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

Chapter Six: The Case For Unity

Tom woke after what seemed an eternity of blissful, unthinking sleep. In fact, it was difficult for him to convince himself that waking up was a good alternative, since the bed was so much softer and more comfortable than the cot he'd had back at the orphanage. Once he had actually made the decision to open his eyes, however, he did not regret it. The green and silver hangings that met his eyes reminded him of the wonderful fact of where he was, and made him desperate to get up as quickly as he could and explore every nook and cranny of the castle. He sat bolt upright in bed, and was just preparing to start pulling on his robes when he heard a light, slightly mocking laugh from the bed next to him.

"Well, speak of the devil, he woke up on his own!"

Tom turned around to see who had spoken, and saw Abraxas sitting on a neighboring bed, next to two other boys he didn't know. He presumed they were his two other roommates. One of them, a tall boy with a wry expression and sharp, searching eyes which seemed out of place on his otherwise soft features, raised an eyebrow.

"Riddle, isn't it?"

Tom gave a guarded nod. The boy stood up and crossed to him, holding out a large, muscular fist.

"The name's Mulciber. Xavier Mulciber. How you doing, mate?"

Tom, not knowing what else to do, shook Mulciber's outstretched hand firmly, taking just enough time to quickly scrutinize the boy's face and discern any motives lurking behind it. Mulciber did not seem to notice the scrutiny, but gave Tom a broad smile.

"You know, you were sleeping so long, we thought we were gonna have to wake you, and we wouldn't have done it gently, either. Your friend Malfoy here was going to test out his wand."

"You what?!" Tom snapped, rounding on Abraxas, who looked like he wanted nothing more than to vanish at this moment.

"Well, I was telling them how good you were at making people leave you alone, and they said they wanted to see what would happen if we disturbed your sleep in a...you know, hostile way. I didn't think they actually meant it!"

"Why wouldn't we?" asked the third boy, giving Abraxas a politely quizzical look which Tom could tell was purely put on to make the other feel uncomfortable. For some reason, it made Tom like the boy a little more, so he decided to enter the conversation.

"And your name would be...?"

The third boy turned to him and grinned broadly - a grin whose toothiness was made all the more manic looking by the messy tangle of black hair which framed the boy's face.

"Antoine," the boy said. "Antoine Lestrange."

Tom nodded neutrally at Lestrange, and then turned back to Abraxas. "Well, if you had decided to wake me up with what you call 'hostile intentions'," he snapped, "then I can assure you that I would respond with the same sorts of intentions, and this time, I might not stop until your spine had cracked."

"Blimey," said Mulciber with an awestruck smile. "So Malfoy wasn't lying - you did almost snap Augustus Nottingstom's spine on the train?"

Tom did not answer, but settled for giving Mulciber his most menacing sneer, which seemed to convey the answer just as well, as Mulciber backed up a bit. Lestrange gave a wry laugh.

"But why the spine? I mean, setting aside the fact that you'd be in serious trouble if you actually snapped it, that's just so...fatal. You could've gone for a much more sensitive part of his body and made it look like an accident."

Tom chuckled slightly at this. Lestrange's sense of humor appealed to him, and he vaguely registered thinking that if this was what friendship was like, he was going to enjoy it. However, he didn't have time to think very hard, because Mulciber, who had pulled out an ornate pocket watch, had suddenly started.

"Well, bugger all! It's almost seven, and we've got classes at nine! Riddle, you'd better get on your uniform."

Tom did so, sliding out of his bed resentfully and crossed to his trunk, from which he pulled another set of robes, which he then donned before studying himself in the mirror to make sure he hadn't gotten anything backwards. He allowed himself a small smile as he noticed that the formerly blank badge on his robe now proudly displayed the snake of Slytherin, and his formerly colorless sash and scarf had turned green and silver. However, it was but the briefest of moments, because no sooner had he checked himself than he found Abraxas, Antoine and Xavier beckoning him out of the room and down the stairs. Giving himself one more once-over, Tom turned to follow them out of the room.

However, as he did so, he caught sight of something nailed to the door. It was a small note written in what looked like the most excessively ornate handwriting Tom had ever seen. However, deciding it must be important, he plucked it off the door and then sprinted after his friends down the stairs and up to the Great Hall.

The Hall was packed with students, and Tom found himself having to navigate a veritable maze of them to find his way to the Slytherin table. Troublingly enough, none of the students seemed interested at all in letting him do it in peace - in fact, he noticed that many students (most of them Gryffindors) would intentionally shift to block his path and make reaching the Slytherin table that much more difficult. Eventually, however, he managed to find his way and sit down between Antoine and Abraxas, who were busily helping themselves to bacon, eggs and potato cakes. Tom, for his part, started helping himself to a large bowl of porridge from the center of the table.

However, no sooner had Tom bent over the bowl than he felt an unwanted pressure on the back of his neck and his face was shoved forward into the boiling hot porridge. Sputtering, he clawed his way up, furious at the raucous laughter that was building around him. He distinctly heard an older voice mutter, "Let that teach you to lose our house points, mudblood" and was about to reach for his wand when he heard Abraxas hiss in his ear.

"Don't! The kid who did it had to have been at least a third year, and he'll have you writhing on the floor faster than you can say 'heritage!' Just leave it."

Tom pulled out his wand and waved it over his face, causing the porridge to evaporate, and then resentfully replaced it, despite the fact that the warm shot of anger he'd felt was almost a command for him to execute vengeance. However, even he recognized the wisdom in Abraxas' words, and knew that if he wanted to get revenge on the bugger who'd done it, something more subtle would be in order. Still stewing in his anger, he turned back to the table, and contented himself with spooning white pudding onto his plate.

But no sooner had he started eating than another distracting occurred. The windows of the Great Hall had flown open, and a seemingly infinite stream of owls had flown in, swooping to find their masters among the pack of students. Tom noticed Garuda among them and briefly wondered how she had gotten out of her cage, though he was more perplexed by the fact that she had a parcel in her talons, as he hadn't the foggiest who in the wizard world would send him mail.

He didn't have to wait long to find out, though, as Garuda had alighted gracefully next to him and stuck out her leg, from which Tom took the attached package with some degree of surprise. Then, noticing that she was giving the food on his plate a very entitled look, he shoved a few of his potatoes toward the owl and tore open the package, wondering what was in it.

Two things dropped out - a small note and what appeared to be a massive newspaper, upon which Tom spotted a very ornate masthead which proclaimed that the paper was the "Daily Prophet." Before he looked at it, though, Tom pulled open the note accompanying the paper and read:

"Dear Student of Slytherin House,

Thanks to the generosity of your head-of-house, Horace Slughorn, the Daily Prophet is pleased to inform you that this year, you will receive a free subscription to our paper. Please find your paper enclosed, and we hope you enjoy your subscription."

It was then that Tom noticed that every other student at the table had received a similar package, and that nobody except the first year students looked at all surprised. He supposed this was routine procedure, though after a quick look around the rest of the Great Hall, he was intensely gratified to discover that Slytherin was apparently the only house with such a generous house head.

Then, abruptly, Tom remembered the note he'd pulled off his door that morning, which he fished out of his pocket and read.

"Dear Messrs Lestrange, Malfoy, Mulciber and Riddle,

A mandatory assembly of Slytherin House's first years will take place tonight at 8 PM. Your Prefects will take roll. All those who do not attend will receive detention. I shall see you there.

Yours sincerely,

Horace Slughorn,

Slytherin House Head."

Tom poked Abraxas hard in the arm.

"Ow! What?"

Tom pointed at the note, which Abraxas snatched up and read before handing it off to Antoine and Xavier with a resigned expression.

"Great, a few hours of hearing a stodgy old professor talk. Just what I was looking forward to after a long day of school. Say, Tom, have you looked at the schedule--"

"We've got Transfiguration with Dumbledore, first thing," Antoine said tiredly, indicating a piece of paper Tom hadn't noticed, "says so here. And it's with the Gryffindors, which means we're probably going to all lose points, and they're all going to get away with whatever they try."

"Oh, fabulous day," sighed Abraxas, rolling his eyes. "Still, I don't know, maybe Dumbledore won't be that bad. I mean, he taught my father, and my father says it's funny how someone could be that brilliant and that wrong about so many things, but still..."

"I met him," Tom said softly, causing Abraxas to look at him curiously. "He came to the orphanage I live in to tell me I was a wizard. I didn't like him." Tom could have gone into more detail than this, but somehow he felt that telling the whole story might be unwise. There was no reason to let Abraxas or the others know more than they had to about his time at the orphanage, which he would just as soon forget anyway.

Abraxas shrugged. "Well, hopefully he'll like us. Bloody hell, and here I was hoping we'd have a nice first day. Oh well, I'm going to read the paper. Might as well take advantage of that free subscription."

And with that, Abraxas disappeared behind the headlines of the Daily Prophet. Tom sighed and picked up his paper and started thumbing through it as well. For the first few pages, nothing seemed interesting, but then he arrived at a piece whose author he vaguely recalled from the confrontation in Flourish and Blott's:

"The Case For Unity

By Bathilda Bagshot

Almost 1000 years ago, Helga Hufflepuff wrote 'The moment that wizards absorb the capacity to internalize their own inherent equality with muggle-kind is the moment that a paradise shall materialize for the totality of the human race.' Speaking as a historian, I may have doubts about Hufflepuff's quote, but speaking as a morally principled wizard, I cannot help but agree with the spirit of brotherhood underlying its words. Unfortunately, in these times, it is precisely brotherhood like that which we as a race so desperately need to achieve with our less magically gifted brethren.

It was not so long ago that the bigoted and cruel doctrines of Brutus Malfoy and other, less-talented apologists for prejudice and privilege reigned supreme in Britain's Wizarding schools, and all over the world. To some extent, the current Wizarding community still bears the scars for those years of historical malpractice by maleficent and immoral pedagogues, for even now, the assumption that muggle-borns (let alone muggles) are incapable of performing the most difficult tasks which more "pureblooded" wizards routinely attempt is so widespread and mainstream that those who protest against it are called 'radicals!'"

Now Tom remembered why the author's name sounded familiar, as Lady Black's irate shriek over the fact that Flourish and Blott's were willing to "stock a known radical like Bathilda Bagshot" had just resurfaced in his mind. He supposed, from what he'd read so far, that the description made some level of sense, but he kept reading the article, thinking that perhaps there was some subtlety he might not have noticed yet.

"We must overcome this bias against the underprivileged in our magical community, which springs from the tragic assumption on the part of Malfoy and his followers that muggle-borns are responsible for performing at the same level as purebloods."

Tom recoiled at this, and read the sentence over, to make sure he'd read right. What on earth was Bagshot talking about? However, he pressed on, feeling exceedingly wary.

"While this would prove the prejudices of more extreme elements of the pureblood community incorrect in one way, it would ultimately still reduce muggle-borns to being powerless under the pureblood dominance, for if muggle-borns are held responsible for meeting pureblood standards, then the purebloods still implicitly hold power in wizard culture. What must be done is that success must be redefined so that not only muggle-borns, but muggles as well, can be considered historically significant.

Thankfully, there are some institutions which have already begun moving towards this more progressive view of muggle rights. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, formerly the leading indoctrinator of students in the pureblood agenda, has now moved towards reeducating its students for a more unity-based world. The Auror office has also begun taking steps in this direction, with the exemplar of this new, post-pureblood brand of Auror being Septimus Weasley, who--"

Tom slammed the pages of the paper shut in disgust. If he had been curious what made Bathilda Bagshot a despised "radical" in Lady Black's eyes before, now he was absolutely certain why the description fit. Bagshot clearly didn't care one whit about actually proving that muggle-borns belonged among wizards - in fact, she seemed to believe that wizards had no right to exclude anybody. The notion repulsed Tom, who was almost too busy fuming to notice Abraxas' puzzled expression. Tom turned to his friend, trying to keep the anger in his eyes concealed.

"Something the matter, Abraxas?"

"You alright, Tom?" Abraxas asked hesitantly. "You looked...scary when you were reading that article."

"I'm fine," Tom spat. He heard someone chuckle and turned around sharply, to find that it was Antoine.

"No. No, Riddle, you're not fine," the latter said wisely, "and you shouldn't be. I saw what you were reading - Bagshot's enough to make anyone sick."

"Oh Merlin," moaned Abraxas, "you were reading Bagshot? Bloody hell, I'm sorry mate, I should've warned you - just skip over the trash she writes. No one of any value reads it anyway..."

"Although..." said Antoine, skimming the article in his own paper, "didn't you say Riddle could talk to snakes, Abraxas?"

"Yeah," said Abraxas bewilderedly. "What of it?"

"Well, he might've found this interesting," said Antoine, pulling out a quill and underlining one line of the article, which he showed to Tom. It read:

"In any case, it is high time we forced purebloods to get past their apologias for reactionaries like Salazar Slytherin, who was too busy chatting with his snakes to bother making conditions better for the human race..."

"Even if Bagshot is a dirty old hag, "Antoine said with a knowing smile, "pretty coincidental that you and Salazar Slytherin would share such a rare gift, eh Riddle?"

Tom did not answer. He did not even blink. He was staring at the words on the page as if they were a message from God, and as he finished reading the last words, a thunderous cry of triumph echoed in his ears.

Oh, YES! Oh, this is too good to be true, Tom! This must be what that infernal piece of headgear meant when it said you have extraordinary parentage! You and your house founder could both talk to snakes - there must be some connection between you and him!

"Not so fast, Voldie. We can't be sure. We have to see if there's any way we can verify this."

Naturally, naturally. But think about it, Tom! You may be descended from one of the wizards who founded this school. You know what that means?

Tom nodded slowly at this, and softly muttered, "I'm not a mudblood."

No, you're not, but can't you see it's so much more than that, you silly boy? This Slytherin fellow founded your house! That means he must have had a hand in founding the school, and that means--

"The school's my birthright..."

"Oi! Tom!"

Tom was suddenly conscious that Abraxas had snapped his fingers in front of Tom's face and was giving him a concerned look. Tom stared at him neutrally.

"You all right, mate?"

"I'm fine," said Tom icily. "I was just...thinking."

"Yeah, well save some of that deep thought for Dumbledore," said Antoine darkly. "If you think hard enough, maybe you'll be able to earn us some house points--and great Scot!" Antoine had just looked at his pocket watch. "It's five minutes to class! And Dumbledore won't be too kind to us if we're late!"

Tom pushed his plate back and stood up, noting unhappily that everyone had seemed to have come to the same conclusion as Antoine, for there was a sudden thunderous sound of chairs being pushed back and plates being cleared, after which navigating their way out of the Great Hall became exceedingly problematic. Naturally, they eventually escaped, but all the same, as he looked around at the numerous corridors branching off of the Great Hall, Tom felt suddenly dispirited. Abraxas and Antoine's faces clouded over as well, but then brightened unexpectedly, as they pointed at a tall, auburn-haired figure making his way up a flight of stairs.

"That's Dumbledore!" crowed Abraxas. "Come on, after him!"

And they were off, trying frantically to keep the long head of hair in sight over the crowd of students that seemed to materialize around every corner. However, after a few minutes of walking, they managed to find their way to a large classroom, which judging by the crowd of Slytherin first years congregating in it, seemed likely to be the Transfiguration classroom.

After sitting down at a desk squarely between Antoine and Abraxas, Tom took to observing his surroundings. It certainly was like no classroom he'd ever imagined - for one thing, every corner of the room was decorated by mysterious objects, all of which seemed so mundane that their decorative presentation appeared highly out of place. For instance, an ostentatious trophy case on the wall nearest Tom held what appeared to be a simple muggle lighter, and a series of dishes that looked as though they had been carved from solid gold were filled with lemon drops. The oddity of this décor, combined with the fact that the room was decked out in flamboyant scarlet and gold, magnified Tom's hesitance about Dumbledore tenfold, and so it was with a certain sense of foreboding that he turned to the front of the room, and awaited Dumbledore's arrival from the door situated there.

It seemed that the students had barely finished filing in, however, when the sound of a titanic blast tore through the air and the door burst open as something made of dazzling flames surged out of it. At first, Tom thought that it was a firework, but after his eyes had adjusted to the glow of the object, he realized that it was a gigantic, flaming bird which was soaring over the heads of the students. Then, just as abruptly as it had reached the ceiling, the bird plunged through the air toward the students and spat a ball of fire straight at the teacher's lectern. Tom was about to turn away to avoid seeing the wreckage, when the ball of fire metamorphosed into Dumbledore himself, who turned to face the class with a cryptic smile on his face. Then, his eyes twinkling, Dumbledore raised his hand to the bird and said, with the air of a proud father introducing his child,

"Slytherins and Gryffindors, Fawkes the Phoenix!"

There was the sound of clapping from the Gryffindor side of the room, but Tom noted amusedly that the Slytherins had remained silent. The bird circled over their heads once more before vanishing behind the door it had entered from - a door which Dumbledore waved closed with his wand. Tom was impressed against his will, and felt resentful that Dumbledore always seemed to know precisely how to make it impossible for Tom to dismiss him as a weakling. Dumbledore, who had stared at the door fondly for a few seconds, now turned to the class.

"Transfiguration," he said, "is one of the most difficult, intense, and, as I think you just saw, one of the most potentially rewarding forms of magic it is possible to practice. During the course of these lessons, each of you will be taking small, but vital, steps towards being able to perform the type of magic I have just demonstrated for you. It will not be easy. It may seem pointless. Some of it is." His eyes twinkled again. "And hopefully, before we leave each other, all of you will show me at least one exercise to be pointless which I had previously thought to be useful. You see, though I may be your instructor, I always find myself learning at least as much from this class every year as all of you. Quite curious, and quite enjoyable. Now," his tone had assumed an air of casual authority, almost as if he found its exercise to be too simple, "would you all please open your copies of 'Transfiguration and its Essentials' and find the chapter on same-shape transfigurations? Read through that quickly, and then I will be passing out matches which you I want all of you to attempt to turn into needles."

Tom fished in his book bag and pulled out the required text, which he thumbed through to find the chapter on same-shape transfigurations. He was nonplussed. Whatever Dumbledore had said, the theory underlying the spell seemed laughable, even childish. There was no way this was all there was to it! He sped through the chapter, and then began reading the next one, which seemed a good deal more challenging and described something called a 'Protean Charm'...

"Books away!" came Dumbledore's voice just as Tom finished assimilating what he'd read in the chapter on Protean charms. He looked around and saw that Dumbledore was coming through the class and handing out matches to each of the students, starting with the Gryffindors. Tom patiently waited until Dumbledore got to him, then turned to Abraxas and Antoine, and muttered, "Give me your matches."

Abraxas looked suspicious. "What for?" he asked. Tom scowled.

"Just give it to me. I want to try something. It's not as though Dumbledore hasn't got loads more."

Abraxas shrugged. "Long as you're not going to demolish the classroom," he said, and handed his match over. Tom took it, along with Antoine's, and concentrated on them for a few seconds. Then, he pulled out his wand, used it to trace the shape the book had described, and muttered the exceedingly long incantation for the Protean charm. The matches remained unchanged, but Tom knew from the surge of power he'd felt in his wand that the spell had worked. Then, he handed the matches back to Abraxas and Antoine. He was conscious that Dumbledore was telling them the incantation to turn the matches into needles, but this seemed unnecessary to him. He remembered what the book had said, and besides, why not get a head start on it...

"And then you should trace the shape of a..."

"Abeo subscalpo!"

Tom's match changed neatly into a needle. As it did so, he saw Abraxas and Antoine's change crisply into needles as well. He smirked. His Protean Charm had worked perfectly, and he had difficulty wiping the smirk off his face as he looked up to face Dumbledore, who had crossed to their side of the room.

"Mr. Riddle, did you not hear me tell you to wait for me to give the signal?"

"Signal?" Tom had not actually heard this instruction, so he felt comfortable letting his face assume a bewildered expression. "No, Professor. But I think I've got it anyway." He indicated the needle sitting in front of him. Dumbledore looked down and smiled.

"Why, so you have, and I daresay your two friends here have gotten it right as well. How interesting, I only heard your voice--"

"Abeo subscalpo!"

The needles shifted back into matchsticks uniformly, and Tom saw to his great pleasure that Dumbledore looked stunned. However, Tom's pleasure soon evaporated as he saw that Dumbledore was now looking at him with intense scrutiny.

"Mr. Riddle, forgive me, but...did you read ahead in the book?"

Tom nodded. "Yes, Professor. The next chapter. I think it mentioned something about a Protean charm."

"And you understood it?"

"Yes, Professor."

"And...you decided to try it?"

"Yes, Professor."

Tom was feeling slightly worried at this point - Dumbledore's eyes were almost boring into his head, so sharp was their gaze. After a few seconds, however, Dumbledore relaxed, and Tom saw that a faint smile had crossed his face.

"Yes, well...trying a spell like that about six years too early is not something I would ordinarily tell students to attempt, Master Riddle," Dumbledore said sternly, though a small note of mirth was in his voice, "but I suppose that since you carried it off so well, I can excuse it this once. Thirty points to Slytherin for doing something no wizard on the planet would expect you to be able to do at this age. However, if you try something like this again, I will have to take points away from you. Meddling in seventh-year level spells is too dangerous for any student, even one with aptitudes such as yours. Now, if you wouldn't mind removing that Protean charm from your fellow students' matches? I would like to make sure they can do the spell themselves."

Dumbledore spent the rest of the class sweeping around the room correcting the other students on their mistakes. Tom wondered at his patience - most of the students seemed to have made mistakes which even a monkey holding a wand should have been able to avoid, and even when corrected numerous times, they did not seem to be able to produce the correct effect. Tom did notice an interesting trend, however, as he observed Dumbledore's teaching - the Slytherins seemed to have an easier time with what he was telling them than the Gryffindors (the only exceptions were Crabbe and Goyle, who couldn't produce a needle even after twenty tries). Given that Tom knew Slytherin was a more predominately pureblooded house, this disparity made him wonder even more fervently how anyone could possibly doubt Brutus Malfoy's argument about the correlation between blood purity and magical aptitude (Bathilda Bagshot's childish arguments seemed too stupid for anyone with a brain to believe).

Not wanting to contemplate Bagshot any further, Tom pulled open his Transfiguration book and began reading again, this time starting at the beginning with the sections on Transfiguration theory. Most of what he read seemed to make sense, but there was one page he kept coming back to again and again, to make sure what he'd read was correct. It said the most important element of Transfiguration was the desire for the object one was hoping to achieve from the transformation, rather than the desire to see the old object change. In the context of every other passage in the book thus far, that particular one seemed to fly in the face of the logic of Transfiguration, and Tom, not knowing whether he was making a very silly mistake, raised his hand.

Dumbledore turned to him with a politely bewildered expression. "Surely you can't be confused after doing the spell perfectly, Mr. Riddle?" he asked. Tom shook his head.

"Professor, I think there's a mistake in the book."

Dumbledore gave him a skeptical look. "Oh?"

"Sir, it says here that the most important part of a Transfiguration incantation is the desire for the object one's trying to create. But wouldn't that necessarily contradict its point about how conjuration and transfiguration operate differently because transfiguration is essentially focused on the transition between elements, whereas conjuration is more focused on the creation? Wouldn't a desire to create a transition be the most important p--"

"Mr. Riddle, do you read Transfiguration Today?" asked Dumbledore sharply. Tom shook his head, once again honestly.

"No, sir."

"I didn't imagine you did," Dumbledore said in a voice which Tom was gratified to hear was once more slightly awestruck, "but I find it intensely difficult to believe that you coincidentally managed to pinpoint the exact argument I used in my most recent Transfiguration Today article disproving Minerva Gilligan's Theory of Protean Insufficiency all by yourself."

"Er...disproving the what?" For the first time in the entire class, Tom actually felt confused. Dumbledore chuckled.

"Don't worry, Mr. Riddle, nothing you would be expected to understand unless you'd studied Transfiguration for at least twenty years. Anyway, you are correct. That is a mistake in the book, but as it doesn't impact any of the practical instructions, I thought it was still safe to assign the book. Have an extra twenty points for Slytherin, though I must say," Dumbledore's expression darkened slightly, "I do hope you put your skills to good use."

The look he gave Tom made Tom's feeling of triumph at being so clever evaporate, for it was exactly the same look Dumbledore had given him before setting his wardrobe on fire. However, deciding he might as well let the subject drop, Tom turned back to his book and read while Dumbledore spent the last fifteen minutes of the class aiding the few remaining students who hadn't yet mastered the spell. Then, when the bell rang, Dumbledore told them all to take down an assignment for an essay on the properties of same-shape Transfigurations, and wished them all a pleasant rest of the day.

Compared to the triumph Tom had felt in Transfiguration, the next class (Herbology) seemed utterly pointless. The teacher, an extremely excitable and loud man named Professor Beery, assigned them all to repot a series of harmless looking seeds, which Tom made short work of, despite finding the whole enterprise to be dull as powder. Thankfully, as they shared this class with the Ravenclaws, none of the other students seemed prone to making stupid mistakes, and so though the time dragged by horribly, it at least did so smoothly. Then, it was back to the castle for lunch before their afternoon session of Charms.

Lunch, minus a highly embarrassing episode for Mulciber, who managed to upset an entire shepherd's pie trying to demonstrate his "Transfiguration skills", was a relatively mundane affair, though the same could not be said for the session of Charms following it. The Professor, a jittery woman named Athena Butler, who insisted all the students call her by her first name, spent the entire class trying desperately to convince Crabbe that the tickling charm she was trying to teach them was, in fact, possible, and when she failed, she attempted to enlist Tom (who had naturally succeeded at producing the charm on his first try) to attempt to teach Crabbe - a process which resulted in disaster, as rather than teach him anything, Tom put Crabbe through an excruciating five minutes under the charm, and when confronted by an angry Professor Butler, explained that sometimes the sensation of a spell was enough to ingrain the memory of its properties in some students (citing entire chunks of the textbook to back up his point, of course). Apparently, Tom made such a convincing case that Professor Butler not only apologized for getting angry at him, but awarded him with ten points and asked him if he'd mind helping her teach in the future.

As such, as Tom left his final class and headed back to the Slytherin common room, he found himself thinking happily that, if his first day at Hogwarts was any guide, the whole experience was likely to be ludicrously easy and probably just as enjoyable. That is, assuming he could find out who his parents were and get revenge on the fool who'd shoved his head in porridge that morning, but those were concerns he would deal with once he had figured out how to successfully negotiate his schedule without trouble. For now, he was perfectly content with impressing the Professors...

You naïve child, why do you persistently set your expectations too low?

Tom frowned. "Too low?" he thought indignantly. "Voldie, haven't you been paying attention? I'm brilliant at this. The only teacher I haven't charmed so far is Dumbledore, and given how we met, he's probably a lost cause anyway. What could be higher than--"

Oh, who cares what a pack of desiccated relics think of you, Tom? They are easy to impress - years of teaching nothing but the mediocre insects you sit next to every day has probably eroded their standards beyond relief. Besides, didn't Lady Black tell you that the Hogwarts professors were spineless reformers who didn't teach anything?

Tom felt the happy bubble of pride within him burst at Voldemort's words. Much as he hated to admit it, Voldemort did have a point, but he still didn't know what more he should be doing.

Tom, perhaps you haven't noticed, but your fellow students don't think very highly of you.

"What fellow students? Antoine, Abraxas and Mulciber think I'm just f--"

Ah, lovely, your trio of pets likes you. Is that all you want, boy? Three people? What sort of admiration is that for nobility? And what about that fool who dunked your head in the porridge bowl this morning? Shall we just forgive him because three students differ with his assessment?

"No," Tom thought fiercely, "no, I want revenge on him, Voldie. I just need time to figure out how to get it..."

Voldemort laughed harshly, causing Tom to wince slightly at the echoes it left in his mind.

Ha! Figure out how to get it, eh Riddle? Haven't you been paying attention? You figured out how to produce a 7^th year level spell on your first day in one of the hardest subjects taught at this school, and you think you need to hide behind subterfuge and secrecy to deal with a rat like him?

"He probably knows tons more magic than me, Voldie, and besides, even if I did want to make an example of him, I don't even know who he is. I only heard his voice."

You don't need to know who he is, Tom. You don't even have to confront him. Just think for a minute - he called you a mudblood, and attacked you for losing points for Slytherin. How would he know about either of those things, unless someone involved in your little altercation last night told him? And as it couldn't have been you or Dumbledore, it must have been--

"--Walburga."

Yes, Tom. And as Miss Black already knows, you are far too strong for her to deal with, so what did she do? Simple. She turned to someone stronger and older than her - someone who was probably in her circle of friends, and had some reason to want to help her. And you know as well as I that if he considers himself her 'friend'...

"That means if she gets hurt, he feels hurt too," Tom grinned. "And if he doesn't, then I still get back at the person who's behind what happened to me this morning. I mean, if he's just someone she sent, then he's not really responsible anyway."

Yes, yes, very good Tom. But that's not all. You must not use this as merely a petty opportunity for revenge. That would make you no better than the rest of these sniveling children. You must ensure that your revenge is suitably public. That it sends a message to all who would oppose you, and also those who might be willing to follow you. You must make yourself known not just to those pups who consider themselves your friends, but also to the entirety of your house - the entirety of the school. You must channel your skill into power - you want us to be powerful, don't you, Tom?

"Yes."

Then do what I've said. Set your eyes on notoriety, not just petty admiration from your professors.

"Yes, Voldie."

By the time this conversation had come to a close, Tom had reached the Slytherin common room, where he proceeded to sit down in one of the large green leather chairs adorning the area. No sooner had he done this, however, than he noticed a singular phenomenon. A large number of students were congregated near a large wall to the left, each of them staring at it and talking excitedly. Tom stood up and crossed to the wall, where he forced himself through the crowd of people to see what they were looking at, catching snatches of their conversation as he did so.

"--Yes, well, I make it a point to get at least 20..."

"--You think Slughorn'll hold it against me if I don't crack 50 by the end of the week?"

"--I just hope someone takes Jugson down a peg, he's doing entirely too well for the first day back..."

Tom finally reached the wall, where he saw to his surprise about fifty small hourglasses, each of them a perfect miniature copy of the large hourglasses in the Great Hall that recorded House Points. Under each of these hung a little placard with a name and two numbers scribbled on it. For instance, one particular one near the bottom read:

"Malfoy - 1^st - 5"

The hourglass associated with the name held 5 green beads. Now very curious, Tom let his eyes scan the rest of the hourglasses in that row, noting that every single one of them held the same first number - "1^st" - and a number which ranged from 20 (in the case of someone named "Prince") to "-15" (Crabbe). It wasn't until he reached the end of the row that Tom saw his own name.

"Riddle - 1^st - 65"

It suddenly dawned on Tom what the second number must be. He'd won 30 points from Dumbledore for doing the Protean Charm, 20 from Dumbledore for spotting the mistake in the book, five from Bones for answering a question correctly, and ten from Butler for "teaching" Crabbe. Combined, that made 65 points, which meant that these hourglasses must be a breakdown of exactly how many points each of the Slytherins had won (or lost) for their house. Now understanding why the other students were focusing on them so single-mindedly, Tom scanned the hourglasses in his year again, this time much more carefully. No one was even close to him - the closest was the 20-point "Prince" hourglass. As he turned around, he saw that Abraxas was staring at his own hourglass, an expression of satisfaction on his face.

"Oh well, not bad for the first day. At least I didn't lose points. Now, let's see who else - oh, Tom, hey, you checked yours yet?"

Tom smiled and pointed at his own hourglass. Abraxas' mouth fell open.

"65?! But that's...that's...Tom, my dad told me that most Slytherins feel happy if they get 50 points in a week. To get that many on your first day..."

"To get that many on your first day is asking for trouble," came Antoine's voice softly from the other side of Tom. Antoine was grinning unpleasantly, and his eyes were shooting from Tom's hourglass to his own, which had "15" emblazoned on it. Tom raised his eyebrows.

"What do you mean, asking for trouble? I was under the impression it was good."

"Riddle, do you know why these hourglasses are here?" asked Antoine sharply. Tom shook his head. Antoine sighed.

"They were Our Head of House's - Slughorn's - idea. Every year, he invites a certain number of students into his...'inner circle', you might call it. He calls it his 'Slug Club.' And they're always either from wealthy families, or the students who display the most potential to do great things in the future. He invites you at random, so you never know when you're going to get a spot, but everyone and their brother wants to get in as early as possible, because some of the greatest, most powerful witches and wizards have been members. And if they can't win points on their own, most people will go out of their way to sabotage those who can. Now do you see why you're asking for trouble?"

"Yes," said Tom shortly. "But I don't care. I'm not scared of anyone here - and why should I be? It's not as though they could do seventh year spells their first year."

Antoine's worried look split into a nasty grin. "Well, there is that," he said. "And I didn't necessarily mean you should be afraid. I just thought you should know - with a number like that, you're asking for trouble. Thankfully, it's not as though you can't handle it."

Tom returned Antoine's grin with a taut leer and turned back to his own hourglass. Somehow, the fact that he'd managed to outperform every other first year on his first day didn't surprise him, though it did gratify him. He just hoped he'd be able to keep up the same pace, now that his professors knew he was smarter than everyone else...

"Dinner," said Abraxas, looking at his watch. "And not a minute too soon - I'm starving."

"I could eat," said Antoine casually. "You coming, Riddle?"

"Er...Antoine, could I talk to you about something?" asked Abraxas. "There's something I didn't tell you about Riddle...but since we're all friends now, I think you might want to know..."

Antoine nodded and Abraxas drew him off to the side. Tom couldn't discern what they were talking about, though when they came back over to the wall, he easily guessed on the basis of what Antoine said.

"Sorry about that. I meant, you coming to dinner too, my Lord?"