Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or the world.
Chapter 1 - Hogwarts Great Hall - September 1st, 1943
The noise in the hall was deafening.
All eight tables were filled with students eager to reconnect with friends after what had clearly been a pleasant summer.
Tom sighed through his nose, pinching the bridge between his eyes to stave off the impending headache.
It had been a long day.
After having left Wool's Orphanage around eight in the morning—the trip to the station being infinitely easier now that he was seventeen and able to use magic outside of school—it had been a jarring trip nonetheless. Much of London that he had passed still had abandoned and/or boarded-up buildings, the sky had been grey and the overall atmosphere continued to be depressing.
To say the least, Tom was almost envious of these magical children that had no idea of the hardships outside their own personal bubbles. The war with Grindelwald had hardly touched the UK due to Dumbledore's influence.
Almost envious, but not quite.
In Tom's opinion, the hardships of war opened his eyes to the destructive and primitive ways of muggles.
'Well...not all of them,' he thought smugly, '...at least, not anymore,' thinking of his now-dead father and dead grandparents. Absentmindedly, he turned the Gaunt ring on his finger.
His first Horcrux.
It had been a truly excruciating venture but it had been worth it in his opinion.
Thinking back to when he found his 'family'. He had been disgusted to find them living in absolute opulence, even with the war raging around them while he had struggled with food rations during the summers away from Hogwarts. It was unforgivable. So, he'd used a most unforgivable way to punish them.
He continued to mentally recount his day as he made his way to the Slytherin tables.
It was as soon as he got onto the train that he was handed a missive from Professor Slughorn from what must have been his personal elf. The missive notified him as Head Boy of the sixteen transfers from Beauxbatons and an increased amount of first years. He was then instructed to apprise the Prefects accordingly.
He understood the note on what it wasn't saying explicitly as well; sixteen mudbloods were taking up in his school. Not to mention the added mudblood first years that he'd no doubt were being redirected from Beauxbatons.
Hogwarts was going to be overrun with them.
This was just what he needed for his year as Head Boy; he'd have to pretend he cared for these sorry excuses for magic folk, as well as mediate what was obviously to be no man's land on school grounds.
As the train moved, he made his way to the Prefect carriage to find McGonagall, his counterpart in Head duties. She was, quite possibly, the only Gryffindor in the land that he could tolerate for more than five minutes.
He nodded in greeting while taking in her no-nonsense stare. Her eyes were a pale green—not unlike his own—and her black hair was tied back tightly into a bun, completing the librarian aesthetic she was unintentionally going for.
He explained the missive he'd received from Slughorn, amused at the shocked expression that broke her normally strict facade.
"Sixteen?!"
He wouldn't say she gaped, but it was certainly close.
"Sixteen," he repeated with a close-lipped incredulous look, "not to mention any muggleborn students originally intended to start their first year at Beauxbatons are now starting at Hogwarts," he continued, watching her as she removed her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"That brings admissions to eighty-eight new students?" she prodded, nodding towards the note he still held in his hand. He glanced at it briefly before nodding.
"Yes, twenty-five extra students than what we are used to. Merlin help us if the local schools in France decide to send their students to Hogwarts as well," he answered. McGonagall was about to respond but was interrupted by the door to the Prefect's car sliding open, admitting a stream of students.
As they sat, he nodded briefly to Abraxas, the seventh-year Slytherin Prefect, who nodded back in greeting. He then looked toward the seventh-year girls' Prefect and was surprised to find Jaismine Shacklebolt instead of the usual Bellatrix Black.
He sent a questioning glance to Abraxas, who mouthed a silent 'later'. Tom frowned but nodded and with a cue to McGonagall, started the meeting.
Thirty minutes later, the meeting adjourned and had gone about as well as could be expected. Most of the Prefects were excited about the new transfers, while others mirrored the same sneer that Abraxas had adopted. Tom had truly struggled to turn his snort into a cough.
The remaining nine-hour train ride had him sitting with the other Slytherin seventh-year boys. His Knights of Walpurgis, he'd dubbed them during his fifth year. Head Boy duties, however, had him patrolling the train periodically and checking in with the Prefect patrols.
By the time they reached Hogsmeade, it was pouring rain and Tom was well and truly done with the day.
He'd also had to put on a mask immediately upon exiting the train to find Professor Dumbledore waiting with the newly minted ex-curse breaker Professor Weasley.
Tom corrected himself...he grudgingly had a decent amount of praise for William Weasley. Although he would never admit it out loud.
He remembered him as one of the only Prefects and later Head Boy, who had treated Slytherin students no differently from the rest. Then again, he did recall that the Weasley twins had been in Slytherin, they'd had graduated two years prior but Tom supposed that might have had something to do with it.
Once all students upon the carriages and boats had safely made it to the doors; he, along with the two professors, McGonagall and all Prefects, herded the returning, new, and transfer students into the receiving hall.
They then proceeded to direct the first years into one line and transfers into another. Tom hadn't even bothered to take note of any of them as he went to join his table.
'They're nothing but mudbloods anyhow. I don't need to get to know them quite at this moment,' he mused apathetically, straightening his plain black robes and shifting the hat on his head. He then took his seat with a few of his knights, the ones, at least, that weren't sitting with their current fancy.
He observed the two closest to him, Abraxas Malfoy and Thoros Nott.
They were both sitting straight-backed with pressed, expensive robes and their hats placed princely upon their combed heads. He noted how their hands folded in front of them with their fingers locked, a deliberate attempt to seem nonchalant.
Tom almost snorted, amused at the pretentious air they seemed to radiate. He continued down the line to the other seventh-year boys, Antonin Dolohov, Evan Rosier, and Frederick Avery.
Avery and Rosier were much the same in presentation as Abraxas and Thoros, however, they were currently attempting to trade chocolate frog cards on the sly like a couple of first years. Dolohov on the other hand, had the first few buttons of the collar of his robes undone, hair slicked back and looked the actual picture of nonchalance that Abraxas and Thoros were trying desperately to emulate.
He spied Shacklebolt at the other Slytherin table, turned away to speak with her friends at the Ravenclaw table and remembered that he was going to ask Abraxas about that.
"So, how is Jaismine Shacklebolt this year's girls' Prefect and not Bella?" he asked calmly, folding his hands neatly in front of him. As if hearing her name, Bellatrix Black, herself, turned from her conversations with Irma Fawley and winked at him. Tom's lip twitched, amused with her playfulness before turning his attention back to Abraxas.
"I'm surprised you didn't hear of it. Bella was caught hexing a Hufflepuff muggleborn on the last day before summer hols," the boy explained, seeming genuinely surprised that Tom hadn't been made aware.
"Not to mention Bella and Shacklebolt have always been close in scores, so it was an obvious switch."
Tom nodded, acceding in his mind that he had been preoccupied at the end of last year; planning to find his family, making his Horcrux.
He would have easily missed the trivial happenings of the school.
"She got caught?" he asked, shooting a cold look at Bella, who looked rightfully chastised. She then gave him a look that conveyed her apologies, causing his trousers to become slightly tighter beneath his robes.
'Certainly lovely,' he mused privately, taking in her pale features and wavy black hair that was plaited over her shoulder. Her hat sat primly upon her head and her eyes were a stunning grey.
Although...looks aside, she was of no use to him now. Dealing with Shacklebolt was going to be a nightmare.
She was an absolute stickler for the rules. Her striking black eyes were constantly scrutinizing and noting infractions, it was going to be difficult to plan meetings around her.
Tom felt his headache from earlier begin to return.
Abraxas was about to answer when the doors to the Great Hall opened and Professor Dumbledore led the many first years around the tables, stopping them along the side of the hall to stand and wait for the sorting hat to finish its song.
Each table had coloured indicators along the edges to signify which house sat where, and there were eight tables total, two per house. The first table of each house—the one closest to the staff table—was usually reserved for years one to four, while the second table was for years five to seven.
Briefly, he sniffed at Shacklebolt once more, sitting at the wrong table. After a moment, he decided it wasn't worth addressing.
As the sorting continued, Tom blanked out, staring at nothing but clapping appropriately for the new Slytherins.
By tradition, Slytherin did not permit mudbloods into the house, so he was of the utmost confidence that all who were sorted there were the right sort.
He was just starting to feel hunger pains when Abraxas nudged him, nodding to where they were now sorting the transfers. He noted that they were all of varying ages.
A handful seemed to be no younger than sixteen—maybe even seventh years—while the rest were clearly younger.
Tom barely paid attention as foreign name after foreign name was called. A Jacques Allègre went to Ravenclaw; a Manolo Gonzalez Cordona—Spanish, he reckoned—also went to Ravenclaw.
"Hermione Granger-Riddle!"
Tom blinked. Surely he hadn't heard that right.
He watched as a girl who he could only describe from a distance as 'very brown' walked to the hat with her back straight. Her own uniform hat was clutched tightly in her hands as she sat on the stool, waiting for the sorting hat to be placed on her head.
"Any relation?"
This question came from Antonin, who shot him a curious look. In fact, he could feel the curious stares from many, both in his house and not.
"That I know of? No," he answered, shaking his head. His eyes, however, never left her person as the hat shouted Gryffindor and they continued to follow her stiff figure as she walked towards the older table for the brave and reckless.
Was she related to him?
What were the chances?
Truly?
He pondered on it and decided he would keep an eye on her all the same until he found out.
The rest of the sorting went on without much fanfare and yet, Tom couldn't tear his eyes away from the peculiar Miss Granger-Riddle.
A/N: Riddle is such a lil shit