Tom
If he had to pinpoint his most treasured skill, Tom would instantly pick his ability to pay attention. To see and listen and learn. To earn knowledge , knowledge which gave him power.
He had always been a genius, with unrivaled observational skills, and they had granted him many slightly positive experiences during his absolutely depressing life at the orphanage. His magic, his charm, his self-control, his curiosity—none of those came close to his laser focus on the workings of the things around him; the way people thought, the words they said, their compulsive actions and the secrets they hid.
Or attempted to, at least.
There had been no knowledge in Wools that evaded Tom, after all.
He had known long ago of Mrs. Cole's tendency to quickly draw a few packets of those chocolate biscuit rations into the folds of her dresses, keeping them to barter for her vice, the bottle.
He’d known of Martha's secret comings and goings, the way she snuck past the drunk and dozing Mrs. Cole, sneaking off to a midnight rendezvous with one soldier boy or another. Known how they pressed their lips and bodies together in a way that never made sense to Tom. Once, when he had attempted to recreate this discovery with another girl who was just a tad less irritating than the other children at Wool’s, he had only felt dirty and disgusted by the closeness of another person’s body.
He had learned then that he hated being touched. Hated being bothered. Hated hearing the background noise of the other orphans while he spent his time alone in his room, hated it as they amused themselves with nonsensical babbling and mindless shrieking, unintelligent and ignorant—beneath Tom in every way. He still knows exactly how much he craves a peace and quiet he has never been afforded.
He also knows , however, of the longing deep inside him that he has tried to bury many times over. The way that his heart clenches at the sight of another child being shown love and affection from the same adults who wouldn't even look at Tom. Not after Mrs. Cole got done with them, no matter how beautiful and intelligent Tom was. The way that there are so many faces that Tom has seen come and go, and Tom has never received so much as a pitying pat on the back as far as he remembers. And he remembers pretty much everything —almost every single minute of all his eleven years.
But he knows simultaneously that that longing will never be sated. He knows he cannot and willnot be friends with even one person out of the plenty he has met in those eleven years at Wool’s. They aren't enough for Tom, not in the ways he craves; they are pathetic, sniveling idiots, the lot of them. Knowing, however, doesn't negate that illogical senseless wanting, but Tom knows any attempt to quench his desire would just end up being pure torture. He hates Wool’s and every single one of its residents with a passion, after all.
He knows of other things that affect him, too. The way the pressure in his head intensifies when he is slighted and can no longer control his rage. The way that, when he is overwhelmed and it all becomes too much, something in him rears up, whispering to do things that he cannot even explain until he turns eleven.
He knows, too, of the way the others fear him for that something special , the way they seethe with jealousy at his obvious otherness, unable to fully make up their childish minds about him.
He knows about the way Billy Stubbs had decided to sneak into his room when he was seven, maliciously intending to destroy the meager collection of belongings that Tom had managed to amass with much difficulty. He also knows how he had only felt a resounding and malicious sense of glee as he planned out the fate of poor, poor Billy's rabbit. How fortunate that Billy's bed was perfectly placed just under a rafter in the attic! Tom was sure that his view, upon waking, had been exactly as he’d planned it: shock and grief-stricken horror as he took in the tattered remnants of his 'closest friend in the world', its white fur covered in streaks and clumps of ruby red, dripping onto the sheets that covered him.
He knows also that Amy, Dennis, and Eric would never bother him again after he held their faces under the salty ocean water just a second too long after they had attempted to push him into a rotting pile of canine excrement on the beach, a relic of some stranger’s irresponsibility. They had almost managed to spoil the rare sunny day of their field trip to the beach, and they deserved the retribution he’d delivered. Tom had spent the rest of the day picking out the most beautiful shells he could find, peaceful and secure in his newfound knowledge.
He realises later—too late, in fact—that in that very first meeting with Dumbledore he had made a misstep. Said the wrong thing, dropped his mask unknowingly in his absolute shock. Too late, and now Dumbledore's impression of him was clouded by that crack in the stellar mask that he had carefully curated for years now, even at age eleven. Even as he quietly mourns the loss of the possessions he had collected through his years at the orphanage with his will and his mind, he also resents this unpleasant knowledge.
He knows, now, to pay better attention to his interactions with the rest of this new, magical world he has been introduced to. Knows now that he always has to put his best foot forward, to keep Dumbledore’s initial suspicions about his character as just that, suspicions—if it indeed does turn out to be impossible to change the old fool’s mind about him, that is.
And then, after Dumbledore’s introduction, he discovers so much more. A real magic wand that thrums with pleasure in his palm. Goblins, and magical gold. Robes, and cauldrons, and a brick wall that feels like passing though water, leading to a smoky platform. And then , he finds, there are unpleasant pieces of knowledge in this magical world too.
“Poor little Mudblood” , they call him. How dare they , Tom thinks, because he knows , he knows . Knows , unshakably, that he's better than them, these self-important children who are but a reflection of his fellow residents at Wool’s. They may have grown up with magic, but Tom lives and breathes magic. He feels it with every breath, every heartbeat, with every second that passes.
When he had discovered his something , he had been elated. It had been an insightful discovery, Tom remembers. He’d nicked some—now tasteless in retrospect after that first Hogwarts dinner—rations of chocolate biscuits from Mrs. Cole's secret stash that she kept to bribe the milkman for bottles of another kind, floating them over to him from across the room.
Tom had really, really wanted that little treat for himself, after all. And what he wanted he got . He always made sure of it.
He had somehow also known to exercise his something , to strengthen his bond with it, every successful effort at controlling it becoming part of a larger, cumulative victory.
Tom could do many things with his something just by willing it so. He could make people give him their portions of food (not that having more of the slop they called food at Wools was something Tom even wanted), even gotten himself a taste of actual chocolate the two times Billy had stolen some under his influence (it had beenso decadent, he remembers fondly), had gotten some soft toys and one particular sparkly hair accessory from Amy. Unfortunately, he’d had to throw it away after Dumbledore’s visit.
Ugh .
Now though, there's so much Tom doesn't know. He doesn't know anything at all about this strange new world. And they seem to want him to stay in the dark, as he finds out. They are hostile, dismissive and unwelcoming. And they had only needed his name to seal his fate.
His name. Tom Marvolo Riddle .
It had been that last word that had twisted their faces in an instant. Riddle . The name his mother had managed to gasp out before she abruptly passed, as he had found out from Martha.
Riddle.
A Muggle name, as he finds out, for there is no wizarding Riddle family.
He is the first .
And, as he finds, he is unable to take pride in being the first Riddle with magic. No, he had instead been ridiculed and insulted and shooed out of a doorway he hadn't even entered yet, still not past the threshold in his search for a compartment.
Get lost, Mudblood. The words haunt him.
The sneering look on the older boy’s face, the glaze that his eyes took on once he decided he knew who Tom was , the curtness of his tone, the dismissive words.
Tom will never forget that. He’ll never forget him or his little cronies. He will never forgive them this slight. Yet someday he will make them beg for his mercy anyway; he will make them kneel and show him deference in their every interaction, Tom thinks, seething the moment the door slams shut on him. Mercy he will never show them , he promises himself. They will grovel at his feet like the other orphans had by the end. They will fear him and worship him and obey him.
That was the first decision Tom made in this new world.
And he never, ever makes decisions lightly, with his unrivaled discipline over himself. They will pay their pound of flesh, in blood , the same blood they had thought themselves superior to Tom with. He has seven years in which to pay attention, after all, to learn and discover, to plan and plot. Revenge is a dish best served cold , he thinks.
He will certainly have a nasty surprise waiting for them, a wicked trick, a moment of reckoning for their swift dismissiveness and their presumed superiority.
Tom knows better, after all.
He is the best, there's no two ways about it.
No one can play the good boy better than he can, or as efficiently , with as much grace and charm . Another skill he had honed to perfection. To be the best . To stand out . As with any of his other skills, he had worked to hone his control and discipline over every aspect of himself he had noticed.
And now he knows more.
Of Houses, and hats, and a magical dinner right out of Tom's dreams conjured out of nowhere.
Well, the food at least was straight from his dreams.
The people left much to be desired.
The expressions of the other Slytherins around him echo that of the boy from the train—frowns, sneers, grim-set mouths, and a few raised brows when he reaches the table so quickly after the hat sorts him. The voices around him that fall silent and then begin anew with whispers of that word fan his now blazing rage some more.
Mudblood . That word again. It prickles Tom's skin in an invisible fashion.
He will show them exactly how muddy his blood, his heart, and his soul really are. He will muddy their hearts with fear and sear permanent remembrance and worship into their minds.
He glances at the faces around him, studying every single one in minute detail, committing their features to memory. He must remember who exactly he has to punish, after all.
And for now, at least he does have a small but powerfully venomous snake secreted away in his pocket—with that insolent boy’s name written allover those tiny but deadly fangs. He congratulates himself for having had the idea to purchase it with the last of the money left over after buying his school supplies. It had been quite costly, depleting nearly all of his remaining gold, but that was no matter. Tom considers it an investment.
Maybe in a day or two, Tom decides. Once he has settled in and figured out how school works exactly.
And after that, he will begin planning for the rest of them. He knows how it will go even now. Reluctant acceptance on account of his genius. Respect for his brilliance, his mastery of magic unique even in a literal magical school, as he knows now that they need their wands for everything, unlike Tom with his impeccable, wandless bond with his magic. Fear when he reveals the deception of his initial facade, when he corrects them on the error of their incorrect initial opinions about himself, of their presumed superiority, when he gets his back in blood.
Soon, he vows, soon .
He discovers more things after dinner, unable to eat much after the shock of such unaccustomed richness in his cuisine. He finds common rooms, and dormitories in dungeons.
He feels, strangely, completely at home in that eerie green light, watching the distant movement of lake creatures through the dull glass wall, andsnakes everywhere, he thinks fondly. Made of stone as part of the castle, or as door handles, or in the portraits, or sewn in as embroidery on the curtains. Everywhere.
It feels like this entire part of Hogwarts was made for him. As if he'd dreamed of home, and built and found it.
The bittersweet turn of his thoughts distracts him as he lays in bed with a book, the usual tiny Magic reading light he usually wills up bobbing lightly at his shoulder.
He feels both comfortable and unwelcome here.
The snakes help a lot, and perhaps, since it's magic after all, maybe some will be able to speak to him like real snakes do. He does like to have someone to talk to. Someone who wants to talk to him , who greets him with pleasure when he initiates conversation and doesn't grate on his nerves.
And while he does have his still-nameless Namaqua dwarf adder, a tiny little magical thing and highly venomous, it is only quietly sentient and not intelligent enough to really stimulate Tom.
He tries to focus on his book, but the bed is so soft under him he is reminded of the Muggle fairytale of the Princess and the Pea. They could put a thousand peas under his mattress now and he still wouldn't notice, he thinks, the sharp polarity between this and the sagging, discolored hard mess of a bed that he'd had at Wool's becoming painfully evident. That bed's springs had been sharp against his back when he lay down. This though, this is heaven, surely. Magic , he corrects himself.
Breakfast, he later finds out, ends early. And it flies past even more quickly when no one seems to want to help him find the Great Hall at all, if the looks that follow him are any indication. Even the Slytherin prefect from yesterday had worn an ugly sneer when he called his name in the common room, and partly crumpled the parchment outlining Tom's weekly timetable while giving it to him. He had seethed then, and later gently willed his magic to smooth it out like new, like it never happened. And soon, it won't happen again.
He reaches breakfast literally fifteen seconds before the food disappears from the table right on schedule. He only manages to serve himself two eggs and a glass of orange juice, both rare breakfast options at Wools, before the serving plates are empty again.
He resigns himself to his meager portion, and resolves to find the library after he's done. And it is quite a journey to get there, some foolish portraits giving him the wrong directions, the corridors turning so sharply that he almost runs into walls at times. It is all worth it though, as he takes his first look through the double doors. The library is obviously a full wing of its own, with windows on both sides of the room. The wall at the very back is solid stone. He idly wonders what's on the other side, considering the lack of windows, as he walks in.
He politely greets the librarian, who only looks back at him blankly as he trudges past, as he knows he will most likely see her again every day of his seven years at Hogwarts. He asks a few questions, and she is informative but curt, so he leaves to explore on his own.
The brilliant blue carpet is soft beneath his shoes, his footsteps silent as he breathes in the experience. He is quite sure he will remember this moment forever, the smell of glue, and paper, and knowledge , and power.
He skims over the shelves at his sides, noting every detail in his mental map of this soon-to-be usual place of his existence. He knows he needs to know more after all, and now ! No, yesterday !
And his first-year books are not enough, from what he has skimmed through. They barely touch on most spells, and what need does he have of a lesson in levitation charms anyway? He can already move most things with his will and wandless magic alone. Incantations were useless, Tom had known as soon as he'd read about them. He's still willing to give wands a chance, however; he can feel the bond with his magic grow stronger with his wand in hand.
Still, he decides to read every word, imprinting it in his memory, preparing for when they will obviously expect him to regurgitate similar information in the form of homework and assignments. This is a school, after all. And once he has his first-year books memorized, he will turn to the rest of the library soon enough.
Now to find a table to read.
As he reaches the very back of the library, still mapping everything out in his head, he sees a small alcove to his left. That's odd , Tom thinks, as there are no such niches between the other shelves, and this one is recessed into the end of the back wall.
He looks to the right to see if a symmetrical one exists, but no. It's just the one.
Curious, he walks towards it with growing pleasure. He quickly finds it to hold a small table in the corner, in the very back. The Arithmancy section is not a very heavily trafficked one, apparently, as the few students that occupy the library with him are spread out between the tables up in the front.
How lucky for him.
He takes a seat, noticing that the air around the table feels warm, almost extra magical. He deems it to be inconsequential as nothing further happens, and turns to open his charms book, starting over from where he left off in bed last night.
He lets the words flow over him slowly, absorbing the idea of each sentence until it sits within him, regardless of whether he agrees with the author's opinion. It will be good to integrate debates into his future essays, after all.
He is facing the window, his back to the corridor, the sunlight brightening the words on the page, lightening the deep yellow of his visibly secondhand book. The Hogwarts fund for children like him existed, but it was still rather inadequate. He had done the best he could, despite spending most of his money on his snake (he couldn't resist) and his potions equipment and ingredients. If it was anything like Muggle chemistry, he thought, he wanted the best and safest equipment and chemicals, so he had made his decision to skimp on other things, and he stood by his decision.
It has been maybe an hour before he is interrupted, and for a second he is outraged as his newfound secret hideaway is disturbed.
He looks up and the outrage mellows to curiosity at the look in the other boy's eyes. Eyes that seem to widen as if in recognition.
How is that possible?
Palpable shock and surprise are quite clearly written across that sharp, handsome face.
As if he knows Tom , this stranger he has never seen before, as if he has suddenly run into a familiar face in an unexpected place. As if seeing Tom is so surprising that he can't breathe, he hasn't taken his eyes off of Tom's for even a second, or even blinked really.
And then Tom's eyes follow the boy's as the surprise clears from his face, giving way to acceptance , and his words surprise and shock Tom in turn.
He is expecting to have to introduce himself, expecting the boy to rudely demand an introduction such as those Slytherin boys had, as he had, on the train, and then he is expecting to be dismissed with the wizarding insult that Tom is unfortunately growing ever more familiar with now.
It is because of this foolish assumption that Tom is totally caught off guard by the words that fall out of the other boy's mouth.