Author's Notes: Many thanks, reviewers! Peacefulz, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Rynaee, Fullmetal, Sailor Hecate, Barranca, Djorlcc, Voldy's pink teddy, Ayame Nekura, Erytha, The Enchanted Teakettle, Moony's Metamorphmagus, Empress Guinevere Sparrow, SometimeSelkie, zhenyavj, Idio-cynic, phoebe turner, openwindow4, Xenia Marvolo, fd, Ija Ijevna, Neon-Lady-Katie, and Magic Crystal Rose.

Now is a good time, I think, to discuss my pacing of this story. Short of writing an entire seven-novel series, I have to just hit the high points of the lives of Tom and Merope and the things that most affect their respective characters. I wish I had the time to write every moment that happens to Tom Riddle, but I don't, so you will have to use your imaginations to fill in the gaps :-) I will, however, take him through all seven years at Hogwarts.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

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Chapter Twelve

Dinners at Malfoy Manor were cold; a carefully orchestrated dance of silver and champagne and food that looked more like art. Conversation was polite and chill. No one made sudden movements, or reached for anything beyond their plate. Certainly no one laughed. Merope felt so out of her element that she wanted to cry with anxiety every time she sat down with the Malfoy family. She prayed for the fighting to calm down in London so she could return to her humble, manageable attic in Diagon Alley.

Her hands shook when she reached for her glass of wine; she was terrified she might tip something over in her clumsiness. Support could be found in Casper's eyes, when he looked at her, but mostly he paid attention to his brother Abraxas.

Tom, on the other hand, took to the Malfoys' grand manners with an almost ridiculous ease. For every cold glance they gave the boy, he returned it double. His movements were icy, his 'thank you's' were perfect in tone, and he was so restrained that Merope was reminded of a snake stalking a rabbit. It was unnerving, as Tom's behaviour often was. Her son did not get his highborn manners from her side of the family.

In a twist of irony, it was that aristocratic side of Tom Marvolo Riddle that seemed to be causing the trouble for the Malfoys. The brother, Abraxas, had made openly rude comments about Muggles and those who associate with them… even aristocratic Muggles. Merope always choked and Casper always looked uncomfortable; the day before, she'd heard Casper admonishing his brother in a foreign language. But she'd heard her name interspersed with the unfamiliar tongue and knew they were discussing her.

Even the walls talked.

'She was eighteen when she married the Muggle,' one Malfoy portrait whispered to another.

'Very odd,' said a statue. 'A half-blood sorted into Slytherin. The Hat didn't even touch his head or think about it, so these marble ears have heard. Perhaps the Hogwarts sorting system has gone askew.'

'Such a shame. Perhaps a Muggle was all she could get. Perhaps she enchanted him… Merlin knows the son looks nothing like her…'

Merope was tempted to take a knife to those portraits. They were too clever by half.

Politics, too, were a favourite topic of conversation in Malfoy Manor. Most of the time, Abraxas and Casper spoke politics, and Veridian sat elegant at her end of the table, blonde hair set in waves around her lovely young face.

After a few days, Merope learned that Grindelwald's attack on wizarding London had actually been quite minor… more a demonstration than a determined effort at bloodshed. There had been some hexes and jinxes and vandalism. The main danger had come from the weakened wards against Muggle London's firestorm.

"You see," said Abraxas one night, "it proves that association with Muggles is dangerous. Grindelwald has never, and will never, wage a war of attrition against fellow wizards. The more we seclude ourselves from Muggles, the better."

Merope thought of a miserable little cottage in an isolated wood and she heard the voices ('Not fit to associate with, scum of the earth, lower than house-elves… isolation is the answer, children, you hear?') from her past and she shuddered.

"You're being impractical," said Casper. "Purely from a business perspective, we should have diversified assets… Muggle ones, even. Their destruction won't do us any good!"

"Muggle assets?" Abraxas's voice was hardly raised, but his tone accomplished what yelling could not. Besides, over-loud voices might damage their precious crystal glassware.

"Yes," said Casper, "property. Businesses. The last time I checked, Gringotts had a listed currency exchange rate against the pound sterling."

Abraxas muttered something that Merope couldn't catch.

Tom, meanwhile, had followed the exchange with keen eyes. He had that hungry look on his face that meant he was learning something.

Veridian, gracious hostess that she was, attempted to veer the conversation into calmer waters. "Business opportunities aside, ought not the wizards have some responsibility for Muggles?"

"Precisely, my dear, precisely," said Abraxas, tipping back his glass of elderberry wine.

"Hmm," Casper brought his fingers up and tapped his chin. "I believe wizards should use their power to their own advantage, of course… but in the realm of enterprise. Do I think the Statute of Secrecy should be repealed? Yes. But not to rule them directly… imagine what a fortune we could make selling potions to Muggles. This current trend toward annihilation and genocide is counterproductive."

"You're missing Grindelwald's real ideology," said Abraxas. "He doesn't believe in killing all the Muggles… although if it happens, it happens. His manifesto is about correcting historical wrongs against wizards. We have a superior position and Grindelwald will see to it that we keep it that way."

"And this ridiculous prejudice against Muggle-born wizards…"

"Blood loyalty is, of course, important," said Abraxas with a quick glance to Merope. "But it's magic itself that's being defended."

"By fighting amongst ourselves?" Casper asked.

Abraxas waved his hand. "Unfortunate side effects. But you must realise, brother, that it's toward a higher purpose… it serves a greater good! I've seen… he's said…" Abraxas trailed off. "It was in the papers."

Merope had not seen a copy of the Daily Prophet since she arrived at Malfoy Manor, but by Casper's dubious expression she doubted any such announcement by Grindelwald of higher motives to his madness. All she knew was that she'd been terrified that night on Diagon Alley, fearful of her life and that of Tom, and she'd thought the whole place would be destroyed. For whatever 'greater good,' Merope didn't care.

Her greater good was a steady job and a place to call home so she could raise her son.

Veridian also moved the topic away from blood status, which made Merope wonder how far back the Malfoys themselves went. They could be just a few generations from Muggle, which was why they were so adamant about wizards' rights. Even worse – Merope suppressed a hiccup of laughter – they might have been Muggles in trade! Now that would be a sight.

Somehow, though, Merope thought her father would have approved of her connection to Casper, even if the family wasn't very old. The prospect of magical fortune would have been enough to overcome any other qualms. But he's dead, Merope reminded herself, in Azkaban. The other relevant players were not likewise dead, but their shadows did not even rise in her mind… because she took a sip of the sweet wine instead, and gave Tom a tiny smile from across the table.

---

I could get used to this, Tom thought as he looked around his guest room.

For all of the unfriendliness of his hosts, Tom loved that the bedroom was larger than his entire flat; it had an adjoining bathroom, a sitting room, and from there a door that connected to his mother's suite of rooms. Nagini was taken with the Manor, as well; she spent the cold days outside hunting rabbits but not eating them. She'd eaten an entire piglet when they first arrived and was not hungry yet. When the weather got too cold, she came inside and coiled up next to Tom's fireplace, hissing with contentment.

In spite of the war and the recent violence, the Malfoys were throwing a lavish ball for New Year's Eve. Abraxas and Veridian insisted that they had an image to maintain and dismissed Casper's suggestion that it was poor taste to host a party while London continued to burn.

'Besides,' the beautiful Veridian More-Malfoy had said, 'we don't take sides in wars that are beneath us.'

Tom did not like Abraxas's wife any more than he liked the man himself. They were both snooty, unfriendly, and up on themselves. And Veridian had a head full of hot air. He would like to give this opinion freely, but he was ever-mindful that he was a guest in their home, and instead shared his thoughts with his mother only. He had her in gales of laughter with his imitation of the Malfoys' behaviour.

So it was that on Tom's fourteenth birthday, he stood in front of a full-length mirror in the grand Malfoy Manor, adjusting the lapels on the first set of dress robes he'd ever worn. He was invited to the party. That was a good feeling; Casper Malfoy was so unlike his brother in general good humour that Tom found it difficult to believe they were related and raised by the same father. He smiled at himself in the mirror, satisfied. He looked sharp.

A knock on the door sounded. 'Come in,' Tom said.

It was Merope. 'Hi, darling,' she said, poking her head in. 'I wanted to make sure you're dressed – oh, just look at you, so handsome!' She stepped full into the room. 'Oh, Tommy, you're growing up so fast…'

'Mum,' he said, annoyed at his nickname. Typical that she would fawn all over him, and probably muss up his carefully combed hair, as well. 'It was nice of Casper to buy these robes for me,' he said.

'Yes, it was,' Merope said. 'He's a very generous man.'

'Mmhmm,' Tom smirked, thinking that Casper Malfoy had his reasons to be generous to the Riddles. In the mirror's reflection, he saw his mother step into the light and he turned around to look at her, raising his eyebrows. 'You look gorgeous!' he blurted.

Merope blushed and then smiled, showing teeth that were white but uneven. 'Thank you!' she said, twirling once. And Tom spoke the truth; his mother looked elegant in a way he'd never imagined she could. Her hair was lustrous, pulled up halfway into curls; the dress she wore was dark pink and seemed to float above the ground. The rosy colour suited her skin and made her cheeks glow. Even her dull eyes held sparkle.

'And what is that?' he asked, nodding at a thin rope of diamonds around her neck.

'Oh,' Merope giggled, her hand flying to her throat, 'a gift.'

'From Casper.'

'Yes…'

'You fancy him, Mum! Admit it!'

Merope blushed again and bit her lip. For a moment Tom felt as though he was older than she was. 'All right, a bit,' she acknowledged. 'He's been so good to us.'

'Yes,' Tom mused.

'But never mind that tonight,' said Merope. She leaned over just a little (Tom was nearly as tall as she was now) and kissed him on the cheek. 'It's your birthday,' she said, 'and I want you to have fun. Think of it as your party, and don't mind all those stuffy folk.'

'Do you say that for my benefit or yours?' Tom asked. He rubbed the lipstick mark off his cheek, but he was smiling.

Merope shook her hands in a nervous gesture. 'It makes it easier,' she said. 'You and I'll stick together tonight. Right?'

'Right, Mum. Don't worry, you'll be fine.'

The New Year's gala was less difficult than Tom anticipated. Several of his classmates from Hogwarts were there: Cornelius Nott with his parents, Leo Lestrange with his. Michael and Druella, the Rosier children, were in attendance… Druella wore dress robes too low-cut for a fourteen-year-old. They were surprised to see Tom there. He'd been absent during their early society lives.

'Riddle, mate, what're you doing here?' Lestrange asked, clapping a familiar hand on Tom's shoulder.

'I could hardly avoid it,' said Tom.

'What do you mean?'

'I'm staying here. My mother and I. London's far too dangerous, even for wizards, you know.'

'You're staying here?'

Tom glanced around to check up on his mother. Parties frightened her. In the well-dressed crowd he couldn't find her, though to his shock he saw Albus Dumbledore chatting in the corner to several Ministry officials. He ached to know what they were saying, but his friends had crowded around him and there was nothing to hide behind, anyway. Must invent an eavesdropping charm, he noted to himself. "Come on, Lestrange, I dare you to look down Druella's dress robes."

"Not fair," Avery whined. "I wanted to do that!"

All Tom could do was roll his eyes.

---

After his stay at Malfoy Manor, things seemed to shift subtly. Tom's life took on a glitter of new possibility. He began to imagine himself higher; he wanted the sort of power the Malfoys had. He wanted to be rich. He wanted to prove himself to the world and restore the good name and fortune of Salazar Slytherin. A tight, white burning lived in his chest; it started out as a spark and he could feel it growing with every lesson. His school routines took on new import. Sleeping, eating, joshing around with his friends, doing his homework… Tom tried to imbue all with a deeper purpose.

He watched his colleagues, fellow Slytherins even, float along on their lives' currents, lazy-like; he despised that sort of behaviour. And he held contempt for the students who were already wealthy and resting on their family's laurels. Malfoy Manor had given him a taste of the good life, as well as a sense of the snobbery he was up against.

'I have class without means,' he wrote to himself. He'd started keeping a diary, one that his mother had bought him for Christmas.

It became even more important to find the Chamber of Secrets, but he'd had no luck so far. He was missing something; at times a creeping finger of doubt touched his mind and questioned the Chamber's existence at all. Pandora Piper helped him search, but not often; they were too busy with schoolwork. Tom contemplated letting someone else in on his hidden heritage. Cornelius Nott perhaps, or Leo Lestrange; Lestrange especially was devoted to him. His secrets they would keep.

But Tom stayed quiet. He wanted the moment to himself at first. He was secretive by nature and disinclined to share the initial burst of glory when he found (and he would find it, by Merlin!) the Chamber of Secrets.

'Too damn Secret,' Tom wrote in his diary, feeling a small thrill at the swear word. 'If Slytherin's own bloody heir can't find it, then who can?'

In spite of his frustration with the stalled search for the Chamber, Tom found other ways to excel. Slytherin won most of their Quidditch matches, thanks to him; if only those idiot Beaters, Mulciber and Ponce, would quit knocking Bludgers into their own teammates. Their loss against Ravenclaw had been due to Tom getting a broken arm from a misaimed Bludger. Tom's string of curses (not magical ones) had turned the air blue and Mulciber's face red. And the sanctimonious referee, Professor Drackett, had deducted a further thirty match points because of Tom's profanity.

However, his arm had been easily fixed, and the hospital ward had been flooded with sympathy cards, flowers, and candy for Tom, especially from the Slytherin girls. It had been most gratifying.

On a fine weather day in April, Dumbledore took their Transfiguration class outdoors to sit on the lawn and hear a lecture about sustaining Transfigured objects. It would have been boring to everyone except Tom, had they been stuck indoors. As it was, Dumbledore was clever and turned the class into more of a social outing. Tom had always felt Dumbledore was prejudiced against Slytherin House, but he had to admit that he liked the old man's style.

'And so,' Dumbledore was saying, 'as with all magic, it is the intent that is most important in maintaining a Transfiguration. You wouldn't want the object to revert to its original form at an inopportune time.' The water-filled goblet in his hand abruptly shifted back to a shoe, the water splashing over Dumbledore's robes and soaking the shoe. The class laughed.

'Now,' Dumbledore said, tipping the shoe upside down and shaking it dry, 'who can demonstrate the wand movement for semi-permanent Transfiguration?'

The class was silent; volunteering for Dumbledore was always a risky prospect. He was demanding of excellence. Tom thought about raising his hand; he could do the wand motion in his sleep. But he did not want to be a show-off. It wasn't worth it with the imbeciles in his class.

'Miss Hornby?' Dumbledore said sharply. 'Stop making eyes at Mr. Riddle and step up here, please.' The class laughed again as Olive Hornby turned red; Tom turned his lip down in distaste. Had Olive been staring at him? He wished she wouldn't, not when it embarrassed him as well as her. Girls were stupid, he decided.

Olive got the motion wrong and Dumbledore sent her scurrying back to her patted-down spot on the grass, although he did not give a harsh word.

'I'll do it,' Tom said, standing up.

'Excellent, Mr. Riddle! I knew we could count on you,' said Dumbledore, smiling.

Too easy, Tom thought, swishing his wand in precisely the right way. He won ten points for Slytherin. And it was a beautiful day, with the lake glinting with sunshine and the birds singing for the season.