The journey northward from England was the most beautiful voyage the twins had ever made. The snowy, mountainous Scottish countryside seemed, to them who had spent two hours travelling to King's Cross station that morning, and another half-hour wading through thick crowds to find Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, the world as it should be. The onset of a light rain in the afternoon imbued their compartment with a warm and intimate atmosphere. When the sun began to set, an authoritative voice resounded through the train beckoning all to change into their Hogwarts robes; the twins helped each other dress, as they always did. Only a few minutes later, the train stopped the authoritative voice instructed all enrolling first-years to disembark.

As they alighted from the train and braced the icy Scottish air, the twins found themselves in a humble railway station that was connected to a rustic town that, indicated by a corroding iron sign, was called 'Hogsmeade'. Flying overhead on his broomstick was a tall man who introduced himself as Ogg Gorsefoot, the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, who, apart from his polished Victorian top-hat and cigar that wafted blue smoke, was dressed like a hardy muggle farmer.

The first-years were poised to embark on a voyage across the lake, propelled by boats that boasted self-rowing oars. Tom, with his steely eyes fixed on one of these enchanted oars, seemed to be attempting to extract from it the secret of its magic. Then someone tapped Mary's shoulder; in turn inducing her to tap Tom's. Thus they found themselves in the company of a diminutive, dark-haired girl named Florence Travers, who introduced herself as the daughter of Torquil Travers, supposedly a wizard of considerable repute.

"I'm Mary Riddle," said Mary, offering her hand. "And this is my brother, Thomas."

"You are quite lovely, Merlin," beamed Travers, her pearly teeth gleaming in the muted light. Her voice was infused with a melodious intonation, like what Mary imagined a Victorian would sound like; a speech pattern Mary had often heard in Diagon Alley. "I didn't that that girls of muggle extraction could be so lovely."

"Who says we're of 'muggle extraction'?" Tom asked.

"Well, I haven't heard the name Riddle before, and the way you speak is muggle."

"And what is the fault in our manner of speaking?" said Tom, even more coldly, enunciating every word with meticulous care. Mary, however, covered her mouth to stifle laughter.

"There's no fault, per se," Travers said with a hint of amusement. "It's simply different. Quite different, one might say. But your sister does possess a rare charm. I've been to muggle London plenty of times and most of the girls aren't that pretty."

"Yes. My sister's the prettiest girl there is."

Though Travers' expression was but an outline in the dark, Tom discerned bemusement on it. As they sailed on, the natural surroundings of the lake came alive. Towering hills covered in gnarled trees were mixed with a sky brimming with stupendous, starry clouds of blue and purple, on the limpid reflective surface of the lake. Around a bend, the twins caught their first glimpse of Hogwarts, an architectural marvel that dwarfed even Gringotts and possessed the same grand and silent dignity as the snow-capped mountains that surrounded it. With its numerous windows shining like yellow fireflies against the sculpted stone, it was a sight that would forever remain ingrained in the memories of the twins.

As they followed Gorsefoot into the grand lobby of the castle, the first-years were left unattended. Their excited whispers echoed half-audibly off the castle's ancient walls. After a brief wait, an old but formidable witch in purple robes appeared to explain the Sorting Ceremony to them. The iron-framed doors of the Great Hall groaned and grinded open, and the first-years were met with the collective gaze of the older students, as they timidly looked ahead at an old hat on the stool, which suddenly sprang to life and spoke.

"Solace shall you here at Hogwarts find,

Where knowledge grows with the sands of time.

Yet let not ease and care soften your mind,

Or there'll come a time when time's clock will chime … "

So did the song go on for four like stanzas, cryptic and verbose perhaps as per the glimpses of a darker side of the world the twins had caught in Diagon Alley. The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again. The fierce old witch stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said.

"Abbott, Mirabel!"

A plump blonde girl scurried to the stool, slapped the hat on her head, and sat down. "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table on the right erupted with cheers as Mirabel scuttled to it.

"Avery, Banius!"

A plump boy with cropped dark hair approached. "SLYTHERIN!"

The table on the left gave a subdued applause.

"Black, Alphard!"

A handsome boy with dark locks, parted in the middle and brushed to his shoulders, went to the hat (in muggle London such a style was unseen among boys, or even non-eccentric men). His sorting took a while longer than both Abbot's and Avery's combined. "SLYTHERIN!"

He was welcomed with a much more raucous reception than Avery. Two more Blacks followed—Lucretia and Walburga—both of whom were sorted into Slytherin and greeted with the same exuberance as Alphard.

A slew of other students followed before the next Slytherin was inaugurated in the form of Oscar Montgomery. A pale, harassed-looking girl named Prudence Pettigrew followed him, before the twins were at last called to trial:

"Riddle, Mary!"

Tom relinquished his grasp on his sister's hand and watched her as she made her way to the Sorting Hat. While many of the other students were bashful or downright frightened, Mary approached with a skip in her step and her head held high. She perched herself on the stool and, with eyes as round as those of a hungry kitten tracking its quarry, surveyed the four tables before the hat fell and completely obscured her little head.

"My, my, what have we here?"

For a moment, terror seized Mary—the voice was coming from within her head. But she refused to let herself appear scared.

"Good evening, Hat. I am grateful that we can converse."

"My dear Mary Riddle," the Hat replied. "Your charms will not work on me. I am here to sort you, not to be swayed by your girlish attempts at bargaining."

The Hat's tone as it pronounced Mary's name caused her body to tremble with a chill. Its inflection was taunting, suggesting a knowledge of Mary's being that she did not possess herself.

"Very well. But surely we can come to an agreement?"

"What sort of agreement?"

"I want to be with my brother, Tom. Can you make that happen?"

"Fear not, dear girl. The two of you shall be together… and it is remarkable, truly remarkable, that I can see so much of him through you. His strength, his desires, and his love for you are all inside you… as visible as if he himself were within you."

"Can you truly discern all that within my mind?"

"Why of course, that's why I'm the Sorting Hat! And what a splendid mind you possess, indeed… You have finally arrived, returned, and reawakened."

"Returned? How so? Neither Tom nor I have ever been here before. Were our parents here?"

"It is not for me to answer such questions, girl. All will be revealed to you in due time."

"If you possess all-encompassing knowledge, then why not reveal the secrets now?"

"It is not my purpose to alter fate or divulge secrets, but to observe and categorise."

"Yet you have already divulged the secret that Tom and I shall be together; though that's not surprising—I suppose we shall always be together anyhow."

"Ah, but Mary Riddle, I am not so certain of that."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Until this moment, the two of you have lived in your own little world, protected by your magic. All you have known is Tom, and all he has known is you. But now, you are a part of our world, the magical world, a larger world where others exist. Your significance to each other will necessarily diminish, and the distance between you shall grow."

"The distance between us will grow? No, that cannot be. You said you would not alter fate!"

"But you will gain power once more! Magic flourishes with distance. A tree cannot grow without room to breathe, and Hogwarts will provide you with ample space. You and your brother will grow apart, but you will harmonise once again, like the waves of the ocean and the falling leaves of autumn. This is the price of power, the cost of destiny."

"What tosh, Hat! Tom and I've always been together! It's the only way we can grow!"

"Foolish girl! Impudent girl! You do not understand what you say! You will both become powerful, beyond your wildest dreams—but only after you separate. A tree can only have one trunk, and a human, only one heart. You must leave your cocoon and be reborn. History demands it. Do not fear, Mary Riddle, your soul will always be entwined your brother's, but the universe is vast and you will need room to blossom."

"But none of that means nothing without my brother!"

"Words that you will come to understand one day. But for now—"

"—SLYTHERIN!"

For a moment, pure silence reigned in the hall. Mary's sorting had gone for far longer than any of her predecessors', and the spectators on the four tables had gone dull from waiting. But as she parsed this thought, the Slytherin table applauded. Benumbed by the Hat's cryptic words, Mary automatically went to the table of her new house.

"Riddle, Thomas!"

Tom jolted from his thoughts and approached the stool, his eyes finding Mary sitting at the Slytherin table. When the Hat lifted from her head it disclosed her pretty little visage full of consternation—consternation that at once came onto his face as well—for Mary had walked to her sorting with such confidence. What could have caused such a swift change in so short a time? Did the Hat tell her they would not be in the same house? But just as Tom was about to swear to himself that he would set the Hat on fire if it put him anywhere but Slytherin, it dropped on his head, and he saw black. A hoarse voice spoke in his head.

"Ha! Oh, how proud he would be to see you here."

"He? Who?"

"SLYTHERIN!"

No more than a few seconds after it was obscured, Tom's vision was restored with the removal of the Hat from his head, and applause serenaded him as he went to sit by Mary, whose face was still suspended in inexplicable unease. For the rest of the ceremony, the twins sat together in tense, impatient silence for the first time in their lives. Their hands covertly joined under the table.

At the conclusion of the Sorting, the Headmaster, a man three hundred years of age whose longevity did not befit him, tapped his glass to call the Hall's attention. Customary announcements were made, and culminated in a remarkable declaration: "Let the feast begin!"

This proclamation must have been a spell, for on the four tables appeared out of thin air golden platters of every kind of food, savoury and sweet, hot and cold, simple and sophisticated, that anyone, let alone a pair of London orphans, could possibly have desired.

The restraint most of the students exercised before the feast was, to Mary and Tom who were accustomed to the desperate gluttony of orphans, incredible. They ate with a leisurely pace and held their heads aloft, employing silverware rather than their own fingers. Yet, even amongst the other first-year Slytherins, manners were somewhat varied. Across from Tom sat Oscar Montgomery, a boy with a broad visage and a mischievous gleam in his eyes. He revelled in the act of eating and speaking at the same time.

"You eat like a muggle Scotsman, Monty," sneered a fellow first-year, William Wilkes, whose pallid complexion and wispy blond locks contrasted with Montgomery's robust frame and boisterous demeanour.

"I eat how I want, Wilkes, but listen up—the Sorting Hat said I'm nothing like my brother," declared Montgomery, as if this was something worth boasting about, while bits of chicken flying out of his mouth.

"That's because you're nothing at all," replied Walburga Black with a voice as polished as her table manners.

"George was once a first-year as well, you know."

"Then you're just like him," retorted Black.

"But he was a Gryffindor!" Montgomery declared emphatically.

"Oh, Montgomery, do take pride in your family," drawled Black. "The Hat said I'm like my grandmother Violetta, the Head Girl of 1873."

"Sorry we're not all as fancy as a Black," muttered Montgomery bitterly.

"The Sorting Hat says a lot of rubbish," interjected Florence Travers with a toothy smile. "You shouldn't let it get in your head."

"Rubbish? How dare you!" exclaimed Walburga. "The Sorting Hat is never wrong."

"Except when it sorted you into Slytherin," quipped Montgomery, eliciting a chuckle from Wilkes.

But for the rest of dinner, the odious hat was very much in Mary's head. She ruminated upon its prophecy of distance between Tom and herself and wondered if it had deliberately struck a wedge between them. For why would it take such delight in taunting her with its dark foretelling, only to spend so brief a time upon Tom's head? None of the other students seemed to share her unease—they spoke casually of their upcoming classes, as if they had known of Hogwarts all their lives. Perhaps some of them had.

Tom, ever attuned to his sister's moods, noted her distress and decided she needed soothing. They found themselves alone in the common room, after their peers had retired to their dormitories.

"My dear sister," Tom spoke softly, his hand reaching out to comfort her. "What troubles you?"

Mary looked up at him, fear etched in her features. "The Sorting Hat said we'll be separated," she said, holding onto his hand tightly.

"Foolishness," Tom shook his head, his fingers tracing circles on her palm. "That battered old hat doesn't know anything. It sorted us into the same house, didn't it? We'll be together."

"But what if it spoke true?" Mary persisted. "Every night we'll be sleeping in different rooms, in different beds. I can't remember the last time we slept apart."

"It's just sleep," Tom reassured her, though his voice had grown quiet. "What else did the Hat say?"

"It spoke of our 'return'," Mary replied hesitantly. "I don't quite understand."

Tom's eyes gleamed with excitement, his hand moving to cup her cheek. "It means that we are part of a lineage, my dear sister. The Hat told me he would be proud. He must be one of our ancestors, a very powerful wizard. And we are to him, like Christ was to Abraham."

"But it couldn't be Father," Mary reasoned. "None of the others knew no Riddles."

"No," Tom agreed. "But it means we're superior to all of them."

As footsteps and voices drew near, heralding the arrival of the older students, Tom said, "We ought to kip. It's just one scant night—we'll reunite on the morrow."

"Tom!" Mary cried out. "Promise me we won't be separated."

For a moment, Tom was silent, and Mary felt very cold, for everything suddenly seemed possible. But then he gave a dismissive chuckle and leaned in to place a firm kiss on her forehead.

"Don't be foolish, sister. We will always be together. Goodnight."

As Tom left her for the first time in her life, Mary felt a strange sense of detachment settle upon her like a heavy fog. The dreaded moment had come and gone, leaving her with a newfound emptiness that seemed to fill her up entirely. She managed to keep her tears at bay, refusing to show any signs of weakness before the other girls.

"Mary Riddle. There you are, finally," cried Florence Travers, draping an arm around Mary's shoulder. "What took you so long? Come, take the bed next to mine."

The Slytherin Girls' Dormitory was reminiscent of the drawing rooms of the old Kensington homes that Tom and Mary had so often explored with mischievous intent on their Sunday excursions, when their proprietors were at church, or each adulterating elsewhere. It was a place of shadows, spacious and extravagantly furnished.

"I was chatting with Tom," Mary murmured as she surveyed her new quarters. Although it was grand and richly appointed, she felt ill, for she had never performed a task without Tom's assistance, be it tidying her room, changing her clothes, or arranging her belongings. "This one?"

Before her was a bed draped in a grandiose, velvety green blanket, twice the size of the one in her chamber at Wool's Orphanage. She felt a stir of indignation, for what reason could there be for denying her and Tom the right to share such an absurdly large bed? It would have been so comfortable.

"That very one," confirmed Florence, haphazardly unloading the contents of her trunk, an array of garments, each more vibrant than the last, into a wardrobe. "Dear me, you don't seem well. Do you miss the orphanage?"

"Not at all," Mary lied, a little too easily. "I'm just not used to such fancy suppers like the one we just had."

"I see," said Florence, her gaze piercing through Mary's façade. "I don't miss home in the least. My mother passed when I was young, and I rarely see father."

Mary paused for a moment. She was unsure what she was supposed to say—it was rare she had to console Tom, whose sufferings had always been entwined with hers (and she found she did not particularly care about Florence's late mother). Nonetheless it took her only a few seconds to recall conversations she had overheard in London to know that she had to console the other girl.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be," Florence replied with a smirk. "I've been looking forward to this for years."

It soon became clear that among the girls, Florence was the most content with her lot. Though she considered herself to have the saddest of circumstances, Mary realised that she was not even the most unhappy in the room. As she sorted through her belongings, she heard Lucretia Black begin to sob.

"What's the matter, Lucy?" asked Walburga with a sigh.

"I miss father and mother," Lucretia cried as she blew her nose loudly into a handkerchief. "Who'll say goodnight to me now?"

"Your mother and father are wishing you goodnight in this very moment, from afar," spoke Walburga with a composed air. "We'll write them on the morrow to assure them of your wellbeing. Oh stop crying! We'll see them again come Yuletide!"

"Alas, Yule will be for but two weeks," Florence interjected with a mischievous smile. "Before you know it, they'll have passed and you'll be back here with us. Dearest Lucy, you'll have to hold your broomstick tighter than that."

With her arms encircling her feeble cousin, Walburga Black cast a stern gaze towards Florence. "It's not uncommon to feel homesick on one's first night at Hogwarts. Were your father to spend more time at home, Travers, you too might miss him as much as we miss ours."

"My father has important matters to attend to," Florence said with a smile, though her sharp tone betrayed that the other girl had gotten under her skin. "Unlike your daddy Pollux, who seems to do little else but kiss the Minister's arse."

"My father is held in highest esteem by all who know him. An esteem that far surpasses that of Torquil Travers," said Walburga, smiling back, though her tone had also become sharper.

"Es-teem," Florence sneered. "I suppose your daddy took the time to teach you such big words?"

Mary watched the argument between the two witches with fascination; it was a much more gracious quarrel than anything she had witnessed at Wool's. She felt herself inclined to take the side of Florence; but the knowledge that Walburga Black was a witch like herself gave her pause—she had a feeling that intimidating a fellow witch would be no easy feat.

Fair-haired Lucretia bravely stepped between the two formidable brunette witches. "Stop bickering! Both of you! How are we to live together for seven years if we can't even get through the first night without tearing each other apart? Please, let us comport ourselves as purebloods."

"I can be civil to anyone," sneered Florence. "I'm sure your cousin Walburga is well-bred enough to do the same."

Though Mary doubted Florence's proposition, Florence proved amicable enough towards her. Florence demonstrated the operation of the three bathtub fixtures, which Mary found extravagantly excessive for a mere five occupants. Nevertheless, she appreciated the decadent indulgence of the hot water and the comfortable shape of the bathtub, which provided her with immense pleasure. She was unsure she would ever be able to bath in Abney park again. Yet though she relished it all with sighs of pleasure, her contentment was not absolute. Mary wanted to bath with Tom, not Florence, and her resentment towards Hogwarts' policy of gender segregation flared up once again. Mary contemplated voicing her frustration to Florence, to find some solace in shared indignation, but she hesitated, realising that even in the magical world, it was likely abnormal for siblings to be so close.

Nonetheless Mary appreciated Florence; especially after the latter showed her a few tricks with her wand, on how to curl and straighten one's hair, and moisturise one's face. Mary was in awe; she beheld herself before a mirror and discovered she was more beautiful than she had ever been in her life. However, a pang of indignation arose within her as she realised that Tom was not present to witness her transformation. Yet, this feeling soon dissipated as she remembered that he would see her the following morning. The two girls then engaged in a leisurely conversation, draped in bathrobes and perched upon the edge of the bathtub. Florence explained to Mary that the cosmetic magic she had hitherto demonstrated was the tip of an iceberg, that there existed a vast world of potions, charms, and rituals that could enhance the beauty of witches.

By the time the two girls left the bathroom, the grandfather clock by the dormitory door indicated it was several minutes past ten. The Black cousins were already fast asleep, with curtains drawn around their beds and candle-lamps extinguished. Florence, noting that Mary's muggle pyjamas were too large for her, loaned her a set of magical pyjamas, which were enchanted to maintain the perfect temperature for the wearer.

"Good night, Mary," Florence yawned. "May your dreams be sweet. I have a feeling that we shall become dear friends."

"Good night to you too, Florence," Mary replied. "Yes, I believe we shall."

But her new friend's solicitude was not enough to put Mary to sleep. Tom was not beside her.

She tossed and turned, trying to distract herself with thoughts of all that she saw and learned in the past day. She pulled her pillow from beneath her head and hugged it, trying to alchemise its softness into Tom's softness, to no avail. She continued to toss and turn, toss and turn. Soon, the grandfather clock struck eleven. Rather than growing more tired, Mary discovered that she was becoming more restless. Surely, Tom felt the same as her. Surely he needed her, as she needed him, as a parched throat needed water. Surely, surely, if she went to the common room, he would be there, waiting for her.

She got up, and, not even bothering to change out of Florence's violet pyjamas, left the dormitory.

It was dark and quiet in the common room. All the gas-lamps were out; there remained only a few small splotches of light, from no more than a dozen candles and two dim fireplaces. A small handful of older students convened around these feeble lights; some of them late-night studiers, others players of strange board games. None were Tom. Perhaps he would come soon. Surely he would.

As she awaited him, Mary wandered around the room, going from one older student to the next, not to talk to them, but to feel the passive emanation of their magic. Here, at least, she did not feel so desolate; here, she could occupy her mind by observing the various objects in the room as she ambled about. Perhaps she would remain until dawn, if Tom never made his appearance.

"Mary Riddle." Someone clicked their fingers. "What keeps you up at this hour?"

Mary turned, and her gaze met with a very handsome, half-silhouetted male figure. A tall and slender boy, four or five years Mary's senior, with hair coiffed with meticulous care, reclined in an armchair. Facing him, also seated in an armchair facing his, was a shorter boy of his age, whose tresses were not as perfectly arranged but longer than his friend's. A chessboard hovered between them, its pieces signifying a game well underway. Mary examined it for a moment to try and infer who was winning; but she had only ever played chess with Tom twice. The only source of light was a small fireplace chiseled into the wall.

Then she turned to the boy and quietly asked, "How do you know my name?"

"You caught my eye during the Sorting Ceremony," the tall, handsome figure replied with a relaxed air. "Won't you join us? Wingardium Leviosa!"

With a flick of his wand, a chair drifted towards Mary, and settled in the space perpendicular to the opposing boys. Though she was amazed by such a casual display of powerful magic—the largest object she and Tom had ever levitated was perhaps a broken lamp, or Billy Stubbs' rabbit—Mary refused to sit down.

"And who are you?"

"If you were aware of whom you are addressing, girl," the shorter boy spoke with a chilly voice, "you would not dare speak in such a manner."

"Nonsense, Osborne," the taller boy interjected, his smile easy and pleasant. "She cannot be expected to know who we are. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Arcanius Fawley, and this is my companion, Osborne Urquart. We are fourth years at your service."

Urquart snorted. "Do you really believe a mud… muggleborn, would understand the significance of our names?"

"She is but a young, restless girl," said Fawley, in a gentle tone. "Do tell, Mary, why can't you sleep? Do you miss your home? Your family?"

Mary surveyed the two boys with a critical eye, and then sat down.

"I haven't a family to miss," she murmured. "I'm an orphan."

"Oh, how tragic! I can't imagine being without mine," exclaimed Fawley, seemingly with genuine sympathy, albeit his voice remained composed.

When Mary and Tom stole from stores or warehouses in London, they sometimes deployed a particular method. Mary would, pretending to be bereft and sad, talk to the clerk or the owner and stir them to pity by recounting her orphanly woes. She knew she was very pretty; she knew too that she was very thin and pale. Grown-ups wanted to prove their goodness; they would give her some food or a halfpenny piece, and often tell her to return if she ever wanted more of their scraps. Some unsavoury men wanted something more from her; something she could not understand, something which they wanted so desperately that she knew she ought not give it to them. Yet she captivated all of them through her dramatisation of her pitiful life—and while they were enthralled by her—Tom robbed them.

It was thus that she spoke to Fawley.

While they talked, the two boys played chess. Fawley explained the abilities of each piece (Mary feigned ignorance), and the rare occasions in which they deviated from their muggle analogues (these qualities were genuinely intriguing—bishops were supposedly, at times, capable of 'transfiguring' the horses of knights into unicorns and thereby empower them—and when Mary asked what transfiguration was, Fawley merely laughed and told her she would soon find out).

"How lovely they move," Mary observed sweetly as she watched a queen cleave a rook in half.

Soon, Mary's innocent commentary began to take hold even on the staid Urquart. "Might it be possible, Riddle," he said, "that you are not a mudblood, if you are unaware of your parentage?"

Fawley interjected with a gentle reprimand, "Do excuse Osborne's vulgarity. He holds some rather strong views on certain… issues. Regardless, my dear Mary, it would be best for you to retire for the night. You wouldn't want to begin your first day at Hogwarts all drowsy now, would you?"

But Mary, ever curious, protested, "But you haven't said a word about yourself."

Urquart asked, "Have you heard of the Minister for Magic?"

Mary's eyes widened with recognition. "Is he an acquaintance of Arcanius?"

Fawley graced her with a gentle smile. "You could say that. He is my father."


Breakfast at Hogwarts was a sumptuous affair. Arrayed on the four long tables were platters of toast, pots of porridge, trays of bacon, plates of scrambled, boiled, and fried eggs, jugs of every kind of fruit juice, and sweet pastries. But Tom's plate was empty, and his cutlery, untouched.

William Wilkes, in a tone that was somehow concerned yet clearly mocking, said, "Eat up, Riddle, you'll need your strength today."

Tom's gaze was fixed upon the gates of the great hall. He refused to eat anything until Mary came in; he had never been separated from her for so long in his life. Though he knew he would eventually grow accustomed to her nightly absence, an inexplicable anger welled in him; on what basis had Hogwarts to separate brothers and sisters from sharing a bed? And who was William Wilkes to tell him what and what not to do? But Tom was broken out of his thoughts by Mary's entrance. Surrounded by her fellow first-year classmates, she appeared as a swan amongst pigeons. The fact of his sister's beauty often eluded Tom who was so accustomed to her constant company; but estrangement and contrast exalted her. She took her seat beside Tom, and he took her hand under the table.

"Tom... good morrow."

"Good morrow, Mary. You look... bereft of sleep."

"I slept but a few short hours. I went to the common room around ten or eleven, anticipating to find you."

"Why should I have been there?"

"You can't sleep without me," Mary stated matter-of-factly.

Tom lowered his voice and whispered, "Don't talk about that here."

As Mary contentedly piled toast and bacon on her plate, a dark intensity came upon Tom. Her eyes flashed with delight at a glass pitcher of orange juice with fresh pulp in it. Tom had never been able to provide for Mary in the way that Hogwarts did; but he would in the future. He would do better. He had to.

They were a group of five at the table: two girls and three boys. Mary was joined by the garrulous Florence Travers, and Tom, by William Wilkes and Banius Avery; two rather simpleminded fellows, Tom gained their respect the previous night when the former made fun of his 'muggle voice', then challenged him to a duel and lost. Indeed, William Wilkes, a scrawny boy with stringy blonde hair, a freckly lizard-like face, and small, judgemental blue eyes that only ever dilated in tandem with abrasive smirks, was as short-tempered as he was aggressive and sarcastic. He was, in his own words, 'a pureblood root and stem', though he appeared interested in magic only when it enabled him to hurt others. Banius Avery, though larger, stronger, and in possession of a much deeper voice than Wilkes, was of a much more inhibited and contemplative disposition, like a herbivorous gorilla. Indeed, Wilkes treated Avery—though the two were apparently friends—not much better than one treats a big, harmless animal.

"Baney Avy!" he shouted, affecting the voice of a simpleton. "Avy here for bak-fast! Avy hungry!"

"Shut up, Bill." Avery responded to everything his smaller friend said in the same undisturbed monotone.

In their first lesson of Transfiguration with Professor Dumbledore, the first-year Slytherins were to turn matchsticks into needles. Tom and Mary looked at each other with amusement; they had done much more difficult transfigurations without their wands, indeed before they were even aware of the wand's existence. Not everyone, however, was as able as they were.

"Avery," Tom gently tapped his roommate's shoulder. "Imagine a needle of steel. See its sheen, shiny like a penny. Consider its tip, sharpwise to prickle flesh, but requiring care. Now put all these qualities in your head at once."

With Tom's aid, Avery was soon able to transform his matchstick into a needle.

In Potions, Professor Slughorn instructed the students to form pairs. A strapping Gryffindor boy approached the twins, exuding an air of self-assurance.

"Good day, Mary," he said, his eyes twinkling so brightly that Tom wondered if he had applied a spell to them. "I am Tiberius McLaggen. I daresay you and I should make a formidable pairing. I've played with potion sets since I was six."

Florence Travers interposed herself between Mary and McLaggen. With a subtle smirk, she said in a low voice, "Mary has already partnered with her brother. You should try your luck with someone else, like a troll."

"Take that back, Travers," McLaggen hissed, his hand hovering near his wand.

"Don't pay her any heed, Tiberius," Mary interjected, positioning herself in front of Florence. "She is spirited towards everyone. But I must apologise too, you see. Tom shall be my partner. We do everything together."

McLaggen cast her a quizzical look, then averted his eyes and strode off.

Potions proved to be a challenge unlike any the twins had encountered. While they had a certain familiarity with charms and transfiguration, the complexities of mixing ingredients and timing reactions proved to be an entirely new world for them. Yet their recognition of their ignorance only served to heighten their attention to this subject.

"Why were you so kind to McLaggen?" asked Tom, his nose wrinkling as he opened a jar containing live horned slugs.

"We've established it's important to keep the professors content," Mary replied softly, her voice laced with a hint of deference. "But it's equally important to maintain the goodwill of our fellow students."

"Our 'fellow students' are of no consequence, especially those not in Slytherin," Tom retorted, his tone dismissive. "Few are even comparable with us, magically. I duelled with Wilkes last night and emerged victorious in mere seconds."

Mary offered a demure smile. "I met the Minister for Magic's son last night, a fourth-year in our house called Arcanius Fawley. He may be of some consequence."

Tom nearly crushed the hapless slugs in his grip. "The Minister's son?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing with disbelief.

"Yes, and he took a liking to me," Mary replied, her tone light and unconcerned. "He spoke to me like a brother. If you're interested in meeting him, I can arrange an introduction tonight."

Tom paused for a moment, staring intently at one of these wriggling little invertebrates in his hand. "No, it is better if he only sees you. But be careful, make sure he does not attempt anything untoward."

The class ended with Professor Slughorn awarding the twins thirty points for their potion, which he praised as "a medical-grade cure for boils! And procured by a pair of first-years in their first class at that!"

Indeed, very soon and quite easily, the twins made a name for themselves. Every professor grew in awe of them. It was 'astounding' that 'muggleborn orphans' were capable of magic otherwise 'troubling even for OWL students'. Some, upon beholding the twins' magic, developed the conviction that they were magical geniuses; yet it seemed that the twentieth century was a time particularly ripe with magical genii—they were sowing chaos all across the world.