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Great and Terrible Things	By : TheRiddleHouse Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 2975 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I make no money from writing this fanfiction.

Chapter List
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CHAPTER FIVE
The First of September

1938

The Hogwarts Express gleamed scarlet under the late summer sunlight, emitting billowing clouds of steam. Students crowded Platform 9 ¾, saying goodbye to families and hello to friends. The noise of animals (hooting owls and croaking toads and meowing cats) intertwined with the children’s sentimental reunions and farewells, creating a cacophony of discordant sounds. A calico kitten jumped onto Adriana’s trunk, stretched, then cocked its fluffy head and looked at her with curious orange eyes. When she reached out to pet it, the kitten hissed and scratched her hand, its claws just sharp enough to draw blood.
Tom laughed, and Adriana shot him the foulest look she could muster. Then she picked up the kitten by the scruff of its neck and dumped it on the ground. “C’mon,” she said, “Let’s go."
The carriages near the front of the train were already full, mostly with older students who’d arrived early enough to get the best seats. Adriana had hoped for an empty compartment, but the best they could find was one near the back, where a handful of first-years were already sitting.
Tom marched inside without asking if anyone minded, forward as ever, and claimed a spot by the window. Adriana sat next to him and poked him in the ribs. “Who says you get the window seat, eh?”
“You didn’t ask if you could join us,” said a frowning, freckled boy.
“Is this your train?” Tom asked, sounding politely puzzled.
The freckled boy blinked stupidly.
“No?” Tom asked, all innocence. “Then I don’t need your permission, do I?”
Another boy sniggered. He was sandy-haired and blue-eyed, neither handsome nor plain, with a too-pointy nose but a smile that made up for it. “I’m Grayson Avery,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Tom Riddle.”
“And you?” Grayson asked.
“Adriana Sharrow,” she said.
The other children introduced themselves: there was Ignatius Prewett, the red-headed, freckled boy Tom had cheeked; Alphard Black, a good-looking, quiet, bookworm sort; and Celeste Lestrange, a very pretty girl with long dark hair.
“I don’t know the name Riddle,” said Ignatius, “nor Sharrow. You parents were wizards, weren’t they?”
“No idea,” said Tom. “We’re orphans, the both of us.”
Tom’s heritage might be a mystery to him, but Adriana knew well and good that her parents had been Muggles. From Ignatius’s tone she could guess that such a revelation wouldn’t win her any friends in this compartment.
“They could be Mudbloods,” said Ignatius.
Alphard rolled his eyes. “Or they could be Merlin’s great-great-great-grandchildren. Who cares?”
“You better care,” Ignatius said, “or at least pretend to. Elsewise your sister will skin you alive.”
Alphard looked up from his book to say, “I’m not afraid of Walburga.”
Grayson laughed. “You’re the only one then, mate. She’s bloody terrifying.”
Adriana tuned out the conversation circulating around (and conspicuously ignoring) her and Tom. She opened her trunk and withdrew the secondhand copy of Hogwarts: A History that she’d purchased in Diagon Alley—a choice that dashed the hope of buying new robes, but she would pick a good book over pretty things to wear any day—and turned to the pages about the Hogwarts Founders and Houses. She’d read this part at least three times already, but with the school only a few hours away, Adriana wanted to consider her options again.
Hufflepuff she had no interest in. Fairness and justice were the stuff of storybooks, only nobody told you that, and a House dedicated to those principles sounded at best naive and at worst downright foolish. Ravenclaw appealed to her more. She’d been a truly terrible student at the orphanage, but Adriana knew she was more intelligent than most, and as much as she hated homework, she wanted to learn all about magic that she could. Nonetheless, she suspected it was either Gryffindor or Slytherin that she would be sorted into.
Hogwarts, A History quite irritatingly failed to explain exactly how one’s House was chosen, and so she closed the book and asked the chattering children in her carriage about it.
Celeste said, “Sorry, I don’t know. My brother wouldn’t even give me a clue.”
“Walburga told me there’s a test of some kind,” said Alphard, “but she was probably lying.”
“Doesn’t matter how we’re sorted,” said Grayson, “it’s Slytherin for me. Averys have worn the green and silver for centuries.”
“Didn’t you have a cousin in Hufflepuff?” Celeste asked.
Grayson blushed a splotchy pink and said, “Third cousin, and she’s not an Avery anymore. She married a Weasley, if you can believe it.”
Adriana couldn’t guess who the Weasleys were, and didn’t care; she returned to Hogwarts: A History.
“At least the Weasleys are pure-blood,” Celeste said.
Ignatius snorted. “Blood-traitors you mean, carrying on with Mudbloods and Muggles…”
Talk turned back to Houses as the train ate up the distance between London and Hogwarts, and Grayson asked Tom where he thought he’d end up.
“Slytherin,” Tom said, without a moment’s hesitation.
“You sound certain,” said Ignatius.
“I am. It’s the House for greatness, isn’t it?”
“And you’re great?” Ignatius asked.
Tom smiled sharply. “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

The sun had set while they rode the Hogwarts Express. Now the sky was a deep indigo dotted with stars, and Tom could just make out Orion. He followed the groundskeeper down a steep, forested hill, staying straight on the dirt path. At the bottom, it wound suddenly to the left, then opened onto the edge of a vast lake. It looked like nothing so much as a great mirror, moonlight glimmering silver-bright off the still surface. And on the far side of the waters, resting on a clifftop, its golden windows shining like lanterns in the night, stood a castle.
Tom had witnessed a great deal of ugliness in his life and very little good. Hogwarts, even cloaked by darkness, was easily the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Without quite knowing why, he reached for Adriana and laced their fingers together, same as she’d done last Christmas when she came to his room, hoping to hide from her nightmares.
Thirty or forty boats lined the shore, and Tom had to let go of Adriana for her to claim her seat in the nearest one. The loss of contact was startling, and he hurried to take his place next to her, to grasp her hand again. He knew, somehow, that he would remember everything about this moment for the rest of his life: the smells of lake water and pine and vespertine blossoms; the sunset-song of chirping crickets; the illuminated castle windows, bright as beacons, beckoning its students; and most of all, the feel of Adriana next to him, impossibly warm and vibrantly alive.
The boats moved forward of their own accord, like a little navy on a freshwater sea. They drew closer and closer to the cliff upon which Hogwarts perched, and then they went through it, into a pitch black tunnel. He was being carried to a place where he would finally belong, and even though he couldn’t see his destination, Tom knew it would be more a home than the orphanage had ever been.
They came to a stop, and a hundred-odd children clambered out of their boats onto a pebbled, subterranean harbor. The groundskeeper snapped at them to hurry, and they all followed him through a passageway that led to the green lawn around the castle itself, then up a flight of stairs to a great, wooden door. This is it, Tom thought. We’re finally here.
The door opened, and a small, white-haired witch said, “I am Professor Merrythought. Come with me.”
The first-years scrambled inside. Flaming torches cast a ruddy glow about the entrance hall, which was larger and grander than anything Tom had ever seen. Professor Merrythought welcomed them to Hogwarts, gave a brief speech on the four Houses and the Sorting ceremony, and told them to line up. She opened the double doors to the right, and they marched inside.
Four long tables dominated the Great Hall, full of students that were turning in their seats to get a better look at the new class. Hundreds of candles floated in midair, their flickering light illuminating the faces of the children below and shining off the golden plates and goblets. There were ghosts sitting at each of the tables, like people made of mist, and Tom thought of a dozen questions as soon as he saw them. What was it like to die? Did they know what happened after? Had they seen a heaven or hell and turned back from it?
Then he glanced upward and saw that the vaulted ceiling had indeed been enchanted to look like the sky above, just as Adriana’s dog-eared copy of Hogwarts, A History had promised. A thousand stars shone down on them, their constellations bright and watchful.
Professor Merrythought led the first-years to the front of the hall, facing the whole school, the teachers’ table behind their backs. It was then that Tom noticed the pointed hat sitting on a three-legged stool. It was patched, frayed, and dirty, utterly ordinary except for its poor condition—until a tear near the brim opened, and the hat began to sing, inviting students to try it on, praising Gryffindor’s courage, Hufflepuff’s fairness, Ravenclaw’s wit, and Slytherin’s ambition.
When it finished, Professor Merrythought read off the name, “Allbright, Imogene,” from her long scroll of parchment, and a skittish-looking girl stepped forward. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut as Professor Merrythought put the Sorting Hat on her head. Ten seconds passed, twenty, thirty, and then the Hat shouted, “HUFFLEPUFF!” Imogene scurried over to the Hufflepuff table, and an older boy wearing a silver badge patted her on the back, smiling.
Tom had never hated his name so much as in this moment, when Riddle relegated him to the back of the line. He watched the children he’d met on the train get sorted before him: the hat placed Grayson, Alphard, and Celeste into Slytherin, but Ignatius went to Ravenclaw. Good. He hadn’t fancied sharing a room with that prat anyhow.
Fitzgerald Raleigh and Willow Randall were both Gryffindor, and then Professor Merrythought called out, “Riddle, Tom.”
He strode over to the professor, took a seat on the stool, and waited to be sorted. It didn’t take long; the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!”
Tom rose, grinning, and joined the cheering table, where Grayson and Alphard made room for him.
There were only five children with names between Riddle and Sharrow, and then it was Adriana’s turn. Tom expected it to take only a moment for her to be sorted—she was, after all, nearly as talented as him—but the hat deliberated for a full minute, then another, and another.
Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin. She belongs here. She belongs with me.
An older girl, perhaps sixth- or seventh-year, looked at her watch and whispered, “That’s over five minutes. She’s a Hatstall.”
Finally, the Sorting Hat opened its mouth and shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”
Adriana shrugged in Tom’s direction, as if to say, “Oh, well,” and made her way to her House table.
He paid little attention to the rest of the ceremony, too busy staring across the Great Hall at Adriana. She wasn’t facing him, so he only had a view of her long, mahogany curls. Look at me, Tom thought, but she didn’t turn around.
Once “York, Persephone” was sorted into Ravenclaw, Headmaster Dippet stood and said, “Welcome, new students, and to those of you returning, welcome back…” He spoke about the Founders’ legacy, their dream of a school united, a dream fulfilled by each new class to walk the halls of Hogwarts.
“Oh, I wish he’d shut it,” Grayson whispered to Tom. “I’m starving.”
Dippet droned on and on, then finally sat down.
A feast appeared on the table with a suddenness that almost shocked Tom. There were platters of roast beef, lamb, ham, and chicken. Bowls of buttery creamed potatoes, tureens of gravy. Shepherd’s pie, pork pies, steak and kidney pie. Split pea soup and squash casserole. Treacle tart, apple cake, blackberry cobbler, flummery, and trifle. Tom had never seen so much food in his life, and he didn’t know where to start.
“I can’t believe Ignatius wasn’t sorted Slytherin,” Grayson said, around a bite of chicken.
Celeste wrinkled her pretty little nose and said, “Don’t talk with your mouth full. Makes you look like a Mudblood.”
“What is that anyway?” Tom asked.
“A witch or wizard with Muggles for parents,” Celeste said. “They’re not as magically talented as us, though. They really shouldn’t be allowed to come to Hogwarts at all, if you ask me.”
Grayson nodded. “And they’re so ignorant about our world, it takes them ages to catch up—” He stopped abruptly and threw Tom an apologetic look. “No offense to you, of course.”
Tom made himself smile. “None taken.”
Celeste took a dainty sip of pea soup, swallowed, and said, “You can’t be a Mudblood anyway. I’d have been able to tell if you were.”
Alphard snorted, and Celeste asked, “What? You don’t believe me?”
“Muggle-borns look just like everybody else,” Alphard said. “There’s no way to tell them apart from half-bloods or pure-bloods.”
Another boy turned around and frowned at Alphard. He looked so strikingly like Celeste—same black hair and blue eyes and straight, even features—that he had to be her older brother. “You’re starting to sound like a blood-traitor, Black.”
“I’m not,” Alphard said. “Just stating facts.”
Tom ate roast beef and potatoes and listened, curious to learn about the hierarchy of Hogwarts. Alphard continued to argue with the Lestranges until a tall girl with hawkish eyes and a waist-length braid got up, walked over, and twisted his ear.
“Ow! Walburga!” Alphard said. “What was that for?”
“For talking like a Muggle-lover,” she hissed. “If I hear that trash from you again I’ll hex you into next week.”
Walburga released her little brother and returned to her seat.
“Sorry,” Celeste said to Alphard. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with your sister.”
Alphard rubbed his ear. “Don’t worry about it. Walburga’s always mad about something.”
After dinner, a prefect led the Slytherin first-years to their common room. Portraits lined the walls, and Tom nearly tripped when he saw that the pictures’ occupants were moving, talking and laughing and darting between one another’s frames. As astonishing as that was, he kept his face carefully blank and followed the group down into the dungeons. The prefect stopped before a perfectly average stretch of bare wall and said, “Twenty-eight.” A door hidden in the stone slid open, and the first-years pushed and shoved one another in their hurry to get inside the common room.
The Slytherin quarters were dim and chilly, and green lamps hung from chains, casting a gloomy sort of emerald light. Still, there was a certain dark glamour to the room. Beyond the stained glass windows Tom could see creatures swimming: fish and, more ominously, humanoid figures that disappeared too quickly for him to examine. The furniture was ebony and black leather, all expertly crafted. He counted no less than three chessboards sitting about, although he couldn’t guess what appeal a Muggle game held for wizards. A fire burned in the grate, but its golden warmth seemed out of place, an element that did not quite belong here under the lake.
The Slytherin dormitories descended even further beneath the ground, and Tom’s own room was on the sixth floor down, almost at the very bottom. His trunk had already been brought up and placed at the foot of a four-poster bed, a handsome construction of dark wood and green silk hangings. His roommates—Grayson, Alphard, and three other boys whose names he didn’t yet know—all proclaimed themselves stuffed and exhausted. Tom felt wide awake, much too excited to be tired, but he changed into his pajamas (grey and plain, like all the other clothes he owned, besides his school robes) and slipped beneath the silver-embroidered covers just the same.
He lay on his back and listened to the lake water lapping against the windows, a soothing sound, but apparently not soothing enough, because he couldn’t fall asleep. Tom wondered where Adriana was in the castle. For the first time since he met her, he had no idea where she might be, and this bothered him. Since Christmas, they’d made a habit of slipping into one another’s rooms at night, sometimes to stay up late talking, sometimes just to sleep, and he’d counted on having the same luxury at Hogwarts. Tom resolved to get the location of the Gryffindor quarters out of Adriana on the morrow, whether he had to bully, bribe, or charm it from her.
He got out of bed and wandered upstairs to the common room. A few of the older students lingered by the hearth, playing some sort of exploding card game. The Slytherin ghost, whom Tom had heard a prefect refer to as the Bloody Baron, hovered by one of the windows, watching the fish drift by. He approached the ghost and asked, “What happens after you die?”
The Baron didn’t even look away from the window. “At least try to butter me up first,” he said, “before you ask me such an unoriginal question.”
Tom scowled. “Oh come off it. Just answer me.”
“Can’t.”
Tom took a steadying breath, trying to reign in his temper. “What do you mean you can’t? You’re dead aren’t you?”
“Very astute,” said the Baron dryly. “Yes, boy, I’m dead.”
“Then you must know what happens after all of this—” Tom gestured widely with both hands, “is gone.”
The ghost sniffed. “Well, I don’t.”
“Tell the truth,” Tom said, and it took every bit of his self-control not to scream it.
The Baron looked at him for the first time. “I know what you want from me, but I can’t give it to you. If I could, I wouldn’t be here.”
Before he could interrogate the ghost further, the Baron drifted across the common room, then through a wall back into the dungeons.
Tom turned away, disappointed, with only more questions and no answers at all.
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Great and Terrible Things