HUNGER.

Chapter 1

He usually picked another one at the start of term.

Weeding the weakest out of the crop, Tom's selection had grown limited. But he couldn't deny the satisfaction that grew, deeper in his mind like a smug sort of tumour, as he rifled through endless withdrawal letters from concerned parents.

'She's just not well, Professor.'

'We don't know what happened, she was looking forward to school.'

And his favourite.

'We don't doubt your capabilities as headmaster. But our son is being held in St. Mungo's, crying all sorts of things about riddles. We fear he may never return to school.'

Tom certainly doubted his capabilities. Gaining the headmaster's trust had been so easy he'd almost found it boring- Professor Dippet had a penchant for sad, broken things, and wearing the face of a lonely orphan longing for success was an easy role.

If a little distasteful.

Flicking a pointed quill across the headmaster's desk, Riddle filed the letters neatly back into their envelopes, regarding the crowing phoenix chick with disgust.

Hideous, he thought to himself, watching as Fawkes stumbled around his perch, bald and helpless. Part of him wanted to hurl the thing back into the fire, but he held steady as he observed. The thing belonged to Dumbledore, though seemed most at home here, in the headmaster's quarters- a taste for finery, he supposed.

A newborn. They really had no chance. The students he picked for his games, however- well, they were old enough to know better.

Weakness at that age was a choice.

"Mister Riddle, are you finished?"

Minerva's voice startled him, and he clenched his jaw. Barely perceptible, but Tom didn't care if she'd noticed.

"Yes, Professor." He fixed her an even smile.

He didn't like how it felt on his face.

"Not so many letters this time. I fear there is a few more student withdrawals, though."

McGonagall's face tightened, but if she was concerned, she said nothing. Instead, the older witch pulled a small scrap of parchment from her pocket, handing it to him.

Riddle took it, his eyes scanning the neat loops of headmaster Dippet's handwriting, a flourish of a signature at the end.

Request for Transfer

Hannah Grey

Approved

"A new student?"

Even Tom couldn't mask his surprise. A flare of intrigue set alight in his stomach- this was certainly unusual. He liked that.

McGonagall nodded, but her expression wasn't one of excitement. "She's been sorted privately, away from the first years. Slytherin. I had hopes you could show her how things work here- as I understand it, she's somewhat...troubled."

Even better.

"She's your age, so we supposed you'd be the ideal candidate," she paused to study him through her spectacles, her eyes catching on the prefect badge pinned to the lapel of his robes. "She's waiting for you in my office."

That was all the encouragement he needed.

Tom stepped lightly around the professor, his mind racing. He was about to wish her goodnight, when the witch's fingers grasped his wrist.

Warm. Vile.

"Tom." Her voice was grave. "Keep her safe. Watch her. This is her third school, and I doubt she'll be given a fourth."

He smiled sweetly. "Of course."

As he stalked towards the Gryffindor corridors, he felt positively giddy. Like a child being handed a brand new toy on a silver platter. A cat that finally caught its mouse.

Skirting around the Great Hall, where first years were beginning to group, chatting excitedly, Tom paid them no mind. The Sorting was usually his favourite thing to watch- observation was a particular skill of his, and he enjoyed his own kind of selection. Picking the more malleable, fearful students. Those that would tremble. Perhaps cry- he liked that too.

But his feet had other ideas. Finally, he found himself at the old oak doors of the office, preparing to fix another wide, welcoming smile on his face.

Swinging it open with as much force as he could, hoping to at least startle her, Tom stepped inside.

Empty.

His brows furrowed, confused.

Bending to glance under the desks, Riddle aimed a frustrated kick at the nearest bookshelf. It rattled on its hinges.

Was this a joke?

He scowled, only then noticing the open window, the bitterly cold wind sending it creaking to and fro.

Had she escaped?

Tom smiled, a shiver of pleasure snaking across the back of his neck.

He'd find her. Oh, he'd find her.

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