Ok Ok...because you asked for it! (sorry for the delay - please review?)

Chapter Two

Tom enjoyed to read. Often Merope would finish her household chores simply to observe him, sitting quietly, just a book in his hand. Sometimes he would read for several days at a time.

How he had picked up the skill, from analysing the pages of stolen books, so quickly, Merope could never fathom. Of course she had helped him at first; dutifully explaining the meanings of the little squiggles on the page. But relatively quickly her explanations had begun to irritate rather than enlighten. After a time she had learnt it best to leave him alone with his books and get on with it; he seemed to improve a faster rate that way anyway.

It was one warm autumn day, and Tom was reading in the garden. At the sound of her approaching footsteps he looked up from the pages of his most recent book, one he said he had acquired from the village bookshop.

What Merope noticed immediately was that her little boy's usual smile at the sight of his mother bringing him his cup of warm milk was strangely absent today.

What she realised later was how that should have been warning enough.

Tom Riddle, seated on his customary log in the tangled forest outside the Dalphon, regarded his mother carefully, his fingers idly spreading themselves over the open pages of the stolen book as she set down the wooden cup next to him, the complete while without saying a word. He watched her as she straightened and then turned to back to re-enter the house. He closed his book with a snap.

"Wait. I have something I need to tell you, Mother. Something important. I want to show you something. Come back here please."

Merope paused, turned. A hesitant smile crept onto her features.

"Of course. I am always interested in what my clever boy has to show me."

Tom's eyes were very hard for a 9 year old. He raised the cover of the book he was holding so that Merope could read the title.

"I saw this through a window in the village the last time we went. I know we don't have much money for anything other than food, so I just took it, while you were picking up milk outside the farm. I liked the picture on the front, I find it… interesting."

Merope looked at it. Certainly, the five-point pentagram emblazoned in emerald made an arresting sight. Merope bit her lip absently.

"It certainly looks like an interesting book Tom. Is the story it contains as…attractive as the front cover?"

Tom Riddle sighed; a little boy's expression of exasperation with a lesser witted playmate.

"It is no bedtime story mother, it is a…. a documentary on a group of people that do strange things to each other, and to other people around them.' He paused momentarily, opening the book, his fingers indicating at what lay within.

"In the book there are pictures of them chanting ancient words, calling out to what they imagine are gods and goddesses of the air, the sea, of fire and earth. They make people do things, say things, which they want them to say with a power the gods give them. In this chapter a man is making another crawl on his knees. They call themselves Black Wiccans, and what they do, magik… I find it utterly fascinating."

Merope felt her chest heave. Tom had been staring at her the whole time he had said this, the hard look still in his midnight blue eyes. He spoke again, looking down at his book.

"I really like the pictures mother, I think you should see some of them… there's one… yes, here it is! Here, the practitioner has made another's ear fall off, look can you see? Using his magik…"

Merope's eyes quickly scanned the held aloft black and white diagram. The artist had left no grisly detail to the imagination. The victim was clutching the sodden mess where his ear had been but the wriggling mass of worms still biting at the tender flesh could be seen. It couldn't have been plainer.

Her son wanted to know the nature of what he had done.

Letting out a slow, ragged breath, Merope leaned against a tree trunk next to her for support.

"I know you are scared Tom, but-"

Tom's little forehead creased, eyes narrowed, "I'm not scared mother! I simply want to know… I want to know what's different about me? Why can I do it? Why did I feel-"

Merope listened as her son's words faltered. Whatever emotion her Tom was feeling he was doing his hardest to clamp it down. Merope felt a pain in her chest.

"Tom." She spoke softer, dropping to her knees in front of him and putting a hand on his small shoulder. "Do not worry yourself over this. I can help you."

Tom locked eyes with her, instantly alert. "You can? How? Tell me, why I was able to do that... and what more am I capable of? I need to know." He was now gripping his mother's shoulders tightly. "Tell me who - what - I am."

For one moment Merope Riddle didn't know what to do.

Then she looked down for a moment, arranging her thoughts into what needed to be said and what didn't in her mind.

When she looked back up she saw Tom's face, still as hard and confused as before. She lifted his rigid arms off her shoulders, clasping both his hands in her own. "Magik Tom, that which you have read in your book that the Wiccans do, is not so far from the truth of what you can do. What, I have performed myself, long ago…"

Tom perked up instantly, eyes glowing.

"Then I am of Wicca, and you are - were - a practitioner of magik too?"

"No." Merope sighed.

"For our magic, we have never needed to call open the spirits or gods of common Muggles – those without magic. Our power has always come from within. No Tom, you are, or could be if you received the proper training… a wizard."

For a split second Merope saw pure wonder, and a type of bestial joy light up her son's face.

In that moment Merope was suddenly terrified.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me this sooner, mother! I had always wondered, and worried… can all wizards talk to animals? Can they make others do what they want, control-"

Merope heard her son talk with his child-like excitement growing and felt the unease deepen. She squeezed Tom's hands and he quietened down, but remained alert to what his mother would tell him.

"Tom, my dear…this isn't as simple as that. What you need to understand is wizards don't use their magic as we use our hands and minds, to get what we want the moment it takes our fancy."

She gestured at his book.

"Wizards and witches; we use our magic only when necessary, when a situation calls for it. Magic is not to be used without caution. It can be destructive. Wizards use it only when necessary, completely necessary…"

She paused, and Tom frowned. A strange look was in his mother's eyes.

"…only when completely– "

Merope's voice suddenly fell into relapse, struck at the own implication of her words. Images of the past swiftly assaulted her, flooded her brain.

There she had sat. Pouring more of the Amortentia into a cup and stroking his head of beautiful raven-brown locks as she helped him sip. Her infatuated husband looked upon her like she was a saint; eyes wide and doe-like as the potion took hold. He loved her because she made him love her.

It had been nothing more than a beautiful lie.

Merope didn't realise, but she was lapsing into tears. She didn't even realise it when her son leaned forward, as if on cue, and put his arms around her, pulling her to him.

"Stop it." He whispered evenly, coldly. "Stop thinking of him."

She stirred at his voice. Tom's hand bit into her shoulder as he whispered, forcefully, into her ear.

"I will not have you think of him, Mother. Not when you have me."

Merope struggled, shaking herself. Then she raised her eyes, looking at Tom directly, showing him he had her attention. His dark eyes softened, as they always did. Carefully she took herself out of his embrace.

"Yes. Yes of course Tom, I'm sorry." She stood and Tom smiled slightly as his mother regained her composure. He shook his head.

"He was a fool and a coward to leave you," he said passionately, watching Merope keenly, "I hate him."

Merope forced a smile, her expression not quite reaching her eyes. "You say such kind things to me, my Tom…"

Tom's eyes sparkled. "I mean them. With all my heart."

He held her gaze for a moment and then glanced back down to the stolen book on his lap. He opened the old tome again, flicking through the pages idly. Merope saw the opportunity and turned to leave.

"Oh, I do still want you to tell me more about this magic." His voice demanded of her retreating figure, "I want to learn all there is to learn on the subject." Tom spoke, clear determination in his request.

Merope paused momentarily, then continued into the house.

Over the following years, Merope taught him what he desired. In the mornings she sent him to collect herbs and various other plants in the forest. In the afternoons she sat with him, side by side, beside a roughly constructed cauldron, teaching him simple potions. In the evenings she provided him with new reading material.

She still retained a few of her family's old books, although she had always kept them hidden away before. The memories they brought back were too painful to relive without reason. Tom, however, seemed permanently beside himself with joy during their 'lessons', and he hungrily sucked in all the knowledge that his mother, albeit hesitantly, provided him, begging for more each time.

Since she had told him she was a witch and of magical descent he had developed a peculiar new respect for her. In a way, he began to almost revere her. He was never now short on praise and compliments, and he increasingly enjoyed spending more and more time with her, talking, or just sitting in her presence.

He even became more affectionate whenever his mother allowed it.

Merope never once let him near her wand though. That she kept hidden. Therefore during his magical education at the Ancient House, Tom learnt only endless lists of potion recipes and their ingredients, along with the particular methods used to brew each one. Yet he had a ferocious appetite to learn, and an extraordinary memory.

They were sitting together late one afternoon outside their home, just brewing a simple sleeping draught over a fire, when Tom Riddle finally raised, offhandedly, the inevitable question that Merope had dreaded answering since beginning his impromptu education.

He sat perched on his knees, watching Merope turn the ladle once clockwise, then anti-clockwise, before taking over, repeating the procedure precisely. There was a leisurely, almost bored sense to his movements.

"Mother, I wonder. There isn't a place where wizards go, to learn more of their magic, like the Muggle boys in the village who go to their school?" He spoke softly, precisely, as if he had measured every word as he turned over the bubbling grey liquid in the pot.

Recently Tom had turned 11, and taken to straying far from home during the day. He often visited the nearby village now by himself, Merope being more concerned for the people who met him than for her son himself. What sort of things he got up to there she wasn't entirely sure but she had gathered, from bits and pieces, the main events of his encounters with some of the local boys.

She heard tell he had made great impressions on them, being the strange, lonely boy that wandered the streets alone and did as he pleased. The Muggles were curious, awed, perhaps even frightened of him, and Tom could learn anything he wanted from them, they worshiped him so. Merope wouldn't have been surprised if he had tampered with the minds of a few of the weaker ones.

"Well, yes Tom. At least, there was a school I once knew of, high in the north. But one could only enter via invitation; there was such competition…"

Tom continued stirring the potion evenly. "I am good enough to attend though? I have the skills…" His old hardness accompanied his words. Merope could never disagree when he used that tone.

"No! No, my clever boy, I couldn't see why they would."

She added the wormswood, a little too briskly. Tom frowned.

'So if I was invited, you would allow me to go?'

He stopped what he was doing, and gazed hard at his mother, the serious question demanding a serious answer.

Reluctantly Merope looked into her son's eyes. They were so hard, so determined.

'I would. Of course, I would. I would happily allow you to go my dear, if that is what you want'

Tom stood up swiftly, sleeping draft all but forgotten. He walked around the cauldron and took his mother swiftly in a fierce hug.

'Thank you. You don't know what this means to me,' he mumbled into her cotton shawl, 'I couldn't – I can't go without your blessing.'

Tom drew back, an unreadable smile on his face. From his pocket he pulled out a folded letter. The broken red seal still made a recognisable waxy 'H' on the crumpled parchment.

'It arrived yesterday morning, while you were still sleeping,' Tom whispered, handing the invitation to his bewildered mother. She opened the letter slowly, reading the preliminary paragraphs in a state of shock.

Dear Mr Tom M. Riddle

Although no official registration was made at the Ministry following your birth, our records now indicate you have come of magical maturity to receive the formal education granted to the many members of your family preceding you.

Therefore, as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I am pleased to offer you a place at our established seat of learning. This offer is made, subject to parental consent. We look forward to receiving an owl confirming your attendance from your mother, Mrs Merope Riddle.

Please find enclosed a list of all recommended textbooks and miscellaneous items for your first year. The start of term commences on the 9th September. A train will take you to the school from London's Kings Cross, Platform 9 3/4.

Yours sincerely,

Professor Armando Dippet
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Merope glanced at her son, who looked up from the letter back at her, a wide smile on his face. He looked as if he had just scored an unprecedented victory.

'Thank you mother. I won't ever forget this. That you believe in me... I'll make you proud. So proud.'