Part One: Flight of Death

You can't fly from death

Feeling so empty

Waiting to see

Will he come for me?

You can't fly from death

Section One: Tom Riddle

Chapter One: Death of a Father

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't hurt me, I'll do anything—"

"I didn't mean to, I swear—"

"Please, don't hurt me, please—!"

He started up in his bed. A thin, worn blanket fell off him and slid to the scuffed wooden floor. Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle lay back onto the lumpy, inadequate mattress of his bed in the orphanage. He had been having the dreams again.

There was no sound. Tom didn't have a watch; didn't need one when most of the time he could just cast a simple spell to check the time. It must be close to midnight, though. The orphanage and even the street outside were silent, devoid of irritating Muggles making noise.

Tom pulled himself quietly out of bed. His room — the room at the orphanage — felt even smaller after the luxurious space of Hogwarts. It took him only two careful steps to reach his wardrobe, the one Albus Dumbledore had set on fire years ago to prove to him that he was a wizard.

He had gotten better at hiding things since then. Tom didn't think even the annoying Transfiguration Professor would have been able to find the ornate black box, hidden under a plain black diary. He'd made it at Hogwarts, layering protective enchantments and runes over it until it couldn't be found without using Parseltongue.

It was almost empty. Dumbledore might not have been able to turn Tom off taking trophies, but he had shown him that it was important to prioritise. A worn hair ribbon to remind him of a girl who thought she could sneak into his room was not, in the grand scheme of things, important.

The key to one of the many Black vaults that he'd taken off Cedrella. A small but priceless painting of the four Hogwarts founders that he'd found in the Room of Hidden Things. A copy of Blak Magicke, the original, that he'd gotten from Arcturus. And, the most precious of his prizes despite being the most ostensibly worthless, a wand. Thirteen inches, elder, dragon heartstring core. It had belonged to silly little Mudblood called Turtle, or possibly Myrtle.

Tom smiled, a thin, dangerous smile that would have had any of his fellow orphans running for cover. He ran a finger down the length of the wand, felt the magic leap to his touch. He had slipped it from her corpse. No one had though to look for it. The girl's Muggle parents wouldn't have had any idea what a disgrace it was to be buried without a wand. It said that you hadn't deserved the magic you'd been given.

Tom's smile grew. That would be the way all Mudbloods would be buried — if he even allowed them a burial.

The woods near Little Hangleton were wild and overgrown. Tom moved through them purposefully. Loath though he was to admit it, he was glad that he had chosen to wear dark trousers and a smart jacket rather than robes. Not only would they draw less suspicion, they also did not catch on the thorns and briars as much as robes would have done.

Of course, Tom could simply have blasted the undergrowth out of the way, but that would be foolish and Tom was no fool.

The hovel was falling to pieces. Tom could feel himself sneering and tried to tamp down the expression. There would be no need for rudeness. Still, as he picked his way towards the door, he could not help but think that wizards, particularly ones with such illustrious ancestry as the Gaunts boasted, should live in places far better than fallen-down huts and Muggle orphanages. They possessed magic, didn't they? Marvolo could simply have created himself a mansion.

The door swung open with a light push. Tom was sure that, had he used even slightly more force, it would have fallen to the floor.

The only occupant of the room was a man hunched over a floor littered with empty bottles. He wore rags that weren't greasy only because they were far too filthy to be greasy, covered in dirt and vomit and other things that Tom preferred not to think about. Usually, Tom was able to control his expression perfectly, but the sight of this unkempt, unshaven man — holding a wand — provoked a visceral reaction of disgust the likes of which Tom had rarely felt before. A stench of alcohol filled the air.

"YOU! YOU!" the man cried, throwing himself across the room. Tom was mildly impressed that he had been able to move at all, but that feeling was buried under the crushing disappointment of knowing that this meant that this drunken man and his disgusting house were truly related to Tom.

"Stop," Tom commanded and the man halted, shocked into submission by the use of Parseltongue. Tom glanced around the hovel again, briefly, trying not to linger on the mould and the dirt and the rottenness of the place. He stepped inside, keeping in his grimace of disgust. The man was looking at him in wonder now, talking to him in Parseltongue. Tom answered him, before posing another question of his own. This, after all, wasn't Marvolo. He had come to see Marvolo.

Marvolo was dead. Had been for years. Tom's frown of disappointment was due less to the lack of his grandfather than it was to his annoyance at his own failure to research the Gaunts properly. No matter what they had fallen to, the Gaunts were still a pure-blood family. There must have been a record of his death. Well, never mind, he had to keep to the script.

"Who are you, then?" he asked, despite knowing the answer already. This must be Morfin, his uncle.

The man said as much, pushing back his hair and revealing — a ring. A black stone ring. Tom kept his breathing even as Morfin compared him to the Muggle he knew must be his father. The Gaunt family heirloom. It would be a fine trophy.

He knew that his surprise on hearing about the Muggle seemed genuine. Tom had no patience for stupidity, but he stayed patient. Morfin could, despite the alcohol, move quickly. Tom wanted to leave no sign of a struggle. Best to wait until he started to get suspicious.

He did. He worked himself into a drunken rage insulting Tom's mother. Tom felt little anger at that. Merope had been foolish, falling for a Muggle, stopping the love potion, allowing herself to die rather than stay and care for her son. Still, he did not like to see a drunken rat like this man insult a woman who had, for all her faults, done something right in bringing him into the world. He Stupified Morfin and watched him thunk onto the floor without any feeling of remorse.

The man's wand was disgusting. It had not been cleaned, or polished, or properly cared for years. Even the Mudblood had taken better care of her wand than this. But the magic leaped to Tom's fingers, pulsing through him. He smiled.

The village was quiet. Only the gardener of the Riddle House noticed Tom and looked at him suspiciously. Tom left him. He was not important.

The house was large and grand. The irony of the contrast between the houses of both Tom's parents — of both the houses he ought to inherit — was not lost on him. Morfin Gaunt, a pure-blood from a line of pure-bloods leading back to Salazar Slytherin himself, was left to wallow in a pigsty of a hovel, while Tom Riddle, a filthy Muggle with no history and no ancestry, lived in a mansion.

Well, Tom would remedy that soon enough.

It was easy to slip into the house. Tom could not help but think of Hogwarts, and how it had occasionally provided a challenge for him. He was sure that he would have been able to sneak into this house even before he had learnt that he was special, that he could do magic.

He had slipped the ring from Morfin's fingers, unwilling to leave such a prize behind. Besides, he had thought — he had one already, had needed the power to fuel his diary — it could not hurt — and wouldn't it just be so ironic, using something from each dead parent to make himself immortal?

He would do it, he decided. He had one already, but that was not enough. His diary was going to be a tool, was going to finish his and Slytherin's work. He had not finished with it yet and he was not sure how the magic he was using would affect it. He needed another one, just to be safe. He could make more later, but he needed another one now.

The Riddles were eating dinner, gathered around a table. His father, tall and dark-haired, his handsomeness, so like Tom's, fading into middle-age. His grandparents were frozen in the midst of eating, their eyes wide. They were still elegant, still imposing, even with white hair and wrinkles. They would not have looked out of place in a pure-blood mansion.

Rage rushed though Tom. The Gaunts, the heirs of Salazar Slytherin, were reduced to a ruined cottage in the woods, and these Muggles were swanning around in a mansion! Tom raised his borrowed wand, exulted at the looks of fear flooding the Muggles' faces.

Each time he said the curse, each time he saw the green light flickering across the walls, each time he felt the power of the life he had taken filling him, he felt a little more gleeful. This was the happiness, the excitement, the gloriousness, that Morfin had found with alcohol. Tom could feel the grin splitting his face, knew that he needed to control it. He couldn't bring himself to.

This was power.

The ritual took far too long. Fortunately, Tom was a genius.

The runes pulsed, glinting dark red and black and that light, pure blue that was supposed to be a soul. Tom's was shot through with darkness now. Outside the circle and the pentagram, another line of runes glowed, a soft green holding the dining room stationary in time. He would have to erase them later, painstakingly removing the evidence of each one.

It would be worth it.

He could hear a maid screaming as he strolled back to the hut in the forest. A smile, small and controlled this time, crossed his face. He had fifteen minutes, maximum, before the Aurors came to investigate the underage magic.

Tom was fortunate that the Trace for underage magic was the same as the Trace to check for magic from those who had been to Azkaban.

Morfin was lying where he had been left on the filthy floor of his hut. He fit in perfectly, Tom thought, dispassionately. From a distance, he was just another pile of filthy rags on the floor, like those that might have made up a bed.

Tom crouched down and raised him up, into his chair. He'd broken a bottle when he'd fallen, still heavy despite an obvious lack of a nutritious diet, and was bleeding from where the glass had stuck in. Tom wondered if he should heal it, then decided against it. The man was clearly a drunkard. No one would suspect that he hadn't simply tripped or become unconscious after drinking too much. Besides, there would be no need to be suspicious after Morfin confessed.

Tom had expended a lot of energy, more than he had expected to, but he had enough left to do an acceptable job on Morfin's memory. Had he had more time, or a better wand — he was using the Mudblood's wand, just in case it was possible that someone would check his at Hogwarts and uncover the powerful memory enchantments or the rune sequences — he might have done a better job. If someone extremely powerful were to try to undo precisely what he had done, already knowing that he had done it, Tom's spells might unravel. But the Aurors would believe the confession. Morfin had a history of violence against Muggles, particularly the Riddles

And no one knew that Tom had any connection to the Riddles.

It was good to be back at Hogwarts. The wards closed around Tom with a comforting warmth and magic sung under his feet as he stepped onto the stone floors of the castle. His followers were there as well, hanging off him, asking about his summer, and informing him of all the developments that had taken place within the magical world. Tom did not enjoy the hovering and refused to answer the impertinent questions, but tolerated their presence for the useful information.

Besides, it felt good to be in control again. The orphans feared him, but they did not obey him. They were small, useless Muggles, who served no purpose. His Death Eaters, his loyal followers who would help him lead the pure-bloods to a triumphant reign over Muggles and Mudbloods alike, were useful.

Dumbledore, of course, was suspicious. He seemed to have it out for Tom, probably remembered what Tom had let slip years ago about how he enjoyed hurting others and taking trophies from them. He had been suspicious of him after the incident last year as well, perhaps remembering how Tom could talk to snakes.

Still, Dumbledore had no proof, and if he was suspicious of Tom the other teachers weren't. After all, Tom was a good boy. He was a rising star, the poor little orphan boy who had won an award for Special Services to the School. He was Professor Slughorn's top pick for future Minister of Magic.

Tom tried to look modest and say it was an honour he could not hope to achieve. He would only do what he could, he said.

He wondered what the Minister's office looked like and whether he would have to redecorate. Probably, he decided. He would hang it with Slytherin banners.

Tom was in the Slytherin common room, reading a book he'd taken from the stack beside Rabastan Lestrange's bed. Rabastan had spelled it into another cover and Tom had gone a step further, ensuring that it would look like his Transfiguration textbook, complete with neat little notes, if anyone else looked at it.

Not that they would dare.

"Tom?"

Tom glanced up. Arcturus Black was standing over him, the Black Heir looking nervous and tense. He had a smudge of lipstick under his sharp jaw. Not Cedrella's, his cousin and his fiancé — his wife, now, after their sudden Summer Wedding (Tom suspected that Arcturus had impregnated his sixteen-year-old cousin earlier than had been planned). Marigolda Nott, Tom suspected, engaged to Rabastan Lestrange.

"Yes, Arcturus?" he replied.

"You know that book I lent you?" Arcturus said. "The one— well, my father's going mad looking for it, so— do you think— could I—"

He trailed into silence. Tom continued to watch him, calmly, until the other boy was completely cowed, shrinking away from the Slytherin Prefect.

"Lent?" Tom asked. "I was under the impression that it was a gift."

"Of— of course," Arcturus said shakily. "But my father—"

"Tell him one of the House Elves lost it," Tom commanded, turning back to his book.

"Of course, Voldemort," Arcturus said.

"Voldemort?" a student nearby scoffed. "What, 'Flight of Death'? What kind of a name is that?"

Tom looked up again. His expression had the fourth-year boy running for his dorm.

"Of course, Professor," Tom said, wide eyed and visibly shaken. "I'll make sure no students go wandering after curfew again. Professor?" he added, a picture of desperate concern. "Do you suppose he'll be alright?"

"I'm sure of it, m'boy," Slughorn said faux-jovially, clapping Tom on the shoulder. "Nothing old Aggie — Madam Pomfrey to you, of course — can't fix, eh? He'll be in for a week or so, might not ever talk again, but he'll live."

Tom sighed in relief. "I'm so glad. Do you really think he'll never talk again?"

"We can only wait and see," Slughorn sighed.

Arcturus only got a light punishment for calling Tom Voldemort in a public place. It had been a well-executed reprimanding and using a Gryffindor's wand had been a good touch. Particularly the Potter brat.

'Might never talk again'! Would certainly never talk again. Tom allowed himself a satisfied smile in the dark of his dormitory.

"Tom? Do you have a minute?"

Tom glanced up from his breakfast. Marigolda Nott stood behind him, twisting a lock of her flawlessly curled dark hair around her finger. She spelled it every day, and to good effect. She was stunningly pretty.

"Of course," Tom said, standing gracefully. His perfectly cooked bacon and eggs, and the toast dripping with butter, would remain untouched and at a perfect temperature. If they did not, Tom would, at least, get to enjoy a healthy dose of cathartic violence.

Marigolda led him to a small chamber off the Entrance Hall. Tom remembered it from his first year, when he was waiting to be Sorted. There was a feed straight into the Headmaster's ear, ensuring that he knew what the new students were being told. Tom cast a silencing charm around them.

"What can I do for you, Marigolda?" he asked.

Marigolda glanced around anxiously. Then she leaned in. "I want Mummy to fall in love with Daddy again."

"Have you tried brewing a love potion?" Tom asked. Ah, she was romantic. Odd that she believed her parents had ever loved one another when she herself was sneaking around with her best friend's fiancé, but Tom had concluded that people will believe all sorts of strange things about love. He was a little surprised that Marigolda, usually the second most sensible person in Slytherin, believed in romance.

"I can't get it right," Marigolda admitted.

"You are adding pearls collected during summer," Tom stated. "You should be using pearls collected in winter. I can procure some for you, but it will be difficult."

"I'll do anything you want," Marigolda said. "I can get access to Daddy's vaults and his private safe, you can have anything."

Tom smiled to himself. It was so easy to use these people.

"Your father has, I believe, recently procured a first edition copy of Ezaraca Carrow's seminal work," Tom said. "I would appreciate it if I could read it."

"Of course," Marigolda said instantly. "Daddy didn't buy it to read, anyway, just to have it. I'll get it to you after Christmas? I'm not going home before then."

"After Christmas will be fine," Tom told her. "I will brew you the first dose of the potion. You will have to keep applying it regularly, once per day is preferable. If you do not the potion will cease to have the desired effect."

Marigolda nodded solemnly. "Thank you, Tom. I will always be in you debt."

Tom smiled. "It was a pleasure to be able to help."

Tom smiled politely over his glass of champagne. Lord Zabini was rich and powerful, with a lot of connections in the Ministry and abroad, and a soft spot for ambitious, soft spoken, handsome boys. He would be very useful to Tom later, but he was also extremely irritating.

It was the condescending tone that grated on Tom the most. That he, Zabini, thought that he was better than Tom because of Tom's disgusting Muggle father. I killed him! Tom wanted to scream. I rid myself of that part of me!

Instead he had to stay calm and polite and pretend not to notice Zabini eyeing him through the open folds of Tom's robes.

Honestly, it amused Tom that Zabini couldn't guess that the robes were open on purpose. It was hot and stuffy in the dudgeon, but most students and visitors were still tightly bound up in their robes. Tom had only let his loose because he knew of this weakness of Zabini's and knew that it would be a lot easier to get what he wanted from Zabini if he kept the man distracted.

"I heard from Professor Slughorn that you have been researching a new potion, sir," Tom said. "I must admit I was surprised — the sudden drop-off in your publications in recent years had led me to believe that you had left the field."

Zabini laughed, a loud, rumbling sound that shook his large stomach. "Keeping an eye on my work, were you? Flatterer!"

He laughed again and Tom joined in, his own laughter bright and warm and childish. It had taken him almost two weeks to be able to do it consistently.

"I was thinking of leaving, you are quite right," Zabini said, sobering. "But an opportunity came up and I couldn't resist."

"Do you mind my asking what it was, sir?" Tom asked. "Professor Slughorn is being very tight-lipped."

"Just tight-lipped enough to send you young pesterers after me," Zabini said jovially. "Old Sluggy doesn't know what I'm working on, Tom — do you mind me calling me you Tom? Perfect," he continued, not leaving time for Tom to shake his head in allowance of the name. "Been keeping a bit of a secret, to tell the truth. Tell you what, though, a bright young lad like you — send me an owl with the date of your next Hogsmeade weekend and I'll see if I can't tell you a little something, eh? How's that?" He winked at Tom.

"That would be wonderful, sir," Tom said. "Thank you so much."

"Not a problem, not a problem!" Zabini said. "I always like to help foster young talent. You'll be going far, lad, eh?"

Tom smiled self-depreciatingly.

He returned to the castle from his Hogsmeade weekend without the sweets many of his Housemates were bearing, but with the recipe for a rather interesting new potion, a lot of blackmail on Lord Zabini, and a guarantee of the Zabini House's loyalty while the current Lord of the House remained in his position.

"Do you have the potion?" the tall, cloaked figure asked. The voice was deep and gruff, but Tom could feel the tell-tale tingle of magic that told him that the figure was using a voice changing charm along with one to obscure its face. It didn't matter. Tom already knew who was under that pretty blue cloak.

"Of course," Tom said.

"Well? Hand it over!" the figure demanded.

"My payment first."

"Grrrr— fine," the figure huffed. Tom quirked an eyebrow at the growl.

A small brown pouch was held out to Tom, who took it and opened it, peering inside carefully. He pulled the drawstrings closed and slipped the pouch into an inside pocket of his robes. The weight of it, enormous for a such a small object, pulled the side of his robe down slightly.

Tom handed the vial over. "One drop of this in any liquid or food substance will kill twenty wizards or fifty Muggles. Do not spill it on yourself."

Not that it wouldn't be funny to see the figure's hand melt, but Tom needed this person alive.

The figure took the vial, gently, with slender hands. Tom sighed.

"Next time, put a Glamour over your hands," he said, and turned away, ignoring the strangled sound behind him.

"Are you alright, Tom? You're looking very pale," Dumbledore said, concern dripping off every word. Tom suspected that it was fake, but he could not pick up any trace of a lie in Dumbledore's face or voice.

"I'm fine, sir," Tom said. "Thank you for your concern, but I think I've just spent a little too much time inside lately."

"The Quidditch game in a few days' time will be an opportunity to get some sun," Dumbledore said. "I'm sure your schoolwork can stand it."

Tom had been planning things for that day and Dumbledore knew it, damn him!

He pasted on him best good-boy smile. "Of course. I look forwards to watching Slytherin win," he told the Gryffindor head of house.

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," Dumbledore said, also smiling.

Slytherin won and Tom was unreasonably pleased, considering that he didn't even like Quidditch.

It might have been because Tom had settled quite a sizeable bet on Slytherin (the team hadn't dared to lose after they'd heard about that), but he suspected it was mostly that he'd been able to beat his Transfiguration teacher.

Tom jerked awake in the library. He blinked and looked around, but the long stretches of bookshelves were deserted.

He peeled his cheek off the book he'd been resting on. Secrets of the Darkest Arts. Fairly basic, in the scheme of things, but with one chapter he'd needed for his 'project'. He'd needed an excuse to use the Restricted Section, after all, and this compilation of the forms of the Dark Arts (And Why You Shouldn't Use Them) would likely prove to be quite a helpful tool for his younger followers. It should be suitable for the new fourth-years he was recruiting.

Tom shifted the book aside slightly. Ah, yes.

He hadn't spent so long in the library that he'd fallen asleep over a chapter in Secrets of the Darkest Arts. No, he'd spent so long in the library researching Slytherin's locket, his family heirloom.

He twisted the ring on his finger absentmindedly as he flicked through one study he'd found on the locket.

Slytherin's locket was his main symbol, similar to Gryffindor's sword, Hufflepuff's cup, and of course Ravenclaw's famous diadem… Passed down from family member to family member, it is said to have been last in the possession of the Gaunts… Although it is likely, given the qualities of the other Founders' symbols, that Slytherin's locket possesses magical powers, it is unknown whether this is true or mere speculation… It has been suggested that the locket give the ability to talk to snakes… commands the hidden monster in Slytherin's legendary Chamber of Secrets… If ever found on the market, the locket would likely fetch a price of up to one billion Galleons, possibly more…

And more of the same drivel Tom had found in every study and assessment and paper he'd found. He knew that the thing was priceless, knew that it was Slytherin's symbol, knew that it had passed into the hands of Merope Gaunt and then… what? The locket was rightfully his, he was the Heir of Slytherin. Where was it?

There was a sound behind him. Tom whipped round, his wand out. A tiny girl, a first- or second-year, looked up at him, wide-eyed.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Tom said, standing up. Her eyes followed his face until she was craning her head backwards slightly to see him. Tom was tall and this girl was short even for a young student.

"It's after curfew," Tom told her. "I'm going to have to take away points. What house are you?"

"H-Hufflepuff," she stuttered.

"Ten points from Hufflepuff," Tom said. He waved his wand and the books and papers he'd been looking at flew back to their places. "Come on, I'll walk you back to your common room. It's dangerous to wander around the corridors at night."

He held out his hand. The little girl hesitated, and then took it.

"Can you tell me why you were out?" Tom asked, kindly.

"A-Arcie, my b-brother, he said there's secret passages," the girl said. "H-he said I wouldn't be able to find them because I'm a Hufflepuff and Hufflepuffs are rubbish."

"I wouldn't know about secret passages," Tom lied, "but I know that your brother is wrong about you not being able to find them, if they exist. Hufflepuff, as a house, is no worse than any of the other. It just means that, because you're hardworking, you'll be able to focus. You won't give up until you've found them. Just do it during the daytime, with your friends, OK?"

"OK," the girl said, looking up at him solemnly. "Thank you…"

"Tom," Tom said.

"I'm Dorea," the girl said, smiling shyly up at him. "Thank you for being nice to me, Tom."

"Of course," Tom said.

Dorea Black, Arcturus's little sister. Oh, this just kept getting better and better. Tom half listened to her chatter as he led her through the corridors. This was brilliant.

"Here we are," Tom said, stopping by the wall he knew to contain the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. "Don't go wandering again, yeah? Have a good night, and if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Tom," Dorea said, smiling brightly.

Tom watched her safely into her Common Room before returning to the Slytherin dormitory.

"You're back late," Arcturus commented when Tom entered the Slytherin common room.

"I met your little sister," Tom said. "She's a sweet little girl, isn't she?"

Arcturus sat bolt upright. Tom hid a smirk.

"What did you do to her?"

"She had some interesting things to say about you," Tom continued. "It would appear she feels you haven't been very nice to her since her Sorting."

"Little brat shouldn't have gotten Hufflepuff," Arcturus said. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing," Tom said. "I showed her back to her common room and told her not to wander around at night. Did you think I would do something?" Tom added, watching Arcturus slump back in relief.

"No," Arcturus said. "Of course not."

Tom hummed.

Light pulsed across the runes, flashing in bright, distracting colours. Tom ignored them. Each line had to be carefully drawn, perfectly straight or curved just the right amount. A lot of people underestimated how physically demanding the process of using runes was, assuming that it was a subject for nerds who couldn't throw a punch. Tom knew that they were wrong. The drain of magical energy was similar to that lost while casting a spell of a similar power and complexity to the one you were carving and the effort of holding a wand steady for, sometimes, hours at a time was well beyond the stamina needed for a duel, which usually lasted less than an hour.

He turned the large, round stone over and continued carving, adding a layer of protection and another of protection.

Magic hummed under his fingers and in the stone, leaping at his slightest touch. This deep into the process, Tom could almost see the magic underlining everything, could almost feel the strands of power weaving themselves together at his command.

A flick of the wand and the bright runes turned dark, magic oozing through and out of them, pulsing with the heartbeat of a tormented monster, screaming with the voice of a thousand souls. Dark Magic.

Tom smiled.

"We've been ordered to keep students in the common room or dormitories until the teachers have dealt the vampires," the Head Boy said, his words barely calm. "Is everyone clear on that?"

"Yes," the Prefects chorused.

"Good," the Head Boy said. "Please return to your common rooms in an orderly fashion and don't panic."

"How the hell did vampires even get in here?" Cedrella, Tom's fellow Slytherin sixth-year Prefect, asked, forgetting to use her usual dainty language.

"I don't know," Abraxas, the seventh-year Prefect, muttered. "Some Gryffindor thought it would be a funny Halloween prank, I suppose."

Cedrella sniffed. "I suppose some Mudblood invited them in."

Tom murmured his assent. He had been quiet during the emergency Prefect meeting, mulling through the new information he'd learnt about vampires. At least, he had been pretending to.

"Are you alright, Tom?" Cedrella asked, right on time. "You're being awfully quiet."

"Just realising that Hogwarts isn't quite as safe as I'd thought," Tom said, flashing her a tight smile. Abraxas snorted. Tom glanced over at him and the Malfoy Heir looked away, his pale cheeks flushing.

Cedrella made an understanding noise. "Of course, I suppose it must be a bit of a shock, given… well."

Tom tamped down a flash of anger. There was no point getting distracted. He needed to focus.

The dudgeon wall shifted and cracked. A brick fell out and vanished before it could hit the floor. A hole grew, like the entrance to Diagon Alley, but wrong, broken. Dust misted through the corridor.

Tom stepped through the doorway in the wall and smiled. Despite the dust still clogging the air, his robes were pristine, his green and silver Prefect badge glinting like it had just been polished.

The teachers were on high alert, patrolling the corridors for any signs of vampires. Tom drifted past them, invisible, even the magic he'd used barely leaving a trace in the air. The teachers were looking for vampires, not wandering students. Despite Tom's pale appearance and black hair, he was not a vampire.

He dropped the enchantments when he reached the Solarium, a large glass dome looking out on the dark night sky.

A vampire was waiting there, the leader of the group Voldemort had contacted — the most prominent and dangerous community of vampires in the world. He was tall, pale, and thin, his bone-white skin contrasting with dark red eyes. Tom thought of blood and the surge of power.

"Count Vladimir Ustav?"

"You must be Tom Riddle," the count said, extending a cold hand for Tom to shake. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Tom said. "Please, call me Voldemort."

The Count inclined his head. "This was a… nice little gift of yours."

Somewhere, in the direction of Ravenclaw Tower, a girl screamed. The vampire smiled, sharp fangs digging slightly into his lower lip.

"I am glad it pleases you," Tom said.

The Count tilted his head to the side and stepped forward. "Tell me, what does a boy like you want with the vampires?"

Tom ignored the 'boy' comment. Instead, he turned away, stared out at the heavy clouds sinking over the castle, as though the sky was ashamed to watch the events of tonight. He counted to three, trying to contain his growing excitement.

"I would like to see a world," he said, at last, "where magical beings of all forms are set in their rightful places, where we no longer have to hide ourselves so the Muggles, who are little better than beasts, can ruin a world they do not deserve."

"Vampires are despised by wizards as well," the Count said lightly, as though saying he preferred Divination to Charms.

"I am aware of that. However, the wizarding prejudice against vampires, like the prejudices against so many magical creatures, is due primarily to the fact that vampires must drink human blood to survive and, as they have been forbidden from hunting Muggles, they must diet on wizards. In a world where vampires could drink from all the Muggles they desire, I believe that particular prejudice would cease to hold any weight with the majority of the wizarding population."

Eyes locked, blue against dark red, an echo of a scene that might come after. Tom did not look away, did not drop his Occlumency shields, did not give away any trace of excitement. At last, the vampire smiled, his lips curving up in a vicious smirk.

"You make a compelling case, Voldemort. And this is such a delicious present. Very well… you have the cooperation of the vampires."

He shook Tom's hand again, a firm, tight grip from each of them. Two pairs of pale hands, both unusually thin and the fingers long. The cut of something sharp passing into Tom's hand.

"Thank you, Count," Tom said.

The Count made a gesture of recognition. He looked out at the distant Towers, smiled at another scream. "If you'll excuse me, I must enjoy this little… snack."

"By all means," Tom said, stepping back.

The vampire floated upwards, dark robes whipping around him in an invisible breeze. The glass of the dome melted away briefly, letting the Count out into the night and subjecting Tom to a cold blast of air. The vampire swooped away, bat-like, towards Gryffindor Tower.

Tom wondered, idly, how much work it would be to create a spell that would allow him to fly like a vampire and whether it would be worth it. It would certainly do away with the need for those annoying broomsticks.

Back in his dormitory, he placed the smooth white fang he had had been given beside the key, the painting, the book, and the wand in his box of trophies. Twirling the ring on his finger, he wondered how long it would be until he had the four prizes he really wanted. Perhaps it was time to talk to Helena again.

The Grey Lady floated down a deserted corridor, her aloof face the picture of calm. There were no portraits here; she had had enough of gossip while she was alive and did not like to attract attention.

There was a noise at the end of the corridor and she spun around, her translucent face twisting into a scowl.

"I said— oh. Tom. I thought…" her white cheeks stained grey.

"Helena," Tom said politely. "Is he still bothering you?"

The ghost sighed. "I would have thought that I'd made it perfectly clear what I thought of him, but still he insists on following me. He believes he can make amends."

"I'll have a word with him," Tom promised.

"Would you?" Helena sighed in relief. "Thank you, Tom. I know I can always count on you."

She was blushing again, the grey flush seeping down her neck. Tom smiled the charming smile he knew she couldn't resist.

"Anything for you," Tom said.

He paused, a single soft second.

"I was wondering where he found you," he said casually. "All he can tell me is that it was in a forest."

Helena shot him a scared look. "I shouldn't… but… I can trust you, can't I, Tom?"

Tom nodded solemnly. He almost held his breath, just managed to keep his breathing even. This was it! She was actually going to tell him!

"It was in Albania, near the border," Helena said. "There was a small village nearby and I had been posing as a Muggle, hoping this was far enough away from my mother. When I saw the Baron making enquiries, I… I didn't stop to think. I fled into the forest as soon as I can. I hid the diadem in a tree, thinking that he was there for that. After… after I died, I came here. I can't leave the castle, can't protect it, but I have to hope my hasty enchantments have held."

"I'm sure they have," Tom said. "You are so talented, after all. Helena Ravenclaw, second in skill only to her mother. Even then, had you had a few more years…"

"You're a kind boy, Tom," Helena sighed. "But I don't think I would ever have reached my mother in wisdom. I have always been too hasty, too rash, too full of my own importance."

"You desired a name for yourself beyond that of your mother," Tom said softly. "There is nothing wrong with wanting to be known by one's own achievements."

Helena smiled, a little sadly. "I am sure you shall be. I, however, must be content to linger on, remembering what I could have had and why I lost it."

"Where's Cedrella?" the Head Boy asked, glaring suspiciously at Tom. Abraxas, cursed, as all Malfoys were, with a terrible poker face, coughed.

"She has been called home," Tom said. He met the Head Boy's eyes, silently daring him to comment.

"She and Arcturus have been having a bit too much fun," a Ravenclaw fifth-year muttered. Tom turned his eyes on the girl. A Fawcett. pure-blood, but tended to be blood traitors.

"I understand her mother has had a health scare," he said.

"Well, here's hoping she gets back soon," the Head Boy said. He was a Mudblood, Tom thought scornfully. Only a Mudblood would have been stupid enough to believe him. It had been obvious for months, even with Glamour charms, that Cedrella was expecting.

"A boy!" Arcturus announced in the common room, glowing with triumph. "Orion Rigel Black."

The Slytherins obediently piped up with cheers and congratulations. It took some pure-bloods years to have healthy male heirs, if they even got them at all, and Arcturus hadn't even left school yet.

Tom offered his own congratulations, a monotone pleasantry delivered more for form's sake than anything else. Truly, he was glad that Arcturus had a son, that there was hope for one pure-blood family to continue on. He simply had more important things to worry about than whether one of his followers had had a child (more blackmail material on Arcturus, however, which was certainly useful. Threatening his Heir would be far more effective than his Hufflepuff sister).

"Planning on doing a lot of work over the holiday, eh, m'boy?" Slughorn asked as Tom handed back the signed sheet.

"Some, sir," Tom said, smiling his carefully practised smile.

"Well," Slughorn said, winking, "I'm having a bit of a Christmas party if you fancy wandering along… the Sunday closest to Christmas."

"I'll be there," Tom promised. He made a mental note to buy an extra-large box of crystallised pineapple.

Slughorn wandered off, chatting to students about their holiday plans. Tom returned to his book. He stared, unseeing, at curled black letters, like dead spiders. Staying at Hogwarts for Christmas was both a blessing and a curse.

Tom hated the idea that he might have to return to the orphanage more than he already did. Hogwarts was comfortable and familiar — Hogwarts was his. Still, there was, for all that they had no classes, no freedom at Hogwarts in the holidays. Dumbledore also had no classes and Tom knew that the teacher was suspicious of him, knew that Dumbledore would be watching him.

Tom welcomed the challenge. Hogwarts was his home and he wouldn't be pushed out by a teacher who saw and suspected too much.

"I got the book," Marigolda said quietly, sinking into a seat beside Tom. Most of the older Slytherins were distracted questioning Cedrella and cooing over the photos of little Orion she'd brought with her.

"Good," Tom replied. "Did the potion work?"

It wasn't much of a question. Unless Marigolda had used it the wrong way it was guaranteed to have worked.

Marigolda nodded. "They were all over each other the entire holiday. Thank you."

Tom nodded in acknowledgement.

Tom moved through the throng of people purposefully. The Ministry of Magic was as impressive as Tom had anticipated, with high, arching ceilings and that gold statue in the Atrium. Tom could think of a few improvements, however.

Firstly, the people had to go. This was a networking event that Slughorn had wrangled him an invite for — it had been annoyingly difficult to convince the Potions Professor that Tom was the best choice — and consequently the Atrium and the halls were full of people, dressed in smart, expensive robes in shifting colours. Tom had seen several dark green robes, a few in light blue, and one particularly striking young witch dressed in a violent shade of red.

Tom felt that his second-hand, black dress robes were horribly out of place in this sea of wealth. But he wanted to be able to play the 'poor brilliant orphan' card, so he hadn't been able to wear the new dress robes Abraxas had procured him for Christmas.

Someone bumped into him. Tom turned to see, his sneer carefully hidden behind a mask of polite concern.

"Oh! Terribly sorry," the person said. "I wasn't looking where I was going, terribly sorry."

It was the young woman in the red robes. She was older than Tom, probably in her late twenties. He recognised her. She was engaged to Fleamont Potter, whose younger siblings were still at Hogwarts. The wedding had been delayed while she and her husband fought Grindelwald abroad; both families were blood traitors, even though the Potters were probably as old as the Gaunts. Both families had power — pity they had decided to waste it. Perhaps Tom could convince her, and her besotted fiancé, to join him.

"Not at all," he said politely. "I should have been paying more attention."

Dearborn smiled, brushed an escaped strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "I'm Euphemia, by the way. Are you still at Hogwarts? You look young enough."

"Yes, I'm a Slytherin Prefect," Tom said. "Tom Riddle."

He shook Dearborn's hand.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed. "You stopped all of those horrible attacks last year. My fiancé's siblings told me all about it. Just think of all the lives you saved!"

Too many. It had been… irritating, to say the least, when it had become clear that it would be unsafe to continue letting the Basilisk loose. Only Tom's knowledge of the importance of remaining at Hogwarts and not getting arrested had prevented him from ignoring the warning signs.

He smiled modestly. "I only did what anyone would have done, if given the chance."

"Oh, come on!" she said. "You faced someone who had the control of a monster that had already claimed the life of someone else! Not many people would have been brave enough to do that."

Tom murmured something indistinguishable.

"Did Slughorn get you an invite?" Dearborn asked.

"Yes," Tom replied. "I was honoured to be thought of. It's not an event I would have ever found myself at otherwise."

Dearborn shook her head, an amused smile on her face. "Slughorn really does love his networking. He must have seen something special in you."

Tom knew he was special. He could feel it inside of him, could feel it in the way magic leapt to do his bidding, could see it in people's eyes as pure-bloods bowed to a lowly half-blood.

He was interrupted from his polite dissent by Dearborn's laugh, a loud, warm sound that grated on Tom's nerves.

"Relax! I'm teasing. You don't have to try and be modest because it's the polite thing to do." She grinned at him. "I can quite belief that you are a very special boy. Well, I'm sorry, but I've got to go. You'd better find Slughorn before he starts feeling neglected!"

She disappeared into the crowd, a flash of red lost amongst black and green.

Tom didn't tell anyone when he turned seventeen. Instead he lay in a warded circle in the Chamber of Secrets and felt the magic pulse through him, surrounding him, becoming him.

When he looked into the dark water beside the stone path, he could see that he had red eyes.

Abraxas wiped sweat off his forehead with a bare forearm and glanced back to where Tom was perched on the edge of a desk, reading a book, perfectly composed despite the sweltering heat. The Malfoy Heir looked like he wanted to say something, to demand that Tom help, but he thought better of it and returned to the potion.

The potion. The blazing purple fire under the heavy gold cauldron spat green sparks which sizzled and burned like acid. The potion itself, Lord Zabini's special recipe, was a pearlescent white, smooth and soft like bottled tears. Steam in shades of pink and blue wafted through the room, increasing the temperature in the room despite the heat of the shockingly sunny March day. Abraxas stirred vigorously, but the silver ladle moved at a slow, gentle pace no matter how much effort Abraxas put into it.

Tom turned a page. He'd had difficulty procuring Phoenix tears and even more a struggle with Dewdrops, a rare flower that grew only at new moon on the 29th of February. The other ingredients, though, had been easy. Tom had connections now, after all.

It helped that he didn't care about the risk of a curse from ingesting unicorn blood. He was half convinced that it was nonsense.

Not that it mattered. He wouldn't be drinking the potion.

The thin smile on the Prefect's face had Abraxas redoubling his efforts.

"What are you doing with my sister?"

Tom did not look up from the paper he was writing. He could hear Arcturus's heavy breathing and his heart sang in triumph.

"I said—"

"I heard what you said," Tom said, his calm tone a stark contrast to Arcturus's anger and poorly concealed panic.

"So answer the question!" Arcturus said.

Tom looked up. The Black Heir was panting, his usually alabaster cheeks flushed pink, his perfectly smooth black hair ruffled.

"Tom this, Tom that, it's all she'll talk about!" Arcturus continued, his voice ragged with despair. "What did you do to her?"

"I'm tutoring her in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration," Tom said. "She is no danger." He narrowed his eyes. "Does she need to be?"

Arcturus swallowed audibly.

"N-no, no need."

"Good." Tom returned to his paper. "You may leave."

Arcturus hesitated only a second before he turned and walked away, taking his raging, spitting magic with him. Tom allowed himself a small smile.

Tom was not the type to focus on gossip. He was, however, precisely the type to focus on blackmail, and the Hogwarts rumour mill was, inadvertently, quite a good source of blackmail.

His pen looped across the page, his handwriting an elegant cursive script that his teachers adored. Mentally, he assorted through the secrets he'd learnt and the uses he could put it through. Multitasking was most effective when he was doing low-calibre tasks like his homework or finding subtler ways to control people than just flat out threatening them. Not that blackmail was as subtle as charming and manipulating people, but it was always good to have another option.

Arcturus and Marigolda were no longer sneaking around together — Arcturus had, briefly, had a burst of loyalty to Cedrella for giving him a son and Marigolda was too busy planning her upcoming wedding to Rabastan.

Cedrella didn't share her husband's reluctance. She was sleeping with Horatio Abbot, a blood traitor. Tom was quite pleased with that bit of information. Cedrella was a Black; there was no way that she would be able to get away with sleeping with an Abbot.

Rabastan was also being unfaithful to his currently devoted partner. He was seeing Abraxas Malfoy, something that would be unthinkable in the Muggle world but, in the Pureblood circles of the Wizarding World, was no different from Arcturus and Marigolda with the exception that, should one's spouse die mysteriously, one could not then marry their lover.

There were two Slytherin girls a year below who were sisters but, as one was the Heiress of a wealthy family and the other one was the daughter of a Muggle woman who'd barely known her child's father, wanted to keep that little tidbit quiet.

A Ravenclaw boy, a Boot, had eloped with a Mudblood girl, much to the family's shame, who were trying to keep it all quiet. A Gryffindor girl was pregnant with her best friend's boyfriend's baby. A Hufflepuff was using potions. A Slytherin girl was seeing a Gryffindor boy in secret. Lady Selwyn was dreadfully ill and her son was getting letters.

All those little secrets that people didn't want anyone to know. Some were silly: a preferred class, a stuffed toy they still slept with (Tom had never seen the appeal, although some of the other children at the orphanage had), a crush. Some were not so silly: an affair, an eating disorder, an illness in the family. Tom treated them all equally, based on how likely they were to offer results if he wanted to press the person.

Tom knew everything about everyone and there was nothing they could do about it.