Nope, still don't own him. But if anybody wants to guest-star by writing me a sorting hat song . . .

*~*

Breathing slowly to still his shaking hands, Tom placed his left index finger at the corner of his left eye. He pulled the skin gently away from his eye, leaving the skin beneath taut. He took the eyeliner pencil and drew a thick, dark line from his tear duct to the outside corner of his eye. He held it there for a moment, then released the skin and regarded his eye critically in the mirror.

He then pulled the skin under his right eye taut in the same way, and filled in with another dark line. He mirrored the thickness of the line under his other eye, and blinked twice before he continued.

Then he closed his left eye, and drew a heavy, dark line which seemed to bleed directly into his thick eyelashes. He parallelled this on his right eye, before regarding himself in the mirror.

With two quick motions from  the wrist, he drew small flicks leading up from the outer corners of his eyes.

He paused for a moment, the smiled, obviously satisfied, and returned the eyeliner pencil to his wand pocket.

*~*

Tom Riddle stood, awestruck, in the doorway of the Great Hall. His first sight of this long-awaited, often-imagined haven surpassed all his expectations.

He looked up and saw rolling grey clouds and the occasional flash of lightning. However, no rain fell on the long wooden tables surrounded by impatient looking students.

The man who had just introduced himself as Professor Ungulent ushered them into the hall and arranged them in anervous huddle by the stage. There was nothing in the middle of the stage except for an old hat on a stool.

It was a strange juxtaposition – all the fantastical magic of a rainless thunderstorm, a thousand candles levitation in mid-air, rows of students in robes and pointed hats . . . yet the focus of attention was a mouldy-looking old hat on a wooden stool. Tom was wondering what was about to happen – no doubt something spectacular would happen, to match the wonder of the thunderstorm overhead – when a wide gash in its brin opened, and it began to sing . . .

When it had finished, Tom was confused but somehow charmed by the idea. Immediatley he knew that Ravenclaw would be the house for him – finally, he would be amongst his intellectual equals!

He watched, enraptured, as child after child filed up to the stool and placed the hat upon their head. He noticed how sometimes the hat would make its decision and call out a house almost instantaneously, whereas with others it would take a long time, presumably deliberating He hoped that the hat would take one look inside his head and shout 'Ravenclaw'. Images flashed through his head, images of intellectually stimulating conversation, reading poetry, off-handly quoting Wildean witticisms, discussing literature, art, love . . .

He was shaken out of his reverie when he heard Professor Ungulent calling out 'Riddle, Tom'. He stepped up to the platform, and slipped the hat onto his head. Immediately, he heard voices inside his head.

'Well read. You don't see children this literary-minded these days. But so much ambition! Such a thirst to prove yourself!'

The hat went silent for a very long time, as if it where arguing within itself.

Eventually, reluctantly, as if making a decision against its better judgement, the hat called out 'Slytherin!'

Tom was shocked (The reader, however, was undoubtedly not).

He waited for a moment, as if he imagined the hat would change its mind. But nothing happened, and he removed the hat and began the endless-seeming walk toward the Slytherin table. He slid onto the bench, finding it hard to be inconspicuous when the eyes and applause of every member of his house – yes, he had to think of it as his house now – were focused on him.

However, behind the cheering of his Slytherin housemates, Tom saw a cold ojection to his presence. He felt as if he was the only one turning up to a party in fancy dress, or that they must somehow know that it had been less than two months since he had even discovered this world existed.

Tom looked along the table at the other first years who had been sorted into Slytherin.

A severe-looking girl with her dark hair scraped back into a tight bun had already begun conversing with a petite, heavily made-up redhead. A small, effeminate-looking boy was talking to what Tom could only assume must be his elder brother – they were identical in everything byut size.

Tom cast a dejected glance towards the Ravenclaw table. It seemed to him as if their table was filled with beautiful people, discussing politics and poetry. He dragged his eyes back to his own house, and saw only the deep-set eyes of the incongruously large first year who had just sat down opposite him. An incline of the large, bushy eyebrows and a slight grunt seemed to be the only greeting Tom was likely to get out of him.

It's funny how potent first impressions can be, and Tom felt that, while the Ravenclaw sense of humour would be a complex pun, probably based on an obscure cultural reference, the Slytherin sense of humour would be a particularly nasty, painful, insulting practical joke.

Tom still felt that, somehow, the sorting hat must have been wrong. But something told him there would be no appeal.