A/N: Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews! I'm horribly slow at replying, but I will get to it!
"ɢʀᴇᴀᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ ɪɴꜱᴘɪʀᴇꜱ ᴇɴᴠʏ, ᴇɴᴠʏ ᴇɴɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀꜱ ꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ, ꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴘᴀᴡɴꜱ ʟɪᴇꜱ." - Tom Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort
Chapter Seven: Alice in Wonderland
He was one of the last left standing by the far end of the Great Hall, waiting for his name to be called and pulling on his slightly too-short cloak, his hands clammy and cold.
Finally, Dumbledore called for him.
"Riddle, Tom."
It sounded so pathetic. So ordinary and forgettable, amongst names like "Black, Walburga," and "Lestrange, Icarus."
But still, he strode forward. He had rehearsed walking proudly and gracefully, many times, in his room at the orphanage. Back straight, head up. One foot in front of the other. Long strides, but not too long.
"Don't be frightened, Tom," he heard Dumbledore whisper as he lowered the Sorting Hat onto his head.
As if!
Even with everyone's eyes on him, Tom had never felt more comfortable as the hat slid over his eyes.
"Funny boy, aren't you?" asked the Hat. There was a strange, poking feeling in the back of his head, and somehow, Tom knew it was the Sorting Hat.
"So I've been told," thought Tom.
"You have secrets, don't you, Tom? Terrible secrets… great and terrible things. Does it eat you alive? The ambition — the desire? Is your own cleverness, your own cunning both a burden and a gift?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"You will be great, Tom Riddle… you will be—"
"SLYTHERIN!" shouted the Hat.
The response as Tom joined the Slytherin table was relatively mild. Although he managed to maintain a straight face as he sat in between two other first-years, inside, he was singing with triumph. He'd gotten into the House he wanted.
"I've never heard of the Ridel family before," started the boy on Tom's left in an overly-polite tone. "Might you be from France? My name is Lestrange — Icarus Lestrange. I do have some family over there — in Paris, you know. You might have heard of my uncle — Corvus Lestrange."
Tom hadn't, but he had no intention of telling Icarus that. His father was almost certainly not French, but no one could disprove that either, seeing as the man was either dead or had disappeared into thin air before he was born.
"Of course," he responded evenly. He'd practiced this, too, coming up with the best excuse to obscure his sordid origins. "My father has been away for quite some time — he sent my mother back to England to raise me, of course."
"And who might your mother be?" Lestrange pressed.
"I never knew her either," said Tom, noticing that the boy on his right was listening very intently to their conversation. "She died when I was very young, and I was brought up by family friends — my father has been away on his travels all this time, you see."
"Which friends?" asked Lestrange.
This was beginning to become insurmountable. Tom panicked; he hadn't thought this far.
"Avery," the boy on the right finally interrupted. "Balthazar Avery. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Riddle. Or may I call you Tom?"
Tom was unbelievably grateful for the interruption, and he noticed how Avery's interjection made Lestrange frown.
"You may call me Tom if I may call you Balthazar," he said finally, noting with irritation how common his name sounded next to Avery's.
Balthazar grinned in response. "Don't mind Icarus. He's always gossiping. Gets it from his mum."
"His mum?" Tom repeated blankly. Do they all know each other already?
"She's a Black," whispered Balthazar, nodding meaningfully. Tom had no idea what the implication was.
"So, that girl, Walburga, must be his cousin?" asked Tom, casting a glance at a severe-looking girl with her black hair done up in tight, intricate plaits. That sounded like an intelligent enough observation. At least, it distracted from his obvious ignorance of what being a Black entailed.
Oh, if only he'd been more prepared!
"We're all cousins, Tom," said Balthazar, laughing. "Didn't you know that?"
All but him. How could his father be a wizard, if neither of these boys had heard of the Riddle family? Surely…
Or, perhaps his lie had hit on something, and Tom Riddle Senior was foreign — American, perhaps. And if his father, like him, had attended Hogwarts, there had to be some record of him here. Something for Tom to find.
He would find his father's legacy — he must.
"Attention!" called a boy's voice from the far end of the Slytherin table. "First-years, over here, please!"
Tom got up slowly, following Icarus and Balthazar over to the far end, where a girl and a boy of about fifteen stood solemnly.
Once all of the first years had been accounted for, the pair introduced themselves as the Slytherin prefects: Araminta Carrow and Cornelius Yaxley, both fifth-years.
They followed the two prefects silently out of the Great Hall, going deeper and deeper into the school. The passageways grew narrow and dim, and Tom wondered how he would ever find his way out again.
They stopped abruptly as they came to a small door; nondescript and almost the same color as the stone wall; it was only apparent in the dim light because of a slight shimmer where the edges of the door-frame should have been.
"This is the entrance to the Slytherin Dungeon," said Carrow, turning to face the first-years. "This is where you will live, sleep, socialize, and study. For seven centuries, no outsider has set foot in our home. The password changes every fortnight; today, it is 'Pure-blood.' The new password will appear on the notice-board. Take care to memorize it, or else you will be spending a cold night outside. Understood?"
Everyone nodded as Yaxley pushed the door open, ushering them into the common room.
Tom stifled a gasp, trying to look nonplussed as he devoured his surroundings, eyes darting from detailed silver-and-green tapestries, to the magical emerald flames sputtering in the fireplace, to the shimmer of what looked like water against stone walls, to the finely-carved furniture and the luxurious, dark leather couches where students were sprawled out, discussing things in quiet tones as they barely noticed the first years come in.
Yaxley snapping his fingers broke Tom's reverie.
"Gentlemen!" he called. "Follow me to your dormitory."
Yaxley pulled open a door that Tom hadn't noticed before, and soon he was following a row of boys excitedly descending the staircase that led even further down, the emerald carpeting muffling their steps.
"This is where you will sleep," said Yaxley, pulling open yet another door as they reached the landing and gesturing inside. "There are beds for all of you, so I expect no fighting. Last of all, curfew for first-years starts at eight o'clock, so if you wish to explore the castle before settling in for the night, take care that you return on time."
And with that, Yaxley swept off.
"Riddle, aren't you?" asked a boy who had come up behind Tom. "M'name's Thaddeus Nott," he said in an affected voice. The effect was slightly ruined by the fact that he had a stuffy nose, which he kept rubbing. "D'you want to look around a bit, before curfew?"
"All right," said Tom.
"Well, aren't you well-mannered today, Thaddeus?" someone else drawled.
"Mulciber, don't be an arse," snapped Balthazar.
"I wasn't," said Mulciber. "Just congratulating Thaddeus on the success of Mummy's etiquette lessons."
"Right, Eustace," said another. "Are we actually going out, or are we going to stand around gossiping like girls?"
Tom bit his lip, feeling left out in the camaraderie.
"All of you, enough!" said someone firmly. Tom and the four other boys turned to see Icarus Lestrange frowning at them.
"You're scaring Riddle, boys," Icarus continued. "Eustace, Thaddeus, please do apologize to each other and to our dear Tom here."
Everything in Tom strained with fury. He hadn't been at Hogwarts for more than five hours, and he was already an outsider.
The boring one, the poor one, the nobody with no connections — but that wouldn't matter, he would pretend and conquer.
Icarus was the one to beat. The one to show up, when classes began tomorrow. It didn't matter that his mother was a Muggle, not to him, and soon, it wouldn't matter to them, either. Dumbledore had told him that he was special, even for a wizard — that speaking to snakes was rare. Ollivander had told him that he was destined for great things, had the power of life and death, destruction and creation. He was special.
He had power that others didn't, didn't he? His talent was at least equal to their names.
"Are you coming, Riddle?" asked Icarus, turning imperiously as he put one foot on the stairs.
Suddenly, someone came rushing down in a flurry of dark robes, shoving Icarus away. He stumbled back, looking crestfallen, and the others drew away, too.
"Has no-one told you not to stand in front of the stairs, Lestrange?" snapped the newcomer; a boy of about fourteen or fifteen, with a narrow, aristocratic face, white-blond hair and grey eyes that glinted like steel in the dim, wavy light.
"Who are you?" asked Tom, before he could hold himself back. But he couldn't help but be curious, especially when the other four boys were staring at the newcomer with such adoration and reverence.
"Abraxas Malfoy," he said, drawing himself up to his full height — which Tom noted with a faint hint of pleasure was not much taller than him.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Tom Riddle." Tom did not take his eyes off of Malfoy's, instead lifting his chin and glaring. Why should I be afraid of you?
"Tom Riddle," repeated Malfoy. A mocking grin spread across his face. "And what might you be? Another half-blood? Mother ran off with a Mudblood, or worse, a Muggle, is that it?"
"No!" snapped Tom, acutely aware of the others gazing at him and Malfoy fixedly, awaiting an answer with bated breath. He could see his perfect façade unravelling already, all the work that he had done to earn his classmates' respect wasted. "My father was a wizard! His name was Tom Riddle, too!"
Malfoy threw his head back, laughing, the sound echoing ominously against the stone walls of the corridor.
"Oh, you filthy little Mudblood. Bold as brass."
"I'm not—" he started.
"Oh, yes you are. There are no Riddles in any of our family trees. Not even mine, and I believe every French family of note is intwined in its branches… You didn't honestly let him fool you, boys?"
Icarus and the others stared back at Malfoy, eyes wide and lips pressed into tight lines. Then, as one, they turned and retreated back up the steps.
His job complete, Malfoy turned with another swish of his robes, and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Tom alone.
Gone, gone, gone. Everything he'd hoped for. Power, influence, respect — Abraxas Malfoy had made it all vanish in the blink of an eye.
And now, filled with a childish viciousness as he entered the first-year boys' dormitory, Tom made a vow to destroy him. He swore to bring Malfoy down to his knees before him, to make him cry and beg and scream. And on or before that very day, he would make the entirety of Slytherin House look at him the same way they'd looked at Abraxas Malfoy — even the ones who wronged him.
Oh, yes. Tom Marvolo Riddle was making a list, and Abraxas Malfoy's name was going on the very top.
For the first time, Tom opened his eyes to see not the grey ceiling of the orphanage, but instead, emerald curtains.
The room was completely still except for light snoring. His face grew hot with embarrassment as he began to remember the events of the previous day.
Quietly, as not to wake the rest of the dormitory, he crept out of bed and began to prepare for his first day of school. Tom was determined to impress the teachers; he would claw back every ounce of dignity Abraxas Malfoy stole from him last night even if it took him years.
He dressed carefully and neatly, the way Mrs. Cole would approve of, straightening the collar of the blazer, and tugging on the bottom of the cloak (which Tom though was a bit of an odd addition) that must have been owned by someone much shorter than him, because the hem was well above his ankles.
Once he took all of his books out, there was the matter of the diary. He didn't want to bring it to class with him, but he didn't want to leave it out in the open, either.
Tom settled for wedging it between the bed and the wall. Anyone who found it would have to be actively looking for it.
He had no idea what time it was, but it had to be early if no one else was up. So, with one last glance around the dormitory, Tom pushed the door open, shut it carefully, and walked up the stairs and into the common room.
"Riddle!" someone called imperiously. Tom looked around, bewildered, to see the male prefect from last night (Yaxley, he remembered) sitting on one of the couches nearest to the fire.
Tom's stomach turned. Sitting next to him was Abraxas Malfoy.
"Come here, Riddle. Didn't you hear when I called you the first time?"
Obediently, as if Yaxley was Mrs. Cole, Tom walked over to the couch, stopping about two feet in front of Yaxley.
"Yes—"
"Sir," Yaxley interrupted. "You will refer to me as 'sir'."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, staring fixedly at the rug. He'd read books before, about public school. This was normal, wasn't it? Being told off by older students?
"This is our Mudblood, is it, Yax?" asked a bored-looking boy, the same age as Yaxley and Malfoy, with long black hair and lithe legs draped elegantly over his chair. "Cygnus Black, Riddle. You'll refer to me as Mister Black. Or Mister Cygnus. I don't mind."
He yawned, then went back to reading the book that lay open on his lap.
"And you've met Malfoy," continued Yaxley. "Told me you were rather insubordinate, Riddle. So, he'll be your master as a punishment for your unsightly behavior last evening."
"Master?" repeated Tom, looking up at Yaxley in shock. This wasn't right... this couldn't be normal.
"That's all Muggles and Mudbloods like you are good for. You must know your place," said Malfoy, smirking. All of a sudden, Tom felt himself being forced to his knees as if invisible hands were pushing him down. There was a black, shiny shoe in his face. Yaxley's wand was out. Magic. "Get polishing, Riddle. The Muggle way, as you're used to. And be careful. They're the finest dragonhide, more expensive than anything you'll ever own."
"But won't they—" Tom was not going to cry. He was not going to show an ounce of weakness in front of them.
"See you?" asked Malfoy. "That's the point, Riddle. So hurry up, and shine your master's boots, and you might finish before your little classmates see you on your knees like a proper Mudblood."
Tom felt the same fury burn as when Billy called him a monster, years ago, he wanted to tear, to break, to lash out at something… but there was no rabbit here. The three older boys had no weakness, and magic could not help him now. It was one against three, and he did not have any training.
But one day... he'd get each one of them. Alone. Scared. Crying.
"I don't have anything to do it with."
"I don't have anything to do it with, Master."
Tom flinched as a few objects tumbled onto the floor. A cloth, a brush, and a bottle of something black. Polish.
"Hurry up, shoeshine. Time is wasting."
Tom did make haste to finish Abraxas's shoes as quickly as possible; he wanted to leave before either he lost his barely-restrained temper or, as Malfoy threatened, his classmates came into the common room and saw him.
"Not bad, Riddle," said Malfoy, admiring his shoes. "Well, if you turn out to be a pathetic wizard, there's always this to fall back on, eh?"
Tom wasn't usually given to physical violence. But right now, as he got to his feet, he wanted nothing more than to ball up one of his polish-stained hands and punch Malfoy square in his long, pretty nose (wouldn't look so pretty with a broken nose and blood all over your face, would you?).
So, instead, he smiled, the same way that he did at adults, and said: "Thank you, Master. May I go to breakfast now?" though saying it made his throat sting with bile.
"The Mudblood learned his place quickly," noted Cygnus Black.
Not likely, thought Tom, as he fixed his features into what he hoped was a pleasant, obedient expression.
"I think he's sneaky," said Yaxley. "After all, the Sorting Hat must have passed over his unfortunate blood for a good reason. I think Riddle knows what's good for him. He's acting."
"I'm not," said Tom earnestly, hoping to avoid any further humiliation. "I'm really not."
"Then prove it," said Malfoy, standing up with a sweep of his cloak. The other two followed suit. Tom was suddenly conscious of his secondhand uniform. "Come to breakfast with us, Mudblood."
Tom was about to protest. His hands were still stained with polish, and everyone would know what he had been doing.
How dare you? How dare you treat me this way?
"Yes, Master," he said, gathering his books once more. It was fine. He'd get them all back, someday… humiliate every one of them, but especially Malfoy.
"May I wash my hands?" he asked hopefully. The common room was starting to fill with students.
"No. Let's go, Riddle. You're not allowed to until after classes. If you return to the common room with clean hands, you'll be punished."
Tom clamped down hard on his flaring temper, and shouldered his bookbag, following the three older boys out of the common room and into the Great Hall before anyone could see what was going on.
Not that he'd been starved in the orphanage, but Tom had never seen so much food, and nor had he ever been allowed to eat as much as he wanted to. To his great relief, the others did not pay much attention to him, though Icarus Lestrange threw him a questioning look as he approached the table, then looked away as if he was ashamed to be caught looking at Tom. The Mudblood.
Tom's mood instantly soured further, and he was on the verge of losing his appetite. He glanced over at the professors' table, and saw Dumbledore, dressed in sky-blue robes that clashed with his auburn beard, looking at him quizzically. But he, like Lestrange, looked away.
"You can borrow the Mudblood to carry your books if you'd like, Carrow," said Cygnus languidly as the other Slytherin prefect sat down opposite them, accompanied by two other girls.
"How distasteful. Whatever you're doing with Riddle, boys, do leave me out of it," muttered Araminta Carrow, giving Tom a cursory glance. "And before you ask, Druella and Lucretia feel the same."
The girl on Araminta's left; stern and with stiff black ringlets, sniffed. "I wouldn't let a dirty Mudblood touch my things anyway. I'd never get them clean."
Cygnus snorted. "Lucretia, cousin mine, that's just a bit harsh. Even Abraxas let Riddle shine his shoes."
"Abraxas, as I remember, was rather given to having his hands all over filthy Mudbloods this summer. By seventh year, I'm sure he'll have a half-blood bastard," spat Lucretia.
I'm a half-blood, thought Tom. But he did not think it wise to draw attention to himself, and tried to concentrate on his egg instead.
"Mudblood girls are for practice, cousin," said Cygnus, reclining against Yaxley. "A young man must sow his seed before settling down."
Araminta snorted. "You're only sixteen. You're not a man by any means, so stop talking as if you're your father. And in front of little Riddle too? You should be ashamed of yourselves!"
"I'm sure Riddle's used to it, seeing as he's the spawn of a Muggle whore."
Tom couldn't help himself any longer. "My parents were married!" he spat.
One of them — Tom didn't know who — chuckled. "Likely story, Mudblood. Be quiet, or else we'll have you eat off the floor like the dirt you are."
Could they do that? With all the teachers watching them?
Tom thought it best not to tempt fate, though he barely trusted his temper not to erupt. Someone passed him a schedule, and Tom spent the rest of breakfast memorizing it, whispering the names of the classes under his breath, and ignoring the conversation around him.
Transfiguration. Charms. Potions. He was really a wizard. Tom was going to learn how to do magic, and he was going to be the best at it. He had to be. He was special, no matter what they called him. Dumbledore had said speaking to snakes was rare. Ollivander told him that he was powerful, and power was what really mattered, wasn't it?
And if not, Tom would make it so.
"Why've you got black stuff on your hands?" asked the girl next to him. She was wearing a Gryffindor tie and looked quite prim. Tom wanted to get up and move, but it was the only empty seat in the Potions classroom, so he would have to bear her company, which he could already see was going to be incredibly tiresome.
"It's none of your business," snapped Tom. He probably should have been more polite, but he was in a foul mood as it was.
"It looks like shoe polish," said the girl in a tone that she probably thought sounded helpful, but to Tom, it was immensely irritating. He did not respond.
"My name's Minerva," she continued, as if Tom had asked. "Minerva McGonagall."
Minerva took note of his tie. "How d'you like being in Slytherin?"
Tom glanced back at Avery and Mulciber, then turned back to Minerva and stuck his chin in the air. "I like it," he said, attempting to sound as haughty as Malfoy.
"You haven't told me your name," said Minerva. "That's quite rude, y'know."
Tom took a deep breath. Girls.
"My name," he said, sighing, "is Tom Riddle."
Minerva put a finger to her lips, shushing him loudly. "Class is about to start," she whispered.
Tom rolled his eyes and sat up straight, wondering what he had done to deserve this awful day.
The professor who strolled in through the open door of the Potions classroom was a portly man with an enormous ginger-blond moustache, dressed in robes of luxurious maroon-colored velvet. He rubbed his large hands together, smiling jovially at the class.
"Now then," said the professor, turning to beam equally at each of the students. Tom sat up even straighter, feeling annoyed as he watched Minerva do the same.
"My name is Professor Slughorn, and I am the Potions Master at Hogwarts."
Both Tom and Minerva began to painstakingly copy Slughorn's lecture. Tom was glad that he had practiced using a quill and parchment; making neat, quick letters, the fluff on the feather tickling the back of his hand gently. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mulciber and Avery with their eyes glazed over, barely paying attention.
Who's the Mudblood, now?
"Who can tell me about Wiggentree bark—"
Tom and Minerva's hands shot into the air. Slughorn looked confused for a second, clearly trying to work out who had raised their hand first.
"You there," he said finally, pointing at Tom. "What is your name, young man?"
Tom allowed himself a small, victorious smile as Minerva slumped in her chair beside him.
"Tom Riddle, professor. Wiggentree bark comes from the Wiggentree, a, um, magical rowan that will protect anyone touching its trunk from the attack of Dark creatures. Thus, it is used as the main ingredient in Wiggenweld Potion, which will heal most common injuries. The fresher the bark, the more powerful its effects are when used in a potion," he recited.
Slughorn's expression slowly grew more intrigued all the while that Tom was talking. By the time that he was finished, one could have heard a pin drop in the classroom.
"Well," said Slughorn with a short, disbelieving laugh. "You've impressed me. Take twenty well-earned points for Slytherin. Excellent job; you are certainly one to watch, Mr. Riddle."
Tom heard Avery and Lestrange whisper something nasty behind him, but he didn't care.
You've impressed me. You are certainly one to watch.
It was settled. He was going to study hard and become the best student Slughorn— no, the best student Hogwarts had ever seen.
The bell finally rang, meaning he had ten minutes to get to his next class, Transfiguration, which according to the schedule, was taught by Professor Dumbledore.
Tom was not looking forward to it. He sat sullenly down at one of the desks nearest to the front, and folded his polish-stained hands in his lap, hoping no one would notice. He wasn't up for a repeat of Minerva McGonagall. As it were, he found himself seated with a boy wearing a yellow-and-black tie — a Hufflepuff. According to the Sorting Hat, they valued hard work and loyalty, neither of which Tom found at all impressive.
"Hullo!" said the boy cheerfully, giving Tom a dimpled smile. He was reminded instantly of Dennis Bishop.
"Hello," he responded grudgingly, shifting in his seat. Don't ask my name.
"Algie Longbottom," said the boy, sticking his hand out. "Nice to meet you."
Tom shook it, wrinkling his nose. Couldn't he have wiped his hands on his trousers? They're all sticky and wet… disgusting.
"Tom Riddle," he said in a monotone voice, extricating his hand from Algie's grip as quickly as possible and surreptitiously wiping it on his cloak.
"Isn't it exciting?" asked Algie. "Learning magic? Of course, mum and dad let me do a bit at home with Dad's wand — did yours?"
"No," said Tom, glaring at the blackboard as if it had murdered his first-born child. "I practice on my own."
"Oh. Ooooh," said Algie, his eyes going wide with realization. "You're Muggle-born!" he said loudly, grinning.
Tom winced.
"I'm not—" he began.
"I've never met a Muggle-born before! What's it like, finding out you have magic? Is it true that Muggles ride in brooms with wheels? Do you really not send mail by owl? What's electricity? Is—"
"I'm a half-blood!" hissed Tom, glancing around. Yes, everyone had heard. They were all gaping at him now. Fantastic. Why can't Longbottom keep his big gob shut?
Of course, he didn't really know if he was a half-blood… but his father had to have been a wizard. He had to be.
As Dumbledore swept into the classroom, Tom found himself feeling unusually relieved.
"Good morning, class," said Dumbledore, smiling at them all just as Slughorn had. Then, he began to call attendance.
"Here, sir!" called Algie, his hand shooting up with such force that it nearly knocked Tom over.
"Tom Riddle?" called Dumbledore, giving him a piercing look.
"Here, Professor Dumbledore."
Dumbledore's eyes lingered on Tom's for another moment before moving on to the next person.
What was odd about that, was that Tom had felt a distinct, poking feeling in the back of his head, just as he had with the Sorting Hat. But this time, he was sure that it was Dumbledore's doing, though he could not discern how.
After taking attendance was finished, Dumbledore announced that the rest of the class would concern turning mice into snuffboxes. Tom didn't really see much use in a snuffbox; but he supposed that snuffboxes were better company than mice.
Tom had practiced the incantation and wand-movement separately in his room at the orphanage, and he was sure that he could put them together correctly — at least better than Algie, whose mouse had died a very explosive and violent death, punctuated by a long and shrill squeak from Tom's very distressed mouse.
Presently, their shared desk was covered in mouse blood, whiskers, and bits of dead mouse, which Dumbledore promptly vanished with a wave of his wand. He produced another mouse for Algie, giving Tom a warm smile that did not go all the way up to his eyes. Tom responded in kind.
As Dumbledore watched, Tom moved his wand exactly as the textbook and professor had described, and spoke the incantation with careful enunciation.
There was a short flash of light and a plaintive squeak, and then an ornate golden snuffbox lay sparkling on the desk.
"Well done, Tom," said Dumbledore, though he did not look nearly as impressed as Slughorn had. "Ten points to Slytherin."
"Thank you, sir," said Tom, and this time, the smile did go up to his eyes.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Algernon; let's see you try the spell."
Algie's eyes went wide with trepidation, and Tom suppressed a smirk. His sour mood from the events of the morning was slowly improving.
Tom and Dumbledore both leaned in to watch as Algie moved his wand shakily, stammering out the incantation. The mouse shrieked, and became a grey, twitching snuffbox, with whiskers sticking out of it. Tom thought that it looked quite furry.
"Do not worry, Algernon," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "You will get it eventually. Tom, since you have mastered the spell, will you help him practice for the rest of the class?"
No, I will not! thought Tom, nearly scoffing out loud.
"Yes, sir," he said, straining to keep the contempt out of his voice, even as Dumbledore walked away, looking triumphant.
"Here," said Tom, turning to Algernon and gritting his teeth in preparation for what would surely be a painful twenty minutes. "Move your wand like this."
Endnotes:
*Gob in the UK is (just slightly derogative) slang for mouth, ex: 'Shut your gob!'
For the uniforms, I'm mostly going with the film canon, because I like the idea of the uniform changing throughout the decades. So Riddle-era is blazer plus cloak, Golden Trio-era is robes, and everyone has a House tie.
And wow, Tom is so OP… but according to canon, he's the most brilliant student to ever attend Hogwarts… so… yeah, we're going with it. He has plenty personality issues to make up for it.
My whole idea behind the upper-year Slytherins being pricks was a combination of public-school hazing, magical racism towards Muggle-borns (let's face it, no one's going to believe Tom Riddle is a halfblood without the Gaunt ring as proof), and I also thought it would be fun to write Tom having to claw his way to the top of Slytherin House.
Canon is horribly indecisive about Minerva McGonagall's date of birth. Pottermore says 1935, Fantastic Beasts says sometime around 1900.
(In other words, her age is free real estate as far as I'm concerned.)
So, for the purposes of getting write Tom and Minerva driving each other up the wall, they're in the same year with regards to RFMD, because as I'm sure you've noticed, I can't help myself when there's drama involved.
Also, I was talking to another author who alerted me that there are in fact six, not two, prefects-per-House in canon. Welp, for the purposes of RFMD, I'm going to ignore that bit of canon, I think.
Last but not least, R.I.P. Algie's mouse. Poor thing.
Thank you for reading!