AN: The stuff about the war may seem irrelevant, but I'm planning on using it as the story develops. I'm actually very angry for forgetting all about Dumbledore for nearly three years. Ergh.

Reviewer notes (but really quick):

Duskrider Q: Thank you! I tend to avoid any descriptions in fear of boring people. But, I suppose, your opinion is more relevant than mine.

Stormtrooper in Stilettos: Contrived, yes. My writing is slipping. But thanks for the review.

Miss Piratess: Of course you sense a growing darkness – he'll be a murderer by fifth year.

Awkward: Thank you. I really do need the critiquing. And I tend to realize this stuff a few days after posting them, and therefore, already after everyone's read it. I probably should have written the entire story before posting it.

Nikki: Thank you. Dursley may be too much, but I can't stand inventing characters in a fan fiction. I just feel as if I don't have the right to.

...

Chapter Ten: Sorting Thoughts

...

It never took long to spot Simon out of the crowd, but it must have taken a while to spot Tom, for he wasn't approached by the Potter until after the last of the students had reached the castle.

Tom found he'd almost forgotten about Simon, though he wasn't sure why I didn't seem so much a tragedy.

"Had a nice summer?" the boy asked, grinning roguishly at the fact that he had surpassed Tom in height, who, until now, had always been taller.

"No," he replied honestly, taking the first of the stone steps.

Simon was silenced, as if he hadn't even thought there could be a negative answer. He quickly recovered.

"Wonder whether Slytherin'll do any better playing this year," he mused as they both entered the castle.

"Eh?"

"Quidditch."

"Oh... yeah. Sure."

Simon smiled, knowing Tom would never take it as an insult, though he wasn't too sure now. "I'm sure they would if you were picked sometime soon. It's about time – I've never seen you on a broom."

"Neither have I." Once again, an honest answer, but not what Simon had hoped for.

Upon entering the Great Hall, the two awkwardly estranged friends separated without question.

Approaching the Slytherin table, Tom resorted to the only vacant seat, which was next to Driedda Malfoy. A long, slow, sarcastic breath escaped from her as she looked away, and the large oak doors opened once again.

A small, huddled crowd – a smaller crowd than ever a first year crowd had been – was shuffling nervously under the gaze of hundreds of older eyes – amused eyes.

Tom couldn't help but wonder to himself if he'd really been that small once. It seemed like last week he'd been sorted into what must have been the wrong house – which now seemed to suit his mood so perfectly.

"Aldernin, Kenneth!"

In this uneventful manner, the Sorting began. It wasn't as exciting or dreadful as it had been the first time. In fact, Tom couldn't help but think himself a wimp for being so scared of such a petty event, let alone a stupid hat.

"Delsy, Benjamin!"

Tom seized his fork, and began idly drawing random shapes on the wood.

"Fudge, Cornelius!"

Feeling his boredom intensify, Tom began carving these random shapes into intricate engravings, having no particular structure yet.

"Hagrid, Rubeus!"

He stopped to consider his work. A rough outline that resembled a skull was forming, and Tom found himself intrigued. He deepened the carving.

"Hornby, Olive!"

He glanced up when the sorted girl was directed to their table, noticing the Slytherin flag behind her. Its insignia bore a cunning green and noble silver, in which a snake reared it's hypnotic head.

"Ingred, Forest!"

Captivated, Tom began incorporating the snake into his design. But upon continuing on the wood before him, he noticed his shapes and doodles had disappeared, and his skull was quickly fading.

"Montague, Henry!"

Tom suddenly realized how stupid he must have been to think the table wasn't magical at all, that no one had ever, after a thousand years, attempted to carve anything before. No wonder it was in perfect condition.

"Trill, Jennifer!"

Frustrated with his invincible boredom, Tom swore under his breath. Driedda turned her head, surprised. Tom smiled sheepishly, with a hint of a grin. She rolled her eyes, and haughtily turned away.

"Whit, Myrtle!"

After the Sorting had ended with Myrtle's sorting into Hufflepuff, Tom found himself marveling at how Driedda's black hair cascaded over her shoulders, proving darker in contrast with her already black robes.

He hadn't noticed he'd been staring like an idiot until she turned back to him, and caught his transfixed gaze.

Disgusted and slightly amused, she sat back and spoke, for once. "Do you want something?"

"No." He looked away.

"You do realize there's food on the table now, don't you?"

"Yes," he lied.

"Then have some," she said slowly. "God, the muggles couldn't have made you that stupid."

Knowing now with a surety that she was cold and horrid, Tom nevertheless found her all the more wonderful. Confiscating the potatoes and violently hurling massive globs onto his plate, he irritably swore again.

...

Upon finally reaching the third year boy's dormitory, dropping his encumbering trunk with a resounding thud, and plummeting onto the four poster bed of his choice, Tom spread out his arms with a thorough sigh – savoring the feeling of the only real home he'd known for the past two years. All life before Hogwarts had become irrelevant.

As soon as Tom had relaxed, he heard an outcry of frustration. Without opening his eyes one wink, he knew it was Artemus.

"Now what makes you so special that you get the window, eh Tom?"

Bringing his hands behind his head, the student in question frowned. "There's another window, you know," he said reproachfully, almost irritably.

"Sure there is, but it'd be difficult to copy your homework with my stuff over there."

Tom opened one eye, raising an eyebrow. "Copy me? Do it yourself."

Artemus replied with a challenging grin. "Why do the work when I have clever, noble sir Fine Student here to back me up?"

"Oh, shut up." Tom threw a pillow, but grinned nonetheless.

"Though, you could do horribly in our new classes," Artemus replied in mock contemplation.

"New classes?"

Artemus laughed. "Have you forgotten already? We chose them last year. Divination, Astronomy, Magical Creatures? Ring a bell?"

"Oh." That had been before he had a father – years ago, it seemed, but only a month or two.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was the first thing he had the next morning, but he had to admit by the time he got to his class, he hadn't fully woken up. He'd merely wandered out of bed, dreaming about breakfast, and ending up in the right classroom.

In a resigned air of defeat, Tom opened his Defense book as the rest of the class had been instructed to do.

"Many of you may have already noticed," Ms. Morgan droned, irked by the dignity of such an organized lesson, "that you have books in front of you. I recommended you buy those, did I not?"

Agreement was hesitant, as the answer was so obvious.

"Master Dippet was troubled by my way of teaching, and inquired, or rather strongly suggested with my career in question, that I teach you according to the standard, and not by the mere whims I tend to come up with so brilliantly." She paused, bitterly sighing. "I may have paraphrased the quote a bit, but all the same, you have books now."

With a sour look that had become a typical expression to her face, Driedda Malfoy let her hand raise in the air. As soon as she had done so, she immediately spoke her question, whether the teacher had allowed her to or not.

"Will we be doing boggarts a second time?"

"Conceivably." It was either a yes with discretion of Mr. Riddle's discomfort, or a simple no in disguise. Either way, it was too vague for Tom's liking, but clear enough for Driedda to conclude there was no answer.

Annoyed, Tom ripped a piece of parchment from the corner of his notes, continuing his meaningless insignia. He stealthily glanced to each side, and in finding that no one was watching him, he sketched the skull.

Anyone else might have found it disturbing, but it comforted him. It was like meeting an old friend... except he'd never known this feeling before. It was like the satisfaction of digging his nails into the desk, the urge to round otherwise perfectly square edges.

The snake came next, symbolic of something, Tom was sure, but of what – he didn't know yet.

Perhaps the skull was saying something – the words being a snake. Charming somehow, yet in another way lethal.

Tom simpered at his creation, subconsciously praying he'd never meet his boggart again.

...

In the torturous schedule of education, Potions came next in line. This he'd anticipated, for a burning question had entered his mind, and the subject of the lesson only further prompted him to say something.

"Strengthening Solutions," Professor Malfoy bellowed in hopes of waking up a few students, "are obvious and simple little brews, if not self- explanatory."

"You can actually become immune to attacks?" Tom blurted like an idiot.

"No."

"But could you ever do that?"

"Is this off the subject, Mr. Riddle?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'll continue and forget I was interrupted."

Feeling insulted and stupid in the same moment, Tom felt his face begin to burn. Unable and unwilling to let his features show his embarrassment, he merely let the fire lurk and grow deep within him, leaving him to chip away at the edge of the desk, as he had become prone to do.

However, the professor continued the lesson in the strangest way. Rather than being annoyed – his short temper ruined by a single student's lack of control – he finished his lecture, and sat at his desk, a mere surveyor bearing a smile that continued to grow.

Tom's suspicions that something was going on out of the ordinary were confirmed when he was held back by the professor. Malfoy stood for a moment, his eyes wandering as his ears listened for retreating footsteps. Once every student had gone, he finally spoke.

"What did you want to know?" His smile was expectant.

Tom shifted uncomfortably. "I only wanted to know if I could – "

"There are shields," Malfoy interposed.

"Oh," Tom replied, wondering if he should venture further. "What about – "

"You're probably wondering why I did not answer you right away, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes," he replied awkwardly, wondering if all the interruptions were necessary.

"It's a tender subject – or at least, it would have been if you asked anything about power over death."

He didn't even stop to think how the professor might have known that.

"As I said, there are certain precautions. It's been poorly researched, there's yet to be anyone who experimented without any risk of fatality."

"Forget the risk," Tom said thoughtlessly. "Can't they come back?"

The professor smiled again – against his will, it seemed. He must have been struggling with the fact that Tom was unworthy of anything Salazar Slytherin may have found noble, but he was, at the same time, the perfect candidate for the Dark Arts.

"They can."

"How? What does it take?"

The professor ignored his pupil's eager demand for knowledge.

"Sir?"

He sighed. "I'll let you know, Mr. Riddle, if ever there's a day you need it."

Why would he avoid the answers? Hadn't he been the one to hold Tom back – encouraging him to ask? This was really starting to get aggravating.

Tom laughed sarcastically "You'll stand on my grave and tell me – " Faltering, he shuddered anew at the thought. Professor Malfoy cut him off before he could recover.

"I doubt I'll outlive you, but yes, that's the idea."

"But sir, I – "

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"It's lunch, sir."

"Then eat," he snapped suddenly. "And don't even think of starving yourself in hopes I'll follow my pledge."

Tom wondered if he would.

...

Over the opening weeks of September, dreading whispers soon erupted into solemn gossip of death. By the middle of September – what with the constant raids in the night, the innumerable bombings, and the solid walls of fire consuming all in its path – London had grown to be nothing short of hell.

Hogwarts had become a sanctuary – however full of anxiety.

On a lighter note, Divination had turned out to be an undeniable load of rubbish. Their teacher, Professor Knoll, was so incredibly senile, he often forgot what subject he was teaching, and spouted into extensive lectures about Goblin rebellions, which the students had already heard enough of from their recently late History of Magic teacher to recite the obscure names in their sleep.

There were times he left them to their own work so he could have a short rest, which generally resulted in worried inquiries of whether the man had died or not. Many found it useless to get their hopes up, for the man always made a squeak of life when a volunteer student poked him.

Potions had proved to be one of Tom's best subjects, even with the odd pensive looks the professor never ceased to wear whenever coming across Mr. Riddle.

"Serpents," the professor announced without preamble. He tended to begin lessons like this – one word introductions meant to encompass the entire lesson. It rarely worked in capturing the students' attention, but the Slytherins seemed especially reverent today in finding a caged snake watching them at the front. It was as if Slytherin himself had silenced them.

The Gryffindors seemed as uninterested as ever.

"There are many types in the world. Different snakes, different venoms. Muggles have taken the impossible burden upon themselves to find a cure for each one – but we know better, don't we?"

Tom and Artemus smirked in unison.

"There's one universal antidote for all non-magical venomous snakes. The directions – " He casually waved his wand behind him, and the words appeared.

"I wonder why he brought the snake," Artemus mused while lighting his cauldron.

"Probably for show. He's the head of Slytherin – why shouldn't he?"

Artemus lowered his voice, throwing in his first ingredients almost over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the snake. "I don't know. I mean, knowing him, he could just let it bite one of us in order to test their work."

"He wouldn't do that," Tom said, however unsure of his claim.

"He couldn't, but he would if he could."

Tom paused for a moment to translate. He made a sound of indifference – as long as it wasn't him.

Class had ended, and there hadn't been any fatalities. The Professor hadn't said a word, in fact, after his little introduction. However, the potions weren't done, seeing as they needed to simmer for a few days.

It was then, with Tom and Artemus the last to flee from the room, that Malfoy finally spoke.

"A word, Mr. Riddle?"

"Again?" Artemus muttered.

"You don't have to wait, Mr. Black. Or you, Potter."

Simon appeared from around the corner, glanced at Tom, and left as quickly as he had appeared. Artemus hesitantly followed suit.

Professor Malfoy turned his back to Tom, and walked over to the cage that held the serpent with slow, thoughtful strides. Awkwardly, and having nothing else to do, Tom followed.

"Ever encountered a snake before?" The atmosphere had suddenly grown less cold, and more inviting. Tom actually found himself able to answer without discomfort.

"No."

Malfoy looked disappointed.

"Ever wanted to?"

"Not really."

He looked as though taking note of something. He turned away, sighing. "Afraid of them?"

Tom knew it wasn't meant in a provocative way, but he couldn't help but feel challenged. "No," he said firmly.

The Professor chuckled, taking the boy's confidence as a sort of reckless bravado. "Of course you aren't."

There was a moment in which silence was all that was heard, as if it were a deafening wind that passed through the entire room without rustling any papers, or leaving anything out of place. Tom looked up after watching his feet for a whole minute to find the professor had been watching him the entire time.

He seemed to have been anticipating the eye contact. He narrowed his eyes as if reading miniscule words from far away, and Tom found it increasingly difficult to tear his own eyes away.

"Sir?" he asked uncertainly.

The professor turned his gaze to the wall as he thought. "Yes?"

"May I ask... why I'm here?"

"Why you're – "

"Why you called me back."

"Oh." Malfoy brought his hand to his chin. "No reason."

"Sir." He wasn't buying that.

"For reasons you don't understand yet."

"I appreciate the honesty, sir, but with all due respect, I'd like to know what all this is about."

"I understand you'll be studying snake charming in Care of Magical Creatures soon," the professor interposed.

"I – I wasn't aware of that, but I suppose so – "

"I'll see you in class on Monday. Your potion should be ready by then."