A/N: In which Tom Riddle returns to Hogwarts, Abraxas Malfoy is still there, and Tom is unable to turn in an assignment for the first time.
"ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴍᴏɴꜱ,
ꜱᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛ. ᴄʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ'ꜱ.
ʏᴏᴜ ᴏᴡᴇ ᴍᴇ ꜰɪᴠᴇ ꜰᴀʀᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ,
ꜱᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛ. ᴍᴀʀᴛɪɴ'ꜱ.
ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴀʏ ᴍᴇ?
ꜱᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴏʟᴅ ʙᴀɪʟᴇʏ.
ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ɢʀᴏᴡ ʀɪᴄʜ,
ꜱᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟꜱ ᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴏʀᴇᴅɪᴛᴄʜ.
ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇ?
ꜱᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛᴇᴘɴᴇʏ.
ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ,
ꜱᴀʏꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ʙᴇʟʟ ᴀᴛ ʙᴏᴡ.
ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴀɴᴅʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴅ,
ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏᴘᴘᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴘ ᴏꜰꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ!
ᴄʜɪᴘ ᴄʜᴏᴘ ᴄʜɪᴘ ᴄʜᴏᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴍᴀɴ ɪꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ."
(ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ 1700ꜱ - ᴜɴᴋɴᴏᴡɴ)
Chapter Seventeen: Fear Itself
It was late August, and the heat was sweltering. Not because of the weather, but because of the fires.
Tom stared up at the mouldy ceiling of his room and listened to tireless Death going about his nightly work. There had been a gas leak in the Underground last week, but those infernal masks that the government provided had done their job, and Tom survived.
He had been close to sleeping when he learned that Death had a new smell; not that of sickness or fire, but a creeping, noxious, rotting smell.
He had realised what it was as soon as he smelled it. And being paranoid, Tom brought his mask down with him every night — not that the Germans had ever used gas bombs against them. Not once.
But the warning on the posters had been seared into his mind.
Hitler will send no warning — so always carry your gas mask.
He had studied the instructions carefully. Practised it in his room. He knew it would be hot and smelly and uncomfortable. But he would survive.
Tom's hands did not shake as he put the mask over his head. It was on and secure before the gas rattle even sounded. Before the panic began.
He was one of the first to stumble into the night, and above him, the bombs seemed welcome for the first time. Predictable. He could count the seconds between the screams.
"It's come from inside!" someone had shouted. "Not out!"
Tom had kept his mask on, though. Just in case.
Peter had to be dragged out. Tom stood a few feet behind his head as someone knelt to take his pulse. The light from the crescent moon was obscured by the ever-present fog, making a fairytale-like dreaminess settle over the scene. Though fires glittered scarlet in the heavy black night, no one moved to put them out.
Behind the mask, Tom felt removed from the world. So he had taken it off and breathed, sighing with relief as his lungs filled with the cool night air.
Peter had struggled to do the same, his stronger body faltering.
Tom had stared down at him, and their eyes met. He had stepped forward, transfixed, to catch the desperate movement of Peter's lips as he strained towards the air, but the sound of bombs drowned him out.
Then, defeated, his eyes slid shut. Tom had counted one hundred and twenty seconds. The bombs had screamed. Peter did not breathe.
Watson's eyes had met his across the crowd.
"It's a grim night when a child dies," he had said, and without asking, offered Tom a cigarette and lit it for him. "Was he your friend?"
"No," Tom had said, because that was the truth. He wouldn't be friends with someone as pathetic as Peter, who had forgotten to bring his mask. But at least he had struggled. A Muggle boy had struggled for life when his witch mother had refused to live for him. "But not my enemy."
"Ah," said Watson. "Those are the best kind."
The cigarette had made him feel less sick than the first one had. The next day, he stole a packet to keep under his pillow.
Peter was buried in the daytime, in a quiet cemetery, with the rain slanting down angrily against the coffin. The rest of them dressed in black, pale faces scrubbed clean and devoid of emotion. The Bow Bells were silent.
A few people cried. Tom did not. He squared his shoulders and listened to the pastor read.
"...we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change the body of our low estate that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself..."
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust — was life really so pointless that he, too, was fated to end up exactly where he had begun?
It was when they were told to join hands that he shuddered. He was sure that it was meant to bring him strength in this 'trying time,' but it did not. Two cold, wet palms pressed against his, so lifeless that they could have belonged to corpses. His hair and his shirt clung to his skin, heavy with water, but all the same, he bent his head, shut his eyes, and mumbled along to the comforting words.
When they said 'Amen' and he opened his eyes, the others looked less lifeless. But Tom felt no less empty.
And now, here he was, as usual, waiting for Death.
To live is to wait for death; so what is it, to flee from it?
Tom had leafed through a French dictionary at the bookshop (it was both too heavy and too dull to bother stealing). But he discovered that Voldemort meant Flight from Death, or thereabouts.
It felt appropriate. But how was he supposed to master Death from down here?
He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever. But why not? Just because humans knew both good and evil?
What use did Death serve but weakness?
As if in some sort of horrible, mocking answer, the bombs screamed louder than Tom had ever heard them before — he swore he could feel blood drip from his ears as he cringed in pain — and in one awful, terrible moment, he realised that the bomb was right above him.
His heart slammed hard enough to shatter against his ribcage, but it was pointless. He was helpless.
Tom was going to die.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
In that unbearably long moment, he wondered how not fearing death was ever possible.
His vision went black.
Death tasted like dust.
By some bizarre miracle, shattered brick and stone lay everywhere around him, but all Tom had suffered was a long, bloody scrape down his leg and a cut that was throbbing and swollen on his cheek.
The window lay in pieces on the floor.
His magic must have lashed out and saved him. That was the only explanation.
He looked up, and perched on the windowsill was a tiny owl bearing a letter. Gingerly, he sat up, bits of glass and stone sliding off of him, and the owl silently stuck its foot out. As soon as Tom's fingertips grazed the envelope, it took off, disappearing into the grey, smoky sky.
Everything was covered in heavy brown dust. The cupboard had turned to splinters, and the ceiling was almost entirely caved in. But the trunk, looking even more shabby than it had before, was in one piece.
He undid the clasps with shaking hands and retrieved the one thing he truly needed; his wand.
Feeling slightly less unsettled, he shoved the wand, the cigarettes still hidden in the pillowcase, and the letter in his pocket struggled to his feet and eyed the ceiling suspiciously. He would never make it to the door without the whole thing coming down on his head.
Without hesitation, he crossed over to the window, taking care not to put his hands on the sharp bits of glass, and carefully swung one leg out and onto the ledge, then another. He turned to drag the battered trunk after him.
The air smelled like fire, and sure enough, the street below him was smouldering. Bits of scorching black soot were tossed about in the fire-warned wind.
Tom knew that if he jumped, he could use his magic to keep himself from plummeting to the ground. He'd done it before when he took Amy and Dennis into the cave with him.
But if he used magic in front of Muggles, he would be punished.
Unless... maybe it was special permission! Maybe the Ministry had finally realised how ridiculous this was and allowed underage students to use magic to protect themselves, given the circumstances!
Giddy with excitement, he tore into the envelope and drew out the letter.
𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙼𝚛. 𝚁𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎,
𝚆𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢-𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝙼𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎-𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝙼𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗.
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝟷𝟹 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚆𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜' 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚢.
𝙰 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙷𝚘𝚐𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚂𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚆𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚛𝚢.
𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕,
𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢,
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚝 𝙷𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜
Hoping you are well.
(Reasonable!) Restriction of Underage Sorcery.
An infraction of the highest severity.
How dare they, tucked away safe in their manor houses in the countryside or their heavily warded townhouses that could weather any bomb with ease. How dare they.
If he hadn't used the Shield Charm (without even realising it!), he would have died!
For all they cared, he could have been blown to pieces — but perhaps they would prefer it that way.
"Riddle!" someone called from below. Tom glanced down for a mere second (which was as long as he dared) and saw Watson, gaping up at the smoking ruins that had been his room and the two closest to it. "How on earth — never mind — can you get down from there?"
"No," he called. "Is there a ladder?"
There was, and he was soon safely on the ground.
It was unbelievable that a Muggle was doing more to help him than the Ministry of Magic.
Tom stood beside Watson and looked up at Wool's Orphanage, the place he hated above all else. The top floors were ruined, but like everything, they could be rebuilt.
Still, he felt a strange, misplaced sense of nostalgia.
"The others got out all right," said Watson suddenly. "A few broken bones here and there, children shaking and crying. You were the only one missing."
Tom turned to him, shocked. Had Watson come out to look for him when he'd heard or seen the bomb hit the orphanage — asked for him?
No, he couldn't have. Why would he? He must have just heard Mrs. Cole counting the children. This had to be a coincidence.
Watson simply raised an eyebrow.
"I take it the owl was a sign from the heavens?" he asked, with a wry smile. "You are certainly an extraordinarily lucky young man."
"I wouldn't call it luck," said Tom.
Watson, he noticed, had a knack for not pressing difficult subjects.
"You'll be glad to go off to school and leave all this behind, I'm sure."
He had been dreaming of it since the Hogwarts Express pulled into King's Cross at the beginning of the summer, actually.
"I will," said Tom.
"I won't be here anymore come September, either," said Watson.
He did not elaborate, and nor did Tom.
Instead, Watson delivered him to Mrs. Cole, gave a terse good-bye that felt strangely final, shook Tom's hand, wished him well, and turned to leave.
As he watched Watson's figure grow smaller as he headed back down the street and was swallowed by the ever-present fog, Tom had the strangest compulsion to run after him and stop him, but he wasn't quite sure why, or what he would even say.
He stifled the impulse and thought about Hogwarts.
The next day, his Hogwarts allowance and booklist came, somewhat more discreetly than the Ministry letter, and he went to Diagon Alley the same day, leafing through the secondhand copies of Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles (he was only taking Muggle Studies because it was easy) and scowling when he found that the binding had gone to pieces on most of them.
Tom was somewhat frustrated to discover that Diagon Alley looked as pristine as it had last time he'd been here, but then, he did want a refuge from the war, didn't he?
Or perhaps, seeing it in smouldering ruins might have made him feel vindicated. He didn't know why.
He did manage to get a 'new' uniform. The blazer didn't quite fit at the shoulders, and the cloak was just slightly too short, but it was a fair sight better than having his ankles stick out from his trousers.
By the time he returned to Wool's Orphanage (the bottom few floors were still mostly usable), the alarms were pealing.
They waited.
The night was silent. The horizon stayed dark, and the streets smelled a little less like soot and smoke the next morning.
The following few nights were the same.
The terror was over.
Platform Nine-and-Three Quarters, as always, was overwhelmingly busy and loud, filled with students earnestly flinging their arms around their parents.
"Oh, I'll miss you so much, Mum! I promise I'll write once a week."
Tom averted his gaze.
"Riddle!"
He turned.
"Mulciber," said Tom. "Nice to see you."
It wasn't. The other boy nodded towards him.
"Mum wanted to speak to you!" he said (why was he so friendly all of a sudden?) and dragged Tom through the crowd, despite his protests, until he stood face-to-face with a sneering woman wearing emerald green robes with so many pleats that dear old Churchill would have had a fit from the sheer wastefulness.
Clearly, the so-called war with Grindelwald had not affected them in the slightest.
Tom stood there, gripping his battered trunk and feeling out of place. He had already changed, thank God, in the men's loo (who cares about the staring?) because he would have been ashamed to stand on Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters wearing anything else but his school clothes.
"How do you do, Mrs. Mulciber?" he asked, like an automaton, and suddenly acutely aware of his accent. The 'H' felt almost foreign in his mouth.
She laughed, high and tinkly, all the while keeping a safe distance away from the dirty Mudblood.
"So you are the one whom Professor Slughorn speaks so highly of," she said, looking him up and down. "Tom Riddle."
Tom could almost see the gears turning in her head.
A bit on the skinny side, a shabby second-hand uniform that didn't fit, old trunk, didn't resemble any pureblood families. Certainly not a worthwhile companion for her darling son.
But still, he pressed on.
"You know Professor Slughorn? Ma'am?"
"Why yes, of course. An old family friend." She regarded him carefully. "Muggle-born?"
Mrs. Mulciber said the word as if the very sound made her mouth taste foul. Tom would have preferred her to call him a Mudblood; there was no use in masking intentions behind such a poorly constructed façade.
"No, ma'am. Half-blood. Muggle father, witch mother."
The carefully pencilled eyebrow flicked up-and-down once more. A nervous tick, maybe. Mrs. Mulciber didn't believe him, and even if she did, that made him only slightly more palatable. He'd been raised by Muggles, after all; his mother had died giving birth to him nearly fifteen years ago, at Wool's Orphanage.
"Well," said Mrs. Mulciber. "I suppose that all seems in order. Eustace said you were an orphan?"
"Yes, ma'am. Born and raised in London." (To his great sorrow.)
She gave Tom yet another appraising look. He stared back at her, stony and unrelenting.
"Would you be interested in helping Eustace study for Potions? He has his O.W.L.s next year, and I want him to do well."
To demonstrate this, she drew Mulciber close to her, planting a lipstick-ed kiss on his cheek that made him squirm and yelp "Ugh, Mum! Must you embarrass me like that!"
"I want the very best for him," said Mrs. Mulciber, ruffling his hair fondly. "As all mothers do for their sons..."
Mine couldn't bother to pick up her wand to save her own life for my sake, but yeah.
Tom blinked back at her dispassionately.
"We'd be willing to pay you," she said, taking note of the dismal state of his shoes. "Four Sickles a week?"
Now, he was interested. My own money?
"Yes, I'd be interested," said Tom. Then, to fill the awkward silence that followed: "Thank you for considering me."
"Enough, Mum," said Mulciber, rolling his eyes. "Can I get on the train, now?"
Mrs. Mulciber nodded and kissed him on the other cheek, eliciting a fresh wave of exuberant protests. She began to extend a hand towards Tom, then stopped as if apprehensive about touching him.
Don't worry, he thought bitterly. My filthy Muggle blood won't rub off on you or your precious son.
Instead, he inclined his head and smiled.
"It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Mulciber."
A short, sharp laugh caught Tom's ear, and he turned towards the sound.
He saw Rosier, who, like Tom, had grown considerably over the summer, talking to a tall, elegant woman wearing a set of flowing vermillion robes clasped with a brooch wrought in the shape of a rose, with bronze skin and dark hair expertly arranged on top of her head. As she talked, she moved her hands expressively; they fluttered like birds.
"Who's the woman talking to Rosier?" he asked Mulciber.
He shrugged. "That's his cousin, Euphemia. Made a... decent match."
Tom knew someone like him was a match that could get a pureblood girl disowned, so what was between that and a good match?
Thankfully for his curiosity, Mulciber was in a chatty mood.
"Married Fleamont Potter. A bit too Muggle-loving and nouveau-riche for Mum's taste. He's made some hair potion that the American witches went mad over, apparently."
Oh, I see. Snobbery again.
The Potters were a pureblood family. As far as he could tell from Slytherin common room gossip, they were respectable enough to marry into without risking disownment but not good enough to make the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Apparently, they'd been too chatty about helping Muggles during the last war.
Though, unlike his pureblood family, they'd managed to keep their money. Double it every generation, even.
Tom wondered where the Gaunts were, now — probably sequestered in some grand, stately home full of rare spellbooks and ancient magic. Waiting for someone like him to come and resurrect them. Perhaps, Tom was the only one left, but he would be worthy of them; and they would be worthy of him.
Mulciber cleared his throat.
"They've made good duelists."
"Who?"
"The Potters."
Oh, they were still talking about that.
"And good politicians."
Maybe he should get to know her.
"Mum says it's a bit of rebellion because of Vinda. Especially because they haven't had any children, so either they're not trying, or one of them's barren."
"Vinda?" asked Tom.
"Yeah," said Mulciber. "Other cousin. More on Leopold's side — Effie's on Druella's." He glanced at Tom. "I shouldn't tell you — never mind, who would you tell? Anyway, Vinda's Grindelwald's best lieutenant. And then she goes and marries a Muggle sympathiser..."
"I wouldn't tell."
"Of course not," said Mulciber. "You don't talk to anyone, anyway." He hefted his trunk; Tom felt his gaze drawn to the silver clasps wrought into delicate shapes and the monogram engravings that must have required exquisite craftsmanship. The caged tawny owl in his other hand fluttered its wings and screamed with fury.
"You'll sit with Rosier?" asked Tom, once the noise had died down. He knew that he was not invited. "I'll be in another compartment. If you need me for anything."
Mulciber gave him a pleased nod. "Excellent, Riddle. See you at school."
Tom waited until Rosier left, then walked up to Euphemia and held his hand out, glanced slightly up at her — she was very tall — and felt his cheeks heat slightly.
She looked amused.
"Aren't you going to introduce yourself?" she asked. She sounded as posh as Tom had expected but not nearly as affected as Druella or Leopold. And her voice was as expressive as her hands.
"Tom," he said, embarrassed. He hadn't meant to get flustered. "Tom Riddle. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Potter."
Unexpectedly, Euphemia shook his hand. It probably helped that she was wearing gloves.
"Call me Effie," she said with a laugh. "I'm only thirty — 'Mrs. Potter' is an old woman."
"Not Euphemia?" He didn't understand why she would wish to be called something so frivolous.
"No," she said. "Euphemia is a ridiculous name. Yours is so much more sensible."
"I don't like sensible," he countered.
Effie arched an eyebrow. "There must be some reason you came over to me," she said. "Unless I seemed the best person on the platform with whom to hold a discussion on sensibility?"
Tom did not take the out. Nor did he know why he had gone over to her. He supposed he had been... curious.
Muggle sympathisers, Mulciber had said.
"Well, do you think the Statute of Secrecy is sensible?" asked Tom.
Effie looked somewhat taken aback. Something dark flashed in her eyes, and Tom realised that she must be thinking about Grindelwald and Vinda.
"I beg your pardon," she said, sounding rather like Druella for the first time.
"I didn't mean that," said Tom, hoping he hadn't irreversibly offended her. "I was in London all summer. I don't know what you've heard about me..."
She nodded but did not look at him with pity. Good.
He squared his shoulders.
"I got a letter," he said. "A bomb came down right above me. I had to do it. Or else I would have died. But if I did it again, they would have expelled me."
"Yes," said Effie. The ice in her tone had mostly melted away. "Fleamont and I were trying to get supporters to relax the rules for Muggle-born students, especially those in immediate danger. But, as I'm sure you've noticed, the Ministry couldn't care less about Muggle-born students. They do not believe that wizards and witches have a duty to our fellow citizens, either."
It sounded genuine when she said 'Muggle-born.' Not like Mrs. Mulciber.
"What House were you in?" he asked.
"Gryffindor," said Effie. "I played Seeker."
Tom couldn't imagine her on a broom. He thought Quidditch was ridiculous, anyway. However, he could imagine her as a Gryffindor; she clearly said whatever words came to mind.
"Leo has mentioned you, you know. You've been the topic around the dinner table many times, and your grades in comparison to Leo's have upset many a lovely tea. I've heard that you have... how should I put it... thrown the cat amongst the pigeons?"
"I'm not a troublemaker," said Tom.
Effie gave him a winning smile. "I did not insinuate that. Might I suggest something?"
"Please," said Tom.
She paused. "Carve your own way through the maze. Cut through the hedges. I find that works... splendidly amongst the close-minded."
"Effie, darling!" came a faint voice.
Effie paused, a small smile on her lips.
"The husband calls," she said, making a tiny salute. "Let us hope for peace by the next time either of us stands on this platform."
"Er, take care," said Tom, still a bit in shock as Effie flashed another smile, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the heaving crowd with quick, long strides, accented by her dragonhide boots tapping on the pavement.
"What a woman," came an appreciative voice. Tom whipped around.
"Mulciber?" he asked, shocked. "I thought you were on the train!"
"Eh," said Mulciber. "Nice view. Fleamont's a lucky man."
"She's twice our age," said Tom tightly. "That's not appropriate."
"She doesn't look it."
He stifled the retort, almost surprised it had leapt to the tip of his tongue. But he had heard the pastor rebuke enough boys for staring at women in church in the same way that Mulciber was eyeing Effie's retreating, vermillion-robed figure for the words to be permanently engraved in his mind.
"I'm going to go sit," he said instead and walked past Mulciber and onto the train.
The train ride itself was exceedingly dull. Tom's compartment, at first blissfully quiet, soon filled up with a group of second-year Hufflepuffs, who, without asking Tom if he minded the noise, began playing an enthusiastic game of Exploding Snap.
He hadn't realised how on edge he was since the summer. Every 'pop' made him jump; he was afraid the bombs had followed him.
But thankfully, they got bored, and Tom could relax somewhat. He pressed his forehead against the glass, stared out at the green, untouched countryside, and marvelled at how different it was from the grey destruction he had left behind not more than three hours ago.
It was when they were getting off the train at Hogsmeade Station and going towards the carriages that Tom had a fright that made Exploding Snap pale in comparison.
Great, ghastly black horses, so gaunt and skeletal that they might have been the Reaper's steeds, stood two to a carriage.
He was not the only one. Tom heard a few others gasp around him.
"Thestrals," he said, wonderingly, staring at their leathery, bat-like wings and their pointed, almost reptilian faces. Their glittering white eyes were expressionless, but despite that, they looked docile enough.
Tom had seen death before, so why could he only see them now? But perhaps now, he truly understood the terror...
"Manchester," said the boy beside him as they climbed into one of the carriages, a Ravenclaw Muggle-born. Tom knew him by face, but not by name. "A couple times... this summer. You?"
"London," he said, very quietly. The other boy gave him a nod of solidarity — and was that — respect? How strange. The thing that none of his Housemates could give him.
The feeling felt strange in his stomach, warm and giddy and sick, all at the same time.
"Hard luck, mate. Bet you're grateful to be here in one piece... I know I am."
Tom nodded, thought of the docks burning, and hated how only the Muggle-borns could understand.
He shut his eyes. He was at Hogwarts. He could even smell the magic in the air.
He was home. He was safe.
Nothing could hurt him.
Head Boy? thought Tom, staring disbelievingly at the silver badge on Abraxas's uniform as he watched yet another Black get Sorted into Slytherin. How'd that happen?
Of course. Daddy paid for it.
Dumbledore, he noticed pleasantly, did not look happy in the least. In fact, he looked both preoccupied and grim; and thus vastly less likely to stick his nose in Tom's business for the time being.
"Riddle!" called Abraxas over the noise, all poisoned rosewater and faux-gentlemanly congeniality. "Fantastic to see you! How was your summer? I see you're still in one piece, eh?"
He turned his head, glared, and bit his tongue. He was not going to dignify that with a response.
Silence speaks volumes.
Leave it to Abraxas to suffer learning a glimmer of Muggle news, only to torture Tom with it.
"Would've held a party if you died," he said, grinning over his pumpkin juice (likely spiked with smuggled-in firewhiskey). "Nice and cosy in your orphanage?"
Tom flashed him a look of pure hate.
On cue came a series of overlapping wolf-whistles.
Tom dug his nails into his palms, hard enough to break skin. He could not afford to lose his temper.
Not with revenge so close.
And he needed to build up his endurance. Abraxas would doubtlessly be strutting around the common room all year like this.
"Good to see you too, Abraxas."
And, for good measure, he smiled, then turned his attention to the Sorting, as if seeing yet another snotty-nosed, prepubescent brat with an oversized hat on its head was the most riveting form of entertainment there was.
But Tom was willing to suffer anything Abraxas and his cronies did or said for the sake of being at Hogwarts.
As soon as the Sorting was over, he immediately went down to Slytherin Dungeon, cut through the common room without speaking to a soul, and went straight to bed, hoping that the next day would come quickly and marvelling that the air could be so silent.
Tom was anxious about the Friday lesson in Defence.
This was strange because he was never anxious about classes. He made schedules, did his work, and turned it in on time. He always showed up to class on time, did the assigned readings and necessary preparations, and perhaps more. He answered questions correctly and never lost points for Slytherin.
But a Boggart was not something that Tom could have a contingency plan for. He could not study his way out of a fear.
He had stayed after class on Monday to suggest that they faced the Boggart behind some kind of privacy barrier — a screen, perhaps? Though Merrythought would still see his Boggart, it was undoubtedly a better option than the entirety of the fourth-year Slytherins and Gryffindors.
However, Merrythought, as was usual with their discussions, held firm, and so Tom found himself watching each student face their fears.
Most of them were... ludicrous.
Lestrange had a giant snake (Tom had to bite back the impulse to egg it on), Mulciber had a severed foot, and Minerva's was Professor Dumbledore telling her that she had failed her exams.
All easy enough to make amusing. Tom just had to hope his wasn't what he thought it would be.
"Mr. Riddle?" called Professor Merrythought. "Step forward, please."
He stepped forward to face his worst fear; his heart was already threatening to burst out of his chest. The sound of it beating was deafening. How much worse could it get?
So, he shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to relax. His grip tightened on his wand.
"I'm ready, Professor," he said. All of a sudden, now that Professor Merrythought was opening the door of the wardrobe, the idea of it being anything but Death seemed utterly impossible.
And now, they all know what I'm most afraid of.
The Tom lying on the floor was stiff and not moving an inch; his eyes were wide open but empty, and his lips parted in frozen shock. There was dust on his face, and his clothing was ripped … cuts… from rubble?
Tom knew that if he pressed a hand to the other him's forehead, it would be cold to the touch. If he held a hand above his mouth, there would not be a single whisper of breath. His chest would not rise or fall even a centimetre.
"Riddikulus," he said, pointing his wand at the Tom lying on the floor. His voice shook; his wand hand trembled.
The rest of the class laughed, but Tom barely heard it. The world had narrowed to one terrible focal point.
The walls were closing in on him; he was barely able to move a finger, as frozen as his dead twin.
All he wanted was for it to end.
"Ri-riddikulus."
His throat was dry, his head was fuzzy, and his magic was completely out of reach. He was helpless. The wand slipped out of his slick, sweaty fingers and clattered against the floor with a dull thud that made Tom jump.
More laughter.
"Something funny, Riddle," said Professor Merrythought encouragingly, tilting her glasses down to stare at him. "This is most unlike you. Pick up your wand, concentrate, and try again."
She was right. Tom didn't feel like himself.
He did. The movement felt mechanical as if his joints and legs and fingers were foreign. Tom tripped, somehow, over his own feet and tumbled to the floor but managed to close his hand around the wand.
He was nine years old again. He was shivering and delirious, and he could feel his skin erupt in searing rashes. Every breath was stabbing, searing pain and the Reaper was leering over him. His skin was itching so much that he wanted to hook his fingers under it and rip it off.
"Get up, Riddle."
The bombs were screaming above him. He was helpless. The ceiling was crumbling and cracking—
"Get up, Riddle."
How was he supposed to make his dead body funny?
The laughter was deafening.
"Go away," he whispered, shutting his eyes. That was the only way he could imagine it getting remotely better. But the image lingered — the black curtain fluttered ever closer. Cold sweat slid down his neck, and he gasped.
"Get up, Mr. Riddle," said Professor Merrythought. "Try again."
He cleared his throat.
"Professor," he said shakily as he stumbled to his feet. "I can't do it. I don't feel well."
"Riddle—"
He was going to be sick. Everything was coming up from his stomach, his mind going even fuzzier and insides squeezing with the tell-tale rhythm of vomit. Tom almost welcomed the awful compulsion clearing out all other thoughts as his fear began to ebb away.
His chin wobbled with effort, and Tom cupped a hand to his mouth as the back of his throat began to burn with a disgusting, acrid, lumpy mess.
Everyone began to back away.
"Go to the Hospital Wing, Riddle," said Professor Merrythought, and gratefully, he turned around and dashed out of the classroom, no longer caring about his wounded dignity or the whispered taunts that followed him to the door.
"What happened to you?" asked the girl two beds away from him, in a nearly unbearably-posh accent.
He rolled over so that his back was towards her to discourage any conversation.
"Nothing," said Tom, without turning his head to look. He did not care to ask what had happened to her, but she told him anyway.
"Olive Hornby teased me about my glasses."
The girl sniffled. Was she crying?
Pathetic.
"S-So I didn't wear them today, and I can't see properly without them."
"That was stupid of you, then," said Tom, surprised at himself for answering. Still, he supposed that he was quite bored.
"I know!" the girl wailed — she definitely was crying — he could even hear the squishy, miserable sound of her rubbing her eyes and her knuckles knocking against her glasses. "And I-I fell down the stairs, in front of everyone, and they all — they all laughed at me! It was so embarrassing, you can't imagine!"
"Can, actually," said Tom, thinking bitterly about the boggart.
The sound of her rubbing her eyes stopped.
"No, you can't," said the girl. "Don't make fun of me like that! I was distraught!"
"I wasn't taking the mickey," said Tom, feeling very annoyed.
"Why would anyone want to laugh at you?"
Tom snorted. He'd pondered the same question enough times.
"You don't even know me," said Tom. "You're probably not even in my year."
"Of course I know you!" said the girl. "You're Tom Riddle. Professor Slughorn talks about you."
To the younger students? Tom groaned.
Of course he would. The Mudblood wonder-boy, everyone, look how fantastic he is at Potions!
"And what's that got to do with the other thing?"
"I watch you sometimes," said the girl. "Olive Hornby makes fun of me for it. She's dreadfully pretty—"
Tom coughed. "Wait—just one second. Can we go back to the bit about you watching me?"
"Oh, it's just — you're —" She giggled "—really very handsome."
"Hmph," he said (yet another reminder that he looked like his filthy Muggle father) and pulled the sheets up over his head until she left a few hours later.
"I heard you had quite a nasty turn in Defence, Tom," said Professor Slughorn when he came to visit him in the Hospital Wing.
Tom managed a weak smile. Somehow, he was sure that the others had described it in a bit more detail.
It was humiliating.
"I've never not been able to finish an assignment before," he said lamely.
"Quite all right, m'boy," said Slughorn. "One must know one's limits. Boggart, was it?"
He nodded.
"Not to worry, my dear boy. Would you mind telling me…"
What had frightened him? Tom didn't suppose he could sink any lower today than trembling in front of a harmless creature, falling flat on his arse in front of everyone and nearly vomiting all over the carpet.
"Me, sir." His voice shook as he recalled that awful moment. "Dead."
"Ah," said Slughorn, as if thinking deeply about this. "Yes, I can see how that might prove truly frightening."
"I'm not frightened," said Tom quickly. "I'll tell Professor Merrythought I want another go."
Perhaps he, Tom Riddle, was afraid of death. But Lord Voldemort was its master. If anyone could deal with the boggart's existence, it was him.
After all... the only way to get rid of a fear was to conquer it.
Endnotes:
Guest: Hello there... General Kenobi (wrong fandom, I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself). Yes, Tom/Voldemort would be very miffed about Parvati trivializing his Grand and Noble Ambitions. Certainly not a case of blah blah blah.
I'm using the more recent canon... so Euphemia Potter (née Rosier) is Harry and Ruby's grandmother.
There was a screaming owl (Albus's ill-tempered Great Horned Owl, Houdini) in one of my other fics. But owls actually do scream when they're displeased. If you need a laugh, I suggest looking it up.
Gas bombs were never used during the Blitz, but the government did distribute gas masks and school did run gas drills, just in case.