Becca very gradually got used to life at Hogwarts. Homesickness would strike at odd times, when a smile or laugh would remind her of her father, or the play of light in the trees remind her of the way the sun would shine through the curtains of her room. At first it was a sharp pang in her stomach that eased gradually – she was not weak. She would not cry. So, whenever she missed her parents, or Gideon, she threw herself into her work, or talked with her friends. Tom and Braden, as different as night and day (to use a cliché that, in this case, was quite true indeed.)

September passed, and she settled into the routine. History of Magic, though she did well in it, was remarkably boring. She'd thought that Mr. Wiggin, her maths teacher in her old school, was the epitome of dullness, but Professor Binns surpassed him by an incredible amount. Potions was easy, for Becca, and she liked Qureshi despite the woman's evident misanthropy. The one class she really despised was Muggle studies, but she only had to deal with Worthington every third day.

The other Slytherins, at least the female ones, seemed oddly clannish. The little group was led by Saeth and Meg who, while friendly most of the time, did not go out of their way to include Becca. That was perfectly fine with her; she spent most of her time with the two boys. She continuously expected a brawl to break out between Tom and Hawley, but nothing ever happened. The latter was too careful, especially in front of the adults, and though there were sharp words no blows were exchanged. Malfoy, too, was odious, though the teachers had his number better than they'd Hawley's.

In fact, nothing of note happened until December.

*

Tom woke up, rubbed his eyes, and pushed lank strands of black hair out of his face. He'd need to get one of the house-elves to cut it, or something. He sat up, yawning widely, and shoved the sheets aside. The cool floor barely caught a wince from him as he started walking towards the door, intending to go to the bathroom and brush his teeth, but his walk was aborted when he stubbed his toe on a large package. "Shit!" he said, and immediately shut his mouth. If Professor Lianis, Head of Slytherin and teacher of Divination, had heard, there would be points taken away.

He leaned over, holding his foot away from the ground, and examined the object. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, but there was an envelope tucked beneath the string holding it closed. He opened it and read:

Tom,
Your mother wanted you to have this on your eleventh birthday.
Both of the presents belonged to her; she never explained the
significance of them. I'm just passing them along. Happy birth-
day, Tom. Eva would have been proud of you.
--Sawyer

Tom sat down on the floor – he had not been expecting any presents. December 21st was his birthday, but at the orphanage, the only thing that happened on birthdays was that you got measured, weighed, and they decided whether you needed new clothes or not. He'd never had a present before, let alone one from his mother. Silently he struggled with the knot, gradually growing more and more frustrated when it refused to yield. Finally, in a spurt of temper, Tom grabbed his wand from the small table nearby and incinerated the string.

Unfortunately, the paper caught on fire, too, and Tom nearly destroyed the entire package trying to put it out. Calming himself, he brushed away the charred remains of the wrapping paper and finally opened the wooden crate that the objects had come in. The smaller one was in another box, and Tom opened that carefully. Inside, resting upon a bed of soft cotton, was a necklace. He frowned and lifted it carefully from the case, looping the gold chain around his first two fingers.

It was a small golden ball, about the size of a walnut, surrounded with a cage of delicate silver filigree. And surprisingly heavy, for such a small thing. Something about it tugged at the back of his memory and he squinted at it, trying to figure out what it was. No luck there. Tom replaced the necklace into the box and shut it carefully, and then looked at the bigger package: it was black, oddly shaped – a violin case! With a wide smile on his face, Tom lifted the musical instrument from its wooden prison, cradling the worn, slightly dusty leather against his chest.

The clasps opened easily and he drew the violin from the blue velvet depths, examining its every detail. It looked exactly the same as when his mother had played it, though it obviously wasn't in tune. The horsehair bow fit into snaps at the side. Tom ran his fingers over the strings, causing discordant notes to flicker in the darkness. The sound, too low for most people to hear, caused Braden (always a light sleeper) to sit up with a start.

"Tom?" he muttered sleepily.

"Look at this, Braden!" he whispered, "Birthday presents!"

"You never told me it was your birthday," Braden said, accusing. His voice was thick and he sounded like he was still half-asleep.

"You never asked. But look, they're from my mum!"

Braden blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked confused. "Tom, you told me your mother was dead."

"She /is/. But I guess she left these things in trust or something.... It's her violin."

There was a rustling noise as Braden got out of his bed, blanket draped around his shoulders like a cape. He examined Tom sharply, as though expecting to see tears or something of that nature. He found that the other boy wasn't even looking at him, he was staring closely at the instrument before him. "You don't know how to play, though."

"No," Tom said, looking mulish, "But I'm going to learn. There's got to be someone around here that knows how to play...."

*

Becca, it turned out, did not know how to play the violin. But she knew someone who could.

"Who?" Tom demanded.

"Dumbledore."

"Oh.... No."

"You want to learn, don't you?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"You don't really have much of a choice, Tom."

"I guess not."

"He's not going to /bite/ you or anything...."

"But, Becca, he's /Dumbledore/. He's always looking at me like he's expecting me to do something wrong."

"Tom," Becca said gently.

"/What/?"

"You're being irrational."

"Not to mention paranoid," Braden commented from the chair where he slumped comfortably. The absurdity of Braden calling someone else paranoid snapped Tom out of his miniature temper tantrum.

"Not funny, Brad," he grumbled, and stared morosely down at the violin resting on his lap. Tom ran a finger along the strings, a discordant twang.

"I guess you'll have to go to Dumbledore, then," Becca said, admirably suppressing a note of triumph.

Tom threw a pillow at her.

"Evil-doer!" Becca exclaimed, "For that, I shall punish you!" She leaped at Tom and smacked him over the head with the same pillow.

"Ack," Tom muttered indistinctly, as his face was full of green fabric.

"I'll rescue you!" Braden yelled and threw himself into the fray; finger twisting and counting abandoned. "Foul varlet, attacking an unsuspecting victim like that!"

"Unsuspecting?" Becca demanded, as she aimed a pillow towards Braden's stomach, "/I/ was the first unsuspecting victim, you know!"

"It matters not," Braden said, with a grave dignity that was more amusing, since at the time of the words, he was dodging and ducking. His face, however, was as composed as it was during class.

Tom, turning distraction into advantage, had snatched both pillows and threw them at his comrades. Becca turned, brown eyes narrowing, evil grin on her face. The boys retreated to grab more ammunition.... Once the fight was over, the Common Room was covered in white feathers drifting serenely to the floor. Apparently, the pillows were old and of inferior quality. Becca leaned against the wall as she caught her breath, holding the shredded remnants of a green velvet pillow. "Professor Lianis," she gasped, "Is going to kill us."

"You—started it," Tom answered, conveniently forgetting that he had thrown the first pillow.

"/I/ did?" Becca retorted.

The portal swung open and Malfoy walked through. He didn't get farther than the doorway, however, because he was gaping at the pseudo winter wonderland that Tom, Braden, and Becca had created in the room. "What the hell?" Malfoy said, and then noticed Becca, with goose feathers resting in her hair; Tom, unusually flushed; and Braden, who was laughing hysterically on the floor.

"Oh," Malfoy said, picking his way through the feathers, "I should have known." His vaguely pointed features contracted to a sneer, an expression with which they were becoming very familiar. "Morons! Look what you've /done/!" He said lamely, for lack of anything else to snap at them.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Tom ordered.

"Or what? Are you going to cry to your /mommy/?" Malfoy asked viciously. "Oh," he said, as if just realizing something, "I guess you can't, can you?"

Tom lunged forward; Becca and Braden caught his arms and held him back. He struggled against them, hissing. "Let /go/! Let me /go/!"

"Stop it," Becca said sharply, "It's only Malfoy, and his insults aren't all that creative anyway."

Tom glared at Malfoy and contented himself with breaking Becca's grip. Braden had already released him. "Go away, Malfoy, or I swear I'll beat your face in."

Becca wrinkled her nose at Tom and frowned. The boy was too angry – too apt to fly off the handle. He was completely unpredictable, and not in a good way. Malfoy sniffed, disappeared down the stairs to the dormitories, and vanished. After a moment's pause, Becca told the two boys, "I'll be back in a minute."

She followed Malfoy down the stairs, catching up with him before he entered the boys' dormitory. "Hey! Janus!" she called, eliciting a glare from the blond boy – it seemed to be a family trait to burden the children with unfortunate names.

"What is it, Greenburn?"

"I have a question for you."

"Yeah?" he asked suspiciously.

"Why are you such a jerk all the time?" Becca asked in a friendly tone.

"I'm not a jerk," Malfoy said, sounding surprised.

"Maybe you should look up the definition, then," Becca replied, shaking her head. Some people were too odd to describe in words.

*

If there was one thing that Albus Dumbledore hated (and hate was such a strong word – he didn't hate.... Perhaps dislike was a better term) it was grading papers. He knew that his students could do superior work than what they turned in. Albus, who had always done his utmost best, was puzzled as to why his pupils would hand in such half-hearted reports. It was as depressing as it was puzzling, and he tried to wield the red ink and quill kindly. But still – it was so /difficult/.

A tentative knock on the door startled Albus from his reverie. He slid his glasses further up his nose, resting them above the crook so that they wouldn't fall again. "Come in," he called, and shuffled the papers around so that the entering supplicant wouldn't see the students' grades.

To his surprise, the boy who entered, looking at the floor and trying hard not to bolt for the door was Tom Riddle. Albus' eyebrows raised as he watched Tom's shuffling footsteps take the boy closer to the desk. "Mr. Riddle?" Albus asked. He was surprised to see Tom in his office; he was a Slytherin and had never seemed fond of Albus in the least. Quite the contrary, actually, he seemed even more detached in Transfiguration.

"Professor," he said, and nodded.

"Can I help you, Tom?" Albus asked, folding his hands in the pyramid so beloved by teachers.

"I, well, yes," Riddle said.

"Well?" Albus said, gently prodding.

"MymumsentmeaviolinandIdon'tknowhowtoplayandcouldyouhelp," Tom mumbled.

"A little slower, please?"

"I got a birthday present from my mum. It's a violin, but I don't know how to play.... Becca said you'd know how."

"Ah," Albus said, smiling, "Yes. I remember your mother loved that instrument. Sawyer told me he'd be sending it to you, but I wasn't sure if you'd want to learn...."

"Of course I would!" Tom snapped, and then remembered he was talking to a teacher. "Sir."

"Mr. Riddle, I am not going to murder you. You can talk to me like a normal human being," Albus said, attempting to hide his amusement: children like Riddle hated being patronized. "I will teach you how to play the violin, if that is what you wish.

"Yessir. Thank you, sir!" Tom said, and hurried out of the room. No need to remain in the lion's den longer than needed.

"Tom?" Dumbledore called after him, sounding amused.

"What?"

"Do you want to set up a time for your lessons?"

"Uh, yes," Tom said, looking at the ground. In his haste to leave he'd forgotten that necessary bit of information.

"Hmmm," Dumbledore said, glancing at a sheet before him, "It looks like your Tuesday afternoons are free."

"Thank you, sir," Tom repeated, and fled through the door again before Dumbledore could have any sort of objection.

*

Tom's first violin lesson went, as predicted, well. He was a quick study in almost everything that he did, and Dumbledore was pleased to find that his student learned rapidly. Tom had learned all four strings and the notes that went with them in a week, and soon progressed to chords. These he picked up in a little under two weeks, and was soon working on simple music. The song he was really looking forward to playing, however, was Greensleeves – a song he remembered his mother playing when he was younger.

As he learned, Tom's expression changed from sullen disinterest to an odd sort of intense vitality; he was doing something that brought him closer to his mother. As his spirits rose, however, Braden seemed to be suffering a sort of spiraling decline.

It wasn't evident unless you knew him very well, for in public, the boy appeared even more normal than ever. He had ceased his whispering and mumbling when there was someone watching, and sometimes even forced smiles during class. His moods fluctuated wildly, and in order to stabilize them, he played word games with himself, or sometimes with Becca, rearranging letters into different combinations.

None of them stuck; they were forgotten instantly as their use wore away. One day, though, Braden unwittingly came up with a phrase that just felt /right/. "I am Lord Voldemort," he said suddenly, while the three lounged outside on the grass. It was cold, but they didn't care; each child was bundled up in at least two sweaters.

"You're who?" Becca demanded, raising an eyebrow.

"No, Tom is."

"What?" Tom asked.

"'I am Lord Voldemort.' It's an anagram of your name," Braden explained.

"'Lord,' eh?" Tom asked, grinning, "I like it."

"Voldemort," Becca said, "Looks like you've actually come up with a real word this time, Brad."

"I have?" he replied.

"Yep," Becca told him, "French. It means.... Um.... Flight of death?"

"Lord Flight of Death," Tom repeated, savoring the words. "I like it."

"You would," Becca said. "You're a bloodthirsty savage. Do I get a name, Brad?"

Braden's eyes closed in that odd way of his as he thought. "Nope," he replied after a second's pause, "It's only gibberish that we can get from YOUR name."

"Thanks, Brad," she said sardonically, "That makes me feel useful."

The phrase had caught Tom's fancy, and he stared off into the distance thoughtfully, blue eyes dreamy. "Lord Voldemort. It's got a certain ring, hasn't it?"

Becca shivered slightly. "I'm not sure if I like it."

"You don't have to," Tom said imperiously, but he was teasing – Becca could tell.

"Very well, m'lord," she replied, also jesting.

"One day," Tom said with a grin, "You'll call me Lord Voldemort and not mind it."

"I don't think so," Becca said, raising her eyebrows, "It's not a very nice name. It doesn't suit you."

"It's not worth arguing over, really," Braden said, frowning, "I'd just given him the name, I didn't know what it meant."

"We're not blaming /you/," Tom said, surprised.

Braden nodded a touch uncertainly. Becca stood up and smacked Tom on the shoulder. "Come on then, Lordling Voldemort, we've got Potions with the Gryffindors, and I need to get Tiny Tim before we leave."

*

Professor Qureshi sat on top of her desk, skinny legs hanging over the edge and thumping it lightly. It was a strangely childish position and did not seem to fit the otherwise imperiously commanding woman. "Good day, class," she said, though from her tone it did not sound like her heart was in it. It sounded as though she was expecting the exact opposite, but, out of the goodness of her soul, restrained herself from ruining everyone else's morning.

"Good day, Professor," Cynthia Murray said smartly, and sat down in her seat. Tom rolled his eyes. She caught the gesture and sniffed in disdain. "I wouldn't talk, Riddle."

"I wasn't," he answered honestly.

She had no response, and busied herself with ignoring the Slytherins and taking out her books. They were color-coded and had been decorated with little drawings of rabbits.

The rabbits had unnaturally large eyes and frightening smiles.

"I didn't think that a rabbit's mouth was made for smiling?" Becca whispered to Braden, who nodded in agreement.

"Will you two be /quiet/?" Cynthia asked in audible Italics, "She's going to start soon."

"Hush, rabbit deformer," Becca replied.

Qureshi's sharp ears had picked up this exchange, and she twisted her mouth in distaste. "Miss Murray. Miss Greenburn. Would you be so kind as to tell me what your argument is about?"

"Nothing," Becca said promptly, while at the same time, Cynthia said, "She—" and then stopped.

"Now that is settled," Qureshi said dryly, "Might we continue with the lesson?"

"We could," Becca couldn't resist adding, earning a /look/ from the Professor.

"Today, we will be learning about the different properties of potions ingredients. Yes, I know," she said, to forestall the hands that shot up like flags, "We've already done a few basic solutions. I think, however, it would be a good idea for you to have a broader background."

"Ohh," Tom groaned in a whisper, "I /hate/ Potions."

"No you don't," Becca corrected him, "You just think lists are boring."

"But they ARE."

"Mister Riddle!" Professor Qureshi snapped, "If you and your friends cannot keep quiet, I will take five points from Slytherin." Cynthia smirked. "And wipe that smug grin off of your face, if you please, Miss Murray." Cynthia stopped smiling.

In her pocket, Tiny Tim shifted suddenly. He had been asleep for the beginning of the class period, but had now raised his head above the line of her pocket. Becca attempted to subdue him by pressing his head down with a thumb. Tim, normally a docile creature, nipped her finger lightly and squirmed out of his cloth prison, running agilely across the table. Becca lunged and attempted to catch him, in the process knocking several bat wing membranes into a boiling cauldron.

"What—" Qureshi began, as a sudden jet of hot liquid rose geyser-like to the ceiling.

Becca winced, collected her familiar, and faced the iron stare of the Potions Professor.

"Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble?" she attempted with a lame effort at humor.

Qureshi was not amused.