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

Chapter Five: Roots Of An Obsession

Tom spent the rest of the train ride in the company of Abraxas, Crabbe and Goyle, who he had to admit seemed to be much better companions than anyone he'd ever met at the orphanage. At one point, a boy who Tom recognized as Alphard Black had poked his head into the compartment and said "Hi" to Tom, clearly expecting to be greeted with friendliness and shared candy. However, discouraged by the neutral looks and less-than-enthusiastic greetings he got, Alphard had moved on.

After about a half an hour of eating candy and talking, Abraxas, Crabbe and Goyle all began changing into their school uniforms and Tom followed suit, reasoning that they probably knew what they were doing. After they had all put on the plain black robes, affixed the blank house badges and donned the grey scarves they were supposed to wear, Abraxas, Crabbe and Goyle took turns staring out the window, waiting to catch a glimpse of Hogwarts. Tom did not join them, since he didn't want any sort of visual stimulant to increase his anxiety. Besides, there was something he desperately needed to discuss with an old friend, and the distraction of his new associates was all that would enable him to do so.

So finally, you begin to understand...

Tom felt a stab of annoyance at the words. Voldemort had promised to leave him alone. "Understand what?"

Now Tom, this is hardly the time to play the fool. Or do you think I am stupid enough to believe that your appropriation of my name is merely a coincidence of nomenclature?

"I don't expect you to believe anything, but I don't see why I can't use your name."

I never said you couldn't use my name, Tom. Truth be told, I'm flattered, and also glad...glad that you're finally beginning to understand how badly you wish that you didn't exist.

"What do you mean? Of course I want to exist!"

Lies. Why else would you seek to supplant your identity with mine?

"I'm not!"

Yes. Yes, you are. You know it. You want me to exist in your place, because I'm everything that makes you strong, only you're too afraid to see it.

"What do you mean, I want you to exist in my place? You are me!"

I know you are, but what am I?

"That's not funny."

Oh, I disagree, Tom. You have no idea how truly hilarious it is that you've deluded yourself into thinking that--

"Shut up."

Or you'll do what, Tom? Call your mummy?

"SHUT UP!"

Tom was on his feet, and had shrieked the last two words to the air. Abraxas turned around exasperatedly.

"I didn't say anything, your lordship," he said in mock courtesy. When Tom didn't answer, Abraxas' expression shifted from exasperation to bewilderment. "Hey, Voldemort," he said, "you alright?"

The name made Tom flinch, as he felt Voldemort's wicked laughter send a flash of pain through his head, but he jerkily nodded. To his relief, Abraxas went back to staring out the window, apparently deciding not to pursue the matter further. Then, after a few seconds of staring, he burst out, "We're slowing down!"

Tom was conscious of a stab of nervous exhilaration in his stomach. It was so strong that he barely registered Voldemort's final whisper.

Now we'll find out who you really are, won't we, Tom?

Tom did not reply. Instead, he simply scooted up to Abraxas and peered out the window. It was true. They were slowing down. The train had almost ground to a halt, and to Tom's immense displeasure, the external setting did not appear to be ideal for getting off. Torrents of rain were pouring down on the surrounding countryside, and periodically staining the window, making everything outside look like a giant, kaleidoscopic blur.

"Bloody hell," said Abraxas, apparently deciding it was his responsibility to voice what everyone in the compartment was thinking. "How are we supposed to get off the train in that?"

Tom did not answer, but instead made to grasp the handles of his luggage. Seeing him do this, Abraxas laughed.

"Don't worry about your stuff, Ridd--sorry, Voldemort," he said. "They'll bring that lot up to the school for you. All you'll need to do is not die of the cold first."

Tom released his hold on the luggage with no small amount of relief. As he did so, he found that he had to grab his seat to avoid falling over as the train abruptly ground to a halt. Steadying himself, he looked over at Abraxas, whose ponytail had been crushed against the compartment wall, and who was grinning widely.

"Right then, boys," Abraxas crowed. "Off we get. Through the rain and off to school!"

Disembarking from the train turned out to be slightly more complicated than this. The halls were lined with students attempting to leave, slowing the exodus to a trickle, which was only hindered by the fact that many of the students dragged their feet so as to prolong the time spent in the dry, warm safety of the train. Though this might have been gratifying for them, it made Tom intensely irritated, as he was impatient to get off the train. It also didn't help that he could hear the loud voice of the boy called Nottingstom announcing to anyone who would listen that he was going to be in Hufflepuff, and was damned proud of it, too.

After about ten minutes of crawling up the aisles, Tom, Abraxas, Crabbe and Goyle found themselves located outside the train, with the rain busily doing its best to assault their robes. Tom grimaced, and put his hand up to protect his face. The view from the window had not nearly done the weather justice - countless drops of water pelted the emerging students' faces like an incessant spray of bullets, obscuring their vision and making them keep their heads down so as to avoid getting water in their eyes. For his part, Tom knew that he would have had no idea which way even to turn if it hadn't been for the gruff, sharp voice calling "First years! First years! First years this way! Step to it!"

Half-stumbling in the direction of the voice, Tom stole a quick glance upwards into the oncoming barrage of water to see where he was going. A tall, hunched figure was motioning them towards what looked like a pier, holding a rusted old lantern in its hands. As he and his companions got closer, Tom saw that the creature had the figure of an abnormally shaped hunchback, who was leering at them through gold teeth and motioning towards a small, rickety dock where several dozen small boats were tied. At the sight of these, Abraxas let out a low moan of despair, and Tom couldn't help sympathizing, as he did not terribly want to sit in the exceedingly wet objects. However, seeing as there was no other option, Tom slid onto the seat of one such boat, and was soon joined by Abraxas, Crabbe and Goyle, who hastily slapped their robes over the seat of their slacks, clearly hoping to keep the water out.

Thankfully, they seemed to be among the last of the first years, for a few minutes later, the boats started moving jerkily and Tom could see, by squinting through the pouring rain, that the hunchback was sitting in a boat at the head of all them, directing the small fleet across a huge, black lake. However, Tom could see nothing but blackness beyond the lake, and privately wondered if Hogwarts was all that wonderful, if it couldn't even afford proper--

He gasped. The boats had just abruptly turned, and through the curtain of rain, Tom could make out a huge, glimmering mass on a mountain ahead of them which looked (though Tom couldn't be sure) like an ancient, menacing castle. Whatever it was, though, what was amazing about it was the fact that the lights within it blossomed out of the darkness, making the whole edifice look through the rain like a sort of luminous beehive, with spots of light pouring out of the veritable honeycomb of windows and other orifices which dotted it. An alien feeling washed over Tom as he looked at this - a feeling so sweet and so terrible at once that he wondered privately if this was what made the other orphans cry when he took away seemingly superfluous objects from them.

It was a feeling of longing, and of satisfaction at the same time; a feeling which spoke of halls filled with magic; of unique, vibrant people who whispered about ancient, arcane secrets; a feeling which invited him in with the promise of knowledge, acceptance and excellence. It was the feeling that, after years of being stuck in an alien, mediocre world, he had finally come home.

The castle passed out of sight and the rain stopped as the boats entered a long tunnel and then stopped next to a well-maintained, if ancient-looking pier upon which was standing a figure who Tom felt less-than-happy to recognize: it was Professor Dumbledore.

"'Ere they are, Perfesser," growled the massive hunchback at the head of the crowd. "Brot 'em all de way ferm de station, I did. An' you shud thank me fer it too, if ye don't mind me sayin'. Nasty weather we're 'aving this evenin'."

"Thank you, Mr. Ogg," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "You have brought them in ahead of schedule, and I hope you will consent to join us for the feast...that is, if you would not rather go back to your cottage and sit out the night."

"Nah, tha's aright Perfesser," said the man called Ogg roughly. "Can't stay. Gotta git back to me 'ouse right quick. The missus wudn't like me stayin' out in weather like what we're 'aving now."

"Very well, then, if you must go," said Dumbledore regretfully. Then, he fished in his robes and pulled out a small item wrapped in tissue paper. "Sherbert lemon?"

Ogg gave Dumbledore a look which said plainly, "bloody nutter", and shuffled out of the hall towards the sound of rain. Tom privately wondered if Dumbledore enjoyed having this effect on people. However, he didn't have much time to contemplate the question, as Dumbledore had just turned to the first years and beamed, which had the effect of making him look like a gardener staring down at some highly promising seeds.

"Ah, and now to all of you," Dumbledore said with a smile. "Well, the most trivial things are always the best to say first because they are always the easiest, so I will start with the easy - welcome to Hogwarts. You are about to embark on an experience which will encompass what many wizards consider to be the best years of their lives. It would be wrong to say that I feel sadness at having passed that stage so long ago, but let us just say that it never ceases to amaze me to see the bright smiling faces of so many new students and imagine what I must have looked like back when I was your age."

For some reason, though he could not identify why, Tom felt slightly uncomfortable at Dumbledore's words. They made him feel small, and inexperienced, and weak - concepts which he would not stand to be associated with. However, he listened as Dumbledore went on.

"At any rate, hopefully your years at Hogwarts will be a life-changing journey for the better. Friendships will be forged, alliances gained, enemies made and above all, lessons learned, but first, you must go through what may be the most important experience of your Hogwarts careers - you must complete the Sorting ceremony. Now, I am not at liberty to explain what this consists of, but let us just say that in it, you will choose between different sets of principles and decide which is most important to you - which concepts define your existence, and which you would die for and (though I hope this applies to none of you) which you may have to kill for. Keep that in mind, and do not take this ceremony lightly. Clear?" Dumbledore smiled as the students, Tom among them, nodded in response to his words. Then, clapping his hands and instructing the first years to form a single file line, Dumbledore led them up a long set of stairs and up to a pair of highly ornate, wrought-iron doors. Then, turning back to them, he said simply, "Wait here" and vanished behind the doors.

Tom's impatience was practically boiling over, and he only vaguely registered Abraxas asking Crabbe and Goyle what the sorting ceremony was supposed to be like. Neither one seemed to know, and judging by the snatches of conversation coming from around Tom, neither did anyone else. Some said it was painful. Others said it was just something pointless and silly, which you wouldn't understand the relevance of until you were much older. Still others simply shrugged their shoulders and admitted their ignorance openly. None of it made Tom any less nervous, or less exasperated at having to wait.

He was beginning to think that nothing of any interest would happen, but then there was the sound of screams and Tom found himself craning his neck up to observe a variety of translucent figures circling above them, which had just flown out of the surrounding walls. Tom felt a slight shiver go up his spine. He'd been prepared for wizards, but ghosts? For some reason, the sight of them made him feel distinctly uncomfortable, as though he was seeing his own death and being reminded of it just by looking at the pale figures above him.

Not that the figures seemed to mind being dead. One of them, a rather fat looking cleric, chuckled as he looked down at the first years.

"Well, well! First years, is it? Hello! I'm the Fat Friar! Welcome, welcome, and don't forget - Hufflepuff's always open for more!"

"Yes, they are," sneered a ghost near the fat figure, who Tom saw appeared to be bleeding from copious stab wounds, "Hufflepuff'll take any old piece of ineffectual trash the cat drags in. Now, Slytherin, that's the only house for real wizards!"

"You think so, do you?" huffed the Fat Friar. "I suppose anyone who willingly haunts a breeding ground for bigots, liars and dark wizards would say that, now wouldn't--"

"Must you two always fight over these things?" inquired the ghost of a young woman, looking vaguely annoyed. "We all know that both Slytherin and Hufflepuff have produced their fair share of honorable wizards."

"Oh, honorable, pish posh!" scoffed the Friar. "What's 'honorable', anyway? Isn't that just a way of saying that some wizards are better than others? No, hard work and loyalty's more important than any sort of 'honor', anyone knows that!"

"You would say that," growled the bleeding ghost. "Considering you--"

"We are ready for you."

Tom's attention instantly diverted to the wide doors, where Dumbledore was standing and beckoning them in. As they entered the massive hall beyond, Tom felt his breath catch in his chest. The huge, vaulted chamber was more impossibly wonderful than anything he could have imagined - majestic looking tables lined the room, each of them seating large numbers of students, and each with a full-size flag flying over it announcing the identities of the houses represented by those tables. But they seemed to be hanging in mid-air, as all that stood above the students appeared to be the sky, where rain was silently falling and yet somehow not leaving any trace of moisture. Looking at Abraxas, Tom saw to his displeasure that the latter was grinning as if he were smarter than Tom.

"Impressive, isn't it, your Lordship?" he said sardonically. "It's not real, though. The ceiling's just bewitched to look like the sky outside. Now hold on, looks like the Sorting's starting."

Certainly, something had happened, because the whole hall had suddenly gone silent. Dumbledore was approaching a stool in the center of the hall, holding a rotted-looking old hat which was patched and frayed in numerous places. Placing the hat down on the stool as if it were an amazingly precious object, Dumbledore backed up and Tom privately wondered if this were some sort of joke. Then, to his shock, the brim of the hat opened in the shape of a mouth, and the hat began to sing.

Now, welcome to the Hogwarts school

We'll train your untrained mind

At Hogwarts, not one wizard child

Is ever left behind

But first, you must decide your fate

What you will emphasize

Will you be great, or brave, or just

Or will you just be wise?

The houses four each fly a flag

Inside these hallowed halls

And each house to a different brand

Of student always calls.

There's Gryffindor, the lion's house

Where chivalry and nerve

Provide you with a moral code

From which you'll never swerve

There's Hufflepuff, the badger's house

Where justice reigns supreme

Equality of wizard-kind

Is that great house's dream

Then Ravenclaw, the Eagle house

For those who wish to think

Where love of knowledge and of wit

Is every student's link

Last, Slytherin, the serpent's house

Will have the purest breed

They take none but those who are ruled

By cunning, guile and greed

Now let us see where you belong

Do not your thoughts deny

For in my years as Sorting Hat

I've never, ever lied!

Tom joined the others in applauding the hat, though he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Slytherin only took those with pure blood, and he certainly wasn't one of those. He was going to resign himself to a life in Ravenclaw, but then, unbidden, Lady Black's words came back to haunt him as he stared at the Slytherin flag:

"Select the path that speaks to you most clearly."

The injunction gave Tom a brief flicker of hope. Lady Black had known he could speak to snakes, and the Slytherin flag was a snake. Clearly, she had meant for him to choose Slytherin, but would the hat let him? He desperately hoped so, and so with a deep, gnawing feeling of nervousness, he turned back to watch as students were called forward to try on the hat.

"Acton, William!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Arthur, Charlotte!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Astley, Richard!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Ayden, Mortimer!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Basinger, Megan!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Beckham, Whittaker!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Black, Alphard!"

Tom craned his head forward to see as the boy he recognized as Alphard Black walked forward and hesitantly placed the hat on his head. A few minutes passed and Tom saw, to his great distaste, Walburga Black sitting on the edge of her seat, watching the hat from the Slytherin table. Another few second passed, and then...

"SLYTHERIN!"

Tom felt slightly sick as he watched Walburga applaud, a sort of vengeful pride infecting her face. If that was the sort of person who was in Slytherin...

"Bletcher, Morgana!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Burbage, Charity!"

HUFFLEPUFF!

Tom snorted at this. It figured, and he could see out of the corner of his eye that ever single student applauding for Burbage at the Hufflepuff table shared the vacuous, overly-friendly appearance of their newest recruit. The sight sickened him so much that he found himself secretly wishing that wherever the Hat did put him, it wouldn't be Hufflepuff.

"Crabbe, Gilbert!"

Crabbe trudged up to the hat awkwardly, shoved it onto his head, and was promptly declared a Slytherin. A few more names passed (Goyle joined Crabbe, along with a boy named Lestrange), and then...

"Malfoy, Abraxas!"

Abraxas crossed to the hat, bearing a steely, patrician smile on his face as he placed it on his head. He didn't get far, though, because the hat barely took a second to pronounce:

"SLYTHERIN!"

Tom felt even more unpleasant as Abraxas crossed to the Slytherin table. All his associates were in Slytherin. It would be inconvenient to have to search for other people, and besides, he felt much more at home with Abraxas, Crabbe and Goyle than he suspected he would with anyone else at the school

"Mulciber, Xavier!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Nottingstom, Augustus!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Nutting, Martha!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Orchard, Kit!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Prendergast, Vincent!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Puck, Demetrius!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

Then, after what seemed like an eternity...

"Riddle, Tom!"

Tom felt his heart jump as he walked up to the stool and placed the hat on his head, doing his best to maintain his emotionless mask in the face of the scrutiny of the hall. This was made considerably easier once the hat was on his head, however, as it was far too big for his head and, consequently, blocked his vision. There was a short pause, and then Tom almost jumped as a small voice spoke in his head.

"Well! This is most unorthodox! I had not expected to have to sort two people at the same time!"

A chill ran up Tom's spine. The hat was reading his mind. But did that mean...

"Yes, young master Voldemort, I can see you too," the voice said with a slight twinge of annoyance. "No point in hiding. Dear me, this really is terribly uncommon. I mean, two is company, but as I'm sure you both will acknowledge, three is a crowd. Now, where to put the both of you? Well, fortunately, it's not as though you share wildly divergent interests...both ambitious, both highly intelligent, both desperate to prove yourselves...you really do bleed into each other a great deal, don't you? And what's this...the ability to speak Parseltongue? Oh, dear me, now that...that's something you don't see every day. I wonder if perhaps...your mind is so familiar...Merlin's beard, it can't be!"

Tom was deeply puzzled by this last sentence, and against his better judgment, he thought:

"What?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing, nothing, master Riddle. Nothing at all for you or your compatriot to worry about - nothing you'd know about, anyway. But dear me, it does make the options much simpler to negotiate. Lovely. Now, I must inform you that, though you'd do spectacularly in Ravenclaw, I really think all three of us know which house you both belong in."

Tom was going to respond, but Voldemort beat him to it.

Put us in Slytherin, hat, and have done with it. We both know we belong there.

"But wait, Voldie," Tom protested. "We can't go into Slytherin, remember? We don't have the blood for it."

"Oh, young master Riddle," the voice chuckled, "I don't think you have any cause to worry about that. Your rather...unique parentage, I think, would be more than enough to convince Slytherin house to welcome you with open arms. Now, I happen to agree with your companion, so I think--"

"What do you mean, unique parentage? What do you know about my parents--"

"SLYTHERIN!"

For a moment, Tom thought of shoving the hat back onto his head as it was lifted. He knew he should have been happy, but the hat's last words echoed in his head so horribly that the applause he was receiving from the Slytherin table seemed hollow and mocking, as if it was celebrating the secret that had been pulled from his grasp before he could understand it. Walking towards the table in a daze, he sat down wearily next to Abraxas and stared back up at the hat, feeling infuriated at its cryptic statements. However, he would not let those stop him. If his parentage was unique, he would find out who he was descended from at any cost, and God help any who tried to stop him.

The sorting continued for another few minutes, during which "Rookwood, Grace" and "Umbridge, Edgar" became the last two Slytherins. Tom clapped dully at this, even as he glared at the Hat and imagined forcing it back onto his head and interrogating the cryptic entity within. He probably would have glared at the hat all through the ceremony, if Dumbledore had not scooped it off the stool and retired it as soon as the last student had been sorted. Not having the offending object to stab with his eyes anymore, Tom turned his attention to the high table, where a thin, balding man wearing excessively ornate robes had stood up, clapped his hands and uttered the cryptic words, "Wiggle waggle."

For some reason, the words threw the surrounding tables into extreme levels of activity and the building sound of cups, plates and silverware made Tom turn his head to the Slytherin table in confusion, wondering what on earth two nonsense words had done to cause so much enthusiasm.

No sooner had he turned his head, however, than the question was answered. The table, which had formerly been barren, seemed to have suddenly acquired a veritable cornucopia of different, enticing dishes. Tom, who had not had much to eat since the candy on the Hogwarts express, and was used to meager servings of orphanage food, was immediately conscious of a gnawing, biting, grasping sensation in his stomach which cried out for food. Without so much as a moment's hesitance, he obliged it.

After a few seconds of shoveling down mouthfuls of turkey, shepherd's pie and dumplings, Tom registered the amused way that Abraxas was watching him.

"Clearly, someone hasn't been fed well," said Abraxas in a tone that managed, incredibly, to mix sympathy and mockery. Tom, not pleased with either portion of the mixture, glared at him, causing Abraxas's smile to evaporate.

"I was only joking, m'Lord."

Though he hadn't intended to, Tom shook his head at this last. "Not in public."

"What?" asked Abraxas.

"Don't call me that around people we don't know. I'm just Tom Riddle to them, and I want it to stay that way." Tom hadn't thought of any of this, but it was as though someone else was using his mouth, and though he had a faint idea who, he didn't stop to belabor the point. Abraxas shrugged.

"Alright then, Tom. If you say so. And you might want to turn around. It looks like someone wants to talk to you."

Tom did as he was instructed and saw, to his great displeasure, that Walburga Black was standing behind him, a particularly nasty grimace twisting her features. However, not wanting to antagonize her just yet, he kept his face straight as he said, "Yes?"

"What're you doing in Slytherin, mudblood?" snapped Walburga. Tom rolled his eyes.

"I dunno. It's this weird thing - I more or less assumed that because the hat said 'Slytherin', I was supposed to sit here. Or was I wrong?"

Walburga flushed. "Don't be smart with your betters, scum," she hissed. "What did you tell the hat to make it put you here?"

"Nothing," said Tom, surprised at his own truthfulness, "but I suppose you think it made a mistake, do you?"

"It's not just a mistake, mudblood, it's an abomination! You're an abomination!"

"I see," said Tom as calmly as he could. "So now, besides being bested magically by someone who's never used a wand before, and conjuring snakes which someone else can talk out of attacking them, you also think you're smarter than the bloody hat. Tell me, Walburga, is your dad as thick as you are? 'Cause you couldn't have gotten this from your mum."

"YOU SHUT UP!" Walburga exploded. "YOU JUST SHUT UP ABOUT MY MUM AND DAD, MUDBLOOD! YOU'RE NOT FIT TO BE THEIR - OUR - HOUSE ELF, YOU COMMON, PATHETIC--"

"Excuse me," said a soft voice which made Tom, if anything, even more disgusted than Walburga's, "but what on earth is going on over here?"

It was Professor Dumbledore, and for once, Walburga and Tom appeared to be in agreement, since both looked quite dissatisfied with his presence. Dumbledore, however, was merely giving Walburga a stern look.

"Miss Black," he said, "I assume you know that language like that is not tolerated at Hogwarts?"

"The m--Riddle started it, Professor!" Walburga whined, pointing a finger at Tom accusingly. "He--he insulted my dad!"

Dumbledore turned to Tom with a look of calm curiosity. "Is that true, Mr. Riddle?" he asked. Tom, hoping this would be enough to convince Dumbledore, shook his head jerkily. Dumbledore frowned.

"Five points from Slytherin for lying and being insulting, Mr. Riddle," he said before turning back to Walburga. "And 15 points from Slytherin for that word, Miss Black."

"What?!" Walburga burst out. "But Professor - Riddle insulted me first, and then lied about it, doesn't that--"

"Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said with a neutral glance at Tom which Tom saw, to his intense disgust, still bore a stray sign of pity, "is from a far less privileged background than you, Miss Black, and therefore does not nearly the instruction in humility you seem to require. Good evening."

Before Walburga could object again, Dumbledore had swept off to the high table again, leaving her alone with Tom who, despite his dislike for her, felt a touch of understanding for the tears coursing down her cheeks. He too thought that Dumbledore's punishment had been unfair, but he did not want to give Walburga the satisfaction of agreeing with her. And besides, it was only a mild twinge of intellectual indignation at Dumbledore's double standard, nothing worth moral indignation. So instead of doing, or saying, something to Walburga, Tom simply turned back to his food, hoping that if he ignored Walburga, she would go away. Apparently, the tactic worked, because she stalked back to her seat without another word to him.

The rest of dinner passed in relative peace. Tom wolfed down several more helpings of Shepherd's pie, and then helped himself to a generous amount of dessert, which he finished just as the food vanished from the tables, leaving every student in the hall, Tom among them, feeling particularly well-fed and satisfied. It was then that the thin, balding old man at the high table stood up again.

"Er-hem!" he coughed abruptly. "If I may have your attention before you go off to bed, there are a few brief announcements I wish to make. Firstly, all students should note that the Forest on the school grounds is out of bounds to all students, under pain of serious consequences. Also, our caretaker, Mr. Pringle, has asked me to remind you that no magic is allowed in the halls and corridors. I must also announce, with the deepest regret, that our last History of Magic Professor, Professor Hesper Black, has retired in the face of several curricular changes. As such, we are pleased to welcome our new Professor - Professor Cuthbert Binns. Now, kindly follow your prefects back to your common rooms, and we will see you tomorrow morning for breakfast. Good night!"

The thunderous scraping of chairs greeted these last two words, as every student in the hall stood up and slowly began to file in one of four different directions. Tom found himself, along with Abraxas, Crabbe and Goyle, being pushed towards a long flight of stairs which wound downwards into a dim and oppressively claustrophobic dungeon. After about five minutes of navigating the gloom, Tom felt the crowd stop in front of a large, serpentine statue, which one of the older students (who Tom assumed must be a Prefect) approached. At first, Tom was confused and annoyed at their stopping, but then the Statue spoke.

"Password?"

"Heritage," replied the Prefect.

In response to this, the Statue, to the surprise of every first year including Tom, slid aside as if of its own free will, revealing a narrow passageway which led into a particularly expansive looking dungeon cell, whose low ceiling was adorned with eerily luminous green lamps, and whose walls were decorated rather morbidly with human skulls. Naturally, none of this phased Tom, who felt more welcome and safe here than he had ever felt in the Orphanage.

Seeming quite satisfied at having guided the crowd into the cell, the Prefect turned to the crowd and informed them that down the stairs to the left was where the girls' dorms were, and down the stairs to the right were where the boys' dorms were, and that they'd better not try sneaking into either, because it would be the worse for them. Tom, who suddenly felt very tired, did not need telling twice. He simply shuffled down the rightmost flight of stairs until he came to a door upon which were inscribed the words:

"Tom Marvolo Riddle
Xavier Mulciber

Abraxas Malfoy

Antoine Lestrange

First Years."

Cracking open the door, Tom was astounded to find himself in a luxurious looking bedroom, with four exquisite looking queen sized four poster beds decked out with green and silver adorning it. On one of these, he recognized the cage containing Garuda and his own battered suitcase. It was all he could do to shove these aside before his head hit the pillow and he drifted off into oblivion.

And then, abruptly, woke up. However, it was not the Slytherin common room he found himself in. Instead, he seemed to have traveled back to the orphanage. At first, he was confused, but then the reality hit him with cold, hard certainty. He had dreamed it all. He was not a wizard, and there was no Hogwarts. He was just Tom Riddle, and he would be stuck there forever.

Rage welled up inside him and he kicked the meager bed he was lying on. However, as he did this, he became conscious of a steady knocking hammering the door.

"Must be Mrs. Cole," he thought miserably as he crossed to the door. But then he stopped. A sensation of pure dread was pouring over him as he stared at the door, and heard the knocking intensify. He knew, though he knew not how, that it was not Mrs. Cole beyond that door. It was someone - or something - far, far worse, and it wanted to hurt him. Slowly, he backed up to his bed, hoping that the noise of the knocking would wake someone else up and make them stop whoever it was.

But it didn't. The knocking got louder and louder, until finally it seemed as though whoever it was must have been flinging themselves against the door. Then, abruptly, it stopped. For a moment of blissful relief, Tom thought the visitor was gone, but then he heard, from the other side of the door, a voice so utterly inhuman and monstrous that it made him feel as though his heart had stopped.

"Open."

The door swung open, and Tom saw for the first time what was waiting beyond it.

It was him. But it wasn't him. For one thing, the Tom in the door was wearing Slytherin robes, and was carrying the pale, bone-shaped wand he'd bought at Ollivander's, but that was hardly the most distinctive difference. That was the other Tom's face.

It was a face which should not have belonged to a human being - a face which was twisted with the most malevolent smile imaginable, and out of which stared a pair of pitiless red eyes. For a moment, the thing in the door just stood there and looked at Tom, as if he were a particularly interesting piece of furniture. Then, slowly, it began to grow in height, until it reached a full six feet and was towering over Tom. At the same time, its features changed as if maturing with age, until Tom found himself staring up at a six-foot-tall, adult version of himself, albeit a version which still bore the same unnerving differences. The thing spoke.

"Hello, Tom. Nice to meet face-to-face, isn't it?"

Tom backed up against the wall, fighting the urge to scream. The thing's smile faltered.

"Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom...why do you fear me? I've made you so much greater than you could hope to be on your own. Can't you see I have no reason to hurt you? Don't you recognize your best friend?"

Tom, who had not been able to place why he recognized the thing's terrible voice, understood why now, and it made his fear evaporate. The thing was Voldemort, and Voldemort was right, he was Tom's oldest and best friend friend...at least, for the time being. Suddenly, as Tom realized this, all the differences he'd noticed between himself and Voldemort seemed trivial. Voldemort's smile no longer looked malevolent, but rather fatherly, and the stare of his friend's red eyes struck him as perceptive and judicious, rather than pitiless. Voldemort seemed to be able to tell Tom's attitude had changed, because his grin widened. Tom felt much more at ease upon seeing this, but rather than smile, folded his arms and raised his eyebrows. Voldemort laughed - a high laugh which Tom supposed might have struck some as cold, but which he knew was only meant to be gently mocking.

"Stoic to the last, I see. Don't worry, Tom, I won't keep you here long. You can sleep for the rest of the night in peace just so long as we get this little chat out of the way. That interfering bit of headgear gave us an important bit of information, and I think we both know it is something to pursue. It said your parentage was special. Now, I know you don't like to think about your parents, but if there is something unique about them, then we have every reason to find out what it is, wouldn't you agree?"

Tom nodded almost instantly at this. He had meant to have a conversation with Voldemort about this, but somehow his tiredness had gotten the better of him. Voldemort's smile widened again.

"Excellent. In that case, let us make sure that along with all your studies at this school, we find some time to research your - our - parentage. Do you accept the responsibility for that?"

Tom nodded. "Yes, Voldie."

"Very good. Then sleep, and awake ready to be all that you can be, tomorrow."

As Voldemort's last whisper concluded, Tom sat bolt upright in bed, and instantly recognized his surroundings as the Slytherin common room. Abraxas was lying in the bed next to him, peacefully inhaling and exhaling. Tom felt something drip onto his hands and realized that he'd broken into a cold sweat. Upon discovering this, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and then fell back on his pillow, almost too eager to begin researching his parents to return to sleep. But his eagerness was no match for his tiredness, and after about fifteen minutes of indecision, he drifted off again. He was only vaguely conscious of the smooth, soothing voice which whispered:

Yes, sleep, Tom. Sleep forever, if you like. Voldie will take care of everything - yes, and one day, Voldie will be everything. Tom Riddle will not exist one day - no, I'll rule in you forever then, and you will never feel sorrow or pain again. No one will ever hurt you once Tom Riddle becomes Voldemort. He - I - will make sure of that.

And as the whisper concluded, Tom's mouth opened and a soft, humorless, sadistic laugh escaped his lips just as he fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.