Chapter Four: I've Never Felt So Little

Lucius had taken the bed by the window, but he did everything in his power to show that he was not happy with it. He was still up when the young Mr. Filch escorted Tom and Quirrell back to the Slytherin dormitories, though he didn't seem to be doing anything besides watching the door. Lucius wasn't reading or anything that would keep him up. No, he had stayed up with the light on so Tom could see how displeased he was.

Tom noticed but didn't care. So what if Lucius didn't like him? Most people didn't like Tom.

"And where have you two been at such a late hour?" Lucius asked, not even trying to hush his voice.

The care slipped off Tom's face, leaving it smooth and hard as a stone. He set to work pulling back the sheets.

Lucius turned up his lip and angled his icy glare towards little Quirrell, who was trying to get ready for bed as quickly as possible and avoid any more confrontation.

"What about you, Squirrel?" Lucius sneered. "What've you and Tom been doing then?"

"Nothing," sobbed Quirrell, who just wanted the night to be over. He struggled into his flannel pajamas and climbed into bed. "Leave us alone, Lucius," he complained into his pillow.

"Yes," said Tom, staring Lucius down as he crossed the room to turn out the light. "Just go to sleep." It would have had better effect if Tom actually knew how to turn out the light, but he didn't. Instead, he stood at the wall, trying not to look stupid as he fiddled with the magical switch until it went out almost a minute later.

Lucius didn't say anything. He had rolled over and Tom heard him dabbing his still-throbbing nose and wincing. Quirrell had rolled over as well, softly weeping.

Tom took off his robe but didn't want to dig for his nightshirt so he kicked off his shoes, took off his Slytherin-green tie and went to bed in his slacks, button-down shirt, and sweater vest. He completely engulfed himself in the blanket. Detention! What a rotten way to start the year.

Tom didn't know what he expected of Potion's Class, but it was not this; all of this looked too much like school. Like normal. Some things were still foreign—he had trouble just figuring out how to use a quill and inkwell—but the way people behaved in it seemed too normal. If a muggle were to walk into class, ignoring the cloaks and cauldrons, they would not think it was so great.

Then again, of course the students wouldn't look like the witches and wizards in his picture books. These were real, and they were still untrained: witches and wizards in only the most basic of forms.

That was the first thing Tom noticed about his classmates. The second thing was that there was truly a divide between wizard-born and muggle-born. Tom didn't know what it was, but he could easily pick out the first-years who had come from muggle families, as if mudbloods gave off an odor. Maybe it was their haircuts, or the way they spoke, or the way they walked; or maybe it was because they were a combination of stupid confidence and frightened confusion.

Looking down into his small cauldron of liquid, Tom stared at his reflection; his cheeks were too round, his lips too full, his eyelids too lazy. He had hoped that, somehow, being on the grounds of Hogwarts would magically transform him into a wizard, as if he would wake up on his first day of school tall and thin with bushy eyebrows, a beard, and spindly fingers, the type that all serious sorcerers possessed.

But it hadn't. He was still very much Tom. And he still looked like a muggle.

"Look sharp, Mr. Riddle," said Professor Slughorn, tapping on the table.

Tom sat back. "Sorry, sir," he said into his lap.

"Hm," Slughorn nodded, pondering whether to continue with Tom or to get on with the lesson. "Well, has anyone managed to make the starter for a Forgetfulness Potion yet?"

A hand went up across the room. "Yes, Miss Evans, let's see it."

Tom snuck a peek at his reflection again, then sat back to finish chopping his ingredients in disgust. He looked like a muggle, but truth was, he didn't know how to look like anything else.

"Quirrell, what's your family like?" asked Tom as they walked through the crowded hallway towards Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"My family?" repeated Quirrell. Tom nodded. "Well, Papa's a professor—not a magical one, a muggle one. And my mum writes novels. So, there's a lot of reading going on in the house, as you can imagine."

"Is that why you like libraries so much?" asked Tom.

"Probably," replied Quirrell. "Every summer since I can remember, we have gone as a family to museums all over wizarding England. Mostly the wizarding part. Papa always says he can't get enough of the wizarding world, so we don't visit muggle museums very often. Between you and me, I don't think he likes muggles much, even though he is one. But, uh, what about you?" asked Quirrell. "You said both your parents are magic-users?"

Tom's heart pounded and his face flushed. He concentrated his attention on folding and unfolding the strap on his bag. "W-well, I mean, I'm sure they are, because, b-because—"

"You don't know?" asked Quirrell, wide-eyed, trying and failing to be helpful.

"No, I mean, my-my mum died when I was born and my dad, he, well, I don't know where he is."

Quirrell was shocked. They stopped outside the doors of Defense Against the Dark Arts. "Did you take care of yourself, then? Your whole life?" he asked, enraptured. "Wait, how did you do that when you were just a baby? You couldn't have done that! Who took care of you?"

Tom hunched his shoulders and slowly shrunk into the wall as Quirrell talked. Tom didn't want to be discussing this. Why had he told Quirrell the truth? No one was supposed to ever know the truth!

"My, my, the riddle took care of himself his entire life?" Lucius approached, books in hand; Lucius was headed to Dark Arts but he always had time to embarrass other students. "How thick can you be, Squirrel? It's called an 'orphanage.' It's where muggles leave their young when they no longer want them." He barked a laugh and turned to Tom, smiling. "It appears calling you a mudblood last night was prophetic. Who knows? Maybe I'll be a diviner!"

Tom whipped out his wand and pointed it at Lucius. At first, Lucius looked worried, but then he smiled. "You're bluffing, Riddle. You don't know any spells. And your muggle caretakers wouldn't have taught you any."

Lucius was right but Tom wasn't going to let that stop him. "Quirrell, give me a spell."

"Um, well, there's Expelliarmus—"

"Expelliarmus!" shouted Tom, slashing his wand forward.

Light burst from his wand and threw Lucius backwards into the crowd of students. Excited, Tom smiled and pocketed his wand.

"Way to go, Tom!" Quirrell said, coming up and taking his hand. "That was incredible! You haven't even officially learned that spell yet! You cast it from just hearing it once!"

"And he'll never hear it again, if this keeps up."

Tom and Quirrell turned. The crowd had parted and approaching them was a very fed-up Mr. Filch.

"Tom."

"I didn't do anything—"

"Don't lie. And then there's you, Quirinus—"

"I'm so very sorry, Dumbledore, sir! I was only trying to help, and y-you should have heard the stuff Lucius Malfoy was saying, sir! He deserved it!"

Dumbledore looked past the boys, wistfully. "I feel like I have had this conversation before. In a dream, perhaps. Or maybe it was in a book."

Tom crossed his arms and slumped into his chair, scowling. He was getting tired of being in trouble. Hogwarts had so many rules, it was a miracle the students made any progress. On top of that, serious things were happening and Dumbledore was treating them like a joke.

"This is a school for learning magic, isn't it?" Tom demanded. "Why can't I use it?"

"You were using it to hurt another student," explained Dumbledore.

"He has been hurting me from the moment we met—"

"And he will be punished for it." Dumbledore sighed. "But we have been over this: both of you. A good wizard never uses violence as a first response. You cannot use magic to get revenge—"

"It has worked well so far," insisted Tom. He was not interested in playing games. He had a righteous indignation in his gut and he would not allow it to go unaddressed.

Dumbledore gazed at Tom for a few silent seconds. Then he looked at Quirrell.

"Quirinus, consider your detention extended by three days. Now get yourself back to class. I would like to speak privately with Mr. Riddle."

Quirrell glanced at Tom briefly before he nodded and quietly left Dumbledore's office; Tom's eyes followed Quirrell until the door fell into place behind him.

Dumbledore sighed and pulled open the front drawer of his desk. He motioned to the wooden chair off to the side of the room. "Have a seat, Tom."

Tom walked slowly to the chair and sat down.

"Bring the chair closer, if you please," clarified Dumbledore evenly.

Dragging the chair slowly towards the desk, Tom analyzed Dumbledore's tone. He didn't sound angry anymore, but he must be. No one calmed down that quickly. When Tom sat in the chair, Dumbledore leaned over his desk.

"Candy, Tom?" he asked. Hesitating, Tom took the round, hard sweet and slowly unwrapped it. As angry as Dumbledore likely was, he still wouldn't poison a student. The candy tasted something like butterscotch.

Dumbledore sat back and stared at Tom with such intent, he felt like the wizard's gaze fell on him like a physical blanket. Tom scratched his arm and looked away uncomfortably.

"What's on your mind, Tom?" Dumbledore asked softly. "What is bothering you?"

Everything and nothing, Tom didn't say. True, Lucius had been bullying him, but Tom was used to being picked on and he had developed a thick skin. For some reason, Lucius' jabs hurt him more than all the years of abuse by the other boys at the orphanage. It made him angry, but he wasn't angry with Lucius, exactly; he was angry because Lucius was right. He was angry because he wanted to be a great wizard, but he was just a weak, dimwitted little boy, a muggle in all the meaningful areas, and Lucius constantly reminded him of that. He was angry because he was embarrassed.

"I can't say," Tom answered.

On Dumbledore's face was an expression of pity. He folded his hands and leaned closer. "You can trust me with anything. I had hoped that was clear by now."

"It isn't that," said Tom, struggling for words. "I just don't…I'm happy to be here, but I'm also…a little sad."

"Sadness is normal when leaving what has been your home for so many years," explained Dumbledore, happy to have gotten to the heart of the matter.

"Maybe, but I'm not really sad about leaving Wooley's. I hated it there. I hated the headmistress, the other children, everything." Tom sniffed in disdain. "I don't think I'll ever miss them."

"Then what has you feeling down?" asked Dumbledore.

"I don't know," replied Tom, making hand motions, trying and failing to get his point across. "I just…I feel…I'm just…" he let his hands fall back into his lap, where he stared at them. "I'm not good with words, sir. I don't know how to explain it."

Dumbledore nodded along to his own thoughts for a moment before he stood from his chair and walked to a bookshelf. Curious, Tom watched Dumbledore search the shelves for something. "Ah," said Dumbledore as he took a thin black book from the shelf. As he walked back to his desk, he brushed dust off the top of the pages.

"This is a diary I bought for myself long ago and never used," explained Dumbledore as he handed the diary to Tom. Tom ran his hand over the stiff, leather cover. "I have a feeling it would find a better home with you."

Tom flipped through the blank pages. "Is it magical?" he asked.

"Not in the way you mean," answered Dumbledore. "It is, in all respects, identical to a muggle diary. But there is some enchantment in writing down your feelings. Sometimes the thoughts you can't express verbally come out more smoothly in ink."

"You want me to keep a journal?" asked Tom, confused. This sounded like a cheap way to assign extra homework.

"I do," replied Dumbledore. "This exercise is for your own benefit, and I will not check up on you. It isn't an assignment. I want you to write something in your journal at least twice a week. It can be a word, or twenty pages. Just so long as you begin to get some of what's in your head down on paper."

"There isn't anything in my head," said Tom.

"Now Tom, we both know that isn't true," chided Dumbledore. "No one is going to be reading this but you, so you can write whatever you like, in as bad of grammar as you wish. So long as you get something down."

Tom turned the diary over in his hands. "And what will this prove?" he asked.

"Prove?" Dumbledore put a hand to his chest. "My dear boy, it isn't designed to prove anything. But if I can be transparent with you, you and I both know you have a great deal of hurt stuffed into that chest of yours. A person cannot keep so much hurt inside them forever. It will come out in unexpected and unwelcome ways unless it is given a constructive outlet. I suspect your row with Malfoy is some of that."

Temper flaring, Tom sat forward. "Lucius started it—"

With a lift of his hand, Dumbledore cut him off. "Write them down, Tom, all your frustrations, and let me deal with discipline. I want you to practice letting those feelings out on paper rather than in brawls. Can you promise me you will try?"

Tom pensively bent some of the pages. "I'll try," he conceded.

Dumbledore smiled and reclined in his chair. "Good," he said like a breath. "Good. You are a special boy, a magic boy, who grew up with people who thought your talent was evil. But you're here now, Tom. You don't need to be on your guard, living like a cornered animal. You don't need to hurt people anymore. You're better than that."

Tom swallowed and nodded at the journal, bending more pages. Dumbledore guided Tom towards the door, a friendly hand on his back: that made six times. "I'm going to add one week to your detention for fighting, and that is all we will say about the matter." He opened the door. "I trust I won't see you here again for the same kind of visit?"

"You won't, Professor," said Tom, slipping the diary into his schoolbag. "I promise."

Dumbledore smiled. "Good. Now if you hurry, you may still catch the end of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

A/N: Quirrell! Stop helping Tom!

Also, I did some research on Quirrell. Apparently, I was right in casting him as a half blood (go me), but canonically, he was in Ravenclaw. Hm. Oh well. Just another thing I'm stretching to make this story work. He is highly ambitious, though, so it might have been a toss up.