It started innocently enough, of course.
After rather surprising number of hatstalls the Ceremony was finally finished and the last first year student to be sorted trotted to join his house-mates at the Hufflepuff table. The moment he was seated, professor Dippet rose to give his annual Start-of-Term speech. He had nothing interesting to say, as expected, but Tom listened attentively to his greetings and words of warning nevertheless, and afterwards, clapped along with the rest of student body.
The Feast was about to begin and all the signs on Earth and – a quick glance at the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling to check – in Heaven indicated it was going to be a regular one, not unlike any other.
Two minutes later, it was a pandemonium.
. . .
In Hogwarts, air was always so thick with magic those more attuned to it could almost smell it. And magic was never dormant. It shimmered in the candlelight, echoed in every sound of the old castle. Patiently waited to be called with a simple wish.
But something was different that evening. Air seemed to buzz with nervous energy of – what? - brewing just beneath the surface. Magic thickened – even more so than ever – and tensed in anxious anticipation, as boundaries of possibility were stretched and stretched -
and finally, they were snapped.
. . .
Great explosion shook the ancient walls of Hogwarts. Cutlery clattered and light of hundreds of candles floating in midair flickered wildly casting long shadows around the Hall. Magic swirled chaotically and many students cried out in alarm when bright coloured sparks burst from their wands, seemingly for no reason whatsoever.
Then, it all stopped and eerie silence fell over the Great Hall.
That is, until some genius (Tom made an educated guess it was some obnoxious Gryffindor) yelled stupidly "Dark Lord Grindewald is attacking us!" because that was when the panic started. Students were, in growing order of hysteria, either looking anxiously around, screaming something incoherent, or apparently trying to hide, but not knowing where – thus, running aimlessly around and colliding with others, what in turn increased the feeling of general confusion and panic.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Tom mumbled angrily as he strode purposefully to the teachers' table, sidestepping one Hufflepuff student who tried her damnedest to romantically faint into his arms. Out of the corner of his eye Tom saw Head Girl hurrying in his wake.
"Everybody, CALM DOWN!" Dippet bellowed, scrambling to his to his feet.
The commotion died a bit but not quite.
Teachers hastily stood up as well, taking out their wands. Dumbledore quickly whispered something on the headmaster's ear, who nodded once, his expression grave.
"Professor?" Tom inquired, a note of urgency in his voice, as he reached the staff table.
"Mr Riddle, good you're here," Dippet nodded somewhat distracted and turned back to the student body, casting quick Sonorus at his throat. "ATTENTION, please! Every student and ghost," he looked pointedly at hyperventilating Fat Fair – a curious sight, especially since ghosts, being, well, dead, didn't need to breath, "is to CALM DOWN and return to his or hers seat!"
That brought at least some resemblance of order. Prefects snapped to attention and proceeded to drag their most hysterical house-mates back to their respective tables and shushed those still dead set on screaming bloody horror.
Tom noticed and was rather proud about it, that Slytherin had the least number of broken down first years.
"Now," Dippet continued once everyone was seated, though not so much calmed down. "My colleagues and I will go now to investigate the source of this...accident. We will place protective wards on the Great Hall and spell the door shut. Now, you are to remain seated and under no circumstances, I repeat, under no circumstances try to leave this Hall." He made a pause to let his words sink in.
At the Gryffindor table someone sniffed pitifully. House of the brave indeed, Tom sneered.
"Prefects, you are responsible for maintaining order," Dippet instructed and turned to Tom. "Should anything happen, Mr Riddle, Ms Blackwood," he nodded to acknowledge nervous Ravenclaw student standing next to Tom, "can I count on you?"
"Of course, sir," they replied in unison, as they were expected to.
With a flick of his wand, Dippet cancelled Sonorus charm. "Very well. Let's go, then," he motioned his colleagues to follow him and marched down the Hall.
Tom followed them with his gaze all the way to the door.
That was about an hour ago.
An hour spent wishing he hadn't been made Head Boy.
Whether because Hogwarts was the first place he felt comfortable calling home, or maybe because he was the Founder's heir – Tom regarded the school as his territory. He knew every corridor, every staircase, searched every nook and cranny to discover long forgotten wonders of the old castle. He befriended both portraits and ghost, had his associates in each House to know exactly what was going within its walls. So, the thought some kind of 'magical accident', as white-faced Kettleburn phrased it, happened, and to deal with it Aurors assistance was required, didn't sit well with Tom.
Not that Kettleburn let that piece of information slip – thankfully, he did not. But as he was instructing prefects to inform their peers that 'there was no danger' and then to escort them to their dormitories, Tom deemed it high time to practise him newly acquired skill and carefully skimmed through professor's memories.
What he found was hardly satisfactory. Kettleburn knew there was explosion – in the headmaster's office, by the looks of it. He also knew that a body – a person, alive but unconscious, was found there, but that was it. With that little knowledge and far too many unanswered questions, Tom was stuck for another half an hour, because he had his duties as a Head Boy to perform.
Curses! Had he not been made prefect in his fifth year -
he would have missed the privileges coming with this position. Obviously.
But at least, at time like this, he would be so wonderfully unnoticeable sneaking away from the Great Hall would be too easy. Had he not been made prefect, he would have got an insight on the 'magical accident' an hour ago, because leading by the hand snot nosed first years would be someone else's problem.
But seeing as babysitting terrified brats was, unfortunately, his problem, it was only now that he was hurrying down the corridor on the third floor to reach the entrance to the Headmaster's Tower. He barely got there it in time to see the gargoyle jump aside to let small procession of wizards out. Dumbledore, looking a bit worse to wear, followed by -
Tom abruptly stopped, his eyes wide. That couldn't be Unspeakables, could it? But no, there was no mistaking the colour of their robes.
What Unspeakables would be doing here? Magical accidents of this kind used to be Law Enforcement's area of expertise, not Department of Mysteries'!
Two Unspeakables were caring stretcher, he noticed. As if in a daze, Tom stepped closer to get a better look at the person resting upon it, ignoring Dumbledore who gasped and frowned his disapproval at the sight of Tom.
"Mr Riddle, what on earth are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Professor, I was just -," Tom fell silent in the middle of his excuse, peering down at the person carried on stretcher.
It was a boy – no, young man, covered in blood, his clothes torn in few places. There was something distinctively familiar about his face, Tom frowned and tried to put his finger on it. From the line of young man's jaw to curiously shaped scar peeking through his black fringe...
Tom felt his blood run cold.
- The cupboard, the Chamber, that small bedroom – was there more, oh Merlin, he couldn't remember! -
Tom knew that person. It was impossible, but – had the young man been awake, Tom knew, green eyes would have been looking back at him.
"Mr Riddle, are you feeling alright...?"
Those dreams. Each one of them felt so frighteningly real that once he woke up from his slumber, he wasn't sure where or whom he was any more. He was very careful not to dwell on them too much, more comfortable letting himself forget ever having them in the first place.
And yet – every time they occurred, he wasted weeks on fruitless research, trying to find the reason behind them. But every time he got little more than divination rubbish.
He'd never entertained the idea they felt real, because they were real.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He didn't want to consider this possibility. For one, it seemed so absurd, so impossible, even in the world of magic. But also, though he didn't want to admit it, even to himself... The notion that lonely child, who grew up to – there was a phantom ache in his chest at the mere memory of that dream; the thought he might truly exist somewhere out there, in consequence, would bring up a question of what that fact could mean for Tom.
He was afraid of what the answer would be.
"Tom! Are you feeling alright?!"
He finally tore his eyes away and looked up at Dumbledore. The man looked genuinely concerned for his sake, perhaps first time in all those years. It was laughable, really, but he would appreciate the humour better, if weren't so...unnerved.
He managed a weak nod.
Oh for the love of -! Get a grip, Tom Riddle! To break down like that, in front of Dumbledore of all people, how pathetic is that?
He took a deep breath and clenched his fists, so that his palms wouldn't shake.
"You're right, of course, professor," he said politely, forcing his facial muscles to produce a smile. "I'll go back to my dormitory right away." He nodded, sneaked one last look at the bloodied young man and quickly turned to go back the way he came.
. . .
Tom didn't get a wink of sleep that night. He laid still in the silence of seventh year students' dormitory, trying to make sense of what refused to make sense.
He didn't know what kind of sorcery was at work in here, but he swore he would get to the bottom of it.