Innocence of Youth

A Crooked Path

The next day, the air was as heavy as ever, pressed down by the relentless rain that didn't even have the decency to pound itself to the allies and warrens below. Nothing got cleaned; nothing was swept away but the lazy rivulets winding drowsily through the gutters. Tom's lifted his slender, tender torso off the bed and tried to balance himself on his sharp elbows before lifting his sinewy arms quickly off the hard surface of his mattress. Tom started to examine them in the grey half light of dawn but realized that he could barely see through his swollen eyes. His elbows, however, did not require careful examination for Tom to stiffly reach across his bruised chest and feel the thick scab on his right one with the cut fingers of his left. Tom moved as quickly as his battered frame would let him to try to get to the lavatory to see if he could wash the blood and worse out of his bedclothes before the staff saw him.

The corridors of St. Brutus' ached with the gloomy anger, sadness and loneliness of their occupants. In the near dark of the lavatory Tom could see how terrible he looked as he peered into the spotted surface of the mirror. His eyes were mere slits and huge purplish black bruises circled his eyes. Both of his thin lips were swollen, cracked and scabbed and he quickly flicked his tongue over them to ascertain that they were as numb as he had expected. His loose tooth rolled a bit dolefully in its tender, tenuous mooring and his right batwing brow was matted with an ugly crust of blood and some hard yellow stuff. Tom looked down and took in the irregular lines of his nails. Each of them was stuffed under with Tom only knew what and he did not care to speculate. Other than that, it was mostly bruises although the right side of his chest felt extremely sore and his breaths felt very shallow.

Tom hurriedly got his shirt under the water of the sink and scrubbed out the blood, which came off easily. He sighed internally for one small piece of luck and rushed into the shower to wash. The experience was as painful as the rest of the morning had been so far and Tom noticed he could barely stretch his right arm up or across to scrub himself with the rough scrap of yellow soap. Tom tried his best to wash his thick, raven hair. He hated to be dirty but last night he had not felt he had a choice but to abandon the lavatory. After washing off and putting his now not nearly as filthy bed clothes back on, Tom braved the toilet but immediately vomited into the bowl as he remembered the night before and saw his blood mixed into the murky bracken below him. Tom pulled the chain on the crapper before getting a towel and wiping the floor around the toilet clean and then wearily making his way down to the refectory to wait for the morning meal as well as whatever punishment was bound to be laid upon him.

The halls remained as dark as they had during Tom's walk to the lavatory in spite of the fact that he knew that the sun had to be at least a little bit higher in the sky. He watched his feet pad as quietly as he could make them over the dark, ugly strips of ruined wood.

The refectory, at least, was mostly windows. The food perhaps was best described as defying description and the gentle poking fun of the boys somehow also often seemed to defy that description, but the windows were some consolation. However that consolation lay in the fact that the windows let in light and this morning they were barely doing that. The bottoms of the windows, really the majority of their height was barred and frosted so that the boys were spared the longing they would have felt if they could have seen even those desiccated humps that passed for buildings in Spitalfields and Whitechapel. Every small mercy at St. Brutus' was broken, crooked, off kilter or worse. Tom passed his long fingers across his eyes, careful to avoid touching the puffy, purplish black flesh. His hair, in spite of the thorough washing he had given it and its own natural tendency to frame his high brow and piercing eyes in a vaguely angelic fashion, was like some sort of halo in negative. It stood about in all directions and refused the stoutest finger combing he'd been able to muster. Given the pain to his skull and his fingertips when he tried, though, he simply spent the rest of the morning funneling breath to keep his eyes clear of the little serpentine locks, even knowing that it was not nearly long enough to get in them.

Eventually Tom was able to cadge a tea and one rocky scone off of a dim witted but kindly kitchen worker hailing from Burma. Tom knew a thing or two that the worker, Thet, was glad no one else at St. Brutus' had learned of. The combination often won Tom some respite from eating breaking fast with the other boys as Thet would slip him a few things to eat before the refractory opened for the first meal. Tom shook his head at himself as he gratefully slid across the pitted squares of light wood with their riot of grey food stuck in cracks, chips and seams. He gnawed a bite of the scone off and softened it with the last of his tea before returning the cup to Thet in the kitchen and slipping out of the room. He would be in trouble for missing the morning prayer, but as he made his way to the library he reflected that at least the damage from the night had been mostly cleared away. "That'll probably save me a hiding this morning if the Warden doesn't see me to know I was "fighting" last night," Tom thought with a coppery trace of bitterness.

However, such are the twists of fate that writhe across our paths like a snake, that as Tom was attempting to make his way, silent and soft as a shade, the Warden came across his pale form, with its bloated cheek bones and swollen shut eyes.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle, fighting again I see. Whatever am I to do with you? I should take a paddle to you if I thought it would do the slightest bit of good for your devilish mind or your lost soul. But the benefactors of St. Brutus' know that I try, do they not? And even a soul as depraved as yours can be saved, hmm?" Here, one of the Warden's bushy brows, flecked with grey lines arched toward his bald pate as his bloodless lips hooked themselves into something between a smile and a grimace as his thick fingers steepled themselves below his wide, lumpy chin. "Well no matter, Mr. Riddle, as early as it is and as unlikely as one might have thought, it seems someone, "and here the Warden's distaste made itself clear in the narrowing of his eyes, the puckering of his mouth, "has seen fit to come for you today. An uncle Albus, I believe is his name."

Tom nodded slightly as though he had the vaguest idea, though he did imagine that this "uncle Albus," must have something to do with the owl, the letter and whatever prank this all might relate to, as he knew with certainty that he had no living relatives other than his father and his father's parents. "Of course, sir, Uncle Albus, I mean to say, sir, that you know I haven't met him, but I know that he exists. I do expect that he and my father do not see clear across the same paddock," Tom almost winced as he invented this country inanity he imagined his never present father uttering to townsfolk at the local gardening competition or whatever it was that country squires oversaw, "at least as far as I would be concerned, sir."

"Well it seems that even shut away as your father has left you, you have caught the scent of some of the political currents in your family. Yes, your uncle said that your father would not approve but that as he is prepared to pay your fees and such, that he sees no reason why you should not be sent up to the same public school in Scotland that he attended in his youth. Some Hogwarts School or an equally odd name that I have never heard of, however, as all of the paper work is in order and this uncle of yours has made a slight donation in your name, I think all will proceed easily enough." Tom could see the Warden's fingers twitching even more than his lips and knew that he would rather have hit Tom then let him go, but such are the vagaries of an administrator's day and what can one do?

By now they were to the front door where Tom, to his surprise, ended up face to chest with a tall, thin and very well put together stranger. While he had known that he would not know "Uncle Albus," he was still a bit taken aback. The man's hair was auburn and certainly longer than was fashionable, even ignorant Tom knew that. Albus' mustache and beard were neatly trimmed but there was an undercurrent of barely restrained energy as if the whole thing were an illusion that might come undone with the slightest tip of the man's head back to laugh at something. And laugh he must. Tom immediately took in the line around the taller man's mouth and eyes, saw his eyes twinkling like the first sigh of twilight through his half moon spectacles as they looked over Tom and the Warden. Tom could definitely hear the laughter in Albus' voice as he began:

"Thank you for getting the boy, Mr. Mann, and I apologize again for needing to take charge of him so early, but..." and he smiled a very crooked smile beneath his equally crooked nose, "some things are not given to us to affect." Tom could see the Warden's indignant huff doing battle with a greasy smile in the immaculate mirrors of Albus' black leather dress shoes, bisected only by a thin line of stitching that capped the toe. "I imagine we must be going, Tom, don't you agree?"

Tom began to protest that he needed his things but was interrupted, "I think you will find that all of the things you will need for your school year are here." Albus' arm gestured slightly behind him and Tom saw a large trunk with an odd crest above the brass lock. He merely nodded and let his "uncle" guide him out through the bars and the dark wood of the front doors of St. Brutus'.

As soon as they heard and felt the doors and bars clamber shut behind them, Tom began to let a thousand questions and more jump from his lips like bats disturbed from a cave but Albus held up a long finger and Tom immediately fell silent, though he wasn't sure why he allowed this stranger to order him about before he even had the slightest idea of who he was.

"In good time, young master Riddle, in good time. Your trunk will be delivered and you need have no worries that it will be tampered with. I assure you," and Tom saw Albus' eyes twinkling again, "that tampering with that trunk would be quite impossible. Now, where to begin? First perhaps, we will clean you off a bit, I think. Lemon drop?" Albus pulled a small sack of sweets from his hacking pocket for Tom's benefit but the dark haired boy demurred. "Well then, perhaps this?" Albus undid the first button of his right suit coat sleeve and pulled a beautiful silk kerchief from under the rich, mossy green herringbone tweed with brown and blue flecks, offering it with somewhat more determination to the slight boy walking at his side, for Tom's slug of a bruised lip has opened again and slow gurgle of thick blood had begun to drop toward his chin.

Tom expressed concern over the quality of the silk cloth but Albus assured him that it was as safe as Tom's new trunk. "Tom, surely you must know, between our letter and the strange things that have a habit of happening around you that you are a wizard? Your mother was a witch. You didn't think your father merely capricious or utterly careless about his son did you?" Tom started to protest breathlessly, the painful stitch in his right side making it somewhat difficult to keep up, but again Albus held up a hand and Tom let the words drop softly away as Albus continued: "Your mother died giving birth to you, living only long enough to give you your name." He let his eyes sparkle warmth and assurance at the young boy and Tom found himself strangely calm, not as upset as he would have thought having heard about his mother for the first time and again the questions he had died as quickly as they were born in his mind. He also found that as the walk continued, though his breath was still short, and though his right ribs still felt unnaturally sore, he was walking without too much pain though he knew that had to be impossible.

Albus removed a pocket watch from the small pocket in his waist coat and Tom drank in the exquisite engravings on its silver surface before feeling his eyes widen in surprise: The scene of several nymphs and a satyr was moving...Tom saw, as though he were looking at someone else, his fingers stretch outward convulsively. Albus smiled and showed Tom the watch's face. It showed two infinitesimal blue dots and a small map that guided them to "DA," which, Tom could only assume, stood for Diagon Alley. Albus smiled again, removed a lemon drop from his little sweets satchel and then continued speaking slurpily around the tart candy:

"Well, perhaps, first things, first. Quite clearly I am not your uncle. As you may or may not know, you are named after your father, Tom Riddle, and his father Marvolo Riddle, both of Little Hangleton. You may call me Professor Dumbledore. I will be your transfiguration professor when you get to school. I do not make it a habit to pick up new students from recalcitrant orphanage administrators generally, but it seemed quite obvious that you would be unable to attend otherwise, and you did, after all, reply to our letter and accept your place in the class. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is most likely the oldest school of magic in Britain. It was founded by four of the most powerful witches and wizards who have ever lived over a thousand years ago. There is a wonderful book named, Hogwarts, a History, which I recommend you read should you wish to learn more on that topic.

"There have been many muggle born students before you and there shall be many after you leave school, so I am confident that you will fit in well and learn everything that you will need to in order to become a useful member of the wizarding world, Tom."

But here, the strange lassitude that Professor Dumbledore seemed to cast over him was broken, for beyond simply strange or fantastical, here was a word that Tom literally did not know existed and being who he was, he simply had to learn whatever he could, "M-muggle, sir? What is that?"

"Ah, yes, how would you even know that? Silly of me to have forgotten your last eleven years. A muggle, Tom, is someone non-magical. A muggle born would be a witch or wizard born to non-magical parents, though in your case your mother was in fact a witch so you are only half muggle, as it were. Really I do not like the distinction. After all, if one can work spells and other magic, why should one's parents' abilities matter at all? But no matter for us right now Tom. You will learn much more than you probably realize very soon."

For some reason Tom felt an electric shiver shoot down his spine and he smiled, nodding. He thought of some of the darker tales of faery that he had read when he was younger and began to envision something of how he would achieve his vow against the other boys and the Warden after all. He caught Dumbledore looking at him sidelong and let himself lapse back into the excited but dreamy state he had been in through most of Dumbledore's discourse and before too long the professor stopped them in front of a tiny, grubby-looking pub. At first Tom barely even seemed to notice it but at a gesture from Dumbledore toward the door took a second look. The windows were dark and the washing of them had been done hurriedly, Tom knew from experience, looking at the thick streaks of soapy dirt left across them. The wood of the door was a splintered and fading honey colour, much lighter than that of the dark, pitted wood that leeched so much brightness from St. Brutus' doors and corridors.

Tom followed the taller man in and nearly gasped as they entered. Not only did the rich wood of the interior belie the doors, but beautiful, frosted lamps were held ensconced in delicate silvery traceries giving off a soft light that barely competed with the light beginning to enter the front windows. Tom turned, taking the well preserved, finely appointed pub in and then nearly gasped again. The professor was no longer nattily attired in a squire's Harris Tweed suit. His shoulders now held long robes of the same mossy green his suit jacket had been. Small broomsticks were flying their way all about the robes in pursuit of what Tom could not see. Neither was Professor Dumbledore's hair the same. Though it had been a bit long outside, now Tom saw the professor's hair cascading in reddish brown rivulets to his waist as did his fantastical beard. Tom shook his head as Dumbledore's wand "Wand?!" came out of his robes and pointed directly at Tom's face. Tom hadn't even the time to get his long, pale fingers in front of his widening cerulean eyes before Dumbledore waved it at him and began to speak.

"Now then Tom, shall we fix you up a bit? Of course we have healing spells; they are some of the most important pieces of magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Now stay still. I am not Mr. Mann and I assure you that you will come to no harm at the end of my wand, Mr. Riddle."

Professor Dumbledore called out firmly, "abduco abrogo affligo!"

He looked at Tom with satisfaction, the twinkle back in his pale blue eyes and Tom suddenly felt his hands go to his face and then to his ribs. No place on his body hurt anymore. His face and chest tingled slightly as something coursed through him quickly.

"What was that Professor? What did you do to me?" Tom was torn between the smooth wall of cynicism with which he protected himself from the boys and Warden of St. Brutus' and the wide eyed incredulity of his first real experience with magic.

"Why...I healed your injuries, of course!" Dumbledore suddenly let a laugh boom out of him at the surprised look of half fear, half wonderment on Tom's face. "I will admit that I do so love the look on the face of a muggle born the first time they see real magic. Oh Tom, I think you are going to enjoy your new school very much. Now if we can just get old Ferius Bellydander to come help us, I think we'll get you settled in a room and then get you set with your school things in Diagon Alley. Gringotts and the shops will still be closed, of course, for two hours more or so. Ah, Ferius old man, give us a hand then would you?"

For as Dumbledore was speaking, a large, stout limbed man had come from a back room, behind the bar, "Ah, Professor, how are yeh? Havnae seen yeh here inna kneazle's age! Care for a spot of sherry ter wake yeh up, like?"

"I am afraid I can not, dear Ferius, I am on Hogwarts business. Ferius, please meet Mr. Tom Marvolo Riddle, lately of the muggle world and now of ours." Dumbledore smiled at the barkeep warmly and presented Tom's lanky, pale form to the man, as though for inspection. Tom stuck the narrowly blunt end of his chin up slightly, putting forth his hand, but cringing for some reason at both the sound of his name and the fact that Professor Dumbledore had described him as little better than a muggle. Tom could already tell that it was something of a question of status to be a muggle born. If the professor didn't like the distinction, than that meant there was such a distinction and presumably it was not a favourable one.

Tom was given a room number and told how to get the room's door to open with a "secret knock" as Mr. Bellydander called it. He let himself slink off to see the room and think for a short span over what he had just worked through so quickly while Dumbledore sat himself down to tea to wait for "Gringotts" to open, whatever that might be, and then to get Tom settled into his shopping. He told Tom that the boy would stay at the Leakey Cauldron, as the pub and its guest rooms were known for a day before meeting up with one or two older boys that the professor had gotten to agree to get Tom to King's Cross Station, where the first year Hogwarts boy would take his first ride on the Hogwarts Express.

Before too much time could have passed, though the minutes that came and went seemed stretched as long and taught as a viper pulled from end to end, it was time to go out into Diagon Alley proper. Tom tried to get a sense of the place through the window in his room but for some reasons the curtains refused to open, literally. As much as he tugged on them they held firm, telling him that "there will be NO view for you, young man, not until check in time." Tom narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath thinking, "I am NOT impatient. It is simply not check in time yet," in the most proper voice he could imagine given his limited experience. He kept near constant vigilance over a clock as odd as Professor Dumbledore's as it showed the names of various shops (Tom could only assume that is what they were) and whether or mot they were open. The spoon shaped hands did not seem to be moving, however, and most stood at "closed," or "patience, time enough to shop later in the day!"

Eventually eternity ended and Tom uncoiled himself as someone knocked on the door before it opened, "The professor's ready for yeh, Master Riddle," said Ferius' sandy haired, swarthy face, "He'll be waitin' ter see yeh in the common room, where's yeh firs' came in to the pub."

"Thank you Mister Bellydander, I shall be down presently," Tom tried one more pull on the stubborn curtains and gave one last look to the clock, which now pictured some of the stores as open and a page seemed to flutter down the face of the clock, reading "It's almost school time, children; don't forget anything important!"

Tom groaned at his own amazement as well as at the somewhat preposterous way that every inanimate object in the wizarding world so far seemed to be a recalcitrant child let alone the way they seemed to classify him in a kindred category. He straightened from the clock, carefully smoothed his trousers front and shirt, patted one thick, raven cowlick down at his part and lifted his narrow but blunt chin as he strode purposefully back down to the common room and met Professor Dumbledore who had his fingers in his long, auburn beard and a book open beneath his golden spectacles.

"Tom, very good, shall we then? Would you like a lemon drop?" Tom sneered inside; as though he would suddenly decide that he were a little child in need of consoling sweets.

"No thank you, sir. I think I'm ready to see Diagon Alley. My curtains simply refused to open so I haven't caught the slightest glimpse yet." Tom smiled with slightly wet lips and wide, midnight eyes, willing boyish colour to come to his cheeks beneath the professor's stare.

Dumbledore offered his own thin lipped smile in return, most of his face hidden beneath the luxuriant tangle of hair and beard. Tom couldn't help but notice that the twinkle no longer seemed to sparkle from the older man's azure, crystalline eyes. It gave Tom a second's pause, and he felt suddenly very exposed, but then with a wide swish of his tweedy robes Dumbledore turned and told Tom to follow him through the back of the pub where he stopped in front of the rubbish bins. He muttered something to himself before tapping the brick wall above the bins three times with the point of his wand.

And suddenly, Tom gasped. He couldn't help himself as the wall seemed to quiver or wriggle and a hole seemed to grow out of the spot where Dumbledore had tapped his wand. It was almost as though the wall were shrinking, becoming something more akin to a filigree as the bricks melted back to form a broad archway, large enough for several grown men to pass through at once. Immediately Tom felt his control crack a bit as his head spun in several directions taking in a huge pile of precariously stacked cauldrons, crouching one atop the other each one's belly dipping into corpulently into the one beneath it. Dumbledore took his watch from his waist coat again, the chain twinkling as merrily as the man's eyes normally did, and then hurried Tom up the street toward a large, snowy white building adorned with enormous burnished bronze doors and guarded by two small, swarthy...men?

Tom did something of a double take seeing the short, man shaped creatures with their long, pointed ears and slitted dark eyes over pointed, well greased beards. They wore some sort of uniform with gleaming buttons, and then, stretching their impossibly long fingers tipped with curved, crooked claw like nails they bowed and opened the doors. Tom and Dumbledore stepped through and then passed another set of doors, silver this time, with a verse of warning engraved down their center and strange, runic markings that Tom could not begin to comprehend ringing the outer edges in an intricate overlapping rectangular grid. Finally, through those doors lay an enormous room full of more of the creatures ("Goblins, Tom, they're Goblins," offered Dumbledore) most of whom were sitting behind high counters and writing strange script that Tom was too short to really make out with long feather quills, all the while stroking their curled beards or adjusting spectacles under the dim, flickering light of a little flame lanterns covered in smoky, green glass shades on brass stands.

Albus led them to one of the high counters and Tom shivered somewhat at the interrogative stare the goblin cast down at him. Its teeth seemed extremely sharp and its eyes burned at him like coal that had gone black yet held its terrible heat. Tom's mind swam a bit confusedly and he tilted his chin up to the older man, "Sir, is this a bank?" And at Dumbledore's patient, encouraging nod continued, "Because, Sir, you should know, I haven't any money." Tom bit the inside of his cheek at the coppery taste of his humiliation, but knew he needed to let the professor know before anything even more embarrassing occurred.

"Yes, Tom, I see, well let's just ask Coalheart here what he thinks, shall we," Tom shrunk inwardly at the twinkle that had returned to Dumbledore's eyes at the sight of Tom's combined misfortune and inability to hide his shame. The tall wizard continued, now turning his attention to the goblin banker, "Now Coalheart, what can you tell us about one Mr. Tom Marvolo Riddle and his accounts?"

Coalheart leaned over the edge of the counter, his long, bony fingers gripping the top edge of his ledger as his needle teeth bared at Tom in what the boy could only assume was meant to be a smile. "Mr. Riddle, recipient of the Harker and Miranda Sparksalot award for promising incoming first years, has in his account an amount equal to one year's school fees, the correct monies for a first year's school supplies, as well as some additional amount for personal use, judging from my ledger I should say enough for some new clothes," and his mouth twisted into a grimace as he took in Tom's appearance, which while neat, was shabby. Tom thought to himself, "Good thing I changed out of my bed clothes back at the Leaky Cauldron," as he smoldered a bit more in his sense of embarrassment.

When the pale dawn light finally stretched narrow fingers into Tom's room the next morning, his lids tried to fold over to protect his eyes from the unwelcome visitor. Eventually, though, he could no longer ignore the natural alarm that the wide, if crooked, Diagon Alley, with its mainly low buildings offered him in wake up call service. Tom stretched languidly, his body, long for its years, uncoiling over half the bed as he sat up. He looked at the clock next to the bed, but as he was beginning to notice, wizarding clocks we're not necessarily interested in telling the viewer what time it was at that moment. This clock for instance, seemed to tell Tom whether or not breakfast was ready (it wasn't), which shops were open (none) and what the weather was like (sunny, a bit of breeze, with clouds and a light drizzle expected by afternoon). However, having woken before dawn almost every day of his life, Tom was surprised to realize that he had clearly slept much later than was his habit at St. Brutus'.

Tom stood up, rocking back on his heels as he took in Diagon Alley on the second day of his new life. He squinted out at the twisting street beneath him, watching the Daily Prophet being thrown in piles in front of the shops that sold it as well as individual copies being thrown to the doors of various buildings that must have flats in them. Each pile or single paper invariably found its way into a post box or the exact best spot for a witch or wizard to come along and drop a few knuts and grab a copy while they sloped by on their way to the large, white columned Ministry building further down the Alley or to one of the stores or to the bank, Gringotts.

Tom next shuffled toward the mirror and was vaguely disturbed to see how messy his black hair was, pieces running amuck, flyaway all over his head. He tried to smooth it down but was startled to be interrupted by the mirror, "You're fighting a losing battle, I think, Dear." He sighed slightly, narrowed his eyes again and made his way to the shower where he discovered one did not need to pull for water. In fact, he wasn't certain what to do as there were no instructions and he didn't even notice a shower nozzle. He looked about for a bit before finally noticing a great, giant brass shower nozzle on the top of the shower. Finally in exasperation, he turned to the sinks to wash his face and wet his hair.

"Really, Dear, if you want a washing, just let the nozzle know and it will give you one." Tom started, nearly falling over in surprise. He quickly unballed his fist, his fingers having instantly braced themselves for Angus and his cronies by clenching tightly enough to leave marks in his palm.

"Please don't do that. You startled me half to death," Tom breathed his deep calming breaths and glared a bit at the mirror before regaining his composure and walking back to the stall. "I'd like a washing please, a warm one, but not too hot, mind," he stated coldly and firmly.

The nozzle came immediately to life and it seemed as though Tom was standing in a rain forest beneath an afternoon downpour. The water streamed in thick lumpy strands of crystal clear water and a light steam began to billow from the stall. Tom tested the water with the tips of his delicate fingers and found the temperature perfect. He smirked to himself at his wide-eyed amazement of nearly everything around him before stepping into the shower with a shake of his black coil covered head.

It was perhaps not shocking in the slightest that Tom's surprise at all of the magical or just plain luxurious objects he was encountering made him long for his new life more than ever. He let himself indulge in the childish thought that he would never return to the orphanage, but he had no certain way of determining that. It should have been such a pleasant thought, the Count of Monte Cristo finds his gold, gets his revenge, lives more or less happily ever after, but Tom could already feel himself twisting the happiness to something more metallic, coppery and sharp in his mouth and mind. He had clamped down on fantasy long before as an escape bound only to harm him or get him into trouble. The giddy charm, the powerful beckoning of his newfound abilities and world were somewhat shunted aside by the fears and discipline he had utilized for nearly eleven years to protect himself.

He said to himself, as though the mantra might steady him as much as his deep breaths did, "I am a wizard; I am attending the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in Britain, if not the world. I will finally have the means to remove myself from that soul clogging dirt that has mired me for my entire life." And yet, somehow it didn't quite ring true. Tom was still more or less completely awed by the magic, by the existence of a world he never suspected was real.

Tom was certainly mature for his age, and brilliant without question. He was a boy of eleven reading classics and contemporary literature that most adults stumbled over and understanding it. He was not foolish enough to think himself an island, but he had certainly built high walls, largely too smooth for scaling, in order to prevent his core from being touched, defiled, by the likes of Angus or the Warden.

In many ways, Tom was falling into patterns that he was unable to discern. He was approaching all he encountered in this new world with an ironic detachment that more than matched up with his awe and giddiness. Truth to be told, he was more gleeful at the prospect of power, of finally having a weapon that the boys of St Brutus' would have to respect, than he was at almost any other aspect. There may have been precious little gold in his Gringotts vault, but he had found treasure after all. Tom had already purchased two slim volumes of books on hexing and hurling curses. They seemed more prankish than anything else, but a few them, such as the tarantallegra curse and the bat bogey hex actually seemed harmless enough to keep him out of trouble while still letting him give his tormentors what for. Once again, Tom promised himself that he would make all those who had despised him, abused him or mistreated him pay him their due in full. His lips curled again and his tongue flickered about his lips in pleasure.