Chapter Seven
"Brilliant," he said softly. "Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen."
(Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chapter 18, pg. 329)
Tom opened the double doors to the Great Hall early the next morning, finding himself to be one of only fifteen students up so soon. He glanced up at the ceiling to the Hall, mesmerized by the deep-blue-tinged-with-pink cloudless sky. He'd woken up that morning confident that the day would bring nothing but good to his previously harsh and dismal life.
He set his bag down on the bench beside him as he took his seat, helping himself to eggs, toast, bacon, and grits. Tom pulled out his Potions book, opened it to the seventh chapter, and immersed himself into its pages. The volume grew to a steady din as students arrived in the Great Hall; Tom was oblivious to it all, so intent was he on his reading. It wasn't until Abraxas fell into the seat beside him and began talking that Tom put his book away and was made aware of his surroundings.
"Studying already?" Malfoy grunted. "I hope you're not going to be a bore all year, Riddle." At Tom's arched eyebrow and cold expression, he quickly amended his words. "I just meant, you know, that, um…" flustered, he muttered, "Sorry. Not a morning person," and quickly shoved some food onto his plate. Tom looked away, smirking. Goyle and Nott stumbled over to the table bleary-eyed, followed by three other boys whom Tom recognized as his other roommates but had yet to speak to. Nott gave Tom a nod in greeting, sitting on his left, and Goyle lifted a meaty paw in salute before crashing into his seat across from them.
The three other boys walked over to Tom, who rose from his seat to introduce himself. The boy in the middle had black hair (lighter than Tom's – you could see brown undertones in the light) and gray eyes. He held out his hand with a carefree smile. "Cygnus Black. Good to meet you, Tom; I've already heard much talk about you," he grinned. Tom took his hand and shook it firmly, a lightness in his expression that concealed his calculating thoughts. The boy to the left of Cygnus had thick, brown, curly hair, and introduced himself as Sebastian Lestrange. The third boy had auburn hair and dark blue eyes with a cruel look to his features, giving his name to be Marcus Avery. Tom nodded, gesturing for them to take a seat across the table from him.
The boys became acquainted with one another, and it wasn't long before Tom had them reeled in nice and firm at his feet. They were soon interrupted, however, by a short, round man with a blonde, walrus-like mustache bounding towards them. "Hello, boys!" his voice boomed happily. "I'm Professor Slughorn, Potion's Master and Head of Slytherin House," he smiled at them. "I've come to hand out your schedules for the school year. I do believe I get to see you this morning, so look sharp!" He chuckled.
He was about to walk away when he caught sight of Tom's Potions text. "Oho! What have we here? A student actually working ahead?" At Tom's sheepish nod and shy smile, his booming laughter was once again released onto the Hall. "Well done, my boy! Can't ever go wrong with looking ahead! I look forward to seeing you in class!" He winked and, chuckling, continued down the table, handing out schedules.
At the other boys' incredulous faces, Tom shrugged. "Doesn't hurt to have teachers like you," he stated. The others twittered as Tom gathered his books and bag to head towards his first class, Charms, with Professor Flitwick. He heard hurried scrapings and banging's from behind him, evidence of his dormmate's attempts to catch up with him. Let them scurry about like fools, he thought. I'll not babysit them. Let them squirm in their pursuit of my favor.
Fifteen minutes later Tom was seated next to Cygnus and Abraxas in the Charms classroom, waiting for class to begin, as were the Ravenclaws.
Abraxas leaned towards Tom, trying to redeem himself as well as occupy all of his attention, and said, "We lucked out in this class; the Ravenclaws are the only tolerable House here."
"I don't know," Tom mused. "We haven't really met anyone from the other Houses yet."
"Trust me," Abraxas pressed earnestly. "My entire family went to Hogwarts. I've heard stories from everyone, and they all said that the Ravenclaws are the only other House besides Slytherin worth associating with."
"How nice for you, Malfoy," Tom replied coldly. "I, for one, hope to make my own impressions when it comes to others, thank you very much."
Abraxas' face fell, and he retreated inside of himself for the rest of the day. Tom turned to Cygnus, who'd been watching the exchange coolly, an amused glint in his eyes. "The majority of my family have been in Slytherin," Cygnus said, "and have similar views to those of Abraxas." Malfoy looked up hopefully. "However," here, Malfoy slumped back down, "you seem to have the right idea, Tom; why make decisions based on the prejudices of an older generation? Seems to me that a person could miss out on a lot by following old views blindly."
Tom continued to look at him, appraising the boy, and pushing lightly at his mental faculties, meeting no resistance. Tom withdrew, surprised by what he had found. He truly believes in what he said, Tom thought pleasantly. Interesting that he wasn't just saying that to be in my good graces. He tilted his head, a little quirk to his mouth, before nodding and turning to the front of the room where a tiny man now stood calling for quiet.
"Welcome to Hogwarts, first years!" he squeaked. "My name is Professor Flitwick and, as I am sure you are aware, this is the Charms classroom. The first thing you will all be learning is how to levitate an object, like so." He cleared his throat, swished his wand through the air, and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!" His desk promptly lifted itself into the air, hovered, and then was carefully set back down on the ground again. The class clapped and whispered, excited by the magic. Tom, too, clapped and smiled, eager to appear polite and humble, while inside he scoffed at the tiny bit of magic they were to begin with.
Nevertheless, the class went by quickly after that, Tom taking copious amounts of notes and asking many questions; the Professor was pleased greatly by his new student's zeal for the subject, awarding Slytherin ten points for his inquisitive insights on the subject. His Slytherin comrades congratulated him in admiration; the Ravenclaws looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and resentment. Appearing unpretentious throughout, Tom secretly reveled in his superiority.
Double Potions with the Gryffindors was next. Professor Slughorn, upon seeing Tom, boomed, "There he is! The boy with humble ambition!" Tom nodded, forcing an embarrassed blush to his cheeks as he scuffed the floor with his shoes. "Come now, boy! What's your name? I don't recall catching it when we met this morning."
"Tom. Tom Riddle," he replied with a saccharine smile.
"Riddle?" Slughorn questioned. "Ah, yes! Riddle. Dumbledore told me he went to visit a boy with promising talent over the summer, in a Muggle orphanage, correct?"
Tom's chest had puffed out slightly in pride, but sagged at the mention of the orphanage; this time, he didn't have to fake his embarrassment. "Yes, sir. But my father was a wizard," he stated confidently, "I think he died before I was born, and my mother after."
Slughorn bounced on the balls of his feet jovially, clapping Tom on the back. "Dear boy, I didn't mean to upset you, there's nothing wrong with Muggles or having Muggle blood; of course, in Slytherin House, it is quite the peculiar trait to have, but…" he trailed off, shrugging, before patting Tom once more on the back. "Go on, take a seat."
Tom took a seat at the front of the room beside Cygnus Black and waited for Slughorn to begin.
"Potions," he began, "is not like Muggle cooking, or the Muggle technique called chemistry. It is its own science, one that requires magic and prodigious skill. It is not enough to just follow directions; you must truly have a knack for this subtle art, and offer yourself to the craft as such." He cleared his throat to continue, but paused, seeing Tom with his hand up. A rumbling laugh escaped him as he said, "Yes, Mr. Riddle? Have I lost you?"
Tom smiled complaisantly before shaking his head. "No, sir, I was just curious about something you said that doesn't seem to be congruous with what our textbook expressed." Slughorn raised his eyebrows and waved for him to continue. "Well, haven't there been Potions Masters who did terribly at the subject in school, but when they applied their own original techniques, excelled far beyond their teachers and predecessors? They didn't seem to have any skill whatsoever – it wasn't until they tried things their own way that any sort of break-through or headway was made."
The Professor stared at him, shocked, for a good twenty seconds before his booming laughter rang throughout the entire classroom.
"Well said, my boy, well said!" he hooted, wiping a tear from his eyes. "Take five points for Slytherin for reading ahead – you are, of course, referring to Hadrian Venefici of Chapter Sixteen, I assume? – and another five points for such an outstandingly cheeky observation." Slughorn wagged his finger at Tom and gave him a saucy wink. "I'll be seeing great things from you in this class, Mr. Riddle, of that I have no doubt."
As the week wore on and Tom made a positive impression on all of his teachers, he found that he had gained not a few admirers along the way. The Ravenclaws were impressed by his intelligence; the Hufflepuffs by his outward deference; the Gryffindors, by his uncharacteristically friendly Slytherin nature; and the Slytherins by all of the prestige he was gaining for their House.
Tom Riddle's name began to crop up in conversation across the castle amongst both students and teachers. Professor Slughorn bragged to Professor Callahan, the Herbology teacher, about Tom's natural ability in the field of Potions; Professor Callahan to Slughorn on his quick-fire identification of all the plants in the greenhouse. Everyday in the teachers lounge, Tom Riddle came up in conversation. The only Professor to say nothing on the handsome orphan was Professor Dumbledore.
While Tom had been gently opinionated in his other classes, in Dumbledore's he'd been careful to not do or say anything to arouse Dumbledore's curiosity in any way. He kept his head down, remaining polite and keen to learn, raising his hand only to answer questions.
Dumbledore continued his observance all the same.
Tom was well aware.
Still, he had given no reason for the Professor to be reasonably suspicious, and was therefore left alone.
At the end of their first week, Tom and Avery were sitting in the common room playing chess when Avery slammed his hand down on the table in anger. Tom looked up with a bemused expression, when in reality he was entertaining some very smug thoughts. About time he decided to speak up; I was getting rather bored, listening to his internal debates.
"I don't get it, Riddle," Avery said conversationally, his shaking voice the only indication of the ire simmering beneath the surface.
"What? Chess?" Tom replied, keeping up the façade. "You're not doing terribly at all; it's rather simple, really, you just –"
"Stop playing stupid, you know what I'm talking about," Avery snapped. Tom looked taken aback.
"Really, Avery, I haven't the faintest idea what you're on about," he said, becoming more and more amused by the second.
Avery's eyes narrowed. "Black. Malfoy. Lestrange. Goyle. Nott. Me. We're all purebloods. We all come from affluent families. And what of you? You're just some boy who claims to have a pure-blooded heritage, who grovels at the feet of his instructors for acknowledgement, who had, somehow, conned those of us with REAL blood purity into being his little, dependent, parasitic," he spat, "followers." His eyes flashed menacingly as he leaned forward. "How did you do it?"
Tom cast Avery an indulgent smile before looking at the chess board, fingering his pawn. J'adoube. When he looked up again, it was to see an avid Avery awaiting his reply. Tom stared deep into Avery's eyes, twirling the piece between his fingers on the board, before speaking slowly and deliberately. "You and your fellow 'purebloods' have always vastly underestimated those who aren't of similar purity to you. I don't claim to be a pureblood or otherwise. Why, you ask, are you all my – how did you say it? – 'parasitic followers?'" He paused, noting Avery's hypnotized expression with pleasure. He shrugged. "I haven't a clue. I've done nothing but be myself; whether or not you all like it, and have gravitated towards me, is your own decision, not mine. I've conned no one." Here, Tom gave a sly smile, continuing his manipulation of the pawn. "As for my intellectual achievements… well. It can't hurt to always be one step ahead, now, could it?" He smiled, the shadows generated by the torches caressing his face eerily. Avery shuddered, finally tearing his eyes from Tom's bottomless pits. Tom's smile broadened. "Life operates in strange ways, wouldn't you agree? Take chess, for example. Play the game right, and even the lowliest of pieces – the pawn – can become a queen, the most powerful player on the board. The player, however, often becomes reckless, and loses one of the two queens he has acquired if, indeed, he still retains the original. You can never have two queens at a time. One will always triumph over the other, even if they're on the same team."
Tom set the pawn down and moved his queen across the board.
"Checkmate, Avery."
Tom stood, gave a beatific smile in the shaken boy's direction, and headed up the steps into his dormitory, intent on getting some rest.
Avery sat for a long while after, staring blankly at the board, his cruel face lined with dread.
No, he would never again confront Tom Riddle; he was better to have as an ally, for to have him as an enemy would, surely, only end in disaster.
X
The year charged on brazenly, leaving the students of Hogwarts scrambling in its wake, trying to keep up. Tom alone of the first years kept pace, at times exceeding the steady trot of Time. Whenever he had the time to relax, Tom could always be found sitting in a remote corner of the library reading a thick tome, lost to all but the realm of knowledge.
On one of these such days in the middle of the winter holidays, Tom was sitting in his favorite nook in the library when he slammed the heavy book shut. He ran his dusty fingers through his hair, blowing out a breath in frustration. He'd been searching for weeks and weeks for evidence of his father in the magical world, coming up with absolutely nothing. He'd taken Avery's comments on his heritage to heart earlier that year, and was determined to extricate this mystery from the hands of anonymity even if it meant losing out on any free time or rest he had.
Tom closed his eyes and bowed his head over the table, massaging his temples weakly. "What I need," he said aloud to the deserted library, "is a clue, any at all, as to who I might be related." His brow creased in concentration, his ministrations to his aching head unable to provoke any insight on the matter. His frown deepened. "Puer patrici. Some clue that was. 'Boy of privilege. Boy of inheritance.' Doesn't mean a thing." Tom sighed, defeated for the time being. He waved his hand and the book flew back to its place deep within the library. He shouldered his bag and made his way out of the library, not understanding how it could have failed him.
The hairs rose on the back of his neck; Tom ignored them. He'd known for months now that someone was following him.
As he trudged out into the hallway, a pair of concerned blue eyes followed him before they disappeared altogether.
Tom had an unlimited amount of time on his hands to spend alone since all of his pureblooded doormmates had their lush mansions to return home to. Cygnus and his twin sister Walburga had invited Tom back to their home for the holidays, but had quickly rescinded their offer at the fierce look in his eyes that clearly said he was no charity case. The two had nearly fallen over themselves in their rush to apologize. Tom smirked at the memory.
To his utter surprise, on Christmas morning he'd awoken to presents under the tree in the Common Room. He'd received a pair of fine leather gloves from Malfoy and other such practical gifts from his peers; he'd amused himself with Professor Slughorn's present of a history of the wizarding world's most influential potioneers, and Professor Merrythought's model of an animated Lethifold (he'd asked her the week before break about them). Tom, of course, hadn't deigned to waste what little money he had on such frivolous things as presents. He had, however, received a rather lovely gift of books on Slytherin House's history as well as an advanced copy of Transfiguration and Defense theory from an anonymous person. The note attached was written in a loopy script, simply stating, "Have a Happy Christmas. I am sure you will enjoy these books greatly. The conquest of knowledge is, after all, a most noble undertaking."
Because Tom was looking at the ground and was pondering such things, it came as a surprise to him when he heard his name being called.
"Mr. Riddle! How nice to see you!" Tom glanced up, startled, into the twinkling eyes of Professor Dumbledore. "Working hard already on your assignments? I trust you aren't having any trouble?"
"No, sir," Tom replied politely, regaining his quiet semblance. "I was doing some… personal… research; I've already finished my workload for the holidays."
"Splendid! Then I'm sure you have some time for tea with me in my office?"
Tom cursed inside, realizing he couldn't refuse the professor; he had, after all, just told him he had nothing of import to do. With a neutral face he relented, "Of course." Dumbledore beamed down his long nose and motioned Tom into his office.
Dumbledore took two yellow candies from a jar on his desk and, unsticking them, offered one to Tom; when Tom declined, he shrugged and popped them both into his mouth, waving his wand in the direction of the tea set, setting two steaming cups down on the desk between he and Tom. Tom thanked him, taking a sip from his cup and placing it lightly back onto the saucer.
Tom had never been in a professor's office before, and was both impressed and amused by what he saw. Odd, whirring trinkets sat on stools and shelves, there was a Muggle Western toy-gun that was enchanted to, when shot, let out a puff of smoke and a flag that said, "BANG!" on it, a toy plane zoomed around the room, and nearly every surface was covered in books. Some, Tom noted, were ancient in appearance and clearly full of curriculum that wasn't taught at Hogwarts. His eyes gleamed. What I wouldn't give to get my hands on one of them…
His gaze eventually fell back to the Professor, who had been looking at him over his steepled fingers with a pleased expression.
"Did you enjoy the books I sent you for Christmas?" he inquired. Tom's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair.
"You sent those?" he blurted out before he could get a hold of his emotions. In truth, had he known that it was Dumbledore who'd sent the books, he'd have probably returned them or never even touched them; as it was, he'd already read them, and now had no intention of doing any such thing. Stupid old man! He complained to himself. This only ever happens around Dumbledore! I really need to work on my reactions around him…
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled maddeningly. "Yes, I did; I suppose I forgot to sign it. It's so difficult, remembering what present belongs to whom, writing messages, that it is quite feasible I forgot such a significant detail." His smile widened. "I trust you've been putting them to good use?"
"Oh yes, I've been reading them whenever possible," Tom replied. "I am curious, though – not to sound ungrateful, sir, – but – why did you send them? They're really advanced books and, if I'm not mistaken, were quite expensive and old, not to mention valuable…" Of all the teachers to have sent him the books, Dumbledore seemed to be the least likely to have done so; not only was his track record against him, but he'd never done anything to truly stand out in his class.
Dumbledore unstuck two more candies and popped them into his mouth.
"Well," he started, slowly twiddling his thumbs and looking at the plane zooming around the room, "I've heard such remarkable things from your other Professor's about your performance in their classes, but have yet to see such things of you in my class." He smiled in amusement down at Tom, who looked somewhat miffed. "I had hoped that the books, the Transfiguration and Defense in particular, would spur you on, give you more of an incentive, to shine in my class. There is no price on knowledge, Tom, and, in the spirit of Christmas, I felt giving my student a gift was – how do the Muggles say it? – apropos."
Tom tilted his head; he didn't understand. Why was Dumbledore being so nice to him? Was this his way of telling Tom he wished to ignore the past? No – that would be foolish, which this man most certainly is not, he thought. It was a test; it had to be. People don't just give out presents for sentimental reasons, especially not in Tom's experience – all he had to do was look at Slughorn, who wished to have him as another trophy on his mantelpiece, and the other students, who wished to use his intelligence and notoriety for themselves. The old codger wanted something.
He nodded. "Thank you very much, sir."
"Not at all, Tom, not at all," Dumbledore waved before suddenly jumping to his feet. "I nearly forgot! I'll be but a moment, Mr. Riddle." Dumbledore walked across the room to a door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Tom sat rigidly, sure that his Professor was trying to trap him in some way. When he returned, it was with two small cloth pouches – one silver, the other black. He handed Tom the black one, but held on to the silver.
"The black one holds your allowance for the rest of the school year, but the silver one is actually a present."
"Present?" Tom asked, confused. "But it's no longer Christmas."
His Professor chuckled. "But Mr. Riddle! Don't you know what day it is?" At Tom's blank look, Dumbledore shook his head, letting out a jolly laugh. "You must have really been working hard, to not know that today is your twelfth birthday."
Tom's eyebrows surged once more to his hairline. Dumbledore clapped him on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, Tom." He handed over the silver pouch. Tom took it eagerly, trying not to let his enthusiasm best him. He reached into the bag and, when his fingers touched smooth leather, pulled it out to find a black, leather book. Dumbledore tapped it twice with his wand and the book expanded. It was a diary, the parchment edges gilded in gold. Tom ran his fingers over the supple leather, its earthy smell a divine perfume to his senses. When he looked up, it was to see the Professor watching him surreptitiously.
"It's enchanted," Tom said, eyes narrowed.
It was Dumbledore's turn to be shocked. His graying, auburn brows gambled upwards. "Very good. How did you know?"
Tom shrugged, his eyes returning to the gift his long, delicate fingers were unconsciously caressing. "I could feel it."
Dumbledore smiled, but his eyes belied his true feelings of apprehension. "Well, you're correct; it is enchanted. I bought it at a Muggle store, and had one of my very good friends who deals with privacy spells charm it so that none but the writer – or owner, rather – could read what is written. All you have to do is write your name on the first page, and the book will automatically know that you are indeed who you say you are; anyone who attempts to write or read it as you will be unable to."
Tom looked down once more at the thin book. He felt with his magic for any indication that Dumbledore was lying or had placed any other spells upon it. He hadn't, in either respect. Tom smiled ingratiatingly and stood up, shaking hands with his Professor. "Thank you very much, Professor Dumbledore. I'll put it to good use."
"Of course, it was no problem at all. The book is also enchanted to not run out of pages so, while it may seem small, it will hold however much you wish to write in its pages." He patted Tom on the back. "Now run along, Mr. Riddle, and enjoy the rest of your birthday."
Tom nodded, thanked the Professor once more, and made his way back to the quiet solitude of the Slytherin Common Room.
X
Altogether too soon for his liking, the school year came to a close, and Tom boarded the train once more for Muggle London. The train ride passed in a scarlet blur, and as he and his new companions disembarked and promises were made to write and meet up over the summer holidays, Tom stepped through the magical platform into the dreary afternoon light.
It was going to be a long summer.
A/N: To answer any possible questions you may have on staff names and character names, here is my little explanation:
Professor Flitwick is extremely likely to have been a teacher. When first described in the books, it was as a small old man – for more you can see the Harry Potter Lexicon. The only teacher in this story that I made up is Professor Callahan, whom we will see more of in the story later; she's quite the interesting character if I do say so myself :D. Professor Binns is still the History teacher, and Professor Sinistra the Astronomy because I didn't feel like thinking up another meaningful name.
Students – Cygnus and Walburga were brother and sister (see Black family tree) but for purposes of the story I changed their birthdates to be in the same year as Tom and to be twins. Lestrange, Avery, Goyle, and Nott were all given first names and appearances by me. There are female Slytherins who will be making their appearance in the story in the next chapter, all with familiar last names, and first names that may or may not have been taken from the Black family tree. The next chapter will be the countdown – or is it countup – to seventh year. It will be very long, longer than what I will normally write, so it is most likely going to take a while before you get to see it. On that note, yesterday was my 17th birthday – yay! – and now I will leave it at that. Feel free to ask me questions. Cheers, everyone!
