This is awesome, and your writing quality is amazing, which isn't always that common for fanfiction. And I like the, "Tom appreciated the effort, nevertheless, though he would never have admitted it to anyone." part. It makes him seem more human.

There's just one tiny typo methinks. It says, "After the freezing the little puddle solid for the sixth time," Is a, "the" supposed to be after the, "After"?

Please continue this. If you don't, I'll go to your house with a pitchfork in hand. :P 

Now go to the top or I'll go to your house with a pitchfork, thread.

More but still not all of chapter 1:

As it turned out, Tom didn’t have much time to dwell upon his inexplicable sense of anticipation, because Miss Cole called him down to the office shortly after breakfast. Apparently there was a middle-aged gentleman who wished to speak with him alone.

“You don’t suppose he’s my...” Tom began, but the word “father” died in his throat.

Miss Cole smiled faintly. “I don’t know, Tom. He said it was a matter of some urgency, though.” She gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze before Tom stepped into the shabby but scrupulously clean office.

The gentleman was extraordinarily odd. Tall and thin, he had a nose like a turnip and wild, greying brown hair which stuck out in all directions. Stranger still, he wore a blindingly yellow suit and carried a blue briefcase. Tom stared at him for a full minute before remembering his manners and saying, “You wished to speak with me, sir?”

The strange man peered at him with slightly bloodshot green eyes. “You are Mr. Tom Marvolo Riddle?”

“Yes, sir. Who are you, sir?” Tom seriously doubted that this... person... was a relative of his, but he supposed anything was possible. 

“I am Professor Penrose,” said the man. He smiled, revealing unnaturally straight teeth. “I am here primarily to discuss your future education.”

Tom perked up a little at that. “You’re from a school, sir?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. He couldn’t count the times had he dreamt of going to a proper school, with good teachers where he could actually learn things. Tom thought he would even accept this professor’s strange attire if it meant he could go to a good school.

Professor Penrose’s smile became indulgent. “Yes, Tom. A very exclusive school, in fact, called Hogwarts.”

As quickly as his hopes had risen, they fell. Exclusive, Tom knew all too well, meant expensive. Hesitantly, he said, “I haven’t any money, sir.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself about that, Tom,” Penrose said, waving a hand dismissively. “Hogwarts has a very generous financial aide program which will cover all of your necessary expenses, though you will need to buy your books and equipment secondhand.” 

The tension around Tom’s chest eased again, only to reappear when another oddity occurred to him. “How did I get into this school, sir? I’ve never heard of it, let alone applied.” 

Penrose hesitated before he said, quietly, “Sit down, Tom.”

Tom did so, warily.

“Hogwarts is a very special school in that prospective students do not need to apply. The school finds the prospective students, Tom, not the other way around.” Something in Penrose’s expression, almost calculating, stopped Tom from questioning again. After a moment, Penrose said, “You are a wizard, Tom. Hogwarts is a school of magic.”

Immediately Tom thought of the still-frozen puddle on his window sill, of Dennis’ arm, of the death of Billy Stubbs’ rabbit, of the snakes that occasionally whispered to him on the yearly outings to the countryside. “...Wizard?” he said.

Penrose beamed at him. “Yes, Tom. I know it may seem hard to believe-” It wasn’t, but Tom could see no reason to correct the professor on this point- “but think back. Have you ever done something you couldn’t explain, perhaps when you were scared, or angry...?”

Tom thought about that. No, he had never done anything of the kind whilst scared or angry, but he had done plenty of inexplicable things at other times. He nodded slowly, hoping that Penrose would choose not to press the issue. Then he said, “Prove it.”

“I- what?” Clearly this was not the reaction Penrose had expected.

“Prove you’re a wizard,” Tom said. A second later he remembered his manners and added, “Please.”

To his relief Penrose didn’t seem in the least bit perturbed by this demand, and the strange man pulled out a long, thin piece of wood which Tom supposed was a wand of some sort. He hid sudden confusion; he had never needed a wand of any kind to channel his magic, if that was indeed what he had been doing for eight years now. 

“Watch closely, Tom, please,” Penrose said, and then he flicked the piece of wood lazily at Miss Cole’s desk. It burst into flames, and Tom leapt to his feet, shouting protests. Another flick of Penrose’s wand, however, and the fire vanished, leaving the desk and the papers on it untouched. 

Tom sat down again. He was trembling, whether from excitement or from terror he didn’t know. That had been far more impressive than his little tricks with candles. Right then Tom decided what he wanted more than anything in the world was a wand of his own. “I...” The words stuck in his throat and he swallowed, hard, trying to regain control of himself. “I... It’s magic, what I can do?”

Penrose was looking at him with that calculating expression again. “And what can you do, Tom?”

Feeling reckless, Tom said in a rush, “All sorts. I can- I can make things move without touching them. I can start fires- little ones. Just candles. And I can make ice.” His blood was starting to rush in his ears, and he felt almost feverish in his excitement. “I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can-” he paused, realizing that Penrose might not be terribly impressed with breaking Dennis’ arm, and instead finished, rather lamely, “I can do a lot of things.”

Aware that Penrose’s calculating look had turned to one of almost caution, Tom folded his hands in his lap and tried to regain his composure. He took several deep breaths, waiting for the professor to reply.

“I... see.”

“Is something wrong, sir?”

Penrose appeared to rouse himself from some deep thought. “Nothing, Tom. It’s just that muggleborn children are rarely so... advanced at this point.”

“...Muggleborn?”

The professor smiled a bit shakily. “Ah, that is, wizards who are born to non-magical folk. ‘Muggle’ is a term for... non-wizards.” 

Tom thought about that for a moment. “So... neither of my parents were magic?” he said. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Penrose said. “But it is likely that they were muggles, yes.” Then, in a rather brisk tone, he said, “Now. As I mentioned, Hogwarts has a fund to provide for those who cannot afford their course materials.” He reached into his blue briefcase and extracted a lumpy leather bag, which he handed to Tom. 

It was full of what Tom assumed was wizard money. He pulled out an enormous, golden disc and examined the tiny pictures engraved on it. They were moving. Tom held the coin an inch away from his face, fascinated. 

“That,” said Penrose, “is a Galleon. It’s worth seventeen Sickles, those are the silver ones, and one Sickle is worth twenty-nine Knuts, those are the square bronze ones.”

Tom pulled out one of each coin; all of them had moving pictures and symbols. “How many pounds are these worth?” he asked, well aware that, whatever the coins were worth in the non-magical world, he was probably holding more money than he had ever seen in his life. 

“Well, the exchange rate varies, but on average I would say that a Galleon is equivalent to around thirty-five British pounds?”

Tom jerked, and nearly dropped the coins he was holding. Shakily, he put them back in the bag, now holding it with a good deal more care. “Thirty-five pounds?!” he said, feeling dizzy. And the bag was mostly full of Galleons, too. “How much do books and things cost, then?” he demanded. Forget pocket money, he was holding a small fortune in his hands right now, and Penrose was looking at him as if he had just grown another head.

“Secondhand?” Penrose said. “No more than eight or so Galleons, altogether, I should think. Together with your wand, your equipment, and your robes, you should be left with about three Galleons to spend on an item of your choice.” He pulled a thick envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Tom. “Enclosed is your letter, your supply list, and instructions to Diagon Alley, where you’ll be buying all your things. The supply list doesn’t include it, but you will also need a trunk to carry your things. Keep the envelope, because your train ticket will be in it come August twenty-fifth. The Hogwarts Express leaves at eleven o’clock sharp on September the first from King’s Cross Station. Don’t be late.” 

The professor pulled a silver watch from his pocket and eyed it for a moment. “Now, I’m afraid I have an appointment elsewhere,” he said. “Good day to you, Mr. Riddle.”

He left. Almost immediately Miss Cole burst into the room, and Tom would have bet the entirety of the small fortune Penrose had left him with that she had been waiting anxiously in the hall to see what the strange man had wanted. Before she could say anything, Tom said, “He was from a school. I suppose I’ve got a scholarship of some kind, and he left money for me to buy my books and... things.” Things like magic wands, for instance.

A huge smile lit up Miss Cole’s face. “Oh, Tom, that’s wonderful,” she said. Miss Cole was the only person who knew why Tom really wanted his father to take him away, and Tom knew she had always felt incredibly guilty that she couldn’t afford better schools for the boy.

“Yes.” Tom wondered how much he should tell her, then decided that secrecy might be best until he learned just what the wizarding policy was on sharing with non-magical people. Or muggles, Penrose had said. “Can I go today? Term doesn’t start until next September, but I want to...” he trailed off, unable to find the words to accurately describe how desperately he wanted to read his schoolbooks. 

“Of course, Tom,” Miss Cole said, still beaming at him. “Do you need me to come with you?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Tom smiled at her. He was starting to shake again, he was so desperate to get to... What was it Penrose had said? Diagon Alley?

He barely remembered saying goodbye to Miss Cole and sprinting up to his room to peruse his Hogwarts letter in peace. It was addressed to Mr. T. M. Riddle, Room Six, Wool Orphanage, Kearney Lane, London and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Armando Dippet

Dear Mr. Riddle,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. 

Yours sincerely,

Pericles Penrose

Pericles Penrose, Deputy Headmaster

Tom sat very still for a long time, reading the letter over and over, half-expecting to find that it was an awful prank of some kind. His heart seemed to have lodged itself in his throat and he was having trouble breathing.

He had always known that he was different, that he was special, that he could do things the others could only dream of. Always, even before he had discovered his magic. And now he held the proof of it in his hands, real and solid and undeniably set down in ink. Tom wanted to laugh and cry and shout, all at the same time.

Eventually he got hold of himself, and carefully put his letter next to the bag of money on his bedside table. He fished around in the envelope and came up with two more sheets of parchment, one of which held directions to a place called the Leaky Cauldron which, Tom realized with a jolt, was in fact only a few blocks away from the orphanage. Apparently the entrance to Diagon Alley was behind the pub.

The other was his supply list, and Tom’s heart leapt right back into his throat as he read it:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) 
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Wizards liked black, apparently, which was fine with Tom. He continued, fingers trembling so badly he had to put the paper down before he could read any more.

COURSE BOOKS

All first year students will require:

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

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Sic Itur Ad Astra: 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 STUDENTS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.

By this time Tom was shaking so badly that he was in danger of falling off the bed. He wasted no time in throwing on his rather threadbare jacket and left to find the Leaky Cauldron, trying not to grin too much in case it disturbed passerby.

The streets were nearly deserted, however, so Tom needn’t have worried. He found the Leaky Cauldron easily enough; the directions Penrose had left him were perfectly clear and in fact Tom recognized it. He had often passed the shabby little building, wondering why nobody ever seemed to go in. Wizards, he supposed, must have a way of preventing muggles from noticing things.

Inside, the pub was dark and slightly smoky; Tom stood in the doorway for a moment to let his eyes adjust. There weren’t very many customers, just a hunched and hooded figure in the for corner and a few scruffy-looking men who seemed uninterested in anything outside of their large, wooden tankards. The barkeep was looking at him curiously.

“Can I help you, young sir?” he asked, flipping his rag onto the counter. 

Tom took another, slightly tentative step into the pub, squinting at the barkeep and feeling suddenly foolish. However, he could see a wand sticking out of the barkeep’s back pocket and that made him feel braver somehow, so he said, “I’m trying to get to Diagon Alley.” He managed, barely, to keep it from being a question.

The barkeep grinned. He was missing two teeth. “Out the back, tap the center brick three times with your wand. Or finger, if you haven’t got a wand.” He jerked a thumb at a door on the other side of the pub. 

It seemed to take a very long time for Tom to cross the room. The barkeep’s eyes stayed trained on him the entire time, and it took all of Tom’s willpower not to break into a run. Determined to stay in control, he forced himself to open the door slowly instead of wrenching it open like he wanted too.

He was in a small, dingy little courtyard, even more unimpressive than the Leaky Cauldron itself. Tom licked his lips nervously and went over to examine the grimy brick wall that supposedly led to Diagon Alley. It looked utterly normal, and Tom wondered if this mightn’t be some kind of prank the barkeep was playing on him.

Nevertheless, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to try. Tom took a deep breath and then tapped three times on the brick in the center of the wall. 

Your writing is really good.  The story is very easy to get caught up in; it flows along smoothly.  And Isabella Cole is a good idea.  I didn't find any typos, and I don't have snide remarks ; )  but...I'm confused...is Tom supposed to be Harry?  I'll say that I like the evil Tom Riddle much better : )  But this fan fic is interesting.  Keep writing!  Where can I find the other HP fan fic you wrote?

Still amazing and I still love your Tom. And your Mrs. Cole. And how you replaced Dumbledore with Penrose. Just a question though: In canon, Dumbledore taught Transfig when Tom enrolled, oui?

This still isn't all of chapter 1, because it turned out to be absurdly long when I c+p'd it. Still, anyway, this is my favorite bit:

For a second nothing happened, and then the brick started to twist and stretch, like a sponge being wrung out. The rest of the wall started to buckle as well, and Tom stepped back nervously. Suddenly, the entire wall split open and rearranged itself into a gigantic archway, through which Tom could see a twisting, cobbled streets and brightly colored shops. He walked through, incredulous and awed.  

Slightly dazed, Tom stumbled towards the nearest shop, a squat, grey building with cauldrons stacked in its windows and a huge, flashing sign that read “After-Christmas Sale -- All Marked Items Half Off!”; Tom didn’t have much time to take this in, however, because he was distracted by a squat, greasy man with a wooden cart, who appeared from around a corner shouting, “Diricawl eggs, two sickles each! Guaranteed fresh ‘n’ hot! Get yer fresh, hot Diricawl eggs!”. He started towards Tom hopefully, but since his merchandise appeared to be green, Tom hastened deeper into Diagon Alley. 

He wished he had more eyes; Tom had to keep spinning around to see everything. There was a skinny man with a long, red beard carrying a tank of what looked like brilliantly blue, spinning tops which bobbed up and down and occasionally bounced off the glass; there were shops with spindly silver mechanisms on display in their windows, shops selling telescopes of every size imaginable and shops with eyes by the jarful sitting on dusty shelves in the windows. 

Tom passed an enormous shop with brooms in its windows which, for some mystifying reason, had a sizable crowd surrounding it and chattering excitedly. On the other side of the street, and far more interesting to Tom, stood a three-story shop called Flourish & Blotts which had bookshelves crammed with more books than Tom had ever dared to hope for. He spent at least five minutes with his nose up against the glass, examining the books displayed in the windows. They had titles like Merlin: His Life and Legacy, The Dark Lords Ascending: Pro Maio Bono, and Horklumps, Knarls and Gnomes: A Practical Guide to Garden Pests. 

Curiosity spurred him onwards before he could actually get into the bookshop, and he passed a darkened shop with the words Eeylops Owl Emporium painted over its door in faded, chipped blue. There were a couple of owls sleeping in the window cages, and Tom stared at them for almost as long as he stared at the books before moving on. 

A woman in dark blue robes stormed past him, speaking angrily into what looked like a small crystal ball. “...three Galleons per scoop, he said! The nerve of some...”

Tom kept walking, turning his head rapidly back and forth. 

Then, at last, he saw what he had been looking forward to most. It was a small, shabby building with grimy windows; the sign over the door said “Ollivander’s: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.” in peeling golden letters.

Tom went in, trembling. 

Aside from the faint tinkle of the bell as the door closed behind him, the shop was completely silent. Both walls were lined with shelves crammed with long, thin boxes which Tom supposed contained wands. He waited for a few minutes for an owner to appear; when no one came forward he called, softly, “Hello?”

For a few seconds there was no answer, and Tom started to worry that perhaps the shop was deserted; then, so suddenly that he might have just stepped out of the wall, a tall, thin man with wild silver hair appeared out of the shadows. He approached Tom, pale eyes trained on the boy’s face.

“Hello,” said the man.

Tom swallowed his nervousness and said, “Mr. Ollivander?”

A thin, weird smile crept over the man’s face. “I am he,” he said. “I suppose you’ll be needing a wand?”

“Yes. Sir.” Tom slid a hand into his pocket and clenched a hand around the bag of money that Penrose had handed him.

Mr. Ollivander was still looking at him with that strange little smile. “You’re a bit early, for Hogwarts, you know. Or late, depending on one’s view.”

Tom squared his shoulders a little. “I am, sir.” 

There was silence for an uncomfortable moment, and Tom was about to speak again when Mr. Ollivander said, “Right handed?”

“Left, sir.” Tom watched as the wandmaker’s smile grew.

“Excellent,” he murmured. “Muggleborn?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Ollivander rubbed his bony hands together, looking excited now. “Very good,” he said softly. “We’ll start you with the dragon heartstring cores, shall we, my boy?” With sudden energy he moved to the shelves and started pulling out box after box.

“Sir?”

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr...?”

“Riddle, sir. Tom Riddle.” As Tom watched the wandmaker returned, arms now full of the long, thin boxes, and dumped them in a heap on the desk.

“Mr. Riddle.” He beckoned Tom closer. “Come forward, don’t be shy. Try this one. Holly, six and a quarter inches. Bendy.” He opened a box and offered Tom a short, dark wand. Tom took it, unsure of what to do. “Go on,” Mr. Ollivander said, encouragingly, “give it a wave.”

Tom did so, only for Mr. Ollivander to snatch it out of his hand immediately. “Not that one,” the wandmaker said absently. “Certainly not.” He set it aside, then opened another box. “Try this. Ash, ten inches, nice and whippy.”

“What did you mean, sir, that the wand chooses the wizard?” Tom asked, as he waved this wand and again had it pulled out of his hand by Mr. Ollivander.

As he took the next offering (“Oak, nine inches, unyielding”), Mr. Ollivander said, “Exactly that, Mr. Riddle. Wands are tricky things; they bear allegiance to one wizard, and one only. Not that one either, try this, willow, ten and three quarter inches, quite supple... Of course, you can use another wizard’s wand, but the results will not be quite the same.” He snatched the willow wand out of Tom’s hand as well.

Tom tried wand after wand, but none seemed to be what Mr. Ollivander was searching for. After he had gone through all of the dragon heartstring cores, they started on the phoenix cores. These, Tom noticed, were all rather thinner than all the wands he had been trying previously, and after the fourth one was yanked out of his hand, he decided that they were somewhat lighter, too.

By the time they were halfway through the phoenix cores, Mr. Ollivander was nearly manic in his excitement. “Oh, I haven’t had a customer this tricky in decades!” he cried happily, pulling yet another wand out of its box. “Try this, Mr. Riddle. Yew, thirteen and a half inches, springy.” 

Tom took it, not really expecting much at this point. This time, however, when he waved the wand vaguely through the air, the temperature of the room plummeted and a stream of silvery sparks arched behind the wand. Mr. Ollivander clapped his hands together in delight. “Yes, yes, that’s it, Mr. Riddle.” The wandmaker beamed at him.

Still in a slight state of shock at having found a magic wand at last, Tom paid Mr. Ollivander seven Galleons, and left the shop with it clutched in his hand. 

He spent the next few hours in Flourish & Blotts, flipping through the books and reading everything that looked even remotely interesting. He found all of his schoolbooks, but focused most of his almost frantic research on titles that he would not be buying; there would be plenty of time to study his textbooks in the orphanage.

Tom learnt that the strange, flying blue tops he had seen in a tank earlier that day were called billywigs, and that their stings produced giddiness and levitation, an addiction to which had caused Australian wizard Jarvis the Insane to loose his mind in 1469; that in 1805 the infamous wizard Alfred the Unstable had once eaten an entire broiled mandrake root and had become so feverish and jittery as a result that he ran twice around the Ministry of Magic Atrium at such speeds that his feet caught fire; that the Aurors were a specialized anti-Dark squad established by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in 1756 to deal with a vampire infestation in Liverpool.

After his brief perusal of the history section, Tom moved onto the spell books, his heart slamming wildly against his ribs. It seemed there were spells for everything. Tom hid himself amidst the thick tomes and read about spells to find lost things, charms of protection against enemies, spells to make things weigh less or weigh more, illusionary enchantments that could render a person impossible to detect by any means save special spells designed specifically to reveal hidden persons. There were curses to give nightmares, boil internal organs, cause baldness; there was a jinx that, properly cast, would cause the target’s skin to turn thick and scaly. There were cleaning spells, copying spells, cooking spells, spells to cure and to cause illnesses, spells to get rid of pests, spells to make things bigger on the inside, spells of every kind imaginable. Tom found a pencil stub in one of his pockets and used it to scribble down some of the more useful-sounding ones in the backs of the books he was going to buy.

All too soon the shop manager caught Tom with his nose in one of the books, and told him that he either had to buy something and leave or else just leave, so Tom reluctantly put the book back and carried his significantly more shabby secondhand textbooks to the front of the shop. Together, they cost seven Galleons, twelve Sickles, and three knuts. 

It was nearly three o’clock when Tom stepped out into Diagon Alley once more. He decided that he could buy the rest of his school things when it was closer to the start of term; there was no sense in trying to hide a cauldron and school robes for nine months, and if what he’d read about the International Statute of Secrecy was anything to judge by, he couldn’t exactly start cooking up potions in the middle of a muggle orphanage anyway. So he trudged happily back down Diagon Alley and out through the Leaky Cauldron with his Flourish & Blotts bags slung awkwardly over one shoulder and the box with his wand in it clenched in his free hand.

The first thing Tom did upon returning to the orphanage was to lock himself in his room to examine his wand properly. So far as he could see, it was an ordinary piece of wood, perfectly smooth and slightly thicker on one end. He flicked it at the candle on his table experimentally, and a thin bluish flame nearly the length of the candle itself flared before shrinking down to a more normal size and color. Tom grinned.

For a few minutes he amused himself by making his pillow zoom around the room at high speed, something which had been infuriatingly difficult without a wand. When that thrill started to wear off somewhat, Tom turned his attention to the books.

After a short deliberation, Tom decided to start with Magical Theory. He settled down on the bed, wand still clutched in his left hand, and opened it to the table of contents. He stared at the list, delight bubbling away in his stomach; the chapters had headings like “Basic Wandlore: A Brief History of Magical Channelling” and “The Importance of Proper Pronunciation” and “The Merlin Effect: What Really Happens When You Cast A Spell”. 

Tom read for hours, skipping dinner and only barely managing to shove his books into the wardrobe and his wand beneath the pillow before a nervous-looking Billy Stubbs burst into his room without knocking and announced that Miss Cole wanted him to come down and eat something. Head swimming with the mass of information that he had just consumed, Tom silently padded downstairs towards the little kitchen. It occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and, suddenly ravenous, he quickened his pace.

Tom spent the next few months pouring over his schoolbooks and practicing magic whenever he could. When he attempted anything more than the simple, basic magic that didn’t require actual incantations, he snuck into Diagon Alley to do it; although Tom wasn’t sure about the penalties for underage magic if one had never actually been to Hogwarts, he doubted he would be able to pass off actual spells as accidental magic if the Ministry of Magic took issue with it. On the other hand, if what he had read about the Trace that first day in Flourish & Blotts was true, the Ministry wouldn’t be able to tell if he was using magic illegally against the background magic in such a highly crowded wizarding place.

By summertime Tom was proficient at most of the charms in The Standard Book of Spells, and he had thoroughly mastered all but one of the spells he had copied into his textbooks from the newer and slightly more advanced books in Flourish & Blotts. He hadn’t dared to try any Transfiguration after reading the rather dire warning in the front of the book, which detailed the various rather nasty ways it could go fatally wrong, but he had read the textbook itself about four times over and made numerous notes in the margins, and he felt thoroughly prepared for the class. 

Now most of his spare time was spent trying to get the bigger-on-the-inside spell right. Tom had read that it was an fairly advanced spell, something that he couldn’t hope to accomplish until at least his fifth year at Hogwarts, but that didn’t make him any less determined to try. Optimally, he would be able to turn the old, worn suitcase that Miss Cole had given him into a storage space comparable to the trunks traditionally used by Hogwarts students, complete with weightlessness charm and the basic protective enchantments that Tom already knew. So far all he had managed was enlarging the interior by a little more than ten inches on each side after repeated casting. Still, Tom had all summer and, if worst came to worst, he would be able to buy a real trunk from the luggage vendor in Diagon Alley. Tom would rather not, though, because he estimated that scratching a trunk off of his list of things to buy would save him around fifteen Galleons.

He read anything he could find about enlarging spells in Flourish & Blotts. Eventually the managers had gotten tired of kicking the boy out, and had offered him a job of sorts dusting the shelves in return for which he could read for a few hours every day. Tom had agreed gleefully, and had even managed to wheedle a fascinating book called Practical Magic: Spells of Everyday Convenience out of the deal. The shop’s current owner, a Mr. Claudius Blott, muttered something about how Tom was headed straight to Ravenclaw when he had found out. Judging by the way Mr. Blott smiled when he said it, the portly little man thought this to be a compliment of the highest order.

Tom, who had read about both the Hogwarts Founders and the Houses which the Four had given their name to, agreed with him; Ravenclaw, he thought, seemed to be the best House by far. Though he supposed Hufflepuff wouldn’t be too bad either. Miss Cole always said that reaching for your dreams was all very well and good, but that if you weren’t willing to work hard to get them you might as well give up at the start, and since Tom had seen firsthand how true that philosophy seemed to be in regards to magic, he agreed wholeheartedly.

There was one thing he was looking forward to almost as much as Hogwarts, and that was the orphanage’s summer outing. Tom usually didn’t enjoy them very much, except for the snakes, of course, but this time he could barely wait. He had looked up the village they would be staying in and, as it turned out, it had a relatively large, hidden wizarding population as well as a small market district called Bowman’s Row that was reportedly not quite as well known and tourist-y as Diagon Alley but still sold products of more or less the same quality. With any luck the place would be much cheaper, and Tom would be able to buy some of the smaller items on his list for half of what he would have paid in Diagon Ally. If he could get the bigger-on-the-inside spell working correctly before they left, he would be able to buy everything but the robes, which he intended to buy new and properly fitted in Diagon Alley if he could remove the trunk from his budget.

The day before they left for the countryside, Tom was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of his suitcase, Practical Magic open to the chapter on enlarging spells and a furious frown on his face. He tapped his wand against his right palm a few times, and then flicked it at the inside of the suitcase, muttering “Cresco Intra.”

The interior of the suitcase seemed to slide in and out of focus, and Tom squinted, fighting the vertigo this caused. About two minutes later it stopped, and the inside was noticeably bigger than it had been before. Flush with success, Tom set about taking measurements. This was his best attempt yet, and the suitcase was now about the size of the Hogwarts-standard trunks he had seen in Diagon Alley, large enough for him to lie down in if he so chose and about a foot and a half deep. Tom beamed at it. Unless he had done something terribly wrong the spell should only need annual reinforcement to keep working. He decided to leave it empty for the rest of the day to make sure that it was stable, though.

After dinner he checked on the suitcase again. It was the same size as before, and Tom wasted no time in packing his books and a few other belongings that he deemed necessary for the excursion to the countryside. Then he sat on the bed, thinking hard. After a while he found a piece of paper and a pencil and started scribbling out a new shopping list for himself, trying to overestimate prices a little. He still had twenty-three Galleons, nine Sickles, and nineteen Knuts from the fund Penrose had left him with. Five Galleons and twelve Knuts were set aside for his school robes; he’d checked the prices with Madam Malkin’s, the robe-maker, the day before.

That left him with the equivalent of slightly less than six hundred and fifty pounds to spend in Bowman’s Row. He estimated that he would be able to buy everything on his Hogwarts list used, with the obvious exception of the potion-making kit, which was mostly a lot of basic potion ingredients in a fancy box. Assuming the prices in Bowman’s Row were the same as in Diagon Alley, that would leave him with about four Galleons, which was more pocket money than he really knew what to do with. If things were cheaper in Bowman’s Row, Tom would have even more. The possibilities were almost intoxicating. 

He didn’t sleep at all that night, his head too full of ideas for spending those extra four Galleons.

Amazing as always. :) Please update soon!

I love this! I feel a great deal of sympathy for this version of Tom, actually. I especially love the "Happy birthday to me" parallel. I think Mrs. Cole--and it's Mrs., not Miss--could maybe use a little bit more depth, but it's a great story.

I don't think he could ever be in Hufflepuff, though, because it isn't just about hard work. Tom isn't fair. He isn't trustworthy. He isn't evil, at least in this fanfic (and I think it's much more realistic than what is implied if not specifically mention in the books), but breaking someone's arm is not fair. Doing illegal magic is not trustworthy. Personally, I think that even this Tom is just not Hufflepuff material.