Chapter Two
The Snake and the Owl
At dinner on Saturday, Tom emerged, heavily bandaged, from the Wailing Room, a look of intense agony chiselled into his face. He seemed to have grown even more saturnine during his stay, and even Malcolm was tactful enough to leave him be for the moment. Tom seated himself at one of the long tables and ate his excuse for food rapidly, wincing once in a while if he moved his arm too quickly. Tom glared mutinously up at Lister's private table, where he was eating hearty helpings of roast beef, mashed potatoes and vegetables.
"Who the hell does he think he is?" he said to himself. He had spent the better part of his time in the Wailing Room in anguish, every second cursing the moment that Robert Lister was born. Tom was suddenly hit by a morbid but eerily satisfying vision of Mr. Lister lying at his feet, writhing in pain, while Tom stood over him, laughing. At this moment, all four legs of Mr. Lister's chair snapped, and he toppled onto the floor. Tom, his face slightly red, turned back to his stew, keeping his eyes down so that Lister would not look at him. A burst of laughter rang through the dining hall, but it was quickly stifled as Mr. Lister, livid with anger, scrambled to his feet, with bits of food covering his jacket and mashed potatoes stuck to is jaw. He lifted his hand and pointed a stubby finger in Tom's direction.
"Riddle!" he shrieked. His face was a shade of deep crimson.
Tom stared silently back, his blood boiling, but his face scarcely showing it. He was very good at hiding his true feelings from his face.
"Yes, sir?" Tom replied innocently. Mr Lister looked about ready to strangle him.
"Out with it, Riddle, what did you do?" He was breathing hard through his clenched, crooked teeth, and his nostrils were flared.
"I'm on the other side of the room, sir. Also I have only just been released from the Wailing room. How could I possibly have done anything to you?" Tom forced himself to keep eye contact. Mr Lister had to accept this, but he kept on giving Tom funny looks as the boy carried his dishes into the kitchen. Tom may have been imagining it, but Mr Lister seemed to be in a horrible temper with him over the next few months. Tom did his best to stay out of the way, but harder to avoid were Malcolm and his friends. They kept pulling him aside and whispering that they were still working on their plan, never stating what their plan was. Tom was strongly suspicious that this plan of theirs involved some new way to make him miserable. One day Tom woke up feeling more irritable than normal. His bad mood got him into trouble (yet again) with Mr. Lister and was given a good beating. Fuming, he returned to his dormitory and seized a book from his trunk. It was the start of the summer holidays. This upset Tom a little; he enjoyed learning new things and also work made him forget his problems for a while. During the holidays, orphans were supposed to be outside and as much as he didn't want to go outside, he didn't want to say inside with an exceptionally ticked off Lister. As he walked through the orphanage doors, he thought he had walked into the wrong place. Instead of laughing and playing, three-quarters of the orphans were standing in a semicircle, whispering excitedly. Malcolm and his closest friends were standing in the very middle.
"What is this?" Tom demanded, his quiet voice icy with suspicion.
"A surprise, Riddle," Malcolm sneered, stepping forward. "We've been planning this for months, all for the one event." Tom made to sneak back up the steps, but the semicircle tightened into a circle, blocking his path. He turned to face Malcolm again.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm sick of attacking when you're down, Riddle," the other boy snarled, his face forming a demented smile. "Shoving you down the steps... throwing rocks at you... dumping water on you from stair landings... It's all fun, of course, but frankly, if there's no resistance, it gets a little boring." Tom bit his lip and got ready to run. He was not sure what was going to happen, but he knew he was not going to enjoy it. Malcolm took another step forward, his round grey eyes twinkling with anticipation.
"What, you've finally decided to leave me alone?" Tom retorted. He tucked the book into the inside pocket of his jacket and folded his arms protectively over his chest. The maniacal smile had still not left Malcolm's mouth.
"No, Riddle," he spat. "I'm going to fight you when you have your guard up. I'm going to prove to the world that I'm the bigger man-" Here Tom rolled his eyes, for Malcolm was at least a head shorter, "-by fighting you properly. I am going to fight you, and you are going to fight back, and I am going to prove that I can beat Tom Riddle, even when he knows I'm about to do it."
"It took you only four months to come up with that idea?" Tom scoffed. "Quite the brain you aren't you?"
"That's not it," Malcolm insisted defensively. "If I win, these kids get a free-for-all. Same thing happens if I lose, for that matter. Either way, you're going down, Riddle." He was now circling Tom with a look of smug satisfaction on his face. Tom shot Malcolm an insult, but it didn't come out as he intended; a hissing sound came out of his mouth, that while he understood what he had said it was obvious Malcolm had not.
"What was that you just said, Riddle?" he barked. Tom broke into a run, but was promptly shoved back into the circle by a burly older boy. "I asked you a question," Malcolm roared. "Answer it..." Tom looked at Malcolm's face, which had gone as white as a sheet. He was staring at the ground. Tom looked down too. A snake, about as thick as a garden hose and twenty inches long, had slithered from the nearby brush, it's back arched, glaring up at Malcolm.
"You called, Master?" the snake greeted Tom, speaking in the same, swift language. Tom stared at the snake in surprise.
"What do you-you can talk to me?"
"You can speak the language of the snakes" the snake replied. "How may I serve you, Master?" Malcolm and his cronies were backing away from the snake, shaking uncontrollably.
"Afraid of snakes, are you?" Tom asked. He turned to the snake. "Go for him, friend."
"Yes, Master," the snake agreed, nodding. With that, he dove for the boy, snapping at his ankles. Malcolm screamed for help, and Tom just stood there, giving the snake instructions. The orphans were in a panic, and the circle had dispersed. Malcolm's best friend Gordon Green (everyone called him GG because he looked like a Horse) was running for dear life up the steps, but Tom did not care.
"His arm's near the ground, go up his sleeve," he shouted at the snake. "That's it, now bite his ear! Are you poisonous? No? Damn. Oh well, bite him anyway!" Malcolm shrieked with terror and pain, trying to shake the snake off. Tom kept staring at him, seething. This was his chance to get back at him for everything. He was getting a cold satisfaction from watching his enemy helpless before him. The snake came out of his collar and twirled around his arm several times, nipping his fingers playfully. "That will do, my friend," Tom cried. "Return to me. He has learned his lesson." The snake fell to the grass and crossed over to Tom, who picked it up and put it on his shoulder. It looped itself around his neck and continued to look daggers at Malcolm. GG reappeared at Malcolm's side, staring at Tom and the snake.
"I had better go," the snake whispered. "That new boy has notified your guardian. If you ever need assistance, Master, be sure to call for it. Any of us snakes would be willing to help you." The snake slid down Tom's arm and disappeared into the bushes.
"Thank you!" Tom called after it. At that instant, Mr. Lister emerged from the orphanage and hurried down the steps to where GG and Malcolm were standing. "What happened?" He asked, looking as though he already did not believe the story.
"Mr Lister," Malcolm babbled, his breath coming in short, deep bursts. "I was talking to Tom Riddle, and he said something funny."
"Riddle has a sense of humour?" Mr. Lister looked even more disbelieving. Tom glared at him.
"No, he said something weird, in an odd language, and all of a sudden this huge snake came out of the bushes!" Malcolm ranted, pointing at the bush. "Riddle talked to the snake with his funny language, and the snake attacked me! Riddle kept yelling at it, and every time he said something, the snake would do something else!" Lister looked up at Tom, his face contorted. Tom could see that his mind had drawn a blank. He clearly thought the story was complete rot, but here he had the chance to punish Tom Riddle, the boy he detested above all others. Eventually, to Tom's dismay, sadism won over logic.
"Riddle," he muttered, "explain yourself."
"Are you suggesting, sir, that I have the ability to communicate with snakes?" Tom asked in a faux-scrupulous voice. "If you are, sir, perhaps you should take into account the absurdity..."
"I am suggesting nothing, Riddle," Mr. Lister growled. "Follow me."He closed his hand around Tom's left wrist and twisted it sharply. Tom flinched. He was left-handed, and this would mean that writing would be painful for at least a week. Lister led Tom away, but Tom's mind was screaming. There was no way he was taking another beating, not when he had only been defending himself. He hurled Tom into the Wailing Room and hovered in the doorway. "That's five days you've earned yourself, Riddle, and be grateful it isn't more than that. One meal every day; it's far more than you deserve."
"You aren't going to beat me?" Tom cried in disbelief, before he could stop himself.
"Not today. I haven't the time today. Mr White seems to be very shell shocked, and he needs to be sent up to the Hospital wing immediately. If you're lucky, I'll forget about beating you at all, but I wouldn't bank on that."
"I'll get dirty," Tom scorned, looking at Mr Lister's slimy hair. Tom was one of only about four children in the orphanage who held any store by personal hygiene, probably because he was constantly surrounded by dirty people.
"Don't push your luck, Riddle," Lister snarled. He turned on his heel and left Tom to his very relieved thoughts.
On the third day, Tom was actually released. It appeared that Lister had found a new scapegoat. To Tom's delight, it was Malcolm. Apparently, Lister thought he was a bit off-balance because he kept insisting Tom could talk to snakes.
The next few days were quiet for Tom. Since there was no school work to keep him occupied, he read a lot. Most of the orphans steered clear of him, which he was grateful for. He liked his own company, even if no one else did. He also wrote a lot in his diary. He had kept a diary for as log as he was able to write and he had them all in his trunk. He didn't subscribe to the growing belief that diaries were for girls. He had a lot to write about after his experience with the snake.
One night, a few weeks into the summer holidays, something happened that would change Tom's life forever. It was around midnight, but Tom couldn't sleep. The three other people in the room were snoring loudly. Tom knew that he could do nothing but lay there; if he got up and one of the staff were also awake, he would be in trouble again. And since he hadn't been in trouble or accused of something in over two weeks (a record for him), he had no wish to do any thing now. Suddenly there was a tapping noise at the window. Tom looked over, but couldn't see anything through the net curtain. There it was again. And again.
Tom decided that he had better investigate. He stepped onto the hard wooden floor gently, as the boards sometimes creaked. He then tip toed over to the window. Drawing the curtain, he got a shock. It was a barn owl. Tom had never seen one before, except as pictures in books. The owl kept tapping on the glass and as he looked more closely, Tom could see that there was an envelope tied to the owls leg. Tom couldn't decide what to do; if he opened the window, the owl would fly in and make a mess. Animals were not allowed inside. If he got caught, he would be in hot water. On the other hand, someone had given the letter to the owl. Tom was curious as to what was going on. Finally, curiosity won over caution. He undid the catch and the window and opened it. The owl did fly in, but didn't go crazy as he expected it to. In fact it seemed to be sharing his need for stealth. It flew directly over to Tom's bed, landed and stuck out its leg.
Tom moved silently back to his bed. One of the things that he had learned in the orphanage was to move soundlessly under cover of darkness. He carefully untied the letter from its leg. Once he had, the own jumped onto his pillow and started preening itself. Tom withdrew the letter and began to read. A second piece of parchment fell to the floor, but Tom barely noticed; as he was looking at the first letter with an open mouth. He looked back at the envelope to see if there was some sort of mistake. The envelope was made of yellow parchment, and was held together by a large, purple wax seal. The seal was imprinted with a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake, all around a capital H. On the other side, Tom found the address.
Mr T. M. Riddle
Room 34, Whitechapel Home for Orphans
London It was defiantly him. Tom returned to the letter, his mind racing.
Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Armando Dippet
(Order of Merlin, Third Class) Dear Mr. Riddle, It is my great pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins on September 1st, 1938. You will need to catch the 11:00 Hogwarts Express on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station on that day. A list of school items has been enclosed. We await your owl of acceptance, which must arrive no later than 31st July.
Yours Truly, Professor Albus Dumbledore
Deputy Headmaster
As if reading the letter over and over would make the meaning different, Tom read the letter again and again for about twenty minutes. He was finally torn away from it when the owl began to click its beak at him. He glanced though the school list. Wands, parchment, cauldrons. Was this some kind of joke? No, that didn't make sense. Even though unnatural things happened around him, none of the other orphans had the imagination to pull off such a prank. How did they get their hands on the owl? Even if they were able to get their hands on one, how could they have tied a letter to its leg without hurting it and then directed it to fly to his window? The more he thought about it, the less likely it seems to be a prank. But if it wasn't a prank, what was it? What this letter was saying couldn't be true. Could it? Deciding that he couldn't form an intelligent conclusion without more information, Tom looked back at the letter. We await your owl of acceptance. Is that why the owl had remained? Tom went over to his trunk and took out a blank piece of paper and a pen. He then began to write a letter for the owl to take.
Dear Professor Dumbledore, Is this some kind of joke. School of witchcraft and wizardry? However, as preposterous as it sounds, without additional information I will listen to what you have to say. Please send me more information regarding this school. Tom Riddle
Tom was aware that his letter may appear to sound rude, but given the nature of the letter from this Dumbledore, Tom's head was spinning. He gave his reply slip to the owl, who flew out of the open window and disappeared. Tom carefully hid the letter in the bottom of his trunk and locked it. He got back into bed but the thoughts he was now having only served to aid his insomnia.
Three days rolled by and Tom was beginning to wonder if the letter was a joke. However none other the other orphans were acting out of the ordinary around him, just as beastly as normal. He stuck by his earlier assessment: none of them had the intelligence to pull of such an elaborate prank and even if they had contributed to it, one or more of them would have made a comment about it. Tom just settled into a routine as the days rolled by.
Then, eight days after he received the letter, it happened. Tom was sitting under his normal tree, reading a book when he noticed that he wasn't alone. He looked up to see a man, in his late forties he thought, standing over him. He was dressed in strange robes. Tom immediately jumped up. Orphans were taught to show respect to visitors or severe consequences would follow. He thought for a moment why none of the other orphans had greeted him. They were a long way from the main gate and he would have passed several of the other children. He glanced around but none of the other children were looking in his direction. In fact, they appeared not to have noticed the new comer.
"Welcome to Whitechapel Home for Orphans. Would you like me to take you to the main office to see Mr Lister?" Tom said to the stranger.
"No, that won't be necessary," the gentleman replied. Tom frowned in confusion. "I am looking for a mister Tom Riddle."
"I'm Tom Riddle," Tom was even more confused now. Except his letter a week ago he had never had any communication with the world outside the orphanage. He had never been considered by any parents for adoption. He sometimes wondered if the other orphans knew his name, having earned the nickname of the playground punch bag. "How may I help you?"
"Ah, good," the gentleman said. "I understand that you asked for additional information for Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. I came to answer your questions. But first you should read this." And he reached inside his robes and putted out a book that had the same logo on the cover as the wax seal did on his letter. The muggle born guide to Hogwarts, the title read. Tom opened the book and almost immediately dropped it in horror. On the first page there was a photograph of an ancient looking castle with what looked like people flying around it on broomsticks. But the people in the photo were moving. One of the flying people flew close to the camera and waved, grinning broadly. Tom was so shocked that he didn't move for over a minute. He crouched down and carefully picked up the book, as if afraid it might explode.
"W-w-what," stammered Tom while the gentleman before him was smiling broadly. "H-how?"
"We assumed from you're letter that you didn't take us seriously about magic," the man stated. "Not an unusual response. That is why I was sent to make contact with you. My name is Professor Mondain. I teach muggle studies at Hogwarts."
Tom's brain was racing. Magic was real? People could fly on brooms? It was too much information to take in at once. To give himself time to think, Tom asked one question.
"What is a muggle?" he asked.
"A muggle," the professor responded, "is a person who cannot use magic. They are called none magic folk or, more commonly, muggles. We, that is, the wizarding community, hide from the muggle world and very rarely interfere in their affairs. A muggle born is a witch or wizard who was born to two muggles. While you yourself are not muggle born, you have lived your whole life in the muggle world, separated from magic." Tom just nodded dumbly as his mind seemed to have seized up. He didn't register what was said to him next until he heard the professor saying it was time for them both to go somewhere.
"I beg your pardon, but where did you say we're going?" he asked.
"I said that if you intend to go to Hogwarts you will need the proper equipment," the professor repeated. "I will take you to Diagon alley were we will be able to purchase your supplies." Tom looked down at his scuffed shoes when he heard this: he had no money and he knew for a fact that none of the nuns or Mr Lister would buy him a set of magical equipment. It was far more likely that Lister would throw him out of the orphanage onto the streets, the nuns calling him a blasphemer and a devil worshiper and the other orphans would be killing themselves with laughter. It seemed that the euphoria he had felt just a moment ago had burst into despair.
"I'm afraid I won't be able to attend Hogwarts, professor," Tom said, desperately fighting back the tears. "You see, the people I live with would never allow me to go to such a school and I don't have any money to buy anything."
"I believe that you are wrong on both counts, Mr Riddle," the professor said calmly, with a smile on his lips. "Situations like this are dealt with easily. And as to the money, I ran a check on your records before coming to meet you. It seems that when your mother died, she left you an amount of money for your inheritance. While it is not a large inheritance, it should last you a few years at Hogwarts, until a more permanent solution is found. The key to your Gringotts account has been held in the inheritance division of the Wizengamot until you received your Hogwarts letter. But first things first." With that, he pulled out a straight piece of wood that was about a foot in length and waved it over his robes. Tom watched open mouthed as the robes changed before his eyes to look like a professional business suit.
"Now," the professor addressed Tom again, "why don't we go and see this mister Lister?" Tom nodded and led the professor inside. He knocked on the door and introduced the professor to Lister.
"Good morning sir," began Professor Mondain. "I wish to talk to you about Tom Riddle."
"What ever he has damaged or done, please accept my apologies," Mr Lister replied. "Boy," he said sharply to Tom, "wait outside. I'll deal with you later." Tom closed the door behind him and strained hard to listen. He knew it was rude to listen to private conversations, but he couldn't stop himself. This could very well be his future at stake.
"No, no, no. You misunderstand me, sir," the professor was saying. "I'm not here to complain about Riddle. On the contrary. I have come concerning his education."
"Really," Lister was saying. Tom couldn't be sure if he was unhappy that he wasn't going to be able to beat him or surprised about the nature of the professor's visit. "Well, you'll forgive me if I don't know his academic status off hand, but I'm informed that he is a gifted child."
"I have a copy of his results for his last set of exams and as you can see he is very gifted indeed. I am here representing St Christopher's school for gifted youngsters and we feel that Mr Riddle is indeed worthy of a scholarship," the professor replied. Tom couldn't believe his luck; this sounded like he would be able to go after all. He assumed that this was a standard cover story for Hogwarts to use on people (muggles, he thought) who were unlikely to let the children go to Hogwarts.
After a long conversation that he only caught bits of, the door opened. Tom straitened up and tried to look like he hadn't been eavesdropping.
"Riddle, your excellent academic history has been noticed by a respectable private school," Lister said to him. He seemed to be putting on a good face about it, Tom thought. "You have been offered a scholarship with St Christopher's school for gifted youngsters. Make sure that your grades don't drop. Professor Mondain here has agreed to take you into London to shop for your school supplies." With that, he turned on his heel and marched back into his office. Tom set off with the professor to go shop for his things.
AN- hi there. Did you spot the pun about the professor's name: there was a book reference in FB called philosophy of the mundane, why muggles prefer not to notice. Mundane aka Mondain. People who know me will recognize there names appear at one point or another (used with their consent of course). Malcolm, for instance is now called Malcolm White, but was originally called Malcolm Gwyn, after my stepfather. When I first started writing, we had a fight and I put him in to spite him. Later on, I noticed and decided I'd better change it. The direct translation of Gwyn in welsh is White. Hence Malcolm White. Please R and R I'll update and put any other tidbits of info on ASAP.
The Snake and the Owl
At dinner on Saturday, Tom emerged, heavily bandaged, from the Wailing Room, a look of intense agony chiselled into his face. He seemed to have grown even more saturnine during his stay, and even Malcolm was tactful enough to leave him be for the moment. Tom seated himself at one of the long tables and ate his excuse for food rapidly, wincing once in a while if he moved his arm too quickly. Tom glared mutinously up at Lister's private table, where he was eating hearty helpings of roast beef, mashed potatoes and vegetables.
"Who the hell does he think he is?" he said to himself. He had spent the better part of his time in the Wailing Room in anguish, every second cursing the moment that Robert Lister was born. Tom was suddenly hit by a morbid but eerily satisfying vision of Mr. Lister lying at his feet, writhing in pain, while Tom stood over him, laughing. At this moment, all four legs of Mr. Lister's chair snapped, and he toppled onto the floor. Tom, his face slightly red, turned back to his stew, keeping his eyes down so that Lister would not look at him. A burst of laughter rang through the dining hall, but it was quickly stifled as Mr. Lister, livid with anger, scrambled to his feet, with bits of food covering his jacket and mashed potatoes stuck to is jaw. He lifted his hand and pointed a stubby finger in Tom's direction.
"Riddle!" he shrieked. His face was a shade of deep crimson.
Tom stared silently back, his blood boiling, but his face scarcely showing it. He was very good at hiding his true feelings from his face.
"Yes, sir?" Tom replied innocently. Mr Lister looked about ready to strangle him.
"Out with it, Riddle, what did you do?" He was breathing hard through his clenched, crooked teeth, and his nostrils were flared.
"I'm on the other side of the room, sir. Also I have only just been released from the Wailing room. How could I possibly have done anything to you?" Tom forced himself to keep eye contact. Mr Lister had to accept this, but he kept on giving Tom funny looks as the boy carried his dishes into the kitchen. Tom may have been imagining it, but Mr Lister seemed to be in a horrible temper with him over the next few months. Tom did his best to stay out of the way, but harder to avoid were Malcolm and his friends. They kept pulling him aside and whispering that they were still working on their plan, never stating what their plan was. Tom was strongly suspicious that this plan of theirs involved some new way to make him miserable. One day Tom woke up feeling more irritable than normal. His bad mood got him into trouble (yet again) with Mr. Lister and was given a good beating. Fuming, he returned to his dormitory and seized a book from his trunk. It was the start of the summer holidays. This upset Tom a little; he enjoyed learning new things and also work made him forget his problems for a while. During the holidays, orphans were supposed to be outside and as much as he didn't want to go outside, he didn't want to say inside with an exceptionally ticked off Lister. As he walked through the orphanage doors, he thought he had walked into the wrong place. Instead of laughing and playing, three-quarters of the orphans were standing in a semicircle, whispering excitedly. Malcolm and his closest friends were standing in the very middle.
"What is this?" Tom demanded, his quiet voice icy with suspicion.
"A surprise, Riddle," Malcolm sneered, stepping forward. "We've been planning this for months, all for the one event." Tom made to sneak back up the steps, but the semicircle tightened into a circle, blocking his path. He turned to face Malcolm again.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm sick of attacking when you're down, Riddle," the other boy snarled, his face forming a demented smile. "Shoving you down the steps... throwing rocks at you... dumping water on you from stair landings... It's all fun, of course, but frankly, if there's no resistance, it gets a little boring." Tom bit his lip and got ready to run. He was not sure what was going to happen, but he knew he was not going to enjoy it. Malcolm took another step forward, his round grey eyes twinkling with anticipation.
"What, you've finally decided to leave me alone?" Tom retorted. He tucked the book into the inside pocket of his jacket and folded his arms protectively over his chest. The maniacal smile had still not left Malcolm's mouth.
"No, Riddle," he spat. "I'm going to fight you when you have your guard up. I'm going to prove to the world that I'm the bigger man-" Here Tom rolled his eyes, for Malcolm was at least a head shorter, "-by fighting you properly. I am going to fight you, and you are going to fight back, and I am going to prove that I can beat Tom Riddle, even when he knows I'm about to do it."
"It took you only four months to come up with that idea?" Tom scoffed. "Quite the brain you aren't you?"
"That's not it," Malcolm insisted defensively. "If I win, these kids get a free-for-all. Same thing happens if I lose, for that matter. Either way, you're going down, Riddle." He was now circling Tom with a look of smug satisfaction on his face. Tom shot Malcolm an insult, but it didn't come out as he intended; a hissing sound came out of his mouth, that while he understood what he had said it was obvious Malcolm had not.
"What was that you just said, Riddle?" he barked. Tom broke into a run, but was promptly shoved back into the circle by a burly older boy. "I asked you a question," Malcolm roared. "Answer it..." Tom looked at Malcolm's face, which had gone as white as a sheet. He was staring at the ground. Tom looked down too. A snake, about as thick as a garden hose and twenty inches long, had slithered from the nearby brush, it's back arched, glaring up at Malcolm.
"You called, Master?" the snake greeted Tom, speaking in the same, swift language. Tom stared at the snake in surprise.
"What do you-you can talk to me?"
"You can speak the language of the snakes" the snake replied. "How may I serve you, Master?" Malcolm and his cronies were backing away from the snake, shaking uncontrollably.
"Afraid of snakes, are you?" Tom asked. He turned to the snake. "Go for him, friend."
"Yes, Master," the snake agreed, nodding. With that, he dove for the boy, snapping at his ankles. Malcolm screamed for help, and Tom just stood there, giving the snake instructions. The orphans were in a panic, and the circle had dispersed. Malcolm's best friend Gordon Green (everyone called him GG because he looked like a Horse) was running for dear life up the steps, but Tom did not care.
"His arm's near the ground, go up his sleeve," he shouted at the snake. "That's it, now bite his ear! Are you poisonous? No? Damn. Oh well, bite him anyway!" Malcolm shrieked with terror and pain, trying to shake the snake off. Tom kept staring at him, seething. This was his chance to get back at him for everything. He was getting a cold satisfaction from watching his enemy helpless before him. The snake came out of his collar and twirled around his arm several times, nipping his fingers playfully. "That will do, my friend," Tom cried. "Return to me. He has learned his lesson." The snake fell to the grass and crossed over to Tom, who picked it up and put it on his shoulder. It looped itself around his neck and continued to look daggers at Malcolm. GG reappeared at Malcolm's side, staring at Tom and the snake.
"I had better go," the snake whispered. "That new boy has notified your guardian. If you ever need assistance, Master, be sure to call for it. Any of us snakes would be willing to help you." The snake slid down Tom's arm and disappeared into the bushes.
"Thank you!" Tom called after it. At that instant, Mr. Lister emerged from the orphanage and hurried down the steps to where GG and Malcolm were standing. "What happened?" He asked, looking as though he already did not believe the story.
"Mr Lister," Malcolm babbled, his breath coming in short, deep bursts. "I was talking to Tom Riddle, and he said something funny."
"Riddle has a sense of humour?" Mr. Lister looked even more disbelieving. Tom glared at him.
"No, he said something weird, in an odd language, and all of a sudden this huge snake came out of the bushes!" Malcolm ranted, pointing at the bush. "Riddle talked to the snake with his funny language, and the snake attacked me! Riddle kept yelling at it, and every time he said something, the snake would do something else!" Lister looked up at Tom, his face contorted. Tom could see that his mind had drawn a blank. He clearly thought the story was complete rot, but here he had the chance to punish Tom Riddle, the boy he detested above all others. Eventually, to Tom's dismay, sadism won over logic.
"Riddle," he muttered, "explain yourself."
"Are you suggesting, sir, that I have the ability to communicate with snakes?" Tom asked in a faux-scrupulous voice. "If you are, sir, perhaps you should take into account the absurdity..."
"I am suggesting nothing, Riddle," Mr. Lister growled. "Follow me."He closed his hand around Tom's left wrist and twisted it sharply. Tom flinched. He was left-handed, and this would mean that writing would be painful for at least a week. Lister led Tom away, but Tom's mind was screaming. There was no way he was taking another beating, not when he had only been defending himself. He hurled Tom into the Wailing Room and hovered in the doorway. "That's five days you've earned yourself, Riddle, and be grateful it isn't more than that. One meal every day; it's far more than you deserve."
"You aren't going to beat me?" Tom cried in disbelief, before he could stop himself.
"Not today. I haven't the time today. Mr White seems to be very shell shocked, and he needs to be sent up to the Hospital wing immediately. If you're lucky, I'll forget about beating you at all, but I wouldn't bank on that."
"I'll get dirty," Tom scorned, looking at Mr Lister's slimy hair. Tom was one of only about four children in the orphanage who held any store by personal hygiene, probably because he was constantly surrounded by dirty people.
"Don't push your luck, Riddle," Lister snarled. He turned on his heel and left Tom to his very relieved thoughts.
On the third day, Tom was actually released. It appeared that Lister had found a new scapegoat. To Tom's delight, it was Malcolm. Apparently, Lister thought he was a bit off-balance because he kept insisting Tom could talk to snakes.
The next few days were quiet for Tom. Since there was no school work to keep him occupied, he read a lot. Most of the orphans steered clear of him, which he was grateful for. He liked his own company, even if no one else did. He also wrote a lot in his diary. He had kept a diary for as log as he was able to write and he had them all in his trunk. He didn't subscribe to the growing belief that diaries were for girls. He had a lot to write about after his experience with the snake.
One night, a few weeks into the summer holidays, something happened that would change Tom's life forever. It was around midnight, but Tom couldn't sleep. The three other people in the room were snoring loudly. Tom knew that he could do nothing but lay there; if he got up and one of the staff were also awake, he would be in trouble again. And since he hadn't been in trouble or accused of something in over two weeks (a record for him), he had no wish to do any thing now. Suddenly there was a tapping noise at the window. Tom looked over, but couldn't see anything through the net curtain. There it was again. And again.
Tom decided that he had better investigate. He stepped onto the hard wooden floor gently, as the boards sometimes creaked. He then tip toed over to the window. Drawing the curtain, he got a shock. It was a barn owl. Tom had never seen one before, except as pictures in books. The owl kept tapping on the glass and as he looked more closely, Tom could see that there was an envelope tied to the owls leg. Tom couldn't decide what to do; if he opened the window, the owl would fly in and make a mess. Animals were not allowed inside. If he got caught, he would be in hot water. On the other hand, someone had given the letter to the owl. Tom was curious as to what was going on. Finally, curiosity won over caution. He undid the catch and the window and opened it. The owl did fly in, but didn't go crazy as he expected it to. In fact it seemed to be sharing his need for stealth. It flew directly over to Tom's bed, landed and stuck out its leg.
Tom moved silently back to his bed. One of the things that he had learned in the orphanage was to move soundlessly under cover of darkness. He carefully untied the letter from its leg. Once he had, the own jumped onto his pillow and started preening itself. Tom withdrew the letter and began to read. A second piece of parchment fell to the floor, but Tom barely noticed; as he was looking at the first letter with an open mouth. He looked back at the envelope to see if there was some sort of mistake. The envelope was made of yellow parchment, and was held together by a large, purple wax seal. The seal was imprinted with a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake, all around a capital H. On the other side, Tom found the address.
Mr T. M. Riddle
Room 34, Whitechapel Home for Orphans
London It was defiantly him. Tom returned to the letter, his mind racing.
Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Armando Dippet
(Order of Merlin, Third Class) Dear Mr. Riddle, It is my great pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins on September 1st, 1938. You will need to catch the 11:00 Hogwarts Express on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station on that day. A list of school items has been enclosed. We await your owl of acceptance, which must arrive no later than 31st July.
Yours Truly, Professor Albus Dumbledore
Deputy Headmaster
As if reading the letter over and over would make the meaning different, Tom read the letter again and again for about twenty minutes. He was finally torn away from it when the owl began to click its beak at him. He glanced though the school list. Wands, parchment, cauldrons. Was this some kind of joke? No, that didn't make sense. Even though unnatural things happened around him, none of the other orphans had the imagination to pull off such a prank. How did they get their hands on the owl? Even if they were able to get their hands on one, how could they have tied a letter to its leg without hurting it and then directed it to fly to his window? The more he thought about it, the less likely it seems to be a prank. But if it wasn't a prank, what was it? What this letter was saying couldn't be true. Could it? Deciding that he couldn't form an intelligent conclusion without more information, Tom looked back at the letter. We await your owl of acceptance. Is that why the owl had remained? Tom went over to his trunk and took out a blank piece of paper and a pen. He then began to write a letter for the owl to take.
Dear Professor Dumbledore, Is this some kind of joke. School of witchcraft and wizardry? However, as preposterous as it sounds, without additional information I will listen to what you have to say. Please send me more information regarding this school. Tom Riddle
Tom was aware that his letter may appear to sound rude, but given the nature of the letter from this Dumbledore, Tom's head was spinning. He gave his reply slip to the owl, who flew out of the open window and disappeared. Tom carefully hid the letter in the bottom of his trunk and locked it. He got back into bed but the thoughts he was now having only served to aid his insomnia.
Three days rolled by and Tom was beginning to wonder if the letter was a joke. However none other the other orphans were acting out of the ordinary around him, just as beastly as normal. He stuck by his earlier assessment: none of them had the intelligence to pull of such an elaborate prank and even if they had contributed to it, one or more of them would have made a comment about it. Tom just settled into a routine as the days rolled by.
Then, eight days after he received the letter, it happened. Tom was sitting under his normal tree, reading a book when he noticed that he wasn't alone. He looked up to see a man, in his late forties he thought, standing over him. He was dressed in strange robes. Tom immediately jumped up. Orphans were taught to show respect to visitors or severe consequences would follow. He thought for a moment why none of the other orphans had greeted him. They were a long way from the main gate and he would have passed several of the other children. He glanced around but none of the other children were looking in his direction. In fact, they appeared not to have noticed the new comer.
"Welcome to Whitechapel Home for Orphans. Would you like me to take you to the main office to see Mr Lister?" Tom said to the stranger.
"No, that won't be necessary," the gentleman replied. Tom frowned in confusion. "I am looking for a mister Tom Riddle."
"I'm Tom Riddle," Tom was even more confused now. Except his letter a week ago he had never had any communication with the world outside the orphanage. He had never been considered by any parents for adoption. He sometimes wondered if the other orphans knew his name, having earned the nickname of the playground punch bag. "How may I help you?"
"Ah, good," the gentleman said. "I understand that you asked for additional information for Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. I came to answer your questions. But first you should read this." And he reached inside his robes and putted out a book that had the same logo on the cover as the wax seal did on his letter. The muggle born guide to Hogwarts, the title read. Tom opened the book and almost immediately dropped it in horror. On the first page there was a photograph of an ancient looking castle with what looked like people flying around it on broomsticks. But the people in the photo were moving. One of the flying people flew close to the camera and waved, grinning broadly. Tom was so shocked that he didn't move for over a minute. He crouched down and carefully picked up the book, as if afraid it might explode.
"W-w-what," stammered Tom while the gentleman before him was smiling broadly. "H-how?"
"We assumed from you're letter that you didn't take us seriously about magic," the man stated. "Not an unusual response. That is why I was sent to make contact with you. My name is Professor Mondain. I teach muggle studies at Hogwarts."
Tom's brain was racing. Magic was real? People could fly on brooms? It was too much information to take in at once. To give himself time to think, Tom asked one question.
"What is a muggle?" he asked.
"A muggle," the professor responded, "is a person who cannot use magic. They are called none magic folk or, more commonly, muggles. We, that is, the wizarding community, hide from the muggle world and very rarely interfere in their affairs. A muggle born is a witch or wizard who was born to two muggles. While you yourself are not muggle born, you have lived your whole life in the muggle world, separated from magic." Tom just nodded dumbly as his mind seemed to have seized up. He didn't register what was said to him next until he heard the professor saying it was time for them both to go somewhere.
"I beg your pardon, but where did you say we're going?" he asked.
"I said that if you intend to go to Hogwarts you will need the proper equipment," the professor repeated. "I will take you to Diagon alley were we will be able to purchase your supplies." Tom looked down at his scuffed shoes when he heard this: he had no money and he knew for a fact that none of the nuns or Mr Lister would buy him a set of magical equipment. It was far more likely that Lister would throw him out of the orphanage onto the streets, the nuns calling him a blasphemer and a devil worshiper and the other orphans would be killing themselves with laughter. It seemed that the euphoria he had felt just a moment ago had burst into despair.
"I'm afraid I won't be able to attend Hogwarts, professor," Tom said, desperately fighting back the tears. "You see, the people I live with would never allow me to go to such a school and I don't have any money to buy anything."
"I believe that you are wrong on both counts, Mr Riddle," the professor said calmly, with a smile on his lips. "Situations like this are dealt with easily. And as to the money, I ran a check on your records before coming to meet you. It seems that when your mother died, she left you an amount of money for your inheritance. While it is not a large inheritance, it should last you a few years at Hogwarts, until a more permanent solution is found. The key to your Gringotts account has been held in the inheritance division of the Wizengamot until you received your Hogwarts letter. But first things first." With that, he pulled out a straight piece of wood that was about a foot in length and waved it over his robes. Tom watched open mouthed as the robes changed before his eyes to look like a professional business suit.
"Now," the professor addressed Tom again, "why don't we go and see this mister Lister?" Tom nodded and led the professor inside. He knocked on the door and introduced the professor to Lister.
"Good morning sir," began Professor Mondain. "I wish to talk to you about Tom Riddle."
"What ever he has damaged or done, please accept my apologies," Mr Lister replied. "Boy," he said sharply to Tom, "wait outside. I'll deal with you later." Tom closed the door behind him and strained hard to listen. He knew it was rude to listen to private conversations, but he couldn't stop himself. This could very well be his future at stake.
"No, no, no. You misunderstand me, sir," the professor was saying. "I'm not here to complain about Riddle. On the contrary. I have come concerning his education."
"Really," Lister was saying. Tom couldn't be sure if he was unhappy that he wasn't going to be able to beat him or surprised about the nature of the professor's visit. "Well, you'll forgive me if I don't know his academic status off hand, but I'm informed that he is a gifted child."
"I have a copy of his results for his last set of exams and as you can see he is very gifted indeed. I am here representing St Christopher's school for gifted youngsters and we feel that Mr Riddle is indeed worthy of a scholarship," the professor replied. Tom couldn't believe his luck; this sounded like he would be able to go after all. He assumed that this was a standard cover story for Hogwarts to use on people (muggles, he thought) who were unlikely to let the children go to Hogwarts.
After a long conversation that he only caught bits of, the door opened. Tom straitened up and tried to look like he hadn't been eavesdropping.
"Riddle, your excellent academic history has been noticed by a respectable private school," Lister said to him. He seemed to be putting on a good face about it, Tom thought. "You have been offered a scholarship with St Christopher's school for gifted youngsters. Make sure that your grades don't drop. Professor Mondain here has agreed to take you into London to shop for your school supplies." With that, he turned on his heel and marched back into his office. Tom set off with the professor to go shop for his things.
AN- hi there. Did you spot the pun about the professor's name: there was a book reference in FB called philosophy of the mundane, why muggles prefer not to notice. Mundane aka Mondain. People who know me will recognize there names appear at one point or another (used with their consent of course). Malcolm, for instance is now called Malcolm White, but was originally called Malcolm Gwyn, after my stepfather. When I first started writing, we had a fight and I put him in to spite him. Later on, I noticed and decided I'd better change it. The direct translation of Gwyn in welsh is White. Hence Malcolm White. Please R and R I'll update and put any other tidbits of info on ASAP.