XIII - Rumour, Gretel and the End of the Beginning

Betty imagined the last night of term would be a sombre affair. After her unexpected departure from Beauxbatons, followed by two terms at Hogwarts, she finally felt settled. Exams were no highlight and although questions from her father were unlikely, she expected his disappointed face to make an appearance. Most trunks had been arranged in vast pyramids and were now ready for transport to the station. Someone let slip to Vivian that a Hogwarts tradition was in store for them that night. It was also traditional — teachers said — not to mention what the tradition was. Fifth form girls in Ravenclaw; however, told them that it was actually traditional to know about the tradition, you weren't supposed to know about. So they told them.

A midnight feast for all students, was held on the last night of the year. Each dormitory would be assigned a lower sixth former, since upper sixth formers were mentally moving on at this late stage and each dormitory group was allotted a site, to avoid interference and squabbling among themselves. Someone travelling by broomstick high above Hogwarts, would see dozens of campfire beacons spread across the school grounds, winking like earthbound stars.

Not so much a feast, as an opportunity to cook simple food over a campfire. A hand-shovel was used to cover the fire with earth afterwards, which doubled as a skillet for roasting nuts on. You chatted, told stories and sang songs if the mood struck; it was the last night to connect with your friends, before the long summer break. Not everyone had lots of friends, but the tradition was to include everyone; especially those pupils often seen, but not heard. The emotional turmoil of exams and the sudden arrival of term end, needed a remedy. So sadness was kept at bay by a combination of food, friends and fire. It was a bonding experience and ended with most staring into the flames, reflecting on a year of life-affirming highs and inevitably, the odd low. Everyone sneaked around, whispered and kept to the shadows, since it was an important part of midnight-feast theatre. The sneaking was unnecessary, as all teaching staff were aware of the feasts and considered it an essential part of developing well-rounded witches and wizards.

Betty was sleeping lightly when Eudora shook her awake.

'We're getting ready to go.'

Betty quickly changed into the clothes she'd left out. Strictly speaking, she should have picnicked with her own dorm, but Eudora and Vivian insisted she join them. Vivian convinced the lower-sixth prefect that Betty was practically a sister to her and eventually the prefect caved.

Rebecca Dawnay was in charge of the Ravenclaw junior dorm; nicknamed Mummy, she was a favourite of Headmaster Dippet and the Hogwarts' teaching staff. A brilliant pupil and stalwart of school societies, her smile was so permanently serene, it was almost unnerving. From Rebecca's arrival at the school gates six years earlier, she'd thrown herself into school life. Joining, helping, taking on the less appealing administrative chores, always arriving early and leaving late. Encouraging groups such as the Faerie Glade Preservation Society, which undertook marathon treks into the forests, to ensure faerie glades prospered. Choirs; school team supporters; litter picking; cleaning and repainting the school longship. Magical liaison: if a representative from the Ministry of Magic needed a tour of the school, Rebecca was on hand to show them round. The school and staff would certainly miss her enthusiasm when she moved on. Eudora was relieved to have Rebecca as their sixth former, but still thought that being out of bed would land them in trouble.

They weren't required to carry anything, since the school house-elves were tasked with transporting everything to the sites. The moon was halfway through its cycle, so once away from the castle lights, they wouldn't have to bump around in total darkness. Rebecca led their group downstairs to the Great Hall foyer and there beside the trunk pyramids — in a stage whisper — she recounted the midnight feast's history. There was in fact, no story to tell, but it was tradition to make one up and embellish it with gruesome details. Tales could be silly, frightening or both; the decision rested with the storyteller. Rebecca's story was a typically positive affair, maintaining Hogwarts' good name and ending on a happy note. Dippet would have swelled with pride.

Their designated site was across the covered footbridge, beside the Haunted Wood. This alarmed Eudora, until she heard that they would not be venturing beyond the tree line. With the wood behind, they sat on a grassy bank overlooking Rumsail Loch, admiring its pearly surface beneath the waxing moon. There were wooden crates with cushions and blankets to wrap around your shoulders: if it became chilly. In the centre were split logs and to one side a wicker hamper, plus an urn containing enough butterbeer for several mugs each. In the hamper were: sausages; Portobello mushrooms; cheddar cheese; corn kernels for popping; crisps; tomatoes and cucumbers, plus an assortment of bread rolls. Propped up nearby, was a 5lb hessian sack, containing groundnuts for roasting.

Rebecca led the way, with her wand illuminated and held above, like a tour guide. Mouthing the spell quietly — since first formers were not allowed to perform fire-invoking spells — a white fork exploded from the tip of her wand. The interlocking pile of logs erupted in flame and amber light flickered across their faces. The logs huffed and whistled, popping now and again, as the fire's invisible heat spread outwards. The house-elves had constructed the log pile with two flat surfaces: for resting the huge, iron frying pans on. Betty and Eudora struggled with one, before Rebecca took over and levitated it into position. Few first formers had a useful handle on magic yet, knowing only simple spells such as the verdimillious charm (green sparks) and Rebecca was a reminder of how far they had to go in their studies. Plus, sixth form students had a knack for making spells look so easy.

Once the sausages and mushrooms were cooked, Rebecca, with help from Frances Leng — her protégé — dished them into rolls, then plated the salad and fresh crisps. Eudora, Betty and Vivian sat together with their backs to the wood, facing the silver loch. The food tasted so much better outside and also, Eudora thought, it felt like rule breaking without the risk. They scattered the groundnuts onto the hand shovel and took turns to flip them.

Rebecca announced that everyone had to tell a joke, or embarrassing story about themselves, while they tossed the nuts. Eudora's blood ran cold, since she was currently holding the shovel. Knowing she didn't have a funny bone in her body, this was a terrifying prospect. Usually when telling a joke, she messed up the punchline, or forgot a crucial element: stripping it of any humour.

Watching the nuts carefully — shovel in hand — Eudora told the story of a Saturday morning visit to the high street in Trim. After sleeping late her mother had called up, so Eudora dressed quickly and ran most of the way into town. Everyone was there for their weekly shop: family friends; magical folk; muggles; schoolmates; teachers and neighbours. She collected everything on the list, loading it into her wicker basket and stopping here and there to exchange pleasantries. Everyone seemed a little off that morning. Perhaps because she'd woken late, missed breakfast, or maybe it was just her imagination. Some were distant and few could make eye contact with her.

When Eudora got home, her mother took the basket from her. Turning, she said.

'Eudora, will you take a look at yourself in the mirror, now!'

There was a pause as Eudora stared into the campfire flames. Everyone leaned forward in expectation, before she continued.

There in the hall mirror, she was confronted by the bitter truth. Dressing in a hurry, the hem of her dress at the back had tucked into the top of her least-favourite pants. She'd been round the entire village several times, parading her underwear for all to see.

'I thought at one point, you know, it is chilly today.'

There was silence before Vivian snorted and quaked, trying to contain her laughter. The laughter was infectious, so everyone joined in, including Eudora. Others contributed an anecdote as the shovel was passed round, but Eudora's story remained a highlight. Vivian was resting an arm on her shoulder and Eudora felt a heartbreaking happiness, because tomorrow she would take an overnight train to Holyhead. Then an early ferry to Dublin and by late afternoon the following day, she'd be back in Trim. Missing these experiences and especially the company of her new friends.

After eating, they broke into smaller groups to chat; Vivian, Betty and Eudora were sitting in a horseshoe shape. Somehow the conversation turned to Eudora's hairstyle, which she'd kept since the Midsummer Supper. Self consciously Eudora touched her hair when Vivian mentioned it.

'Getting looks Dora, getting looks. I've seen Gary Box is keen. You might have yourself a new admirer there.'

'What?!' Eudora responded with more emotion than she intended. 'No, it's not like that. Gary's a friend.'

'WooOOOOoooo.' Vivian teased.

'He is. I like him, but I don't like him.'

Vivian shrugged.

'All I'm saying is, liking somebody is a pretty good place to start.'

Eudora opened her lips to respond, but nothing came. She thought of the Mirror of Erised and promptly shut her mouth again. The day after tomorrow, she would be home and the mirror would be out of reach for two whole months. During her last visit to the Room of Requirement, she'd tried to memorise every detail, but Tom's face and her daughter's, were already beginning to fade.

Without warning, Betty spoke with her head lowered and eyes levelled at the flames.

'I'm going to miss you both, more than you can imagine. And Tom. I know he's just a friend, but our chats in muggle studies. I look forward to them so much and well… I just find him easy to talk to. Sometimes I wonder if he's thinking? There's that girl again, trying to get my attention. It's actually quite embarrassing.'

'You're not in love, are you?' Vivian asked.

Betty buried her face in her palms for a moment, before composing herself.

'No, it's just the way I am.' She smiled with a hint of sadness.

'Perhaps I didn't get enough attention when I was younger.'

Vivian put her arm around Betty and gave her a squeeze. 'If you're not sure how you feel, you're in good company. No one does.' Although she was smiling, Betty brushed away several discreet tears.

Lucky for Eudora it was dark, because her face was practically whimpering. Betty even cries beautifully. She'd not mentioned Tom for months and Eudora secretly hoped that Betty's interest had waned. Eudora had fooled herself, believing what she wanted to believe and now her Mirror of Erised dreams lay in tatters, because girls like Betty always won the prize. She was pretty, sophisticated and worst of all: my best friend. Eudora felt such a fraud. Sneaking around after dark, secretly fantasising about some childish daydream; pretending that in the real world, Tom would save himself until they got married. Hah! As if that would ever happen? Words could not express how pathetic her behaviour sounded now.

Back in Trim, Eudora's previous life was simple. She went to school, ate her tea, read and went to bed. Now her emotions were supposed to navigate perilous, emotional waters: riddled with uncharted rocks and reefs. During a visit to the local bookshop in her village, she'd seen a romantic novel. Eudora casually picked it up and began flicking through the pages, before slamming it shut and leaving in a hurry. Her constant fear of being exposed! She understood now, what she feared then; that beneath her happy-go-lucky exterior, she was a romantic. Perhaps even a hopeless one. Who could never — not even for Betty — surrender her romantic hopes and dreams.

Every atom of her being wanted to commiserate and empathise with her friend. Surprising even herself — she couldn't do it — or didn't want to. Vivian stared at Eudora and flicked a nod towards Betty, so Eudora quickly joined them, resting a hand on Betty's other shoulder. Vivian was right. Everyone thought Betty was like Tom and didn't need support, but clearly she did. What sort of friend was Eudora being, if she wasn't there when Betty needed her most? How selfish had she become? Eudora forgot about Tom for the moment, but knew the long train ride and ferry crossing, would bring her gloomy mood back to roost.

It may have been the condition of a realm at riot, but Eudora's mind let slip a secret and somehow it found its way to her lips. Perhaps she wanted to make Betty jealous? Eudora knew something about Tom, which Betty didn't.

'Tom is the true Lord Protector.' Eudora made it sound like she was commenting on the weather.

Vivian narrowed her eyes.

'You're gonna have to explain that Dora, 'cause I'm pretty sure we've no idea what you're talking about.'

Eudora recounted the heart containing the orb of anamnesis, the memory of the vampire attack, that Gary had been present, but unconscious and how Herbie was knocked out. Then Tom dispatched the vampire and here she paused, embroidering the truth. She failed to mention Sheldrick and the vampire's confinement in a metal box — which even now still shocked her. Eudora could see their stunned expressions and the unkindest corner of her mind, was relishing Betty's discomfort. Eudora continued: Tom replaced Herbie's memory with another — where Herbie had killed the vampire — then Tom left alone. Hiding everything he'd done and passing credit to the auror.

Vivian and Bettys' expressions were similar. Confused to the point of disbelief and aware that the version of events everyone knew to be true, was entirely false. Vivian condensed their thoughts into a single word.

'Why?'

Eudora, cornered and panicky, said the first thing that came to mind.

'I don't know.'

Which despite her expectations, seemed to satisfy them.

'We shouldn't tell. I mean… It's probably secret for a good reason.' Eudora's pleading acquired a note of desperation, now the cat was out of the bag.

'He's just being modest.' Vivian was thinking out loud and half-dismissing Eudora's pleas already.

'Please don't tell,' Eudora's whimpering face returned.

'I won't,' Vivian said, but there was something about her lack of conviction, which told Eudora it was already too late. Betty said nothing.

Rebecca Dawnay chose this moment to clap her hands softly together.

'Girls, can I have your attention? Gather up anything you've brought along. Leave everything else, the house-elves will collect it before daybreak. If you're interested, I'm presenting them with a signed portrait of staff tomorrow morning. To thank them for their contribution over the past year: meet at 6.45am, on the stage in the Great Hall.'

No one responded, since they all planned to be fast asleep at that time, but Eudora knew sleep was beyond her now. An hour ago, she was sure she didn't want to go home; however, at this moment and given the chance, she would happily run to the station. Keeping the secret about Tom had been a firm promise and now the whole school would know. When Gary found out, he would hate her! He'd tell everyone — including Tom — that silly-little Eudora was behind it all. Her stomach turned upside down with worry, during their climb back up to the castle. Life could change course with no warning and she always felt so ill-equipped to deal with it.

Eudora lay awake for many hours — fretting — then attended the house-elf presentation early next morning, along with Frances Leng. Rebecca's transports of delight at greeting not one junior pupil, but two, was touching. Frances smiled in a shy way, but Eudora just felt sick, especially in her heart. She planned to stay out of harm's way and keep the lowest profile possible when walking to the station. Sometimes in winter, or after dark, there were carriages to Hogsmeade, but in fine weather they always walked. She would make a hole and live in it for the entire journey, waiting patiently for their arrival at King's Cross. Then, after taking a taxi to Euston, she planned to sleep on the train and board her ferry the next morning. Eudora's mother was meeting her at the station in Trim, later that day; then, finally, she would be hundreds of miles from any difficult questions. For two whole months.

William Howard was also up early on leaving day. The seed of his idea at the Midsummer Supper, germinated over the days that followed. It would be fair to say, the whole business was taking an unhealthy grip on his state of mind and he was frequently seen talking and protesting with himself. His side of the story seemed important, but in truth he was simply wrestling with his conscience. Bill knew that what he was planning, was fundamentally wrong; the simple litmus test was: would you like it if someone did this to you? No, obviously I wouldn't and that should have been the end of it. As far as power, authority and respect were concerned, justifying your actions only mattered at the beginning. Later on, conscience barely got a look in.

Bill had been muttering to himself during Sunday lunch, when he was interrupted by a classmate, asking who he was talking to. Bill realised that his obsession was now visible to the wider school population. So what? Who cares? He didn't any more. Riddle needed taking down; this was war and Tom — poor little innocent Tom — had fired the first shot.

Bill assembled a clique around him: his war cabinet. They wouldn't dream of questioning his motives, mostly due to Bill's size and influence. If Bill were an ape, his followers would be surrounding him, removing parasites and stroking his fur back into place. In the absence of parasites, they showered his lack of self-esteem with compliments and approval. The group numbered around ten and were keen to make an early impression on the world. In several years the boys' hormones would take a back seat, but for now, pack hunting and picking on the weak, was a legitimate form of entertainment. Identifying a target for his clique, especially one who offered so little resistance, was too enticing for Bill to pass up.

Frank Merryweather contacted his father to enquire about Riddle, mumbling something about provenance and background. Apparently Tom was being considered for a special award and there might be something iffy in his family tree. This was a valid reason as far as his father was concerned, so Frank was given full permission to use The Daily Prophet; in whichever manner he saw fit.

When the owl came through with a summary from the Prophet, Frank handed it straight to Bill, whose eyes glinted. He scanned the parchment, picking up nuggets of gold along the way. Tom was an orphan, magical mother... Well, forget that detail. Muggle father, muggle upbringing, rumours of underage magical use, but nothing concrete so far and a suspected interest in the dark arts. A history of lax supervision, flexible morals and so on. Bill was beside himself and so were his minions. This was more than enough to drag Tom's name through the mud.

Those walking to the station set off at 8.30am; students' trunks had been sent earlier and were currently being loaded while the locomotive built up steam. The sun was already far above the treetops, promising cloudless skies and baking heat during their journey. Bill's troop made sure they left at the front of the line, where they could successfully plant their rumour.

Tom was a cheat, a filthy mudblood cheat. A dark-arts fanatic, who slithered from pillar to post, attempting to conceal his vile, orphanage upbringing. He killed animals with no hint of remorse, stole, lied, had no pedigree and really shouldn't be attending a school of Hogwarts' calibre. He was sullying their noble reputation. Yes, he'd done well in his exams, but then cheats always did well in exams, didn't they? That was sort of the point. The unapologetic swindler had apparently taken a shortcut in the Hogwarts 800 and used dark magic to conceal his actions! There were reliable witnesses to his shocking behaviour, among them The Daily Prophet.

The rumour would then travel back through the file of students, stretching along the cart track. That was the plan Bill had briefed them on.

Eudora was right the previous evening to suspect Vivian's integrity. She went straight back to their dorm and fell asleep in minutes; however, when Vivian awoke the next morning, a raging fire burned inside her. She had to spill the beans and held on only as far as breakfast. Phyllis Evans from Newport, a pleasant girl but fond of tittle-tattle, was her target. Phyllis was planning a career in the Ministry of Magic and some insignificant muggle outpost, thirty storeys below ground was not for her. She was after top-tier assignments and believed all information was automatically in the public domain: whatever the fallout. Telling Phyllis, was no different to telling the whole school.

Within minutes, the news reached the next table and students looked over at Vivian: the source of the story. Not known for gossip, or attention-seeking rumour, her stubborn face spoke volumes. Tom Riddle is the true Lord Protector. He fought the vampire using advanced magic and absolute fearlessness. What inspired the students most, was his decision to hide the fact. He had no interest in impressing anyone and allowed Herbie Peniakoff to take the credit. Who did that? Someone impressive, that's who! By the end of breakfast, everyone in the Great Hall knew; within an hour, almost the entire school had been informed. The entire school except staff, Tom and Gary; plus Bill's posse, whose attention was focussed elsewhere. As Tom and Gary were directly named in the rumour, perhaps it was a bit early to sidle up and start questioning them, just yet.

Halfway along the crocodile of pupils heading to the station, the two contradictory reports met and a battle for supremacy began. Bill and his cohorts had reached the station and were preparing to confront Tom, perhaps push him around a little to spice things up. Hogwarts didn't need celebrity figures, especially in the first form. The idea of pushing Tom around, seeing him get up from the floor — apologising — appealed to Bill more than he expected. He would finally impress on the crowd, who the real winner of the Hogwarts 800 was. The honourable William Howard Esq: heir to the noble house of Howard. Not this orphaned, mudblood vermin!

Things were not going to plan. The rumour travelling backwards was unappetising and spiteful; although it may have impressed some, they were probably the most feeble-minded characters at Hogwarts. The news from the back was far more appealing: a pupil had saved the school from a vampire's curse. That pupil had also let someone else take the credit for it. This was the same person who stopped during the Hogwarts 800, to help another student and chose not to mention that either. He was one of the most promising students Hogwarts had ever seen; a fact underlined by his award at the Midsummer Supper. Could he defeat a vampire? That was more than possible. Could he keep it quiet? Well, he'd already done that before and the whole school knew it. The crowd — while appearing fickle on the surface — is always composed of thinking individuals and as is usually the case, the majority remain silent until the performance begins. The rumour of Tom's bravery and selfless behaviour, triumphed over the cruel lies travelling back to meet it.

Tom walked up the platform with Gary; Betty, Eudora and Vivian were several groups further back. Many were gossiping among themselves — not whether Tom was a thief, a muggle lover, or someone with no family — but who was behind the vicious rumour?

That question was answered almost immediately. As Tom passed by, Bill dropped his shoulder, sending him sideways into the platform wall.

'Mind yourself, Riddle. We're not all celebrity fans round here.' His gang, with hands in their pockets, smirked, ready to step in now that Tom was outnumbered.

'Watch it Bill, he might cover you in red sparks.' One of them warned.

'Or green! I've heard those green ones are lethal.' Bill's gang laughed and surrounded Tom.

'Oh, give it a rest Howard, why don't you?' Gary stood in front of Tom, but he was swatted away by the older boys.

Vivian pushed her way to the front and stood directly in front of Bill; only shoulder height to the bully, but not intimidated by his size.

'Now we know who's behind the lies. Look at you. Ten boys picking on someone younger, because he's made something of himself. If you're all such a bunch of tough guys, fight me.'

She stepped up to Bill with such conviction, he was forced to take a step back.

Bill's gang had no experience of confrontation with a girl. You couldn't push her around — that was unthinkable — even to them. You couldn't argue with her, she was already two steps ahead; it was hard to know what to do. They had nothing in the arsenal to fall back on.

Then a ripple turned to a tide in the crowd. Students shouted out.

'Leave him alone Howard!'

'Pick on someone your own size!'

'Are you fighting girls now?'

'Why do you need ten to take on one first former?'

These were good questions and none of them had the answers. Bill's gang bunched together.

Then someone shouted: 'Tom Riddle is the true Lord Protector!'

The crowd latched onto the phrase and chanted it as they swelled around the gang of bullies. Bill stepped aside to let Tom, Gary and Vivian pass, defeated by the silent majority, who always when you least expected it, found their voice.

Tom and Gary took one of the compartments near the front and found themselves joined by pupils they didn't know. Older, more influential students, who wouldn't allow Bill or his deputies near Tom. In the school pecking order, Bill might be respected, but he was still a long way from the top. A whistle shrieked and the Hogwarts Express pushed through drifting curtains of steam.

After an uneventful journey of watching scenery, mingled with broken sleep, the train drew into King's Cross. Hogwarts students dissolved into the early-evening crowd; a river of briefcases and bowler hats, meandering onto identical, suburban trains. Eudora slipped into a taxi after a brief goodbye, but needn't have worried. No one was interested in the source of Tom's story now, only his selfless behaviour. The right action had been taken and Vivian had earned the crowd's respect too.

As usual, Gary slapped Tom on the back when they parted company at the Tube entrance; Tom needed to catch his tram and Gary was bound for west London on the District Line. Tom had wondered during the journey, whether Gary was the story's source. How could Gary know about Herbie's false memory and the other details he'd heard repeated? Then Tom stopped worrying — it didn't matter any more — everyone seemed to approve, so what was the problem?

As Tom prepared to cross the Euston Road, he turned to Gary who was still watching him.

'Thanks for today.'

Gary picked up his bag, began walking backwards and shouted.

'No, Tom. You're the one that everyone wants to thank.'

The cobbled street led from Greenwich High Road down to Deptford Creek, less than a mile from Wool's. Three men — two in flat caps and one shirtless in a white vest — walked down the slope to the water. All three had a cigarette pinched in the corner of their mouths. As they disappeared from view, Tom emerged from an alley at the other end of the street. It was mid-August and war in Europe was imminent: talk was of when, not if. Veterans of the last war, shook their heads when asked about the likelihood of an eleventh-hour peace treaty.

'You mark my words, sure as eggs is eggs. War by Christmas.' Algie Kempster predicted: the night watchman at Deptford's cattle market and a veteran of Flanders.

The odd, hopeless dreamer still imagined it might be called off at the last minute, but they were ignored now.

Initially, Tom had been above all the guessing and speculation. How could this war affect him, when most of his next six years would be spent in the Scottish Highlands? Then, as he considered the situation more carefully, red flags were raised; especially concerning Kit. He was prevented from signing up due to his age, but the British Expeditionary Force was currently being mobilised. They were less choosy now and if a word was put in with the recruiting sergeant, he could be fighting within a month. Kit — for most of Tom's life — was the only family he'd known.

Also, as Algie Kempster had taken great pains to point out, London's docklands would be a prime objective of Germany's. They were all wandering about with an enormous target on their backs. Algie explained that the docks were currently out of range, but European territory was being eaten up; how long before they found themselves within the bombsights of the Luftwaffe? Everyone living nearby was aware of the fact, but avoided bringing it up in conversation. Wool's boys should be evacuated with other orphans, to less vulnerable towns and cities, but they were useful dockside hands. Being overlooked — especially on Parnaby's say-so — was a distinct possibility.

His final concern related to an overheard conversation between two women in Kirkbride's Hardware, on Deptford High Street; one of whom, had a husband working at the Ministry of Food. She glanced around, checking there were no Nazi bystanders in the vicinity; then seeing only Tom, she whispered to her friend.

'Mick says they're bringing rationing in, soon as.' She peeped guiltily over her shoulder again, before adding.

'U-boat build up in the Atlantic. So I'm getting two of everything. Putting it by, 'cause there's tough times ahead, I shouldn't wonder.'

Tom acted immediately.

He was a hoarder and always had been; understandable in an environment where going without, was an everyday occurrence. Tom now had the means to acquire goods, whether he was acting ethically or not. The plan was to step up his actions and stockpile money, tinned foods, luxury goods, non-perishable items and similar. He visited the West End that afternoon, but pickings were slim; news travelled fast, especially among the wealthy, so luxury goods were nowhere to be found. The next course of action was to accumulate money and his preferred target was Jack Yardley and the Cubitt Town Boys. They were skimming most dockland operations and payments were probably heading up the pyramid to local government, so Tom would take their money with a clear conscience. As far as he understood it, the money was never theirs to begin with.

His plan would rattle the cage of a dangerous beast, so caution should come before greed. He followed Jack's gang at night — covertly — using the stunning spell or confundus charm. It was also essential now, to divert the trace onto Vernon Worsley during the holidays and to make use of his Babylonian dark cloaks where possible. Vernon was a friendly, well-meaning lad, who liked nothing better than to sit inside and endlessly wonder about things.

He was using the confundus charm less often these days. Jack Yardley may have little in the way of book learning, but he was a difficult man to fool. When several of his boys apparently forgot where they'd placed one of the money satchels, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. Tom frequently used the disillusionment charm to monitor the impact of his activities; circling his wand around himself and blending into the background. Usually in The Gun: Jack's local pub. Or his front for operations — Crown Timber in Rotherhithe — beside the Surrey Commercial Docks. Yardley owned several timber ponds, which stored immense tree trunks in loose rafts. Under which — it was said — his enemies were lashed until waterlogged. Then several days later they were floated out on the receding tide, washing ashore in Kent or Essex.

So Tom switched to stunning the Cubitt Town Boys, since it appeared more credible. They came round dazed, assuming a rival gang had coshed them, or that they'd been jumped by some lone-wolf hustler.

Tom edged along the wooden wharf, just above the three men. The tide was out and they stood on the muddy shoreline below, visible through gaps in the planking. Smears of smoke rose vertically from industrial stacks, into a cloudless sky. A bolt from Tom's wand and the gangsters stiffened, rocked gently, then hit the mud with an undignified slap. Tom no longer needed to enunciate his spells, repeating the words in a half-whisper was sufficient. He paused a moment, then carefully picked his way down the slippery cobbles. When Tom approached the three bodies, he was careful not to cross their field of vision; the men just stared up at the circling insects and listened to the wavelets lapping nearby. Crouching, he opened the satchel and hesitated: there were three bundles of notes, in five pound denominations. Foolishly Tom counted them out in the open, thumbing the thick wads. There was over £1500 in the satchel. This was no collection, but a shipment of money from one stronghold to another; representing many business deals, or bribes by another name. The repercussions of taking such a huge sum, would be swift and severe.

Tom decided to take it, filling his pockets and stuffing his shirt. Then a shout came from further up the street, so he swirled his wand and melted into the background. Two men pounded down the slope and found their colleagues out cold, or not quite. Their eyes were still open: staring blankly at the sky, as dead men do. One of the gang checked for a heartbeat and discovered they were still alive; perhaps they'd been drugged? The other man, wearing a torn shirt and the dirtiest trousers Tom had ever seen, shook the satchel. Tom backed under the wharf as they circled for clues; then he reached the timber reinforcements, sunk into the river bank and could go no further. He realised his mistake too late. One of the men noticed Tom's footprints in the mud. Footprints which led directly to him.

Apparating was too difficult to conceal from the ministry — trace or no trace — so Tom was in a tight corner. The gangster following the footprints, paused and took a leather cosh from his pocket, then continued advancing towards Tom. He could stun them if they got too close, but suspicion had already been aroused. Or he could erase their memories from the last week, just to be sure? What about other thugs nearby? Leaving a dozen bodies lying below the wharf, would look like gang warfare, not robbery.

The man — Gerry Wallis — was just a few feet away. Heavily built, a foundry employee and practised in the art of coshing; Tom was paralysed by indecision. Gerry halted, unable to process what he was looking at: the footsteps seemed to originate from a solid wall of timber? No one was nearby and nobody had left the scene. Somehow a person had appeared — as if by magic — then taken the money and vanished into thin air. Gerry looked above him, but the wharf couldn't be accessed from the shore — it made no sense — so he wouldn't mention it to Jack when explanations were called for. Gerry returned to the bodies lying in the mud. By backing away, with his footprints facing forward, Tom had probably saved his life.

The two men carried the bodies one by one up the street and propped them against a wall topped with broken glass. The stupefied bodies stood rigidly when tipped backwards, like stacked, scaffolding planks. The tide was coming in, which brought Gerry some welcome relief; it would wash away any evidence of his ghostly thief. Francis Rietti — the other gang member — was far too simple to notice forensic clues, so Gerry would cook up the story himself. Several thugs unknown, jumped our Cubitt Town Boys, snatched the money and made off sharpish towards the high road.

Tom slipped past the men using the disillusionment charm and despite the temptation to run, kept a steady pace along the next street. He melted back into focus beside a sagging wall on Tarves Way, then took the shortest route to Croom's Hill. The bundles bulged beneath his jacket, but who would think a schoolboy had wads of stolen money on him? No one. When he reached his house and closed the door, a paralysing wave of relief swept through him. These were not teenage bullies; they were hardened criminals who you never saw coming, until it was too late. There was no magic capable of protecting someone, if they were unconscious or dead. He was safe tonight, but repercussions from this theft would be felt across the four corners of London's docklands. No one would be above suspicion and future dealings with Jack Yardley should be conducted with a good deal more stealth.

On Sunday morning during breakfast, Parnaby stood at the front of the mess hall with his daughter. Kit meanwhile, was visiting the anti-aircraft battery in Greenwich; a rumour had circulated, that his application would be rubber stamped in the next few days. Tom, like many, knew that manning an AA battery in a London park, was no preparation for combat. He would have to accept that Kit intended to fight, despite what he, or anyone else said to discourage him. As a result, Tom spent more time on his own at Wool's. It wasn't that he didn't get on with the other boys, it was just that it suited him to maintain some distance. His future now lay elsewhere and the plans that would get him there, shouldn't concern others.

Parnaby cleared his throat.

'Good morning boys.' He waited for the appropriate, polite response before continuing. 'A notable day for us all at Wool's. War is coming! Thanks to our privileged relationship with the district council, we have been selected to help our friends from across the European continent.' Parnaby pretended to check some prompt cards, as he'd seen councillors do during speeches. Everyone knew he was only offering to help, for a favour in return.

'Refugees will begin arriving this evening, aboard the Kindertransport, which is due to terminate at Liverpool Street Station. We have agreed to take eleven girls.' This bullet point was accompanied by an intake of breath; Wool's was for boys. Girls were an exotic and unknown quantity.

'Settle down! I've designated a block of rooms to serve as the girls' quarters, so some of you will be moved later this morning. The tool shed will be repurposed in the short term for any overspill, until such time that the weather turns cooler and a more permanent solution is required. We shall all extend our warmest, Wool's welcome to the girls and you will — of course — give me no cause to regret your conduct throughout their stay. There we have it.'

Parnaby left, closely followed by Judith, who looked especially miserable. Wool's had been her exclusive domain since birth; all the boys loved her without question and now she would be just one of a dozen girls. When Parnaby had finally disappeared down the stairs, conversation erupted across the room. Girls! In the orphanage.

Even those boys moving to the tool shed, didn't mind. War was months, or perhaps weeks away and even if the adults were sulking and withdrawn, the Nation's children were desperate to get stuck in.

That evening, the boys stood on either side of the path leading to Wool's front entrance. An honour guard, which felt appropriate until the girls were led up the street. Cook had been sent across town to escort them back on the tram. The girls came from Vienna in Austria and were all Jewish; none of which meant a great deal to the boys at first. The timid group surrounded Cook, reluctant to leave her side as they approached the orphanage. Cook counted them a final time before they faced their welcoming committee; then awkwardness spread through both groups as no one uttered a word. Four of the eleven spoke good English and relayed Cook's instructions to the others in German. They were quiet, well mannered and despite their brave front, had developed a routine fear of the unknown. Several attempted a smile, as they made their way towards the open front door; where Parnaby was waiting with his daughter.

They brought with them an invisible, but unmistakable aura of sadness. Except for sharing a country with one another, they were all strangers in a foreign land. Their parents were in grave danger, but had still insisted they leave without them. The eldest may have understood why, but the youngest were confused and buried themselves deeply in their thoughts.

Tom and the other boys repeated welcome as the girls passed by. A few were able to manage a smile, but most looked ready to cry: not from sadness, but from inner turmoil. Having built up a resistance to cruelty, they were afraid to let go and trust others again. Especially when being offered the hand of friendship.

At the back was a girl of six or seven, whose name was printed on a piece of card and hung around her neck. It said: Gretel Birnholz. As they filed into the orphanage, one of the older girls took her hand. Passing by, Gretel turned her head to look at Tom; several moments later, she looked again, surprising the older girl.

Parnaby asked Tom to escort the girls to the mess hall, for a late supper; where they ate in silence, accompanied only by cutlery scraping plates. Gretel looked at Tom again; perhaps she wanted to tell him something? The older girl sitting to her right turned to Tom and said.

'My name is Hildegard — Hildy — and this is Gretel. She does not speak since her parents were moving to Germany. She is staying with an aunt who put her on the train. I think she wants to be your friend?' Hildy smiled properly, perhaps for the first time in months.

Tom knew differently: Gretel was a witch. Perhaps not a skilled practitioner, more like himself at that age, but showing promise. She was able to identify Tom instantly and a bond of trust had formed.

As she ate her meal, Gretel turned to look at Tom. Her face was expressionless and she said nothing, but Hildy was marvelling.

'This is the first time I saw her notice anything. What is your name please?'

'Tom.'

Hildy turned to Gretel.

'This is Tom, Gretel. He is your new friend.' Gretel's face said nothing, but every so often she turned to check he was still there.

With only a week till his return to Hogwarts, Tom was freewheeling. His plan to store as much as possible for rationing ahead, had been executed with a degree of success. The basement in his house was cleared and swept; food, clothing, fuel and any luxury he could track down, had been collected and stored. Signing on behalf of his father posed no problem and the deliveries interested none of his neighbours. After a job well done, he allowed himself the last week of summer off, before his return to Hogwarts.

Kit — out of breath — burst through Tom's door.

'They've only gone and done it, 'aven't they?'

Tom was none the wiser.

'Germany Tom! They've invaded Poland. That's it now. That's war thank you very much. Finally!'

He let out a whoop and ran up the corridor.

Kit's reaction was not typical, or if the sentiment was shared, it was kept under wraps in mixed company.

The rest of Friday continued as normal, as did Saturday, then they awoke to a perfect Sunday: the last hurrah before autumn. Blue skies, distant, motionless cloudlets and a contented stillness hung over the city. The boys were breaking down the mess hall after breakfast and stacking tables against the far wall, since it served as their workshop during daylight hours. The hall was white and battleship grey; patches of missing plaster were painted over rather than repaired and it always smelled of stale grease and disinfectant. Tom was part of the detail washing plates, cups and cutlery. Bruce Codner — one of the older boys planning to join up — stood in the doorway eating an apple; he was leaning on one elbow, with a hand pushing up the door frame. After swallowing a mouthful of apple, he shouted.

'Right, you 'orrible lot. Parnaby's study, double-time. Move it, move it, move it!'

There were two dozen boys already there when Tom arrived, but the numbers continued to grow, with boys in the corridor straining to hear Parnaby's voice.

'The Prime Minister will be addressing the Empire,' was all he said. Ordinarily, this would be accompanied by a note of triumph, but not today. Parnaby just looked tired.

He turned on the wireless: a veneered cabinet facing the room, which sat with pride of place on a table behind him. The valves warmed and a soft glow lit the lower section of the station dial. Despite the exotic markings, including Rome and Copenhagen, Parnaby only listened to two stations: both broadcast by the BBC. The Home Service and when he was feeling more frivolous: The Light Programme — though this was rare. He preferred to adopt a studious frown and violently disagree with every view expressed by the BBC; especially when it related to dispatches about the coming war.

He fine-tuned the dial, which whistled and squawked before settling on the voice of Alvar Lidell. Then his tone deepened, as the valves approached their operating temperature.

'At 11.15, that is in about two minutes, the Prime Minister will broadcast to the nation. Please stand by.'

No one would forget the minutes that followed. Tom looked out of Parnaby's bay window, towards the ranks of wobbling barrage balloons, protecting the coastal approaches. For an optimistic moment, he imagined nothing could ever change this view.

There was murmuring and twitching in the room, as each boy held onto the box containing his gas mask. Twiddling the string between their fingers, or spinning it in one direction, then the other. Each imagined that they were supposed to feel something, but there was no experience to draw upon. In contrast to Parnaby, who spent those minutes remembering his mess unit in Belgium; the place where he'd gained his catering skills and the reason why he'd ended up at Wool's. His unit was beyond the line of fire back then, but it paid to expect the unexpected. A push to form a salient — or finger — into the enemy lines, led to retaliation from a German Howitzer battery; which claimed more than twenty of his company in a single strike. Parnaby swallowed as he recalled them joking and laughing; he always remembered them joking and laughing, even now. Cheerfully ignorant of their appointment with fate, as it galloped forward to meet them. The silence and radio static was interrupted by Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. It was Sunday morning, September 3rd, 1939. Chamberlain was tired, but resolute and his words hung in the air, before sinking under the gravity of their content.

'This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating that, unless we heard from them by 11 o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.'

Tom searched the faces in the room for Kit. He was in the far corner by the bookcases, eyes closed in relief. Kit had dreamed about this moment and now Tom felt vulnerable; all this could change permanently if Kit left to fight in France. He would then be directly in harm's way. Tom corrected himself. It was going to happen, there were noifs and buts now. Tom's gaze drifted over the heads of the other boys; around ten of them were close to signing up and how many would remain in France forever? Hogwarts seemed so remote in his current frame of mind, but he was grateful for that. Tom's attention returned to the wireless again.

'The Government have made plans under which it will be possible to carry on the work of the nation in the days of stress and strain that may be ahead. But these plans need your help. You may be taking your part in the fighting services or as a volunteer in one of the branches of Civil Defence. If so you will report for duty in accordance with the instructions you have received. You may be engaged in work essential to the prosecution of war for the maintenance of the life of the people — in factories, in transport, in public utility concerns, or in the supply of other necessaries of life. If so, it is of vital importance that you should carry on with your jobs…'

Tom saw Kit smiling at Dudley Hewer; both similar in age, they obviously had similar plans and Tom felt left out. Kit and Dudley stood to attention, as if the Prime Minister were talking directly to them. He was asking and willingly, they would answer his call. The speech came to a close.

'It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against — brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution — and against them I am certain that the right will prevail."

There was silence and Parnaby turned the radio off. Light from the valves, slowly died.

'You may go,' he said without emotion.

There was no talking as the boys returned to their duties, aware that everything would change now. Ignorant of the finer detail perhaps, but aware.

Fifteen minutes later an industrial whine — slowly rising and falling — echoed across the city and sent all the boys running into the street. The air-raid siren was a terrifying reminder that London was now in harm's way. It continued wailing mournfully and most of the boys expected to see bombers raining fire from above; a few had put their gas masks on, but none of them took shelter. A pregnant woman ran past, missing a shoe. Terrified, she screamed at them.

'Take cover!'

They ignored her and stayed put. It turned out to be a false alarm: friendlies spotted over the English Channel, so the boys remained where they were. Enjoying the sunshine and exhilarated by their first brush with danger.

Tom was examining a notch in his door frame before lights out; when he left for Hogwarts the previous year, he'd decided to record his height. Tom made another notch as fairly as he could and fought the temptation to stretch upwards. He was two inches taller. Sometime during last year's events and experiences, he'd grown without noticing.

Tom lay on his bed and scanned through Betty's letter again. He was drawn to the address on the front: Wool's House, Wharf Street, Deptford London SE8. Tom had deliberately left the word orphanage off his address and she'd chosen to go along with it; he was sure she knew, but then everyone knew more about him than he'd previously thought. It sounded such a grand residence and hardly matched his cramped room, reeking of chemicals. Betty would never see this place of course, even if the unlikely opportunity ever came up. No one would. Wool's didn't bother him; it was all he'd ever known until last year. Other people — including those at Hogwarts — probably would be bothered. They might feel sympathy, which as far as he was concerned, was worse than looking down on him. Normal life for most was a comfortable room and bed, regular hot meals, pleasant surroundings and generous support from a close family.

Tom read the letter again, which had come by owl the previous morning. It was about the declaration of war and perhaps Betty felt it more keenly than most; he couldn't tell. She was good at hiding her personal feelings, behind general concerns. Betty's last paragraph changed tack.

'...my father said we left France at the right time and the English Channel is a convenient obstacle between us and the rest of Europe. Mother says there's much discussion about which course of action the Ministry of Magic should take. Whether it's better to keep a low profile during times of heightened muggle sensitivity — this sounded like a direct quote from Betty's mother — or to help in some way. So far no one can agree and meetings on the subject have become emotional and extremely long! Sorry for going on, but it's all I've heard at home for the past few weeks!

There was something else I wanted to say — the reason I'm writing — I expect I've just been putting it off. I heard, like most people, that you were involved in trying to defend us after Iain Calder's death and that everyone took to calling you the True Lord Protector. I don't know you well enough, I'm sure — There was something about this sentence, which refused to sit comfortably with Tom — but I expect you think it's a silly title. Not telling anyone about being involved and letting Herbie Peniakoff take the credit, says a lot more than you know. I told my younger sister about you, I hope you don't mind and she says you sound dreamy! Ha ha. I know you will squirm at that, but honestly, I can't imagine anyone else behaving like you did and I'm glad to know you. There, I've said it and will leave you in peace. Looking forward to returning to Hogwarts and expect I'll see you there!

Best wishes Betty. (The full stop looked like the beginnings of an 'x', but she must have changed her mind.)

P.S. You have to come back, as I need help with my potions. Ha!

The letter was confusing and despite reading it four or five times, Tom still wasn't sure why she'd written it now; when only a few days remained before their second year. Tom's instinct told him it was a letter sent to an ordinary friend: rinsed of attachment or emotion. Then he reread it, letting his guard drop. Perhaps it was intimacy disguised as friendliness? Was Betty frustrated she couldn't say what she thought, or was he just being arrogant? True Lord Protector was a ridiculous name. She may have left the word orphanage off the address, but it was undoubtedly where he came from. Tom Riddle, Lord of Wool's orphanage. What a joke.

It was a Sunday morning and the next day Tom would leave London for Hogwarts. The weather had turned, streets were empty and threatening clouds from the north crawled overhead. Chillier than the previous week, Tom wrapped Gretel in a scarf before they set off for Greenwich Park; then he held her hand as they walked up Greenwich High Road, towards the boating lake. Ladies they passed had one hand clamped to their hats, frowning at the stiff breeze. After the initial shock of declaring war, reality was biting. Petrol was instantly rationed and most cars were put in storage; meaning traffic thinned on the roads, leaving only buses, cycles and the odd lorry making deliveries. Every so often they passed a pedestrian staring at the sky. Not that unusual among the British, who always liked to keep an eye on the weather, but now there was a more sinister motive. The papers were full of terrifying warnings about gas and bombs, raining down from above. Poland was overrun and everyone believed that Britain's turn would come soon enough.

Gretel and Tom talked, but not in a way that they could be heard. She spoke good English, but chose to remain silent around people for the time being. Her mother was from London and her chemist father was Austrian, originally working for IG Farben in Vienna.

Six weeks earlier, they were woken by harsh thumping on the front door. Two identical soldiers and an immaculate officer with a silver aiguillette over his right shoulder, barged in. The officer then instructed her father to get dressed and pack a suitcase; they would be leaving in ten minutes: half-dressed if necessary. Her parents were shown the door five minutes later, unprepared, then forced through it. Gretel's mother wept, pleading with the officer to take Gretel with them. He gave the child a cursory glance, then refused. The documentation was perfectly clear: passage for two. Gretel followed them outside, where her parents were pushed aboard a high-sided truck. Her mother and fathers' faces were pale and shocked, as they struggled to accept what was happening to them. The truck departed and her mother shouted up the street; Gretel should immediately travel to her aunt's on the outskirts of Vienna. 'Go now! Go!' Her parents' drained faces disappeared from view.

Gretel found her aunt's house with help, but after four weeks there, Aunt Magdalena returned from the shops on a Wednesday afternoon. She drew all the curtains, despite it still being light. Gretel was to go on a journey and no, her aunt would not be coming; she would travel to London that evening and what an adventure it would be! Her aunt wept discreetly at the station, when a group of grim-faced strangers led Gretel onto the train. Without a backward glance, it carried her into Germany for their connection at Nuremberg. From there the train travelled to the Hook of Holland, where she boarded a merchant vessel for Harwich.

Tom was thinking about Kit when they arrived at the boating lake. Kit was twelve when he first took a central role in Tom's life and now he'd joined the army and was moving on. So Tom would follow Kit's earlier example and become part of Gretel's family. A year ago Tom was out on a limb: unconnected to the world; someone with no family and no future. Now he knew fragments of his past, was receiving an education, had plans of substance and good friends too. Gretel gave him some previously-missing responsibility and looking after her was a way of repaying the kindness shown to him. Tom was staring into the distance, when he was interrupted by Gretel pulling at his sleeve.

They circled the lake perimeter to the wooden hut, where moored boats gently bumped into one another. Gretel squeezed his hand. She wanted to ride in a kayak; more difficult to manoeuvre, but you could sit up front. Then it was easy to pretend that they were exploring the Nile, or the Amazon. Gretel knew Tom was due to leave the next morning, but was putting on a brave face; used to disappointment, she accepted the fact without fuss. Yesterday morning Tom told her about Hogwarts and the friends he'd made there. He promised to help her enrol when she was eleven and now there was something exciting to look forward to. After the war he'd find her parents and they could all live nearby; her family and Tom would be neighbours.

Gretel looked down, then back at Tom when he'd finished; she said nothing, but he knew what the look meant. Her parents were already dead and she was alone now. It was kind of Tom to protect her from the truth, but not necessary. They could speak to one another because of Gretel's magical abilities, not Tom's. She knew who you could talk to, wherever they were. Her parents were gone, as was her aunt; it had already happened and no amount of hoping could bring them back.

Tom dipped his paddle into the water to steer away from the bank and saw a smile threatening to spread across Gretel's face. He brought her here because during these brief moments, she could forget herself. The simple pleasure of pretending to be an explorer, released her and nothing else could do that yet. They would have an ice cream, despite it being cold, then walk back to Wool's. He was able to bring her moments of happiness and from his own experience, that would be enough to survive on.

They bought ices from a man on a three-wheeled bicycle, then ate them beside The Avenue. Gretel finished hers quickly and ran among the rose bushes; where she discovered a horse chestnut leaf and brought it back to show Tom. He would help her press it between sheets of newspaper, when they got back. Then it would remind Gretel of their trips to the park, until the Christmas holidays. He promised to send her an owl weekly, full of news and Tom assured her that it would have no trouble finding Wool's.

When the refugees from Austria arrived, each girl was registered and issued with an identity card. The photos were taken one morning in the mess hall and Tom was nearby, encouraging Gretel off camera. Even though her head faced forwards in the photo, her eyes were looking sideways at him. The photographer — Billy Webb — took a snap of them staring out of the window afterwards. Returning several days later, he handed the developed photo to Tom, but refused to take any payment. The photograph showed them standing in front of the mess hall's, east-facing windows; Gretel was holding onto the sill with both hands — a look of wonder on her face — while Tom was above, pointing. They were watching the barrage balloons swaying above the factories in Greenwich Reach, though it was impossible to know that, since the photo was taken side on. To an outside observer, Tom might have been pointing towards their future.

He had the photograph framed and was planning to give it to Gretel just before he left, along with a parcel of food. He took her hand and they turned onto the High Street, heading back to Wool's; while the darkening rain clouds above, drained the scene of any colour.

Tom woke at 4.15am, with his neck and shoulders bathed in sweat. Dreams of his serpent-self — prowling — had returned with intensity, as soon as he'd left Hogwarts. He made kills, terrified people tried to escape, but he would never allow them to. Without conscience, Tom savaged his victims in a bloodlust. They could be anxiety dreams, but perhaps some were memories of his other self? He sat up and tried to swallow, but his throat was parched. Tom thought about fetching a cup of water from the washroom, but leaned over to check the time first. There was a scratching sound beneath his vest. With mounting dread he lifted it up, then everything stopped.

The scales had grown, so he switched on the overhead bulb. His left side, over the heart and stretching around the ribs, was a different colour. Bluish? Though difficult to tell in the faint light. The Rabisu's influence? Tom's mind made excuses, but he already knew the truth. The price paid for the magic he'd used, was mentioned often, but the detail was never discussed.

The sensation from his scales had altered too. Before, the skin was alien and uncomfortable; now the opposite was true. The scales felt vital to Tom: a central component of his nervous system. He stroked the scales backwards and they were smooth as glass, but in the other direction: coarse and unyielding. The skin surrounding his scales felt numb now; not dead, but lacking its usual sensitivity. After the initial shock, he felt surprisingly comfortable with his appearance; much more than he ought to be. Tom thought about how he could modify the colour, to make the scales less obvious. Not: what can I do to get rid of them? The prospect of hunting along the river, also troubled him less than several minutes earlier. These middle-of-the-night conflicts, had become a regular feature over the last few weeks. The next day he would sometimes question whether the Tom Riddle he used to know, was still in charge.

Tom's wand was nearby, in his jacket pocket, so he reached for it and wrote with the tip.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Then he gazed at the letters, spellbound. Tom recognised the name, but after elements of his past had come to light, was he really that person any more? Some muggle name, inherited from a man who cared nothing for his welfare. Was he a Gaunt? Yes, but much more than that too. The Heir to Slytherin? Any doubts he'd previously had, were just his muggle modesty at work.

Tom pulled some of the letters away.

I AM

The True Lord Protector? It was a ridiculous name and besides, protection had never been his motive. He dragged more letters below without hesitating and allowed his mind to wander.

I AM LORD

Rearranging the remaining letters in a blazing circle, they rotated in front of his face. Like backpage workings for The Times crossword; the one Parnaby always failed to complete. With a deft flick, the remaining letters joined the text below.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

A title befitting the Heir to Slytherin.

'Voldemort.' He tested the name and experienced a vision. Arms aloft, joined around his wand, showering green plasma like rain; behind him, a mighty army: loyal and vocal in their support. His heart pumping frozen blood, to soothe the raging fire inside. Before him with their dreams crushed, lay his scattered opposition: pleading in submissive voices for clemency. Please noble lord, please let us live?

Then Tom awoke.

Terrible nightmare, or a glimpse of the future? It was impossible to tell whether it was real and he'd fallen asleep, or if he'd never been awake.

Tom could not afford to let dark magic, ambition or the Rabisu corrupt him. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, whatever his history did, or did not claim. He had friends, a young girl who depended on him and above all: a future. None of which was worth surrendering, for the shallow allure of power.

He was better than that.