Chapter six

Answers and accidents

"I've been impressed by you," he herd a voice say. Tom looked up from his book to see the last person he expected talking to him.

"You can never be a pureblood, but you are trying to overcome your bad blood," Seth Malfoy continued. "Admirable."

"So you accept that I belong here?" Tom asked. If he could gain this prefects respect, he was made in Slytherin. He had only been able to find bits and pieces of wizard genealogy, but it was apparent that the Malfoys were amongst the most prominent and powerful pureblood families in the magical world.

"No," Seth responded. Tom's heart sank. "But I am willing to admit that you have surprised me and that is almost impossible for a mudblood. You have become an asset to Slytherin, but without a family, you will never belong." With that, he turned and strode away. Tom returned to his book. It was nearly Halloween and that was the longest conversation he had had with anyone in his own house. He was trying to trace his family tree, but he was running into a wall. He knew that his mother's maiden name was Serpens and it had been changed when she had married the muggle Riddle.

Unfortunately, they seemed to have come from another country; he could find very few mentions to the Serpens family in Britain, although his research did indicate that they were a pureblood family. There was one chance he had. He had found a spell that one could use to tell one the birth names of ones parents. If he could modify it, he may be able to get a better idea of his family tree. There was one catch: the spell in question used blood. Blood magic wasn't exactly smiled upon by the magical world. Some blood magic was borderline dark magic. This ancestry spell wasn't but the thought of deliberately injuring oneself was repellent to Tom. He had been trying to modify the spell for two weeks with little progress. He looked at his notes for a few more minutes before giving up and heading down to dinner.

Halloween passed without incident and before he knew it, it was nearly time for the Christmas holidays. Tom was the only Slytherin to sign up to stay and only one of about three or four students who were staying. He didn't especially mind. He was a self proclaimed loaner. He always had been. Besides, he'd have more time to work on the ancestry spell. He barley noticed his room mates leave (they still didn't talk to him) and before he knew it he was alone in the Slytherin dungeons. He spent most of his time in the library.

Tom woke up on the 19th December feeling groggy. He was awake earlier than usual, but he couldn't figure out why. He soon remembered that it was his birthday. Now unlike most eleven year olds, he didn't jump out of bed and run to open his presents. This was for the simple reason that he didn't have any. His birthdays had just been one miserable experience after another. He was always tortured by someone on his birthday and therefore he enjoyed them even less than any other day of the year. He always seemed to wake up early to make sure that he didn't get a bucket of gravy (how they got hold of that he will never know) over his head. It was still too early to go down to breakfast, so he grabbed a book out of his trunk and went down to the common room. The book was Hogwarts: A History, still unfinished, which wasn't surprising since there were over two thousand pages. He wasn't really in a reading mood, so just skimmed a little of the second chapter, concerning the sorting of the students while the founders were still alive and the creation of the sorting hat. He soon got board and after returning the book, wandered down to the Great hall. He sat down and began to help himself to Bacon and Eggs. He spent the rest of the day in the library, making no particular headway.

The next day he made a breakthrough on the spell. It was more of a potion, that when poured onto paper, would trace the family tree of the spell casters blood. He decided to brew the potion immediately. Fortunately students were allowed to use the potion dungeons during holidays and because there were so few people there, Tom found the dungeon was empty. He helped himself to ingredients from the student supply and while he let the potion simmer for half an hour, he found some paper. It was a muggle piece, about A3 sized. He let the potion cool and drew his wand. Using a cutting charm was easy enough but Tom still couldn't believe he was about to use it on himself.

"Can't turn back now," he said to himself. "This may make your life in Slytherin better, so don't chicken out now."

With that he cut his index finger of his right hand and squeezed out the blood. The white potion began to turn a very light shade of pink and the cut was already beginning to seal itself. Tom was afraid of this; the potion must turn dark pink to red in order for the spell to work. He would need to spill more blood. Closing his eyes, he performed the cutting charm on his palm. Blood poured out of the wound and soon the potion was the right colour. As he didn't know any charms to heal a wound and going up to the hospital wing would make him answer awkward questions, Tom wrapped a handkerchief around his hand. He hoped he wouldn't have a scar. Carefully, he picked up the cauldron and gently poured it on the paper. The red potion began to form lines and words. The first name that appeared was his own name: Tom Marvolo Riddle. A line went up, connecting him to two other names: Katherine Serpens and Thomas Riddle. His parents. Lines went out of their names to their own parents. Tom glanced over his fathers family, but as they were muggles, they didn't hold much interest. It was his magical ancestry that he was interested in. He noticed that his grandfather, his mothers father, was named Marvolo Serpens. He was obviously named for both his father and grandfather, he thought. He watched the lines grow and new names appear. There were several dead ends in the Serpens family tree, like when his great great grandmother's sister had married, but died childless. It seemed like he was the sole living descendant of the Serpens family. The names were getting close to the top of the page. Then one name caught his eye. One of his ancestors had married a woman called Salamair Slytherin. The name couldn't be coincidence, could it? He waited for the next name above to appear, and there, written in his own blood was the name Salazar Slytherin.

Tom was sitting on the Quidditch pitch, thinking about what had happened in the potions lab. Once it was dried (which was surprisingly fast) he hid his family tree in his trunk. He had grabbed his diary, the copy of Hogwarts: A History and a jar that he used to conjure bluebell flames. It was snowing heavily outside and to be truthful, Tom wasn't sure why he had come out here. Maybe he just wanted to get out and get some air after what he had just seen. He was grateful for the jarred fire to keep him warm. He was reading the account of Slytherin:

Salazar Slytherin was one of the most enigmatic of the four Hogwarts founders. He was a renowned Potions master, with more than a passing interest it the dark arts. He was a fanatical pure blood wizard with a deep hatred of muggles. A lot of this has been attributed to his upbringing.

Slytherins parents were killed when he was four in circumstances that escape historians. He was destitute in his home of Wales until a muggle couple took him in. His early accidental magic, common to all adolescent magic folk, was not looked on kindly by his muggle foster parents. Stories tell that he was often beaten within an inch of his life and that he was subjected to many early forms of exorcism. He was soon left to die on the streets. He survived the next few years by his unusual gift of Parseltongue. Grass snakes and local vipers showed him a cave in which to live while they brought him food. He manufactured a wand for himself and worked for Gringotts bank until the age of 17. When he came of age, he was allowed access to his family vault. He purchased himself an Olivander wand and disappeared from history until the founding of Hogwarts.

Slytherin was always opposed to the muggle born students, as the scars of his muggle upbringing had never left him. He was unable to persuade the other founders to only accept pureblood students and so he left. Before Slytherin left the school, he allegedly built a hidden chamber, the Chamber of Secrets. He sealed it before leaving; swearing that no one would be able to open it, save for his own heir. The heir, he prophesised, would one day come to Hogwarts, open the chamber and use the power within to purge the school of those he considered unworthy to study magic. This power that only his heir can control, is thought to be a monster. Hogwarts has been searched many times for such a chamber and many historians now consider it a myth.

There are unconfirmed rumours that Slytherin built the school of Durmstrang. Most of this speculation comes from the schools attitude towards muggle born students, been a pureblood only school.

"Now I understand why I couldn't find anything out about my family," Tom said to himself. "If Slytherin did build Durmstrang, then my whole family went there. His descendant never returned to Hogwarts. At least until now."

He gulped. Did that mean that he was destined to unleash a monster on the school to kill muggle born students? True he had no warm fuzzy feelings towards muggles, but he wasn't a killer. It sounded like he had got off easy compared to Slytherin, beaten within an inch of his life. He was suddenly aware of how cold it was, and decided to leave. He was at the top of the steps when it happened. The wind blew the hood of his cloak over his eyes. At the same moment he slipped on some snow at the top of the steps. Down the steps he tumbled, hitting them painfully. He lay sprawled at the bottom. He tried to move, but his leg was screaming in agony. Twisting round, he could see that is was bent at an odd angle. Defiantly broken. He tried calling for help, but the wind wailed, drowning his cries. The jar of flames was smashed, depriving him of any warmth.

The situation took a few moments to dawn on Tom. He couldn't move, so he couldn't find any shelter from the snow and wind. He was a long way from the castle, so unless anyone was walking right passed the stadium they would never hear him. It was after lunch so no one would miss him until much later.

No one would miss him. Those words burned in his mind. The orphanage wouldn't care if he never came back; one less useless mouth to feed. The other Slytherins certainly wouldn't care, just a half breed that didn't belong with them. Would anyone up at school even notice that he was missing or would they find his body when the snow melted and the next Quidditch match was played. Tom just closed his eyes and laid his head on the ground. Whatever his fate was to be, he would accept it.

It was pure chance that Ogg would go past the Quidditch pitch on his way up to school. Normally he would have walked from his hut up the lawn to the castle, but today he had to go into Hogsmeade, to pick up some tree decorations, so he made a detour on the way back. He saw something at the bottom of the steps, half buried by snow. He couldn't think what it was so moved closer to investigate. He soon saw that it was a student. He quickly checked him over. There was a pulse, but the boy was as cold as ice. Abandoning the decorations, Ogg whipped off his tick outdoor coat, wrapped the boy in it and carried him as fast as he could up to the castle. He carried him to the hospital wing where he found the nurse and Professor Dumbledore. Ogg quickly explained the situation and left the school nurse to do her job. She mended his broken leg in a few moments and revitalised him with pepper-up potion and a few other things. She was confused however, not only with the cut on his hand but also with wounds on his back that couldn't have been caused by the fall.

"I may know about these wounds on his back," Dumbledore said, scratching his chin.

"He was brought up in a muggle orphanage. The cut on his hand I can't explain, but I have my suspicions."

"Ritual bloodletting in the Slytherin common room, maybe?" inquired the nurse.

"It must be hard to be in Slytherin with no family," replied Dumbledore. "Off the top of my head I can think of five spells using blood that may appeal to him. He's a half blood and an orphan. Neither are qualities that Slytherin house smile upon."

"You don't think he tried to…" the nurse couldn't finish her sentence, but both knew what she was thinking. They had to at least ask the question that Tom may have tried to kill himself.

Dumbledore rummaged through his bag, looking for anything that may look like a suicide note. He couldn't find one but he did find a diary. He forced himself only to look for something that may be a suicide note. He didn't like reading other peoples diaries. He found nothing, but he couldn't help notice that he had mentioned that it was his birthday yesterday. He returned the diary to the bag. He would just have to wait until Tom was awake.

Tom immediately realised that someone had found him when he woke up. Although everything he could see was white, he thought that heaven would be more up class than this. And it blatantly wasn't hell. He was surprised that his leg was no longer hurting and even more surprised that the cut on his hand was healed, without even a scar. Soon the doors opened and Professor Dumbledore walked in. He saw that Tom was awake and walked over.

"I wonder if I may have a moment of your time, mister Riddle," he inquired.

Tom stated that he wasn't going anywhere, so Dumbledore sat down.

"You gave us all quite a scare," Dumbledore said. Tom just nodded. "If our groundskeeper hadn't walked by the Quidditch pitch, we certainly wouldn't have found you until it was too late."

Toms' lack of response further concerned Dumbledore. He tried a different tactic. "I know how hard lessons are here, especially for someone who has had no exposure to magic. But you're a bright pupil. I hear nothing but good things about you from all your teachers. If anything is bothering you, we are here to help you." Still nothing. He made one last attempt, a more personal approach. "I here that you've just turned eleven." He decided not to mention that he had looked in his diary. People could be touchy about that. "Congratulations are in order. Did you get anything nice from you're room mates?" The answer he got was the last that he expected.

"Get?" Tom asked, his face a mask of scorn. "You mean presents? I got what I got for the last eleven years: nothing. Who would buy me presents?"

"Surely your friends at the orphanage…" Dumbledore tried to recover the statement he had just heard.

"I don't have friends at the orphanage," Tom spat. "That's why I stayed here. I hate it there."

"Tom, it was an accident on the Quidditch stadium, wasn't it?" Dumbledore asked, fearing the answer.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't try to kill myself," Tom replied, understanding the meaning of the question. Dumbledore breathed a sigh of relief.

"You rest now, Tom," he said. "We don't want you in here for Christmas." He got up to leave. "Oh, one more thing. We noticed a cut on your hand. It was made recently."

Tom had not been expecting this. He couldn't tell the truth about the cut. He'd have to lie.

"Someone left a pet cat in the common room," he said. It wasn't his best lie, but it was all he could think of on the spur of the moment. "It doesn't like me very much."

Dumbledore could tell that he wasn't been exactly truthful, but he didn't press the matter. He would need to keep an eye on Tom; nothing extensive, but enough to make sure that he was all right. As soon as he left, Tom was thinking. Dumbledore seemed to know more than he let on. He would have to watch what he said around him. He rested for a few hours before getting board and finally, ignoring the matrons protests, left and returned to the common room.