Last part of chapter 1 and the first 2,000 words or so of chapter 2 yay! 

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Most of Tom’s fellow orphans immediately abandoned the slightly sleazy old inn they were staying in in favor of the beach that lay to the south of the village. Tom claimed a headache and stayed behind. The minute Miss Cole had left to go supervise the others, however, Tom leapt out of bed and pulled out his wand and money. He slipped both into his pockets, which were now slightly enlarged courtesy of the bigger-on-the-inside spell, and slipped out into the sunny afternoon.

The village was fairly charming, Tom thought as he padded down the streets, if in a run-down sort of way. Its inhabitants were friendly and a few of them even nodded politely at him as they passed. Tom, on the other hand, kept his eyes peeled for the flower shop that housed the entrance to the wizarding part of the village. He found it after taking two wrong turns and having to double back from what appeared to be a factory of some kind, and slipped in quietly.

A thin, mousy-haired young woman glanced up as the door closed behind Tom. She smiled at him. “Can I get you anything, dear?” she asked. Despite her muggle clothing, Tom could tell she was a witch; there was a glamor over the wand in her pocket that made it look like some kind of ruler.

“No thanks,” he said. “I just need to use the door.”

Surprise appeared on the witch’s face. “Bit young to be by yourself, aren’t you, dear?”

Tom shrugged. “I can take care of myself, ma’am.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. “It’s over there.” She gestured towards a door with EMPLOYEES ONLY! painted on it. “Turn the handle twice to the left and once to the right, and then pull.”

Nodding his thanks, Tom padded towards the door. He did as the witch had told him, and stepped into the wizarding village.

It wasn’t nearly as vibrant as Diagon Alley, but Tom hadn’t really expected it to be. He wandered down the cobbled streets, following the signs until he found Bowman’s Row. The marketplace was, in Tom’s opinion, every bit as grand as Diagon Alley even if it was a bit more neutral in its color scheme. Everywhere he looked there were street vendors pushing carts and wizards standing at booths, hawking merchandise. There were so many sellers along the street that the shops themselves were almost hidden. Tom didn’t mind; the street vendors had fascinating wares the likes of which he had never seen, even in Diagon Alley. 

There was a tall, bald wizard in bright maroon robes standing next to a booth that was groaning under the weight of cages containing various magical creatures; Tom recognized some of them from his reading, but others looked almost too improbable to be allowed. There was a large, brown-and-white Krup and a huge Kneazle with great, luminous green eyes; there was a bird that Tom could have sworn was a Diricawl right next to a tall cage with what appeared to be a monkey with a pig’s face. 

Another wizard with what looked like a very bad sunburn was waving a vial of ghastly orange liquid and shouting that it was an antidote for Doxy venom; across from him a plump little witch was hawking spindly copper devices. Tom grinned and started down the street.

He would get the cauldron first, he decided, and then charm it to be weightless and use it to carry everything else. To that end, he weaved through the shoppers and the street vendors until he found the dusty little cauldron shop towards the end of the street. Tom spent a few minutes idly examining some of the more exotic models; there were cauldrons that heated themselves, cauldrons that came with acid-proofing, and even a very expensive, bejeweled cauldron made out of a fire crab’s shell. Still, when one got right down to it, one cauldron was more or less the same as another, so he paid a Galleon and three Knuts for a used pewter cauldron, brass scales, and a set of crystal phials and left quickly.

Tom spent rather more time in the Astronomy shop, staring at a small, working model of the galaxy in fascination, before he dragged himself away from it and bought his telescope.

After that Tom had only to buy his potion kit and the dragon hide gloves, which seemed thick and cumbersome from the outside but were remarkably flexible inside, which the shopkeeper claimed was a useful remnant of the dragon’s own magic. He still had nine Galleons left, and felt slightly overwhelmed by the amount. Not entirely sure of what else to buy, Tom settled for wandering aimlessly through Bowman’s Row, looking for things that caught his attention.

He bought a wand holster from a scrawny little wizard in one of the booths; it strapped to his arm and could be charmed to send his wand shooting down into his hand at the flick of a wrist. Tom enlarged its interior somewhat to accommodate his slightly longer-than-standard wand, and spent a few minutes trying to get the accustomed to the feel of the holster.

To Tom’s delight he found a used bookshop, and spent almost all the rest of his money there. He walked out two hours later with old, faded copies of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Curses, Hogwarts: A History, and Why I Didn’t Die When the Augurey Cried tucked lovingly next to his telescope.

After the bookshop Tom only had a Galleon and two Sickles left, which he decided to keep in case of emergency, and he ducked into the gap between two shops. He set his cauldron on the ground and frowned at it pensively. There was little doubt that an eleven year old boy with a cauldron would draw some attention from the muggles of the village. However, Tom had been preparing for this for a long time, and he had a plan. He flicked his wrist, grinning in spite of himself when his wand slid out into his palm, and then tapped it sharply against the rim of the cauldron. Glamor spells were fairly easy, and Tom had been practicing them for weeks now on items of similar sizes. It was really just a matter of time; even simple glamors took twenty minutes or more to cast properly and then wore off with relative speed, which apparently was why most wizards didn’t bother with them.

Still, they suited Tom’s purposes right now and so he spent nearly half an hour enchanting the cauldron to look like a large book bag to muggle eyes. At last, satisfied that the glamor was complete, he picked it up again and meandered back through the little wizarding village.

The witch who ran the flower shop waved merrily at him as he stepped back into the muggle world; he smiled vaguely at her and left. It was nearly three o’clock, later than Tom had realized, so he hurried down the streets and back to the inn. Miss Cole always brought the orphans back inside for a brief rest period at around three thirty, and Tom didn’t want to find out what would happen if she came back to find him missing.

He made it in more than enough time, however, to pack everything except his holster and wand neatly into his suitcase and be curled up miserably in bed when Miss Cole and the others returned.

Tom declared himself miraculously cured the next morning and joined the rest of his peers in a second and final morning excursion to the beach. There was one more thing he wanted to obtain before going to Hogwarts, and he couldn’t get it in any shops. As the other children played some game or another, Tom sidled over to the edge of the cliff and let out a long, drawn out hiss, a summons of a sort.

The snake didn’t disappoint. She was perhaps two feet long, and a very dark brown, almost black. Tom had met it a few years ago when this particular patch of countryside had become a recurring vacation spot for the orphans, and the two of them had become friends after a fashion.

“Hello,” she said. Her flat, angular head swayed a few inches above the ground, and Tom ran a finger down her neck.

“Hello, Ssunday,” he hissed back. As a rule, snakes didn’t have names, but she didn’t object to his naming her after the day they had met. She seemed to understand that it was easier for him than just referring to her as “you.”

She slid up his arm and settled around his neck, like some odd mockery of a necklace. “How are you, Tom?” she asked.

Tom smiled. “I leave for a sspecial sschool in a month,” he told her. “I’m to learn magic. Do you want to come?”

Sunday made a sharp puffing sound that was the nearest a snake could get to laughing. “Csertainly,” she said. “Are you allowed petss?”

“Not ssnakess,” Tom replied. “But I don’t like catss or toadss or owlss, which are allowed.” He smirked as Sunday hissed softly; she liked toads. Apparently they were a little bit spicy.

“In that casse I shall csertainly come,” she said.

They chatted idly for a while, about Sunday’s fondness for the little mice that lurked in the village and Tom’s magical experiments. At noon, Tom boarded the train back to London with the snake still draped around his neck, hidden beneath his shirt. 

Chapter 2

Tom drew up a calendar for himself and used it to mark down the days until September the first, an activity which Miss Cole found endearing and Sunday declared to be “abssurd.” Thirty days... Twenty-five... Fifteen... He finished all the books he had bought in Bowman’s Row, and started to re-read them immediately, making occasional notes in the margins this time. At this rate his textbooks and extracurricular materials were both going to be more covered in pencil than ink by the end of the school year.

With five days to go, Tom’s nerves started to kick in again. In spite of all the evidence and his now-daily trips to Diagon Alley to practice spells, there was a part of him that remained utterly convinced that Hogwarts and wizards were some horrible trick being played on him. The fact that his train ticket appeared to be for a Platform Nine and Three Quarters helped somewhat, because having a platform with a fraction in it just seemed like such a... wizard-y thing to do.

“You need to calm down,” Sunday advised him as August 31st drew to a close. Miss Cole would be driving him to King’s Cross the following morning at 8:30, and Tom had been obsessively checking and re-checking his suitcase and entirely bare room for anything that he might have forgotten.

“I wish I could,” Tom muttered.

Sunday let out a burst of short hisses, the snake equivalent of a derisive chuckle, from her perch on his bed frame. “You will be perfectly fine,” she said firmly. “But you need to ssleep.” Her forked tongue darted out for a second, flickering wildly before vanishing back into her mouth. “It will do you no good to be without ssleep on your firsst day.”

He knew she was right, but he walked over and examined his wardrobe once more anyway. It was bare save for the box of useless trinkets he had picked up from around the orphanage. Tom didn’t think of it as stealing, since most of it had never been missed and anyway it was just stupid little things, a mouth organ, a broken yo-yo... That sort of thing. He shrugged and shut the wardrobe again.

It was nearly one o’clock when Tom finally hit a state of exhaustion acute enough to quell his nerves. He fell asleep with Sunday curled up on his chest and his wand holster securely fastened to his arm.

Six hours later he awoke in a state of near-panic, half convinced that he had slept in and missed the train. Sunday, who was now curled up on his table, hissed vaguely, “You haven’t misssed it. Don’t flail sso.”

“Ssorry.”

The morning seemed to pass with agonizing slowness, though at the same time Tom could barely focus enough on the present to be aware of anything other than the time, so it all seemed like a bit of a blur. He ate breakfast, barely tasting it although he was sure that Miss Cole must have told her helpers to make something extra special from the way she kept looking at him expectantly. Tom played along and said that it had been the best he’d ever had, and then immediately returned to staring at the clock.

At long last, Miss Cole told him it was time to leave, and Tom left Wool Orphanage with his suitcase in one hand and Sunday coiled in his jacket pocket. Tom felt as if his legs were made of lead and he could hear his blood pounding in his ears. He was so nervous that he barely noticed a handful of his peers cheering him off; they were clearly happy to see him go, but Tom didn’t care.

The drive to King’s Cross seemed to take even longer than the rest of Tom’s morning, but after what felt like an eternity of crossroads and traffic jams and stop lights, the car pulled to a halt and Tom scrambled out. He had never been to King’s Cross before, and it was magnificent. Fortunately, his first trip to Diagon Alley Tom had largely quashed his tendency to gawk, and was able to appear merely interested. Miss Cole came up behind him and squeezed his shoulder. Tom had already told her she didn’t need to accompany him into the actual building, but he appreciated her support right now.

“Good luck, Tom,” she said.

“Thanks, Miss Cole,” he said. Tom watched as his caretaker got back into the car and continued to stare after the slightly scuffed black vehicle until he lost sight of it. Then, taking a deep breath to steady himself, he went inside.

There were a lot of people trying to get to different platforms, and Tom was jostled rather severely for a while until he arrived at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. The brick wall that separated them looked very solid indeed, but then, so had the entrance to Diagon Alley. Tom doubted that he would need a wand to get onto the platform, as there were far too many muggles around and one of them would surely notice something. Perhaps there was another trick, then.

He walked up and, as surreptitiously as possible, examined the barrier, wondering if it wasn’t just a very good glamor of some kind which would vanish if he got close enough. It didn’t. Tom skimmed a hand over the rough bricks; they felt solid and very real beneath his fingertips.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Sunday’s answer sounded oddly muffled from the inside of his pocket. “You are here very early. Wait, other wizardss are csertain to come through here. You can assk them.”

Well, that was a sensible course of action, but Tom desperately wanted to figure it out on his own, and he told Sunday so.

“In that casse,” she said, “I can’t help you.”

Snakes, Tom knew, didn’t understand the concept of “pride.” They did what they deemed necessary to survive, and didn’t bother with worrying what their peers thought of them for it. “Thankss anyway,” he said.

Tom took a step back from the wall, thinking hard. From what he had seen so far of the wizarding world, neither space nor solid matter presented much of an obstacle to magic. From a muggle perspective, Diagon Alley existed in a wall that was, at most, six inches thick, and the entirety of Bowman’s Row and the surrounding village took up no more than a smallish break room in the back of a flower shop. Platform Nine and Three Quarters, therefore, was probably inside the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. It was only a matter of getting there.

To get into Diagon Alley, one tapped a special brick with a wand. To get to Bowman’s Row, all one had to do was turn a doorknob a certain way and then open the door. The way onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters must be equally simple.

Hoping for some hint, Tom glanced at his ticket again, but the only information on it was that it was for the Hogwarts Express from Platform Nine and Three Quarters at eleven o’clock. Tom bit the inside of his cheek, frowning at the bricks in front of him. On a whim, he put a hand flat up against it and pushed. His palm tingled weirdly.

Well, if this didn’t work the worst that would happen was he would bang his head against the barrier and feel a bit stupid. Taking a deep breath, Tom shoved his entire weight against the wall.

A second later he stumbled, thrown off balance when the rough bricks disappeared. Tom looked around, feeling a grin spread over his face as he took in the vaulted ceiling, the cherry-red train, and the wrought iron archway leading back into the muggle world. A sign, partially obscured by steam, read in thick, gothic letters Platform Nine and Three Quarters; a few other people, students with their families, Tom assumed, were milling around and chatting amiably.

“Well done,” Sunday mumbled, poking her head out of his pocket and tasting the air. 

“Told you I could do it,” Tom said.

The snake retreated into his pocket once more, and he could feel her shifting into a more comfortable position. “I never doubted you.”

Tom walked towards the huge, garishly colored train, figuring he could stow his luggage in one of the compartments and then walk a little. A glance at a gigantic clock hanging in midair over the platform told him that it was barely ten; the train wouldn’t leave for another hour.

He chose a compartment at random about halfway down the train, shoved his suitcase onto the rack, and went back outside. The platform had gotten a bit more crowded and a lot more noisy, with some of the older students already changed into their robes and greeting each other enthusiastically. 

“Tom.”

“What?” Sunday began to squirm and Tom rested a hand gently over his pocket so nobody would see it moving.

“I’m coming up. I want to ssee.”

Even as she spoke, the snake began to slither up his arm. Tom had to try very hard not to squirm as her cold, slightly sharp scales dug into his shoulder. She settled herself around his shoulders, her head resting against his neck. “Don’t let anyone ssee you,” Tom said. “You’re not actually allowed to be here, remember.”

“I remember. Don’t worry.”

For a while Tom amused himself watching other families arrive at the platform. Some seemed to appear out of nowhere, others came in through the King’s Cross entrance. A lot of them wore robes in the multitude of outlandish colors that, for some unfathomable reason, were currently in style in the wizarding world. A handful of the ones that came through the archway were poorly disguised as muggles. One man was even wearing what looked like a toga and a bowler hat.

There were also, Tom noticed, a number of younger children who, like him, were dressed in normal muggle clothing and, unlike him, wearing almost identical expressions of terror. He assumed they were his fellow muggleborn first-years, although he couldn’t for the life of him think why they were all so frightened. A couple of the books he’d read over the past nine months or so had touched on the issue of blood purism, but as far as Tom could see anyone worried about being bullied for their blood status had only to learn the basic shield charm in chapter three and the disarming charm in chapter six of Ne Cede Malis to ensure their relative safety at Hogwarts. Basic diplomatic skill and a dash of lying about his mother’s magical talents would, in Tom’s case, help too, but still.

At a quarter to eleven Tom went back onto the train. The compartment with his luggage was still empty, and Tom took the opportunity to change into his plain black robes. Buying them from Madam Malkin’s instead of second-hand had been a wise decision, he decided, because these fit him perfectly. He adjusted the way the hood sat on his shoulders, extremely pleased that, with the smooth fabric fairly billowing around him and his muggle jacket tucked out of sight, he looked indistinguishable from the children with magical families. No stupid blood-purity ideology was going to ruin his first year at a magical school.

Five minutes to the hour, the train whistle blew, and the corridor outside went from nearly deserted to absolutely packed inside thirty seconds. Tom braced himself for an onslaught of strangers to enter his compartment, since he doubted the train was large enough for the three hundred or so students to all sit alone.

He was very quickly proved right. The door slid open and a very shy-looking girl with brown pigtails peeked in. She was still wearing her muggle clothing and the nervous look on her face became outright terror when she saw Tom’s robes.

“Hello,” she said. “Er... Do you mind if I sit here?”

Tom put on his best smile. “Of course not,” he said.  

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((In other news, it is apparently impossible for me not to drag Bellatrix into every. single. HP. fanfic. I ever write, because she showed up in chapter two against my will. She isn't in this installment though. But, anyway, those of you who care about dates and stuff know that there is a MASSIVE TEMPORAL PROBLEM evident in this chapter, mainly that Bellatrix is 11 in 1938 even though she wasn't even born until 1951. Put it down to wizards having weird lifespans and/or History Monks. And/or my stupid obsessions.

Also, Ne Cede Malis is the title of Tom's DADA textbook, I changed the name shortly after posting the pre-Diagon Alley sequence. Sorry for any confusion.)) 

I believe I found a typo. I'm pretty sure it's Emeric Switch, not Emetic. I might be getting him mixed up with Emeric the Evil, though.

@Ima: Nope, it's Emetic, I just checked. That, or my PDF copy has a typo.

And, more! Yay!

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She looked relieved, and scuttled into the compartment. Tom cast a weightlessness charm on her incredibly large trunk before maneuvering it carefully into the luggage wrack. Looking incredibly grateful, the girl sank into the seat across from him and said, almost confidentially, “I’m sorry. I saw your robes and thought you might have been pureblood too. Some of them kicked me out of the last compartment. I’m Myrtle, by the way. Myrtle Martin.”

“Tom Riddle.” He extended a hand and she shook it. Myrtle’s hands were freezing. “I’m just halfblood though, don’t worry. Mum was a witch, but she died several years ago.” Inwardly he could scarcely believe his luck; he’d practiced this story with Sunday for ages, but Tom was glad that he could practice a bit more with a muggleborn who probably didn’t know enough about the wizarding world to be suspicious.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Myrtle said, a frown spreading across her face. “Do you live with your dad, then?”

Tom shook his head. “No, he left before I was born. Mum never talked about him, except to say he was a bastard.” And that, he thought vindictively, is for never showing up to claim your son. “I live in an orphanage now.”

Myrtle’s face was so full of sympathy that Tom almost believed his story himself. “That must be very hard,” she said.

“Oh, it’s all right. Bit shabby, but all right.” That, at least, was true. Before Myrtle could respond, however, the compartment door slid open once more and a tall, gangly boy with very messy brown hair and rumpled robes slouched in. The train whistle blew again, shrilly.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, staggering somewhat as the train lurched and started to move. He had, for some reason, a large, black chicken tucked under one arm, and the trunk at his side was supported by a mass of tiny, pink legs.

“Sure,” Tom said, forcing himself not to stare at the trunk. 

The boy grinned, and flung himself down onto the bench. He put his legs up on the trunk and set the chicken in his lap. It clucked loudly. “I’m Rabastan,” he said. “Call me Rab. And this,” he stroked the chicken’s neck lovingly, “is Lucy.”

“Tom Riddle,” said Tom. Then, gesturing at Myrtle, he said, “And this is Myrtle Martin.”

Rab grinned at them both. “Pleasure to meet you both.” Lucy clucked again.

Myrtle eyed the bird nervously. “Are chickens allowed at Hogwarts?” she asked. Rab laughed, causing Lucy to peck at his fingers.

“Lucy isn’t a chicken,” he said, “She’s a diricawl. And, believe you me, I had a right job teaching her not to vanish and reappear in my closet whenever she heard a loud noise.” Tom laughed; Myrtle looked merely puzzled. For her benefit, Tom elaborated.

“Diricawls can disappear and reappear elsewhere at will. Muggles used to know about them, but since they didn’t know that they could vanish, they think they were hunted into extinction.” He was fervently grateful that he had thought to buy Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, because Rab was clearly from a wizarding family and would therefore take a bit more than a sad story to be convinced that Tom was a halfblood instead of muggleborn.

 Still grinning, Rab said, “Anyway, no, diricawls aren’t allowed at Hogwarts, but since my best friend’s dad is on the Board of Governors, I have it on good authority that so many illegal pets are smuggled into Hogwarts each year that the administration has given up on enforcing the rule except in the case of really dangerous pets.”

Which solved the problem of how Tom was going to keep Sunday a secret. “Oh,” he said. “That’s good to know.”

“Why? Thinking of bringing something actually interesting next year?” 

Tom could feel Sunday shifting around on his shoulders. “Well...” he said, but broke off as she lifted her head to hiss softly at Rab. Myrtle yelped, while Rab roared with laughter. The diricawl in his lap flapped her wings irritably.

“Hello, sscruffy one,” Sunday said.

“She says ‘hello,’” Tom translated. Rab’s laughter vanished, and he looked at Tom incredulously. “What?”

Rab quirked an eyebrow. “You’re a parselmouth?”

What does that mean? Tom thought wildly. Aloud he said, “Yeah.” It seemed to be the right answer, because Rab was looking extremely impressed.

“Wow,” he said.

To Tom’s extreme relief, Myrtle said, “What’s a parselmouth?”

“Someone who can speak parseltongue. Snake language. They’re really rare.” Rab shot another admiring look at Tom. “Salazar Slytherin himself was one. There have only been a few recorded parselmouths since then. Everyone thought the talent died out with the Gaunt family. You aren’t related to the Gaunts, are you?”

Tom knew he’d read that name somewhere. He cast about wildly in his memory, and then it clicked; a Morfin Gaunt had been given a three year sentence in the wizard prison, Azkaban, for attacking muggle, several years before Tom was born. “On my mum’s side, yeah,” he hazarded. 

“Cool,” breathed Rab. “’Course I’ve heard they were all nutters, but who cares?”

The compartment door slid open again, this time revealing a pale, blond boy wearing perfectly pressed and styled robes. “There you are, Lestrange,” he said cooly, “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

Rab grinned at the boy. “Lucius! You’ll never believe this!” He gestured wildly in Tom’s direction, dislodging Lucy from his lap as he did so. She half-fell, half-fluttered onto the floor, squawking angrily. “Sorry, Lucy. This guy’s mum was a Gaunt!”

The boy raised an eyebrow as he looked Tom up and down. “Really,” he said, sounding bored.

“He’s a parselmouth, Malfoy, you prat.” For a second Rab looked dismayed by his friend’s lack of reaction, then shrugged it off and said, “Tom, Myrtle, this is Lucius Malfoy. His dad’s on the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Anyway, don’t mind him, he’s always this boring, he enjoys sucking all the enjoyment out of life. Lucius, this is Tom Riddle and Myrtle Martin.” He scooped the diricawl back into his lap and patted her feathers back into place.

Still looking utterly bored, Lucius said, “Delighted, I’m sure.” He settled gracefully onto a seat, and a few seconds later a large, shiny black trunk with a silver coat of arms emblazoned on its lid shuffled into the compartment.

Tom muttered a greeting, and Myrtle copied him after a moment. She was still staring at the two boys’ trunks, which were now giving off the distinct impression that they were eyeballing each other.

“So,” Lucius drawled. “Parselmouth.”

“Yes,” Tom said. Sunday slithered the rest of the way out of his shirt and curled up on his shoulder. Her tongue flickered in Lucius’ direction.

“Thiss one ssmellss of death,” she said, matter-of-factly. Tom blinked.

“What?” he said. Lucius’ mouth fell open a fraction, and Rab looked triumphant.

“Only faintly,” Sunday answered. “He hass sspoken with a bringer of death rescently. It lingerss on hiss robess.”

Uncertainly, Myrtle asked, “What’s she saying?”

Tom felt the back of his neck burn as he muttered, “She says Lucius smells of death and recently talked to a killer of some kind.”

Myrtle gasped and looked horrified, which Tom had expected, while Rab burst into laughter again and Lucius rolled his eyes, which Tom hadn’t.

“...You know who it is?” Tom asked.

Lucius and Rab exchanged glances, both looking torn between exasperation and amusement. Together, they said, “Bella.” Lucius added, with some distaste, “If by ‘killer’ your snake means someone who spent the entire year obsessively cleaning out her family’s old dungeons for the first time in probably a hundred years. They reek of decay and old blood, it’s vile.”

“That might explain it,” Sunday said.

“She says that’s probably what it is,” Tom relayed.

Myrtle still looked horrified, albeit less so than before. “Family dungeons?” she asked.

“Oh, they haven’t been used in years,” Lucius assured her. “But it used to be very classy amongst the Noble Houses to have your own personal dungeon. The Blacks have probably the most expensive private labyrinth in the world. Goes on for ages.”

“Anyway,” Rab added, “Our friend, Bellatrix, recently started cleaning them out. I’m sure she has some kind of nefarious plans for them, she mentioned ‘needing the space for school’ or something. She’s quite mad, of course. You’ll probably meet her soon, actually, she’ll be looking for us.”

As if on cue, the compartment door slid open for a fourth time, and a regal-looking girl with thick dark hair fairly glided in. “Lestrange, Malfoy,” she said as a kind of greeting, her black eyes flicking over Tom and Myrtle. She sat down next to Rab, her robes settling around her like billowing shadows. “Introduce me to your new friends,” she said. The command in her voice was subtle, but unmistakeable.

Rab cleared his throat and said grandly, “Bellatrix, this is Myrtle Martin,” and Myrtle raised a hand shyly, looking rather awed, “and Tom Riddle, whose mother was a Gaunt. He’s a parselmouth, we heard him.” Tom held out a hand, noticing Lucius’ eyes widen with shock. Rab, who had been about to finish his introduction, stopped with a squeak.

Bellatrix stared at Tom expressionlessly for what seemed like an eternity before reaching out to shake his hand. Rab looked like he might faint. Even Lucy looked shocked, so far as a diricawl could.

Her lips quirked upward. “Charmed.”

“A pleasure,” Tom answered. 

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when Bellatrix interrupted the rather inane small talk with an offer to show Myrtle to the nearest changing room, that Tom found out what he had done to startle the two other boys so.

“Nobody shakes a Black’s hand,” Lucius told him. “They’re the nearest thing wizarding Britain has to royalty.”

“They’re the oldest established Noble House in the history of magical Europe,” Rab added. He sounded even more impressed than he had when he had found out Tom was a parselmouth. “So it’s possible you just won her eternal friendship by being absolutely bloody stupid, and therefore interesting... Or your body will be found hanging from the rafters tomorrow morning. Frankly I wouldn’t put either past her.” He beamed at Tom.

Tom was saved from having to answer when the girls returned, Myrtle now wearing her slightly wrinkled robes and Bellatrix still impassive. The five of them exchanged a few more pleasantries before the talk turned to houses.

“I’ll be put in Slytherin, of course,” Lucius said. “The Sorting Hat wouldn’t dare put me anywhere else.”

“And besides,” Rab pointed out, “you’re an egotistical maniac so it only makes sense.” Lucius frowned at him. “As for me,” Rab continued, “I have no idea, except that I’m not clever enough to get Ravenclaw.”

“It isn’t a matter of cleverness so much as illiteracy, in your case,” Lucius said dryly. Rab aimed a kick at him, and Lucy clucked irritably as the movement made her loose her balance. Almost apologetically, Rab picked her up and placed her gently on the seat next to him.

“Sorry, girl,” he muttered as she settled into her new perch.

Lucius smirked at him. “You’ll be in Hufflepuff, Lestrange, if your blind loyalty to that bird is anything to judge by.”

Rab opted for the mature response and stuck his tongue out at the blond. Apparently he was used to such barbs, however, because he seemed to shrug it off and turned instead to Myrtle. “What about you?” he asked. “What house are you hoping for?”

The girl shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really know that much about them, to be honest.”

“I want to be put in Ravenclaw,” Tom said. “I hear they’ve got a fantastic library in the common room.” Myrtle smiled at him. He glanced at Bellatrix, who had sat through the entire conversation in silence, with a tiny smile on her face. “What house do you want?” he asked. Judging from the looks on Rab’s face, he had just broken another taboo. Tom found, to his surprise, that he didn’t care.

Bellatrix sighed. “From what I understand it is less a question of ‘want’ and more a matter of what the Sorting Hat thinks is best suited to one’s disposition. In which case, it’s a toss up between Ravenclaw and Slytherin.” She pursed her lips, looking pensive. “I rather think I’d prefer Slytherin, though. The Ravenclaw common room is supposedly very easy to break into, since the guardian asks riddles instead of passwords.”

Rab rolled his eyes. “Only you would choose a house preference based on which second choice would be easier to infiltrate, Bella.”

“Don’t call me Bella,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. 

Update! Please?

The compartment door slid open with a rattle as Rab drew breath to reply, and a plump, elderly witch leaned in. “Anything off the trolley, dears?” she asked. The kind smile on her face vanished when she caught sight of Bellatrix, to be replaced by a much more neutral, polite expression.

“Merlin, give me a bit of everything,” Rab said, digging around in his pockets for change. “I’m starving.”

“Naturally,” Bellatrix said. Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

Lucius, on the other hand, was eyeing the trolley with obvious interest. “Are you planning on sharing any of that, Lestrange,” he said, “or do we have to buy our own?”

Rab glanced down at the pile of food in his arms, considering. At last he dumped it into an empty seat and said, “Nah, take all you want.” 

There was a general scramble between Lucius, Rab, and Tom to get as many of the sweets as possible; Myrtle looked nervous again and Bellatrix merely disinterested. After Rab’s prompting, however, Myrtle leaned forward and pulled a few of them into her lap.

Not for the first time, Tom found himself extremely grateful that he was sharing a compartment with a muggleborn, who could ask all the questions he wanted to but couldn’t if he wanted to maintain his halfblood deception.

After the third reiteration of “What are these?” from Myrtle, Rab gave up trying to talk around his food and spent about five minutes explaining the entirety of his pile; there were fist sized cauldron cakes, which were supposed to bubble all the way down, pumpkin pasties, which Tom thought tasted a bit like week old bread, and then there were chocolate frogs, licorice wands, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans (Lucius ate a vomit flavored one, much to Rab’s amusement), Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, fizzing whizbees, ice mice, and something called cockroach cluster that only Rab and Sunday would touch. With the exception of the cockroach cluster and the pasties, it was all delicious. Bellatrix ate nothing, and Tom idly wondered why.

By this time the train was passing thick, wild terrain, and Tom watched the trees fly past as he listened to Rab argue with Lucius about Quidditch. Tom didn’t really see the point of the game, a sentiment which Bellatrix seemed to share because she sighed and pulled  a book out of her pockets the moment it was mentioned. Myrtle, on the other hand, seemed fascinated, and the two boys were more than happy to fill her in on some of the finer points of the game.

Bellatrix’s voice cut through the sports chatter. “So what was your mother like?” she asked. Tom looked up, surprised to see that she had slid into Myrtle’s vacated seat across from him.

“Oh, I didn’t know her very well,” Tom said. “She died when I was seven, and before that she spent most of her time in bed. She was always ill.”

“Hm.” Her face didn’t so much as flicker.

“I don’t think she ever quite got over dad leaving,” Tom said. It was, he thought, a reasonable enough guess. 

A smile ghosted over Bellatrix’s face. “A pity,” she said. 

“That’s why she insisted I kept my father’s name, instead of using Gaunt,” Tom added. That also seemed reasonable.

“Riddle,” Bellatrix said.

Tom smiled sardonically. “Yeah,” he said. Before Bellatrix could comment he said, “Yeah, he was a muggle. That’s why he ran off, he found out mum was a witch.” His heart was starting to beat unnaturally fast; given what Rab and Lucius had told him about Bellatrix’s family, she would be probably the hardest person to fool. He remembered what Miss Cole had told him about his mother’s dying words, and added, “Actually, his name was Tom too.”

“Really.”

For some reason, Tom felt compelled to keep talking. He invented, wildly, “Yeah. Mum had eloped with him, you see, as her family wasn’t too keen on her marrying a muggle. And then, right before I was born she told him she was a witch, and he ran off. I think she must have been feeling pretty sentimental when she had me, because I’m named after my grandfather, too. Marvolo.” 

Bellatrix arched an eyebrow. “Your grandfather was named Marvolo?” she asked.

“Yes. Never met him, though.”

She laughed suddenly. “In that case, Tom, I’m afraid my father was the one responsible for incarcerating him, and your uncle to. He was the judge at Marvolo and Morfin Gaunt’s hearing back in his Wizengamot days.”

Tom felt as if he’d been run over by a train; Marvolo Gaunt had actually existed? Was it possible that he had actually stumbled upon the truth when he had told Rabastan his mother was a Gaunt? He had to take a deep breath before he spoke next, to make sure he could keep his voice steady. “Oh. Er.”

“I didn’t know that Merope Gaunt had a son. Or that she had been married. Father told me that Ministry workers showed up at the Gaunt house a few weeks after her family was incarcerated and found that she had disappeared. They thought she’d killed herself.”

It was like having a bucket of icy water dumped over his head. After almost twelve years, Tom finally knew his mother’s name. “She never told me that she married dad right after grandfather and uncle... uncle Morfin were put in Azkaban,” he said, struggling to keep calm. Thinking of what little he had read about the place, he added, “I expect she thought it was too grim for a child to think about.” 

“I imagine so,” Bellatrix said, smiling at him. Tom felt as if he might faint. Abruptly, she said, “Are you really a parselmouth?”

“Um,” Tom said, then added, in parseltongue, “Yess.” Feeling that he ought to add a bit more than that, he said, “Er... It’ss not asss impresssive asss everyone hass made it out to be, though.” 

Bellatrix smiled. “Interesting. I thought Rab might have been joking, he does have an odd sense of humor.” Tom laughed.

Sunday, who had fallen asleep around his neck, looked up. He supposed the parseltongue had woken her. “I wass trying to ssleep,” she said, reproachfully.

“Ssorry,” Tom said. Seeing Bellatrix’s raised eyebrow, he added, “I woke her up and she’s angry.” She smiled at that. “So,” he said, eager to steer the subject away from his own background, “what are your parents like?”

Bellatrix took a deep breath. “Well, father used to have the head seat on the Wizengamot, but he’s been retired for six years. I’m actually not sure what he does now, but he occasionally vanishes into his study for days on end. Personally, I’m inclined to think he’s devoting more time to his significant pause interests in the Dark Arts.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. Mostly wildlife. The Black family owns the biggest Pogrebin farm in the world. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know who thought it would be a good idea to breed them. As it is, we have to find new handlers every few years or so, because prolonged exposure to the stock drives the old ones to suicide.” She smiled, rather nastily.

“What about your mum, then?” Tom asked.

Bellatrix frowned. “She throws lavish, extravagant parties, smokes constantly, and drinks too much champagne with her friends.”

“You don’t like her?” Tom guessed.

“No. She’s too... frivolous. Fortunately the feeling is mutual, as she finds my own habits to be grotesquely unladylike.” She smirked. “The same goes for my sister, Andromeda, albeit for different reasons. Andromeda gardens, after a fashion. She likes flowers, despite my fervent attempts to introduce her to the wonders of carnivorous plants. Still, she’s barely nine. There’s still time.”

“Do you have any other siblings?” Tom wondered if he was being too nosy; he had never had a human friend before, and he didn’t really know how one was supposed to learn about another person, but Bellatrix didn’t seem to mind.

“Yes. Cissy--   Narcissa, who’s seven, and every bit the lady mother wanted. I love her anyway, though. She’s a perfect little angel,” Bellatrix grinned, “and she’ll probably grow up to be a raging psychopath because of it.”

“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” Tom said, grinning too.

“Exactly.”

At long last, the train squealed to a halt, and a tinny voice came over the loudspeakers. “We have arrived at Hogsmeade Station. Please leave your luggage on the train, as it will be taken up to the school separately, and exit in an orderly fashion. Thank you.”

“Excellent,” Rab said as he coaxed Lucy into the cage he had pulled out of his trunk. “I’m starving.”

“Again,” Lucius interjected.

“Shut up, Malfoy. The welcoming feast is supposed to be bloody incredible. Come on, girl,” he added, as Lucy squawked at him, “it’s just for a little while! I’ll let you out again when I get to the dormitory!”

The five of them let the flow of the crowd carry them off the train. As the cool night air wafted over them, a cool, professional voice met their ears: “First years, this way! Over here.” Tom glanced towards the voice and saw a pale, black clad man with greying dark hair standing in a pool of lantern light.

“That’s my great uncle Lycoris,” Bellatrix muttered into Tom’s ear. “He teaches Herbology here, and he’s head of Slytherin house.”

“And he’s got a huge collection of chocolate frog cards,” Rab added enviously.

Lucius muttered something about Rab having the emotional maturity of a six year old, and Tom snickered. They made their way through the rapidly thinning crowd, with Myrtle trailing along behind them in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a lost puppy.

Lycoris Black smiled at Bellatrix as they drew closer. “Bellatrix,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder gently. “And Mr. Lestrange and Mr. Malfoy, of course,” he added, nodding at both of them in turn. His eyes lingered on Tom for a moment before he said, “And who is this... person?”

Bellatrix caught Tom’s elbow and pulled him closer, smiling at her great uncle. “This is Tom, uncle,” she said. “His mother was Merope Gaunt.” Tom did his best to look like he had known this for more than an hour or so.

Surprise flickered across Lycoris’ face. “Ah,” he said. “I was not aware that Miss Gaunt had a son.” 

Bellatrix sighed. “He’s a parselmouth, uncle,” she said. “We all heard him.” Rab and Lucius murmured their assent.

As Lycoris led the first years down a dark, tree lined path, Tom whispered, “What was that about? The stuff about me being a parseltongue, I mean.”

“Oh, every now and then conmen will pop up, claiming to be descended from one of the old, dead families. The Gaunts, for example, or the Peverells. Uncle Lycoris probably thought you were trying to do the same.”

“...I see,” said Tom. Bellatrix patted his arm.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Parselmouth is almost completely hereditary and your being one will essentially negate any claim that you’re lying about your ancestry.”

Lycoris pulled up short at the docks. Ahead of them, the lake stretched out like a sheet of blackened glass, reflecting the light of the moon and the stars and lapping gently against sides of the wooden boats.

“No more than four to a boat,” Lycoris said. “Hurry up.”

Bellatrix grabbed Tom’s arm again and led him over to one of the sturdier looking rowboats, which Rab and Lucius had already claimed. Tom noticed several of his fellow students shooting envious glances at him as he settled on the bench next to her, but he ignored them. 

“...then half an hour for the Sorting,” Rab was saying, “and ten minutes for Dippet’s speech...”

“What?” Tom asked, confused.

Tonelessly, Lucius said, “He’s counting down until the feast starts. In case you haven’t noticed, Tom, Rab is significantly more, ah, gastronomically inclined than the rest of us.”

Tom grinned. “I noticed.” 

For any of you still interested in reading this: Book one has been posted up to chapter 8, more is pending. 

Thank you. 

Haven't finished reading the entire fanfiction book you wrote, but so far it is absolutely amazing!!  Wow. It's incredible!!

This is a thing I've been tossing around for a while, basically I've been writing scenes from Bellatrix's point of view and set in this 'verse. And they probably won't make much sense if you haven't read House of the Snake, and some of the later ones have **spoilers**, but perhaps some of you will enjoy them?

***

“Black, Bellatrix!

The whispers raced back and forth behind her as she sauntered up to where Uncle Lycoris stood with his list and the Hat. Bellatrix knew that, from the outside, she was the picture of confidence, the smirk on her face calculated ever-so-carefully to say, “Yes, I am a Black and yes, I will Hatstall and yes, you are completely and utterly out of my league and no, there is nothing you can do to change that.”

Inside, she was still reeling from the shock of meeting Tom Riddle, from being blindsided like that for the first time in her life, and on top of that there was the colony of fiery, writhing maggots that appeared to have taken residence in her stomach. Bellatrix didn’t experience nervousness often, but even a Black had to feel a little nervous when facing the Hat that would determine her future for the next seven years, possibly longer.

Still, the confident smirk never wavered as the aged and patched brim fell over her face and hid her from the rest of the school.

“Ah…” the Hat whispered in her ear, and the maggoty feeling in her stomach flared horribly. “Another Black. It’s been so long since I Sorted one of you…” It chuckled. “A most interesting family I must say.”

So get on with it then. Bellatrix had little patience with self-important people, even if said people were nothing more than Hats.

The Hat merely sighed, completely unfazed. “Naturally most of you end up in Slytherin, but it’s always a very narrow thing, you know… Now let’s see… Well, well. What do we have here.”

Bellatrix exercised every ounce of control she had not to dig her fingernails into the underside of the bench. It wouldn’t do for the rest of the school to see how terrified she was right now. She did allow herself to think, Stop it. I know exactly what you’re doing and it won’t work. Just tell me straight off what you’ve found and then Sort me. I detest grandstanding. 

With another, significantly more dismal sigh, the Hat said, “Oh, very well.” In far more clinical tones than it had used before it continued, “You have a frankly brilliant mind and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, which obviously would indicate Ravenclaw under normal circumstances. However, you are more courageous than you could ever realize and, frankly, your temper alone would make you a qualified Gryffindor as well.” 

Bellatrix grimaced at that, and the Hat chucked darkly.

“But what I find most interesting about you, Bellatrix Black, is this: Until eleven o’clock today, your deepest if largely subconscious desire was for your own power. Ah, yes, you can claim all you want that Rabastan and Lucius are your only real friends because they’re the only people you enjoy being friends with, but you and I both know that it’s really because they’re useful. There are no secrets between us.”

Anger flared, so blindingly sharp as to be physically painful. Bellatrix forced it back down again, trembling slightly. The Hat broke into open laughter.

Struggling to control herself, Bellatrix thought, You said until eleven o’clock today.

“And you know perfectly well what changed between now and then.”

Her stomach clenched horribly. Any nervousness or anger was replaced by horrible, awful dread that sucked at her insides and sent a cold sweat beading in the palms of her hands, because she did know, but that didn’t mean she’d been nearly ready to admit it and oh, sweet Merlin, the Hat was going to come right out and say it wasn’t--

“Tom Riddle,” the Hat said, with what could only be described as malicious glee.

The name smacked into her like a physical blow, and Bellatrix was barely aware that the pained intake of breath was hers.

The Hat was snickering openly now, sinister and triumphant. Its words seemed to echo mockingly in Bellatrix’s mind as it sing-songed, “Audacious Tom Riddle, who treats you like an equal. He’s like a puzzle, isn’t he? And even now you can’t let it go, can you?”

No. No she couldn’t, and right then she hated the Hat more than anything else in the world, and hated it all the more because she couldn’t do anything about it, because she seemed to be frozen in place under its brim, frozen with horror and terror and defeat because Tom Riddle had shaken her hand.

The Hat was still whispering, and the sound threatened to drive her well and truly insane. “What does that say about you, Bellatrix dear? Struck so completely off your own path with nothing more than a handshake? Your loyalty owned so thoroughly with so little?”

Shut up, Bellatrix thought, more viciously than she would have believed herself capable of. Shut up, shut up--

“I could put you in Hufflepuff,” the Hat whispered mercilessly. “It would serve you well, and, who knows, it might even temper that other thing, ooh, we haven’t even talked about that, have we? Shall we talk about the darkness, Bellatrix?”

SHUT UP. Bellatrix was trembling so badly that it seemed impossible that the others hadn’t noticed, but to her extreme relief the Hat said nothing. Perhaps it, too, felt that the darkness swirling through her now would dip it in muggle gasoline and then say incendio without a thought and to Tíw with the consequences, because the sticky, all-consuming force that was eating away at her capacity for rational thought right now wasn’t anger so much as a visceral need to hurt and destroy.

She took several deep breaths in the welcome silence, counting up slowly by prime numbers while she waited for her heart to stop galloping in her chest. When at last the rage retreated once more to the back of her mind and her fingers loosened themselves from the underside of the stool, she thought shakily, Alright. Just… just put me in Slytherin. Don’t you dare argue, or try to say anything else, or I-- and the darkness flared again, threatening to consume her once more, but Bellatrix took a deep gulp of air and it subsided.

The silence dragged on for another couple of agonizing seconds, and then she heard the Hat scream, “SLYTHERIN!” to the rest of the hall. Eleven years of upbringing kept Bellatrix from flinging the Hat away from her and running to the Slytherin Table at top speed, but only just. She managed to keep the practiced smirk by sheer force of habit, and by the time she reached the table itself the adrenaline had started to ebb and her hands barely trembled at all.

And by the time Tom Riddle had been under the Hat for almost as long as she had, Bellatrix had calmed down enough that her facade barely wavered when he, too, was Sorted into Slytherin, or when he sat next to her as if he wasn’t the most terrifying, most wonderful person she had ever met, and she even managed to sound almost normal when she told him that it was a pity he hadn’t gotten his first choice of House.