Author's note: answering questions, here: (all thanks to "someone's" novel
of a review... haha)
Okay, so maybe Tom's a little too cute. But this process will still take a few years. And this will be a long story, I'm warning you. I'm trying to stray from drama, for I write way too much of it. It's coming though... slowly. Constant Disney movies are the only way I can make this at all cute.
And Alphard. Yes, Alphard's supposed to be nice. He's the one who gave his fortune to Sirius, after all (OotP pg111) Perhaps he has an 'inner Sirius' to a degree, I don't really know.
Let's see, what else... oh yeah. I guess Tom's hoping the WW will be a happy place. What a disappointment he'll get, huh? He'll be quiet in the background like this until he actually understands things and... well... takes charge, I suppose.
And the question about Simon: he won't be an enemy, so there will be no angsty "I will kill you're son and his son after that" kind of vendetta. The only war is between the Blacks and the Potters, which I think is understandable seeing how Sirius is treated when making friends with James.
Oh, look! A chapter! How'd that happen?
Chapter Three: Year One – 1938
After getting off a normal train at a normal station in a normal looking village, Tom was taken aback when he found he'd be traveling across a misty lake to an ancient castle. It just didn't quite fit. But then again, having a dead witch for a mother didn't quite fit, either.
And yet, where did his dad fit into all this? Had he known all along? How did he die? Was it murder, or natural, or accidental, or was he dead at all? Come to think of it, no one had really said anything about it. He'd asked, but without answer.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sweeping rock of the boat he was settled in. Artemus sat beside him, along with two other boys with equally pale faces, pointing out at the source of the waves.
Something in the center of the lake had been disturbed and was shooting massive plumes of water in the air.
"Alphard told me there was a giant squid that lived in the lake," Artemus muttered.
"Quiet, filthy little mongrels!" boomed an ominous voice from the small boat that led the rest, obscured by the thick fog. "It's enough for me to come out here and escort you brats without you screaming my ears off!"
Artemus stiffened. "He also told me about Ogg."
Ogg didn't sound too pleasant, and Tom concluded he would avoid him at all costs. But Ogg turned out to be the gamekeeper, so he was all in all virtually unavoidable.
Tom followed his fellow first-years through the castle in a daze. Reality didn't fully hit him until they'd all stopped in front of a large oak door. A tall bearded man introduced himself as Professor Dumbledore, and with a cheery smile, ushered the lot of them into a large Dining Hall.
Tom couldn't help but feel small under the gaze of so many older students and professors. Everything around him was ageless and richly foreign to his eyes. Candles floated, the ceiling rumbled in correspondence with the sky, and though this was supposed to be a feast, no food was present.
It was all very odd, but upon remembering his mother's heritage, he knew it was in his blood.
A vague smile played on Tom's young face as Simon quietly explained everything to him. Despite the fact that a talking hat would have normally seemed out of the ordinary, Tom was slowly beginning to like this world he'd been introduced to. After all, it sure beat his life at the orphanage.
Tom was suddenly brought back to the present when someone behind him was called before the staff table. The boy settled himself in the stool – he looked uncomfortable – and moments later, the hat announced he was sorted into Ravenclaw.
"Ravenclaw's for teacher's pets," Simon explained. "Bookworms, you know." Tom tuned in and out as Simon elaborated on the stereotypes of Hogwarts and "Anderson, George!" was called forward to be sorted.
"Hufflepuff!"
Gryffindor, by its cover, was meant for the brave, but over the years had become the center of popularity.
"Bagman, Patrick!"
Simon seemed to take pride in the description as he'd been telling it to Tom.
"Gryffindor!" the hat shouted, and Bagman grinned.
Slytherin, resorted for the purest, was generally full of the snobby, rich folk, and Hufflepuff (meant to be fair to everyone) was supposedly for all the duffers who fit nowhere else.
"Black, Artemus!" That very boy pushed past Tom, and upon having the hat set on his head, muttered something nobody else in the Hall could hear. The ripped seam of the hat twitched slightly, though its reply was just as inaudible.
Almost immediately thereafter, the hat shouted, "Slytherin!"
Tom was about to ask Artemus what he'd said to the Sorting Hat when Artemus silenced him with a disgusted sneer at Simon.
"Dearborn, Caradoc!" then, "Ravenclaw!"
Tom frowned. Artemus was his friend –
"Longbottom, Roger!"
– at least, that's what Tom had thought at first.
"Gryffindor!"
There was the barrier of his heritage... Tom knew by the things Artemus had said that that would always be a factor.
"Malfoy, Driedda!"
But Simon was understanding. He was nice. He didn't care.
"Slytherin!"
Tom knew without a doubt he wouldn't be sorted in Slytherin. It was clear, though somehow he was disappointed.
"Mince, Jaylee!"
He didn't know why he'd ever wanted to be in that house, clearly they were nasty folk –
"Ravenclaw!"
– but something about the pride Artemus and Alphard took, and even beyond that, made Tom feel in exile now that the moment of his own sorting was drawing near.
"Potter, Simon!"
Where did he belong, anyway? Slytherin was out of the question. Ravenclaw? Tom knew nothing of magic, and therefore wouldn't fare well among the more learned. Hufflepuff? He sure hoped not.
"Gryffindor!"
Gryffindor? Tom watched Simon hop off the stool and strut over to his designated table with a grin. Did he belong there? Did he have bravery, or whatever else they required? Upon thinking about it, he didn't seem to fit anywhere.
"Riddle, Tom!"
There were still a few students left behind him to be sorted, but it felt as if he were the only one. He felt like the last, the one everybody paid attention to.
Tom approached the stool, and the man named Dumbledore placed the old hat over his head, but his head was too small to hold it. Tom brought his hands up to lift the over-sized hat above his eyes, and a sudden voice sounded in his ear.
"Stop, I say! That tickles!"
Tom let go of the hat's rim at once, but then asked himself if that truly had been the hat scolding him. Tom's stomach grumbled.
"Hungry, aren't we? I suppose we should hurry this up, then."
Tom bit his lip. The hat appeared to be thinking, for it was mumbling to itself.
"Bravery, perhaps. Or a lack of it, I can't tell. Ambition... but what for? Quite a future you'll see for yourself. Stubborn, this one... but no... clever, very clever. Or is it cunning?"
The hat stopped with a jolt – it nearly slipped off when Tom caught it and held it back in place. The hat spoke again shrewdly, but with a slightly different air of understanding.
"Well, well, I see. It's clear then. Too clear. Slytherin!"
Tom knew the last word spoken had been heard by all, for clapping erupted throughout the hall. Though, Tom noted, it wasn't as enthusiastic as the applause for the others had been. Apparently, word had spread, and would spread, about Tom Riddle – the half blood.
Tom sat at the only vacant seat at the Slytherin table, which, fortunately or not, was next to Artemus. He couldn't tell if Artemus was happy or sick. The rest of the table assumed the latter expression – all except Alphard, who gave him a frank grin.
Finally, when 'Weasley, Bilius' had been sorted into Gryffindor, the Headmaster, who introduced himself as Armando Dippet, announced that as soon as the food appeared, eating would commence.
Appear? How could the food appear? Before Tom could ask someone where the food was, it appeared. Tom sat back, marveling at the wonderful simplicity of magic.
It was obvious that talking would be sparse with everyone stuffing their mouths, but Tom had expected there to be at least some conversation in between bites. Even the other tables were talking.
After a while, Alphard found it his duty to break the awkward silence. He nodded his head at a girl across the table with hair the color of a raven.
"That's Driedda Malfoy," Alphard said. Tom wondered if all Slytherins families knew each other before Hogwarts.
"Don't tell him my name!" she whispered furiously out of the corner of her mouth. Apparently, she thought Tom hadn't heard her, for she smiled pleasantly, and politely inquired of him.
"What side does it... come from?"
"Sorry... does what?"
She sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Your abilities?"
It was amazing to think that despite her condescension, she was just as young and inexperienced as Tom was. "Oh. My mother's."
She did not reply, but smiled vainly and turned away.
"Do they hate me?" Tom asked quietly.
Alphard was about to reply when Artemus cut in with a harsh 'yes'. Alphard shook his head at Artemus and turned back to Tom patiently. "No. They just need to adapt to the idea."
Tom nodded his head, temporarily comforted. He ate little, and when he did, it was only to avoid people asking him questions. He knew he wouldn't be able to answer any of them, for he had questions, himself.
~~~~~~~~~~
Tom's schedule was amusing to him. Charms? Potions? Defense Against the Dark Arts? This would be interesting.
His first Charms class was generally uneventful. Half the time, Professor Flitwick was trying to organize the books he would be standing on in an arrangement where they wouldn't topple over, and when the stack became too high, he would stop and let his eyes scan across the room for a good volunteer.
It took the best part of five minutes for the class to discover he would never really make a choice, and that they should probably volunteer, themselves.
Tom took this opportunity to ask Artemus about the Sorting the previous night.
"What did you say to the Hat, anyway?"
Artemus blinked at him, and then laughed as understanding struck. "Oh, that. I told it if it didn't sort me in Slytherin I'd personally feed it to the Giant Squid."
Tom was dumbstruck, though he found it funny. "And what did it say back?"
"Said it thought it highly unlikely I could achieve such a thing, and my claim was proof enough of where I belonged."
The professor's volunteer returned to his seat, and Flitwick approached the foot of the mountain. Due to the fact that they had other classes to attend to, none of the students ever got to see if he'd made it to the top.
Potions was an entirely different atmosphere. Even before class, as the student traveled ever deeper beneath the castle, they could tell this wouldn't be a pleasant experience.
Despite the fact that all the Slytherins had been down here before, and would be down here often in order to get to their common room every night, it seemed as if waves of shivers passed through the group. Even Artemus seemed apprehensive.
But Tom – he couldn't help but feel excited.
The room smelled of dust and mold, along with indistinct aromas of unidentifiable things that no doubt had been sealed in jars for centuries.
"My name is Opheodrys if you are bold, though I wouldn't recommend it. I'm simply Professor Malfoy for those of you who wish to be at all successful in this class."
After Professor Malfoy had scrutinized every Gryffindor with a single look, he addressed the whole class.
"Today will not to be simple, I'll warn you. Potions is not a simple course. It is an art. You must – "
A hand rose in the air. "Uncle?"
The professor closed his eyes, as if the title were a bullet to his head, but smiled nonetheless. "Yes, Driedda, dear."
"I thought it would be necessary that we all know Tom Riddle is in this class. Just as a warning."
A *warning*? Wasn't that going a tad bit too far?
Tom eyed the bubbling cauldron at the front of the class. He wondered what was in it, and whether or not it would be lethal to the drinker.
The professor raised his eyebrows.
Tom doubted it. It was, after all, only their first lesson.
Simon spoke up from the back. "Well so am I. So are you. Let's get on with it."
The professor only credited Simon with an annoyed glance, but his gaze returned to Tom. Apparently, he'd heard the news, for he seemed intrigued.
Look away, look away.
"Mr. Riddle?"
Tom was surprised to find he had voice in him. "Sir?"
The professor opened his mouth as if to say something, but something stopped him. He hadn't thought better of it, more rather, something more subconscious had.
The lesson continued without interruption, and Driedda Malfoy seemed to have sunken in her seat. She hadn't gotten the show she'd been hoping for.
~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~
Ahhh.... If ever there were someone to mentor a Dark Lord-to-be, it would be a Malfoy.
Okay, so maybe Tom's a little too cute. But this process will still take a few years. And this will be a long story, I'm warning you. I'm trying to stray from drama, for I write way too much of it. It's coming though... slowly. Constant Disney movies are the only way I can make this at all cute.
And Alphard. Yes, Alphard's supposed to be nice. He's the one who gave his fortune to Sirius, after all (OotP pg111) Perhaps he has an 'inner Sirius' to a degree, I don't really know.
Let's see, what else... oh yeah. I guess Tom's hoping the WW will be a happy place. What a disappointment he'll get, huh? He'll be quiet in the background like this until he actually understands things and... well... takes charge, I suppose.
And the question about Simon: he won't be an enemy, so there will be no angsty "I will kill you're son and his son after that" kind of vendetta. The only war is between the Blacks and the Potters, which I think is understandable seeing how Sirius is treated when making friends with James.
Oh, look! A chapter! How'd that happen?
Chapter Three: Year One – 1938
After getting off a normal train at a normal station in a normal looking village, Tom was taken aback when he found he'd be traveling across a misty lake to an ancient castle. It just didn't quite fit. But then again, having a dead witch for a mother didn't quite fit, either.
And yet, where did his dad fit into all this? Had he known all along? How did he die? Was it murder, or natural, or accidental, or was he dead at all? Come to think of it, no one had really said anything about it. He'd asked, but without answer.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sweeping rock of the boat he was settled in. Artemus sat beside him, along with two other boys with equally pale faces, pointing out at the source of the waves.
Something in the center of the lake had been disturbed and was shooting massive plumes of water in the air.
"Alphard told me there was a giant squid that lived in the lake," Artemus muttered.
"Quiet, filthy little mongrels!" boomed an ominous voice from the small boat that led the rest, obscured by the thick fog. "It's enough for me to come out here and escort you brats without you screaming my ears off!"
Artemus stiffened. "He also told me about Ogg."
Ogg didn't sound too pleasant, and Tom concluded he would avoid him at all costs. But Ogg turned out to be the gamekeeper, so he was all in all virtually unavoidable.
Tom followed his fellow first-years through the castle in a daze. Reality didn't fully hit him until they'd all stopped in front of a large oak door. A tall bearded man introduced himself as Professor Dumbledore, and with a cheery smile, ushered the lot of them into a large Dining Hall.
Tom couldn't help but feel small under the gaze of so many older students and professors. Everything around him was ageless and richly foreign to his eyes. Candles floated, the ceiling rumbled in correspondence with the sky, and though this was supposed to be a feast, no food was present.
It was all very odd, but upon remembering his mother's heritage, he knew it was in his blood.
A vague smile played on Tom's young face as Simon quietly explained everything to him. Despite the fact that a talking hat would have normally seemed out of the ordinary, Tom was slowly beginning to like this world he'd been introduced to. After all, it sure beat his life at the orphanage.
Tom was suddenly brought back to the present when someone behind him was called before the staff table. The boy settled himself in the stool – he looked uncomfortable – and moments later, the hat announced he was sorted into Ravenclaw.
"Ravenclaw's for teacher's pets," Simon explained. "Bookworms, you know." Tom tuned in and out as Simon elaborated on the stereotypes of Hogwarts and "Anderson, George!" was called forward to be sorted.
"Hufflepuff!"
Gryffindor, by its cover, was meant for the brave, but over the years had become the center of popularity.
"Bagman, Patrick!"
Simon seemed to take pride in the description as he'd been telling it to Tom.
"Gryffindor!" the hat shouted, and Bagman grinned.
Slytherin, resorted for the purest, was generally full of the snobby, rich folk, and Hufflepuff (meant to be fair to everyone) was supposedly for all the duffers who fit nowhere else.
"Black, Artemus!" That very boy pushed past Tom, and upon having the hat set on his head, muttered something nobody else in the Hall could hear. The ripped seam of the hat twitched slightly, though its reply was just as inaudible.
Almost immediately thereafter, the hat shouted, "Slytherin!"
Tom was about to ask Artemus what he'd said to the Sorting Hat when Artemus silenced him with a disgusted sneer at Simon.
"Dearborn, Caradoc!" then, "Ravenclaw!"
Tom frowned. Artemus was his friend –
"Longbottom, Roger!"
– at least, that's what Tom had thought at first.
"Gryffindor!"
There was the barrier of his heritage... Tom knew by the things Artemus had said that that would always be a factor.
"Malfoy, Driedda!"
But Simon was understanding. He was nice. He didn't care.
"Slytherin!"
Tom knew without a doubt he wouldn't be sorted in Slytherin. It was clear, though somehow he was disappointed.
"Mince, Jaylee!"
He didn't know why he'd ever wanted to be in that house, clearly they were nasty folk –
"Ravenclaw!"
– but something about the pride Artemus and Alphard took, and even beyond that, made Tom feel in exile now that the moment of his own sorting was drawing near.
"Potter, Simon!"
Where did he belong, anyway? Slytherin was out of the question. Ravenclaw? Tom knew nothing of magic, and therefore wouldn't fare well among the more learned. Hufflepuff? He sure hoped not.
"Gryffindor!"
Gryffindor? Tom watched Simon hop off the stool and strut over to his designated table with a grin. Did he belong there? Did he have bravery, or whatever else they required? Upon thinking about it, he didn't seem to fit anywhere.
"Riddle, Tom!"
There were still a few students left behind him to be sorted, but it felt as if he were the only one. He felt like the last, the one everybody paid attention to.
Tom approached the stool, and the man named Dumbledore placed the old hat over his head, but his head was too small to hold it. Tom brought his hands up to lift the over-sized hat above his eyes, and a sudden voice sounded in his ear.
"Stop, I say! That tickles!"
Tom let go of the hat's rim at once, but then asked himself if that truly had been the hat scolding him. Tom's stomach grumbled.
"Hungry, aren't we? I suppose we should hurry this up, then."
Tom bit his lip. The hat appeared to be thinking, for it was mumbling to itself.
"Bravery, perhaps. Or a lack of it, I can't tell. Ambition... but what for? Quite a future you'll see for yourself. Stubborn, this one... but no... clever, very clever. Or is it cunning?"
The hat stopped with a jolt – it nearly slipped off when Tom caught it and held it back in place. The hat spoke again shrewdly, but with a slightly different air of understanding.
"Well, well, I see. It's clear then. Too clear. Slytherin!"
Tom knew the last word spoken had been heard by all, for clapping erupted throughout the hall. Though, Tom noted, it wasn't as enthusiastic as the applause for the others had been. Apparently, word had spread, and would spread, about Tom Riddle – the half blood.
Tom sat at the only vacant seat at the Slytherin table, which, fortunately or not, was next to Artemus. He couldn't tell if Artemus was happy or sick. The rest of the table assumed the latter expression – all except Alphard, who gave him a frank grin.
Finally, when 'Weasley, Bilius' had been sorted into Gryffindor, the Headmaster, who introduced himself as Armando Dippet, announced that as soon as the food appeared, eating would commence.
Appear? How could the food appear? Before Tom could ask someone where the food was, it appeared. Tom sat back, marveling at the wonderful simplicity of magic.
It was obvious that talking would be sparse with everyone stuffing their mouths, but Tom had expected there to be at least some conversation in between bites. Even the other tables were talking.
After a while, Alphard found it his duty to break the awkward silence. He nodded his head at a girl across the table with hair the color of a raven.
"That's Driedda Malfoy," Alphard said. Tom wondered if all Slytherins families knew each other before Hogwarts.
"Don't tell him my name!" she whispered furiously out of the corner of her mouth. Apparently, she thought Tom hadn't heard her, for she smiled pleasantly, and politely inquired of him.
"What side does it... come from?"
"Sorry... does what?"
She sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Your abilities?"
It was amazing to think that despite her condescension, she was just as young and inexperienced as Tom was. "Oh. My mother's."
She did not reply, but smiled vainly and turned away.
"Do they hate me?" Tom asked quietly.
Alphard was about to reply when Artemus cut in with a harsh 'yes'. Alphard shook his head at Artemus and turned back to Tom patiently. "No. They just need to adapt to the idea."
Tom nodded his head, temporarily comforted. He ate little, and when he did, it was only to avoid people asking him questions. He knew he wouldn't be able to answer any of them, for he had questions, himself.
~~~~~~~~~~
Tom's schedule was amusing to him. Charms? Potions? Defense Against the Dark Arts? This would be interesting.
His first Charms class was generally uneventful. Half the time, Professor Flitwick was trying to organize the books he would be standing on in an arrangement where they wouldn't topple over, and when the stack became too high, he would stop and let his eyes scan across the room for a good volunteer.
It took the best part of five minutes for the class to discover he would never really make a choice, and that they should probably volunteer, themselves.
Tom took this opportunity to ask Artemus about the Sorting the previous night.
"What did you say to the Hat, anyway?"
Artemus blinked at him, and then laughed as understanding struck. "Oh, that. I told it if it didn't sort me in Slytherin I'd personally feed it to the Giant Squid."
Tom was dumbstruck, though he found it funny. "And what did it say back?"
"Said it thought it highly unlikely I could achieve such a thing, and my claim was proof enough of where I belonged."
The professor's volunteer returned to his seat, and Flitwick approached the foot of the mountain. Due to the fact that they had other classes to attend to, none of the students ever got to see if he'd made it to the top.
Potions was an entirely different atmosphere. Even before class, as the student traveled ever deeper beneath the castle, they could tell this wouldn't be a pleasant experience.
Despite the fact that all the Slytherins had been down here before, and would be down here often in order to get to their common room every night, it seemed as if waves of shivers passed through the group. Even Artemus seemed apprehensive.
But Tom – he couldn't help but feel excited.
The room smelled of dust and mold, along with indistinct aromas of unidentifiable things that no doubt had been sealed in jars for centuries.
"My name is Opheodrys if you are bold, though I wouldn't recommend it. I'm simply Professor Malfoy for those of you who wish to be at all successful in this class."
After Professor Malfoy had scrutinized every Gryffindor with a single look, he addressed the whole class.
"Today will not to be simple, I'll warn you. Potions is not a simple course. It is an art. You must – "
A hand rose in the air. "Uncle?"
The professor closed his eyes, as if the title were a bullet to his head, but smiled nonetheless. "Yes, Driedda, dear."
"I thought it would be necessary that we all know Tom Riddle is in this class. Just as a warning."
A *warning*? Wasn't that going a tad bit too far?
Tom eyed the bubbling cauldron at the front of the class. He wondered what was in it, and whether or not it would be lethal to the drinker.
The professor raised his eyebrows.
Tom doubted it. It was, after all, only their first lesson.
Simon spoke up from the back. "Well so am I. So are you. Let's get on with it."
The professor only credited Simon with an annoyed glance, but his gaze returned to Tom. Apparently, he'd heard the news, for he seemed intrigued.
Look away, look away.
"Mr. Riddle?"
Tom was surprised to find he had voice in him. "Sir?"
The professor opened his mouth as if to say something, but something stopped him. He hadn't thought better of it, more rather, something more subconscious had.
The lesson continued without interruption, and Driedda Malfoy seemed to have sunken in her seat. She hadn't gotten the show she'd been hoping for.
~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~
Ahhh.... If ever there were someone to mentor a Dark Lord-to-be, it would be a Malfoy.