London was a potions classroom in the shape of a city. When it was not cold, dark, and damp, it was certain to be hot and suffocatingly humid; and when it was hot and humid, fog and smog engulfed everything and everyone. One always felt dirty at potions. Cauldron vapours soiled your face and mangled your hair. The stuffiness of the classroom inevitably made you sweat like a pig inside your robes. Were it not for the availability of showering immediately afterwards, Tom would not have tolerated potions. But as he and Mary were accustomed to the luxurious magical bathtubs of the Slytherin dormitories, the prospect of those decrepit, colourless little cubicles they called 'showers' at Wool's Orphanage was not an inviting one.

Nonetheless Tom and Mary had come to a realisation that they could not endure going without the ritual of bathing for more longer than a week. So it was that they found themselves returning to Abney Park Cemetery, where they had frequently wandered a mere year prior. Mary, once so much shorter and childlike, had grown in both height and demeanour. Her voice now carried a hint—occasionally an overt abundance—of resentment that her prepubescent self never had. Over half of her complaints were related to Tom's dobbing on Florence to Ilaria, and all that came of it. Tom knew arguing would be futile.

Amidst the graves, the twins performed their ablutions with buckets of conjured water and soap. "You're grow so quickly," Tom whispered once, tracing a finger along Mary's curving waist. "And you're growing too bald," said Mary, swatting his hand. "Wash my hair with Florence's oil. Gently, Tom, it feels like you're hexing my head!" Gone were the days when Mary allowed Tom to wash her hair with soap-water. Having lived among other girls, she knew how to beautify herself properly—and Tom conceded this made her even lovelier to look at—though she had always been vain.

But he, too, was vain. What the muggle priest called vanity, was in fact dignity. It was nothing more than a case of sour grapes that the magicless race scorned that which they could not attain. As Tom tousled his vain sister's hair with his vain hands, his eyes scrambled over their vicinity. Perhaps there was a muggle lecher watching them from somewhere, ogling Mary's tender physique—come out, thought Tom, see what she will do to you. See what I will do to you. Magic employed for the purpose of self-defense in the presence of muggles was permitted under Clause 9A of The Statute of Secrecy.

No lecher ever came. The twins were left undisturbed for the rest of their summer. The other orphans at Wool's left them alone out of fear, and they left the others alone out of disgust. Altogether they did very little, as they were not permitted to do magic outside of Hogwarts. For the first time of their lives, the twins spent a week, then a month, then the entirety of summer in London without committing a single crime.


As Tom took his seat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, he was embraced by the warm glow of torchlight and the sight of familiar faces after two long months in the squalor of London's streets. Hogwarts was his home, infinitely more so than Wool's Orphanage, and it would only become dearer to him as he grew in power and prestige. Yet, amidst the familiar golden plates and goblets, there was an unusual addition to the Great Hall—a rolled-up newspaper by the side of each goblet, on every table.

The sight of it was bizarre. Many of the older students who had arrived before Tom quietly read the paper. He had never seen so many people reading newsprint simultaneously. The eerie manner in which they read—some were utterly quiet, others furiously whispered—suggested something serious had transpired.

Tom unfurled his copy of the paper.

BRITAIN AND FRANCE DECLARE WAR ON GERMANY

Headquarters of the Danzig High Mages' Council overrun—Grindelwald forces Duke Wodnik to surrender IN PERSON

Tom blinked. Should he have felt fear? Sickness? Perhaps even excitement? None of these transpired in him—rather, it seemed that what was inevitable and implicit had finally become real. Tom felt nothing.

Beneath the Daily Prophet Headline was a moving black-and-white photo of Grindelwald himself, doing precisely what the subheading described.

The photo was like a scene from a picture. It began with a close-up shot of a stone wall. Like a small sheet of plaster getting smashed by a large hammer, the wall exploded, revealing a man with a raised wand, whose face was so impassioned it did not look human—Gellert Grindelwald. Even Bassenthwaite hadn't looked so animated when Slytherin won the house cup last year; but nor was Bassenthwaite nearly as handsome as Grindelwald, and Tom observed that good looks made one appear more emotive than they really were—he knew this from his frequent observation of Mary.

Grindelwald's hair, a wild mane of golden curls, whipped about his head like the froth of a storm-tossed wave, while his eyes, filled an oddly boyish mischief, were reminiscent of a capricious child playing at being death. He was a magical Napoleon, who still remembered the warm afternoons of Corsica, now arrayed in the robes of the Grim Reaper. His coat, a simple blend of blue blazer and black robe, billowed about him like he stood upon a perilous cliff, braving the tempest of the northern sea. He haughtily sauntered up to the Duke—an old but upright looking man who, in any other setting, would have looked handsome and imperious with his long, dark hair and tailored robe—but in the face of Grindelwald was categorically the inferior wizard.

As Tom raised his head to examine Mary's response to the news, the huge front doors of the hall opened. Tom winced as its heavy hinges creaked and whined. Following this was a much quieter sound—the pit-a-pat of a dozen meek footsteps. The new first years. They came in, stopped, and the Sorting Hat broke out in song.

"It was nearly a thousand years ago,

When masons and wizards, from to and fro

Fashioned a castle midst barren snow,

Hogwarts was her name, protection was her aim …"

Tom supposed Sorting Hat was trying to assuage everyone, particularly the new students, in face of the news. He didn't need any assurance himself. The Great Hall burst into applause.

"When your name is called, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," declared Professor Merrythought, her voice ringing out with authority. "Let us begin. Alderton, Mortimer!"

A tall, dishevelled boy approached the stool, his dark hair tousled and his spectacles perched upon his nose. Tom briefly pondered whether these glasses might mark the boy for Ravenclaw, before the sorting hat confirmed his suspicion with a shout of "RAVENCLAW!"

And so the sorting continued. Antonia Cole was placed into Gryffindor, Lydia Cotterill into Slytherin, and so forth. Tom paid little heed to the proceedings, until Professor Merrythought called out, "Malfoy, Abraxas!"

A thin, blonde boy strode towards the stool, his hair tied back in a style that marked him as the scion of a pureblood family that valued tradition with a violence. Yet there was something in his pallor, the blank emptiness of his gaze, that recalled Tom to the marble statues that stood guard in Westminster. He did not quite look healthy.

The hat took its time in making its determination, and when it finally declared "SLYTHERIN!", the Slytherin table erupted in cheers. But Malfoy himself seemed little cheered by the announcement, making his way to the Slytherin table with the same blank expression he had worn when he approached the stool.

Septimus Weasley was the last to be sorted, quickly placed into Gryffindor. The headmaster, looking as cadaverous as ever, took to the podium.

"Greetings, esteemed members of Hogwarts, both old and new," proclaimed Professor Dippet in a voice that was raspy yet resolute. "You may have noticed the copies of The Daily Prophet, freshly printed just three hours prior, that have been placed beside your goblets. It is with a heavy yet resolute heart that I tell you that which is already enlisted in the pages of these papers—Minister Fawley has declared war on the Freimagier Confederation."

Murmurs rippled through the hall.

"Fear not, my dear students," the Headmaster continued on. "I assure you that Hogwarts remains steadfast in its security, and that Britain, in both her magical and mundane domains, will rise to defend itself against any malicious forces that may seek to do her harm. It is imperative that you stay apprised of current events, no matter how unpleasant they may be. Thus, every Sunday, you shall receive a new edition of The Daily Prophet as part of your education. But fear not; though we live in a time of tribulation, Hogwarts has faced tribulations before, and will face tribulations again. We British wizards are of Merlin's stock; we shall stand tall no matter what."

And with that, the feast began.

The Start and End-of-Term feasts were extravagant at Hogwarts, with an abundance of delicacies served simultaneously, as if conjured from the finest restaurants. Sophisticated French dishes, such as Bouillabaisse and Cassoulet, graced the tables alongside classic English pastries and hearty meat dishes.

"We've been royally had," exclaimed Antoine Rosier, an outspoken first-year with wild curly hair and olive skin. "Grindelwald talks a big game about muggles, but he's just another lover of mudbloods and creatures. Talks a big game about the muggle problem, but when it comes to his wand, he only points it at purebloods!"

Fourth-year Alexius Lestrange, his voice dripping with the sly confidence of an older Slytherin talking to a younger one, retorted, "How noble of you to champion the blood-traitors, lad. But not all purebloods are worthy of their blood. Some of us would let the muggles trample over every patch of this green earth, and then there are those of us who stand in their way. Should you not first cure your own dragonpox before tending to others?"

"Quite clever, Lestrange," pondered Amos Nott. "But if you had dragonpox, you wouldn't be able to help yourself, let alone others."

"Don't speak unless spoken to, Nott."

"Wodnik was a good leader in Danzig," continued Rosier. "All the wide-hats there were from good families. Yet among Grindelwald's closest confidants, we find that Schulz fellow—a mudblood—and what else? Some French bird and a Spanish centaur-chief."

"Isn't that 'French bird' one of your distant aunts, Rosier?"

"I wager he'll use the mudbloods and centaurs, then toss them out like a bunch of gnomes in a garden," quipped William Wilkes. "Harvest 'em then toss, 'em as the saying goes."

"That doesn't quite make sense."

"Someone ought to diffindo Wilkes' noggin and see there's anything useful in there."

"Purebloods have fallen at his hand, he who calls himself the protector of the magical race."

"Aye friends, there shall never be unanimous agreement on the Statute among those of noble birth. It's tragic."

"What's truly tragic is there are still blood-traitors like you, who want to go against the Statute, in the year 1939."

"I didn't say anything about going against the Sta—"

"Silencio."

"They say the average Freimagier cadet casts ten unforgiveables a day."

"That's rubbish."

"Velasco's probably going to snatch up my parents' villa in Palermo. Summer this year is going to be a real drag."

Tom felt his appetite wane once more, overshadowed by rising anger. He ceased adding food to his plate; what was already there would likely go unfinished. He did not join the fray, for his beliefs were unshakeable, and he felt no need to justify them. But the image in the Daily Prophet was of a Godlike wizard dominating an ordinary one—how was it that none understood the force of it other than he? There was no denying that it was moral; the triumph of the powerful over the respectable always was. It filled him with envy, but of even greater happiness, for Tom knew (perhaps decided, in that very moment) that one day, he, too, would become a beautiful monster like Grindelwald. That his peers held Duke Wodnik in such high esteem, instead of seeing him for what he truly was—kindling for the fire—doubly reaffirmed Tom's conviction that there was something sickly in the collective imagination of magical Britain. Hogwarts, rather than Eton, should be ruling the Empire.

With a sudden urge to exercise his magic, Tom split an apple pie into eight equal portions with three strokes of his wand—a complex partitioning charm, instead of the crude diffindo—and levitated four onto Mary's plate. Rolling an eye at him but otherwise smiling affectionately, Mary merely seemed amused by the imbecilic conversation that surrounded them. Tom wondered how it was that she was not annoyed like him. Perhaps she was merely content to be back at Hogwarts after such a stifling summer, even if all its students were idiots. Her girlishness irritated him but also lightened his heart.

"Why should we make war against Grindelwald?" murmured the fifth-year Thane Mulciber. "He doesn't threat Britain. Let the mightiest wizard emerge victorious on the continent, I say."

Mulciber was tall and thin, with a mane of golden hair that framed a face of striking thinness, yet possessed of a certain sturdiness. His flickering green eyes, sunken as they were, conveyed a sense of always being entertained, as if he alone held some secret knowledge of his surroundings and found it amusing.

Arcanius Fawley, now fifth-year boys' prefect, tapped his goblet with utmost pretentiousness and turned to his dormmate with a condescending Wizengamotesque smile. "Why Mulciber, let us ponder the perils of Grindelwald's European rule, shall we? What reason would he have not to turn upon Britain, once he has subdued the continent? Ought we not strike him down before he and his lackeys apparate onto our land?"

A chorus of approval rang out at the words of the minister's son, though all knew that his father had declared war not out of choice, but necessity, driven to it by the insistence of Leonard Spencer-Moon, his likely successor. But Arcanius Fawley was not entirely stupid; though self-satisfaction was apparent on his face, it was tempered by awareness of all this.

Imagining a Freimagier officer break Fawley's bones, Tom finished his meal with haste. He turned to Mary, and was about to ask her if she wished to retire early with him and escape having to endure their housemates talk about war and dark magic any longer, but she was animatedly conversing with a first-year girl. Tom decided not to interrupt her (though a surge of stupid jealousy, after a summer of having had Mary all to himself, went up his stomach); instead, he gazed upon her intently.

Tom often contemplated their likeness; they both had thick eyebrows; sharp noses that weren't too pointed; thin, long lips; and dimpled cheekbones. They both had perfectly symmetrical faces, though that was less of an affirmative feature than an indictment of how the majority of humans, even magical ones, were simply deformed. They both had long necks, too, but Mary's was much thinner than Tom's—her incipient little swan's neck made her delicate, made Tom want to protect her. Especially when other boys stared at it so much.

The most striking difference between them, aside from their gender, was in their eyes. Tom's were slightly sunken, upturned, and described by the Slytherin girls as sharp, if not cold. Mary's were prominent and soft, shaped like almonds, and presented curiosity, if not fondness, to all upon whom she gazed. Otherwise similarly shaped and coloured, a slightly different angle of inclination distinguished them quite unmistakably. Perhaps Mary would look more like him in the years to come; older girls often looked more fierce than younger ones, especially in Slytherin.

"You look like a bunged up Niffler, Tom," said Wilkes. "Everything alright?"

"I'm thinking about transfiguration theory," Tom replied after a momentary pause, swiftly deducing what topic would prove most tedious to his dormmate.

Meanwhile, Mary took a bite of a girona apple, a tangy and crisp variety of the fruit originating from Spain, which, for reasons unbeknownst, frequently found its place on the Hogwarts autumn menu. She savored the small bite, relishing each chew, while Tom fantasized about the sensation of caressing her animated cheeks, set in motion by the grinding of her teeth against the succulent flesh of the apple, fragmenting it into progressively smaller fragments. A tingling sensation ascended his forearm.

The first-year girl she next to was Lydia Cotterill, who was so comparatively immature and underdeveloped that Tom was sure any onlooker would have thought Mary at least three years older than her. Tom watched his sister talk to Cotterill, her face gentle and smiling in a motherly way, as she introduced the younger girl to Hogwarts. But in spite of Mary's ostensible gentleness, there was something intense and withdrawn in her eyes—something subtle that few people aside from Tom would notice.

"First years, come along!" called out Beatrice Sommerfield, abruptly snapping Tom out of his reverie.

An idea ignited within him.

Swiftly dabbing his handkerchief, Tom rose from his seat and joined the assembly of new first-years, led by their fifth-year prefect. He cast a glance at Mary, but she scowled at him, swiftly immersing herself in a conversation with Florence Travers about a matter undoubtedly shallow and trivial.

"Riddle?" Beatrice's sharp voice rang out. "Did I not instruct the first years to follow me?"

Antoine Rosier sniggered at the prefect's quip, but Tom remained unruffled. Despite her aggressive posture, he knew that Beatrice did not really hate him.

"What's your take on the war, Beatrice?" Tom inquired.

"Must I have one?" she retorted. "I'm weary of the topic. The Ministry, those American Aurors, Grindelwald, and Poland—one should avoid speaking of such heavy matters until one can brew a potion, any potion, by heart."

"Surely, neither Fawley nor Mulciber are incapable of brewing a potion by heart," Tom drawled. "With which of the two do you sympathise more?"

"On the war?" Beatrice muttered, gesturing for the first-years and Tom to follow her down a staircase. "Arcanius and Thane are both fools."

"Fools?" Tom asked.

"Arcanius pretends he thinks for himself, but his opinions always happen to concur with his father's," Beatrice scoffed. "As for Thane, though he would never acknowledge it, he supports Gellert Grindelwald."

"How horrid," Tom murmured. It was a lamentable state of affairs that the only reasonable viewpoint was considered foolish.

As they descended the staircase leading to the Slytherin Dungeon in the Entrance Hall, Tom and Beatrice passed the portrait of Sir Hervouet, a knight concealed from head to toe in battle-worn armour.

"Allow me to introduce Sir Hervouet, whom we call 'The Oblivious Knight'," Tom proclaimed with a sweeping gesture.

"Avaunt, thou varlet!" the knight bellowed in fury, brandishing his mighty sword with a Herculean flourish. "Thou'dst feel the weight of my sword, had I a tangible frame!"

"Oblivious means forgetful, doesn't it?" asked Lydia Cotterill.

"That it does," Tom replied, his smile belying a hint of amusement. "The real portrait of Sir Hervouet, you see, was destroyed centuries ago by a Slytherin named Hugelin Ives. The enmity between Hervouet and Ives' families ran so deep that a descendant of the latter felt compelled to avenge his forefathers by cursing a portrayal of their rivals. What remains now is a reconstruction—a mere echo of a memory."

Beatrice was unimpressed by Tom's narrative. "Yes, yes, Tom has a penchant for poetic flights of fancy," she snapped. "That silly knight forgets things all the time. It's no wonder you lot find it funny, being so tiny and not too bright. Come on, let's go!"

Unbothered by Beatrice's interruption, Tom continued in his wistful tone. "It's amusing indeed," he said. "Hervouet is forever trapped in his senility. You can ask him about his life in the morning, and then surprise him by telling him the same things in the afternoon."

At this, the painting of Sir Hervouet raised his sword to the heavens, his voice ringing out in anguished protest. "Implings mocking the infirmity of my mind!" he cried. "Alack, how the mighty fall!"

Most of the first years, purebloods on account of their names—Abraxas, Hortense, Cornelius—enjoyed Tom's little exposition. Lydia Cotterill in particular appeared enamoured with Tom already; she could not stop blushing and grinning at him.

Antoine Rosier, however, was not so easily won over. "You sure know a lot about Hogwarts paintings, Riddle," he sneered. "Are you trying to prove something?"

Tom met Rosier's challenge with a cool and measured response. "What might I be trying to prove?"

"You're a mudblood in Slytherin," Rosier said immediately. "You're trying to get yourself in with the new lot to make up for your peers hating you."

All of the first-year students fixed their gazes on Tom. Lydia's blue eyes, small and hopeful, yet detached and assessing; Hortense Rowle's dark, beady eyes gilded with eyeliner; and Abraxas Malfoy's vacant grey eyes, all scrutinised Tom's face, his hand, and his wand in his pocket. Even Beatrice Sommerfield looked at Tom, her expression unreadable.

Tom sauntered up Rosier, his visage unchanging in its composure. The smirk upon Rosier's face diminished as Tom drew his wand. Typically, Tom's anger would explode in sudden flashes, like bolts from the heavens, but this time it infiltrated him, permeating his skin, then his muscles, and finally his bones to their very core.

With a flick of his wrist and an incantation, Tom lifted Rosier aloft, suspended in mid-air amidst the jeers of Sir Hervouet. The collar of Rosier's robes constricted around his neck as if bound by an invisible cord, and he struggled futilely to free himself as he choked and spluttered. Blood spurted from his mouth and his complexion turned a deep shade of purple.

"Do you believe, Antoine," said Tom calmly, "that a mudblood could do this?"

Tom lowered his wand, and Rosier plummeted to the ground with a heavy thud. To witness the suffering of a magical being was a distasteful spectacle, for suffering is the commonality between magickind, 'humankind', and all the world's fauna.

"Fear not, Antoine," Tom proclaimed, extending a hand to the fallen boy. "I bear you no ill will. There is no reason for us to be at odds."

Rosier took Tom's hand, and the older boy lifted him effortlessly to his feet, placing a comforting hand upon the boy's shoulder, smoothing out the disheveled robes.

"T-t-teach me how to do that," Antoine stammered, his cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and excitement.

"It's simple," replied Tom with a smile. "The levitation charm in conjunction with the binding jinx."

"Yes, yes," Beatrice interjected, her tone severe but with a strange hint of mirth in her eyes. "This is all very touching and dramatic, but we must hurry. The feast's about to finish, and everyone's going to be back."

As they continued on, Tom gazed intently upon the faces of the new first-years, observing admiration mixed with fear, or perhaps fear disguised as admiration, upon each and every countenance.

Even Abraxas Malfoy, who had distinguished himself from the others by his impassiveness, was awed—his eyes expanding in terror—yet his terror was palpable, too palpable; Tom suddenly realised something was amiss, but it was too late.

Malfoy's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the ground with a resounding thud.

Beatrice halted the first-years with a raised hand, spinning around with alarm upon her face—for Tom surmised that her first task as prefect had not gone according to plan, with one mishap after another—and she cried out shrilly, "Tom! What have you done now?!"

"Nothing," Tom replied coolly, maintaining Beatrice's gaze. "Rennervate!"

Malfoy immediately jolted back into consciousness, breaking into convulsions as he gasped for breath. Rosier, Beatrice, and Tom helped him back onto his feet.

Beatrice, with equal parts wonder and distrust, queried Tom, "How do you know that spell?"

Tom simply replied, "A book." He had spell the from an American Auror's report of 1912, which documented the raid and destruction of an Inferius ritual chamber.

Rosier whispered to Malfoy, "Abraxas, it's me. You collapsed a few seconds ago. Riddle brought you back."

Malfoy, seemingly undisturbed by the events that had transpired, surveyed his surroundings, his tired grey eyes traveling from Rosier to Beatrice to Tom. It was clear to Beatrice and Tom, as Prefect and second-year respectively, that they alone possessed the familiarity with Hogwarts to do what had to be done. The first years had to get to the Slytherin Dungeon, but Malfoy was due for another destination. Tom took the initiative.

"I'll take Malfoy to the Hospital Wing."

To their surprise, Malfoy, who had remained silent since his arrival at Hogwarts, spoke for the first time, saying, "I'm fine." His voice, though boyish, was tinged with a weariness beyond his years.

Beatrice looked at him incredulously. "No you're certainly not!"

Tom, his eyes flickering between Beatrice and Malfoy, perceived the predicament that confronted them. The Prefect desired to transfer the responsibility of Malfoy to another, but the first-year wanted to avoid the shame of being seen going to the Hospital Wing on his first day at Hogwarts. In a whisper, Tom leaned in close to Malfoy and whispered, "I know a secret way to the Hospital Wing, no one will see us—what do you say?"

Malfoy, with a nod of assent, agreed to the proposal, and with a final nod to the Prefect, he and Tom departed from the group. As they walked the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, Malfoy remained silent, and Tom deduced several truths from the stillness. Malfoy and Rosier, despite being as opposed in temperament as fire and water, were well-acquainted from before Hogwarts; Malfoy's faints were regular in some capacity; and whatever his affliction was, it had been with him long enough to contort his eleven or twelve year old self into an abashed, worldweary creature—it was clearly untreatable.

"Abraxas," said Tom, as he pushed open the large doors to the Hospital Wing with a flick of his wand. "We are here."

The Hospital Wing, though spacious, was eerily quiet. Madam Milosz, a robust middle-aged witch, with a stern visage reminiscent of Mrs. Cole, came to receive them.

"And Mister Riddle," she continued, acknowledging Tom with a nod of her head. The two were somewhat familiar, as Tom had once sought her counsel on the subject of the connection between anatomy and sacrifice in the practice of ritual healing. "Please, tell me what has occurred."

Before Tom could fabricate a suitable lie, Malfoy stepped forward.

"It was just a standard episode, Madam," he said with a polite smile. "The Sorting, the news of the war... it was all a bit much for me to handle."

Malfoy gave Tom a sly glance.

"Gunhilda's Grimoire!" Madam Milosz exclaimed in anger. "I warned Headmaster Dippet not to be so hasty in sharing the news of the war! The students should not be burdened with such weight at the start of the term. It is a grave error."

The healer's strange manner of speech suggested to Tom that she was directly parsing idioms from another language into English. As she tended to Malfoy, Madam Milosz dismissively gestured for Tom to leave.

"You will recover, Abraxas," Tom said with a nod of his head, before giving Malfoy a reassuring smile. "I trust we shall meet again."

"We shall," Malfoy said listlessly. "Farewell, Tom."

Tom departed the Hospital Wing, his stomach churning with discomfort. The thought that even the pureblooded could be so debilitated by illness was repulsive to him. Yet, when Malfoy was sorted, the Slytherins cheered as if they had won the house cup, a sign of the unconditional esteem they held for the weak, sapling-like boy. There was, of course, only one explanation for this—that he came from a family of great importance.