Myrtle was a girl with bright eyes and shining hair. She was an interesting mixture, a kind girl who hid behind an air of smugness that you had to tap through before you got to the gold. I was one of the few who had known that side of her, the part that was happy and innocent, and laughed with the lightness of the breeze. That was before the madness had taken over. It progressed through her like poison, slowly at first, and then one day it sprang forth like a raging beast, pulling her down into the depths from which she would never rise.

For the longest time, she had been my friend. Though I liked to pretend otherwise, I had not been hers. I was Nella, synonymous with hopeless, the one who hid her face behind books and let the walls of pages shield her from the rest of the world. Next to Myrtle, I was nothing, not worthy of even a passing glance.

Still, she saw me when others didn’t. She took me in when no one else would, helping me when I was down, supporting me when I was up. For the first time, I had someone to lean on, to sit beside when I felt lonely, and confide in with all my anguishes.

Myrtle would always listen. She had problems of her own, though I did not know it, and kept them well hidden from me for a long time. Back then, she had seemed so much stronger than I was, so much braver. She became my lance, that noble, unbreakable weapon I carried into battle every day, hoping to pierce through my shell.

But in the end I had betrayed her. I had abandoned her in her hour of darkness, running off to other things I felt I needed more. It seemed to be the only thing I was ever good at, even after all she had done for me.

Now, in the back of my mind, I wonder what had gone wrong.

I met her on a chilly autumn morning long ago, in the days before everything had changed…

When I looked at her for the first time through the compartment glass, Myrtle was sitting quite alone, her legs folded beneath her, watching the steam from the train condense onto the window. The platform outside was jammed with chatting families who were laughing and sobbing, waving as their children boarded the ride that would take them away from home for a whole year. My mother wasn’t among them. She had chosen to stay on the other side—the ‘regular’ side—and was probably leaning against one of the pillars at this very moment, reapplying her lipstick, pretending that her eleven-year-old daughter hadn’t just vanished on the spot between Platforms Nine and Ten.

The Hogwarts Express was the first train I had ever been on. It had a smooth, polished interior, and its hallway was wide enough for two people in it to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Children of all ages were brushing past me, their chatter mingling words and phrases I could not immediately process. The compartments in the front were all filled, and when I scanned the back for any available spots, Myrtle’s was the emptiest.

I slid in carefully, settling across from her at a safe distance. She took a peek at me, and I at her, then we both looked our separate ways again.

The train shook as more students boarded, bringing a greater rush of faces, footfall, and fading laughter. Nobody else came to sit in our compartment.

It wasn’t until the train actually came to life, when the white steam thickened to such a degree that the platform outside vanished completely, that the girl turned away from the window and sighed.

“My mum can’t stop waving at me... she’s so embarrassing.� The girl smiled, and after a moment, I returned it. We had scrutinized quietly, and found each other likable.

“At least yours is here,� I said. “Mine’s still at King’s Cross.�

Suddenly her eyes widened. “You too?�

“Me, what?�

The girl twisted her hair. “You know... Muggle-born.�

I relaxed. I knew a bit of Wizarding terminology thanks to my mother, who had given me a short talk so that I wouldn’t appear foreign. I was able to answer her question with no pause at all. “No,� I said. “I’m half-blood. Dad’s side. He was a wizard, but he left when I was really young, so I never got to know about any of this.�

The girl nodded slowly, as if she were contemplating the same thoughts as I was. Here we were, two strangers going off to some school we had never heard of, or even applied to, on the base notion that we could hover pebbles and turn clouds purple.

Life was a winding road indeed.

“I’m Myrtle, by the way,� said the girl, after a hanging pause. “Myrtle Atwood.�

“Nella Puckett.�

And just like that, we began to talk. Like magnets we had snapped together, complete opposites at first, and yet we shared a bond of understanding that drew us closer and closer. For a while, we stayed that way.

But bonds have a funny way of breaking.

The years of our friendship flick past me now in a single reel of film, as they do in a person’s final moments. They are seamless, save for the parts where the pictures have blurred. Those were the times where I hadn’t been myself, when the world had felt so much like a spinning dream that I was afraid it all would evaporate the second I loosened my hold. That was my fault too. I had changed myself, corrupted myself, like a dying vine lured by a mirage of water. By the time I realized how far I had gone, it was too late.

The last time I saw Myrtle alive, she had been trying to talk to me. I, lost in a daze, had pushed her away. Our friendship had torn apart right then like an old piece of paper, the chain breaking at its weakest link. And it was all because of me.

But sometimes two people are joined so closely in life that they end up repeating each other's mistakes, living each other's trials. In this sense, we hadn’t been so different after all. We had both risen and fallen together, swept by the same wave, as if there had been something connecting us the whole time.

It took me a long time to realize it, but Myrtle and I were the same.

Facing death, I see that we were two-of-a-kind.

“Above all, we must now learn to integrate all of sorcery and repudiate the line between what is ‘Dark’ magic and what is not, recognizing that such divisions shall only exist so long as society upholds them. For just as day and night are linked by the same thread of being, the Dark Arts are inextricably woven into the modern art of magic, often so much and so subtly that the sources of some spells have been obliterated from history entirely...�

An excerpt from Essays, by Emeraldo Harrington. c. 1750.

It was the last day of August, and as usual, Nella and her mother were late.

The letter she had received from school, “annoyingly omniscient� as her mother called it, gave specific instructions for young witches and wizards who lived in the Muggle world on how to purchase their school supplies. It encouraged them to get an early start, but even so, her mother had managed to put it off until the last minute, ignoring the red circles on their calendar and the piles of notes lying on the counter.

It wasn’t until the sun dawned on the morning before the start of the term that Nella finally worked up the courage to approach her with the envelope. Her mother swore loudly, grabbed Nella by the hand, and rushed with her into town.

They were to arrive through a place called the Leaky Cauldron, which Muggles couldn’t see, but Muggles accompanied by wizards could pass through. They ran up and down the streets in search of it, looking left and right, before Nella finally saw the sign crop out from between two shops. It was rusty, inscribed with a smoking cauldron. The other passersby seemed to pay it no mind, even though it stood out as plain as day to her.

“It’s here.� Nella pointed, pulling her mother forward.

The Leaky Cauldron was a pub, dark and pungent with the aroma of alcohol. As soon as Martha and Nella Puckett stepped through the doors, dressed in their colourful end-of-summer attire, a good deal of the conversation went silent. The people at the bar turned, as did the barman, and a few others who were grouped at the tables. Their faces leered in the candlelight.

No one said a word.

Martha tightened her grip on Nella’s arm. “Come on.� She took the lead, muttering under her breath.

When they passed to the back door, one of the seated, sober-looking men lifted his pointed hat in respect. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ladies. Off to Hogwarts, I presume?�

Nella turned to reply, but her mother tugged her along before she could.

They reached a small, open alleyway that ended abruptly in a brick wall. Beyond it, Nella could hear the empty rush of wind, but nothing more. Martha took out the temporary wand that had been mailed to them and tapped the bricks.

At once, the wall pulled apart like some sort of cement curtain, the bricks turning and collapsing into each other to reveal a sunny shopping street. It was teeming with people, all dressed like the ones in the pub: robes, pouches, and hats. The women’s were often bigger and lacier than the men’s, and were adorned with exotic flowers and feathers. Nella and her mother, the two new arrivals in their plain city clothes, stuck out like sore thumbs.

Martha must have noticed her daughter’s sudden self-consciousness, for she tilted Nella’s face to hers and leaned close. “Don’t give me that look, Nella. You are just as good as they are. If you go out there respecting yourself, they will respect you. Do you hear me?�

Nella nodded.

The first place they went was to the bank, Gringotts. According to the letter, pounds and shillings would be no good in the wizarding world, so they had to exchange their currency for things called Sickles, Knuts, and Galleons.

On the inside, the bank was enormous, grand, and marble—a bank like any other, it seemed. Then Nella saw the staff. She had to blink twice before she could believe what she was seeing: The creatures that sat behind the counters and led clients through doors had a vaguely human build, except that they were several feet shorter than anyone else, with wrinkly skin and large, knowing eyes.

“Goblins, sweetie,� whispered her mother, tightening her hand around Nella’s own. “Don’t stare. It’s rude.�

They rushed past long lines, finding one of the available clerks. Her mother approached the counter with a small sack.

“We have some money to be exchanged for Hogwarts shopping. My name is Martha Puckett and this is my daughter Nella. We’re Muggles,� she proclaimed loudly, so that the surrounding people stared.

The goblin eyed them curiously, then bowed his head. “Very well.�

Nella’s mother placed the money onto the counter, and the goblin took out a set of scales. He swiped the Muggle money onto one cup, and into the other he put a number of gold, silver, and bronze coins. The scales seemed to be enchanted. They paid no attention to the laws of gravity; instead, they seemed to weigh the money according to value. The goblin balanced the two by adding and removing coins accordingly, and when the scales were even, he placed the wizarding money into a pouch and handed it to them. When Nella backed away, she saw the Muggle money disappear in a puff of smoke.

From there, they browsed the stores. Wizarding shops were just like normal shops, Nella realized, except that their signs often blinked and rearranged their letters, and there was an assortment of strange items at the front of almost every one. She didn’t get a chance to look around, for her mother, as always, went straight to business.

Nella needed schoolbooks. They went to a store called Flourish and Blotts, stepping out of the way of the other customers while she picked out the titles on her list. Her mother trailed along behind her, holding the books Nella passed to her, and made sure that they didn’t dawdle. Nella would love to have stayed and browsed, for whenever she saw a large collection of books, she would instantly be lost.

Reading was her hobby practically to the point of addiction. There was something about the written word that calmed her, cleared her mind of all those troubling thoughts by letting her escape into the lives of others. Nella had never been fussy as a child, always preferring to curl up on a sunny day rather than go outside. This habit had cost her the childhood norm of playmates, but it had given her a certain patience, and helped her succeed in school. There was no bad without good, as her mother liked to say.

The next item on the list was the school uniform. They went to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, where Nella was fitted for long black robes while her mother stood by the window, playing with an enchanted pinwheel she had been given on the streets by a complete stranger.

“There is no point in this at all,� she said, scowling as she tried to spin it, only to have the blades turn in the opposite direction.

While the tailor worked, Nella’s eyes alighted upon a small tapestry that hung on the wall. It was a crest of some sort, featuring a badger, and eagle, a lion, and a snake entwined under the letter ‘H’. She had never seen such a thing before, and curiosity got the better of her.

“Ma’am? What does that emblem stand for? � Nella asked the tailor, a smiling young lady with curly hair.

“That would be the Hogwarts crest, dear. The four animals represent the four houses. You’ll be sorted in with the other new students when you arrive at school.�

Nella looked down at her feet, where the tailor had lain several needles and tape measures. “What’s the difference between the houses?�

“Nothing, really. You live in your house’s own separate dormitory, you take classes with the first-years in your house, but as a whole, everyone’s still part of the same school.� The tailor gave an encouraging smile, but Nella sensed something else behind it, a subtle strain. She kept her silence for the rest of the hour.

The last shop of the day was the wandmaker’s. Since a wand was something that every wizard needed (as far as Nella knew, at least), she expected any shop that sold them to be big, brightly-lit, and teeming with clientele.

Ollivander’s was none of those things.

The shop was dingy and silent, disturbed only by the rusty tinkle of a bell when Nella entered. Light filtered through the dirty windows, spilling onto shelves and shelves of tiny little boxes stacked on all sides, all the way towards the ceiling. There were more in the back.

They waited for several minutes before her mother’s patience wore thin. “Hello?� Martha called. “Is anybody here? There was an ‘open’ sign on the window, and my daughter is starting her first year at Hogwarts.�

There was a rustle and a muffled crash. “Coming, coming!�

A man stepped out from the back room, his hair disheveled, arms full of more black boxes. He bumped into the table, and they spilled onto the counter, which was already piled with clutter. He waved his hand at the mess and approached them, panting.

But before Nella could get out a single word, the man lifted a finger to silence her. “Right. Right. Hold out your wand arm, please.�

“My what?�

“Oh, sorry. The hand you write with will do fine. Yes, that’s it.� Nella held up her right hand. The man took out a tape measure and began to measure the length of her arm, and her height. Then he dropped the tape altogether and went back to the pile, but instead of falling to the ground as it should have, the tape remained in the air and began taking other measurements on its own.

“I am Ollivander, owner of this shop. I made every wand that’s in here.� He rummaged for a bit, and brought back a box. “Try this.�

Nella opened it and took out a long, thin wand. It felt cool in her hands.

Ollivander looked at it for a moment. His gray eyes studied her heavily, and then he shook his head. “Nope. We’ll try again.� He went back to the boxes.

“Sir,� Martha cut in, “I don’t understand why my daughter can’t look around on her own. She is perfectly capable of making a rational decision—�

“No, no, no.� Ollivander waved her down, still shuffling through boxes. “The wand chooses the witch or wizard. So it has been for thousands of years, since the first wands came to be.�

Martha balked, as if this was the most outrageous thing she had ever heard. For once, Nella agreed with her, though she knew better than to complain. She simply waited it out while Ollivander placed wand after wand into her hand, and soon began to notice that they differed in length, thickness, and colour. But when she took them in hand, they all felt the same—cold and heavy.

At wand number twelve, Nella was getting tired. The tape measure waited patiently at her side as she swapped one wand for the next. Ollivander did not seem to mind at all; in fact, he seemed to be getting more energetic by the second. While Nella and her mother wilted with exhaustion, his smile grew all the wider with every new wand, and he soon began to hum to himself as he went back and forth.

He handed her Wand Number Twenty-One. Nella wasn’t aware of it at first, but the wand felt light, and somehow friendly. Instead of flicking it, she felt the urge to twirl it around, as if to draw lines in the air. To her surprise, the wand began to sketch in a shade of cool silver, illuminating her strokes and making them shimmer. The pattern hung in thin air for a moment, then vanished, leaving Nella breathless.

Ollivander clapped his hands. “Splendid! We’ve found it. Hardly anyone gets their match the first time, of course, so I apologize for the wait. But yes, this wand seems to do it. Yours is eleven inches, made of willow, and with a unicorn hair core.�

“Unicorn?� Nella looked at him, surprised.

“Why yes. Every Ollivander wand has, as its core, a powerful magical substance. Unicorns are very powerful creatures, and their hairs are valuable for potion-making and much, much more.�

Martha snorted. Ollivander looked at them both, eyebrows raised.

Nella rushed to explain. “Sorry. It’s just that... for Muggles, unicorns aren’t exactly real.�

To her surprise, he smiled. “Neither are dragons, young lady, but the world is full of surprises, isn’t it?�

They left rather quickly after that.

The next morning, there was no time for goodbyes. Nella’s mother rushed her to King’s Cross station, where she would shortly be running into a pillar made of very solid-looking bricks to get onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Nella had her trunk, and all her new possessions with her.

They stopped in front of the barrier, and Martha leaned close. “Write to me. You can borrow an owl from the school Owlery.�

Nella nodded her promise. “I will.�

Martha cupped her daughter’s face in her hands, as she always used to do when Nella was young. “Have a great year. I love you.�

Nella flushed at the gesture. “I love you too.�

There was nothing more to say between them. Nella’s mother gave her a light push, and she crossed over.

Voices. Bodies. They all moved past me without stopping, a thousand streams of spinning, smiling faces. I was numb to their excitement. Seeing the train rise out from a cloud of mist in the distance, I was gripped by a sudden fear. At that moment, all I wanted was to turn back, to tell my mother I had changed my mind and beg her to take me home. But I kept going.

I moved across the platform slowly, gripping the bar of my trolley for support. No one was familiar, and yet they all seemed to know each other.

I was alone.

And then I met Myrtle.

chug-a chug-a chug-a chug-a chug-a chug-a

boom.

The ground beneath her gave a jerk, and Nella woke from her steady sleep.

For a minute, she had forgotten where she was. Then, the glint of light from the ceiling combined with the sounds of frenzied, muffled movement from the neighboring compartments brought her back to awareness.

Nella was lying with her back against the wall of the Hogwarts Express, her feet up on the seat, arms folded over her stomach. It seemed like she had only just closed her eyes against the morning light and drifted off for about a minute or two after leaving London. But to her shock, the sun had already gone, and the window was masked with black.

In the seat across from her, Myrtle stirred. She had been dozing as well. “Are we there yet?� She looked up at the window.

“It doesn’t look like it.� Nella peeled back the blinds, but the train was still moving, still speeding towards its destination through miles of shadowy land. “How far is Hogwarts anyway?�

Myrtle rubbed her eyes. “Well, we left London. And the castle’s somewhere in Scotland... I forget exactly where, but it’s definitely a long ride.�

Suddenly, a hand pressed itself against the window of their compartment. Nella jumped at the sound.

The hand remained where it was for a moment, disembodied, before the rest of a tall, lanky girl stepped into view, decked in robes of full black. She looked about their age, and walked with a slow, steady precision as she surveyed the aisle.

The girl seemed as if she had meant to simply skim her gaze past their compartment and keep walking, but something in the process made her stop. When she saw them, she clamped her hand over her mouth and slid open the door.

“What are you two doing?� she screeched. “You’re supposed to be changing! We’ll be at the school soon and you have to have your robes on! Hurry up!�

“We were sleeping,� Nella mumbled.

“I don’t care! Do it now!� said the girl. “And don’t look at me like that!� She turned to Myrtle, who had given her a contemptuous glare. The girl closed the door and strode off.

“People can be so rude,� Myrtle remarked.

“Agreed.�

“Well, we better get to it, I guess.�

They took down their luggage and changed, hearing the excited noise grow louder and louder around them. They were almost at the school.

The uniforms were surprisingly light and soft, despite the many layers of clothing they included. The hems of the robes brushed Nella’s shoes, and draped like curtains around her frame. It felt strange to be dressed in full wizard attire, almost as if she had put on a whole new persona. Even Myrtle, whom she had known for less than a day, looked strikingly different. Elegant, graceful.

As they beheld each other in their new clothes, Myrtle smiled and winked. “I can’t wait.�

Soon enough, the train came to a stop. Nella pulled the blinds up at once, eager to see the school, but all she saw was a row of trees illuminated against the night sky. People were already getting to their feet, hundreds of bodies in those same black robes shuffling out of their compartments and down the aisle. She and Myrtle joined the pack, and they were jostled and shoved as they made their way forward.

Nella hastened to keep up, trying to find a place to put her foot that wasn’t already being trampled on by ten others. Suddenly, something collided with her shoulder, slamming her hard against the wall. Nella let out a groan of pain. Without batting an eye, Myrtle turned back and hoisted her to her feet, tugging Nella along. She was a train in her own right, pushing on and on through the crowd, her arm out to clear the way.

The platform outside was packed. Steam was rushing out from various holes in the train’s body, rising up into the evening haze with hundreds of voices and lights. Some students carried bags, pulling enormous trunks on wheels and cages with screeching owls.

Nella could distinguish a few groups by age. Older kids went immediately to the right, down the platform and into the darkness. Other kids were led in another direction, filing themselves into orderly groups.

The youngest kids, the other first-years, were packing against the stone wall that bordered the platform, neither here nor there. Nella and Myrtle hurried over to join them.

Boisterous laughter rose out from the general chatter as they passed. A group of kids had separated themselves from the others against the wall and formed a circle.

“I’ll absolutely die if I’m not in Gryffindor...�

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do fine.�

“It’s me that they’ll have trouble Sorting…�

“I heard that they’re only taking twelve Slytherins a year now!�

A boy turned to speak to a girl in their group. “Which one do you want to be in, Olive?� he asked.

Nella recognized the girl that had shouted at them earlier. She flipped back her hair and smiled. “I hope I’m in Ravenclaw. That’s the best by far.�

More giggling.

“I’d like Hufflepuff,� came a whisper. The group of kids froze. Olive turned to the boy who had spoken.

“What are you talking about, Jerry? Hufflepuff is for losers.�

“How do you know?� another girl piped up.

“Because I’ve read about all the houses. Slytherin is the house for pure-bloods, mostly, though they’ll take half-bloods if they’re motivated. Gryffindor takes everyone, Ravenclaw takes all the smart kids, though they’re mostly half and pure anyway, and Hufflepuff... they take the Muggle-borns. And the other stupid kids who’ve got nowhere else to go. Thing is, even if you’re a wizard, being around Muggles rubs off on you.�

There were more mutterings at this. Some of the kids against the wall shook their heads in disdain. But Nella lingered on Olive’s words in wonder, feeling slightly betrayed. There was more to the Houses, after all.

“I wonder who the Muggle-borns are this year,� someone continued.

“You can always tell,� Olive replied. “It’s all in the face. Look at her, for example.� She pointed to their vicinity. For a thrilling second, Nella thought that Olive had been talking to her, but then Myrtle drew back in definite affront.

“What?�

Olive nodded. “Definitely you, pigtails. With brains like yours, I’m surprised they even let you in here.�

Myrtle stiffened. Her head drooped, and in the light’s pallid glow, Nella saw her face contort.

“Don’t listen to them!� she urged at once. “It’s no reason to get upset. It shouldn’t matter at all who your parents are, right? Magic is magic.�

But the moment was gone as soon as it had come. When Myrtle lifted her head again, her face was flat and calm, and her voice bore no trace of emotion. “I’m okay,� she said. “Really.�

She might have added more, but right then, she fell silent. Looking over someone’s shoulder, Nella saw the reason.

At that moment, as quiet as a fox, a tall, rugged man had appeared from a hidden entrance and approached their crowd. His appearance was a striking contrast from the prim, cleanly-dressed students. His clothing was loose and comfortable, chosen as if for a hike in the woods. He wore heavy black boots, and instead of robes, a leather cape that brushed the ground as he walked.

The man eased into the crowd of first-years and stood among them, hands in his pockets, an oblivious smile on his face as he pretended to be one of them. Then silence fell in degrees as the others became aware of his presence. Even Olive’s group stopped talking, staring at him in awe. When the platform was completely still, he spoke.

“Well, hello!� he said. “It’s not much use standing here, is it? My name is Ogg, and I’m the Hogwarts gamekeeper. I might not seem like much, but I hold quite an important position. I will have the honor of escorting you to the school tonight. Who’s excited?�

A few first-years made a feeble attempt at a cheer. Ogg grimaced. “That was terrible. I ask again—who’s excited?�

The cheer was louder this time. Nella, utterly perplexed, remained silent. Ogg pulled a wand from his pockets and sent a shower of coloured sparks into the air. They crackled and boomed like fireworks. “That’s more like it! Now if you will please proceed in an orderly line behind me, I will show you through the Hogwarts grounds. Stay close, mind you. I don’t want anybody getting lost.�

The first-years sorted themselves into a passable line, and they followed after Ogg. The kids at the front had to walk several paces behind him to avoid stepping on his cape.

He led them down to the very end of the platform, where the lamplight began to fade, and darkness stretched out before them. As soon as they stepped onto an unpaved dirt path, Ogg took out his wand.

“It’s awful dark, isn’t it?� He muttered a word, something that sounded like lumos, and a ball of white light shot out from the tip. The first-years ooooh-ed.

Ogg grinned. “You’ll be learning how to do that, and more.�

From behind the crowns of trees rose the tip of a single, dark tower, its silhouette striking against the night.

As they continued, the school grounds unfolded like a multilayered shell to bring the building into view. Only it wasn’t a building at all—it was a castle, grand and dominating in its immensity. Tiny orange lights glinted from its many windows, casting their reflection upon the surface of a great, vast lake. Beyond it, Nella saw slips of bare, shadowy land that stretched to infinity on all sides. Gasps echoed all around her.

Ogg made a motion with his wand, as if spinning an invisible yarn with it in the air, and a number of small wooden boats rose up to the surface of the lake. They were rowboats by the looks of it, though they had no oars that Nella could see. Ogg boarded the boat at the very front, and beckoned to them.

“Well, get in! Three to a boat and no more. They are rather small, I’m afraid, and I wouldn’t like for any of you to fall overboard on your first night at Hogwarts. Then I’d have to dangle you in the air for the rest of the ride to make sure it won’t happen again.� There was a great deal of laughter at this.

Nella and Myrtle jumped immediately to the front, picking the boat directly behind Ogg. The rest of the first-years followed suit, filling up the boats around them. Ogg waved his wand again, and the lamps on each boat flickered to life, casting a bright orange stain against the darkness. There was a grunt and a shuffle, and Nella felt a third person climb in behind her.

“Is everyone settled?� Ogg looked back and smiled. “Off we go, then!�

The fleet of boats started with a jolt and began to sail towards the giant castle. The swirl of lights from the windows held Nella transfixed as she tried to fathom the castle’s sheer size.

“Our classes will actually be in there?� Nella marveled.

“Your classes, your meals, and your dormitories,� replied Ogg. Myrtle made a faint choking noise.

Behind her, Nella heard a sigh. She turned, and for the first time, saw the face of their companion—a slender, pale-faced boy. His eyes were a deep-set brown, almost black, and they made her think of winding tunnels, the lonely kind that swallow you in their depths before you ever get to the light. His hair stirred in the wind, and he looked up at the castle as if it were the eighth wonder of the world.

Nella turned away quickly before he could notice her, fixing her stare upon the back of Myrtle’s head for the rest of the trip.

The boats stopped on the lake’s opposite bank. The first-years followed Ogg down a path into a winding hallway, and finally to a landing beside a long flight of stairs. The steps ascended to a set of impossibly tall wooden doors, where a man in long, elegant robes awaited them.

“Welcome, first-years!� said the man. “Ogg, I must say, you have truly outdone yourself this year. I could not have imagined getting everyone here with such haste myself.�

Ogg nodded. “My pleasure, Professor.� And then to the first-years, “Here is where I leave you all. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you around school!� Ogg bowed, and left.

The man on the staircase now turned to address them all. His auburn beard twitched as he smiled. “It is truly a delight to see you all here,� he said. “My name is Professor Dumbledore. The doors behind me lead to the Great Hall, which is the center of ceremonies and feasting. You will begin the year by stepping through these doors, where you will be Sorted into your houses. The Sorting Ceremony is an ancient tradition held every year for new students. For those who are not familiar with our houses, they are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. While you are here at Hogwarts, your house will be like your family. Good behavior will earn your house points, and bad behavior will cost your house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points will win the House Cup. It is an admirable accomplishment, so I ask you to be on your best behavior, if not for yourself, then for those around you.�

There was a brief murmur. Nella was puzzled at the man’s voice, which seemed quiet and friendly on its own, but was able to immediately cast silence upon them all.

“And now, we begin! Follow me, please.� Dumbledore turned, and at once, the doors opened inward, flooding Nella’s face with golden light. After the initial shock of brilliance, the light cleared to reveal a magnificent hall. Four long, wooden tables ran down the length of the room, beneath a sea of floating candles. The tables were all filled with students, who turned in waves, eager to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals.

Led by Professor Dumbledore, their procession advanced to the head of the room, where several teachers sat at a long, raised table. The chair at the center, the largest and grandest, was occupied by an elderly wizard who led the staff in applause.

Dumbledore stopped in front of the table and stood up to face the school, unfurling a long piece of parchment. The people in front began to whisper excitedly. It wasn’t until Nella had slipped past them that she realized what everyone was staring at.

In front of the teacher’s table, at the head of the raised platform, was a tiny wooden stool. On the stool was a hat, ancient and tattered, the kind someone would wear on their Halloween costume.

“That’s the Sorting Hat!� someone exclaimed. “My gosh, it’s a legend!�

“But how is a hat supposed to decide which house we’ll be in?� Nella asked aloud.

The voice of Olive, who was standing right behind her, answered. “You just put it on. And then it looks inside your mind to see how smart you are. I told you, I wasn’t kidding.�

Nella looked back at the hat. It seemed to be moving of its own accord, flexing and twisting like a muscle. Suddenly, the hat opened a mouth that had been hid in its many folds and began to sing. Its voice was rough and strong, like ancient fabric.

As she absorbed the words of the song, Nella became aware of the tables around her. She looked closer at the students, and saw that they were sitting in an arrangement. The ones to her left sat beneath rows of red-and-gold tapestries, blue-and-bronze on the other side. On the far right, she could see the students beneath the yellow-and-black emblems. They were the Hufflepuffs, for the name of their house was sewn into the fabric along with the crest of the badger. They looked at the line of first-years with mild interest, peering over the heads of the Ravenclaws. One of them caught Nella’s eye and smiled.

“They seem nice,� she whispered, more to herself than anything. “I don’t even care what house they’re in. I want to be around nice people.�

“That’s a great attitude!� came a silky voice. Olive was standing right behind her now, and Nella could hear her words above the hat’s continuing song. “Once you’re there, you’ll realize that Hufflepuff is better than nothing. The Sorting Hat doesn’t have to accept everybody, you know. It could just say that you don't belong here and send you home. It’s happened before.�

The words themselves didn’t sting—rather, it was the way with which she had said them that made Nella’s vision blur.

Myrtle seemed to read her thoughts. She pulled Nella aside and linked an arm with hers, eyes blazing with crazed excitement. “Don’t worry,� she said. “We’ll be Hufflepuffs together!�

Nella could only nod in return.

With a final, lengthy note, the hat’s song concluded. There was a round of applause from the tables. At the front of the room, Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Please step up when your name is called!�

The Great Hall fell silent again as he began reading names of first-years from an alphabetized list. The first one to go was a boy. He sat down on the stool and the hat was placed on his head. It remained still for a second or two, and then opened its mouth and shouted for the whole hall to hear:

“GRYFFINDOR!�

The red-and-gold table roared with applause. The boy, smiling, went to sit down among them.

The next person was called. This time the hat shouted: “HUFFLEPUFF!�

Olive and her friends tittered, but the boy did not seem to mind his placement at all. He skipped over to the Hufflepuff table, which welcomed him with a roaring whoop.

“Atwood, Myrtle!�

“Wish me luck,� Myrtle said, and ran forward.

The hat was placed on her head. It was so big on her that its brim rested on her nose. Nella held her breath—

“RAVENCLAW!�

Olive was silent as Myrtle, beaming with surprise and gratitude, made her way to the Ravenclaw table. Blood pounded in Nella’s ears. If she couldn’t be in Ravenclaw too, then she would lose Myrtle.

Five minutes passed. With nearly half of their group sorted, the remaining kids huddled closer and closer together, following with wide eyes every time someone else was called forward. Nella’s body began to shake against her better judgment, her hands tightening into fists around her robes. Olive Hornby had been made a Ravenclaw as well, as had some of her friends. They had all gotten what they wanted.

Finally, amid the cheers: “Puckett, Nella!�

Her breathing quickened. This moment would either make her or break her. Nella stumbled up to the chair, still trying to calm the quakes that wracked her body. The whole school seemed to be staring, which didn’t help in the slightest.

She took her seat. Somewhere among the crowd sat Myrtle, looking up at her intently. She held up her fingers to show that they were tightly crossed.

Thump.

Nella felt the hat’s dead weight placed upon her head. But beneath the burden, she felt something else... almost like a second consciousness pressing upon her own.

For a while, silence.

...

...

Oh God. It wouldn’t sort her. Olive had been right. She would sit there, and the hat would announce that there was no house for her, and that she would have to go home. Frantically, Nella thought of her mother. Would she be happy? Sad? Or would she not care at all?

Nella closed her eyes, feeling the heat of shame bloom beneath her face.

How long are we going to pretend?

She froze. The voice came from nowhere, and yet everywhere, reverberating through the whole hall. No one else seemed to stir, making her believe she had been the only one who heard it.

“... What?� she whispered.

I see your mind. You hold a desire for greatness. A longing to prove yourself, and yet you fear to use your skill... You are torn between two paths. But only one house will get you where you need to be... yes... I think that will do just fine—

“SLYTHERIN!�

Nella’s eyes flew open. The din of applause and the flood of light in her eyes as the hat was removed was like being born again. A hand gently turned her to the table on the far right, where dozens of students beneath the green-and-silver tapestries were applauding her inclusion into their house.

She passed them by in a daze. Most of the applauders went back to their conversations, though some still clapped their own rhythm. She approached the very end of the table, where the other Slytherin first-years were seated, not talking. She plopped down beside them. The empty seat in front of her felt like a hole in the world. From here, she could see the Ravenclaw table, but Myrtle’s face was lost among countless others.

Nella’s eyes drifted down to her knees. Not even the thought of Olive Hornby’s face, possibly disappointed from her two failed predictions, lightened her mood. She was alone. There would be no one to help her this time, no mother to lean on, not even a friend to talk to.

The sound of the Sorting drowned out in her ears. Her table began to clap again; someone else had just been made a Slytherin. She didn’t look to see who it was, still lost in rounds of pointless thought.

Then the bench creaked as someone sat down across from her. Nella looked up, and to her utter astonishment, found herself staring at the dark-haired boy from the boat, the one she had looked at a second longer than usual.

He held her gaze for a moment, looked at the other new Slytherins, then finally back into his plate.

No bad without good, her mother had said.

For the first time, Nella believed it.

“The origin of the magical arts is a topic that has been lost to history, and the little information we have gleaned is still hotly debated among experts. It has been postulated that the first spells originated in prehistoric times, when those in possession of the operative gene were in mortal danger. This would have triggered the production of adrenaline in the body, a fight-or-flight response that, in an individual with super-natural abilities, would manifest as a spontaneous release of energy... therefore, it is very likely that the first spell developed was the Killing Curse, which is still in existence, and would have eliminated the need for struggle as we know it...�

An excerpt from Essays, by Emeraldo Harrington. c. 1750.

Horace Slughorn always began his classes, as he liked to say, with a smile. At eleven o’clock in the morning, he stood at the head of his Potions classroom, which was brightly-lit, organized, and in his opinion, perfectly ready to begin the year. He was waiting for the first-years to arrive. Today was a Monday, which meant a double session with Slytherin and Gryffindor.

First-years had always fascinated him. At eleven years, each child was like an adult in miniature, the seed of a plant about to blossom. Their personalities shone boldly through their youthful faces, and he had a talent for picking out the kids who were most likely to succeed. A child’s first year at Hogwarts was the one that mattered most; he could remember all of his Slug Club students when they had first started out, and what glorious memories they had forged in their time! Slughorn looked forward to every new year, and this one was no different.

In a few minutes’ time, the students began to file in. Their faces were nervous, unmarked as of yet by the year they would have to endure. None of them were sure what to make of their first class, most likely. Many of the students sat in the back, forming a sort of clump in front of the doorway as they made a fuss over who to sit next to.

A few brave souls drifted up to the middle. One such person was a pale, dark-haired boy — nondescript, but with a thoughtful demeanor. He went up slowly, surveying the room as he went along, hand brushing the tables he passed as if for support in this uncharted territory. Slughorn nodded proudly as the boy took the very front seat.

The boy’s presence in the front row acted as a pull, impressing an immediate effect upon the room. There was a great deal of shuffling as several others followed his example, and the front rows were soon filled with students from both houses. When everyone was seated, Slughorn chuckled.

“Well now that that’s settled, let’s get to it!�

He tapped the chalkboard with his wand, and a line of text appeared:

Beginning Potions—Year One:

“Now, since it’s your first year, I understand that you might not be ready to produce the full and complete Dreamless Sleep Potion. Nevertheless, practice makes perfect, so if you’d all take out your cauldrons and open your books for the recipe—�

He was cut off by a collective gasp that fell into a disgruntled moan. Their reactions varied. Some students sank in their seats, others turned and whispered to their tablemates, already casting Slughorn looks of dislike. Still, there were a few that obediently took out their cauldrons and searched through their books. The boy in the front seat was one of them. He actually had his finger on a recipe and was scanning through the list of ingredients when Slughorn held up his hands and shouted, “Enough! Enough.�

The room quieted down. Slughorn smiled at them all. “What kind of Potions teacher do you think I am? Surely you didn’t think I’d make you all brew Dreamless Sleep Potions on your first day!� He chuckled and gave the board another tap.

A second part was added to his heading.

Beginning Potions—Year One:
- A potioneer’s toolkit
- Useful ingredients
- Basic concoctions

The air in the room instantly relaxed. Several of the whisperers gave nervous smiles. The low hum of chatter returned, and those who had gotten out their cauldrons were now putting them away. The boy in the front, however, looked rather sullen as he closed his book.

“As shown here, we will be delving into the realm of potionmaking with small steps,� said Slughorn. “Small, but nevertheless, important. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen brilliant students make silly mistakes, mistakes that could have been avoided had they known what you all are about to learn! Yes, the art of potions is complex, but even if it is not your particular field of talent, you will be able to succeed in whatever you may try with three things: diligence, logic, and a knowledge of the basics! If you would all please take out your quills.�

He waited as the students prepared themselves for notetaking. When he saw that everybody was ready, Slughorn began to lecture.

He was pleased to see the whole class follow along, but none seemed to hang on to his words more than the boy at the front of the room. He often paused to write, but for the most part he preferred to listen, letting his quill droop from his hand while his eyes followed the professor.

In the span of an hour, Slughorn went over everything he had planned to cover, ending on the subject of the Boil-Cure potion, which he had promised the class he would have them brew the following week.

As the class stood up to leave, Slughorn erased the board with a tap of his wand. He sat down at his desk, hoping to open a book before the arrival of the next class, when he realized that the dark-haired boy was still there. He had gotten up, but instead of heading for the exit, tentatively approached Slughorn’s desk.

The professor looked up in mild interest. “Yes? May I help you?�

The boy held up his notebook, where he had written exactly one thing: Draught of Dreamless Sleep.

“Will we get to that one this year, sir?� said the boy. His voice was light and soft.

Slughorn raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I was joking? The Dreamless Sleep Potion is very advanced, and I wouldn’t expect any first-year to be able to brew one! You should worry more about those ten most common potion ingredients I told you about.�

The boy shrugged. “Yes, sir. I just thought... it would be interesting...� He backed away without another word. Gathering his books, he quietly left the room.

That night, the Great Hall basked beneath a starry sky. The four tables were packed with food, teeming with hundreds of hands.

The end of the Slytherin table had become a reserved spot of sorts for the first-years, who were separated from the older students by a small margin of space. Nella ate along with the others, occasionally looking up to admire the enormous cloud of candles that hovered over the entire hall. Hardly any of the Slytherin first-years had said a single word to one another since their Sorting. It was in these vast spaces of silence that she allowed herself to become lost in thought, mulling over her classes and other vague things that happened to cross her mind.

And then, out of the blue—

“Hi!�

A sunny voice pierced the pocket of silence. Nella turned, and did a double-take when Myrtle Atwood sat down beside her. Nella hadn’t seen her friend since their unfortunate Sorting, which had been nearly three days ago. On the whole, Myrtle looked peppy and well-rested. She had abandoned her pigtails this time, simply letting her hair spill down her shoulders.

“What are you doing?� Nella whispered. “Won’t you get in trouble?�

Myrtle shook her head. “I asked my Head of House. He said I could sit here.�

The other first-years shifted at Myrtle’s appearance, but Nella ignored them. “So how’s Ravenclaw?�

“It’s okay,� Myrtle said. “Our common room’s great. It’s up in the towers, and you have to answer a different question every time to get in. What about you? How’s Slytherin?� She looked up at the tapestries that hung from the ceiling above the table. When the fabric stirred, the snake on the emblem seemed to move with the ripples.

“Our common room’s in the dungeons. We have a weekly password—�

“Don’t tell her what it is!� said a boy.

Myrtle turned on him almost instantly. “Grow up, will you? I’m trying to talk to my best friend here!�

The boy shrank under her scowl, and their end of the table fell silent again. Myrtle took a breath and looked back at Nella. “Go on.�

“Well yeah, we have a password. The common room’s really fancy. It has a fireplace and all these leather chairs.�

Myrtle nodded. She began to make herself comfortable, much to the annoyance of the other first-years. She put both legs under the table and took a chicken wing from a nearby plate. She talked while she chewed. “That’s really nice. We have really tall windows, and in the daytime, it’s like I can see everything that’s going on down below. We also have a statue of our founder. I found out her name—Rowena Ravenclaw. You should look to see who your founder was. I think all of them have the same last name as the house names. So the founder of Slytherin would be... a guy named Slytherin?�

“Or girl,� Nella offered.

“Yeah, but Slytherin sounds really boyish to me. I don’t know why, it just does.� Myrtle continued to nibble her chicken wing, which she had almost reduced to the bone. “I hate that we’re in different houses, Nellie... it’s so lonely.� She dropped her voice. “I haven’t made any friends yet.�

“Oh. Well, I’m sure you will. Just don’t be afraid to talk to people.� Nella’s own advice surprised her—this, after all, was her problem too.

There was a sharp crunch as Myrtle bit into the bone. “I’ve tried! It’s just that wherever I go, they’re always behind me.� She jerked her thumb at the Ravenclaw table. “Olive and her friends, I mean. They’re so annoying. I’ve asked a couple of other kids and they agree. But no one’s doing anything about it. You and I should make a stand, together.�

Nella didn’t reply. As much as she didn’t like Olive Hornby, she did not want to pick an unneeded fight, much less on her first week of school. She remained silent as Myrtle began to suck the marrow from her bone, making loud slurping noises.

“Come by my table tomorrow morning. Do you know who your Head of House is?�

Nella shook her head.

“Find out and ask them if you can sit with me. They won’t care. It’s just a table, right?�

“I guess.�

“It’ll be so much fun! Even if we’re not in the same House, we can still have all our meals together. Honestly, if I had to sit around this lot all day, I’d be depressed too.� She swept her gaze across the sullen first-years, to whom their conversation was evidently more interesting than food. The Slytherins were staring almost jealously, as the two girls boldly displayed their friendship.

Deciding that her stay was over, Myrtle got up, taking another chicken wing with her. “Well, I better go. See you later, Nellie!� She beamed and skipped off. Nella watched her go, disappearing momentarily behind the sea of Slytherins, and reappearing at the Ravenclaw table. Myrtle passed rows and rows of students who were laughing and eating, and sat down somewhere among them. When Myrtle’s face appeared again, the smile was gone, her hand idly twisting the half-eaten wing.

So. She didn’t have anybody to talk to her either.

When Nella came into class on Friday, Slughorn greeted the class in full potionmaking spirit. The usual clutter of books and parchment that littered his desk had been cleared away for a set of brass scales and a small black cauldron.

“Come in, come in!� he called to them. “Sit in groups today. Two people to a table only!�

There was an explosion of chatter and skidding chairs. Nella was caught off-guard as people rushed to sit with their friends, slamming their books down on empty chairs to reserve the spots. For fear of being the last one roaming, Nella did the only thing she could think of. She made her way to the front of the room and sat at the frontmost row, right beside the dark-haired boy. She half-expected him to object to her presence, but he didn’t. He remained as still and silent as ever.

Once everyone was paired, Slughorn clapped his hands together and smiled.

“And now, if you would please turn to page thirty-one of your books, you will find the recipe. If you need help, you may raise your hand and ask. Begin!�

Nella pulled out her book and began to turn the pages. She found the ingredient list, which was a long series of things she had never heard of, like Flobberworm mucus, horned slugs, and many other names that sounded like they had derived from a different language. As her thumb ran down the list, Nella felt the color drain from her face. What had she gotten herself into?

She was about to get up from her seat and go to the cabinets to ask around, when she felt a hand stop her.

“No,� said the boy, looking at her. “I’ll get the ingredients. You read the instructions.�

Something in his voice was steadying. Nella looked back into the book, running back down the list while he got up with the rest of the kids, who were crowding around a tall, wide cabinet with various shelves and drawers. He brought back several bags of items and spread them across the table.

“What do I do first?� he said.

“Crush twelve snake fangs into fine powder,� Nella read. “Balance weight with dried nettles.�

He took out the scales and began to weigh the nettles, leaving Nella to crush snake fangs in the mortar. The fangs were surprisingly brittle, and in a matter of seconds she had reduced them to a lump of pale powder. Nella scooped it onto the scales, and the boy modified his side accordingly until the two were perfectly balanced.

He looked at her again, and Nella read the next line. “To prepare the base for this potion, pour Bubotuber pus until the solution forms bubbles.�

The boy opened the glass bottle he had gathered and poured it into the cauldron until the liquid began to bubble. This surprised both of them, and they peered into the cauldron as the foam grew so thick that it hid the liquid completely.

The next step was to heat the cauldron. They did so, watching the liquid turn hues of red at first, then fade to green, at which point the boy emptied the bottle of Flobberworm mucus, a wet, gelatinous substance, into the cauldron. So far, everything was going well.

Behind them, Nella could hear the noises of her classmates as they scrambled to process their ingredients. Some tables worked faster than others. One group, two Gryffindor girls, were already adding the porcupine quills, which was the third-to-last step. Another group was struggling with their scales, which, no matter hard they tried, refused to balance. The bar was rocking back and forth on its tip like a seesaw, while the boys tried in vain to steady it.

“Stop it, stop it, you’re making it worse!� shouted the first boy, whose partner was trying to pin down the scale’s arms while they scattered crumbs and leaves all over the table.

“Me? At least I’m not the idiot who bought these!�

They finally managed to get the situation under control. The second boy lifted the set and knocked it against the table, causing one of the cups to break off. Immediately, the set sputtered and died like a worn-out machine. They had to get a new one.

Slughorn was walking around and stopping at various tables to check their progress, smartly dodging spills and explosions. He leaned over the cauldron of the two Gryffindor girls, who looked up with proud smiles, having just announced that they had finished. Slughorn shook his head at them.

“I’m sorry, ladies. The book clearly states that your potion must be red. Preferably pink. Brown will not do.� He left for the next table.

Against the commotion behind them, Nella and her partner kept a solemn, almost ritualistic pace. They took turns adding the ingredients, spilling them from their palms and stirring the solution, which continued to turn over new colors every time they added something new, like a strange, warped version of mixing paint.

They worked for the rest of the class period. They measured and mixed, all in perfect synchrony. Nella could hear the others, who were either finishing or already done, but she was too immersed in the potion to separate their words. Potion-making was much like cooking, she realized, which she had done plenty of at home. Thinking of soup, of standing in her tiny kitchen and reading a new recipe with her mother, made the potion in front of her much less intimidating. Once you jumped in, as they say, the water was fine.

Slughorn resumed his position in front of his desk for the final ten minutes, arms folded behind his back, humming while the class worked.

At the end of the hour, Nella’s potion had turned a pale, pearly pink. It was the proper color described in the book, so they left it at that. They sat down, keeping their arms away from the cauldron, as if at the slightest touch something might go wrong. The other students finished at different times. The two Gryffindor girls had dumped their faulty potion down the sink, and started anew. The boys with the defunct scales were still adding the porcupine quills.

When everyone was done, Slughorn did his rounds about the room, looking into each table’s cauldron and muttering. “Mmm... yes... good, very good... could have used more porcupine quills, I say...� He frequently bent over a cauldron to sniff it, and sometimes even went as far to taste it with his finger.

When he got to Nella’s table, he gave the potion a little stir. “Hmm... excellent color. And the subtle smell of the nettle... very good.� He placed his finger into the cauldron and brought a drop into his mouth. His moustache twitched as he smiled. “Ah. Perfect! Best so far, I’d say!�

The other students shifted, murmuring. Nella felt a brief shock, which then faded into a kindling warmth within her. It was the first time she had ever received such a comment from a teacher.

“Names?� asked the professor.

“Nella Puckett.�

“Tom Riddle.�

Slughorn smiled, and stepping back from the table he spread his arms out to the class. “Everyone, Tom and Nella here have achieved a perfect potion!�

Someone in the back began to clap, and several others joined in. “Yes, yes,� Slughorn said. “A round of applause! Please!�

The classroom clapped for a moment, then settled down.

“Needless to say, this goes to show that talent can reside within anyone,� continued Slughorn. “Let this be an example for all of you, of the important of balancing the ingredients and following the procedure. This has been your first little test in my class. The next potion we will brew will be much harder than this one, and I expect everyone’s to come out perfect!�

In the midst of Slughorn’s speech, Nella still only half-believed her success. Still spinning with elation, she turned to her partner. At the same time, he turned to her, casting her a brief sideways glance.

It was almost like a smile.

Tom Riddle hated flying.

He hated being tossed about like a leaf on a broomstick, he hated jerking the handle in one direction while the broom wobbled and sent him in the opposite. Every turn and swoop was sickening to the pit of his stomach, and each time he would look down it seemed like he had climbed another fifty feet, no doubt where the broomstick would buck him off and the fall would shatter all of his bones.

His classmates had varying success. Some soared through the air like born fliers, while others, like him, took cautionary steps, ignoring the teacher’s whistle that goaded them to move faster.

As with everything else, their flying lessons at Hogwarts had started off small. On the first week, they learned basic mounting and landing skills, which were easily mastered by proper technique, and thus hadn’t been a problem for him. When his feet actually left the ground, however, it became a whole different story.

Up in the air, there was no support. Gravity, in all her mischief, stepped aside, fooling one into thinking that he was invincible, that he could achieve anything. By the end of their second week of lessons, the first-years were allowed to stay in the air longer to get a feel for flying. His classmates enjoyed this to no end. They cavorted along, trying to outdo each other with sheer demonstrations of height and speed, but the fun and games would stop short when they fell off and were shown who really was in charge.

They were supposed to be practicing turns today. While the people around him zoomed past and bumped into each other, laughing, Tom’s broom decided on an agenda of its own. When he kicked off from the ground, a gust of wind swept him aside like a tattered cloth, carrying him off towards one of the castle’s walls. Tom tried to break, pulling the handle up as hard as he could, but the broom did a backflip in the air, cartwheeling him in the opposite direction. It might have been impressive, if it weren’t for the fact that his broomstick was picking up speed without his command, the bar slowly slipping from his grip.

He could hear laughter all around him - or were they screams? - as he tried to slow his momentum. Tom gave the broom another jerk, and it made such a sharp turn that he felt his legs slip off from the thin bar, his body thrown sideways into the air -

“Mr. Riddle! MR. RIDDLE!�

- but he would not let go; he hung on with both hands as tightly as he could, screaming as the broom threw him up and down, not caring anymore that everybody could see him in his shame, his terror.

The world was spinning to such an extent that he did not know where he was anymore. Dancing lights blurred his vision, his mind numbed to everything but the motion sickness that churned in his stomach. His jaw had locked; his lungs refused to accept air. He could hear a chorus of shouts from somewhere below, people calling his name, crowding around perhaps in an attempt to catch him.

He was about to die.

The realization rushed in like cold water, flooding him with a fear like he never felt before. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

With a titanic effort, Tom forced himself to breathe. The cold air flipped a switch in his brain, clearing his vision, returning him to awareness. Gathering his strength, he pulled himself up to the bar of the broom and swung himself over. His heart was hammering in his throat, the rapid throbs nearly bursting in his head. The broomstick was still spinning like the hands of a crazed clock, and after a single, lucid moment when the shock of adrenaline faded away, his dizziness caught up with him.

Tom felt his head droop, his grip on the bar slacken, both strength and will ebbing from him like the ocean tides.

The other kids were shouting something now, but the sound was lost in the scream of the wind. He did not feel it as his broom tipped forward like a seesaw, finally succumbing to the pull of gravity.

With a whizzing shriek, the broom crashed into the ground.

“Stop! Stop!’

“This way, come on!�

“No, I want to go back!�

The girl’s voice was lost in a loud roar of water, and she jumped back as another cloud of ocean spray rained on their heads.

Tom stopped walking and looked at the children behind him, boy and girl, the sea breeze whipping their hair and clothes, sharpening their expressions of exhaustion.

“We’re going to get in trouble!� said the girl. “I’m going back.�

“No you’re not!� he shouted.

The girl made a face, and began to back away. It was pointless, since there was no way she could have gone back on her own even if she tried. The ledge they stood on was a part of a much larger cliff, and if he hadn’t supported them with the pull when they had climbed down, they would have both fallen to their deaths into the sea below.

But this did not stop Amy Benson from trying. She clawed and kicked at the rock, trying in vain to find a handhold.

“Baby!� Tom called after her. “Baby Amy!�

The second taunt clearly hit a nerve, for the girl whipped her head around, her face pink like a tulip. “Don’t call me that!�

“I’m going to keep calling you that unless you get over here.�

Amy puffed out her cheeks. After a moment, she came back. Beside her, Dennis broke his silence. “Just tell us why we’re here, Tom!�

“I told you, I’m going to show it to you!�

“But why does that involve us being on a cliff?�

Tom scowled. “Look, do you want to see how I did it or not?�

Even in all their confusion and frustration, the children’s eyes widened with longing as they nodded.

“Then stop asking questions and follow me.�

“But I can’t swim!� the boy blurted, just as Tom stepped over to a second outcropping of rock atop the one they now stood on. Dennis’s eyes were on the sea below them, which hurled fat, foaming green waves from suicidal heights. Each crash of water against rock was like the roar of a waking beast.

“It’s okay,� Tom said. “You won’t have to. Watch.� He pressed his hand against the rock. Instantly, though too subtle for the two children to see, a knob grew out from beneath his hand, allowing him to grab hold without slipping. He followed with his foot, and the same thing happened.

Amy and Dennis watched in awe as Tom climbed, not up but to the side, where there was a ledge wide enough for one foot to stand running across the face of the cliff. Tom landed on the ledge with perfect balance, and beckoned. “Well, come on!�

The children went up to the rock, fumbling as they tried to replicate the feat Tom had performed. The handholds had gone; they had existed only for the brief moment he needed them, so their progress was slow. Dennis came around first, his sneakers sagging, his shirt almost soaked through. Tom, on the other hand, was completely dry.

He waited for them to gain their footing. As Amy stepped onto the ledge, her hand slipped by the tiniest degree, and her body leaned away.

“Whoa!�

Dennis pulled her up to the ledge just in time, with an arm hooked tightly around her waist. Amy looked down at the sea and began to sob.

Tom began to walk, placing one foot carefully in front of the other like a trained funambulist. Dennis and Amy inched along, their legs shaking.

“Are you ready?� he said. They regarded him with a mix of shock and wonder. “I present to you... the cave.�

He held out his hands, pointing them to a large opening that was like a mouth in the face of the rock.

The faces of his companions paled. “Do we have to go up there?� said Dennis.

“Yes.�

“Why?�

“Because,� he said. “I don’t want anybody else to see.� Tom scaled the rest of the ledge and heaved himself over onto a wider, more stable rock. Amy and Dennis followed suit. Once they were in position, Tom backed away from them. He did not actually enter the cave - that would have taken too long anyway - and he could tell by their faces that Amy and Dennis weren’t going to take much more.

All according to plan.

Dennis and Amy were observant kids, he’d give them that, and had caught on to Tom’s shenanigans over the years. They, like many, immediately signaled him out as someone different from the crowd. And they were right; Tom was different. It was the reason he could have brought them here in the first place, and the reason he hadn’t gone insane after all his years in the stuffy orphanage. His abilities fascinated him, and he explored them to the fullest extent, but his experiments did not always end in his favor.

That previous week, Tom had gotten into an argument with one of the younger kids and, as gleeful punishment, had hung the boy’s pet rabbit from the rafters until the boy had reduced himself to tears. He did not know exactly how he had done it. It had been the pull again, the mysterious force that enabled him to see in his mind what he wanted, and somehow make it happen with his hands.

Events like these repelled the other children from him. Even when on his way to breakfast, Tom could feel the fear lurking within the kids around him, stiffening them when he passed by. At times, he found he could pull their minds closer, though it caused him great mental strain, and feel the brush of their thoughts. He never held out long, but the feelings he gathered were all the same: weird, creepy, not like us, stay away.

Tom did not remember where or when he had acquired the pull, the enigmatic force that allowed him to literally shift the world around him. During his early childhood, the force remained dormant, and he barely noticed it except for the rare occasion when he’d sit alone and concentrate. It would take hours, but eventually he would tap into a faint something, almost like a delicate, budding energy centered deep within him. However, he could hang on to the feeling for no more than three seconds before it slipped away.

The first time he remembered using the pull was when he was six years old and had gotten into an accident.

Or at least, he thought it had been an accident. He didn’t remember much about that evening, only that he had wanted nothing more than to escape the orphanage and be alone. So in the middle of the night, Tom stole a bike from the yard and rode it down the street, pedaling away as fast as he could. The streets were nearly deserted, the only light being the sparse orange puddles from the streetlamps. At some point, Tom had made a bad turn, and found himself spinning down a rough, unpaved road. In total darkness, the only thing that attached him to the physical world was the bike, which was shaking and groaning as if he were riding down a pile of rocks. He lost control, and fell.

Tom remembered lots of banging and crashing, of hitting his head on the bike frame at least twice, and then he was lying at the bottom of a steep, rocky hill, his body limp under the moonlight. Strangely, he did not remember much pain. He had braced himself against the fall, but the fall felt more like plunging into a ball pit than tumbling through rocks. It was as if he had pulled himself away from the hill’s surface, softening his impacts against the ground.

Had it been luck that had saved him that night? Fate? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that from that moment on, he was never the same. Whenever he got angry, or felt strongly enough about something, he could change it. The older children who would laugh at his apparent shyness, his preference of books over play, would suddenly end up with their shoelaces tied together, or their pants five sizes too small. When his coat had been lost (or more likely stolen) in the middle of the winter, Tom was surprised to find that his cotton shirt did a perfectly good job of trapping his warmth, which none of his caretakers could understand.

Over the months, Tom discovered more powers blooming from that original seed. He nurtured them, disciplined them, and finally bent them all to his will.

And now that he was almost eleven, Tom Riddle was a master.

Another column of water crashed against the cliffside. “Okay,� Tom began, clapping his hands. “What I’m about to teach you is something I like to call the swing. Watch closely.�

He held up his hand. At once, a chunk of rock broke off from the side of the cliff and began to hover in the air. The children gaped.

“Whoa!� said Dennis. “That’s amazing!�

“That’s how you hung Elmer’s rabbit!� said Amy, bouncing on her heels. “Isn’t it?�

Tom nodded. “Yep. I can do more, you know.� He let go, and the rock fell to the ground. “People, for example.�

He held up his hand again. This was a greater exertion, and he felt the significant press of weight against his mind as he lifted Amy by the shoulders. She began to laugh, but that laugh quickly dissolved into a panicked whimper as he moved her off the rocks and over the open sea. She hung there, rocking on her back like an infant, eyes like saucers.

Tom smiled again, his teeth flashing white. “And this is something I like to call the drop!�

“No - NO!�

Tom was cut off as Dennis ran into him with full force, smashing him against the wall of the cliff. His concentration broke like a snapping twig. There a scream as the force holding Amy aloft was extinguished, and the boys tumbled to the ground, rolling, kicking.

“You idiot!� Tom shouted. “I was keeping her in the air!�

Dennis rolled off him at once, jumping to his feet. “AMY!�

But Amy was gone. Or so Tom thought until he heard a faint whimper coming from somewhere beneath them.

“Amy?�

Tom stepped over to the ledge, and there she was, clinging to the edge for dear life. The sea was churning some hundred feet below, angry at being deprived of a new victim. Amy’s skin was paper white. Dennis pulled her up instantly, heaving her over onto solid ground. They both collapsed in a heap, shaking, leaving Tom standing over them.

“Are you okay?� he asked, more out of fear than concern.

For a minute, the orphans looked at him in mute horror. Then, Amy’s shaking lips formed two words, soft against the stormy sea.

“...I’m telling.�

Tom stepped back, when he remembered that he was standing on a ledge, and teetered.

“No!�

“Yes!� Amy said. “I’m telling! I’m telling Mrs. Cole! She was right about you... she said all along that you were a strange boy! And we’re gonna tell her exactly what you did!� She tried to curl her lips into a sneer, but she was shaking so badly that all she could manage was a pained smile. “She’ll take you right where you belong!�

The mental hospital.

Tom remained still. A gust of wind blew his hair into his face, for a minute, bringing out a flash of anger in his eyes

“That wasn’t a smart thing to say,� Tom said through his teeth. “Considering where you are.�

Amy’s lips parted. She tried to form words, by then it was too late. Tom lifted his hand, and the children were thrown into the air as if by a catapult. They came to a halt in midair, dangling above the sea like marionettes.

“NO!� cried Dennis, but he was cut off mid-scream.

Tom dropped the strings, hearing their voices fall and fade, then with a heave, brought them back up as if they had bounced on a bungee cord. Up and down they went, till their voices grew hoarse and the muscle in Tom’s brain felt like it would snap.

But he kept going, lifting and dropping till the children flopped about like ragdolls. He brought them back down on the rock, and for a terrifying moment, thought he had killed them. But no - they were stirring. Their eyes opened, finding his.

Tom leaned close, speaking soft and clear over the wind.

“You will never tell.�

They didn’t.

Yooooouuuuuhhhooooooo

Voices.

Like little lights dancing in the haze.

Each sound was lost, disjointed, as if only half his mind were there to hear it. The other half was dangling in the darkness, still not having crossed the brink of awareness.

He was wrapped in the clouds.

Fuuuuuuhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrr - gawwwwwwww

He wasn’t even sure if there was pain. A warmth was rushing over his chest and arms, like the waters of the sea, but he was too far away to tell what it was. Distant voices and pictures were scrambling through his mind like the broken fragments of a glass, trying to piece themselves together.

If this was death, then why was he still thinking?

Fuuuuuuuhhhrrrr gawwwwwwwww... braaaayyyyyk...

His vision began to clear. Several faceless entities shifted in front of him, silhouetted against hexagons of light. At that moment, the warmth inside of him began to throb, and he became aware of the muted hum of pain, a heat in his left arm and collarbone.

People.

The voices.

He felt a moment’s pressure on his shoulder.

Yoooouu -

Not dead, not dead, not if he could hear...

- ohhhhkaaaayyyyy...?

Warm hands brought him to. Tom’s head snapped up, and sensation returned to him like a blast of light. He felt the creak of a mattress beneath him, the pressure of a pillow against his back, and a new shock of pain run down his arm. It was so sudden that he let out a groan.

And then a pair of large brown eyes appeared from the oblivion.

“Blimey! You scared us half to death out there!�

Tom blinked. He was staring at the face of a boy, one of his classmates, who was grinning like a kid in a candy shop.

There was a small group of people behind him, some still with their broomsticks in hand. Tom did not register all of their faces, but they were looking down at the bed in evident pity.

“What... happened to me?�

“You fell!� said the boy. “It was awesome! Well, not the falling - you know what I mean. You were doing all these tricks and flips and we thought you were just playing, but then you sort of slipped and... Well, I was the one who picked you up. Madam Hooch was furious. The broom you were on was an old one, kind of messed up, and she was mad like crazy when she found out that it was being used. It’s gone now, though, so you don’t have to worry.�

“You forgot to brake,� added another kid. “Didn’t you hear us? We were all shouting, but then you sort of flew off.�

Tom shifted his weight to his uninjured arm. Another sting was settling over him, the sting that had nothing to do with pain but was ten times worse - shame. He had come inches away from dying, of being wiped off the face of the earth.

And they were smiling, for God’s sake.

“So do you want water?� said the boy. “The nurse reckons it’s okay for you to have some, now that your bones have been mended and everything.�

“No,� said Tom automatically.

The boy looked surprised. “Well okay. You’re pretty banged-up, though.�

“Here,� said a girl. She dropped a small bag of candies on the table. “They’ll help you feel better. Not everyone gets flying the first time, and honestly, you were really brave for staying on that broom.�

“No... I don’t -� but for some reason, his mouth refused to form words. Tom was stuck with a frozen expression of negation as his silent pleas fueled their fire.

“He’s being stupid,� someone else said.

“He fell like what, thirty feet?�

“Poor kid...�

“Does anyone know if he likes Bertie Bott’s beans?�

The crowd contracted, their chatter rising in volume. It was too much. Tom clamped his hands over his ears.

“I don’t need your help!� he bellowed. “Just leave me alone!�

The kids fell silent. One by one they left his bedside, throwing back looks of confusion, awe, but mostly more pity. The boy, however, remained.

“That means you too,� Tom said.

To his surprise, the boy nodded. “All right. I get it.� He did not seem at all upset as he stood up. “I’m Ashton, just so you know. I’m in Slytherin too. See you around, I guess.� With that, he left.

For the rest of the day, while the other first years went about their classes, Tom Riddle stayed in bed. His day consisted of exciting investigations into the hospital wing’s ceiling, and of several vain attempts to fall asleep while the sun burned behind his eyelids. His solitude reminded him strongly of Wool’s orphanage, and that made him feel, if possible, even worse. That was the place he had been seeking to escape his whole life. But what was the point of going anywhere if that memory would only chase him around forever?

For once, he wished he had someone to talk to.

The day ripened and decayed without event. When the last bands of afternoon red had faded from the sky, flamed torches were lit across the walls, bathing everything in half-shadow. Tom had drifted off into another daydream - this time his broom was doing corkscrews as well as flips - when he heard a knock on the door.

The nurse hurried to answer it. “Coming!�

She opened the door. Light spilled in from the hallway outside, though he could not see who had entered. He heard the nurse’s voice.

“What is it? No, I’m sorry. No. I can’t allow any visitors this late. You’ll have to go.�

He heard a frantic protest, and the nurse sighed. “Fine then. But five minutes only!�

She opened the door wider, and Tom sat up, squinting at his visitor in the firelight. It was the girl who sat next to him in Potions. He recognized her face immediately, though at that moment, her name escaped him. Nella something… was it Pryce? Preighton? She carried two books in her arms, which she placed on the table beside his bed.

“Hi,� she said. She took out a roll of parchment from her pocket and handed it to him. “Here.�

Tom’s face went pink. The last thing he needed was a get-well card. “No,� he said, pushing it back at her. “I don’t want it.�

Nella blinked, looking slightly affronted. “Suit yourself. I’m just saying, you’ll need it for tomorrow.� She crossed her arms, but did not leave.

Confused, Tom opened the paper. It wasn’t a get-well card at all, he realized, but a list of some sort. He read it over. They were notes from Potions.

“Slughorn’s having a pop quiz tomorrow,� Nella said. “He only told me. He might have wanted me to tell you too, but I could’ve easily forgotten about it. I didn’t have to come all this way, you know.�

“So why did you?�

Nella shrugged. “I thought it would be helpful. And you’re the reason I have such a high grade in that class anyway. I sort of owe you. But if you’d rather luck it out tomorrow, you know, I can take the books back.�

Tom continued to look at her. He could feel the pull working inside him, opening her mind like a multilayered shell. He expected to see fear, pity, maybe even spite, but it was none of those things. It was -

... a hidden care?

Tom searched further, but could find nothing apart from that nameless presence. Under the intensity of his gaze, Nella shifted. She scooped the books into her arms to take them away, but Tom shook his head. “No. Leave them.�

She stopped.

“Well... okay. Good luck.� Nella smiled, brushing her eyebrow in a funny sort of salute, and left. She was quick, and the door closed before he could thank her.

That, at least, he could handle.