Becca was in the kitchen, playing with Gideon. It struck her that it would be the last time she'd spend with him for quite some time, at least until the winter vacations. Her brother was a chubby baby, with a constant sweet smile and a penchant for mischief: he'd hug you one moment and spit up mashed carrots onto your shirt the next. Today, however, he seemed to sense that something was wrong and tugged harder than usual on Becca's hair. She extricated herself from his pudgy grip, wincing as he pulled out several strands of brown hair.
All her essentials were packed, shoved into two middle-sized suitcases. One held clothes, the other books and school things. It had been somewhat difficult to fit the cauldron in, but she'd managed, and saved space by placing the basic potions ingredients (Becca had been amused to find that leg of newt and eye of frog really /were/ used in magic, though not in large quantities) inside the pewter bowl. The Hogwarts uniform was a black robe, worn either open or closed, and students were allowed to wear Muggle clothing beneath it, if they wished. Becca wasn't much of a clotheshorse, and most of that suitcase was filled with books.
In a small white metal cage next to the suitcases was her familiar, an extremely tiny, plump hamster. Its name was Timothy, Tiny Tim for short. He was running futilely in a wheel, plump little feet racing ahead of him, but the wheel turned inexorably. At least it was exercise, Becca thought, and she hoped Tiny Tim didn't mind it very much.
"Ka?" Gideon asked, ingenuous face knotting in concern.
"Yes, Giddy?" She wasn't really expecting an answer. Gideon, though ready enough with smiles and burbles, was not usually very talkative.
"Ka!" he said, and giggled, waving his arms in the air.
"Becca?" Ima asked, leaning against the door and watching her children. "It's time for Gideon to go to bed. You can play with him again tomorrow morning, before you leave—" Her voice caught in her throat, and she looked down at the tiled kitchen floor.
"I'll be fine, Ima, and I'll write you – the school's got owls that students can use if they need them...."
"I know you'll be fine, darling," Ima said, with an attempt at a brave little smile. Becca sighed, and mentally smacked herself in the forehead. She had never seen the side of her mother that dissolved into tears like this, and she did not like it at all. It was a slightly traitorous thought, but her mother seemed downright.... weak. It wasn't as though Becca was disappearing forever, it was only a change – and, she thought, a change for the better. "But I'll still miss you," her mother was saying.
"I know, Ima, I'll miss you too." Impulsively, she walked to her mother and hugged her around the waist. Leah Greenburn wrapped her arms around her daughter, clutching her close. It was as though she feared letting go, that if she opened the protective circle of limbs Becca might suddenly fly away and escape. Becca sighed again. It was going to be a long night.
*
The orphanage staff did not know what to make of the abrupt change in the character of one Tom M. Riddle.
He had turned from a sarcastic and rather sullen boy to one who smiled constantly. When, to punish him for eating his dinner to slowly, Mrs. Sawyer cuffed him on the ear, she was disconcerted to find that instead of glaring defiance, Tom merely smiled. And smiled some more. Though she hated to admit it, the grin frightened her more than any evil glower ever could.
Tom was called to Mrs. Sawyer's office that evening, but even the possibility of a whipping did not dampen his spirits. After all, he was leaving the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children in a little less than fourteen hours, to inherit his mother's world. He nervously flattened his hair down before knocking on the door; Mrs. Sawyer was notoriously strict about personal appearance. "Come in!" snapped a voice roughened by nicotine and cigars, which she chewed whole and swallowed.
Biting nervously at his lip (which was still purple and scabbed from his last encounter with Mrs. Sawyer), Tom put his hand on the doorknob, hesitating. "I told you, boy, come in /now/!" Mrs. Sawyer growled. Tom complied hurriedly, and swung the door open. Mrs. Sawyer was sitting at her desk, and her son was standing beside it. He smiled benignly at Tom, a smile that Tom did not return. His previous good spirits had evaporated somewhat when faced with the evil-smelling reality of the matron.
"Jonathan has informed me that you have been accepted to a private boarding school for orphans, Riddle." Mr. Sawyer's eyes twinkled at him from over his mother's head, and Tom thought it a very good thing she could not see her son's expression.
"Yes ma'am," he said flatly. A private boarding school for orphans. Well. If that's what Mr. Sawyer wanted to say, Tom could play along.
"Though I don't see what could have made them do such a stupid thing, I am going to let you go. You're to be at King's Cross tomorrow at nine, to catch the train."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said.
"That is all. You may pack your things." He nodded. "Don't bob your head at me, you little snake!" Tom thought that being called a snake wasn't such a bad thing – snakes were beautiful in their grace. But somehow he got the idea that Mrs. Sawyer did not mean it as a compliment. "Get out of my sight. The sooner you're at that school the better."
As he left the office, Mr. Sawyer murmured in his ear. "I've had your things sent to the school already. All you need to pack are your clothes and your wand."
Tom found it momentarily impossible to say thank you.
He couldn't sleep that night, and, until dawn, counted the cracks on the ceiling, which he had long ago memorized. One became fifty-five.... Fifty-five became two hundred-eight.... And gradually, too, the night made its transformation to light.
*
He must have dozed off for a minute, just a second, because the harsh jangle of the wake-up bell startled him. One minute. He couldn't even get one damn minute of sleep.... Tom, disoriented, was about to ignore the bell and wait until Mrs. Sawyer shook him out of bed when he remembered – the train left today! Suddenly, it seemed much more important to hurry up. He tumbled out of bed and pulled on pants and shirt, hastily shoved his feet into his shoes. Muttering dire curses under his breath, Tom began tying the laces, but then gave up, grabbed his bags, and rushed out the door and down the stairs, shoelaces streaming behind him.
*
There would be no breakfast today. Mr. Sawyer had given him some pocket money to buy food on the train, and then he had left. Tom thought sardonically that the elder wizard had probably caught sight of his girlfriend Althea. Typical, to leave a boy here, confused and alone.... Not, of course, that he /wanted/ Sawyer around. Tom could do just fine on his own, thank you very much. After watching the barrier between platforms nine and ten, he figured out easily enough how to make his way through. Leaning nonchalantly against the railing, Tom was nonetheless startled when he dropped backward.
Picking himself up off the ground, he dusted the legs of his trousers (which were too short – Tom outgrew clothes at a speed that astonished and irritated the orphanage – keeping him in clothes almost wasn't worth the trouble) and surveyed Platform 9 ¾. It was a hive of wizards and witches and their children, yelling parents and crying babies, and some prospective students shedding tears as well. Tom felt nothing but contempt for those few, the weaklings. Ahead of him, resting in the bed of the railroad tracks, was the dignified scarlet shell of the Hogwarts Express. It sat puffing a gentle stream of smoke into the air, mysterious noises rumbling in its interior.
Fascinated, he crept closer to the great beast, examining it with a curious dark sapphire-blue eye. Amazing. It was a relic of the past, and yet it fit correctly into its place. The very anachronism enchanted him, and it was a few seconds before he snapped out of his trance and actually stepped aboard the wonderful metal creation. Inside it looked the same as the normal railroad cars did, though maybe a bit nicer – the halls were carpeted with green plush, and the walls and ceiling were painted with a mural depicting the Hogwarts grounds and the Forbidden Forest.
Tom carried his tiny black bag over his shoulder, and set off down the corridor in search of an empty compartment. His search netted little, until he had almost reached the end of the train. There was a drawing of a calm forest clearing. Tom was rapidly finding out things about the wizard-world, and one of them was that pictures moved. Here, a two dimensional unicorn lapped quietly at an oil-brushed lake, and galloped away hurriedly when Tom walked by. Shrugging, he decided to try that compartment and, to his delight, it was completely empty.
The compartment, compared to the spectacular living painting of the hallway, was rather plain. The walls were a dull tan and looked as though generations of children had thrown drinks and food at them, and tried their utter best to destroy the seats. As Tom sat down on the bench nearest the window, he noticed stuffing leaking from the seat opposite him. He gradually became lost in daydreams of what school would be like. Suddenly a voice startled him from his thoughts. "Sorry, can I sit here? There's no room at all; I was late...." The voice, nastily familiar, trailed off as the speaker noticed the occupant of the compartment.
"Oh," said Eustace Hawley, "It's you."
"/Hawley/?" Tom exclaimed, completely dumbfounded, "/You're/ – you can't be—"
"/Riddle/," Hawley spat. "I /knew/ Sawyer was hiding something—"
"You knew no such thing," Tom replied, glaring, "So don't try and pretend you did." His left hand, in his pocket, rested lightly on his wand.
"Fine," snapped Hawley, "There's no way I'm sitting here with you, you little slimeball. I'll find somewhere else."
"First time in your life you've done me a favor," Tom said icily, and then, "Goodbye."
It looked as though Hawley was going to say something else, but he swallowed his words and stalked from the room. Tom, still filled with rage, sat there for a long minute and attempted to control his breathing. He couldn't /believe/ it! It wasn't fair! How dare Hawley go and be a wizard? Tom had been looking forward to escaping from the clutches of the Muggle world, but it seemed as though the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children was determined to dog him until the end of his days. He glared out through the window and watched the Potter boy hugging his parents goodbye.
It was just sickening, the whole day. His triumphant arrival at Hogwarts would be dimmed by the fact that Hawley was there, too. Tom couldn't believe it. Lost in that morose train of thought, he didn't even notice when other children entered the room and sat.
He was once again jarred from his thoughts by voices, one rather argumentative, and one defensive. "What are you doing?" demanded the first voice. It belonged to a darkly handsome boy with shockingly light green eyes. He did not, in Tom's opinion, look particularly smart. The child, a first year by lack of any House insignia on his uniform, was staring accusingly at another firstie.
"I'm not doing anything," the second child said heatedly, in a thick Scottish accent. He had a very pink complexion, and his hair was so pale that it took a similar tinge to his skin. His eyes were a muddy sort of light hazel, entirely unremarkable, and the lines of his face were round without being plump. There was something strange about his mouth, it turned down slightly at one corner, as though he was constantly worrying. Tom noticed that the boy's fingers were twitching in a convulsive pattern. His hand was clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white, and his thumb twisted around and around the first finger.
It wasn't that remarkable, Tom thought, except for the fact that the boy had been doing the same thing for fifteen consecutive minutes.
"Yes, you are. Stop twisting your hand like that. It's annoying me," the first boy said, handsome face frowning a little.
The pale boy's pink face flushed a deeper shade of sanguine. "Leave me alone."
"I'm just asking you a simple question; why are you holding your hand like that? It looks like it hurts."
"I said leave me alone," the boy said softly, mumbling.
"What did you say?" the first child asked, obviously not about to leave the poor boy alone.
"Isn't that enough?" Tom demanded, "I think you've embarrassed him enough for one day."
The dark boy noticed him for the first time. Tom sighed – people were so /stupid/ sometimes. They didn't even notice if you were sitting in a corner, if you weren't saying anything. You didn't count until you offered your own dumb opinion that they could disagree with. "What?" he asked. Tom rolled his eyes, this boy was a real genius, obviously. A regular Voltaire.
"I said, 'I think you've embarrassed him enough for one day.'"
"Oh, I'm sorry," the dark boy said. Oddly enough, he really did seem sorry. Tom, rather incredulously, concluded that the boy hadn't realized the discomfort he was causing the hand-twisting boy (who incidentally was still turning his thumb around and around the index finger. Tom was surprised they couldn't hear the knuckles cracking.) The dark boy was speaking again. "What are your names, then? Mine's Martin Shaw."
"Braden Baird Campbell," said the salmon-pink boy, fingers still twitching.
"Tom Riddle."
"Pleased to meet you, Thomas."
"Tom."
"I'm sorry?"
"My name isn't Thomas. It's Tom."
"Fine. Riddle, than."
"Whatever your Highness wishes."
"Well, there's no need to be rude!"
Tom chose to ignore him. He sighed and leaned back against the squashy chair back. It was going to be a long ride.
*
Israel drove Becca to the train station, because Leah did not know how to use a car, and also because she couldn't bear to say goodbye to Becca again. Israel had pushed his glasses all the way to the very bridge of his nose, which was a sure sign of agitation. Attempting to reassure him, despite the fact that her nerves were jangling as well, Becca patted her father on the arm. He smiled down at her, though it was a sad smile. "It's not like you're losing me forever," she said as they pulled into King's Cross, "I'll be home during the holidays, and summer."
"I know," Israel said, with another smile. He took loss better than Leah did. "But we'll miss you anyway, Becca. We love you."
"I know," Becca repeated, and looked nervously at the station. "You can't come through the barrier, Mug— non-magic people aren't allowed. I'm sorry."
"That's fine," Israel said, though Becca could tell he was hurt. She hardened her heart – it was no fault of hers, and she was not going to let him make her feel guilty for something that was never her responsibility.
"Well," Becca said brusquely, "I should get going. I want to get my bags set up."
Israel slid out of the car and opened the door for her. Becca laboriously dragged her two suitcases behind her, one in each hand, with Israel bringing up the rear, Tiny Tim's cage in his hand. Some people looked at them oddly, but Becca held her head high and ignored them. "Now, the letter said to lean against the barrier – very casually...." Israel said.
"I /know/, Dad. Here, give me Tim's cage." She balanced the hamster's cage above the lighter bag, the one that had her clothes in it. She leaned against the barriers, backwards, and the last thing she saw was her father's face, watching her, hand held out as if to stop her leaving—
And then, Platform 9 ¾.
*
After a while, once the train was moving and the countryside was streaming past in a long line of moor and occasional scrub bush, Martin Shaw grew tired of the oppressive silence and left the compartment. It was then that Braden Campbell ventured to speak. He had stopped twisting his thumb and looked generally more relaxed. "Um, I guess I should th—"
"Don't bother," Tom said curtly, "It was nothing."
"But—" Braden began, then stopped and shrugged. "Right. Whatever you say." For the first time he smiled, and though it was very infectious, Tom did not smile back. Glumly, Braden thumped his head against the couch cushions. "I'm worried about the Sorting.... I've a feeling I'm going to be sorted into Hufflepuff, but my parents are Gryffindors, and the family's been either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw for centuries. There's a rumor that one of my ancestors was in Slytherin, but I've never seen proof."
Tom warmed a little to this well-meaning child. "My mum was a Slytherin."
"Really?" Braden said, interested. Tom could tell. It wasn't a 'really' that was used to show boredom. Braden sincerely was curious. "What's her name?"
"What was," Tom said, voice dropping several degrees into glacial iciness.
Braden was neither stupid nor deaf, and realized his mistake instantly. "Oh. I'm sorry. If you don't want to talk about it, I understand—"
"Eva," said Tom, with a tiny, ever-so-tiny smile, "Eva Riddle."
*
"Do you need help with your bags?" a voice asked curiously.
"Yes," Becca said, grateful, "Could you just take Tiny Tim for me?"
"Who?" the other girl asked, puzzled. She had a moon-shaped face and beautiful auburn hair.
"I'm sorry," Becca replied, "Tiny Tim is my familiar."
The girl grinned and took the proffered cage, helping Becca into a nearby compartment, behind a cunningly painted willow tree. "I'm Cynthia Murray. Excuse me for saying, but you don't seem very familiar with all of this – are you Muggle-born?"
"Yes," Becca said, sitting down gingerly on a chair that spurted down stuffing, like an artery slashed open. It was rather unnerving and she gently pushed some of it back into the cushion. While she did this, the train began to move, and they were off. She was not feeling particularly talkative, but luckily, Cynthia Murray seemed perfectly happy to take up the slack of the conversation, herself.
"Really? I'm not. My family's pureblood, of course, the Murrays have been in Hogwarts almost since the beginning, which doesn't really mean all that much except that we've got a bunch of dusty old portraits in all the hallways." She made a face. "It's horrible, you've got all these dead people staring at you and yelling whenever you track mud up the stairs."
Becca grinned, half in relief. Perhaps people at this school wouldn't be so horrible after all. "What House d' you think you'll get into?" she asked. It seemed to be a question that was fluttering nervously on the mouths of all the children about to be Sorted.
"Gryffindor, of course," her companion said matter-of-factly, "I told you; all my family've been Gryffindors. I don't think I'm an exception, of course. How about you?"
"Well," Becca said, "I don't really know much about any of them. Professor Dumbledore didn't really elaborate much; he was busy convincing my parents to let me go at all."
Cynthia grinned in sympathy. "Don't worry, it's always a bit difficult for the Muggle-borns to adjust and pick up the wizard culture, but they've been doing it for centuries. It won't be any different for you, I'm sure."
"What are the Houses like?"
"Well, Gryffindors are supposed to be very brave and courageous," Cynthia said, "Professor Dumbledore, who you've met, is a graduate of Gryffindor. He's brilliant, though, and," she said, blushing, "He's cute."
Becca, who hadn't really though that when he came to visit, raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he a little old for you?"
Cynthia blushed brighter and went hurriedly on. "Er – Hufflepuff is the largest House, generally, and lots of people say they're stupid, but that's not it at all. They're very generous, and loyal and they work hard. Headmaster Dippet was a Hufflepuff, in his day. It's an old saying, 'Hufflepuffs make the best friends,' or something, I'm not good at remembering things like that. As a rule Ravenclaws are smart, and bookish – they're boring in my opinion. The deputy head, Calliope Abernathy, was a Ravenclaw. And then," her face darkened, "There's the Slytherins."
"What's wrong with Slytherin, Cynthia?"
"Gosh!" exclaimed the other girl, "You really /don't/ know anything."
"It's not my fault," Becca said, peeved, "I just found out about this a month ago."
"I know," said Cynthia, "But still, it's weird, not knowing any of the Houses—"
"Just tell me what's wrong with the Slytherins, please."
"Sorry. Well – they're – oh gosh, how do I explain? Well.... Slytherin's produced more Dark witches and wizards than the other Houses," her voice dropped mysteriously, and Becca leaned forward to catch the next words. "You-Know-Who is one."
"Who?"
"You know!"
"No, I don't. Who was a Slytherin?"
"I can't say the name!"
"That's silly. Who /is/ it?"
"He's the most evil Dark wizard ever! He's killed loads of people. He's from continental Europe, but his parents had sent him to Hogwarts."
"/Who/?" Becca demanded.
Cynthia looked anguished. "I can't say!"
"Can you write it down?" Becca asked, exasperated.
"Oh," Cynthia said, sounding relieved, "I can do that. She fished around in her backpack and drew out a quill pen and ripped a piece of parchment from a scrap roll. She wrote, in very tiny letters, as though afraid of drawing attention to the word, 'Grindelwald.'
"Grindelwald?" Becca said out loud, puzzled. "What a name—"
"DON'T SAY IT!" Cynthia yelped, "Don't say it! Are you nuts? Here. Eat the paper. I won't feel safe otherwise."
"/Eat/ the—"
But Cynthia was insistent, and after some arguing that it was disgusting and unhealthy to swallow something with ink on it, Becca was chewing and gulping down the tiny slip of paper, looking very unhappy. "That's better," Cynthia said, relieved, "But now you see why Slytherins are bad. They're nasty and they're evil. I wouldn't talk to one unless I had to."
"They can't /all/ be bad people, can they?" Becca asked.
"You never know," Cynthia said darkly, "And I'm not taking that chance."
*
When the sun was high above the train, a tired-looking wizard came by with a cart full of food. Tom, starving and with Mr. Sawyer's money to spend, bought a plate of sandwiches and numerous treats. Braden bought his own and they ate. Martin Shaw commented in a snobbily disbelieving tone about Tom's appetite. Tom, for his part, did not care in the least. They had never fed him enough at the orphanage, and now, with the option of stuffing his stomach put before him, he ate as quickly as possible.
"It's not like anyone's going to /take/ your food," Martin said, munching delicately on a Chocolate Frog.
"Bugger off," Tom said, and returned his attention to lunch.
Time passed. It grew darker, and Tom pressed his face to the window, all cynicism and arrogance gone as he stared up at the sky, unmarred by smoke from the city, stars patched in their sable velvet setting. The bitter-Tom of the day disappeared, and he was merely a wondering child fixated upon the Heavens.
It was, thought Braden Baird Campbell, a remarkable sea-change.
*
Author's Note and Disclaimer: Thanks to everyone who reviewed; Magic Gerbil, Nemesis, BrieflyDel, Yellowsub, CeiQ Reader,and Fhjull... I'm sorry I didn't add that before. :) Ack... Nemesis, you're right, and I apologize for not being entirely accurate. You'll just have to keep reading and correcting, I hope. :P (I am Jewish, yes, though I'm an athiest too. Nice combination, hm?)
I don't think I should write "Les Violons" too soon after reading "The Catcher in the Rye" -- Tom comes out very Holden Caulfield-ish. (See the paragraph in which he refers to Martin as "a regular Voltaire." That's pure Salinger influence, there....) Sigh. Tom Riddle and Holden Caulfield -- who would have thought they'd have anything in common? Besides being young and angry and cynical. Erm, maybe they do have stuff in common. Oy. I do feel bad, foisting Martin and Janus Malfoy on Tom, and then having Hawley be a wizard as well... But hey, life isn't fair. :)
Erm... Yeah. Anyway. Tom Riddle does not belong to me, nor does Dumbledore or Hogwarts or any Rowling-created objects. Becca, though she argues valiantly that she's a free person, belongs to me, and I hope you don't try to steal her or anything, mostly for your sake. She kicks shins and is apt to bite. The last line about the sea change is from a song in "The Tempest," by William Shakespeare.
All her essentials were packed, shoved into two middle-sized suitcases. One held clothes, the other books and school things. It had been somewhat difficult to fit the cauldron in, but she'd managed, and saved space by placing the basic potions ingredients (Becca had been amused to find that leg of newt and eye of frog really /were/ used in magic, though not in large quantities) inside the pewter bowl. The Hogwarts uniform was a black robe, worn either open or closed, and students were allowed to wear Muggle clothing beneath it, if they wished. Becca wasn't much of a clotheshorse, and most of that suitcase was filled with books.
In a small white metal cage next to the suitcases was her familiar, an extremely tiny, plump hamster. Its name was Timothy, Tiny Tim for short. He was running futilely in a wheel, plump little feet racing ahead of him, but the wheel turned inexorably. At least it was exercise, Becca thought, and she hoped Tiny Tim didn't mind it very much.
"Ka?" Gideon asked, ingenuous face knotting in concern.
"Yes, Giddy?" She wasn't really expecting an answer. Gideon, though ready enough with smiles and burbles, was not usually very talkative.
"Ka!" he said, and giggled, waving his arms in the air.
"Becca?" Ima asked, leaning against the door and watching her children. "It's time for Gideon to go to bed. You can play with him again tomorrow morning, before you leave—" Her voice caught in her throat, and she looked down at the tiled kitchen floor.
"I'll be fine, Ima, and I'll write you – the school's got owls that students can use if they need them...."
"I know you'll be fine, darling," Ima said, with an attempt at a brave little smile. Becca sighed, and mentally smacked herself in the forehead. She had never seen the side of her mother that dissolved into tears like this, and she did not like it at all. It was a slightly traitorous thought, but her mother seemed downright.... weak. It wasn't as though Becca was disappearing forever, it was only a change – and, she thought, a change for the better. "But I'll still miss you," her mother was saying.
"I know, Ima, I'll miss you too." Impulsively, she walked to her mother and hugged her around the waist. Leah Greenburn wrapped her arms around her daughter, clutching her close. It was as though she feared letting go, that if she opened the protective circle of limbs Becca might suddenly fly away and escape. Becca sighed again. It was going to be a long night.
*
The orphanage staff did not know what to make of the abrupt change in the character of one Tom M. Riddle.
He had turned from a sarcastic and rather sullen boy to one who smiled constantly. When, to punish him for eating his dinner to slowly, Mrs. Sawyer cuffed him on the ear, she was disconcerted to find that instead of glaring defiance, Tom merely smiled. And smiled some more. Though she hated to admit it, the grin frightened her more than any evil glower ever could.
Tom was called to Mrs. Sawyer's office that evening, but even the possibility of a whipping did not dampen his spirits. After all, he was leaving the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children in a little less than fourteen hours, to inherit his mother's world. He nervously flattened his hair down before knocking on the door; Mrs. Sawyer was notoriously strict about personal appearance. "Come in!" snapped a voice roughened by nicotine and cigars, which she chewed whole and swallowed.
Biting nervously at his lip (which was still purple and scabbed from his last encounter with Mrs. Sawyer), Tom put his hand on the doorknob, hesitating. "I told you, boy, come in /now/!" Mrs. Sawyer growled. Tom complied hurriedly, and swung the door open. Mrs. Sawyer was sitting at her desk, and her son was standing beside it. He smiled benignly at Tom, a smile that Tom did not return. His previous good spirits had evaporated somewhat when faced with the evil-smelling reality of the matron.
"Jonathan has informed me that you have been accepted to a private boarding school for orphans, Riddle." Mr. Sawyer's eyes twinkled at him from over his mother's head, and Tom thought it a very good thing she could not see her son's expression.
"Yes ma'am," he said flatly. A private boarding school for orphans. Well. If that's what Mr. Sawyer wanted to say, Tom could play along.
"Though I don't see what could have made them do such a stupid thing, I am going to let you go. You're to be at King's Cross tomorrow at nine, to catch the train."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said.
"That is all. You may pack your things." He nodded. "Don't bob your head at me, you little snake!" Tom thought that being called a snake wasn't such a bad thing – snakes were beautiful in their grace. But somehow he got the idea that Mrs. Sawyer did not mean it as a compliment. "Get out of my sight. The sooner you're at that school the better."
As he left the office, Mr. Sawyer murmured in his ear. "I've had your things sent to the school already. All you need to pack are your clothes and your wand."
Tom found it momentarily impossible to say thank you.
He couldn't sleep that night, and, until dawn, counted the cracks on the ceiling, which he had long ago memorized. One became fifty-five.... Fifty-five became two hundred-eight.... And gradually, too, the night made its transformation to light.
*
He must have dozed off for a minute, just a second, because the harsh jangle of the wake-up bell startled him. One minute. He couldn't even get one damn minute of sleep.... Tom, disoriented, was about to ignore the bell and wait until Mrs. Sawyer shook him out of bed when he remembered – the train left today! Suddenly, it seemed much more important to hurry up. He tumbled out of bed and pulled on pants and shirt, hastily shoved his feet into his shoes. Muttering dire curses under his breath, Tom began tying the laces, but then gave up, grabbed his bags, and rushed out the door and down the stairs, shoelaces streaming behind him.
*
There would be no breakfast today. Mr. Sawyer had given him some pocket money to buy food on the train, and then he had left. Tom thought sardonically that the elder wizard had probably caught sight of his girlfriend Althea. Typical, to leave a boy here, confused and alone.... Not, of course, that he /wanted/ Sawyer around. Tom could do just fine on his own, thank you very much. After watching the barrier between platforms nine and ten, he figured out easily enough how to make his way through. Leaning nonchalantly against the railing, Tom was nonetheless startled when he dropped backward.
Picking himself up off the ground, he dusted the legs of his trousers (which were too short – Tom outgrew clothes at a speed that astonished and irritated the orphanage – keeping him in clothes almost wasn't worth the trouble) and surveyed Platform 9 ¾. It was a hive of wizards and witches and their children, yelling parents and crying babies, and some prospective students shedding tears as well. Tom felt nothing but contempt for those few, the weaklings. Ahead of him, resting in the bed of the railroad tracks, was the dignified scarlet shell of the Hogwarts Express. It sat puffing a gentle stream of smoke into the air, mysterious noises rumbling in its interior.
Fascinated, he crept closer to the great beast, examining it with a curious dark sapphire-blue eye. Amazing. It was a relic of the past, and yet it fit correctly into its place. The very anachronism enchanted him, and it was a few seconds before he snapped out of his trance and actually stepped aboard the wonderful metal creation. Inside it looked the same as the normal railroad cars did, though maybe a bit nicer – the halls were carpeted with green plush, and the walls and ceiling were painted with a mural depicting the Hogwarts grounds and the Forbidden Forest.
Tom carried his tiny black bag over his shoulder, and set off down the corridor in search of an empty compartment. His search netted little, until he had almost reached the end of the train. There was a drawing of a calm forest clearing. Tom was rapidly finding out things about the wizard-world, and one of them was that pictures moved. Here, a two dimensional unicorn lapped quietly at an oil-brushed lake, and galloped away hurriedly when Tom walked by. Shrugging, he decided to try that compartment and, to his delight, it was completely empty.
The compartment, compared to the spectacular living painting of the hallway, was rather plain. The walls were a dull tan and looked as though generations of children had thrown drinks and food at them, and tried their utter best to destroy the seats. As Tom sat down on the bench nearest the window, he noticed stuffing leaking from the seat opposite him. He gradually became lost in daydreams of what school would be like. Suddenly a voice startled him from his thoughts. "Sorry, can I sit here? There's no room at all; I was late...." The voice, nastily familiar, trailed off as the speaker noticed the occupant of the compartment.
"Oh," said Eustace Hawley, "It's you."
"/Hawley/?" Tom exclaimed, completely dumbfounded, "/You're/ – you can't be—"
"/Riddle/," Hawley spat. "I /knew/ Sawyer was hiding something—"
"You knew no such thing," Tom replied, glaring, "So don't try and pretend you did." His left hand, in his pocket, rested lightly on his wand.
"Fine," snapped Hawley, "There's no way I'm sitting here with you, you little slimeball. I'll find somewhere else."
"First time in your life you've done me a favor," Tom said icily, and then, "Goodbye."
It looked as though Hawley was going to say something else, but he swallowed his words and stalked from the room. Tom, still filled with rage, sat there for a long minute and attempted to control his breathing. He couldn't /believe/ it! It wasn't fair! How dare Hawley go and be a wizard? Tom had been looking forward to escaping from the clutches of the Muggle world, but it seemed as though the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children was determined to dog him until the end of his days. He glared out through the window and watched the Potter boy hugging his parents goodbye.
It was just sickening, the whole day. His triumphant arrival at Hogwarts would be dimmed by the fact that Hawley was there, too. Tom couldn't believe it. Lost in that morose train of thought, he didn't even notice when other children entered the room and sat.
He was once again jarred from his thoughts by voices, one rather argumentative, and one defensive. "What are you doing?" demanded the first voice. It belonged to a darkly handsome boy with shockingly light green eyes. He did not, in Tom's opinion, look particularly smart. The child, a first year by lack of any House insignia on his uniform, was staring accusingly at another firstie.
"I'm not doing anything," the second child said heatedly, in a thick Scottish accent. He had a very pink complexion, and his hair was so pale that it took a similar tinge to his skin. His eyes were a muddy sort of light hazel, entirely unremarkable, and the lines of his face were round without being plump. There was something strange about his mouth, it turned down slightly at one corner, as though he was constantly worrying. Tom noticed that the boy's fingers were twitching in a convulsive pattern. His hand was clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white, and his thumb twisted around and around the first finger.
It wasn't that remarkable, Tom thought, except for the fact that the boy had been doing the same thing for fifteen consecutive minutes.
"Yes, you are. Stop twisting your hand like that. It's annoying me," the first boy said, handsome face frowning a little.
The pale boy's pink face flushed a deeper shade of sanguine. "Leave me alone."
"I'm just asking you a simple question; why are you holding your hand like that? It looks like it hurts."
"I said leave me alone," the boy said softly, mumbling.
"What did you say?" the first child asked, obviously not about to leave the poor boy alone.
"Isn't that enough?" Tom demanded, "I think you've embarrassed him enough for one day."
The dark boy noticed him for the first time. Tom sighed – people were so /stupid/ sometimes. They didn't even notice if you were sitting in a corner, if you weren't saying anything. You didn't count until you offered your own dumb opinion that they could disagree with. "What?" he asked. Tom rolled his eyes, this boy was a real genius, obviously. A regular Voltaire.
"I said, 'I think you've embarrassed him enough for one day.'"
"Oh, I'm sorry," the dark boy said. Oddly enough, he really did seem sorry. Tom, rather incredulously, concluded that the boy hadn't realized the discomfort he was causing the hand-twisting boy (who incidentally was still turning his thumb around and around the index finger. Tom was surprised they couldn't hear the knuckles cracking.) The dark boy was speaking again. "What are your names, then? Mine's Martin Shaw."
"Braden Baird Campbell," said the salmon-pink boy, fingers still twitching.
"Tom Riddle."
"Pleased to meet you, Thomas."
"Tom."
"I'm sorry?"
"My name isn't Thomas. It's Tom."
"Fine. Riddle, than."
"Whatever your Highness wishes."
"Well, there's no need to be rude!"
Tom chose to ignore him. He sighed and leaned back against the squashy chair back. It was going to be a long ride.
*
Israel drove Becca to the train station, because Leah did not know how to use a car, and also because she couldn't bear to say goodbye to Becca again. Israel had pushed his glasses all the way to the very bridge of his nose, which was a sure sign of agitation. Attempting to reassure him, despite the fact that her nerves were jangling as well, Becca patted her father on the arm. He smiled down at her, though it was a sad smile. "It's not like you're losing me forever," she said as they pulled into King's Cross, "I'll be home during the holidays, and summer."
"I know," Israel said, with another smile. He took loss better than Leah did. "But we'll miss you anyway, Becca. We love you."
"I know," Becca repeated, and looked nervously at the station. "You can't come through the barrier, Mug— non-magic people aren't allowed. I'm sorry."
"That's fine," Israel said, though Becca could tell he was hurt. She hardened her heart – it was no fault of hers, and she was not going to let him make her feel guilty for something that was never her responsibility.
"Well," Becca said brusquely, "I should get going. I want to get my bags set up."
Israel slid out of the car and opened the door for her. Becca laboriously dragged her two suitcases behind her, one in each hand, with Israel bringing up the rear, Tiny Tim's cage in his hand. Some people looked at them oddly, but Becca held her head high and ignored them. "Now, the letter said to lean against the barrier – very casually...." Israel said.
"I /know/, Dad. Here, give me Tim's cage." She balanced the hamster's cage above the lighter bag, the one that had her clothes in it. She leaned against the barriers, backwards, and the last thing she saw was her father's face, watching her, hand held out as if to stop her leaving—
And then, Platform 9 ¾.
*
After a while, once the train was moving and the countryside was streaming past in a long line of moor and occasional scrub bush, Martin Shaw grew tired of the oppressive silence and left the compartment. It was then that Braden Campbell ventured to speak. He had stopped twisting his thumb and looked generally more relaxed. "Um, I guess I should th—"
"Don't bother," Tom said curtly, "It was nothing."
"But—" Braden began, then stopped and shrugged. "Right. Whatever you say." For the first time he smiled, and though it was very infectious, Tom did not smile back. Glumly, Braden thumped his head against the couch cushions. "I'm worried about the Sorting.... I've a feeling I'm going to be sorted into Hufflepuff, but my parents are Gryffindors, and the family's been either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw for centuries. There's a rumor that one of my ancestors was in Slytherin, but I've never seen proof."
Tom warmed a little to this well-meaning child. "My mum was a Slytherin."
"Really?" Braden said, interested. Tom could tell. It wasn't a 'really' that was used to show boredom. Braden sincerely was curious. "What's her name?"
"What was," Tom said, voice dropping several degrees into glacial iciness.
Braden was neither stupid nor deaf, and realized his mistake instantly. "Oh. I'm sorry. If you don't want to talk about it, I understand—"
"Eva," said Tom, with a tiny, ever-so-tiny smile, "Eva Riddle."
*
"Do you need help with your bags?" a voice asked curiously.
"Yes," Becca said, grateful, "Could you just take Tiny Tim for me?"
"Who?" the other girl asked, puzzled. She had a moon-shaped face and beautiful auburn hair.
"I'm sorry," Becca replied, "Tiny Tim is my familiar."
The girl grinned and took the proffered cage, helping Becca into a nearby compartment, behind a cunningly painted willow tree. "I'm Cynthia Murray. Excuse me for saying, but you don't seem very familiar with all of this – are you Muggle-born?"
"Yes," Becca said, sitting down gingerly on a chair that spurted down stuffing, like an artery slashed open. It was rather unnerving and she gently pushed some of it back into the cushion. While she did this, the train began to move, and they were off. She was not feeling particularly talkative, but luckily, Cynthia Murray seemed perfectly happy to take up the slack of the conversation, herself.
"Really? I'm not. My family's pureblood, of course, the Murrays have been in Hogwarts almost since the beginning, which doesn't really mean all that much except that we've got a bunch of dusty old portraits in all the hallways." She made a face. "It's horrible, you've got all these dead people staring at you and yelling whenever you track mud up the stairs."
Becca grinned, half in relief. Perhaps people at this school wouldn't be so horrible after all. "What House d' you think you'll get into?" she asked. It seemed to be a question that was fluttering nervously on the mouths of all the children about to be Sorted.
"Gryffindor, of course," her companion said matter-of-factly, "I told you; all my family've been Gryffindors. I don't think I'm an exception, of course. How about you?"
"Well," Becca said, "I don't really know much about any of them. Professor Dumbledore didn't really elaborate much; he was busy convincing my parents to let me go at all."
Cynthia grinned in sympathy. "Don't worry, it's always a bit difficult for the Muggle-borns to adjust and pick up the wizard culture, but they've been doing it for centuries. It won't be any different for you, I'm sure."
"What are the Houses like?"
"Well, Gryffindors are supposed to be very brave and courageous," Cynthia said, "Professor Dumbledore, who you've met, is a graduate of Gryffindor. He's brilliant, though, and," she said, blushing, "He's cute."
Becca, who hadn't really though that when he came to visit, raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he a little old for you?"
Cynthia blushed brighter and went hurriedly on. "Er – Hufflepuff is the largest House, generally, and lots of people say they're stupid, but that's not it at all. They're very generous, and loyal and they work hard. Headmaster Dippet was a Hufflepuff, in his day. It's an old saying, 'Hufflepuffs make the best friends,' or something, I'm not good at remembering things like that. As a rule Ravenclaws are smart, and bookish – they're boring in my opinion. The deputy head, Calliope Abernathy, was a Ravenclaw. And then," her face darkened, "There's the Slytherins."
"What's wrong with Slytherin, Cynthia?"
"Gosh!" exclaimed the other girl, "You really /don't/ know anything."
"It's not my fault," Becca said, peeved, "I just found out about this a month ago."
"I know," said Cynthia, "But still, it's weird, not knowing any of the Houses—"
"Just tell me what's wrong with the Slytherins, please."
"Sorry. Well – they're – oh gosh, how do I explain? Well.... Slytherin's produced more Dark witches and wizards than the other Houses," her voice dropped mysteriously, and Becca leaned forward to catch the next words. "You-Know-Who is one."
"Who?"
"You know!"
"No, I don't. Who was a Slytherin?"
"I can't say the name!"
"That's silly. Who /is/ it?"
"He's the most evil Dark wizard ever! He's killed loads of people. He's from continental Europe, but his parents had sent him to Hogwarts."
"/Who/?" Becca demanded.
Cynthia looked anguished. "I can't say!"
"Can you write it down?" Becca asked, exasperated.
"Oh," Cynthia said, sounding relieved, "I can do that. She fished around in her backpack and drew out a quill pen and ripped a piece of parchment from a scrap roll. She wrote, in very tiny letters, as though afraid of drawing attention to the word, 'Grindelwald.'
"Grindelwald?" Becca said out loud, puzzled. "What a name—"
"DON'T SAY IT!" Cynthia yelped, "Don't say it! Are you nuts? Here. Eat the paper. I won't feel safe otherwise."
"/Eat/ the—"
But Cynthia was insistent, and after some arguing that it was disgusting and unhealthy to swallow something with ink on it, Becca was chewing and gulping down the tiny slip of paper, looking very unhappy. "That's better," Cynthia said, relieved, "But now you see why Slytherins are bad. They're nasty and they're evil. I wouldn't talk to one unless I had to."
"They can't /all/ be bad people, can they?" Becca asked.
"You never know," Cynthia said darkly, "And I'm not taking that chance."
*
When the sun was high above the train, a tired-looking wizard came by with a cart full of food. Tom, starving and with Mr. Sawyer's money to spend, bought a plate of sandwiches and numerous treats. Braden bought his own and they ate. Martin Shaw commented in a snobbily disbelieving tone about Tom's appetite. Tom, for his part, did not care in the least. They had never fed him enough at the orphanage, and now, with the option of stuffing his stomach put before him, he ate as quickly as possible.
"It's not like anyone's going to /take/ your food," Martin said, munching delicately on a Chocolate Frog.
"Bugger off," Tom said, and returned his attention to lunch.
Time passed. It grew darker, and Tom pressed his face to the window, all cynicism and arrogance gone as he stared up at the sky, unmarred by smoke from the city, stars patched in their sable velvet setting. The bitter-Tom of the day disappeared, and he was merely a wondering child fixated upon the Heavens.
It was, thought Braden Baird Campbell, a remarkable sea-change.
*
Author's Note and Disclaimer: Thanks to everyone who reviewed; Magic Gerbil, Nemesis, BrieflyDel, Yellowsub, CeiQ Reader,and Fhjull... I'm sorry I didn't add that before. :) Ack... Nemesis, you're right, and I apologize for not being entirely accurate. You'll just have to keep reading and correcting, I hope. :P (I am Jewish, yes, though I'm an athiest too. Nice combination, hm?)
I don't think I should write "Les Violons" too soon after reading "The Catcher in the Rye" -- Tom comes out very Holden Caulfield-ish. (See the paragraph in which he refers to Martin as "a regular Voltaire." That's pure Salinger influence, there....) Sigh. Tom Riddle and Holden Caulfield -- who would have thought they'd have anything in common? Besides being young and angry and cynical. Erm, maybe they do have stuff in common. Oy. I do feel bad, foisting Martin and Janus Malfoy on Tom, and then having Hawley be a wizard as well... But hey, life isn't fair. :)
Erm... Yeah. Anyway. Tom Riddle does not belong to me, nor does Dumbledore or Hogwarts or any Rowling-created objects. Becca, though she argues valiantly that she's a free person, belongs to me, and I hope you don't try to steal her or anything, mostly for your sake. She kicks shins and is apt to bite. The last line about the sea change is from a song in "The Tempest," by William Shakespeare.
