Serpensortia

Chapter 1

He stared at the passing countryside, his forehead against the window pane, cool against the heat of his anxiety. There were other people in his train compartment, but he did not pay attention to them any more than they paid attention to him beyond the perfunctory greeting and the occasional side glance. He liked it that way. Thomas did not like attention, although he supposed he should not spend his one and only year in Hogwarts hidden in the woodwork. No, he had one chance... just one. He would make it count. He had fought tooth and nail for this. Actually, he had fought verbally, but the resulting debate with his tutor left him half-exhausted afterward as though he had really fought a duel. However, he won, that was the main point. And he was not going to give Franklin a chance to gloat at him when he was hired again to teach Thomas until his first apprenticeship.

The landscape passed by in a blur, but Thomas was not really seeing it. His eyes were glassy as his mind resurrected other visions that he wished he could ignore. It was too easy to slip into his old role, into his old life. He did not want that here, but it haunted him nonetheless. He supposed that no matter how hard he tried, it also would. While his ears overheard the general gossip from the holidays, he saw not the train's journey, but a corner of the Hogwarts library. A dark-haired boy sat at a table, reading a large tome. A tame scene in comparison to some of his others, merely a memory of a vision rather than a full-blown one. But still, he wanted to avoid it. He blinked, forcing the images away, and focused on the darkening horizon.

"Thomas Young?" someone asked from the compartment door. All eyes turned toward him. Thomas pushed himself upright and looked at the boy who called him. Bright red hair, freckles, tall as a pole, with a friendly grin on his face. Even Thomas's innate coldness around most people felt itself crack under such a smile, and he offered a half grin in return.

"Sorry the Head Boy and Girl didn't make it to help you into the train and welcome you and stuff, but Hermione and Macmillan had to... um... well, there was this explosion in the back of the train." The boy's grin grew. "There were a few curses to break, no one died, but, as a result, I'm your humble welcoming committee of one prefect," he concluded. He reached out a hand over the other four people in the compartment. "I'm Ron Weasley."

"Should have known," Thomas replied, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. "Mother told me to look for you. Said your family helped her through a tight spot before I was born."

Ron wrinkled his forehead in thought. "I don't recognize the last name. Pureblood or half-and-half? Don't suppose a Muggle woman would know my parents unless a Memory Charm went wonky."

"My dad's a Muggle, but Mother's a witch."

"Hmmm... I'll have to ask Mum about that," Ron said. "Budge over, Susan."

The girl across from him giggled and scooted over until she was practically in another girl's lap. Thomas thought she was named Hannah, but it could have been Anna. Ron made his way through the tangle of legs so that he could sit down in front of Thomas by the window.

"So, life story, details, this is for the Daily Prophet," Ron said. "Chocolate Frog?"

Thomas declined the Chocolate Frog, and while he was a bit overwhelmed by the sudden wave of exuberant curiosity, he tried to answer Ron's questions as thoroughly as possible. He wished that Ron would talk about himself so that he wouldn't sound so self-centered and did not have to edge so close to the truth, but Ron seemed genuinely interested. Thomas managed a concise, colorless version of his past, explaining his absence from Hogwarts by saying he went to Beauxbatons. He could hardly tell Ron that he had been tutored for six years instead of going to any school. Such a confession would only lead to questions that Thomas was not prepared to answer.

But Thomas was good at pretending. That's why he was going to Hogwarts in the first place. His mother was right. He was a wizard, and he was going to live like a wizard and not some hidden secret in the St. Mungo's closet.

"What're you good at, school-wise?" Ron asked. "Potions, Defense, Charms, Divination... Quidditch?"

"Well, my specialty, or rather, my main interest is in Defense Against the Dark Arts, although Transfiguration and Charms are just as important to my future profession, if I'm approved after graduation."

"What do you want to be? I want to be an Auror, have since fourth year," Ron said, eating the head off of another Chocolate Frog.

"I'm not entirely sure I want to be on the front lines when this war gets started," Thomas replied. "At least if it doesn't end quickly this year. Things are moving fast, and You-Know-Who doesn't seem the type to wait when he has the opportunity and his real agenda is open to the public, not if history has anything to say about it."

"How can you talk about it like that?" Susan asked. "Like it's so distant. It isn't. It's... well, it's here. Now. At Hogwarts even."

Thomas looked at his hands. "I apologize. I have been living in France, and for me, it is distant. But I don't want it to be. I want to help." He gazed at Susan eagerly. "That's what I want to do when I get out of school. I don't want to work for St. Mungo's, but I would like to do medical research for some of the worst curses and hexes and things like that. There are so many things that are still incurable, and they need a cure, especially during this time when we're the most vulnerable."

"Why don't you want to work at St. Mungo's?" asked Hannah.

"Yeah," said the boy sitting next to Thomas, "it's the best medical facility this side of the Pacific."

"There are other places that are more devoted to research and experimentation. I told you I didn't want to be on the front lines."

"The front lines are where the fight is," the boy next to him said. "That's where people are needed."

"The front lines are where people die when they could be saved," Thomas retorted, fingers fidgeting with the edges of his sleeves. His stomach was twisting, tightening.

"So you're afraid?"

"Smith, shut it," Ron snapped.

"Is there something wrong with that?" Thomas said, hands quivering. "Is there something wrong with being afraid of the fight? I want to make a difference, but... it's not the fight I'm afraid of. Not really."

"Then what is it?" asked Susan.

Thomas looked out the window again. He did not say a word. He could not lie his way out of this question. Let them come to their own conclusions. He would draw them away from the real concern if he could.

"Ah, great, Smith, now look what you did!" Ron said.

"No, he has a point," Thomas said quietly. "It's just... personal, that's all. Personal problems. I have my reasons, and I hope you can take that as an answer."

"Of course we understand," Susan said, leaning forward sympathetically. "The war's touched us all in different ways. I think it's a great idea, what you want to do."

"I'm sorry," Smith muttered. "Sometimes my mouth rides my temper, and I say things I shouldn't."

"It's all right," Thomas answered. "If you don't mind, I'd like to watch the window for a while. It's like boring television, but it keeps me occupied."

"Sure," Ron said, glaring at Smith. "I'm going to go to my compartment now. If this idiot bothers you..."

"Weasley..." Smith growled.

"...you're always free to join us. Our compartment usually has room for one more, especially if Hermione hasn't finished yelling at Crabbe and Goyle about the explosion." Ron smirked. "She hasn't quite learned that yelling at them is like yelling at a brick wall. Except a brick wall is more intelligent. Are you going to be Sorted tonight or have you already had an unofficial Sorting?"

Thomas nodded. "I'm being Sorted. With all the first years and everything. Not nervous at all, of course." He curbed his sarcasm with a self-deprecating smile.

"See you there then. Hope you get Gryffindor," Ron said, standing up and making his way back through the legs. He tripped once, but Hannah helped him right himself, and he braced a hand on the door frame.

"Or Hufflepuff," Susan countered, winking good-naturedly at Ron.

"What, you load of duffers?" he replied, playing the game. Hannah slapped him on the arm.

"Oh, before I go," Ron said suddenly, leaning against the compartment door, "I need to know. Sort of club rules, you know. When I say the name Harry Potter, what comes to your mind?"

"Boy-Who-Lived, boy with a scar. Should there be anything else? I don't really know him so I can't say something that I've read in the papers. Load of rubbish," Thomas replied. He could not very well tell the truth. He would get strange looks.

Ron grinned, nodded at Thomas, and closed the compartment door.

Thomas felt weary after his first real encounter, not only with the students of Hogwarts, but with his problem. He was good at pretending, but it was hard to hide it so well that the question would never be asked. It was a perfectly innocent question, and there were not easy answers, not really. The answers were not innocent at all. And the war was on. It could not be avoided. For a second, he wondered whether coming to Hogwarts was a good idea after all - what if he had another episode? - but then he dismissed the thought. He deserved to come to Hogwarts. He was not going to let some mind problem keep him from the place that he had been destined for since his first bout of accidental magic. All he wanted to be was a normal wizard coming to school. Was that too much to ask?

***

He should have taken Professor Dumbledore's offer to be Sorted early. He could not have thought of any better way to call attention to his presence than to stand at the front of the Great Hall overlooking the entire student body while surrounded by eleven year olds. Thomas was a tall boy, and the first-years were midgets in comparison. He could practically feel all the eyes looking him over, could hear the murmur of the students. He knew they were talking about other things, but he could not help thinking some of it, maybe most of it, was about him. He wondered if any of their parents were close acquaintances with Cyrus Franklin. If they were, his secret was shot. He would be known as the school lunatic in no time.

Until they saw the wrong end of his wand.

Thomas prided himself on wand control and spell ethics, but if anyone dared to challenge his sanity by suggesting he was not competent to attend Hogwarts, he would make sure they would be unable to formally complain... legally and ethically, of course. One did not have to curse in order to effectively persuade. Even a well-cast Levitation spell worked wonders on the acrophobic.

Not only were people staring at him as he stood in the midst of tiny children, he had to have the last bloody name on the list. He was standing alone by the time that Professor McGonagall called him. He wished that he could be staring around in wonder while she called out names and that he could have started when she called his, but unfortunately, he could not. He liked pretending, but he had seen Hogwarts so often - despite having never been there in his life - that he was familiar with every passage in the castle, passages that he was sure no one knew, not if the necessary passwords were limited to a select few. He smiled a little, knowing that his secret behind the cold mask would give some of them something new to talk about. The few girls he knew had told him that when did that slight smile, they wanted to stop what they were saying to just look at him for a moment. If he had the ability, why not use it?

"Young, Thomas!" Professor McGonagall barked at the remaining student to be Sorted.

Thomas offered her a small bow before sitting on the stool that was too small for him and letting the hat fall over his face, plunging him into darkness.

"Why, hello," said a buzzing voice in his ear. "It's been a while since I Sorted you. Come back for another try, did you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Thomas muttered. "This is my first Sorting." All his muscles seemed to tense, and his jaw locked. It couldn't be...

There was silence for a minute. "But... I see. Well then... Where shall we put you this time? I mean, you've changed a bit since then."

"Not Slytherin, please, if that wouldn't be too much trouble," Thomas said, his voice belying his anxiety, ten times stronger than what it was on the train. The Sorting Hat couldn't mean... it could not be confused... could it?

"Not Slytherin... You have changed quite a bit, haven't you? You have some Slytherin traits... you've certainly some deviousness that you've acquired, and cunning strategy and trickery that is advanced for a boy your age, I can't say that your ambition is what it used to be. I would not be so quick to put you in Slytherin now. Hardly Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, you're far too self-serving. Perhaps Ravenclaw will do. Yes... RAVENCLAW!"

Thomas removed the Hat from his head, white as a sheet, politely handed it to Professor McGonagall, who gave him a curt nod, and headed straight for the Ravenclaw table.

"Aren't you a bit old for the Sorting?" whispered a girl with freckles.

"I'm a seventh-year. I transferred from Beauxbatons. Mother wanted me close by for my last year," he whispered back.

"Hannah told me about you," said the girl. "Mandy Brocklehurst. Over there," she said, nodding to a cluster of students a few people down, "are Su Li, Morag McDougal, Padma Patil, and Lisa Turpin. You'll learn their names in time. The girls have pretty much overrun the seventh-year Ravenclaws." She grinned. "Hannah told me you were nice-looking. She was right. Bit of an understatement, though."

"Don't take it too seriously," whispered a boy with sandy colored hair. "Mandy's not flirting or anything. Lisa will. Ow." The boy winced as Mandy ostensibly kicked him under the table. "Terry Boot, one of your male contemporaries. Next to me here are Michael Corner - the one talking to Su - Kevin Entwhistle, and Anthony Goldstein. You bring us to an even four. Welcome aboard. Now maybe we can keep these lovely ladies satisfied."

"Nice to meet you," Thomas said, once again overwhelmed by the sudden flow of information all directed at him.

"Do you need something to drink?" Terry asked, holding out a goblet to Thomas. "You look wicked pale."

"Sorry," Thomas replied. He swallowed. "Stage fright. I can wait until dinner."

Terry shrugged. "Suit yourself. So, what do you bring to the Nest?"

Thomas looked at him in confusion.

"I'm the talkative one around here. Most of the Ravenclaws stay within their own small gatherings that could hardly be called flocks. I sometimes talk to myself, even when I'm doing study work just to hear myself talk. It's a bad habit, but it keeps things from becoming far too quiet. What I meant was what you intend to do while you're here," Terry said very quickly.

"I've heard of people like you," Thomas said, "but I never met one of them before."

"Ah, biting wit," Terry pointed out. "We need more of that. We have the knowledge, but often not the wit to use it properly. Michael Corner writes eloquent essays, but you won't hear him using three-syllable words in ordinary dialogue and certainly not anything beyond the obvious. Go on."

Thomas could not help a chuckle before continuing. "I'm afraid I won't contribute much to the sound level of the rooms. I study mostly."

"Tell me you play Quidditch. Please. We need a more decent team. There just aren't enough nerds who want to be jocks around here. I don't play myself, but I'm a huge fan."

Thomas shrugged. "Don't play. Never even rode a broom. Medical reasons."

"Damn," Terry swore. "You had a good Keeper build, and I was hoping... oh well. Michael can always deflect the Quaffle with his particularly thick head. Oh, take my insults with a grain of salt. Michael's really smart. He just hides it really well. Get him away from girls so that he stops flexing his muscles and grinning like he's the next Ced-Gilderoy Lockhart, and he's a pretty good conversationalist. We've had some good times in our area of the Nest."

"Um, Professor Dumbledore's talking," Mandy said, finally getting a word in edgewise after five minutes of hissing in Terry's direction.

"What's the concern?" Terry asked. "He says the same thing every year."

"Not always. And we probably missed the big news thanks to your tendency to catch flies," Mandy snapped. "You know how I hate asking Luna or Su what Dumbledore said. Luna just smiles and says something deep that I couldn't possibly understand - which I know isn't her fault - and Su gets this snooty look on her face like she's infinitely superior to the populace of lesser mortals. Morag, Lisa, and Padma are too involved with each other to give me the time of day."

"Now who's interrupting Dumbledore?" Terry said happily.

"You're impossible," Mandy said as she reached for one of the bowls of carrots. The feast had appeared, and Dumbledore returned to his seat to partake of the meal as well.

Thomas was only half-listening to Mandy and Terry. He had been staring at Professor Dumbledore, who had been staring right back at him with an unfathomable glint in his friendly blue eyes. Thomas almost felt like bolting from the power he saw there... and the suspicion.

He was not getting away from his problem. Not now.

Everything inside him collapsed, and despite his general stoicism, he felt moisture in his eyes. Not tears, but a simple reaction to the dreadful disappointment and even... fear. The one place he hoped it would all disappear, like magic should make this of problem do, it only seemed to grow stronger. It would haunt him forever. The presence lingered like an old friend turned enemy, the kind of enemy who knew every nuance of your being, every inclination and predilection, every move, every thought.

Thomas would not show the sudden surge of weakness under Dumbledore's piercing gaze and under the weight of Hogwarts itself. His face was a perfect, white mask of apathy as he ate. He perfected the mask when he was twelve after he was tired of crying, after the nightmares became too numerous to be as effective. It was always tenuous but solid, practiced. He could force the food in his mouth even as those eyes bored holes in his profile. He could stomach what little food he ate even as his own detached guilt and apprehension and nervousness gnawed at his insides. He wished terribly that he could leave, just walk out of the Great Hall and go to his dormitory - he knew where the Ravenclaw common room was - but that would only fuel the fire of Dumbledore's suspicion. Thomas knew it was untrue, but it was also well-founded, and he had to tread a fine line until the truth finally came out, as Thomas knew would have to happen, at least with the Headmaster. He could count on Dumbledore's discretion, if his memories and his mother judged him well.

He struggled through the feast, and Terry commented on his bird-like picking. Thomas lied by saying that he was difficult to cook for, but his heart was not into it, and Terry and Mandy could see he was not telling them something. They did not press the matter, though.

Dumbledore finally stood for the good night to the students, and the sound of benches scraping against the stone floor echoed against the walls and the enchanted ceiling.

Thomas joined Mandy and Terry and the other seventh years as they left the Great Hall. He prayed to whatever deity took pleas and begged that he could go through the rest of the day without his problem surfacing again like some persistent corpse. He knew that because he desperately wanted to be undisturbed, the problem would slap him across the face, as it always did.

"Hey, you, Thomas Young!" someone shouted behind him.

Thomas turned around, his body and mind weary of the fight but willing to persevere. He could only continue to fight for his due. He had a problem, yes, but he still firmly believed he deserved to be at Hogwarts. No matter who was approaching him now, they had no right to take that away from him, not after he wanted it for so long.

A scrawny boy with black hair and green eyes behind glasses flanked by a girl with a Head Girl badge and Ron Weasley came up to him, his face livid. Thomas was immediately on his guard. Then he saw the scar, and he knew he was in some serious dragon dung now.

Thomas opened his mouth, hoping to avoid any overt confrontation and trying to move the encounter to an empty classroom.

Harry Potter pulled back a fist and punched him in the jaw. Thomas moved with the force of the punch, but he did not fight back.

"You think I wouldn't notice, Young?" Harry said. "Or should I say, Tom Riddle?"