A/N: Thanks so much to those of you who have reviewed so far. I can't help but notice, though, that there are well over 100 people getting email alerts who have never reviewed.. *shameless review plug*. The feedback really does help so much - the good to speed along my writing, and the bad/indifferent to make me think, and try to improve. If you can spare a minute to tell me what you think, I would really appreciate it.

~oOo~

In the weeks that followed his visit to the hospital wing, Tom became increasingly withdrawn. Where he had previously been quiet, he was now silent except for during lessons. Where he had previously been cautious he was now positively secretive, avoiding everyone. Malfoy and the others had somehow found out about Granger, making spending any time in the same room with them unbearable; he started to explain that he had only kept dropping in so the teachers wouldn't suspect any of them of cursing her, but they didn't want to listen. One grey morning in February, though, that became the least of his problems.

He was only in the bathroom for about five minutes. It was six-thirty, which was when he always used the bathroom – long before anyone else was awake. How was it that the one time someone was awake had been the one time he had not hidden all his things?

Tom had never before wished a hole would appear in the ground and swallow him up, but he wished it instantly and fervently when he saw Malfoy and Fudge craning to read a roll of parchment over Lestrange's shoulder. They looked up at him, laughing and laughing and mocking and he couldn't stand it, just couldn't stand it; their stupid smug faces and their stupid expensive pyjamas and their total overall stupidity! He felt magic flare and this time it was too far gone to stop it – no calculated thoughts were surfacing past the mass of molten rage and humiliation and hurt.

Blood.

There was blood seeping and pooling on the flagstones. There was muffled screaming and frantic scrabbling movements. There was the deafening sound of his heartbeat in his ears: re-venge. re-venge. re-venge. Power. It tasted like sweet power on the tongue.

And then, the moment was gone. He was just Tom, stood barefoot on the cold floor while three figures bent double and gasped and whimpered, turning pale, and he was scared. More scared than he had ever been, even when Mrs Cole had nearly had him sent to the asylum. His heartbeat accelerated even further, and now instead of revenge it was saying expelled, Expelled, EXPELLED.

The blood was still flowing and the screams of Dolohov and Burke – recently awakened – joined the clamour. Surely, in seconds, people from the other dormitories would come bursting in. He panicked, grabbed the parchment which had been the unsuspecting cause of everything, and ran.

There was no point trying to hide or to deny it, and he could think of only one other option.

"Professor Slughorn! PROFESSOR SLUGHORN!" He hammered on the door so hard that he was left clutching his hand in agony. It seemed to take years for his Head of House to open it, looking startled and confused and asleep all at once. He caught the man by the sleeve without waiting to explain; dragged him at a run back through the dungeon corridor and the common room and the dormitory corridor. He could hear himself saying it was an accident, it was an accident, over and over again in ascending pitch and agitation, not even able to decide if he were telling the truth.

He ran ahead to the hospital wing on Slughorn's orders to warn the nurse, then waited an age while spells were cast and potions administered and bandages applied – no one seemed to dismiss him. Finally, the Professor announced that they were going to see the Headmaster, and he wished that he could merely continue to wait around instead. They walked in silence, coming presently to a statue he had passed many times before.

"Sekhmet."

The novelty of the occasion was wasted on Tom in that moment. They ascended the statue, arriving in a circular office with a large desk: Headmaster Dippet was already sat behind it, clad in some sort of dressing robe. His air was grave.

"Sit down, Mr Riddle," he said wearily. Tom sat.

"Tell us what happened." Even though he'd had an hour in the hospital wing to think about it, it was hard to organise the words. So much harder than lying about the cave, or the stolen toys, or the rabbit. He carefully arranged his face into an anxious expression.

"Headmaster, please, I swear it was an accident. I don't understand how it happened. They were –" and here he paused, giving the impression of reticence to tell tales –"They were laughing at me. About growing up in the orphanage. About being friends with Hermione. They were calling her names, and I suppose – I suppose I got angry. I don't know what happened, I saw the… b-blood. And I ran to fetch Professor Slughorn."

There was a terrible silence, and Tom did not dare raise his eyes from his lap to assess their faces. Eventually it was Slughorn who spoke.

"Headmaster, if I may – I think Tom's quick thinking has very probably saved the boys' lives."

Tom narrowly caught the sigh of relief before it passed his lips, though looking up he saw that Dippet's expression had not changed.

"Yes, Horace, you're quite correct… However, let us remember that Mr Riddle merely averted a tragedy. He has still undeniably caused a disaster. Any student injured in this way is equally distressing, of course, but I trust I don't need to remind you that it's the children of two Governors and three Wizengamot members we're talking about. I will have to act."

"Professor Dippet!–" he burst out, almost accidentally. "Please, please. Don't expel me. They beat me, at the orphanage. For doing magic. Please." Again it was Slughorn who broke the silence.

"Tom, my boy… you have to understand. These parents aren't going to want you staying in the same room as their children anymore. I know you didn't mean to do it, but at the very least you must admit that your magic is dangerously out of control." He fumbled for his best contrite expression, hoping against hope that it would be enough.

"Sir, I've been trying so hard. In my lessons. I'm learning to control it, I'm getting better. It's just those things they said – but, but… if I didn't have to be with them…"

Two pairs of eyes were locked on him and it felt as if he were awaiting an executioner.

"Headmaster, I feel I should point out that Tom is by far the most capable student in my class. I've heard the other teachers saying the same. It would be a shame – wouldn't it? – to lose such… talent." Professor Slughorn had a faraway expression, and Tom wondered what he was imagining.

"Of course, of course. After all, which of us has never made a mistake? I was not thinking of expelling Mr Riddle… on this occasion. Although the governors will take a particularly dim view of this behaviour from a student whose fees are paid from the school fund…"

Tom felt the angry embarrassment climb up his neck. Well, he could hardly help it if he had no money! Even the teachers treated him as if he were second class! One day he would show them.

"Perhaps," said Slughorn, breaking his internal monologue, "Tom could be given some separate quarters." Dippet appeared to consider this for a moment.

"Yes," he said, finally. "But this cannot look like a reward instead of a punishment. For that reason, I must insist that Mr Riddle serves detention on Saturday and Sunday mornings for the rest of the year. Horace, you will ensure that he returns to his room straight after dinner every day." Having instructed the Professor, the Headmaster turned his attention to Tom. "Young man." His expression was still grave. "I must impress on you the seriousness of what has occurred this morning. I hope that during the next few months you will have time to reflect on it… No matter what happens, violence is not the answer. I'm afraid that if you can't learn to control your magic, I shall have no choice but to send you home."

"Yes, sir."

The journey from the office to the dormitory, the packing of his meagre belongings, breakfast and the days' lessons were all a blur, as if he were viewing everything underwater. After dinner, Professor Slughorn led him to his new room and locked him in with an apologetic look. He sat down on the bed – still a four poster, but with plain hangings – and removed the now-crumpled roll of parchment from his pocket. He had been so pleased with himself, but now it hurt to look at it so he squeezed his eyes shut viciously. The letters were still there, though, burned bright into the dark canvas of the mind.

THOMAS MARVOLO RIDDLE

IMMORTAL LORD… (AVHDEOS)

THOMAS MARVOLO RIDDLE

I AM LORD… (ELDOVRSAMOHT)

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

IMMORTAL LORD… (VEDO)

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

I AM LORD… VOLDEMORT

Perhaps it was as much from anger as from sadness, but for the first time he could remember a teardrop formed behind his closed eyelid.

~oOo~

The next time she saw Tom Riddle, April was just about to give way to May and the castle was basking in spring sunshine. He was in her room cleaning the windows when Tiggy apparated them back from the morning walk, giving them quite a shock. The elf immediately took her leave.

"What are you doing here?"

He didn't answer immediately, appearing to stare intently at a patch of rust on the window frame.

"Detention."

She took off her outer robe and hung it on the back of the chair, wondering the best way to proceed with the conversation.

"What happened? You know, when they were all in here that morning… The nurse said you were angry at them for insulting me, but that can't be it." Tom looked in her direction, and there was none of the usual array of fake expressions on his face.

"I don't want to talk about it."

She had expected any one of a hundred charming lies, so the honesty of this response was utterly surprising to her.

"O-okay. Anyway, how did you manage not to get expelled?" She kept her tone cheerful and was rewarded by what might almost have been the beginning of a smile.

"Slughorn mostly. He believed it was an accident; didn't want to lose my talent." The laugh was out of her mouth before she realised it was forming, and it felt strange.

"God forbid… but, was it an accident?" He stared for a while, and his answer again surprised her with its honesty.

"I'm not sure." Then, a while later, "I was angry."

"Yes… you're angry quite a lot." Well, that's got to be in the running for the understatement of the century. She sat down on the bed, and he went back to making noncommittal dusting motions.

"Is it awkward now? In lessons?" He shrugged slightly.

"Nobody talks to me." She supposed that was to be expected: probably half out of dislike and half out of genuine fear. It started to dawn on her how different Tom's life had become since the incident at the Frost Fair, and for the first time she felt a glimmer of optimism that the future she had known might never be.

"Well, that makes two of us. It's so boring up here." Too late she realised the obvious next question and the dangerous territory it charted.

"Why don't you go home then?" Stupid, stupid Granger. Still, it was bound to come up at some point. At least she'd had time to think about it – even time to talk with Zorion about it.

"I don't have a home." She tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible, and wondered how much he was going to press. He wasn't really the talkative kind, usually.

"Nurse said you have an uncle, but your parents are dead, is that true?" His tone was demanding, but maybe that was just his normal voice. She narrowed her eyes slightly.

"Why the sudden interest?" It was gone in the smallest fraction of a second, but she thought perhaps she saw a flash of hurt on his face. It was hard to believe, but since gaining his confidence seemed like a good idea, she added, "Sorry. I mean, yes, that's… true. But you've never told me anything about you."

"I've never told anyone anything about me." Suddenly, a lightbulb went on in her mind. It was such a long shot, but the conversation had been so odd already that now anything seemed possible.

"Me either. People here have been so nasty, I didn't want to give them any ammunition. When Professor Tofty came to tell me I was a witch, he never said that everyone would hate me for being muggle-born… and poor." The last two words seemed to do the trick – Tom's expression hardened.

"Dumbledore came to me. Had to give me money for the books and robes. Everyone noticed right away they were second hand."

"I heard somebody say once… that you were born in the orphanage? How was that?"

Hermione knew she had asked a sore question. Any other day he would have already stormed out, or worse. Instead, she saw him put on his blankest expression.

"My mother died. Giving birth to me. Though clearly she had already decided to give me up anyway." It wasn't hard to see why he would find that upsetting, she thought. Rather than attempt something consoling, she decided to volunteer the story she had discussed with Zorion several months ago.

"My mother died in childbirth too, except it was my sister. She died a few days later – I was only small, so I don't remember. Father never really spoke about it. What is it like there? At the orphanage?" Tom appeared to think for a while.

"Boring," he said. "Grey. But I can go out anywhere I want. Where do you come from?"

"Islington." They had agreed that she should tell – almost – the truth about this. Her parents' home was a bit further north, but wasn't due to be built for another twenty years. She was banking on the city still having enough familiar landmarks to support her cover story if it came to it.

Tom clearly knew London well, because he seemed to analyse her on the basis of this new information – perhaps imagining what type of house she had lived in.

"That's almost as bad as Vauxhall," he said. She grinned internally, having just scored a big win: finding the orphanage, should she ever need to, would now be easy.

"Oh, it's terrible," she agreed. "Up here it's much nicer. There's so much sky." It was her attempt at being cunning: the one thing all city children would think if introduced to the countryside for the first time at the age of eleven. Tom's gaze returned to the window, following a bird of prey soaring in the distance. Whether he contemplated her words or had simply lost interest in the conversation was hard to say.

It was strange to think that the Voldemort of her own time might once have appreciated something as pure as a bird in flight; had once been able to compare the relative merits of Islington and Vauxhall; had once liked to wander the city filled with all its inexorably muggle things. She wondered what else she did not yet know about Tom Riddle; Tom Riddle, not the man he would become. Or, if she had anything to do with it, the man he would not become.

The clock chimed twelve, evidently signalling the end of detention since he got up and left without a word. She retrieved her Herbology textbook and turned to the section on poisonous plants but her gaze was drawn instead to the bird – an osprey – still circling above the lake. For the only time since she had first ridden a broomstick, she wished she were flying too; feeling the wind and the sunshine and being so naturally a part of everything. It had been impossible to see the beauty in anything, taken, as she had been, so far from all sources of comfort. But spring had finally arrived in the Highlands, bringing back some of the colour to her world just as it gave new life to the plants and creatures after the harsh winter.

Tom Riddle had already been separated from the most loyal core of his future followers, and perhaps she had even made him think that he had more in common with her than with any of them. Years of struggle lay ahead; a monumental task to achieve, a war in both worlds, eternal prejudice and oppression. But for today, as the scent of mown grass and the chirping of a blackbird drifted in through the window, there was for the first time that ephemeral companion: Hope.

~oOo~

Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535) was a German wizard scorned by muggles for his belief in magic. He attempted to publish his book 'De Occulta Philosophia' under a pseudonym but was discovered and imprisoned, though he later escaped.

Death sighed. Apparently, giving oneself a new name didn't always work out.

~oOo~