It seemed like forever. Becca dozed off at one point, though Tiny Tim's insistent squeakings woke her up. Groggy, she glanced at her familiar, who was sitting up on his hind legs and watching her intently. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, glancing out the window. It was dark, and but the lights in the castle's window glowed golden against the dark background. Overhead, the moon glimmered silver in the night. Cynthia was returning to the compartment, and smiled at her new friend. "Are you ready to go? They'll take our bags up without us, but we have to meet the gamekeeper first – he takes us to the school."

Becca nodded. "Can I bring Tiny Tim with me? I'd hate to leave him behind."

"I don't think they'd care. Can you take him out of the cage, though? It'd be kind of awkward."

"He'll sit in my pocket," said Becca, and placed the hamster in the breast pocket of her robe. He sat there silently, black eyes gleaming and nose twitching as the air passed over him.

"Let's go!" said Cynthia, and they went. Outside, the first years were milling uncertainly outside of the train. They didn't know where to go, and the older students were already boarding horse-less carriages that had spindly wooden legs like spiders. Becca could see, across the station, the dark haired boy from the robe shop shuddering and turning away. She couldn't help but smirk.

"Where's the gamekeeper?" Becca asked, puzzled, but her question was answered almost instantly.

A man, slightly plump and very winded, rushed onto the scene and climbed onto a chair so that they all could see him. When he spoke, he was yelling, as best he could while trying to slow his labored breathing. It was a rather comical effect, and Becca grinned. "Hello? Sorry I'm late, I didn't know—you can't Apparate—oh, never mind. Good evening!"

"Good evening," they chorused.

From somewhere in the crowd, a wag yelled, "Who're you?"

The man took it in stride, and grinned at them all without attempting to find the speaker. "I'm Mr. Pigott, the gamekeeper. I'll be taking you first years to the boats."

While some of the students snickered over the name 'Pigott,' an equal number glanced at each other, confused. What boats? Pigott seemed to pick up on the latter, and waved his hands toward the ink-black lake, where a number of small, four-seated boats bobbed gently against the side. Becca frowned – there were no oars. Were they supposed to use magic to propel the vessels? But no, Pigott was explaining. "Don't worry, you just sit in the boats and they'll sail straight under to the school."

"Oh, no," Cynthia said, her face turning green, "I get sea-sick."

*

Tom didn't see why the name 'Pigott' would cause the other children to snicker, and he was pleased to find that Braden didn't, either. Although Tom supposed that with a name like 'Braden Baird' he couldn't really afford to laugh at other peoples' monikers. He noticed the rude girl from the robes shop attempting to comfort a moon-faced girl with braided auburn pigtails. The rude girl was had something that looked like a small rodent sticking from her pocket. At least it wasn't a spider.

Braden was twisting his hand again, mumbling numbers under his breath, and Tom sighed and pulled his friend toward the boats. "Come /on/," he whispered, "You're going to miss the Sorting if you keep it up." Braden gave him a wounded look.

"You made me lose count!"

Tom was surprised, for the previously calm boy was now quite angry indeed. His pale hazel eyes had darkened and his pink cheeks were flushed an acrimonious red. Tom watched Braden for a moment, before putting out a hand to rest on the boy's shoulder. "Your world's not ending, Campbell. C'mon, let's go. We don't want to be late."

Braden took a deep, shuddering breath, as though attempting to steel himself, and stalked out of the compartment without looking back. Tom rolled his eyes. He didn't think he'd ever understand the workings of the human mind – there were too many strange variables that popped up at the wrong time.

Tom and Braden found an empty boat off to the side. Braden leaped into it with an adventurous flair, causing the vessel to rock and sway, but Tom inched in carefully. He did not want to sit through the Sorting with wet robes sticking to his body; it was not a comfortable prospect. Two girls who obviously knew each other already joined them; they chattered constantly and did not look at the boys. Braden had returned to his odd ritual, and was whispering numbers to himself. Tom, left alone, as always, sat at the front of the boat and trailed his hand in the icy water, watching the looming frame of the castle grow closer and closer.

They traveled smoothly along, gliding over the choppy waves. It seemed like forever before they'd reached the other side, but Tom did not mind. He was enjoying himself, enjoying watching the stars and moon in their wavery, watery reflections. The contrast between light and dark was visually pleasing. He could see silhouetted against the skyline the carriages moving, their spider-legs rising above the ground

Luckily, Braden had finished counting and twisting his fingers by the time the boat bumped gently against the shore of the lake, and he was able to hop onto the ground and wobble, regaining his land-legs, with the rest of the children. Tom caught his balance very quickly, and was forced to hold out a hand and catch one of the girls who had been in their boat, for she tumbled forward into him. The boy's pale face was disgusted as he helped her to her feet, extricating himself almost at once.

"Watch your step," he told her.

"'Lo, Riddle," said Martin, walking by. Tom made a nasty face at his retreating back. He could see Hawley, too, smarming up to some girl, and he hated both Hawley and Shaw intensely. It was a sudden feeling that hit him deep in the stomach. He watched as his worst enemy laughed, and smiled, and walked away. It was a grown-up hatred, consuming and extreme.

"Tom?" Braden asked quietly. A role-reversal had occurred, drastically.

"/What/?" he snapped.

"Snap out of it."

The hatred was still there, and it channeled itself onto Braden. Tom had the sudden desire to hit the pink-cheeked boy in the stomach, but it faded. He had to calm down. He took a deep breath and let it out again, warm air expelled from his throat, and with it went the anger. Had he seen his face in the mirror, he would not have recognized it. Tom was normally pale, but all the color had drained away, leaving only manic wide dark blue eyes staring from their settings, ringed beneath with purple-blue circles. It was a skeleton-face, not one of a boy.

He breathed out again. "Sorry. Let's go."

*

Becca forced a calm expression onto her face, passive and cool, as they walked towards the greatest house of learning in all of Britain. It was a brooding place, but she thought that she could sense an underlying warmth to the impressive stone stairs that towered above them. Marble, cold and unyielding, steps upon steps rising upward. Standing there, a dark shape among the white, was a woman. She was of average height and weight, though looked as though she'd given up some meals in favor of an interesting book or perusal of a rare manuscript.

The soft gaslights lit her from above, causing the area around her to illuminate with a golden glow. Unremarkable brown hair blew into her face, and she brushed it away. There was an intangible quality about her that commanded attention and respect, though her mouth was quirked upwards in the hint of a grin. "Hello," the woman said in a friendly manner, "I'm sure you're all rather nervous right now, mm?" She smiled as several children nodded vehemently.

"Well, it will be over in a minute – and don't worry. Despite what your siblings told you, the Sorting doesn't hurt." Some exclamations of annoyance told Becca that many of the older wizard children had indeed done just that. "In a very short time, you will become part of the Hogwarts family." Becca sighed; why did adults making a decent speech always have to ruin it with something like that? "I am Calliope Abernathy, the Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Charms, and I will tell you this: whatever your parents have said about Houses, do not be ashamed of where you are put. It suits your personality, and you will be happiest there. Now, follow me, please." With an ironical little bow and a flourishing hand gesture, Professor Abernathy smiled at them. "Step forward and face your destiny."

It was, Becca thought, as she moved forward with the surging crowd, a rather odd turn of a phrase, but it fit. They moved through a small room, and the Professor glanced over her shoulder. "Usually, the Deputies make you stew a bit, in the waiting room. I don't think that's quite fair, so we'll begin with the Sorting right away, I think. Through this door is the Sorting Hat. All you must do is sit on the stool and place the Hat upon your head, nothing else."

"Ugh, I can't believe I believed it when my sister said you had to answer a Sphinx, and if you got it wrong you'd get put in Hufflepuff...." someone whispered, just as the rest of the room fell silent. The remark was obvious and loud, and all the first years turned to see whom the speaker was, a plump boy with his hair combed violently down.

Professor Abernathy looked at him seriously. "There is nothing wrong with Hufflepuff, boy, nor any of the Houses. That is what I was trying to tell you before." She looked solemnly at the doors and then opened them, allowing the children their first glimpse of the Great Hall.

Above them was the dark of the enchanted ceiling; below them was the stone-tiled floor, some of the squares carved with intricate arcane sigils. Ahead were long tables with black-robed students, ranging from twelve to seventeen years old, the insignia of their Houses colorful against the sable of their formal dress. At the very back of the room on a raised dais were the Professors, some solemn and some cheerful; some watching the new students with intense beady eyes, others completely ignoring those who were so shortly to become their charges. And, in the very center of it all, a simple three-legged stool and a worn, tattered hat.

As Becca watched, it shuddered, straightened, and opened a rip near the brim, singing.

"A thousand or more years ago,
There were great wizards four
Their goal to build a school, and so
Hogwarts opened its door.
The Founders Four, as they are known;
Their names recorded, etched in time
Though long dead and gone
Ere now I give this rhyme.
I'll tell you where it is you fit
One brave, one cunning; loyal or bright
And very soon with House you'll sit,
I'll Sort you quick and most a-right."

"Abernathy, William!"

The boy was obviously either a son or other close relative of Calliope Abernathy's; Becca was inclined to believe that he was a son. His face was very similar to the Deputy Headmistress', with fluffy, messy-looking brown hair. He was tall, and had a very thin mouth that was pressed in a nervous line. I suppose I'd be nervous, too, if the Deputy Headmistress was my mother, thought Becca; Everyone's watching him.

The hat barely rested on his head before pronouncing, "RAVENCLAW!"

The Ravenclaws clapped and cheered, pleased to be the first House chosen that year. William Abernathy placed the hat carefully back onto the stool, and strode over to the table. As he moved, his limbs waved in a gangly manner. He was a very awkward boy, and looked relieved once he sat down. The next choices were "HUFFLEPUFF" "GRYFFINDOR" "HUFFLEPUFF" and "SLYTHERIN," in that order. She tuned them out until the list reached "Campbell, Braden Baird." He was too odd to ignore.

His hair was pale, and had an odd pinkish tinge to it. What caught her attention was the convulsive motion he made with his hand, over and over again. Braden Campbell hesitated before making his way to the stool; it looked like he was going to be sick. Placing the hat over his head, he remained standing up, fidgeting nervously. The hat took rather a long time to decide, with him. Finally, it said, "SLYTHERIN!" and Braden put the hat back on the seat, looking dazed, and stumbled towards the Slytherin table.

The names blended to a blur. Finally, though, it was "Greenburn, Rebecca!" and she was walking up to the stool and they were watching her and she ignored them and put the hat on her head and it was black and dark and silent.

Rebecca, eh? Come to find your Isaac? Heeheehee....

No jokes, please, Becca thought firmly, I'd like to be Sorted now.

Hmmph, said the Sorting Hat, and it sounded annoyed. Well, I think we can discount Ravenclaw right away – you're only interested in studying what interests you.

Hey! Becca thought indignantly.

Don't argue, young lady, you know it's true. You're not reckless enough for Gryffindor, are you?

I'm not a coward.

I never said you were. I said you weren't reckless. Do not argue with me, Rebecca Greenburn.

I'm sorry.

She could tell the hat was pleased by her apology. Not exactly Hufflepuff materiel – as I've said, if it doesn't interest you, you're not going to bother.... Ah. Ambition. Ambition and vindictiveness.... A dangerous combination, indeed, young Greenburn— you'll need to be careful.

Careful of what? Becca demanded, but the hat was already moving on, its thought voice purposely vague and evasive.

Pride – ambition – vindictiveness, and a certain cunning. Yes, I think you'll do nicely in SLYTHERIN! The last word echoed for all to hear, in the hall.

Careful of what, you damned hairpiece? But there was only silence in response.

As Becca removed the hat from her head, she saw Cynthia Murray's face staring at her from the crowd, looking utterly betrayed. Though Becca tried to catch the other girl's eye, Cynthia refused to look at her, and instead busied herself talking to a boy nearby. Anger blossomed deep in the pit of her stomach, and Becca stalked off to the Slytherin table, head held high. Well, if Cynthia was not going to be friends with her, simply because of what Becca was, well – she was not worth worrying about.

Really, she wasn't.

So why did it hurt so much?

*

So the rude girl was a Slytherin. Tom crossed his arms and leaned against a pillar, as nonchalant as he could appear. There was no need to be nervous, really, and the vague fluttering in his stomach was due to the fact that his lunch consisted of chocolate. He wasn't nervous. No.... Not at all. He attempted to ignore Hawley as the boy smiled at Rebecca Greenburn and bowed gallantly to her before taking the Hat away. Tom thought that he was about to vomit. A moment later, the Sorting Hat was yelling, "SLYTHERIN!" and that table was cheering and Hawley was smiling, and Tom's stomach hurt again.

If they could be Slytherins, it was assured that he'd be one. Right?

"Malfoy, Janus."

"SLYTHERIN!"

He wasn't going to listen anymore. He wasn't.

"Murray, Cynthia," had barely rested the Hat on her head before being shuffled off into Gryffindor. She smiled triumphantly as she took her seat.

"Nielsson, Katja."

"RAVENCLAW!"

"O'Hara, Kieran."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Perkins, Roberta."

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Potter, Ian." Abernathy pronounced it 'eye-in.' The boy, dark brown eyes wide, moved towards the Hat, face nervous, but walk infinitely confident. He moved like a cat.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

And on, and on. Tom, still leaning against the wall, closed his eyes, suddenly tired. The Hall faded away, to be replaced by the more interesting world beyond his sight. By sheer force of will, he even drowned out the droning voices and the cheers as more students were placed in the different Houses.... Suddenly, as though no time had passed, Abernathy was speaking again. "Riddle, Thomas."

Oh, no. She'd said Thomas.... "It's Tom!" he yelled, causing widespread laughter. Tom flushed angrily and shook his head, walking slowly towards the hat. He would not show his nervousness. They were already laughing, and he would not give them cause to laugh, again. He sat on the stool (uncomfortable thing – how many students, just like him, had gotten splinters from its old wood?) and put the Hat on his head.

Hello?

Hello, Tom Riddle. My.... you've a penchant for nastiness, all right.

What do you mean? Tom thought, feeling queasy. I'm not a bad person.

No one's a bad person, to start with. Take care your temper doesn't get the better of you.

I can control myself. I am not a child.

No, the Hat said, and Tom could have sworn it sounded amused. But of course, clothing did not have feelings.

No feelings, eh? You'd be surprised. You'd be surprised.... No, I can see you wouldn't fit in Gryffindor, at all. Nor Hufflepuff.

No, Tom said, and now it was his turn to sound amused.

I can see your potential, Tom, and your mind – it's brilliant. You could do very well in Ravenclaw.

A scholar?

No.... Somehow scholar doesn't fit. You've deep Slytherin blood.... oh yes, it runs deep in your veins. Hundreds of years.

What do you mean?

Ambition.

Yes.

Ambition could be your downfall, Tom Riddle.

It could be anyone's downfall. I've a right to be ambitious, after what I've been through. I want to be something.

There are many things you could be. I see it....

I told you – I can control myself. Are you lonely, or something? Can't find anyone else to talk to?

Yes, said the Hat, I knew it from the first. There's no place for you but SLYTHERIN.

The nervous feeling in his stomach evaporated, and for that moment, Tom Riddle was a happy child, with a happy grin plastered on his face. It did not leave his face, even when he sat in a chair two seats down from Hawley.

A wonderful day, indeed.

*

The rest of the Sorting went quickly. Tom toyed with his fork, tapping it against the solid gold plate set at the tables. It seemed rather a waste that the plates would be so expensive, but he supposed that the school was certainly rich enough to afford it – still – three of those table settings would have fed him for a year, at the orphanage. Across the table, Rebecca Greenburn chatted affably with a Slytherin second year, both of their voices muted as they compared experiences. It did not interest Tom.

He perked his ears up when "Shaw, Martin" was called, and, as Tom had expected, was promptly placed into "HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Tanaka, Midori."

"RAVENCLAW."

"Trahaearn, Saeth."

"SLYTHERIN."

There were fewer people now, they were almost done.... And finally, after "Young, Kirby," Headmaster Dippet stood up in his place at the center of the staff table. He had a shrunken appearance, as though the weight of years rested heavily on his shoulders and his mind. Tom thought idly that he was not a figure to inspire great confidence or loyalty, but perhaps he'd been better, long ago, when there was still black hair on his head and a twinkle in the watery gray-white eyes.

"Students of Hogwarts," he said, and his voice had a tremulous quiver, "Welcome, welcome to the new year. I am so pleased to see new faces—" Perhaps it was Tom's imagination, but he felt as though the rheumy gaze was fixed on him. A trick? No, he was sure the Headmaster was watching him. "....the future," Dippet said. "I hope you will enjoy this year. That is all."

Despite the uninspiring tone of the words, they clapped and applauded as expected. Dippet sat again, his thin chicken neck jerking querulously back and forth as he looked sideways at Professor Abernathy. The little white wisps of his hair frizzed out wildly on either side of his head as he sat and fussily tucked his napkin over his lap. "And now – we eat."

Food appeared on the plates, magically, and Tom, who despite devouring a remarkable amount of snacks on the train, found his appetite returning full force. He was passed everything, and had so much food on his plate that he was forced to pile several rolls on top of the meat. Silence, he decided wisely, was best while eating, he was able to simultaneously make sure that no one stole anything, and shovel it down at the same time. The other Slytherins were talking animatedly, but Tom – he was concentrated solely on protecting his dinner.

In the orphanage, they'd never had food like this.... It was wonderful, it was amazing; words did not begin to describe it. At home (no – it wasn't home. It never had been home) the other children would have fought for a meal like this. Tom pushed those thoughts from his mind and mindlessly devoured everything on the plate and, when he was done, wiped it clean with a piece of bread and ate that, too.

It was then that he noticed some other Slytherins watching him, some in disgust, but most with odd pitying looks. Tom flushed – if there was one thing he hated more than condescension, it was pity. He could have no way of knowing that his too-thin frame and the dark circles under his eyes, coupled with the all too obvious ravenous appetite would have failed to provoke pity in all but the hardest of hearts. All he knew was that the pitying stares infuriated him and caused him to become even more aloof than he'd been before.

He also did not know that, from across the table and several seats down, someone was watching him.

*

Tom Riddle was exactly what he was named: an enigma. Becca Greenburn slanted a gaze at the boy who toyed sullenly with his fork while waiting for the dinner to be over. He had finished the giant pile of chicken and steak and vegetables in half the time of the others, and they also had about half the food. She had not attempted to talk to him since the rather disastrous experience in the robe shop, and he certainly had not made any step towards conversation. Cynthia Murray's betrayal – it didn't bother her – she wouldn't think about it. She would instead watch the others as they ate.

Tom Riddle, now resting his head on his elbow. Despite his thin frame and scowling face and the circles under his eyes, he was still one of the most beautiful children she'd ever seen. Blue-black hair clipped short in the back hung over his forehead smoothly; an oval face with prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, and sardonic mouth, curled downward in a glare. His eyes, however, were what fascinated her. They were not the eyes of a child; fathomless and aloof, a dark blue fringed with black lashes.

Next to her, Eustace Hawley, blond, stocky, and rather boring. As she ate, he told long, boastful stories about his life in the orphanage and how tough he'd been. "No one messed with me," Hawley was saying confidently as she nibbled the crust from a roll, "'Specially Riddle, over there." This last comment earned him a look of such utter disdain from the aforementioned that Becca was forced to hide a grin behind her hand.

Saeth Trahaearn, violently Welsh, with a lilting accent and the most sarcastic inflection that Becca had ever heard, unremarkable in appearance with brown braided pigtails tied in absurd blue bows, murmured something quietly to Hawley that caused him to flush angrily and glare at her. Further down was the boy Braden Campbell, relaxed and chatting easily with the rest of them, his anxiety forgotten as he, too, ate like breakfast would never happen soon enough.

And the older children: Scott Seeley, fifth year Beater and Quidditch Captain, was hotly debating some important point of his sport with another Quidditch player, from the conversation also a Beater. "Now, if the Bludger's coming /this/ way you dodge to the right, and hit it towards the Seeker—"

"I know, you dunce, I invented the play!" Their discussion became even more highly technical; dropping arcane terms and half in Beater's Code, a sort of verbal shorthand that allowed Beaters to communicate quickly in the air. Becca gave up attempting to follow their mental processes (at times, she wasn't even sure if the boy and the girl understood each /other/), and instead yawned, leaning back in the chair.

Feasts were all very well if you liked to eat, but she suddenly wasn't hungry any more.

*

Ice cream! Ice cream, cake, and chocolate chip cookies oozing their insides out onto his plate. Tom, who had thought he'd found the limits of his belly after a truly gargantuan supper, found that he either had a second stomach or had not eaten as much as he'd first supposed. Eating the ice cream, he remembered the one time they'd had that particular treat at the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children. A vicar from a neighboring parish, one known for his charity, was coming to visit, and the directors had done everything to receive the money he'd be able to donate. That day, there were no beatings, the children were given their pair of new clothes for the year, and as a special dessert, with the vicar presiding over the meal, small dishes of peppermint flavored ice cream were issued to each child.

Tom still hated peppermint.

Luckily, the ice cream served at Hogwarts was a creamy vanilla, with small bowls of multi-colored sprinkles and butterscotch syrup to place on top of it. Braden was picking at his food, and Tom almost had to force the boy to take a couple of cookies and pull small pieces from those. Eventually, however, Dippet signaled that the feast was finished. "Prefects, please lead your Houses back to the dormitories." The Slytherin prefect was none other than Scott Seeley, who looked annoyed that he'd been forced away from his altercation.

"This way, please," he said, striding ahead of them. "We're almost there, it's behind a bare wall – you can tell by the pattern of bricks in an 'S,' and the password's 'Te audire.'" Tom was happy to find that, once he stood up, he was almost as tall as the Beater and general star of the show. Seeley, on the other hand, wasn't so delighted, and he told Tom to go to the back of the group. Out of the Great Hall, down twisting stairs, to the dungeons.... Oh, great, thought Tom, They care so little about us that we're shoved into the bowels of the castle.

And then that phrase amused him, and he laughed. The bowels of the castle. It sounded like something out of a very poorly written adventure novel. Lagging behind, he stopped, and laughed. "I hope there's no dragons down here, I'm too stuffed to fight one right now."

"No, masssster," a hissing, sibilant voice replied, "No dragonsssss. Only me."

*









The usual disclaimer: I don't own anything by JKR (most notably Tom Riddle *sob. boohoo* Tom: Oh, stop that. It's pathetic.) I do own Becca and assorted other gitty (is that a word? I don't know) students, like Hawley and Shaw and Janus Malfoy. Even though they're absolute bastards, they still belong to meeeee. Er, yeah. Um, you get the idea, right?

Anyway, I liked this chapter, especially the mini-cliff hanger near the end. Bet you didn't think that Braden was going to be a Slytherin, did you? There are hidden depths to everyone, I suppose... And I really have nothing against Hufflepuff, despite Shaw being one. Please tell me what you think -- even if you absolutely hate it, I'd just like feedback. In the words of a rather odd boy at my school, "Peace out."