He Is Surprised
Chapter Ten: He Is Surprised
London, 1990
Hermione tried to scan Platform 9¾, feeling a bit lost in the crush of so many people. Being muggles, her parents had only been able to accompany her as far as the station. Initially, she'd not been very nervous about that but now, surrounded by tearful farewells and joyful reunions, she felt keenly alone. Her eyes stayed alert for any sight of Tom—why hadn't they thought to make any sort of arrangements to meet up?—but there were simply too many people around. It would be easier to find him on the train.
The Hogwarts Express was a lovely contraption, an old-fashioned steam engine in brilliant scarlet. The interior was quite different from any other train she'd been on—plush carpets and glossy wood, each compartment spacious and comfortable-looking enough for the hours-long journey ahead of them. The Underground's hard plastic seats didn't even begin to compare.
Hermione tried to do a cursory search of the train, but so many people were coming and going that she decided to stop until after they'd left the station. She found a relatively empty compartment to sit in, the only other occupant being a boy. If she had to guess, she would say he was probably a First Year as well. He was lanky like Tom, but his rounded face was open, if a bit nervous. There was something earnest about him, a sort of impenetrable honesty that she found appealing.
Hoping to get off on the right foot, she held out her hand. "I'm Hermione Granger."
"Neville Longbottom." He seemed oddly grateful that she was speaking to him.
The two chatted merrily for some minutes, and though she found his earnestness endearing it became clear to Hermione that Neville was far too anxious to provide engaging company. Perhaps it was an unfair judgement, premature even—venturing to a completely new school was frightening in some ways—but he simply didn't cut the same compelling figure Tom always had and his nervous disposition made it very difficult to connect. There was a compassionate instinct at the far reaches of her mind that told her to help him, protect him from the struggles she predicted in his future. Be a friend to make a friend. Another part of her, a part that sounded suspiciously like her mysterious orphan, told her that the boy wasn't really interesting enough to merit her time.
It was a shockingly rude thought, one she deliberately set aside, almost spitefully eager to lend a hand when Neville frantically declared that his pet toad had gone missing. It felt nice to be helpful, and it wasn't as if she hadn't already been planning to search the train anyway. She inspected the front half while he inspected the end, and when they met up in the middle he appeared stricken that they were both still empty-handed. They swapped halves and continued looking, Hermione now feeling a bit of Neville's anxiousness as she still had yet to catch sight of toad or Tom. The logical part of her knew that her friend had to be somewhere—the toad as well, though she'd bet anything Trevor was fine and would turn up eventually—but she couldn't help worrying. What if something had happened? What if Tom had missed the train?
Just as her fantasies began running wild, she caught sight of him through a compartment window. Hermione slid open the door and was disappointed when faced with a boy who was decidedly not Tom, though it was easy to understand her mistake as they shared a passing similarity. Pale complexion, dark hair, but it was apparent that this boy did not possess Tom's desire for neatness—his hair was in a state of riot and he was sitting amid a small fortune of sweets and wrappers. Behind a pair of badly broken glasses, his eyes sparked with good humor and mischief, almost impish really, and she felt immediately drawn to him.
There was another boy in the compartment as well. He was gangly in comparison to his companion, with a shock of red hair and an explosion of freckles. His blue eyes regarded her with annoyance, clearly displeased by her interruption. Despite this, it was obvious that he'd been having fun just seconds prior, a notion that made her strangely jealous—for all their camaraderie, for all their closeness, in the three years she'd been friends with Tom, she wasn't certain they'd ever had fun. Not like this, not just for the sake of it, the way other children did; he would simply scoff and say they were above that sort of thing.
"Have either of you seen a toad?" She asked, wincing when her words came out a touch too demanding. Attempting to soften her tone, she added, "A boy named Neville's lost one," but, in her nervousness, it came out sounding just as bossy.
The redhead frowned and explained, "We already told him we haven't."
Hermione wanted to point out that she couldn't have known that, but she didn't think it would help much. Instead, she focused on the boy's raised wand, brightly asking, "Were you casting a spell?" She was eager to see other people practising proper magic.
But instead of sharing her enthusiasm, the boy's ears flushed darkly in embarrassment; he made a vague movement with his wand and mumbled out what sounded more like a poem than an incantation. When the 'spell' failed to produce any results his shoulders slumped and he became flustered.
A part of her knew she should just leave well enough alone, say her farewells and continue her search—that people didn't like to be corrected—but she couldn't help herself. Half the appeal of knowledge was being able to share it with others. She knew how to turn the rat yellow, so why not tell him? "Are you sure that's a real spell? Only, I would have used Inmuto Pigmentum."
"What?"
Nervous again, she blurted out quickly, "The Colour Changing Charm. We'll be learning it soon, I expect. I read through all our course books, you see—it's in the front half of The Standard Book of Spells."
Both boys were regarding her in shock, their eyes reflecting a familiar and unwelcome accusation: overachiever. So far from London and she still couldn't escape the mantle of Little Miss Know-It-All. Why was Tom the only person who could accept that part of her?
Wanting to save face—a bit desperate to fit in somewhere—she dropped the subject, instead offering, "I'm Hermione Granger." Neither boy looked too pleased to be making introductions, but they both humoured her.
The redhead grumbled out, "Ron Weasley," mood completely sour now after failing to impress.
The dark haired boy didn't seem to mind her presence so much, but his return of, "Harry Potter," was guardedly indifferent.
Hermione felt her mouth drop open; she'd known it was possible they could be together at Hogwarts, but she'd never honestly thought they might meet. Here was living history seated before her; the only known survivor of the Killing Curse, saviour of the wizarding world! He wasn't quite what she'd imagined—the books had only spoken of him as a baby, after all—perhaps she'd had in mind something more traditional, more heroic. Small, impish Harry in his baggy clothes defied all expectation. Despite this, there was something inviting about him, and she thought she could sense in Harry a bit of the loneliness that she and Tom had both experienced. She decided right away that she wanted to be his friend.
Unfortunately, that decision was not enough to curb her tongue and she found herself babbling rapid-fire about history books and Houses at the two boys. Ron was clearly just waiting for her to go away, Harry simply bemused by what she was saying, and so she quickly took her leave before she could make matters worse. It wasn't great as far as first impressions went—she'd done precious little to endear herself—but surely there would be time enough to change their minds.
Hogwarts, 1938
The journey from Platform 9 ¾ was a tediously long affair. The platform itself had been a pleasant, if brief, sight—the first step in a momentous new direction—but the train ride left Tom unaccountably bored. There was little interest to be found among his peers, and so he spent the majority of the trip with his nose buried in his school books. He had thought once or twice about visiting Hermione, but ultimately decided against it. He'd never attempted to travel from a moving object before; he wasn't sure if he'd appear back on the train or in the valley that it had been traveling through. Since he didn't wish to become stranded, he had to abandon the thought, though it may have proven a welcome relief from his boredom.
Dusk had settled upon Hogsmeade station, and by the time the new students finally saw their very first glimpse of Hogwarts night was in full bloom. The school was unlike anything Tom had ever seen: a sprawling castle with turrets and towers spiralling into the air like sentries; there were more windows than he could count, mullioned glass burning golden with firelight; outbuildings and additions were stacked together haphazardly, all set into the side of a great mountain. There was something illogical but oh-so-pleasing about the architecture, and the air around the school felt rich and ancient, like it was full of secrets.
Like he was finally home.
It took ages to get across the lake, to finally stand in the Entrance Hall. Tom could practically feel the weight of the stones around him—ancient, influential thresholds that had endured for centuries. How many powerful wizards had come and gone? How much greatness had stepped through these very doors? How many had stood as he stood: an eager acolyte waiting to conquer? The notion took his breath away, made him hunger for the opportunity to leave his own mark in his wake. If the classmates around him felt a similar calling, they did not show it—their faces and bright eyes reflected awe and wonder, but none of the determination that coursed through Tom. How could they be so simpleminded, so blind, to not feel the stirring, burning agony of ambition?
Did Hermione feel it? Fifty-Two years from right now, was she walking through these very doors and feeling the same compelling urge to dominate?
In the weeks prior to September, he had read as many of Hermione's books as possible, studying what he could of Grindelwald and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The information was murky with what felt like strategic gaps along the way—as if someone had deliberately cut key facts from the records so as not to entice anyone to follow in those footsteps. Even so, Tom found both their careers intriguing. What must it have been like—would be like—to possess that much power? To be so uniformly fearsome that everyone lived in terror of you? Tom himself had had only a microcosmic taste of that at Wool's and he wanted more—wanted greater, even, than the lofty heights of these Dark Lords so that he prove to everyone he was the best. That leaving him to rot alone in London was a grave error he would not forgive. Obviously, reaching such a pinnacle would take time, but Tom was confident in his skills—he was not, perhaps, a lucky boy, but the things he wanted always did come easily to him. He had at least two career templates to follow, after all; how hard could it really be?
Those thoughts were pushed from his head at his first sight of the Great Hall. He'd really only done a cursory amount of reading on Hogwarts, far more interested in learning about magic than the place he'd be studying at, which he now regretted. Everything was so new, and he had trouble keeping himself from looking exactly like the awed children around him. The Great Hall was massive—the whole of his orphanage could have fit inside it—long tables present for each of the Houses and one higher table for the professors, all under a sea of a floating candles which were, in turn, under the cosmic expanse of the night sky. Tom had never seen so many stars before, studding the inky darkness like diamonds. He had a vague memory of Hermione reading to him, explaining that the ceiling was there, merely bewitched, but the effect was still astounding.
It took a long moment to tear his eyes from the sight and consider the rest of the Hall. Really, though, it was such a marvelous contrast from Wool's and boring, old London—everywhere he looked there was rich colour and warmth. Hogwarts was fairly bursting with new sensory experiences. There were more students than he'd imagined however, a hundred or two at every table, and it was an effort to keep his inherent resentment of them from showing—he doubted any of them had been made to endure eleven years of forced exile.
The incoming students were paraded to the front of the Hall, where Dumbledore waited for them upon a raised dais. He threw his arms wide as they crowded around, and beamed at them reassuringly. "Welcome, First Years, to your Sorting Ceremony, the beginning of many fine traditions you will experience here at Hogwarts! To truly become a part of the school, you must be sorted into one of the four Houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin—your new home away from home."
Tom found his attention waning as the Professor launched into a speech about House points. It was a simple merit system; honestly, what was there to explain? Instead, he let his eyes slide along the staff table. They looked capable enough, certainly more competent than his old schoolmaster had been—although they were, by and large, clearly bored and impatient for the feast to begin—however, he had to restrain himself from forming premature opinions. How they handled the classroom would be the real test of their worth.
"But, first," Dumbledore bellowed, redrawing Tom's attention, "the Ceremony." He gestured to the rickety stool beside him and, with a great lurch, the tattered hat upon it sprang to life.
It sang a rather saccharine little tune about the qualities that each House prized, and for the first time Tom found himself wondering where he might end up. Hufflepuff and Gryffindor were definitely out, as neither one interested him in the least. Loyalty was earned and bravery didn't seem like the sort of thing to base an entire academic career upon. Ravenclaw sounded fairly decent, if a bit ordinary. There was the potential to find like-minded individuals there, but all that knowledge was useless if it was never applied to a goal. Slytherin, though… Slytherin held his attention—cunning, ambition, and a serpentine emblem? It couldn't have been a better fit if he'd designed it himself.
Dumbledore took out a thick scroll of parchment and began to call out names, one by one. Each student took their turn with the Hat, some needing only seconds while others took long minutes, but the Hat sorted everyone dutifully. It felt like ages before Dumbledore finally said, "Riddle, Tom."
He strode to the hat with a calmness he didn't quite feel. The outcome of this sorting could have very real repercussions; it could, in essence, decide some small portion of his fate. But those worries slipped from his mind as the enchanted cloth fluttered down over his eyes. There was a soothing nature to the Sorting Hat, even as it produced a sensation like a gentle tapping at the back of his skull.
'You have an organized mind, a desperation for knowledge,' a quiet voice whispered into his thoughts, startling Tom. 'Ravenclaw would serve you well, if not for your power lust.' The Hat gave a knowing chuckle. 'You've snakes on the brain, young man, and I daresay Slytherin in your blood.'
That puzzled him, made his heart beat wildly. 'What do you mean?'
'Your ambition will carry you far and Slytherin could aid that journey.'
'Are you being purposefully obtuse?' He held in a sneer, though he was quite sure the Hat could sense it either way. 'What do you mean, it's in my blood?'
But the Hat did not deign to answer him, instead proclaiming, 'It's fate, you know. There's really no choice at all. It must be—' "SLYTHERIN!"
There were a few unenthusiastic claps from the Slytherin table, but on the whole they appeared confused or, as in a few cases, outright disdainful. Somehow, something about Tom had already managed to offend them. He picked his way over to the table decked out in green and silver, taking a seat next to a boy who appeared more curious than affronted.
To his surprise, the boy immediately leaned close and whispered, "Strange, the Hat putting you with us. Are you a muggleborn?"
"No," Tom lied—although it could be the truth; the Hat seemed to have been implying that someone in his family had also once been a Slytherin. If only it had been considerate enough to supply a name as well.
"It's just…" The boy paused, choosing his words carefully, "Riddle's not exactly a familiar name, if you take my meaning."
Tom shrugged, falling back on the haughty attitude that had gotten him through life at Wool's. "Might not be my real name, seeing as I'm an orphan." That was definitely a lie; he knew for a fact that he was named after his father.
The feast began in the midst of their conversation. Platters with food the likes of which Tom had never even imagine before appeared up and down the table with startling abruptness. His companion, however, was clearly used to this sight and held the thread of their discussion without pause.
"Oh," he winced, "that's unfortunate." Yet, despite that proclamation, he continued in a rather friendly air, "You know, you should get an Inheritance Test done at Gringotts—it's dashed expensive, but they can map out your bloodline going back for centuries." His dark gaze flit through their fellow Slytherins knowingly. "It can be helpful to have a few notorious relatives to throw out into conversations every now and again. I'm Andrus Lestrange, by the way, Second Year."
Tom considered Lestrange for a long moment—he was a stocky boy with dark features and darker hair, yet an incongruous geniality. His face was pleasant mask, but a mask all the same, belied only by the calculating glitter in his eyes; he saw something in the younger boy, though it was unclear what precisely that was.
Before his silence could become any more protracted, Tom asked, "You have a lot of these relatives to show off with?" Because it very suddenly occurred to him that he knew nothing about the social structure at Hogwarts, and that put him at a distinct disadvantage.
"Well, anymore, most of the Pureblood families are related to each other in some way or another—at least, the important ones are," Andrus shrugged. "The Lestranges are one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight; we've got ties to the Blacks, the Flints, the Malfoys, the Prewitts, you name it. It can cause a bit of a headache sometimes, but I don't envy you your position."
Tom didn't bother asking what the Sacred Twenty-Eight was, but made a note to look that up later in private. Instead he stared down at his plate and angrily realized, "I've no history to invoke." At least, not any that he was aware of.
Reality crashed into him in sickly waves; in his desperation to escape the orphanage, to claim his birthright, he'd failed to truly consider what world he might be stepping into. Access to Hermione's time, to her knowledge of his own era, had given him false expectations. A part of Tom had simply assumed that everything would fall into place—he would continue to prove just as proficient at magic as always and that proficiency would pave his way toward becoming a Dark Lord—completely failing to take the social aspect into consideration. He had not prepared himself for the climate of Slytherin House, and that thought burned him up; a stupid oversight when he knew he was capable of being so much more meticulous.
After a deep breath, he forced himself to assess his housemates as he might any passing body back in London. What he saw was the ghost of Wool's staring him in the face: angry, duplicitous, cruel children. And though the elite of Slytherin clearly banked on power, it was of a different sort than that favour by the orphanage. In London he'd merely had to be strong; here there were machinations at play that he didn't yet fully understand, and he possessed no familial ties to ease his way. Once more, he was a pauper amongst kings.
It was a bitter revelation, made all the more shocking because he'd become so complacent. No one crossed him at Wool's, hadn't in ages—he was the undisputed ruler of the play-yard. But this wasn't the play-yard. No one here knew him or what he could do, and there was no reason to assume they'd be impressed even if they did—everyone at the school had magic. His one true ounce of leverage was gone! He'd been thrust into a hierarchy he could only guess at without the benefit of his usual advantage. In London he'd been a tyrant; here at Hogwarts he would have to climb his way up from the very bottom, armed with little more than his wits and ambition.
Lestrange did nothing to sugar-coat that realisation, nailing it down in so many words, "You're going to have a hard time getting any of the Slytherins to take you seriously."
Tom felt himself flushing an angry red, confrontational now that he knew what a disadvantage he was at. "Then why are you talking to me?"
"Dumbledore looked particularly interested in your sorting," Lestrange replied easily. "Call me crazy, but he always seems to be throwing himself into the thick of it—his interest in you probably means something."
"Fantastic," he bit out angrily. The last thing he wanted was extra attention from a man he had already deemed potentially dangerous. For that matter, until he was on better footing, he didn't want much of anyone's attention and didn't mind telling Andrus so. "You're probably better off not talking to me much, you know; an extensive family history won't always be able to save you from questionable acquaintances."
"You catch on quick, and you're a forward thinker," Lestrange smiled. "We could really use some more of that in Slytherin. Seriously, get the Inheritance Test done—the sooner you've got a bit of clout to work with, the sooner you can make your mark."
Hogwarts, 1990
Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, torn between excitement and worry as she waited for the Sorting Ceremony to end. She held a quiet conversation with Percy—a Prefect who bore such a striking similarity to Ron Weasley that she knew right away they must be brothers—and though his tone was a bit pompous, he seemed happy to answer all her questions. It was refreshingly easy to talk to him, though she couldn't quite stop herself from sneaking surreptitious glances around the Hall, searching for that familiar, tidy sweep of black hair. There were fewer than a hundred students at every table, yet Tom was nowhere to be found.
She'd scoured the train high and low but her friend had simply not been aboard it, nor had he been present in any of the boats on the way to the castle, and now he was conspicuously absent from the start of term feast. In fact, Professor McGonagall—nearing the end of the alphabet already—had blithely skipped past his name, as if no one called Davies had ever been on her list. What on earth was going on? Where could Tom be? He'd promised they'd be at Hogwarts together! She would write him a letter first thing in the morning to find out what was going on. Could owls find someone without a known address?
With that determination made, Hermione did her best to simply enjoy the feast. The other First Years around her were amiable enough, although she could tell that Ron was still set against her, and so she spent much of the evening in discussion with Percy. Once or twice, Neville caught her eye and flashed her a timid smile, renewing her hope for making friends; he, at least, seemed to like her.
Eventually the meal drew to a close. One last round of announcements and reminders was given before the Prefects began leading First Years to their Houses. Hogwarts was a bigger school than she'd imagined for so few students, full of twisting passages and confounding corridors. Finding the Gryffindor common room appeared hard enough that Hermione was almost stricken when Percy offhandedly mentioned that the staircases moved. How was she meant to get anywhere on her own when the architecture routinely rearranged itself? A sick knot formed in her stomach, suddenly terrified that she might end up late for her first lessons. Percy seemed to have the hang of the untrustworthy layout, though—perhaps there was a pattern to the movements—and before long he had all the First Years gathered around a painting that he referred to as the Fat Lady. With practised ease he gave the password, the portrait swinging forward to reveal a secret entrance. They were quickly ushered through, shown around the common room and then directed to their dormitories.
The girls' dorm was up a few flights of spiral stairs; Gryffindor had to be in one of the many towers, now that she thought about it. Their room was a circular affair, giant four-poster beds set along the perimeter, an enclosed fireplace in the center. Each of the five beds had one of their trunks laid out at its foot, along with new scarves and ties to reflect their House colours.
There were four other Gryffindor girls starting their First Year—Lavender, Parvati, Fay, and Kate—and though they were all exhausted from their long day, the girls chatted excitedly for quite some time. Hermione did her best to join in, but found she had little to say about fashion or wizarding celebrities. She went to bed before the others, pulling her curtains tight, but even through the heavy velvet she heard their whispered giggles.
"Did you see her hair?"
"Did you see her teeth?"
Hermione squeezed her eyes tight and rolled over, doing her best to ignore them. It wasn't as if she hadn't heard those insults before, but it still stung. Hogwarts wasn't exactly shaping up to be what she'd expected. A part of her had hoped the students here would be infinitely more like herself—bookish and just generally different—but so far they weren't all that dissimilar from the sort of people she'd gone to primary school with. Excepting Neville and Percy, of course.
Tomorrow, she hoped firmly, would be different. Tomorrow, she would fit in—or find her wayward friend, whichever came first.