Author's Note: No, I haven't forgotten about my Anne x Henry story, I'm working on the new chapter as we speak. I've just been so busy lately, and this idea has been nagging at me ever since the roleplay I was doing with it died. Rates and reviews are greatly appreciated, just so I know whether to continue the story or not. Anyways, enjoy. c:

Welcome To The New Age

Chapter One

There was something to be said about Defense Against the Dark Arts these days. What that particular thing was, Mildred - or Fern as she preferred to be called - could not say. Though, she suspected it had something to do with the new professor who had taken Professor Merrythought's place.

Tom Riddle was not a name that was unknown to her. In fact, only two years prior they had walked the hallowed halls of Hogwarts as fellow students. Now, he was the youngest professor the blonde could remember in her history at the castle and his presence was something of an oddity. The Ravenclaw had yet to figure out how she felt about the way he occasionally seemed too eager in their lessons, or the way his eyes sometimes trailed her way when he thought she wasn't looking. It was not a covetous glance, of course. Of that, there could be little doubt. Whatever he wanted of her was more objective. Fern actually felt as if he were assessing her like a piece of furniture at times – as if he were contemplating purchasing, but had yet to determine where she would fit and what purpose she would serve.

Which, of course, would seem silly to anyone else, had she voiced such an opinion out loud. What could a professor possibly want from the likes of such a quiet and inconsequential girl as herself? After all, Fern was hardly the type that seemed to have any sort of worth beyond what was expected of a woman during the time. The Head Girl nodded her head imperceptibly; having perfected the art of performing subtle movements that evaded the untrained eye. To most, she was simply a very pretty example of the generation's glorious youth and her silence was as golden as her perfectly coiffed hair. Because, no one liked a chatterbox, right? Had her mother not told her time and time again, that no one wanted to marry a woman for her words?

While her face remained soft and the curve of her lips unmarred by tension, the darkening of her amber and honey irises could not be deterred as she thought of her mother and so called 'society'. It was true that the Ravenclaw was as silent as a grave on most days, and that her manners would make even the most strict matron at a finishing school flush with accomplishment. Everything about Fern was seemingly demure and displayed a sort of unpracticed grace. How could it not, when she had spent the better part of her life creating such a persona? Yet, it was not for the 'ooh-ing' and 'aww-ing' of her mother's wretched social circles that she went through such effort – but for her own self-preservation. Mildred Fern Aesalon was not like the other girls with their white lace gloves and their impeccable fashion sense. No, she was a breed of her own making – of her own design.

Now was not the time to ruminate over such trivial matters, though. Fern was in class, and she had an entire lesson to get through before there would be even a remote break for her to contemplate life's complexities or lack thereof. No, now was the time to eviscerate the unsuspecting spider in its insignificant cage. Because of its size, the spell would end its life quickly and almost painlessly. It was hardly a suitable substitute for practicing the spell on a living breathing human of flesh and bone. No matter, the girl gripped her wand in her hand, allowing the weight of it to rest in her palm before curling her slender fingers about its base.

"You are to create a slashing motion with your wrist when you speak the incantation," Professor Riddle instructed – indicating the correct maneuver with a subtle flick of his own wand. "You may now begin."

If Fern felt anything out of place as she aimed her instrument with the same grace and ease as a conductor in front of an orchestra; it was the tingling sensation of the pendant that rested directly on alabaster flesh above her heart. It was a warmth and a chill that simultaneously washed over her lithe form and subconsciously made her grip more tightly to her wand. What she felt was power – power that coursed through her very veins and rushed to signal every synapse – and she enjoyed it immensely.

It occurred to her, that if she aimed her wand just a fraction of an inch higher than was necessary, instead of hitting her useless spider she would hit the arm of the girl directly in front of her. It would be of little consequence, really. Fern and the girl, Irene Mulciber, were not friends and if the blonde was to be honest with herself, she found the Slytherin quite annoying. Her voice was of the type that was one or two octaves too high, and the Ravenclaw was of the opinion that she did it to purposefully seem more feminine. Really, it wasn't hard to justify the act that she was about to perform in her mind. There would be no love lost between her and Irene, she would get a better grasp of what it meant to cast the spell appropriately and it was all in the name of furthering her education. Not to mention, it could easily be chalked up as an accident on her part. Though, she couldn't remember a time where she would have dared to attempt to do so before, the curiosity and that Ravenclaw thirst for knowledge in her demanded to know what the spell was like on the specimen its use was intended for.

Her voice was clear and as crisp as the Autumn air as she uttered the incantation. A shrill cry echoed about the room, and it took everything the girl had not to wince from the grating effect it had on her ears. Instead, her face remained remarkably passive in the face of her accomplishment. Her golden eyes trailed to Irene's arm and the crimson that spread over the pale flesh from the gaping wound Fern had created. It was a clean cut, and without thinking too much about what it meant, the blonde found that she was exceedingly proud of her handiwork. The fact that Riddle seemed to be equally appraising was not lost on her, either.

"She did this on purpose!" Irene wailed, making a scene as she waved her bleeding appendage in Fern's direction. "Aesalon is trying to kill me!"

The Ravenclaw's lips pursed together in a thin line, as her brows furrowed slightly in the face of Irene's accusation. The Slytherin was being a tad bit melodramatic, but the reality that she had intentionally cursed the other witch was slowly sinking in. Fern had never struck another student before; excluding the occasional need during patrols but even then the Head Boy mostly took control of the situation. It was unseemly for a woman to be so forward. To think that she had even reveled in the pain she had caused – no matter how fleeting – was something alien to the witch and yet a part of her still felt exhilarated.

"I'm sure you're mistaken Miss. Mulciber," the voice of Tom Riddle broke through her thoughts as their eyes met. "Miss. Aesalon merely misjudged her aim. A simple mistake, easily rectified if you would stop waving your arm about."

The glint in his eye told Fern that he didn't believe his own words for a moment.

She remained silent as the mess was cleaned up and everything went back to its natural routine. It never ceased to amaze her how inconsequential an action could become once its remnants had been effectively cleared away. Fern gazed down at her spider once more, hardly sparing it more than a passing glance before ending its life at the tip of her wand. Now that she'd played her part in the tedious educational cycle, there was nothing left for her to do but what she did best. Observe. Today, as she pretended to flip through the pages of her text, Fern allowed her gaze to follow her dark haired educator about the room. In truth, the girl was curious about her new professor. Even during their time together as students, she had found something fascinating about his presence.

He was not of high birth, of that she was exceedingly sure. While he had that aristocratic look about him, and that air of contrived greatness, it was in the way he walked and the way he talked. (Not to mention the state of his clothing.) It was possible that he had been born into one of the disgraced houses, but she doubted it. While most wouldn't notice, Fern had come to realize that there was a certain inflection in the tones of those who had been born into privilege. It was innate and seamlessly transitioned into their words as well as the way they expressed themselves. While Tom Riddle could charm anyone with his words; that lilt – that arrogance that transposed the meaning of a simple phrase lacked the simplicity of the pure bred tongue. In short, it was practiced.

As the hour came to an end, Fern was still contemplating the curiosity that was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Such was her knowledge of the halls, and her own habit of keeping out of conversation, that she efficiently kept up her thought process as she walked. In truth, it wasn't until she was grabbed roughly by the collar of her oxford and thrust against the rather uncomfortable stone and mortar of the castle wall that she allowed herself a moment back in reality.

She would be lying if she said that the thought of Irene accosting her after class had not come to mind. After all, the blonde doubted Mulciber was very pleased with the fact that her arm had been injured. What she had not counted on was the girl picking such a ridiculously public place to grab her and throw her into the wall. Had Fern been the injured party, and had she been the type to seek such petty retribution, she would have gone somewhere with less traffic and nary a wandering eye. It occurred to the Ravenclaw that this girl wasn't all that intelligent.

"You did that on purpose, Aeasalon!" Irene had spit forming at the corners of her mouth from her rage, and Fern used considerable will power to keep from wrinkling her nose in distaste. Instead, the witch remained silent, staring at the flustered Slytherin dispassionately. Whatever she had in store couldn't compare to the particular brand of cruelty brandished by Fern's mother. It was of little consequence. "Admit it," Irene demanded - thrusting her wand into the other girl's chest only to effective hit Fern's pendant.

Their eyes fell to the spot above her heart simultaneously.

"What's this, then?" The Slytherin kept her wand raised at Mildred, using her other hand to grip at the chain around her neck and pull the pendant free from its confines within the young woman's shirt.

It was an unconventionally pretty little thing, or so Fern had come to think. The necklace was comprised of thin gold chain that might as well have been weaved by spiders, but remarkably durable. The pendant itself was heavy, but what more could you expect from such intricate design? It was oval in shape, golden with ruby and opal insets that bordered the eye of a basilisk. Yes, it was a priceless artifact, indeed. And somehow, Fern simply knew that it didn't like being touched by Irene.

"Did it hurt? Mildred quirked a brow at the other witch, showing expression for what might have been the first time in a week.

"What?" Irene was still glancing at the pendant, as if her gaze was caught by the basilisk. Fern really wanted her to stop touching it.

"Did it hurt when I cut you, Mulciber?" The Ravenclaw harshened her tone, intent on getting the girl's attention. "I suspect it did. How could it not with so much blood?"

Fern would have said more. In truth, the urge to keep Irene from touching the pendant was making her head hurt and her disposition towards violence all the more friendly. It was only the arrival of the very professor she'd been thinking about that saved her from having to break character or do something she could potentially regret. Not that she would regret harming the girl in front of her - but she could hardly make two incidents seem like accidents in the same day.

"Step away from Miss. Aesalon, Miss. Mulciber, and lower your wand." His voice was cold and left little room for argument as he closed in on the two witches.

A look of terror painted Irene's features; and Fern couldn't help but think that it was a bit too potent for a simple reprimanding from an authority figure. The Slytherin literally looked as if she was petrified with fear, and the underlying current of electricity between professor and student did not go unnoticed.

"What happened earlier in my classroom was nothing more than an accident." He reiterated, placing a hand on her shoulder as he steered Mulciber away. "Nevertheless, I expect to see you in my office after dinner, as I would hate to punish Slytherin House for your misbehavior."

"Y-yes, Professor." Irene muttered, quickly fleeing from the scene until only Riddle and Fern remained.

Fern had remained silent as Professor Riddle handled Irene; easily composing herself as she watched the scene unfold. It was this very ability to make others do as he wished that she had been contemplating before the Slytherin's rude interruption. Tom Riddle scared people and demanded a certain amount of respect from those that would initially be considered his 'betters'. What Fern couldn't understand is what made him so great. While he certainly had the effective traits and his manners were beyond reproach in that matter, the blonde was not inspired or awe-stricken in the least. No, she was merely curious. What made him different from any other man?

"I had meant to speak with you about today's incident," the ex-Slytherin mused as his dark gaze trailed over her form before focusing on her fair features once more. "As…unfortunate as it was for Miss. Mulciber to be hurt –"

Her attention was called by the tone of his voice and the realization that he was speaking to her. Fern kept an unassuming expression on her porcelain features as she stepped away from the shadows of the wall and closer to the man...or was he still a boy with only those two years more than her? She smoothed out the material of her sweater, dusting off her shoulders in the process. All the while she maintained an air of indifference to her surroundings and the man speaking to her. There it was again - that calculating and appraising of her as if she were furniture. It was the change of tone in his voice that forced her to meet his gaze.

"That kind of an injury couldn't possibly have come from someone without talent." There was an underlying note of approval in his voice as he situated himself completely in her way. "Quite the contrary, in fact. You see, I am looking forward to seeing both good and great things from you."

There was a silence that permeated the air as they sized one another up; gold irises meeting a deep forest green. For whatever it was he had it in his mind to say, it became blaringly obvious that an open corridor wasn't the place to do it.

"Well – I can't be soaking up all of your time with a useless chat, can I, Mildred?" He inclined his head, unsmiling; his voice remained ever so smooth, so polished by his equanimity.

The witch pursed her lips, allowing her gaze to travel over the professor at her own leisure. Yes, there was indeed something to be said about Defense Against the Dark Arts these days, but it had nothing to do with the class and everything to do with the professor. Fern's curiosity was effectively piqued, and the version of herself she kept so well hidden was thirsty for the knowledge of what he could possibly be up to. While she did not like feeling like an item up for auction, it went without saying that the notion that he found her interesting was something to ponder over. She realized that it was pertinent that she say something in reply, but what?

Fern was a girl that measured her words carefully and gave them both the thought and meaning that they deserved. She was not intimidated by this figure before her, nor did she particularly care about the baser complacency of his phrases. It was something that a teacher would easily say to a student, but underneath they both knew it was more. The blonde wished to make it clear that she could see past this little farce and that she was not intimidated by him the least. Unlike Mildred who had been too quick to run, Fern was determined to stand on her own two feet.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't chat uselessly, sir." As it was on the rare occasions that she spoke, her words were both clear and exceedingly eloquent. "As it's obviously not just my time that you're wasting, but your own as well.

A glimmer of amusement flickered behind his gaze but was lost just as quickly as the blonde took note of it. Slowly, his eyes trailed towards the pendant on her chest – halting there as if trying to force the object to reveal its secrets.

"A curious response," he parried – eyes remaining on the pendant, "to what was nothing more than a well-intended cordiality and an equally well-intended compliment for a noticeably gifted student."

She gripped the thin chain of her necklace protectively, fixing it back underneath the collar of her oxford where Irene had unearthed it. Once everything was in its proper place she affixed her coppery gaze on her professor. The obvious thing to do would be to thank him for 'saving her', but Fern was under the impression that even a small child could have handled the Mulciber witch. Instead she titled her head to the side ever so slightly and spoke of the one thing she had noticed since the first day of class:

"Your ring is missing, Professor."

And then, she smiled. It was perhaps one of the most impertinent actions she'd committed in a while, but as it had been said, she was not about to let herself be intimidated or placed on a lower level. Professor or not, Fern could not bring herself to find this man better than her. Let him know that she was as observant as he, and had been watching him for just as long. There was a certain satisfaction to the knowledge, actually.

"Now, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me." Her tone was casually curious, and the expression on her face betrayed nothing. "Unless you've something else to say, sir?"

He gave her a calculating glance; a curious expression gracing his pallid features for a mere moment before disappearing. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of feet scuffling against the stone floor.

"Perhaps later," he mused. His voice lost to the space left vacated by Mildred's retreating form. Watching her for a few lingering moments, Tom soon turned around absently caressing the spot on his finger where Gaunt's ring had once lingered.