Voldemort: The Mastermind of the Dark Mark: The Hogwarts Years

Chapter Four: Charity Rejected

The weeks before Tom's departure for Hogwarts were, to put it mildly, excruciating to endure. Tom was so anxious to begin, that he thought he just might die if he had to wake up from one more Hogwarts-centered dream to find himself looking up at the cobwebbed, nondescript ceiling of the orphanage. Voldemort was no help at all, as the voice in Tom's head seemed increasingly and myopically focused on making him try out his wand, something which Tom had decided emphatically against, since he did not want to break any wizarding rules until he knew precisely what the rules were and when it was safe to break them. To try and calm himself, Tom had decided to read those few spellbooks in which incantations were not a factor, but this was difficult for the first few days, since Lady Black had seemingly skipped over the entire History of Magic section in Flourish and Blott's and thus left Tom with nothing but technical books. It was not until after a week of frustration that, to Tom's great surprise and gratification, a great horned owl had swooped through the window and dropped a large parcel in his lap engraved to:

"Master Tom Marvolo Riddle

Third Floor, Corner Room

Southwell Orphanage
London."

The parcel had contained two books, one titled "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: From Foundation to Fragmentation", and the other titled "History of the Wizarding Race." Both were written by someone named Brutus Malfoy, a name which Tom had heard Lady Black mention in her heated conversation during Flourish and Blott's, and whom he assumed to be a very great wizard. But whatever Malfoy might have been, he certainly was not an unbiased historian. After reading the first ten pages of "History of the Wizarding Race", Tom was almost entirely aware of all the fine degrees of breeding and blood which formed the backbone of the Wizarding pecking order. It had disappointed him greatly to learn that only someone with two wizarding parents was considered a "pureblood", and to make matters worse, he found Malfoy's habit of referring to half-blooded wizards as "mongrels" to be intensely irritating. There had been bright spots of hope for Tom, however. For one thing, Malfoy had made it clear in his introduction to "History of the Wizarding Race" that though his book was concerned...

"Primarily with that natural aristocracy of the wizarding race which arises out of careful cultivation of centuries of unbroken magical blood, there are exceptions to the rule that purebloods are supreme. There are many wizarding families, for instance, which out of decadence and intransigence, have fallen into disrepute despite the maintenance of a purely magical line, only to find themselves redeemed a few centuries later by some imperfectly blooded, but spectacularly gifted, scion."

On one point, however, Malfoy was quite emphatic:

"There has never been, and likely never will be, any member of that tragically peculiar and unnatural class of wizards born of two muggle parents who will accomplish anything significant. The centuries of muggle blood which flow through these children's veins make them particularly unreceptive to magical teaching, and those children of this type who do display gifts tend to do so with extreme technical proficiency, at the cost of a capacity for innovation. Muggle-born children (colloquially known as "mudbloods") are cursed with historical mediocrity, as anyone with even a cursory knowledge of wizarding history should be able to tell."

Malfoy certainly did demonstrate the viability of his thesis to Tom, who after pouring through page upon page of carefully documented wizarding history as it pertained to bloodline, soon found himself wondering that anyone could disagree with Malfoy, though he did regard somewhat suspiciously Malfoy's argument that muggle-born wizards were categorically unable to achieve greatness. However, despite this misgiving, Tom was more than willing to accept that at the very least, muggle-born students bore the burden of proof that they belonged in the wizarding world, rather than the reverse.

But finding interesting things to read in order to pass the time hadn't been Tom's only trouble. Mrs. Cole had been perfectly scandalized at the fact that he had brought an owl (Tom thought it prudent not to mention the snake egg) back to the orphanage, and had at first forbidden Tom to keep it. However, once Mrs. Cole had thrown the door to the owl's cage open and the bird inside had stubbornly refused to budge, giving her an imperious, disdainful look instead, Mrs. Cole had relented and let Tom keep the bird, seeing as though there was no way to get rid of it anyway. It had taken Tom a while to name the owl, but after reading through the first few chapters of Brutus Malfoy's book, he had decided to name her "Garuda", after the 15^th century witch Garuda Vinata, who had used her connections to a powerful inquisitor to aid him in burning countless untrained muggle-born witches and wizards at the stake, all the while concealing her own magical nature. This seemed a good name, Tom thought (and Voldemort agreed) for the pet of someone who had spent his childhood avenging himself on muggles using magic. Still, even with the challenge of keeping his owl and reading the history of magic, Tom found it almost intolerably difficult to wait for the day when he would have to catch the train to Hogwarts.

Then, suddenly, it was here. September 1^st dawned in the shadow of oppressive fog which had rolled in the night before, lending a cheerless and grim air to all areas of London. The moisture in the air all but guaranteed rain, and most people waking up to the weather shook their heads and silently muttered, "bloody hell."

Not Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom had woken at the crack of Dawn and begun packing his things almost immediately, knowing he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep and not caring either way. He gleefully shoved his few meager possessions into the old, beaten-up suitcase he'd managed to acquire secondhand at a nearby shop, and then almost reverently folded his books and robes into the same vessel, taking special care not to damage any of it, since he wanted to look almost perfect upon his arrival at Hogwarts. When he had finished this, he pulled on a tattered old coat which he'd received as a Christmas present the year before, checked himself in the mirror, and clicked the rusty old lock on his suitcase shut. Then, lifting both his suitcase and Garuda's cage with some measure of difficulty, he crossed the room and opened the door, making ready to walk out.

Except that on his way out, he trod on something outside his door. Setting down his suitcase, Tom looked round to see what he'd stepped on and noticed a tattered book with a cheap leather cover sitting immediately in front of his door, looking rather squished. He crossed to the door and picked up the book, looking for some clue as to why it was there. To his surprise, he found his name engraved in faded gold leathering on the back of the journal, and when he flipped it open, he found a note on the front cover from Mrs. Cole wishing him luck at his new school and telling him that she hoped he'd find this journal useful, with the stern reminder that he stay out of trouble. The gesture did not especially gratify Tom, who did not like the idea of Mrs. Cole giving him presents, as it indicated that perhaps the interfering woman felt some sort of tenderness for him, and what illogical reason she could have for that, he could not possibly guess. However, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he slid the book into the inside pocket of his worn out old coat, picked up his suitcase and walked down the stairs of the orphanage, taking special care to tread softly near Mrs. Cole's door and open the rusty old door to the orphanage with a minimum of squeaking. As he shut this same contraption, Tom breathed in the air around him with a feeling of deep contentment, knowing that this was the last time for a very long while that he would have to stand outside this door.

After about twenty minutes of walking, Tom found himself at King's Cross Road, which he followed until he reached the station. The clock inside the station read 9:15 AM, which much to Tom's impatience, meant that it was still an hour and forty-five minutes before the Hogwarts Express would leave. However, not seeing any reason to hesitate, Tom crisply made his way through the platforms, looking around for any sign of a sign which read "Platform 9 and ¾."

But it didn't exist. The platform was nowhere. There was only Platform 9 and Platform 10, with not so much as a post in between. Puzzled, Tom checked his ticket again, wondering if perhaps he'd misread. He hadn't. The number read "Platform 9 and ¾" clearly, with no sign whatsoever of an explanation of how to get there - just the number sitting there, madly telling Tom to go someplace that didn't exist. As he stared at the number, Tom heard his frustrated thoughts repeated back to him by Voldemort.

Oh, that's it, then? They must dump you with a ticket and don't tell you a thing about how to get onto the platform? Lovely! I suppose they expect you to just magically intuit what to do as well!

Tom did not answer, though he shared Voldemort's abject anger. In fact, if he'd been any less practiced at keeping his emotions in control, he might have started crying at the disappointment. This was it. There was no way he could just ask a guard, they'd think he was crazy, and it seemed unlikely that he'd be lucky enough to stumble upon a wizard family as benevolent as the Blacks again. The horrible feeling that he'd been outwitted by a train ticket made Tom slump into a sitting position and fall back against the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10, all the while bitterly stewing in his disapp--

And to his abject surprise, he fell flat on his back. Picking himself up, Tom's first thought was that he must have somehow missed the barrier while leaning back, but a cursory glance at his surroundings emphatically told him that this was not the case. He was standing on a platform totally different from the one he'd been seeing a few seconds ago - a platform packed with people, all of whom wore cloaks, and all of whom were ushering children onto a scarlet steam engine which bore the inscription "Hogwarts Express." To crown all, a large, elegant sign jutted out from the barrier immediately to Tom's right, bearing the inscription "Platform 9 and ¾."

Tom felt his face crack into a taut leer of joy (the closest he ever got to a genuine smile). Hurrying back through the "barrier" he'd just left, Tom retrieved his suitcase hastily, scooped up Garuda's cage, and rushed back through the barrier, as if his very life depended on getting this done as quickly as possible. Everything was there exactly as he'd left it - the steam engine, the countless people, the odd clothing, the sign with the abnormal platform number - all of these things combined to make a sight which Tom found more welcoming than almost anything he'd ever seen. Lifting his suitcase and the cage with a smirk of confidence, Tom started walking decisively towards the engine, weaving his way through the assembled throng without so much as a word to anyone until he had crossed the gap and boarded the train.

It took Tom several minutes to find an empty compartment, but once he had, he set down his suitcase and Garuda's cage and flopped back into a chair, staring out the window with a glance so imperious that anyone looking at him might have thought he was some sort of nobleman's child, whatever his frayed robes and battered suitcase said. He was conscious of people rushing back and forth through the car, but gave it little thought as he was so blissfully engrossed in looking at the people outside - wizards, real wizards! His kind. After a few minutes of this, Tom heard Voldemort's voice in his head.

We did it, Tom.

"I know, Voldie! I'm so excited!"

And well you should be. Astounding how fate favors us, isn't it?

"Absolutely!"

Look at them, Tom. Look at all those people. What do you see?

"Wizards! People like me! And there's so many! Oh, Voldie, do you think they'll--"

Don't be a fool, Tom. I mean, what do you see? Look at them individually - tell me, do they look like a match for you?

Despite his resentment at being called a fool, Tom squinted out the window at the people around him. It took a few minutes for him to fight down his wonder at seeing real wizards, but once he had, he immediately realized that there were subtle distinctions within the crowd outside - distinctions which told him that, despite their extraordinary nature, there was something quite ordinary indeed about most of the wizards on the platform.

"I don't know...most of them look like, well, ordinary people. I mean besides the cloaks and all. Oh, but that doesn't matter, Voldie! They're wizards! These are people I can get along with...people I can fit in with..."

Tom winced as Voldemort's enraged voice echoed in his ears.

Get along with? Fit in with?! What do you think you are, Tom, some sort of stupid child who vanishes in a crowd? No! You are special, Tom. You are unique. Remember what Lady Black said - you have rare gifts, and you are special, even among wizards. Never, ever forget that, Tom. Never give that up.

"I won't! Voldie, please don't be angry with me. I only meant--"

I know what you meant, Tom. But remember, Lady Black said not to put too much faith in your fellow wizards. Listen to that advice, and don't use terms like 'fitting in.' Fitting in is for commoners. You and I are nobility, remember?

"Of course, Voldie."

Tom reclined back in his chair, a troubled expression on his face. Voldemort had gotten calmer at the end of the conversation, but all the same, his friend's initial vehemence had scared him somewhat. His brow furrowed as he wondered why on earth Voldemort, who had been his closest friend since childhood, would feel threatened enough by the prospect of him making friends that--

"Excuse me, are you alright?"

Tom looked up, shocked at the voice. He hadn't noticed the girl standing in the doorway of his compartment, and he hastily assumed a blank expression, hoping that all the traces of his previous pain were gone from his face and replied calmly, "Yes, I'm fine. Shouldn't I be?"

"You didn't look fine," the girl said sharply, "you were muttering to yourself, and you looked quite disturbed afterwards."

"I was thinking," Tom replied acidly, "and I fail to see how it's any of your business how I feel."

To his immense displeasure, the girl did not take the hint, but instead stepped into the compartment and sat down, giving him that same concerned, severe stare. Tom returned it icily, though behind his dissatisfied expression, he was studying the girl intently.

She looked at least a few years older than him, though her strict expression, plain square spectacles and the austere style of her long black hair made her look almost adult. Her eyes were exceedingly sharp, and her lips were pursed, giving her an even more stern appearance. Tom privately wondered if the girl had purposefully made herself up to look like a highly judgmental cat, though he did not say so. Instead, after a few moments of scrutiny, Tom turned back to staring out the window, but before he could even begin ignoring his new companion, he felt her tap him on the shoulder. He turned around.

"Yes?" The word was almost hissed, its caustic sarcasm was so pronounced. The girl did not seem perturbed.

"What's your name?" she asked. Tom raised his eyebrows.

"Who wants to know?"

The girl simply rolled her eyes. "Are you always this intransigent?" she snapped.

"I am when people slide into my compartment uninvited and then act as if they're a bloody doctor," Tom sneered back. "You know, I don't recall you even asking if you could sit here."

To Tom's intense confusion, the girl looked happier at this outburst. Not liking the unpredictability of the conversation, Tom asked sharply, "What's making you smile like that?"

"You know what 'intransigent' means," the girl said with a crisp note of satisfaction. "I didn't think anyone would, let alone a first year."

"Of course I know what intransigent means, how thick do you think I am?" Tom snapped, though he had to admit grudgingly that he liked the feeling of being complimented on his intelligence. However, he was not going to back down just because of a little unintentional flattery.

"You still haven't told me your name," the girl remarked pointedly.

"You first," Tom replied.

The girl gave another roll of her eyes, but seemed to have given up. "Very well, if you insist on acting your age, it's Minerva," she said tiredly. "Minerva McGonagall. There, are you happy now?"

"No," said Tom, "but I'm not going to kick you out of my compartment either, Minerva. Just don't interrupt me thinking again."

Minerva scowled. "Fine," she replied. "I'll let you sit there and brood 'til you get all the way to Hogwarts, if you like."

"Good!" said Tom, as he turned back to look out the window. However, after a few minutes of staring, he decided he was no longer in the right mood anyway, and turned back to Minerva, who was on the verge of exiting the compartment.

"It's Tom, by the way."

Minerva looked up at him neutrally. "What did you say?" she asked.

"My name. It's Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Minerva seemed a little surprised at his sudden forwardness, but she simply nodded at him calmly and said, with a small trace of friendliness, "Pleased to meet you, Tom." Then, she turned to her left and said in a far-too-kind voice to someone Tom couldn't see, "Alright...Charity, wasn't it? Yes, Charity. This boy, Tom, is sitting alone, and I'm sure he'd like some company. You can sit here. You don't mind, do you, Tom?"

Tom was going to respond angrily, but one look at Minerva's stern expression told him that the question was merely a formality, and he really had little choice in the matter. As it was, he settled for grimacing angrily, but shaking his head anyway. Minerva nodded crisply and turned to the unseen presence outside the door.

"Go on in, then. Hope you two get along."

Then, without another word, she turned and practically marched away. As she did so, a plump, vaguely feminine figure stepped into the compartment and sat down across from Tom, who immediately began scrutinizing his new companion.

Like him, she was dressed in tattered robes which looked as though they'd been bought secondhand. However, unlike him, there was nothing in her bearing that suggested that this modest apparel was unfitting. She was slightly overweight, with a freckled face which Tom supposed most others would classify as friendly-looking, but which suggested something more like a pig to him. Her soft blue eyes were currently giving him a bashful look, as though expecting him to initiate conversation. Seeing that he wasn't, she took the initiative.

"So...Tom, was it?"

The soft, unassuming timbre of her voice made the pronunciation of Tom's name even more irritating, and he almost winced at the insult of having to hear it. Instead, he simply nodded. She smiled slightly.

"I'm Charity. Charity Burbage."

Tom raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, but didn't answer. Again, she seemed to be waiting for him to initiate conversation, and when he didn't, she looked a little bewildered before asking in a too-abrupt voice:

"So tell me, Tom, where are you from?"

"Southwell," Tom replied shortly, wanting to get the unpleasant facts of his situation out of the way quickly. "Southwell Orphanage."

He had been used to expressions of pity, but what followed both surprised and disgusted him so much that he had to hold back a retch. Burbage hadn't merely looked compassionate, but had instead clapped her hands over her mouth in shock, stood up, crossed the car to where he was sitting, and quite forcefully pulled his head onto her shoulder, as if she were mothering him. It was all Tom could do to keep his voice steady.

"Please get off me."

"I'm sorry, Tom," said Burbage, obviously meaning the statement to sound kind, though it still sounded exceedingly matter-of-fact. "No wonder you seem so stiff. You can't have had a nice life with no mum and dad."

"No, and you're not making it any easier holding me like this," said Tom through gritted teeth. "I don't like to be touched."

Burbage let go of him instantly. Tom, while grateful for the respite, did not like the fact that her eyes were practically sparkling with happy understanding, as though the two had shared a private joke. Tom returned the look with a neutral stare, which to his shock and displeasure made Charity give a slight giggle, which almost made him want to hit her. To his immense relief, however, their eye contact was broken as a large witch pushed open the door to their compartment and stuck her head in.

"Anything off the trolley?" asked the woman kindly. Tom shook his head stiffly.

"No thank y--," he began, but Burbage got there first, turning to the woman with a mysteriously magnanimous smile and answering:

"Yes, we'll take two bags of Bertie Bott's every flavor beans, four pumpkin pasties, and six chocolate frogs, please."

Tom didn't even pause to contemplate the exceedingly even nature of Burbage's order, though he did allow himself a slight smirk at the fact that she was so fond of candy, an indulgence which he had never permitted himself. It was a weakness he could exploit, and that made him feel much more comfortable.

Once Burbage had paid the woman and collected the sweets, she turned to Tom and, without so much as a word, began dividing the candy into two neat little piles, one of which she shoved towards him. Tom was nonplussed.

"And what exactly did you do that for?" he asked guardedly. Burbage gave him another bewildered look, as though it was obvious.

"Tom, I thought you'd be able to figure that out!"

"And because of that, I'm supposed to read your mind?" Tom snapped back. Burbage was taken aback for a minute, and then, hesitantly, she indicated the candy nearest him.

"I bought enough for both of us. That pile is for you, and the one near me is for me."

Tom didn't even have to think about it. He shoved the candy pile next to him towards Burbage with undisguised repulsion. Her puzzled expression deepened into a look of hurt as she asked the next question.

"What's the matter? Don't like those kinds?"

"It doesn't matter whether I like them or not," Tom replied fiercely. "I do not need your charity, Charity."

"Charity?" Burbage's face clouded even further. "Charity? Is that what you think this is? Charity? Haven't you ever had any friends?"

"No," said Tom coldly. "And I don't care what you call it. Charity is charity."

"But it's not charity!" said Burbage obstinately. "I'm being nice to you! I bought those for you because you're my new friend, not because I feel sorry for you!"

"I don't need friends, then," Tom snarled. "If friendship means being given things you don't deserve, then it all comes to the same thing, and that's charity, so keep your bloody cand--ow!"

Burbage had picked up one of the sweets and thrown it hard at his chest. At first, he was too shocked to do anything, but after a few seconds of bemusement, he picked up the candy and threw it right back at her. She ducked and returned fire with a heavy bag of something that looked like small, brightly colored stones.

"Stop it!" Tom growled.

"You can make me stop it by eating the candy!" Burbage replied obstinately, chucking one of the frog-shaped candies at him. Furiously, Tom returned fire, and soon the two were engaged in a full-on food fight, with various pieces of candy strewn across the compartment floor. It was unlike anything Tom had ever experienced, and for whatever reason, he had to admit that something about it was faintly enjoyable, though his pride and irritation at being treated like a charity case by an object like this overshadowed this feeling far too much for him to acknowledge such a feeling.

And then one of Burbage's projectiles struck him full on in the face. He heard her squeal of astonishment and regret at her unfortunate aim, but it didn't matter. The dull ache in Tom's nose and cheeks called up countless memories of abuse from his adversaries at the orphanage, and made anger burn its way through his head. Ignoring her apologies for her aim, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his wand, this time allowing himself to revel in the savage warmth which spread up his fingers. Then, implacably, he raised the wand and slashed the air in Burbage's direction, fully conscious of his intention to do harm.

Simultaneously, all the candy in the compartment rose into the air and flew towards Charity Burbage, pelting her at bullet speed. Tom allowed himself a small sneer at her squeals of protest, enjoying the fact that whatever violence that small piece of candy had done to his face, she was now experiencing about six times a second. After a minute of this constant barrage, Tom decided to finally put Burbage out of her misery, while simultaneously making her feel sorry for ever having tried to force him to accept her charity. With a malevolent smile, he raised his wand and flicked it casually, causing every single piece of candy to pelt his unfortunate adversary one last time - and explode as it did so.

A few seconds of deafening silence followed this final surge of retribution. Burbage, her clothes stained with chocolate from the frog-shaped candies, stared around the compartment (now littered with different colored beans and crumbs from the cauldron cakes) desolately before turning to Tom with an expression of pure hurt and disappointment.

"You horrible, horrible, nasty boy! And to think I tried to be nice to you!"

Tom didn't even blink at the insult. His face was frozen in an expression of pure disdain. "Just as I thought," he said viciously. "It was charity."

Burbage's lip trembled for a second before she let out a great, keening sob and threw open the door to the compartment, rushing out with tears streaming down her cheeks. Tom remained standing in the compartment, feeling an odd sort of satisfied calm as he turned the wand over in his hands. He felt quite at home with the object now - in fact, he really didn't understand why he'd ever let it scare him. Voldemort had been right about the wand - it was the right one for him.

Now do you see why you shouldn't try to fit in?

Tom dully registered Voldemort's voice speaking to him, and felt a slight note of resentment at the implicit note of triumph in it.

"Yes, Voldie, I see why. Though you needn't be so snide about it."

Oh, come now, Tom, allow me a small indulgence. After all, even you admit I was right.

For some reason he could not name, Tom felt himself wishing Voldemort would leave him alone. Voldemort's ensuing cackle only made it worse.

Ha! You want me to leave you alone? Fine, Tom, there's just one more thing and I'll leave you alone. Do you promise not to forget that you are special, and above even the best of these wizards? Do you promise not to try to 'fit in'?

Tom felt a slight stab of hesitance at the words, but this time it was only a small one, weak enough that he could force it down. Besides, he'd just seen that wizard children were no different from muggle children, since they were just as easy to scare and hurt. Why should he try and fit in with anyone weaker than him?

"Fine, Voldie. I promise. Now please leave me alone."

Voldemort's cackle of triumph barely registered with Tom as he slumped back into his chair and turned his face to look out the window, suddenly feeling exhausted.

The shock of what he saw hit him so fully that he suddenly forgot everything that had just happened. All that time that he'd been fighting Charity Burbage, he'd been only vaguely conscious of a change in the security of his footing. Now he knew why he'd felt it. The train was moving. In fact, judging by the surroundings, which did not remind him in the least of King's Cross Station, it had been moving for quite some time. Pressing his nose to the glass, Tom once more felt a thrill of exhilaration at where he was going, and how close he was to getting there. In his excitement at what he was seeing, he also remained completely unconscious of the boy who had just slid the door of his compartment open and entered. That is, until he felt a tap on the shoulder and looked round, once more feeling just a little resentment at being interrupted in his contemplation of the surroundings.

The boy who met his eyes seemed at first glance to be almost completely different from Charity Burbage. The boy was tall and well-built, with a pointed face and long blonde hair which had been tied backwards in a manner reminiscent of an 18^th century aristocrat. The only similarity with McGonagall was the pair of spectacles the boy wore, but these lent his face not so much an air of sagaciousness as of distance, as though the lenses were an insurmountable social gulf between the boy and others. Tom also noted that the boy was giving him a look which, despite its guarded indifference, was permeated by curiosity. Tom raised his eyebrows.

"Yes?"

"There's some ugly girl whining to anyone who'll listen about a boy who attacked her and ruined her candy," the boy said calmly. "She said it was in this compartment. I was wondering if it was you."

"Why?" Tom asked suspiciously. The boy laughed.

"Don't worry, I'm not interested in getting you in trouble. I think it's brilliant, actually. Really funny. So what do you say?"

Tom considered the boy's attitude for a few seconds, and then nodded. A slight smile twisted the boy's face. "Well done," he said admiringly. "I didn't think anyone would have the guts to do something like that before we got to school. My name's Malfoy, by the way. Abraxas Malfoy."

Tom, despite being highly impressed that he was talking to a descendant of Brutus Malofy, considered Abraxas Malfoy with suspicion for a few seconds before taking the hand that he'd extended. "I'm Tom," Tom said simply. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Riddle, eh?" Abraxas's face assumed a slight look of pity which made Tom feel furious. "Bloody hell, I'm sorry, mate. Can't have been easy growing up with mug--"

"I'm not a mudblood, if that's what you're thinking," said Tom sharply. "I'm an orphan, and I know at least one of my parents was magic, because whoever he was, he made me able to talk to snakes."

Whatever condescension had been hovering in Malfoy's eyes evaporated at this, and Tom saw, to his immense pleasure, that whatever pity Malfoy had felt, it was nothing to do with him being an orphan. "You can talk to snakes?" he asked breathlessly. Tom nodded. A look of appraisal flitted across Malfoy's face before he simply muttered, "Brilliant."

Then, flicking his eyes at the empty chairs across from Tom, Malfoy asked, "Mind if I sit down?" Tom shook his head and Malfoy flopped down in one of the chairs, giving Tom an appreciative smile. Then, seeing that Tom wasn't the type to open conversation, Malfoy leaned forward.

"So, Tom...can I call you Tom?" Tom nodded. "So, Tom, what house do you hope you'll be in?"

Tom recalled what Walburga Black had told him about the houses dimly and, deciding he might as well be honest, answered, "Slytherin."

"Well, then we'll be seeing a lot of each other, won't we?" said Malfoy with an unpleasant smile. "My whole family's been in Slytherin, and I certainly won't be an exception. And if you really are at least half-wizard, I don't think there's any reason why you won't be able to get in. Merlin knows father complains enough about how mongrelized the house has become..."

"I'm not a mongrel," said Tom fiercely, and Malfoy laughed.

"Hey, don't take it personally, Tom. According to my dad, any wizard who hasn't got pureblood grandparents is a mongrel..."

"Then your dad's not much like your ancestors," said Tom shortly, thinking his command of Brutus Malfoy's ideas would both intimidate and impress Abraxas. "Even Brutus Malfoy admits that half-bloods have done good things, not like muggle-borns."

"Bloody hell, how did you know about my grandfather?" asked Malfoy. "I thought only purebloods read him now."

"Well, you're wrong," said Tom proudly. "Lady Irma Black bought me two of his books, and I--what?"

Malfoy's face had gone pale. "You know Lady Black?" he asked slowly, and Tom felt a deep satisfaction at the fear with which he said it.

"Yeah, I know Lady Black."

"But...but...but...you're still alive!"

Tom raised his eyebrows. "What, shouldn't I be? I like Lady Black. She's a nice enough person. She bought me my books, my owl and my wand as a gift, because she thought I was so special--what?!" he asked. Malfoy was gaping at him.

"Boy, I'll tell you, Riddle, you must be something really special," he said breathlessly, "if Lady Black had anything to do with you. She's so mad, even my dad's scared of her, and her kids are nasty pieces of work, too..."

"I know what you mean," said Tom, feeling a slight trace of sympathy, "Walburga was so unbearable I had to use my wand to fuse her lips shut."

Malfoy gave a sort of strangled gasp, and then started laughing almost madly. "Riddle, I don't know who you are, or where you come from," he said admiringly, "but you have some nerve. Wow. Well, whatever you are, I'm sorry if I called you a mongrel. But you're wrong about my dad not knowing what grandpa Brutus thought. I've got his book and--hey, Crabbe, Goyle, get in here!"

Two extraordinarily oversized boys who had just passed the doorway nearly crashed into each other as they each tried to double back at the same time at the sound of Malfoy's voice. Then, clumsily, each of them walked into the compartment and sat down on either side of Malfoy. Tom thought they looked vaguely like bodyguards.

"Boys, this is Tom Riddle," said Malfoy, motioning at Tom. "Starting now, he's our new friend, because he's the only half-blood ever to have cursed Walburga Black in front of her mum and gotten away with it."

"Bloody hell," said the skinnier one, "you mean me aunt Irma didn't murder you? I'm Crabbe, by the way. Gilbert Crabbe."

"Aunt Irma?" asked Tom interestedly. "You're related to Lady Black?"

"Sure I am," said Crabbe impressively, puffing up his chest, "though I can't say she's proud o' that. Always thought she was smarter than our family, me dad says. Well, whatever she is, she's a tough old hag. You must be pretty special to not have pissed her off."

"Tom is special alright," said Malfoy, as though he were showing Tom off to a crowd. "He can already control his magic, and get this - he's a parselmouth!"

Tom had to admit that he liked the attention he was getting, and he flashed a nasty grin at Crabbe and Goyle, who promptly closed their mouths, which had fallen open in shock. Then, clumsily, each of them got up and shook Tom's hand, muttering about how it was good to know him, and if he ever needed any heads bashed in, just tell them, and they'd take care of the buggers right quick. He nodded graciously at this before leaning back in his chair and giving Malfoy a look of the most cautious benevolence. In response Malfoy cracked a smile before looking around the compartment.

"Pity that this candy had to go to waste," he said calmly, picking up one of the beans and then tossing it idly aside, "but that can be fixed. Crabbe, Goyle, find the trolley woman and fetch her back here so we can all have some candy."

"I haven't got any money," said Tom sharply. Malfoy laughed.

"That's alright, we'll take care of y--"

"And I don't want charity."

Malfoy's face split into a grin, and Tom saw with relief that it was one completely free of the sort of reproachful guilt which Burbage's had held.

"Oh, don't worry about that, Tom, this isn't charity. Think of it as repayment. You shut Walburga Black's face and got away with it, which all of us think is right funny, so we're buying you some candy as a sort of 'thank you.' Believe me," he leaned in to Tom, "I wouldn't buy just any stupid orphan on this train candy. But you're alright."

Tom still felt suspicious that it was charity, but something in Abraxas' voice told him that this was different. This was a tribute, and that was something Tom had absolutely no trouble accepting. Slowly, he nodded his head and Malfoy grinned at this, before turning to Crabbe and Goyle and giving them explicit instructions as to what to buy, as though they were waiters. Then, wordlessly, they left the compartment, leaving Tom and Abraxas alone.

No sooner were they gone, however, then Tom noticed that three angry looking people were standing outside the compartment, glaring in at him and Abraxas. One of them he recognized instantly as Charity Burbage but the other two were unknown, though Tom felt as though he recognized one of them from someplace, even if he couldn't place where. One of them, a burly boy with a shock of honey blonde hair, pushed open the compartment door curtly and strode in, Burbage and the other boy following him. Tom looked at Malfoy briefly and noted with great satisfaction that Malfoy's expression had twisted into one of abject contempt. The fair-haired boy, however, did not seem to notice. He was focused on Tom.

"Is that him, Charity?"

Burbage nodded, giving Tom a look of pure disdain. The boy's eyes narrowed.

"So...Tom, is it?"

Tom blinked at him idly. The boy's eyes contracted even further.

"Well?"

Tom allowed a few more seconds to pass in silence before saying calmly, as though the boy were an insect beneath his notice, "Yes, it is. Tom Riddle."

"And you think it's funny bullying muggle-borns, do you, Riddle?" the boy's tone was explicitly threatening. Tom glared at the boy.

"If you're referring to Charity, I hadn't known she was muggle-born, and she hit me first."

"Yeah, and you expect me to believe that, do you?" the boy asked savagely. "When you're hanging out with scum like--"

"Scum?" asked Malfoy dangerously. "Scum? Fine one you are to talk about scum, Nottingstom, with your blood traitor dad."

To Tom's surprise and anger, the boy Malfoy had addressed as Nottingstom didn't even respond. Instead, he just turned around and socked Malfoy right in the jaw. "Shut up," he growled as Malfoy massaged his mouth. "Just shut up, you pampered little wanker."

Realizing what he was dealing with, Tom let his voice slide into the tone he used when talking to bullies at the orphanage. "If you're going to attack people I like, then get out of my compartment."

A fist collided with Tom's face too, and he tasted blood as he fell to the compartment floor. Nottingstom was staring down at him with a mocking look on his face, as if he were somehow infinitely superior to Tom just by existing. Tom returned the look with a sneer of abject contempt which was blotted out as Nottingstom's foot collided with his face.

"So you think you're better than me, eh Riddle?" Nottingstom asked angrily. "You think you're better than Charity, too?"

"I know I don't need my fists to make people hurt," Tom snapped back, glaring up at Nottingstom, who made to kick him again, but was suddenly thrown against the wall of the compartment by an invisible hand. Tom was vaguely conscious of a wand on the corner of his peripheral vision, a wand which he saw belonged to Abraxas when he turned his head. Nottingstom wasn't halted by Abraxas's attack for long however. Instead, he launched himself at Abraxas and began punching him in the face repeatedly. This momentary distraction gave Tom time to draw his wand, which he happily noted was almost burning with power, as if it was feeding off his anger. In a split second, Tom had raised his wand and stabbed the air with it, hoping that whatever effect occurred, it would be enough to scare Nottingstom, Burbage and their companion off.

It was. Tom's suitcase flew into the air and began bashing Nottingstom's skull against the seat. Gasping in panic, Nottingstom instantly jumped off Abraxas and began trying to fight the suitcase off, while Charity and the other boy watched in terror. However, much to Tom's displeasure, this time Burbage was not caught off-guard. Instead, she had pulled out her wand and waved it at the suitcase, causing the suitcase to drop lifelessly to the ground. The look on Nottingstom's face was pure murder, and as he started toward Tom, Tom knew that he needed more than just his wand's usual tricks to stop the boy. And he knew just who would know how to get the wand to do that.

And here I am, Tom. Didn't I tell you I'd always be here? That I'd always make the bad people suffer? Watch.

Tom felt his wand arm stab the air again, and he saw Nottingstom's mouth open in a bloodcurdling scream and crumble.

Nottingstom was writhing on the floor, as if something were clawing its way out of him. He was ripping his clothes off, trying desperately to get at the source of the pain, which Tom saw was his back. As Nottingstom's shirt came off, Tom saw with a faint note of shock that the area along Nottingstom's spine was red and inflamed, and slowly rising, as if Nottingstom's spine was trying to break out of his flesh. Turning to his wand, Tom realized that he was turning it without realizing it, and turning it in much the same way one would turn the wheel on a medieval instrument of torture. It was with only a dull sense that he should be horrified that Tom realized that Voldie was trying to snap Nottingstom's spine...and that he, Tom, was enjoying it...

"Stop it!" The exclamation came from Abraxas, who was staring at Tom with a look of pure fear. "What do you think you're doing? You'll kill him doing that!"

Tom, recognizing the wisdom in Abraxas' words, forced his hand to stop turning. As he did so, Nottingstom stopped writhing and clawing his back, and collapsed onto the ground, sobbing and panting at the pain he had just experienced. Tom, however, was not finished.

"As I said before," Tom hissed in as deadly a voice as he could, "if you're going to hurt the people I like - get out."

Nottingstom turned to look at him, and Tom knew in that instant that the boy both wanted to kill him and run as far away from him as he could. Tom also saw, to his immense satisfaction, that the other boy was giving him a look of petrified, abject terror, like a baby mouse staring up at a cat which had just eaten both his parents. Charity Burbage, meanwhile, was backed up against the opposite wall, an expression of horror twisting her freckled face. Tom looked away and stared contemptuously down at Nottingstom, who had pulled himself up off the ground and was backing away towards the door, with Burbage and her companion following him. As Nottingstom pushed the door shut, he snarled a warning into the compartment.

"This isn't over, you filthy dark wizard spawn!"

Tom did not answer, but instead flicked his wand, causing the door to shut on Nottingstom's hand. Nottingstom howled and rushed out of sight. Satisfied that he'd made his point, Tom turned back to Abraxas, who was gazing at him with poorly masked awe, and apparently without the capacity to speak. As Tom pocketed his wand, however, Abraxas seemed to regain his tongue, though apparently only in a hoarse, fear-choked voice.

"Tom, what...oh, Merlin, what were you thinking?! You could have killed him doing that, didn't you think of that? How could you just...just stand there and watch while you almost murdered--"

"It was less than the scum deserved." Tom said, noting with some satisfaction that Abraxas had shivered at his tone. At first, it seemed to Tom that Abraxas was going to argue further, but then fear extinguished whatever disagreement he had seen lurking in his companion's eyes. Whatever Abraxas might have wanted to say, he was clearly too unnerved by Tom's icy manner to put it into words. Instead, he merely reached into his trunk and pulled out a few glowing cotton balls, which he stuffed into his nose, stopping the bleeding instantly. He then hesitantly handed two of these to Tom, who mopped up his own bloody nose. When he had finished, he turned to Abraxas, who seemed to still be having trouble getting words out.

"Tom--"

"Abraxas," said Tom sharply, laying as much stress as he could on the three syllables of his associate's name, "since you clearly want to be my friend, let me give you some advice. Don't call me Tom. I hate that filthy, common...muggle name."

Abraxas looked a little shocked at being given orders so explicitly, but after a few seconds, nodded meekly. "Alright," he said cheerfully, "can't say I blame you. What do you want to be called?"

Tom was going to respond that he should call him by his middle name, but then an idea popped into his head, and he thought better of it. Fixing Abraxas with a shark's grin and meeting the latter's anticipatory glance, Tom responded:

"Voldemort. Lord Voldemort."

Abraxas looked slightly confused, but nodded anyway. "Whatever you say," he said, the fear still not completely gone from his voice. Then, flicking his eyes at the door to the compartment, where Crabbe and Goyle were standing with large bags of candy, he asked in a voice which as at once timid and hopeful, "How about some candy, then...my Lord?"