. There's a glass of Wiggenweld on my side table."