Um, isn't writing a story about Tom Riddle plagerizing J.K. Rowling?

 

Piper, this type of writing, called fan fiction, is very popular today on the internet. Fans of a certain author's work write other stories about the characters. Most writers do not mind because the writers of the fan fiction do not claim the characters as their own creation and the writing is not professionally published. It's mostly just read by other fans of that author's works. It usually increases the author's fan base.

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You're starting over AGAInnnnnnnnnn?!

Butttttttttttt lksdfgkldafadfksl; What will I tell my friend?

Typos:

"the Noble House of Gaunt, which is thought to have gone exinct with the his death"

"muggle bating."

I surely hope this is the last time that this fic will start over. Mainly because I will never get to read the end of it! Soooooooooo.... after a long period of thought and consideration, I have a bribe to offer. If this turns out to be the last time that this fic reboots, then I personally will make it a TV Tropes page. :D:D:D:D:D:D:D But only when it is suitably ready, of course.

Awesomeawesomeawesome FINISH THIS ONE!!!! Or else the Immortal Phog of Doom will come after you. Seriously, it's amazing!

Ooohhhhh...I see. I thought this was something TNO would actually publish. If it's fan fiction, write all you want!

Chapter two! ehehehe

In my head, Mr. Ollivander is a vampire /irrelavent.  

* 

Wizards wearing thick fur robes paced through the dirty slush, hawking fresh diricawl eggs and Thermal Hats (“Warm your ears up a treat! Guaranteed non-lethal!”) and goggles that could look through walls and massive, live newts. A sign propped in front of the nearest shops flashed red and green and read, “AFTER-CHRISTMAS SALE!! ALL MARKED ITEMS HALF PRICE!!”

The shops had windows crammed with fragile silver instruments and gleaming telescopes and jarfuls of eyes. Tom passed a trunk shop that had nothing but a single chest in the window; it was almost as long as Tom was tall and dozens of stumpy legs protruded from its bottom. There was a little sign propped up next to it—“Sapient Trunks—Inquire Inside”—which flung itself against the glass when Tom walked by. Across the street, Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions was having a sale on dress robes, advertised in huge blue letters that blinked from the window. 

Everywhere Tom looked there were witches and wizards dressed in brightly-colored robes, shouting, haggling and arguing with each other. A witch in fiery orange robes brushed past him with three broomsticks over one shoulder, half-dragging a little boy in her wake. 

Books with titles like Merlin: His Life and Legacy, Tacit Casting and You, and Horklumps, Knarls and Gnomes: a Guide to Common Garden Pests flapped their covers at him from the display in Flourish & Blotts. Tom spent nearly five minutes with his face pressed against the glass, trying to read the exposed pages before he finally tore himself away.

Soft hoots and rustles emanated from the darkened storefront next door; the words Eeylops Owl Emporium were painted over the door in faded red ink. A massive tawny owl dozed on a perch above the sign, clutching an envelope in its beak.

Tom realized his mouth was hanging open and he closed it immediately. He hurried forward, head snapping back and forth so quickly and so often that his neck started to ache. There was simply too much; Tom would have needed about eight sets of eyes to see everything.

Then, at last, at the very end of the street, he found what he had been looking forward to most. It was a small, shabby building with dusty windows; the sign over the door said Ollivander’s: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. in peeling gold letters.

Trembling, Tom went in.

Besides the soft tinkle of the bell as the door closed behind him, the shop was silent. Both walls were lined with row after row of narrow boxes, stacked neatly to the ceiling. There were a few spindly-legged chairs next to the door, and a rickety table in the middle of the room, but nothing else.

The air… tingled. It felt like someone was whispering just out of earshot, and it made the hairs on the back of Tom’s neck stand straight up. 

For a very long time, there was no sound. Finally, unable to take it any longer, Tom called out, “Hello?”

There was a very faint click, and a tall, bony man materialized out of the shadows. He walked noiselessly up to the table.

“Mr. Ollivander?” Tom asked, shivering. Mr. Ollivander did not look normal; he was too thin and too tall and too pale, and his fine, black hair floated around his head as if it were weightless. Unlike the wizards and witches Tom had seen outside, Mr. Ollivander dressed not in robes, but in a faded grey suit, which was tailored to his skeletal frame like a second skin.

“I am he,” Mr. Ollivander said softly. His oddly pale eyes raked over Tom’s face. “To whom do I owe the pleasure of this rare midwinter visit?”

“Tom… Gaunt,” Tom said hesitantly. 

If the wandmaker was surprised, he didn’t let on. “Curious,” he murmured. His eyes misted over, and a faint smile appeared on his thin lips. “It seems only yesterday that your grandfather was in here, buying his first wand. Chestnut and dragon heartstring, seven and a half inches, unyielding. A good wand for wardsmithing.” As he spoke, Mr. Ollivander drifted forward until he was almost toe-to-toe with Tom. “He was the last of the family to do it, you know. His children, I believe, purchased theirs from a local wandmaker called Hamilton.”

“…Right,” Tom said, leaning away nervously.

“Hm,” Mr. Ollivander said. “Well, now, Mr. Gaunt… It is a pleasure to have your family’s patronage once more.”

Tom wished that Mr. Ollivander would blink. His own eyes were watering sympathetically.

“Which is your wand arm?” Mr. Ollivander asked.

“I—left,” Tom said. “I’m left-handed, anyway.”

“I see…” Without warning, Mr. Ollivander darted over to the stacks of boxes. He flitted around between them, pulling boxes down at random, as he spoke. “No two Ollivander wands are exactly the same, Mr. Gaunt. I use a variety of woods and one of three highly potent magical substances in their construction. It is the combination of traits of wood and core that give a wand its character, and each must be precisely matched to its owner. The wand, as they say, chooses the wizard.” He returned to the table and let the boxes fall messily onto it, then opened one of them and pulled out a short, reddish wand. “Now, then, Mr. Gaunt, try this one. Holly and unicorn tail, six and a quarter inches, rather bendy.”

Tom took it uncertainly.

“Go on,” Mr. Ollivander said, flapping his hands in Tom’s direction. “Give it a wave.”

Feeling a little foolish, Tom did so, but Mr. Ollivander snatched the wand away, mumbling, “Not that one…” He set it aside and opened another box. “Perhaps… Ash and dragon heartstring, ten inches, nice and whippy.”

Again Tom waved the wand only to have Mr. Ollivander take it back immediately. “Try this one. Oak and phoenix feather, nine inches, rigid— No, I think not. Ah… Pear and unicorn, ten and three quarter inches, quite supple.” 

Tom barely touched this wand before Mr. Ollivander yanked it away. “No, no, no, definitely not. Let’s see, ebony and dragon heartstring, nine inches, brittle. Try—”

He tried, but it was no good. Mr. Ollivander handed him wand after wand, and Tom’s fingers started to go numb as each was pulled unceremoniously away. As the pile of discarded boxes grew, the wandmaker became first cheerful and then manic with excitement. “Tricky customer, eh?” he said gleefully. “Not to worry, not to worry. Let me see… last one of this batch, Mr. Gaunt, and then the real fun begins. Beechwood and unicorn, twelve inches, stiff… and no. Excellent.”

Now Mr. Ollivander returned to the stacks, muttering under his breath and grimacing as he searched through the boxes. This time he only pulled down half a dozen or so before returning to Tom. “Here we are, Mr. Gaunt,” he said. 

“What happens if I don’t find a wand?” Tom asked, trying to rub some life back into his fingers. Mr. Ollivander pursed his lips and hmmed loudly.

“I’ve never had a disappointed customer, Mr. Gaunt,” he said. “I have no intention of sending you away without a properly matched wand.” He opened yet another box and held the wand out. “Walnut and dragon heartstring, twelve and three quarter inches, unyielding.”

It might have been wishful thinking, but Tom thought he felt his fingers tingling as he flicked this wand carelessly. Mr. Ollivander tugged it away as usual, though, and handed him an “elder and phoenix feather, twelve inches, rigid.” Seconds later it, too, landed on the discard pile.

The third and fourth wands failed too, and Tom watched with dismay as they clattered to the floor. “And… yew and phoenix feather, thirteen inches, inflexible…”

This wand gave a little jerk as soon as Tom reached for it; it seemed to leap straight into his hand. He slashed it downwards, and silvery sparks shot from the end like water from a burst pipe. Mr. Ollivander brought his hands together in a single clap and cried, “Yes! Oh, indeed, yes. Very good. I knew we’d get there in the end.”

Tom paid Mr. Ollivander seven gold Galleons for the wand, struggling a little because his hands had started shaking again. The coins disappeared into one of Mr. Ollivander’s pockets as quickly as Tom could count them out. 

Mr. Ollivander handed Tom the empty box, staring intently at his face. “An interesting combination, Mr. Gaunt,” he said quietly. “Powerful. I think… yes. I think we can expect great things from you.”

Tom fought back a grin, barely, and redoubled his grip on the wand—his wand, while Mr. Ollivander bowed him out of the shop. 

Now that his immediate goal of getting his hands on a magic wand was done with, Tom felt bold enough to venture into Gringotts. As Penrose had promised, it wasn’t difficult to find. Easily the largest building on Diagon Alley, it loomed over the neighboring shops. Its pristine marble walls almost glowed in the sunlight.

There was a little creature in a scarlet-and-gold uniform standing in front of the shiny brass doors. He had a nasty grin on his swarthy, pointed face, and as Tom approached the goblin—it could only be a goblin—glared at him with distrust in his beady black eyes. He bowed, however, as Tom walked inside.

Now he was facing a second pair of doors, much smaller and made of silver. Two more goblins flanked them, and one of them pointed with an unnaturally long finger at a verse engraved on the doors:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

“That’s cheerful,” Tom said. The goblin’s eyes narrowed, but he and his companion reached up and pushed the doors open. Tom walked through into an enormous marble hall and, for the second time that day, he had to force himself not to gape. At least a hundred goblins,  sat on high stools behind a long, golden counter. Some were scribbling in ledgers nearly as big as they were; others weighed coins in brass scales or examined jewels through odd little eyepieces. More doors than Tom could count led off the hall, and even more goblins were pouring in and out of these, usually with people in tow.

Tom approached a free goblin and cleared his throat. It looked up at him expressionlessly. “I was told you had ways of checking whether I’m related to certain people,” he said. The goblin gave a curt nod. 

“You will be required to give up a sample of blood,” he said, picking up a quill and turning it between his spidery fingers.

“Alright,” Tom said.

The goblin rummaged around behind the counter and pulled out a small card. He smoothed it out in front of him. “Depending upon the specific persons, there may be additional tests.”

Tom nodded, his mouth feeling dry, as the goblin readied his quill. 

“Name?”

“Tom Marvolo Riddle.” 

The goblin paused with his quill poised over the card. A drop of red ink dripped off the tip of the quill and splashed onto the corner. “Are you hoping to claim a relationship to the Gaunt family, Mr. Riddle?” the goblin asked.

“I will if your tests turn out right,” Tom said with a shrug. “I’m just curious is all.”

An uncomfortable silence passed while the goblin stared down at Tom. At last he said, “Are you a parselmouth, Mr. Riddle?”

“A what?”

“A parselmouth, a snake-speaker,” the goblin said irritably. 

Tom hesitated. “I can talk to snakes, if that’s what you mean…” The goblin nodded and made a go on gesture, so he hissed, “Why? Is it important?”

Slowly, the goblin turned his attention back to the card. He ran a finger over the ink stain on the corner and it vanished. As he began to write, he said, “The Gaunts were well known for being parselmouths. It is Gringotts policy to turn away hopefuls who do not have the ability.” He sniffed angrily, dotting the i in Riddle. “It weeds out the troublemakers and the ones who think it amusing to waste our valuable time. Wand?”

“Er, yew and phoenix feather. Thirteen inches.” 

For a few seconds the goblin said nothing, scratching away with the quill. Then, “Date of birth?”

“Today. 1927.”

The goblin’s lips curled. “In that case, a happy birthday to you.” Tom couldn’t tell whether the goblin meant it sincerely or not, so he just shrugged and said nothing. “And how do you believe you are related to the Gaunt Family?”

“Merope Gaunt was my mother,” Tom said. “Maybe. Professor Penrose said it was only a possibility, though.”

“Very well,” the goblin said, laying the quill aside and pulling a tiny bell out from behind the counter. He rang it twice; it had a high, clear sound that carried over the sounds of the bank. A second goblin hurried over. 

“Grenuk will escort you,” the goblin said as he put the bell away and handed the card to the newcomer. The goblin called Grenuk made a short, stiff bow in Tom’s direction.

“Follow,” he said curtly. Tom hurried after him; even though he had the advantage of height over the goblin, he had to almost jog to keep up. A small door in the far corner of the hall swung open as he and Grenuk approached; beyond it, Tom could see a narrow stone passageway lit by torches.

Grenuk didn’t even break his stride as they left the well-lit marble hall behind. Before Tom’s eyes had adjusted to the relative darkness, his foot connected with a stair and for one heart-stopping moment he thought he would fall face-first onto the rough stones. He caught himself and scrambled up the rest of the stairs, managing by some miracle not to lose sight of his guide.

They eventually reached a small, circular room with a single wooden table in the middle of it. Grenuk produced a wicked-looking dagger and a glass vial from somewhere and held the up for Tom to see. “How much do you need?” Tom asked. He eyed the dagger nervously as he rolled up his sleeve.

“A few drops will suffice,” Grenuk said.

Tom looked away, holding out his arm towards the goblin. There was a sharp pain in the crook of his elbow and a rush of warm liquid, and then it was over. Grenuk healed the tiny cut with a gesture and disappeared through a small door on the far side of the room.

When Grenuk returned a few minutes later, he held a tiny roll of parchment in his hands. The Gringotts seal, two keys crossed over an ingot, had been stamped into the blob of dark blue wax that held the parchment closed. “You will want to send this to the Inheritance Office at the Ministry of Magic,” he said. “They will file the necessary documents, legally changing your name and allowing you access to the family vault.”

“So—you mean I’m—”

Grenuk smiled, showing pointed teeth. “You are indeed, Mr. Gaunt.”

“Gaunt,” Tom repeated softly.

“By wizarding law the name of a Noble House supersedes a common name. If you decide you prefer Riddle after all, you will have to visit the Ministry in person,” Grenuk said. He beckoned for Tom to follow him back towards the main hall, and Tom placed the parchment gently into a pocket.

“So what would happen if a woman in a Noble House married someone who was… common?” he asked, as they started down the stairs.

Grenuk made a sound that was halfway between a grunt and and a snort. “If he was pure-blood, it would depend on her preferences. If he wasn’t, the woman would likely be disowned and the point would be moot.”

“…pure-blood?” Tom said blankly.

Next second he nearly tripped as Grenuk stopped dead, his long fingers on the handle of the door that led to the main hall. The goblin let go of the handle and turned to frown up at Tom.

“What?” asked Tom, bewildered. “What did I do?”

“It means a wizard or witch who is of purely magical stock,” Grenuk said. “There is a set of rules which determines whether or not one is pure-blood or half-blood, and I suggest you look them up immediately. You will get yourself into trouble if you do not.” Grenuk gave another sharp-toothed smile, this one a lot nastier than before. “Be glad thankful that you made this blunder in the safety of goblin company, and not before a traditionalist. You might well have died before you even set foot in that” he made a sound like he was gargling rocks “school.”

Before Tom could ask what he meant, Grenuk pulled open the door and bowed Tom out into the hall.

 

From Gringotts, Tom went straight to the post office, where he handed over the roll of parchment to the stringy young wizard behind the counter. He paid a Sickle for the delivery and another Galleon to get a permanent mail box. The stringy wizard handed him a little silver key for the box. “Take care you don’t lose it,” he warned Tom. “It’s four Sickles to replace if you do.”

By now it was noon, and Diagon Alley was so crowded that Tom could barely move without running into someone. He finally ducked into Flourish & Blotts so he could take out his Hogwarts list and read it in relative peace. 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY 

 

UNIFORM

First year students will require:

3 sets plain work robes (black)

1 plain pointed hat (black) 

1 pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

1 winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

 

COURSE BOOKS

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

Beginning Transfiguration by Aeolus Hartell

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Practical Defensive Magic, volume 1 by Patariki Tane

 

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 basic potion-making kit

1 international standard telescope set

1 set brass scales

1 wand

 

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

Parents are reminded that first year students are not allowed their own broomsticks.

 

Tom committed the list to memory and shoved it back into his pocket. He wandered around Flourish & Blotts for a while until he found a small second-hand section with all of his required books available. They were all a bit shabby and the pages of A History of Magic dangled from the cover by only a few threads, but they were far less expensive than their new counterparts. He also found a book called Hogwarts, a History that looked interesting, and he picked it up too.

Arms full of books, Tom went to the front counter. The witch there smiled at him and said, “Hogwarts?”

“Yes.”

She sorted through the books, making notes on a sheet of parchment with a long, bright-red quill. “You’ll want to go to Madam Malkin’s for your robes,” she said. “Best prices in Diagon Alley and she does second-hands, if you need them.”

“Right,” Tom said, paying her. She packed his books into what she called an undetectably-extended bag; apparently it was bigger on the inside, though it was still very heavy. She offered to give him directions to Madam Malkin’s, but Tom declined, remembering that he had passed it on the way in.

Madam Malkin turned out to be a short, plump witch dressed from head to toe in mauve. “Hogwarts, dear?” she asked as soon as she saw Tom. “Got the lot here.”

“I’ll need to buy them second-hand,” Tom said. Madam Malkin smiled kindly at him.

“Not a problem, dear,” she said. She led him to the back of the shop, where there were stacks of folded black robes nearly as tall as Tom. Madam Malkin directed him onto a footstool and slipped a long, slightly faded robe over his head. “Just stand still,” she said as she began to pin it to the right length. “This won’t take long.”

It didn’t; once she’d finished pinning everything in place, Madam Malkin took out her wand and the robe finished itself. She got the rest of his things ready and put them in another bag, thankfully not as heavy as the first. 

By now Tom’s money bag was running low, so he decided to return to the orphanage to start reading. He would buy the rest of his equipment tomorrow, after visiting Gringotts again—there had to be some money in his vault, after all. 

He took his time walking back to the orphanage. By now the fresh snow from last night had been packed down, and the sidewalks were very slippery. 

No one had noticed his absence, which was lucky, because Tom didn’t fancy trying to explain his magical textbooks or the robes to Mrs. Cole. He dumped the bags in his wardrobe, draping his coat and a few extra shirts over them in case anyone came snooping. 

Then, wand in hand, he lay down on his bed and amused himself by making his shoes fly back and forth across the room.

I am STILL not happy with this chapter but at this point I don't even know why ugh.

On the other hand, I am actually happy with Tom's characterization as far as sociopath-ness goes. Because he finally reads like an actual sociopath instead of just someone who was poorly socialized as a child and inclined to think of himself as more intelligent than usual. /nitpicky

*

The next day, Tom returned to Diagon Alley. He changed into his robes in the bathroom of the Leaky Cauldron, and they swished around his ankles as he walked to Gringotts. They tripped him twice, but by the time he reached the bank he’d gotten used to them.

He found a free goblin and asked to see his vault. The goblin peered at him over a pair of golden spectacles. “Do you have your key?” he asked.

“I’ve never been in the vault before,” Tom said. “I don’t have a key—my name’s Tom Gaunt.”

“Ah.” The goblin drummed his fingers against the desk, then pointed to a row of benches near the door. “Wait there.” He dropped off of his stool, his head disappearing behind the counter, and walked to one of the doors directly behind him.

Tom wandered over to the benches and sat down. After a moment a tanned boy who looked close to Tom’s age padded over and flopped carelessly down on the next bench.

“Are you really a Gaunt?” he asked.

Tom blinked. “Sorry?”

The boy flapped his hands towards the counter. “My mum’s in the queue next to where you were, and I heard you say your name was Gaunt.”

“Oh. Yes. I am.” 

The boy leaned over, grinning. “Rabastan Lestrange,” he said. Tom shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Same. So where’d you come from, anyway?”

“I grew up in the Muggle world,” Tom said. “In an orphanage. My parents are dead.”

Rabastan pulled a face, clearly disgusted. “Eurgh. Hard luck,” he said. “Must be awful.”

“It is,” Tom said.

“Having to live with Muggles, I can’t imagine…” Rabastan shuddered. Then he brightened considerably and said, “Are you going to Hogwarts next year?”

“Yeah.”

“Me, too,” Rabastan said. “My brother graduated last year and I can’t wait.”

“Really?” Tom asked. “What’s he doing now?” Tom glanced towards the door that the goblin had left through curiously.

Rabastan rolled his eyes, groaning. “He’s studying Arithmancy, of all things, in France,” he said.

Tom didn’t have a clue what Arithmancy was, so he just smiled vaguely and said, “Yes, well…”

“Mr. Gaunt?”

Tom looked up. The goblin had returned with Grenuk in his wake, and Tom scrambled to his feet immediately.

“Later, Gaunt,” Rabastan said.

“Bye,” Tom replied as he following Grenuk and the other goblin back up to the counter. As they walked, Grenuk  held out his hand, palm up. There was a tiny golden key in it, no bigger than Tom’s thumb. “Your key, Mr. Gaunt,” Grenuk said. Tom took it.

“Grenuk will escort you to your vault,” the goblin as they reached the counter. He climbed back up onto his stool, picked up a quill, and began to write furiously.

“This way, Mr. Gaunt.” Grenuk led him to one of the larger doors in the hall. It opened into a narrow stone passageway, wider than the one Tom had seen yesterday but still very dark. It sloped steeply downward and their were little tracks laid into the floor. The whole room smelled overpoweringly of mold. 

Grenuk put his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly. A rickety little cart hurtled up the tracks towards them and screeched to a halt.

Tom climbed in nervously while Grenuk settled into the front. His neck snapped backwards as the cart rocketed forward at top speed, and he yelped. The cart took a hairpin turn and plunged downward.

Cold air rushed past him, burning his eyes until he squeezed them shut. Tom’s stomach lurched horribly as the cart dropped again, and for a moment he was sure he would be sick. He clamped his mouth shut and clung to both sides of the cart in terror.

At last the cart squealed to a halt, and Tom dared to open his eyes a crack. They had stopped in front of a huge metal door; beyond it, a broad, torchlit passageway curved out of sight. Tom struggled out of the cart, his head spinning, and landed hard on his hands and knees. Grenuk stepped down a second later.

“That… was… insane…” Tom choked out.

Grenuk chuckled nastily. “It takes people like that way sometimes,” he said.

Tom’s stomach heaved, but he managed, barely, not to vomit. After a while the dizziness faded, and he staggered upright.

“This way, Mr. Gaunt,” Grenuk said. Tom followed him down the dimly-lit passageway. His breath rose in little streams of vapor around his head; it was freezing. They passed several vaults, and Tom counted the numbers silently. 820… 821… 822… 823…

“What sort of security do you have here?” Tom asked as they passed vault 824.

Grenuk sniffed. “The Gringotts code forbids me to give out any details,” he said. “But they are extensive, particularly this deep… Here we are.” Tom looked up at the round metal door. The number 826 glinted at the top. “Key,” Grenuk said, holding out a hand. Tom dropped the little golden key into it.

The door clanked loudly as Grenuk unlocked it. It swung ponderously open and a lot of thick, greenish smoke billowed out.

Tom took a deep breath and walked in.

The vault was little more than a large cave, lit by glowing blue crystals that grew from the ceiling. Small stacks of wizard money were grouped at the front; behind them, dry bones had been scattered over the floor. A long, emerald-green snakeskin coiled around a distant stalagmite, looking as if it might collapse into dust at any moment. There was a large, black trunk supported on a dozen spidery silver legs sitting against the wall.

Tom ventured deeper into the vault. There were other things mixed in with the bones. None of it looked very valuable: a rusty dagger with suspicious stains along its edge, a tarnished silver tea set, broken amulets and a telescope with a crack running through its lens. In the back of the vault Tom found a severed, rotting hand. 

He went to check inside the trunk. Tom found a set of silver robes, lined in dark green silk; as he picked them up, they rippled and turned pitch black. He shook them out and they seemed about the right size, so he pulled off his second-hand robes and put on the new ones. They were of a lighter material than the second-hand set, and they fit perfectly.

There were a few little trinkets in the bottom of the trunk: a silver brooch shaped like a coiled snake, a little skull with black stones set into the eye sockets, and a couple of wands. One of the wands was very long and made of a dark wood that looked black in the dim light; the other was short and rather knobbly. Tom pocketed them and returned the rest to the trunk. When he closed the lid, it shuffled its legs, which made little clicking sounds against the stone floor. As Tom walked back towards the front of the vault, it scuttled after him.

Grenuk was leaning against the doorframe with his hands clasped behind his back. While Tom topped off his money bag, Grenuk said, “The goblins have been managing your finances since Marvolo and Morfin were sent to Azkaban and they have grown considerably in our hands—the Gaunt family was nearly knutless when we took over. Morfin Gaunt has stayed in Little Hangleton since his release, and as we have had no communication with him in that time, we act as if he does not exist.” A rather nasty grin curled over Grenuk’s face. “As far as we are concerned, you are the head of your family and thus in charge of your finances. Of course, if you wish, we can continue to handle your monetary affairs. Investments and so on.”

“You’d know better than I would,” Tom admitted. “I’ve never had money before.”

“Very wise, Mr. Gaunt,” Grenuk said, with a toothy smile. “Are you ready to return to the surface?”

Tom nodded, grimacing. “Can we go slower this time?” he asked.

“The carts move at one speed only,” Grenuk said. He led Tom and the trunk out of the vault, and the door clanged shut behind them. They walked slowly back to the cart, and for a moment the only sound was the clicking of the trunk’s legs. 

“Goblins very seldom meddle in wizarding affairs,” Grenuk said suddenly. “History has taught us that much. It is not often that my kind offer advice to a wizard, and even less frequently is that advice followed.” He glanced sidelong at Tom, who said nothing. Grenuk didn’t say anything else until they had reached the cart. 

Tom started to get in, but Grenuk caught his elbow and stopped him. “Avoid mentioning your muggle upbringing whenever possible. Never let on when you are uncertain. If you are not sure how you are expected to act towards someone, be polite but aloof. It will be seen as good breeding and manners and benefit you regardless of whether they are an ally or an enemy.” Grenuk paused. “Stay informed. Find another member of a Noble House—you have already met Rabastan Lestrange, and through him you might meet Bellatrix Black—and learn to mimic their speech patterns.”

Tom stared at him.”Why are you…?”

Grenuk merely shook his head. “Do not speak of this conversation to anyone,” he said. “I shall be disappointed if my estimation of you proves incorrect.”

He refused to say anything more.

 

One sickening cart ride later, Tom emerged from Gringotts, blinking in the bright sunlight. He went straight to Mr. Ollivander’s, the trunk scuttling in his wake. 

“Back again, Mr. Gaunt?” Mr. Ollivander asked when he saw Tom.

“I found some wands in my Gringotts vault,” Tom said, pulling them out of his pocket. “I thought—could you tell me what they are? And whether I could use them, or…”

“Ah,” Mr. Ollivander said, stepping forward to take the wands. “It would be my pleasure. Now let me see.” He lifted them close to his face and examined them minutely, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes…” he murmured after a while. He waved the shorter of the wands vaguely, making a little jet of water stream from its end. “This one was a commission of mine,” he said. “I made it especially for your great-great grandfather, Marcellus Gaunt. Un-sanded red oak and dragon heartstring, eight and a quarter inches, a volatile wand. Explosive, poor precision, suited perfectly to Marcellus’ personality. I doubt it will favor you.”

“And the other one?” Tom asked, taking the red oak wand back and putting it carefully back in the trunk.

Mr. Ollivander turned his attention to the second wand. He turned it back and forth and peered down its length with one eye shut before saying, “Ebony. Thirteen and a quarter inches. Core… hm…” He squinted again, and then suddenly blanched. “Ah.” Carefully, as if worried it might explode, Mr. Ollivander handed the wand back to Tom. “The crest of a male Basilisk, Mr. Gaunt, a highly dangerous thing to put into a wand. Wandmaker lore holds that only two wizards, Herpo the Foul and Salazar Slytherin himself, managed it without getting themselves messily killed. If I had to guess, I would say this wand was Slytherin’s, since Herpo’s would have been destroyed following his death. If it has accepted you as its master, you should be able to use it with no trouble. Anyone else would find themselves facing nasty backfires.”

“Has it accepted me as its master?” Tom asked.

Shrugging, Mr. Ollivander said, “Give it a wave.”

Tom hesitated before he obeyed. His fingers tingled as a stream of silver sparks poured from the end of the wand. “There you are,” Mr. Ollivander said simply. “It’s yours.”

Pocketing the wand, Tom said, “Thank you.”

Mr. Ollivander bowed low. “Thank you, Mr. Gaunt, and good day.”

Tom left hurriedly to buy the rest of his school things. He packed them all into his trunk, which expanded inside to accommodate the cauldron and the telescope. Afterwards he went to the trunk shop, where the shop owner spent nearly half an hour examining every inch of the trunk before rocking back on his heels and whistling through his teeth.

“It’s a Sharrow creation—predates the Statute of Secrecy,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve only ever seen one before. Most of them were destroyed with their owners, back in the days when a wizard’s possessions would be burnt after his death. Don’t suppose you want to sell it?” he added hopefully. “I’d give you, say, six hundred Galleons for it.” The trunk snapped at his hand, and he jerked away. 

“No thanks,” Tom said. The shop owner shrugged.

“Worth a try,” he said.

“If I took it into the Muggle world, would they notice?” Tom asked, wondering if he would have to leave it in Diagon Alley for the night.

“Nah,” the shop owner said, sniffing. “It’s got the whole lot—dozens of Muggle repellant spells. Every one in the book. It could bite one’s leg off and they wouldn’t know it.” Tom grinned.

That evening, the trunk followed Tom back to the orphanage. As the shop owner had promised, none of the Muggle passerby so much as glanced at it. Once a pigeon flew too close, and the trunk leapt into the air after it. The lid snapped shut with a bang, and all that remained was a puff of grey feathers. Even then, no one noticed except Tom.

Tom opened the trunk curiously; there were his robes and his equipment, but no sign of the pigeon. The trunk shuffled in place. “Well…” Tom said, closing the lid. “I guess that’s alright, then.”

And he went home.

 

For the next few days, Tom practically lived in Diagon Alley. Every morning after breakfast, he walked to the Leaky Cauldron, changed into the robes he’d found in his vault, and spent the rest of the day wandering the magical street or practicing magic out of his textbooks or browsing through Flourish & Blotts. 

He bought a subscription to the Daily Prophet and read it from cover to cover every day. Whenever he came across a subject he didn’t understand—which was often—he found a book about it. Through this method he became well-acquainted with the Ministry of Magic, which was fascinating.

Once every ten years, the general public would select a group of candidates. From these, the Noble Houses would choose a new Minister for Magic. The current Minister was named Ottaline Gambol, and she was nearing the end of her ten years. The Prophet speculated that she would not be re-appointed; last year she had pushed through a law for the use of a stolen Muggle train to transport students to Hogwarts. That sparked a huge controversy between the supremacists and the equalists—who disagreed. The supremacists—people who thought wizards were better than Muggles—felt that the use of the train was unsafe, insanitary, and demeaning, while the equalists—who, as far as Tom could make out, thought Muggles were a bit like overgrown children—applauded the Minister’s progressiveness.

The Noble Houses in particular were evenly split along the supremacist versus equalist line, and the two wholly supremacist houses—the Blacks and the Gamps—had both suspended their parts of the Noble House Contract in protest.

A few days after Tom’s birthday, the Prophet published an article about him. It barely make the front page; the first paragraph was crammed into a corner beneath an article about thirty pure-blood protesters who had been arrested at King’s Cross Station for breaking the Statute of Secrecy.

 

The Ministry of Magic recently acknowledged a new scion of the Noble House of Gaunt. Mr. Just Morrison (82), Head of the Inheritance Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, told this reporter today that he completed the formalities last Monday. 

Mr. Morrison refused to give up any details about Mr. Gaunt. “Never met him,” he told this reporter as he left the Ministry yesterday. “Got the slip from Gringotts and that was it. He’s young, I know that. Starting Hogwarts this year.”

Mr. Gaunt will certainly… (continued page B4).

Tom read the rest of the article curiously, but it told him nothing he didn’t already know except that Morfin Gaunt was apparently infamously reclusive and had chased off the reporters who tried to speak to him on the matter. It quoted Grenuk at the end, but the goblin had done nothing but confirm that Tom had visited his vault on Sunday. 

As the days passed, the furor over the Hogwarts Express began to die down. The Prophet moved on to fresher news—an imported Erumpet horn that exploded upon delivery, killing four wizards and leveling the row-houses they lived in, rioting in Leeds after the Appleby Arrows lost to the Ballycastle Bats in the Quidditch League semi-finals, a wizard who was arrested and sent to Azkaban prison for use of one of the Unforgivable Curses…

On an unusually breezy afternoon a few days after the Prophet’s article about him, Tom was browsing through Flourish & Blotts in search of a book about fourteenth-century witch burnings when an unfamiliar voice called his name. He stepped away from the shelves, looking warily around for its source, and saw a boy standing a few feet away and staring at him.

“You are him, aren’t you?” asked the boy, coming closer.

“Yes,” said Tom. “Who are you?”

The boy reached Tom and held out his hand, smiling. “I’m Frank Longbottom,” he said. “I’ve seen you around, I think—my mum owns the apothecary, you see, so I spend a lot of time in the alley.” 

Tom had only been in the apothecary once, when he bought his potion-making kit, and he said so. Frank grinned. “Yeah, well, it’s mostly potioneers that she gets. People who brew for a living, you know. She actually mentioned you, the day you came in; she wondered where your parents were. That was before the article in the Prophet, obviously. Do you take the Prophet?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “I—”

“Mum says it’s a supremacist rag,” said Frank quickly. Tom narrowed his eyes, irritated by the interruption. “The editors never miss a chance to skew things in their favor.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Tom said flatly.

Frank’s expression became thoughtful, almost cautious. “Yeah, well, that’s not surprising, if you grew up out of the wizarding world,” he said. “You wouldn’t know how to recognize stuff like that. I can help you there.”

Tom scowled. “I’m not interested,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked off, but Frank followed him.

“I’m serious, Gaunt,” Frank said urgently. “You could get into serious trouble if you go around blindly like this. The other Houses are going to try to collect you—”

Tom’s eyes narrowed further. “Which is perfectly alright when you do it, I expect,” he snapped.

“I’m just trying to warn you,” Frank said. “The supremacists are ruthless, everyone knows that, they’ll just use you and then get rid of you when they’re done. Please, listen to me!” Tom kept walking, but Frank grabbed his elbow and spun him around. “I’m trying to help you!”

“Did mummy send you?” Tom snarled. “Or is it out of the goodness of your heart?”

For a moment, Frank stared at him, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. “Not everything is a game, Gaunt,” he said at last. “I’m just concerned for you.”

Tom snorted angrily. He shook his arm out of Frank’s grip and strode out of the store, glowering. This time, Frank didn’t try to stop him, except to shout, “You’re making a mistake!”

The door slammed shut behind Tom. 

Tom stalked through Diagon Alley, scowling. What bothered him the most was the suspicion that Longbottom was right, and that the rest of the Noble Houses probably saw him as a potential pawn. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard that it bled, determined that no one was going to collect him.

No one.

 

One morning in early February, Tom found several decades-old copies of the Daily Prophet in a tiny corner of Flourish & Blotts. As he flipped through them idly, he stumbled across the Gaunt name once again. It was a terse obituary for Marvolo Gaunt, who had died shortly after leaving Azkaban. He was buried in the graveyard of Little Hangleton and quickly forgotten.

Tom stared blankly at the page for a while, processing this new fact about his past.

“Hey, Gaunt!”

He glanced up in surprise. His trunk, sitting next to him as usual, scrambled to its feet. After a second or two, Tom located the source of the voice; Rabastan Lestrange was lurking next to a nearby bookshelf and grinning. Another boy, much shorter and with blond hair so pale it was almost white, stood next to him with his nose in a book.

“Hello,” Tom said, getting to his feet. He half-expected another warning, but, as his last meeting with Rabastan had been very civil, Tom was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Rabastan padded over to him. The blond boy followed without looking up from his book once. “This is Lucius Malfoy,” Rabastan said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the blond boy. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Lucius said without looking up. He sounded bored.

“Same,” Tom said. 

“He’s just had his birthday, and he’s supposed to be here for a wand,” Rabastan said, elbowing him. “But of course Lucy here can’t pass a bookshop without wanting to go in—”

“—don’t call me that—”

“—the bloody Ravenclaw,” Rabastan finished, grinning. “Anyway, I saw you and I thought maybe you’d help convince him that Ollivander’s is more important.” 

“Haven’t you got a wand yet?” Tom asked. “I’d have thought—growing up in a wizarding home—”

“Nah. You don’t buy a wand until you get the letter,” Rabastan said. “That’s tradition.” He glanced over Lucius’ shoulder and frowned. “For the love of—you’ve read that book before!” he said, exasperated.  “You own that book and about fifty more on the same bloody subject. Let’s go.”

Lucius turned a page calmly. “You just want to meet Mr. Ollivander,” he said.

“’Course I do,” Rabastan replied, rolling his eyes at Tom. “He’s a genius, he revolutionized modern wandmaking, I’ve told you—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Lestrange,” Lucius said. He closed his book with a loud snap. “The last thing either of us needs is a lecture on wandlore.”

“Philistine,” Rabastan muttered.

Lucius sighed softly. “You don’t even know what that means.” Rabastan glowered at him. “I’m finished, anyway,” he said. “We’ll go. Care to come along, Gaunt?”

Tom agreed, somewhat bemusedly, and they left Flourish & Blotts. As they made their way through the crowded streets, Rabastan babbled excitedly about a Quidditch match he’d attended recently. When Tom admitted that he didn’t have any idea what Quidditch actually was, the other boy made a sound like a mouse being trodden on.

“Of course,” he groaned. “You grew up in the Muggle world—you wouldn’t know—but you’ll see, it’s the best sport in the world. Played on broomsticks. There’s seven people on each team and—tell you what, after Lucius gets his wand, we’ll got to Quality Quidditch and I’ll introduce you properly.”

“Sure,” Tom said uncertainly. He’d never been one for team sports—he’d watched some of the other orphans kicking around an old football from time to time, and he’d never been able to grasp exactly why, but perhaps wizarding sports made more sense. Rabastan grinned at him.

When they reached Ollivander’s, Tom and Rabastan lingered by the window while Lucius started trying wands. Rabastan kept looking around eagerly, craning his neck to see the stacks of wand boxes.

“Does it matter?” Tom asked. “What kind of wand you get, I mean.”

“Huh? Oh, no, not really,” Rabastan said. “Well, wandlore’s really complicated and wands have individual personalities based on what wand core they have, and length and flexibility and so on, but, honestly, if you’re well-matched to your wand, there’s no real difference.” He sucked in a deep breath and went on, “Loads of people think you can predict personalities from wand type, though, like phoenix cores are supposed to be aloof and elder wands are power-crazed. It’s mostly rubbish, of course. What’s yours, anyway?”

“Yew and phoenix feather,” Tom said. “Thirteen inches.” He hesitated only slightly before adding, “And I’ve got another one, from my vault at Gringotts, that I use too, and that one’s ebony and basilisk crest.”

Rabastan made a choking sound. “What?”

Tom pulled the ebony wand out of his pocket. “Slytherin’s,” he said, grinning at the shocked expression on Rabastan’s face. “Or at least Ollivander thinks so.”

“Bloody hell,” Rabastan said, looking impressed. “Are you a descendent, then?”

“Maybe. I haven’t checked,” Tom said. 

“Checked what?” Lucius had evidentially found a wand, because he had joined them. He held it up for them to see. “Elm and dragon heartstring,” he said. “Twelve inches. “What are you and Rab checking?”

Excitedly, Rabastan said, “Whether he’s related to Slytherin. He’s got a basilisk wand, see?” He pointed at Tom’s wand. Tom smiled as Lucius quirked an eyebrow.

“Really? Interesting.” Lucius sighed. “It’s nearly noon, shall we get lunch?”

Rabastan looked scandalized. “Does nothing interest you?!” he demanded.

“Transfiguration does,” Lucius replied. He pushed open the door and led them back onto the street

“Philistine,” Rabastan grumbled.

“Don’t call me that again until you look it up in a dictionary.”

“Right,” Rabastan said, turning to Tom as if he hadn’t heard Lucius at all, “Quality Quidditch next.” He led the way out of the wand shop. “Quidditch is played with four balls—I’ll show you when we get there. Three Chasers fly around, trying to score with one of them, the Keeper guards the goals, two Beaters protect the other players and try to distract the other team by hitting Bludgers at them, and the Seeker has to catch the Snitch before the game ends.”

Tom stared at him blankly. Rabastan grinned a bit sheepishly. “That’s not the best explanation,” he admitted. “But—in here—they’ve got a rulebook if you want to read it.”

Quality Quidditch Supplies was easily the most crowded shop Tom had visited so far. Brightly-colored posters featuring witches and wizards with brooms over their shoulders plastered the walls. Racks of broomsticks lined the wall behind the register, and dozens of witches and wizards browsed through the rows of stiff-looking leather gloves and goggles and what looked like oversized cricket bats. A glass case near the door contained a display of four balls. The biggest of them looked like a lumpy, cherry-red football; the two on either side of it were slightly smaller, black, and quivering in leather restraints. The fourth was golden and smaller than Tom’s fist, with two long, graceful wings fluttering at either side.

For nearly an hour, Rabastan dragged Tom through the shop. With occasional interjections from Lucius, he described the rules of the game, identified the equipment that filled the shelves, and waxed poetical over the broom models behind the counter. Tom was very tempted to say that he couldn’t distinguish one from the other—they all looked like ordinary broomsticks to him—but in the end he didn’t quite have the heart.

“So what do you think?” Rabastan asked at last.

Tom grinned apologetically. “Maybe it’s different to see a game in person, but… honestly… I don’t see the point.”

Lucius let out a short, brittle laugh while Rabastan groaned. “There doesn’t have to be a point,” Rabastan said, “it’s a game.” But he grinned, and as they left the shop he asked whether they could meet up again in the next few weeks.

Tom hesitated, wondering how much of that offer was motivated by friendliness and how much from a parental order, but he agreed in the end. It would, after all, be useful to learn about the more commonplace parts of the wizarding world before getting to Hogwarts, and that was something he couldn’t get out of books.

 

Tom met Rabastan and Lucius several times throughout the next month. They wandered around Diagon Alley, visiting Gambol and Japes—a joke shop—and an ice cream parlor run by a man named Fortescue. On the second day they simply stayed outside, practicing magic in one of the little gaps between shops. Both Rabastan and Lucius had been using magic for years—Lucius even had private tutors—and in a matter of hours they taught Tom more about magic than he’d been able to learn from a few days of reading his textbooks. 

As the days grew warmer and Diagon Alley got busier, Lucius introduced Tom to chess. Tom loved the game right from the start. The pieces were alive and each of them had a small amount of intelligence, which meant that they argued with Tom whenever he made a move that put them in danger or that they thought was particularly moronic. Sometimes he had to repeat an order four or five times before the piece would move, grudgingly and grumbling obscenities under its breath. Frustrating as this was sometimes, Tom usually enjoyed the challenge.

Towards the end of June, Tom accompanied his friends to Mr. Ollivander’s wand shop for the second time so Rabastan could get a wand. Lucius had his nose buried in a new issue of Transfiguration Today and was in no mood to talk, so Tom amused himself by watching a fly that was buzzing in the window. It kept flying into the glass and bouncing away with little thwick noises.

The bells over the door jingled softly. Tom didn’t look up until Lucius said, “Morning, Bellatrix.”

She was nearly as tall as Tom, pale, and had coal-black, heavy-lidded eyes that fixed on Tom almost immediately. “Lucius,” she said curtly, her gaze never leaving Tom’s face. One of her eyebrows arched slightly.

“This is Tom Gaunt,” Lucius said, nodding towards Tom. “Gaunt, this is Bellatrix Black.”

Tom bowed slightly in her direction. “Pleasure to meet you.” He remembered Longbottom’s warning that the Noble Houses would try to “collect” him, and the thought made him cautious.

A real smile appeared on Bellatrix’s face; it made her look almost angelic. “Charmed,” she said. Her head tilted slightly to one side. “You’re different than I imagined.”

“In what way?”

The smile became a smirk. “You’re much too tall, for one.”

“I’m afraid that’s not something I’ve got control over,” Tom said. Bellatrix laughed and moved to look over his shoulder.

“What were you looking at, anyway?” she asked.

“Nothing in particular,” Tom said.

Bellatrix laughed again. She stepped around him, her hand flicking out almost too quickly to follow. The fly, which had been circling lazily in the lower right corner of the window, stopped buzzing as she caught it between her thumb and forefinger. “You’re a terrible liar, you know,” she said. Tom heard Lucius snickering. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tom said through clenched teeth.

Behind them, Mr. Ollivander let out an exultant cry. “Wonderful, Mr. Lestrange, that’s the one. Seven Galleons, if you please…” Tom, grateful for the excuse to look away, glanced over his shoulder towards the desk. Rabastan shoved the money into Mr. Ollivander’s hand and then bounded over to them, clutching a long, green box in one hand and his new wand in the other. “Blackthorn and phoenix feather,” he said as he reached them, grinning broadly. “Eleven and three quarter inches. Morning, Bellatrix.”

“Good morning,” she said tonelessly. She flashed a smile at Tom and walked away to take Rabastan’s place in front of the desk. Tom could hear Mr. Ollivander’s excited muttering as Rabastan flung himself into a chair next to Lucius. It creaked dangerously, but held.

“So that’s Bellatrix,” Rabastan said, gesturing vaguely towards the desk. Tom didn’t look around. “About time she met you, really. She wouldn’t shut up about you after we did, you know. Interrogated Lucius and I for hours—”

“‘Lucius and me,’” Lucius muttered without looking up from the pages of his magazine.

“Right,” Rabastan said, shrugging. He looked intently at Tom. “What do you think?”

“She’s…” Tom floundered. “Interesting,” he managed at last Behind him, Bellatrix laughed, and Tom had to exercise a lot more effort than he should have not to turn around. 

The door opened again, and a tall witch in flowery robes walked in, holding a girl by the hand. She eyed them warily and kept to the other side of the shop. 

“Did all the letters get sent out today?” Tom asked.

“To anyone who hasn’t had a birthday yet this year,” Rabastan said, rolling his eyes. “Mind you, Bellatrix turns twelve in a few months—September—but Hogwarts doesn’t send out letters until the new year. She got very irate about it last fall.”

Lucius’ copy of Transfiguration Today rustled loudly as he closed it and began to roll it up. “Outraged would be more appropriate, I think.”

Rabastan drew a deep breath to reply, but he never got the chance. There was a loud snapping noise from the desk, and Mr. Ollivander yet out a yelp. When Tom turned to see what was going on, the wandmaker had his hand to his mouth. His hand smoked gently, but he didn’t look surprised. Bellatrix had a wand in her hand and a nasty smirk on her face.

“Seven Galleons, please, Miss Black,” Mr. Ollivander said as he lowered his hand. Tom could see that a patch of skin the size of a knut had been blackened and charred. As Bellatrix paid Mr. Ollivander, Tom turned back to the window, determined not to let her catch him staring. That would be like… like losing, somehow. 

“Walnut and dragon heartstring,” Bellatrix said as she rejoined them. “Twelve and three quarter inches.”

“I tried that one,” Tom said, remembering suddenly. The others all stared at him. “I tried just about every wand in the shop, mind,” he added, because Bellatrix’s expression had turned almost murderous.

The corners of Bellatrix’s mouth curled up in a tiny smirk. “They say that’s the mark of a Dark wizard,” she said. “To have trouble finding a wand, that is.”

“‘They’ being…?” 

“The uneducated masses, obviously,” Bellatrix said, smirking. She started to turn towards the door, and, on a whim, Tom stepped around her. He got outside first, then held the door open so she, Rabastan, and Lucius could follow him. Tom thought he saw Bellatrix’s eyes harden as she passed him, but she didn’t look at him directly so it might have been his imagination.

Bellatrix set off at a brisk pace, and this time, Tom knew he wasn’t seeing things when he fell into step next to her and her jaw clenched. Her annoyance shouldn’t have been funny, but it was. Tom held back a grin. “Have you bought your books yet?”

“No,” Bellatrix said, her eyes still fixed straight ahead. “Neither has Rabastan, which—”

“—is why we’re going to Flourish & Blotts now?” Tom was vaguely aware that it might not be a good idea to irritate her like this, but the way Bellatrix’s lips twisted into a snarl for a half-second before she regained control of herself was worth it. 

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “I expect you’ve had yours for weeks?”

“Months,” Tom said. Bellatrix inhaled deeply and seemed to calm down a bit, and when she spoke again a few seconds later, it was in the same, almost friendly tone she had used inside Mr. Ollivander’s.

“You’re not wearing second-hand robes,” she said. “I assumed you would be.”

“I did buy second-hand robes,” Tom said, “but later I found these in my vault at Gringotts, and, of course…”

“Of course,” Bellatrix echoed.

They had reached Flourish & Blotts by now, and Bellatrix vanished into the stacks so quickly that she might have simply disappeared into thin air. Tom would have followed her, but Lucius caught his arm and steered him away from the door.

“Are you mad?” Lucius asked in a strained whisper.

“If I were I wouldn’t admit it,” Tom said. He was feeling a bit giddy, and he had to stifle a snicker at the frightened look on Lucius’ face. 

Lucius glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting Bellatrix to pop up at any second. “She could literally have you killed, Gaunt,” he said, even quieter than before. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but—”

“She started it,” Tom said, shrugging. 

“But—she—you don’t—” Lucius spluttered for a moment, then shook his head, his eyes closed tight. He sighed. “It’s your funeral, Gaunt,” he said. 

He, too, hurried deeper into the shop. While he waited for them to come back, Tom browsed through the special displays—there was a sale on Divination textbooks, which where arranged on a table draped with purple velvet and had titles like Parting the Shroud and Dactylomancy Demystified. Next to that there was a table with a single book propped up on it; the book had a pair of cobalt blue eyes set into its cover, and they followed Tom as he passed by. 

“Last chance, Gaunt.” Frank Longbottom’s voice pulled Tom’s attention away from the displays, and Tom turned around, frowning, to find the other boy leaning against a rack of magazines. “Stick with that lot” he jerked his chin in the direction that Bellatrix had gone “much longer and you’ll be stuck. Black’ll sink her little talons into you and that’s it. You’re done.”

Tom felt his lips curl into a sneer. “Did you find that in a book?” he asked. “Please, Longbottom. Bellatrix, at least, is subtle.” He put a faint stress on Bellatrix, and Longbottom bristled.

“I’m trying to help you!” Longbottom said. “I’m trying to—they’re bad people, Gaunt, they’re—”

Something collided with Tom’s side, and he staggered. He heard Bellatrix’s voice right next to his ear. “I found a book you’ll like—come and see,” she said, clutching at his arm with both hands. Longbottom looked just as startled as Tom was, and Bellatrix took advantage of their bewilderment to drag Tom across the room. By the time Tom had processed what was happening, Longbottom was out of sight.

“Er…” said Tom. Bellatrix let go of his arm and went back to examining the books as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Longbottom doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” she said flatly.

“I hadn’t figured that out yet, thanks,” Tom said.

Bellatrix’s shoulders went rigid. “Don’t interrupt me,” she snapped.

“Don’t I technically outrank you?” Tom asked, smirking. “I mean, I am the heir of a Noble House, after all. You’re just an heir.”

“Technically, yes,” Bellatrix muttered. She glanced over her shoulder, looking away immediately after she saw Tom staring at her. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“What, annoying you?” Tom asked. “Obviously.”

Bellatrix huffed angrily. “Most people would consider that suicide.”

“Lucius certainly does.”

Bellatrix pulled a book off the shelf and flipped through it instead of answering. “Why don’t you?” she asked after she’d replaced the book. Her fingers were quivering slightly.

Tom thought for a while before answering, trying to get his thoughts in order. At last he shrugged. “It’s… exciting, I guess.” Bellatrix didn’t answer, clearly expecting more, so Tom continued slowly, “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s really tried to pull rank on me. I think… I think that made it a challenge. To get to you, I mean.” Like chess, only more fun and with higher stakes. He watched her closely, but her reaction was well-hidden.

“I see,” Bellatrix said. “I suppose I can understand that.” 

Neither of them said anything for a while after that. Bellatrix found the rest of her school books and Tom trailed after her, watching silently. She paid and they found a bench where they could wait for Lucius and Rabastan, and only then did she break the silence.

“What did Longbottom want, anyway?”

“Warning me off of you. Again.” Tom leaned back against the wall, stretching his legs out in front of him. Bellatrix went rigid.

“‘Again?’” she asked, her expression dark.

“The first time was a while ago,” Tom said absently. “He seemed like a prat—”

“He is,” Bellatrix muttered.

Smirking, Tom said, “Don’t interrupt.” Bellatrix glanced over at him, lips pursed, but there was an amused glint in her eyes.

“Only if you won’t.”

Tom stuck out his hand. “Agreed.” Hesitantly, Bellatrix took it, and they shook once. 

“You’re very strange, you know, Gaunt,” she said after letting go.

“It’s on account of my upbringing, probably,” Tom replied. He rolled his head around towards her, his cheek resting against the cool wall. Though she wasn’t looking at him directly, her eyes kept flicking in his direction. “Does it bother you?” he asked.

“Yes. …No. I haven’t decided, yet,” she said. “I think…” Now she did turn to look at him, just a little. “I think we could be friends, though.”

A friendship with Bellatrix Black would keep life interesting, if nothing else. Tom nodded slowly. “I think so,” he said. A smile—the one she’d used in Ollivander’s after Lucius had introduced them—curled over her face. 

Tom felt an odd flash of triumph.