Chapter Four
Just one day after the fiasco in the dungeons, Tom found himself seated in Professor McGonnagall’s office along with the other first years.
Headmaster Dumbledore was gone, and Professor McGonnagall was the incumbent headmaster for the time being. Tom heaved a secret sigh of relief. He knew the conversation that was about to happen would have gone by very differently if he had been facing the infuriating old man.
The transfiguration teacher folded her hands on her desk.
“Students,” she addressed them, pausing to look into each first year’s eyes. “It disappoints me that this is not the first but second time I see you in my office. At the very beginning of term.”
To his left, Potter squirmed. Tom didn’t have to look over to see Weasley pale further. Malfoy, seated to Tom’s right, sat ramrod straight, years of Wizarding etiquette lessons built up for moments such as these.
Granger was the only one absent. Tom had heard she was still up in the hospital wing, healing from a particularly nasty injury the troll had inflicted on her. That’s what she got for willingly looking for trouble.
McGonnagall peered at them over her glasses. “Please, do explain to me what exactly happened yesterday, Mister Potter.”
Potter let out a dramatic sigh. Tom very carefully restrained the urge to roll his eyes.
“Me and Ron—” Wrong grammar, Potter, it was Ron and I, but Tom bit down on his lip hard to force himself not to say anything, there was a Professor present, “—heard that there was a troll in the dungeon and we knew Hermione was down there, she and Neville were looking for something—Neville’s toad, I think. So we went down there because we had to warn Hermione, she wasn’t there for dinner in the Great Hall with the rest of us, you see—”
“And you didn’t see it fit to inform a Prefect or Professor about this?” McGonnagall said sharply.
Tom leaned back a bit; he was enjoying this.
“Uh,” Potter said stupidly, sending a pleading look to his friend for help.
Little chance of that. Weasley was even more dimwitted than Potter—and wasn’t that a hard feat to accomplish.
“No,” he admitted, looking sullen.
McGonnagall tsked and motioned for them to continue.
“Well, so we were walking down to the dungeons and then we came across Riddle and he pushedus into the girl’s bathroom. Where Hermione was. And the troll and everything and then you and Professor Snape came looking for us and….you know,” he finished lamely.
Quite. The idiot had given Tom the perfect chance for retribution. Getting detention—for no reason, might he add!—was humiliating. Tom had been waiting for a chance to get back at Potter for dragging him into that, though he hadn’t had to bide his time as much as he’d thought he would.
“Oh, and Malfoy was there, too,” Potter said, looking at Tom, expectant.
Tom hesitated for just a moment.
He could go along with the Gryffindor.
He could rub his extra points—hurriedly given to him by Professor Ronen after discovering that Tom’s alarming report had led to the narrow save of three students—in Malfoy’s face and have the satisfaction of the useless heir’s record blemished further.
But two of the boys in this room would ultimately be of no importance to Tom, and the third would likely equate to some significance during his time at Hogwarts. Malfoy seemed to have something against him; what it was, Tom wasn’t exactly sure, but he suspected it had something to do with the fact that Tom already significantly outpaced him on the Slytherin’s intra-house competitive leaderboard. It wasn’t Tom’s fault that others were idiotic and lazy and unprepared, and that he was already so far ahead of everyone else.
But it was proving to be a problem anyways. Malfoy didn’t seem to like Tom all that much, and it wasn’t like Tom wanted enemies. This wasn’t the orphanage, where he could get away with intimidation alone.
No, Tom was ill-prepared to deal with this new world, loath as he was to admit it. He didn’t need to make life harder for himself.
“No, Professor, I haven’t any idea what they’re on about,” Tom said politely, not looking at the Gryffindors.
Tom could sense Malfoy’s shoulders relaxing by just a breadth. He ignored it, continuing.
“Malfoy and I saw each other in the common room after I managed to find it.”
He stole a glance at Harry, knowing what he was about to say would peeve the boy. “If I had seen Malfoy, I would have asked him for help getting there.”
Malfoy wasn’t a complete nitwit, it seemed, because he got the right idea and played along somewhat.
“Professor, I would have been happy to assist Riddle. I’ve helped him before. It’s just a shame we were separated during the whole…commotion.”
Good, but not good enough, Malfoy.
Backhanded git. He would make him pay for this.
Tom gave McGonnagall a dimpled smile.
“Yes, Professor. Malfoy and I are almost inseparable, I’m sure you’ve heard. We work very hard on our academics.”
A load of shite, that’s what he was saying. They didn’t work together. That’s because Malfoy was miles behind Tom academically, already, and it was only the third week of school. Again—it wasn’t his fault everyone else was just so stupid. He hadn’t even known he was a wizard until a month ago, for Christ’s sake.
More than just relieved, he was genuinely shocked. Tom hadn’t thought that his fervent self-study regime would actually work—he had assumed it would take a lot longer to outpace his already magically immersed classmates, but no. It seemed there wasn’t much difference between muggles and wizards except for the laws of physics they could defy. Unmotivated idiots, all of them.
Tom never talked to Malfoy, anyhow, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to attach himself to the blond’s image. There seemed to be some unofficial pecking order based on blood status—Tom supposed he had Potter to thank for putting a name to the formerly nebulous concept—and in Slytherin, Malfoy was clearly at the very top. He might’ve been rather dull when it came to academics, only propped up by years of extensive tutoring, but he was second in their house, regardless of how distantly behind Tom he was trailing. Everyone else was much worse off, both academically, and—from what Tom could tell—hierarchically.
Yes, Tom decided, it would be a good idea to attach himself to Malfoy.
Associating himself with the other Slytherin would have unfortunate side effects, at least in the short term—it didn’t help his image that they had both gotten detention in the first week of school, curse you Potter—but Tom would take care of that. With enough maneuvering here and there, he would make his and Malfoy’s detentions look like a fluke, and would make Potter and Weasley look like quite the unreliable witnesses. His first week’s detention might even work in his favor, Tom considered, if he made the two Gryffindors look unstable enough.
“So Malfoy wasn’t there?” McGonnagall checked. “It’s unbecoming of a student to lie, Mister Potter."
Why was she—oh. Granger. Of course. Tom had pushed Weasley and Potter into the bathroom and left without entering; she hadn’t seen him. Granger would have only said that Potter and Weasley came looking for her. She didn’t know Tom and Malfoy had tagged along with them earlier on.
Perfect. That worked to his advantage.
“But, Professor! They’re slimy Slytherins! They’re lying—Malfoy was there!” Potter blurted out, almost jumping out of his chair.
McGonnagall tutted.
“That’s no way to speak of other students, Mister Potter, even though I know you may have strong feelings about your…house rivalries. I’ll have you a week in detention for all of this,” she said sharply. “I know you boys aren’t great friends. You mustn't be friends, but you must be civil.”
Tom could tell she preferred her own lions. But in the face of such incompetence—
“Potter and Weasley, you will be in detention. Malfoy, out. I’m not even sure what you’re doing here. Riddle,” the older witch moved her glasses up her nose, just a bit. “I will arrange a discussion between you and Professor Snape. It is not safe for you to be roaming the castle alone, lest you run into trouble again.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Tom said, pretending to let his emotional barriers drop a bit. “I really do appreciate it. It can be a little rough, after all…I don’t have wizarding parents that taught me about Hogwarts, or even a home to go to…”
McGonnagall ate it right up. “Oh, you poor thing,”
She gave Potter a disappointed glance, and Tom knew he had won.
When he later left the room, Tom smiled at Harry, all sunshine and dimples, feeling rather vindictive as he watched the Gryffindor seethe.
— — — — — — — —
“How curious.”
Tom stiffened. He could hear the ambient voice of Dumbledore floating down the hall from McGonnagall’s office. Hadn’t the transfiguration teacher just told them that the man was away? How had he returned so quickly?
“I was under the impression that Mister Riddle was involved in Mister Potter’s previous detention, no? Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“Floo call,” Malfoy said, completely misinterpreting Tom’s facial expression.
Well. At least he was being useful.
A floo call. Tom didn’t know what that was. He was going to need to do more research.
“By the way, we’re not inseparable, you halfwit,” Malfoy said as they made their way to Charms class.
Tom looked at the boy, allowing himself to display a trace of haughtiness.
“No, we aren’t.”
Malfoy vaguely made a noise and looked like he wanted to say something unbecoming but kept it in.
Good. The other boy was annoying. Tom would have dealt with his insolence right then and there, but with a surreptitious glance around the hallway they were treading, he decided he’d wait.
— — — — — — — —
He cornered Malfoy in their shared dormitory that night.
“You know, you’re lucky you got off how you did.”
Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “So what?”
Not for the first time that day, Tom forced himself not to roll his eyes. What an idiot. He was rather sure the imbecile was in Slytherin house based on blood, not any innate talent or cunning.
Tom straightened and paused, letting his magic fill the room.
“Only because of me.”
He willed his magic to wrap around Malfoy’s neck and settle there.
Malfoy gasped for breath.
Tom cocked his head to the side, watching Malfoy struggle with genuine interest. The other boys at the orphanage hadn’t been able to fight back like Malfoy was doing so. Obviously Tom wasn’t outwardly showing his focus, but he actually had to work to keep Malfoy pliant.
Was it like that with all wizards? Were muggles just weaker, or was the boy in front of him more powerful than average? He would need to investigate further.
“Keep me out of trouble and I’ll do the same for you. Does that sound fair?”
He willed his magic back inwards. Free of Tom’s grasp, Malfoy nodded quickly and backed away, almost falling over his own suitcase. The other boy was spooked, Tom could tell.
Wonderful. It was easier that way.
— — — — — — — —
It was a Thursday night. Tom had found himself a quiet spot in the library and was curled up on a window seat, reading A New Theory of Numerology by Lukas Karuzos.
The premise of the book was interesting enough—it was about the basis of mathematics in the magical world, and the association between specific numbers and the strength of corresponding spells—but the specifics went a little over his head.
No matter. He would read and learn.
Tom had already blown through the monthly checkout limit in the first week. Up in his dormitory, some twenty books sat carefully balanced near his bed, pages bent and pieces of parchment slotted in irregularly, all pointing to things Tom deemed important enough to categorize and take note of. It seemed excessive on the outside, he knew. Some of his dorm mates had lightly teased him about acting like a Ravenclaw. None of his dorm mates were walking into the Wizarding world blind.
He had nobody to help him. He would need to help himself.
That was why he found himself searching past the required material, looking deeper into what other wizards accepted as fact. The most simple of things to them were new and exciting to Tom. He wanted to drink it all in as quickly as he could.
He had seen an older Ravenclaw student, maybe a fourth or fifth year, perusing the tome earlier while writing an essay for Arithmancy. After furtively glancing at some of the pages—when the other student hadn’t been watching—he’d decided it was next on his to-read list. It was just his luck that the library had an extra copy—otherwise, he would have found himself resorting to good old fashioned theft. Not his favorite method of…acquisition. But it worked.
Tom looked up when he heard the slight jingle of bells near the library entrance chiming as the door opened.
It likely wasn’t anyone important or disruptive. Hardly anybody else was in the library at this time, anyhow; it was just a bit too early for the younger years to start on their homework—most of them liked to start their evenings with socialization, not end them that way—oh, bloody hell. Of course.
It was just his luck that no matter how hard he tried, it seemed Tom wouldn’t get any rest from Potter and his idiot friends.
They settled at a desk a couple yards away from his current spot, loudly talking and laughing.
Along with Potter, Tom recognized the Weasley in their year, Longbottom—who had gotten into an unfortunate accident yesterday in Potions, meaning class ended early, Tom was still quite disappointed about that, he had enjoyed learning about the twelve uses of dragon blood—and some other nameless Gryffindors.
Tom set the Arithmancy book down and picked up his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook.
The material in the latter publication was much more elementary, but elementary was all he was going to get through, apparently, considering the volume of Potter and his cronies. He couldn’t bloody think over all the noise.
There was an intriguing section on the recent history and developments in the Defense field. Tom ignored the practical exercises and skipped to that. He could practice later; right now, he needed to know as much as he could.
Magical history was fascinating. Professor Binns turned out to be useless—all he did was teach about the bloody Goblin Wars, so much so that Tom was starting to suspect that Binns himself was part goblin—so Tom had taken it upon himself to learn about the history of the new world he found himself in.
It irked him that Dumbledore was a rather large feature in the past hundred years. More than just smart, the old wizard was influential.
But why was that? Being Headmaster was one thing, but there had certainly been more than just one Headmaster of Hogwarts, it didn’t warrant so much feature in a standard textbook—Oh.
On March 17, 1983, Lord James Potter, Potioneer Lily Potter (neé Evans), Lord Lucius Malfoy, and other prominent wizards, led in an effort by Albus Dumbledore, defeated the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald in a secretive Ministry venture. The Dark Lord was captured and declared dead that same day.
More On Our Heroes:
Lord James Potter is known for his Lordship over House Potter. Lily Potter is a renowned Potioneer, often collaborating with Nicholas Flamel. The Potters have one son, Harry Potter. Heir Potter will enter Hogwarts in 1991 and graduate in 1998. The family is currently based in Godric’s Hollow. They hold a Wizengamot seat.
Lord Lucius Malfoy, known for his Lordship over House Malfoy, also boasts a son. The boy, Draco Malfoy, will be attending Hogwarts in the same year as Heir Potter. Malfoy is located in Wiltshire, England, in Malfoy Manor, as the family has been since 1066. The Malfoy family, too, holds a Wizengamot seat.
Albus Dumbledore, Grand Sorcerer and current Headmaster of the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, has held the latter position since 1971. Since 1988, Dumbledore has also served as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. He has no living relatives.
Dumbledore had done ‘the greatest service to Wizardkind of our age’, as the textbook said. And no wonder everyone seemed to know Potter. His family was bloody famous.
Tom frowned and rested his head against the window, trying to mentally figure everything out.
Malfoy’s impressive ability to get away with little punishment made far more sense now. He also had a famous and influential family. That, and idiot as he was, he was still competent if he tried. He could go off of more than just his name if necessary. And Tom was quite privy to the fact that teachers gave more leeway to students who did well.
On the other side of that—Tom figured that Potter most certainly ranked in the bottom quartile of his House’s point rankings. He hadn’t seen the boy earn a single point for all three weeks they had already been in school.
Either way—how bloody wonderful. Tom had not just made an enemy of some random idiot. Potter was an heir, and a powerful one, too, by the looks of it.
Tom heard how people spoke of Malfoy when he wasn’t there. Part of it was because he was an heir, that much was blatantly obvious, but it wasn’t just that. Now it all made sense. Malfoy had clout because his father was famous, and not just for being the Wizarding equivalent of nobility. Tom was sure the same thing was happening with Potter.
No wonder McGonnagall had been so disappointed in the Gryffindor. He was both an heir and the son of famous parents, who had probably tried to drill proper behavior into him since birth, and that was how he acted?
In a way, it made Tom look even better than before. What a git Potter must look, to drag a poor orphan boy into his useless drama. Nobody needed to know that Tom had..helped said drama along.
“Quiet in the library,” Madame Pince said.
Potter and Weasley wouldn’t stop talking.
Longbottom seemed to realize their situation, and looked over at Tom, wide-eyed.
Tom gave him an annoyed look. He didn’t need to get involved with any more bloody Gryffindors.
That was a mistake.
Weasley then noticed Tom and latched onto Potter’s arm, hissing, “Look! Look who’s there, Harry!”
Potter’s eyes narrowed when he noticed him.
Tom raised his eyebrows in response. What was the other boy going to do, kick him out of the library?
Tom had just as much right to be here as Potter did. Maybe he didn’t have a famous family or an eventual Lordship in his future, but he did have magic.
A similar thought seemed to go through Potter’s mind, because all he did was make a face and turn back to Weasley. The Gryffindor muttered something to his friend under his breath.
Tom ignored them and went back to his Defense book.
But as the minutes went on, he couldn’t focus. The group of Gryffindors kept bloody talking.
Tom couldn’t think a word in edgewise, not when reading Chapter Sixteen: The Various Forms and Applications of The Verdimillious Charms was rudely interrupted by shouts of “Harry! Over here! Look at what George left in Seamus’s bag!” or “Merlin, Ron, it’s Madame Pomfrey, not Madame Pomefrey,”.
Weasley kept muttering something about a dream in which he lost his wand. Eurgh. Tom was discovering far more about his fellow first years in Lion house than he ever wanted to know.
And—Tom frowned again.
He could tune out the other boys, but not Potter. It was as if Tom’s brain had been specifically wired to automatically focus on the other boy’s voice because of how bloody annoying he was.
A rather loud shriek of Potter’s snapped what little patience Tom had left.
“Oi, Ron, get your rat away from me! He’s a bloody MENACE!”
Tom shut his book with a loud thud. He glared at Potter and his friends and left the library.
— — — — — — — —
The uneasy tension that had been building all came to a crest during Quidditch practice.
For all that magic had given Tom, he couldn’t say that he loved every aspect of it.
Quidditch was the main issue. It was a half-witted concept, from any angle. Tom logically understood why flying was useful; the Wizarding world didn’t have, from Tom’s limited knowledge, any other way of quickly transporting oneself across the skies quickly. It was a pity that the method of flying on brooms was archaic and nearly as dangerous as flying on a Muggle plane.
Tom was no mudblood—despite the whispers he heard about himself floating around his House—but he was with the Muggles on this one. It was, in his opinion, quite stupid to entrust one’s own safety and livelihood to a glorified floating stick.
At least the magic of broom flight itself came relatively simply to Tom.
He was the one of the only ones, he noted with secret vindication, that immediately had their broom fly into their hands when first saying “UP!”
More proof that he was special.
After a rough game of Quidditch—in which Tom had certainly not almost fallen off his broom thrice, thank you, Malfoy—the first-year Slytherins and Gryffindors were again on solid ground, awaiting further instruction from the Flying professor. The game had been cut short when Longbottom—why was it always Longbottom?—had gotten a decidedly nasty bruise from a thirty meter fall. The Gryffindor laid in a heap a ways away from them, moaning in pain, looking very sorry for himself.
“Stay right here, everyone,” Madame Hooch instructed. “I’ll need to take Mister Longbottom to the hospital wing.”
She strode up to the young Gryffindor and bent down, asking, “Where? Where does it hurt?”
Tom watched them from a distance with little interest.
Again, it wasn’t his fault everyone else was so stupid. Who in their right mind would let themselves be flown more than fifteen meters above the stated limit? The Cleansweeps the school provided them were rickety and twenty years out of date, and certainly not meant to break any flying records.
Tom only knew all this because Malfoy wouldn’t stop bloody complaining about the “horrible quality of everything, really, in this place” on their way to class.
He watched as Madame Hooch helped Longbottom stand up and lean against her for support.
The witch then hurried away with Longbottom in tow, only pausing to yell back—”No flying while I’m gone! Stay away from your brooms!”—and disappeared into Hogwarts castle.
As soon as the instructor was out of sight—
“Trying to take one of these brooms out for a fly, Malfoy? I’ll go with you. We can race,” Potter offered, interrupting some light conversation Tom was having with Malfoy.
Tom pursed his lips.
“I’ve already beaten you,” Malfoy scoffed. “I don’t have to race with you to know I’m better than you.”
Potter made an affronted noise.
“That was months ago. I’ve improved.”
“Doing what? Studying? You haven’t flown on your broom once since August.”
Potter got a sudden glint in his eyes that made Tom want to scrunch the inside of his robes. He didn’t.
“And how do you know that?”
Malfoy scoffed again. “Because how would you, Potter? I can’t even fly on my own here.”
“Oh, so you’re the benchmark. If Malfoy can’t do it then nobody else can do it, huh.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Enough of this, Potter,” Tom interrupted, feeling all eyes turn to him. “Go fly on your bloody broom if you so please. Keep others out of it.”
“Oh, says Riddle, like you’re one to keep others out of your business.”
Other students were starting to crowd around them now, eager to watch the argument play out. It was one thing for Potter and Malfoy to bicker—they always did—but quite another for said bickering to involve Tom.
“Wouldn’t look good if you got detention for a third time, now, would it?”
Potter gave him a loathsome look.
“And how many times were you the reason for my detentions, you prat?”
“None. It’s not my fault you bloody attract danger wherever you go.”
The crowd had circled up. All the other students, even Malfoy, had stepped back, giving them enough space to focus on each other.
For Tom to focus on Potter.
This was too much, too fast. Tom greatly disliked the Gryffindor, but he shouldn’t have revealed it so obviously, shouldn’t have played all his bloody cards at once, it wasn’t his fault the other boy was so bloody infuriating—
“No!” Potter said, voice at a higher pitch than it was before. He pulled out his wand. “I do not! They were all your fault!”
Tom laughed, but he felt stirrings of nervousness start to pool in his gut. This was just another student, and Tom was smart, but this was a wealthy and famous student, not just some random idiot. The other night, Malfoy had been talking about the spells his father had taught him a couple months ago; Tom didn’t know what spells Potter’s family had taught him before he came to Hogwarts.
Tom was decidedly at a disadvantage.
That was why he lunged and grabbed at Potter’s wand, yanking it from the Gryffindor’s hand and throwing it somewhere into the crowd.
Potter made an obnoxious yelp and grabbed at Tom’s collar.
“You’re a right git, Riddle,” Potter said loudly.
Tom felt his face heat. He pushed at Potter, causing the other boy to stumble, narrowly avoiding a collision with onlookers who were hooting and cheering. But Potter was stronger, and taller. Tom hated that this stupid stupid fact—originally brought to light by Weasley on that horrendous morning at Platform 9 ¾—actually meant something.
Potter pushed and pushed and Tom ingloriously fell backwards directly onto his arse.
Humiliating.
Tom wouldn’t go down without a fight. He got back up again, not waiting for the other boy to catch his breath, latching onto Potter’s collar now—
They both fell down. Gasps emerged from all around them; students were shocked and wide-eyed.
Potter still had the upper hand here, and he made use of it, pinning down Tom’s left arm when he reached up to rub the back of his head, which was pounding. Tom tried to hit at him with his right arm, but that didn’t work, because Potter grabbed his wrist and pinned it down next to his left arm.
Tom made a frustrated noise. He tried to sit back up and Potter pushed him down again. Tom just let him, heart hammering wildly in his chest. He tried to reach out for his magic and make it wrap around Potter’s neck, just as he had with Malfoy before, but it wouldn’t work, he couldn’t focus—
He felt—he felt so—so—
He wanted to—
He couldn’t—
Tom tried to shift under the other boy’s grip. He couldn’t.
Bloody Potter was stronger than him and had him pinned down; his wand was rolled away and forgotten somewhere in the grass.
Christ. He wouldn’t be neglecting Defense practicals again. Not if all of this was going to be a recurring theme in his life. Accio was the first thing that he’d practice when he got a free moment.
Tom tried to move his arm again. Potter grabbed his wrist even more tightly.
“Don’t try anything, Riddle.”
“Get off of me,” Tom spat, glaring at him.
Oh, how he despised Harry Potter.