Tom turned deliberately around, searching the hallway for the human – or the ghost, perhaps – who had spoken. There was no one in sight. Puzzled, he looked all around once more, even glancing up at the ceiling. No one. "Where are you?" Tom asked slowly.

"Down here, masssster."

Tom looked down. On the floor was a small emerald green snake, white belly and coiled at the bottom, with its head raised. It watched him with flat black eyes that held an oddly intelligent expression. It was the only thing within sight, but there was no possible way that it would have been able to speak to him. "Right," he whispered to himself, "The snake is /talking/ to me...." Maybe he needed sleep more than he thought, at first. Tom had always been nocturnal, but everyone is mistaken now and then.... Still, if he was hallucinating, something could be seriously wrong.

"I am talking to you," the soft, sonorant voice whispered, "And you are talking to me."

"I /am/ crazy," Tom said, shaking his head like a dog clearing water from its fur. For good measure, he rubbed his eyes and blinked. The snake was still there, watching him with that strange almost.... expectant look. Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. "If I'm really communicating with a reptile – then you'll understand me. Turn in a circle, please." The 'please,' once out of his mouth, sounded silly, but the snake seemed satisfied.

It turned in a perfect circle, sinuous body twisting, then raised its head up again, and Tom could have sworn there was a faint smile upon its reptilian features. Tom gaped at it for a moment. "I'm talking to a snake," he repeated.

"Yessss," the snake replied, amused. "You are. Lissssten to your voissssssse; you are not ssssspeaking in Englisssssh."

Tom listened, but all he could hear was normal English. He concentrated harder, and was surprised to find that the noises emerging from his mouth, which sounded so much like coherent speech, were actually falling from his lips in the hiss of a snake.

"I wanted to make my presssssssence known, but it issss late and I will leave you now, young massssster." With that, it slithered away through a hole in the wall, leaving the boy dumbfounded and shocked.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Tom walked down the hallway to find the Slytherin Commons. Sleep would be a long way off, but his quarters had to be more pleasant than the cold passage, with its unforgiving stone walls. He saw the 'S' imprinted in the wall (an idle gaze would miss it, but the stones were noticeably arranged in the shape of the letter) and rested his hand upon the cool marble, and whispered the words, "Te audire." With a faint whisper of moving rock, the wall slid apart, moving outward and opening up a portal to the Commons.

His first impression of the rooms was a favorable one. The stairs descended into a long rectangular chamber, a study in medieval majesty. Heavy, fanciful stonework decorated the boundaries between floor and wall and wall and ceiling. In the center of the far wall, the focal point of the room, was a huge hearth with a wide mantle, burning in it, despite the fact that the weather outside was crisp, but not cold, was a snapping fire that shot up heat-less green flames. The overall ambiance of the chamber was one of green coolness; from the hunter-green couches arranged in a square, to the green crystal chandelier.

It was, Tom thought, a commodious mixture of elegance and comfort. He'd look at it more tomorrow, but for now, he'd try to sleep (try being the word in question).

*

The softly glowing clock on the wall told Becca that the time was two thirty in the morning, but she was not tired. Perhaps it was the excitement, or the large meal she'd just consumed, but every time she tried to shut her eyes they popped open again. Finally, she gave up and slid out of the bed, bare feet padding over the chilly flagstones of the floor.

Becca hated her nightdress with a passion. It was everything she hated in a garment, white, long, and frilly, with little pink bows across the chest. If she tried to sleep on her stomach, the infernal bows dug into her chest and stomach, and the lace around the bottom edge made her ankles itch. Leah had bought it for her before she left for school, beaming. "Isn't it precious?" her mother had asked. Becca had simply stared at her in horrified disbelief, and hoped beyond hope that her mother was joking.

Unfortunately, she wasn't.

Becca walked towards the door of the dormitory, ignoring the rustle of lace against the floor, and the soft sleep-noises of the other Slytherin girls. She had a case tucked beneath her arm as she left, a small white figure surrounded in shadows.

The fire in the Common Room had dimmed to a sullen glow, sending a ghoulish viridian light about the area, casting tall shadows in the corner. Becca sat on a couch, pulling the nearby table closer. Reverently she placed the case on the smooth surface, opening it with a tiny smile. Inside rested a folded chessboard and carved wooden pieces, the white faded to yellow and the black to a rather muddy brown. She did this often, when insomnia or boredom struck: Becca played chess against herself.

Aba would play with her sometimes, but he didn't play with his heart or mind or full attention, not like Becca did. She loved the game, loved moving the pieces in an attack against her opponent, be it black or white. She loved the way it was a mind-play as much as strategy and tactics, to win one had to have an understanding with the enemy. Ima worried that it was strange, her daughter playing up in her room with the worn chessboard, but Aba had shrugged her away. "It's good for the girl," he said, "Develop her mind."

She set out the pieces, white facing off against black. Time passed, as she wracked her mind to come up with the best defense against herself. It was a long time before she realized that someone was sitting across from her, watching the movements with intense scrutiny.

"Hello, Riddle," she said.

*

He lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, or at least where the ceiling should have been – it was obscured by the heavy dark-green brocade canopy. He wasn't tired at all, and instead focused on listening to the small noises of the children around him. In the next bed over, Braden was muttering something to himself that sounded like, "Control oneself...." and tossing over and over. At one point, he said very clearly, "To gain power, one must first control oneself." Tom snorted at the pseudo-philosophical comment; his friend was strange even in sleep.

Tom, unable to sleep, had finally found the light snores of his year-mates unbearable, and, wearing the ugly red-and-gray striped orphanage pajamas, opted to escape towards the Common Room, where at least there would be silence.

He was rather surprised to find someone else there, especially the Greenburn girl sitting on a couch in an utterly ridiculous outfit, the fire throwing flickering darkness onto her face, frowning at a checkered board and biting her lip. Curious despite his best intentions, Tom moved silently to the couch opposite the table she that used, watching her. It was chess, he recognized, but there was no one to play against. He could only surmise that she was battling herself in a silent war of wits, and given the strange things that had already happened to him that night, Tom had little room left for surprise.

He studied the game. Tom had always wanted to play chess but had never learned; the orphanage shunned any leisurely activities that could possibly have improved the mind. Sometimes he'd thought that they /meant/ to handicap their charges when they went into the world, but that was idle speculation. There were six different kinds of pieces, and they all had a separate type of movement that went with them. The object seemed to be to protect the one with the heavy crown upon its head, but it was handicapped by the fact that it was only able to go one space at a time.

"Hello, Riddle," she said abruptly, surprising him.

"Nice nightdress," he said.

"You should talk," she replied, obviously irked. Tom looked down at himself and saw that his ankles and two inches of skin above them were revealed by the ill fitting striped pajamas; the unfortunate color choice made him seem paler and skinnier than ever.

"Touché," he concurred. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Playing chess against yourself. There's no point. You always win."

"There /is/ a point."

"Care to explain?"

"Maybe." She watched him silently; sharp dark eyes fixed on his face. "You're up late."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Homesick?" she asked, one eyebrow arching sarcastically.

"Nothing of the sort," he said, and he knew that his face had closed down angrily, but couldn't help it.

The girl's face watched him, and he thought that if he saw any pity or sympathy there, he would call her something nasty and try to brave the snores again. But it didn't. If anything, she smirked a little bit. "I didn't think so. I'm sorry, I'd forgotten Hawley lived in your home, as well."

An unexpected snort of laugher escaped his nose, and she grinned as well, an expression that brightened her face considerably. "Most of those stories weren't true, you know," he told her.

"I figured as much. It's not often a ten-year-old boy has the orphanage directors living in mortal fear of his magical ability."

Tom snorted again, disdainful, this time. "He didn't even know magic existed until Sawyer told him." Then, "Will you teach me how to play chess?"

"If you want," Greenburn said doubtfully.

"I do," Tom told her sincerely, "I really do, Greenburn. It looks like fun."

Greenburn was offended. "Chess is not /fun/! It's an exciting game of strategy and tactics but—"

"All right, all right," Tom said hastily. He'd met people before with obsessions, and they were never pleasant to listen to, when started on a full rant.

"—It is not /fun/," she plowed on, and then added on an afterthought, "Call me Becca."

"Then I'm Tom," he said, and she smiled.

"Right. Now," Becca said, leaning forward, "This is the King. You don't want to lose him...."

*

Fifteen minutes later, they were playing their first game. Becca was surprised at how quickly Tom caught on. Even though she beat him rather easily, he did better than most beginners, and had even managed to put her in check twice. He played a very conservative game, she noted, defensive and devious. He laid traps where they were least expected and once she had to pull a very hasty retreat, sacrificing her Bishop in place of the King. Still, she won in about ten minutes, and was forced by his protests to play a second game. Tom's face had a tiny smile on it, a look she had not yet seen on him.

It was interesting, and she almost – almost – forgot about the nightdress.

*

Tom studied the checkered board in front of him. Becca had him in check, again. It was somewhat frustrating, but he was getting better as the time went on. She had her poker face in place, the inscrutable expressionless mask that betrayed nothing. He sighed and returned to examining the situation in black and white before him. Becca's style was wild and idiosyncratic; she did not always plan for the long game. She was fond of using her knights, whirling chariots that cut swaths across the board.

He moved his King to the left, neatly evading the Rook. His lips curled up in a grin as Becca rested her chin on her hands, thinking.

He could get used to this.

*

"What were you doing all night?" Braden asked him at breakfast, "It looks as if you haven't slept a wink."

"I was playing chess."

Braden looked at Tom as though the dark-haired boy had gone crazy. "You played /chess/? With who?"

"Becca."

Braden raised an eyebrow, and grinned suddenly. "I'm impressed, Tom."

"That I learned how to play chess in one night?"

"No.... We haven't even finished the first full day and you've got a girlfriend already."

"She's not my girlfriend," Tom frowned. "She taught me how to play chess."

"Whatever you say," Braden trailed.

Their first class was History of Magic. Professor Binns was an elderly wizard, even older than Professor Dippet, and looked as though he thought about nothing except planning, teaching, and grading his class. His personality had been completely burned away, lost beneath the canvassed exterior of a boarding school history teacher. Tom shuddered, what a horrible fate to meet. He stood at the front of the classroom and waited, in a bovine manner, for all the children to sit.

Once he was satisfied that no one was misbehaving, Binns began his lecture in a voice that sounded like it had been left out of the woodwinds section in the orchestra, dry and reedy. "Welcome to my class.... I am Professor Binns, and I will be teaching you the History of the magical world. I think that it would be beneficial for me to explain some of the history of your school...."

Tom half-dozed until something that Binns was saying caught his attention. "Salazar Slytherin, also known as Snake-tongue—"

Though he knew it was risky, Tom raised his hand. Binns, surprised, looked at him and frowned suddenly. "Yes, Mr. Roth?"

Janus Malfoy and Eustace Hawley sniggered.

"Riddle, sir."

"Riddle. You have a question?"

"Yes – you said that Slytherin was known as Snake-tongue? Why?" Something about that name sounded nastily familiar....

Irritated, Professor Binns sniffed. "Slytherin was a Parseltongue."

"A what?" Becca interrupted.

"Parseltongue. A wizard with the ability to converse with snakes—Mr. Ridell, is something wrong?" Tom had been staring wordlessly at him until Professor Binns noticed. The elderly wizard was looking extremely irritable, and Tom blinked.

"Nothing, Professor. I'm sorry."

"Now," Binns said, glaring at him, "We shall continue, if you please!"

*

Braden, who had been fidgeting during the entire period, bolted towards the bathrooms as soon as Binns dismissed them. Tom rolled his eyes and sighed – it looked like he was on his own. Or at least, he would have been, for Tom had not counted on Becca Greenburn.

"What was /that/ about?" Becca demanded, as they left the classroom, many of the students yawning frantically and rubbing their eyes.

"What was what about?" Tom said vaguely, attempting to throw her off track. However, Becca was too intelligent for that, and she merely frowned at him.

"Don't pretend I'm stupid, Tom."

"I never said you were stupid."

"You're implying it."

"I'm implying no such thing."

"Yes, you are. You were obviously worried or shocked after hearing that Slytherin was a Parseltongue, and then finding out what a Parseltongue is."

"Well he should be," Saeth put in, appearing suddenly behind them. "It's rather amusing, really, most people are frightened of Parseltongues."

"Why?" Becca asked.

"It's often seen as a mark of evil, being able to talk to snakes. Sort of like being left-handed." And she hurried ahead to catch up with her new friend, Meg (really, it was Margaret, but the girl insisted on the shortened version) Decker.

"I'm left-handed," Tom whispered.

"And a Parseltongue?" Becca said shrewdly.

"No! Well.... yes."

"I knew it!" she crowed triumphantly.

"Keep it down, will you?" Tom hissed, "I don't need anyone thinking I'm an evil monster."

"I don't think you're a monster," Becca said, "I'm jealous."

"You're /jealous/? Why?"

"I've always wanted to talk to animals! It's not fair that you can and I can't...."

"Becca, in case you didn't hear Trahaearn, it's considered a /mark of evil/."

"Oh, that. That's just superstition. Will you show me, sometime?"

"I'm not sure whether I should be admiring you, or hitting you over the head with a mallet."

Becca smiled. "Compliments, compliments. Mr. Riddle, you're quite the charmer."

Tom glowered at her. "Quiet! Someone might /hear/ you!"

She waved his protests away, joking manner gone completely. "If you're so concerned, than duck under the stairway, here. The class is gone and Defense Against the Dark Arts doesn't start for another quarter hour."

Tom sighed – he wasn't going to get away so easily.

"Now," Becca said sternly, "You're going to tell me exactly how it happened, and you're going to show me."

*

"I guess there has to be a live snake around for it to work," Becca said, extremely disappointed. After several failed attempts to speak Parseltongue, the results had netted only genuine English. ("I feel stupid," Tom said. "All right, all right, you can stop," she'd conceded, to his evident relief.)

"Thank you," Tom said sarcastically, and peered at Becca's watch. "We'd better hurry, or we'll be late." Defense Against the Dark Arts was on the fourth floor, near the library. The room was dark and rather musty, as if the teacher didn't bother to have it cleaned.

Braden reappeared and sat at a desk with Becca and Tom, arranging his books in front of him. "I heard," he whispered, "That Professor Keirsey was an Auror, but he got into a duel with a Dark Wizard and he's a bit.... touched."

*

Keirsey was indeed "a bit touched." He had a spindly neck and an over-large head, which bobbed continuously as he jerked it back and forth, staring suspiciously at his students. Becca was torn between pity and laughter, and once, horrified, she caught her mouth quirking upward in a smile hastily smothered. Whatever the Dark Wizards, most likely followers of Grindelwald, had done to him must have been terrible indeed. Keirsey would trail off into silence and then suddenly snap back to attention, and his lesson was long and rambling. Becca wondered why the headmaster allowed this incompetent to continue teaching, but the only reason she could come up with was pity.

Her other classes were somewhat better than History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Abernathy was as good a teacher as she'd sounded the first day of school. Their first lesson was a basic Floating charm, but the Professor promised them they'd be making apples sing operetta by the end of the month. Becca thought privately that it was most likely going to be longer than that; she, Tom, Braden, Hawley, and Saeth were the only ones to manage the spell correctly on the first try.

Becca enjoyed Dumbledore's class even more than Abernathy's, if that was possible. He was an entertaining teacher, gently correcting the ones who needed the guidance, and leaving the more astute students more slack. To her chagrin, Tom was quite clearly the head of the class, and she sighed, realizing that in her new friend was a worthy opponent: hard work would be needed to beat him. Tom, for his part, seemed unaware of the secret rivalry that began that day, or maybe he just didn't care.

Muggle Studies, which was required as a minor class for first years, was disastrous. Becca, Muggle-born, was alternately bored out of her mind or annoyed, as the teacher clearly favored the Gryffindors. This caused some muttering among the Slytherins, and Becca thought she caught the dreaded term 'Mudblood' bandied around once or twice. Catching her in a yawn, the Professor, Worthington, took five points from Slytherin and moved Becca to the front, which prompted and outburst from Saeth, culminating in her muttering under her breath, "English git." This did nothing to endear the Slytherins to the Professor, and he took another five points.

*

Tom was exhausted by the time he got to Potions. He'd managed to stick with Braden and Becca for most of the day, but they'd been separated when Professor Worthington made Becca sit by herself in the front row. The Potions Professor was a petite elderly woman named Qureshi, a Ravenclaw who held herself absolutely impartial (it was impossible for her to hold favorites, as she seemed to dislike /all/ the students), even more conscientious about the subject than Abernathy. It was an interesting class; the Professor was no-nonsense and informative.

It seemed as though Slytherin was always thrown together with the Gryffindors. Tom might have liked them if they'd shown any sort of common decency whatsoever, but the majority of Godric's House seemed convinced that each and every Slytherin was horrible, incorrigible, and up to no good. It didn't help that they had people like Malfoy and Hawley around, but oddly enough, Hawley seemed to get along well with the more liberal Gryffindors.

They had yet another double period on Friday; Flying lessons at last. Tom was not particularly dreading nor looking forward to that lesson, but he was indeed annoyed that they'd been put with Gryffindor, again. Becca didn't seem pleased, either, but Braden didn't seem to care. He was more concerned, at the moment, with his ritual....

Thoughts of his friend's exceedingly strange behavior momentarily derailed Tom's train of thought, as he frowned and glanced sideways at the pink-toned boy. While, at first, the habit did not seem particularly injurious, it was rapidly gaining importance in Braden's life. Tom observed him carefully, and compiled a set of facts about the odd malady. It seemed to strike when Braden was nervous or agitated, and continued indefinitely, usually until he calmed down. He would get angry if interrupted, which sometimes caused trouble if a teacher called upon him in class.

Still, it remained a mystery, and Tom resolved to figure it out as soon as possible. In the meantime – in the meantime, there was flying.

They trooped out onto the lawn early in the morning, with the wind whipping their robes backward and away from their bodies. Becca's hair was torn from its tie, causing the girl to utter what was, in Tom's opinion, a very unwomanly expression. He had learned, however, not to mention such things to her. It wasn't worth an attempted hex (even though he could block them easily). The flying instructor was Monsieur Chatelain, a Frenchman. Becca wondered idly what he was doing in England, but was distracted when class started.

M. Chatelain examined the assembled group with amused eyes; his slightly pudgy face crinkled in a myriad of laugh lines. "Welcome!" he enthused at them, "Welcome to your first flying lesson." Tom tuned him out and turned a critical eye on the line of brooms spread before them – they looked rather old and at best, very rickety. "Take a broom, take one!" The light, bubbly accent tumbled frantically out of M. Chatelain's mouth. Tom chose a broom and nudged it experimentally with his foot. It rolled away from him and he bit back an exclamation of shock.

Braden had managed, Tom noted enviously, to pick out the best broom of the lot; it looked as though it were most likely a replacement, for the brush was clean and straight, and it lacked the dirty pallor that the other broomsticks had acquired. "Now," M. Chatelain said, "You will tell your broom, 'UP!'"

"Up," Tom said warily. He caught the broom as it rose and watched the other students. Becca seemed to be having a bit of trouble, her face flushing red as she muttered, "Up, up, up," without success. Hawley was holding his broom and smirking, as was Malfoy; Braden held his broom with a calm self-assurance that was so notably lacking in most of his life. Ian Potter was also one of the exultant few whose flying implements had obeyed, he and some of the Gryffindors. Tom was quite happy to note that Cynthia Murray's broom remained motionless.

M. Chatelain proceeded to explain the fundamental mechanics of the broomstick, and judging from his extreme enthusiasm, would have continued indefinitely. Ian Potter, who looked anxious to start flying, cut in as politely as possible, bringing the teacher back down to earth. Tom thought it a measure of Chatelain's tolerance that he merely smiled, nodded, and proceeded with the lesson. They mounted the brooms, and rose up into the air....

*

Becca was not having fun. Her broom seemed determined to go in the opposite direction of where she wished it to, and it didn't make it any better that Tom, Hawley, and Ian Potter were swooping around as though they'd spent their entire lives in the air. She was rather discouraged by the time they touched down again, in Becca's case bumping painfully into the earth. The other students left, but Becca stayed behind, partly to talk to the teacher, and also because of something she had seen hanging around his neck.

"M. Chatelain?"

"Oui?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just a hopeless flyer...."

"Don't worry, Mademoiselle Greenburn," M. Chatelain said, smiling. "Not everyone is a natural their first time up."

"Tom was," Becca muttered sullenly.

"As I've said, not everyone can expect to be marvelous their first time flying."

"But—"

"Mademoiselle Greenburn."

"Yes?"

"Listen to me, please."

She listened, somewhat abashed.

"You cannot be the best at everything."

"But—!"

M. Chatelain raised an admonishing eyebrow, and she shut up. "You might not have started out well, but you can practice – practice and learn. Maybe you'll never be a Quidditch star, Mademoiselle Greenburn. And if you aren't, then what will you do?"

"I'll.... I'll...." Becca had always been near the tops of her classes in Muggle school, and she saw no reason why this shouldn't continue in Hogwarts, as well. Unfortunately, it didn't seem as this would be the case, especially in Quidditch. She had no way of knowing that her face had acquired a very mulish look, and that M. Chatelain, beneath his amiable smile, was struggling not to laugh.

"Is that all?" he wanted to know.

"No," Becca said, pointing at his neck. "That necklace – is that a Mogen David?" A Star, or Shield, of David.

"Yes," M. Chatelain said, pulling it out from where it was hidden beneath the neckline of his robes. "I'm Jewish. I'm assuming you are, as well?"

She nodded, frowning. "The food here isn't kosher, but I have to /eat/."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "A simple solution. I shall ask the house elves to prepare for you a kosher meal. They do it for me; I'm sure they'll be able to manage another."

"Thank you!" she said, relieved, "I just know my parents would make me feel guilty if they found out I wasn't keeping."

"You're welcome," he said, bowing. "And now, I think you'd better hurry up – your friends are waiting."

"'Bye," Becca called, shouldering her book-satchel and heading off across the Quidditch pitch.

"Au revoir."

"Tom! Braden! Wait for me!"

M. Chatelain smiled, and went to pick up the brooms.