September 1938

The Great Hall of Hogwarts bore a certain resemblance to Salisbury Cathedral. Its ceiling, however, did not; for instead of being supported by great stone ribs, it dissipated into an impossibly luminous bright sky – a mass of constellations wherein not just nebulae, but even individual stars, gleamed with detailed lustrousness. It could have only been the product of magic. Yet Mary felt nothing but a vast emptiness; she yearned for Salisbury Cathedral's sharp arches and pungent incense, of all the dowagers and matrons and tittering girls who filled its pews every Sunday morning.

But now she was far from God and Salisbury, so she wished she was dead. For cursed must be the womb in which a creature like Thomas Riddle could be produced; doubly cursed must be she, for sharing that womb with him. But the brightness of the overhead facsimile stars did not permit her to die; and so she felt something else – anger. Anger at Thomas Riddle for his consummate wretchedness; anger that what should have been a beautiful first impression of Hogwarts was marred by this anger; anger at herself for having been such a fool, for letting a viper bite her breast.

She even felt anger against Dumbledore, for withholding the full, grotesque truth of her brother's nature, for appealing to her softer instincts with that old tintype of Thomas which masked the greater part of his malevolence (though those eyes were already full of quiet, spiteful fervour); for thrusting upon her the unbearable duty of tending to such a fiend – for she was not only no saint, but in that moment desperately needed her own saint; in that moment she needed Edward. He would hold her and tell her everything would be alright; and somehow, she would be wholly convinced and comforted.

But Edward was not there, so her anger could only fester. Thomas must suffer as he had made her suffer; and Mary knew precisely how to orchestrate such justice.

Mary's twin brother was enormously greedy; no mind-reading was needed for that (at any rate she had chosen not to use it upon him, mindful as she was of Professor Dumbledore's words, it is unwise to pry into the mind of a wizard, Mary; you may see things you wish you hadn't – such probably held more true for Thomas Riddle than most boys under the Great Hall's false luminous ceiling). His clinginess on the Hogwarts Express, the desperate way he gripped her as though releasing her would mean losing her forever, as though she was the loveliest thing anyone could ever hold in the world, was unlike anything Mary had ever experienced. It would have been flattering if it weren't so unsettling. Thomas's carnivorous yearning for her, which he clearly had neither the language nor the self-awareness to articulate, frightened her – but she recognised the power she held over him and planned to use it.

While a certain Walburga Black with dark, enchanted hair and an air of arrogance that suggested not just a magical upbringing, but a very socially advantaged one, was sorted into Slytherin, Mary seized the hand of the boy next to her – a pale, solemn-looking but not unhandsome boy named Pavel, with whom she had shared the boat across the Black Lake, but had scarcely talked to otherwise – and gave it a light squeeze. She intertwined their fingers and lay her head on his shoulder; and squeezed again when Pavel glanced at her questioningly.

Naturally, Pavel was at first puzzled by Mary's display of overt affection – she was little more than a stranger to him – but what boy, solemn-looking or not, did not appreciate having a beautiful girl rest her head against his? He smiled slightly, and squeezed back.

"Hill, Arthur!" Professor Merrythought – the stern, robust, elderly witch who had earlier explained the Sorting Ceremony to them – called out. A boy with tousled brown hair, trying half-successfully to project pure boyish confidence, and whose robes were rather too large for him, slowly approached the stool and sat down. The hat fell over his eyes, then opened its brim, and spoke after several seconds: "GRYFFINDOR!"

Suddenly, Mary felt a firm, bony grip on her wrist – Thomas was dragging her away from Pavel with such force that she nearly tripped. A few sniggers sounded; Mary would have found her own ordeal amusing if somebody else had been in her place; but as it was, she was quite amazed that Thomas was willing to make such a scene before their whole cohort. Then again, perhaps he enjoyed being the centre of attention, even if such also conferred ridicule. Mary peered at her brother; decisively he did not enjoy it – he appeared to be struggling mightily to contain his rage. A small smirk formed on Mary's face.

"Paskevich, Pavel!" Professor Merrythought called out.

Pavel glanced at Mary as he strode towards the stool. She smiled at him abashedly, wondering if he could forgive her for using him so unfeelingly – though he might not yet realise that he had been manipulated. Pavel's smile in return lifted slightly the weight on her chest – he had either not noticed or did not care – his nature far more gracious than Thomas's.

The hat took considerably longer to sort Pavel than it had taken the previous students; ultimately it shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Pavel seated himself next to Arthur Hill, who shook hands with him, smiling; Pavel nodded cordially. A certain "Quirrell, Quincey" – a nervous-looking boy with sandy hair and hazel eyes – was sorted into Gryffindor as well; Pavel greeted him also, extending his hand. Quincey stared at it for a moment – perhaps Pavel's evangelically earnest gaze unnerved him – then awkwardly reciprocated the gesture. There was a grace to his manner in the way that there was a devilish unpredictability in Thomas's manner.

"Riddle, Mary!" Professor Merrythought announced. For a second, her brother's grip impeded Mary from moving forward. Mary gave him a glare, and he let go.

As the hat descended upon Mary's head, it was unexpectedly soft, cool against her scalp. She plotted desperately to avoid the fate of sharing a house with Tom, but her nascent plans – all incoherent – were all dashed by a voice suddenly resounding in her head.

My, my, long have I awaited the return of your lineage! I had nearly lost hope – but here you are, Mary Riddle, at last.

Mary was taken aback. Since Dumbledore's visit to Salisbury, she had only toyed with the idea that her parents might have known Hogwarts, though Dumbledore had denied knowing any Riddles. Yet, the hat's words hinted at a deep, lost connection. Could it be possible for a family to lose magic over time? Dumbledore had mentioned that the large majority of British witches and wizards were educated at Hogwarts. Return of my lineage? How long ago did my ancestors attend Hogwarts?

It is not my place to say; though I would counsel you not to dwell excessively upon it – time is an arrow, Mary Riddle; there is nothing to be gained in seeking to defy it.

That response piqued Mary curiosity, and perhaps a little bit of her pride, too; it suggested that her ancestry was noteworthy. But she also sensed that the hat took a sort of pleasure in leaving her guessing, and that asking further would avail her little. She reined herself in; shared ancient ancestry or not, she could not bear being Thomas Riddle's sister another moment longer. I hope to be sorted into a different house from whichever my brother might be sorted into.

Your brother? Which? Ah, yes, Thomas. Why should you desire separation from him?

He has done me wrong.

Yet it seems he wishes to remain close to you.

Mary could not suppress a snort, or the purely mental equivalent of such; the hat's insouciance annoyed her – how could it possibly consider Thomas worthy of sympathy? Yet she schooled herself; she must convince the hat to separate her from Tom. He is a monster, Professor Dumbledore said as much. I am afraid of him. Please, Hat, sort me elsewhere – anywhere but where he shall be.

Hmm, yes, yes. But he has yet to be sorted, correct?

Mary was confused – surely the hat could, through the examination of her memories, determine Thomas's character, as strongly as it had impressed itself upon Mary on the Hogwarts Express – but she answered affirmatively nonetheless.

Then time remains on our side, does it not?

Time for what?

Why, for you two quarrelsome children to reconcile! The hat responded brightly. Come now, Mary, how often have brothers and sisters quarrelled – and not infrequently reconciled?

Mary was incredulous; she had never heard anything more stupid in her life. She wondered how a hat could be so supremely daft. I met him for the first time today; we may as well be strangers. What is this reconciliation you speak of?

But you shared the womb, Mary Riddle; surely that must count for something.

Mary felt her nostrils flaring – for the hat to use such crude biology against her – when hats themselves are abiological; it was absurd, demeaning. It counted for nothing. She felt insulted, degraded – that the hat should reduce her and Thomas to mere zygotes as justification for immiserating her with him. Was that not the worst manner in which the 'arrow of time' was to be impeded? Goddamned hat, put me in any house but Thomas's – right now –

You are young, Mary Riddle, and anger makes fools of us all – even witches and wizards. The hat sounded reproachful, disappointed, even. You would do well to learn humility; and patience – it may well be that you will need both for Thomas Riddle.

You speak as if he is a disease.

Do you truly not understand, Mary Riddle? Thomas Riddle is yours; whether you wish it or not, you are his. Fate has chosen both of you to be together. He has no one else; do you truly wish for him to be alone? Do you really think he is so dissimilar from yourself?

I share nothing with him –

You both thirst for power over those you love; you both resent those who you believe to have power over you; and you both are terribly lonely – and it is this loneliness which consumes you.

For a moment, Mary wondered what the hat was talking about – for Mary wanted nothing 'over' Thomas, but rather his complete expulsion from her life – but then she realised – power over those you love –

Yes, Mary Riddle; for you wish to possess Edward Annett just as Thomas wishes to possess you; you wish to bind Edward to you – as Thomas wishes to bind you to him. You wish to control Edward – as Thomas wishes to control you; and you are terrified of losing him; as Thomas is terrified of losing you.

Such a possibility was both horrifying, yet oddly flattering – that Thomas might see Mary as Mary saw Edward; an elusive presence with whom she could scarcely be happy. Yet to fully embrace the implications of this idea – Mary felt that she would sooner run all the way back to Salisbury than do that.

And herein lies the opportunity; for Thomas is yours, Mary Riddle; he is desperate for you; you may twist him to your will – you may shape him as you wish; you may transform him into a creature less hateful; you may save him – and all you need do is have the will to face him.

Mary could still feel the half-immolated banknotes and pennies on her face; the smoke making her eyes water and burning her nose; she could recall her unwillingness to read Thomas's mind after merely glancing upon the scorchingly vengeful surface of his thoughts. She recalled his sheer rage as he yelled over and over, like an anguished animal, "ADMIT IT, MARY, ADMIT IT!" – his repeated pledges to kill her father – all of a sudden Mary realised: it is only from immense, immense pain that such rage springs; Tom was so brutal because he suffered greatly, immeasurably. And so the memory of those burning ashes faded into the banality of dust, and then into nothing.

Yes, Mary Riddle; that is so –

He is suffering – right now?

Oh, Mary Riddle – how can you not see it? Thomas Riddle is surrounded by darkness – and he suffers terribly; he is all alone. He has no one else; do you truly wish for him to be alone?

For a moment, Mary was overcome by a wild suspicion; that the hat had been tampered with by Professor Dumbledore – that it had been enchanted to advocate for Thomas – to encourage Mary to tend to him. But she dismissed the thought as paranoid – at any rate irrelevant, for the vision taking form in her mind then was as clear as day. She now saw that Tom depended on her even more than she depended on Edward. That while Edward gave himself to her at all, Mary was for Thomas nothing but a pure absence, causing only ache and longing for so many years. She thought of the thousand pounds he had accumulated doing God knows what; she thought of how he had brazenly threatened to murder her father; she thought of that photo again – she was wrong; those eyes were not vicious – they were fearful. Tom feared her, feared rejection from her – he could not be complete without her. Then Mary felt something else, something hot and overwhelming, like the sun suddenly rearing itself into the centre of the sky upon a decaying forest overtaken by morose lichen that flourishes only in the dark – a peculiar compassion. Now, she understood Thomas Riddle; he was a frightened, lonely, violent creature, who wanted only reunion with that which he had lost – a family he had never known, idealised by the passage of time. Thomas was an intensification of Mary; more Mary than herself – and so Mary felt pity for him; the deepest, most sincere pity she felt for anyone, excepting perhaps her father.

Mary recalled the photo again; she tried to imagine Tom smiling – truly smiling; but she couldn't – she wanted to see that smile; she wanted to see Tom happy – she would move heaven and earth to make Tom smile, to make Tom happy – for she knew then, with a certainty exceeding that of any fact in the universe – she loved Tom; and she was not afraid – she would be his sister; she would be the sister to him that Edward was to her.

Excellent, Mary Riddle – excellent; "SLYTHERIN!"

For the interminable trial that was her sorting, the applause was very sparse; Mary wondered whether her hat had vocalised all that it had said within her mind, before dismissing such a fanciful notion; yet it was curious that the Slytherin table had conferred substantial applause upon Eileen Prince, who was an uncouth, runny-nosed, wretched looking girl, yet dismissive if not contemptuous of Mary, who was used to being the girl among girls who commanded adoration wherever she went.

Mary walked over to the Slytherin table, and sat besides Prince and the other already-sorted Slytherins; but much to her surprise and incomprehension, none greeted her – instead, they studiously avoided eye contact with her – indeed, Eileen Prince inched away from her, while the reptilian, curly-haired, smirking Caracallus Lestrange gave her something between a sneer and a leer. Mary probed against the surface of Lestrange's mind; but quickly withdrew – for he was thinking highly obscene things about her – in vivid detail. The boys in Salisbury aged eleven to twelve thought carnal thoughts about her as well; but theirs were jumbled and sometimes even endearing, full of confused longing and shame, and invariably banished to the subconscious; she wondered how Lestrange had even learned such things; and she suddenly felt the urge to wash herself, to scrub her skin raw.

"Riddle, Thomas!" Professor Merrythought called out.

Mary watched intently as Tom approached the stool. He was perfectly composed. It took no more than four seconds for the Hat to exclaim: "SLYTHERIN!"

Mary clapped enthusiastically; the rest of her table, perfunctorily. Thomas decisively strode towards her and placed himself right next to her so that their hips touched. Without delay, his hand found her wrist again, as if fearing she might impulsively dash across the hall to the Gryffindor table and into the waiting arms of Pavel Paskevich, who watched her with an inscrutable look. But Mary was undisturbed by Thomas's grip this time; a peculiar warmth flooded her being. With a tender smile, she eased his hand from her wrist, clasping it in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Thomas looked at her as if she had gone mad, but Mary's smile persisted, and he slowly reciprocated – though Mary felt him squeeze her hand rather forcefully – she would have to teach him how to hold hands properly.

The other first-year Slytherins were staring at them with concern; Walburga Black looked at them with disgust while whispering something into blonde Condril Parkinson's ear – and Mary, staring directly back into Black's upturned, not unattractive grey eyes, at once learned why; she thought they were muggleborns, and she hated muggleborns; she thought the little scene Tom had caused during the sorting was just an indication of their inferior blood; Walburga's uncles, eminent men with eyes similar to hers, told her that muggleborns were abominable creatures, unworthy of magic; and she could not stand the fact that Mary – a muggleborn – was more beautiful than her. Repulsed by Black's thoughts, disenchanted that both her male and female peers had minds so vile, Mary withdrew into herself – but then she remembered; she had Thomas – whose mind was more fire than lust – whose mind was sharp and bright, like a moon covered in incandescent blood.

The sorting ended with an uncomely, freckled blond boy named William Wilkes being sorted into Slytherin. He was received with greater enthusiasm than both Mary and her brother combined.

The Headmaster, Armando Dippet, a wizard supposedly three-hundred-years old who would have looked perhaps two centuries younger, if not for his entirely colourless skin, rose from his seat and made a speech. "Esteemèd pupils, welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he began in a surprisingly firm voice for one who appeared so decrepit. "Ere we attend to the feast, let us commemorate those many alumnae of our great school who in the bygone year perished fighting in Spain. Whether for Velasco or the Antiguo Ministro, all become brothers and sisters in death."

Mary was stunned by what ensued; most of the students in the school quietly drew their wands and pointed them at the ceiling, light emanating from the tips. Mary found herself caught between the wonder of wizardly involvement in the Spanish Civil War and the solemn beauty of the tribute. As Dippet's speech meandered back to mundanity, Mary's attention wavered, drawn instead to Tom's thumb, which now stroked her hand with unexpected gentleness. She marvelled that he could be so gentle, mere hours after such viciousness, and once again thought of her image of the full moon covered in gleaming blood – Tom was both terrifyingly violent and tender; Mary found herself eager to discover what else lurked within him.

"Now, without further ado, I bid you eat!" Dippet concluded.

A veritable mountain of food instantly materialised before Mary; she had never seen so much food – she had never even heard of some of the dishes before, many of which seemed positively mediaeval. Tom, having finally relinquished his grip on Mary – she saw from his eyes an immense hunger, not just of the body, but of the soul – and she was glad; she would feed him – she would give him all the affection he needed; she would fill him; she would make him whole. But to her amazement, Tom drew his wand and began levitating food not to his own plate, but to hers. Mary did not resist; and watched him perform magic with delight – none of the other first years could levitate food without saying, "Wingardium Leviosa" aloud; Tom did so wordlessly, effortlessly. William Wilkes, who was sitting across from them, stared at Thomas wide-eyed – and Mary, still holding Thomas's hand, squeezed it lovingly; for she saw that she was not the only one impressed by her brother – though, unlike her, Wilkes' expression was one equally of resentment.

"So what are you two," came the saccharine voice of Condril Parkinson from Mary's left side, "brother and sister? Or boyfriend and girlfriend? Or both?"

That Parkinson's profuse blonde hair was straight along the sides, curly on the back, and glowed ever so slightly on their own accord suggested a magical pedigree, while her bold, inquisitorial stare indicated a privileged upbringing. Mary disliked her immediately.

"Brother and sister," Tom replied coolly, ignoring Parkinson's last option.

"Really? You sure look more like boyfriend and girlfriend to me. Unless muggle siblings act like that nowadays." Parkinson giggled. "You're twins, aren't you? Just like Pollux and Castor. Did you know that in Ancient Greece, they –"

"Enough, Condril," enunciated a much older boy, who wore a badge with the Slytherin insignia, and had apparently been assigned to oversee the first-years; handsome, with meticulously parted dark brown hair and a rather ceremonial demeanour, he reminded Mary in equal parts of her two brothers. "Muggleborns aren't to be bullied, but civilised. If they're in Slytherin, it's because they've got a pureblood ancestor or two. So leave them be; that's an order from a prefect."

"Yes, Arcanius," Parkinson simpered, before immediately turning and whispering something into Walburga Black's ear; the latter smirked.

Though thankful for Arcanius's intervention, the manner in which he intoned 'muggleborn' reminded Mary of how her Uncle Godfrey – her father's half-brother – intoned 'native', when he talked of his tenure as a magistrate in Rhodesia.

"You're sleeping on the floor," Caracallus Lestrange sneered, kicking over Tom's suitcase. "Mudbloods don't deserve beds."

That word again – its connotations becoming clearer with each passing moment. Tom, clad in second-hand robes and with hair untouched either by wand or enchanted comb, was clearly an outsider here. Of course he was; the Slytherin boys' dormitory was nothing short of regal – all gleaming stone and dark wood, plush chairs and green velvet bedding, like the lobby of a mansion for a baron with a predilection for green hues and engraved serpents – everything here was designed to alienate him.

Yet, he would claim it all; this luxury, just like Mary and her luxury would soon be his, were already slipping into his grasp (Tom smugly remembered how she had held his hand at dinner, after the train's fiasco); all would be his. So, he slowly drew his wand.

Lestrange just ruffled his curly mane and chuckled darkly, "Well, lads – seems the mudblood fancies a duel. How many hexes d'you reckon he can parry before he's crying for his mum? Three?"

"Two!" bellowed Alistair Avery, who had claimed a bed by dumping his belongings onto it with little ceremony. He sprawled across it like a hefty toad, one hand patting his rotund belly, the other absent-mindedly scratching at his trousers.

"One!" said William Wilkes, from whose small, beady eyes Tom gleaned thoughts of resentment and envy, and whose wiry blond hair was styled in a fashion almost identical to Caracallus Lestrange's – though markedly less well-done. "Mudbloods don't fight."

"None. He doesn't even know which end's up," intoned Shalmaneser Nott wisely, as if delivering the verdict of an extensive statistical study. His thick spectacles caught the glow of the orange lamp light as he peered down at Tom with a look of overt scorn, adjusting them on his long, pointed nose.

Caracallus Lestrange snorted. "Fine, then, let's have at it. Hit me with your best hex, mudblood – go on, I bet you've got some real fancy ones." He made an exaggerated gesture towards his face and chest, as if daring Tom to aim there.

Tom knew the stakes were high: establish dominance now or face relentless torment, dragging Mary into the mire with him. He stared into Lestrange's dark eyes, and skimmed against the surface of his mind – to discover that Lestrange was a type he was well acquainted with at Wool's – all it would take was one display of power, and Tom would have him eating out of his palm. At the same time, Tom was uncomfortably conscious that his adversaries were now not only also endowed with magic, but likely considerably more skilled than he in the application thereof. Their hair magically set, robes enchanted to billow elegantly, and dinner banter littered with casual allusions to exploits their parents had performed either as sorcerers or politicians – to them magic was like air, and Tom was like someone who had only recently been introduced to the concept of breathing properly. Then again, the spells they cast at dinner to hover, transport, slice, heat and cool had necessitated the use of words; Tom was capable of doing all of that without them.

"Hurry up already!" Alistair Avery yelled impatiently. "You're boring me! Wanker!"

"He can't do it," William Wilkes cackled, sitting down cross-legged on his bed. "I told you, Caracallus – mudbloods don't fight."

"Very well, Lestrange," Tom said, as calmly as he could manage. "Shall I start?"

"Ooh, the mudblood talks back –"

Tom's wand was aimed at Lestrange, yet it was not the tool he chose to use. He had only learned exactly seven wand-spells silently, indeed magiclessly practising at Wool's in the last fortnight – hardly an arsenal compared to the informal magic – the Devil in him – with which he had ruled Wool's for years. Thus, with a sudden movement of his left hand – which he had hitherto kept furtively behind his back – he sent the lamp on Shalmaneser Nott's nightstand hurtling towards Lestrange's face.

A surge of immense pleasure swelled within Tom – so great, it was akin to that which he had felt nestling his face between Mary's collarbone and chin. The lamp had shattered loudly, with a pleasing crunching sound, and Lestrange now lay on the floor clutching his bloody face, screaming pathetically.

"Stupefy!" shouted William Wilkes, pointing his wand at Tom, hitting his shoulder – Tom fell over his spilled suitcase.

He felt a jolt – then nothing; it was a surprisingly mild sensation. Tom lay on the floor – Wilkes glared down at him – but Tom was unfazed; in fact, he was filled with a peculiar joy – a triumph. He had won a duel against a pureblood; against a boy who had grown up around magic, and Tom – not even three weeks ago – had never used a wand before.

Then, like a drunken Oaktunian punter, Tom leapt to his feet and tackled William Wilkes. The latter crashed against the wall as Tom pressed his forearm against Wilkes' scrawny neck. Tom was neither taller nor more robust than the ratlike boy, but it was clear he – but it was clear he had infinitely more experience in scuffles of a physical nature.

"I yield – I yield –" Wilkes cried hoarsely.

Tom relented; a mistake, for at that moment Alistair Avery, easily twice Tom's bulk, clamped onto him from behind in a bearhug. The air squeezed from his lungs, Tom flailed desperately but to no avail. Wilkes, emboldened, rose to join the fray. Now, Tom was being hammered from both sides. Luckily, the pair's lack of coordination worked in his favour – their punches, vicious though erratic, often found the wrong target. Tom attempted to bite Wilkes, but the latter evaded; instead, Tom sank his teeth into Avery's arm.

Avery roared, and Tom snapped his fingers – Avery flew backwards, crashing against Nott's wardrobe – Tom then kicked Wilkes in the groyne – Wilkes screamed – Tom elbowed Avery in the face – but Avery caught the elbow with his fat paw, and twisted Tom's arm; Tom snapped his fingers again – Avery fell to the ground, Tom raised his leg, and brought his heel down on the back of Avery's head.

All in the room except Tom and Shalmaneser Nott were in varying states of incapacitation – Lestrange continued to whimper; Wilkes and Avery were moaning in pain; Avery's nose was bleeding. Nott, ever the bookish, anaemic sort, was quivering under his covers, arms shielded over his head like a scared turtle. With a mischievous grin, Tom, simply because the opportunity was too good to pass up, yanked Nott by the ankles and tossed him off the bed. Nott hit the ground with a pitiful yelp. He was already looking forward to recounting the night's exploits to Mary, describing how he had single-handedly put all four of his tormentors – who had alternated between ogling and subtly disparaging both Mary and him during dinner – firmly in their place. He would protect her at Hogwarts, and then forever. He would smash a lamp into the face of Neville Chamberlain if he had to. The blond boy Mary so admired and so desired would have stood no chance against Lestrange alone, let alone Lestrange and his lackeys – Tom imagined himself bludgeoning blond boy to death with a lamp and burying his body in the Forbidden Forest, with the same detached fascination he had once entertained at Wool's in imagining his own funeral – and Mary would finally belong to him.

But then, the adrenaline faded, and a sharp pain coursed through Tom's body – Wilkes and Avery's blows had not been light; it had been years since Tom permitted anyone to hit him more than once. He limped slowly towards Lestrange, who had curled into a foetal position – Tom seized the broken lamp – Lestrange howled – Tom, raising his arm, prepared to bring the lamp down on Lestrange's head.

"No, please, stop, Riddle, please – I'm sorry, I'm so sorry –"

Tom's way of showing mercy was to smash the lamp on Lestrange's back instead. Lestrange emitted a pitiful squeal. Annoyed by the noise, Tom spat a mixture of mucus and blood onto the defeated boy, who groaned one last time and then went silent. Tossing the lamp aside, it clattered to pieces on the stone floor. Tom stood tall, surveying the carnage he had orchestrated, a dark prince in his newfound realm.

Alistair Avery was sitting up, pressing his hand against his profusely bleeding nose; William Wilkes was hunched on the floor, clutching his groyne; Shalmaneser Nott was attempting to repair the shattered lamp, repeating "reparo" like a mantra, though his efforts seemed futile. Caracallus Lestrange was motionless, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

"Anyone else want to call me mudblood?" Tom asked.

Silence.

"Good."

Tom turned around, picked up his suitcase, and, finding his bed, began turned around, picked up his suitcase, and, finding his bed, began unpacking.