Three Orphans

Standing well apart from the others, the tall pale youngster tugged at the neck of his new robe.

I'm not fidgeting. Not nervous. It's just this bloody damned collar.

Even though they were competing in the Spelling Bee as individuals (which was the way he preferred it), all the Houses had gotten into the act and put together a kind of uniform for their Chosen Few, just as if they were meant to be working together--a team. Hence his new robes--and this Eton collar. Not that he wasn't grateful. The robe was far and away the grandest outfit he'd ever owned, but the collar was very stiff, and it worried at his throat, like a yappy little dog at a bone much too big for it.

He supposed there must be some kind of Softening Charm that could fix the problem, but, in his haste to prepare for the match, he'd paid scant attention to the domestic spells he saw in the books among the ones more useful to his present purpose: hexes, jinxes, and curses far more creative than anything he could have thought of at the orphanage, even in his moments of deepest resentment and fear. The disarming spells...the binders and blasters... the stingers and biters... the paralyzers, the silencers... the stranglers, the manglers... the slitters, the splitters, the scrapers, the rakers... the wrenchers, the stretchers, the twisters, the maimers... the strength-drainers, bone-breakers... the piercers, scorchers, blisterers, freezers, hurlers, whippers, convulsants...

And the conjured creatures! From the merely nasty to the deadly poisonous, swarms of Pixies to towering Basilisks--these he might learn to conjure and control. Every new discovery made him feel more and more that he had made the right decision coming here. All this deadly magic to pick and choose from made the small boy inside him feel that much safer, that much farther from death.

He glanced about the room, trying not to seem too obviously eager--or anxious. At the orphanage , a show of fear made you an easy mark for bullies. The Gryffindors stood clustered together, whispering in a far corner, gossiping--or praying perhaps--like rich old women in robes of scarlet lined with gold. The Hufflepuffs, over there by the fireplace, had on yellow robes with brownish edging like they'd been dragged in the mud--or worse. The Ravenclaws sat scattered about, looking confident and clerical in dark blue gowns. They'd grabbed all the best chairs, of course.

The Slytherins' robes were first-class: green Welsh dragonet leather with scales that glinted in the light. Magically softened they were, so Damo Belby said.

He pulled at his neck again.

But these itchy silver collars. The Black girl's contribution. Not an ounce of sense in that straw-blond head, but her father has money to burn, so of course, they all praise her ideas to the rafters.

He was pleased to note that there were more green robes than yellow or red, but Ravenclaw seemed to have the most. This would change shortly, he was sure. That fellow Belby had entertained the whole common room last night with a description of the talents of his housemates, and it looked like Slytherin had a decided advantage in raw power at least.

There was Walden Macnair, a hulking seventh year with huge hands and a perpetual scowl--like the bullies at the orphanage. But unlike those slobbering gits, he came from an ancient Scots wizarding clan, and his father was a prominent noblewizard in the north.

Hephaestus Mulciber, whom everyone called 'Festus', was an expert in curses of a particularly painful variety, which he was always practicing on the first years.

Like that one bully, Silas, always picking on the weakest of the lot. I'd be willing to bet they both enjoy causing pain.

Rufus Scrimgeour, whose mane of tawny hair and gruff voice made him seem more like a young lion than a mage, seemed a kinder sort, but Tom had seen him practice dueling an older student. His reflexes were like a cat's and he knew an awful lot of spells. Of all the Slytherins, he seemed the one most trustworthy.

And that makes him more dangerous than the lot of them.

Damocles Belby seemed to have an endless knowledge of all things magical, but his greatest magic was in his tongue. The fellow could lie like an Erkling and flatter like a gypsy. When he'd got round to introducing Tom in the common room, Belby had winked and said, "Why, just look at that stack of books the firstie's got in front of him. Viridian's Curses and Countercurses, Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes, and my personal favorite, Powers You Never Knew You Had, and What to Do With Them Now You've Wised Up. He'll do, won't he, boys?"

That, at least, was true. He had spent every spare moment, combing the library for information on how to bring the other contestants, including his so-called teammates, to their knees. His research had taught him a great deal, not only about magic, but also about the resources available to him. A carefully crafted meekness even opened the doors of the Restricted Section to him, a mere first year. Madam Squint positively simpered as she showed him the way: "...your parents... so proud...representing my own House... Pride... the key...and hard work..." He didn't bother to correct her notion that he had 'family', but just dove into the stacks of scrolls and shelves of dusty tomes she showed him like a tot in a candy store. This musty old castle, who would have thought it could hold the answers to so many questions.

It might even tell me something about my--

A shout of conversation came through the open door.

"...anything about this bloke Riddle? ... tall fellow... he a transfer?..."

Through the opening, Tom could see that the tables and benches in the Great Hall had been changed into risers on a high platform which ringed the room. Out there, boys and girls were scrambling for the best seats. He stood for a moment in the arch, picking up the conversation that had destroyed his train of thought with that single careless mention of his name.

"...first-year. Didn't you see him at the Sorting? Damned Hat didn't even touch his head. Just yelled out 'Slytherin', and be done with it. Fastest choosing on record, I reckon."

"Riddle. What a name! Who wants to bet he's the first to go down?"

"Speaking of first years, there's Flitwick. Hey, Fido!"

"Don't call him that. It's rude."

"All right, but he is an ugly little mutt, isn't he?"

"And how did Algie Longbottom get picked? He's such a queer."

"I heard he got bit on his bottom. Seems he was in the loo, and he accidentally trapped the..."

Tom Riddle wrested his attention away from the conversation, now deteriorating into grossness, and made room for Flitwick, who was late as usual. His stubby legs always had trouble with the castle steps. Tom chuckled. That Timed Trip Jinx Mulciber had laid on the little dwarf over breakfast didn't help any.

Now Tom concentrated on Headmaster Dippet, who had mounted the podium and was waiting for silence.

"Welcome, parents and friends. It is an unusual event we're hosting today, the Spelling Bee, the first of its kind we believe, and we hope you will all enjoy it. In a moment, we will have the contestants in, but first, may I ask you all to vacate your seats? I apologize for the inconvenience, but we need to expand the room a bit more. We really didn't expect quite so many visitors."

Several teachers appeared and started directing people about. Tom turned away from the door. He had been mildly impressed by the Room Enlarging Spell old Dumbledore had used to make the first expansion yesterday as the contestants lined up to practice their grand entrance. But it hadn't swayed him in his own choice of spellwork. At Damo Belby's urging, he had ignored Transfigurations in his cram sessions, in favor of spells that could give him firepower and control over his foes. He normally didn't like taking advice from anyone. However, in this case, he agreed. He couldn't see how Dumbledore's specialty could be of much use here.

Unless someone uses a Freezing Charm on me, and I need to change the nearest cat into a muffler and mittens.

But Dippet's last words tickled at his brain: "We really didn't expect quite so many visitors." It meant there were witches and wizards coming from the outside, to see him--and the others-- perform magic. It gave him an unexpected thrill to be in the limelight like this, doing things few people in the world could do. He had vowed after 'old Bumble-bore' had come to visit him at the orphanage that he would keep a low profile at the school. But the idea of a bit of fame tickled at his insides.

Suddenly a new thought occurred to him. Was it possible that somebody in that crowd might be related to him? After all, the wizarding world was a small one, especially amongst the Purebloods.

He had often wondered about his origins. All orphans did, he guessed. His mother, Merope Riddle, was dead, and no one knew anything about his father. His mother, he knew, was non-magical--a so-called Muggle. She had to be one, letting herself die the way she did. Matron had said she thought his father's name was Riddle too, but when she said that, she had that hateful, pitying look in her eyes, like she was trying to be kind. "Poor bleeding bastard," she was probably thinking. But it made sense that he was 'misgotten' or 'illegible'--or whatever they called it. How could his mum end up at an orphan asylum--penniless and dying--if she had had a husband to look after her?

After the visit from Dumbledore--the one bright spot in his life, even if it did include a lot of questions from the old snoop-- he had built up in his mind a picture of his parents together, his wizard father and his Muggle mum. They wanted each other, but weren't allowed to marry for some reason.

Some bloody stupid reason.

He knew from talk in the common room that mixed marriages were frowned upon in the magical world, even forbidden in some families. Or... maybe his father was already married, but when he met this beautiful Muggle lady, he just couldn't help himself. He'd be dead now, of course. That would explain why he hadn't come looking for his bastard son.

But mages were known for their longevity; it said so in the library books. They lived two to three times as long as ordinary people.

Tom knew it was a wonderfully long shot, to think that his father might be yet alive, and even here today, a powerful wizard, perhaps, with children at the school, unaware of his boy getting ready for his first public display of his own powers. What might such a person look like? He thought back to the rows of spectators he had scanned earlier. That tall fellow with the cane was a likely prospect, with his haughty stare, silver streaks in his coal black hair, or the younger wizard next to him, leaning over the railing, laughing and gesturing with slender, nimble fingers. Would he--whoever he was--recognize a resemblance in the pale young orphan with the odd name of Tom Marvolo Riddle?

That name. It had been his mother's last wish, that he be called that. He had long ago decided that Marvolo sounded exotic and foreign--Eye-talian or Spanish or Portugee. Perhaps his father was Thomas Marvolo--or even Tomas or Tomaso. Tomas de Marvolo. Yes, that was more like it. He often thought Mrs. Cole had got the name garbled somehow. She was pissed half the time as it was.

As a small child he hadn't realized what it was that caused Matron to slur her words like that or sometimes made her seem weak on her pins, like she was sick or something. The older boys--The Bullies--talked and laughed about it, called her 'Old Sot' behind her back, and even mimicked her weaving gait. He hadn't understood what certain kinds of drink could do to a person--before...

...the night I made my first magic.

At the sound of movement, he looked up sharply. But it was only a few hopped-up Gryffindors bursting into the room to wish their classmates well while they waited around for the Expansion to be completed, so he settled back into his memory of the most important moment of his young life.

~*~

It had been a hot night, after a hot and sticky afternoon. Dinner was the usual for a Friday, salt cod and boiled potatoes. It always made him thirsty. But a fat, greasy Bully named Silas had hawked and spit into his cup, and laughed about it, and he couldn't--he just couldn't--bring himself to drink from it. And, of course, he daren't complain. So he'd gone to bed thirsty.

You weren't allowed to get up in the middle of the night for anything, except to use the chamber pot, so he lay there in the hot dark, seesawing between fear and hatred, wanting very badly to hurt Silas, knowing he daren't try, and through it all, trying not to think about his thirstiness, and so, of course, thinking about it all the more. Images filtered silently into his brain, tormenting him impartially: the pump in the yard, gurgling and then gushing water into a big bucket... rain running down the windows on a spring evening... a lake of water, dark and cool, in a cave he had discovered once on an outing. But the picture his mind kept coming back to was a glass of clear, cold liquid, fogged with dew, sitting on a nightstand. He remembered where he had seen it: in Mrs. Cole's room. They had to pass by her door every night on the way up to their dorm, and this evening the door had been open.

He had a wild idea that if he could only sneak down those few steps without anyone hearing, he could bring it up to his bed and down it, letting the excess run out the sides of his mouth. He might even pour the rest over his head and let it trickle down into his shirt. That would cool him off too. But maybe not. He'd be branded a bed wetter by the other Bullies and teased, like they teased some of the younger children. They'd already mocked him for his name and once held him down and hit him and called him The Riddler and Tom the Ridiculous.

He licked his cracking lips. Would one more insult matter so much?

And while he was concentrating, alternating between imagining that forbidden drink and trying desperately not to, he heard a soft whishing sound, and suddenly, there in his hand, was a glass. He held it up to the feeble light of the street lamp outside the dormitory window. It was clear and full--and it had a chip out of the rim, like the one on the matron's nightstand. But it was not cold.

That was all right. He put it to his lips, not for the moment thinking about the impossibility of its being there. It had a strong smell. That'll be the disinfectant they use to wash the dishes, he told himself. He held his nose and downed it in two gulps. But it didn't satisfy him. No, in fact, his throat and his chest went from warm to burning, as if the liquid were fire--or poison. The room lurched and began to move around and around. The glass slipped from his hand, and he heard it splinter against the iron framework of his bed. His chest tightened with panic. He started to cough and moan and retch, and finally, to scream. He couldn't help it. The fire in his gut and the whirling in his head frightened him terribly. And then, mercifully, he'd passed out.

Only later, when he was being punished--for stealing from the infirmary, they said--did he find out that the liquid hadn't been water, but something called gin...

~*~

"Look sharp there, Riddle!"

It was Damo Belby, at the door of the anteroom. Tom looked around. The room was empty now except for the last of the line of contestants who were filing into the Great Hall. He straightened his collar and marched out behind his housemates.

It felt almost like he was walking into the Coliseum of Old Rome. For that was what the transformed hall most resembled: a picture he had once seen in a Muggle history book. There was this sweaty, dust-caked fighter in an arena like this one, standing over his defeated foe, high stone walls rising all around him, with the Roman emperor above him, raising his hand to give the signal: thumbs up, which meant mercy for the fallen, or thumbs down, a sword in the gut. He had been fascinated by the concept of a place of combat where skilled, muscular slaves from all over the Empire did battle, with trident and net, sword and spear, where one mistake could mean a gory end, but where, to the winners, went applause, fame, and occasionally, freedom. But he did not envy them their meager gains. His eyes were drawn inevitably to the Roman rulers, high above the walls in their gilt and guarded boxes, drawn to the power they had over life--and death.

The contestants now formed a big circle facing the conjured wooden walls over which loomed a crowd of cheering students, teachers, and--for his opponents--friends and family. The contestants bowed to their audience and faced inward as they had practiced. The voice of the Headmaster, on a podium at the center of the circle, broke over them. Tom had no further thought for any of this; he was concentrating on the power he had discovered the night of his extreme thirst, a power he had refined and enhanced by his own effort, thirsty for knowledge and the security that comes with control, a power he would be demonstrating in full today.

Dippet's chirpy voice brought him back to earth, to the Hogwarts arena. "... and now let me introduce Professor Horace Slughorn, our worthy Potions Master, who has spent some years in America--spying for us, no doubt--and has returned to his alma mater with scores of marvelous teaching innovations. The Spelling Bee is his brainchild. He will explain the contest and introduce our worthy participants."

Tom watched as the Potions Master took the podium.

Greasy bugger. Enjoys his food, I'll wager.

Slughorn explained the rules of engagement quickly. In the first part, a spell would be announced and the contestants would have a certain amount of time to produce it. Teachers were standing about the arena walls poised to act as judges--or medics--as needed. Anyone who could not comply would have to sit down. Spells of increasing complexity would be announced and attempted by the survivors until only four students were left. The final four would participate in a series of one-on-one duels to determine the winner.

Slughorn took out an elegant purple scroll. "Here are the names of the contestants." The audience leaned forward, as if straining to hear, to see, to match names to favored faces. "Now I know you all have your favorites. But will you kindly hold your applause until the last name in each house has been announced? From Slytherin ..."

As his eyes swept over his audience, now hushed and expectant, Tom remembered another use for the Roman arenas: the execution of those who were different, who didn't fit in. That same history book he'd found in the orphanage's small school room had told him the story of the Christians, condemned by their strangeness to be torn apart by lions, a story which gave him nightmares for a time. He felt suddenly small and afraid. All those wizards and witches in their seats towering above him, and the teachers too, ringing the arena as judges, looked aloof and unsympathetic in their deeply colored robes of black and purple and green and scarlet. Even the students looked to him grave and implacable, a world away from his Muggle upbringing. He could feel pity and condescension--disgust even--behind the curious stares of the crowd.

They belong here--I don't. I'm a Muggle-born, and an orphan at that. What do I know of magic, besides what I taught myself? What have I got myself into? I'm too young... not enough experience. Maybe they even know where I come from---an outsider and different--like the Christians.

He felt an uncontrollable urge to run from the room, just push open two sets of doors and escape into that forest they'd warned him about. Better a quick death by werewolf fangs or centaur hooves than the humiliation he would shortly endure.

He had a quick panicked look about him, and his eyes caught those of a girl, a Gryffindor. It was the one he'd run into in Dippet's office when they were chosen for the Bee. She gave him a little smile. More pity, he thought, and stuck out his tongue at her. Then she did something with her face, a bit of a Glamour he thought. It made her look, for an instant,like the Headmaster--but with his own tongue stuck out and lolling, his ears waggling, and his eyes crossed, like a bleeding idiot. He tried not to grin, but he couldn't help it. Giddy relief replaced panic, but was followed quickly by pique.

Stupid girl. Can't she control herself? She'll get us both in trouble.

"...and first year Tom Riddle."

There was a burst of applause--for all the Slytherin House competitors, he knew, but it somehow drove out his dark thoughts and replaced them with renewed optimism. The faces of the crowd looked eager now and accepting. Tom made the bow he had practiced, no weakling, no Mudblood, but a warrior soon to be tested. He caressed his wand--phoenix feather and yew. This instrument leveled all ranks and classes. He felt a tingle run up his arm. He could do this. He set himself to concentrate on what he knew of the competition.

The fat Potions Master continued his list: "From Hufflepuff: third years Enid Arbuckle and Algernon Longbottom and first year Pomona Sprout."

He recognized the Sprout creature from Herbology. Round as a dumpling and always with the obvious answer. His Slytherin mates had already nicknamed her 'Brussel.' Oddly enough she didn't seem to mind being called a smelly, wrinkled bit of cabbage, and, in fact, encouraged her friends to call her that.

Not an ounce of class in that one. She's too dense to realize it's an insult.

"From Ravenclaw: fifth years Bartimaeus Crouch, Quentin Trimble, Augusta Fairfax, and Earnest Longbottom, second-year Velassitie Vector, and first-year Filius Flitwick."

Trimble was a nervous, distracted sort, the perfect mark for the sort of pranks Slytherin House was known for. Fairfax and Longbottom were an item. He'd seen them spooning out by the lake. Their panting and groping interested him as a curiosity, nothing more. Augusta Fairfax was stuck on 'Jack', as everybody called him... and Jack Longbottom was stuck on Jack Longbottom.

"And from Gryffindor: Seventh year Robert MacDonald, sixth-year Miranda Goshawk, and second years Minerva McGonagall and Raymond Sykes."

He glanced at the girl who had distracted him with the Glamour of Dippet earlier.

Yes, that's her name--McGonagall. Strange girl--but smart, if she can do that sort of thing at will.

There was another round of applause for all the contestants, and a cloud of conversation floated down over him. A Gryffindor contingent on Tom's left, waving red and gold pennants, speculated on the outcome in penetrating whispers. He didn't know any Gryffindors, so he tried to home in on their conversation.

"Bet those fifth and seventh years are shaking in their boots."

"Whatever for?"

"Because of NEWTS and OWLS, you ninny. If someone throws a Memory Wipe, there goes all their hard work, down the drain."

"No student can do one of those."

"I wouldn't put it past some of the Ravenclaws. They all want to be Aurors, you know."

"Well, I pity the first and second years. It's them as are going to get their arses wiped."

"I don't think McGonagall has much to worry about. She almost won that contest last year."

"Arrr--that was just against other first years."

"But you have to admit, she knows a lot of about Transfiguration."

McGonagall.

He stole another glance at the witch across from him, as tall as himself, and slender like him, with straight, dark eyebrows that lent a ferocious intensity to her gaze. He remembered he'd felt something in her body when he'd fallen into her that day in Dippet's office, a tautness and an energy that mirrored his own--like an animal, cornered and ready to scrap.

Another group caught his ear. He turned. A student tout was taking money and scratching notes on a scrap of parchment: Mundungus Fletcher, Slytherin House's version of pond scum.

"C'mon, Dung, you promised me three to one odds on him."

"Times change, old sod."

"Got anything with a better payoff?"

"'Ere's Longbottom--at eighty to one."

"I'm in. That's a giveaway. Earnest Jack's good enough to beat just about anybody."

"Not Jack. His brother--Algie."

"Oh, no chance I'm picking that soft-bellied twerp. What else you got?"

"Macnair and Sykes at fifty."

"Hmmmm...not the brightest torches in the tower. Anyone else?"

"Enid Arbuckle at forty. Bit of a dark 'orse, our Enid. Grades are good, but she don't contribulate much in class..."

"What about Barty Crouch?"

"'E's the fave-rit."

"Why's that?"

"Crouchie knows spells in fifteen differnt langwidges. Nobody'll have a Chizpurfle's chance agains' 'im. He prolly knows a couple variegations of every spell they teach 'roun' 'ere. I orter give ya three to two, but being a generous sort, I make it two to one on his sweet arse. Take it or leave it."

Barty Crouch!

Tom had heard of him, Ravenclaw's fair-haired boy, bright and well connected. His father was Lord High something-or-other at the Ministry of Magic. Crouch was a prefect and the odds-on favorite for Head Boy eventually. But there were some interesting rumors about him making the rounds. Something about the way he'd treated a former girlfriend--a Slytherin. Probably just sour grapes on the part of the girl. But again the pale young wizard felt a twinge of nervousness. With Crouch, the word ruthless came to mind.

Slughorn called them all to attention. "As I said, the first leg of the event is a kind of race--a race to be the first to complete a spell. Mami Leek has a list of spells. She will call them out one at a time. Each contestant will try to be the first to successfully complete the spell. Anyone who does not manage to do so within the time limit of thirty-one seconds will be eliminated." He held up a large turnip-shaped watch. "I will be your official timer. Mami Leek?"

Here she comes, the gabbling hag, smelling of dragon dung, as usual.

She joined Slughorn in the center of the circle in a tent-like multicolored caftan and matching headdress. "Wands at the ready," she drawled. All the contestants drew their wands and poised them at the obligatory angle for dueling. "Make bubbles!"

The air was quickly filled with everything from dried peas to a raft of butterflies. The girl next to Tom, red-faced and making big circular motions with both arms, kept hitting him with her wand.

Ouch! Who's that? Oh, the Fairfax creature. Ow! Bloody hell, I ought to jinx her--but I mustn't lose concentration.

He looked up. Only one person had managed to make bubbles on the first try. It was that little troll Flitwick, and his were golden. Everyone went "Ahhh," and the Ravenclaws started cheering and waving furiously.

What should I do? I don't know any bubble-making spells. But I'll be damned if I'll go down in the first round on such an easy spell. Huh, at least I'm not the only one having trouble.

He tried to hear what Fairfax was screeching, thinking to imitate her, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make it out. And now large gobs of spit were flying from her mouth, as she tried cant after cant.

Pah! You're making me sick, wench!

Across from him, McGonagall was looking calmly about her. He took heart from this. That was the important thing, to remain calm. He watched, mesmerized, as she surveyed the room. Her eyes lit up at something to his left. He glanced about.

Nothing of value there--just Fairfax, making an arse of herself.

But the Gryffindor girl obviously thought otherwise. She raised her wand and pointed it right at the fifth year's face. She mouthed a cant and suddenly, the salivary miasma emanating from Augusta's mouth was transformed into small, silvery spheres.

Bubbles!

But it was Fairfax who looked triumphant.

The fat sow thinks she did that herself.

He had a fleeting twinge of regret that Fairfax might get credit for McGonagall's work. But the lesson was an important one.

She's an expert at this Transfiguration business. I should do what I'm good at too.

He thought of his innate ability to command things to come to him and remembered seeing a house elf, laden with pail and brush, darting into a classroom on his way to the dining hall that morning. He imagined the object of his desire, and concentrated on it as he had on the glass that first night, as if it was the only thing he'd ever wanted or would ever want. After a few seconds, something whizzed into the room and came to rest at his feet: a bucket of water with a bar of soap floating in it. He rolled up the sleeves of his robe, picked up the soap, and quickly lathered up. Then he made a ring of thumb and forefinger and spread soap film over it. He'd watched the other orphans doing this many times as a way of amusing themselves during their chores. He blew into the film, and three perfectly round bubbles flew off from his hand.

Tom looked up. The last grains of sand had passed through the neck of the hourglass. He saw Mami Leek nodding at him. He could relax. Several contestants had not yet managed to create anything remotely resembling bubbles, though in desperation, Quentin Trimble had Accio'd a pack of what looked to be bubble gum and was still chewing frantically.

At that second, an irritated house-elf in an oversized apron stumped up to Tom and grabbed the bucket. It stomped off, muttering "Stupid student! Dumpy'll never get those windows washed!"

"Time's up," shouted Slughorn.

There were cheers from the successful contestants, groans from the losers. Six students were asked to sit down, including the Fairfax wench, who at first refused to leave the arena, pointing at McGonagall and screeching "Cheater... it's not fair... you distracted me," and then to the teacher who led her away, "How do you know it wasn't me that made those bubbles?" As she passed Mcgonagall, he heard her mutter, "I'll get you for that, you Scottish cow..."

The younger Longbottom followed her cheerfully, mouthing comforting words to his brother's girlfriend and holding in his fist a frothing pint of ale, which he had conjured just seconds too late. He lost his grin, however, when a teacher relieved him of the illicit beverage.

Tom congratulated himself.

A close call, but I got myself through it.

And his satisfaction was mingled with another thought--at once happy and threatening--that the tall wench McGonagall had gotten credit for her Transfiguration and was still in the running.