Author's Note: Slow going at first, and a little dully written (I did start
this a long time ago), but you can't start out a story like this with too
much drama. It begins with an eleven-year-old boy who learns he's a wizard.
And yes, that's been done before, so I'm trying what I can to make it
interesting without reinventing anything you already know, and therefore
boring you all to death.
There will be drama and murder, but not yet. Boys can only be so psychotic at this age. So... I guess, let the story develop with an open mind... I didn't choose Drama/tragedy for no reason at all. This will be very long, and a little cute at first, so bear with me, I can't find the heart to rewrite any of the early stuff.
What a wimp I am, eh? Well, expect the rating to go up when Tom gets all evil and stuff. It happens.
- now, the story...
~~
~~
~~
Lord Voldemort had lived awhile now. He'd seen too many things, too many countries, too many lives, too many deaths. Too many memories – too much attachment to the past. Soullessly and without effort, he detached himself from it.
But there was someone he often remembered – the only one he'd ever felt pain for.
That boy had been his first victim. His life had been short, but intense. He'd killed himself, in a way; Voldemort had only helped him along. Little by little, year by year, the boy grew older, and died a little more.
The Dark Lord's first victim had begun to know him a little before he died. But after all these years, why should he, Lord Voldemort, show any pain for those he'd destroyed? Why should he remember the boy at all?
Didn't death silence a person? Shouldn't death have silenced the boy's fear and conscience?
Why should he remember Tom Marvolo Riddle after all these years?
--------------------------------------- -----
"Nonsense," the head of the orphanage muttered, clutching the steering wheel murderously.
Tom Riddle kept silent. The whole day had become a blur of confusion, understanding, and more confusion.
Who knew a stupid letter could bring such news? Who knew he'd been worth something all along? Who knew his mother had been any different from all the other buried memories the children had locked in their minds? Who knew his life had been more than this orphan nonsense?
Nonsense, Tom thought with a grin. What about what I did to Brian Dursley? And the poor boy's swollen ears - was that nonsense? It seemed real enough – for pain, at least.
The car stopped at an unfamiliar place in the heart of London. "At least we'll be rid of you," Mrs. Wentworth spat with all the disdain she could muster into her heavily wrinkled face. Tom gave her an answering scowl of gratitude, and grabbing his trunk, slammed the car door.
He hadn't a clue where he was, what he was, or where he was going, but he was here. Wherever that was...
An old worn sign was hanging above him reading, "The Leaky Cauldron". He stepped in, wondering why it invited him so.
It took him a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but when they did, it was to an odd sight indeed. There were people unnaturally tall and impossibly short, people with strange cloaks and robes, and people with scraggly hair and crooked noses. It took Tom a while to find someone who looked even remotely normal.
Across the room was a boy close to, if not exactly his age with black hair and sharp gray eyes. He squinted when he noticed Tom, and walked over proudly, despite his lack of height.
"Who are you?" he asked coldly.
Tom decided to answer with a question. "Where am I?"
The boy smirked. "You sure you're in the right place?"
Tom tried to strand up taller – he wasn't going to look like an idiot. "Depends on what this place is," he answered, narrowing his eyes questioningly.
The boy lowered his voice, "You a muggle?"
"A what?"
"That's what I thought."
"Wait – "
"Look, go outside, find your family, and don't come back here."
Tom frowned. This boy was just as young as he was – shouldn't he be with his family?
"What's a muggle?" he demanded.
"Just forget it, awright? Go!" The boy glanced around apprehensively.
A strange woman walked into the pub wearing a long black cloak and a pointed hat. The oddest thought occurred to Tom, yet it explained the woman's strange appearance. She was a witch.
"Are – are you a wizard?" Tom asked uncertainly. If he was, then he was definitely in the right place.
The boy looked momentarily startled, but then grinned broadly. "Welcome to Diagon Alley," he said.
~~~~~~~~~~
"I was waiting for my brother Alphard, but I'm guessing he went ahead without me." The boy (who's name turned out to be Artemus Black) tapped a few bricks with what seemed to be a wand, and the wall twisted and worked to give way to a broad street.
"The wand's my dad's. I haven't one yet – that's what I'm here for."
Tom nodded, even though he didn't understand completely. "Where's your family?" he asked.
"Ah, they dropped me off. Couldn't stay, of course – they had work. But they figured I knew what I was doing. Yours?"
Tom shrugged. "Dead, 's far as I can tell."
Artemus stopped dead in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. "Were they muggles?"
Tom felt incredibly stupid. "Exactly what – "
"Were they non-magical people?" he elaborated, cutting him off. He seemed to be looking at him in disgust, but Tom decided he must have been imagining it.
"Only me dad."
Artemus's shoulders dropped, but his expression grew somewhat colder. "Best not to tell anyone that," he said.
Tom frowned. "Why not? Is it bad?"
Artemus looked as if he'd been smacked in the face. "Don't you know what it means? Don't you want to be sorted in Slytherin?"
Tom's face remained blank.
Artemus sighed, then went into explanation. "It's one of the houses at Hogwarts – you know, the school. It's the purest, and the most honorable in my family."
"He's right, you know," came another voice. "Though I can't say that all the time or his head'll swell." This boy looked a few years older, and the similarity between him and Artemus was almost uncanny, except for his brown eyes.
Artemus rolled his eyes. "Hullo. Tom, this is Alphard, unfortunately. "
Alphard frowned before turning back to Tom. "First year, too, eh? Well, you look like a Slytherin – maybe you'll get sorted with me and Artemus. That is, if Arty's put in Slytherin at all..."
"And I will be," the shorter of the two replied harshly. "Besides, Tom's just a dirty half-blood."
Alphard scowled at his younger brother. "Oh yeah? I don't see why that makes him dirty. Looks awright to me. Besides, ever hear about Ezra Stratus? She was a half blood, and she got in Slytherin. They never kicked her out, either."
Artemus glanced at Tom and then Alphard. "Right," he said. "Got any money?" he asked. Tom shook his head.
"No worries," Alphard cut in. "I'm sure Mum and Dad won't even notice."
~~~~~~~~~~
Their smiles brighter, and their pockets heavier, the three underaged wizards proceeded down the street.
All around Tom were shops stocked with everything imaginable, or unimaginable rather. The place seemed to be constantly stocked with everything he had never thought to buy – cauldrons, toads, star adorned cloaks, shoes that tied themselves, food that bit back, and (of all things) magical wands.
He looked to his right, and stopped. What met his eyes wasn't fascinating, glorious, or whimsical in any way. It was exactly the opposite – dark, gloomy, and somehow twisting on level ground. But for some odd reason it struck his interest far beyond anything else around him.
"What's that place over there?" he asked, indicating it with a nod of his head.
Artemus seemed to be torn between excitement and fear.
"Oh," Alphard said. "That's Knockturn Alley."
"D'you ever... go down there?"
Alphard and Artemus glanced at each other momentarily before shaking their heads emphatically. "We'd probably never come out the same," Alphard said.
"Dad told us stories about it, though," Artemus contributed proudly. "He's been there before. It's chock-full of Dark people. Dad knows a lot of 'em, but our family never really got into it... the Dark Arts, I mean."
Alphard nodded. "But we stick real close to keeping a pure family. Mum and Dad don't really like muggles at all."
"Or mudbloods, for that matter," Artemus muttered under his breath. Alphard frowned at his brother again, but Artemus didn't seem to notice.
"Let's get our wands," he said.
It wasn't long at all before they passed a shop reading "Ollivander's". Tom stopped, but the two brothers didn't.
"You can go there if you want," Alphard said. "But Arty's going to the one our family always goes to. Forget what they say about it being the best place to go – Ollivander's is too worn down and cheap, and besides, the ruddy old bloke creeps me out."
Tom nodded his head, still gazing at the sign. Despite the unattractive description, Tom found himself only more inclined to do so. "Yeah, I think I'll go in there."
"Meet you here in half an hour," one of them called, but Tom barely heard it.
Slowly, he stepped into the dusty, dark shop. Only one single lamp was lit, but it seemed to reach to the end of the row of ceiling-high shelves, but only barely enough that you could determine there was in fact an end.
"Tom Riddle, isn't it?" came a raspy voice from the shadows, making Tom jump, but only slightly.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"A wizard has his ways."
"I – I need a wand."
The wizard stepped out of the shadows, and into the meager light emitting from the lamp, nodding his head. The wizard lit his own wand, sending a somewhat stronger light throughout the shop.
This was when Tom realized that to his left was a large red and gold bird. He was suddenly reminded of one of the storybooks he'd read as a little boy. "Is that a – "
"Phoenix, yes."
"What's it for?"
"Many things, Mr. Riddle. But all that matters for her here is the feathers she gives off to me for wand cores. I have others that I use... however..." he paused with a glint of mystery in his eye, "she's only given me one feather, and therefore, only one wand – " He stopped, his voice growing hard, "and I don't intend on selling it."
Tom nodded his head submissively, giving the bird a wary glance.
Mr. Ollivander turned back to Tom, and began tapping his fingers on the desk. "A wand..."
He quickly turned around, disappeared into one of the rows of shelves, and came back with a thin box in his hand. He opened it hastily, and thrust the wand into Tom's hand.
Tom expected himself to feel stupid or awkward, but somehow, the graceful wave and flick of his wrist seemed to shoot through his arm as if he'd known it for years.
It was altogether unfamiliar, but in every other way, it was second nature to him.
However, nothing seemed to happen.
Mr. Ollivander frowned and said, "Try it again."
Tom raised his hand in the air once more, but before he could bring it back down, Fawkes let out a loud warning call. Tom stopped, and Mr. Ollivander turned his head.
"Perhaps not," he said, narrowing his eyes at the phoenix. He took the wand back, and went back for a different one.
He came back with another wand and glanced quickly at Fawkes before extending his hand towards Tom. Fawkes took flight in a flurry of crimson feathers, and caught the wand from Tom's hand, spitting it out disdainfully.
Mr. Ollivander shook his head, disappearing once again into the back for another wand.
Fawkes squawked at him before he could even get back to Tom. Mr. Ollivander stopped for a few moments, shrugged his shoulders as if in defeat, and retraced his steps to return the wand to its place on the shelf.
The next time he came back into view, however, his hands were empty. His eyes locked with the phoenix's, and he seemed to come to a decision, because he frowned and nodded his head.
He walked over to the phoenix and opened the drawer of the table Fawkes was perched on. Inside was a single wand – without a box.
Slowly, and somewhat regretfully, he handed it to Tom, who gazed at it for a moment with wonder. But before he could move his arm at all, an outburst of brilliant green sparks shot from the wand, forming ghostly figures which began to swim and float throughout the entire shop, whispering to each other mysterious nothings, some questioning, others conversing pleasantly, the rest silently passing by without a word, their eyes dead. Tom blinked, and the forms shattered, fading into an emerald mist.
"What was that?"
No answer, except for the obvious. "That was... that was all you..." Mr. Ollivander's eyes were wide. "How old are you, boy?"
"Eleven."
Another question, somewhat irrelevant... "What was your mother's name?"
Fawkes interrupted with a low note, and Mr. Ollivander broke his eye contact to turn around. He took a deep, shaky breath, and Tom turned to see a single red feather floating towards the ground.
Hesitantly, Tom broke the silence. "How much for the wand?"
Mr. Ollivander only shook his head numbly. "Just go on," he said, not looking away from the phoenix and its feather.
"But, sir..."
"Leave."
Tom took a clumsy step backwards before running from the shop.
There will be drama and murder, but not yet. Boys can only be so psychotic at this age. So... I guess, let the story develop with an open mind... I didn't choose Drama/tragedy for no reason at all. This will be very long, and a little cute at first, so bear with me, I can't find the heart to rewrite any of the early stuff.
What a wimp I am, eh? Well, expect the rating to go up when Tom gets all evil and stuff. It happens.
- now, the story...
~~
~~
~~
Lord Voldemort had lived awhile now. He'd seen too many things, too many countries, too many lives, too many deaths. Too many memories – too much attachment to the past. Soullessly and without effort, he detached himself from it.
But there was someone he often remembered – the only one he'd ever felt pain for.
That boy had been his first victim. His life had been short, but intense. He'd killed himself, in a way; Voldemort had only helped him along. Little by little, year by year, the boy grew older, and died a little more.
The Dark Lord's first victim had begun to know him a little before he died. But after all these years, why should he, Lord Voldemort, show any pain for those he'd destroyed? Why should he remember the boy at all?
Didn't death silence a person? Shouldn't death have silenced the boy's fear and conscience?
Why should he remember Tom Marvolo Riddle after all these years?
--------------------------------------- -----
"Nonsense," the head of the orphanage muttered, clutching the steering wheel murderously.
Tom Riddle kept silent. The whole day had become a blur of confusion, understanding, and more confusion.
Who knew a stupid letter could bring such news? Who knew he'd been worth something all along? Who knew his mother had been any different from all the other buried memories the children had locked in their minds? Who knew his life had been more than this orphan nonsense?
Nonsense, Tom thought with a grin. What about what I did to Brian Dursley? And the poor boy's swollen ears - was that nonsense? It seemed real enough – for pain, at least.
The car stopped at an unfamiliar place in the heart of London. "At least we'll be rid of you," Mrs. Wentworth spat with all the disdain she could muster into her heavily wrinkled face. Tom gave her an answering scowl of gratitude, and grabbing his trunk, slammed the car door.
He hadn't a clue where he was, what he was, or where he was going, but he was here. Wherever that was...
An old worn sign was hanging above him reading, "The Leaky Cauldron". He stepped in, wondering why it invited him so.
It took him a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but when they did, it was to an odd sight indeed. There were people unnaturally tall and impossibly short, people with strange cloaks and robes, and people with scraggly hair and crooked noses. It took Tom a while to find someone who looked even remotely normal.
Across the room was a boy close to, if not exactly his age with black hair and sharp gray eyes. He squinted when he noticed Tom, and walked over proudly, despite his lack of height.
"Who are you?" he asked coldly.
Tom decided to answer with a question. "Where am I?"
The boy smirked. "You sure you're in the right place?"
Tom tried to strand up taller – he wasn't going to look like an idiot. "Depends on what this place is," he answered, narrowing his eyes questioningly.
The boy lowered his voice, "You a muggle?"
"A what?"
"That's what I thought."
"Wait – "
"Look, go outside, find your family, and don't come back here."
Tom frowned. This boy was just as young as he was – shouldn't he be with his family?
"What's a muggle?" he demanded.
"Just forget it, awright? Go!" The boy glanced around apprehensively.
A strange woman walked into the pub wearing a long black cloak and a pointed hat. The oddest thought occurred to Tom, yet it explained the woman's strange appearance. She was a witch.
"Are – are you a wizard?" Tom asked uncertainly. If he was, then he was definitely in the right place.
The boy looked momentarily startled, but then grinned broadly. "Welcome to Diagon Alley," he said.
~~~~~~~~~~
"I was waiting for my brother Alphard, but I'm guessing he went ahead without me." The boy (who's name turned out to be Artemus Black) tapped a few bricks with what seemed to be a wand, and the wall twisted and worked to give way to a broad street.
"The wand's my dad's. I haven't one yet – that's what I'm here for."
Tom nodded, even though he didn't understand completely. "Where's your family?" he asked.
"Ah, they dropped me off. Couldn't stay, of course – they had work. But they figured I knew what I was doing. Yours?"
Tom shrugged. "Dead, 's far as I can tell."
Artemus stopped dead in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. "Were they muggles?"
Tom felt incredibly stupid. "Exactly what – "
"Were they non-magical people?" he elaborated, cutting him off. He seemed to be looking at him in disgust, but Tom decided he must have been imagining it.
"Only me dad."
Artemus's shoulders dropped, but his expression grew somewhat colder. "Best not to tell anyone that," he said.
Tom frowned. "Why not? Is it bad?"
Artemus looked as if he'd been smacked in the face. "Don't you know what it means? Don't you want to be sorted in Slytherin?"
Tom's face remained blank.
Artemus sighed, then went into explanation. "It's one of the houses at Hogwarts – you know, the school. It's the purest, and the most honorable in my family."
"He's right, you know," came another voice. "Though I can't say that all the time or his head'll swell." This boy looked a few years older, and the similarity between him and Artemus was almost uncanny, except for his brown eyes.
Artemus rolled his eyes. "Hullo. Tom, this is Alphard, unfortunately. "
Alphard frowned before turning back to Tom. "First year, too, eh? Well, you look like a Slytherin – maybe you'll get sorted with me and Artemus. That is, if Arty's put in Slytherin at all..."
"And I will be," the shorter of the two replied harshly. "Besides, Tom's just a dirty half-blood."
Alphard scowled at his younger brother. "Oh yeah? I don't see why that makes him dirty. Looks awright to me. Besides, ever hear about Ezra Stratus? She was a half blood, and she got in Slytherin. They never kicked her out, either."
Artemus glanced at Tom and then Alphard. "Right," he said. "Got any money?" he asked. Tom shook his head.
"No worries," Alphard cut in. "I'm sure Mum and Dad won't even notice."
~~~~~~~~~~
Their smiles brighter, and their pockets heavier, the three underaged wizards proceeded down the street.
All around Tom were shops stocked with everything imaginable, or unimaginable rather. The place seemed to be constantly stocked with everything he had never thought to buy – cauldrons, toads, star adorned cloaks, shoes that tied themselves, food that bit back, and (of all things) magical wands.
He looked to his right, and stopped. What met his eyes wasn't fascinating, glorious, or whimsical in any way. It was exactly the opposite – dark, gloomy, and somehow twisting on level ground. But for some odd reason it struck his interest far beyond anything else around him.
"What's that place over there?" he asked, indicating it with a nod of his head.
Artemus seemed to be torn between excitement and fear.
"Oh," Alphard said. "That's Knockturn Alley."
"D'you ever... go down there?"
Alphard and Artemus glanced at each other momentarily before shaking their heads emphatically. "We'd probably never come out the same," Alphard said.
"Dad told us stories about it, though," Artemus contributed proudly. "He's been there before. It's chock-full of Dark people. Dad knows a lot of 'em, but our family never really got into it... the Dark Arts, I mean."
Alphard nodded. "But we stick real close to keeping a pure family. Mum and Dad don't really like muggles at all."
"Or mudbloods, for that matter," Artemus muttered under his breath. Alphard frowned at his brother again, but Artemus didn't seem to notice.
"Let's get our wands," he said.
It wasn't long at all before they passed a shop reading "Ollivander's". Tom stopped, but the two brothers didn't.
"You can go there if you want," Alphard said. "But Arty's going to the one our family always goes to. Forget what they say about it being the best place to go – Ollivander's is too worn down and cheap, and besides, the ruddy old bloke creeps me out."
Tom nodded his head, still gazing at the sign. Despite the unattractive description, Tom found himself only more inclined to do so. "Yeah, I think I'll go in there."
"Meet you here in half an hour," one of them called, but Tom barely heard it.
Slowly, he stepped into the dusty, dark shop. Only one single lamp was lit, but it seemed to reach to the end of the row of ceiling-high shelves, but only barely enough that you could determine there was in fact an end.
"Tom Riddle, isn't it?" came a raspy voice from the shadows, making Tom jump, but only slightly.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"A wizard has his ways."
"I – I need a wand."
The wizard stepped out of the shadows, and into the meager light emitting from the lamp, nodding his head. The wizard lit his own wand, sending a somewhat stronger light throughout the shop.
This was when Tom realized that to his left was a large red and gold bird. He was suddenly reminded of one of the storybooks he'd read as a little boy. "Is that a – "
"Phoenix, yes."
"What's it for?"
"Many things, Mr. Riddle. But all that matters for her here is the feathers she gives off to me for wand cores. I have others that I use... however..." he paused with a glint of mystery in his eye, "she's only given me one feather, and therefore, only one wand – " He stopped, his voice growing hard, "and I don't intend on selling it."
Tom nodded his head submissively, giving the bird a wary glance.
Mr. Ollivander turned back to Tom, and began tapping his fingers on the desk. "A wand..."
He quickly turned around, disappeared into one of the rows of shelves, and came back with a thin box in his hand. He opened it hastily, and thrust the wand into Tom's hand.
Tom expected himself to feel stupid or awkward, but somehow, the graceful wave and flick of his wrist seemed to shoot through his arm as if he'd known it for years.
It was altogether unfamiliar, but in every other way, it was second nature to him.
However, nothing seemed to happen.
Mr. Ollivander frowned and said, "Try it again."
Tom raised his hand in the air once more, but before he could bring it back down, Fawkes let out a loud warning call. Tom stopped, and Mr. Ollivander turned his head.
"Perhaps not," he said, narrowing his eyes at the phoenix. He took the wand back, and went back for a different one.
He came back with another wand and glanced quickly at Fawkes before extending his hand towards Tom. Fawkes took flight in a flurry of crimson feathers, and caught the wand from Tom's hand, spitting it out disdainfully.
Mr. Ollivander shook his head, disappearing once again into the back for another wand.
Fawkes squawked at him before he could even get back to Tom. Mr. Ollivander stopped for a few moments, shrugged his shoulders as if in defeat, and retraced his steps to return the wand to its place on the shelf.
The next time he came back into view, however, his hands were empty. His eyes locked with the phoenix's, and he seemed to come to a decision, because he frowned and nodded his head.
He walked over to the phoenix and opened the drawer of the table Fawkes was perched on. Inside was a single wand – without a box.
Slowly, and somewhat regretfully, he handed it to Tom, who gazed at it for a moment with wonder. But before he could move his arm at all, an outburst of brilliant green sparks shot from the wand, forming ghostly figures which began to swim and float throughout the entire shop, whispering to each other mysterious nothings, some questioning, others conversing pleasantly, the rest silently passing by without a word, their eyes dead. Tom blinked, and the forms shattered, fading into an emerald mist.
"What was that?"
No answer, except for the obvious. "That was... that was all you..." Mr. Ollivander's eyes were wide. "How old are you, boy?"
"Eleven."
Another question, somewhat irrelevant... "What was your mother's name?"
Fawkes interrupted with a low note, and Mr. Ollivander broke his eye contact to turn around. He took a deep, shaky breath, and Tom turned to see a single red feather floating towards the ground.
Hesitantly, Tom broke the silence. "How much for the wand?"
Mr. Ollivander only shook his head numbly. "Just go on," he said, not looking away from the phoenix and its feather.
"But, sir..."
"Leave."
Tom took a clumsy step backwards before running from the shop.