Chapter 1

“Hey, Black!”

A kid threw a ball of cow dung at the painting little Edward Black had spent hours colouring. The painting was ruined. Black turned around to see the kids chuckling as they hurried away.

Eleven-year-old Black froze, then flung his paintbrush onto the ground in his front yard. He kicked the canvas, sending it toppling over, stormed inside his house and slammed the front door behind him.

Edward Black was not well liked by the other kids. Almost every day, he was bullied and mocked. He had no one to protect him except his mother, who was often ill and confined to their home. His grandfather, an elderly farmer in the village of Gaunt, took care of them both. But all of this had left Edward intensely lonely and alienated from the world. For all practical purposes, he had no one.

The only thing Black loved was painting. He had been a wonderful painter from the beginning. He had never seen his father, yet, from his mother’s description alone, he had managed to paint a portrait that captured his exact likeness. Black did not like painting his father, but his mother missed him and spent her life hoping he would return.

He never did.

Then, one evening, Black received the letter that would change his life forever—Welcome to Hogwarts!

It was the happiest evening of Edward’s childhood. His grandfather worried about the expenses, while his mother had already begun planning and shopping for his school supplies. For the first time, Black could have friends and escape the tormentors in his village.

“Slytherin!”

The Sorting Hat had placed Black in Slytherin house. His father, Argus Black, had probably been a Slytherin too. His uncles, Regulus Black and Sirius Black, had been in Slytherin as well. He had never met them; they had been gone long before he was born.

But things did not change much. Black was still alone.

Most of the Slytherins came from elite families. Some were even children of former Death Eaters. Edward, however, knew little of his own family’s history. In class, he was the brightest and the quickest to learn, which only gave many of them another reason to hate him.

But she did not. Ariana Flamel was an eleven-year-old Gryffindor, and she was the only one who was kind to Edward. She had grown up in the Flamel family, descendants of the great philosopher Nicolas Flamel. From an early age, she had been taught to be kind, caring and free of prejudice. She could see why Edward was isolated. After all the misery he had endured, she offered him her friendship. Soon, they became best friends.

Finally, little Edward was not alone.

Until Madame Denise found fifteen-year-old Ariana’s bloodstained body on the classroom floor, with fifteen-year-old Edward beside her, holding the knife he had used to stab her to death. Edward was shaking. His shirt was stained with Ariana’s blood, his face was flushed, and he was sweating.

All Madame Denise could do was scream.

PRESENT DAY

“Why does he get to drink it for free?” Peter asked his mum.

“He’s the investor’s son. I can’t stop him,” Matilda said through gritted teeth.

An obese boy with brown hair, wearing a T-shirt a size too small, was pouring an entire mug of hot hazelnut chocolate into his mouth.

Peter watched in disgust. Had this boy never drunk chocolate before?

“Hi, Matilda!” Mr. King appeared out of nowhere. “What a beautiful store you’ve built here! We’ve always wanted a chocolate factory in Diagon Alley.”

“Thank you, Mr. King! After all, it’s your money that made it possible.” Matilda shook his hand.

“And how are you, champion?” Mr. King turned his attention to Peter, who stood watching his son wipe his chocolate-smeared face.

“I’m good, Mr. King. How are you?” Peter shook his hand.

“So, excited for your second year at Hogwarts?” Mr. King asked.

Peter nodded.

“Well, my little Miranda will be starting at Hogwarts this year. I hope you two become good friends.”

Peter had no idea who Miranda was, but he was damn sure she would be as fat and spoiled as her brother, who was now licking the glass pane enclosing the Swedish chocolate pastry.

“Get your mouth off there, Billy!” Mr. King shouted.

Billy flinched.

“Mr. King,” Matilda stepped forward, “it’s alright. He’s just a kid.”

“I’m sorry about him, Matilda. How much do I owe you for the hot chocolate?” Mr. King glared at the mug Billy had dropped on the floor, then at Billy himself.

“It’s alright,” Matilda said, reluctant to accept any money. “It’s on the house.”

“No, Matilda. You have to let me pay,” Mr. King insisted.

“You don’t have to…” Matilda began, but Mr. King hurriedly reached into his pocket, pulled out three gold coins and handed them to Peter.

“Give those to your mum,” he said. “She won’t take them otherwise.”

“Mr. King!” Matilda gasped, trying to retrieve the coins from Peter’s hands.

Mr. King stepped back before she could return them and headed for the door.

“Have fun, Peter!” he called, pulling Billy along by his T-shirt as they left.

“Phew.” Matilda sighed with relief. “Good Lord. Give me the money.”

She snatched the gold coins from Peter’s hands.

“Mum…” Peter began. “When you told me you had a surprise for me, I never expected this store.”

Matilda started towards the counter. “Oh? What were you expecting?”

“I thought a video game, or a Nimbus 2027, or a new iPhone!”

“Dream on,” Matilda laughed. “The store is the biggest surprise—for both of us.”

She put the money in her drawer and continued, “Besides, you love chocolate, don’t you?”

“But, Ma!” Peter protested. “You’ve made me work the entire holiday! I couldn’t even write to Stewart and Alison.”

“What? You didn’t write to them?” Matilda asked in surprise.

“No!” Peter replied. “I spent the first week helping you load the stock. Then there was the cleaning, and then I helped you decorate…”

“Excuse me! Can somebody help me here?” an unfamiliar voice called from a corner.

“Go and help that customer,” Matilda said, shooing Peter away before he could complain further.

Looking tired and disappointed, Peter headed towards the customer. The store was crowded, but he knew exactly where the voice had come from.

A girl stood in front of the chocolate instruments, studying the display behind the glass.

“How may I help you, ma’am?” Peter asked.

The girl turned around. It was Alison! She was looking at him strangely.

“Alison!” Peter exclaimed, throwing himself forward and wrapping her in a hug. Alison hugged him back.

“What happened to your voice?” she asked.

“What happened to my voice?” Peter echoed.

“You sound weird. Your voice is deeper,” Alison remarked.

Peter’s voice had deepened over the holidays, though it had not quite settled. He sounded like a boy caught somewhere between childhood and manhood.

“How are you?” Peter asked loudly.

Alison ignored the question. “Why didn’t you write to us?”

“Us? Is Stewart here too?” Peter asked excitedly.

“Yes, Stewart is here,” said a deep, teenage-sounding voice behind him.

Peter turned around to find his blond friend standing there. The two lunged at each other and exchanged a tight hug.

“Alison!” Stewart said. “He must have been busy with his new store. That’s why he didn’t have time for us.”

He punched Peter playfully on the shoulder.

“What happened to your voice?” Peter asked.

“What happened to yours?”

All three laughed. They still looked like little children, though they had grown a little taller since the previous year. The boys’ voices, however, seemed to have grown up ahead of them.

Ahem.

Matilda stood nearby with her arms crossed.

“Hey… that’s my mum,” Peter whispered.

“Hi, Mrs. Harrow,” Stewart said.

“Hi, Mrs. Harrow,” Alison added.

They looked nervous. They had heard plenty of stories about Peter’s strict mother.

Matilda smiled, bent down and offered them each a mixed-flavour lollipop. Then she laughed.

“You must be Stewart and Alison! Peter’s been talking about you throughout the holidays.”

Stewart and Alison were already reconsidering their impression of Peter’s mum when she added, “Well, help yourselves! Take anything you like from the store!”

Peter, Stewart and Alison jumped with excitement and shot off.

The store was all theirs now.

It was warm, crowded and bathed in golden light. Beautiful chocolate lollipops and gift boxes for birthdays and festivals filled the window display. In one corner, Mr. Shephard, Matilda’s former coworker, stood behind a counter serving freshly scooped ice cream. The scoops were larger than usual, with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans mixed into them. It was a completely new concept.

In the middle of the store stood a large well, filled by an endless stream of chocolate pouring from the ceiling like a waterfall. Children crowded around it, lowering little buckets into the well and drawing them back up full of chocolate.

Another corner held the chocolate instruments: trumpets, drums and guitars made entirely of chocolate, which could be played as well as eaten. Beside them stood three claw machines filled with stuffed animals made of chocolate candyfloss instead of cotton. A whole crowd had gathered around them. Next to those was Matilda’s counter, where she sold cakes, hot chocolate and pastries.

The store was filled with all kinds of snacks and treats. Across the floor, Mr. Greene, the cleaner, chased after chocolate frogs determined to escape.

The store was full of life.

Peter showed his friends around, and they tried everything one by one. It was better than the Muggle theme park Alison had visited, and better than the mountains Stewart had travelled to. Eventually, the three settled on a staircase, licking their enormous ice-cream cones.

“So, got any news from school?” Alison asked.

“What news?” Stewart replied.

“About the Weeping Philosopher or You-Know-Who,” Alison whispered.

“Shhh!” Stewart and Peter shushed her together.

“Alison,” Peter whispered, “not here! We promised on the train that we wouldn’t mention any of this to our parents during the holidays!”

“Oh… I’m sorry.” Alison looked guilty as Stewart shook his head in disappointment. “But I just don’t think it’s right. We should tell someone older.”

“We will,” Peter said. “At the very start of the year, we’ll go to Professor Flamel and tell him everything we saw.”

“Peter, he’ll ask us questions!” Stewart whispered. “Besides, Snowman collected us before we could do anything that day.”

“We’ll tell Professor Flamel everything honestly,” Peter replied. “I’m pretty sure he’ll understand. Until then, not another word about it.”

Stewart and Alison nodded.

“By the way!” Stewart said. “I asked my uncle Draco about your mum, Alison.”

Alison froze. The secret was out.

“He said it’s a story for another time,” Stewart continued.

Alison and Peter looked at each other, paused, then burst out laughing. Stewart was puzzled once again.

At around seven that evening, Stewart’s and Alison’s parents arrived to collect them. They had a long chat with Matilda, praising her new store in Diagon Alley. Before leaving, Stewart and Alison promised Peter they would see him next on the Hogwarts Express.

It had been a day well spent. Peter could not have been happier.

After a few more days of work, Matilda left Mr. Shephard in charge of the shop while she and Peter packed for his next year at Hogwarts. This time, he had his new Defence Against the Dark Arts book.

Early that morning, they rushed to the station and caught the Hogwarts Express just in time. As promised, Peter met Alison and Stewart, and they shared a compartment with Travis and Harper. Oliver and Redmond joined them later, and they all talked about their holidays. Oliver vowed not to do anything stupid this year, as he had the year before, even though Lincoln was no longer at the school.

They wondered who would take his place. And, at last, they arrived.

The school was as magnificent as ever. This time, Snowman was not accompanying them; he was with the new students joining Hogwarts. Peter could feel the magic once more.

They gathered in the Great Hall, where the teachers sat in their usual places, with Professor Flamel in the centre. Miss January, the school’s new Deputy Headmistress, led the first-years into the hall. Watching them, Peter was reminded of his own first day at Hogwarts.

Professor Flamel rose and stepped up to the podium to deliver his welcoming speech.

“Good evening, students and teachers, and welcome to a brand-new year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!

“I am Professor Alexander Flamel, your headmaster since last year, and yes… I haven’t been fired.”

He gave an awkward laugh. The students did not understand the joke.

“Well, anyway, accidents happen…” he continued after an uncomfortable silence. “Before we begin, I would like to welcome our newest professor, recently retired from the Global Duelling Committee—the legendary duelling champion, Professor Pompey Pomp!”

A man large enough to occupy two seats at the table, wearing an enormous set of wizarding robes, put down his goblet of wine. Beneath a mop of messy grey hair, his face tightened with the effort of standing up.

He could not manage it.

Professor Harrington and Professor Feline tried to help him to his feet, but their efforts failed too. So he simply raised a hand.

The students applauded in his honour, looking rather disbelieving.

Peter stared. “How is this guy a ‘duelling champion’?”

“He isn’t anymore,” Harper replied. “Didn’t you hear what happened two months ago?”

Peter shook his head.

“Ivan Karkaroff dethroned him as World Duelling Champion,” Harper explained.

“And… he lost his powers, according to the rumours,” Oliver added.

“What?” Peter looked bewildered. “How can someone lose their powers?”

“He didn’t!” Harper protested.

“He did,” Oliver insisted. “They say Karkaroff didn’t even utter a word or cast a spell, and Pomp was already peeing in his pants. He was so scared he lost his powers.”

“No, that’s just a stupid rumour. I saw him use his wand to refill his goblet earlier,” Harper said.

“He might have got them back,” Oliver replied casually.

Meanwhile, Professor Flamel had continued speaking, explaining policies that were mostly the same as last year’s, except that the students would no longer have to clean their classrooms.

“And this year, I would like to announce something that has never happened before in the history of Hogwarts,” Flamel said.

The students fell silent.

“This year, there will be no Sorting Ceremony.”

Peter’s eyes widened. The new students exchanged glances, and murmurs spread through the hall.

“Yes, you heard correctly. There will be no Sorting Ceremony this year. And this is not my decision alone. The Sorting Hat itself has decided that, after all these years, it would finally like to retire. We have chosen to honour its wishes, and from this day onwards, Hogwarts may never see another Sorting Ceremony. Let us applaud the Sorting Hat for its service throughout our history.”

Flamel began clapping, and the students and teachers joined him.

“Now, to answer the obvious question: what will happen instead? Our new students may join whichever house they wish!”

A wave of excitement swept through the first-years. They could finally choose their own houses and stay with their friends.

“I hope this decision brings out the best in us. Now, before I finish my speech and the feast begins, let us settle some unfinished business from last year.”

Flamel smiled at the students.

Peter knew what he meant.

“Last year, Gryffindor and Slytherin tied in their bid for the House Cup, which ultimately went to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. We offered Gryffindor and Slytherin the chance to share the cup. Although a few voted in favour, the majority wanted to compete for it. So, here we go!”

Peter was all ears.

“Gryffindor and Slytherin will compete against each other in the Junior Quidditch Championship and a new competition we are introducing at the end of this year—the Junior Duelling Championship!”

A roar of cheers filled the Great Hall. Peter clapped as hard as he could, beaming with excitement. Quidditch might or might not go his way, but duelling was a piece of cake for him.

“And Professor Pomp will be coaching our students in duelling this year. Good luck, Professor!”

Flamel gestured towards Pompey Pomp, who raised his hand again.

“As Slytherin’s first batch of students is only now entering its second year, Gryffindor must also choose a representative no older than a second-year, to ensure a fair contest.

“You may submit the names of your representatives to me tomorrow morning, after voting amongst yourselves. May the best house win!”

Flamel stepped down from the podium to enthusiastic applause.

Peter could not spot Smith at the Gryffindor table and wondered where he was sitting. But he knew one thing for certain: Smith would do everything he could to be chosen as their representative.

The students enjoyed their feast, then hurried off to their common rooms.

Something was bothering Peter. Restless and eager to go elsewhere, he slipped out of the line and into a dark corridor. No one seemed to notice him leave. He hurried down what he thought was an empty passage, only to discover that some seventh-years had already been kissing and making out there.

Peter avoided looking at them and kept walking.

At last, he reached his destination: Professor Lincoln’s classroom, where the Weeping Philosopher’s portrait hung.

Or rather, Lord Voldemort’s portrait.

“Alohomora.”

The door opened.

Peter hurried inside. The classroom was dim, lit only by the flickering flames from the corridor. The wall where the Philosopher had hung was empty.

Peter stood stunned, staring at the bare wall. Had Flamel had it removed? Had he found out about Voldemort?

Then a chilling voice sounded behind him.

“Looking for something, boy?”

Peter turned and saw the portrait hanging on the opposite wall. The Philosopher had already assumed his true appearance.

Voldemort was smiling.

“Oh, they moved my portrait. Wanted some flowers, or mermaids, or dead soldiers, or sinking ships, or heavenly figures in my place,” Voldemort remarked in his chilling voice.

Peter could not speak.

“Glad to have you back, Peter. I knew you would return. So, when do we start?”

“Start what?” Peter finally asked.

“Your real training,” Voldemort replied. “That poor teacher of yours, whom I once thought capable of carrying on my legacy, taught you only a fraction of what I spent years teaching him. How do you think he managed to escape Azkaban?”

“There will be no training,” Peter replied. “I’m going to tell Professor Flamel everything.”

Voldemort’s smile vanished. He had not expected this.

“Then you’re even stupider than I thought!”

Peter did not move an inch.

“Boy, I had plans for you and me. Big plans!”

“What plans?” Peter asked.

“We could have conquered the world together. Got you out of this stupid school. Made you the most powerful wizard in the world. Made you the new Voldemort.”

“I don’t care about your silly ‘plans’,” Peter replied. “I can become the most powerful wizard on my own.”

Voldemort gave a chilling laugh.

“Edward could have killed you in a minute if he’d wanted to, boy,” he said. “It was I who commanded him not to.”

Peter froze.

“Do you see what I can still accomplish? Dead or alive, I remain the Dark Lord.” Voldemort smiled. “Cut off my head, and two more shall take its place.”

Peter said nothing.

“What do you want?” he finally asked.

“What could I want?” Voldemort replied. “I am merely a memory of something that once was. All I want is to be. I want an heir. Someone who can finish what I started years ago.”

“And that’s never going to happen,” Peter replied. “Well, I need some sleep. I’m too tired for your crowshit. Good night.”

He turned and headed for the door.

“No problem, Peter. No problem at all,” Voldemort chuckled. “But remember, whenever you need me, you know where to find me.”

Peter looked back.

“That will never happen.”

He stormed out of the classroom, slamming the door behind him.

“It will happen, boy. It will.”

The Dark Lord grinned.