Year One: Tom Riddle and the Search for Family

Chapter One: On the Platform

There he stood, between platforms nine and ten, trying to work out how to reach Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He had no family to help him, having never met any relative, and it was his first time boarding the train. Scarce months ago he wouldn't have even known the place existed. Now he brushed his black hair away from his eyes, gripping his cart tightly. He had his books, cauldron, potions ingredients, and robes packed inside; his wand was tucked into the waistline of his trousers. Before he could ever get a chance to use it, though, he needed to get onto that blasted platform.

Then he heard a voice to his left say "Of course I'll write home, mum! I haven't let you down on that for the last two years, what makes you think I will this year?" The black haired boy turned and saw a girl about two years his senior, wearing a blue jumper and a matching, ankle-length skirt. She had brown hair pulled into a tight bun, sharp features, and a pair of spectacles set in front of eyes with a severe, yet soft expression to them.

"I know, Minerva. But I know you. And if anything could annoy you slightly, it's me reminding you to write home," stated the girl's mother, with mild bemusement in her eyes. The black haired boy had never seen such behaviour where he came from; he kept to himself, and had never seen anyone truly happy there.

"Give my love to Dad," she called out as she pushed her cart toward the barrier between the platforms. The boy brushed his hair aside again, determined not to miss the secret of how to get through. She was there; then she was gone. She'd simply walked through.

"Suppose it really was that easy. I knew it," he muttered, pushing his cart toward the barrier. He clipped a woman in the ankle on the way. "Sorry," he half-heartedly muttered, not really caring, only focused on the barrier and what lay beyond. He was focused on the new life he would be embarking upon, away from that… that place. He would be somewhere where he could be special, where he could make something of himself. Then he passed through the barrier, emerging near the scarlet steam engine, the Hogwarts Express.

He looked around, taking in the people he saw. There were other first years, some looking nervous. Others looked excited, running around trying to see everything they could. There were older students too, greeting old friends or lecturing younger siblings. One girl with long black hair was directing younger students, giving them tips on how to board the train safely. A tall, red haired boy stood talking to a few younger redheaded children, who must have been brothers or cousins. A voice muttered "Blood traitors" as it passed on the left.

The black haired boy turned to see another girl of about thirteen years, with long black hair, and a sullen look. She was staring at the tall redheaded boy, looking disgusted. "Septimus Weasley," she elaborated. "Can't stand the Weasleys; they don't deserve to be called purebloods." Before the boy could respond, she had boarded the train. He looked after her, seeing the name marked on her trunk. "Walburga Black", he read.

The boy pulled his trunk up after him, dinging it against the steps before dragging it toward the back where he could find an empty compartment. He wanted to change, and then to sleep. He wanted to be well rested before arriving at Hogwarts. Carefully, he pulled his wand out and set it aside. After he had pulled his robes on, he took hold of his wand. He looked at it curiously; he had always done magic very well before he even knew about it, would he fare as well with a wand? Would he be as naturally gifted, or would he struggle?

He waved it, and a cushion flew off the seat opposite him. Another wave sent it back into place. He contented himself to play with the cushions before napping, ripping and restoring, almost instinctively. Soon there was a knock on the door, and a boy with white-blond hair and pale, grey eyes looked inside. "Do you mind if I join you? The other compartments are full, and I need to sit down."

"Whatever suits you," said the black haired boy, not really caring about company. He put his wand away, having no more desire to practice magic with an audience present. The blond boy sat down.

After a long silence, broken only by a witch selling snacks, the blond boy said "So, maybe we should introduce ourselves. I'm Abraxas Malfoy. What's your name?"

"Tom," came the response. "My name is Tom Riddle."